Battleship

Instead, however, they followed Hopper, who was heading straight toward the bridge, to bring his commander up to speed and to find out what the next course of action was going to be.

The skipper will know what to do. The man may be an officious jerk, and he’s never liked me, but he’s forgotten more about strategy than most naval men ever learn. He’s probably already got an entire plan in place. He’s probably already figured out a weakness that went past the rest of us. He’s got this covered; he’ll be totally on top of it.

Hopper walked into the bridge, Beast and Raikes behind him, and glanced around, not finding the person he was most expecting to. “Where’s the skipper?” he asked.

There was dead silence. All Hopper saw was an array of young, terrified faces, looking at him… no, looking to him. Lieutenant J. G. Raj Patel, a young and efficient officer of Indian descent, and Ensign Anthony Rice, still so wet behind the ears he was practically dripping, looked as if they had one frayed nerve between them. Ord was also there, staring at him expectantly. Expectantly? What in the world was he expecting?

Hopper heard explosions in the distance. He turned and saw that the Japanese vessel the Myoko was under attack from the stinger. The stinger was firing singles of the cylinders, rather than barrages, and the weapons were falling short of the destroyer. Warning shots. They don’t have an infinite number of the things. The Myoko was backing off, taking the hint, and that seemed to satisfy the damned stinger, as it ceased fire. Why the hell aren’t we coordinating attacks? Why are we just sitting here? Why isn’t the skipper giving—?

“Orders, sir?” said Ord.

“Why are you asking me?” Deep down, he already knew the answer. Some part of him simply couldn’t acknowledge it, though. Didn’t want to acknowledge it. When he’d first entered the bridge, his voice had been brisk, no-nonsense. Now when he spoke, repeating his previous question, it was low and level and barely above a whisper: “Where’s the skipper?”

“Dead, sir.” Ord sounded as if he were talking from somewhere just south of the Twilight Zone. A dead man walking, emotionlessly reporting on the fate of those who had already preceded him down that road.

“What did you say?” He knew what Ord had said. He just needed time to process it, time that none of them had.

“Skipper’s dead,” said Ord. Anticipating the next question, he continued, “XO’s dead.”

The debris. The debris from where we were hit. They’re under the debris somewhere. Oh my God, they’re not just trying to repair the ship; they’re trying to dig out the bodies…

Focus. Focus.

“Who’s in charge?” said Hopper.

For the first time, actual emotion flickered on the previously numb, expressionless face of Ord. Sounding utterly matter of fact, as if he couldn’t quite believe he had to make it clear, he said, “You are, sir.”

“No.” Hopper shook his head. “I fight the ship.”

“You’re doing that, too. You’re all of it, sir. You’re in charge.”

Hopper stared at him for a moment, not comprehending. He looked to Patel, who nodded.

Apparently Raikes had an easier time grasping it, or at least saying it aloud, than Hopper did. “It’s your ship, sir,” she said firmly. “You’re senior officer. What are the orders?”

He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t look at any of them, because they were all staring at him, waiting for him to come up with answers that he didn’t have. Instead he looked out the shattered window and saw that the stinger was floating five hundred yards away.

“Orders, sir?” Ord prompted him again.

Slowly he shifted his gaze to Raikes. His eyes hardened and narrowed to slits. Rage began to fill him. Don’t give in to it. Channel it. Use it. “Guns hot?”

“Aye, sir,” said Raikes.

“Engines good?” he said to Beast.

Beast was on the horn to the engine room, getting updates, doubtless in anticipation of the question. He glanced toward Hopper. “Yes, sir.”

He felt hot tears beginning to surge in his eyes: not from grief, but from pure fury. These bastards… they’d killed his brother, upended his life. And they sat there, smug in their anonymity, secure in their invincibility. Sons of bitches will pay. “Do we have ship to ship?”

“We’re holding it together with spit and bailing wire, but yes, sir.”

“Good. Raise Nagata. Tell him we’re going to attack.”

“Attack? Really?” That obviously wasn’t what Ord had expected him to say.

“Those are the orders,” affirmed Hopper. “Raikes, get your ass down to the CIC. Ready all guns.”

For a moment, Raikes looked as if she was going to balk at that. But then she caught herself. This wasn’t the usual give and take that she and Hopper typically enjoyed. This wasn’t her busting on him under her breath. This was combat and he was the one in charge of the whole damned ship. “Roger that, Captain,” said Raikes.

USS REAGAN

In his ready room, Admiral Shane watched in silent horror as he played and replayed the final images that had come in from the F-18.

There was always a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach when someone under his command died as a direct result of one of his orders. Today he’d sent Kenny Johnson—one of their best pilots—to see what exactly the Sampson and the vessels near it were dealing with. Shane hadn’t known he was sending Johnson into a combat situation. He’d thought it would be a simple reconnoitering… and it was, until it went horribly, horribly wrong. Now Johnson was dead and, although rationally Shane knew the unknown enemy had been responsible, in his mind it had in fact been he who’d killed Johnson.

And even worse was the matter of Hopper.

For it most definitely was Hopper who’d been blown backwards by the energy of that… whatever it was. Even from the height the F-18 had been flying, taking photos, Shane had recognized him. If nothing else, the massive officer nicknamed “Beast” being there had more or less assured Hopper’s presence; Beast was big enough to be recognizable from orbit. If he was out there, then surely Hopper was commanding the boat, and that had probably been Raikes at the gun. Man down! Those had been the last words that he’d heard from Johnson before the pilot’s horrified scream and image dissolved into a blast of static.

Sam’s going to kill me…

“Admiral, you were saying…?”

It was thoroughly unprofessional for Shane to let his mind wander during such a high-level briefing, even if the man he was talking with wasn’t in the room. Shane pressed the phone tighter against his ear to focus himself and said, “Sorry, Mr. Secretary. I was just… reviewing the latest intel.”

“So what’s the situation there?” came the Secretary of Defense’s voice over the phone.

“You saw the video we just transmitted?”

“Yes. Incredible. Horrible. That platform is obviously some sort of enemy device. Maybe it’s even—and I can’t believe I’m saying this, because it sounds like something out of a James Bond movie—some manner of weather control machine.”

“I share both your opinion and your incredulity, Mr. Secretary. Furthermore, we’ve lost comm with everyone on the other side of the barrier. We can’t get in or out. I’ve already lost one pilot; I’m not going to lose another, even if we could get someone through. We sent two surveillance sorties up to determine how far it extends.”

“It. You mean this water barrier?”

“Yes, Mr. Secretary. We also have a submarine, the Stingray, doing soundings to see how deep it goes as well.”

“Well… how large is it?”

“According to the Stingray, it goes all the way to the bottom. No way under it. Or through it. Or over it. Or into it.”