Commander Cantrell in the West Indies(26)
Simpson had won the fight to get the guns he needed, and their recoil carriages, but not the electronic inclinometer and fire-control system. Eddie could see the value in both sides of that latter argument, which had essentially boiled down to, “there are finite resources and the navy can’t have first pick of all of them,” versus, “why go to the expense of creating the most powerful and lethal guns ever seen on the planet only to give them the same sights you would find on a zip gun?”
As time had worn on, Eddie’s sympathies had moved increasingly toward Simpson’s own—probably, he conceded, because he would soon have to ship out in one of these new hulls and wanted to be able to reliably smack the bad guys at distances of half a mile. By way of comparison, the down-time cannons were notoriously ineffective beyond one or two hundred yards, and were laughable at four hundred. And so if that made engagements with such ships a very one-sided proposition—well, Eddie had learned personally that in war, mercilessly exploiting an advantage wasn’t “unsporting.” It was sound tactics. Indeed, anything else was the sheerest insanity.
“Commander Cantrell?”
Eddie swam up out of his thoughts, saw blue waves and then Simpson’s blue eyes. “Uh . . . Yes, sir?”
“The gun crew has swapped in the new ignition system. You may commence firing at your leisure.” Simpson put the binoculars back up to his eyes.
Eddie stared unhappily at the fast-fuse that was now inserted into the aperture that had, minutes ago, been fitted with a percussion cap nipple. The hammer for that system was now secured in a cleared position.
The gun chief, a Swede, saluted. “Ready to begin firing, Commander.”
Eddie sighed. “Reacquire the target, Chief.”
“Aye, sir.” He stared through his glass, then nodded. “Reacquired, sir. Range and bearing unchanged.”
“Very well,” answered Eddie, “stand by for the order to fire.” Eddie felt for the wind, watched the pattern of the swells, looked for another long, flat trough between them—and saw one. He glanced at the inclinometer. The yaw and pitch were too small to register and the roll was subsiding, the bead floating gradually toward the balance point. Eddie saw it move into the middle band, approach dead center—
“Fire!”
The second gunner touched the glowing match at the end of the handlelike linstock to the fuse. It flashed down in a lazy eyeblink: quick, but far slower than the near-instant response of the percussion-cap ignition system. The gun discharged, sending out its sharp blast of sound and air pressure.
But that lazy eye blink had been a sliver of a second too long. The ship had rolled a fraction past the perfect level point of the inclinometer. Water jetted up almost one hundred yards beyond the target, and very slightly to the left.
“And that shot,” observed Simpson, “had the advantage of being fired at an already ranged and acquired target.”
“I may have timed the swell incorrectly, Admiral.”
“Nonsense. Your timing was as good, or better, than during the trials with the percussion lock. You know the reason for the greater inaccuracy as well as I do, Commander.”
Eddie nodded. “The fuse delay. There’s just no way to compensate for that extra interval.”
“Precisely. The comparative difference in the burn-time of powder fuses reduces the accuracy of the weapon so greatly that it’s barely worth the cost of building it. Percussion caps not only ignite much faster, but with far greater uniformity. But let’s not leave any room for argument. Since the bean counters in Grantville want concrete justification to release funding for a uniform provision of the percussion system, we shall give it to them.” He watched the second loader turn the breech handle and pull sharply; the half-threaded breech block swung open and fumes rolled out, along with a powerful sulfur smell. “Give every shot your best estimate, Commander. I don’t want any more trouble with the DER than is absolutely necessary.”
Eddie squinted, stuck a finger at the horizon two points off the port bow. “Looks like we may have some other trouble before that, Admiral.”
Simpson frowned, looked, spied the almost invisible gray-sailed skiff that Eddie had just noticed, bobbing five miles to the southeast. Grumbling, the admiral jammed the binoculars back over his eyes, then was silent. Eddie saw his jaw work and a moment later, Simpson uttered a profanity which was, for him, so rare as to be shocking.
“What is it, sir? Pirates?”
“Worse, Commander,” Simpson muttered through clenched teeth. “Unless I am much mistaken, that is the press.”