“Check.” Amanda nodded. “Carry on.”
“Okay. The propulsion modules on the gunboats are pretty much the same as they use on the standard LCAC. That is, we have four Avco Lycoming TF-40 gas turbines, two in each engine room. We have the uprated C models that put out close to four thousand shaft horsepower apiece. The forward engine in each module drives a pair of five-foot lift fans to pump the plenum chamber. The aft engine drives the propulsion airscrew.”
“I know that a standard LCAC can turn fifty knots in a good sea state,” Amanda commented with interest. “Can we do better than that?”
“Sure thing, Commander. We’re streamlined and have a narrower beam-to-length ratio than the landing craft. Combine that with our hotter engines and five-bladed props and we can pull sixty-five easy.”
“That’s the squadron average, Captain,” Lane added, edging along behind Amanda. “For reasons known only to the Scrounge, the Queen always seems to be able to turn a couple of extra knots.”
The young lady in question shrugged and flashed that sly grin again. “Talent, Skipper.”
Amanda ran a finger along a gasketed seam in the turbine housing, seeking and not finding any residue of oil leakage. “How about fuel consumption?”
“I have to confess she’s a gas hog,” Lane replied. “Roughly eight hundred gallons an hour when we’re running flat out. But in that hour you’ve gone somewhere. Also, since we don’t have to worry about transporting cargo, more of our lift capacity can be used for fuel. Our fixed tankage in the raft gives us a seven-hundred-and-fifty-mile operational radius, and if we need more, we can carry a fuel blivet in the center bay.”
Amanda nodded to herself, adding the factor into the mental operations file she was developing. “That still doesn’t give us a lot of on-station loiter time.”
“We got what we call ‘swimmer mode’ for that, ma’am,” Caitlin interjected promptly. “When we’re off cushion and sitting in the water, we can lower a couple of electric propulsor pods below the skirt. They’re a set of one-hundred-and-fifty horsepower electric drives that run off our auxiliaries. You can only do about five knots, but you can poke around on ’em forever on just a couple of gallons of diesel. They’re superquiet, too. When we’re up on the cushion, you can hear us coming ten miles off. Running swimmer, you don’t know we’re there till we’re alongside.”
Between the two turbofans was another small workspace and another ladder leading up to a hatch in the overhead. A strip of canvas had been tied over the ladder and a set of hand tools were displayed in a neat array of pockets and loops.
“An idea of yours, Miss Caitlin?” Amanda inquired.
“Yes, ma’am,” the rating replied proudly. “It keeps things handy but out of the way.”
“Take it down immediately,” Amanda said flatly, “and get these tools properly secured.”
There was a moment of awkward silence in the workspace, then Amanda continued, mellowing the abrupt command. “I daresay it is handy, Miss Caitlin, but we’re operating in a combat zone now. In the advent of an onboard fire or a sinking, I don’t want a solitary thing between you and that escape hatch. Understood?”
The turbine tech gave a quick acknowledging nod. “Understood, ma’am. It’s history.”
Next on the tour was the PG’s secondary armament. For that they returned to the center bay and went topside to the weather deck, Commander Lane picking up a command head set en route.
The hovercraft’ s broad and railless back was jacketed with antiskid to provide a degree of security for anyone standing on it. In addition to the hooded throats of the big lift fans, the grilled intake and exhaust ports for the turbines were inset in the deck. Also, two large pocket panel hatches were located side by side, just aft of the cockpit, on what would be the shoulders of the broad hull.
“Okay, Snowy,” Lane spoke into the headset mike. “Open the port-side gun tub and elevate the pedestal to firing position.”
The selected hatch panel slid smoothly aside and a pair of slim gun barrels elevated into sight with a hiss of hydraulics. The H-shaped weapons mount reached deck level and the twin autocannon snapped from vertical to horizontal, training outboard with a final decisive click. Amanda noted the missile-launching rail mounted above each gun and the impressive sensor and targeting array fixed between them.
“We have two of these,” Lane commented. “They’re a modified variant of the Boeing Avenger antiaircraft missile system. Only, instead of a single fifty-caliber machine gun mounted under the launching rails, we carry a pair of thirty millimeter chain guns. Antisurface and antiair capable, they’re the same Hughes M230 model carried by the Apache helicopter gunship. The ammunition load is three thousand rounds, carried in the base of the pedestal. Each mount also has a one hundred-and-sixty-degree field of fire.”
Stepping forward, Amanda peered down into the cylindrical well from which the weapon had emerged. Spaced in slots around the perimeter of the well were a dozen cylindrical and rectangular ordnance pods.
“In addition to the standard four-round Stinger antiair pods the Avengers use,” Lane continued, “our launchers have been modified to also accept seven-round packs of Hydra rockets and laser-guided Hellfire antitank missiles.”
“What kind of targeting and fire control?”
“Take your pick. Radar, low-light television, and thermographic imaging.”
Amanda whistled softly. “Impressive.”
“For our displacement, we’re the most heavily armed warship in existence,” Lane agreed proudly. “Snowy, secure the mount.”
The autocannons went vertical once more and the weapons pedestal sank obediently from sight.
“What other armament do you carry?” Amanda asked thoughtfully.
“There’s a power-driven scarfring in the cockpit hatch that can take either a pair of fifty-caliber machine guns or a Mark 19 grenade launcher, if we need it.”
She nodded slowly, but her thoughts were already racing ahead. “Would there be any problem with our running with the side hatches and tailgate open?”
Lane and Chief Tehoa exchanged puzzled glances. “Not in an average sea state,” Lane replied. “It’d be noisy as hell and we’d take some spray inboard, but nothing that would particularly hurt us.”
“Good.” She turned to the CPO. “Chief, I’ve got a project for you. I want a set of pintle mounts rigged for the side and stern hatches of every boat in the squadron. They’ll need to accept either a fifty-caliber machine gun or a grenade launcher and be designed so that we can unship them and get them out of the way in a hurry for loading and unloading operations. You’ll also need to make provisions for safety webbing across the open hatchways, ammunition storage, and an intercom link for the gunners. Can do?”
Being a senior Chief, Ben Tehoa merely nodded. “You want single or twin mounts on the fifty-calibers, ma’am?”
“Twins, if we can squeeze them in. I want every ounce of firepower that will fit shoehorned into these hulls. Oh, and we might need some kind of quick-release monkey harness for the gunners so they can stay on their feet while we’re maneuvering.”
She smiled at her two subordinates, her hands braced on her hips. “Gentlemen, pound for pound, we may be the most heavily armed craft in commission. However, according to the historical precedents I’ve read, retrofitting additional weaponry is an old tradition in the gunboat navy. We always seem to end up needing a little more punch than the book says we’ll require, so we might as well get a jump on the problem from the start.”
Steamer Lane and Chief had another wordless, side-glance conference. They seemed pleased with the concept. “However you want it, ma’am,” the hovercraft commander replied, “but where do we get the gun crews? We don’t have slots for them in our table of organization.”