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Patriotism could drive people to sacrifice themselves. That, too, was d.a.m.n annoying, because it flew in the face of survival of the fittest. Stupid people could be convinced to die for the greater good. The greater good was always someone who would live on because of — and long after — that sacrifice. Soldiers die, generals retire.

On the screen, the wrongly angled sail of the Los Angeles loomed into view. Lights played off more flotsam. Tim knew a lot of that detritus was composed of sailor bits, bodies either torn apart by the torpedo strike or picked at by scavengers.

The number 688 glowed a bright white.

The PA system clicked on: a too-loud, mechanical voice that broke the moment’s magic.

“Doctor Feely, line one for Captain Yasaka. Doctor Feely, line one for Captain Yasaka.”

Tim glanced at the wet-haired Margaret Montoya, felt like he’d been caught at something — did Yasaka know he was ogling his fellow scientist? He stood and strode to a phone mounted on the wall. He lifted the handset, as always marveling a little at the archaic cord that ran from it to the wall unit.

He pushed the number “1.”

“This is Doctor Feely.”

“This is the captain.” Yasaka’s voice. Not the voice that on some nights said take me, or on extraspecial nights said please, Daddy. This was her command voice.

“Captain, how can I be of service?”

“Are you with Doctor Montoya?”

“I am.”

“A petty officer just killed two of my crew,” the captain said. “He tested positive, as did two other men who were bunking near him. We have a total of three positives.”

Tim’s body went ice cold.

“Three … positives?”

“So far,” Yasaka said. “Security will deliver these men to cells in your lab. I suspect they won’t be the last.”

DIVER DOWN