"Shipwide," he said, wondering what he would say.

"Now hear this!" he began, repeating the preparatory phrase that would have been used for any ordinary general announcement. He turned with the microphone in his hand and stared out the windows forward, past the fo'c'sle, into the far distance where the hazy sky met the sea.

"A few of you may have noticed some strange goings-on." He smiled wryly and waited for the nervous laughter to die, then continued in a serious tone. "I don't know more than any of you about what's happened. When I find out, I'll tell you. That's a promise. I won't lie to you, though. The situation's grim. We're a beat-up tin can that's been through a hell of a fight. We have limited stores, ammunition, and fuel." He paused for emphasis, then hammered it home. "And I can't tell you where, or from whom, we can resupply. My immediate plan is to collect Mahan and then begin searching for a source to fill our needs. Once we do, we can worry about the big picture and decide what to do next. That's the bad news."

He sensed a flicker of humor over the profound understatement. "The good news is, nobody's shooting at us. The charts are correct, and we know where we are; it's just everyone else who has disappeared. Fortunately, that seems to include the Japs. We'll secure from general quarters."

He started to hand the microphone to the talker, but changed his mind. "One more thing," he said, looking now at the faces of his crew. "Whatever happened to us, you can look at it a couple of ways. You can say it's strange, and I sure can't argue. Weird? I'm with you. Bad? We'll see. You might also look at it as salvation, because we were dead, people. Whatever else it was, it was that." He watched the thoughtful expressions and saw a few nods.

"Wherever we go, whatever we do, no matter what's happened— whether we're still part of Des-Ron 29 or all by ourselves, we're Walkers! We're destroyermen! And we represent the United States Navy!" The nods became more vigorous and he sensed . . . approval. He hoped it would be enough. He sighed and glanced at his watch. "Return to your duties. Damage control and repair has priority. Funeral services at 1300. That's all."

As always, encouragingly, were the muttered replies: "That's enough!"

Lieutenant Tamatsu Shinya sat on one of the chairs beside the table in the wardroom, his hands cuffed together in his lap. A chain extended down to a pair of leg irons encircling his ankles. The bandage around his blackhaired head drooped and obscured his left eye. The compartment was filled with cigarette smoke, but occasional gusts of fresh air reached him through a large hole in the side of the ship. Sitting across from him, leaned back in evident repose and busily creating the smoke, was the American Marine who'd been watching him since he regained consciousness.

He wasn't fooled by the Marine's apparent ease. Nor did he think the bandage on his leg concealed a wound that would prevent him from using the .45 holstered at his side if given the least provocation. His attitude implied that he would welcome an excuse. Together, they'd listened to the captain's words from a speaker on the bulkhead, and although he pretended not to understand, Shinya honestly didn't know if he felt like laughing or if he wished the terrible fish had gotten him after all.

He wasn't a career naval officer, but a reservist, the son of a wealthy industrialist. He'd spent several years in the United States and attended UC­Berkeley. He entered the Japanese Imperial Navy because he was supposed to, not because he was in favor of his country's China policy— although his father glowed with the prospects of a Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere. He entered the Navy because he was a patriot, and that was what his family did. Besides, the war in China was an Army operation. In the Navy, he would be among cooler and more thoughtful heads.

When preparations for war with America began, he couldn't believe it. He'd been there! He'd seen! He knew as well as anyone how dangerous war with the United States would be, not to mention—according to his sense of honor—wrong. He admitted it was difficult to be objective. He liked Americans, and he'd enjoyed California. It was possible his perceptions had been influenced by people he'd known and, yes, friends he'd made, but only to the extent that he better understood the vast cultural chasm that separated the two peoples. Despite the rhetoric on both sides, he understood the root causes of the war and that nobody was blameless, but the chasm of misunderstanding prevented any reconciliation. The alliance with Germany and Italy might have made war inevitable—and maybe even winnable—but he couldn't ignore his sense that the way it started was wrong and sure to provoke American fury.

Without question, the war was going well so far. The relic he was imprisoned aboard was an example of American unpreparedness. But he'd been at Balikpapan and saw what they could manage, even with what little they had. He feared the outcome if the war dragged out and new and better weapons reached these determined men. Then came the lopsided fight when his destroyer screened Amagi against the two old American ships. He'd been amazed and even proud of their bold charge. They'd had no other choice, but it was stirring all the same.

Of course, when two torpedoes exploded against his ship and it vanished from under him, all considerations except staying afloat became secondary. He didn't remember what struck him on the head, and he didn't remember being fished from the water. He did remember a bizarre, stomach-wrenching sensation when the Squall engulfed him, but nothing else until he woke aboard the American destroyer. He'd heard things, though, whispered by men who didn't think he understood.

And then he saw it, through the shell hole, just a while ago. The enormous ship. In that moment he knew all the rumors were true.

He didn't know how or if it would affect him. He was a prisoner of war, he supposed, but what did that mean? How should he act? His situation wasn't often discussed in training. Surrender was not considered an option by his instructors, so how to behave in enemy hands was never mentioned. Despite his "Americanization," he felt vaguely guilty for having survived, although there was nothing he could have done. The man who saved and surrendered him was dead, and he would never know why he'd done it. In any event, whatever he'd expected to happen to him as a prisoner, being shuffled from compartment to compartment but otherwise ignored wasn't it. No one even asked him a question. They had no idea he spoke English, but at least one of them, the young aviation officer, knew Japanese. It seemed unnatural they wouldn't care what he knew of the Imperial Fleet's dispositions. He'd resolved to tell them nothing, but no one ever came and he grew nervous—and wary.

Possibly they'd been so preoccupied with repairs and flight that they'd forgotten they even had him. He hadn't seen the captain, even though he knew the wardroom was where the officers ate. As he overheard the rumors of the crew, however, he began to suspect it wasn't just neglect that kept them from questioning him. Perhaps the relevance of what he knew had diminished to insignificance. Then, not long ago, as he gazed through the hole in the side of the wardroom, it became blindingly clear that whatever information he might have no longer mattered to his captors at all. So they sat, each alone with his thoughts, listening to muted machinery noises.

There was movement behind the green curtain leading to officers' country, and a head poked around it and looked at them, surprised. The curtain slashed back in place and a retreating voice reached his ears. "Shit. The Jap."

The Marine smirked slightly and rolled his eyes. Then he looked squarely at Tamatsu. "That's the new exec. Somebody finally remembered you. Maybe he'll remind the captain." He grinned darkly. "I hope he throws you to the fish."