Peter David - Battleship

Hopper took a deep breath even as he walked toward Shane. His legs felt numb; he was worried he was going to collapse. Brace yourself. You know what’s coming now. Now Shane is going to say, “As for you, Mr. Hopper, you have a court-martial waiting for you. Take him away, men.” And they’ll escort you away to your court-martial, where they will, of course, find you guilty and drum you out of the Navy. And they’ll have a closed-circuit TV so your folks can be watching and your dad’s heart will just stop and your mom will blame you for dad’s death for the rest of your life…

He stood in front of Shane, waiting, his back stiff, his eyes not meeting Shane’s but instead gazing just over his left shoulder. “Commander Alex Hopper…” Shane began, and when Hopper heard the title with his name spoken after it, he actually looked Shane in the eye. Theoretically he’d known this was what was in the offing, but he didn’t quite believe it until he heard it spoken aloud. And even now he was braced for Shane suddenly saying, “Psych! Fooled you! Take him away, men!”

As if he could read Hopper’s mind—a talent that Hopper wouldn’t have put past him—Shane reaffirmed, with a slight smile, “That’s right… Commander —the Navy Cross.” He pinned it onto Hopper’s jacket. It felt heavy, like the weight of the world was now on his chest.

No. It was the weight of responsibility, something that—to various degrees—he’d been dodging his entire life. It felt…

…good.

“And your own command,” said Shane. “You’ll take the USS Benfold out to sea.” Then he lowered his voice so that only Hopper could hear him. “Don’t screw it up.”

“No, sir.” Hopper saluted and Shane returned it briskly. Then they shook hands. It felt odd and Hopper realized he’d never actually shaken the man’s hand before. When Sam had first introduced them, Shane had been seated at his desk, going through paperwork. He’d looked Hopper up and down—seemingly dissecting him with his mind as he did so, judging him and finding him wanting—and then said curtly, “I’m busy. This is a bad time.” He had gone back to work. Sam had escorted a shaken Hopper out the door and assured him in a low voice, “Don’t worry. He’ll warm up to you. Everything will work out.”

It had only taken an alien invasion to do it. Hopper reasoned that he’d better not get back on the admiral’s bad side; otherwise he might have to save the entire galaxy in order to find his way back to the man’s good graces.

He returned to his spot and his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He extracted it and saw a text message from Sam: No better time to ask him . He glanced toward her and saw her nodding encouragingly and giving him a thumbs-up.

Suddenly facing shredders and alien invasions didn’t seem so bad.

Hopper had waited on the parade grounds until Admiral Shane was finally not surrounded by various officials and well-wishers. He’d approached him tentatively, thanked him once again for this incredible opportunity and then hemmed and hawed about things that didn’t matter all that much until Shane finally got fed up and said, “What’s your point, Hopper?”

Now or never. Wait: let’s consider the many advantages of “never” in the—

“Sir,” and he pushed the words out of himself with about the same amount of force a woman used to push out a child, “I want you to know that I love Sam…”

Words failed him for an instant. It was the moment when he would normally cut and run, but then he took a deep breath, looked Shane dead in the eye and spoke from his heart.

“… and I want to ask for your permission to marry her.”

He exhaled then. He’d gotten the words out, and that had been the challenge, hadn’t it? That had been the toughest part of all this.

“No,” said Shane.

“Thank you, sir. I promise I’ll…” His voice trailed off as Shane’s answer sank in. “What?”

As if there was simply no further need for discussion—question asked, question answered, on to the next thing—Shane turned and started to stride away.

“But… but I just saved the world!” Hopper called after him.

“The world is one thing, Hopper. My daughter is quite another.”

Hopper was in utter shock. “But… but…”

Shane paused just long enough to say, “No means no, Hopper. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for lunch.” And as he walked off, he tossed over his shoulder, “Think I’ll get a chicken burrito.”

Hopper stopped in his tracks as if he’d been hit in the face with a frying pan as the last two words registered. “Wait,” he said, slowly realizing, “Are you— are you messing with me? ”

Shane glanced back at him, and there was a twinkle in his eye that might have been delightful if it wasn’t tinged with pure sadism.

“Don’t do that!” Hopper cried out. “Why would you do that? Did Sam put you up to this? Oh my God, she did, didn’t she!”

Gesturing that he should follow him, Shane said, “Come along, Hopper. Let’s discuss the terms of your surrender over lunch.” As Hopper ran after him, Shane continued, “And if I’m a little light on cash, I’m sure you could just knock over a convenience store by climbing on the roof, right?” He draped an arm around Hopper’s shoulder as they left the parade ground.

It had taken bloody forever.

The boys had been at it for several days. They had mutually agreed to say nothing of it to anyone, because the moment their parents knew, there were two things of a certainty: they would be told to stay the hell away from it; the authorities would show up and cart it away. When that happened, it meant that the boys would never know what had been in it, and they had far too much time, effort and emotion invested in it to allow that to happen.

So whenever night had been approaching, they had taken care to cover it with branches and brush. It wasn’t the world’s greatest camouflage job, but it was what they could manage and apparently it had gotten the job done, because no one had found it yet.

Fortunately none of the parents had yet noticed that some of their tools had gone missing. This was something of a problem, because sooner or later Sean’s dad was sure to notice that his chain saw was nowhere around. There’d been no point in bringing it back, so Sean had left it where it was: on the ground near the big rock, broken, yet another victim of its seemingly impenetrable surface.

Angus, though, had finally gotten it done. His father’s car had blown yet another tire the previous week (the road around them being notoriously wretched) and, in changing it, his dad had thrown out his back. As a result, his mother had insisted that, if the bastards in the local government couldn’t be bothered to fix the damned roads, and since no one had invented impenetrable tires, the only remaining option was to make tire changing easier.

By serendipity, Angus had been the only one home when the hydraulic car jack had been delivered. He happily signed for it, then called his pals and—within the hour—they were back at the landing point of their secret stash.

The hydraulic jack had been their last resort. They’d wedged it into the seam in the chamber, and at first it had seemed that the jack’s attempts would prove as fruitless as any of the others. But their frustration had turned to utter joy when there was a sharp crack, and a hiss of air. The jack had gotten the job done and, with what was apparently a broken seal, they now had access to it. Angus got to do the honors since he was the one who had obtained the jack, and now he jammed in a crowbar and lifted with all his strength. To his annoyance he wasn’t quite strong enough and, through gritted teeth, he said, “A little help…”