The Baltic War(229)

Halberstat's lack of comprehension disappeared abruptly, and he swore softly in German.



"I beg your pardon, Admiral," he apologized a moment later. "But you're right. Signal flags, do you think?"



"Most likely," Simpson agreed. "Could be semaphore, I suppose, but it's not going to be signal lamps. Not for daylight signaling, at least."



"But surely the reconnaissance flights should have reported that they were practicing using signal flags, sir!"



"Only if they realized that was what was going on," Simpson countered. Halberstat looked incredulous, and the admiral shrugged.



"Oh, you're right, Franz. They have to have spent time training with them, especially if they're responding this quickly. And Colonel Woods' pilots probably have been overhead when they were doing it, too. The problem is that, so far as I know, none of the air force's pilots know a damned thing about ships or navies. That was a problem we had back up-time, as well. Someone familiar with our own signal processes, or simply aware that you just can't maneuver squadrons of ships that way without some means of quick communication, probably would have recognized what he was seeing. The air force didn't."



"How much difference to you expect it to make today, sir?" Halberstat asked.



"That, I don't know," Simpson admitted. "The fact that they appear to be forming up to offer battle—and in line-of-battle, too, now that I think about it, which is a considerable improvement on the sort of mob/melee tactics most people around here use—would seem to indicate Overgaard plans to fight. In that respect, it could be a good thing. Trying to fight is going to require him to concentrate his ships where we can get at them, instead of having to chase them all down individually. On the other hand, if he decides the time has come to break off and run, he can probably pass a specific order to that effect quickly."



"To be honest, sir," Halberstat said with a somewhat nasty smile, "I don't really expect most of his 'gallant allies' to wait around for any orders to break off. Not once they see what's going to happen to them, at any rate."



"You're probably right about that," Simpson conceded, then frowned thoughtfully.



"You know, Franz," he said slowly, "we don't have those nice, tall masts and sails they do. And at this range, both sides are still hull-down from one another."



"Sir?" Halberstat said, when the admiral paused. Simpson quirked an eyebrow, and the flag captain smiled. "You appear to have something . . . unpleasant in mind, sir."



"I was just thinking about the wind, Franz. If you were one of those captains, and you decided to break and run away, what heading would you choose?"



"In this wind?" Halberstat pursed his lips thoughtfully for a moment, then shrugged. "Northeast, sir. Maybe north-northeast. I wouldn't want to get too far east, for fear we might be coordinating our attack with the speedboats at Wismar. And I wouldn't want to head west, for fear we—the enemy, that is—might pin me against the land."



"That's exactly what I was just thinking," Simpson agreed. "And it occurred to me, while I was thinking that, that all they can see of us right now is the timberclads' smoke. Smoke which the ironclads don't happen to emit."



He gazed at Halberstat for several seconds, watching the flag captain work through it himself. Then Halberstat's eyes lit in sudden understanding.



"Due east, were you thinking, Admiral? And with how many?"



"United States and Monitor, I think. And we'll slow our own rate of advance to give them more time to get into position, too."



"I agree, sir," Halberstat said.



"Good." Simpson nodded, then returned his attention to the radio and keyed the mike. "Recon One, Navy One. Thanks for being patient. I'd like you to keep a close eye on them for me. Let me know when they finish getting themselves into that column—assuming they do—and if any of them decide to break off or wander away on their own."



"Understood, Navy One. We'll orbit and advise you of any changes."



"Thank you, Recon One. Navy One, out."



Simpson looked down at the signalman manning the radio.



"Get me Captain Bollendorf, please."



Captain Markus Bollendorf, Monitor's CO, was senior to Captain Samuel Thackeray, who commanded United States.



"Yes, sir."





Captain Admiral Aage Overgaard stood on the poop deck of his flagship, the fifty-gun Danish ship Freja, and glared up at the signal flags streaming from the main topsail yard. Those flags allowed him to exercise a tighter central control over a squadron of ships than had ever before been possible for anyone . . . except for the never-to-be-sufficiently-damned Americans. Who, of course, happened to be the people heading toward him from the north.