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miles, and he had no idea how far away that Jap was. He ordered another sharp course change to the east, keyed the bitch-box, and asked Combat for a range to the battleship.
    â€œHe’s not showing on radar, Cap’n. He’s probably up there north of Savo Island, in the island’s radar shadow.”
    â€œHow far is that?” Sluff asked.
    â€œTwenty-eight thousand yards, Cap’n.” Fourteen miles, Sluff thought. Still too close.
    Then the incoming ceased. The signal bridge gang, using their big-eyes telescopes, had finally spotted the battleship. “There’s a crowd of dive-bombers over Savo,” the chief reported. “Looks like they’re goin’ after that sumbitch.”
    Sluff felt a wave of relief. None too soon, he thought. One fourteen-inch-shell hit could break J. B. King into little-bitty pieces.
    He ordered the officer of the deck to take the conn and resume the course for Tulagi. The exec went to the chart table to confirm the proper heading. Sluff sensed the crewmen on the bridge exhaling after seeing those monstrous shell splashes rising up like watery giants all around them. Talons of doom, reaching for them, by name. Some of the younger sailors were joking about getting away from a Jap battleship.
    Wait until tonight, Sluff thought. This grudge match isn’t over. Somewhere out there was another Jap battleship, with friends.

 
    THREE
    Fifty miles southwest of Cape Esperance
    The signal bridge called down at 1630 that they had the Washington ’s director tower in sight on the big-eyes. The rest of her thirty-six thousand tons was still hull-down on the horizon.
    â€œSend CTF Sixty-Four a ‘reporting for duty’ signal,” Sluff ordered. “Once you establish comms, tell him we’re at ninety-five percent fuel and ammo.”
    Combat called up and reported they held the two American battleships on radar twenty-five miles out, headed north at twenty knots. There were three smaller pips out ahead of the big ships. Sluff scanned the horizon for a sight of the big boys, but as yet couldn’t see them. Even the horizon itself was hard to distinguish through all the humidity in the air. And that’s why we paint our ships haze gray, he thought.
    J. B. King was making twenty-seven knots on an intercept course that should put her in front of the battleship column. The seas were smooth, the air was oppressive, and the sun, lower in the west, looked like a menacing bronze disk. Combat had sent the day’s recognition codes up to the bridge and signal bridge, just in case the big boys thought they might be a Jap tin can approaching and challenged them via flashing light.
    Fueling had been a nonevent until a fleet tug brought the Portland into the harbor. The heavy cruiser was down by the stern, where a Long Lance torpedo had smashed her rudder and broken two of her four propeller shafts. Because Florida Island was actually the top of a steep submerged mountain, the water in the harbor dropped off precipitously. That enabled the Seabees to pull the damaged ship right up to the bank and then drape her in camouflage netting from stem to stern to hide her from air attack.
    King went alongside a fuel barge and topped off in thirty minutes. The next problem was to get across the northern coast of Guadalcanal to make the rendezvous without attracting more attention from that Jap battlewagon. They set condition II, which allowed half the crew to get some rest while the other half stayed on watch. In the event, the Cactus air forces, assisted by some Helldivers from the carrier Enterprise, had smashed the big ship into a grudging silence. She was still afloat, but wrecked to the point where someone in the Jap high command had to be talking about scuttling her. Even so, J. B. King had hugged the coast of Guadalcanal, not wanting to tempt fate. By the time they passed the vicinity of Henderson Field and Lunga Point, the crippled cruisers were no longer