Both Sam and Todd Cameron were now looking with something like awe at this strange, slight, bespectacled boy.
“How did you get away?”
“We were lurking off Cape Bobaomby, the captain hoping to snap up a homeward-bounder, when Wasp, on her way to Hell-ville to re-supply, came up on us suddenly out of a rain squall. The dhow resisted, of course, and in the confusion of the battle I slipped over the side and swam for it. After the Wasp sank the dhow, she picked me up, along with a few of my former Zanzibari shipmates. I joined the Navy that day, enlisted by Captain Low. He rated me Able, but said I wasn't physically qualified to be an officer because of my eyesight.”
“Yet you're now a midshipman…?”
“Yessir. Mister Dallas said I could see plenty good enough to be an intelligence officer, and gave me a provisional warrant. It still has to be approved by you.”
“Of course, I'll approve it, Mister Konyn. Consider yourself a midshipman, RKN, as of the date of your enlistment. Todd, see to the paperwork.”
“Thank you, sir! I won't let you down, sir.”
“I'm sure you won't, Mister Konyn. And I consider myself lucky to have an officer of your skills on my staff. Now, you really need to go get into some dry clothes, before you catch cold.”
Sam gave an internal sigh as the young men saluted and made their departure. Konyn meant “rabbit” in Afrikaans, so his nickname in the midshipman's mess was foreordained: “Percy-the-Rabbit”. Poor kid.
The rest of that day Sam spent aboard first Albatros and then Joan of Arc, inspecting their progress in repairing battle damage and visiting their wounded. In Albatros's sick bay, he of course met Dr. Marie Girard, who went with him as he made the rounds of the injured men, exchanging a few words with each. As always, even with her slim figure masked by seagoing slops and a long white coat, with her hair pulled back into a severe bun and no makeup, she managed to look as elegantly beautiful as a French Port belle attending an opening night at the theater.
When they had a private moment, he said, with as much sincerity as he could muster, “All the best on your coming marriage, Marie. I wish you every happiness.”
Girard looked startled and none too happy. “How did you…? Of course, Bill told you. I thought we had agreed to keep it under wraps for the time being. Apparently, I misunderstood.”
“Then of course I'll say nothing to anyone, until you two decide to announce.”
“I know this must seem awfully sudden … I suppose you and Maddie set the example for us … I mean ...”, her voice trailing off. This was the first time in their acquaintance that Sam had seen her at a loss for words. He wondered why she didn't seem happier, and the thought gave him a mean sort of pleasure he tried to suppress. Marie stayed silent, and Sam, having offered his best wishes, could think of nothing else to say. They moved on to complete their tour of the hanging cots filled with wounded men, then Sam took his leave.
This encounter upset Sam strangely, and he was in a foul mood when he moved on to inspect the state of repair. He found fault, offending the officers of both ships, and returned to Charlemagne sadly aware of having spread despondency and bad feelings in his wake.
The arrival, right on time, of two shining-new flying boats the next morning, the next morning, lightened his mood. As they circled to lose altitude for landing, what looked like a very large bomb under each wing, but a bomb without the usual stabilizing fins, puzzled him. After they alit, and were taxiing toward Charlemagne, he noticed something else different: each plane had an enlarged cockpit, with room for two pilots, side by side. The designers had fattened-up the fuselage to accommodate this change. Since this added beam spread the buoyancy sponsons further apart, it probably also made the plane more stable while taxiing on the water.
Sam yearned to walk forward for a closer look at the airplanes, and a talk with their pilots, but he had set a firm rule for himself to always stay in flag country, to avoid any appearance of infringing on her captain's prerogatives by interfering with the internal management of the ship. He forced himself to wait a decent interval before passing the word for Dave Schofield. He could see Schofield from where he stood, and noted his clear reluctance to tear himself away from his new toys when summoned.
“Tell me about this design, Dave. Why two pilots? And what are those massive things like bombs?”
“I've got a huge sheaf of technical data on the new planes that Rao sent along – in duplicate, one set on each plane – and I'll know more once I've had a chance to go through it, Commodore, and examine the planes more closely.
“The delivery pilots told me that Rao's original intent in coming up with a dual-cockpit design was purely for training – to allow for an instructor pilot to fly with the student. But he'd been reading our battle reports, and saw the advantage of a two-man attack ship. As for the objects under the wings, they're auxiliary fuel tanks – that's what allowed them to fly all the way from Reunion to Nosy Be, and then onward to Mafia Island. The tanks extend their range by nearly three hundred nautical miles. They can be easily removed when not needed, or even dropped in mid-air if necessary.”
“I don't get the advantage in combat of two pilots – unless it's in case one pilot is put out of action.”
“There's that, of course, but more importantly, one man can be the gunner and bombardier while the other focuses on flying. In fact, the second man needn't be a pilot at all.”
“I see … “.
“And there are a couple of improvements not obvious on first inspection. For one thing, the Puffins have a more powerful engine, and can fly twenty or so knots faster. For another, Rao found a way to pack more one-inch ammo into the nose, using the extra fuselage beam. They can now carry ninety rounds, rather than sixty.”
“Do these improvements to the planes imply any changes in their tactical employment?”
“I think they do, Commodore. But I need to think about it, and fly one of the new versions, before I figure out their best use. And I don't yet know anything about the capabilities of our four new airmen.”
“Now that we have more planes, I want a thorough aerial reconnaissance of Stone Town, and especially that battery at the harbor entrance. Note particularly AA gun emplacements. Do that right away – yesterday would've been good. But, as always, do not take undue risks with the airplanes.”
“Aye aye, Commodore. One of the new models will be good for reconnaissance. One man can fly and the other observe. I'll fly observer myself, with one of the newbies as pilot.”
“I'm calling a planning conference soon. Get yourself ready to give a thorough brief on Stone Town's layout and defenses.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Schofield was so obviously anxious to get back to the new airplanes that Sam mercifully let him go, and resumed his customary pacing of his part of the quarterdeck. After some moments' thought, he passed the word for Lieutenant Cameron, his chief staff officer.
“Todd, I'm going to have an all-day planning conference of captains, plus Commander Schofield, in three days' time. I'll want you to sit in and take notes – Konyn, too. Have copies of charts for these waters – Mafia to Zanzibar – laid out for reference. Pick Konyn's brain for any useful info he has about Stone Town. Go ahead and work up a straw-man agenda for my review; the topic will be potential future operations in furtherance of Taffy One's mission. We'll have to give ‘em dinner, so alert Ritchie. Tell him a light meal – I don't want everybody dozing off in the afternoon. Hang out a warning signal, so they can be thinking about it between now and then … got all that?”
Cameron was busily scribbling in the pocket notebook he was never without. “Aye aye sir … planning conference in three days, agenda, meal, warning signal … got it.”
“Very well, then. Carry on.”
Todd scurried off. He now had a full plate – or an even fuller plate – and knew he needed to start work at once.
The morning of the conference dawned fair and calm. The day promised to be a hot one. The boats ca
rrying the warship captains put off from their vessels promptly, to arrive precisely at 0800. Sam had ordered that they approach Charlemagne on the starboard side, and piped aboard with full boarding honors. He knew this would please Bill Ennis especially – not that Bill was particularly touchy about the prerogatives of his rank, but because he was deeply interested in the naval customs, ceremonies, and traditions of the past, and wanted to imbue them firmly in the fabric of the new Navy of the Republic of Kerguelen. Sam could often become impatient with all this, but he acknowledged the importance of tradition to morale and esprit de corps – even when the “tradition” came from old books. In time, the Navy would develop its own traditions. For the present, borrowed ones would do.
Sam greeted each one as he came aboard in strict order of rank. They then gathered under the awning over the quarterdeck, where Ritchie served coffee, for the officers to enjoy in the cool of the very slight morning breeze, all crisp and smart in spotless dress whites. Soon enough, they would be sweating down below, despite electric fans, awnings, wind-sails, and open ports.
Sam opened the conference and set the tone. “Gentlemen, as you know, our occupation of Mafia Island puts us in a strong position to not only interdict raiders on their way to and from their cruising grounds, but also to attack Zanzibar's trade with the rest of the Caliphate. The Zanzibaris of course know that, too, and are therefore, as we speak, almost certainly planning a major effort to dislodge us. The Zanzibaris can draw on the resources of the entire Caliphate to build up an assault force, but, for us, it's a come-as-you-are war. We have to fight with what we have now.
“We can't give them the luxury of time to build up a force. We’ll keep them on the back foot, by striking first and often. That's why we're here this morning – to plan a devastating assault on Zanzibar to take place at the earliest possible moment.” Sam paused for a sip of water from the glass in front of him, then went on.
“I know you – each of you – have come to the same conclusion in your own minds, and will have formed some ideas. Now, I'd like to turn the meeting over to Lieutenant Commander Dave Schofield, our air operations officer, who will brief us on the results of several aerial reconnaissance flights he's undertaken over the past few days.”
Dave stood up and uncovered an easel. “Good morning, Commodore, captains. This is a plan of Stone Town, showing its defenses. Flag staff drew it from photographs taken from a Puffin at seven thousand feet. We tried to enlarge the photos themselves, but our camera just didn't have the resolution – all we got when we blew up the pictures was blur. But these drawings are faithful to the original photos.” He picked up a coffee spoon, and used it to point at a feature on the plan.
“This is the battery guarding the harbor entrance. Note the mast-less hulk moored right alongside it. That's a triple-A platform for the aerial defense of the battery, and it's bristling with AA guns. I guess there just wasn't enough room on the battery itself for any more guns. We know – or think we know – from battle experience that the Zanzibaris don't have automatic or semi-auto heavy guns – at least, not yet. Their AA guns are all single-shot breech-loaders. They make up for that by packing as many tubes as possible on any vessel they want to defend. We can be sure they'll follow the same philosophy on land. They can put up a surprising volume of fire that way, and their shooting's getting better.”
“Do you think you can take out the battery through level bombing from altitude?”
“Frankly, sir – not yet. We're getting better, but the battery is a small target to hit from six or seven thousand feet, and we don't have much more time to practice before the planned date for our first air raid on Stone Town. I recommend we hit the harbor during the first raid, and leave the battery for later.”
“Okay, Dave – but that battery will have to be taken out eventually if we're to mount a surface attack on Stone Town.”
“Roger that, Commodore. We'll get it done – just not right now.”
“What else?”
“Since we're not going to hit the harbor battery, we can bomb up with all incendiaries, rather than a mix of HE and incendiary. These warehouses will make terrific targets. And the incendiaries will work against ships, as well.”
“What about the adjacent neighborhoods? Aren't they residential?”
“We'll be careful not to drop over any part of town except the waterfront godowns. We'll err on the water side, in aiming.”
Sam was still unsure about that, but dropped the subject for the moment.
“But on another topic:”, he continued, “What's that white blob right over the center of the town? If it's a cloud, it's the first perfectly circular cloud I've ever seen.”
“I was coming to that, Commodore. That's a balloon – their version of the AEWS aerostat the Nosy Be militia put up. We're assuming its function is to give early warning of a surface attack on Stone Town. It's at an altitude of only a few hundred feet – probably due to the same problem the Nosy Be folks had initially, of making long-enough lengths of strong rope. Still, it's high enough to give the observer a horizon distance of seventeen miles or so.”
“I'm assuming that balloon is not much longer for this world…?”
Dave chuckled. “You assume correctly, sir. A round or two of one-inch should take care of it nicely.” This provoked a general round of laughter. Sam waited patiently for it to subside, then said “Moving on ...”.
“Yessir. Well, you'll note that the harbor is full of shipping, or was at the time of the reconnaissance flight that generated this intel. Clearly, as you suggested, the Zanzibaris are building up a force to re-take Mafia Island. It'll be a target-rich environment for our raid – if we strike before they sortie.
“The planes will be armed with hundred-pound bombs, and explosive rounds for their one-inchers. Navigation shouldn't be an issue, assuming the usual clear weather, since the raid can simply follow the coast up to Zanzibar and return. I recommend that we station at least two vessels along our route, well-spaced, to come to the rescue of any downed pilots. If my guys have to ditch, they’ll naturally do their best to come down at sea, not inland.”
“I approve that recommendation. Roland and Albatros will be the rescue ships. Captains take note, and confer with Commander Schofield on schedule and station.” Murphy and Kendall nodded and made notes.
“Joan will stay behind to guard Charlie. Bill, I think you should be underway and cruising offshore during the raid, ready to intercept any threat to the Charlemagne.”
“Aye aye, Commodore.” But Sam thought Ennis looked dubious. “Speak up if you disagree with any element, Bill. That goes for everyone else, too.”
“Well, Commodore, it seems to me that we're spreading our forces awfully thin. If something unforeseen occurs, we won't be able to react.”
“’Something unforeseen’ … like what?”
“Suppose that, for some reason – better intelligence than we think they have, sheer coincidence, whatever – they have a large force of gun-dhows at sea when we're spread out from here to there, with the air arm focused on attacking Stone Town. They could defeat us in detail – the two plane-guard schooners, at least. If they're deployed for best use as rescue ships, they'll be too far apart for mutual support. And I – I mean Joan – will be here, looking out for Charlie, and so even further away.”
Sam pondered that for a moment, then said, “But how likely is that – either scenario? Konyn, you're our intelligence officer. Any thoughts?”
The young midshipman blushed at suddenly becoming the center of attention, his effort to marshal an answer a struggle plain. After an interval that threatened to become embarrassing, he stammered, “Not very likely, Commodore, but not impossible. We know that some of the vessels that fish out of Stone Town for the local market were fitted with radio and given an operator, at the Sultan's expense, to double as pickets. It could happen that one of those could spot our planes or one of the rescue ships and radio a warning in time for enemy forces to sortie. And of course, sirs, it's
highly unlikely that our reconnaissance flights have gone unnoticed.”
The midshipman’s observation impressed Sam. Despite his obvious discomfort at speaking to a room full of captains, Konyn had come up with a very cogent observation.
“A very fair point. What's the solution, then? Anyone?”
A general discussion followed, with all the captains offering opinions. But a consensus soon emerged: the task force should sortie as a body, and launch the strike against Stone Town from a point at sea, then continue toward the target for the estimated duration of the attack. At that point, the formation would stop and motor in a box two miles square, so that the returning airplanes could find Charlemagne. As to timing, they agreed that the force should sortie after dark, motor-sail toward Zanzibar through the night, and launch the strike at first light. This would put the squadron over Stone Town shortly after sunrise. From the point of view of achieving greatest tactical surprise, this wasn't optimal – ideally, a launch that would put the strike over the target at first light would accomplish that, catching the Zanzibaris, or most of them, still in their beds. But this would in turn mean a launch and approach in the dark, and the danger that the pilots, whose only navigational instrument was a not-too-reliable magnetic compass, might get lost on the way.
By the time the conference broke for dinner, the discussion had descended to the level of details. When they met again after the meal, Sam decided that the plan was solid enough to leave to his staff. They could do the tedious but essential work of calculating a schedule of events, down to the minute, as well as working up fuel, munitions, and stores requirements.
Assault on Zanzibar: Book Four of the Westerly Gales Saga Page 8
