Harry Heron: Into the Unknown

by Patrick G Cox

  He glared round the table, his eyes resting for a moment on an empty chair. “Anyone who wishes to leave has my permission to do so. You may have noticed that Mr Aspery, whose incompetence compromised several other matters, has already gone. I arranged his departure this morning.”

  The other members of the board glanced nervously at one another. These departures were not frequent occurrences, but since Ari Khamenei had become Chairman, no one who left the board was ever seen again. It was as if they vanished completely from their home worlds or any other corporate activity. There were rumours, of course, but nothing could ever be substantiated.

  The chairman glared at the assembled Board members for a moment longer. “Fortunately for the success of our enterprise, I have other sources of information and operatives. This morning I have learned from my own agent that the main Fleet is now required for another task, which will leave Vanguard, Bellerophon, Sydney and some frigates at Pangaea with the transport ships supporting the ground forces. The Ramillies is supposed to join them, but our people are ready to take her over and join us when she arrives. This will give us the perfect opportunity to ruin the Fleet’s reputation. If we strike now, we can overwhelm these ships before any others are sent to their aid. This will in some small way make up for our failure to prevent the loss of our Pangaea bases and the exposure of some of our operations.”

  Khamenei gave the members of the board a cold stare. “We have four starships and four heavy cruisers to their three starships and four cruisers. This opportunity will enable us to reduce the Fleet’s resources in small groups, avoiding serious opposition. With our frigates included, we are an overwhelmingly superior force.”

  “What if the intelligence is not accurate?” asked a member of the Board. “What if the Fleet is simply waiting to spring a trap?”

  “Our ships are sufficiently powerful to overwhelm them even if they are—which, I can assure you, is not the case. My source is extremely reliable and, in any case, our ships are equipped with a shielding device that prevents their targeting us.” He permitted himself a thin smile. “It will be a massacre and a warning to the rest. I anticipate that we will receive the capitulation of the World Treaty Organisation governments within days of our final annihilation of their main fleet—which will be soon.” His smile was anything but friendly as he stared at each member in turn, daring a challenge to this plan. Finally, when there was no demurral, he said, “If none of you has anything to say, this meeting is adjourned for one hour. When we reconvene, we will transfer to our flagship. I expect you all to be here.” He rose from his seat and stalked from the room.

  The remaining members stood and nervously made their own exit, carefully avoiding each other’s eyes and refraining from comment.

  DESPITE HIS CONCERNS FOR HIS MISSING PARTY, especially his wards, the Commodore focussed on his responsibility to his squadron. He listened as his commanders confirmed his dispositions.

  “The monitor drones are deployed, sir. We’ve configured them for passive scanning.” Commander Grenville checked his list. “We’ve deployed the minefield as agreed. Sydney, Aurora, Bulwark and the frigates are in position above Pangaea. We’ve got the Fort Belvedere and Westphalen where they can be brought in for support if needed—not that they have much firepower—and we’ve positioned the Bellerophon so that it is difficult to see us on scan.”

  “Good. Then I think we’ve covered everything. No word from Ramillies?”

  “None, sir, and Fleet have no word from her either. They think she’s maintaining signal silence.”

  “We’ll just have to hope she arrives in time.” The Commodore had his doubts, but kept those to himself. “Flight? Are your people all briefed, your flights all operational?”

  “All ready, sir. Dispersed as agreed. The Harry Sight works well—for some things it’s better than the normal targeting system.”

  “Fritz, is your EMP system usable?”

  “Operational, sir. Of course, we’ve only been able to test it against the unit we captured from that surveillance satellite, but it works on that—knocks down their screen entirely.”

  “Weapons?”

  “Fully operational, sir. We’ve rejigged the primary. The bastards will get a nasty surprise if we have a chance to use it.”

  The conference continued, details settled, agreements on support, backup and other necessary operations dealt with.

  “Thank you, all,” said the Commodore. “We’ve a little time in hand now, so keep your people sharp. I don’t need to tell you how important it is to stop this attempt.” Standing, he added, “It’ll be useful if Ramillies gets here before the Consortium, but if she doesn’t, we’ll have to do it with what we have.”

  THE QUAYSIDE WAS A HIVE OF ACTIVITY as the cargo barge was transformed. Several modified containers provided basic accommodation, and filling the lower tier with gravel and scrap made ballasting the boat easy.

  Watching Ferghal, seated astride the yardarm, putting the final rigging in place on the topmast, the sub-lieutenant marvelled at how simple it all appeared. Harry called this a bastard cutter rig, and Trelawney could see how it all came together, but he still couldn’t envisage the sails and rigging developing enough power to move the ship across an ocean.

  Trelawney called up to Harry. “How’s it coming along?”

  “Well, sir,” Harry answered, his attention focussed on securing some sheets of waterproof materials over the containers. “Aye, sir. I could wish for a proper sextant and a decent chart of the coast for navigation, and not have to rely on my memory of the star charts.” Surveying the transformed barge critically, he added, “She’ll be clumsy, I think, and lively in the seaway, but she’ll do.”

  “She’s a bloody miracle, in my view. I’m amazed at what’s been achieved in just twelve days.”

  Harry laughed. “Indeed, sir. But she did not need a great deal, and we had everything we needed—and more than enough men and women to complete the work.” Once the concept had been explained, the sails drawn out, the cloth cut and stitched, and the rigging created, everything had come together with the enthusiastic assistance of the villagers.

  COMMODORE HERON LOOKED ROUND the flag officer’s control room. A good team, he reflected, watching the specialist officers at their posts. Already shaken down and working together. Interspersed with them were a number of warrant officers and TechRates managing the plots, tracking the interceptors and strike craft and monitoring all coms traffic and scanners. The Flag Control buzzed with pent-up energy as they prepared for the battle ahead. It would be put to the harshest test of all within the next twenty-four hours.

  Rising from his command chair, the Commodore ordered, “I’m going to my quarters. I ask that all the commanders join me there.” With a smile, he added, “Tell them to dress for dinner.”

  Arriving in the anteroom to his quarters, he spoke briefly to Adriana. “Arrange a formal dinner for myself and the Heads of Department, please.” He smiled. “It’s an old tradition, and this is just the time for it. I shall dine in with my senior officers this evening.”

  “As you wish, Commodore.” She hesitated a moment. “I understand you wish to spend the evening in the company of your commanders in the manner of Admiral Nelson before his final battle.”

  The Commodore smiled. “It seems appropriate, Adriana. We may not get another chance.”

  “I understand, sir.” The android inclined her head then met his eyes again. The Commodore observed that she had the most beautiful green eyes he’d ever seen, human or no. She certainly made the workday more pleasant than a standard-issue service unit rolling about would do. “I have ordered the dinner, sir. Six courses, with de-alcoholised wines appropriate to the meal.”

  “Excellent. Thank you. What did I do before you were assigned to me?”

  “Would you like me to research that, sir?” Adriana asked.

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” replied the Commodore, chuckling. “I was just thinkin
g aloud.” Len would have enjoyed this little exchange, he thought with a smile as he entered his sleeping cabin and pulled on a fresh shirt, changing into his mess undress uniform.

  He found his office space already transformed into a dining room, the long conference table covered with a white cloth, the cutlery laid and the glasses set out. Silver ornaments, two of the ship models and some candelabra formed the centrepieces.

  One by one his commanders arrived, slightly puzzled by the Commodore’s sudden interest in social activity. He enjoyed their puzzled expressions as they arrived in their formal attire.

  “Welcome, team.” Sipping his sherry, he smiled and said, “I’m afraid this is the only alcohol until after dinner, as I think we will be engaged in battle with the Consortium fleet tomorrow, and we don’t want to greet them with a hangover.”

  The SU steward approached. “Dinner is ready, sir.”

  “Thank you.” He glanced round the group of officers. “Richard, lead us in please.”

  One everyone was seated, Commodore James Heron said, “In case you’re wondering whether or not I have finally tipped over the edge, I think I had better enlighten you to the truth—it’s far too late to be wondering that.” He waited for their laughter and banter to subside. “I have asked you all here to assure you that I know I can rely on you to do whatever it takes when the enemy arrives, and this is my way of saying thank you in advance. A famous Admiral once, on the eve of a battle that changed the course of history, invited all his captains to dinner. I would have liked to do the same, but distances out here are a little more difficult to manage than at sea in the days of sail.” He paused while they gave the expected laugh. “The purpose of my invitation is quite simple. You have all done the impossible in the last few days, and done it well. We are as ready as we will ever be. It is now up to the enemy to make the first move. Thanks to you, we have a slight edge. I will be following an illustrious lead tomorrow or the next day when the enemy arrive, and I will send a signal round the Fleet—after that, it will be up to each of us to use our excellent resources to the best advantage. For now, let’s relax and enjoy this fine dinner our catering chief has prepared at very short notice.”

  From his seat next to the Commodore, Captain Grenville raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that, and offer a toast to start, sir: Confusion to the Consortium. May all their plans fail.”

  Chapter 29

  Seaworthy

  THE TRANSFORMATION OF THE LITTLE SHIP had taken a lot of effort and ingenuity. Masts had been made, rigging set up, sail plans decided and, of course, accommodation, food storage and cooking arrangements constructed.

  A compass had to be made since the original navigation system couldn’t operate without a power supply. Creating one, even with a magnet to work around, proved a challenge. Ferghal created the case and the system of damping the card, and Harry devised the card and the gimbal system to stabilise it. Ferghal’s early training with the boatswain and sailmaker on the Spartan proved valuable as he and Harry rigged and spliced, and provided guidance on the plethora of things that needed to be completed before the ship was seaworthy. Even so, without the help of the villagers, it would have proved unachievable.

  Containers in which water could be carried and food stored had to be found or formed. The hold area needed to be covered to create a large, sheltered living space. The basic steering position needed protection, and a simple but sturdy, enclosure was made for it. Even hammocks had to be made and anchor points provided for these to be slung.

  “I’m damned if I can see how you fellows expect us to sleep in these,” complained Paddy Murphy, picking himself up from the deck where his latest attempt to get into his hammock had deposited him. He massaged his bruised rear and made such a comical face that the others burst out laughing.

  “It’s easy!” piped Danny. “Us young ’uns on Spartan learned it afore anything else.”

  “Easy for you to say, kid,” growled Paddy. “I’m blowed if I’ll let you show me up in the sleeping stakes.” Privately he got Harry to show him the easy way to get in and out of the hammock, and thereafter swore it was far more comfortable than his normal bunk.

  The navigation question concerned Harry and the sub-lieutenant as well. “Without a NavComp, how will we find our position?” he asked Harry.

  “I think I may have a solution to that, sir,” Harry replied. “But we have only a map showing the coastlines. It is useful for direction and distances, but gives only the vaguest indication of water depths and other hazards.”

  One of the villagers had given him a set of maps of the continents and the seas around them, which, even though it was not a sea chart, at least gave them some idea of the shape of landmasses, the position of Pangaea City itself and the distances to be covered. As far as Harry was concerned, its best feature was that it showed the land in relief, colour graded, and had the lines of latitude and longitude superimposed. It also provided some vague ideas of sea depths by showing shoal water in lighter shades of blue, and it even marked some of the larger areas of shallows quite clearly.

  “It’s far from ideal for navigation,” Harry said as he studied the collection of charts, “but it is far better than none at all.” He grinned suddenly remembering being teased for taking such interest in the star charts for this system. “And my study of the stars visible from this world will be useful after all.”

  THE COMPASS AND A DIGITAL CLOCK provided the basics of their navigational equipment, but Harry realised they would need something more to determine position. He wracked his brain then remembered that he had observed a bright star that seemed to hold a pole position. If that could be used as a navigational mark, finding Pangaea City would be relatively easy, he thought with all the confidence of youth. A check of his theory over two nights confirmed his idea—at least sufficiently to give him the confidence to hope that it would work. Creating a crude device for measuring the declination of the target star to determine latitude took some creativity, but a device he’d seen the Arabian traders use came to mind. Drawing a sketch, he found someone who could make it.

  Sub-Lieutenant Trelawney watched all this with keen interest and asked Harry to show the others exactly what he was doing and how. This took a lot more effort than Harry had realised—especially when it came to explaining the tools he was planning to use to navigate the little ship to their proposed destination.

  “How the devil do you use that—what did you call it—a sextant?” Paddy Murphy exclaimed, adding with his typical ribald humour, “Sounds like it would be meant for some other activity!”

  A glare from the sub-lieutenant squelched his urge to say more along this line, but the sub had to turn his back for a moment to hide his smile. Paddy was always good for a laugh.

  Harry missed the subtext of Paddy’s remark and proffered a logical explanation. “The sextant shows latitude. When I have the pole star lined up in the upper hole and the horizon in the bottom one, we are on the latitude I need so we can simply run down the westing until we find land—then we can seek the city by following the coast.”

  His improvised sextant could read only three angles, it being a metal sphere filled half with water and two holes drilled at its equator to allow him to sight the horizon, with three more at different altitudes above one of the equatorial openings. He had carefully calculated the angles for his prime navigation points along his improvised chart so that he could work the ship down to the latitude of Pangaea City.

  “Is this how you navigated on your old ship?” The sub-lieutenant sounded dubious.

  “Lord no, sir. We had proper sextants for that, with a Vernier scale to be read, which could measure the declination of both sun and stars. A chronometer was necessary to find the longitude, of course. No, this is something I saw the Arabians use, but it was much easier for them, as they use the monsoon and sail along a simple easterly or westerly line between Araby and India. We will have to go south along this line.” He sketched the route along the bl
ue space denoting the coast of the island. “Then, when we reach this point, the star should be in the second hole, and we turn west along this line and sail south by west until the star is in the third hole. We should then be able to see Pangaea City—or at the very least, its coast.”

  A BRIEF TRIAL IN THE BAY had revealed a number of problems with both the rig and the handling. Adding a cross jack yard and a triangular topsail dealt with the rig, and a change of the ballasting arrangements solved at least some of the problems with handling.

  Finally, the exhausted crew were able to stand on the jetty and feel pride in their creation. To everyone’s surprise, the lighter now looked like a trim little ship riding steadily in the water, her sails furled neatly.

  “Ship shape an’ Bristol fashion, Master Harry, Lieutenant, sir.” Ferghal said, but then he spotted the untidy bundle that Hans Dinsen and Paddy Murphy had made of the foresail. “Leave that please, sirs, I will attend to it.” Ferghal’s expression said everything about the manner in which they had stowed the sail.

  “Perfectionist, TechRate?” Hans grinned. “Come on then, show us how to do it to your satisfaction.”

  Danny had found plenty he could contribute, being very good at tying knots and even the smaller splices in some of the lines they had used. A bigger talent was his ability to assemble the running blocks they needed, which had to be created piece by piece in a replicator. Like Ferghal and Harry he seemed to have suddenly become less a child and more a man as he found tasks and carried them through with a thoroughness completely belying his years. It was his idea that the little vessel should have a name and an ensign. Harry was not sure how the boy persuaded one of the village women, or even how she had made the flag or from what pattern, but he found himself being presented with a white ensign that would not have looked out of place on the gaff of a First Rate.