fighting man. There were more than enough sailors, marines, and even some infantry swarming about in confusion, toting Springfields and BARs. A team trotted past carrying a heavy .50-caliber water-cooled machine gun.
He felt out of place now, wondering if he was just getting in the way. He couldn’t even pitch in to help with the wreckage, or lift a stretcher; hell, he felt so light-headed he wondered if he should be on a stretcher himself.
Everything was illuminated by a lurid dim light, the flaming oil tank farms burning close enough that he could feel the radiant heat. Out in the harbor,
Arizona
, or what was left of it, was still awash in flames, thick coils of oily smoke from all the fires casting a heavy pall over the entire harbor and base, choking, dulling the illuminating fires so that there was a Dantesque feel to the entire scene, as if he had stepped into the first circle of hell.
He’d try for what was left of the office of CinCPac. Maybe someone there could give directions, point him to where Collingwood and the rest of the team were trying to set up operations, if such a thing was possible.
A brilliant, nearly blinding blue light ignited almost straight overhead just as he reached the main gate, which was still intact. All around him paused, looked up, pointing. A panicked sailor shouted, shouldering his Springfield and squeezing off a round at the parachute flare that hung several thousand feet above the base. A second flare burst into radiant brilliance, and there was the distant drone of a plane engine.
“We got incoming!” someone screamed.
A mad jostle started, men beginning to run, without direction, some diving to ground, others going beneath cars. A .30-caliber machine gun, emplaced in a circular sand bag pit by the gatehouse, pointed straight up and started to shoot blindly, tracers arcing up, and seconds later, dozens of guns were firing in panic.
He just stood there, watching, and then he heard it, that damn freight train rumble. He had driven from one bombardment straight into another.
The first two shells detonated somewhere over on Ford’s Island, brilliant flashes of light. Several seconds later, two more. He could see dimly through the smoke a high geyser lifting up near the overturned
Oklahoma
, which was illuminated by the dozens of arc welders who were frantically cutting holes into the bottom of the ship, still trying to rescue comrades trapped within.
The salvo was shifting closer. He went to ground, not sure where the next four hit, and then seconds later more winged overhead, shrieking loud, mind-numbing, close, damn close, a series of explosions washing over him. One shell hit close enough that he felt the blast, the air being sucked out of his lungs, the concussion tearing through the ground, bouncing him. A split second later he heard the lashing roar of shrapnel, tearing into treetops, carving into buildings, windows that had survived the air raids now shattering in showers of glass.
Battleship veteran that he was, he knew he had a couple of minutes before the next salvo hit. He started to stand up, and then a higher pitched roar, lighter eight-, six-, and and five-inch shells began to rain down, minor when compared to the massive fourteens, but deadly nevertheless to anyone out in the open and less than a hundred yards away.
He started to run toward the still-burning ruins of headquarters, others running alongside him. He looked up, and to his utter amazement he caught a glimpse of
Oklahoma
, sharply illuminated by a parachute flare directly overhead. The men atop her were either insane or the bravest he had ever seen. They had barely paused in their work, arc welding lights still glowing hot blue,sailors atop her returning to their mission of mercy, to save men still trapped within.
“Watson. Commander Watson!”
He slowed. It was a woman’s voice. He caught a glimpse of her, Collingwood’s administrative assistant from the decrypt center waving to him.
He went
He felt out of place now, wondering if he was just getting in the way. He couldn’t even pitch in to help with the wreckage, or lift a stretcher; hell, he felt so light-headed he wondered if he should be on a stretcher himself.
Everything was illuminated by a lurid dim light, the flaming oil tank farms burning close enough that he could feel the radiant heat. Out in the harbor,
Arizona
, or what was left of it, was still awash in flames, thick coils of oily smoke from all the fires casting a heavy pall over the entire harbor and base, choking, dulling the illuminating fires so that there was a Dantesque feel to the entire scene, as if he had stepped into the first circle of hell.
He’d try for what was left of the office of CinCPac. Maybe someone there could give directions, point him to where Collingwood and the rest of the team were trying to set up operations, if such a thing was possible.
A brilliant, nearly blinding blue light ignited almost straight overhead just as he reached the main gate, which was still intact. All around him paused, looked up, pointing. A panicked sailor shouted, shouldering his Springfield and squeezing off a round at the parachute flare that hung several thousand feet above the base. A second flare burst into radiant brilliance, and there was the distant drone of a plane engine.
“We got incoming!” someone screamed.
A mad jostle started, men beginning to run, without direction, some diving to ground, others going beneath cars. A .30-caliber machine gun, emplaced in a circular sand bag pit by the gatehouse, pointed straight up and started to shoot blindly, tracers arcing up, and seconds later, dozens of guns were firing in panic.
He just stood there, watching, and then he heard it, that damn freight train rumble. He had driven from one bombardment straight into another.
The first two shells detonated somewhere over on Ford’s Island, brilliant flashes of light. Several seconds later, two more. He could see dimly through the smoke a high geyser lifting up near the overturned
Oklahoma
, which was illuminated by the dozens of arc welders who were frantically cutting holes into the bottom of the ship, still trying to rescue comrades trapped within.
The salvo was shifting closer. He went to ground, not sure where the next four hit, and then seconds later more winged overhead, shrieking loud, mind-numbing, close, damn close, a series of explosions washing over him. One shell hit close enough that he felt the blast, the air being sucked out of his lungs, the concussion tearing through the ground, bouncing him. A split second later he heard the lashing roar of shrapnel, tearing into treetops, carving into buildings, windows that had survived the air raids now shattering in showers of glass.
Battleship veteran that he was, he knew he had a couple of minutes before the next salvo hit. He started to stand up, and then a higher pitched roar, lighter eight-, six-, and and five-inch shells began to rain down, minor when compared to the massive fourteens, but deadly nevertheless to anyone out in the open and less than a hundred yards away.
He started to run toward the still-burning ruins of headquarters, others running alongside him. He looked up, and to his utter amazement he caught a glimpse of
Oklahoma
, sharply illuminated by a parachute flare directly overhead. The men atop her were either insane or the bravest he had ever seen. They had barely paused in their work, arc welding lights still glowing hot blue,sailors atop her returning to their mission of mercy, to save men still trapped within.
“Watson. Commander Watson!”
He slowed. It was a woman’s voice. He caught a glimpse of her, Collingwood’s administrative assistant from the decrypt center waving to him.
He went
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