Petty Officer Second Class Marcus Ibe stood at the rail as the destroyer came about, its wake curling white against water the color of gunmetal. Behind them, the strait narrowed toward the coast of Yemen, a smudge of brown hills he’d stared at for six months without ever setting foot on.

The order had come down at 0400: reposition east, out of range, hold formation with the carrier group. Not a retreat, the XO had said. A repositioning. Marcus had written the word in his notebook and circled it twice, like that might make it mean something else.