The endless chatter of radio traffic echoed throughout the command center at Guantánamo Bay. Radio operators and telegraph agents desperately attempted to get in touch with someone, anyone, of higher authority back on the American mainland.
But no matter how many minutes passed, the result was the same. One-way calls, pleading for a response that never came.
All the while, photographs taken from reconnaissance planes sat squarely on the table in front of the assembled officers. Each one was as silent and still as the dead.
It was a scene the likes they had never witnessed before. A naval force from a future age, that threatened to drown them all.
Carriers the size of cities with escorts that seemed almost too sharp in silhouette. No large bore guns could be witnessed mounted across their bows. And yet that did not fill the officers with any form of confidence.
