"Unusual," commented Adar as the strange ship receded with magical swiftness. "Not only did they not attack, but that one gave the Sign of the Empty Hand. That's encouraging, at least." The Sign of the Empty Hand was a common greeting among the People, to show they held no weapons.
"Perhaps it was just shielding its tiny eyes from the sun." The crowd began to disperse, chattering excitedly. "Despite what I said, I don't think they were helpless. What was that long thing on the front of their ship if not a weapon? And there were three others just like it. I think they must be weapons."
"That possibility did not escape me, lord," Adar whispered back. "But if they were weapons, they did not use them, did they? Never before have we met others than our own kind that did not attack. I, for one, find that encouraging."
Keje huffed noncommittally. "I find it encouraging when I do not encounter strange beings that move faster than any Home ever has—and do not even have wings—before I have eaten my morning meal. Join me while I do, and we will talk more of what we've seen."
Virtually every surviving officer had gravitated to the crowded pilothouse. The petty officers, warrants, and division chiefs were there too, or gathered aft by the ladder behind the bridge. None abandoned their posts without proper relief, and all stations were manned, but nearly everyone who was responsible for other men had come. They hadn't discussed it, hadn't planned it in any way. It was as though they instinctively knew it was time to go to the captain and hear what he had to say. Matt wasn't surprised. He wasn't worried about mutiny, but he knew a threshold had been reached. The men had been through hell even before everything became so strange. When it had, they took it in stride, determined to carry on to the end. Only there was no end. Somehow, for some unknowable reason, nothing was the same anymore—and if Matt had learned anything about his destroyermen, it was that they didn't welcome change.
As he looked at them standing respectfully but expectantly nearby, he reflected that this might actually be harder on some because they were Asiatic Fleet. Many had been on the same ship, on the same station, and with the same shipmates for years. One of the fundamental characteristics of the Asiatic Fleet had been that nothing ever changed. Some would call it ossified; the ancient ships and obsolete equipment certainly supported that, but an all-pervading, decades-long routine had been established and until the War, there'd been no reason to disrupt it. The men with Filipino wives had expected to serve their time and retire in the Philippines, where they'd grown accustomed to the routine of life. The War destroyed that life, but they'd fallen back on the routine of the Navy and their duty. Many hoped that by doing their duty, they could restore everything to the way it had been before. Now even that hope was gone. All that remained was their ship, their duty, and each other. That would have to be enough. For now, that was all they had.
They'd gathered to hear what he had to say. To draw strength and purpose from one that they hoped—since the Navy thought he was smart enough to lead them—would be smart enough to figure out what to do. Matt didn't know what to do, as far as the "bigger picture" was concerned, and it was no use pretending he did. Inwardly, he was at least as scared as they were. But he had faith in these rough men, and to cross this threshold and move beyond it he knew he must appeal to their strengths—their independence and their industry. More than anyone else in the Navy, they were accustomed to surviving on the fringe. If anyone could do it, they could—if they stuck together. Only then could they protect their most immediate, most comforting routine of alclass="underline" their life on USS Walker. With that as a foundation, they could meet the bigger challenge together.
"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.