“Mother, this is Gannet. I have a count for you. Over.” This crackled over the loudspeaker mounted on the outside of the Air Shack.
“Turn off that speaker!” Sam cried, as he and Dave dashed for the shack. He didn’t want rumors to spread through the ship until he had full information.
“Gannet, this is Mother. Go ahead. Over,” Dave panted into the mic after snatching it from the startled radioman’s hand.
“Mother, Gannet. I make it one hundred and eighteen vessels; I say again, one one eight vessels. Over”
The shock of this number struck both officers dumb. They had never imagined there could be so many ships in the entire world, much less gathered together in one place.
“Gannet, Mother,” Dave finally managed. “Copy one one eight vessels, break. Query types of vessel, over.”
“Mother, Gannet. They appear to be mostly two- and three-masted dhows of the sea-going type, all armed. Break. Am flying lower to see more detail, stand by, over.”
There was a pause of no more than a few minutes, but it seemed like an hour to Sam. Then Gannet came back up.
“Mother, Gannet. All seem to be armed with one or more of the standard three-inch bronze guns, break. The larger dhows have long-barreled AA guns, break. Receiving fire now, taking evasive action, over.” There was another pause
“Gannet, Mother. What else can you tell us? Break. Are they anchored at short stay? Over.” There was another pause, presumably because the pilot was busy flying the airplane, then he came up again.
“Mother, Gannet. They seem to be …” This was interrupted by a burst of static which ended abruptly, after which they heard nothing but the carrier wave.
“Gannet, this is Mother. Come in, over.” Dave repeated the call several times, with declining hope as he got no reply. Finally, he gave up.
“Commodore, I think we’ve lost Gannet,” he said.
“Let’s hope he succeeded in ditching, and he and his observer survived.”
“I’m not so sure that would be the happiest outcome, sir. There’s no way we could rescue them before the Pirates picked ‘em up.”
Sam didn’t like the implications of that, but he had to think of other things.
“Put your squadron on full alert, Dave. And get another bird up to get eyes on that fleet. Tell this pilot not to take chances, to stay above the AA, and bring back photos. Can he get up to Pemba before sunset?”
“If I scramble the aircraft now, Commodore.”
“Then why are you standing there?” Dave ran on the last word. Sam spun on his heel and dashed aft toward the quarterdeck. As he passed the Charlie’s OOW, he said, “Action stations, son”, then shouted the same to phrase to Sub lieutenant Eloy, on watch, standing in the Flag Box at the SWO’s rostrum.
“Flash signal to all elements Task Force One: Enemy attack in force highly probable within next 24 hours break prepare for action and await my orders. End.”
By the time he finished this order, bosun’s pipes were twittering throughout the ship, and the PA system had come alive with, “All hands to action stations. All hands to action stations. This is not a drill, repeat, this is not a drill.” Ben Murphy appeared on deck immediately, and, although he was inaudible in all the noise, Sam could clearly see his lips forming the phrase, addressed to his OOW, What the hell …?
Sam went forward to Charlie’s wheelhouse, and said to Murphy, “I’m sorry, Ben – I know I should have told you first, but the situation is fairly urgent, as you will see. May I address the crew when they’re closed up at action stations?”
“Of course, Commodore, And no need for apologies.” But he was obviously a bit peeved, and on fire with curiosity.
As the last station reported manned and ready, Sam picked up the PA mic, and began to speak.
“This is the Commodore speaking. I called you to action stations, not because action is imminent – at least not in the next hour or so – but because of a situation so grave, a danger so near, that I needed your full and undivided attention.
“I have just learned that a very large – and I stress very large – fleet of Pirate vessels has assembled at Pemba Island. For those of you who don’t know where that is, it’s just north of Zanzibar, and not much more than half a day’s sail from Mafia. They have obviously been sent by Zanzibar’s Caliphate sisters to the north, and there can be no question that their mission is to re-take Mafia Island, drive us back to the south, and subject our allies, the islanders, to slavery once again.
“We cannot, and will not, let that happen. Since we will be greatly out-numbered it will take all our courage and all our determination to defeat them again, as we have defeated them before. I know I can count on you and your shipmates, and the ship’s companies of our sisters the schooners and gunboats, and our allies ashore, to stand shoulder to shoulder and turn them back.
“That is all. Your captain will dismiss you from action stations.”
Murphy took the mic, and said “This is the Captain speaking. On stand down from action stations, department heads will take charge and make all preparations for getting underway on short notice.” He paused, then added, “Now secure from action stations.”
Sam looked around, and noted the three schooner captains standing in a group by the lee rail, talking excitedly among themselves.
“Ben, let’s join your fellow skippers, and I’ll fill in what details I know about the situation.”
That didn’t take long; the principle detail Sam had omitted from his talk to Charlemagne’s crew was the precise number of gun-dhows crowded into Chake Chake Bay. This bit of intel made the four captains gasp in unison, as shocked as Sam and Dave had been at this incredible, unbelievable, terrifying number – the Kerguelenian tongue lacked adjectives extreme enough to describe it. It was a fleet straight out of the semi-mythical great wars of the twentieth century, in the northern hemisphere.
Sam, in fact, worried that the very size of the enemy fleet would so demoralize his tiny Navy as to render it unable to fight effectively. But there had been no point in trying to keep it secret for long enough to gradually prepare his people for what they would have to confront. By the time he had learned it, too many others already knew – Dave, the duty radioman in the Air Shack, indeed any radiomen throughout the task force who happened to have listened in on the exchange between Mother and Gannett.
After sending the schooner captains off to their vessels with orders to heave up to short stay, to be ready to sail at a moment’s notice, he walked forward to the Air Shack, deep in thought. As he neared it, he was surprised to encounter a flood of pilots and observers leaving in a hurry, all so intent on hurrying below they barely noticed him.
Dave Schofield stepped out after the last man exited, took a deep breath, and exclaimed, “Merde, it gets stuffy in there with so many bodies! Hello, Commodore – just briefing the squadron, and putting ‘em on instant readiness – they’re headed below to suit up for flight, and they’ll stay that way, even turn in all-standing should they get a chance to sleep. I want to be able to scramble all or any combination of aircraft on your word.”
“Good. I’m here to ask you something. Keeping in mind that I know you can’t make a significant dent in such a fleet in one raid – do you think you could whittle down the numbers a bit if you hit ‘em before they get under way? The psychological effect, alone, might be significant on mariners who’ve never experienced attack from the air.”
“I was thinking of that myself, Commodore. If I launched a strike within, say, the next hour, it would arrive over Pemba after sunset, in darkness. We could navigate by dead reckoning, observing strict radio silence, and catch ‘em completely by surprise, with a bit of luck. I’d be befoetered if we couldn’t scrag at least a round dozen.”
“Can you do it with minimal risk to your planes? The Pemba gun-dhows may have triple-A. We’re going to need every single plane we’ve got now – no time to wait for more to be built.”
“Yes, sir. I’m thinking of a strike
with one Pathfinder and three Puffin-Bs – that’s a handy number, and doesn’t risk all our aircraft on one roll of the dice. In our night raids on Fat Boy’s house, and Stone Town harbor, we haven’t lost a single plane to AA. The flares confuse the gunners, and the dive bombers are only visible for seconds during each dive. And these dhows have gunners who have almost certainly never fired at a moving aerial target before, especially not at night. So, yes, Commodore, I’m confident I can bring ‘em all home safe.”
“OK, Dave – do it. Let’s start the game by scoring first.”
Dave took pride in making everything his squadron did look and sound easy, but launching an air raid on an hour’s notice required frantic activity by a lot of people, who had to cram all the tasks of planning the raid in detail, arming and fueling aircraft, and briefing aircrew, usually requiring several hours, into just about fifty-five minutes.
But they did it. Dave, flying the Pathfinder in the lead slot, arose from the waters of Chole Bay just about one hour after the Commodore’s go-ahead for the raid. He left behind a very frustrated XO, ordered to stay behind so as not to risk both senior officers of the squadron. Poet had talked Dave out of his initial intent, to pilot one of the dive bombers and thus finally get to handle one in action, using the argument that the squadron commander must not take such a dangerous role. Ballinger thereby talked himself right out of any participation in the raid, because Dave was damned if he was going to stay behind.
A reliable and efficient oxygen regulator had finally been developed, after many refinements and improvements, and all aircraft were now so equipped. Dave ascended to twenty thousand feet for the cruise to Pemba. By taking departure off the northern point of Mafia Island, the course northward took them clear of the eastern point of Zanzibar Island. Thus, at this altitude, they could reasonably hope to approach the target undetected.
It was a clear afternoon for the region, and theoretically, at altitude, he should have been able to see for nearly 50 sea-miles all around. Before atmospheric haze obscured the horizon, he could see most of Mafia Island, receding below, and the opposite coast of mainland Africa. High flight, to Dave, was one of the great pleasures of aviation, and he sat back to enjoy the trip.
There was no radio chatter, because of Dave’s dire threats to emasculate any pilot or observer who broke radio silence for anything short of a genuine emergency. He had no reason to fear idle small talk from his regular observer, Tetch, who was notoriously a man of few words. Dave could enjoy in peace.
The sun, low over the African continent on takeoff, had set by the time they reached Pemba. Chake Chake Bay was on the south-western coast of the island, and the first things they saw were the anchor and deck lights of a myriad of vessels filling the bay from shore to shore.
How thoughtful of them! Dave said to himself. I won’t have to waste a flare until it occurs to them to douse those lights.
The dive bombers, and Dave’s Pathfinder, had had their running lights burning from takeoff; he didn’t want to break radio silence to remind them to switch them on, and he didn’t trust them to remember in their excitement at the start of the attack.
The bombers peeled off and began their dives, each on widely separated parts of the fleet. Dave throttled back and descended to twelve thousand feet to orbit above the bombers – and, at two miles high, out of the effective range of Pirate AA.
Dave saw two almost-simultaneous explosions, spaced well apart within the bay, then a second later a third. After the explosions, he could see two fires burning, signifying at least two hits.
Lights began going out on the gun-dhows, but he saw several lights, on the edges of the fleet, begin to move before blacking out; the Pirates obviously had anchors heaved up short for immediate readiness to get under way, probably intending to do so at first light. The Commodore’s timing had been beaucoup de chance.
Dave triggered off his first flare, so the bombers could find those would-be escapees; he saw by its light that all three Puffins had achieved hits on their first strike. Two dhows were burning, and a third, not afire, was in a sinking condition, bow in the air, going down stern first.
There was no longer any point in maintaining radio silence. “Red flight, this is Bull. Call your targets. Plenty to go around, boys – no need to gang up. Break. And I don’t want any midair collisions! Over.”
“Bull, Thunder. I got the leading runner, over” Sub lieutenant Thompkins had been tagged with the nickname “Tommy Thunder” in the midshipman’s berth, because of the volume of his farts; the nickname stuck, and became his callsign.
“Bull, this is Hoss. I’ll work the northern third of the anchorage. Over.”
“Bull, Dusty. I’ll take the middle of the pack. Over.”
“Reds, Bull. Roger all, break. Thunder, you close the door – keep ‘em from getting away, over.”
“Bull, Thunder. Roger, wilco. Over.”
As this exchange was taking place, the bombers had climbed, gone around, commenced their second dive. Dave triggered another flare. Almost all the gun-dhows had extinguished their lights by now, but the flare lit up the scene nicely.
Again and again the Puffin-Bs dived, thriftily dropping one bomb per target – and scoring with nearly every bomb. Hours of practice – not to mention hundreds of gallons of fuel expended – in practice with dummy bombs against target rafts was paying off. When each bomber, within moments of one another, began strafing runs against targets, Dave knew that they had expended all bombs. Shortly afterwards he dropped his last flare. That worked out nicely, he thought.
Throughout the raid, only a few of the gun-dhows had managed to man their AA guns and fire at their tormentors, and all their shots were misses.
As the last flare dropped lower, beginning to fizzle out, one of the Puffins took a last shot at a dhow with a 37mm explosive round, and joined his mates as they begin to form up tightly on Dave’s Pathfinder.
“Red boys, Bull. Homeward bound now, break. Query: How’s your oxy? Over.”
“Bull, Thunder. About twenty-five percent, over.”
“Bull, Hoss. Twenty percent, over.”
“Bull, Dusty. About a third left, over.”
“Reds, Bull. You boys breathed too hard on the approach – must have been over-excited. Break. We’ll go home at ten thousand, over.” Dave turned and smiled at Tetch, who grinned back; they were at less than thirty-five percent themselves. This level of consumption was normal and expected.
“Bull, Hoss. Roger, wilco, break. How’s your oxy, Bull? Over.”
“Hoss, Bull. About sixty-five percent, break. Why do you ask, son? Over.” Tetch laughed out loud at this.
“Bull, Hoss. Bullshit, over.”
“Hoss, this is Bull. How dare you question the word of a superior officer? Break. Just for that, you are hereby ordered to buy the first round when we get home. Bull out.”
“Hoss, Dusty. That’s you told, dof! Over.”
“Dusty, Hoss. Dof yourself, Connard. Over.”
Dave tolerated this good-natured banter as it continued for a while – they were still high as kites from the adrenaline rush of the raid, and needed to let off some steam – but finally he said, “Bull, Reds. Can the chatter. Break. No point in letting the whole world know we’re here, over.”
He wanted quiet for Tetch to concentrate on his dead reckoning, because the Pirates had begun jamming the radio nav frequency before the raid even ended – at least one of the gun-dhows in Chake Chake Bay was obviously radio-equipped, and had reported to Stone Town.
He also wanted to think about his report on the raid to the Commodore. It was obviously a success on its own terms; they had certainly destroyed or disabled at least the “round dozen” he had promised.
Leaving a mere hundred or so to deal with, he thought sardonically. Piece of cake!
In the early hours of the next morning, Sam was digesting the verbal report he had just received from Dave Schofield on the Chake Chake Bay raid when his staff radioman knocked and entered with
a message flimsy.
“It’s priority Op Immediate, Commodore,” he said. Sam signed for it on the proffered clipboard. “Operational Immediate” was the priority between “routine” and “flash”; the latter being the highest, most urgent precedence. He saw that the sender was RKN French Port, and wondered what the hell the landlubbers on the Rock had to tell him that was so damned it important.
It was a multi-part, multi-page message. He read the first page, and saw that it was a result of the chemical analysis of the sample of Pirate diesel fuel they had sent home so many months ago, after taking the hidden signal station on Mafia Island. The report said that it was naturally occurring mineral oil – petroleum – the stuff that had powered the mighty engine that was the world’s economy during the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. Thus, the Pirates’ name for it – “rock oil” – was a fair descriptive term.
The report wittered on about how the ancients had, by the time of the Troubles, needed their highest technology to find and exploit the remaining reserves of petroleum, and were turning to nuclear power (whatever that was – no one knew, except that it was related to the fearsome weapons that had begun the generation of the Troubles) to replace it.
The fact that it was simply oozing out of the ground somewhere in the territory of the Caliphate proved correct some twenty-first century theory that the geological process that produced petroleum was still going on, seemed to be the conclusion of pages of further wittering.
Sam impatiently tossed the message aside. What did all this have to do with defeating the Pirates? He hadn’t bothered to read the message through to the end, the last paragraph of which had stressed the critical importance to Kerguelen and all its allies and dependencies of “…gaining access to this VITAL RESOURCE” – the final two words emphasized in the message by bold letters. This would have startled Sam, had he read that far; that had never been done in a radio signal.
Assault on Zanzibar Page 38