McCandless' voice was nervous. "I'm not exactly sure, sir. Not ... yet."
A brief regret at an interrupted dream of Ohio flickered in the back of the Captain's mind.
"What do you mean, you're not sure?" His voice was a little sharper than he intended, a little more querulous than he had meant it to be. It was, he thought, the voice of an old man, annoyed at having his sleep disturbed.
The younger man wasn't disturbed by the sharpness and the Captain's estimation of McCandless went up another notch.
"Ten minutes ago CIC reported an object approaching us from the south at an altitude of fifty miles."
Approaching from the south, the Captain thought. So it couldn't have been from the Josef. And fifty ... miles ... up. That was two hundred and fifty thousand feet. A guided missile, perhaps? But whose? There were only friendly countries to the south.
"It's passed directly overhead," McCandless continued, consciously trying to make his voice sound factual, "and continued in the direction of Josef. It settled towards sea level, then stopped a mile up."
"Stopped, Lieutenant?"
"Yes, sir. It's hovering over the Josef now." McCandless paused. When he started again, his voice was shaking. It was funny he hadn't noticed it before, the Captain thought. You could almost smell the fear in the wheelhouse. "CIC estimated its speed overhead as being in excess of a thousand miles an hour and its size about that of the Josef itself."