Assault on Zanzibar: Book Four of the Westerly Gales Saga

by E. C. Williams

  He was flying an uncomfortable hundred feet or so above a virtual carpet of black and yellow shell bursts. And the fire came from a dozen or more dhows hidden in the mangroves along the banks of the creek.

  He switched his radio to full broadcast power, hands trembling with adrenaline rush, and shouted into his helmet mike: “Flash, flash, flash: Mother, this is Poet. Ten plus Rats hiding in Sugar! Repeat, Sugar full of Rats. Flash, flash, flash …” He repeated the phrase until he got an acknowledgement from the carrier. He was banking and losing altitude to attack one of the enemy dhows when he heard “Poet, Mother. Do not attack. Repeat, do not attack. Orbit at safe altitude and observe. Transmit precise count of Rats. Acknowledge.”

  The young pilot cursed and pulled back on the stick, beginning to regain altitude as the black puffs seemed to strain to reach him.

  “Mother, Poet. Wilco your last: orbit and observe; precise count.” He sighed. He was, after all, on a reconnaissance mission. His load was a compromise between max fuel for endurance and weapons to attack targets of opportunity: Bullets but no bombs. He might be able to take out one, maybe two, of the dhows with strafing runs, but given the number, and the fact they all seemed armed with at least light AA guns, the probability of being shot down approached certainty. Mother was right, bon sang! He sighed, leveled off at ten thousand feet, and went around for another look.

  At that moment, Sam Bowditch was fuming and swearing, re-reading with incredulous rage a lengthy, three-part radio signal from Navy French Port. There were a lot of words, but they finally boiled down to this: all public spending on more vessels and aircraft for the Navy was suspended, and Sam was directed – in effect, ordered -- to turn over his command to the next senior officer and return to Kerguelen for “…executive level discussions on the present and future course of the war against the Pirates”. Most of the rest of the message was Commander (I) Foch’s background and commentary. It seems that a key ally of Mother Moreau, the Navy’s strongest friend on the Council, had lost a by-election, resulting in the ascendency of naval skeptics. They had forced through the resolution suspending major expenditures on behalf of the Navy until the Council, sitting as a committee of the whole, had had an opportunity to hear from Commodore Bowditch, in person, his views on the present course of the war, prospects for victory, and a realistic assessment of future budgetary requirements.

  Although Foch was far too polite to say this explicitly, there was a strong underlying message of I told you so in his prose. Foch and Moreau had repeatedly warned him of rising discontent in certain political circles with the cost of the war; Kerguelenian public expenditures were at the highest point in the history of the Republic, and showed every sign of rising further. They asked him to return to French Port to use his prestige and fame to build support for the Navy, and to explain why these sacrifices were necessary. Sam had always put them off, pleading the absolute necessity of his continued presence in the theater of war. Now they would be put off no longer, and he would be deprived of the added ships and aircraft he wanted – needed! – to fight the war if and until he complied.

  This meant an absence from the task force of not weeks but months, due to the distance and travel time involved in a return all the way south to the Rock. And he would have to travel as a passenger aboard a merchant ship – he couldn’t possibly deprive the force of a combatant vessel for that long.

  He was not so arrogant as to believe he was indispensable – Bill Ennis was a brave and intelligent officer, perfectly capable of stepping into his shoes – but the thought of being away from his ships, his men, was as painful as if he were a mother separated from her new-born child.

  And worst of all, he would have to postpone his planned visit from Maddie indefinitely.

  It was at this point in his musings when Midshipman Eloy interrupted with a copy of the exchange between Poet and Mother.

  Eloy thought his usually-imperturbable Commodore had gone off his head. On reading the news of between twelve and fifteen armed Zanzibari dhows hiding in Dar es Salaam Creek, obviously waiting for a dark night to descend on Mafia – the largest-scale reinforcement-resupply effort by the Pirates to date if not an outright invasion– Sam turned first pale, then red – and then laughed!

  “What perfect timing! My cup runneth over. Thank you, Mister Eloy. Now please tell Mister Cameron to hang out a signal summoning all captains to the Flag at once for a conference. And pass the word to Commander Schofield that his presence is also requested.”

  When Eloy had left, Sam sat at his desk for a few minutes, head down, drumming mindlessly on the wooden surface with the fingers of his right hand. He then decided to take a turn on deck for a breath of fresh air to clear his head for the decisions to come.

  Seven

  “Gentlemen, I have two bits of news for you, both bad, I’m sorry to say.

  “The first, and most urgent, is aerial intelligence about a forthcoming major enemy effort to reinforce and resupply the terrorists on Mafia. Mister Eloy will brief you on that issue.”

  Midshipman Eloy stood and related the bare facts of Poet’s recon report in a nervous monotone. Despite the low-key nature of his presentation, it electrified the meeting: an effort on that scale would surely swamp their present defensive efforts. The room buzzed with shocked comment. Sam raised his voice.

  “And my next bit of unwelcome news – less immediately urgent, but graver even in its implications – was given to me in the form of this long message from Navy French Port. Instead of trying to summarize it in a few words, I’ll just read it to you in its entirety.”

  Sam read the two-part message to the group. As the gist of it, and the implications, sank in, the room began to buzz again, this time with a tone of anger and resentment. At the end, Sam paused for a moment to let the officers digest this information. The buzz grew to an outraged clamor.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please! We’ve got no choice but to play the hand we’re dealt, at least in the short term. Naturally, when I get to French Port I’m going to do my damnest to convince the politicians that we must win this war, and that they must give us the tools. And I’ll go over their heads to the voting public, if necessary!” This last statement was met with cries of “Hear, hear”, and “Give ‘em hell, Skipper!”

  “But … but!” Sam raising his voice to be heard over this racket, “We have to make some immediate decisions. Of course, I can’t refuse an order from our masters in the Council, so I’ll leave for Kerguelen by the earliest available means. But the war can’t stop in my absence. Naturally, while I’m gone, Captain Ennis will be SOPA” – a Navy acronym for “senior officer present afloat” – “and thus in temporary command, and will fly his flag either in Albatros or shift to Charlemagne as seems most expedient to him.

  “Bill Ennis is an experienced and supremely capable officer, and as much as I dislike being separated from my command, even temporarily, I’m confident that I’m leaving it in able hands. I hope and expect that you will all work for him in the same enthusiastic spirit that you have shown for me.”

  Bill Ennis looked down modestly. All the rest of the assembled officers nodded or murmured their approval of Sam’s choice. Indeed, given that Ennis had been Sam’s XO when Sam commanded the very first vessel of the Republic of Kerguelen Navy, it would have been difficult to challenge his right of succession. And, in fact, the senior officers all liked and respected Ennis, while younger officers rather hero-worshipped him, so no other choice was possible.

  “I can’t say when the turnover will take place, since I have no idea when I can depart for Kerguelen,” Sam continued. “But there must be no period of indecision, no temporary cessation of hostilities. We have a serious enemy challenge to deal with, and we’ll rely on our own resources for the indefinite future – no more ships or aircraft will be forthcoming.

  “As for vessels, our most urgent need, it seems to me, is not for more deep-draft, sea-going combatants, but for shallow-draft gunboats, as many as we can get. I have no d
oubt that our carpenters, with local aid and locally sourced materials, can build several thirty- to fifty- foot motor boats.

  “Engines for them will take some ingenuity, but I’m hoping that a combination of self-help and the ordering of a big number and variety of engine ‘spare parts’ can get around the Council’s ban.

  “Armament for the boats shouldn’t be a problem – the order was apparently carefully drafted so the politicians couldn’t be criticized for depriving us of essential supplies and ammunition, only of growth in the fleet. So as soon as this meeting ends, I’m going to send an emergency order to our allies on both Nosy Be and Reunion for as many recoilless rifles as they can make and send to us on an emergency basis.

  “But detailed planning for this boat-building program will have to take second place today to our need to meet the most urgent challenge: the enemy vessels hiding in Dar es Salaam harbor. I think we need to assume that, now that they know we’ve found ‘em, they’ll sortie tonight. We need to formulate a plan for immediate execution. Ideas …?”

  As Sam expected, Dave Schofield raised his hand. “No, Dave, an air strike is out of the question. We know that at least some of these vessels have triple-A, and I won’t risk losing a single irreplaceable airplane – not when they’re so valuable to us for recon.”

  “Then how about this, Commodore,” Schofield stubbornly persisted. “You need to get this visit to French Port over with as soon as possible. I can fly you to Nosy Be in a Puffin – we can radio ahead to have the harbormaster delay the next homebound sailing for you. That’d save days – weeks, probably – of waiting for the Emma’s return and unloading, sailing in her to Hell-ville, then shifting to a Rock-bound vessel there.”

  There were murmurs of agreement. Sam couldn’t fault Dave’s logic, however much he dreaded the very thought of going up in an airplane, so he temporized: “Let’s leave that for later consideration – we have a crisis on our hands right now.

  “Todd, assume the Pirates sortied from Dar es Salaam Creek as soon as they realized we discovered them, this morning – how long would it take them to be off Mafia’s northern point?”

  Cameron was already stepping off distances on one of the charts he always had ready for meetings like this, and replied, “It’s about sixty-six miles from the harbor mouth to Mafia’s northern tip, Commodore, so they could be there in about twelve hours, once they exited the harbor. That would put their arrival right after sunset.”

  “Then we’ve got no more time for deliberations – gentlemen, return to your vessels and make all preparations for getting under way. Charlemagne will stay here – there’s no advantage to risking her outside.

  “Now, let’s go!"

  Two days later, Dave Schofield taxied a Puffin away from the side of Charlemagne toward the buoyed lane marking the swept take-off and landing channel that ran southeast to north-west the length of the bay. He continued to the northern end of the lane and turned for his take-off run, into the prevailing southeasterly breeze. He then spared a glance at his passenger.

  Commodore Bowditch sat rigidly, harness pulled as tight as possible, staring fixedly ahead. He was clearly not finding the flight a pleasant experience so far.

  He had staunchly resisted any mention of the possibility of flying to Nosy Be for the first leg of the trip back to the Rock. He had wanted to charter a vessel, have it come to Mafia to pick him up, and then sail for home. Rational argument about the greater expediency of flying to Nosy Be and there joining a homebound schooner left him unmoved; nothing, nothing would ever get him up in an airplane, and that was that.

  Until Captain Murphy had casually mentioned that, he could, of course, with perfect propriety, take his wife with him on the homebound trip, and thus get to spend some time with her without the need to take leave.

  The realization that he could see Maddie sooner rather than later – that he could be with her for the months the trip would take – temporarily dispelled all his fear of flying. He arranged with her by radio to book passage for both on the next homebound vessel – or charter or detain one, as necessary -- and harried Dave into speeding up the readying of a Puffin, by the addition of drop tanks, for the long flight to Nosy Be.

  The great battle of the Stone Town Express had become a massive anti-climax: The Pirates refused to sortie en masse as expected, once discovered. Instead, they stayed holed up and camouflaged in Dar es Salaam, not even firing on recon overflights, but apparently patiently waiting for dark nights. Sam had given the strictest orders to Dave to resist the urge to fly low, tempting the Pirates into unmasking their location by firing on them – he wanted to take no chances at all with his remaining planes. Albatros and Roland both drew too much water to safely go in and dig out the enemy dhows, and their motor-gunboats, like the airplanes, were too precious to risk against such odds. They could only assume that the Pirates, now that the task force had blown their cover, had decided to continue the practice of running the RKN blockade by twos and threes, on dark nights. Sam decided to leave Albatros to keep a close watch on the mouth of Dar es Salaam Creek while Roland resumed her patrols and coordination of the canoe operations off the northern tip of Mafia, with Bill Ennis in overall command.

  Dave and Sam soared aloft on a bright tropical morning, climbing through one thousand feet, Mafia Island astern and the green coast of Africa on their right. Dave concentrated on flying the plane until it reached an altitude of ten thousand feet. Although Dave routinely cruised at twelve thousand, and often climbed even higher, he wanted to see how his passenger tolerated altitude; any sign of hypoxia and he would have to fly lower.

  Dave had been urging the development of a system to deliver supplemental oxygen to flight crews, especially of the Puffin. He believed the airplane capable of climbing very much higher than they routinely flew it, perhaps to thirty thousand feet or even more. Certainly, the Stirling cycle engine seemed to like the cooler temperatures at high altitude; both power and fuel economy improved as she climbed.

  Even at ten thousand, it was very much cooler than at sea level. The two had been sweating in their quilted flight suits and sheepskin jackets, and both had left them open to the waist. Dave now buttoned both up to the neck and wrapped a woolen scarf round his throat. He glanced over at the commodore and saw him still sitting in the same rigid position, face gray, suit and jacket still open.

  “Commodore, better button up – it’s cold up here,” Dave shouted over the wind noise. He got no response, Bowditch still staring fixedly ahead. Dave selected intercom on his radio head set and tried again “Commodore! Can you hear me?” he said into his throat mike.

  Sam started, raising a hand to his headphones; he had apparently forgotten that he was wearing them.

  “Yes, Dave, I can hear you – you needn’t shout.” Dave turned his head to hide his smile; that was more like Himself.

  “Better button up your flight suit and jacket, sir, and put on your scarf – it’s pretty cold this high.” Sam obediently fumbled with buckles, forced to loosen his seat harness to button up his outer clothing, but afterward cinching it back so tight that Dave wondered how he could breathe.

  “Commodore, you have your seat harness far too tight – you’ll have a much more comfortable flight if you loosen it a bit.”

  Sam looked dubious at this, but nevertheless obediently loosened his harness a bit. “How long will it take to get to Nosy Be?”

  “About six hours. It’s 600 sea-miles directly, but I’m going to fly a bit out of our way and overfly the Comoros.”

  “Why?”

  “Nav check,” Dave replied. He didn’t add that it was SOP to plan flights so as always to have some land to ditch near in case of trouble, God verbied – no point in adding to the Commodore’s twitchiness.

  “How high are we now?” It pleased Dave that his passenger was asking questions. Apparently, he was relaxing a bit.

  “About twelve thousand feet.”

  “Wah! Two sea miles! Is that as high as the plane can go?”r />
  “No – it’s as high as we can go. The theoretical ceiling of the airplane is in excess of thirty thousand feet. We could only fly her that high with supplemental oxygen, or alternatively if we enclosed and pressurized the cockpit.”

  “Could we do that if we had to? Oxygen or a pressurized cockpit, I mean. If it gave us a military advantage to fly higher.”

  “Sure – that’s just engineering. But it’s difficult to bomb accurately even from twelve thousand feet, and the Pirates’ triple-A so far only has an effective range of about six thousand, or a bit less. So, for now, there’s no need to fly higher.” Dave was a bit surprised that the Commodore didn’t already know this elementary stuff about his most effective weapons system, but he presumably had plenty on his mind.

  “If it’s ‘… just engineering’, why don’t we go ahead and do it anyway – take along oxygen or pressurize the cockpit – so we can practice bombing from high altitude?”

  “Enclosing the cockpit and pressurizing it would add significant weight, plus a lot of glass would have to be used to ensure visibility – dangerous to the crew if shattered due to enemy fire or a ditching. Oxygen would add to the danger of fire in the cockpit.

  “And anyway, we’ve practiced bombing – level bombing -- from altitude, and it’s just too tough a physics problem to solve in your head when you know your own altitude and airspeed only approximately, and can only guess at the aim-off point to hit the target. Although skip bombing exposes you more to enemy AA fire, it’s a lot more accurate.” Dave paused, then continued in what he intended as a casual aside, “Dive bombing would be even more accurate than skip-bombing, and a bit safer from enemy fire, but we can’t really do that, either.”