Battleship

KAPI’OLANI PARK, 2012

It was a cloudless day, the sky an achingly perfect blue. The shouts of “Here! Over here!” and “Watch your back!” filled the field at Kapi’olani Park, a three-hundred-acre expanse named after Queen Kapi’olani, the 19th-century consort to a Hawaiian king. In the distance, Diamond Head loomed, and the more fanciful might imagine gods perched atop it, looking down at the foolish mortals engaging in their meaningless pursuits.

There was an all-purpose expanse of lawn that had been used variously for competitions ranging from football to baseball to just a few kids tossing around a Frisbee. On this particular day, it was host to a soccer game being played so intensely, so brutally, that one might think lives depended upon it.

Instead it was something of far greater import to the players involved: pride.

Over the sideline of the field fluttered a banner that read, “Navies of the Pacific Rim, Welcome to RIMPAC 2012.” No one was paying attention to it, however. Instead the several hundred fans were focused entirely on the game being played, screaming themselves raw with encouragement as two teams squared off for personal and national glory, not to mention bragging rights.

Ten countries. Over one hundred players. This was the third day of a three-day tournament, with more than half the field of competitors eliminated in the round-robin group play of the previous two days. This morning, two of the remaining four countries—Australia and South Korea—had fallen. Unlike the previous day’s losers—who were off in the local bars drowning their sorrow and frustration—this day’s failed champions had hung around, mostly so they could respectively root against whichever of the remaining two countries had managed to knock them out. Thus it was fairly evenly split, with half the sidelined players cheering the United States and the other half rooting for Japan. The rest of the hundreds of spectators were likewise a mix of competing loyalties. There were a couple of scuffles as waved arms led to elbows accidentally striking heads, but for the most part everyone’s attention was upon the activities on the field.

Alex Hopper was currently in possession of the ball, moving it deftly downfield. Running alongside him was Walter Lynch, a man with a build so formidable and a body so hirsute that he had picked up the fairly obvious nickname of “Beast,” even though in his usual day-to-day deportment, he was as mild as they came—except when he needed to be otherwise.

This was one of those occasions, and Beast was not hesitant to throw his weight around. Japanese defenders were doing everything they could to try to get within range of Hopper in order to take the ball away, and Beast was running interference that an NFL linebacker would have envied. He stopped short of knocking people aside with a sweep of his heavily muscled arms, but he was fast enough on his feet to body block anyone who came near, sending more than a few of them falling on their asses.

However, even Beast couldn’t be everywhere. As he was distracted to the right, Hopper saw a player coming in fast from the left. “Beast!” he shouted over the bellowing of the crowd and quickly passed the ball over to him. Beast wasn’t as quick as Hopper, but once he had the ball, all bets were off. An opposing player came in too close and Beast simply knocked him aside, sending him flying off his feet. No one bothered to mount a protest with the referees; the refs—one American, one Japanese—had proven consistently and deliberately blind to anything on the field short of one player trying to rip out another’s throat with his teeth… and even that might have passed uncommented upon.

The Japanese were leading three to two and the time was ticking down.

“Go, go, go!” shouted Stone, who was playing goalie for the Americans and was moving up and down the line.

On the sidelines, Beast’s wife, Vera, was cheering wildly. She was renowned for her easy smile and out-sized personality. She was cradling one of their five-year-old twin boys in either arm. Facially they were dead ringers for their dad. The joke was that they’d probably be sprouting hair on their backs before they hit their eighth birthday.

On one side of Vera was weapons specialist and petty officer Cora Raikes. Copper-skinned, with hazel-green eyes, fiery red hair and a Bajan accent, she was shouting instructions and strategies even though no one on the field could possibly pick out her words. Next to her, matching her enthusiasm, was Seaman William Ord. He was a fairly recent arrival to Hawaii. Wide-shouldered and solidly built, Ord looked exactly like what he was: a farm boy who had spent autumn Friday nights in high school playing football. He was a big believer in the axiom of hoping for the best and expecting the worst. “Tie it up! Tie it up! We’re definitely going into extra time!” he shouted, right after which he muttered under his breath, “This isn’t gonna end well.”

Beast shoved the last defender clear. The Japanese goalie looked ashen, seeing the man-sized equivalent of a locomotive bearing down on him, and then Beast took the shot.

At the last second it was blocked, bouncing off the chest of a defender who appeared to have come out of absolutely nowhere. He deftly took control of it and moved around Beast as if the larger man were standing still.

“Nagata again,” Hopper said with a snarl. Hopper and Captain Yugi Nagata had been going at each other constantly from the first minute of the game. Nagata was the tallest Japanese player—nearly five-eleven—and it gave him reach and speed that most of his teammates couldn’t begin to approach. His black hair was close-cropped, as befit a Navy man, and he wore an expression of perpetual, unflappable superiority no matter what he was doing. It was this, more than anything, that infuriated Hopper.

It didn’t help that Nagata was also a hell of a soccer player.

He started bringing the ball back up the field. Other defenders came in from either side, but Nagata—never taking his eyes off Hopper—shouted an order in Japanese. They immediately peeled off.

So that’s how it’s gonna be? Fine. I get it.

“Back off! I got ’im!” Hopper called out to his teammates. He saw a quick flash of amusement in Nagata’s eyes and knew that he had correctly intuited the captain’s mind-set. With a minute remaining, it was time to square off, mano a mano.

Bring it, jackass.

Hopper came straight at Nagata with no hesitation. Nagata faked left, moved right. Hopper swung in tight, trying to get the ball, but it wasn’t there. The move to the right had been another feint and Nagata darted around Hopper. Hopper muttered a string of profanities as he spun on his heel and went in pursuit.

He sprinted up the field, one step behind Nagata the entire way. The crowd was shouting, everyone going berserk. Hopper, his heart pounding, managed to bring himself up alongside, and he tried to knock the ball away from the captain. Nagata didn’t slow, keeping the ball away even as the two men slammed into each other repeatedly, side against side. The referees apparently couldn’t overlook this and they started throwing around yellow cards. The two men ignored them.

Hopper went for a full-body slam, banging into Nagata, almost causing him to stumble. He collided with him a second time and was about to go for a third when Nagata suddenly stopped, throwing his right arm straight to the side. The move clotheslined Hopper, knocking the wind out of him, and he tripped over his own feet and went down. With a clear shot at the goal, Nagata sped forward and slammed the ball with all his strength.

It hurtled straight toward the goal… and a hole in Stone’s defense.

Stone lunged for it and, an instant before it could roll across the white line, he smothered it like a hero landing atop a hand grenade.

An approving roar went up from the crowd, but Stone had no time for accolades. He never stopped rolling as he came up with the ball, looking for someone in whose direction he could throw it.

His brother, having regained his feet, ran up to him as Nagata retreated downfield, anticipating the throw. “Kick it deep. Hit me deep,” said Hopper.

Stone saw that Nagata was already positioning himself. “He’s been owning you all day,” said Stone, and Hopper didn’t need to ask his brother which “he” was being referred to. “We need to tie this thing up quick.”

“Deep, me, Stone.”

Stone looked at Hopper. Hopper was only partly looking at him. His attention seemed more focused on Nagata, who was already halfway downfield.

“This isn’t about you and him,” said Stone. “Don’t make this personal…”

“It’s sure as hell personal. That doesn’t mean I can’t do it. Deep. Me.”

Stone paused a second that felt like an hour. Then he nodded. “Be there.”

The words were like the firing of a starter’s pistol. The instant he said them, Hopper was off. He sprinted downfield, his arms pumping. He saw that Nagata was watching him with that same arrogant confidence as before. Hopper dashed to the right and Nagata started after him—then, the moment Nagata committed to the move, Hopper quickly broke left. You’re not the only one who can do fake-outs, he thought smugly.

There was one American player near Hopper, Tompkins, which was—as far as Alex was concerned—more than enough. From a distance he heard the thud of Stone’s foot coming into contact with the soccer ball and he turned, looked, panicked for half a second because the sun was in his eyes and he couldn’t pick up the ball’s location.

Then he saw it, coming in fast, straight up the middle of the field. It was a beautiful shot, arcing through the sky, turning slowly and lazily in the air. Hopper took a few steps to the left to line himself up and didn’t even have to look to know that the opposing goal was directly behind him.

They figure I’ll play it off my chest, bounce it to Tompkins, who’ll try to drive it in. No one would be insane enough to try and head it directly into the goal from this angle. At least that’s what they figure. I’m about to show ’em they figure wrong.

The ball descended toward him, and he braced himself, ready to propel the ball at the goal and himself into glory, or at the very least his team into overtime. Suddenly he heard a grunt, though, and a body hit the ground. He barely had time to register that it was Tompkins before Nagata was suddenly in front of him, facing him with a grim smile.

With a roar, Hopper came at him, but Nagata didn’t wait. Instead he performed an astounding backflip with the intention of catching the ball in midair and kicking it downfield.

Because of Hopper’s lunge, however, Nagata’s foot didn’t quite come into contact with the ball. Instead his foot struck Hopper full in the face.

One moment Hopper had been preparing for the ball, and the next he was hurtling through the air, landing with a heavy thud some feet away. There was a collective gasp from the crowd of onlookers. Even for the level of violence to which this hard-fought game had escalated, this was pretty bad.

And in the startled, momentary silence that followed, Hopper heard a familiar female voice cry out, “Hopper! Oh my God!”

Hey, he thought happily, Sam came. She said she wouldn’t be able to make it but she came. How nice.

Then he started to black out.

No. Oh hell no. You are not going to give that son of a bitch the satisfaction.

He fought his way back to consciousness before the darkness could completely overwhelm him. The world came back into focus, one piece at a time. First the concerned muttering of his teammates who were standing above him, and then the brightness of the sky overhead against his closed eyelids. From the things they were saying—“Should we get him a doctor?” “Do you think he’s dead?”—he gathered that only moments had passed since he’d gone down.

He also became aware of the throbbing in his shoulder. He’d landed on it fairly hard when he’d hit the ground. It was hard to decide which hurt more: that or his face. Hopper decided to push himself all the way back to wakefulness and sort it out later.

His eyes snapped open, taking in the concerned expressions of his teammates. “Didn’t hurt at all,” he said, lying through his teeth.

They must have known he was full of crap, but no one was about to call him on it, although Stone was slowly shaking his head in disbelief. His older brother looked inclined to leave Hopper lying right where he was, presumably while he went to get a medic for his prone brother. Beast, however, kept his priorities firmly in order and reached down to Hopper, gripping him tightly by the arm. Unfortunately it was the arm with the injured shoulder, and it was all Hopper could do not to scream at the top of his lungs as Beast hauled him to his feet. His face went white as a sheet, and he gasped repeatedly in order to get enough air into his lungs.

“Alex, you sure—?” Stone said.

Hopper managed a nod and forced a wry smile. Preferring to double down on the lie rather than admit to it, he said, “Never better.”

Apparently this latest overaggressiveness had been the final straw for the refs. Or at least it was for the American ref. The Japanese ref was angrily protesting, but his counterpart was shaking his head as he shoved his way through the crowd of onlooking American sailors. “Penalty kick. End of injury time. This is it.” He leaned in and looked into Hopper’s eyes. “You in shape to take it, son?”

“Oh, I can take it.” He raised his voice to make damned sure the Japanese players heard him. “I can take whatever they dish out!”

This was all that was required to get the Americans psyched up. Shouts of “U.S.A! U.S.A!” rose from the onlookers, mixed with chants of “Hopper! Hopper!” The Japanese, meanwhile, were trying their best to keep their expressions carefully neutral. But Hopper was sure that he saw growing nervousness in their eyes. They were aware that the tide was shifting against them, and that Hopper could single-handedly tie the game and force them into overtime. Furthermore Hopper was convinced that when that happened, the Americans would have the momentum to run roughshod over them.

He took a few steps forward on his own and then pain ripped through him. It wasn’t his head or his legs; instead it was his shoulder, which was hurt worse than he’d thought. His arm was hanging at an odd angle; it had been dislocated.

He looked toward the sidelines to see if Sam had noticed, since she was the one he was most concerned with. She knew his body better than anyone except himself, so if anybody was going to be aware of the level of damage he had sustained…

Yup. She sees it. I’m boned. She was standing next to Vera, pointing to her own shoulder as an example, and Vera’s gaze shifted from Sam’s demonstration to Hopper’s actual right shoulder. She saw the damage that Sam was indicating and there was real concern on her face. Sam started gesturing for Hopper to remove himself from the game, but he simply shook his head and turned away from her. She wouldn’t understand. It was a guy thing.

“You want someone to take it for you?” said Stone, referring to the penalty shot.

“I got it,” said Hopper.

The ref flipped the ball to him and Hopper fortunately caught it with his left hand. He brought the ball over to the penalty line and dropped it at his foot. The goalie was watching steadily. He slapped his gloved hands together and then spread his arms wide in a defensive posture. Hopper could see the sweat beading on his forehead. “You ready to kiss the donkey? Kiss. Kiss. Kiss,” Hopper muttered.

No reason to hurry. That’s what the goalie wanted him to do. He wanted him to rush the shot, and Hopper had no intention of accommodating him. Instead he stretched his legs, buying a few more moments to get his head together.

As he did so, Nagata took a moment to cruise past him. Hopper didn’t bother to ask if he was there to apologize for his cheap attack. There was no quarter being asked or given.

“Two kinds of idiots, Hopper,” said Nagata in a low voice. “One looks where he kicks. Other looks where he doesn’t kick. Which idiot are you?”

Hopper had no idea what he was talking about. Nagata was trying to get into his head and Hopper wasn’t about to let him. “I’m the idiot who’s gonna kick the ball through his face.”

Nagata simply gave him one more contemptuous look and moved on.

It had all come down to him. He closed his eyes, took a deep, cleansing breath. Then he backed up several steps, preparing to make his final charge at the ball. People were screaming themselves into a tizzy from the sidelines, shouting encouragement. Pain continued to throb in his shoulder and he pushed it away so it wouldn’t distract him.

The goalie was slowly drifting from side to side, looking at Hopper challengingly. He was practically daring Hopper to drive the ball past him.

Hopper was more than happy to oblige.

He took one more breath, and then charged. The ball was sitting there waiting for him, inviting him. The goalie was prepared to obstruct him, expecting Hopper to try to get the ball to one side of him or the other.

Screw that. Hopper knew exactly what was going to work. Why go to one side or the other of an obstruction when you can go through it, and exact a bit of revenge at the same time? Send Nagata and his people a message that they couldn’t get away with that kind of crap.

The kick was perfect. He sent the ball spiraling directly, and with full force, at the goalie’s face. In Hopper’s mind, the goalie stood there with a stunned expression, caught completely flat-footed. The ball smashed directly into the target, knocked him flat and sent him sprawling to the ground. It rolled past him into the net. The crowd went wild, the game went into overtime, the Americans won, and a triumphant Hopper was hoisted onto his teammates’ shoulders and paraded around the field.

In reality, however, the goalie judged the ball perfectly. Rather than flinch, he reached up and caught it on the fly. The solid thump of the soccer ball into his hands was the death knell of the Americans’ hopes as the game ended with the victorious Japanese swarming onto the field, pounding one another on the back in triumph.

Hopper stood there, staring, his jaw twitching as his mental image of what would happen crashed up against what had actually transpired. Nagata, of course, chose that moment to step in near him and say, just softly enough for only Hopper to hear, “So predictable.”

Hopper had never wanted to punch someone in the face as much as he did Nagata at that moment. The fist of his left hand curled up tightly and he turned to face him. But the Japanese captain was no longer there; he was crossing the field and, projecting dignity and control, joining his teammates in celebration. Instead there was Beast, patting him on the back, and Tompkins, and Stone shaking his head consolingly, saying “Good shot,” “Good try,” and all the other useless condolences that are typically offered when things simply don’t go the way you wanted them to.

Nor did it help that they were patting him on the shoulder, which was throbbing like a son of a bitch. He tried not to wince from it and didn’t even come close to succeeding. Just like you didn’t come close to succeeding in tying the game.

Stone stepped closer to his brother. “At least you demonstrated mild self-control,” said Stone. “You didn’t beat up the Japanese officer. Well done.”

Hopper wondered if Stone knew that he’d nearly lost control and belted Nagata into the middle of next week. In my defense, he had it coming. Somehow he didn’t think that that excuse would have flown with his brother—or, for that matter, with anybody else.

It didn’t matter, though. Nothing mattered as far as Hopper was concerned, because there was Sam, his beautiful Sam. His beautiful Sam. She would comfort him, she would speak kind words to him, she would say all the right things. She would—

All business, Sam skipped over sweet nothings and instead inspected his right shoulder with practiced confidence. “On your back,” she said briskly.

“Right here? In front of everybody?” He lay down slowly. “All right, honey, I’m game…” As a couple of his teammates snickered, he gestured for her to lie on top of him while he moved his pelvis in a suggestive manner.

Sam was clearly not amused. She reached down, grabbed his wrist, and put a foot in his armpit. “It’s gonna hurt,” she warned him.

“You always hurt the one you—” He didn’t get the rest of the sentence out. Instead he let out a startled shriek that was higher-pitched than he would have liked as Sam pulled hard and snapped the shoulder back into place. He lay there for a moment, gasping in pain. Then slowly he sat up, growling as he flexed his arm. It was still sore as spit, but the agony was subsiding.

“Damn, that’s fun.” Sam sounded far more entertained by it than he thought she had any right to be.

He rubbed his shoulder, making as big a show of it as possible, his face twisted into a mask of exaggerated pain. As he got to his feet, he said with a growl, “Evil woman.”

Then he charged her.

With a delighted shriek, she turned and ran, Hopper chasing her off the field. She was running as fast as she could. He wasn’t. He caught up with her anyway.