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overall picture. The table’s map was geared to troop positions on land and the location of convoys in the Channel, not to individual ships. The ships themselves were tallied on a series of boards around the room, but he had no idea where to begin looking for the status of any particular vessel.
    After a moment of fruitless perusal of the nearest board, he found a staff sergeant he recognized from briefings with the admiral, working at one of the wireless positions. The ruddy Scot’s face was haggard and even a little pale, as if he had not slept recently or long enough in the past few days. When he looked up, as Graham unbuttoned his mac in the closeness of the room, it took a few seconds for the identity to register.
    â€œSir John,” the man acknowledged, easing his headset off the ear nearest Graham and making a notation on the clipboard in front of him. “Anything I can help you with, sir?”
    â€œI hope so, sergeant. I need information on a destroyer, the Grafton . Can you tell me when she’s due in?”
    The man riffled quickly through the sheaf of flimsies on his clipboard, pausing several times to listen to his headset and make more hurried notations, to acknowledge, or to murmur a few words of instruction. He shook his head as he looked up again.
    â€œI’m afraid I can’t tell you much, sir. She took on fuel yesterday around noon, but I have nothing for her in the past twelve hours.” He swiveled in his chair to point across the room with a well-chewed pencil. “Why don’t you check with Sergeant Matthews, down the line, sir? I think he’s monitoring sea traffic. If something’s happened, he should be able to tell you.”
    As Graham murmured his thanks, the sergeant was already speaking to one of the tugs out in the harbor. Increasingly apprehensive, Graham made his way to the side of the indicated operator, who, as harried looking as his colleague, pushed his headset slightly from one ear and looked up briefly over the top of his glasses, though his hand continued to jot down information.
    â€œSir?”
    â€œI’m trying to locate the Grafton . Do you have an E.T.A.?”
    â€œ Grafton ?” The man grimaced and glanced at the plot board over his shoulder to the right, thumbed a switch and spoke quietly into his microphone, then turned back to Graham as he listened to the response.
    â€œSorry, colonel. I wanted to be sure I had the latest information. Grafton took a couple of torpedoes out near the Kwinte Buoy between two and three this morning. Several other ships are steaming toward the area to assist, but we don’t know the extent of damage or losses yet.”
    â€œBloody hell, I was afraid of something like that!” Graham swore under his breath. “Did she sink?” he asked, half afraid that this, too, would be confirmed.
    Matthews shook his head. “Not yet, sir. We’ve lost several ships in that area during the night, but at last report she was still afloat. Until we have some light to work with, though, I’m afraid I can’t give you anything more definite.”
    â€œI see. How long until we know, then?”
    â€œSeveral hours, anyway, sir. It’s close to five now, coming dawn. But it could be—oh, ten or eleven before any survivors start coming in.”
    Shaking his head, Graham thanked the man and turned to search the room for someone else who might have more information. Merle Collingwood, one of the naval commanders on Ramsay’s staff who had come over to the central plotting table while Graham questioned the two wireless operators, was sipping a cup of tea as he studied the blue line of the Dunkirk coast-line. He gave a vague salute with his cup—the gesture of a man who is tired almost beyond functioning—as Graham approached.
    â€œMorning, colonel. You look almost as grim as I feel. Tea?”
    â€œThank you, no. I don’t suppose you can give me any more details