Assault on Zanzibar
Book Four of the Westerly Gales Saga
By
E. C. Williams
Published by Bahari Books
Copyright 2017 by E. C. Williams
All rights reserved
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
One
Task Force One got under way in the predawn darkness of a tropical morning, the slight offshore breeze giving it a farewell blessing with the familiar odors of vanilla and damp earth. Albatros led, followed by Charlemagne, then Joan of Arc, and Roland. Emma Lee, a hired schooner serving as stores ship to the force, brought up the rear. The force sortied under power alone, all sails furled, quietly slipping their buoyed anchors rather than weighing them.
There had been no warning the day before that the ships would sail. Liberty was abruptly canceled at 0800 on the return aboard of the previous day's liberty men so that sailors' gossip in the town's bars and clubs would not leak the news that the Navy was going to sea. Since Wasp and Scorpion (second of that name, a schooner) had left the week before on their maiden shipping-protection cruise, with an ad hoc convoy of three merchant vessels, Hell-ville, capital and chief town of the island of Nosy Be, would awake to a harbor empty of warships for the first time in many weeks.
Commodore Sam Bowditch had ordered the vessels of the force to buoy and slip, and leave under power, to make their departure as unobtrusive as possible – no lights, no clanking of anchor chain, no shouted orders or rattle of lines in blocks as sails were hoisted, noise of their Stirling cycle motor-generator sets and electric water-jet engines inaudible beyond a cable’s length.
Lieutenant (I) Henry Dallas, chief of the Navy's tiny intelligence branch, had reported that he was now confident that the Pirate spy ring on Nosy Be had been completely rolled up by the brilliant coup he had orchestrated with the militia and the constabulary's Special Branch – and, of course, the Navy, in the form of the gun-dhow Scorpion, which had intercepted the fishing vessel taking the principal enemy agent to a rendezvous with a Caliphate dhow.
Nevertheless, Sam intended to take no chances. There might be one or more sleeper agents since activated to take the place of the men now languishing in cells at Nosy Be Constabulary's headquarters.
The Scorpion, so instrumental in catching the head of the spy ring– the first Scorpion, in whose honor the second was renamed – had been sunk in the battle against a Zanzibari force that had aimed to establish a beachhead on Nosy Be. The RKN, together with the Nosy Be militia, had beaten off this attack: three of four enemy vessels sunk during the battle, a fourth captured briefly in an action fought miles to the westward, then left drifting and aflame by the Scorpion's survivors, who had taken to the enemy dhow's boats, leaving the dhow's crew battened down below but on the verge of breaking out.
This victory had greatly heartened both the Navy and the people of Nosy Be – and no doubt the people of Kerguelen, when they got the news – but Sam knew it was only one more battle in what had been a long war, a war in which Zanzibari raiders had cruelly hurt the maritime trade of Kerguelen and her colonies.
So far, the Navy of the Republic of Kerguelen was winning most of the battles, thanks in part to technology that was superior to that of her enemies – but slowly and steadily losing the war. The gradual but remorseless attrition of the Kerguelenian merchant marine by these corsairs would choke off maritime trade and inevitably reduce the Isles and her distant settlements, both in the Mascarene Islands and around the Great Southern Ocean, to the grinding poverty they endured from the time of the Troubles to the colonization period of the past century.
The Troubles – a generation-long cascade of global disasters, beginning with nuclear war, and the consequent plagues and famine, and culminating with a fatally-coincidental cycle of renewed volcanic activity across the entire northern hemisphere – had destroyed most of human civilization and killed billions of people. In one important ancient nation alone, the United States, an eruption of just one volcano – and there were many more – had engulfed the middle third of the country, while California, a populous and wealthy province, was devastated by earthquakes. The world could conceivably have coped with one such disaster and recovered, but the cascade of horrors, coming one after the other, had been too much.
A few small groups of refugees had escaped to the remote Kerguelen Islands, in the Southern Ocean, and managed not only to survive the harsh sub-Antarctic climate, but preserve some semblance of technological civilization, even though most of the rest of humanity were now tiny scattered bands of hunter-gatherers, reduced to Paleolithic levels of culture and technology.
On Kerguelen, the refugees survived semi-starvation and the harsh climate and laboriously built up a new civilization, one that gradually spread from island to island around the Southern Ocean and then northward to the Mascarene Islands in the Indian Ocean; a maritime culture with an economy based on trade and manufacturing using recycled materials salvaged from the ruins of the larger southern hemisphere cities.
The Kerguelenians assumed that they were the only remnant of pre-Troubles civilization – until a mysterious group of ocean corsairs they at first knew only as “the Pirates” attacked their Indian Ocean trade. These raiders proved to be members of another, previously unsuspected, civilization built up by survivors of the Troubles on the shores of the Red Sea. This was also a maritime culture, one which had thrived and spread to encompass settlements along the shores of Africa and India, and was now pushing south of the Equator. This civilization called itself “the Caliphate”, and the southern outpost of it with which Kerguelen had to contend was the Sultanate of Zanzibar.
Motivated by a totalitarian ideology evolved from pre-Troubles Wahhabi Islam, the Caliphate aspired to convert all other peoples, whether through persuasion or force, to their faith. They killed or enslaved those who resisted.
Determined to fight back, Kerguelen began to build a war fleet, but, so far, the tiny Republic of Kerguelen Navy could not hope to protect her Indian Ocean trade by escort of merchant convoys. Aside from the extreme reluctance of ship-owners to subject their vessels to naval control, there simply were nowhere near enough warships, nor the resources to build and man enough. Intercepting or chasing down individual commerce raiders had become less and less effective, as the Pirates had learned to evade Kerg warships by sailing a roundabout route, well east of the Mascarene islands, to intercept merchant vessels as they passed Cape Vohimena at Madagascar's southern extreme.
Now Sam focused on a strategy of, first, striking a sudden blow at Stone Town on Zanzibar, principal base for the Sultanate commerce raiders; then, while the enemy was off-balance, setting up a base on Mafia Island from which to interdict the Pirate dhows before they could reach their cruising grounds. At this point, the Zanzibaris, with their lucrative piracy frustrated, might be induced to come to the conference table for a negotiated truce.
At least, that was the goal underlying Kerguelen's grand strategy, the only possible strategy she could devise offering any chance of, if not victory exactly, at least a peace she could live with.
But such a strike might, instead, bring to bear the power of the entire Caliphate in defense of its Indian Ocean dependency. The Caliphate was, so far as the Na
vy's intelligence service could figure out, immensely wealthier and more populous than Kerguelen and all its settlements. It could, if sufficiently energized, destroy Kerguelen's settlements in the Mascarene Islands – Nosy Be, Reunion, and Mauritius – and even threaten those in the Southern Ocean, perhaps Kerguelen herself. But this was a gamble Kerguelen had to take.
Or continue to bleed seamen, ships, and money in the guerre de course with the Zanzibari corsairs.
At any rate, being under way at last gave Sam Bowditch a feeling of deep satisfaction: a warship can only fulfill its intended function at sea. It was also gratifying to reflect that the Navy had grown from one vessel to six, and that the smallest of the six packed more firepower than had the Albatros, the Republic of Kerguelen's first warship, when she was first commissioned
By daybreak, Nosy Be had faded astern into the background of the hazy mass of Madagascar itself. Sam ordered the guide shifted to Charlemagne, and signaled “commence air ops”. In response, Albatros and Joan took up stations a half-mile on either beam of the seaplane carrier, with Roland following astern of her, and prepared to conform their movements to hers. Charlemagne hoisted flag “Foxtrot”, which meant “conducting air operations” and signified that the carrier was now the formation guide, and turned her head to the southwards, putting the wind on her starboard bow. Her deck bustled with activity as her escorts turned with her.
Sam gazed intently through his telescope at the carrier. The weather offered a good opportunity to test the ability of “Taffy One” to conduct air operations underway. There was a moderate breeze from the southwest, bringing up a sea state of three to four, with a slight chop and some spray – typical conditions for these waters. He could see in some detail what was happening on the port side of Charlemagne. Two Petrel flying boats were being readied for simultaneous launch, their engines already turning up. Then the crane booms swung outboard with the Petrels, monoplane flying boats, each steadied from the deck by guide lines doubled through eyes in nose and tail. As soon as their hulls touched the water, the lifting tackle cast off, guide lines pulled free, and both planes throttled up and taxied away, turning across Charlemagne's bow into the wind. They were soon airborne, and quickly joined by the two launched at the same time from the starboard side. Air detachment seamen then spotted the remaining two Petrels under the after set of booms, and then launched them to join their four sisters, now orbiting the carrier at two thousand feet.
Sam heaved a deep sigh of relief – he had been unconsciously holding his breath. Their very first ever underway, open-water launch of flying boats had gone without a hitch. Of course, the carrier had launched and recovered planes scores of time before, but always in a sheltered anchorage. No one had been quite sure that an open-sea launch, with any sort of sea running, was even possible. Now they knew it was, and that they could do it.
“Flag to Charlemagne: 'well done'”, Sam said to his phone talker, who passed the word to the duty signalman. Within seconds, the code flags “Bravo Zulu”, preceded by Charlemagne's call letters, raced up to the main top. Charlemagne acknowledged, and in a few moments passed the word to Sam that his praise had been flashed from Charlie to the airborne Petrels.
Commander Al Kendall, Executive Officer of the Albatros, came onto the quarterdeck and approached Sam without ceremony, the only member of the crew allowed this privilege.
“That went well, Skipper”, he rasped. (A Pirate bullet through his neck, received during the “Battle at Anchor”, had narrowly missed his jugular and reduced his voice to a scratchy near-whisper, but had diminished his fierce energy not at all).
“Yes, thank God. My heart was in my throat …” His phone talker interrupted him, saying, “Signal from Charlemagne: resuming base course.”
“Very well,” to the phone talker.… “Yes, damn near perfect, in fact”, Sam continued to his XO. “But we've still got their first open-water underway landing and recovery to get through. I'm not going to uncross my fingers until we've got 'em safely back aboard the Charlie this afternoon.”
The two men watched as the six planes forming Scout-Bombing Squadron One – VSB-1 – so far, the Navy's only aircraft, formed up into a broad arrowhead formation and flew off to the north, distances between planes increasing as their headings diverged until they were just in sight of one another, to make a sweep for any enemy snoopers. They had orders to attack on sight any vessel positively identified as Zanzibari. Sam wanted to take no chances on a radio-equipped dhow alerting Stone Town to their presence at sea.
Sam had considered working up the task force well to the south of Nosy Be, to minimize the chance of an enemy sighting them, but there was Caliphate traffic along the coast of the African main between Zanzibar and trading stations as far south as the small island of Mozambique, off Mossuril Bay. This raised the possibility of meeting a trader that had wandered off shore through the inattention or excessive caution of her skipper. He decided he might as well perform the necessary at-sea training while sailing in the direction of the target. The newly-fledged force had to carry out as much training as possible as it moved northwards toward Zanzibar. There was also the possibility of intercepting a raider or two en route between Stone Town and their cruising grounds.
“You know, Commodore, when I was a lieutenant on board this vessel back in Morbihan Bay, during the work-up for our first wartime cruise, I never imagined that we'd have a six-ship Navy so soon, if ever, much less airplanes,” Kendall remarked, still at Sam's elbow.
“Me neither, Al. So much has happened since then it seems like decades ago.” The two men reflected on this, then Kendall went on: “All the officers are still talking about the party you and Mrs. Bowditch hosted. Everybody had a large time. And I wouldn't be surprised if we don't have a couple more weddings to celebrate, as a result.”
The officers had, in celebration of Sam's recent marriage, entertained him royally to dinner as a guest of the mess. What they had originally intended as a simple meal had grown in the planning, all the officers of the other vessels being invited, as well, and the berthing deck of the Albatros's starboard watch taken over for the occasion, the officer's mess room being far too small. The seamen stacked their hammocks and sea bags neatly along the bulkhead, and borrowed and improvised tables to line up down the centerline. With plenty to drink, and a series of after-dinner toasts to the happy couple, the occasion had turned into a memorable party. Commander Bill Ennis, representing the officers, capped the fete with the presentation to Sam of a silver coffee service, engraved “From the Officers of the Navy to Commo and Mde S Bowditch on their marriage”.
Touched, and anxious to return their hospitality, Sam had thought to host a meal ashore, in a cafe. His wife, Madeline, had taken over the planning from him and turned his first idea of a simple dinner into a gala dinner-dance, booking every table of a fashionable restaurant for the evening, arranging a band, and inviting young ladies as dance partners for the unattached officers. Of course, the Governor as well as the CO of the island militia, with wives, had to be included as well. The affair had cost Sam a small fortune but he judged it money well spent – it had been an enormous success. And after all, aside from the cost of a small and intimate wedding and an all-too-brief honeymoon, he had spent hardly a franc of his pay since taking command of the Albatros.
“Good – I'm glad they enjoyed it. Maddie certainly had fun arranging everything. And I know what you mean by 'future weddings' – she somehow found the prettiest unattached girls on the island and persuaded them all to come.”
“Yessir – some of the Mids looked like they'd died and gone to Heaven.”
They chatted a few minutes more, then Kendall excused himself to resume his endless round of inspection and oversight, driven by the XO's imperative to seem to be everywhere at once.
All that day until mid-afternoon, the task force maneuvered, exercising launching, recovery, re-fueling, and re-launching planes, after the planes had returned from their first sweep. Twice, a flight of two Petrels c
onducted more sweeps ahead of the task force. The CO of the squadron, Lieutenant Commander Dave Schofield, had told Sam that he intended to rotate all his pilots, including the two extra aviators, through this training.
As Sam had watched the first scout take off, it occurred to him to think about what they would do in case of an accident on launch – how would they rescue the pilot? Accordingly, he ordered Roland to take up her station two cables astern of Charlemagne, to act as plane guard. This formation had the added benefit of greatly reducing the maneuvering Roland had to do during launch and recovery of airplanes. Since Roland, despite being the fastest of the four, still had so little speed in reserve that it often took her an hour to resume her station, this was a considerable improvement in the formation.
Not for the first time, Sam reflected worriedly that Taffy One was still shaking down, still learning the art of operating as a carrier force, even as it could expect to go into action at any moment. It wasn't an ideal way to train, but it would have to do.
All that day, the routine of launching and recovering one-plane scouting patrols occupied Charlemagne, the rest of the force motor-sailing in the formation called “Form Alfa”: Albatros and Joan on either side of the carrier and a cable or so ahead, with Roland two cables astern. Toward late afternoon, as a Petrel was being launched, Charlie signaled “Last one today.” They had decided that night ops were just too risky given the low probability of sighting an enemy force. The Pirates would certainly be sailing without lights, and there was too much danger that the scout would miss the task force in the dark on its return.
The wind increased in the afternoon, as it often did. It veered toward the east, and the sea state gradually increased toward five. The usual southerly swell had gradually worked up during the day, and the seas from the south-east created a confused chop. Charlemagne signaled that she was halting air operations for the day. Sam watched with some concern as the Petrels of VSB-1 circled the carrier at an altitude of about three hundred feet, the pilots obviously studying the surface of the sea. He raised his telescope and picked out Schofield's plane, with its distinctive bright yellow tail.
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