Assault on Zanzibar: Book Four of the Westerly Gales Saga

by E. C. Williams

  Sam looked up with a sigh – quickly suppressed – and said, “Mister Konyn, how d’ you think the smugglers and the terrorists know where and when to meet up?”

  The weedy, bespectacled midshipman standing uneasily in front of his desk said, “Well, sir, as for the exact location, a light on the beach, perhaps flashing a pre-arranged signal, would do. Time and general location must be arranged by earlier contact, either by messenger or radio.”

  “Which do you think is most likely?”

  “Messenger, sir. We’ve been guarding all the freqs the Pirates commonly use, with no results. As already noted, a radio with its batteries is an awkward burden for people hiding in the jungle. And once the batteries are dead, how would they recharge them?”

  “So … what? A dugout canoe from the mainland slips over and passes on the rendezvous time and place?”

  “Possibly, sir. We may also consider that an almanac is much more portable than a radio: the arrangement may simply be that the island terrorists should look for a resupply mission on any suitable night … any lengthy period of darkness.”

  “Mm – yes …”, Sam replied, then was silent for a moment, drumming his fingers on his desk while Konyn waited uneasily.

  “Pass the word that I need to meet with Chief Landry soonest – I’ll go ashore, to save time, since he’s probably in the bush hunting Pirates.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  A full twenty-four hours later, Sam met Landry at the little outpost on the shore of Chole Bay.

  “Sorry it took me so long to get here, Commodore. I’ve been working out of Camp van der Merwe, in the bush.”

  “Sorry, Camp …?”

  “Van der Merwe, sir – we named it for the gunner who died in the action to take the terrorist camp. We’re going to use it as our main base in anti-terrorist ops. ‘Unless otherwise directed’, of course, sir.”

  “Eh? No, no, that’s fine – I leave the details of the land campaign to you, Chief. I want to confer with you about a strategy to prevent the Pirates on the island from being reinforced and re-supplied.” Sam went on to explain the action in which Roland’s motor boat almost intercepted an arms-smuggling dhow, and the method the Pirates were using to ensure a quick turn-around.

  “So … any ideas or observations, Chief?”

  “Well, Commodore, I’m guessing that assigning another schooner to the mission ain’t a choice, or you wouldn’t need to ask me.”

  Sam laughed. “Got it in one, Chief. We have a severe shortage of vessels, as you well know.”

  “But we don’t really need seagoing vessels, do we? Just thinking out loud here … what about using the settlers, and their canoes, to supplement the Roland? We can arm some more of them with those weapons just captured … God knows they’re eager enough to help.”

  “Good thinking. But somebody’ll have to train and lead ‘em, won’t they? I’m afraid I’m already over-tasking you and your gunners, so I don’t want to add another mission to your workload.”

  “Not the problem it used to be, Commodore. I now have a small cadre of settlers we’ve trained in the use of firearms – they ain’t gunners, not yet, but good enough to train their friends and neighbors. And I’m expecting a team of trainers from the Nosy Be Regiment within the next couple of weeks.”

  “That’s great. Start that going right away.”

  “Am I to be reporting directly to you on this?”

  “Right: command and control. No, Lieutenant Commander Christie is in charge of this op. Let’s call it … Operation Verstik.”

  Landry thought a moment, then chuckled. “’Verstik’ – ‘Choke’. I like it, Skipper.”

  “I’ll second Midshipman Konyn to you for the Op, for intelligence, translation, and liaison with the Roland.”

  “Konyn? Don’t know him, Commodore.”

  “He’s new, and you won’t find him very impressive on first acquaintance. But, trust me, he’ll be invaluable.”

  “Aye aye, Commodore. And now, if you have no further orders for me, I’ll get started on Operation Verstik.”

  A week later, a dark, dark night on the north-east coast of Mafia Island; a small, single-masted dhow lay in as close as possible to the shore, sail luffing, and showed a white light at brief intervals. An answering signal came from the beach, and shadowy figures emerged from the dense, jungly bush.

  But the Pirates had not thrown the first barrel overboard when, with shocking suddenness, a red flare blazed overhead. Its source, a long dugout canoe, shot out of the murk and its occupants – those not paddling furiously – fired at the figures on the beach, now obvious in the lurid glow. These scattered back into the bush as the dhow fell off onto a starboard tack, the faint breeze barely filling its sail, obviously intent on escaping in the darkness. At that point, a stab of flame and the characteristic loud crack! of a 75mm recoilless rifle, followed instantly by a shell burst against the hull of the dhow; and the source of the blow, Roland’s motor boat, rushed out of the darkness. The dhow had a few minutes more of life, but the end was inevitable.

  The first action of Operation Verstik was nearly complete. Dave Christie, watching from the quarterdeck of the Roland, a mile away, saw only the red flare, followed by small arms fire and the unmistakable muzzle flash of the 75. He gripped the rail tightly and prayed for success. When he saw the flames in the darkness as the dhow, now dead in the water, began to burn, he saw that his prayer was answered. He hoped this was a good omen for the rest of the operation.

  Six

  “I can’t begin to tell you how glad I am to see you, Sar’nt Major!” Chief Landry was enthusiastically pumping the hand of the new arrival, a tall warrant officer now beginning to blush at the unexpected warmth of his greeting. The newcomers, seven in number, had tracked Landry down in Camp Van der Merwe, with the aid of a Mafian guide.

  “Allow me to introduce myself and my men: I’m Company Sergeant Major Richburg – call me Rich – and these mecs impersonating non-coms are Staff Sergeant Malloy, Sergeants Richard and Laurent, and Corporals Garcia, David, and Roux.” Landry shook each hand, and tried to commit names and faces to memory. At first impression, however, they all six seemed alike: tough, cheerful young men, each with an air of quiet confidence. He knew that later he’d get to know them as individuals.

  “We brought a commissioned officer along, too,” CSM Richburg continued, “Lieutenant Dupuy. But we left him at your flagship, to meet your Commodore and give him the Colonel’s compliments and so forth. He won’t interfere – he’s just along so we have an officer to talk to your officers, liaise with Regimental HQ back in Hell-ville, and see to the paper-work.”

  “So … just the seven of you?”

  “For now. Sorry we couldn’t spare more, but the Regiment itself is so new it’s short of experienced non-coms. I know it seems incredible, looking at this shower, but the Colonel has sent you his best.”

  “I’m sure of it. Now you all must be thirsty after your hike … Leader!”

  “Chief?” Leading Gunner Cloete doubled over from the group of curious gunners gawking at the newcomers.

  “Show these non-coms to the PO’s mess, and splice the main-brace. Senior Petty Officers invited.”

  “Aye aye, Chief!”

  “And now, CSM – sorry, Rich – if you’ll come with me to my hut, we’ll share a taste of something a little better than Navy rum, and we can start talking about what to do next”.

  As they walked toward Landry’s quarters, Richburg said, “Oh, and by the way, we brought you three dozen rifles with two hundred rounds apiece. All we could spare, I’m afraid. But one of them is special – I think you’ll like it.”

  “That’s énorme! We’ve captured several hundred Caliphate weapons, but they’re primitive, by our standards. Good enough to arm the village defense forces, ‘though. But I’ve got a notion about how we can best use the modern rifles you brought.”

  At the same time, back aboard Charlemagne, Commodore Bowditch and Commander Murphy were ent
ertaining Lieutenant Dupuy in the Commodore’s day cabin. The introductions out of the way, and each officer having finished a drink of the fine aged rum that was a gift of Nosy Be’s governor, Sam said, “So you brought a half-dozen non-coms along, as trainers? Where are they?”

  “I sent them straight on to Camp … van der Merwe, is it? … to meet your landing party chief, and make a start. The Colonel’s orders, because we were so tardy answering your request – for which he sends his apologies, by the way – were that I not waste a moment beginning the training process. I hope that meets with your approval, sir.”

  “Yes, certainly. The villagers are keen to get at the Arabs, but of course they’re farmers and fishermen, not soldiers, and completely unfamiliar with firearms. We have a large supply of captured Caliphate arms and ammo, but we don’t dare just hand out weapons to the settlers – they’d be more of a danger to each other than to the enemy, until they’re trained.”

  “And that reminds me,” said Dupuy. “We brought you some rifles and ammo. They’re still on board the Emma Lee. Oh, and there’s a sack of mail for the task force.”

  “Christmas comes early this year! And Papa Noël disguised as a militia lieutenant! Pour Mr. Dupuy another drink.”

  Sam became distracted when he heard the word “mail”, anxious to read the letters he almost certainly had from Maddie. He also wanted to finish the long letter to her he had been writing in almost-daily installments. He forced himself to continue the conversation with Lieutenant Dupuy, shifting to business: Dupuy’s role as liaison between the Regiment and the task force, and his oversight of his non-coms. Chief Landry would direct the training itself.

  Sam finally excused himself, pleading a press of paperwork – not a lie, given that a willing mind could regard letter-writing as paperwork – and left his flag captain to deal with the problem of where to stow Lieutenant Dupuy. He hurried on deck to find what appeared to be most of the crew of the carrier crowding around their division officers, who were frantically sorting out the contents of a big canvas mail bag, clearly stuffed full. He resisted a very strong temptation to push in, pre-empt the process, and look for Maddie’s characteristic elegant hand on packets addressed to him. Instead, he turned to Lieutenant Cameron, at his elbow, who somehow always magically intuited that the Commodore needed his presence.

  “Todd, just check for mail for the staff, will you? If there’s one for me, bring it to my day cabin.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Of course, there would be mail for the Commodore – he got several letters from his new bride in every supply vessel, as everyone aboard knew.

  Sam continued down to his day cabin, and finished up the most recent letter to Maddie. Then he collated it with all the ones he had written since the last supply vessel, being careful to number the pages consecutively, and made up a packet he would cover with sailcloth. He left it open, however, to reply to any he might receive in this post.

  At that point, a knock on his door announced the arrival of Cameron, who had obviously done what Sam had been reluctant to do – jumped the queue, exercising his power as flag CSO, and retrieved a hefty packet of mail for the Commodore. Sam restrained his first impulse, which was to reprimand Todd for demanding special treatment on his behalf, something that still rankled, but gave in to his second, which was to snatch the package from the lieutenant before he could finish the sentence: “Mail for you, Commodore.”

  “Thank you, Todd. Any letters for you?”

  “Yessir. A couple,” Todd replied, blushing; obviously his were from a girl.

  “Well, run along and read them, while I read mine.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Sam had torn into his packet and started to read the first letter before the door closed behind Cameron. Maddie, as usual, carefully numbered and dated her letters, so that he could read them in the order she wrote them. However, she had imperiously headed the one on top of the “Read This First!!!”, in block letters. It bore the most recent date of the series. The letter, after the usual loving salutation, calmly announced Maddie’s intention to come for a visit by way of the next supply vessel – to come to Mafia Island, a war zone, for Christ’s sake!

  Sam’s reaction to this bold proposal was mixed; his first thought was “Hell, no! I will not endanger my wife by allowing her to come within range of the enemy! And how can I command with the distraction of her presence?” His second was, well, why not? The Pirates had not attached the Chole Bay anchorage so far, and it seemed unlikely to be an enemy target soon. And (with a shaming burst of uncharacteristic jealousy), wasn’t Marie Girard sharing her husband’s bunk nightly on board the Albatros?

  He forced himself to calm down, and carefully re-read the letter. He noted that Maddie was not asking his permission, but announcing her intent. Did he have the right or authority to forbid her to come, either as her husband or as the senior officer present afloat? He didn’t think Maddie would take kindly to Sam telling her she couldn’t do something she wanted to do, whether as her husband or in his role as CO of the task force. And he could not deny that he longed desperately to see her again, to have her near.

  But think of the precedent! Would he then have to allow the wives or sweethearts of vessel captains to visit? Of commissioned officers? Of all hands, for God’s sake? No; a thousand objections presented themselves. That scenario didn’t stand up to the most cursory scrutiny.

  On second thought, Maddie’s visit didn’t have to create a precedent – if he laid down a policy first. After all, he was the Commodore. What if he allowed conjugal visits, only for senior officers, and only under defined and highly-restrictive conditions? Morale would be improved thereby. Obviously, one requirement must be that the officer be senior enough to rate a private stateroom – which ruled out all but the most senior. And always subject to operational requirements, of course. The needs of the service must come first.

  The burst of relief and pleasurable anticipation that that thought inspired made Sam realize that he was rationalizing a decision he had already made to do something he desperately wanted to do, the Navy be damned. Nevertheless, it worked. And it negated the knotty problem of how to tell Maddie “no” – and make it stick.

  He then applied himself to the pleasant task of reading the rest of her letters before he finished a last note to add to the bundle he had already written.

  When he finished this task, he returned topside, to the “flag box” – what all hands had begun to call the rectangle of quarterdeck reserved for the Commodore and his staff. The Emma Lee was alongside, pumping fuel into the Charlemagne’s tanks. Emma Lee’s charter had been renewed and extended, and both her holds replaced by tanks, so that only her two ‘tween-decks were available for dry stores. She made the round trip between Hell-ville and the force’s Chole Bay anchorage on a regular basis now, but could still barely keep up with its fuel consumption, mainly for air ops, but also for vessel propulsion, now that the vessels of the task force were all equipped with water-jet auxiliary power.

  Sam had ordered the charter of another schooner, ideally a capacious three-master and tween-decker like Emma Lee, to make the round voyages between Chole Bay and Hell-ville with ammo, stores, and fuel. LT (I) Dallas had found a suitable vessel, the Soet Melissa, and with a long-term time charter in hand to secure financing, her owner was now converting her holds into tanks for fuel oil.

  He wanted to keep Emma always with the task force, even when at sea on operations. He had some ideas about how to transfer stores and fuel between her and combatant ships while under way. It would take the highest level of seamanship, and much in the way of drills to perfect, but he was confident they could do it.

  Sam worried about the rising cost of the palm-oil distillate, due to the Navy’s voracious consumption. He needed more vessels, but the resources of Kerguelen, even now that the rest of the Southern Ocean Kerg-settled islands were supporting the war financially, were hardly limitless. The more fuel the Navy consumed, the less potential economic support there was for
adding to the fleet.

  But at least the Navy’s occupation of Mafia Island, and consequent improved ability to interdict corsairs en route between Zanzibar and their cruising grounds, had allowed a resurgence of the north-south trade – in fact, to the point that Sam considered recalling one or both schooners now cruising independently to add to his current force.

  And, according to reports, trade among the Southern Ocean settlements had increased, apparently at least in part inspired by the greater political closeness of the Kergosphere encouraged by the war. And increased economic activity meant – should mean – strengthened financial ability to fund the struggle.

  But why was he obsessing about matters beyond his control, at least at this moment? It was a beautiful tropical morning, with a gentle southerly breeze making it pleasantly cool underneath the quarterdeck awnings. And Maddie was coming for a visit … he would soon be with her.

  More than three thousand nautical miles to the south, a group of people were discussing some of the same issues that weighed upon Sam’s mind.

  “The cost of fuel is, of course, one of our biggest technical problems – if you can call it technical – really an economic problem, I suppose.”

  The speaker was “Mother” Moreau, chair of the Republic’s Naval Working Group, whose membership consisted of Members of Council, several officers of the Navy’s shore establishment, and private citizens who contributed their personal knowledge and experience. The NWG could draft its recommendations into proposed laws by its members who were also MCs, and proposed for the consideration of the full Council, if necessary. This subgroup of the NWG constituted the Naval Subcommittee of the Council Committee on Maritime Trade and Fisheries, which, despite being only a subcommittee, now disposed of the bulk of the Republic’s expenditures.

  “It is both, Madame. That is, the present cost of palm oil is certainly an economic problem. But that raises a technical problem: can we devise a substitute for palm oil? Or, better, a substance we can blend with palm oil, to stretch its supply and, perhaps, even enhance it as a motor fuel?” This from a young Lieutenant (E) of the Volunteer Reserve, Stanley Fuller. He was the younger brother of the Kerguelenian High Commissioner to Reunion, who had solicited Sam on his behalf during a visit by Albatros to that island. He had proven valuable to the Navy’s shore establishment, a brilliant naval architect and marine engineer.