"Yes," Pickering said. "A little." Franklin Roosevelt copying-or trying to best-the British again. They almost wound up being called The Marine Commandos.
"What happened to the idea of using these ships to transport Raiders?" Pickering asked.
"Well of course, in a sense, we did. We are. We put the Raiders ashore on Tulagi. But that was a conventional amphibious assault. What I meant, Sir, was that I think the idea for the conversion of these ships was to transport the Raiders on raids."
"That isn't going to happen?"
"There is some scuttlebutt, Sir, that the Second Raider Battalion was to be landed yesterday on Makin Island from submarines. I emphasize, Sir, that it's scuttlebutt, and probably shouldn't be repeated."
Meaning, of course, that you know goddamn well the Second Raider Battalion was landed yesterday on Makin by submarine, but are afraid that when your VIP supercargo has a few drinks with the brass, he will report that you told him. "I know an officer with the Second Raiders," Pickering thought aloud, and then corrected himself. "I have a friend who is an officer with the Second Raiders."
I know Colonel Evans Carlson and Captain Roosevelt, whose father is our Commander-in-Chief, and a dozen other Raider officers. But I'm not sure-I frankly doubt-if they would appreciate me going around announcing that I'm a friend of theirs. Killer McCoy, on the other hand...
"And actually, he's more my son's friend-they went through officer candidate school at Quantico together-than mine. Very interesting young man. He was an enlisted man with the Fourth Marines in China before the war. They call him 'Killer' McCoy."
"Your son is a Marine, Sir?"
"Yes, he is."
"With the First Division?"
"No. Thank God. He's just finished flying school. Actually, the last I heard, he'd just finished F4F training. I expect he's on his way over here, or will be shortly."
"The F4F is supposed to be quite an airplane," the captain said.
Thank you, Captain, for your-failed but noble-attempt to reassure the father of a brand-new Marine Corps fighter pilot that all is right with the world:
"Bridge, Lookout," the loudspeaker above Pickering's head blared suddenly. "Aircraft, to port. On the deck."
The captain ran to the port to the open portion of the bridge, rested his hands on the steel surrounding it, and looked out.
Aware that his function as supercargo was to stay the hell out of people's way, Pickering successfully resisted the temptation to look for himself. He backed up until his back touched the aft bulkhead of the bridge.
The captain turned around. "Sound General Quarters," he ordered. "All ahead full. All weapons to fire when ready." He looked at Pickering, and over the clamor of the General Quarters bell, said, "It's an Emily. Obviously on a torpedo run."
Then he turned to look at the aircraft again.
The Emily, Pickering knew, was the Kawanishi H8K2, a four-engine flying boat which had obviously borrowed much of its design from Igor Sikorski's Pan American Airways flying boats. It was fast-he recalled that it cruised at 290 mph-had a range of 4000 miles, and could carry either two of the large, excellent, 1780-pound Japanese torpedoes, or just over two tons of bombs.
It's spotted the Gregory, Pickering realized, and has decided an American destroyer all alone on the wide sea is just what she is looking for.
With the element of surprise on the side of the bomber, a destroyer made an excellent torpedo target. On the other hand, hitting an aircraft with the 40mm Bofors and.50 Caliber Brownings on a destroyer was very difficult, even if they could be brought to bear in time. An aircraft slowed to a speed that allowed it to safely and accurately launch a torpedo was a little more vulnerable, but not much.
Thirty seconds later-it seemed like much, much longer- there was a sudden, violent eruption of noise and sound on the bridge. Explosions followed, and smoke, and shattering glass. And before Pickering regained his senses, there was another explosion and then a water spout thirty feet off the port rail; and a moment later a hundred feet off the starboard rail, another.
The captain was wrong, Pickering decided, even as he looked down at his body and saw with surprise that his upper chest and right arm were bloody, the sonofabitch was not on a torpedo run. Her pilot opted for a bomb run. Maybe he didn't have any torpedoes. So he came in far faster than he would have if he were dropping a torpedo.
He looked for the captain and found him almost immediately. He was on his back on the deck, his eyes and mouth open in astonishment, his shirt a bloody mess. He was very obviously dead.
There had been six, seven, eight people on the bridge a moment before. Now Pickering saw only two others on their feet. The talker, his earphones and microphone harness in place, leaned against the aft bulkhead not far from Pickering, a look of shock and horror on his face. A sailor, whose function Pickering did not know, stood with his back to the forward bulkhead, his face blackened, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest. The helmsman was crumpled on the deck by the wheel, and the others were scattered all over the rest of the bridge. One sailor was crawling toward the chartroom port.
A bomb didn't do this, Pickering thought. These were small, explosive shells. He remembered then that the Emily carried five 20mm cannon and four 7.7mm machine guns. The Emily had strafed the Gregory before, during, and after the bombing run.
He tried to push himself off the bulkhead, and heard himself moan with pain. He looked again at his arm, and saw that it was hanging uselessly.
I am about to go into shock.
There was confirmation of that. He felt light-headed and was chilled.
He finally managed to stand erect and went to the talker, who looked at him but did not see him.
"Get the executive officer to the bridge," he ordered. When there was no response, when the talker's eyes looked at him but did not see him, Pickering slapped him hard across the face. The talker looked at him like a kicked puppy, but life came back in his eyes.
"Get the executive officer to the bridge," Pickering repeated. The talker nodded, and Pickering saw his hand rise to the microphone switch.
As Pickering went to the other sailor, he slipped and nearly fell in a puddle of blood.
"Take the wheel," Pickering ordered.
"I'm the ship's writer, Sir."
"Take the goddamned wheel!"
"Aye, aye, Sir."
Pickering went to the window of the bridge. Only shards remained of the thick glass. Dead ahead, he could see the Emily, still close to the sea, making a tight turn. He was about to make another bomb run.
An officer, a nice-looking kid in a helmet, appeared on the bridge.
"Mother of Christ!" he said, looking around in horror.
"Get the executive officer up here!" Pickering shouted at him.
"Sir, I... Mr. Goldberg's dead, Sir. I came up here to report."
"Can you conn this vessel?" "No, Sir. I'm the communications officer." "Get someone up here who can," Pickering ordered. "Get people up here. I need someone on the telegraph, someone on the wheel."
"Aye, aye, Sir," the communications officer said, then turned and left the bridge. Pickering saw that he stopped just outside and became nauseous.
He returned his attention to the Emily, which was now in level flight, low on the water, making another bombing run to port.