Weapons of choice

The big gun froze dead for half a second, then his rounds set off the shells that had been ready to fire. The entire stern of the cruiser shuddered and flames erupted from an entry hatch on the side of the turret. Nix rolled back through the hatchway, grabbing his partner and hauling the deadweight away to relative safety. His goggles recorded the whole event, and now he had to get to Captain Anderson. She wasn't going to believe what he had just seen.

Peter Evans cursed and ducked back inside the Astoria's bridge, slipping and falling into an unspeakable pile of offal, bone splinters, and torn cloth. Shuddering and dry heaving with a deep revulsion, he attempted to regain his feet only to slip and fall again and again. He might have given in to despair and just lain there had he not been grabbed from behind and hauled out of the slaughterhouse.

When he finally could stand under his own power, he disentangled himself from the grip of a chief petty officer, a slab-sided former meat worker from New Jersey named Eddie Mohr.

"Thanks, Chief," he babbled, "I… I… I…"

Mohr patted him on the shoulder. He'd been wading through entrails all his adult life, but even he looked a little green around the gills, having caught a glimpse of the bridge.

"That's all right, sir. You done good, Commander, real good, sir. The thing is though. I can't let you sink that ship, sir. You see, we're stuck to it. Christ only knows how, but we are, and if it goes down, so do we. If you understand what I mean."

Mohr continued in his slow, thick, reassuring "New Joisey" inflection, leading the ship's surviving senior officer away from the bridge.

"… You think you can get down these stairs, Commander? They're pretty steep and all. Would you like a drink, sir? I know it ain't regular, but I always find myself that it's good for what ails you."

Mohr wiped away a small gobbet of meat and a smear of blood from around the officer's mouth before tilting a cool metal flask to his lips. The contraband liquor, which was quite good, went down smoothly, burning only when it reached Evans's stomach.

"Thanks, Chief," he gasped. "You're right. It helps."

"Aye, sir, it does. My first day on the killing floor, my old man he took me out that night, filled me so fulla beer I figured to burst. Sick as a fuckin' dog I was, sir, if you'll pardon my fuckin' French. But it did the trick."

A fit of coughing and gagging took Evans and bent him double, until he feared he might lose all the bourbon he'd just drunk. But he held on, pulling great shuddering lungfuls of air in through a sucking mess of snot and blood. Finally he regained what he could of his composure.

"Damage control, Chief," he gurgled. "I need to know-"

"Well, the thing is, that's a hell of a question, Commander. Some I can tell you, like the rear mount's shot to hell. And some I just gotta show you."

As Evans limped up the starboard corridor, still supported by CPO Mohr, he became aware of gunfire-small arms, rifles, and machine guns hammering away, the noise muted but reverberating through the confined spaces that lay belowdecks. The passageways became crowded, too, almost clogging with dozens, maybe hundreds of sailors, many of them carrying sidearms.

"What's going on, Chief?" Evans asked.

"Frankly, sir, I'm fucked if I know. It's like we been rammed, but not, if you know."

Evans nodded. He knew exactly what Mohr meant.

"But I can tell you we got a way in, sir. We got guys over there, we boarded them bastards and we're giving 'em hell, too. That's also why we can't be firing the big gun on 'em. We'll be killing our own if we don't look out."

Evans nodded without saying anything. Men were beginning to notice his presence, turning and gawking at the admittedly hellish spectacle he presented. Some looked impressed, others horrified or just scared shitless.

"Make way! Make way!" yelled Eddie Mohr. "Commander Evans coming through. Move aside, ladies. Some Japs gonna get their asses kicked now!"

Evans tried to live up to the chief's performance. With his good right hand he took a.45 pistol from a sailor who seemed only too glad to give it up. He did his best to ignore the ankle that threatened to collapse under him again. He felt hands slapping him on the shoulder and back. Heard men call out his name. Some even clapped and cheered. He had no idea why. It was mostly a daze. But a gut-level instinct told him his presence was needed.

So he painfully shouldered his way through the increasingly dense mass of crewmen, not really sure of where he was headed, carried along by some current in the seething tide of close-pressed humanity. He caught a confused glimpse of something ahead, an impossible wall blocking the corridor. Then the flux of rank-smelling bodies pushed him left and into a large bunkroom.