Battleship

“Yes sir,” they chorused.

There was a hand-scrawled sign above the radar station. It was against ship’s regs; the commander disliked people putting their own personal touches on the equipment. Hopper read the sign: “In God We Trust. All Others, We Track.” He grinned and left it there. It was odd; there was something strangely liberating about being slated for court-martial. When they were going to put you on trial for punching out a Japanese officer, it seemed pretty unlikely they’d tack onto the list of your offenses “Left a personalized sign above the radar station.” Nothing like a captain’s mast to put things in perspective.

He passed the close-in weapon system, or CIWS, nodding in approval as a check was made on it to ascertain that it was functional. “Let me remind you,” said Hopper, “this is a combat vessel and we will excel in our command and control, our communications capacity, our tactics, our fire control, navigation, our weapons capabilities. Clear?”

“Yes sir,” said the team once more in unison.

“If we return to Pearl without having outperformed every other ship on this ocean then I will personally hold every man and woman in this room accountable.”

Then he heard Raikes muttering in that way that she had, the way she liked to pretend wasn’t going to be heard by anyone else, except she knew perfectly well she was audible. It was her passive-aggressive way of saying exactly what she wanted to say while maintaining at least a facade of respect for her superior officers.

“What was that, Raikes?” he said sharply.

She looked at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Nothing, sir.”

“No, I’m pretty sure it was something.”

“Nothing.”

In point of fact he’d heard every word and they were etched in his mind: We’ve ended up in a department run by some kind of Donald Trump–Mike Tyson mutant combo package. Imagine if they ever gave this lunatic command…

“Sounded like…” He pretended to be having difficulty remembering the name. “ ‘Donald Trump.’”

“Only in that you are both great motivators, Lieutenant Hopper,” she said.

“Did I hear ‘Mike Tyson’?”

“If you did, it was only in reference to the fact that you both project great physical intensity, and—”

That was enough of the game as far as Hopper was concerned. He leaned in toward her and said sternly, “Watch yourself, Raikes.”

“Watching myself, sir.” A smile played across her lips but she resolutely focused on her weapons systems.

Raikes was a good officer. Scratch that: as a gunnery officer, she was the best. That being the case, Hopper was inclined to give her more latitude than he otherwise would, and probably somewhat more than he should.

Still… no harm in laying down the law.

“Teamwork is all of you doing what I say,” said Hopper. “Trust no one. Respect is taken.” He turned toward a young officer. “Lieutenant Cruz: make enemies or make friends?”

“Enemies, sir,” said Cruz.

“Why?”

“An enemy’s desire to prove his worth to you is stronger than a friend’s desire to prove gratitude.”

As Cruz spoke, Hopper mouthed the words along with him. Cruz had learned well. “Cultivate…?”

“Enemies, sir.”

Hopper nodded approvingly and then turned to the rest of his crew. “Victory through victory. Demolishing competition. Protecting what is ours.”

Raikes started to open her mouth.

“Shut up,” he said.

She closed it again.

There was a loud clearing of a throat, and Hopper turned to see Mullenaro standing in the doorway. He’d been giving Hopper the stink eye ever since the meeting in the wardroom. Well, he’ll be rid of me soon enough; he’s probably happy about that. “Get to the helo deck. Sampson wants you on the pronto. In person.”

They want me over on the Sampson? Why would they—?

Then he realized. It was pretty self-evident, really. Stone hadn’t seen him since the entire fiasco on the Big Mo, mostly because Hopper had taken great pains to avoid him. Obviously Stone was going to take advantage of his last opportunity to boss Hopper around in an official capacity. For a moment, Hopper considered telling Mullenaro that he couldn’t make it. That he wasn’t leaving the John Paul Jones and if the Sampson didn’t like it, that was too damned bad. If Stone wanted to take the time to bitch out his younger brother, he could bloody well come over here and do it.

Yet all he said was, “Aye, sir.”

Minutes later he was on a chopper heading toward the Sampson, chewing himself out mentally for his inability to say what was on his mind. Ultimately he decided that there simply hadn’t been any point to it. Let Stone have his say. You have it coming, and you know it.

Stone was standing on the flight deck of the Sampson, displaying as much emotion as his name might suggest. As the chopper set down, Hopper emerged from it, holding his hat securely under his arm to make sure that the whipping blades didn’t blow it away. He came to a halt several feet from his brother and, standing at attention, saluted. Normally such a move would have prompted Stone to smile, seeing Hopper display genuine respect for the uniform and rank. Now, though, all Stone could think was, Too little, too late. He returned the salute dispassionately and indicated, with a nod of his head, that Hopper should follow him.

They made their way down to Stone’s quarters. Stone stood to one side as Hopper entered and then he shut the door behind him. He dispensed with any niceties. They were both busy men, and besides, there seemed no point in trying to candy coat a poison pill.

“Captain’s mast is real,” said Stone as he walked around to the far side of his desk and sat down. He gestured for Hopper to sit; Hopper remained standing, and Stone saw no reason to push the matter. “Just got off the phone with 3rd Fleet JAG. I can’t get you out of this one.”

“When?”

“The day we get back. Nagata is being charged, too.”

Hopper took in this bit of news. Stone could tell from the look on his face that he was relieved. If he was going down, at least Nagata was going down with him. Then he realized his priorities were out of whack. He brought himself back to his own concerns. “What do I do?”

“I don’t know what to tell you this time, Hopps. It’s three strikes.” Stone shook his head. “I don’t get it. You have everything. You’ve got the skills. More talent than me. You’ve got a great girl. And you just keep shooting yourself in the foot. Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah, you do,” Stone said impatiently. “You’re not that oblivious to whatever’s going on in your head. But you try to avoid it, and if someone really presses it, you make a joke about it. It isn’t a joke anymore, Hopper. This time it’s very real. So tell me what the hell’s going on.”

“I’m just not you,” said Hopper. “You got the character and quality. I got the other stuff.”

“Yeah. Except you’re on the verge of losing all the other stuff, including Sam. Is that what you want?”

Hopper stared at him. “Honestly?”

“That’d be nice.”

He sighed heavily. “I don’t know what the hell I want.”

It sounded trite, but Stone could feel his brother’s pain. Hopper had been so lost for so long, and Stone had done everything he could to get him back on track. Instead they were here, in this situation, and Hopper’s career —which had seemed so promising—might well have hit a dead end.

“I hope you find it, Hopps,” Stone said with sincere concern for his brother. “And I hope you find it before you’ve completely sunk yourself.”