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.