At least the Randall’s secondary battery had been replaced with five-inch quick-firers during the past year. Guns that used bagged charges instead of metallic cartridges loaded too slowly to fend off torpedo attack.
The Lumberton was older yet, with short-barrelled eight-inch guns and a secondary battery of six-inch slow-firers that had been next to useless when they were designed—at about the time Farr was a midshipman. Last and least, the Waccachee Township wore iron armor over a wooden hull much like the poor Imperatora Giulia Moro across the harbor. She’d never in her career been able to make thirteen knots.
“Attack what?” Captain Dundonald said. “Good God, man! Does this look like a military installation to you?”
Lieutenant Weiss chuckled. “Yes, well,” he said. “You must understand, gentlemen, that though it will doubtless take a year or two to reduce the animals to a condition of proper docility, we must first close the cage door. Besides, the squadron needs target practice. We were escorting the transports at Corona.”
He eyed the Moro. The brightly clad refugees gave the impression that the ship was dressed in bunting for a gala naval review of the sort the Empire had so dearly loved. “From what those who were present at Corona say, the Imperial main fleet wasn’t much more of a danger than that hulk will be.”
Farr tried to blank his mind. The image of shells slamming home among the mass of humanity on the Moro was too clear; it would show on his face. And if he spoke, something unprofessional would come out of his mouth.
“Commodore—” said a breathless Ensign Tillingast, bursting onto the bridge again.
“Ensign!” Farr shouted. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, breaking in on—”
“Your son, sir,” Tillingast said.
“Jeffrey?” Farr blurted. He wished he could have the word back as it came out, even before John Hosten stepped through the companionway hatch.
John was limping slightly. He’d lost twenty pounds since Farr last saw him; and, Farr thought, the boy had lost his innocence as well.
“Sir, I’m sorry,” John said. “I became separated from Jeffrey in Ciano. He was in Corona when—”
John appeared to be choosing his words with as much care as fatigue and sleeplessness allowed him. Farr had seen his son’s eyes flick without lighting across Weiss’ uniform.
“When we last spoke,” John resumed, “Jeffrey intended to present himself to a Chosen command group. He felt association with Land forces was of more benefit to his professional development and that of the Republic’s army than remaining with the Imperials would be.”
Lieutenant Weiss allowed himself a tight smile. Captain Dundonald ostentatiously turned his back.
“I’m confident that so long as my sons live, they’ll do their duty as citizens of the Republic of the Santander,” Farr said, his voice as calm as a wave rising on deep water. “As will their father.”
If at full strength—probable since Weiss said they hadn’t seen action—the Land’s Third Cruiser Squadron would be four nearly identical modern vessels. They were excellent sea boats and faster than even the McCormick City—unless their hulls were foul; don’t assume the enemy is ten feet tall, though be prepared in case he is.
On the other hand, the cruisers were small ships, less than 3,000 tons standard displacement. The ten ten-centimeter quick-firers each carried in hull sponsons were no serious gunnery threat to Farr’s squadron . . . but the three torpedo tubes were another matter. Corona had proved how effective Chosen torpedoes could be.
“Lieutenant Weiss,” Farr said. “I have orders to give to my command before I reply to your message. I’d like you to remain present so that you can provide your superior with a full accounting.”
Weiss clicked his heels to emphasize his nod.
“Commander Grisson,” Farr said to his staff secretary, “Signal the squadron, ‘Under way in ten minutes.'”
That was a bluff. His ships had one or at most two boilers lighted to conserve coal at anchor. Peacetime regulations. . . . Still, Eberdorf had kept her cruisers over the horizon, so by the time Weiss returned with Farr’s reply more than the “hour’s deadline” would have passed.
“Make it so, Ryan!” Dundonald snapped to his own signals officer, staring wide-eyed from the wheelhouse. The McCormick City’s captain had no intention of standing on ceremony now.