"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!"