“General Quarters! General Quarters! This is not a drill,” came over the loudspeaker again as I donned my helmet and life jacket. The hair on my arms stood straight up. My knees began to shake uncontrollably. I looked at Otis, his face much whiter than normal, and said, “For as often as they call General Quarters, you'd think we'd be used to it by now.”
The ship shook as our Mk-42 cannon fired several rounds. The machine gun blasts were muffled in the interior of the ship. I had opened the damage control repair locker and busied myself looking inside, taking a mental inventory of the location of the emergency equipment we would most likely need.
“I hate this fuckin shit, waiting down here, not knowing what the fuck is going on topside,” Otis said. “They never tell us a goddamn thing until it’s over.”
“All Clear,” came over the loudspeaker. “Eight MiGs have been diverted.
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