Into Uncharted Seas (Westerly Gales)

by E. C. Williams

  “But Sam, you don't understand – I can consult with Doctor Cheah only at his request. In some matters, medical standards of practice trump naval customs. You should be having this conversation with him.”

  Sam detected that tone that suggested Marie had taken a stand she would defend to the last round. It was a familiar – and sometimes highly irritating – tone. He sighed.

  “Okay, Marie. I get it. But I have a naval problem, one of command. Once the Joan is fitted with the new waterjet propulsion system, she'll be the most formidable ship in the Navy, and our most valuable asset – at least until the Albatros is so fitted. If I do nothing, Bill Ennis will remain in command of the Joan, and take her to sea to cruise for enemy commerce raiders while we take our turn in dock. I'm concerned that he's not up to the job, and I'm unsure as to whether I should relieve him of command – something, needless to say, I'm very reluctant to do unless necessary.

  “But I'll have to do it if I have any doubt about his fitness for command– physical and mental. I do have doubts about that, and yours is the only medical judgment I trust in a matter this vital. So you see my dilemma.”

  “Yes, I do see, Sam. Let me give it some thought.” Sam assumed she meant to go away and sleep on it – which irritated him momentarily, since he wanted very much to be able to find some solution to this difficult problem as soon as possible. But Marie made no move to rise, and after staring at the bulkhead in thought for a few moments, she spoke. “What if I put in a request to exchange with Cheah temporarily, for the duration of Albatros's next cruise? Then I'd have some weeks to observe Bill – Commander Ennis – very closely, and be in a better position to advise you by the time you absolutely have to make the decision.”

  “That'd work. But what excuse would you give for doing something so out of the ordinary? Everyone will be bound to guess the real reason if we don't offer them a plausible one.”

  “Oh, I could just say that the exchange would offer opportunities for professional development for both of us – Frankie and me – and leave it at that, officially. But I could allow a rumor to start round the ship that I had a gentleman friend ashore, and was pulling rank to be able to spend more time with him. You know seamen, Sam – would that be credible?”

  She said the last with an air of feigned innocence that made Sam smile in spite of his momentary flareup of jealousy at the thought that she might just really have a “gentleman friend” ashore.

  “'Credible'? The way sailors gossip? That's the absolutely perfect cover story, Marie! But are you sure you want to sacrifice your reputation for the good of the Navy?”

  “It's not necessarily a sacrifice, Sam – after all, my relationship with my fictional friend could very well be perfectly chaste. And anyway, it'll stop them gossiping about us.”

  This comment sobered Sam right down. “You and me? The crew gossips about the two of us? They know … ?”

  “Oh, they don't know anything, Sam. Just our conferences on the quarterdeck that we're careful no one can overhear, plus the fact that we're both single, is quite enough to put the tongues in motion. I'd say I'm surprised you haven't heard, but of course you'd be the last to know.”

  “How do you know, Marie? About the gossip, I mean.”

  “Annie tells me,” she replied, referring to her senior intern. “We've become close friends, and as friends do, we talk. Annie tells me everything and everyone the crew's talking about. Including me, and especially you. We get a good giggle out of it.”

  “Does Annie … ?”

  “Of course not”, she replied crossly. “Annie and I are friends, we gossip, but I don't pour out my soul to her.”

  Sam suppressed the sigh of relief he knew would irritate Girard even more. “Very well, then, Marie, make it so. See Doctor Cheah today, if possible, and arrange the transfer, then the two of you begin packing your dunnage. I intend to take the Albatros to sea just as soon as we can manage it.”

  Taking this as dismissal, Girard rose to depart. Sam stopped her. “One more thing, Marie. I suppose, to support your cover story, you'd better spend some time ashore socializing.”

  Marie gave Sam a wicked smile. “Oh, don't worry Commodore – I intend to!” She then left Sam to wonder just exactly what she meant by that.

  But he didn't wonder for long, because there was too much to do. The deck became a hive of activity as the tug came alongside and the anchor detail was mustered on the foredeck. The electric anchor windlass came to life and fathoms of slimy, dripping anchor cable were heaved up and coiled neatly below, a team with a handy-billy pump – a replacement for the one lost with the Chaton, acquired by the simple expedient of commandeering it from the Joan – hosing off the cable as it appeared from the water, in a mostly-futile attempt to remove as much of the gunk as possible. In spite of this effort, the cable locker was always a noisome, smelly place from the dead marine life that colonized the rope and chain in these warm tropical waters no matter how briefly it was immersed.

  Sam dashed off a few lines and sealed them into a envelope. When he returned topside, the foredeck gang had shifted the cable from drum to wildcat, the fifteen fathoms of chain between the rope cable and the anchor itself having begun to emerge, and the loud clanking as it was heaved in echoed throughout the schooner. He passed the word for Midshipman Damon.

  When the boy arrived, winded from having raced from the armory, where he was assisting in an inventory of ammunition, to his cubbyhole off the “nursery” – the midshipman's mess – changed into his militia uniform, and sprinted to the quarterdeck.

  Sam handed him the envelope and said, “Good, you're properly dressed to go ashore. The instant the gangway touches the dock, run with this to militia headquarters and give it to Lieutenant Dallas, of the Navy – he has his office there. Then come straight back to the schooner – no other stops, d'you understand, Mister Damon? You do know the way to Militia HQ? You won't get lost en route?”

  The boy turned crimson, and Sam regretted – but not very much – his sarcasm.

  “Yessir. Nossir, I won't get lost, sir.”

  “Mister Damon, in the Navy, the proper way to acknowledge an order is to say, 'Aye aye, sir'. You should know that by now.”

  “Yessir. Sorry sir. Aye aye, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  At this, Damon hurried forward and stood by the gangway, in the process of being made ready for rigging by a couple of AB s and a bosun's mate. The sailors stared curiously at Damon, resplendent in his gaudy militia uniform. Then they nudged one another, whispering and snickering, making Damon's face blaze scarlet again – the boy was a veritable light show.

  The message in the envelope merely summoned Dallas to the Albatros at his earliest convenience, and instructed him to come prepared to give a full and updated intelligence brief. If Sam had sent one of his regular mids, however new, he would simply have made it a verbal message. But, judging from recent experience, Damon couldn't be trusted to get the shortest or simplest message straight.

  As the Albatros approached her berth, Sam could see, standing on the dock, sea-bag and chest at his feet, Acting Lieutenant Todd Cameron, He had just been seconded from the Scorpion to serve for the time being as flag staff officer.

  One of the first items on the morning's conference agenda had been a brief report from Lieutenant Commander Dave Schofield on his intelligence-gathering mission to Zanzibar and Mafia. (This for the benefit of the other officers – Sam had already received Dave's lengthy and more detailed written report.)

  Then Dave wished he had read through the entire agenda first – if he had, he may not have been quite so lavish in his praise of Todd, because it wound up costing him the young officer's services. When the assembled Captains and Executive Officers reached the item regarding the assignment of a flag staff officer, Dave's kudos for Cameron were still ringing in their ears, and the lad was almost unanimously nominated for the staff billet, the other vessels thereby avoiding the loss of an officer.

  Since this would
leave Scorpion down to just two officers, that made the decision as to which of the two “Little Sisters” would accompany Albatros on her next cruise: it would have to be Roland. Scorpion would therefore cruise just off the northern coast of Nosy Be in support of the defense of the island.

  Heaving lines shot out from schooner to pier, and mooring lines soon followed, pulled ashore by waiting line-handlers. The vessel berthed “navy style”, with each mooring line looped around a dockside bollard and the eye led back to the schooner, instead of placing the eye over the bollard. This facilitated a quick getaway, with no need for line-handlers: the eye ends could simply be slipped from the vessel allowing the line to be hauled in. This had become the routine style of tying up for the Albatros, but in this case Sam did indeed contemplate a stealthy departure. Both he and Dallas had become convinced of the presence of a Caliphate spy (or spies) ashore, who reported the movements of the Kerg squadron, but they still had no idea how they communicated their intelligence. A clandestine radio transmitter was suspected, but so far no suspicious transmissions had been picked up. In any event, Sam knew there was no hiding the bustle of activity that always preceded a cruise, the necessary loading of stores, ammo, and water, the consequent shift from anchorage to a berth, the coming and going of freight vehicles on the dock – but he hoped to be under way for some hours before his absence was noted, by sailing in the middle of the night without the aid of tugs, pilots, or line handlers.

  If this hypothetical enemy agent relied on contacts within the port operations infrastructure to keep track of naval movements, this ruse would lull him for a while. If, however, he had men who watched the squadron's vessels in harbor around the clock, it would be pointless. Sam had persuaded the Governor (wearing his other hat as Mayor of Hell-ville) to station plain-clothes cops in the port district, especially at night, with instructions to note and follow anyone appearing to take an unusual interest in the movements of Kerguelenian naval vessels, but with no result to date. Dallas was tasked with coordinating this effort.

  The gangway was dropped onto the pier with a bang, and secured. Its first traffic consisted of Cameron and Damon, who passed one another, Cameron hurrying aboard to report and Damon dashing ashore on the errand Sam had given him. Next were the Hell-ville municipal telephone people, to install a gangway phone; a great convenience, and one that came at no charge to the Navy, being compliments of the Governor.

  After dinner, Cameron appeared in his best clothes to formally report aboard to Sam, having already checked in with Al Kendall for berthing.

  “Welcome aboard, Mister Cameron. Let's go below to my mess.”

  “Thank you sir.”

  Sam ordered the word passed for the XO to join them, then they retired to Sam's mess, whose table would seat six at a pinch. Kendall soon appeared, looking harassed as usual.

  “Have a seat, Al. Don't worry about what's happening on deck: the Boatswain and the watch officer can take care of things for awhile.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I want to clearly define Todd's status on board from the beginning. I've never had the luxury of a flag staff, not since the addition of the Joan made us a squadron instead of a single vessel, so this concept is novel to us all.

  “Todd, you report directly to me. You are not technically part of the Albatros's crew. That doesn't change your rank, or make you Commander Kendall's military equal – it's just your chain of command. I intend to keep you off the watch bill, but that doesn't mean I can't 'lend' you to Commander Kendall from time to time, to fill in on a watch or two to give your shipmates a break. As you know, we're very short of officers.

  “As soon as possible, we'll assign a petty officer clerk to the billet of 'flag writer'. He'll report to you, Todd, and you'll be responsible for his discipline and evaluation, just as if you were his division officer. Which in effect you'll be. If we add any further hands to the staff, they'll also report to you.

  “As to your duties, you'll assist me in operations and planning for the squadron, as well as keeping a more precise record of operations. I've been giving verbal orders, especially in combat ops, of course, with no one to record them. As a result I find that it's difficult to reconstruct very accurately after the fact how any particular action developed. We need to be able to reproduce, on a chart, every action by every vessel involved, friendly and enemy – precise times, courses steered, ranges – in order to learn from our mistakes, and build up our knowledge of enemy tactics.

  “I'll add other responsibilities from time to time. For now, that's enough to be going on with. Any questions, Todd?”

  Cameron looked up from his pocket notebook, into which he had been scribbling furiously. “None for now, Commodore, but I'm sure I'll have some later.”

  “Never hesitate to ask any time you're in doubt. Now, your very first duty as Flag Staff Officer is almost upon you: Mister Dallas will be along any moment now to give the three of us an intelligence brief in preparation for our next cruise – which, by the way, will commence at around 0100. I'm sure he won't have had time to prepare a formal, written report, so you take notes, Todd – very complete notes.”

  “One AM tomorrow, Commodore?” Kendall asked in disbelief.

  “That's right Al. I know, I know – you can't possibly have the Old Bird ready for an extended cruise by that time, as usual. Except that you always manage somehow, and you will this time – as usual.” Kendall responded to this by rolling his eyes and looking haunted, but only answered, “Aye aye, sir.”

  “And Todd, draft an order for Roland to be ready to get under way by 0100 to accompany us. Send it by messenger. Captain Murphy already knows from this morning's conference that he'll going out with us soon, so he should be anticipating the word.

  “And here's another example of the value of a staff. I should have asked Dallas, well in advance, to prepare a detailed intel brief for the CO/XO conference, but it just didn't occur to me. Shooting from the hip again. Commander Kendall and I made up the conference agenda yesterday on the fly, in between doing other things. Not your fault, Al – being XO is a full-time job, and anyway I didn't give you much time to think about it.. Stuff like that'll be your job from now on, Todd.

  “This Navy is going to be run in a more orderly fashion!”

  Sam was fated to overhear that last sentence repeated often, like a lingering echo.

  A knock at the flag mess door, and a midshipman announced, “Mister Dallas to see you, sir.”

  “Come in, come in and sit, Henry! How's the bride?”

  “Very well, sir,” Dallas replied. Then, blushing, “We're expecting a child by Christmas.”

  “Are you, by God? Congratulations!” First Sam, then Al and Todd shook his hand.

  “Ritchie! More coffee. And a bottle of rum – the good stuff, for a toast,” Sam shouted. The ever-competent Ritchie appeared almost immediately, and everyone drank a toast to Mrs. Dallas's health and the baby's future – certain to be a boy, of course, and destined for a brilliant naval career.

  That out of the way, Sam said, “Well, Hank, what have you brought us?”

  “I'm sorry I don't have a formal presentation ready, sir, nor a written report.”

  “No problem, Hank. I didn't expect you to – this time. But for future reference, remember that I'll want an intel digest every time I return to port,” replied Sam. “Regard that as a standing order. Now bring us up to date.”

  “I regret to say I have no fresh tactical intelligence on enemy vessel movements, sir. That is, beyond what you already know: that there is one corsair at sea, and probably at least one more. But I've put together enough bits and pieces to update our store of general background information on the Caliphate to a considerable extent. The African seaman Mister Cameron recruited off Mafia Island, Ajali, proved to speak Swahili fluently, although it's not his native tongue, so I was able to interrogate him at length with the aid of an interpreter.”

  “Swahili?”

  “Yes – it's a sort of trade la
nguage used by tribes up and down the east coast of the mainland, and also used by Arab traders with the Africans. Some Malagasy fishermen also trade with the mainland from time to time, on a small scale – apparently that's a tradition centuries old – and I found one to interpret for me. Ajali has picked up a good deal of the patois since he's been aboard the Scorpion, but his vocabulary consists mostly of nautical terms and obscenities.

  “Anyway, I learned, or inferred, a good deal we didn't know about the Arabs. The good news, for example, is that it appears that we aren't at war with the entire Caliphate, but only with Zanzibar.”

  “But isn't Zanzibar part of the Caliphate?”

  “Technically, yes, but the connection is mostly religious and only nominally political – for all practical purposes, Zanzibar is an independent state, a hereditary monarchy. The monarch, termed the 'Sultan', owes his throne to the Caliph, and is his vassal, but is mostly left alone to govern as he wishes.”

  “That is good news. According to Dave, Zanzibar is a large, populous island, but it's still just one island. Maybe there's hope for an outright victory.”

  “Well, sir, the Sultanate of Zanzibar actually also includes a fairly large island called Pemba, a bit further north, as well as Mafia and several trading towns on the mainland, a couple of them fairly substantial. These towns are ports for Arab trade in both slaves and mainland goods such as elephant tusks.”

  “Wait – you don't mean to tell me the Africans trade with the same Arabs who also make slaves of them!”

  “Oh, no, sir, not exactly. The Arabs have befriended the coastal tribes and are at peace with them. But the coastal tribes, with the aid of Arabs with firearms, mount periodic raids against the inland population, who are the traditional enemies of the coastal people anyway. These raiders take captives who they then trade to the Arabs.”