Commander Cantrell in the West Indies(49)

“What are you implying, Commander?”

Eddie produced one of the many history books he’d been poring over for the last several weeks. “I’m implying that in this period, the Spanish are realizing the need to establish the Armada de Barlovento, the squadron that enforces their territorial claim over the entirety of the Caribbean. If the ships that survived Dunkirk left Recife with even half of the ships that were already there, that’s still a major force in the Caribbean. Too major for the Spanish to ignore, if they detect it.”

“If they detect it—a very big if, Commander. But your point is well-taken. Even though our history books show that the Armada de Barlovento is fairly anemic right now, events since our arrival may have already led the Spanish to resharpen its teeth in this timeline. If so—well, then heed the Department of Economic Resource’s exhortations, commander: remember that this is a recon mission only, and not to get embroiled in close range gun duels with the Spanish.”

“Or pirates.”

Simpson smiled. “Or them either.” He stood. “Commander, I think that concludes the day’s business. And unless I’m much mistaken, you have a lot of paperwork and correspondence ahead of you yet.” He raised a salute.

Eddie jumped up and snapped a crisp response. “Yes, sir. Looks like I’ll be burning the midnight oil. Again.” And with that, he pivoted about on his false foot and made for the door, deciding that tonight he’d definitely need to use his remaining coffee ration. Definitely.





Simpson’s eyes remained on the door as it closed behind Eddie Cantrell and then strayed to the folder on his desk marked “Reconnaissance Flotilla X-Ray (Cantrell).” He resisted the urge to open it yet again and inspect its ever-changing roster of ships. Each new diplomatic, military, or resource wrinkle in the USE seemed to make themselves felt as revisions to the complement of hulls. And with every week that Flotilla X-Ray’s departure had been delayed, its size and composition shifted.

Its original composition had been sufficient for its originally simple mission. And likewise, Eddie had been the only possible candidate for the flotilla’s senior up-time officer. Indeed, he had as much naval combat experience as any other up-timer (with the exception of Simpson himself). However, that experience was paltry by comparison to the great majority of the flotilla’s down-time captains and commanders, who had spent most of their lives at sea. Many began as common sailors working “before the mast,” and during some parts of their careers just about all of them had traded broadsides with their sovereigns’ foes. Although the down-time naval officers who had been training for the mission clearly respected Eddie for his combat experience and storied daring, they also were very much aware that he was a relative newcomer to their profession, and was almost completely unfamiliar with the nuances of the sailing vessels upon which they themselves had grown to manhood and in which they were infinitely more at home than any place ashore.

What Eddie had in lieu of their profound nautical skill—as much from his up-time reading and gaming as from recent training—was an innate sense of the tempo and requirements of a flotilla operating under steam power. He was the only officer in Flotilla X-Ray who had that almost instinctual insight. Even those down-time crewmen who had been intensely trained in the technical branches, and who had long ago outstripped him in the expertise specific to any given subsystem of Simpson’s new navy, still lacked his totalized sense of how all those complex parts fit and flowed together, producing both incredible synergies of military power, but also incredible vulnerabilities to breakdowns in either machinery or logistics.

Simpson kept staring at the folder, kept resisting the impulse to open it and reassure himself that Eddie was being given an adequate force to complete his mission and to be able to overmaster or outrun any foes that might present themselves. After all, the admiral told himself, feeling sheepish as he echoed the Department of Economic Resources, it was a simple recon mission. There was nothing to worry about. So what if Reconnaissance Flotilla X-Ray was bound for the New World, beyond the limits of the USE’s power to help, or even readily communicate with it? The flotilla was still fundamentally a shake-down cruise for the first production models of Simpson’s first generation of steam-powered warships. They, usually with Eddie on-board, had been put through extensive sea-trials, and, except for a few quirks, had performed admirably—even superbly, if Simpson were to say so himself. They were good ships, and Eddie was a good, if young, officer.

Simpson studied the flaps of the folder, edges dirty with the wear of his worried fingers, of his impatient thumbs prying back the dull covers. Commander Cantrell and the rest of the flotilla would simply conduct the preparatory operations in the Gulf and the Caribbean and then, when the time was right, Admiral John Chandler Simpson would bring over his new navy of mature, second generation ships, as shiny and lethal a weapon as this world had yet seen.