Into the Storm

CHAPTER 2

Elation surged in Matt’s chest as the green deluge- tinged with the reflection of explosions and flames- descended upon them. In spite of himself, a shout of exultation escaped. Instead of the comforting, drumming rain on the deck above, however, a shocking… silence… stunned his senses. He heard surprised shouts on the foredeck and then the confused murmuring of the bridge watch, but for a moment there was nothing else. He spun to look past the chart house. As the rest of the ship… materialized out of the greenness behind them, he began to hear it-the ship itself. The reassuring thunder of the blowers as they roared into being, the shouted obscenities of the number two gun crew amidships. On and on, until he heard the tumult as far away as the fantail. But other than the increasingly alarmed voices of his crew, the normal sounds of his ship, and the loud ringing in his ears caused by the din of battle, there was nothing.

But there was rain. The rain he’d expected to pound his ship at that very moment was there-but it wasn’t falling. It just hung there, suspended. Motionless. He raised his hand in wonder amid the pandemonium, waved it through the teardrop shapes, and felt their wetness on his hand. He moved out from under the shelter of the deck above and felt the rain as he moved through it, saw it wet his ship as their forward motion carried them along. Just as his initial shock began to give way to an almost panicky incredulity, the screws “ran away,” like when they left the water in really heavy seas. The sound lasted only seconds-at least Spanky was on the job-but it drew his gaze over the side. He blinked in uncomprehending astonishment. The sea was gone. Down as far as he could see, past the boot topping, past the growth-encrusted red paint of the hull, into the limitless greenish-black nothingness below, were only uncountable billions of raindrops suspended in air. Before the enormity of it could even register, the deck dropped from under his feet and a terrible pressure built in his ears. He grabbed the rail and pushed himself down to the wooden strakes of the bridge-anything to maintain contact with something real. What he’d just seen couldn’t possibly be. His stomach heaved and he retched uncontrollably. He heard the sounds of others doing the same as the sensation of falling intensified. Then there began a low-pitched whine, building slowly like a dry bearing about to fail. It built and built until it became torment. The pressure increased too. He dragged himself back into the pilothouse, careful not to take both hands off the deck at once. He scrunched through broken glass and blood until he reached his chair, attached to the angled right-forward wall, and he slowly climbed up the braces.

His eyes felt like they were being pushed into their sockets, but he saw that everyone else on the bridge was down. Reynolds met his gaze with an expression of controlled terror. Riggs sat on the deck with his palms over his eyes. Matt looked through the shattered, square-framed windows and saw men on the foredeck crawling amid empty shell casings, or trying to hold on to something as if they, like he, felt they would fly away from the ship like a feather if they let go. And all around there was nothing but the wet, greenish void. The screeching whine continued to grow until it drowned the noisy blowers. He held his hands over his ears with his arm linked through the chair, but it made no difference. The sound was inside his head. Again he fought the urge to vomit.

Abruptly, with terrifying suddenness, the deck swooped up beneath him like a roller coaster reaching the bottom of a dip and rocketing upward. With a thunderous roar, the raindrops that had remained poised for what could have been only moments, plummeted down and became the deluge they should have been from the start. Exhausted from straining against the impossibly contradictory sensations of weightlessness and gravity, he collapsed into his chair and stared numbly out at the now perfectly normal squall. Walker coasted along, her engines stopped, losing way on the rain-stilled sea.

Matt gathered himself while the men picked themselves up and stumbled back to their stations. In their confusion, they sought the comfort of their responsibilities. He didn’t know what had just occurred, but he knew that, for now at least, he must do the same. Later the time would come for questions. He still had a crew and a ship to save, and to fight with, if need be. The cries of alarm began to grow again, but then, with unspeakable gratitude, Matt heard the booming voice of the Bosun rise above the tumult.

“Stow that girlish gab! Where do you think you are? You! Yeah, you, Davis! Secure that shit! Form a detail and clear these goddamn shells! Look at this mess! LOOK AT MY BEAUTIFUL DECK! You’d think a bunch of goddamn hogs or even snipes been rootin’ around up here. You think you’ve been in a battle? I’ve had scarier fights with the roaches in the wardroom! Quit pukin’, Smitty. You sound like a frog!”

Matt listened as Gray’s abuse moved aft. He cleared his throat and rubbed his lips with wet hands. He tasted blood. Riggs stood, shakily, holding the wheel, and Matt nodded at him. “Damage report,” he croaked, his voice a harsh rasp. He cleared his throat. “Damage report!” he demanded more firmly. “Why’ve we stopped?”

The blowers didn’t sound right. Sandison was on the bridge phone, listening intently as reports came in.

“Lieutenant McFarlane shut down the engines,” he reported. “Water’s coming in, but the pumps can handle it-when we get them back. Forward fireroom’s out of action. Fires are out in the aft fireroom. It’s full of smoke from raw fuel on the burners and they’re venting it now. As soon as they can get in, they’ll relight the fires. Should be just a few minutes.” Sandison’s voice had a cadence to it as he repeated the information he heard.

“We took a lot of hits forward and there’re lots of casualties,” he added grimly. “Doc’s dead. He was working on Rodriguez when a shell came through and just… took him apart. Lots of the wounded were killed in the wardroom. One of the nurses is dead.” His face turned ashen. “She was standing next to Doc. The other nurses have been helping out. Mr. Garrett reports one dead and two injured on the fire-control platform and he thinks Mr. Rogers is dead. There’s… blood running down the mast from the crow’s nest. He sounds a little rough.” Sandison replied to Garrett and then listened to other reports, nodding as he did as if those making them could see him.

“There’s water in the paint locker, but”-he shrugged-“there’s always water in the paint locker. Probably mostly rain. We were real lucky with the hull-at least below the waterline. Most of the leaks are coming from loosened plates, from near misses. A lot of the shells hit us on flat trajectories and just punched through the upper hull. A few lighter shells exploded. The number three gun’s out of action with four men killed… but all the big stuff must’ve been armor-piercing and didn’t hit anything substantial enough to make them blow.”

He listened a little longer and then looked at Matt. “Jesus, Skipper, we have a lot of holes.”

“Anything on the horn? Anything from Mahan?”

Sandison shook his head. “Radio’s out of whack, sir. Radioman Clancy just reported there hasn’t been a peep since we entered the squall. Before that there were lots of distant distress calls, merchant ships mostly, under attack and begging for escorts.” He cleared his throat. “Just static now. Something probably came unplugged.”

Matt took a breath. “Casualties?”

“Don’t know yet, sir, but… a lot.”

The captain removed his hat and ran fingers through sweat-matted hair. “Torpedoes?”

The ensign shook his head guiltily. “No sir. Just the ones in the three mount, and with everything that’s been… I’m sorry, sir, I just don’t know.”

“Very well. Secure from general quarters. There’s too many men just standing around with so much work to do. But keep the crews on the guns and a sharp lookout. See if we can get some hot food into these guys.” He stifled a jaw-racking yawn that wasn’t quite an act. “And I need more coffee. Also, as soon as Lieutenant Ellis is able, have him report to the bridge.” He paused and added in a softer tone, “Ask the Bosun to detail some men to bring Mr. Rogers down.”

The rain continued and Matt yearned to be under way, making as much distance as they could under cover. There was no way of knowing Mahan’s fate. They’d taken as much pressure off her as they could, but he didn’t know what to think about how that turned out. Evidently Walker had returned to help Mahan while she was making a suicide charge to let them get clear. Hopefully, the confusion saved them both. But even if Mahan had made it, she would be in bad shape. Maybe even sinking. Then again, she could be miles away by now. Either way, there was nothing he could do for her. Amagi was badly hit, that much he knew. How badly was anybody’s guess. Enough to retire? Hopefully. Enough to sink? That would grant his fondest wish. But whether Amagi swam or not made little difference, because the other cruisers were still coming. He didn’t think they would give up, not when they still had spotter planes to guide them. They couldn’t be far away.

When Walker regained steam pressure, she must press on. All they could do was pray that Mahan had escaped. Matt suddenly wondered if the other destroyer had experienced the same phenomenon Walker had. He shuddered, and glanced quickly around the gloomy pilothouse. He didn’t think anyone else had seen what he had, and he couldn’t completely banish the suspicion that he’d been teetering on the brink of madness. It had to have been a hallucination, brought on by exhaustion and the stress of combat. The motionless raindrops were certainly explainable, he assured himself. They’d passed into the most intense squall he’d ever seen. Squalls were by nature extremely unstable. Who knew what sort of strange winds might exist within one? Sudden gusts that could capsize a ship weren’t unheard of. Why not some freakish updraft? His nervous fingers tried to reshape his sodden hat. That still didn’t explain what he’d seen when he looked over the side. Nothing could explain that. It couldn’t have happened-must not have happened.

“Skipper, Mr. Garrett says the squall’s passing.”

The volume of rain had diminished and it was perceptively lighter. Matt stirred and turned to see a woman’s face peering at him fearfully from the ladder at the back of the quarterdeck. All that was visible was her rain-drenched hair, head, and shoulders. Her big brown eyes widened in surprise when they met his and her mouth formed an O of alarm. The white of her uniform blouse was stained and sooty, her cheek smeared with grease and blood where she must have wiped it with her hand. Immediately, and without a word, she raised a shiny coffee urn and placed it on the deck. She gave it a tentative shove in his direction as if it were an offering to a terrible god and then vanished down the ladder.

“Coffee’s here,” he muttered, then blinked and shook his head. He moved from his chair and was surprised his legs supported him. “Get Spanky on the horn. I want those engines now!”

They were fully exposed to the midafternoon sunlight by the time they had steam to move, and then only with the starboard engine. The water beneath the fantail churned and foamed as the screw began to turn. The deck vibrated horribly and pieces of broken glass fell from the empty window frames. The pressure was rising on number four, and soon Ensign Tolson, who’d replaced Bob Flowers, wouldn’t have to fight the unbalanced thrust of a single screw. The squall still raged astern, but it was dissipating. They all expected the menacing forms of Japanese cruisers to emerge at any moment, and every eye watched the sky for spotting planes or bombers. If only they hadn’t lost the boilers, they’d have been long gone by now.

Jim Ellis was on the bridge. There was blood and soot on his uniform, and his eyes were puffy and swollen. His customary ebullience was tempered by the horror he’d seen, and he spoke in a soft, somber tone. “The ship’s a wreck, Skipper. Just about everything topside is shot to hell. We’re in better shape below, if you can believe it, but we’re still taking water, and the faster we move, the more we’ll take. Hell, most of the water’s coming in through holes above the waterline. Waves slopping in.” He sighed. “You know, my granddaddy was at Manila Bay. His brother was at Santiago Bay. He always said there’d be days like this, only he always made it sound more fun.”

Matt nodded wearily. “Dad was on a can just like this in the North Atlantic, during the last war. They chased a few subs, but they never saw anything like this. Somehow I think his stories may have been closer to the mark. He didn’t have fun. I can’t imagine many things more miserable than one of these four-stackers in the North Atlantic. At least I couldn’t until the last couple of months.” He paused. “And today, of course. Especially today.”

They’d been talking quietly, but Matt glanced around the bridge to ensure that no one could hear before lowering his voice still further. “What did you think of our… experience, right after we entered the squall?”

Jim looked at him with a hesitant frown. He clearly didn’t want to talk about it, and his expression seemed to accuse Matt of breaking some unspoken compact by even mentioning it. “Yeah, well, that was different,” he managed at last. “I’m, ah, thinkin’ it was an updraft or something.”

Matt nodded agreement. “Me too. In fact, that’s how I’ll instruct Mr. Tolson to enter it in the log. But… did you ever happen to look over the side?”

Lieutenant Ellis pulled back, as if recoiling from a slap. The look on his face was sufficient to confirm he had indeed seen the same thing as the captain, and Matt’s guts twisted.

“Just a little,” Jim whispered.

Matt glanced around again. “How many of the crew, do you think, might’ve seen it?”

“Not many. Hell, probably none. They were pretty busy at the time. Then with the screwy raindrops… I figure most everybody was looking up.”

Matt massaged his temples. “Damn. I only asked because I hoped you’d confirm my suspicions that I didn’t see anything.” He took a deep breath. “Well, whatever it was, it’s over now. We’re back in the real world where all we have to worry about are the Japs.”

The corner of Jim’s mouth twitched. “Yes, sir, but if it’s all the same to you, I’ll…”

He was interrupted by Quartermaster’s Mate 2nd Class Norman Kutas, who’d replaced Sandison as the talker. “Mr. Garrett reports surface target, bearing one seven zero! Range five five double oh!”

They rushed to the starboard bridgewing and brought up their binoculars. A dark form was taking shape behind them as the squall dispersed. It was bows-on and listing to port. Smoke poured from amidships and slanted downwind. Even at this range, tiny figures were visible on the foredeck, wrestling with a fire hose.

“Oh, my God, Skipper,” breathed Jim. “It’s Mahan!”

Walker made a wide, slow turn to avoid having more water pour through her perforated sides. Once pointed at her sister, she sprinted to her. Everyone was at least secretly terrified by the prospect of turning back. But one man dressed in dark khaki, standing on the foredeck, silently cursed the ill luck that showed them Mahan. If they hadn’t seen her, hadn’t known she was there, they could have continued on. That would have salved his conscience-not seeing her-even if he knew she was there. But there she was, in obvious distress and at the moment with no enemy in sight. He fumed. Of course that upstart on the bridge would risk all their lives. He’d been safer in Surabaya! And the way he’d been treated was an outrage! He was an officer, by God, a fighter pilot! And to be forced to perform manual labor-and be physically threatened to do so-alongside common sailors was beyond the pale. Heads would roll for this, he decided. He had friends and he’d remember. Now if they could just go! But there was Mahan, damn it. They were all going to die for the sake of a ship that was already doomed. He shoved an empty shell casing savagely over the side with his shoe.

What Captain Kaufman didn’t realize was that most of the destroyermen on DD-163 wouldn’t have cared if Amagi still stood between them and their sister. They hadn’t expected to last this long, and the deck was stacked against them whether they went back or ran away. They might as well die doing the right thing.

They ran down on Mahan and hove to upwind. Jim Ellis took the conn and kept Walker poised forty yards off the other destroyer’s beam. Matt went on the bridgewing with a speaking trumpet and stared at the other ship. She looked doomed. She was low by the bow and her forward superstructure was a shattered wreck. Smoke gushed from the ventilation hatches above the aft fireroom and men directed hoses into them. More smoke still wisped from the first two funnels, so the forward fireroom must be okay, but her aft deckhouse and auxiliary conn were wrecked, so her only means of maneuvering was still the exposed steering cables. The number four funnel was gone, probably rolled over the side to clear the deck, and the searchlight tower had fallen across the number one torpedo mount, crumpling the tubes. Men on the amidships deckhouse manned the guns, but everyone else seemed too busy trying to save their ship to even talk to Matt.

He glanced at the sun, nearing the horizon, and he willed it to move faster. He looked up at Lieutenant Garrett’s disheveled, blackened form on the platform above, and the younger man returned his glance with one of confusion. The squall had finally spent itself and all the lookouts were tense and alert, but so far there was nothing. Matt wasn’t about to complain, but he couldn’t believe the Japanese had simply given up. Even if the cruisers had turned away, the aircraft would have continued to search. Of course, some were carrier planes. Maybe they were low on fuel, or didn’t want to land at night. The spotting planes might have returned to their ships as well. He frowned. Even so, they’d mauled Amagi badly-at least he hoped they had. He thought two of Mahan’s torpedoes had struck her at the end. She at least should still be near, unless she’d continued on at full speed, and he didn’t know how she could have unless she was even tougher and faster than he thought. Maybe she sank. Now that was a happy thought.

All these considerations came in an instant, just before he turned back to Mahan and raised the speaking trumpet.

“Is your fire under control?” The trumpet projected his tinny voice across the intervening distance. “Will our hoses help? Can you steam? Where’s Captain Atkinson?” He thought he already knew the answer to his final question. A bedraggled form moved to the rail. It might have been the same man who had helped coordinate their charge, but it was impossible to be sure. The man cupped his hands and shouted.

“I’m Lieutenant Brister. Engineering. Captain Atkinson’s dead. The whole bridge crew’s dead or badly wounded. I think we’ve about got the fire licked and we can steam, but I had to use the men on the steering detail for damage control. If you can spare some men, I think we can get under way.”

The entire bridge crew? “Who’s in command?”

“I guess I am, sir.”

“Lieutenant Brister’s a fine officer,” commented Matt as he and Ellis watched the whaleboat motor across the short distance between the ships. They’d sent half a dozen seamen under Bosun’s Mate 1st Class Francis “Frankie” Steele, of the second deck division, as well as Signalman Ed Palmer, with one of the portable Morse lamps. None of Mahan’s lamps had survived the destruction of her bridge and auxiliary conn. At least now they’d be able to communicate.

Jim nodded. “Yes, sir. He deserves a commendation for keeping his ship afloat, not to mention fighting her so well. He’s gonna have his hands full, though.”

“Yeah, he’s not a navigator or a bridge officer. I hate to lose you, but maybe you better go across and assume command.”

Jim frowned. “Well, sure, if you say so, Skipper, but we’ve got damage of our own.”

Matt waved away his objection. “Lieutenant Dowden can handle it. He knows what to do, and the men like him. Besides, he’s the assistant damage control and repair officer. With Richard dead, it’s his job.” He looked at Ellis with a sad smile. “Go on, Jim. Mahan needs you. We have to get her under way as soon as possible, and if anybody can speed that up, it’s you.”

Jim quietly watched several ratings sweeping and mopping debris. “Aye, aye, sir. I guess I just hate to leave the old girl in such a shape.” He smiled wryly and looked at Mahan. “I never expected my first command to be the best ship in the Navy, but this is ridiculous.” Matt barked an unexpected laugh at how closely his exec’s thoughts mirrored his own when he first assumed command of Walker. Of course, Mahan was in worse shape than Walker, and Walker had taken a terrible beating. Comparatively speaking, Jim had more right to complain.

“I’ll just run down and get some things and as soon as the boat returns, I’ll go.” He stood awkwardly for a moment, then thrust out his hand. “Take care, sir… Matt.”

Matt shook his hand and squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “You too. Report as soon as you have a handle on what shape she’s in. Holler if you need help.”

Jim grinned. “Same here.” He looked around. “Even money who hollers first.” They both chuckled, and then Lieutenant Ellis stepped back a pace and saluted. Matt returned it and after Jim left the bridge he sighed and sat tiredly in his chair. “Pass the word for Mr. Dowden.”

The whaleboat returned and the coxswain, Tony Scott, was unhappy to learn he had another trip to make. He was strangely uneasy. The water didn’t seem quite right. He was wrung out, like everybody, and the weird experience of the squall had left him unnerved. But what had him on edge right now was how many things kept bumping into the boat. He was accustomed to the occasional thump of a fish, or a shark, but they were out in the middle of the ocean and things wouldn’t stop bumping his boat. It was constant. Nothing big had struck it, and occasionally he glimpsed a silvery swirl alongside, so he knew they were just fish. But why the hell were they bugging his boat? It was like the bright white bottom paint was attracting them. He shuddered with a premonition that it might draw other, larger things as well. Jim Ellis tossed down his seabag and swung over the side, descending by way of the metal rungs welded to the hull. As soon as Ellis was aboard, Scott advanced the throttle and steered for the other destroyer, hoping to make his second run as fast as he decently could.

“Skipper,” reported Sandison, “lookout sees something ‘screwy’ in the water, dead ahead, about two miles. Wait a minute! He thinks it’s a submarine!”

“What’s the status of the whaleboat?”

“Alongside,” supplied Riggs. ”They’re hoisting it aboard now.”

“Very well. Signal Palmer on Mahan we’re investigating a possible submarine. Sonar’s still out?”

“Yes, sir,” said Lieutenant Dowden, puffing up the ladder. “Jim, I mean, Mr. Ellis, had us working on it, but… We still might get it working if-”

“Just put it in your report.” More worn-out equipment.

“Sir, Mr. Garrett sees it too, and damned if it don’t look like a sub to him,” said Kutas. “He says there’s debris and people in the water around it. Might be a sub taking on survivors from that Nip can we sank.”

“The whaleboat?”

“Secure, sir,” said Riggs, standing on the port bridgewing, watching the work.

“Sound general quarters! All ahead full. Maybe we’ll catch ’em on the surface.”

Spanky was inspecting the damage in the forward fireroom. Eight bodies had been removed, and he shuddered at the memory of the scalded men. Men he knew. Machinist’s Mate 2nd Class Dean Laney and Dave Elden, shipfitter, trailed behind him with clipboards. Dwindling daylight seeped through the two holes made by the ten-inch shell, one on either side of the compartment. The boilers had escaped destruction, but steam lines and conduit were shredded.

“It’s a miracle it didn’t hit a boiler,” observed Laney. McFarlane grunted. “Yeah, but a wrecked boiler’d be the least of our concerns. It probably would’ve exploded if it had, and blown the bottom right out of the ship.” The other men nodded solemnly.

“Not much we can do right now, Spanky,” said Elden. “She needs yard time bad.”

“I know. Let’s see if we can get at least one back on line as a spare, though. I don’t like steaming on two boilers. ’Specially if one’s number four. I don’t trust it. Anyway, if either of the boilers in the aft fireroom craps out, we’ll be down to one, and we’ll be a sittin’ duck for the Japs.”

The general alarm shattered the relative quiet of the ravaged compartment.

“Jesus H. Christ!” groaned Laney when the grating beneath his feet tilted and the ship surged ahead. “Not again!”

“Didn’t they tell you?” McFarlane growled, as he hurried for the air lock. “There’s a war on.”

“Surface action, bow!” shouted Garrett over the comm. “Estimate range two two double oh. Target is stationary. Match pointers!” Most of the soot had washed away, but the back of his neck still hurt where the steam scalded him when the fireroom was hit. Fire control was still a mess, but it was back on line. He watched a dark shape, barely on the surface, like a flooded-down submarine, ease slowly through a group of men in the water. He didn’t feel good about firing on helpless men, even if they were the enemy, but he was about to give the order when a strange thought occurred. He leaned over the speaking tube without taking the binoculars from his eyes. “Skipper, something’s not right.”

Matt snatched the headset from his talker and spoke into it. “What do you mean?”

“Sir, something is screwy. The sub’s moving a little, but there’s no conning tower. And the men in the water seem to be trying to get away from it. I see splashing. There’re not many men, sir, just a few, but they look… upset.” For several moments, as they drew closer to the object, no one said anything. “Skipper…? Do you think it’s one of our boats? Maybe that’s why the Japs don’t want to get aboard. I’ve heard they won’t surrender.”

“I don’t think so, Greg. I’m looking at it too. It doesn’t look like any sub I ever saw. We have quite a few boats out here, but none look like that.”

Reynolds was in the crow’s nest and his voice suddenly crackled on the line. “Holy shit… Sir! That’s not a sub. It’s a great big stinkin’ fish!”

Garret blinked. He’d seen a submarine because he expected to see a submarine. As soon as Reynolds spoke, he realized the young seaman was right. “Jesus Christ! Skipper, it is a fish, or whale or something and it’s… I think it’s eating those Japs!”

“Commence firing!”

“Aye, aye, sir! Gun number one, range is now, ah, one four five oh! Match pointers! Commence firing!” He was so distracted by… whatever was swimming lazily about, snatching the struggling sailors, he didn’t press the salvo buzzer. The gun on the foredeck boomed, and a split second later, a geyser erupted a little beyond the target.

“Gun one, correction! Down sixty, three rounds, resume firing!” Three shells slammed out as fast as the breech was opened and another round loaded. A tight group of waterspouts erupted on and around the creature; a tinge of red intermingled with the spray. The thing heaved itself from the water and in the gathering gloom Garrett got an impression of a long, pointed flipper, like a right whale. But he also saw an elongated, tooth-studded snout like a crocodile’s, snapping viciously at the spume as the beast slapped back into the sea. Two more large flippers churned the surface and propelled the monster beneath the waves.

“God a’mighty.”

As they drew near the few remaining men, clinging desperately to floating debris, the surface of the sea churned again with hundreds of silvery shapes schooling around the survivors. Garrett watched in horror as the fish struck. They looked like tuna, but acted like piranha. They were close enough now he could hear the screams.

“All back two-thirds! Right ten degrees rudder!” Matt yelled. He leaned through the shattered window and shouted at the foredeck below. “Boats! Get those men out of the water!” He looked at Tolson and spoke in a more normal tone. “Rudder amidships. All stop. Keep them in our lee.” He looked down from the port bridgewing. The sea churned with a horrifying frenzy that brought to mind an old reel he’d once seen of a cow carcass thrown into the Amazon. He’d been fascinated as he watched the voracious fish reduce the carcass to a mere skeleton within moments. Now he fought to control his stomach as hundreds of much larger fish attacked the struggling Japanese in much the same fashion. What were they? He was no expert on marine life by any means, but he’d never seen such a thing. By the expressions on the faces of his men, neither had anyone else. Only Chief Gray seemed immune to the shock. He went about his assigned task with a single-mindedness that Matt could only envy, as though huge sea monsters and man-eating fish lurked in the water every day. Which they did, he supposed, but not like this.

In spite of Gray’s efficiency, before he could assemble a party to throw lines to the survivors, there was no one left to save. A froth of flashing fins and teeth marked the spot where the final swimmer had disappeared. The rest of the swarm began to disperse or snatch tiny morsels drifting here and there. Alone upon the gently rolling sea, an overturned lifeboat bobbed with two forms precariously balanced. One seemed unconscious, and the other hovered over the first with a split and badly gnawed oar in his hands. He now regarded the destroyermen with inscrutable Asian eyes. His stoic face hadn’t changed expression since he had battled the carnivorous fish and the submarine-sized cross between a whale and a crocodile. We’re just different enemies, Matt thought. He turned and saw another face peering anxiously from the ladder, aft. This one belonged to the Australian engineer whom he’d only briefly met.

“May I, ah… come up there, sir, for a word?” Matt nodded, and the tall, portly man puffed to the top of the ladder. His sparse, graying hair was plastered to his skull with sweat, and he ran his left hand over it as if feeling for the hat he held in his right. Noticing that everyone on the bridge wore a hat or helmet, he plunked his back on his head. He glanced at the foredeck, where men were throwing lines to the enemy seaman on the boat and trying to convince him to take one.

“Oh, dear. Unimaginable. After what that Jappo’s been through, he still won’t surrender. I don’t suppose you have anyone who can speak to him? No, of course not.” Matt looked at him and quirked an eyebrow. He’d noticed before the man’s strange habit of answering his own questions.

“Actually, Mr. Bradford, we may surprise you. Quite a few old China hands aboard this ship. Some may have learned a few words.”

“Indeed?”

In the end, their translator was not a “China hand” but Lieutenant Mallory, the Army pilot with Captain Kaufman. He spoke a few terse phrases in what could have been Martian for all Matt knew, but the stubborn Japanese sailor finally let his oar slip into the sea and caught the rope. Matt looked up at Garrett. “Get some weapons to those men before they hoist those Japs aboard.” He raised his voice to be heard by the men on the deck below. “Where’d you learn Japanese, Mr. Mallory?”

The young officer shouted a reply. “I grew up in Southern California, sir. My folks ran an orange plantation. Lots of Japs in the citrus groves.”

“Why wouldn’t he take the rope?”

“He said his family, his ancestors, would be ashamed if he surrendered.”

“That’s nuts! Didn’t he see what happened to the others?” Matt shook his head. “How’d you talk him into it?”

Mallory hesitated. “I didn’t, sir. But he agreed to let us ‘rescue’ his officer since he’s unconscious and can’t decide for himself. I told him we’d let him kill himself later if he wants.”

“Jesus,” someone muttered. Chief Gunner’s Mate Sonny Campeti arrived on deck with several Springfields. He quickly passed out all but one, which he kept for himself. The others stood back, their rifles ready, while three men pulled on the rope. The burly Japanese sailor held the other end, bracing himself upon the keel as best he could. Occasionally a jostling wave caused him to glance anxiously at the unmoving man beside him. The supine form’s uniform was dark blue. The boat bumped against the hull, and another rope was lowered. Quickly and professionally, the man tied it around his officer’s chest under his arms and then stood back, balanced precariously, as the destroyermen hauled the unconscious man to the deck. Without another glance at the men above, he sat down on the boat and put his hands on his head, lacing his thick, powerful fingers together in his hair.

Chief Gray looked up at Matt with an expression that said, “Now what?” and the captain raised his speaking trumpet. “Is he alive?” Gray felt the man’s neck for a pulse and nodded. Except for a small gash on his head, there were no obvious injuries. “Take him to the wardroom, under guard.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“What about the other one?” Mallory asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe we can lasso him, or something. We can’t just leave him here-Jap or not.”

“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed Courtney Bradford. He stood next to Matt, looking into the sea. The captain looked at him, then followed his gaze. The dark blue water became much darker directly beneath the boat. Suddenly the creature they’d driven under, or one just like it, rose to the surface, and its gaping, crocodilelike jaws snapped shut on the capsized boat. The thing was enormous! Matt knew the boat must be twenty-five or thirty feet long, and the jaws were very nearly that long themselves. As the boat splintered, Matt heard a shriek and saw the terrible jaws close on the Japanese sailor’s legs. Even then, it sounded more like a scream of pain, not terror. He shuddered. The roar of the machine gun just above his head deafened him and an instant later, the bigger. 50-cal, amidships, joined in-as did a couple of men with rifles. He hoped a few thought to finish the stubborn Jap, but amid the geysering splashes he couldn’t tell. The creature writhed and slammed into the ship hard enough to make him grab the rail. With a huge splash and a swirl of flippers, it disappeared from view.

“Goodness gracious,” said Bradford again, his voice subdued by awe.

Matt stood transfixed, but for only a moment. Then he bellowed to the men below. “Boats, get somebody down there to check the hull for damage. Whatever the hell that was, it bumped us pretty good.” For a moment nobody moved, but finally the Bosun stirred.

“Get the lead out, you miserable girly saps! The Skipper gave an order! Ain’t you never seen a sea monster eat a Nip before? Shit!”

With that, Matt turned, walked woodenly back to his chair, and sat. Out there, off the port bow, the sun finally vanished entirely beneath the blackening sea, and he removed his hat and plopped it on his lap. He felt like the reserve of adrenaline that was supposed to last his lifetime had been completely tapped out that day. He was so tired. Finally he sighed and rubbed his face.

“Mr. Tolson, take us back to Mahan. Hopefully, she’s ready to move. Secure from general quarters, but keep men on the machine guns for a while.” He yawned tremendously and glanced at the men looking at him, still stunned by what they’d seen. “It’s been a hectic day,” he whispered.