Battleship

stared bleakly at Zapata. “I’ve been waiting for this moment my entire life, Cal. Since before you were born. And all I can think of is the old saying—”

“Be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it?”

Slowly Nogrady nodded. “You read my mind, Cal.”

No. Actually it’s what I was worried about when we first started this project. My mind was way ahead of you. I just couldn’t get anyone to listen to me.

Cal Zapata typically took great pride in being right about everything. There had never been an occasion such as this, where he desperately wished he’d been wrong.

Hopper walked briskly onto the bridge of the John Paul Jones, summoned there by Commander Brownley. Minutes earlier, he would have assumed that Brownley wanted to talk to him about the court-martial. Perhaps lecture him on how badly he’d screwed up. Maybe ask him how the get-together with his brother had gone… and then ream him out.

But he’d heard, as had the rest of the ship, about the space debris that was falling all over the damned globe. In the grand scheme of things, the court-martial of a single officer was meaningless. There was no way that Brownley—whatever the differences he might have had with Hopper during the time the younger man had served under him—was going to be harping about it when the whole world was in a state of emergency.

Brownley took one look at him and it was clear from his grim expression that Hopper didn’t even have to ask about the subject of the impromptu meeting. “Hong Kong got hit hard,” said Brownley, getting right to it. “Total devastation, massive civilian casualties.”

“What was it?”

Brownley shook his head. “No one knows for sure. Best guess: meteor shower or fallen satellites. And they’ve hit more than just Hong Kong. At least a dozen locations known, with reports of more strikes coming in every minute.”

“Let me guess. One near us?”

“Yeah. We’ve got new orders. Hawkeyes report there’s debris near our position. We’ve been commanded to check it out with Sampson and Myoko. Coordinates being fed into the navigation computers right now. I want your department on full alert.”

This confused Hopper somewhat. “Are we expecting that some busted space debris is going to open fire on us?”

“I am expecting nothing, lieutenant commander. I am, however, anticipating everything. I expect you to do no less.”

“Aye, sir.” Hopper saluted stiffly and headed out of the bridge. As he did so, he heard Brownley call out, “Set material condition zebra. Right full rudder. Flank speed.”

Moments later, the three vessels dispatched to inspect the crash area had peeled off from the rest of the fleet, the war games forgotten, wholly unaware of just what exactly was lurking under the water, waiting for them.

OAHU NAVAL REHAB CENTER

Samantha Shane—outfitted in exercise gear, a file folder tucked under her arm—nodded and waved to her coworkers as she moved through the large clinic gym that was filled with all manner of exercise equipment. Weights to work both the upper and lower body, rowing machines, treadmills… anything that could be utilized to help hammer a human body into shape. There were several naval officers and a midshipman engaged in various types of physical therapy, each of them working with an endlessly patient trainer who would smile and nod encouragement. Sam had actually practiced the type of smile she used while working with a client. When she’d been training for her current job, she had stared into the mirror for minutes at a time. She was trying to make sure that her smile radiated confidence; a certainty that whomever she was working with was going to overcome whatever problems that the hazards of war, or just pure rotten luck, had saddled them with.

Unfortunately she knew she had a serious challenge in front of her this time. It didn’t take her long to find him. He was seated in a chair, staring despondently off into space. He was wearing a U.S. Army T-shirt and a pair of sweat shorts, which revealed the prosthetics he had instead of the legs he’d been born with. They were high tech, even state of the art: C-legs, with microprocessor-controlled knees. The popular term among the soldiers was “bionic legs,” after the appliances worn by the Six Million Dollar Man. Those bionic legs, of course, were fictional; indistinguishable from human legs and capable of enabling him to sprint at sixty miles per hour (mysteriously without ever causing his hair to ruffle). The C-legs had a ways to go before they reached that level of perfection.

Her patient had a thick coat of dark beard stubble and his hair, which had grown out somewhat from the standard crew cut, was disheveled. His expression seemed set into a permanent glower and his eyes were bloodshot. He hasn’t been sleeping well. Who can blame him? Probably wakes up constantly trying to scratch the itch of his lower legs, which aren’t there anymore.

He was glancing around at that moment and his eyes fell on her. “Looking for my physical therapist,” he said.

She spread her arms in a ta-daaa manner. “You found her.”

“Nooo,” said the soldier with the air of someone who felt he was talking to an idiot. “Dean’s a stocky guy with a mustache who benches four-fifty.”

“I’m your new physical therapist. Dean quit. Said you burned him out, so you get me.”

He looked at her askance. “They punishing you for something?”

“I volunteered.”

“Why?” He appeared intrigued by her, which was certainly better than thinking she was an idiot or brushing her off. His face hadn’t lost its general air of sourness, however. “You like abuse?”

“My father is an admiral,” she said with easy confidence, “and my semi-fiance is a weapons officer on a destroyer. I understand and can handle ‘difficult men.’”

“What’s a ‘semi-fiance’?”

She ignored the question, not feeling like explaining it. Besides, it was none of his damned business anyway. “I’m detecting a lot of anger.”

“That’s very perceptive of you,” he said sarcastically.

“Is there anything in there besides anger…” She glanced at the name on the file. “Mick?”

“Not much.” He stared at her defiantly.

He’s challenging you to meet his stare. He’s trying to turn this into a pissing match. Don’t do it. Instead she read from his file in a no-nonsense, businesslike way. “Mick Canales. Thirty-five years old. Army Special Forces. Lost both legs last July. IED Korengal Valley in Afghanistan. Depression. Unwilling to go home.”

He stared at her as he scratched the underside of his chin, saying nothing. To her that meant that he wasn’t hearing anything worth contradicting.

She continued to read. “Football coach, Colorado Springs. ‘Pikes Peak issues.’”

Upon hearing that, his face immediately went from annoyance to full-blown irritation. He was acting as if some deep secret had been brought out into the open, a secret she had no business knowing. “Where’d you hear that?”

For response, Sam pointed at the obvious source: the file in her hand. “Says you’re pissed off because you can’t climb Pikes Peak anymore. Is that accurate?” He didn’t seem inclined to answer immediately, and so she simply gazed at him with a single raised, questioning eyebrow, acting as if she knew it was only a matter of time before he responded to her question.

He glared at her for a full minute, not saying a word. She did nothing to fill in the silence. Instead she just remained there, unmoving. A brick wall would have had more to say on the subject. Finally, though, he said, “Every season I would lead the team on a hike up to the top of Pikes Peak. The fact of that hike not happening is contributing to my,” and he mockingly made air quotations, “ ‘anger problem.’”