Battleship

you know it.”

“What’s going on?” said Ord, relieved that the conversation had shifted away from the notion that tossing him off the ship was somehow a good idea.

“Last year Hopper’s and Nagata’s ships nearly rubbed paint. Nagata blamed it on ‘wind shear,’” she said, putting air quotes around the latter two words to underscore just how seriously she took that excuse. “Hopper blames Nagata. Hates the man.”

“Why?”

She smiled. “Hopper likes to find people to hate. It’s how he motivates himself.”

“Really.” Ord was unimpressed by that. “Sounds a bit juvenile.”

That was exactly the wrong thing to say. “Go mess with him,” Raikes said challengingly. “See what happens.”

Ord might have been new to his surroundings, but he’d been around long enough to know when he was being set up. “No.”

“Do it,” she dared him.

“No.”

“Do it,” said Raikes. She nudged him between the shoulder blades.

“Leave me alone,” he said, and quickly backed away. This prompted a hearty laugh from Raikes and a low rumble of amused approval from Beast.

Initially Hopper had been heading straight toward the admiral. That worked right up until the admiral happened to glance in his direction and give him one of those patented scowls of his. This promptly sent Hopper off on a sharp left turn and his feet brought him, almost of their own accord, to the nearest head. Or, as civilians termed it, the bathroom.

He stood in there for a time, staring at himself in the mirror. You look like a scared little girl. Pull it together, for God’s sake.

He turned the spigot and watched the cold water splash and swirl in the sink for a few moments, trying to avoid thinking of himself as swirling down the drain along with the water. He cupped some of it in his hands and splashed it on his face. He looked back up into the mirror and tried to ignore that water was dripping from his eyebrows. He forced what he imagined was an expression that exuded confidence onto his face. “Sir, it would be my great honor… my great privilege, for your daughter’s hand…” Honor? Privilege? You sound like you’re getting a bump up in rank. Let him know how you feel, dammit. “My joy…”

The creaking of the door was so unexpected that Hopper nearly jumped two feet in the air. He turned and saw, to his anger and dismay, Nagata standing there. Nagata was studying him with open curiosity. “Talking to yourself?”

Not now. Don’t do this now. “Just leaving.”

He started to head for the door. Nagata had stepped through and now he allowed it to swing shut, making no move to get out of Hopper’s way. “Practicing all the things you wish you’d said to me?” said Nagata.

Hopper felt the familiar rage starting to surge through him, and he did everything he could to contain it. “I don’t know how things work in Nagata land, where you’re utterly blameless in all things, but in the real world, not everything is about you.”

“You have something to say, why not say it to my face?”

Hopper took a step toward him, his fists trembling. “If I’m going to do something to your face, Sparky, it isn’t going to involve words.”

“Big talk. Big talk from a little m—”

He didn’t manage to finish the sentence because Hopper chose that moment to drive a fist squarely into Nagata’s gut. It caught Nagata completely by surprise, doubling him over and bringing his face close enough to Hopper that the American was able to punch Nagata in the eye. Probably thought I didn’t have the nerve.

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?