CHAPTER XXIII
At the Admiralty
The news came as a mild surprise to the average British citizen when, on opening his morning paper, he found that there was actually another war on—no rumour of impending hostilities, no preliminary exchange of "Notes", nor even a declaration of war. Hostilities had taken place between Great Britain and the Republic of Rioguay.
Very few people had as much as heard of that South American state. Those who did were almost without exception quite in ignorance of its resources. Even the Cabinet Ministers had to admit that their information concerning the supposedly obscure republic was vague. The Foreign Office could supply but little information.
It was War. The Admiralty communiqués reported an engagement off the north-east coast of South America, but without any details. Already part of the Atlantic Fleet was on its way to the West Indies to reinforce the three light cruisers and half a dozen destroyers in those waters.
Undoubtedly, the Rioguayan Republic had chosen a favourable opportunity to challenge the British Empire. The Near Eastern question had cropped up again when the optimists had come to the conclusion that at last the Balkans were no longer a firebrand. Consequently, two-thirds of the British navy's capital ships were tied down to the Mediterranean.
Internal troubles in India and external troubles on her North-West Frontier were brewing, while both Egypt and the Sudan were in a state of grave unrest.
Señor Jaime Samuda, President of the Republic of Rioguay, had laid his plans well. He knew that he had little to fear from United States intervention. Uncle Sam was at present kept on tenterhooks by a revival of the Japanese peril, and practically every available warship flying the Stars and Stripes had concentrated on the Pacific coast.
He counted on French neutrality, gauging the Gallic attitude by the events of 1922. Italy did not come into his calculations; but he reckoned upon German support as far as the curtailed resources of Germany's armaments permitted.
Altogether the Rioguayan Government had at its disposal nine capital ships—all of recent construction and heavily armed.
Against these the British Government could show but four or five. Of the numbers allowed by the Washington Conference, the bulk were "up the Straits". Of the remainder, two had recently received serious damage through mutual collision. Their repairs would take at least six months, provided the workmen employed in the private yards to which the damaged vessels had been sent would refrain from striking during that period.
In light cruisers the rival countries were about equal, but as regards the numbers of destroyers available, Great Britain had a decided superiority apart from the numerous vessels of that type required elsewhere. On the other hand, Rioguay was a long distance from England. The West India station had been neglected and its resources cut down. The nearest base of any importance was Bermuda, and even then the dockyard at Somers Island was incapable of dealing with repairs of much magnitude. For oil fuel, on which the destroyers depended, there were no British ports in the West Indies where any large quantities were stored. It meant that the fleet had to be "fueled" either at neutral ports or by oil-tankers. The latter required escort as a protection from commerce-destroyers, which entailed a heavy drain upon the numbers of light cruisers available.
But it was on aircraft that President Jaime Samuda pinned his faith. He hoped that by means of the efficient machines in the possession of the Rioguayan Government, the task of extending the scene of hostilities far beyond the frontiers of Rioguay would be successfully carried out.
The ultimate hope of Rioguay was the consolidation of several republics into a United States of South America with resources rivalling those of the hitherto greatest Powers in the world. For some undefined reason, Samuda had become obsessed with the idea that a decisive blow at the British Empire would be an important preliminary stroke.
Originally, his scheme was to start a campaign against British mercantile ships, destroying them without leaving a trace. By so doing he hoped to deal a paralysing blow at a section of seaborne resources of the British Empire, which the interruption of the Argentine and Brazilian trade would embrace. There was also a large proportion of British shipping still making the Horn passage, and already a number of vessels bound to and from the Pacific had been sunk.
In following the policy of secret destructive action Samuda also hoped that suspicion would fall upon certain South American republics other than Rioguay. His hopes might have been realized but for the series of engagements following the attack upon the decoy-ship Complex.
The few survivors from the Cerro Algarrobo had "given the show away". Separately cross-examined, they had admitted their nationality readily enough. The mere hint that if they could claim no governmental covering authority for their acts they would be classed as pirates and treated accordingly, was sufficient to compel them to hasten to give a full account of the cruise of the ill-fated Cerro Algarrobo.
These facts were communicated by wireless to Bermuda and thence cabled to the Admiralty.
A Declaration of War—declaring a war that was already in progress—followed.
That same day, Brian Strong and Peter Corbold landed at Southampton.
Seven weeks had elapsed from the time they crossed the Rioguayan frontier. The Indians, with whom they had fallen in, had proved very hospitable and had nursed them both through a bout of fever. On their recovery, Brian Strong and his nephew were conveyed down the river in canoes of their Indian benefactors, and eventually reached La Guayra, the port of Caracas, the Venezuelan capital.
From La Guayra they took steamer to Barbadoes, thence to Southampton.
The news of the outbreak of war with Rioguay did not surprise either uncle or nephew, but what did was the bald information that two British seaplanes had routed six hostile flying-boats. They rejoiced after the manner of their kind—without demonstrations.
Nevertheless, Brian Strong was puzzled. Although as a patriot he was elated at the news of the aerial combat, it puzzled him to think that the Rioguayans had failed to take advantage of the wonderful machines that owed their existence to his brains.
"It's the human element that counts, all the time, Peter," he remarked. "If the Rioguayan air fleet doesn't put up a better show in the future, I needn't have gone to the trouble of bringing this gadget home."
He tapped his breast coat pocket, wherein lay one of the essentials of his invention. The others he had also succeeded in bringing to England in spite of difficulties—the latest being a wordy encounter with a self-important Customs official at Southampton Docks.
Had the Admiralty permitted a full, uncensored account of the engagement to become public, Brian Strong would not have been quite so cheerful. No mention had been made of the disconcerting fact that the British seaplanes were unaccountably unable to attack the fugitive Cerro Algarrobo. Perhaps the circumstances were deemed too insignificant to merit notice at Whitehall, but that was not the view taken by the flying-officers of the seaplanes in question.
Hurrying by taxi to Southampton West Station, Brian and Peter were just in time to catch a Waterloo express. They dined on board the train, took another taxi at Waterloo, and gave the driver instructions to drive to the Admiralty.
They found the buildings besieged by a crowd of applicants of all sorts and conditions. There were young ex-Royal Naval and R.N.R. officers offering themselves for active service afloat. Retired officers, who had been on the Pension List for years were clamouring for jobs afloat, a few "after soft billets ashore". There were highly patriotic individuals of the profiteer type ready to prove their indispensability and secretly hoping that the petty little war would develop into something big and last for years and years. Inventors with ideas that were good, and inventors whose suggestions were of not the slightest use, were in evidence to leaven the lump that threatened to clog the Admiralty machine.
At length, after an hour and a half of tedious waiting, Brian and Peter found themselves within the vestibule of the Admiralty. Without a word, a harassed petty-officer attendant handed Brian Strong a slip of paper to be filled in.
"Name?"—that was easy enough. "Address?" Brian hadn't one. He was a wanderer on the face of the earth. He wrote the name of an hotel in the Strand where he hoped to put up, but up to the present he had made no attempt to book a room. "Officer required to be seen?" Here was another poser. At Peter's suggestion, he wrote, "Deputy Chief of Naval Staff". The last question, "Nature of Business?" was the pitfall. If he stated too much and claimed too great an importance of his errand, he would more than likely be "turned down" as an importunate time-waster. If he merely requested a private interview without credentials to support his application, he would not stand the ghost of a chance of stating his case.
He turned appealingly to his nephew. The petty-officer sighed impatiently. He was not a man to "suffer fools gladly". That sort of thing becomes boring after years in the Admiralty inquiry bureau.
"Put down 'Applicant late Consulting Engineer to the Rioguayan Air Board '," suggested Peter. "That will do the trick."
Uncle Brian thought not; it looked too audacious on paper. But it suggested a line of action.
In a firm, scholarly hand, he wrote:
"Confidential. Applicant for interview landed at Southampton this morning from Rioguay."
A messenger took the paper slip and departed. Uncle Brian resigned himself to another spell of tedious waiting. He had vivid recollections of Government offices in the days of the Great War, when a caller, no matter how important his business, was handed over to the tender mercies of a flapper in brown holland, and might, with luck, arrive at his destination with the last ounce of strength left in his tottering legs, only to find that after tramping through hundreds of yards of corridors the person he sought had gone to lunch.
It came as an agreeable surprise when, in about five minutes, Brian Strong and his nephew were told that the Deputy Chief would see them.
Their passes stamped, the two men were escorted by a messenger to a room overlooking the Mall. Here the naval officer was waiting to receive them.
Sir John Pilrig was by no means the Sherlock Holmes sleuth-hound type of man that the nature of his office seemed to warrant. He was burly, full-faced, with a fresh complexion. His mild blue eyes and smooth white hair gave him a benevolent aspect, He reminded Peter more of a Harley Street specialist than a naval officer upon whose shoulders rested the weight of a responsibility hardly less than that of the First Sea Lord.
There was no brusqueness in his demeanour. His manner seemed almost apologetic, but it was evident that he had the art of being able to obtain information from a person without "rubbing him up the wrong way".
Sir John showed no surprise at the appearance of his callers, although their clothes, suitable to the climate of the West Indies, were hardly comme il faut in Whitehall.
"So you have just arrived from Rioguay, Mr. Strong?" he began. "I am pleased to meet you. I must confess that my knowledge of the internal conditions of Rioguay is elementary—I might say vague—and no doubt you may be able to give me valuable information on several points. And your friend—was he with you out there?"
"My nephew—yes," replied Brian. "We left Rioguay in somewhat unusual circumstances by air."
The Deputy Chief did not conceal his surprise; but he merely nodded an encouragement for Brian Strong to "carry on".
Uncle Brian maintained a full head of steam for quite fifteen minutes, describing the details of the flying-boat with technical and convincing accuracy.
"You know a lot of very important information about the Rioguayan air fleet," observed Sir John.
"Because I designed them," was the astonishing rejoinder.
"H'm," commented the Deputy Chief, without attempting to charge his visitor with unpatriotic motives. "Then with your technical knowledge, perhaps you could enlighten me on one point. Apart from the armour protection of the Rioguayan flying-boats, do they possess any special means of defence against opposing aircraft?"
"Speed and manoeuvring powers," replied Brian.
"Anything else?"
Brian shook his head.
"Why I ask," continued Sir John Pilrig, "is this: here is a portion of the report of the officer commanding H.M.S. Basilikon. He lays particular stress upon the fact that when two of our seaplanes were about to attack one of the Rioguayan cruisers, they were unable to approach within two miles of her. They simply had to descend through ignition troubles, but on the hostile vessel increasing her distance the defect—if defect it could be termed—was no longer in evidence. That phenomenon occurred on three occasions during that operation."
Peter threw a sidelong glance at his uncle. Brian's face was pale beneath its tan.
"By Jove, Peter!" he exclaimed. "Ramon Diaz has got to wind'ard of us. He's stolen the plans of the rays."
"Explain, please," said the Deputy Chief of Staff. In answer, Brian Strong stopped and undid the fastenings of a leather portmanteau which, like the haversack, he had so carefully guarded in his flight from El Toro. From it he drew a complicated "valve set" and placed it upon the table.
"This, sir," he replied, "is the secret. I had hoped that it was a secret still, but your information unfortunately leads me to think otherwise. With an apparatus embodying this invention, I can truthfully claim to bring down any aircraft in existence. It was my intention to give my secret to the British Government, and it is for that purpose that I am here. Unfortunately, it is a secret no longer. By some means, the Rioguayan Government has acquired the knowledge and has already put it to practical use."
Briefly, Brian Strong explained the device, giving particulars of the experimental flight in which Peter had taken a practical part.
"It is, of course, unfortunate," admitted Sir John. "But tell me, in the event of two opposing forces using a similar device, would the rays of one affect the other?"
"Undoubtedly," affirmed Brian decidedly.
"Well, then," continued the Deputy Chief of Staff, "the position, I take it, would be this: the aircraft of both opponents would be rendered ineffectual. That's something. It leaves the conduct of operations in the hands of other branches of warfare. In the present instance—warships."
"Precisely," agreed Brian.
Sir John went to the window and gazed across the Mall, apparently deep in thought. Suddenly he turned to his visitor.
"If you had an up-to-date workshop and a staff of highly-trained mechanics at your disposal, Mr. Strong, how long would it take you to produce a complete apparatus for testing purposes?"
"Two days," replied Brian, without hesitation.
"Excellent," exclaimed Sir John, touching an electric bell. "I will make arrangements for you to proceed to the naval gunnery establishment at Whale Island, where all facilities will be provided. There is one other matter. I trust you will not mind my mentioning it—the question of funds."
"That's all right, Sir John," said Brian. "I can carry on without—er—financial assistance for a bit. When the gadget's proved——"
Sir John let it go at that. He realized that Brian Strong was a man with high motives, and that discussing money matters was distasteful.
"I don't care what I get out of the business," declared Brian when uncle and nephew found themselves crossing Trafalgar Square. "They can give me what they like, as long as it's not the Order of the Bad Egg."
CHAPTER XXIV
War in Home Waters
Brian Strong's surmise was a correct one. He had underrated the craftiness of Don Ramon Diaz, Air Minister to the Government of Rioguay. Strong mistrusted Diaz. Diaz mistrusted Strong. Each hoped that the other was unsuspicious. Brian's hasty and daring departure had removed all shadow of doubt on the Rioguayan's part, but that did not give him any great concern. What was more to the point, Ramon Diaz had acquired the secret of Strong's ray apparatus, and had wasted no time in turning it to good account.
Sir John Pilrig decided that it was a fortunate circumstance, this interview with a scientist unknown and lacking credentials. Not only had Brian Strong afforded valuable information, but he had unreservedly placed his invention at the Government's disposal. Should the invention come up to expectations—and there was no reason why it should not, judging by the results obtained by the Rioguayan flying-boats on the Cerro Algarrobo engagement—it would reduce the rival aerial forces to a state of stalemate. It was, of course, unfortunate that the secret was in hostile hands, he mused, but there was some satisfaction to be derived from the knowledge that the Rioguayan air forces were not the sole possessors of the mysterious rays.
And—a remarkable fact, decided the Deputy Chief of Staff—the inventor had asked nothing, either for himself or his nephew—a rarity in these days of mercenary offers in the name of patriotism.
By eleven o'clock on the morning following the momentous interview, Brian Strong, with Peter Corbold as his chief assistant, reported for duty at Whale Island Naval Gunnery Establishment—an artificially-constructed island in the upper reaches of Portsmouth Harbour.
Already a large building had been allocated to them as an experimental workshop, complete with lathes, benches, moulds, and drawing-office, with electric light and power, and with a small staff of armourers and electricians—the pick of the highly-skilled naval artificers of the Gunnery School.
There, behind closed doors—for no one save the Commodore was allowed entrance—Brian Strong set to work to reconstruct the device that, for all time, it was hoped, was to draw the sting from the terror of the skies.
At 4.45 of the same afternoon, a look-out of the R.N. signal station at Culver Cliff in the Isle of Wight heard the rumble of distant gunfire. There was nothing extraordinary in that. Men-of-war carrying out gunnery practice in the Channel, he decided.
But when, almost simultaneously, he heard the shriek of a projectile, his interest became aroused. It was part of his duty to warn ships, when, as sometimes happened, the ricochetting shells pitched against the chalk cliff, of the possible danger to life and property of His Majesty's liege subjects.
"Bill!" he shouted to his opposite number, who was industriously engaged in mending frayed signal flags in the room under the look-out place. "Stand by to 'oist 'height nought nine'. The Spanker—'er wot went out this mornin'—is a-lobbin' 4.7's ashore."
Having shared the responsibility of taking action, the signalman applied his eye to a large telescope mounted on a tripod.
From his elevated post, the look-out hut being 350 feet above sea-level, the horizon line was roughly twenty-five miles away. The sea was calm, the atmosphere clear, except for a few patches of mist that threatened to develop into a sea-fog.
There was but one vessel in sight. She proved to be a tramp bound up-channel. There were no signs of the light cruiser Spanker.
Even as he looked, came another faint report.
The man, by reason of long experience, knew that it was not a quick-firer. The interval was too great for that. The unusual pitch of the whine of the projectile puzzled him.
Suddenly a long, low-lying dark object appeared in the field of the high-powered telescope.
"Gosh!" ejaculated the bluejacket, "s'elp me if she ain't a perishin' submarine."
Even as he looked, he saw a long, slender object rise from the for'ard deck of the distant vessel. Slowly but unhesitatingly it moved until the watcher found himself gazing down the muzzle of a gun. Instinctively he shut his eyes, forgetting that a distance of about fifteen miles separated him from that menacing ring of metal.
When he looked again, the gun had been trained to an elevation of nearly forty-five degrees. There was a flash... thirty seconds later he heard the report.
Twice more the gun was discharged; then the mysterious vessel submerged.
The spell was broken as far as the signalman was concerned. Clamping the telescope, so that it remained trained upon the spot where he had seen the submarine disappear, he shouted to his mate, who was leisurely bending the hoist of flags to the signal halliards.
"Belay there," he exclaimed excitedly. "Get on the telephone to the C.-in-C. There's a bloomin' submarine been shellin' Pompey."
His opposite number looked up languidly and solemnly winked his eye.
"'Tain't the fust of April, mate," he remarked in mild reproof. "D'ye want ter get me 'ung, or what not?"
Ten minutes later, the Commander-in-Chief at Portsmouth was informed by wireless telephony from Culver Cliff of something that he was already well aware of—that five shells had been fired at the principal naval port of the British Empire. In addition, he learnt that the shells came from a submarine, nationality unknown, operating 16 miles S. 1/2 E. magnetic from Culver Cliff Signal Station.
In a very short time, the Admiral was in possession of material facts concerning the damage. One projectile had fallen in the Dockyard, completely demolishing the caisson at the entrance to No. 15 Dock, and severely damaging the light cruiser Volobus, which was undergoing repairs in that particular dock.
Another had hit the seaplane carrier Furious, which had recently returned from the Mediterranean. The shell had descended obliquely, just in the wake of the conning-tower. Fitted with a delayed-action fuse, the missile penetrated three decks before exploding in the port engine-room. The greatest effect of the explosive was downwards, indicating that it was composed of a substance allied to dynamite. The double-bottoms and "blister" on the port side were shattered to a length of fifty feet, pieces of the three-inch side-armour being torn bodily away. The Furious sank in eight minutes in seven fathoms.
Shell No. 3 descended on the railway close to Fratton Bridge, blowing a hole eighty feet in diameter in the railway cutting and bringing down the bridge. Here, the loss of life was great, for the bridge carried one of the principal arteries of the town. In addition, the sole means of railroad communication into and out of Portsmouth was cut. The most sanguine estimate placed the completion of the repairs at eight weeks. The remaining two projectiles luckily failed to do serious damage, one falling in the sea two hundred yards from the South Parade Pier, the other making a huge crater in the Fratton Park football ground twenty minutes after a huge crowd had departed.
The British nation had abandoned its old-established ideas of insular immunity. The lesson of the Great War, particularly the German "tip-and-run" raids on Scarborough, Whitby, Hartlepool, Lowestoft, Great Yarmouth, Dover, and elsewhere, had destroyed the fetish-like faith in the navy to render our shores inviolate. With a length of coast-line greater than that of any other country, taken in proportion to its area, Great Britain offers a decided chance of success to a daring sea-raider, and even when her fleet was at the zenith of power and size, the numbers were insufficient to protect the coast from minor hostile operations without seriously affecting the striking power of the Grand Fleet.
Thus the news of the bombardment of Portsmouth occasioned comparatively little surprise, except for the mystery of the affair. What was the nationality of the enemy craft? From what port did she come? Was she the emissary of a treacherous European Power, hoping to take advantage of the external and internal difficulties of the British Empire to deal a coward blow?
The idea of linking the submarine with the distant and insignificant Republic of Rioguay, with whom Britain was at war, seemed out of the question. Yet it was a submersible cruiser seventeen days out of San Antonio that had thrown out a challenge to the principal naval port of Great Britain.
Even as a professor of anatomy can reconstruct the skeleton of a prehistoric mammoth from a few scraps of bone, so can a gunnery expert decide upon the calibre and power of an unseen and unknown weapon from a few fragments of its projectile—and with a greater degree of certainty than in the case of the constructive anatomist.
From available data, combined with information picked up from examination of such remains of the shells as were recovered, the experts decided that the projectile was seven feet in length with an external diameter of four inches; that the weapon was a 120-calibre gun, with a muzzle velocity of from 3000 to 3500 feet per second and with an extreme range of fifty-five miles.
It was also established that at a range of twenty-five miles—the distance between the position of the submarine and the town of Portsmouth—the projectiles must have attained the extreme vertical height of eight and a half miles.
In the midst of his labours, Brian Strong was called to the telephone in the Commodore's office to answer an urgent inquiry from the Admiralty.
Sir John Pilrig was at the instrument, anxiously inquiring whether Mr. Strong could give him any information about the Rioguayan submarines.
"I cannot," replied Brian bluntly. He was not the sort of man to beat about the bush and try to give the impression that he was in the position to supply the information. "Aircraft was my line. But my nephew here can give you particulars."
Peter took his uncle's place at the telephone and described the submarines he had seen manoeuvring off San Antonio.
"They were possibly instructional craft," he added. "Somewhat resembling our obsolete C class."
He proceeded to describe the craft in clear technical language, which compelled Sir John to inquire in what circumstances he had gained the knowledge.
"I was a sub-lieutenant, R.N., sir," he replied. "Retired under the regulations for the reduction of personnel."
"Ah," commented the Deputy Chief of Staff. "Very good. I'll ring off now."
Peter went back to his work.
CHAPTER XXV
Seaplane and Submarine
Two hours after the shelling of Portsmouth by a Rioguayan submersible cruiser, Southampton was heavily bombarded, presumably by the same craft. Here, the firing was of a more concentrated nature, practically all the projectiles falling in the docks, although an obvious but unsuccessful attempt was made to destroy the Naval Ordnance Magazines at Marchwood. Southampton, however, escaped comparatively lightly—few of its prominent buildings were even damaged, and the toll of human life in the town itself was small. At the docks, too, the loss of life was not great, owing to most of the workers quickly finding cover which proved useful against anything but a direct hit.
Within thirty minutes of this bombardment came telegraphic reports that Plymouth and Devonport were under hostile fire.
The news had barely reached the Admiralty, when telegrams were pouring in from Manchester and Liverpool, reporting that both places had been shelled from an unknown type of craft that had appeared sixteen miles west by north of the Bar Lightship. In this case, the firing lasted only a couple of minutes or so, for on the appearance of an Isle of Man packet-boat the submarine hastily dived. That pointed to the fact that the crew of the submarine were evidently "jumpy", otherwise they would not have dived simply because of a small and unarmed steamer.
. . . . . . . . .
True to his promise, Brian Strong had a complete apparatus ready in the specified time. In the presence of a number of naval experts, the device was submitted for trials.
For the sake of secrecy, the apparatus was placed on the light cruiser Cariad, the vessel with the experts on board being ordered to proceed to a position twenty miles south-east of the Nab tower.
Four modern-type seaplanes from Calshot were detailed to play the part of hostile aircraft. At the time specified, two of them were observed approaching from the nor'-east at an altitude of 2000 feet.
The inventor, feeling far from cool and collected, peered through the telescopic sights. In spite of the fact that the rays had been proved, he was assailed by doubts. Supposing something—a minute adjustment—was in error and the device failed? Or if the current should prove too strong or too weak for the sensitive instrument? He feared failure, not because the apparatus might be defective, but by reason of the ridicule that would be hurled at him.
Slowly, Uncle Brian trained the projector, still hesitating. The nearest seaplane was now a bare two miles away, flying serenely, almost defiantly, in the cloudless sky.
"Three thousand yards," chaunted the range-finding officer.
Some of the experts shrugged their shoulders. The rays were to be released at nine thousand yards. For all they knew, the inventor had done so, but without effect.
At last, with a nervous jerk, Brian Strong depressed the lever actuating the mysterious current. The leading seaplane held on for perhaps five seconds, then like a wounded partridge, it began to dive towards the water. The pilot, retaining his presence of mind, righted his 'bus and allowed her to volplane, until the inventor trained the projector upon the second sea-plane.
At the first sign of the ignition being cut out, the pilot banked steeply. The sudden swerve brought the seaplane outside the invisible beam. The twin motors picked up again.
By this time Brian had recovered his composure. He was again an inventor, sure of himself, and tasting in full measure the joy of achievement, when not a moment before his sensations had been much like those of a nervous schoolboy faced by a tough "paper", and by no means confident of the result. The slightest deflection made it possible for the ray to hold the machine as surely as the spider's web does the enmeshed fly.
Vainly did the accomplished airman attempt to extricate his machine from the numbing influence. Looping, banking, attempting a spinning nose dive, he tried ineffectually to dodge the invisible but none the less paralysing beam, employing all the artifices of a flying man who had won experience in that perilous school—the Great War.
It was a gallant struggle. The seaplane—a mere glider encumbered by the dead weight of a useless pair of engines—was beaten.
The third and fourth shared the same fate, and whilst the four were resting on the water, the inventor demonstrated the effect of playing the ray fanwise. The moment one seaplane "started up" she was rendered powerless by the swift swing of the electric beam. Another and yet another attempted to rise, but hardly had the engines fired when they were reduced to a state of silent impotency.
"That gadget will clip the wings of the Rioguayan air fleet," exclaimed Sir John Pilrig enthusiastically.
"And the Rioguayans will clip ours," added another Admiralty official.
"Precisely," agreed the Deputy Chief of Staff. "That wipes the air menace off the board. Now there are the submarines to be taken into account. Conditions somewhat different from those during the last war. S'pose your rays aren't applicable to underwater craft, Mr. Strong, or have you managed to solve still another problem of modern warfare?"
Brian shook his head.
"'Fraid not, sir," he replied. "But there's no insurmountable difficulty, I take it. A submarine's electrical engines ought to be 'shorted' by the rays. The difficulty appears to me to be the non-adaptability of water to the conditions of a concentrated current."
"Meanwhile, we just carry on," rejoined Sir John. "After all, we didn't do so badly with depth-charges and hydrophones.... That will do, Captain Parr," he continued, addressing the Commanding-Officer of the cruiser. "There is no need for further trials. Will you please have a signal sent to the seaplanes to that effect? They can part company and return to Calshot."
The four aircraft began "taxi-ing" into the wind, prior to "taking off". To do so, they had to pass to wind'ard of the Cariad, and, when at a sufficient altitude, turn and retrace their course.
"Wireless telephone message, sir!" reported the Yeoman of Signals to the Captain of the Cariad. "Sea-plane reports submarine approaching within one thousand yards of ship. Request instructions."
"Port eight," ordered the owner, with the idea of turning the cruiser so that her stern, instead of her broadside, should present itself to a possible foe. "Any of our submarines out?" he demanded of the Officer of the Watch.
"None, sir," was the prompt reply. "All submarines of the Portsmouth Division were to use the Needles Channel."
"Then heaven help me if she's one of ours," exclaimed the Captain grimly. "By Jove, won't it make 'em jump!"
He indicated a group of Admiralty experts, both naval and civilian, gathered round Brian Strong's gadget on the quarter-deck.
Sir John smiled.
"They'd jump still more if a tinfish got us," he added.
The seaplane had already been given orders to attack. It was indeed a lucky chance that she had left Calshot under active service conditions. In addition to two torpedoes designed for use against surface craft, she was equipped with four delayed-action bombs, each capable of being set to explode at any depth between four and twenty-four fathoms.
It was with weapons of the latter type that the seaplane was about to deal drastically with her submerged foe.
The latter was the submersible cruiser that had recently bombed Portsmouth and Southampton. She was now proceeding up-channel intent upon causing a little annoyance at Dover.
Unfortunately for her, she was unaware of the presence of the seaplanes; but she had spotted the slowly moving Cariad and had marked her down for an easy prey.
The light cruiser had swung gently through eight points of the compass. Captain Parr had purposely refrained from ordering increased speed lest the submarine might "smell a rat". On her part, the Rioguayan craft was not able to gain on the cruiser, but was hanging on in the hope that the Cariad would again alter helm and thus present a target that was almost impossible to be missed by the deadly torpedo. During the conversation between Sir John Pilrig and the Captain of the Cariad, Brian Strong had rejoined Peter, who had been closely questioned by the experts concerning the anti-aircraft device.
In complete ignorance of the presence of the Rioguayan submarine, the group of experts transferred their attention to the seaplane that had detached herself from her consorts and was now hovering in wide circles over the clearly-defined hull of her lawful prey.
A dark object dropped from the fuselage, quickly followed by another, their impact with the water throwing up a tall column of spray.
"What is that fellow doing?" began Uncle Brian, but before he could complete the sentence a muffled roar shook the air. A thick cloud of greasy black smoke shot up, mushroom-shaped... the rush of subsiding water hurled high above the normal surface deadened the long-drawn-out reverberations of the explosion.... The Cariad rolled lazily to the wash caused by the violent displacement of hundreds of tons of water.
It seemed an interminable time before the straight snout and the net-cutting device of the Rioguayan submersible rose for a brief interval above the pool of oil—sufficient for the Cariad to establish the certainty that the craft was not a British one.
The submarine had been hit right aft, the explosion completely shattering the hull abaft the Diesel-engine room. The for'ard portion was, however, still practically intact.
The Cariad's engines were stopped. Captain Parr was seemingly in no hurry to take his ship from that forbidding spot. Nor did he close in order to drop a mark-buoy over the wreckage.
A quarter of an hour had passed. The seaplanes, their work accomplished, were out of sight. The light cruiser still lingered. At the microphone apparatus a grave-faced watch-keeping lieutenant was listening, and not listening in vain, for auricular evidences of what was taking place within the as yet water-tight sections of the submersible.
Suddenly the muffled roar of a second explosion, of lesser magnitude than that of the first, was borne to the ears of the watchers on the cruiser's deck and superstructure. A thin cloud of vile-smelling smoke filtered through the agitated waves and drifted athwart the Cariad.
The Deputy Chief of Staff turned inquiringly to Captain Parr. His hands were trembling perceptibly and his tanned features had assumed a greyish hue.
"Well?" he inquired laconically.
"Done themselves in, poor wretches," replied the owner. "They've detonated the warhead of one of their torpedoes.... Either that or a lingering death."
The Captain turned to order speed for fifteen knots. Sir John left the bridge and made his way to the quarter-deck to rejoin his colleagues.
"That apparatus of yours, Mr. Strong," he observed in level tones, "is perfectly satisfactory. How many can you guarantee within a fortnight?"
He paused and laid his hand upon Brian's masterpiece.
"If only you could adapt it for submarine work," he continued, "you would become the greatest humanitarian of the decade—of the century. There would be none of that brutal business we've just witnessed.... Fifty in a fortnight, Mr. Strong? Excellent! Carry on, and let's have the goods."
CHAPTER XXVI
Orders to Proceed
During the next fortnight, Brian Strong kept his augmented staff hard at work. Ninety men were employed in turning out numbers of the apparatus that was to knock the Rioguayan air fleet out of the running. In three shifts the enthusiastic men toiled, Brian personally superintending two shifts a day, while Peter was in charge of the third.
Meanwhile the personnel of the Royal Navy was being strongly increased. Ex-officers and men volunteered and were gladly accepted. The fleet reserve was called up, the R.N.R. and R.N.V.R. veterans of the Great War offering their services in shoals.
The existing ships, even including those hastily brought forward for commission, were in danger of being over-manned. Owing to the wholesale scrapping of serviceable warships, there were available roughly three times the number of trained men actually required to put every existing ship into commission.
Amongst the ex-officers regranted a commission was Peter Corbold. Without identifying himself as a relative of the inventor of the mysterious ray, he had made an application through the usual channel for service afloat. Now that the apparatus was tested and adopted by the British Government, he felt that he was no longer bound to remain an assistant experimenter. But he rather dreaded breaking the news to Uncle Brian. Peter had a lurking suspicion that it was hardly fair to his relative.
During a brief spell in the workshops, Peter found an opportunity of broaching the news.
Uncle Brian listened quietly. Hardly a muscle of his face moved during the announcement.
"That's all right, Peter," he said, when his nephew had unburdened himself. "Quite all right, my boy. As a matter of fact, I knew how keen you were to volunteer for sea service, so I approached Sir John Pilrig on the subject. You'll find that you'll be appointed to the Rebound as lieutenant borne for wireless duties."
"Wireless duties!" exclaimed Peter. "Precious little I know about that."
Uncle Brian winked.
"Camouflage," he rejoined. "You're in charge of the anti-aircraft apparatus to be installed on board the flagship. It wouldn't do to let everybody know. In war-time, one must not call a spade a spade. It must be described by some other name and be disguised to resemble something that it is not."
Two days later, Peter Corbold's appointment to H.M.S. Rebound was announced.
The Rebound was a post-war battleship, of 40,000 tons, armed with eight 15-inch guns, and embodying many details of construction that bitter experience at Jutland had taught the naval constructor. At present, she was at Bermuda with the rest of the small, but efficient, squadron that represented the total available force at the Empire's disposal without seriously impairing her naval resources elsewhere.
Diplomacy backed up by the guns of the British Navy had all but settled the Near Eastern question. British warships on the East Indian station were an invaluable asset in keeping a vast section of a fanatical India under control, even though the seat of incipient disorder was eight hundred miles from the Arabian Sea. A squadron lying off Suakin and Port Sudan had a salutary effect upon the fractious dervishes of Darfur and Kordofan; while by the same token the Egyptian Nationalists were gently but firmly called to order.
The withdrawal of any of these vessels would inevitably result in wide-spread trouble that would with certainty lead to a world-wide war. Almost too late came the realization that the drastic curtailment of the British Navy left the Empire in desperate straits, with no margin for emergencies.
Meanwhile, the squadron detailed for South American waters had been held up at Bermuda, pending the arrival of the anti-aircraft apparatus, which was now being turned out in sufficient numbers to render the ships invulnerable to the attacks of the Rioguayan flying-boats.
At length, the initial supply of Brian Strong's device was ready. The destroyer Greyhound was ordered to proceed with the sets of apparatus to Bermuda and to take supernumeraries to the fleet.
Amongst the latter was Peter Corbold, with the rank of full lieutenant.
The voyage out was uneventful. At Bermuda, Peter reported on board the flagship, which, with the Repulse, Royal Oak, and Retrench, comprised the capital ships of the small but efficient fleet that was to try conclusions with the numerically superior battleships of Rioguay.
Having reported himself to the officer of the watch and been introduced to the Captain, Peter was escorted to the ward-room. Here he looked for familiar faces, and he did not look in vain. Amongst the officers were several who had been in his term at Dartmouth.
According to the custom of the service, newly joined officers are given twenty-four hours to "shake down". During that period they are excused duty in order to allow them to become acquainted with the internal arrangements of the ship.
Peter, with his usual keenness, was making a tour round, under the guidance of the "gunnery jack", when he was "barged into" by a burly "two striper", who dealt him a hearty whack on the shoulders.
In the dim light, for the meeting took place in the electrically-lighted passage between the engine-rooms, Peter was at a loss to establish the identity of the officer with the boisterous greeting.
"Mouldy blighter," exclaimed the lieutenant. Then Peter knew.
"Weeds, old son," he ejaculated. "I didn't expect to find you here."
"But I did," replied Cavendish; "heard you were appointed. Saw you coming up over the side, in point of fact, only I couldn't hail you. My watch—still on it," he added hurriedly. "See you later, old thing."
Cavendish, with several of the other survivors of the Complex, had been "turned over" to the flagship on her arrival at Bermuda a week previously, so that her normal complement was now exceeded. It was the same with the rest of the fleet. Trained officers and men were plentiful. The deficiency lay in the number of ships available.
After "seven-bell" tea the chums met again.
"So you're the new gadget expert, I hear," said Cavendish. "Something that's going to make the Rioguayans feel the breeze, eh? What sort of 'ujah' is it?"
Peter explained.
"That sounds all right," remarked the sceptical Cavendish. "It's been tested and all that; but will it stand concussion when we're in action?"
"It will stand up to it as well as any searchlight," declared Peter. "While we were testing the gadget an enemy submarine was depth-charged about three hundred yards off. That was some concussion! and I examined the apparatus afterwards. It was O.K."
"Nothing like our principal armament firing salvoes," said Cavendish. "My action station is 13 turret. Where's yours?"
"Fore-top, I believe," replied Peter. "Not sure, though. It depends, so the Commander informs me, upon the disposition of the little stunt I'm supposed to be in charge of. When are we going south, do you know?"
Cavendish shook his head.
"Waiting for the oil-tankers, I believe. And there's trouble with the Repulse's under-water fittings. We can't go without her. Dockyard divers might fix up the damage. Wonder if the Rioguayan navy will come out, or will it act like the Hun High Seas Fleet? Hello, what's that? General signal."
The two officers were pacing that side of the quarter-deck which was theirs by custom. The other side was by the same tradition the owner's.
From the signal yard and almost immediately above their heads a hoist of gaily-coloured bunting fluttered in the breeze.
It was the signal to "weigh and proceed".
Cavendish gave a low whistle. "What's up now?" he asked.
A messenger from the decoding officer came hurrying aft. The lieutenant stopped him, and repeated his question.
"They're out, sir," replied the man, saluting. "Enemy have appeared in force off Barbadoes and Barbuda."
"Good business, Peter," ejaculated Cavendish. "They're raiding. Will try to bust up Jamaica before they've done. We'll give it to 'em in the neck."
For the next half-hour a scene of bustling activity took place. Steam pinnaces were scurrying between the ships and the dockyard, picking up liberty men, who had been hastily recalled to duty. The final consignments of urgent stores were being hurriedly unloaded from lighters alongside the warships. Cruisers and destroyers not lying at moorings were already shortening cable. Derricks were swinging in and out as they hoisted the heavy boom-boats. The signal halliard blocks were cheeping as hoist after hoist of bunting rose and fell from the ship's upper-bridges; the semaphores waved their arms with bewildering rapidity as if mutually bewailing their inability to join in the din. Above all other sounds came the hiss of escaping steam.
It was a chance—a chance at long odds—but the Admiral was throwing away no opportunity.
The Rioguayan fleet was out. Possibly in ignorance of the presence of the British warships concentrated at Bermuda, the Republicans thought it a propitious moment to carry out a "sweep" amongst the Windward Islands. At a moderate estimate, they might reach a point some eight hundred miles from their base at San Antonio. Bermuda was approximately 1200 miles away from the estuary of the Rio Guaya. The proposition that confronted the British admiral was the chance of being able to intercept the enemy before the latter gained the shelter afforded by the neutral waters of the Republics of San Valodar and San Benito.
"Do you think they'll fight, sir?" inquired a midshipman, as he passed Cavendish on his way to the fire-bridge. Cavendish, by virtue of his having been in action with the Cerro Algarrobo, was regarded by the members of the gun-room as an unimpeachable authority on Rioguayan matters.
"They probably will," was the non-committal reply.
"Hurrah!" exclaimed the "snottie". "Won't it be something to write home about!"
Poldene, the Paymaster-Commander, who happened to overhear the conversation, stopped to speak to the two lieutenants.
"That youngster," he remarked, nodding in the direction of the receding midshipman, "that youngster is a bit too optimistic. I wonder whether he'll sing the same tune after the show's over?"
"It'll be a pretty stiff business," declared Cavendish. "Those fellows fight when they're cornered—fight like a cargo of mad devils—'specially if they think they're going to win. Spanish blood, you know."
"They want teaching a lesson," continued Poldene, "and we'll do it. But, by Jove, I don't mind admitting that I funk going into action."
The Paymaster-Commander wore the ribbon of the D.S.O., awarded him for a particularly gallant deed at Jutland. He had seen the real thing, shorn of all the ornamental trappings of glory. A vision of a shell-shattered battery, tenanted only by mangled human beings and illuminated by the vivid white glare from a pile of burning cordite cartridges only three yards distant from the open ammunition hoist—that was his sole clear recollection of the greatest naval battle that the world had seen.
No, Poldene did not hanker after another similar experience. One was enough, more than enough, for a lifetime. Almost without exception, the older officers and men who had been under fire during the Great War held similar views. But as the present job had to be done, they jolly well meant to do it thoroughly.
The British ships had a stupendous task in front of them. Apart from the disadvantage of numerical inferiority, they were fighting thousands of miles from home waters. There was no docking accommodation for the battleships within a few hours' steaming. The smaller "lame ducks" might be patched up in the neglected dockyard at Kingston, Jamaica, and also at Bermuda. In either case, it was a long distance for a shell-torn vessel to go. The wavering neutrality of San Valodar and San Benito had also to be taken into account. A slight success of the Rioguayan arms might turn the scale and induce those two Republics to declare war.
But one thing the Rioguayans had grossly under-estimated—the character of the man behind the gun.