2

USS ENTERPRISE. TASK FORCE SIXTEEN. 210 NM, NNE MIDWAY ISLAND. 2239 HOURS, 2 JUNE 1942

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 exposure, 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 lying 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 descent, 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 really 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 Bull 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 Island, Halsey had turned around the entire task force, searched for and found the downed torpedo plane, then resumed the attack 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 different 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 experienced 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 island 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, massaging the comparisons, the Zero's greater range and maneuverability, the Wildcat's higher ceiling, the Zero's lack of armor, the Wildcat's steel plating and self-sealing fuel tanks. The admiral 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 Midway and made straight for Hawaii, which lay open and defenseless. 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 considered 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 distinct impression of being wrapped, however briefly, in a denser, closer form of darkness. A rush of unsettling, half-formed, almost preconscious abstractions clawed at him. He had the sensation 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.