Battleship

support.

“Hopper,” she managed to say.

Cal patted her arm. “I’m sorry.”

Seized with rage, none of which was directed at the men who were supporting her, Sam pulled away from both of them and stood there, on her own, staring at the place where a ship of the line had once been and now wasn’t.

Mick had pulled out a pair of binoculars and was studying the scene more closely. “Don’t give up hope. There are lifeboats deployed.”

She knew there had been, and nodded. She knew there was still hope; it just seemed to be growing fainter by the moment. “The John Paul Jones can’t stop those things from sending their message now,” she said. She and Mick traded looks.

“You know what that means,” said Mick.

She nodded.

Cal stared at the two of them as they started moving back to the Jeep. They paused when they realized he wasn’t following them, and Mick gestured impatiently for him to climb on board.

“You’re getting that weird violent look again,” said Cal. “I don’t like that look.”

Sam could not have given a damn at that moment about what looks Cal liked or didn’t like. Obviously Mick was of the same mind, as he said to Cal, “You said that satellite only orbits by once every twenty-four hours.”

“Right.”

“So if they miss it, they have to wait,” said Mick.

Cal frowned, thought about it, then shrugged. “I suppose.”

“Then we’re gonna go try and buy the world another day,” said Mick. Sam nodded in agreement.

They got into the Jeep, and then Cal stopped where he was. “You’re planning to attack them directly, aren’t you.”

“That’s the plan, Einstein. Now come on…”

And slowly Cal shook his head. “I can’t,” he whispered, and he was trembling. “I’m not like you. I’m not heroic. I’m… I’m sorry.”

“Get in the damned Jeep, Doc. I’m not kidding around.”

“Neither am I.”

Sam just looked at him with a combination of anger and disappointment, and said, “We don’t have time for this.” Before Mick could get out of the Jeep and go after Cal, Sam had gunned the engine and taken off.

Calvin Zapata stood there and watched them drive away, left alone with his cowardice.

PEARL HARBOR

The small fleet of RHIBs, carting the last remaining survivors of the doomed John Paul Jones, glided across the water, a deathly silence having descended upon them like a blanket. In every direction Hopper looked as he sat in the prow of an RHIB, he saw on the faces of his men a sense of crushing defeat. Every crewman was suffering in his own personal hell, knowing they had failed, that the world was lost… because of them.

There was every temptation for Hopper to join them.

No one would blame him. He’d gotten some licks in, he’d taken out those stinger vessels. He’d simply been overwhelmed by a weapon he could not possibly have defeated.

He’d done his best, but it wasn’t enough.

Except he refused to accept that.

He stared resolutely at the horizon, eyes flinty, his mind racing. “No,” he said firmly. “It doesn’t end like this.”

Nagata was in the small ship with him. There was skepticism in his eyes, the same look of defeat that was reflected in the faces of everyone else in view. “What do you want us to do, Hopper? Ram them with the inflatables? We have no ships left!”

Slowly Hopper shook his head. “We have one.”

“One what?”

As the RHIBs came into the harbor, Hopper pointed straight ahead. “We have a battleship.”

Nagata still looked confused. “What? You mean behind the Missouri?” It took him a few more moments to realize what Hopper meant, and when he did, all of his usual reserve dissipated. “Are you crazy? That’s…” He gestured toward the ancient vessel that was permanently moored in Pearl Harbor. “That’s a museum!”

“Not today,” said Hopper.

Minutes later Hopper and his command crew were striding across the deck of the antiquated battleship. The rest of the survivors from the John Paul Jones—the ones who weren’t in immediate need of medical attention—were spreading out, looking around the vessel with the same sense of wonder that one might have seen from wide-eyed tour groups. They’d seen it all before, of course, but never with the notion of it being sent into combat.

“This ship is seventy years old,” Beast was saying. “It’s completely outdated.” He started ticking off the problems on his fingers. “The firing systems are all analog. The engines probably haven’t been started in a decade, which would be fine, but they’re steam, which I have no idea how to fire up. And even if you did have a user’s manual and gave me six weeks to go through it all, we still don’t have enough crew to physically run the damn thing!”

“I already thought of that,” said Hopper. “Stone brought me here to visit once, back when I first enlisted. I’ve stopped by every so often, talked with them. Great guys. There’re experienced hands ready to serve; more than enough to fill our needs.”

“What are you talking ab—?”

But Hopper had stopped walking, and was now pointing ahead of them. Beast, Raikes, Ord and several others stared where he was indicating, and it was all they could do not to laugh. Then, faced with the seriousness of their situation, not laughing suddenly became quite easy.

An assortment of old salts—Navy men who were actually more ancient than the ship whose deck they were striding across—were approaching them. They were grizzled, and they weren’t moving particularly quickly. But they walked with their heads held high, distinct pride and—of all things—an attitude of certainty that, now that they’d been called in, everything was going to work out just fine.

There was one who seemed to be the natural leader. Tall, angular, with a square jaw and quiet blue eyes, he strode up to Hopper and straightened his back. “Captain,” he said, and saluted. “Saw you fight those bastards. Hell of a thing. Sorry about your boat.”

Hopper nodded. “Schmidt, isn’t it?”

The old salt nodded. “Lieutenant J. G. Schmidt, yes sir. That was a long time ago, though. ‘Andy’ will do for an old man.”

“Well, Andy, everything old is new again.” His gaze took in all the elderly sailors who were waiting to hear what he had to say. “You men have given so much for your country over the years. No one has the right to ask any more of you. But I am asking.”

“When we saw what was happening,” Andy said slowly, in a rough voice, “we said ‘not again.’ Not in our lifetimes.” His eyes were haunted; he seemed to be looking inward to images that he had witnessed decades earlier, on that terrible day in 1941, images seared into his mind that could never be erased. Then his eyes hardened to steel. “What do you need, sir?”

“I need to make this ship ready for war.”

Andy grinned. “War we can do.”

Hopper’s crew moved with renewed energy, prepping the Missouri for action. Some