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.