Armada

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Something was wrong. Cole was aboard PT-155, standing to one side of the tiny bridge with the microphone in his hand, but it was much too light and yet he couldn’t quite make out the other PTs. Something was wrong.

Then he knew — they were out in daylight. They never went out in daylight. A thick veil of fog smothered everything so that at first it looked dark. That was all right, the darkness was all right. But it was a false night. He could see the other boats, to port and starboard, but they were vague, ghostlike shapes that floated silently over the flat sea. He looked aft in confusion and could just make out DeLong with the 40-millimeter, its long snout trained over the stern. He was comforted by DeLong’s presence.

“Some soup, huh, Skipper?” It was Harry Lowe. He was at the wheel, his easy smile just as much a comfort as the presence of Eckstam, Murray, or Tommy Rich, or any of the other crew members of Cole’s boat. Except that Harry Lowe was dead.

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