Hank imagined a similar scene taking place across the harbor, on the deck of another schooner. He had picked out the two largest vessels then in port, big three-masters, and ordered them shifted to a position from which they would block or interfere with shellfire directed at the Joan. Meanwhile, the yard workers were frantically nailing temporary patches on all her through-hull openings in preparation for a partial flooding of the drydock, in order to bring her afloat, and thus lower her profile by a fathom or so. These were desperate measures that Hank was taking entirely on his own initiative, and he didn't know if or to what extent they would work. he did know that it would eventually raise a storm of furious protest by the owners of the two vessels thus commandeered, a storm that would blow through French Port, the government of Nosy Be, and the highest ranks of the Navy, possibly ending his career.
But it would be worth it if it prevented or minimized damage to the Joan, which when fully restored to operational status, with her new waterjets, would represent fully half the offensive power of the Kerguelenian Navy. And he was confident that Commodore Bowditch would back him up.
Well, fairly confident, anyway.
Hank rushed down the gangway just as the last line was coming in, and the tug on the schooner's offshore side began to sheer her off the dock. There he seized control of a truck and driver by the simple expedient of yelling a lot and waving the emergency order – a handy tool, that – in order to get a quick lift back to militia headquarters. Not for the first time, he wished the Navy had an impressive uniform for its officers, like that of the militia. Then he could have simply commandeered the truck with much less argument. As it was, to the driver he was just another civilian.
At militia HQ, he hurried to his desk in the open bullpen where staff officers worked, shouted on telephones, and drank endless cups of coffee. On his desk he found a decrypted copy of a message from the AEWS station, reporting a sighting of the enemy squadron, hull down on the western horizon. If they were below the balloon's horizon at its usual operating altitude, they were still many hours away. The message also reported only two dhows visible,an encouraging confirmation of Dave Schofield's last message. Apparently, realizing that his squadron had been spotted and reported by the Scorpion, the pirate commander had abandoned any idea staying well to the west and was now sailing straight for his objective.
Hank received a phone call from the militia officer in charge of the troops that had backed him up in his seizure of the two Kerg schooners for relocation to the Joan's drydock. He reported that both vessels were well in hand and in the process of being shifted. Hank then rose and went to the regimental ops officer's desk to report this development.
He had to wait in line. Two officers were ahead of him, reporting militia unit movements in response to the general mobilization order. When Hank's turn came, he gave the ops officer his news, then asked, “Major, will the reckless rifle be deployed to protect Hell-ville?”
“The 75 mm rifle battery is standing by in a central location. It'll be deployed wherever needed to oppose a landing,” the major replied shortly. His telephone then rang and he answered it, forestalling any more comments or questions.
Hank had to be satisfied with that. Ideally, he would have preferred that the 75 mm be positioned as near the Joan as possible, to defend her. But, on the other hand, that positioning of the island's heaviest – indeed its only heavy gun – might have drawn undue attention to the Joan.
Not, unfortunately, that he doubted for a moment that the enemy knew all about the Joan's location, as well as that of the rest of the RKN squadron.
A few minutes later, the Operations Officer rose from his desk and approached Hank's. This was odd. Major Daniels was in the habit of shouting whenever he wanted a junior officer, and in this respect had always treated Hank as if he were a member of the regimental staff.
“Hank, I've just had a phone call from Kwek's,” he said. Kwek was the Hell-ville gunsmith who had turned his shop into a mini-factory for the production of armaments for both the militia and the Navy.
“By working all night, they finished the next 75 mm rifle ahead of schedule. They just have to run up some sort of mount for it and it'll be ready for use in the field, probably by this afternoon. Thing is, in accordance with the agreement the Governor made with Commodore Bowditch, it's the Navy's weapon…“.
“As the senior naval officer on Nosy Be, I authorize the loan of the gun to the militia for the duration of the present emergency,” Hank said quickly. “Just, one thing, though...”.
“You're putting conditions on the loan?” Daniels asked sourly.
“No, no – not at all”, Hank said quickly. “The loan is unconditional. I just wanted to ask you to set a higher priority on the protection of the Joan, now that you've got two reckless rifles. Her destruction would be a serious blow to the Navy, maybe a war-stopper.”
“Okay – fair enough”, Daniels said. “As long as you realize that the Regiment's top priority is to prevent a landing if at all possible. We don't know if this is just a raid in force or an attempt to establish a beachhead on Nosy Be. We can't let them get dug in ashore.”
“Understood, Major.”
A non-com hurried up with a message flimsy. “Telephone call from the AEWS station, sir – the enemy vessels are hull-up now, and appear to be on a heading for the southern end of the island. Still only two visible.”
This made Hank wonder how long the phone lines would remain in service if the enemy got ashore. The militia wanted a dedicated military phone system covering the entire island, with all the lines buried. The Council, of course, recoiled at the estimated cost of this, so the best the Regiment could do was its own switchboard on the existing system, with the authority to override civilian use of any line needed for military communications – but only during a declared emergency. Naturally, every civilian on the island with a phone was on it as soon as the word leaked out of a raid, checking on friends and relatives, and the staff telephone operator had to struggle for a line for every outgoing message.
And none of the telephone lines were buried, making it child's play for raiders, once ashore, to cut wire and disrupt the system island-wide. This would force the Regiment to rely on radio.
But, again for budgetary reasons, not every unit – not even every key unit – was radio-equipped, so some comms links would have to rely on messengers to physically deliver orders, intelligence, and situation reports. Not, obviously, an ideal situation. Especially if the messengers were liable to interception by bands of pirates who had made it ashore and were roaming behind the lines.
Colonel Dumont was out of his office now, and conferring with the Major Daniels. A militiaman approached them with another message; they read it and moved to the large-scale map of Nosy Be that almost covered one wall of the staff bullpen.
Daniels shouted, “Mister Dallas!”, and Hank hurried over to them. “Hank, the AEWS and shore stations have taken several cross-bearings on the enemy vessels, and have a rough course for them now. Looks like they're headed for Hell-ville – no surprise there. Give us a naval perspective: where, exactly, do you think they'll choose to make a landing or bombard the town?”
Hank studied the map. “The best place for an amphibious landing near Hell-ville is Castle Beach. I think that's where they'll put their raiding party ashore.” The “castle” for which the beach was named was actually the ruins of an ancient seafront hotel.
“They'll have to launch their boats from well outside the surf line, so they'll have a long pull into the beach – that's good for the defense. But from their point of view, it's the only possible landing spot within a short march of the town center.”
“Will they then bombard the town from there, d'you suppose?” asked Major Daniels.
“I don't think so. Their main objective must be the commercial harbor – they'll almost certainly know the Joan is in drydock there, and the harbor facilities themselves will be a target too, I think. So – I'm just guessing now, sir – I think they'll turn the c
orner here, after launching their boats” – he tapped Point Mahatsinjo on the map – ”proceed into Andavakotakona Bay, and sail right into the harbor to shoot it up at point-blank range.”
“Do you think the gun dhows will remain off the beach to cover the landing long enough to see a beach-head established? Or will they head for the harbor as soon as they launch their boats?” asked the Colonel.
“I'm really not sure, sir,” Hank said uncertainly. “If it was us – if we put our people ashore in a high- threat environment – we'd never go haring off on a secondary mission until we were sure they were well established. But the pirates … well, all our experience with them suggests they have a very relaxed attitude toward their own casualties. They could very well put their boats in the water on the run and sail directly round into the harbor, risking their landing party in the hopes of catching us on the back foot and making us divide our forces.”
“Danny, let's send first and second companies of First Battalion to Castle Beach – the officer in charge is whichever company commander is senior – I think that'd be Captain Maurier. Send Battery Anatole, too.” “Battery Anatole” was the rather grandiose name for the first – and so far only – recoilless rifle and crew in service with the Regiment. “Hold the rest of the battalion in reserve.”
“What about Second and Third Battalions?” asked Major Daniels.
“They're to remain at their assigned muster positions for now,” the Colonel replied. “If the present course of the pirates is a ruse – if they suddenly change course and head for, say, Andilana – we'll need forces to defend the northern and western coasts. They'll be an additional, central reserve.”
“And Battery Berthe?” This was the second recoilless rifle, the one earmarked for the Navy and now on loan to the militia – and presumably being organized as they spoke.
Colonel Dumont, usually very decisive, allowed a fleeting look of uncertainty to cross his face.
“Sir, I recommend Berthe be stationed in the port, to defend the harbor facilities and the Joan,” Hank said, hurriedly getting his position on the record. “If she were mounted on one of the sidewalls of the drydock, she'd have a clear range of fire across almost the entire commercial harbor … ”
“Colonel, we shouldn't divide our forces” Daniels said urgently. “If Berthe is added to Anatole in support of the beach defense forces, we could not only sink their boats, but damage – and maybe sink – the dhows. The battle could end there,”.
“Not if they drop their boats on the run!” Hank said, his voice rising.
“Enough, gentlemen,” the Colonel said. “We'll mount Berthe on Point Mahatsinjo, well dug in. The dhows will almost certainly shave the point as close as their drafts allow; Berthe can do a lot of damage while they're in her field of fire. After that – well, we'll see. Maybe relocate her to the waterfront – she'll have her own vehicle, and can be repositioned quickly.”
The Colonel had split the baby, Solomon-style, to the complete satisfaction of neither of his staff officers. But each privately, grudgingly, had to agree that it was a pretty good compromise. The dhows would be within range of Berthe from arrival off Castle Beach almost to the entrance to the commercial port; she could keep the dhows under almost continuous fire while Anatole concentrated on the boats and the landing force. The biggest unknown was the ability of the 75 mm guns' crews. The gunners, including those of the newly-organized Battery Berthe, had trained intensively with the first rifle, including live fire, but never under combat conditions.
“Thank God for the Navy, Hank,” said the Colonel. “For the Scorpion especially, I mean. If we had to deal with three dhows we'd be in deep merde. I pray that the Scorpion can keep that other one busy until the battle's over.”
“Captain Schofield and his Scorpions will do their best, sir,” Hank replied. And almost certainly give their lives in the process, he thought.
From this point, the headquarters staff could only wait tensely for news of the enemy squadron. Hank was in an agony of uncertainty. If the pirate commander intended a ruse – if the squadron suddenly changed course to attack a point on the western or northern coast – then the key assets of the defending forces, the two 75 millimeter recoilless rifles, would be in the wrong position, and become irrelevant to the battle. And Lieutenant Henry Dallas of the Republic of Kerguelen Navy, whose idea it had been to defend against a landing on the south coast, would be the goat.
The colonel seemed to sense both his distress and the reason for it. “Don't worry, Hank. You only made a recommendation, as a staff officer – it was my decision. And I'll stand by it.”
“This'll do,” said Sergeant Ralambo, NCOIC of Battery Anatole. “Dig her in here.”
“Here” was a spot behind the remnants of a wall of the ruin for which Castle Beach was named, facing out to sea. Ralambo had immediately thought of this particular location on being ordered to set up on the beach. Like many residents of Hell-ville, he was very familiar with the Castle, a popular spot for beach parties. In fact, the Sergeant had lost his virginity here, as a teenager, years before. From this vantage point, they had an unobstructed one hundred and eighty degree view of the sea, and the area behind the gun was clear of flammable materials, an important consideration given the back-blast.
Ralambo pulled out his pocket telescope and scanned the sea horizon to the north-west, from which the enemy vessels were expected to appear. He had been offered a pair of big, heavy, delicate binoculars, but turned them down. If he couldn't see the target with his little 'scope, which was both rugged and handy, then he knew it was out of range.
He now saw what appeared to be the enemy, a tiny smudge of white on the horizon; perhaps the lead dhow, still hull-down. And therefore not yet in range, so they had plenty of time to finish setting up.
He wished that the Regiment had another of those balloons. One would be mighty handy here, to spot the fall of shot for him. Well, “adapt and improvise”, as the instructors had kept repeating in his small-unit leadership course. He looked around and found what he was looking for.
“Cooch, climb up to the top of that palm tree over there and spot for us. Take the extra scope.”
“Aw, Sarge, you know I'm scared of heights!”
“But you ain't good for nothing else, so get your butt to the very top of that tree. Now.”
Gunner Cuccio, the most junior man in the battery, knew that further protest was futile, so he obediently scurried the thirty meters or so to the palm tree and started to scale it, spotting scope slung around his neck.
On either side of them, riflemen from first and second companies were digging in as well. At the other end of the Castle, Ralambo could see a 25 mm team setting up. It was probably one of the new rapid-fire semi auto models. He didn't care for the competition. He was a regular, not a militiaman, and he had earned that status by being a tough and efficient NCO, training his men hard, “...kicking ass and taking names.” When Battery Anatole eventually got its second reckless rifle, as planned, he didn't want to be superseded by some wet-behind-the-ears lieutenant, with a commission his daddy bought him for his birthday. He wanted to remain in charge of the battery, perhaps win a promotion to warrant. He figured the best way to accomplish that was to make the battery stand out as the deadliest and most efficient in the Regiment. He didn't want a measly 25 mm team stealing their glory.
Well, he had roughly three times the hitting power of a 25 mm. And he intended to shoot straight.
The second dhow came into view. Time dragged on as they approached almost imperceptibly. The gunner, Befort, increasingly tense, said, “Can't I shoot now, Sarge?”
“You think that lead dhow's within five thousand meters, Befort? She's at ten thousand if she's a centimeter. You can't hit her from here. Se détendre – you'll get your chance un peu.”
Time dragged on. Befort, despite being ordered to relax, continued to fidget and sigh impatiently. Finally, Ralambo said, “Okay, I think she's at max range now. You can try a round.” The Serg
eant just had time to cover his ears before the sharp crack of the rifle.
“Wide right!” Cuccio shouted from the top of the palm tree.
“Take your time setting up the shot, Befort. And don't forget to allow for the wind.”
“Okay, Sarge.” Befort settled himself behind the sights and took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, while his loader hefted another twenty-kilo HE round into the breech and affixed a new firing pigtail. This took a couple of minutes, since the ready supply of ammo was a good twenty meters off to the right, well clear of the rifle's backblast arc for safety's sake.
He squeezed off the second round, and Cuccio bellowed, “Just short!”
“You got the azimuth, but she ain't quite in range yet. Wait a few more minutes.”
Those few minutes crawled by. Ralambo, staring through his telescope, at last said, “Try another shot.” He had barely finished the sentence when the rifle barked, and the sergeant saw the round pursue its flat trajectory low over the sea, to either score a hit or explode close aboard the lead dhow. Things began to happen quickly after that.
A puff of smoke from the side of the first dhow was shortly followed by a splash very close inshore, inside the surf line. Ralambo saw the spherical round, nearly spent, roll up onto the beach and then explode, raising a gout of sand and water almost directly in front of their position. Both dhows then opened up, apparently with three guns apiece, and shells fused for air-burst exploded over the Castle and in the tops of the palm trees fringing the beach. Shrapnel and wood splinters rained down, and Ralambo heard the loader cry out, while he himself felt a sharp pain in his back. Belatedly, he realized that he should have ordered the rifle moved after their second round; the back-blast was as clear an indication of their position as a giant bull's-eye.
Both dhows luffed up into the wind, presumably in order to launch their boats, and this temporarily threw off their gunners' aim. Shells now exploded wide of the Castle.
“We gotta move the gun! Break it down. Cooch! Get your ass down here!” Ralambo bellowed.
Into Uncharted Seas (Westerly Gales) Page 39
