“The thing is we have no idea how much advanced electronic technology the Germans might have transferred to the buggers on those islands down there.”
Once Surgeon Commander Flynn was safely back aboard, Achilles was to steam farther east and test the electronic defences of Puerto Rico Island, a war-torn sub-territory of the Santo Domingo colony and Anguilla, a supposedly de-militarised German protectorate under the terms of the Submarine Treaty.
In relation to its western neighbours Anguilla was an oasis of calm prosperity, visited regularly by the big cruise ships of the Hamburg-Atlantic Line, something of a must-visit destination for the wealthy of the German Empire. Once her electronic spying missions were completed the cruiser would steer to the west, running much closer inshore along the twelve-mile◦– self-declared by all the Spanish New World provinces in contravention of the internationally recognised three-mile territorial limit◦– line before making passage to Jamaica. During that part of the cruise the detection equipment would be completely removed from, and the Achilles’s Sea Foxes returned to their former state, so as to allow the precious sophisticated equipment to be mounted on the cruiser’s main and anti-aircraft directors as high as possible on the bridge and in the aft superstructure.
“I think the original idea of bringing along the extra ‘wheeled’ Sea Fox was that the Admiralty wanted the raw data flown straight back to Florida, via a fuel stop somewhere in the Bahamas, obviously, so that it can be analysed as soon as possible by the Electronic Warfare Staff at St John’s River.”
Abe had never heard of that facility.
He suspected that this was probably because it was so secret that he was not supposed to know.
“I think the Navy and my boss got their wires crossed,” the boffin, who invited everybody to call him ‘Jack’ speculated. “One of your sea planes could as easily bring our findings back to base. But, I suppose, at least this way Achilles gets to keep both sea planes, which you’ll need if you’re going on farther south and we are still going to get our preliminary findings back to Florida pretty damned quick. So, I suppose, everybody is happy at the end of the day!”
A few minutes later the manoeuvring bell rang insistently and the ship began to pick up speed.
“THIS IS THE BRIDGE. ALL SEA DUTY MEN TO THEIR STATIONS! REPEAT. ALL SEA DUTY MEN TO THEIR STATIONS. THE SHIP IS INVESTIGATING A MERCHANTMAN WHICH HAS REFUSED TO REPLY TO OUR HAIL. THAT IS ALL.”
Achilles was at Air Defence Station Three, its lowest alert level with only one main battery turret manned, ‘A’ turret, and two of the 0.8-inch anti-aircraft cannon mounts locked and loaded. That was standard operating procedure when one of the ship’s aircraft was in the air.
Abe explained this to his pet boffin.
“The normal drill would be to send a Sea Fox to investigate but the Old Man doesn’t want to muck up your, er…”
“We call it electronic surveillance,” Jack Muir retorted. “Spying by any other name!”
“Anyway, what we’ll do is close to hailing range of the merchantman. If the Old Man doesn’t like anything he hears, or the attitude of the ship’s master, he’ll send over a boat so that an officer can check the ship’s manifest and routing papers. Standard commerce protection work, really,” he had concluded as if he was a grizzled old hand not the greenest seagoing member of the cruiser’s wardroom.
Jack Muir was suddenly very thoughtful.
“Do you think I might inveigle myself into the Achilles’s ELDAR room, Abe?”
They had got onto first name terms soon after they started to chat.
Abe was at a loose end.
“Follow me.”
The ELDAR Officer, a scrawny sub-lieutenant fresh out of the Royal Naval College at Dartmouth, after which he had passed a crash course at the Electronic Warfare Establishment at Fort Nelson, near Portsmouth, who had only arrived at Norfolk two days before the cruiser sailed for Bermuda, waved the newcomers into his cramped domain at the back of the bridge on the deck below the compass platform.
“We’re getting a fair bit of interference,” the youngster complained distractedly.
“Try tweaking the frequency down a tad,” Jack suggested.
“Seriously?”
The green repeater screens cleared.
“Somebody else is operating a search ELDAR,” the boffin declared. “Probably that ship we’re approaching.”
“But he’s only a merchie?” The youngster objected.
“There’s nothing else on the screen except distant ground clutter from the nearest land,” the civilian remarked gently.
The ELDAR officer called the bridge and reported this.
Shortly afterwards the Achilles’s Executive Officer entered the compartment, glancing askance at Abe.
“Er, Mister Muir, asked if he could visit the compartment, sir. He’s the ELDAR expert, so I thought…”
The older man grinned conspiratorially and looked to the boffin.
“Do you think that beggar may be attempting to jam our ELDAR?”
“Possibly. He’s obviously got modern, fairly powerful equipment. He certainly knows we’re here. I’m surprised he hasn’t acknowledged your radio hails?”
The Executive Officer pursed his lips.
“We may be stepping up to ADC One in a minute or two, Mr Lincoln. You may wish to make tracks back to the sick bay.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
In the event, nothing happened for some ten minutes after Abe returned to the sick bay to find that his attendants◦– men trained in battlefield first aid, who were otherwise the equivalent of regular naval nurses ashore who had completed the first year of their training◦– had worked out for themselves what was likely to happen next and had reported to their ‘action stations’ in the aft superstructure where they were already prepping to receive casualties.
“THE SHIP WILL COME TO ADC ONE!”
Abe was struck by the subtle differences between the real thing and the drills he had gone through as Michael Flynn’s number two. For one, he was nobody’s deputy today.
Achilles, having closed the range to her ‘target’ had slowed to a crawl, taking the swells on her starboard flank, rolling gently.
“The Old Man will keep the ship bow-on to the merchie,” Abe’s senior man, a petty officer who still wore the torpedo division badge of his former trade◦– he had been crushed in an accident some years ago and transferred to his current specialisation in order to remain at sea◦– on his left bicep, remarked respectfully. “This close to Santo Domingo the merchie could be anything,” the man grinned ruefully, “or nothing.”
“Bow-on?” Abe queried, curious.
“Captain Jackson is old-school, sir,” the other man said with affection and no little respect. “You never show the other fellow your flank unless you’re about to trade broadsides with him.”
“Oh, I see.”
After that they just waited, and waited.
Nothing happened.
Over an hour passed, the cruiser no more than holding her position and then, as if a switch had been flicked, the boredom dissolved.
“This is the Captain. We have stopped a German registered freighter, the SS Horst Lorenz. She’s one of those new refrigerator-cargo-passenger motor vessels the Mexico-Berlin Line has been introducing lately. About eighteen thousand tons deadweight. A glorified banana boat, really. Her master claims his WT room is out of action; I just think the fellow was being awkward. I had one of our planes buzz him to persuade him to stop so that he and I could have a jolly little chat via signal lamp. There is no reason to board the Horst Lorenz, so, in a few minutes we shall be letting her go on her way. Remain at your stations and stay alert until the stand down bell rings. That is all.”