Harry Turtledove - Drive to the East

“All right, General. I can still do that-just barely,” Dowling said, and shouted for Major Toricelli to put the brakes on things. Toricelli swore, then started making calls of his own. Dowling asked Abell, “Can you tell me why?”

“Not on a line that isn’t secure,” the General Staff officer replied. Dowling found himself nodding. The Confederates had a couple of thousand miles of wire on which to be listening in. And, after a little thought, he had a pretty fair notion of the answer anyway.

November in the North Atlantic wasn’t so bad as, say, January in the North Atlantic. Nobody would ever have mistaken it for July off the Sandwich Islands, though. The Josephus Daniels climbed over swells, slid into troughs, bounced all the time, and generally behaved like a toy boat in a bathtub with a rambunctious four-year-old.

Sam Carsten took it all in stride. He’d rounded the Horn more than once, facing seas that made the North Atlantic at its worst seem tame by comparison. But he wasn’t surprised when the destroyer escort’s passageways began to stink of vomit. A lot of men were seasick. He ordered cleaning parties increased. Smelling the result of other men’s nausea helped make sailors sick. The reek diminished, but didn’t go away. He hadn’t expected anything different.

“You’re a good sailor, sir,” Pat Cooley said, watching Sam tear into a roast beef sandwich on the bridge. The exec hadn’t been sick, not so far as Sam knew, but he did look a little green.

“Not too bad,” Sam allowed, and took another bite. “I’ve had plenty of practice, that’s for damn sure.” He looked up at the cloud-filled sky. “Weather’s right for people like us, anyhow.”

The fair, auburn-haired exec eyed the even fairer blond skipper. “Well, that’s true,” Cooley said. “But everything comes with a price, doesn’t it?” Yes, he was green.

“It does.” Sam finished the sandwich and wiped crumbs off his hands. “When we’re up and down so much, and when all this damn spray’s in the air, the Y-ranging set doesn’t give us as much as it would in softer weather.”

Cooley gulped. “I wasn’t thinking of the Y-ranging set, sir.” Sam thought he would have to leave the bridge in a hurry, but he fought down what might have been about to come up. Sam admired that. Carrying on in spite of what bothered you was a lot tougher than not being bothered, which he himself wasn’t.

“I know, Pat,” he said now, more gently than he was in the habit of speaking. “But it also means we have to patrol the hard way, and it means we can’t see as far. I hope it doesn’t mean something slips past us.”

Along with several other destroyer escorts and destroyers, the Josephus Daniels sailed east of Newfoundland. Their goal was simple: to stop the British from sneaking men and arms into Canada to keep the rebellion there sizzling. As with most goals, setting it was easier than meeting it.

The U.S. Navy had bigger fish to fry, or it would have committed more ships to the job. Fortunately, the Royal Navy did, too. If it didn’t keep the USA away from the convoys from South America and South Africa that fed the United Kingdom, Britain would start to starve. Losing that fight had made the U.K. throw in the sponge in the Great War. Under Churchill and Mosley, the limeys were doing their best to make sure it didn’t happen again. They didn’t treat supporting the Canuck rebels as job number one.

But the British had one big advantage: the North Atlantic was vast, and the ships in it relatively tiny. A lot of what they sent got through. And as for what didn’t-well, if it didn’t, what did they lose? A rusty freighter, some munitions, and a few sailors captured or killed. Cheap enough, for a country fighting a war.

Meanwhile, the United States had to pull ships away from attacking Britain’s supply convoys for this thankless job. Carsten didn’t love convoy-hunting; he’d done too much of it the last time around. But it seemed like a trip to Coney Island next to this.

Up to the crest of a wave. As the Josephus Daniels started to slide down into the trough, the Y-range operator stirred in his seat. “Something?” Sam asked.

“I’m-not sure, sir,” the young officer answered. “I thought so for a second, but then we lost the target.”

“What bearing?” Sam tried not to sound excited. He wanted to go after something.

“About 315, sir,” said Lieutenant, J.G., Thad Walters.

“Mr. Cooley.” Now Sam’s voice was sharp and crisp. “Change course to 315. All ahead full. And sound general quarters, if you please.”

“Changing course to 3-1-5: aye aye, sir,” Cooley said. He called, “All ahead full,” down to the engine room. His finger stabbed a button near the wheel. Klaxons hooted. Sailors dashed to their battle stations.

Sam stared northwest. You bastard-you almost snuck past us, he thought. He knew he might be thinking unkind thoughts at a figment of the electronics’ imagination. That was a chance he took. He spoke to the wireless operator on the bridge: “Signal the other ships in the patrol that we are changing course to pursue a possible enemy ship.”

“Aye aye, sir.” The rating at the Morse key reached for the book to find the proper code groups.

Lieutenant Walters watched his set like a cat keeping an eye on a mousehole. He didn’t say anything the first time the Josephus Daniels climbed to the top of a crest. The next time, though, he jerked as if he’d stuck his finger in a light socket. “It’s there, sir!” he exclaimed. “Bearing 310, speed… eleven knots.”

“Change course to 310, Mr. Cooley,” Sam said, and then, to the Y-range operator, “Mr. Walters, give me a range as soon as you can.” Eleven knots. That sure sounded like a lumbering British freighter. He couldn’t think of any other kind of ship likely to be in these waters right now.

After a couple of more climbs to the crest, Walters said, “Sir, range is about six miles.”

“Thank you,” Sam answered. In good weather, the target would have been easily visible. Of course, for the limeys to bet that the weather off Newfoundland in November would be lousy gave odds a hell of a lot better than putting chips down on double-zero at the roulette table.

Before too long, the freighter did come into sight: a big, lumbering tub not much different from what Sam had expected. At his order, the wireless operator sent more code groups.

“Come up alongside, Mr. Cooley,” Sam said. “I think we’ll need to put a prize crew aboard.”

The Josephus Daniels was a tub herself, but she seemed all sharklike grace alongside the freighter. Sam handled the blinker himself, signaling, WHAT SHIP ARE YOU? HEAVE TO FOR BOARDING AND INSPECTION.

WE ARE THE KARLSKRONA . WE ARE SWEDISH. WE ARE NEUTRAL, came the reply.

“Fat chance,” Sam said. He signaled, HEAVE TO FOR BOARDING AND CONTRABAND INSPECTION. He called to the forward gun turret: “Put one across her bow if she doesn’t stop.”

She didn’t. The shot rang out. LAST WARNING, Sam signaled. Sailors ran across the Karlskrona ’s deck. For a couple of seconds, Sam thought it was panic. Then, suddenly, he didn’t: it was too well organized, too well drilled.

“Sink that ship!” he shouted at the same time as Pat Cooley yelled, “She’s got guns!”

Ever since taking over the Josephus Daniels, Sam had concentrated on gunnery. His men hadn’t been the best then. They were now. He would have matched them against the gunners from any other destroyer escort in the Navy.

And they needed to be. He and Pat Cooley both exclaimed in horror when the armed freighter opened fire. The size of the spout that miss kicked up… “She’s got six-inchers!” Cooley yelped.