Armada

by Steven Wilson

  Waldvogel’s mind flew over the possibilities as he watched the spectacular demonstration in the night sky over Cherbourg. It was all for his benefit, and he accepted it without question because it gave him the answer that he needed.

  Now he knew what could be done. Now he knew how to solve the problem that had threatened to destroy everything. Now he could tell Reubold.

  A Tallboy dropped from a Lancaster struck the water and buried itself in the harbor mud a short distance away. As Waldvogel approached the entrance, it exploded.

  Chapter 15

  London, England

  Edland had sublet a small apartment; it was not luxurious by any standards, but he seldom indulged himself in luxuries. He had learned to get by with very little. His expeditions to China, rather, accompanying his father on his expeditions to China, had convinced him that most things were unnecessary and were encumbrances to everyday living. “You don’t need that,” was his father’s common refrain as he packed for the trips, or the few times that the Great Man came to visit him. “Clutter, clutter,” his father sniffed, surveying what Edland always considered rooms remarkably free of anything except the basics. For the first few times Edland was irritated, and even angered. But then he began to ignore his father’s opinion and even toss in a remark about having new furniture delivered, or something guaranteed to prick the Great Man’s remarkably thin hide.

  Edland would not admit it to himself, and would certainly never share the thought with his famous father, that his father was right. So he conditioned himself to live with little. He divested himself of memories, tokens, souvenirs, and the hundreds of other things that reflect a man’s experiences. His life, like his apartment, was barren of such sentimentality.

  A persistent knock at the door brought Edland out of a satisfying sleep, filled with dreams of the vast Gobi: endless caravans of plodding camels, and the high, mysterious mountains of Tibet that look to have been created by God simply to shoulder the ominous clouds that crowded the sky.

  He made his way out of the bedroom, checked to see that the blackout curtains were in place, and switched on a small lamp atop his scarred desk. Opening the door in mid-knock, he found a young naval officer waiting in the dimly lit hall.

  “Lieutenant Commander Michael Edland?” the officer asked.

  “Yes,” Edland said, wondering what time it was. His body told him that it had to be very late and he had been nearing deep sleep when the knock awoke him.

  “Can I see your ONI I.D., sir?”

  Edland nodded, retrieved the card from his wallet on the desk, and handed it to the officer. The young man scanned the card, glanced at Edland, and handed it back.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said. “This arrived for you about an hour ago.” He handed Edland a sealed gray envelope stamped USN SECRET, saluted, and left.

  Edland closed the door slowly, locked it, and carefully tore off the flap of the envelope. That was quick, he thought, and then took the time to calculate when he had sent the cable, what time it was in the States, and how quickly McGill would respond to his series of questions. If McGill understood what Edland was asking him. He moved to the chair near his desk, adjusted the lamp to give himself more light, unfolded the three sheets of paper, and smoothed them across his knee.

  Edland began to read the reply.

  “Are you a madman?” Reubold shouted at Waldvogel in the cavernous pen, his voice bouncing off the hard concrete walls.

  The medical officer gave Reubold a look of reprimand and continued wrapping a bandage around Waldvogel’s head. A tiny stream of blood stained the pure white cloth.

  “How many times have I told you to stay well inside the pen during a bombing raid? Didn’t you hear me order the men to do so? You must have heard that; I said it often enough.”

  “Please, Fregattenkapitan,” Waldvogel said, grimacing. “Please don’t chastise me so loudly. My head hurts terribly.”

  “You could be dead,” Reubold said, the volume of his voice rising. “Dead you don’t help me. Dead you’re no good to me.”

  “I was under the impression that you were through with me and my boats,” Waldvogel ventured.

  “Do not tax my patience,” Reubold said. “This is no time for silly words. Look at that.” He pointed to a large crack in the concrete ceiling. A powdery dust continued to sift from the jagged edges of the crack, covering the surface of the black water. “That was a bomb that landed a hundred meters from here. The shock wave sent a wave into the pen that almost swamped the boats.”

  “That must have been what knocked me down,” Waldvogel mused in appreciation. “It must have been a very large bomb.”

  “Yes,” Reubold said. “It would appear so.” He turned to the group of officers and men watching the exchange. “All right. All right. You have things to do. Get out.” The officers and noncommissioned officers hastily shepherded the men back to the boats. “How is he?” Reubold asked the medical officer.

  The officer took a strip of tape from a medical officer and sealed the edge of the bandage in a fold. “I think he has a concussion. He could have cracked his skull. I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  The medical officer straightened and gestured to the steward to gather his belongings. “I didn’t bring an X-ray machine,” he said as if Reubold was slow-witted. “And I can’t adequately examine him in this cave. My advice is to get him to the hospital and have someone there look him over. Until then, lower your voice, and don’t be such an ass.”

  Reubold helped Waldvogel to his feet as the medical officer and orderly left. The korvettenkapitan examined his drenched clothing.

  “I am a mess,” he said. “I think the uniform is ruined. They are so hard to come by.”

  “What were you doing?” Reubold said.

  “What?”

  “What were you doing? Where were you going? The men said you walked to the maw as if you were drunk. Were you trying to kill yourself? If that’s the case, just wait. The British would gladly do that for you.”

  Waldvogel rubbed his head tenderly. “No, no. Nothing like that.” He looked toward the entrance to the pen. The night was black and calm, except for the dim light of the faraway fires set by falling bombs. He began to shiver. Reubold removed his leather jacket and covered Waldvogel’s shoulders.

  “Thank you,” Waldvogel said. He studied the entrance, trying to remember what had drawn him near the edge, what had almost gotten him killed. He tasted grit in his mouth and looked at the crack in the ceiling. “Such a bomb,” he said in admiration.

  “Yes,” Reubold said. “I’ll write the RAF and congratulate them. Let’s get away from here.”

  “Yes,” the korvettenkapitan said, trying to sort through his memory. “The guns,” he said, when the thought came back to him in a flood of images. “The anti-aircraft guns. How simple it was. What a dunce.”

  “What?”

  “The guns,” Waldvogel said excitedly. His hands came up and began to piece the scene together for Reubold. “I watched them for a time before I realized that they held the answer. I did not realize it before. The searchlights, I thought at first. I watched them sweep the sky,” his hand pantomimed the movement of a searchlight. “And I thought, yes. That will certainly work. And then I thought, how ridiculous. They would present the perfect target for the enemy.”

  “What are you talking about?” Reubold said, losing his patience.

  “The boats, Fregattenkapitan. I did not understand. They have such little movement when on the foils. They are not like other craft, bouncing over the waves, being battered by the sea.”

  “Yes,” Reubold said. “They are fast. But we still cannot aim what we shoot at. What of it?”

  “Precisely,” Waldvogel said. This time it was his turn to become excited, and his hands became little fists as the full memory of what he had discovered before the explosion came back to him. “The slightest movement, the very least movement at the gun barrel, is translated into many times that by e
ven a minor intrusion.”

  “So?”

  “The variation is multiplied by the distance to the target. The gunners have no time to compensate for the slightest movement, even if they are aware of it.”

  Reubold remained silent, listening. Waldvogel, heartened by the fregattenkapitan’s attention, continued.

  “The gunners need a simple device to lay the Trinity exactly on target. I’ve wasted my time with gyroscopes and complicated sighting devices, and even blamed the gunners for their inability to hit the targets.”

  “Imagine their frustration and what they thought of you,” Reubold said. “Continue.”

  “I saw the tracers fill the sky,” Waldvogel said, almost breathless with revelation. “Long, thin lines of light. And then, I realized—we will use tracers. We will sight by the line of tracers as they strike the target. When we see the fall of the shell, we fire the Trinity. The target is illuminated by the 2cm shells striking it.”

  “How does that help?” Reubold said, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He could not take the boats out again simply to fail. He had felt Waldvogel’s possibility and for an instant had accepted the man’s excitement as his own—willing the idea’s success. But he dare not promote an idea that he felt would have little chance of success. He could not stand the defeat. “If we use the midship’s doorknocker we have their distance from the Trinity’s to contend with. Not a great distance in meters but enough to throw off anyone’s aim. It is also lower than the Trinity. Remember that when we rise on your hydrofoils our bow is up. I am not a gunner, but if a slight movement presents a problem than surely height and position impact on the situation as well.”

  “Yes,” Waldvogel said, undaunted.

  “Well then, how can you think that this is a solution? We are exactly where we were before, Waldvogel: half-formed ideas and idiotic notions.” Reubold’s anger was fueled by the idea that nothing would ever come of the boats and their guns. Sea Eagles the men called them. They might soon be eagles without talons.

  “No. No,” Waldvogel said hastily. “I did not explain myself properly. Forgive me, please. Next to them. Atop them perhaps. If we attach a 2cm in place on the mount, the trajectory will be exactly the same.”

  “The same,” Reubold said, his mind forming a picture. A quad arrangement. It would be cramped in the gun well. It was a tight fit with the Trinity alone. The placement of the doorknocker would not be the problem; there was more than enough room on the mount. But the gun crew would now be forced to man both the Trinity and the doorknocker. Could it be done? The 2cm ate up ammunition at an exorbitant rate—it required constant attention from its loaders. Could it be done? He noticed Waldvogel looking at him expectantly.

  “Fregattenkapitan?”

  “You shit,” Reubold said. “Just when I thought that I was through with your boats and guns.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think that it will require a great deal of training. I think also that I shall have to approach my superiors and convince them that we have at last found the key to this filthy mystery. We have, haven’t we, Korvettenkapitan? We have found the key at last?”

  Waldvogel smiled weakly. “I hope so.”

  That poor shit isn’t even convinced, Reubold thought. How am I going to take this idea to the Silver Stripes? But he saw the possibility and it was amazingly simple. Use the 2cm’s tracer strikes on the target to aim the Trinity. Reubold’s eyes lowered in concentration. Where was the weakness? Every solution had a weakness; where was Waldvogel’s? Was there one? Have the gun trainer or layer fire the doorknocker—the other fires the Trinity. The doorknocker eats up ammunition. The Trinity loader and assistant loader will have to feed both guns. Difficult, but it could be done. Especially if the rate of fire was reduced. There would be no need for a constant barrage—just a few shots to locate the target. Everything would have to happen instantaneously. Seconds, Reubold thought. Strike, sight, fire. Seconds.

  Where was the weakness? Reubold challenged himself. What would cause this plan to fail, like all the others before it?

  A cloud of concrete dust descending from the huge crack in the ceiling caught his attention. It settled slowly, covering the calm waters with a gritty film. What would have happened, Reubold reasoned, if it had landed directly on the S-boat pen? It would have destroyed the boat anchorage, or trapped the S-boats inside.

  Move the boats, he suggested to himself.

  “Fregattenkapitan?” Waldvogel said. “May I be excused? I should like to lie down.”

  “Yes,” Reubold said. “First, go to the hospital and have them examine you. If you die before this problem is solved I’ll be very distressed.”

  Waldvogel nodded, offering a sickly smile, and left Reubold pondering his options. Move the boats. Where? They are nocturnal animals—the night hides them from the Allies. In the bright light of the sun they could be too easily found and destroyed. He walked closer to the entrance, examining the concrete walls and ceiling. Tiny fissures feathered out from the main crack but they appeared stable. Best to take our chances here, Reubold thought. I’ll order the boats out before the next raid, he concluded. Maybe that will save them.

  Save them from the enemy, yes, his mind countered, but who will save them from the Silver Stripes and the army? He turned to see the hunched figure of Waldvogel disappear among the crews tending the boats.

  Perhaps you are the better man, Reubold thought. I hope that you are. I hope that your ideas bear fruit.

  Chapter 16

  The U.S. Navy Base at Portsmouth

  Cole hung up the telephone, thanked the duty officer, and made his way back to his quarters. He had spent five minutes talking to Dickie Moore and he was drained.

  “But you must go and see her,” Dickie had said, his insistence irritating Cole.

  “No,” Cole had said. “I can’t.”

  “Oh, now, Jordan. Let’s not be silly about this. I know perfectly well that you can go and see her. She lives not two hours’ drive from you, and don’t forget I know exactly where you are. Simply hop in a jeep—there must be dozens of those things lying around there—and pop in. Do her a world of good.”

  “Dickie,” Cole had said, “how is it you have time to stick your nose in my business? Aren’t you doing important things elsewhere?” Every conversation had a certain cryptic quality to it. The lines were monitored and if someone made the mistake of mentioning a place, or ship, or anything else that might be construed as giving aid and comfort to the enemy, he’d be on a fast boat back to the States, if not charged with some offense. So everyone used caution and the telephone conversations were sometimes reduced to a series of silly guessing games. They reminded Cole of the child’s puzzle—connect the dots.

  “Important? Don’t be silly. I have a remarkable talent for avoiding anything of consequence. Unless there’s a beautiful young lady involved. I see that as my true service to the Empire. Now you must go. As a friend.”

  When he was called to the Duty Hut for a telephone call and signed his name in the log, he thought at first it might be Rebecca Blair calling. His mind raced with the possibilities of the role that he would play—cold, arrogant, disinterested, abrupt—emotions that he could, lately, call up without effort. But it was Dickie and the one emotion that he hadn’t counted on came as a surprise to him—disappointment. He really wanted to hear Rebecca’s voice.

  “She’s left that filthy husband of hers,” Dickie continued. “High time I say. Bloody bastard. Almost makes one wish that he’d bought it in …” Dickie caught himself, “wherever the filthy pig was.”

  “I’m glad she left him,” Cole had said. He turned away from the duty officer’s desk so the man couldn’t eavesdrop on the conversation. The officer took the hint and headed for a coffee urn on the other side of the room.

  “Then you must go and see her. The poor thing. She looks positively worn out.”

  The conversation went on like that for several minutes until the duty offic
er returned, and, to Cole’s relief, mouthed the words: “I’m sorry, sir.” He had to get off the telephone. He said good-bye to Dickie, walked the short distance to his quarters, and found the gray .30-caliber ammunition box that held all of his important papers. He snapped it open, rifled through the contents, and found the envelope he wanted. He set the box on the floor by his cot, opened the letter, and began to read.

  My Dear Jordan:

  I hardly know how to begin. When you left I felt as if my world had collapsed. Gregory was most insistent about knowing who you were and why I was so upset. I made some miserable excuses about the whole thing; telling him that I hadn’t gotten over the shock of his wounds. I could not tell him, of course, that I had sent away the man I loved, and still think of nearly every day. Your face, your smell, your touch stays with me. There was a chap at the hospital, an American civilian who sounded so much like you that I nearly burst into tears. He was one of your journalists. I wanted very much to ask him about you, as if every American over here knows every other American. I felt incredibly stupid and so out of sorts that I could barely do my job. I went into the stairwell and had a good cry. It was some time before I could pull myself back together.

  I am concerned about your well-being, my darling, because of the war but also because I know that I hurt you terribly and I know that you hold things deep within you, close to your heart. You are a kind man, Jordan; a good man and sensitive as well. I fear that I have hurt you so deeply that you will always hate me and I hope that I am wrong.