Omato nodded, took the handset, and made the necessary call. Sixty seconds later, like a message from heaven, the first shell fell. It blew the front off a pink hotel, killed seven Americans, and triggered a withdrawal.

  “Okay, boys,” Oliver said over the radio, “you know what to do. . . . Leave the heavy stuff and pull back.”

  Moon relayed the order, waited for his team to vacate the hotel suite, and took one last look out the window. One of the Japs, what looked like a naval officer, was getting to his feet. He waved a pistol, yelled something to his men, and charged up the sandy slope.

  Moon brought the rifle to his shoulder, aimed for the point where the officer was about to be, and took a deep breath. The weapon seemed to fire itself.

  Omato felt a blow to his chest, and fell backward into the sand. The met officer had only one pair of glasses, and he wondered where they were. That’s when he noticed the seagull, marveled at the graceful way in which it flew, and rose to ride the wind.

  TASKFORCE 8—U.S. PACIFIC FLEET, DECEMBER8, 1941, 14:00

  It was a beautiful day. Only a few fluffy clouds marred the blue perfection of the sky, and the sun warmed the back of Lockhart’s neck as the squadron leader peered down through the canopy of his Douglas SBD Dauntless.

  “Pistol Pete” Macklin, who sat in the rear and looked out over his twin 7.62-mm guns, had a good view of the American planes, eighty in all, which flew in clusters to his left and right. There were two air groups. One from the Enterprise and one off the Lex. All could see the Japanese relief force by then and were eager to attack.

  In order to coordinate the overall attack and ensure that the high-priority targets were hit, Lockhart had been named mission coordinator—a role that would force him to circle over the battle rather than participate in it. But orders were orders, and these originated from Halsey. The pilot spoke into his mike.

  “Angel One to all squadron leaders . . . You know the drill . . . Forget the cruisers and put everything on the transports and oilers. And one more thing . . . drop a few bombs for me. Over.”

  There were a number of “Rogers,” followed by a heartfelt “Tallyho!” as flight after flight of dive-bombers peeled off, lined up on their preassigned targets, and went in for the kill. As they came into range, puffs of black 40-mm antiaircraft fire appeared as if by magic, drifted sideways in the wind, and slowly came apart. Less visible, but just as deadly, was the 25-mm and 40-mm AA fire that slashed the sky.

  As Lockhart circled the Japanese relief force, he actually felt sorry for them. With no carrier-borne fighters to protect them and only their AA guns for defense, the warships were sitting ducks. Just like the slobs at Pearl.

  The dive-bombers went in one after another. Each plane carried a 1,600-pound bomb under its fuselage and two 325-pound bombs under the wings. Consistent with their orders, the SBDs went after the transports first, quickly scoring hits on two different vessels.

  The first ship seemed to sag to port as hundreds of imperial marines struggled to launch boats and rafts. The second broke in half and sank within minutes. Most of her passengers went down with her.

  Lockhart’s Dauntless rocked back and forth as the wash from an exploding 40-mm shell hit the side of the fuselage. The mission coordinator barely noticed. His eyes were on the oilers, all four of which were making smoke and steaming untouched. “This is Angel One to all squadron leaders . . . Put some bombs on those tankers! Over.”

  Dozens of aircraft regrouped, swooped down on the oilers, and released their bombs. Others, racks empty, made strafing runs. Their 12.7-mm guns ripped through the ships’ relatively unprotected superstructures, silenced their AA batteries, and in at least one case penetrated the deck. There was an explosion, followed by another until the entire tanker had been ripped apart. A patch of burning oil marked the spot where the tanker went down.

  The other oilers followed, as did the transports, and two of the destroyers.

  Finally, reluctant to let the surviving two cruisers and two destroyers escape, the bombers were ordered home. The relief force had been neutralized and, given the fact that Nagumo’s fleet remained to be dealt with, Halsey would need every bomb, shell, and gallon of av gas he could lay his hands on.

  Lockhart waited until all of his flock had turned for home, turned away, and followed along behind. Macklin, his fingers still on the triggers, scanned the sky.

  THE ISLAND OF OAHU, DECEMBER 8, 1941, 16:30

  Having received the news that the relief force had been destroyed, and lacking the time required for an orderly withdrawal, Admiral Nagumo had little choice but to divide his fleet into two separate battle groups. The first, under his command, would meet the American task force and send it to the bottom.

  The second, under the command of Captain Imai, would remain off Oahu. He would provide the hard-pressed landing force with air cover and fire support for as long as he could, and then, depending on circumstances, pull them out or, if forced to do so, leave them behind.

  Halsey, by contrast, had the easier task, thanks to the fact that the enemy had reduced itself by 50 percent and was short on sleep, ordnance, and fuel.

  The stakes remained high, however, because in addition to the lives of his men, Halsey had the people of Hawaii to consider. If he failed, if he lost, Yamamoto might find a way to provide Nagumo with additional support and everything would be lost.

  Initial contact was made not by the fleets themselves, but by their long-distance reconnaissance planes. The scouts, unarmed floatplanes for the most part, typically got little more than a glimpse of the enemy ships before being forced to turn and run for their lives.

  What happened next could best be described as an out-and-out brawl. The two fleets were still two hundred miles apart when they launched their planes. Both pursued similar strategies by sending bombers after the enemy ships and flights of fighters along to protect them. It wasn’t long before Grumman F4F Wildcats were tangling with the Japanese Zeros in an all-out war to control the skies. The fighters turned, rolled, and dived as tracers etched lines between them. Some escaped but others seemed to stagger in midair, trailed thick black smoke, and spun out of control. Parachutes blossomed, or didn’t, and planes hit the ocean.

  The Japanese gained the upper hand at first, punching a hole through the U.S. fighter cover, and putting six Kates over the American fleet. One after another they rolled and dived. Of the six that attacked, two were destroyed by AA fire and one, for reasons that weren’t clear, hit the surface of the ocean. Numbers four, five, and six were successful.

  One plane hit the Lexington’s flight deck—exploding along with its bombs.

  A bomb managed to punch its way through the Enterprise’s flight and hangar decks prior to exploding on deck four, where it started a fire.

  There were shouts of elation from the Akagi’s bridge as the news came in, but the joyful noises were almost immediately lost in the rhythmic crump, crump, crump of steadily increasing AA fire as Commander Lockhart and his fellow bomber pilots bulled their way through the circling Zeros and came in for the kill.

  Perhaps the battle would have lasted longer, perhaps it would have gone differently, had it not been for Lt. Peter Townsend, who managed to get past the Japanese fighters unscathed, release his 1,600-pound bomb at the perfect moment, and pull up out of his dive.

  Nagumo, who was standing on the Akagi’s small islandlike superstructure at the time, actually saw the deadly cylinder separate from the plane’s belly, tumble through the air, and hit the deck below.

  There was barely enough time for him to think of his wife, to come to attention, and give thanks for an honorable death.

  The ensuing explosion killed Nagumo, the carrier’s captain, and most of the bridge crew. It also punched an enormous hole through the flight deck’s three-inch steel armor, making it all but impossible for the Akagi to retrieve her planes. Some would land on other carriers, but many ditched at sea.

  Upon Nagumo’s death, command devolved to Capt. Tamon Kurita, who, as commanding officer of the Koga, was more interested in trying to save his command from the results of Nagumo’s adventurism than in trying to win what he saw as a nearly impossible victory.

  That being the case, Kurita sought to disengage and eventually managed to do so, but only after heavy losses.

  Those losses, combined with his controversial decision to abandon Captain Imai, the rest of Battle Group 2, plus the surviving members of the ill-fated landing force, left his reputation in tatters. He committed suicide two months later.

  Meanwhile, on Oahu, Sgt. Mike Moon, with Pockets at his side, followed a group of dispirited POWs down a dirt road. Having been delayed at Waikiki, then attacked by elements of the army’s Twenty-fourth and Twenty-fifth Infantry Divisions, the Japanese landing force had taken heavy casualties and soon been reduced to little more than groups of scared sailors hiding in cane fields.

  “So,” Pockets said, “I ran into Sergeant Wilkins over at Battalion HQ.”

  Moon raised his eyebrows. “And?”

  “And I got him to cough up our share of the fight money,” McKenzie replied. “All $674 of it.”

  The noncom nodded. “Good work, Corporal, the Mike Moon retirement fund thanks you as well.”

  “So, are you gettin’ out?”

  “What? And leave malcontents such as yourself to run my Marine Corps? Besides, there’s a war to fight. I wouldn’t want to miss the fun.”

  An army six-by-six rumbled past and left marines and POWs alike choking on the thick dust.

  “Good point,” Pockets said dryly, “and lord knows the Marine Corps is always a whole lot of fun.”

  The Run to Hardscrabble Station

  William C. Dietz is the best-selling author of more than twenty-five science fiction novels, the most recent of which is Runner (Ace, 2005). He grew up in the Seattle area, spent time with the Navy and Marine Corps as a medic, graduated from the University of Washington, lived in Africa for half a year, and has traveled to six continents. Dietz has been variously employed as a surgical technician, college instructor, news writer, television producer, and director of public relations and marketing for an international telephone company. For more information about William C. Dietz and his work visit www.williamcdietz.com.

  “The Run to Hardscrabble Station” is set in Dietz’s Legion of the Damned universe, which began with the full-length novel Legion of the Damned, and continued with The Final Battle, By Blood Alone, By Force of Arms, For More Than Glory, and most recently, For Those Who Fell. “The story was inspired by my youngest daughter,” said Dietz, “who was working her way through the Naval Officer Candidate School in Pensacola, Florida. And yes, she wanted Intelligence, and wound up with Supply. I sent her the story in installments. The DIs sometimes make the candidates do push-ups as punishment for receiving mail—so who knows what it cost her.” Ensign Dietz graduated from Naval Officer Candidate School in June 2005.

  William C. Dietz lives in Washington State.

  “One cart load of the enemy’s provisions is equivalent to

  twenty of one’s own . . .”

  —The Art of War, by Sun Tzu, 500 B.C.

  RIM PLANET CR-7201, HARDSCRABBLE STATION

  The syndicate LST [landing ship transport] shuddered as a particularly strong gust of wind slammed into the port side. But the pilot had dealt with worse, much worse, and fired a steering jet as the boxy vessel continued its descent through Hardscrabble’s stormy atmosphere.

  Meanwhile, back in the vessel’s otherwise empty cargo compartment, twenty heavily armed men and women waited nervously as the seconds ticked by. Some had been part of the attempt to usurp Earth’s government many years before, while others had been recruited since. But the rebellion had been put down, forcing the mutineers to live out on the rim. Now, as the ship bucked, wobbled, and shook, all of the raiders were conscious of the fact that rather than attack an isolated colony, they were about to tackle the Confederacy of Sentient Beings. An interstellar government that included more than a dozen intelligent species. And while there weren’t very many troops on the surface the assault team knew that Hardscrabble Station was protected by a ring of weapons emplacements that could blow their transport out of the air.

  However, thanks to the security codes provided by a navy turncoat, they intended to land unopposed. That’s what ex-lieutenant commander Beth Halby was thinking as the LST shook like a thing possessed, the trooper across from her mouthed a prayer, and the person next to him threw up. Halby wrinkled her nose in disgust, a veteran laughed, and gravity tugged the globules of vomit down toward the deck.

  Such was Lieutenant Rik Kavar’s eagerness to greet not only the incoming LST, but the replacement officer who was presumably aboard it, that the marine had ridden the all-purpose lift up to ground level where the huge Class III shelter clung limpetlike to Hardscrabble’s stormy surface. Now, having stepped out onto the loading dock, the officer felt tiny bits of wind-driven silicone sand blast his hard suit as the massive storm doors hit their stops and an LST materialized between them. Lights strobed, and dust blew in every direction as the supply vessel rode her repellers into the sand-strewn shelter and settled onto massive skids. Kavar couldn’t hear anything else because of his helmet, but Corporal Wamby’s voice was crystal clear. “The security codes match . . . Engine shut down confirmed. Shall I close the doors, sir?”

  “That’s affirmative,” Kavar replied, and watched the dim outside light start to narrow as air jets blew sand out of the durasteel tracks and amber beacons continued to flash. Soon, within a matter of twelve hours or so, the marine planned to board the ship in front of him and leave Hardscrabble for the last time. Then, having served a full year on the godforsaken turd ball, Kavar would go home on leave. His wife had been six months pregnant the last time he’d seen her, which meant his daughter was about nine months old, and a real handful according to a batch of letters received two months earlier. Kavar couldn’t wait to hug them, eat some real food, and go swimming in the Pacific Ocean.

  The marine’s thoughts were interrupted as the doors met, the previously swirling sand settled to the floor, and the short-timer was free to remove his helmet as he made his way down off the loading dock onto the surface below. The ship’s metal hull made loud pinging noises as it began to cool. Though no expert on navy ships, something about the LST bothered Kavar. It looked wrong somehow—like the transports in old war vids. Of course that could be explained by the fact that the war had forced the Confederacy to bring a lot of old equipment out of mothballs.

  Less understandable, however, was the fact that both he and the rest of his tiny command had been told to expect LST-041, and while the ship in front of him had hull numbers, they were too faded to be legible. Added to that was the fact that the transport was five standard days early, an unheard-of occurrence given wartime conditions, and therefore strange . . . Still, the incoming ship had the correct codes, so why worry?

  There was a steady beep, beep, beep as the stern ramp began to deploy. Cautious now, Kavar triggered his belt com. “Hey, Wamby . . . It’s probably okay—but this ship looks a little strange to me. Hit the alarm. Tell the gunny that I want her and the rest of the platoon topside ASAP. Full combat load.”

  Wamby, who could see most of the shelter’s artificially lit interior via the screen in front of him, said, “Yes, sir,” but wondered if the loot was a bit rock-happy. Hell, the swabbies had the correct codes, didn’t they? So why scramble the troops? But an order is an order, so the Marine slapped the big red button and heard the nearest klaxon start to bleat.

  The noncom glanced at the weapons tech seated to his right and offered a characteristic grin. “Are we having fun yet?”

  “The gunny’s going to be pissed!” the other soldier predicted cheerfully.

  But Beth Halby and the lead elements of her strike team were already halfway down the LST’s stern ramp by that time. Kavar saw them, and was about to draw his sidearm when the renegade shot him in the face.

  Wamby saw the lieutenant’s head jerk backwards, swore as he came to his feet, and spun toward the weapons rack behind him. “Look for incoming targets!” the noncom shouted as he grabbed an assault rifle. “Kill anything you see!” The weapons tech did as she was told, but the screens were clear.

  Wamby ducked into the main corridor and was running for the lift when he heard a muffled explosion and felt the resulting vibration through the soles of his combat boots. The corporal was no genius, but it didn’t take one to know that the main lock had been blown, and that the same people who had murdered Lieutenant Kavar were inside Hardscrabble Station.

  ABOARD THE EPSILON INDI, OFF RIM WORLD CR-8612

  The CS [Combat Supply] vessel Epsilon Indi was more than three miles long, could carry five million tons of cargo, a fleet of 125 armored transports, and the 2,000-plus men, women, and robots that were required to run the ship, defend it if necessary, and crew the boxy LSTs that continually arrived and departed from the Indi’s cavernous launching bay. The corridor that ran down the length of the ship’s spine was crowded with people as the watch changed. Deck officers, weapons officers, engineering officers, flight officers, supply officers, ratings representing dozens of specialties, camo-clad marines, civilian contractors, and a variety of robots all rubbed shoulders with each other while they talked, laughed, complained, argued, bragged, and in one unfortunate case attempted to sing.

  Glow panels marked off regular six-foot intervals, the conduit-lined bulkheads were navy gray, and multicolored decals identified where first-aid kits, damage control stations, escape pods, weapons blisters, node points, and access panels could be found. The deck was spotless, thanks to the efforts of the tireless maintenance bots, and a constant stream of routine announcements could be heard as Ensign Tarla Tevo attempted to spot passageway B-12 before the moving walkway carried her past it. Something that was second nature for old hands but still represented a challenge for the ensign, who had been on the ship for less than a week.