"So?"
"Let me prove my innocence in this ugly affair. Tell me what I can do to help."
Pitt read the sincerity in Lusana's eyes. He pulled an old Colt .45 automatic from his belt and passed it to the black man. "Take this and cover my ass. I need both han
ds to hold the flashlight and read a diagram."
Somewhat taken aback, Lusana accepted the gun. "You'd trust me with this?"
"Sure," Pitt said offhandedly. "What would you gain by shooting a total stranger in the back?"
And then he motioned for Lusana to follow and quickly darted down the passageway toward the forward part of the ship.
Turret number two had survived the onslaught from the Satan missiles. Her steel plating was gouged and sprung in eight places but never penetrated. The port-outside gun barrel was severely fractured at the recoil base of the turret.
Dazed, Fawkes saw all this through the shattered remains of the glass in the bridge windows. Magically, he was untouched. He had been standing behind one of the few remaining steel bulkheads when the Satans had unerringly zeroed in on number-two turret.
He snatched the microphone.
"Shaba, this is the captain. Do you hear me?"
The only reply was a faint ripple of static.
"Shaba!" Fawkes shouted. "Speak up, man. Report your damage."
The speaker crackled to life. "Cap'n Fawkes?"
The voice was unfamiliar. "Aye, this is the captain. Where is Shaba?"
"Below in the magazine, sir. The hoist, she's broken. He went to fix it."
"Who is this?"
"Obasi, Cap'n. Daniel Obasi." The voice had an adolescent pitch.
"Did Shaba leave you in charge?"
"Yes sir," Obasi said proudly.
"How old are you, son?"
There was a harsh, coughing sound. "Sorry, Cap'n. The smoke, she's real bad." More coughing. "Seventeen."
Good Lord, Fawkes thought. De Vaal was to have sent him experienced men, not boys whose names and faces he had yet to see in daylight. He was in command of a crew who were completely unknown to him. Seventeen. A mere seventeen years old. The thought sickened him. Was it worth it? God, was his personal revenge worth the terrible price? Steeling his determination, Fawkes said, "Are you able to operate the guns?"
"I think so. All three are loaded and breeched tight. The men don't look too good, though. Concussion, I think. Most of them are bleedin' through the ears."
"Where are you now, Obasi?"
"In the turret officer's booth, sir. It's awful hot down here. I don't know if the men can take much more. Some are still out. One or two may be dead. No way of tellin'; I guess the ones that's dead are the ones bleedin' through the mouth."
Fawkes squeezed the microphone handle, his face filled with indecision. When the ship went, as he knew it surely must, he wanted to be standing on the bridge, the last battleship captain to die at his station. The silence over the radiophone became heavy with torment. Ever so slightly the curtain lifted and Fawkes glimpsed the terrible dimension of his actions.
"I'm coming down."
"The outside deck hatch is jammed tight, sir. You'll have to come up from the magazines."
"Thank you, Obasi. Stand by." Fawkes paused to remove his old Royal Navy cap and wipe the sweat and grime oozing from the pores of his forehead. He gazed through the splintered windows and studied the river. The cold mists rose along the shallows and reminded him of the Scottish lochs on just such a morning. Scotland: it seemed a thousand years since he'd seen Aberdeen.