Assault on Zanzibar: Book Four of the Westerly Gales Saga

by E. C. Williams

  “I think we have that substance,” he continued, “and it’s been available to us for a long time – we just didn’t think of it.”

  “And what’s that?” asked Captain Lee, an original member of the Working Group and the President of the Kerguelenian Bureau of Shipping.

  “Ethanol.”

  “And what the hell is that when it’s home?” demanded Mother Moreau, sometimes irritated by Fuller’s tendency to be cryptic.

  “A form of alcohol. The form we’re drinking right now, in fact.”

  “What! You don’t mean to burn rum in airplane engines, surely!” exclaimed Commander (I) Foch, another Volunteer Reservist, and in civilian life a commandant in the French Port Police Service.

  “No, no, of course not. Rum isn’t high enough in alcohol content to be a very efficient fuel. And pure ethanol, unlike rum, needn’t be aged or flavored. But the feedstock is the same: Saccharum officinarum, better known as sugar cane, and the production process is very similar. Cane is much faster-growing than oil palms, it requires less land, and our tropical island allies already have both an agricultural and industrial infrastructure in place to produce it.”

  “Won’t we have to modify all our engines to burn a different fuel?”

  “Not at all. One of the advantages of the Stirling cycle motor is that it is an external combustion engine; it doesn’t care what the heat source is. No modification whatever would be required to burn a blend of palm oil distillate and ethanol, except perhaps to the burner tips.”

  “But how can we convince the rum distillers to switch to pure ethanol when rum must be very profitable for them?” asked Commander Foch. Fuller shrugged by way of reply; the subject of economic incentives was not one of his areas of expertise.

  “I think we can kill two birds with one stone here,” interjected Councilwoman Moreau. “The economy of Mauritius was devastated by the Pirate raid they suffered at the beginning of the war, and we’ve been trying to help them get back on their feet. They were cane growers and rum distillers before, and presumably the infrastructure for it is still mostly in place – we can offer them attractive contracts for producing ethanol.”

  “Before we do that … are we sure that blending ethanol with palm oil distillate will work? Or is this just theory?” Captain Lee said.

  “I’ve given this some thought,” replied Fuller, “and done some experimental work. I can achieve a stable blend at every ratio I’ve tested. And every blend provided a stable, hot flame.”

  “I think a blend of one-third ethanol to two-thirds palm oil distillate would be best, from a practical point of view,” interjected Councilman McCown, a business man who had shown a strong, if intuitive, grasp of the details of the Kerguelenian economy. “That level of demand should be reachable for the Mauritians, and reduce the upward pressure on palm oil prices without discouraging current production levels. Also, we might expect marginal rum distillers and sugar refiners on Nosy Be and Reunion to find a switch to ethanol production attractive.”

  “Won’t this encouragement of ethanol production have a negative effect on the Kerguelenian motor fuels industry?” asked Councilman Leroux.

  McCown shrugged. “Well, palm oil has already had the effect of nearly completely displacing coal slurry from fuel blends. And a good thing, too: Kerg coal is of low quality, and the seam is almost played out. Also, using coal slurry as a blending agent with fish oil results in a serious loss of usable power, since any engine burning the blended fuel must use agitate it continuously to keep the proper ratio. And fish oil, may I remind you, is edible, a food additive that is a valuable source of nutrients for both people and livestock…”

  “So’s palm oil,” Fuller interjected.

  “Point taken, but fish oil is a superior source of vitamins…”

  “I wish we knew what the Pirates used as motor fuel,” said Captain Lee. “Whatever it is, they seem to have plenty of it. Suppose they’re using palm oil, too?”

  “It’s not palm oil,” said Commander Foch. “We’ve interrogated prisoners about that, but unfortunately we’ve never captured a Pirate who had anything directly to do with engines. All they knew was that it was called ‘rock oil’, and bubbled up from the earth in certain places ‘by the mercy of Allah’”.

  “That sounds an awful lot like petroleum, the stuff that fueled the world before the Troubles,” interjected Fuller. “But it didn’t just bubble up from the ground then. It took a great investment in the most modern technology to find it and pump it up from the depths of the Earth – technology that is far beyond us, and surely the Pirates as well. But there was a controversial theory extant just before the Troubles that suggested that the geological processes that produced petroleum were still going on …”.

  “Messieurs, se il vous plaît de rester sur le sujet! We’re straying rather far afield from our principle concern, gentlemen”, Moreau interjected, “Which is whether we should encourage the production of ethanol as a blending agent for Navy fuels. I don’t believe there’s a need to take this before the full council, so we can take a definitive decision. What about it? Do we need more discussion? May I remind you that we have several more items on the agenda today?”

  “Call the question,” Leroux said obediently.

  “Any nays? Very well, the proposal passes. Next item …?”

  “Wah lan! What a weapon!” Landry exclaimed, after firing off twenty rounds in one continuous burst, shredding the trunk of a small tree he was using as a target.

  “Yeah, but you gotta remember to fire in short bursts – three or four rounds – or you’ll melt the barrel after a couple magazines,” CSM Richburg said. “And of course, steady it on the bipod for accuracy – you fire this beast off-hand for a few rounds and you’ll be shaking too much to hit anything.”

  “Yeah, it is heavy. And keeping the thing fed will require totin’ a ton of ammo.”

  “It weighs damn near 8 kilos. But it uses the same round as the carbine – 6.35 mm.”

  “Or as my sailors call it – ‘quarter-inch”. Both laughed at the obstinate insistence of Kerg sailors on using the older measurements at sea, or for anything nautical.

  “Does your brass plan to switch to this as the general infantry rifle?”

  “Oh, no,” laughed Richburg. “It’s way too heavy and cumbersome for that. No, we intend to issue it at a rate of one per platoon initially, and eventually one per squad, to beef up the firepower of small units – small units being mostly what we have. The rest of the platoon or squad will each carry a few extra magazines of 6.35 for the auto-rifleman. The mags are re-usable.”

  Landry released the empty magazine from the weapon and inspected it. “Looks like a knuckle-buster to re-load.”

  “Oh, oui. Builds up your thumb muscles, for sure.”

  “So … just the one for us, then?”

  Richburg shrugged apologetically. “For now, anyway. The QM didn’t even want to let me have that one, but I talked the Old Man into agreeing that Mafia was an opportunity to field-test a prototype under actual combat conditions.”

  “Oh, well. One is better than none. This thing gives one guy the firepower of a dozen riflemen.”

  “Or more. It’s a war-winner.”

  “I’d say it’s more of a score-evener. Our intel shows the Pirates can field many more fighters than they have so far. Zanzibar, with Pemba Island and their mainland territories, is richer and more populous than the whole of the Kergosphere – more so than most people can imagine. And the Sultanate can, potentially, call on the aid of the entire Caliphate! The Commodore doesn’t seem to think we have much hope of defeating them outright, only inflicting enough pain that they’ll be willing to cut a deal – settle for a truce. And to do that, we need to exploit every advantage we can develop – technically and tactically, as he puts it.”

  Having fired all the ammo they had brought, the two warrant officers strolled back toward Camp Van der Merwe.

  “What do you call this thing, anyway?”


  “So far, we just use the term ‘SLAR’”.

  “Slah?” asked Landry, confused by Richburg’s Nosy Be accent.

  “No, SLAR – short for ‘self-loading automatic rifle’, the technical name for it.”

  “SLAR, then. By any name, one of these for every section of my riflemen would make my happiness complete … well not quite complete.”

  “What would do that, as long as we’re wishin’? A field-expedient rum distillery? A lady companion for every troop?”

  Landry laughed. “Well, those, of course. But I was thinkin’ of a weapon – a man-portable, indirect-fire gun that would put a shell or bomb onto the enemy when within, say, extreme rifle range.”

  “A grenade thrower ….”

  “Yes! Something that would throw a grenade-sized or bigger charge further than a man could. See, the big problem with grenades is when the enemy is within grenade range you’re in range – easy range – of enemy small-arms fire. And you have to expose yourself to toss a grenade.”

  “I dunno. A catapult?”

  “Guess so. It would have to reliably throw the grenade, or charge, in the direction of the enemy. I thought of using slings with ordinary grenades but that’s just too risky.”

  “Why don’t we pass this requirement up the line to the boffins? Maybe they can come up with something.”

  “Promising idea. I’ll write it up and give it to Mister Cameron.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The Commodore’s Chief of Staff. I’ve found he’s the officer to go to when I need something. He’s got that rare talent, for an officer – he can make shit happen.”

  “I’ll pass the idea back to Regimental HQ. They can get someone working on it, too.” Richburg paused, then went on: “Something I’ve been curious about: how do you organize your men? Battalion, company?”

  “We’re a shipboard division, administratively. I’m the division officer – effectively the O in C.”

  “So … how are you organized internally? Squads?”

  “No. On shipboard, a division usually has two or more sub-divisions, led by midshipmen. But I don’t have any Mids – apparently the young gentlemen don’t see a specialization as a landing party officer as career-enhancing, at least not yet. I’m working on it. But in the meantime, I have two sub-divisions – we call ‘em ‘port’ and ‘starboard’ -- led by senior petty officers. We call smaller units within a sub-division sections – or detachments, if they’re sent off on a mission away from the main body.”

  “So how would you employ multiple SLARs? By sections?”

  “I reckon so. Like you, I see the SLAR as too heavy and cumbersome to make it the standard-issue weapon, so, yes, one SLAR gunner per section, his section-mates to carry extra magazines for him.”

  “Uh-huh. Then in your dream world, if you could get one SLAR for each of your sections, how many would that total?”

  Landry glanced sharply at him. Was Richburg hinting that he would try to divert some SLARs from the Nosy Be Regiment to the Navy? If so, he’d better offer up a reasonable number.

  “Say … ten or a dozen?”

  “That’s all? I mean, I can’t say I can wangle any more at all for you … but you only have ten or a dozen sections?” Richburg sound incredulous.

  “That’s it – about fifty gunners on the strength at any one time.”

  “And you plan to defend Mafia with fifty men?”

  “No, of course not – we have to rely on the Mafians, the African settlers who are the lawful inhabitants of the island, by right of first possession. And luckily for us, they’re dead keen. They hate the Arabs and are grateful to us for their freedom. It’s just a matter of training them – especially, of developing leaders among them to be their officers and non-coms.

  “And that’s why your mission here is so important.”

  “So … how many smugglers do you suppose have managed to land their cargoes?” Sam was talking to Lieutenant Commander Mike Christie, CO of Roland, which had returned to Chole Bay for a brief period of re-supply. Sam thought Christie looked very tired, older than his years.

  “I honestly don’t know, Commodore. They try during just about every extended period of moonless darkness. I’ve caught and sunk a couple, and driven off at least a half-dozen, but there’re bound to be some leakers.

  “We’re stretched pretty thin, sir, frankly. The settlers – the canoe men who cooperate with us – are invaluable, but they’re getting jaded. They’re all farmers and fishermen, for the most part, and must work daytimes to support their families. The reason I need resupply so soon is that I’ve been sharing our food with them, to pass on to their people. And I think we’ll have to keep doing this. We should regularize it in some way – a scale of payments in kind, and generous enough so that they can get some rest during the day, or do some training with our gunners.”

  “But how the hell are the gun-runners evading us? We overfly the stretch of water between Mafia and Zanzibar daily – they would have to make part of that trip in daylight, and we’d catch ‘em.”

  “I think they’re dashing across the channel to the mainland by night, hiding in the creeks and mangroves near the ruins of Dar es Salaam by day, then creeping down the coast, well inshore, when there’s no moon or it’s overcast. Up the Rufiji or one of its tributary streams is another possibility, but that’s farther down the coast and they’d have to make it a long way upstream, undetected, to find adequate cover. They make the run for Mafia in pairs, aiming for widely separated points on the coast, so at least one of them will have a chance.

  “Frankly, Commodore, they’re running our asses ragged.”

  Both were silent for a moment as Sam looked down at a report on his desk and pondered.

  “Mister Konyn reports that there’s evidence that the terrorists on Mafia are being re-supplied and re-enforced to some extent,” he finally said. “So obviously there are some ‘leakers’, as you put it. “I think you need some help, Mike. I’ll recall one or both of the Stingers” – the collective nickname for Wasp and Scorpion, replacing “Little Sisters”, which their crews thought was pansy – “and assign it or them to Operation Verstik.”

  And pray that we can deal with the corsairs en route to or from their cruising grounds from Mafia, with air patrols, he thought, but did not say. Because our merchantmen will then be defenseless off the Madagascar coast.

  Mike broke into a relieved smile. “Thank you, Commodore. That’s terrific news.”

  “And as far wages in kind for the settler militia – that’s a great idea. See Todd Cameron about setting up a scale of provisions to reimburse each man for his loss of income from his regular trade. We’ll try to handle that from here, so you won’t have to exhaust your own supplies so quickly.”

  After he had dismissed Christie, Sam sat thinking of the implications of the decisions he had just made. Not only the recall of the Stingers, but the new need to provide food to militia families, which would put an additional burden on a logistics chain already stretched to the breaking point. Another supply vessel to be chartered, another series of begging signals to French Port.

  He sighed. And then he brightened at the thought: Soon Maddie will be here.

  Lieutenant Francois Ballinger, call sign “Poet”, put his Petrel into a wide turn, banking right so that he could get an unobstructed view of the landscape below. He was at an altitude of three hundred feet, so he kept one eye on his altimeter for safety.

  Below him was the site of the ancient city of Dar es Salaam, “Zone Sugar” on Kerg theater charts. Once a sprawling metropolis of millions, it was now just jungle, for the most part, with a few stumps of what had apparently been tall buildings marking the one-time central business district. He could see a few tiny clumps of ten or a dozen huts, too small to even rate the term “village”, scattered along the banks of the tidal creek that once formed Dar es Salaam harbor. They were the seasonal homes of hunter-gatherers who came there periodically to fish.

  It was the creek
that interested Poet. Intelligence briefs had suggested the possibility that Zanzibari dhows hid there during daylight hours, waiting for a dark night to slip down to Mafia Island and offload their cargoes of weapons, supplies, and fighters. The tropical forest now crowded right down to the water’s edge, and formed good hiding places for shallow-draft vessels. The creek made a sharp turn to the south after the entrance. Poet flew all along the western shore of the harbor, over the ruins of the commercial marine terminal, now discernable only by a faint rectangular outline, down the eastern branch of the creek, and scores of rusting wrecks of ancient merchant vessels, sunk at their moorings alongside, then cut over and up the western shore. To be certain, he flew this circuit twice. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. The western shore was too cluttered with ruins of godowns and old wrecks to offer much in the way of a hidey-hole, anyway.

  But, he reflected, a small dhow snuggled right up to the eastern shore, bare masts among the overhanging trees, would be hard to spot from the air. He flew the circuit one more time.

  Still nothing.

  Or … something? He thought he saw a tree branch of suspicious smoothness and symmetry, just poking above the green canopy. It could be a dead tree. Or it could be a mast.

  He nosed over and went into a shallow turning dive back along the creek to take a closer look. He flicked the safety cover off the gun trigger, just in case.

  As he approached the bank, at an altitude of about three hundred feet, the vegetation suddenly shivered violently then fell away, revealing a small two-master snuggling in among the mangroves and expertly camouflaged with tree branches. Almost simultaneously, a brilliant muzzle flash showed that Poet was being fired upon, head-on, at point-blank range. He pulled back violently on the stick, slammed the throttle to the stop, and climbed at full speed, puffs of black smoke on either side of him showing that the enemy gunners had his range. He didn’t stop climbing until he had reached five thousand feet, believed to be the effective max range of Caliphate triple-A, then banked to assess.