Peter David - Battleship

The phone rang.

He answered it immediately. “Hello?”

“Did you miss me?” came Sam’s voice.

He paused, trying to sound as nonchalant as he could. “In what sense?”

“In both, I guess.”

“Well, apparently, yes to both.” He paused when he heard people coughing in the background. “You were right there, weren’t you.”

“Well, technically…”

“And you say I’m crazy? Get your ass down that mountain.”

“Roger that. And Hopper… I love you.”

He didn’t answer.

“Hopper?”

He was staring at the horizon, his face going slack. “Gotta go. Love you.” And he hung up.

The war whoops of triumph that had been erupting all over the ship turned to cries of alarm. Two small, familiar objects were moving in toward them from a distance.

“Apparently,” said Nagata, “I was premature in saying the missile had destroyed them. They must have veered off at the last moment.”

“And now they’re coming straight for us.”

“ETA is ten seconds, I believe.”

Slowly Hopper nodded. So instead of being concerned that he was going to have to live without Sam, she was now going to have to live without him. But at least it would be on a world that was safe from alien invaders.

Totally worth it .

He turned and, his back stiff, saluted Nagata. “It’s been an honor serving with you.”

Nagata returned the salute.

The shredders screamed toward the Missouri , and there was absolutely no escape…

And then the nearest one exploded, blown out of the air by a Sidewinder missile.

A sonic boom roared through the air and two F-18s whipped down and around, going in rapid pursuit of the second shredder even as pieces of the first one rained down into the ocean and black smoke wafted lazily skyward.

The second shredder banked away from the Missouri and then hesitated, faced with too many targets. That single hesitation cost it, as one of the F-18s opened fire on it. The shredder might have been able to avoid another Sidewinder, since it was now aware of the F-18’s presence and undistracted. But there was nowhere for it to hide as the plane’s nose-mounted 6-barreled Gatling cannon strafed it, pumping two hundred rounds at it within seconds. The last of the shredders was itself shredded, torn to pieces before the astonished eyes of the Missouri ’s crew.

The F-18s did one more large circle of the area. Hopper watched them, and then, in the far, far distance, he saw a hint of other vessels, with a carrier that he was reasonably sure was the Reagan leading them.

“Gentlemen,” he said into the PA, “I think it’s safe to cheer this time.”

Which they did, for a very long time.

Hickam Airforce Base had been established in 1948 near Honolulu and served as a key launching point for operations during World War II. Eventually it had been folded into a combined base with Pearl Harbor, to become known as the Joint Base Pearl Harbor–Hickam. A variety of surface ships and subs were homeported there, including the USS Missouri in her heyday.

Now the officers who had most recently, and most unexpectedly, pressed the Mighty Mo into service against an enemy that no one could have expected—much less expected to defeat—were lined up in their dress whites. Standing at stiff attention in the front row were Alex Hopper and Yugi Nagata. Ord, Raikes, Hiroki and others were lined up behind them, with Beast naturally towering over the lot. Even Calvin Zapata was there, dressed in a crisp, freshly pressed Hawaiian shirt.

The families of those who had survived were seated nearby, including Vera and her kids, Nagata’s wife (Hopper had been briefly introduced to her but couldn’t remember her name) and Sam, who was smiling but in a measured way. It was wise of her to show restraint, because intermingled with them on this day of both celebration and mourning were many families whose loved ones hadn’t survived. They were somber, still looking shell-shocked, many eyes red from crying. Those who had made it through knew they were damned lucky. The families who were bereft of their loved ones kept their attentions focused on Shane, trying not to look at those who hadn’t suffered a loss. Because the inevitable question— Why do we have to suffer and you don’t? —would be reflected in their eyes, and there was no possible answer available.

Shane’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker, causing some ear-splitting feedback. As he stepped away while sound technicians rushed to fix the problem, Hopper took a moment to inhale deeply and then let it out. He actually tasted the air as it passed through his lips. It was a typically gorgeous Hawaiian day, the sun bathing them in its rays, the breeze gentle. But there was something about surviving an experience such as what they’d endured—something about living to see another day when the prospects of doing so had seemed terribly unlikely—that just made the air taste better.

Once he received a thumbs-up from the technician, Shane—who had been interrupted by the shrill sounds midsentence—stepped forward and tentatively said, “That the men and women…” When no further sound mishaps occurred, he continued with renewed confidence. “That the men and women who gave their lives are heroes is not in doubt. That we owe each and every one of them an unpayable debt of gratitude is undeniable. That we remain united, stronger than ever, with all the great nations of our world, is truer today than it ever has been.”

He paused a moment, allowing that to sink in as a sop to those who had endured terrible tragedy. Then he continued, “I can’t single out each and every one of you for bravery, so I will instead single out a few for remarkable valor.

“Commander Stone Hopper, deceased, the Medal of Honor.”

He held up the framed medal and Hopper felt something catch in his throat. Shane looked right at him, a questioning eyebrow raised. The unspoken question was obvious: did Hopper want to come up there and accept it? Hopper shook his head ever so slightly and mouthed, Our father . Without missing a beat, Shane said, “It will be sent to his father, retired Captain Robert Hopper, who could not be here for this presentation.” True enough. Alex and Stone’s father had recently undergone a triple bypass and had been forbidden to travel. Hopper’s mother, taking care of him, had reportedly said, in that undeniable way of hers, that she’d be damned if she’d lose two of her men within days of each other. The ceremony was being broadcast through a naval feed, though, and Hopper had no doubt in his mind that they were watching it back home.

It had been the Navy that had delivered them the news of the loss of their eldest son. When Hopper had finally gotten them on the phone, there was his mother crying, of course, and his father being as stiff-lipped as ever. Hopper had tried to launch into mea culpas , to tell them he wished he could have done more; his father silenced him with ten words: “You did what we needed you to do. You survived.” He’d barely been able to continue the conversation after that.

Shane was now holding another medal in his hand. Next to him was the admiral of the Japanese fleet. In a formal voice, Shane said, “Captain Yugi Nagata: the Order of the Rising Sun.”

Nagata strode forward with brisk, crisp steps. He bowed stiffly at the waist and Shane returned the sign of respect. The Japanese admiral took the medal and carefully pinned it onto Nagata’s jacket. Nagata bowed once more to both of them and stepped down from the podium.

Shane shifted his gaze to Hopper and nodded, indicating that he should come forward.