The progress bar on the screen was a solid block of blue, slowly crawling from left to right.

It was seventy-two percent complete.

The phone rang a third time.

Inside the room, a chair scraped against the deck plating.

“Answer it,” a voice muttered from inside the radio shack.

It was a flat, nervous voice, tight with strain.

I recognized it immediately.

It was Petty Officer Vance, the second-shift communications technician.

Hayes caught my eye and held up three fingers.

He began a silent countdown, folding his fingers down one by one.

Three.

Two.

One.

Hayes kicked the door open with a dull, heavy boom.

The steel door slammed against the interior bulkhead, rebounding slightly.

“On the deck!” Hayes roared, his voice filling the small compartment.

Vance jumped, his chair spinning backward and crashing into a rack of receiver units.

He was a thin man with a pale face, his uniform shirt dark with sweat at the armpits.

In his right hand, he held a heavy brass-plated wrench.

“Drop it!” Hayes shouted, closing the distance between them in a single stride.