A seam like molten gold first split open along the horizon, then hundreds of millions of rays pierced the darkness like swords, scorching the undersides of the inky clouds into rolling crimson and orange. Night, like a retreating tide, rapidly receded toward the endless west of the Pacific Ocean. Dawn had come.
The nuclear-powered carrier Nimitz led her entourage, steadily cutting through the indigo sea. The white wake she cleaved stretched straight behind her, like snowy furrows plowed by a giant plow through deep-blue velvet, while the wakes of the escorting vessels resembled elegant wings.
Amon sat on the outer platform of the flight control room at the highest point of the island. This place was called the "Catcher Deck," the highest point of the entire carrier, from which he could overlook the whole flight deck—a gray steel plain more than three hundred meters long, empty and quiet at the moment, with only the faint sound of the morning wind brushing over the arresting wires.
He wore a neatly pressed white service uniform, and the five-star insignia on his epaulets reflected a cold gleam in the growing morning light.
Before him stood a small alloy table holding a simple breakfast: black coffee in a thick, standard-issue Navy porcelain mug, its steam swiftly dispersing in the crisp morning breeze; two perfectly toasted slices of bread; and a small dish of butter. That was all.
There were no elaborate rituals, no unnecessary attendants—only him and this domain of steel and waves.
He lifted the coffee and took a sip. His gaze passed over the carrier's broad deck and settled on the point where sea met sky in the distance.
Just then, the phone in his pocket vibrated. Amon took it out, glanced at the screen, then answered and held it to his