the axes of the other eight cells were accurately aligned with it. And that the rockets would fly straight.
And that the damned boat wouldn't bounce at exactly the wrong moment, he told himself grimly.
"Right! We have to come right!" he shouted to Larry, never taking his eyes from the simple wire crosshairs in the center of the launcher's missing cell.
"Gotcha!" Larry shouted back, and nudged the wheel. Eddie's sight picture changed, and he shook his head.
"Too much—too much!"
This time, Larry didn't reply; but the Outlaw altered its course again, ever so slightly, and Eddie nodded hard.
"On! You're on!" he shouted. "Now kick this bitch in the ass!"
"All right!" Larry screamed, and rammed the throttles forward.
Eddie clung desperately for balance, managing—somehow—to keep his eyes glued to the crosshairs, as the Outlaw stopped bouncing. It was climbing up onto its own bow wave, now—hydroplaning as it sliced across the three-foot Baltic waves like a bullet.
* * *
"Stand ready! But if any man fires before I give the order, I'll have him hanged!" Vadgaard shouted to his gunners, then glanced up at Christiania's hovering sailing master.
Unlike the captains of most non-Dutch warships, Vadgaard was a seaman, not one of those "captains" who were chosen (in theory, at least) for their experience in battle, without regard as to whether that battle had taken place afloat or ashore. There was no doubt in the mind of Christiania's sailing master that he ought to be handling the ship's maneuvers, but Vadgaard had no intention of delegating that to anyone. Not when