Ship's Commander Do Che Min awoke and stared at the clock on his little table.  He had gotten almost a full cycle's sleep.  His crew had practically forced him off the bridge after sixteen hours!  The flu, or whatever it was, that had put down so many of his crew and sent his chief engineer to the hospital on the main base was draining everybody.  He thought of getting up but closed his eyes again. 
     For two years The Republic had blockaded Mozambique.  As with many impoverished nations its leaders had turned to growing popular but illegal crops, and besides intercepting arm shipments his flotilla also was on the constant lookout for smugglers trying to get out drug shipments. 
     His father had been upset when he accepted a commission in The Spiritist Forces and left his patrol boat that guarded the coast of The Republic Of Viet Nam.  But his Alura Class destroyer, The Mary Marie, was one of the finest ships ever built.  She had the most advanced technology, and the finest crew from all over The Republic.  Do felt honored that he had been given command of such an impressive vessel. 
      "Bad luck!"  his father said, "Bad luck!  A ship named after a woman, no matter how heroic very bad luck!"  Do had assured him that that was not the case.
     Suddenly the commander found himself waking up again, but he hurt all over, and was not in his bed, but was on the floor!  The ship rocked violently under him, and slowly settled.  He pulled himself up to his table and touched the instant activation on his computer.  "Bridge!"  he screamed.  "Who's ever in charge up there what in the hell happened?  Why am I on the f****** floor?" 
     "Mr. West here, sir!"  a voice replied.  "We're not sure!  Something hit us, a shock wave, we think.  We nearly rolled over.  But the ship righted itself.  It was damned close, sir!  We almost went under!  We've got calls of injuries coming in from all over the ship.  Sir, we've lost tactical!  We're getting nothing from the island, or, the other ships."
     "Jesus christ!"  Do screamed.  "Full speed!  Get us around the island towards the shore side.  If this is what I think it is, we've got big trouble!"
      His ship's speed increased dramatically.  It made for the northern point of the island as the commander dressed and rushed to the bridge.  As he entered the operations room he saw a glowing light on the screen moving slowly out to sea. 
     "My God, sir!"  Mr. West remarked, "That's a radioactive cloud, sir!  Most likely the residue from a nuclear burst.  From its position, however, it was too high to do maximum effect, but it undoubtedly did some damage to the base."
     "How much?"  Do snapped.
     Mr. West looked to another officer working on a computer.  "Harry?" he snapped.
     "Couple of minutes, sir!"  the officer answered.  "We're figuring the yield from the residue.  Just as soon as we have that we can tell you something."
     "Where's the rest of my flotilla?"  Do snapped.  "Where's The Patrick Henry, The Cleveland, The Detroit?"
     "If The Patrick Henry was on schedule, sir," West answered, "she would have been almost directly under the blast.  We can't locate either one of the cutters.  The Cleveland should've been just about at the point.  There's no sign of her.  The Detroit's not responding to signals either."

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