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to bear.
    He’d fought to the end, fought the final adversary, to keep his ship. But now she and all who sailed in her belonged to another.
    *   *   *
    From the 02 level, half an hour later, Lenson looked aft along the pier. First Division was squaring away the ratguards. Two men from M division were swapping out a shore power plug. The admiral’s sedan was gone. The taxi to Bahrain airport was gone, too. His hand still felt strange from that last handshake. Usually, in the service, you said so long, not goodbye. Almost always, you’d run into a shipmate again.
    But he knew he’d never see Charles Bell again.
    There was a low whine above him and a burst of white smoke shot from the stack. As the whine increased to a dull roar, it turned brownish, then became an invisible stream of heat in the already-hot air.
    Leaning out over the lifelines, he ran his eyes from stem to stern.
    Van Zandt was a guided-missile frigate, smaller than a destroyer or cruiser, but tamped tight with nearly the same weapons and electronics. She displaced 3,700 tons, half again that of a World War II destroyer, but was about the same length. Two 20,000-horsepower gas turbines drove her at thirty knots, almost thirty-five miles an hour.
    Forward on the forecastle was a dual-purpose missile launcher, and below it, inside the hull, a rotary magazine of antiship and antiaircraft missiles. On her port and starboard beams were triple torpedo tubes. One deck above him were the guns, an automatic three-inch Oto Melara and the twenty-millimeter Phalanx. Aft was the hangar and flight deck. The Perry- class frigates had been designed to hunt submarines, but their weapons and electronics made them matches for aircraft and larger ships. They carried a complement of two hundred, half that of the destroyers of 1945, thanks to automation and reduced-maintenance design.
    She was well armed and well trained. But her effectiveness depended on one man. Her commanding officer alone bore the responsibility for training her, steaming her, and for the ultimate test of a warship, her performance in battle.
    Dan put his regret for Bell behind him, as he had for so many. That was one of the lessons of the Navy. You sailed, not with your friends, nor with those you knew were good, nor those you’d sailed with last cruise. You had to sail with the men on your muster.
    In his stateroom, he showered quickly and changed into fresh khakis. Five minutes later he was in the wardroom, pulling out a chair. The air-conditioned chill made his sinuses ache after the 110-degree heat outside. As the last officers filed in, he examined the man who sat smoking a Camel at the head of the table.
    Benjamin Shaker was six even, built with a large chest and short legs. His head was large and his black hair was shaggy in back. It gleamed wet where he’d taken off his cap. His face looked pale among the deep tans of the others. His eyes, narrowed against the eddying smoke, were a startling blue, creased with sun wrinkles. Like all Navy men now he was clean-shaven. His silver oak leaves were rather dull. Unlike the others in the wardroom, he wore a long-sleeved shirt. Rolled neatly above his elbows, it revealed muscular forearms covered with black hair. The steward, Crockett, set a cup of coffee beside him.
    â€œThis everybody, XO?” Shaker said.
    Dan glanced around. The lieutenants, the department heads, were seated. The ensigns and jg’s leaned against bulkheads or perched on the couch. “Yessir, Cap’n.”
    â€œThat’ll be all, thanks,” Shaker said to the steward. When the enlisted man was gone, he stubbed out his cigarette, blinking, and looked around the table.
    â€œOkay. I’ll be talking to you all individually later, but this might be a good time to get a few things out of the way. I’m talking about Strong. ”
    They waited.
    â€œYou all know I was her CO when the Iranians hit her with a Harpoon. You probably