USS ENTERPRISE. TASK FORCE SIXTEEN

At least he didn’t have to drink the admiral’s terrible coffee. Admittedly, it wasn’t much fun stamping back and forth
along the empty flight deck at night, either. For the first days of June, this was miserable weather in the northwest Pacific. With the fog so cold and dense and rain sleeting in sideways, it was enough to make Lieutenant Commander Daniel Black long for the South Pacific, where temperatures belowdecks could climb to well over a hundred and touching the exposed metal topside raised painful burn blisters. But Black could take a little expo- sure, as long as it meant he didn’t have to stomach another cup of that goddamn poison green java Admiral Raymond Spruance insisted on grinding for himself every morning.
Black, a big rawboned copper miner in his former life, was Spruance’s assistant ops chief in this one. He jammed his hands deep into the pockets of his old leather flying coat and turned out of the wind as they reached the safety lights surrounding the first aircraft elevator. There had been a freak accident there just a few days ago, when Ensign Willie P. West and Lieutenant “Dusty” Kleiss were strolling the same path. Neither had heard the elevator warning signal, and West had stepped abruptly off into empty space. Kleiss found himself teetering on the edge of a gaping hole, and it took him a moment to regain his balance. Having done so, he peered over, expecting to find his friend ly- ing in a crumpled heap.
Instead he found West smiling and waving from thirty feet
below. He had landed on the elevator just as it started its de- scent, and said the sensation was like “landing on a feather bed.” Commander Black didn’t feel like repeating the stunt and gave himself plenty of time to turn around. Admiral Spruance veered away, too, his black leather shoes squeaking on the wet deck. It was a small thing in a way, a pair of black shoes, not re- ally worth noting. Except that they shouldn’t have been here on a flattop. William “Bull” Halsey, the man who would have been in charge of the Enterprise, if he wasn’t trapped in his sickbed back at Pearl, would have worn brown shoes, because he was a flier, not a cruiser jockey. And Halsey wouldn’t have needed to constantly pound the flight deck with his officers, picking their brains about flight operations and the basics of naval air power just days before they went into battle. Because Bill Halsey had
been flying planes and driving carriers for years.
The men revered him, and with good reason. When Ensign
Eversole had gotten lost in fog on the way to attack Wake Is-
land, Halsey had turned around the entire task force, searched
for and found the downed torpedo plane, then resumed the at-
tack a day later. Everyone agreed it was a damn pity the old man
was stuck back in Pearl. It meant they were steaming into battle
at Midway against a superior foe, under a man with no expertise
in carrier operations at all.
During a rare break in Spruance’s relentless cross-examination,
Black brought up something else that had been nagging at him
since they’d set out. “It’s a real shame about losing Don
Lovelace.”
The admiral, who was a quiet, self-contained man—so differ-
ent from the booming, good-natured Halsey—took so long in
replying that Commander Black wondered if he’d even been
heard. The Enterprise was making nearly thirty knots, adding
its speed to a light blustery crosswind, and it was possible a gust
might have carried away his words. But, true to form, Spruance
was just mulling over the statement before fashioning a reply.
“It’s a blessing we’ve even got the Yorktown at all,” he said.
That seemed harsh. Don Lovelace was the XO of Fighting 3,
the Yorktown’s squadron of twenty-five portly but rugged F-4F
Wildcats. Or he had been, till another pilot had screwed up his
landing and jumped the barrier the first afternoon out of Pearl,
crashing into the plane ahead and killing one of the most expe-
rienced pilots in the whole task force. The Yorktown’s VF3 was
less a squadron than a pickup team, thrown together at the last moment before the big game. They’d never flown together, and for some this would be their first time on a carrier. Lovelace was supposed to have whipped them into shape.
“It still would have been good having Lovelace.” Black shrugged. “Zeros are gonna eat those boys up. Chew us all up, given a chance.”
“Jimmy Thach will knock them into shape,” Spruance said. “Or close enough anyway. We have to cut the cloth to suit our budget, Commander. Pearl performed miracles getting the Yorktown ready in three days. I know the pilots are green, and their planes are no match for the Japs, but that doesn’t matter. We have to beat them anyway.”
Their return journey had brought them back to the ship’s is- land superstructure, which offered some shelter against the wind that was blowing across the deck. The rise and fall of the swell was also much less evident here. The time was coming up on 2245. They would blow tubes in a few minutes, and the working day would end for most of the crew. Black was already dead tired. He had eaten breakfast at 0350.
In a few days, he knew, he’d just be dead. Or so exhausted as made no difference.
He wondered how Spruance did it. How he kept running like a windup toy, seemingly capable of absorbing every piece of minutiae and fitting it into his grand battle scheme. They’d been discussing the relative merits of the Zero and the Wildcat, mas- saging the comparisons, the Zero’s greater range and maneuver- ability, the Wildcat’s higher ceiling, the Zero’s lack of armor, the Wildcat’s steel plating and self-sealing fuel tanks. The ad- miral turned to him now, a rare, soft smile playing across his thin, severe features.
“Still worried that they might sucker punch us again at Pearl, Commander?”
This time it was Black who was quiet for a few seconds. At a special briefing in Spruance’s cabin, earlier that day, he had asked the admiral what would happen if the Japs bypassed Mid- way and made straight for Hawaii, which lay open and defense- less. Spruance had stared at him for a full half minute before offering his reply—that he hoped they would not.
Black had been startled by that reply—and more than a little
disturbed. Unless Spruance knew something his subordinates did not, he was relying heavily on faith—which Black consid- ered a poor basis for strategic planning.
Now the admiral seemed on the verge of saying something more when an earsplitting crack knocked them both to the deck and left them gasping for breath. Black felt as though he’d been nailed by a jab to the guts.
The gusting wind that had been tugging at their clothes died down. It was curious, though—it didn’t just drop off. It stopped dead. It almost seemed to Black as if it was “different air.” That didn’t make sense, he knew, but he couldn’t shake the feeling. It smelled and tasted different, too; vaguely familiar in a way, earthier, heavier. Like air in the Tropics, which always seemed laden with the weight of rot and genesis.
The night had been very dark, with low cloud cover, no starlight, and banks of dense fog. Even so, Black had the dis- tinct impression of being wrapped, however briefly, in a denser, closer form of darkness. A rush of unsettling, half-formed, al- most preconscious abstractions clawed at him. He had the sen- sation of being trapped in a tight, closed space, what he imagined it would feel like to be stuck in a downed plane as it sank in thousands of fathoms of black water.
Then they both became aware of a rising clamor of shouts and cries, coming from above. Lookouts in the superstructure, up on Vulture’s Row, were screaming and gesturing wildly down to the sea on the starboard side.
“I think somebody’s gone overboard,” coughed Black, still struggling for breath.
“Come on,” Spruance said, with some difficulty.
They hurried forward, around the base of the island and the
antiaircraft mounts, only to be confronted by a sight that
stopped them cold.
“Holy shit,” said Black.
There, less than a hundred yards away, lay a ship of some
sort. A foreign vessel for sure, completely alien, its bow was an-
gled away from the Enterprise, opening up a gap as they plowed
through the foaming breakers. She was lit well enough that they
could make out her strange lines. The decks of the vessel were
mostly clear. There was an island of sorts, but it was located
squarely in the center of what would have been the runway. It
was raked back, like a shark’s fin, with no hard edges anywhere on its surface. Only one line of windows was visible, within which he could make out strange glowing colors and lights, but no people.
As his mind adjusted to the outrage, he began to take in more detail. The forward decks seemed to be pockmarked with the outlines of elevators, but they were ridiculously small, each no more than a few yards across. There was one small gun em- placement, a ludicrous-looking little cannon, with the same strange, raked contours as the bridge. As the angle of diver- gence increased and the warship pulled away from them, Spru- ance pointed to the outline of what had to be an aircraft elevator down toward the stern. But it made no sense. Any plane at- tempting to take off there would crash into the bizarre-looking island on the vessel’s centerline.
“Oh, Lord,” muttered Spruance, as the ship peeled away at nearly thirty degrees now, exposing her stern to their gaze. A Japanese ensign flew there. Not a Rising Sun, to be sure, but a red circle on a field of white.
The name printed beneath read SIR ANUI, Japanese for “un- known fires,” if Black recalled correctly. He was aware of a Kagero-class destroyer just so named, which had been launched in June 1938. This thing, however, which was easily more than half the length of the Enterprise, was no Kagero-class bucket. It looked like something out of Buck Rogers.
“What the hell is that thing?” asked Black, in the tone of voice he might have used if he’d seen a large, two-headed dog. “I’m not sure what it is,” Spruance replied, regaining his composure, “but I know who it is. Better put on your Sunday
best, Commander. I think our guests have arrived early.”
As the mystery ship quietly slipped into the night, a Klaxon
aboard the Enterprise sounded the alarm.
And then, the horizon exploded.
Suddenly they were beset by madness on all sides. To star-
board, the eerie Nipponese ghost ship receded into darkness. To
port, there was a volcanic eruption about ten miles distant. It
was a few seconds before the thunder reached their ears, but
they could see clearly enough what was happening as the light
of the explosion was trapped between a heaving sea and the
thick, scudding clouds that pressed down from above.
Black shook his head, determined to remain calm. But as his
eyes darted to and fro across the surface of the ocean, his mind was insulted by the monstrous visions they encountered there.
In the flat, guttering light of the distant inferno Black could see more enemy vessels, none that he recognized, most of them freakish cousins to the thing that had just peeled away from the Enterprise. There was one ship—maybe a thousand yards dis- tant—well, he simply refused to believe his own eyes. As it crested a long rolling line of swell he could have sworn the thing had two, maybe even three hulls. It was difficult to be sure under these conditions, but he simply could not shake the after- image. It was either a ship with three hulls, or three ships some- how joined and operating in perfect harmony.
And randomly scattered on the crucible of the seas all around them were more products of the same Stygian foundry. Over there, he was certain, there was another double-hulled monstrosity, bursting through a black wall of water. To the north lay more ships like the beast that had sidled up to them before. And there, way off the port bow, were two flattops, both of them large enough to be fleet carriers. One was a real behemoth.
“Commander!”
Black was shocked out of his reverie by the harsh call.
“We’ve got work to do, Commander,” Spruance barked. “A
hell of a job, too, unless you want your grandchildren eating
raw fish and rice balls.”
Bells rang and Klaxons blared. Thousands of feet hammered
on steel plating as men rushed to their stations on nearly two
dozen warships.
The first gun to fire was a 20mm Oerlikon on the Portland. It
pumped a snaking line of tracer in exactly the wrong direction.
Forty-millimeter Bofors, pom-poms, and dozens of five-inch
batteries soon joined it, until a whole quadrant of the sky
seethed with gunfire.
Spruance and Black raced up to the bridge, tugging on helmets
and vests, as the big guns of the Midway Task Force began to
boom. Huge muzzle flashes from eight-inch batteries lit up the
night with a chaotic, strobe effect. The bridge was in an uproar
with a dozen different voices calling out reports, barking ques-
tions, and demanding answers where—as yet—there were none.
“Get the bombers away, as quickly as possible,” Spruance
ordered.
“VB-six is ready to roll, sir.” “Coming around to two-two-three.”
The plating beneath their feet began to pitch as the big carrier swung into the wind. Black could only hope that none of their destroyer escorts would be run down by the unexpected course correction. This is insane, he thought, dogfighting with twenty- thousand-ton ships. He braced himself against a chart table in a corner of the bridge, and tried to make sense of the chaos around them. There were hundreds of guns firing without any sort of coordination. They were going to start destroying their own ships very quickly if that went on.
As soon as the thought occurred to him, it happened. The cruiser New Orleans attempted a ragged broadside at that spec- tral Japanese ship that had just “appeared” to starboard, a few minutes earlier. The volley completely missed its target, but at least two shells slammed into an American destroyer a few hun- dred yards beyond. Black cursed as the little ship exploded in flames.
“We’re going to need better gunnery control,” he yelled at
Spruance. “I’ll get on it.”
The admiral turned away from the sailor he had been address-
ing and nodded brusquely. Black charged back out of the
bridge, heading for the radio room.