If only they had trusted him.

But then again, he admitted, why should they?

The Sutanto was little better than a pirate ship. And in a dismal insight, Lieutenant Ali Moertopo realized his only hope lay in embracing that.

Slim Jim Davidson hadn't ever seen anything like it. Not even at the World's Fair in New York, before the war. The future was here, and it was a fucking treasure trove. If it weren't for Chief Mohr riding his ass like a chariot driver he'd have stowed away enough loot to set himself up for life.

He'd already grabbed and stashed away two of them electrical books, three electrical watches, one pair of goggles-also electrical-and a pistol that looked like it'd stop a bull elephant. The hand cannon he understood. The watches, sort of. They had to be like something out of Dick Tracy, radio watches or something. But the other stuff, that was a mystery. He just took them because he recognized a first-class score. There was just something about those gadgets that cried out, Take me Slim Jim. I'm yours. At some point he was going to have to drop the loot off and start again. Or else Mohr was certain to get wise.

But it was worth the risk. That's why he'd allowed himself to be "volunteered" by the chief for the gruesome business of cleaning up the body parts that lay throughout the dense labyrinth created by the intersection of the two cruisers. The confusion and darkness created endless opportunities for profit. One of the watches, for instance, had just "slipped off" a severed arm and into Slim Jim's pocket as he cleared out a niche where the Astoria's electrical storeroom met a small crew cabin on the Leyte Gulf.

It was hotter than hell down here, maybe even hotter than Alabama in high summer, which Slim Jim knew from personal experience was worse than being trapped in the Devil's own butt hole. In July of '36 he'd done three months on a road gang just outside Montgomery. At the time he'd sworn never to get himself into that sort of trouble again, but here he was, picking up dead meat, Chief Mohr kicking his ass, Moose Molloy stepping on his toes, the Imperial Japanese Navy hell-bent on killing him, and now this crazy bullshit thrown in for good measure. He'd be a damn fool if he didn't take what little chance he had to profit from these unpleasant circumstances.

And Slim Jim's mama didn't raise no fools. Sharpies, grifters, and one crooked jockey, for sure. But no fools.

Slim Jim's normal approach to a job like this would have been to affect an impression of grim industry while goofing off at every turn. But now he hurried to fill his burlap bag with its obscene cargo and the occasional item of plunder, trying to look like the world's busiest little beaver. Moose Molloy, who was working beside him, droned on without letup, his tiny pea brain grappling with the night's events. Slim Jim upheld his side of the conversation only when necessary. His mind worked furiously behind a mask of barely contained disgust.

Oxy cutters blazed around them, burning narrow passageways through the tangled mass of iron. The air stunk of ozone and corruption. Slim Jim's back hurt from the deadweight collected in his sack. His throat was parched dry, his tongue furry, and he was covered in cuts and bruises from banging against twisted metal in the dark. It was, he thought, worse than that fucking road gang. At least they'd had fresh air. But he stuck at the joyless task long after he'd normally have found an excuse to escape.

"I can't wait to see the mess on this ship," grunted Moose as he pulled at something wedged between two imperfectly fused bulkheads. "They got so many mess men on this ship they must have a mess as big as the Enterprise. You remember when we snuck on board for their Christmas party that time, Slim Jim? How big that mess was, with all of them niggers? I never seen so many of them before."

"They're not mess men," Davidson answered as he pocketed what looked like an electric fountain pen. "Look at their uniforms, you lunkhead. They're officers, some of them. The dames, too. And the captain's a broad and a Negro."

"Oh, a Neeegro, excuse me, Professor. Anyhow, I know that," Moose protested. "I was there, remember?"

"Goddamn! This thing weighs a ton," cursed Davidson as he hauled the bag through another tight crawl space. The effort left him breathless and shaking. He leaned against a bulkhead by Molloy to rest.

"Hey, Moose," he said quietly when he'd caught his breath. "Listen. I wouldn't go calling 'em niggers to their face if I was you. Or nips or broads or nothing."

"But that's what they are!" Molloy protested.

"Maybe," Davidson conceded, "but they're officers, too, a lot of them. And officers stick together. I been around. I seen a few things. Just 'cause the black man's been set lower than us doesn't mean he likes it. These guys coming here? It's trouble for everyone. For the Japs if they get a taste of those guns and rockets like we did. But for us, too, I reckon. And when trouble blows in, a smart guy keeps his head down, waits for it to pass. When it's gone you can see how things lie."

Around them the noise of rescue and salvage created a din that covered their conversation. Davidson didn't exactly think of Moose as a friend. He didn't exactly have any friends. But Moose stood six-four in his bare feet and could probably kill an ox with his right hook. He made a good ally for someone like Slim Jim, who'd always relied on ratbastard cunning to make up for his less-than-intimidating physique. If he was going to work an angle on this, he didn't need to have the big ape messing things up for him by mouthing off to the new guys.

"You think about it, Moose," he said in a conspiratorial tone. "You ever meet an officer didn't think the sun shone out of his ass? It's because in their world, it does. And there's nothing you or I can do about it. I don't know how that bitch got to be captain of a ship like this, but you can bet she thinks she deserves it."

"But that just can't be," Moose argued plaintively.

"It doesn't matter!" Davidson said, cutting him off sharply. "What should be and what is almost never turn out the same. I should be lying back in a big feather bed at the Waldorf getting my dick sucked by Rita Hayworth. But I'm stuck here covered in blood and shit wondering what the hell happened to the laws of fucking nature this morning. You take my advice, Moose, one of these bastards says boo to you, you just tell 'em yes sir no sir three bags full sir. Even if it's some broad looks like she should be cleaning the toilets in a fucking speakeasy."

Moose was silenced by the vehemence of his best friend's delivery. And everything Slim Jim Davidson had just said ran 100 percent contrary to what his daddy, Moose Sr., had raised him to believe. But of course, Moose Sr. wasn't here, up to his ass in dead meat and craziness. And Slim Jim had looked after him ever since they'd fetched up in the same quarters. He reluctantly agreed to heed the advice.

"That's all right then." Davidson nodded. "Now I gotta take this shit topside and get rid of it. I'll see you soon."

And with that he hauled the big, oozing bag away, all the time thinking of where he might stash the treasure he had hidden within it.

Captain Anderson ran her fingers along the join between the two ships. The nanotube sheath armor of the Leyte Gulf met the rivets and iron plating of the Astoria perfectly. She supposed they had bonded at the molecular level.

"How long, Chief?" she asked.

"They've got the pumps running full bore in the Astoria, Captain. We've sent over what help we can, but unless we get her to a dry dock in the next eight to twelve hours, we're both going down."