Chapter 11- Strategy
"Good morning, Commander." The voice was pleasant and welcoming, though a bit disinterested.
Lane opened his eyes blearily, waiting for the room to come into focus. Painted plywood walls with some of the two-by-four studs still visible where the plywood had run out. A low ceiling, plain but whitewashed. He heard a sloshing sound and looked over to see Sheffield in her maid's uniform, filling a basin with water that steamed in the cool of the early morning.
His head pounded. "Cluf," he said, less intelligently than he had intended. He worked his jaw a bit. "Coffee?"
"Belfast is a strict believer that tea is more appropriate before breakfast," said Sheffield calmly. "You'll find a cup on the tray next to your bed. She believes coffee will unsettle an empty stomach."
Sure enough, there was a mismatched tea service on a fold-out tray next to him. He sat up and sipped the tea, grimacing. "Tell Belfast that her concerns are duly noted, but coffee is an essential operational necessity for me, unsettled stomach or no." He pondered for a moment. "Did I decide to just stay here for the night?" He remembered vaguely staying up all day discussing the state of the fleet with Wales and Hood, Elizabeth throwing in the odd observation. Despite her arrogance, he had to admit that she had a clear grasp of strategy.
"You said you would be with us for now on," said Sheffield, busying herself with an inspection of his uniform. It was hanging up on an old wardrobe that had been scrounged from somewhere. "Something about keeping an eye on us." She said the last sentence with a hint of disdain.
"I see." Wonderful. I must have been completely loopy. "So, you actually act as a maid, then?"
"Among other things," said Sheffield. She frowned at a rustling noise in the corner of the room.
"Isn't it a bit odd for a warship to-"
With one smooth movement, she drew a pistol from the folds of her dress and fired. There was a muffled squeak, barely audible after the sound of the shot.
Lane clapped his hands over his ringing ears. "Bloody hell," he shouted. "What are you doing?"
"Rat," she explained, making the pistol vanish. "They've been a nuisance ever since we moved in here." She grimaced at whatever she saw in the corner- Lane dared not look. "I'll have it removed directly."
"Uh-huh. Haven't you heard of mouse traps?"
"I don't think these rats would fit in a typical one."
Lane was suddenly very glad he had not looked at the apparently very dead rat. "I see."
"Would you like me to help you get dressed?"
Wartime had changed a great deal of social mores, but that was a bit over the top. "No," he managed. "No, I think I'll be fine. Would you mind-" he gestured, almost frantically, at the door.
"Of course." She curtsied and left.
Lane swung his feet over the edge of the bed. "The whole world's gone mad," he muttered. As he stood up, his eyes were drawn inexorably to the corner.
It was, he had to admit, an impressively large rat.
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The briefing room the ship-girls had set up was pretty impressive considering their resource limitations. For one thing, it was set up in an office area in the front of the hangar, which meant it had something closer to real walls. There was a passable homemade map table in the center, as well as several charts hung up on the walls. Lane grimaced as soon as he walked in. The map table, which currently showed Great Britain, had several red circles placed on it. Each one, he knew, represented an air strike.
"Bristol?" he said, pointing at one.
Wales looked up from the table. "Good morning, Commander. I trust you had a pleasant night." She looked at the marker he was pointing at. "Yes, that was the largest raid. Less damage than we might have expected, though. The RAF managed to intercept them coming in."
"Losses?"
"On our side? Twenty-four. The pilots say they shot down at least two hundred, but-"
"Divide by four," said Lane, rolling his eyes. Pilots always exaggerated their kills. A quarter of what they claimed was probably optimistic. "Even so, at least the numbers were in our favor."
"Not over the long term," said Hood. She looked at him with eyes red from lack of sleep. She had taken the night watch, he recalled. "It seems the lull we've had over the last two years is ending."
"Yes," he said thoughtfully. He looked over at the ship-girl. "Hood, go to sleep. You look like you need it."
"You certainly know how to talk to a lady," she said, but then yawned. "Oh, dear, I do apologize."
Lane waved her away. "Get some rest." As she curtsied and left, he was already considering the strategic situation. "Wales, what would you say our main threat is, currently?"
"Starvation," she said immediately. "We haven't managed to get a convoy through in several months, even from the Continent." The French had managed to keep their agriculture going and had been supplying as much of England's needs as they could. "The Sirens have the Channel well and truly blockaded."
"That's what I thought as well." He considered the map, drumming his fingers thoughtfully. "I suppose the Sirens think so as well."
"Commander? You have an idea?"
"Maybe. Let me think on it some more. In the meantime, do we have a telephone line?"
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"Captain Lane," said Admiral Sir Tom Phillips. "Have you gotten those mad females of yours under control yet?"
It was one way to start a conversation, Lane supposed. "Something like that, sir. Sir, I was calling to see how much support I will have from the Admiralty."
"Well, since these 'ship-girls' won't have anyone but you, I suppose all within reason. Most of us do trust you, you know," said Phillips. "I would have gone down with Prince of Wales if it weren't for you."
It would have been nice if "most of us" had backed me up at the court-martial, thought Lane sourly. "Would it be within reason to ask the French to start putting together a convoy? At, say, Calais?"
"I'm not sure anything is within reason for the French, but we can try." The admiral's voice was curious. "Planning to try and restart the Channel trade?"
"Something like that."
"Well, I'll run it by the First Lord, let you know. How are they, anyway? That Warspite woman nearly broke Palliser's neck when we tried to put him in charge of them."
"Insubordinate, sir. At least, their leader is." Lane glanced around to make sure no one could hear him. "She seems to think she is the Queen. The rest of them go along with it for some reason."
"Mad as hatters, every one," Phillips said grumpily. "Put them in something like order, will you? The Japanese and Americans seem to think they're effective. And I have to admit, the actions they have taken on their own have been most creditable. Did you hear about the raid on Bristol?"
"Yes, sir. Did we have something to do with that? I hadn't heard."
"Glorious was in port. She was the one who raised the alarm- her airplanes shot down at least a dozen of the attackers." There was grudging approval in Phillips's voice. "Never have gone in for this modern craze for carriers, but I have to admit that was well done. And it has to be said, I'd much rather those unmanned aircraft of theirs be shot down than our RAF boys."
"Very true, sir."
"Well, I'll let you get to it. But Captain?"
"Yes, sir?"
"His Majesty's government has very little patience left for these ship-girls. If we don't see some results, and soon, we will likely wash our hands of them entirely. And I don't think I need to spell out what that would mean for your career."
"What's left of it, sir. Duly noted."
"Good luck, Captain."
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Tipner was an area on the east side of Portsmouth Harbor, where a number of Royal Navy facilities were located. One of them was a firing range, though currently being used as a different sort of range entirely.
"Fore!" shouted Hood, looking entirely refreshed after a few hours sleep. She swung, a beautiful drive that was a hair's breadth from a hole-in-one.
"This was not what I had in mind when I suggested a strategy meeting," said Lane. He looked suspiciously at the golf club in his hand. "I'm not much of a golfer, to be quite frank."
"Then this is a good time to learn," said Elizabeth briskly. She wore a short, frilly pink skirt and an even frillier white shirt with a burgundy golf cap. "Would you care to play?"
Trying to look confident, Lane teed up and took a few practice swings. Apparently he did it poorly, because several of the girls visibly winced.
"So I understand you're putting together a convoy in Calais," said Elizabeth. "I must say, it's about time we did so. Our people are starving."
"One convoy won't change that," said Lane, eyeing the ball with malice.
"It is a start, though," pointed out Warspite. "And quite frankly we need a victory."
Lane shaded his eyes from the sun and peered at the flag, well over two hundred yards away. "We need more than just a symbolic victory, Warspite. We need to start bringing the fight to the Sirens."
"But how? I mean, they do have bases, but every time we've attacked one we've lost too many ships to carry on."
"That was with the old ships." He looked at her. "Do you not realize the advantages you have?"
"I-"
"You're smaller by several orders of magnitude than a dreadnought, first of all," said Lane.
"Is that a compliment?" whispered Wales to Duke of York. They were standing near the back, having elected not to play. "Or is it a comment on our weight?"
"It depends on how many orders of magnitude," York whispered back.
"Second, you are far more maneuverable." Lane tucked his golf club under his arm and ticked off points on his fingers, ignoring the byplay. "Third, you don't require a crew of thousands to operate. Finally, since you're part of a fairly small group that all know each other, you're far more efficient than the old ships ever could be."
"All right," said Elizabeth, conceding the point. "But how do we translate those strengths into victory? I mean, specifically?"
"Well, they'll naturally work to our advantage regardless of how we engage the enemy, but we want to do more than that. We want to make full use of our capabilities."
Elizabeth was beginning to look annoyed, which Lane had to admit secretly amused him. "Yes, but how?"
"Well, take the first advantage. You're far smaller than a battleship. What does that imply?"
"We're harder to hit," said Hood.
"And?"
They exchanged glances. "Harder to see," said Wales after a moment. "So-"
"So that opens up a whole new dimension to naval warfare," said Lane complacently. "A dimension of which I intend to take full advantage."
"I see," said Elizabeth thoughtfully. "You are speaking of ambuscade."
It was a reminder that she could, to some extent, back up her pretensions. "Exactly."
"So we ambush a Siren force using the convoy as bait? Seems rather cold-blooded," remarked Hood.
"Oh, I don't intend for any harm to come to the convoy," said Lane. "After all, you are quite correct when you say we can use it." He gripped the golf club again and measured his stroke carefully.
"I'm still not sure how much good it will do," said Hood. "After all, we don't know how many Sirens there are or where they came from. We don't even know what they want."
"Ah, but at the end of the day we don't need to know that," said Lane. He took one last practice swing.
"Then what do we need to know?"
Lane swung. By luck more than skill, it was a near perfect shot, landing within a few paces of Hood's ball on the makeshift green. The ship-girls' eyes widened in surprise.
Lane looked at Hood. "What do we need to know? Just one thing.
"How they die."
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"A bit over-dramatic," said Sheffield later as he changed clothes behind a screen in his room. He had insisted on the screen when it became apparent that Sheffield was intending to be in his room whether he wanted it or not.
"Drama serves a purpose," said Lane. He hopped on one foot as he pulled on his uniform pants, barely keeping his balance. "It reminds people of what's at stake."
"I see. So you really think we can win?"
"Of course," said Lane. "In fact, I know we will."
"How on earth could you possibly know that?"
"Because if I'm wrong, we'll all be dead. Then it won't matter if I'm wrong or right."
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"He seems confident," observed Wales.
They were sitting in a small building off to one side of the hangar which the maids had turned into a sitting room. It was starting to rain, so Belfast was lighting the small fireplace they had built in the corner. Edinburgh was serving tea.
"Arrogant is more like it," said Elizabeth, not noticing the looks that several of her coterie exchanged. "Well-nigh insufferable."
"We really don't need him, Your Majesty," said Warspite. "We could continue to fight on our own."
She shook her head. "We weren't winning, though we weren't necessarily losing either. But if we're not winning-"
"We're losing. Point taken, Your Majesty."
"We'll give him a chance," decided Elizabeth. "If he succeeds, well and good. If not- well, I'm sure the Admiralty has someone else we can go to."
The others didn't look sure at all.