The North Atlantic was a graveyard of mist and memory. Lieutenant Jack Ellis peered through the rain-streaked window of his destroyer, the USS Greyhound. His mission was to hunt U-boats, but the sonar had been silent for three days. Then the fog parted.
A ship emerged—massive, black, its flag unfamiliar. Its decks were lined with sailors in uniforms from a forgotten war.
“Hail them,” Jack ordered.
A voice crackled over the radio, hollow and old. “This is the Bismarck. We request permission to come alongside.”
Jack’s blood ran cold. The Bismarck had been sunk in 1941. “That’s impos