"Daniel da Cruz - Texas Trilogy 01 - The Ayes of Texas" - читать интересную книгу автора (Da Cruz Daniel)

"Anything to report?" The captain, a gaunt figure in his beribboned blue jacket with the four gold
stripes on his cuffs, climbed into the chair and adjusted his binoculars. He slowly scanned the
foamy seas.
"Nothing since I brought in the submarine fix from CincPac at 0230, sir."
"Our position?"
"Twenty-six degrees twelve minutes north, 128 degrees thirty-eight minutes east, sir," the OOD
replied, glancing at the log. "Our course is 122 degrees, speed eleven knots, zigzag pattern x-ray.
All ships on station."
"Weather?"
"Low overcast, breaking up in the north. Wind from the north-northeast at twelve knots. Moderate
seas. Forecast is for light rain before noon, sir."
"Very well . . . Sound General Quarters."
"Aye, aye, sir." The OOD nodded to the boatswain's mate, already at the squawk box. "Sound
General Quarters!"
The boatswain's pipe shrilled twice, then he cried into the microphone: "General Quarters!
General Quarters! All hands man your battle stations!" He stepped back, and Gwillam Forte, his
left hand de-pressing the microphone lever, blasted out General Quarters on his bugle.
Before the last note died in the air, the decks rever-berated with the pounding of feet as the ship's
company dashed for their action stations, pulling on their clothes while scrambling up ladders and
forward on the port side, down ladders and aft on the starboard side, to minimize confusion and
collisions on the crowded and slippery decks of the still-blacked-out ship. Within three minutes all
guns and lookout stations were manned and ready. The destroyers flanking the Texas in diamond
formation would likewise now be at General Quarters, sonar operators on the alert for the sound
of submarine propellers, weather-deck lookouts and others topside with their eyes probing the
sullen skies for signs of enemy aircraft. Gwillam Forte, his duty done, eased back into the
shadows and resumed his wakeful slumber.
It seemed to Gwillam Forte that only seconds later he heard the shout: "Aircraft off the starboard
bow!"
The captain's head snapped around.
A kamikaze had emerged from the low clouds and was boring in on the ship. It was no more than
half a mile away, and the ship's antiaircraft guns were al-ready filling the sky with flak.
"Hard right rudder!" the captain cried instinctively. Meeting the suicide plane head-on would offer a
mar-ginally smaller target than if they turned to port, thus presenting the ship broadside. But it was
instinct wasted: the kamikaze would be upon them before the ship could begin to answer the
helm.
The helmsman was trying, anyway. He frantically spun the wheel all the way over and held it there
with torso-twisting body English.
The kamikaze nosed down toward them in a shallow dive. Gwillam Forte watched the black
cylinder as it was buffeted by the bursts of exploding shells, jostled off course but each time
swerving back toward the battleship. The flames of tracer bullets tracked its passage through the
sky, but incredibly, nothing touched it. The tiny winged torpedo kept coming, grow-ing larger and
blacker every moment, until Forte imag-ined he could see the eyes of the evil little Jap staring
through the square windshield into his own, as if aim-ing the flying bomb straight at him,
personally.
The Texas began to answer the helm. Its bow swung slowly toward starboard, an inch at a time.
The kami-kaze altered course and kept coming. It was now only a little higher than the main truck,
and so close they could make out the red meatball and Japanese script on the nose of the
aircraft. The antiaircraft was com-ing closer too, the gunfire from other warships criss-crossing
through the Texas's rigging. Forte felt sudden panic. If the Jap didn't hit them, stray gunfire would
surely do so.