"MacDonnell, J E - 125 - Blind Into Doom UC" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacDonnell J E)

The impetus of speed carried her clear in an instant. Both parts of
her. The forward section-wings, engine, cockpit-tilted and plunged
vertically for the sea. The lighter after part, sliced clean through by
the shell's dreadful scythe, dropped relatively slower, and spun like
a flywheel with the resistance of air against the tail planes and rudder.
"Cease firing," Fawcett drawled-formally, for Lusby's lot had
already been given the word from the director.
Duncan heard the order, but subconsciously. He was fascinated
by that madly gyrating tail section. Did it hold men? Certainly the
tail gunner. The poor devil would be pinned by centrifugal force
against the side of his position, held immovable while he waited for
the smash of impact. Or would the spinning have flogged his mind
to unconsciousness? Duncan hoped it had. Someone shouted. His
eyes flicked downward in time to see the white upthrust of the forward
part's entry. That was all he saw, for the engines' weight had dragged
the lot straight under. No point in looking for survivors, he was
thinking, when a familiar voice spoke.
"Captain, sir," said the navigating officer. "Is it your intention to
take station on the other side of the convoy? By steaming straight
through the middle of it?"
Duncan's sight darted at the convoy. It was not that close. But,
by God, it was safe! Even now lumbering round on the turn which
- J.E. Macdonnell: Blind Into Doom Page 21 -



would take it clear of the signalled area. And so Duncan was glad to
play along with his navigator's jibing and obviously relief-based
attitude.
"Thank you, Pilot. What on earth would we do without you?
Please come down to twenty knots and resume our covering position."
"Aye aye, sir."
Now it was Fawcett's turn. He stood there with a deadpan
expression on his face as spurious as a seven-inch shell. Duncan
waited, apparently watching the bow come round. Fawcett waited.
At last he coughed, gently. Duncan glanced at him.
"Cordite smoke, Guns?"
"I expect it is, sir. There was, ah, rather a lot of it..."
Duncan chuckled, a deep mouth-closed gesture that shook his
belly.
"All right, Guns, no need to put it in writing. Well done. You
might pass that on to the gundeck."
"Wilco, sir, thank you."
"And secure action stations."
The word was passed by P/A. Duncan leaned on the windbreak
and watched men drop from the two manholes of B-gunhouse,
noticing with secret pleasure the pleasure in their faces and the way
they talked. Few of them would have seen the Condor, and none of
them its end, but the main director would have passed the information
to all turrets, even down to magazines and shell-rooms. Duncan felt