Sentinels of Fire by P. T. Deutermann Read Free Book Online

I signaled the bosun to restow the motor whaleboat. There was nothing more to be done here. A mournful silence settled over the ship. There but for the grace of God …

 
    THREE
    The captain called a meeting in the wardroom later that morning after the ship had secured from dawn GQ, with me and the four department heads, the navigation officer, gun boss, chief engineer, and supply officer. I waited until everyone was there and then called the captain to report that we were assembled. I was a bit concerned when the skipper stepped out of his inport cabin and into the wardroom, waving a hand at the officers to resume their seats. Captain Tallmadge normally presented himself as a pillar of resilience—calm, energetic, and exuding that quiet authority of the born leader. This morning he seemed different. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was definitely something …
    â€œOkay, gents,” the Captain began. “What happened this morning was pretty awful. No warning, no radar contact, and a ship and her entire crew gone in the blink of an eye. CTF 58 is asking what the hell happened, and frankly, I don’t know what to say. Jimmy—any ideas?”
    Jimmy Enright shook his head. The Combat Information Center was under his purview. The CIC contained the radar display consoles, where whatever images the searching radar beams could pick up were displayed as blurry green blobs on a large, circular cathode ray tube. “The ETs tuned the magnetron at twenty-three hundred,” he said. “The scope operators reported a lot less clutter. We held the LCS sharp and clear on the surface search. The midnight-to-eight watch standers thought the radars were better than usual. The Freddies”—fighter direction officers—“thought so, too. Still, nobody saw that thing come in on us.”
    â€œCaptain,” Marty Randolph, the gunnery officer, said, “I had the mid-to-eight as the CIC supervisor. We rotated the scope operators every thirty minutes. There was nothing going on. Nothing. The CIC officer and I went over some reporting paperwork, but after zero five hundred everybody tightened up because sunrise was coming. The Freddies were talking to the duty carrier and setting up CAP patrol sectors. The LCS said their search radar was okay, but just okay. They don’t have any electronics techs, and we talked about maybe cross-decking one of our guys to sharpen their gear. But it was routine—no indications that a big raid was coming, no reports of a big launch from Kyushu or Formosa. Nothing.”
    â€œYet,” the captain said. There were sober nods all around. It hadn’t been Malloy ’s mission to protect the LCS; in fact, the opposite had been true. Still.
    â€œYes, sir,” Marty said. “The bastards got one through on us. Maybe they’re changing their tactics. They know they can’t surprise the big-decks down at the AOA as long as the pickets blow the whistle.” The AOA was the amphibious objective area.
    â€œJimmy, how tired are your people?” the captain asked.
    Jimmy puffed out a long breath. “They’re six on, six off, like everyone else in the crew,” he said finally. “We’ve been up here for just over three weeks, so yes, they’re starting to drag their asses. That’s why we rotate the scope operators every half hour. You can only stare at that green haze for so long before you start to fall asleep. The men know that, and they’re conscientious about it. Somebody sees a guy nod off, we move him.”
    â€œBesides,” I said, “the watch standers know the kamikazes don’t fly at night, so for most of the late night, especially on the midnight-to-eight, everyone’s just trying to stay awake and alert, right? That’s wearying in itself, and fatigue is cumulative.”
    The captain raised a hand. “Gents, believe me, I know. I don’t think this was a case of