Battleship

USS JOHN PAUL JONES

The skipper will know what to do. The thought kept going through Hopper’s mind as he cast an apprehensive glance at the repair crew trying to deal with the wreckage from the hit they’d taken. At least the ship wasn’t listing, so obviously nothing fatally catastrophic had happened to it. Yet.

Once having returned to the ship, Beast really should have hastened to the engine room to make sure his beloved Rolls-Royce engines were continuing to function and hadn’t sustained any damage during the assault. Raikes should have returned to weapons, where she doubtless would’ve taken comfort in having all the firepower of the John Paul Jones at her disposal, rather than just a single .50 cal machine gun. 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.