Then out of the cloud of steam and smoke a massive figure strode purposefully down the length of the train, obviously on the hunt: Bill Kraft. Shit, I thought, is this going to be another BOHICA homecoming? Yeah, I’d cut things a bit close with the Chinks, but I had all the bases covered. Now it looked as if I were going to get a rocket.
I grabbed my gear and jumped down from the train. The governor was two cars up dead ahead. Bill’s face was perfectly masked, offering no clue as to what he was thinking. He steered for me like Tegetthoff at Lissa.
“Well, do I get an ‘attaboy this time or should I turn around and bend over?” I greeted our Chief of State.
Bill stared me down, expressionless. Then he came to attention, saluted, and barked, “Heil dir im Siegerkranz!” “Hail to thee in the Victor's wreath!” It was the old song played at German military triumphs, the tune known elsewhere as “God Save the Queen.”
“I guess this means I’m not in trouble?” I asked.
“You know the first law of war, my boy,” Bill replied, grinning. “All’s well that ends well. You got the result we intended, at virtually no cost to us. That’s my definition of a brilliant campaign.”
When a militia sergeant and the country’s supreme war leader both see it the same way, in the same words, you’ve made some progress, I thought. Maybe we were finally free of the old American military preoccupation with process instead of results.
“Waal, I suspected that Chink rocket in Portland harbor might have ruined your day,” I said to Bill as we turned to walk together toward the station entrance.
“I’ve had more welcome wake-up calls,” Bill admitted. “But the folks you left in charge back here had foreseen the Chinese might do something like that. We had some responses working through both Tokyo and Moscow. But none were half as good as the light show you put on in Shanghai.”
“I thought you might like that one. Of course, it depended on you, too. You had to trust me enough to give Beijing the reply I recommended.”
“I did trust you.”
“Why?”
“First, because your message told me you were ahead of the game. You had thought it through to the end this time, as much as anyone can in war. Second, because I’ve watched you grow. Some people can’t, and their utility is limited. And third, because if I can’t trust you I should replace you. There is nothing more counterproductive than a subordinate you can’t trust, unless it is a superior you can’t trust.”
“I gather I can take all that as a compliment,” I replied.
“You can take it however you like,” Bill replied. “It's the truth.”
The governor intended to stay in Portland for a few days, nosing about and taking the pulse in our busiest port. His duties as Field Marshal never detracted from his work as governor of Maine, which he regarded as his first responsibility. He understood that smaller, not bigger, is better.
Bill had arranged a room for me in his hotel, and after I got settled we headed for a little restaurant, really just somebody’s house. He had finds like this every place he went, and they seldom disappointed. If, as Napoleon said, an army travels on its stomach, Bill traveled for his.
This auberge was run by one of our Egyptian Christians, and while I didn’t know exactly what I was eating, it all tasted good. In Maine, that was unusual. Once we’d both gotten past the hungry stage and were eating for pleasure, Bill asked if I had any plans beyond checking in at Augusta.
“It’s fall again, and while I’ve seen better leaf years, I thought I might go walking in New Hampshire.”
“How about going fishing instead?” Bill asked.
“I might do some fly fishing along the way,” I answered.
“I was thinking more of ocean fishing.”
“Bill, I'm a Marine, remember? Ocean fishing means a boat. Marines hate boats.”
Actually, I enjoyed a good sail, but I sensed I needed to get some defenses up.
“We’ve got some rather interesting boats sailing out of Portland now, schooners, some three-masted, heading toward the Grand Banks. It would be a real 19th century experience to crew on one,” Bill said.
“Governor, are you telling me you’re going to crew on a Maine fishing boat?”
“No, I'm telling you that you are.”
I nearly choked on my falafel. “You mean my reward for a job well done is to be demoted from Admiral of the Fleet to cabin boy on some damned lobster boat? What’s second prize, a moose shit sandwich?”
“Don't whine, not in front of wogs. The reward for a job well done is another job. Or were you expecting your little feat in Cascadia would bring peace in our time?”
“I take it we have a problem at sea?”
“No, I’m sending you out because I thought the sea air would be good for your complexion. Why do Marines always revert to the rank of lance corporal when presented with something new?”
“Probably for the same reason you get sarcastic. Why don’t you stow the sandpaper and tell me what's going on?”
“Piracy. Our fishing boats are disappearing on the Grand Banks.”
“Who’s doing it?”
“We don't know. The little fishing expedition I’ve proposed to you is an attempt to find out.”
“Why don’t we just leave it to the Navy?”
“Because we don’t really have one. Your magnificent Pacific squadron was a rent-a-fleet. Our real Navy doesn’t have near enough ships or men to patrol the Grand Banks. Of course, you can leave this mission up to them if you want. I simply thought you might want to visit the front, as wise Chiefs of the General Staff have been known to do.”
“Just what has the Navy proposed?”
“A Q-ship. A sailing ship with hidden guns.”
“Shades of von Luckner! I’ve commanded a fleet, but I’ve never been in a real naval battle. Where would I find this Q-ship?”
“At the naval pier. Why don’t you go have a look at her?”
“You know, I just might do that.”
The next morning I walked down to the Navy Yard, where our High Sea Fleet of torpedo boats and converted trawlers was based. The subs were at New London. Alongside the pier was moored a three-masted schooner. I quickly spied Captain Rick Hoffman, the senior officer of the N.C. Navy, chewing somebody’s ass on the quarter-deck.
“Ahoy, mate! Permission to come aboard?” I called out.
Rick turned and peered my way. “Shit, it’s the Admiral of the Fleet hisself,” he exclaimed. “Wait a minute, I gotta get the bo’suns’ pipes up. Why aren’t you in your admiral's uniform, anyway?”
“Cause if you saw it you’d laugh your ass off, and then what would you think with?” I answered. “You can belay the pipes, too, since I'm in mufti. I just came down to see what you’re up to.”
“What we’re up to is creating the Northern Confederation’s first ship-of-the-line. Come aboard and see for yourself. After a two-carrier battle group, she may not look like much, but I think she’ll do the job we need her for.”
I crossed the gangplank and climbed up to the quarterdeck, where I noticed a swivel mounted on the taffrail but no other armament.
“Welcome aboard, John,” Rick said, offering his callused hand, “I’m green with envy, not seasickness. I would have given my right hook to command our Pacific fleet.”
“You would have had to grow some slanty eyes to do that, my friend,” I replied. “For the most part, I was just a bird in a gilded cage for all of the world to see. At least this tub is really an N.C. ship. Where’d you find her?”
“She’s the former Victory Chimes, out of Castine,” Rick replied. “She was built early in the 20th century as a lumber schooner, and later converted into a cruise boat that worked Penobscot Bay in the 1960s and 70s. She’s got the lines of a barn and the speed of an old house darkey on a hot July day, but she’s sturdy, and that’s what we need most.”
“She better be sturdier than Old Ironsides if you're gonna fight pirates with that swivel.”
Ric
k grinned. “If you think that, maybe they will too. Come below.”
Rick led me down to the lower deck where the passenger cabins used to be. In their place was a full gun deck. I could see a row of 120 mm breech-loading mortars mounted on each beam. Rick grabbed a line and pulled, and a port opened in front of the nearest gun. Putting his shoulder to it, he ran it out on a carriage that looked about right for a twelve-pounder. “We’ve got fourteen ports a side, with a mix of 120s and 50. cal. machine guns. Plus, fore and aft, we’ve got Sagger missiles on pivot carriages, which we can use on broadside or as chasers. What d’ya think?”
“Horatio Hornblower would be proud,” I replied.
“That’s it!” Rick exclaimed.
“What’s what?”
“The name of our ship! We’ve wanted to rename her now that she’s a man o'war, but couldn’t come up with anything we liked. Admiral, you stand on the gun deck of the NCS Horatio Hornblower!” A ragged cheer went up from the men working around us. I was glad to know some people were still reading C.S. Forester. His books are excellent studies of military decision-making.
“Well, if she fights like Hornblower, we should have plenty of pirates to hang. Would you mind if I came along for the fun?” I asked.
“We’d be delighted to have you. Think you can still lead a boarding party?”
“That’s the kind of party Marines like best. When do you sail?”
“In three days, if the wind is fair. Stow your gear aft in my cabin. There’s an extra bunk. And John, there is one thing we still need for a proper sailing warship, if you can scrounge it for us.”
“What’s that?”
“A cask of rum.”
Three days later, the morning calm gave way to a land breeze. A tug warped the Horatio Hornblower out from the dock and into Portland’s outer harbor, where we hoisted our three big gaff mainsails. We were soon bowling along at a grand five knots. HMS Lydia would have been hull down of us in an hour.
But Fall’s northwest winds didn’t fail us, and the 20th of October saw us off the Grand Banks. There, we pretended to fish, which is what most fisherman I’ve observed seem to do.
It didn’t take long for the first military problem to crop up. We saw some other Northern Confederation fishing boats, sailing ships like ourselves. But most of the fishing operations we encountered were foreign, motorized, and poaching the hell out of our fishing grounds. I knew what my first order of business would be once I got back to Augusta.
We drifted and fished and messed about for a week and more, finding nothing but fish. Our eleventh day out, we crossed paths with a Mexican trawler. She wasn’t the first we’d seen, and we let her pass without hailing her.
About two hours after sunset, in the direction she’d gone, we heard sharp bursts of automatic weapons fire.
With a top speed of five knots, we couldn’t chase much. All we could try to do was place ourselves in harm’s way. Rick put the Hornblower’s helm up, tacked and set a course in the direction of the gunfire. Below decks, we cleared for action and the crews stood to their guns.
As so often in war, nothing happened. Dawn revealed an empty sea. Had it just been fiesta time in old Mexico, with some weapons fired in celebration? We had no way to tell.
On a hunch, Rick turned south. The gun crews went to breakfast and then racked out. If something were in the neighborhood, we’d have warning enough. The steady northwest wind put us on a reach, which was a fore-and-after’s best point of sailing.
Just after noon, as I was enjoying some cheese and hardtack with the daily grog ration, the foretop lookout cried “Ship ahoy! Two ships close abeam 30 degrees off the starboard bow. Range five miles.”
Rick grabbed his binos and started up the foremast shrouds. Shortly, he called down, “One of them is the Mex from yesterday. Beat to quarters!”
Below, our crews lay to their guns. Above, we luffed as if we’d just found a good fishing spot, lowered the dory and began laying a net.
The two trawlers had seen us before we saw them, and neither had moved. Maybe they were just passing the tequila and comparing fish and whores.
Then, about forty-five minutes after we'd lowered our nets, the trawler behind the Mexican boat began to move. She cut across the other boat’s bow and set a course straight for us.
We played dumb. Our lookout came down from his perch, and our oared dory continued spreading the net. I went below to the gun deck, leaving a minimum watch topside, as would be normal on a working boat.
The approaching trawler didn’t seem in a particular hurry. He didn’t need to be. It was obvious we weren’t going anywhere. He’d probably figured we’d found some fish and he might as well help himself to our catch. There was nothing an old Yankee scow could do to stop him.
I heard Rick calling my name down the main hatchway and ran toward it. “What’s up, skipper?” I asked.
“His flag,” Rick answered. “He just raised it to his bridge, but I don’t recognize it. It’s red with some kind of white blob in the middle.”
That threw me. “Can’t help you. Probably some Caribbean mini-state. Their flags all look like beer can labels. Where’s he heading?”
“Like he’s gonna come up on our port side.”
“Well, we’re ready for him.”
The trawler suddenly shifted his helm and came starboard of us. The gun crews quietly moved from one broadside to the other. We could hear the trawler suddenly back engines as he came abeam of us. Above, Rick yelled, “Ahoy, what ship?”
The answer came back in a blast of automatic rifle fire. Below, we didn’t need any order. The hidden gunports slammed up, strong Yankee shoulders ran out the 120s and .50s and the gun captain yelled, “Give ‘em hell, men.”
Through an open gunport, I got a clear look at the pirates’ flag: red with three white skulls in a horizontal line, and above them a white, stepped pyramid. Aztecs?
The gunfire from the trawler was quickly drowned in a cascade of exploding 120mm shells. They ripped whole sheets of metal from her bridge and her hull. Our .50 cals smothered every point from which enemy fire had been observed. In a matter of seconds her bridge was a pile of flaming wreckage and we could see gaps in her hull that reached below the waterline.
One shell hit something in the engine room and caused a secondary. Then, with a roar, his whole aft end ignited in a sheet of flames and foul, oily smoke: Pemex diesel.
As soon as I saw the engine room go up, I yelled “Cease fire! Cease fire.” I wanted some live pirates to take home with us to find out if we were really fighting sea-going Aztecs or just somebody else who found their flag convenient. Besides, public hanging of pirates was a nice old tradition that offered fun for the whole family.
“Enemy to port!” The cry came from somewhere forward on the gun deck. I ran to a portside gun and looked out to see the other trawler coming up. She was about 4,000 meters off, with a bone in her teeth. It was a brave but stupid move, especially since she probably carried only a prize crew.
I walked forward to find the bowchaser crew manhandling their Sagger on its pivot carriage from the starboard to the port side of the ship. By the time that muscle-intensive operation was completed, the trawler was in Sagger range. It was still a long shot. We’d see whether today’s Yankee gunners were as good as their ancestors who served Preble and Decatur. The carriage extended the Sagger on a long arm to keep the back blast out of the ship. It was a jury-rig that made aiming awkward. I knew I couldn’t have hit much with it, not at that range.
With a roar, the missile ignited, rose, then fell again, trailing its guide-wire. I watched the plume recede into the distance as the gunner stared and sweated behind his crude sight.
Flight time should be about 15 seconds. I leveled my binos at the oncoming trawler and counted: 11, 12, 13–a hit! The warhead flashed, smoke and parts of the ship flew upward and a dull boom echoed across the water. Then it was Beatty at Jutland all over again. With an enormous flash and roar, the trawler exploded. When the sm
oke cleared, nothing was left.
We wouldn’t be getting any guests for a necktie party from that trawler, so I raced topside to see what the other ship had delivered. I heard rifles cracking as I came up the hatch. The Aztec boat—if that’s what it was—was going under, the survivors of our broadsides were abandoning ship and our boys were shooting them in the water. The 21st century didn’t stand on ceremony with pirates.
I yelled “Cease fire! Cease fire!,” but too late. All the figures in the water were face down and trailing blood.
Except one. “That’s a woman, sir,” one of the sailor-snipers said. It probably wasn't an accident. Most men don’t like shooting women.
She’d been trying to swim away, even though there was nothing to swim to closer than Labrador. When the firing stopped, she turned around and looked our way, then struck out again. “Launch a boat and pick her up,” I ordered. “Maybe she’ll tell us who we were fighting.”
“We’ll get it out of her, sir,” a sailor said, grinning, Men may not like shooting women, even in war, but there are plenty of other things they enjoy doing to a woman caught on a battlefield.
“Not that way,” I replied with an icy look. “Remember, we’re a Christian country. If anybody needs God’s favor, it’s men at sea on a sailing ship.”
The woman flailed frantically as our boat approached her, but she was at the end of her strength. I saw a sailor reach out and grab her, then watched other arms haul her aboard.
As the dory approached the Hornblower, the woman looked up. I could see her features, and she was clearly no Indian. “Get her towels and a blanket, and some hot soup,” I ordered. The water off the Grand Banks is frigid year-round.
The dory crew led the woman up on deck, where we wrapped her tight in a warm blanket and handed her a mug of steaming chowder.
“Do you speak English?” I asked her.
“Yes, Señor.” She mouthed the words almost soundlessly, like a cat’s silent meow.
“No one here is going to hurt you. Drink the soup and get warmed up. When you’re able to move, someone will take you below where you can get into dry clothes.” I noticed a crucifix around her neck and pointed to it. “We are also Christians. You are safe now.” Then I left her alone and made sure everyone else did the same.
Victoria: A Novel of 4th Generation War Page 38
