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.