The chime rang again.

“Enter,” she said, her voice cracking badly. She had to repeat herself, after a cough. “Come in, please.”

The door slid to the side, and a female sailor stuck her head into the cabin. “Begging your pardon, Captain, but the XO says we’ve picked ’em up again. He said you’d want to be on the bridge.”

“Thank you, Bec.”

Willet sat up and ran her fingers through her hair, gathering the thick, shoulder-length mass of tangles and split ends into a workable ponytail that she tied off with an elastic band. The sailor stepped into the room and over to the counter, then poured a mug of coffee-the last of the boat’s stock of premium-blend Illy. She handed it to the captain.

“Ah. Thanks again. Champion effort.” Willet took a sip, and it felt as though the caffeine went straight to her cortex. Young Sparrow brewed a very mean cup of coffee.

Jeez, I’m gonna miss this when it runs out, thought the submarine commander. Wonder how long it’ll be after the war before anyone imports a decent Italian blend.

Aloud she said, “Tell the XO to keep his finger off the trigger until I’ve got some pants on. I’ll join him in two minutes.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Her orderly disappeared, closing the door as she left. Willet took a long slug of the coffee, brewed warm rather than hot so she wouldn’t scald herself. She set the mug down in a recess on the small table beside her bunk. She grabbed a ’temp-made energy bar and peeled back the waxed paper, then started chewing joylessly on her so-called breakfast at the same time as she climbed into a pair of gray combat coveralls. She checked her watch.

Zero four thirty-one hours, local.

She’d been asleep for less than two hours.