Frank nodded. "Signal the first five primes," he said.

The seaman looked at his captain for confirmation. The captain nodded, and the seaman used his thumb to operate the light trigger. In the window, Frank could see the alien ship moving over the flight deck.

The intercom whistled. The captain picked up the hand unit. "Raintree here."

"Sir," said a husky voice, "the Russian sub has radioed us, asking that we send a helicopter to bring three observers over here immediately, sir."

The captain looked at Frank, who frowned. "Christ, I don’t want—"

Clete interrupted. "Now, Frankie, they chose international waters. You can’t really—"

"No, no, I suppose not. Okay, Captain."

"Take care of it, Mr. Coltrane," said the captain, and he replaced the hand unit in its clip.

"I want video equipment set up on the flight deck," said Frank. "I want everything recorded."

The captain nodded, and spoke into the intercom again.

"Let’s get down there," said Clete.

Captain Raintree, Frank, and Clete went back down the circular staircase they’d gone up earlier, and emerged from the same door at the base of the conning tower, exiting onto the flight deck. There wasn’t much wind, and the sky was mostly clear. The lander was still in the process of lowering itself.

"Damn," said the captain.

"What’s wrong?" asked Frank, over the roar of the lander’s exhaust.

"It’s setting down in the middle of the runway. No way we can launch a fighter with it there."

Frank shrugged. "It’s the biggest clear area."

In the distance, another Navy Seahawk was now hovering over the conning tower of the Russian sub. A rope ladder had been lowered, and a man was climbing up into the chopper.

Captain Raintree looked at Frank. "We do have recorded music, sir. We could play the national anthem."