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."