The Catch of the Day

31/08/2026 04h30 AZOT  

The alarm clock behind Seaman Second Class António Silva's head went off like a hand grenade at 04:30. Jolted out of a deep dreamless sleep, he sat bolt upright in his bunk on the NRP Francisco de Almeida.  

In the process he bumped his head against an overhead pipe. The pipe hissed, indicating that it too, was a proud patriot of the Republic.  

António's despair deepened as he stared at the orange and green Portuguese naval emblem emblazoned on the ship’s bulkhead with the seemingly inescapable slogan “São Jorge” written below.

Saint George, a man who lived two thousand years ago, was who the insane people onboard this vessel pretended protected them from enemies in the middle of the ocean. For posterity, he took out his battered mobile and snapped a photo.  

Regretfully, at age nineteen he had signed a 7-year contract, fueled by the not so quiet desperation of a young man who needed an escape from his father’s violent temper and the nagging of his mother.

Travel. A steady paycheck. A way to live out his dreams. That illusion sank quickly to the bottom of the ocean months ago as their frigate steamed in pointless circles off the Azores.  

Things would only get worse if he didn’t get moving. António swung his legs over the side and nearly stepped on Petty Officer Marques, who was polishing his boots with the fervor of a man who believed shiny shoes could make someone a national hero.  

“The ship has embarked,” Marques exclaimed, without looking up, “on a new mission!”  

A persistent hum throbbed in his ears, and the hull shivered below his feet.

“Where are we headed?”  

“It’s top secret.” Marques glanced up and smiled like a lunatic.  

António waited for a reveal. None came.

He felt the first shiver of real fear since joining the navy.

***

31/08/2026 04h32 AZOT  

António headed to the mess hall, seeking an espresso to reaffirm his will to live. He dropped into an empty seat. On the ship, he couldn’t escape the patriotic sign painters of the Portuguese Navy – “Honrai a Pátria, que a Pátria vos contempla,” glared down at him.  

Honor the Fatherland, for the Fatherland watches over you!

In the seat next to him, he found Lieutenant Pinheiro, whose eyes possessed the terrifying, glassy sheen of a man who spent his free time reading 16th-century naval manifests. Pinheiro had pushed aside breakfast and was furiously drawing a series of overlapping circles on a map of the Middle East.  

“Ah, António!” Pinheiro barked so loudly António nearly dropped his coffee. “A Great day for Portugal!” He triangulated a route on his map, then stabbed a finger at the narrow gap between Oman and Iran. “We appear to be steaming at full speed toward the Strait of Hormuz.”  

António blinked, still poking at the salted sardine and breakfast biscuit on his plate. “The Strait of Hormuz? We were scheduled to monitor cod fishing quotas off Costa Verde.”  

“Quotas are for bureaucrats, António!” Pinheiro’s nostrils flared. “The Iranians have threatened our sardine trading routes in the Persian Gulf. We are going to establish a blockade, choke off their oil exports until our demands are met. The world once acknowledged the supremacy of the Portuguese Navy!”  

“Sir,” António said, his voice dropping into the quiet tone one uses when negotiating with an armed lunatic. “That was four hundred years ago. The Iranian Navy has anti-ship missiles, drones, and fast-attack speedboats. We have an aging helicopter with a leaky oil pan and a 20mm cannon that jams when the humidity rises above sixty percent.”  

“Glory to Portugal! Our cannon will have no problems in the Middle East.”  

António mumbled, “São Jorge,” to placate the lunatic, and returned to poking at his single sardine. The navy owed him 3 weeks of back pay, €1,200, and he had leave in seven days, and had already bought the ticket for the Indie Music Fest in Porto.  

He needed a way out of this mission. Fast.

31/08/2026 04h33 AZOT  

Costa took the seat across from him, breakfast tray clattering onto the table. Costa would be more reasonable, or at least more intelligent, than the other lug nuts on board.  

Antonio buttered him up. “You are the smartest guy on this ship.” Costa’s face lit up. António filled him in on the day’s gossip.

Costa leaned forward. “The Strait of Hormuz? The Portuguese empire once taxed every dhow that passed. Maybe we will tax them again.” His voice took on the nebulous tone he used when he talked of economics, world governments, politics, and the long sweep of human history– as if he was secretly in control of it all.

António set his mug down carefully. “You do realize we are on the very ship that might get sunk, and the people that will be collecting those taxes are back in Lisbon?”  

Costa smiled, he appeared to have already solved his personal problem by refusing to acknowledge it. “No one will expect us. Surprise is a force multiplier. Now I must get back to my book.” He opened Prisoners of Geography, and angled it to cover his face like a shield in the crowded mess hall.

Antonio stared at the back of the book, with Costa on the other side, refusing to contemplate the reality of being on a lone frigate going to the Persian Gulf without backup. Antonio’s own hands felt suddenly cold.

***

31/08/2026 04h37 AZOT  

António grabbed his lukewarm coffee and retreated down the narrow staircase toward the engine room, hoping to find a shred of sanity. The air grew hotter with every step, and the reek of diesel became overwhelming. Down here, lived the one man on the frigate who was absolutely down to earth. Perhaps because he lived below the water line.  

He found Chief Petty Officer Teixeira wiping a heavy iron wrench, humming the 90s rock classic “Ouvi Dizer”.

“Chief,” António pleaded. “Have you heard where we’re going?”  

Teixeira gave him a dismissive glance.  

“So you have…”  

“I’ll give you some credit,” Teixeira said. “For figuring out the guy running the ship’s engines knows where the boat is headed.”  

“A lone Portuguese frigate headed to the Strait of Hormuz?”  

Teixeira finally looked over, his face breaking into a wide, toothy grin. “I know, António! This is some heavy shit, aint it?!” He pointed toward the engines. “I’ve already recalibrated them to burn dirty and use twenty percent more fuel.”  

“Why would you make the engines worse?”  

“To get there faster. And so this ship leaves a beautiful black cloud of smoke across the horizon, António!” Teixeira’s eyes shone with genuine delight. “Once the Portuguese navy loses this frigate, I may never need to work on a diesel engine again.”  

When Teixeira turned back to his engine, António slid a heavy monkey wrench onto a narrow ledge directly over the gearbox. These lunatics needed a helping hand. He stepped away quickly, wiping the grease off his hands onto his trousers.

***

31/08/2026 04h42 AZOT  

António stumbled into the chapel next. Father Bento sat at a small folding table, meticulously polishing a silver crucifix with a rag normally meant for cleaning engine parts.  

“Father,” António gasped, collapsing onto a plastic crate. “You have to help me. I’m having a crisis of faith. Not in God, in the chain of command. We are steaming toward a war with Iran with a crew that thinks it’s still the 16th century. Am I the only sane person left on this ship?”  

Father Bento looked up, his face radiating pastoral warmth. “Ah, António. My son. Sit, breathe. It is perfectly natural to feel anxiety when God calls us to do great things.”  

António stood up immediately, backing toward the heavy steel door. “You’re all mad.”  

Father Bento rose as well, raising his hand in a gentle blessing. “Go in peace, my son. And remember, I am here if you need spiritual guidance.”

***

31/08/2026 04h44 AZOT  

He ran up to the bridge, desperate to find the Captain. Surely the Captain, a man who graduated from the naval academy, would understand the geopolitical reality that a single frigate could not wage a war in the modern Middle East.  

The Captain stood at the helm looking through a pair of binoculars, scanning the horizon as if a submarine periscope might appear if he stared hard enough. 

António snapped to attention. “Captain,” António gasped, out of breath. “Sir, the crew… they’ve lost their minds. They think we’re going to blockade the Strait of Hormuz and re-establish the empire. Drop me off at Gibraltar. I’ll walk back to Porto.”  

The Captain didn’t turn around. He simply sighed, a deep, weary sound that gave António a spark of hope.  

“Ah, António. You see the madness too,” the Captain muttered.  

“Yes, sir! Thank God. Please order the helmsman to turn around.”  

“I can’t do that, António,” the Captain said, finally turning to face him. “You see, the Admiralty rules are very clear. Section 4, Paragraph 13 states that a Captain may only abort a mission if he is declared mentally unfit by the ship’s medical officer.”  

“Great!” António cried, taking a half-step forward. “Let’s go see the doctor. He’ll declare the whole ship insane!”  

“I can’t do that either.” The Captain’s voice dropped. “Because our medical officer is currently on shore leave with a mental health condition.”  

“Even I know a frigate can’t sail without a medical officer.”  

“We have a Navy Nurse. But Section 4, Paragraph 13 requires—”  

“—a Medical Officer,” António finished for him. 

“And I need my pension,” the Captain mumbled, almost to himself. His back stiffened. “Return to your station, Ensign.” 

“Yes sir! And one other thing,” António said. “The Chaplain said that if this mission isn’t meant to be, São Jorge will show us a rainbow today.”

***

31/08/2026 04h45 AZOT  

António made one last circuit of the ship. Every man he spoke to had the same unfocused eyes of people who had decided that they needed to believe in something that made no sense. The same look he had seen on the faces of Scientologists at their booth in Lisbon. The logic was circular: they needed to believe because not believing was to be damned. The more illogical the vision became, the more uniformed everyone else was. The more dangerous it grew, the less anyone was allowed to notice the danger. Antonio’s hands started to shake.

He walked out onto the main deck. The wind hit him full in the face. Below dark water rushed past. The ship was surging forward at twenty knots on a bee line toward the Persian Gulf. Somewhere below, cans of sardines were being pried open with the reverence people of other nations reserved for communion wafers.  

He thought of jumping. Of how cold the water would be. How long until anyone noticed him missing. How headquarters would explain his death to his mother. 

Instead, he watched the horizon. 

Then, he saw it. A pale ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds. A rainbow shimmered to life. 

Sao Jorge has answered. 

The ship lurched hard to starboard. Something screeched deep in the hull, and the engines ground to a halt and silence rushed in.

António pulled out his phone. The screen was cracked but showed one bar of signal that somehow got through. That was enough; there was one new message.

It had taken them long enough.

***

31/08/2026 05:13 Universal Time Line  

FROM: Temporal Oversight Headquarters  

Subject: Timeline Contamination Detected  

We don’t have time for this. Please report to the nearest viable alternative timeline.

A sharp jolt of exhilaration surged through António's chest. Far below, the ocean kept swirling as if nothing had changed.  

Then everything did.

***

31/08/2026 04:30 San Diego Time Zone  

The alarm clock went off at 4:30 like a hand grenade. Seaman Second Class Anthony Silva, who had been in the deep, dreamless sleep of the exhausted, sat bolt upright in his bunk on the USS Abraham Lincoln.  

Anthony swung his legs over the side and nearly stepped on Petty Officer Markus, who was polishing his boots with the fervor of a man who believed shiny shoes could make one a real American hero.  

“Boas, mano!” Anthony said.

Markus looked up, his brow furrowing. “What did you say?” 

Anthony blinked. “Morning dude.”  

“Morning, shipmate.” Markus returned to polishing his boot, then said, with a voice full of bright, unshakeable pride, “The ship has set sail for the Strait of Hormuz. We are living the dream, brother!”