Below Captain Steven Harris’s feet, 100,000 tons of steel and nuclear fire—a fortress-city humming with the vibration of a continent shifting—sat in the Tyrrhenian Sea, its cold, jet fuel-scented bridge air a stark contrast to the ancient, sun-bleached Italian hills visible through the reinforced glass like a forgotten painting. On the bulkhead, a muted news feed showed grainy footage of a speedboat burning off the coast of Caracas. A chyron crawled beneath it: WHITE HOUSE CONDEMNS ‘NARCO-TERRORIST’ AGGRESSION.
Steven ignored it. He was watching the tactical plot. His strike group, a constellation of destroyers and cruisers, held its position in the western Mediterranean.
“FLASH precedence, Skipper.”
Commander Jensen, his Executive Officer, placed a single sheet of flimsy paper on the console. His posture was rigid, his eyes bright. The message was curt, all sterile acronyms. TASKORD 25-08. REDEPLOY 4TH FLEET AOR. IMMEDIATE EFFECT.
The Caribbean.
A cold certainty settled in Steven’s gut. The “narco-terrorist” loophole. An excuse to intervene, to generate a rally-around-the-flag effect before the midterms. An unprovoked invasion.
“Finally,” Jensen breathed, his voice low. “Action. Port detachment is on recall. We can be underway by 1800.”
Steven did not look at him. Instead, he looked at the status board for the flight deck. “What’s this flag on Catapult Two?”
Jensen frowned, glancing at the board. “It’s amber, sir. Intermittent faults in the EMALS power conversion subsystem. Engineering cleared it two hours ago. It’s within spec.”
“I don’t like it,” Steven said. His voice was quiet, yet it cut through the low hum of the bridge. “I want a full diagnostic. A cold-iron inspection. We’re not taking this ship into a new theater with a yellow light on the board.”
Jensen’s face tightened. “Sir, Fleet Command wants us moving now. That diagnostic will take forty-eight hours. Minimum.”
“Then it will take forty-eight hours,” Steven said, turning to look out at the ancient hills. “See to it, Commander.”
The forty-eight hours bled into a week. When the EMALS was finally cleared, Steven ordered a full inspection of the Advanced Arresting Gear, citing overdue maintenance paperwork. When the AAG passed, he cited anomalous atmospheric ducting over the Ionian and ordered a fleet-wide recalibration of the SPY-3 radar arrays. When that was complete, he flagged two of the ship’s freshwater distillation units for “unacceptable salinity levels,” requiring a full system flush.
The pressure from Fleet Command was immense. It escalated from polite VTC inquiries to red-faced, shouting admirals. Steven absorbed it all, his face a granite mask, citing force protection and operational readiness. The crew felt it. The tension on the bridge was no longer a low hum; it was a high, strained wire.
Late on the seventh night, Steven sat in his cabin. His King James Bible was open, not to Genesis, but to the New Testament. The pages were worn thin. He read the words of Matthew 27, where the governor, facing a mob, “took water, and washed his hands before the multitude, saying, I am innocent of the blood of this just person: see ye to it.”
Steven closed the book. He would not wash his hands.
He was out of excuses. The next message from Washington would not be a request; it would be an order to relieve him of command.
The Ford and her escorts passed the Rock of Gibraltar just before dawn. The massive limestone sentinel was a black shadow against a bruised purple sky. The air had changed. The warm, soft Mediterranean breeze was gone, replaced by the cold, briny smell of the open Atlantic. This was the gateway. Once they passed it, there was no turning back.
“Entering the Strait, Captain,” the navigator reported. “All contacts clear. Course is two-seven-zero.”
Jensen stood near the helm, his shoulders set. He looked relieved. The week of delays had strained his composure, but the ship was finally moving. They were, at last, following orders.
Steven watched the last light of Europe fade from the radar screen. He felt the weight of the steel beneath him, the thousands of lives, the unmatched power. He thought of the burning ship on the news feed. He thought of the governor washing his hands.
“Helm,” Steven said. His voice was soft, conversational.
“Sir?” the young officer replied.
“Come left to course zero-niner-zero. Signal the strike group.”
The helmsman froze. His hands hovered over the console. “Sir... say again course?”
“Zero. Niner. Zero,” Steven repeated. “East.”
The silence on the bridge was absolute, broken only by the faint ping of a sonar buoy.
Jensen spun around, his face pale with disbelief, then flushing crimson. “Captain? What are you doing? That’s back to Italy. The order is west.”
“Stand down, Commander.”
“This is madness,” Jensen hissed, taking a step toward the command chair. “This isn’t a drill. You’re throwing your career away. You’re throwing all our careers away. They will relieve you for cause before we even make port.”
Steven Harris turned, not to his XO, but to the helmsman, whose eyes were wide with terror.
“Helm, my order stands.”
Then he looked at Jensen. The stress of the week was gone on his face, replaced by something that looked almost like peace.
“We’re returning to Rome, Commander. I seem to have forgotten my Bible.”