"Thank you, ensign," Caan said, his eyes lingering for a moment on the young man. The taste in his mouth was repugnant. It was unfamiliar to him, the taste of defeat, of violence and death and imagined hell.

It was fear.

"Yes, sir?" the ensign asked uncertainly, the high wind pinching the young man's farm-fresh features.

Caan forced himself back to composure. "That'll be all."

"Yes, sir." The young man saluted and led his small crew away.

Caan swallowed as he examined the pinnings on the plane.

There will be terrible destruction.

His head ached mercilessly. The events of the night before— a thousand years ago, it seemed now, back in the security of the Key West Naval Base— flashed before him with terrifying accuracy.

Terrible destruction...

It began with his awakening. With a painful jolt he had been forced out of deep sleep into a sitting position, his two arms hammer-locked behind him. A cold, black-gloved hand clamped like a vise over his mouth.

"You are one of the pilots scheduled to sail tomorrow on board the Andrew Jackson?" an unseen voice behind him hissed. The voice was heavily accented, guttural. The hands yanked back hard on Caan's arms. He nodded.

"I have placed a vial on your bed, beside you."

Caan's frightened gaze wandered to his lap. Next to his legs lay a small dark bottle.

"Take it with you tomorrow. There will be terrible destruction. You will not be able to stop it. When it happens, place the contents of the vial on your face and head. Do as I say, or you will die." The strong hands forced Caan's neck back sharply. "Wait for the birds. They will be your sign."

Those were the last words he heard. With a deafening crack, something came down on the back of Caan's head. A splintering pain, and then blackness.