Battleship

WARDROOM, USS MISSOURI

The wardroom was filled with the remainders of all the material that had been used in the food preparation for the celebration. There were trays and large serving plates everywhere, either empty or with crumbs and scraps of food remaining on them. The catering crew had been in the midst of cleaning up, but when an assembly of high-ranking officers had walked in and told them that they needed the room, they did not hesitate to make themselves scarce. It was obvious from the attitude of the officers that being anywhere other than the wardroom at that moment was an incredibly good idea.

Hopper and Nagata were both standing stiff-backed, accomplishing the impressive task of staring straight forward without actually making eye contact with any of the officers arrayed in front of them. Hopper didn’t feel much like speaking anyway, since his mouth was swollen to such a degree that he was going to sound stupid trying to form words. The only positive aspect of all this was that Nagata’s right eye had swollen shut, although considering that the vice admiral of the Japanese Navy was standing there glaring at Hopper, perhaps it wasn’t so wonderful after all. Admiral Shane was fuming… at Hopper. Standing to Hopper’s left was Commander Sherman Brownley, his commanding officer aboard the John Paul Jones, a broad-shouldered, middle-aged man who was dyspeptic on his best days. He was glaring, too… at Hopper. To Hopper’s right was Tony Mullenaro, Brownley’s executive officer, a short, thick Italian who was glaring… at Hopper. Off to the side was the tall, dark-haired Commander Rivera, who was glaring at—big surprise—Hopper.

This is ridiculous. There were two of us in the fight. How come everyone is glaring at me? My COs. Nagata’s COs. It’s not freaking fair. Hell, he’s the one who started it.

Somehow Hopper suspected that the famed “He started it” defense wasn’t the best avenue to take.

“It was just a crazy accident, sir,” Hopper said through his swollen lips. His words sounded slurred and thick, as if he were a boxer who had just gone five rounds. “The floor was wet. I started to fall. He reached out to help.”

“Hogwash,” said Mullenaro, clearly having none of it.

There was a moment of silence. Nagata and Hopper, for the first time since they’d been hauled off each other, exchanged looks. Then, very coolly, Nagata said, “It was an accident.”

Hopper was momentarily surprised that Nagata was covering for him. Then he realized it shouldn’t be a surprise at all. Nagata had as much at stake as Hopper did and was just covering his own ass. After all, the Japanese vice admiral clearly already blamed Hopper for everything. Why would Nagata say anything honest, like, “I started it,” when there was no benefit in it for him?

“You’re a lying mule hound, Hopper,” said Mullenaro. “This is your fifth fight in three years.”

I’m a lying mule hound? Nagata just backed me up! Why not call him a lying mule hound?

And what the hell is a “mule hound” anyway? And are they known for being liars?

Wisely, he didn’t say any of that.

Without a word, the Japanese vice admiral gestured for Nagata to follow him out. Then he bowed slightly to the other officers, turned and walked from the room with stiff-backed precision. Nagata trailed behind him and Hopper didn’t doubt for a moment that he’d receive a hero’s welcome once he returned to his own ship. Either he’d be characterized as a man unfairly accused (if his cover story was believed), or he would be seen as an officer who had been unwilling to take lip from a big-mouthed, arrogant American and pounded the living crap out of him.

No one said anything in the wardroom for long moments after Nagata and the vice admiral departed. Then Mullenaro stepped forward, clearly prepared to fill the void, but he was stopped by the calm voice of Admiral Shane saying, “Gentlemen… a minute.”

Well, this worked out perfectly. You were trying to figure out how you could get some time alone with the admiral, and now you’ve got it. Excellent plan, well thought out, well executed. And all you had to do to accomplish it was flush your entire career down the toilet by having a fight in the toilet. Great job there, Hopps, old boy. You really slam-dunked this one.

Soon they were alone. Shane stared at him with a face that could have been carved out of marble for all the emotion he was displaying.

I wonder if he’s happy about this. He never liked me anyway. This just makes everything easier for him.

Shane offered no preamble; he cut right to it. “I’m ordering a captain’s mast, Navy court-martial for you immediately upon return to Pearl.”

Even though Hopper had been expecting something exactly like this, it was still like being hit in the face with a brick. He even rocked on his heels slightly as if a genuine physical impact had been made.

Shane was standing there, clearly waiting for Hopper to say something, to acknowledge what he’d just been told. Hopper managed a nod and said, “Yes, sir.”

Apparently desiring to twist the knife in Hopper’s gut some more, Shane went on to state the obvious: “This could very well be it for you in the Navy, son.”

Son. He’s never called me “son” before. That time I came to his house, sat down, had dinner with the man, he said four words to me the whole time: “Pass the salt, Hopper.” Now I get “son.”

“Yes, sir.”

Shane studied him, clearly perplexed. He looked like different emotions were at war within him. “What is wrong with you, son? You became an officer in five years. Fastest Mustang in the history of the U.S. Navy.”

“Yes, sir.” He kept his voice flat and uneven, as if they were discussing the fate of someone else.

The admiral slowly walked around him, apparently wanting to see if his actions made any more sense if he was being observed from a different angle. “You’ve got skills. I’ve never seen a man waste himself better than you.” He paused and then intoned, as if speaking from a pulpit, “Keep the ship out of the surf and spray or you will plunge to destruction.”

“That was Homer, sir,” Hopper said. “From The Odyssey. Part of the instructions for getting around Scylla and Charybdis.”

Shane stopped in his pacing and gawked at Hopper. Hopper felt a brief flash of triumph over having garnered such a reaction from the admiral. Then Shane quickly covered his astonishment as it dissolved into the expression he typically had when he interacted with Hopper: disappointment. “The fact that you know that chafes my butt more than anything. What my daughter sees in you is a great mystery to me. You’re a very smart individual with very weak character, leadership, and decision-making skills.”

Hopper nodded. “I understand, sir.”

The admiral again seemed to be waiting for Hopper to fill in the gap of silence. When he didn’t, probably more out of frustration than genuine interest in anything Hopper might tell him, Shane asked, “Do you have anything to say? Anything?”

A lot of things. A ton of things. But none of them are anything you’d care about. And, frankly, none of them are any of your damned business. Besides, why should you care? You’ve wanted me nowhere near your precious Sam ever since I can remember. I’ve given you what you want. Served it up on a silver platter. So let’s not pretend like you give a crap about the whys and wherefores.

“Negative, sir,” was all he said.

Shane sighed deeply. “Enjoy these games, Mr. Hopper. It’s likely this will be the last time you spend in the U.S. Navy.”

“Roger that, sir.”

Shane saluted. Hopper returned it without hesitation and then Shane left the wardroom, leaving Hopper standing there at attention. As soon as he was gone, Hopper sagged against the table.

He said nothing, did nothing, made not the slightest sound. He simply stared off into space and watched the entirety of his life spinning away. He had never more desperately wanted to sink into a morass of his own self-pity.

There was only one thing left to do, and that was exactly what Shane had suggested. Except he was going to take it to an entirely different level. He wasn’t simply going to enjoy the war games. He was going to do everything he could to aid in completely annihilating any opponents. Maybe he couldn’t win on the soccer field. And maybe he was a loser on the field of love, since there was no doubt in his mind that he and Sam were finished.

But on the battlefield, all was clear and simple. Get the other guy before he gets you.

Would that all of life were that simple.