“Why not pass it to Radio Hell-ville for transmission? They have a more powerful transmitter and a taller antenna.”
“Good idea, Commodore. I'll do that.” They talked for a few more minutes, but Dave could see that Ennis's attention and energy were flagging. Mike Christie cleared his throat in a significant manner, and Dave hurriedly said, “But I'm sure I've kept you long enough, Commodore. With your permission, I'll get back to the Scorpion now.”
Both he and Christie excused themselves and went topside.
“Glad you caught my signal,” Christie said. “He always takes a nap this time of day, but God help the man who says that aloud in his hearing. The official story is that he works sunup to sundown. And he is at this moment '...catching up on his paperwork, and mustn't be disturbed.'”
“But Mike, honestly – do you think he could take this schooner to sea? He looks terrible!”
Christie shrugged. “Doc Cheah says that he is in fact getting better, just not as fast as he thinks he is. The whole crew is engaged in a conspiracy to slow him down, give him a chance to rest and recuperate. We're all anchors to windward, keeping him from driving onto a lee shore.” Pleased with his metaphor, Mike repeated it: “Anchors to windward...”.
After a pause he added, “We couldn't possibly go to sea now, anyway – the Albatros nearly stripped us of hands. And weapons, right down to pistols, so even if we could sail, all we could do if we met a pirate is shout insults at 'em.”
“I notice a few fresh faces, though.”
“Yes, we've some had success at recruiting round the island, and we could fill the schooner with eager young men, but they'd all be lompkinders, no use except as ballast until trained. And I don't have enough experienced petty officers to do the training. We're trying hard to find sailors and fishermen, men used to the sea, and they're scarcer. The Nosy Be authorities have been truly helpful – the militia regiment has standing orders to release any man who wants to volunteer for the Navy. Without that concession we'd be at a stand, since every able bodied man and boy from seventeen to fifty is enrolled in the militia.”
“Well, Mike, I'd better get back to the Scorpion and send my Sparks over to Hell-ville Radio, as Commodore Ennis suggested. The Commodore will want to know we've completed our mission safely as soon as possible, so I've got to get that message off.”
Dave noticed how both he and Mike had fallen into the pattern of referring to Bowditch as the Commodore, while Commodore Ennis was referred to by name. Rather like how, on a merchant vessel with more than one mate, the chief mate was always referred to as the mate, while the junior officers were spoken of as the second mate or the third mate, as the case may be.
“Sure, Dave. Say, why don't you and Chief Landry join me for supper tonight? We'll break out a bottle or two. I'm the only officer aboard, and I'm getting awful tired of eating alone.”
Dave raised an eyebrow. “Captain …Commodore … Ennis never asks you to join him for a meal?”
“Well, it's not that he's inhospitable. But Doc Cheah's got him on two additional small meals during the day, – one mid-morning and one mid-afternoon. Then he has a light supper right at sunset and goes straight to bed. This regimen is part of the deal they struck to keep Cheah from ratting on him to Doctor Girard.”
“Well, okay, then. I'll leave Cameron in charge of the dhow. I'm pretty sure he wanted to go ashore to see his girlfriend, but hunger is the best relish, eh? She'll wait. Or not.” They both laughed.
“Eighteen hundred?”
“See you then.”
Dave dropped over the side into the Scorpion's dory, and ordered, “Let go forward. Fend off. Give way together.” A very few strokes brought them back alongside the dhow. Dave climbed up the pilot ladder and was met at the top, with a brilliant grin and a helping hand, by Ajali, their African volunteer from Mafia Island.
Ajali had proven to be a natural seaman, and had quickly learned the ropes on the dhow. He could in fact be rated Able once he mastered the art of steering a compass course. The magnetic compass appeared to be entirely new and strange to him, but his shipmates were helping him learn it.
He had also learned a very basic version of the patois,and could understand orders and carry on a conversation. The crew had generously helped him learn the language, and once they had gotten the usual seamen's pranks out of their systems, such as teaching him that the proper form of address on first meeting an officer in the morning was “Fuck you very much, sir!”, they had accepted him completely as a member of the crew and a fellow navy-man. The Kerg seaman had many faults, but racial prejudice was not among them.
“Thanks, Ajali. Pass the word for Sparks, will you?”
“Aye aye, sir.”
When Bastiaans, the radio petty officer, appeared, Dave said, “Take this message ashore to Radio Hell-ville, Sparks. Get a signed receipt for it from the duty operator. Here's enough money for a bumboat and a taxi each way. You can stop for a drink on your way back – but if you're not aboard by sunset, I'll have your stripes.”
“Aye aye, sir,” the petty officer replied with a grin, happy at the prospect of a run ashore, however brief.
“And don't forget that paper you signed, and the cover story. No gossip about our mission, hear?”
“Aye aye, sir. Won't say a word, sir.”
“Off you go, then.”
A few minutes before 1800, Dave and Chief Landry stood on the dhow's afterdeck in their shore-going rig as the dory was manned for the short pull over to the Joan. It lacked half an hour until sunset.
“Todd, Sparkie's supposed to be back aboard by sunset. Log the time of his return for me, will you?” Dave said.
“Aye aye, sir,” Cameron replied. “Enjoy your supper aboard Joan.” Dave thought he detected a note of envy in that last sentence, but ignored it.
When the dory had pulled over to the schooner, Dave said to the boat's crew, “You boys are invited to sup with the hands. Mister Christie even ordered an extra liquor ration so the Joans can toast our safe return.” This brought broad grins to the faces of the seamen.
But Dave wiped away those grins with his next words. “Remember the document you signed. Remember the cover story. If you let slip one word about what we really did, even to fellow navy men, the Commodore'll cut off your courting tackle with a dull knife and feed it to the sharks. Then he'll feed you to the sharks. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.” “Aye aye, sir.” Their faces were now grave.
“Right, then. Let's enjoy the Joan's hospitality.”
The next morning, Dave's head was a little fuzzy from said hospitality, which in the case of the officers had involved a couple of bottles of best Nosy Be rum shared among the three of them. But he didn't forget to check the deck log for the time of Petty Officer Baastians' return on board. He found the time logged at exactly the predicted time of sunset – Baastians must have climbed the pilot ladder at the precise moment the sun's upper limb vanished in the west. Dave chuckled at the way the petty officer had made the most of his run ashore while deviating not a moment from his orders.
When Dave encountered him on deck after breakfast, he said, “No problems ashore, Sparks?”
“Nossir. The duty operator did say that propagation conditions were bad yesterday during daylight – which I already knew, o'course – and that he might not be able to contact the Albatros until well after sunset. He promised to let us know when he raised her and she acknowledged receipt.”
“Well done, Baastians. Carry on.”
Dave noticed the tiny white dot of the balloon – the “AEWS” – in the northern distance, and reached for his telescope. The seven-power scope turned it from a dot into a fuzzy white oblate spheroid without providing further detail. He made a quick decision and snapped the telescope shut.
“XO!” he called to Chief Landry, who was forward. “I'm going ashore on business, and I'll probably be gone all day. But I'll be back by sunset to relieve you, so you and Cameron can count on an evening ashore.”
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br /> “Aye aye, sir.” Landry was obviously curious about the “business” taking his skipper ashore, but he refrained from asking questions.
Dave went below, washed and shaved, changed into his shore-going suit, and returned topsides to find the dory manned and waiting for him. Once ashore, he hailed a cab. “Militia headquarters,” he said to the driver.
Within an hour, Dave was in a militia truck, bouncing along the west coast road, heading northward toward Andilana. He was somewhat surprised at the ease with which he had not only received permission to visit the AEWS site, but at the generous offer of transportation there and back. He was even greeted personally by the colonel commanding the regiment, the senior militia officer, and treated with great cordiality. Dave attributed this to the prestige the Navy enjoyed on Nosy Be, and was grateful.
Besides the driver, there was only a young militia aspirant – officer cadet – one Mr. van Wyk, who was serving as Dave's guide. Dave questioned van Wyk about the AEWS until he realized that the boy didn't really know anything about it. He was newly graduated from the cadet course and on “general duties” at HQ – apparently a euphemism for “gofer” – awaiting assignment to a line company. He did explain proudly to Dave that he had been selected for “cadre”: full-time, paid status in the regiment. Given the general cluelessness of this kid, Dave assumed that family connections must have had something to do with his winning what was clearly a prized appointment.
Nosy Be is not a large island, but it still took the best part of an hour to drive from Hell-ville to Andilana by way of the winding, rutted coast road. Just short of the town, the driver turned off onto a rough track that led up a slight rise, through a patch of jungle, to a grassy hill-top. They had reached the AEWS station.
The station itself wasn't very impressive: a small cluster of huts surrounding the winch that was used to control the altitude of the balloon.
As Dave got down from the truck, a tall young man in the uniform of a captain in the militia regiment left a small group of militia men in working rig and approached, hand outstretched.
“Welcome to the AEWS unit, Captain Schofield. I'm Captain Peter Villiers, AEWS CO.”
Dave shook his hand, and said, “Thank you, Captain. I gather you were expecting me.”
Villiers laughed and said, “Oh, yes – I've just been on the horn with HQ. Orders from the Colonel himself to extend every courtesy to our gallant allies.”
“I'm flattered and grateful, Captain. But I have to confess that I'm not here on official naval business – just satisfying my own personal curiosity. Ever since I first sighted your balloon from seaward I've been dying to know more about it.”
“Then we'll make every effort to satisfy your curiosity, Captain. Let's take a quick look at the ground installation, then we can talk about operations over refreshments in my office, eh? You must be thirsty after that dusty drive up from Hell-ville.”
Van Wyck was sent off with another cadet, and they walked over to the winch. Dave's seaman's eye could see that it was a very sturdy arrangement. The winch itself was mounted securely on a concrete pad. The cable, three-quarter-inch wire rope, led off the bottom of the drum horizontally to a sturdy steel swivel block, also mounted into a concrete pad, and then upward to the balloon. The strain was taken off the winch by not one but two chain stoppers, one between the winch drum and the fairlead block, and one after the fairlead – a very seamanlike arrangement, Dave noted approvingly. A smaller wire was loosely clipped to the cable, and led to a small hut nearby.
Rather redundantly, Captain Villiers explained what Dave could plainly see. “The winch is electric. The motor-generator set that powers it is over there, in that shed.”
“Where's the connecting power cable?”
“Buried, for safety.”
“What's this smaller wire, clipped to the tether?”
“That's for the telephone in the balloon's gondola, for contact with the ground.
“Now, unless you have more questions about the ground installation, shall we proceed to my office?
”Certainly, sir.”
The two men walked across the trimmed grass of a square around which the buildings of the stations were set at regular intervals, toward a building with a flag flying in front of it, one Dave didn't recognize. A sign announced it as “Nosy Be Regiment – AEWS Company HQ”. There was a large notice board outside, as well, with papers posted under headings such as “Plan of the Day”, “Meteorological Forecast”, “Officer of the Day Rota”, and so forth. As neared it, they met a militiaman in coveralls on his way out, who rendered a smart salute that Villiers returned with equal crispness. Dave couldn't help comparing this ruefully to the naval version of a salute, which consisted of casually touching the brim of one's hat or cap.
Villiers' office proved to be a large, comfortably furnished room approached through an outer office, where a soldier-clerk came to rigid attention behind his own desk upon their entry. “Carry on, Corporal,” Villiers said, and the clerk sat back down and resumed clattering away on an enormous, noisy typewriter. No sooner had Villiers courteously invited Dave to a seat on a comfortable couch, and sat himself in an armchair facing him across a low table, than a white-jacketed soldier appeared bearing a tray with a pot of coffee, a bottle of rum, and a heaping platter of various snacks. Captain Villiers poured coffee for Sam, offered him a shot of rum to “... liven it up a bit”, which Dave accepted, and invited him to help himself to the food. Dave tried what appeared to be a plain rice ball, which turned out to include, in addition to sticky rice, shredded coconut, cane sugar, and some other herb or spice he couldn't identify. It was delicious, and he found himself reaching for another as soon as he finished the first one. Dave decided that, whatever their military qualities, the militia regiment couldn't be faulted on the issue of official hospitality.
After these courtesies were out of the way, Villiers began what Dave could tell from his tone was a briefing delivered many times before to visitors.
“The balloon itself is constructed of light canvas, and has a capacity of not quite 1000 cubic meters. It's a hot air balloon, with a forced-draft burner on board. The balloon has a crew of two – a pilot and an observer. At present, we're limited to an altitude of slightly over 300 meters by the availability of wire rope, but the aircraft itself could rise much higher. We plan to operate at an altitude of 1500 meters once we've acquired enough cable, which is on order and being manufactured. At the present altitude, the observer can theoretically detect objects at a range of more than sixty kilometers – depending, of course, on the size of the object and the conditions of visibility. The observer is equipped with a pair of ten-power binoculars, so he can certainly sight a sailing vessel at that range in daylight on a clear day. We've reported the arrival of merchant traffic at that approximate distance several times, in fact – most recently your own vessel.”
“Why both a pilot and observer? Couldn't one man carry out both functions?”
“Not very efficiently. The pilot, for safety reasons, occupies himself solely with his instruments – an altimeter, a gauge showing the length of cable paid out, a dynamometer showing the strain on the cable at the gondola, and an anemometer for measuring wind speed at altitude. There are also a thermometer and a barometer, to give him some advance notice of changes in the weather at altitude. He constantly adjusts the burn to maintain altitude without putting undue strain on the cable. If the wind strength at altitude reaches 40 kilometers per hour, the pilot will order the balloon reeled in, again for reasons of safety. With a pilot to do all that, the observer can devote all his attention to sweeping the horizon for approaching vessels, without concerning himself with flying the aircraft.”
“And the crew communicates with the ground staff by phone?”
“There's a field telephone in the gondola connected with a station on the ground by a wire loosely attached to the mooring cable, as you saw.”
“By 'field telephone', do you mean a sound-powered phone?”
“What fuel does the burner use?”
“Distilled spirits of palm oil. It's very energy-dense. The pilot maintains pressure on the tank with a hand pump. But there's a danger of fire if the burner is used carelessly – another reason for a two-man crew. The burner requires close attention.”
Dave considered what Villiers had told him. “I'm really impressed, Captain,” he said after a moment. “Frankly, I had no idea Nosy Be was so technologically advanced – that it had the capability to develop a system this complex.”
Villiers looked down modestly. “Well, I have to confess that we've had help – we've been in contact with the Reunion Defense Force, which has launched its own balloon, and we're sharing data with them.”
“How do you and the RDF cooperate on a project this complex? From a distance, I mean.”
“By radio. The Kerg High Commissioner here has consented to transmit our stuff to St.-Denis to his counterpart there, using the diplomatic code. The KHC in St.-Denis decodes our messages, and encodes and transmits those of the RDF.
“We're not stopping with a single hot-air balloon apiece, either. The next joint project is 1500 cubic meter hydrogen balloons. Ours is being constructed now – both the balloon and the gas generator. It should be somewhat safer for the crew, since no burner in the gondola will be needed. Of course, hydrogen comes with its own safety issues, because it's extremely flammable. We'll have to take the most careful precautions to keep sources of ignition away from both the gas generator and the balloon.
“We're thinking beyond balloons, too. We have a joint project with Reunion to develop a heavier-than-air craft, propelled by engines and with the lift generated by air foils, like the ancients had. Such an aircraft would transcend many of the limitations of balloons.”
Dave's imagination was stimulated by this information. He could imagine all the naval applications for aircraft, both lighter-than-air and heavier-than-air. His mind swirled with questions. He settled on one.
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