The flagship sent out a flashing-light signal: Proceed independently to Tulagi, refuel, report RFS when completed. That was plain enough, Sluff thought, and asked CIC for a course to Tulagi at twenty-five knots. J. B. King was down to just above 50 percent fuel, courtesy of that twenty-seven-knot bell all night. On the other hand, they’d run through Torpedo Alley, the waters between Nouméa and the Solomons used by American ships to get to Guadalcanal, like a dose of salts. Jap submariners were not known for their aggressiveness, and a trio of destroyers zigzagging through the night at high speed made them a poor prospect for torpedo attack from a submerged sub. Halfway across the sound, CIC reported that they were picking up approaching air contacts. Sluff sounded GQ and slowed to twenty knots. The raid was still forty miles out, and he didn’t want to be trapped in the confines of Tulagi Harbor when torpedo-laden Bettys started diving on him. “Combat, Bridge, does the commodore hold this raid?”
