The Navy lieutenant poked his close-cropped head into the aircraft carrier’s wardroom. "It’s going to be another two hours, gentlemen. You should really get some sleep."

Francis Nobilio, a short man of fifty with wavy hair mixed evenly between brown and gray, was sitting in a vinyl-upholstered metal chair. He was wearing a two-piece dark-blue business suit and a pale blue shirt. His tie was undone and hung loosely around his neck. "What’s the latest?" he said.

"As expected, sir, a Russian sub will beat us to the location. And a Brazilian cruise ship has changed course to have a look-see."

"A cruise ship!" said Frank, throwing his arms up in exasperation. He turned to Clete, who was leaning back in a similar chair, giant tennis-shoed feet up on the table in front of him.

Clete lifted his narrow shoulders and grinned broadly. ‘Sounds like a big ol’ party, don’t it?" he said, his voice rich with that famous Tennessee accent — Dana Carvey did a devastating Cletus Calhoun.

"Can’t we cordon off the area?" said Frank to the Navy man.

The lieutenant shrugged. "It’s in the middle of the Atlantic, sir — international waters. The cruise ship has as much right to be there as anyone else."

"The Love Boat meets Lost in Space," muttered Frank. He looked up at the Navy man. "All right. Thanks."

The lieutenant left, doing a neat step over the raised lip at the bottom of the door.

"They must be aquatic," said Frank, looking at Clete.

"Mebbe," said Clete. "Mebbe not. We ain’t aquatic, and we used to land our ships at sea. This very aircraft carrier picked up an Apollo command module once, didn’t it?"