Battleship

by Peter David

  Nagata staggered and Hopper closed in for the kill. But he was too slow. Even in the confined area, Nagata was able to sidestep him and he brought the base of his hand slamming up into Hopper’s mouth. Hopper’s head snapped back and he tasted his own blood in his mouth. Nagata’s hand thrust forward once more. Hopper was able to block it, just barely. He grabbed Nagata’s wrist and slammed him back up against the wall, which shuddered under the impact. They grappled for a few moments and then Nagata—bigger and stronger than Hopper—shoved him back. But Hopper didn’t let go and together the two of them crashed into the nearest stall, the wall collapsing under their combined weight.

  Hopper lost track of time after that, the world transforming into a vast haze of red. All he knew was that one minute he was snarling in Nagata’s face—the two of them slamming each other around and rolling on the bathroom floor—and the next they were being separated by masters-at-arms. As the MAs pulled the two of them apart, Hopper had a brief glimpse of a tall figure standing in the corridor, looking on in disgust. It was Admiral Shane.

  Terrific, he thought, as he came to the realization that trying to distinguish between the subtleties of words like “honor” and “joy” had suddenly become woefully, painfully moot.

  WARDROOM, USS MISSOURI

  The wardroom was filled with the remainders of all the material that had been used in the food preparation for the celebration. There were trays and large serving plates everywhere, either empty or with crumbs and scraps of food remaining on them. The catering crew had been in the midst of cleaning up, but when an assembly of high-ranking officers had walked in and told them that they needed the room, they did not hesitate to make themselves scarce. It was obvious from the attitude of the officers that being anywhere other than the wardroom at that moment was an incredibly good idea.

  Hopper and Nagata were both standing stiff-backed, accomplishing the impressive task of staring straight forward without actually making eye contact with any of the officers arrayed in front of them. Hopper didn’t feel much like speaking anyway, since his mouth was swollen to such a degree that he was going to sound stupid trying to form words. The only positive aspect of all this was that Nagata’s right eye had swollen shut, although considering that the vice admiral of the Japanese Navy was standing there glaring at Hopper, perhaps it wasn’t so wonderful after all. Admiral Shane was fuming… at Hopper. Standing to Hopper’s left was Commander Sherman Brownley, his commanding officer aboard the John Paul Jones, a broad-shouldered, middle-aged man who was dyspeptic on his best days. He was glaring, too… at Hopper. To Hopper’s right was Tony Mullenaro, Brownley’s executive officer, a short, thick Italian who was glaring… at Hopper. Off to the side was the tall, dark-haired Commander Rivera, who was glaring at—big surprise—Hopper.

  This is ridiculous. There were two of us in the fight. How come everyone is glaring at me? My COs. Nagata’s COs. It’s not freaking fair. Hell, he’s the one who started it.

  Somehow Hopper suspected that the famed “He started it” defense wasn’t the best avenue to take.

  “It was just a crazy accident, sir,” Hopper said through his swollen lips. His words sounded slurred and thick, as if he were a boxer who had just gone five rounds. “The floor was wet. I started to fall. He reached out to help.”

  “Hogwash,” said Mullenaro, clearly having none of it.

  There was a moment of silence. Nagata and Hopper, for the first time since they’d been hauled off each other, exchanged looks. Then, very coolly, Nagata said, “It was an accident.”

  Hopper was momentarily surprised that Nagata was covering for him. Then he realized it shouldn’t be a surprise at all. Nagata had as much at stake as Hopper did and was just covering his own ass. After all, the Japanese vice admiral clearly already blamed Hopper for everything. Why would Nagata say anything honest, like, “I started it,” when there was no benefit in it for him?

  “You’re a lying mule hound, Hopper,” said Mullenaro. “This is your fifth fight in three years.”

  I’m a lying mule hound? Nagata just backed me up! Why not call him a lying mule hound?

  And what the hell is a “mule hound” anyway? And are they known for being liars?

  Wisely, he didn’t say any of that.

  Without a word, the Japanese vice admiral gestured for Nagata to follow him out. Then he bowed slightly to the other officers, turned and walked from the room with stiff-backed precision. Nagata trailed behind him and Hopper didn’t doubt for a moment that he’d receive a hero’s welcome once he returned to his own ship. Either he’d be characterized as a man unfairly accused (if his cover story was believed), or he would be seen as an officer who had been unwilling to take lip from a big-mouthed, arrogant American and pounded the living crap out of him.

  No one said anything in the wardroom for long moments after Nagata and the vice admiral departed. Then Mullenaro stepped forward, clearly prepared to fill the void, but he was stopped by the calm voice of Admiral Shane saying, “Gentlemen… a minute.”

  Well, this worked out perfectly. You were trying to figure out how you could get some time alone with the admiral, and now you’ve got it. Excellent plan, well thought out, well executed. And all you had to do to accomplish it was flush your entire career down the toilet by having a fight in the toilet. Great job there, Hopps, old boy. You really slam-dunked this one.

  Soon they were alone. Shane stared at him with a face that could have been carved out of marble for all the emotion he was displaying.

  I wonder if he’s happy about this. He never liked me anyway. This just makes everything easier for him.

  Shane offered no preamble; he cut right to it. “I’m ordering a captain’s mast, Navy court-martial for you immediately upon return to Pearl.”

  Even though Hopper had been expecting something exactly like this, it was still like being hit in the face with a brick. He even rocked on his heels slightly as if a genuine physical impact had been made.

  Shane was standing there, clearly waiting for Hopper to say something, to acknowledge what he’d just been told. Hopper managed a nod and said, “Yes, sir.”

  Apparently desiring to twist the knife in Hopper’s gut some more, Shane went on to state the obvious: “This could very well be it for you in the Navy, son.”

  Son. He’s never called me “son” before. That time I came to his house, sat down, had dinner with the man, he said four words to me the whole time: “Pass the salt, Hopper.” Now I get “son.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Shane studied him, clearly perplexed. He looked like different emotions were at war within him. “What is wrong with you, son? You became an officer in five years. Fastest Mustang in the history of the U.S. Navy.”

  “Yes, sir.” He kept his voice flat and uneven, as if they were discussing the fate of someone else.

  The admiral slowly walked around him, apparently wanting to see if his actions made any more sense if he was being observed from a different angle. “You’ve got skills. I’ve never seen a man waste himself better than you.” He paused and then intoned, as if speaking from a pulpit, “Keep the ship out of the surf and spray or you will plunge to destruction.”

  “That was Homer, sir,” Hopper said. “From The Odyssey. Part of the instructions for getting around Scylla and Charybdis.”

  Shane stopped in his pacing and gawked at Hopper. Hopper felt a brief flash of triumph over having garnered such a reaction from the admiral. Then Shane quickly covered his astonishment as it dissolved into the expression he typically had when he interacted with Hopper: disappointment. “The fact that you know that chafes my butt more than anything. What my daughter sees in you is a great mystery to me. You’re a very smart individual with very weak character, leadership, and decision-making skills.”

  Hopper nodded. “I understand, sir.”

  The admiral again seemed to be waiting for Hopper to fill in the gap of silence. When he didn’t, probably more out of frustration than genuine interest in anything Hopper
might tell him, Shane asked, “Do you have anything to say? Anything?”

  A lot of things. A ton of things. But none of them are anything you’d care about. And, frankly, none of them are any of your damned business. Besides, why should you care? You’ve wanted me nowhere near your precious Sam ever since I can remember. I’ve given you what you want. Served it up on a silver platter. So let’s not pretend like you give a crap about the whys and wherefores.

  “Negative, sir,” was all he said.

  Shane sighed deeply. “Enjoy these games, Mr. Hopper. It’s likely this will be the last time you spend in the U.S. Navy.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  Shane saluted. Hopper returned it without hesitation and then Shane left the wardroom, leaving Hopper standing there at attention. As soon as he was gone, Hopper sagged against the table.

  He said nothing, did nothing, made not the slightest sound. He simply stared off into space and watched the entirety of his life spinning away. He had never more desperately wanted to sink into a morass of his own self-pity.

  There was only one thing left to do, and that was exactly what Shane had suggested. Except he was going to take it to an entirely different level. He wasn’t simply going to enjoy the war games. He was going to do everything he could to aid in completely annihilating any opponents. Maybe he couldn’t win on the soccer field. And maybe he was a loser on the field of love, since there was no doubt in his mind that he and Sam were finished.

  But on the battlefield, all was clear and simple. Get the other guy before he gets you.

  Would that all of life were that simple.

  PEARL HARBOR

  Like the Sampson, the John Paul Jones was an Arleigh Burke–class guided missile destroyer, docked in Pearl Harbor, a long way from her home port of San Diego. Her famed motto was “In Harm’s Way,” and she had certainly lived up to it, having endured four deployments to the Persian Gulf. Along with eleven other destroyers from an assortment of countries, right now she was taking on the last of her crew and making ready to set sail for the international war games. The weather was certainly perfect for it. Not a cloud in the sky, no prediction of rain or storms anywhere on the horizon.

  Although with the mood Hopper was in, he was already seeing that as a drawback. Inclement weather could sometimes be tremendously useful and give you a leg up on your opponent if you could detect their ships before they could see yours. With a perfect sun beaming down, it meant that the playing field was level.

  Fine. Bring ’em on. He was definitely in the mood to blow something up.

  What he was not in the mood for was to listen to Sam tell him how monumentally he had screwed up. Worse, he was not in the weapons bay, out of sight from everyone else; instead he was on the dock, approaching the gangway that led up to the ship, and Sam was right next to him, letting him have it in no uncertain terms.

  “You had one job. One simple, very specific job,” she said.

  “It was not a good time to ask,” he told her, never more certain of anything in his entire life.

  She kept talking as if he hadn’t spoken. “Five words: ‘May I marry your daughter?’ You ask the question. He says ‘yes,’ and we’re there. We’re good.” She gestured in frustration, “You hitting a Japanese officer was not part of the plan.”

  He stopped and turned to face her. “I’m really sorry.”

  There was nothing in her attitude that led Hopper to think that apologizing was going to get the job done. As it turned out, he was exactly right. “You think this is a joke? You don’t think I’m serious about this? I love my father more than anyone in the world, Hopper. You don’t have the respect…”

  Her voice became so laden with emotion that she couldn’t finish the sentence.

  Hopper was still having trouble believing that they were having this conversation. He’d been sure that once Sam found out how badly everything had gone, it would be the end of them right there. That he’d find a break-up email waiting for him, or perhaps a curt “Nice knowing you” on his voice mail. The fact that she was still talking to him at all was nothing short of astounding to him.

  He reached out to her, tried to take her hand, but she shook it away. So he folded his arms, looking uneasy as he said, “I do have the respect. And I… I’m sorry.” It seemed a hopelessly inadequate thing for him to say, but it was all he could manage.

  She took a moment to regain control of herself and then looked up at him. He could see the red rims of her eyes. She’d been crying before she ever came to see him. “Stone says there’s going to be a captain’s mast as soon as you get back.”

  “Yeah.” It was all he said. There didn’t really seem much of anything else for him to say.

  There was such despair on Sam’s face that Hopper was starting to feel as if he were some kind of sadist for even spending time with her. “What is wrong with you?” she said, and thumped her palm on his chest for good measure.

  “I’m not sure.”

  She was starting to tear up again, and she wiped them away as quickly as she could. There were others around, sailors and officers and their spouses, and the last thing she needed was for the daughter of the admiral to look weak, as if she were all choked up over the notion of her boyfriend going off to war games. Sam spoke to him low and intensely: “Something is wrong, Hopper. Really wrong, and you have to make it right. I love you very much, but something has got to change. Make it right.” She didn’t wait for him to leave her. Instead she walked away from him as quickly as she could.

  Hopper stood there for a moment, wrestling with the possibility of running after her, maybe even blowing off the war games completely. Let her know where his priorities were. But what would be the result of that? Desertion charges? Dishonorable discharge? Then again, wasn’t that a foregone conclusion, with the captain’s mast? If he was going to go down, why not just go down in flames?

  Because if you wait till after the mast, you might still have a whisper of a breath of a prayer. Turn your back on the Navy and it’s all over. You, Sam, all of it. You’ll never be able to make it right the way she wants you to.

  These were the thoughts that hung on him as he joined his shipmates aboard the John Paul Jones.

  Later, as he stood leaning on the railing of the prow while the destroyer prepared to pull out, he wondered if it was indeed too late to fix things. Sam had talked of love, but she’d walked away from him. She’d spoken of his making things right, but hadn’t suggested how he could possibly go about it.

  Maybe she’s already preparing emotionally to cut me loose, and who could blame her? Is there any point in…?

  Then he saw her. She was standing in the parking lot, leaning against the Jeep, her eyes clearly searching for some sign of Hopper. Then she spotted him, raised her arm, and waved.

  She came back to see me off.

  It was like a jolt of adrenaline to his heart. He gave her a salute and then did a double tap of his fist against his heart, followed by a V-for-Victory sign with his fingers. He was trying to tell her every way he knew that he still loved her and would try to find a way to fix things, for her. It was a great message and he was positive it was exactly what she needed to hear.

  Now all he had to do was find a way to make it actually happen.

  U.S. FLEET, OUT TO SEA

  Stone Hopper was never more comfortable than when he was on the bridge of the Sampson. He considered it to be his place of power, and his authority flowed from there. All eyes of his bridge crew were upon him, and he addressed them in a calm, almost leisurely manner. They listened attentively to his every word.

  “All right, everybody, that was a great under way from Pearl. Solid job all around.” He nodded in approval and everyone was smiling. They knew they were the best damned crew in the fleet—no reason to pussyfoot around it. “And good job on liberty. No incidents.”

  The moment he said it, he knew what they were thinking. There were certainly no incidents involving the crew of the Sampson. But the elephant in the r
oom was the awareness—which had become common knowledge by that point—of the trouble that Stone Hopper’s idiot brother had gotten himself into.

  He didn’t bother to address it. What was there to say? Instead he told them briskly, “Now, let’s get buttoned back up. We’re gonna be close maneuvering with a lot of other nations. This exercise will allow us to put our training to a rigorous test. I’m excited to see what we learn.”

  They nodded, almost as one.

  He regarded them sternly. “Teamwork is unity of purpose. All of us pulling together. Trust your fellow crewmen. Respect is earned. There is no greater feeling I know of than individual excellence forming teamwork that leads to victory. Victory through teamwork. Be safe out there. Look out for one another. And let’s keep chargin’. Working together, supporting one another. Your voice counts. Speak up.”

  He straightened his shoulders and saluted them. They snapped off a sharp, perfectly coordinated response and then went to their assigned tasks. Stone watched them moving with smooth efficiency. He should be focusing completely on them and taking pride in their actions. Instead he was thinking about Alex’s troubles. Did you let him down somehow? Was this, in any way, your fault? Ultimately he decided that it was not, and that sooner or later he was going to have to stop taking emotional responsibility for Alex’s screwups. At some point Alex Hopper was going to have to grow the hell up, and if it took a full-blown court-martial and being drummed out of the Navy for that to happen, well…

  At least he’d finally learn.

  Either that or spiral downward faster than ever.

  Every department head on a ship such as the John Paul Jones was utterly convinced that his little realm was the center of the vessel’s universe. The bridge crew would have assured any visitors that the bridge was the ship’s soul, while the engine crew would have declared that the engine room was the ship’s heart.