Chapter 6

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1941

7:35 A.M.

Joe shifted and sighed. The floor of the empty compartment was hard and cold. His butt was killing him.

He could almost feel the gaze of the officer who stood over him and Danny with his arms crossed. The man who’d been assigned to watch them couldn’t be more than a few years older than Danny, but his square jaw, sloped brow, and insignia-covered uniform made him look like some troll who’d lived on this ship since the dawn of time. In the hour and a half they’d been locked in this room, Joe hadn’t seen the guy move once.

All Joe could think about was Skipper, who whined and shivered across from him. He was officially worried. Skipper hadn’t seemed scared coming to his place or getting in the jeep—what on the West Virginia was frightening her? He tried petting her, shushing her, scratching her belly, but nothing worked. She just couldn’t be distracted from whatever was bugging her.

Finally, there was a loud clanking noise, and the door swung open. An older officer entered wearing a brown uniform and smoking a cigar.

“At ease, Sailor,” said the old officer to the guard. The guard grunted and didn’t move. The officer cocked an eyebrow and shrugged at them. Joe felt a little relieved—hopefully this guy wouldn’t be all bad.

“Cunningham? Dean?” said the officer. “Let’s go. On deck, on the double. Captain wants a word with you.”

“Aw nuts,” said Danny, climbing unsteadily to his feet.

Joe followed the older officer, Skipper at his side. As they walked down the hall, he noticed sailors peeking out of doors and hallways, laughing and calling out to Skipper, reaching out to pet her as they passed. Word must have gotten around that they’d brought a dog on board.

Joe felt like he might throw up. Pop probably knew. Meaning Pop had had to stand there and be filled in by a superior officer in front of his coworkers. Meaning when they got home, Joe was going to get a serious talking to. He might even get grounded. No more bike, no more beach trips, no more surfing . . . and most likely no more Skipper.

They followed the officer up a steep metal staircase and onto the deck. After being cooped up inside the West Virginia for so long, Joe had to put a hand over his face to shield his eyes from the early-morning sun. But as they adjusted, he saw the scene around him . . . and his breath caught in his throat.

The deck of the USS West Virginia was a vast expanse of gray metal, ready for war. Huge .50 caliber guns lined its deck, all leading up to two pairs of giant barrels jutting from the front. The towers stood overhead like skyscrapers, throwing shadows across them. All around them, sailors ran this way and that, loading gun magazines, checking knots, and mopping down the deck. On either side of the West Virginia, other huge battleships sat in the water, loaded with guns, towers, equipment, and sailors yelling at one another.

Joe spun and took it all in, his eyes widening as he saw the sheer size of the ship . . .

“Atteeen-tion,” growled the old officer.

Joe turned back around and faced an officer in a white uniform covered with pins and badges, his lip bearing a thin, fashionable mustache. Beside Joe, Danny snapped up straight and saluted rigidly. At his feet, Skipper did the same, sitting stiffly with her head upright.

“Captain Bennion,” said the older officer, “I present our smugglers . . . and their cargo.”

Joe felt himself start to shake under the eyes of the highly decorated officer. His father had mentioned Captain Mervyn Bennion before, calling him a true American, a real son of the sea. Pop always talked about him with respect in his voice.

Well, thought Joe, this is some way to meet him.

Captain Bennion regarded them both, and then he looked to Danny. “Name and rank, Sailor.”

“Seaman Apprentice Daniel Cunningham, sir,” said Danny, a little quiver in his voice. “Construction and Engineering.”

“Sneaking a minor and a stray dog on board a US battleship is a bad look, Cunningham,” snapped Captain Bennion. “If you’d read the newspaper lately, you’d see that the US military has no time for tomfoolery. Too much is at stake. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Danny.

“And you, Mr. Dean,” said Captain Bennion, looking down at Joe with just a hint of a smile. “Perhaps I should speak to your father about this when breakfast is over. Then he can decide your punishment.”

“Oh no,” said Joe, and without thinking he stepped forward and put his hand on the captain’s arm. “Please, Captain Bennion, sir, please. It’s his birthday, sir. I don’t want him to spend it getting chewed out by his captain. He’ll take my dog away.”

Captain Bennion patted Joe’s hand and nodded reassuringly. “All right, son. You just can’t be bringing dogs on board behind a captain’s back, even good dogs like . . . ?”

“Skipper, sir,” said Joe.

Captain Bennion smiled wider. “A fine name for a dog.” He crouched and reached a hand for Skipper’s head.

All at once, Skipper went berserk! The dog began barking her head off and jumping around. Captain Bennion’s hand shot back, and Joe felt struck with embarrassment—but then he heard her bark, really heard it. It was unlike any of her other barks: loud, full-throated, maybe even angry. He noticed the hair on her back standing up. Something was wrong.

“What is it, girl?” asked Joe.

Before any of them could stop her, Skipper ran to the edge of the carrier and began barking again . . . only it wasn’t at the battleship across the water from them, it was in the air. She was defensively crouched, leaning back on her haunches, but barking straight up into the air.

Joe followed her gaze . . . and saw black shapes through the clouds in the distance.

“What do you make of that, Captain?” asked the older officer.

“Not sure, Harper.” Bennion laughed. “I suppose she saw a seagull and it—”

“Look,” cried Joe, pointing into the air.

All four of them went silent, watching the black shapes grow bigger . . . quickly. Slowly, a buzz could be heard over Skipper’s barking. Around Joe, all the sailors on the deck of the West Virginia stopped in their tasks and looked up.

“Lieutenant Commander Harper,” said Captain Bennion, “whose planes are those?”

“Not ours,” said Harper. “Looks like . . .”

Just then, the black shapes swooped overhead, and tiny black packages dropped off of them. Joe only had a second to register them before they hit the deck of the battleship across from them and a deafening roar filled the sky.

The crew of the West Virginia cried out in terror. Blasts of orange fire and black smoke burst into the air from the deck of the other carrier.

Joe felt heat on his face and smelled burning rubber. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Battle stations!” shouted Captain Bennion over the roar. “The Arizona’s been hit! We’re under attack!”