He set his coffee mug on the counter in front of him as he settled back in the captain’s chair. The laptop mounted on the right arm of his chair showed photos of the twisted hulks that were all that remained of the Sri Lankan navy. In the past few hours he had read everything that was publicly known about the attacks, but he knew from experience that first reports were usually wrong. The only undisputable fact was that Sri Lanka’s warships were now either at the bottom of the harbors and channels of the three major port cities or drifting helplessly on the surface. “Slow to one-third,” he said. “One-third, aye,” the helm responded, gently pulling back on the joystick and adjusting the controls. The era of turning the ship’s wheel to set a course was passing. The seven-hundred-ton Syren responded not with the pronounced shudder that shakes most Navy ships when their huge propellers slow, but with a calm sigh as the water-propelled jets relaxed their intake. The high-resolution navigation monitor next to the helm showed the contour of the coastline ahead of him and the depth of the water around it.
