"Most of the casualties were on the bridge and in the aft fireroom. Everybody in the pilothouse or on the fire-control platform was killed. She has no fire control at all. Guns two and four are okay, and we can use them in local control, but that's it. Number one might be repaired, but we haven't really even checked." He sighed wearily. "The machine guns amidships are okay, so we're not totally helpless from the air, but all torpedoes are expended and I'd rather not push her past fifteen knots. She can make that, the forward fireroom's fine, it's just . . . well"—he gestured at the beams of light entering the wardroom through the holes—"you know.

"Anyway," he continued, "Mahan's shorthanded as hell—only about forty effectives, not counting the guys I took aboard—but she's not finished yet. Whatever you decide, Captain, we'll do. We might just want to take it a little easy. I also really hope we don't have to fight again." He chuckled wryly. "At least not as briskly as yesterday." His last comment drew scattered chuckles, but the mirth was tempered by the realization of what that fight had cost.

"What's the status of your wounded?" Matt asked.

"Mostly stable, but we could use a hand. The pharmacist's mate is dead, and the surgeon's run pretty ragged."

Matt nodded, and glanced at the nurses. They were a study in contrasts. The one who'd brought coffee—he'd learned her name was Karen Theimer—seemed nervous, jittery, almost fragile. She blinked constantly as her eyes quested around the compartment and her hands squirmed against one another on the table. The one beside her, Pam Cross by her name tag, was almost as short as Lieutenant Tucker and outwardly as selfpossessed, but her eyes told a different story. The other two nurses, Beth Grizzel and Kathy McCoy, weren't present. The sandy-blond lieutenant was still watching him, which was understandable. Everyone was. But once again, her expression of appraisal left him uneasy. Besides, she was a knockout. He managed to smile at her. "You must be Lieutenant Tucker."

She stood from her seat at the table. Since the captain didn't sit, she wouldn't remain seated while speaking to him. "Lieutenant Sandra Tucker, sir."

"Lieutenant, I apologize for not greeting you when you came aboard, and I'm sorry I haven't had a chance since, but I'd like to thank you now for all the help you and the other nurses have given us. I'd also like to extend my deepest regrets for the loss of Ensign Ranell." Several heads bobbed, and there was a general murmur of condolences.

"Thank you, Captain Reddy. I'm sorry too. I'm sorry for Leslie, and for all our losses. My nurses and I stand ready to help any way we can."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. As a matter of fact, that raises my next subject, and that's to ask if you'd feel comfortable detaching a few nurses to Mahan."

"Of course, Captain. I'm willing to go, but I'd ask you to allow my nurses a choice." She smiled ironically. "Not that there seems much difference in the relative seaworthiness of either ship, if you'll forgive my saying so."

Matt smiled back at her amid the ensuing chuckles and good-natured indignance. "Absolutely. They can choose, but you may not. The needs of the service, not to mention the needs of my crew, dictate that I break with tradition—as well as virtually every regulation I'm aware of—and appoint you acting medical officer. Under the circumstances, we'll consider it a separate department."

"Yes, sir." She grinned. "I wouldn't enter it in the log, though, if I were you." Matt grinned back.

"Perhaps not." He paused, watching her sit, admiring her poise and apparent calm. Gray was right, he thought. She's something else. He cleared his throat self-consciously and addressed the others. "Next on the list, Lieutenant Dowden is acting exec in Mr. Ellis's place, for as long as he commands Mahan. Rick Tolson is acting navigation officer. Larry? You and Rick better pick assistants. Think hard about it, but give me your recommendations as soon as possible." He turned to Chief Gray. "How about the deck divisions?"

Gray's brow furrowed, and he tucked his hands behind the belt encircling his ample girth. "Like we talked earlier, we're still afloat. But I'm running shorthanded too." The deck division's noncombat occupation was general maintenance, and it served as a labor pool. He glanced at Lieutenant Ellis, who now had some of his men, but it wasn't an accusation, merely a statement of fact. "All the leaks are under control. We welded a lot of seams, which'll have the yard-apes throwin' fits, but there's no way to replace rivets out here. The big holes are all above the waterline. If we don't run into heavy seas, we'll be okay. We're workin' on covering those holes too, but it's slow. Some are pretty big and there's nothing for it but to patch 'em." He cocked an eyebrow. "Not a lot of plate steel just layin' around. If we had time, we could cut patches out of Mahan's aft deckhouse, but for now we're sort of working our way up. I figured the stuff close to the waterline had priority."

Matt was nodding. "Very well. Anything to add?"

"Nothing big. About a thousand little things are in my report. Mostly the same stuff the old girl throws at us every day, times ten."

"Mr. Garrett?"

Lieutenant Garrett now wore a real bandage on the back of his neck to protect his scalded skin. Thankfully, his injuries weren't more serious.

He fidgeted and cleared his throat, and Matt suppressed a smile. He'd been the personification of cool professionalism during the action, but now, in this setting, he was more like a schoolkid than a naval officer.

"Uh, main battery's operational and responding to fire control." He paused and shrugged. "The range finder's wrecked. A big chunk of shrapnel just about chopped it off—but it wasn't any good anyway. The ready ammunition lockers have been replenished. There's something wrong with one of the .50s, but Gunner's Mate Silva says he'll have it working by this afternoon."

  "Tell him to get a move on. That one gun represents a quarter of our antiaircraft defense. What about torpedoes? Ensign Sandison's working on them now, correct?"

"Yes, sir. He still doesn't know what the problem was. A connection on the mount, maybe? He was drawing them out of seven, nine, and eleven, and intended to put them in one, three, and five, unless you'd rather disperse them."

"No, that's fine. What's the status on the two torpedoes we picked up in Surabaya?"

"They're not sure what's wrong with them. They were condemned. Hopefully it's something we can fix. One looks pretty beat up, though."

"Thanks, Greg. Have Sandison keep me informed about his progress. Now, let's see. Engineering? Spanky, let's hear from you."

"Yes, sir. Well, we took a beating, sure, but it looks like most everything's under control. We might even get number two boiler back on line. We'll keep her going if the water stays out. Twenty knots, at least." Matt smiled at Spanky's qualifier and started to ask a question, but the engineer wasn't finished. He shook his head and continued in a quiet tone. "Honestly, sir, I don't know how we made it. This old girl'd had enough before the war even started, but I guess she's tougher than we thought. She deserves a lot of credit." He shrugged. "God should get the most, I guess. I didn't see it, but there's talk of a weird squall . . . Anyway, I'm not real damned religious, but that's where most of the credit should go."

Matt controlled a shudder at the thought of the Squall. Somehow, he didn't think God was responsible for that. But who knows? He looked at McFarlane and saw the engineer staring back.

"A lot of credit should go to Captain Reddy."

There was a general murmur of agreement to the unexpected compliment, and Matt felt his face heat. He didn't think he deserved much credit at all. Spanky was a good officer, though; he knew how important it was for the crew to have confidence in their captain. For the captain to have confidence in himself. Deserved or not, he appreciated Spanky's gesture.