Jim hauled in a breath. This was the first time he’d been in command of the director for a gunnery drill, and he needed to make it count. “Aye aye. Fire salvo.”
Down on the main deck, two guns on the bow and two on the stern craned their barrels skyward. Rings of orange fire, belches of gray smoke, a thunderous noise, and the deck beneath Jim’s feet heaved. Better than the Fourth of July.
Except now he didn’t have Mary Stirling next to him in a red dress, her eyes lit up by the fireworks over the Charles River, her narrow waist begging for his arm to circle it. He’d come close. His heart keeping tempo with Arthur Fiedler and the Boston Pops, Jim had placed his hand on the small of Mary’s back to guide her through the crowd at the Hatch Shell. But then he’d let go, unsure whether embracing her would be suave or foolish or welcome.
He shook his head and counted the eight seconds it should take the target projectile to reach the barge. Maybe Dan was right about women distracting an officer from his work.
Through the slewing sight, he followed four orange tracers streaming behind the projectiles and converging on the barge. Spouts of water rose, about one hundred yards short.
“Up one-double-oh, bearing true.” Jim wiped sweat from his upper lip. Firing a naval gun required skill. Both the destroyer and its target could change location, speed, and direction—and the motion of the sea constantly altered the angle of the guns. The Mark 37 gun director had a mechanical computer and a stable element to compensate for all the variables, but gunnery remained as much an art as a science.
“Mr. Avery, we have a new solution,” Reinhardt said on the intercom.
“Thank you.” Jim eyed that old barge, determined to land a sand-filled projectile right on top. “Commence firing.”
The guns fired their shots.
Jim planted his hand on the steel wall of the enclosure so he wouldn’t lose his balance, and then he trained his sight on the target and counted off the seconds. Plumes of water, just aft of the barge, about five degrees.
He made a face. “Right zero-five.” In today’s drill, theAtwoodmaintained the same speed and bearing, the target was stationary, and the weather was sunny and mild. They wouldn’t have conditions like that in battle.
And battle loomed nearer each day. Only a week earlier, US Marines had occupied Iceland, relieving the British troops guarding the strategically vital island from German invasion, and the US Navy had taken joint responsibility with the Royal Canadian Navy in escorting convoys from Canada to Iceland.
The veil of neutrality was fraying.
Jim wiped sweat from under his eyes. The three portholes and three overhead hatches didn’t admit much of a breeze, and the sun beat on the metal enclosure.
Through his headphones, he could hear Reinhardt barking at the computer operators in the plotting room. Poor fellows. Just doing their jobs as best they could.
Jim spread an encouraging smile around the cramped space. “Come on, men. Let’s sink that old barge. I know we can do it.”
The crew nodded, engrossed in their jobs. These men had trained hard in this technical work and didn’t need pats on the back. They also didn’t need Reinhardt’s verbal haranguing. Hadn’t Reinhardt learned anything from Nehemiah? The importance of everyone working together, side by side, the leaders acknowledging everyone who helped, from the greatest to the least?
“Do we have a new solution?” Jim said.
“Yes, Mr. Avery.”
Jim braced himself. “Commence firing.”
Another set of booms and rumbles and shakes. Eight seconds ticked by. No plume of water, but the barge rocked. “I think we hit it.”
“Yes, sir. We did.” The range-finder operator lifted his head and grinned. A red rim circled his eyes from the rubber gasket of the eyepiece.
Jim put on his best Western accent. “Good shootin’, cowboy.”
One hit out of three. Reinhardt had done worse. He’d done better too, but he’d done worse.
“Okay, men. Let’s clean up shop and get some fresh air.”
The second shakedown cruise seemed to be going well. The constant drills annoyed some of the men, but most saw the worth. They were faster, smoother, and better coordinated. A few more weeks of this, and they should be ready for any crisis.
Then back to Boston. Jim stuck his face in the square porthole and inhaled fresh cool air. Arch had invited Gloria, Jim, and Mary for a sailing weekend at his parents’ seaside Connecticut estate. Partly for fun, and partly to test Gloria again. How she reacted to the mansion, the yacht, and the lush grounds on her return visit would determine the fate of their relationship.
Poor girl didn’t stand a chance. Jim saw the way she ogled the wares in the windows of Boston’s finest shops.
Not Mary. She’d exclaimed over how little she spent on her new dress. She’d be satisfied with a modest income. Good. Unlike Arch, Jim wouldn’t inherit wealth.
Jim pulled off his headphones and followed the crew out the narrow doorway and down the ladder to the bridge.
