Quickly taking stock of the situation, Commanding Admiral Robeson moved to join the re-heartened Third, attempted to make contact with both parties, and reluctantly, since he did not know how things would turn, began to discharge and align his own forces. The parallel planes still existed, only now they were closer and more equal, a colossal gathering of some fourteen hundred ships, prepared for a confrontation that even the mythic battles of the Bhagavad-Gita could not match.
And this was no fable of gods and clouds and chariots, decrying the illusions of the physical world, but hard and deadly reality. And if the two sides of fire-breathing metal, like ghastly cymbals of Death, were brought together with a crash, the awful sound would shatter the uneasy stillness and continue to be heard, would ripple far, far in all directions, and the peace that good men prayed for would be lost. Hayes would have his Great War, after all.
"General Hayes," said the Dreadnought com officer. "Admiral Robeson is requesting to speak with Admiral Frank."
"Cut him off," was Hayes' dispassionate reply.
"WHAT?" cried Frank hotly. "Why shouldn't I speak to him?"
Again the general's voice was calm. "It's some trick of the Soviets'.
John Robeson no longer commands the Seventh Fleet."
"But sir," began the com officer. "He's on the coded frequency, and the voice match—-"
"I SAID, cut him off."
…..
And then Frank did it. He uttered the simple (and often just) word that no subordinate, any time, anywhere, in any army of men, is ever allowed to speak.