Battleship (Movie Tie-in Edition) (12 page)

“I am expecting nothing, lieutenant commander. I am, however, anticipating everything. I expect you to do no less.”

“Aye, sir.” Hopper saluted stiffly and headed out of the bridge. As he did so, he heard Brownley call out, “Set material condition zebra. Right full rudder. Flank speed.”

Moments later, the three vessels dispatched to inspect the crash area had peeled off from the rest of the fleet, the war games forgotten, wholly unaware of just what exactly was lurking under the water, waiting for them.

Samantha Shane—outfitted in exercise gear, a file folder tucked under her arm—nodded and waved to her coworkers as she moved through the large clinic gym that was filled with all manner of exercise equipment. Weights to work both the upper and lower body, rowing machines, treadmills … anything that could be utilized to help hammer a human body into shape. There were several naval officers and a midshipman engaged in various types of physical therapy, each of them working with an endlessly patient trainer who would smile and nod encouragement. Sam had actually practiced the type of smile she used while working with a client. When she’d been training for her current job, she had stared into the mirror for minutes at a time. She was trying to make sure that her smile radiated confidence; a certainty that whomever she was working with was going to overcome whatever problems that the hazards of war, or just pure rotten luck, had saddled them with.

Unfortunately she knew she had a serious challenge in front of her this time. It didn’t take her long to find him. He was seated in a chair, staring despondently off into space. He was wearing a U.S. Army T-shirt and a pair of sweat shorts, which revealed the prosthetics he had instead of the legs he’d been born with. They were high tech, even state of the art: C-legs, with microprocessor-controlled knees. The popular term among the soldiers was “bionic legs,” after the appliances worn by the Six Million Dollar Man. Those bionic legs, of course, were fictional; indistinguishable from human legs and capable of enabling him to sprint at sixty miles per hour (mysteriously without ever causing his hair to ruffle). The C-legs had a ways to go before they reached that level of perfection.

Her patient had a thick coat of dark beard stubble and
his hair, which had grown out somewhat from the standard crew cut, was disheveled. His expression seemed set into a permanent glower and his eyes were bloodshot.
He hasn’t been sleeping well. Who can blame him? Probably wakes up constantly trying to scratch the itch of his lower legs, which aren’t there anymore
.

He was glancing around at that moment and his eyes fell on her. “Looking for my physical therapist,” he said.

She spread her arms in a
ta-daaa
manner. “You found her.”

“Nooo,” said the soldier with the air of someone who felt he was talking to an idiot. “Dean’s a stocky guy with a mustache who benches four-fifty.”

“I’m your new physical therapist. Dean quit. Said you burned him out, so you get me.”

He looked at her askance. “They punishing you for something?”

“I volunteered.”

“Why?” He appeared intrigued by her, which was certainly better than thinking she was an idiot or brushing her off. His face hadn’t lost its general air of sourness, however. “You like abuse?”

“My father is an admiral,” she said with easy confidence, “and my semi-fiancé is a weapons officer on a destroyer. I understand and can handle ‘difficult men.’ ”

“What’s a ‘semi-fiancé’?”

She ignored the question, not feeling like explaining it. Besides, it was none of his damned business anyway. “I’m detecting a lot of anger.”

“That’s very perceptive of you,” he said sarcastically.

“Is there anything in there besides anger …” She glanced at the name on the file. “Mick?”

“Not much.” He stared at her defiantly.

He’s challenging you to meet his stare. He’s trying to turn this into a pissing match. Don’t do it
. Instead she read from his file in a no-nonsense, businesslike way. “Mick
Canales. Thirty-five years old. Army Special Forces. Lost both legs last July. IED Korengal Valley in Afghanistan. Depression. Unwilling to go home.”

He stared at her as he scratched the underside of his chin, saying nothing. To her that meant that he wasn’t hearing anything worth contradicting.

She continued to read. “Football coach, Colorado Springs. ‘Pikes Peak issues.’ ”

Upon hearing that, his face immediately went from annoyance to full-blown irritation. He was acting as if some deep secret had been brought out into the open, a secret she had no business knowing. “Where’d you hear that?”

For response, Sam pointed at the obvious source: the file in her hand. “Says you’re pissed off because you can’t climb Pikes Peak anymore. Is that accurate?” He didn’t seem inclined to answer immediately, and so she simply gazed at him with a single raised, questioning eyebrow, acting as if she knew it was only a matter of time before he responded to her question.

He glared at her for a full minute, not saying a word. She did nothing to fill in the silence. Instead she just remained there, unmoving. A brick wall would have had more to say on the subject. Finally, though, he said, “Every season I would lead the team on a hike up to the top of Pikes Peak. The fact of that hike not happening is contributing to my,” and he mockingly made air quotations, “ ‘anger problem.’ ”

“It’s a little more than anger, though. Your last therapist said you’ve lost your will to fight. Is that right?”

“I lost my fight when I lost my legs.”

“You know you’re the same man inside. Same brain, same heart, same soul that made you,” and she glanced down once more. “A Golden Gloves champ at twenty-two, Bronze Star recipient in Afghanistan. All that’s still in there.”

“Nah. I’m half a man, and half a man ain’t enough to
be a soldier.” He looked away from her then as he said under his breath, “Or to see anything.”

She considered that for a moment and then said, “I’ll be right back. Stay here.”

She walked away from him as he called after her in a mocking tone, “Where the hell am I gonna go?”

Less than a minute later, she returned from the equipment room with a backpack that had the rehab center logo on it. She took it to the small kitchen area nearby and started loading it with bottled water, protein bars, bananas, and the like. He watched her in confused silence, apparently having no desire to give her the satisfaction of asking what she thought she was doing. Once she was done, she slung the backpack over her shoulder.

“Let’s go.”

He stared at her blankly. “Go where?”

For answer, she gripped him by the arm. He had no particular inclination to stand up, and was visibly startled when Sam hauled him to his artificial feet with no problem. She knew that she was stronger than she looked and liked to surprise people with her physical capabilities every so often.

“We’re going to take a little walk.”

“Walk where?” He was clearly suspicious.

“We’re climbing a mountain. Up to Saddle Ridge.”

Mick looked as if he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or just sit back down and dare her to get him on his feet again. “No, we are not.”

“Yes, we are.”

“No.” He shook his head firmly as if that was the last word on the subject.

Sam completely ignored his reluctance. “Got sunscreen? Don’t worry about it if you don’t; I grabbed some. Come on, let’s see if we’ve got any hiking shoes around here that’ll do you better than what you’ve got now.”

She headed down the hallway.
Please let him follow
me, please
, she thought desperately while making sure none of that desperation showed in her body language. The only way he was going to have confidence in himself was to have it first in her. If he stayed right where he was, asserting that he wouldn’t be climbing a mountain, a hill—or anything, for that matter—there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it.

To her utter relief, she heard a
thump thump
behind her. He was following her. She glanced over her shoulder as if his obeying her had never been in doubt and said, “Step lively, soldier. We haven’t got all day.”

Sam trudged up the mountain, glad that she made a point of keeping in shape. They were surrounded by lush, green vegetation, and the air smelled thick and sweet.

She was in the lead, if for no other reason than she wanted to make sure the path in front of them was clear. Taking spills was part of the learning curve when it came to prosthetic legs, but it was one thing to stumble while working in the gym and quite another taking a header over a projecting tree root or a gaping hole in the path. That could be catastrophic. She was trying to build up Mick’s confidence, not cause him to get banged up from sprawling in the dirt.

Mick pushed forward. He was concentrating, his brow wrinkled and covered with sweat.

She didn’t want to get too far in front of him, but she also didn’t want him to feel as if she was taking it easy on him. The man was five foot nine inches’ worth of pride. So she stopped, pretending to catch her breath. “You’re doing pretty good for a guy who doesn’t want to be climbing.”

“This isn’t no Pike’s Peak,” he said disdainfully.

“It’s a start.”

“My grandmother could climb this hill.”

“It’s a start.”

“I got a dog named Mustard. He could climb this damn hill.”

“Good.” She adjusted her backpack. “Then you and Mustard can spend some quality time together back in Colorado.” She started to turn away in order to continue their ascent.

“Mustard got hit by a dump truck eight years ago. Mustard’s dead.” He sounded indifferent, although it was hard for her to determine whether he was just maintaining a macho act.

She stared at him. “I’m sorry.”

He trudged past her, taking the lead. “I’m over it. And by the way, I’m a big boy. I can watch my path just fine.”

Sam smiled to herself.
He doesn’t miss a trick. Might be fake legs, but nothing’s wrong with his mind
.

He called back to her, “What’s a semi-fiancé?”

She moaned softly, and then thankfully, before he could press the question—which she was pretty sure he was going to do—her cell phone started ringing.
Saved by the bell
. She glanced at the caller ID and saw Hopper’s name.
Please let it be good news. Maybe they’ve reconsidered the captain’s mast
. She answered it, putting the phone to her ear and moving away from Mick to get some modicum of privacy. “I thought you’d be out of cell range by now.”

“I’ve got about five minutes,” Hopper’s voice came back. He was popping in and out. “Five minutes” came across more like “ive in uts.” But she had long practice in deciphering sentences during patchy cell phone calls.

“Yeah. How’s it going?” She unslung her backpack since just standing in one place made it seem heavier.

“It’s all right. Something crashed near us. We gotta go check it out.”

Something crashed?
This time the patchiness of their connection made her concerned. Had there been another brushing incident, like last year? Had Hopper gone off
and punched out another officer? They might wind up skipping the court-martial and go straight to sentencing. “A ship?” she said tentatively.

“I don’t know. Not one of ours.”

She closed her eyes and let out a relieved sigh. Whatever was going on, Hopper wasn’t in the middle. He didn’t even sound especially worked up about it.
Thank God. One less thing for him to get himself in trouble over
.

There was a lengthy silence and Sam started to think that the connection had gone dead. But then she heard Hopper’s voice say awkwardly, “I know that I messed up. I’m really sorry and I’m going to try really hard to make it right. I’ll talk to your dad as soon as we get back.”

She appreciated the fact that he wanted to try and make things right, but somehow she had to think his intended course of action might lead to even greater disaster … assuming such a thing was possible. “Maybe you should think hard on if you really want to talk to my dad.”

“I don’t have to think. I know.”

She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. “You know? You know what? What do you know?”

“What I want.” He hesitated and then said firmly, “It’s you.”

Tears rolled down Sam’s face. She spotted Mick out the corner of her eye, watching stoically. She lowered her voice and said, “Stop screwing things up.”

“I will. I love you.”

They were only hundreds of miles apart, but she felt as if there was a gulf of millions of miles between them. “I love
you
,” she said across the span. “I—Hopper?” There was silence on the other end. The line had gone dead.

She pocketed her cell phone and looked at Mick.

“Semi-fiancés,” he said slowly, “get in there and mess up your heart. Blow your concentration—stomach ulcers, gas, prolapsed bowels—”

“Got it. Thank you,” she said impatiently. Shouldering
her backpack once more, she stalked past Mick, shoving him as she did so. “I’m taking the lead. You got anything to say about it, keep it to yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, tossing off a mocking salute and falling into step behind her.

Seaman Ord stood on the observation deck of the
John Paul Jones
, studying the surrounding area with binoculars. They were flanked on either side by the other two vessels, each of them hanging back about a hundred yards, making sure to keep their distance. The last thing anyone needed was for the vessels to get in one another’s way.

He didn’t see it at first, the object that they were looking for. It was as if his eyes went right over it—as if it wasn’t there one moment and then suddenly it was. A maze of some sort, projecting from the water. It was triangular and industrial—definitely man-made, not some sort of natural phenomenon, like a meteor—encrusted with strange panels and what appeared to be a jagged assembly that looked like an antenna. It was protruding from the water about five hundred yards ahead.

“Is this some kind of surprise part of the exercise …?” Ord said to no one. “Like a big ‘Okay, what do you do when this happens’ kind of deal?” He paused and answered his own question. “Doesn’t really feel like it.” Then he grabbed the phone that immediately put him
through to the bridge. “Contact at zero eight zero. Repeat, contact at zero eight zero.”