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The radio man looked up from his console. “Message sent, sir.”
Jack pulled out his pocket watch. His eye on the second hand, he said, “Mister Veidt, are your guns ready?”
“Yes, sir,”
“Be prepared to fire a salvo in another minute or so.”
“Yes, sir. We’re out of range, sir; we can’t hope to hit her.”
“Try for the range nevertheless. Sparks?” he said, watching the second hand near the end of a complete revolution, “send the message, ‘received,’ and the raise the IFF. Show her our colors.”
“Message sent, sir,” said the radio man, then, “colors aloft.”
“Helm, put us across her stem, broadside-to. Mister Veidt?”
“Sir?”
“On my mark, give her a salvo.”
“Aye, sir.”
Jack stepped up to the view screen, almost touching it with his nose. For the moment, everyone was with him, with the single exception of his grumbling sublieutenant. If his gamble worked, he could cement that loyalty, but if it failed, they would never fully trust his judgement again. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, hiding them from sight and crossing his fingers. With agonizing slowness the frigate’s nose crept across her bulk - “Mark!”
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