"Goodness gracious," said Bradford again, his voice subdued by awe.

Matt stood transfixed, but for only a moment. Then he bellowed to the men below. "Boats, get somebody down there to check the hull for damage. Whatever the hell that was, it bumped us pretty good." For a moment nobody moved, but finally the Bosun stirred.

"Get the lead out, you miserable girly saps! The Skipper gave an order! Ain't you never seen a sea monster eat a Nip before? Shit!"

With that, Matt turned, walked woodenly back to his chair, and sat. Out there, off the port bow, the sun finally vanished entirely beneath the blackening sea, and he removed his hat and plopped it on his lap. He felt like the reserve of adrenaline that was supposed to last his lifetime had been completely tapped out that day. He was so tired. Finally he sighed and rubbed his face.

"Mr. Tolson, take us back to Mahan. Hopefully, she's ready to move.

Secure from general quarters, but keep men on the machine guns for a while." He yawned tremendously and glanced at the men looking at him, still stunned by what they'd seen. "It's been a hectic day," he whispered.

They ran south all night at twenty knots. The two operational boilers on each ship could have carried them faster, but with all their damage, twenty knots was a sufficiently hair-raising speed. Repairmen labored on, exhausted, trying to accomplish tasks while under way that ordinarily required a yard. Shoring timbers pushed warped seams together and shipfitters welded them instead of waiting for rivets. They had too far to go. Matt briefly considered returning to Surabaya, but with all the enemy activity, they'd probably wind up trapped. Ceylon was still within reach, fuel-wise, but the only reason that had been their original destination was that its yard facilities could handle Exeter. With the British cruiser lost, there was no reason to go there. Wiser to make for Perth, Australia, where some of their sisters had gone.

It was a cloudless night, but the moon was the merest sliver. It provided just enough light for Mahan to follow their wake. Matt pitied her shorthanded, exhausted crew. Walker had lost more than twenty killed herself—almost a quarter of her complement—and another eight were seriously wounded. But Mahan had more than sixty dead. She was a floating morgue. Most of her casualties occurred when a ten-inch shell destroyed her bridge. Other men were lost in the aft deckhouse and fireroom.

It was a miracle that either ship had survived. The only things that saved them were getting in close where Amagi's main guns couldn't engage . . . and the Squall, of course. Matt shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the memory. The Squall had been unusual in itself, but then a whole string of strange events followed. The ravenous fish, the "sea monster" (he couldn't think of anything else to call it). Then there was the odd lack of radio traffic. The radiomen and electrician's mates had studied the equipment carefully and found nothing wrong, but everyone was exhausted and they must've missed something. It was that simple . . . Matt's eyelids fluttered open again, and he shook his head to clear his blurry thoughts. Instead, his chin slowly drooped until it rested on his chest.

The midwatch would be coming on soon, he thought muzzily. At least some of the men could sleep. Poor Richard. Up in the crow's nest all day long, only to die when they were so close to safety. He'd done his duty, but he'd missed the sea monster. Jim missed it too, as had everyone on the other ship. They were lucky. At least it won't swim in their dreams. It's already in mine and I'm not even asleep.

He was snoring lightly. Garrett, his neck and hands covered with gauze, had the deck. He stepped quietly over to stand beside his captain, lest he fall from his chair. He caught the eyes of the other tired men and held a finger to his lips.

Matt came awake in a blurry, gray dawn. He blinked, rubbed dried grit from his eyes, and looked around. Lieutenant Dowden was nearby, conversing in quiet tones with the Bosun. Matt felt a surge of irritation at being allowed to sleep, but it was immediately replaced by a vague sense of guilt at having done so. Wry acceptance followed. At least now he could face this new day without dropping from exhaustion.

"Coffee?" he croaked.

Almost before the word was uttered, Juan Marcos appeared at his elbow, steaming mug in hand. Juan was the officers' steward and the only Filipino who hadn't—understandably—jumped ship when they left the Philippines. He beamed as his captain took the cup and nodded his thanks. Raising it to his lips, Matt took a tentative sip. "That's good," he said, and sipped again. "Very good, Juan. Best coffee you've ever made."

A wounded expression clouded the Filipino's face. "But Cap-tan Reddy, I did not make it!"

Matt glanced at Gray, who suddenly looked away. "Well . . . of course I just woke up and it's my first cup. I'm sure it just tastes so good because I really needed it."

The Bosun coughed to stifle a laugh. Juan took good care of them, given his limited resources, and no one would have dreamed of hurting his feelings. But his concept of good coffee was . . . different from everyone else's.

"No, Cap-tan Reddy. I'm sure it is very good. Better than mine." Juan spoke with brittle formality. "One of the nurses made it. The seсorita nurses," he added darkly as if to say it might taste good, but would probably poison him. "Now you are awake, I will bring you a breakfast I doubt they could match!"

Matt chuckled. "I'm sure you will, Juan. I'm starved!" The Filipino summoned all his dignity—a most impressive quantity—and left the bridge. Matt raised an eyebrow at Chief Gray and shook his head. He then turned in his chair to glance astern.

"She's still hangin' tight," Gray said, referring to Mahan. Matt could just make her out in the grayish-pink morning half-light. He stood, stretching his arms over his head. He felt like he'd been thrown from a horse, but except for minor cuts from broken glass, he'd escaped the previous day's battles without injury. "Where are we?"

Dowden stepped to the chart table, and Matt and Gray joined him there to peer at the map. "Here, sir," Dowden said and pointed. "Just about exactly."

Matt looked at the indicated position and then stared out the windows. It was difficult to tell, but he thought he saw a landmass ahead. "I'm not enthusiastic about running Lombok or Bali Strait in daylight," he said. "If the Japs are here ahead of us, it would be simple for them to put a stopper in the bottle. There're only so many holes in the Malay Barrier. Even after all the running around we did yesterday and last night, we're only about three hundred miles from where we started. They could easily have beaten us here."

"Yes, sir," agreed the Bosun. "And they don't even need ships." He pointed at the map. "A couple of planes patrolling here, or here, and they'd have us. They couldn't miss us. We're in no shape to dodge dive bombers."

Matt rubbed the stubble on his chin and nodded thoughtfully. "What's this?" He pointed to a sliver of land off the northeast corner of Bali.

Dowden leaned closer. "Ah . . . Menjangan Island. It looks like it's only about two and a half miles long. The chart shows a narrow channel between it and Bali that's about a mile wide."

"What if we eased in there and hunkered down for the day, and then ran Bali Strait tonight?" Matt mused aloud. Dowden looked unconvinced, but Gray was thoughtful.

"Looks like plenty of water. The channel shows a hundred forty feet. There's about three fifty all around. The currents look okay." He looked at Matt. "Bali Strait wouldn't be my first choice in the dark; it's so narrow. But the Japs might think that too. It sounds good, Skipper."