Battleship

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