First, I must thank my parents, Don and Jeanette Anderson, who tolerated my various early eccentric pursuits—albeit sometimes with dubious, strained smiles and rolling eyes. Parents always want the best for their kids, and many of the paths I chose in life were untrodden, dark, and overgrown. At least they didn't have to worry that I was running with the "wrong crowd," since I spent most of my formative spare time in the woods with a flintlock and a bedroll. They didn't just sit back and watch, though, and therefore must take a measure of responsibility for the example they set. My dad taught me about old radios, Fort Worth Spudders, flying—and honor, of course. My mother taught me strength of will and character. I might sometimes feel compelled to substitute "stubbornness and obstinacy" for those more noble-sounding traits, but which is, after all, more virtuous and practical?

I have to thank MMCPO (SS) Tom Postulka, USN, a good friend I miss a lot and who, even though a submariner, sparked my interest in four-stackers a dozen years ago. Erik Holland, USN (ret.), is a quintessential "snipe," and his stories of engine-room life on diesel-electric Fleet submarines have kept me laughing and learning for years. SCPO Jeff Fairchild, USN (ret.), may be a "Nukie Puke," but he's helped me out of a few jams too. Lt. Col. Dave L. Leedom, USAFR, and Mark Wheeler reminded me how fun flying can be. (Bad) Dennis Petty, Jim Goodrich, Col. Alan Huffines, USAR, and Lynn Kosminski convinced me that maybe I could string a few words together after all—in spite of the harm many of my professors did by stifling all literary allusions in my earlier, purely historical work.

Other people who've helped me in so many ways include (but are certainly not limited to) Robin and Linda Clay, Mark Beck, Brad Fisher, USMC (ret.), Dennis Hudgens, Michael Dunegan, Walter Baldree, Sgt 1st Class Dex Fairbanks, USA (ret.), Riqui and David Wartes, Preston Furlow, and Cortney Skinner, Special thanks to Dr. David Bererra and all the nurses and staff as Harris Southwest Methodist Hospital, and of course, to my long-suffering, beautiful bride, Christine. Last, but certainly not least, I have to thank Russell Galen and Ginjer Buchanan.

Ginjer is the best editor I know and has always been gracious, friendly, and supportive. She and her staff are a pure pleasure to work with. Russell Galen is the best agent in the business. His patience, professionalism, encouragement, and friendship truly are the steam that moves this ship through the water. To say "I couldn't have done it without him" is ridiculously insufficient praise. I rarely find myself at a loss for words, but I simply cannot express how much I appreciate his help. Thanks, Russ.

They were running. There was no other word for it, no comforting euphemism to make the sting less sharp. In fact, it seemed impossible to wring the slightest sense of purpose from the confusion, privation, terror, and bone-numbing weariness they'd endured since the very day the war began on December 7. Now, three months later, they were running away ("limping" might be the better term) and they hadn't even had a chance to lick their wounds. The tired men and elderly ships of Destroyer Squadron (Des Ron) 29 had hurled themselves repeatedly at the implacable juggernaut that was the Japanese Imperial Navy while their numbers were ruthlessly slashed by disaster and disrepair. It was a tragically lopsided contest, a feeble gesture of defiance against overwhelming odds. In the end, a gesture was all it had been. Now all that remained was to flee—and it was probably too late.

Lieutenant Commander Matthew Patrick Reddy, USNR, the captain of USS Walker, stood on the starboard bridgewing and tried to maintain at least a semblance of dignity in his rumpled and sweat-stained shirt. His left hand clutched his hat to his head against the thirty-knot breeze while his right tried to keep the half-filled mug of lukewarm coffee from slopping onto his uniform.

Red-rimmed eyes squinted from what was normally an almost embarrassingly boyish face, but at the moment a general covering of brown stubble and a fatigue-slacked expression made him look older than his thirty-two years. Not quite thirty-six hours earlier, he and his exhausted crew had participated in the largest surface action of the war to date: the Battle of the Java Sea. For once, the forces were evenly matched—in numbers, if not quality—and they thought they'd had a chance. But from the beginning, nothing went right. The battle finally ended sometime in the night with the ruthless slaughter of virtually the entire force under Admiral Doorman's command. While the enemy grew ever stronger, the scattered Allies were picked off in ones and twos.

Walker wasn't there when the poor old Houston and the staunch Perth were surrounded and hammered to the bottom. All the destroyers had been ordered to Surabaya to refuel and had thus been granted a short reprieve. Edwards, Alden, Ford, and Paul Jones departed for Australia as soon as their bunkers were full, and nobody knew if they'd made it through the gauntlet or not. The remaining destroyers were ordered to wait for the British cruiser Exeter, the only capital ship to survive the battle, and escort her to Ceylon after she completed temporary repairs. Matt spent that day of short intermission sending out parties to scrounge anything they might use, but little turned up in the bombed-out remains of the Dutch naval yard. The searchers discovered some belted .30 cal, eighty rounds of four-inch-fifty for the main guns, two condemned torpedoes, a little food. It wasn't much. All the while, emergency repairs to Walker were under way. Even if Matt had found the time, he couldn't have slept through the racket.

Now, standing on the bridgewing, he allowed a huge yawn to escape and hoped it made him look calm instead of just worn-out. The morning sun was bright, and the beauty of the vast, calm, almost violet sea was marred only by the distant hump of Bawean Island and the tiny cluster of American and British destroyers guarding Exeter's wounded flanks like battle-weary army ants escorting their injured queen to a new home. As far as Matt knew, he was looking at all that remained of the Allied Forces in the American, British, Dutch, Australian—or ABDA—defensive area. He knew they'd been the last ones out of the tangled mass of wreckage and half-sunken hulks that Surabaya, Java, had become. ABDAFLOAT's initial force was composed of two heavy cruisers, seven light cruisers, twenty-three destroyers, and about thirty submarines and assorted support vessels. Now all that was left were three battered, Great War­vintage U.S. "four-stacker" destroyers, one British destroyer, Encounter, and the badly damaged heroine of the River Plate, HMS Exeter. The massive Japanese fleet that destroyed or chased off the rest of their comrades now had them alone to concentrate on. USS Pope (DD-225) and HMS Encounter screened Exeter's starboard side, while USS Mahan (DD-102) and Matt's own Walker (DD-163) screened to port. He glanced up at the lookout standing in the little tub near the top of the mast. Rodriguez, electrician's mate 3rd class, appeared transfixed, staring through heavy binoculars at a point far astern. From where he stood, Matt couldn't see anything yet, but he knew the two Japanese heavy cruisers and the destroyer that had pursued them since 0700 were still behind them. Rodriguez could see their smoke and they were getting closer.