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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 impossible."

"Time bends in the fog, Commander," the voice replied. "We are not ghosts. We are echoes."

The ship glided closer. Through the mist, Jack saw sailors moving in silence, their eyes fixed on something beyond the horizon.

"We need your help," the voice said. "A storm is coming, not of wind and wave, but of time itself. If it hits, every ship lost at sea will be pulled into the same moment."

Jack gripped the rail. "What do you want us to do?"

"Follow our bearing. Sail into the storm. Break it apart with your depth charges. It will scatter the echoes."

It was madness. But the fog was thickening, the air growing cold. Jack gave the order.

The Greyhound turned, following the ghost ship into the gray. The storm was a swirling vortex of light and shadow. Jack gave the command to fire.

The depth charges exploded. The vortex cracked and collapsed.

When the fog lifted, the ghost ship was gone. The sea was calm.

"Where did they go?" his ensign asked.

Jack looked at the horizon. "Back to their graves. Or back to their homes. I don't know."

He never spoke of the Bismarck again. But on quiet nights, when the fog rolled in, he listened for the echo. And sometimes, just sometimes, he thought he heard it.

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