0600 hours.
When Jackson reached the door to the admiral’s suite he met Arthur on his way out.
Both men nodded their greetings.
Not a word passed, but Jackson knew why Arthur was there. He was putting his concerns on record. Putting some daylight between himself and the captain. Covering his rear. Arthur was no fool. He could sense as well as Jackson that something on the USS Abraham Lincoln was not going to end well.
“Reveille, rev—nds heave out and—”
The speaker barked its fractured wake-up call, then fell silent.
Jackson shook his head and sighed. The red lights should be switching over to normal daytime lighting right now, but of course, they weren’t. Delayed again. Engineering going to crap.
He turned and looked down the short passageway through the open porthole at the end, out at the sea. He couldn’t quite make out the horizon. Dawn had long since broken but it was still dark out there, the roiling cloud cover pressing down like a thousand gnarled black hands, angry ocean rising to meet it.
Getting darker by the moment. Summed up their whole situation.
Summed it up like poetry.
He turned back and stepped through the door, where he was met by an aide. The admiral was tied up for a bit. Could he wait a few minutes?
The aide retreated back inside the admiral’s war room.
Jackson took a seat and waited.