The chamber of the Canadian House of Commons had never sounded so hollow.
Outside, the winter rain swept down in gray sheets over Parliament Hill, drowning out the usual clatter of reporters and lobbyists.
Inside, every word hung too heavy to be spoken.
The Prime Minister sat at the head of the long mahogany table, flanked by ministers who looked less like leaders and more like men waiting for the verdict of their own trial.
The first reports from Newfoundland had arrived before dawn, scrambled, contradictory, half-coded messages intercepted by naval listening posts in Halifax.
By sunrise, the full truth had reached Ottawa.
The naval base at St. John's was gone.
The Avalon Fleet, gone.
Thousands of sailors… gone.
No one wanted to say the word, but it was already etched in the air: annihilation.
The Minister of Defense, his tie crooked and his eyes bloodshot, slammed a folder shut.
