RP: The Punishment Fleet
Published May 14th, 2009Follows The Court Martial of LCDR Lamunda closely.
The moon shone brightly on the waters of the Blakes Sea as the Retribution Task Force gathered steam. I looked down the hatchway at CDR Bellambi and the duty navigation officer. They seemed worried.
“Everything shipshape, Commander?”
“I’m worried about the wind, sir, it’s picking up. We have not way of determining if this will affect the location of the Object.”
“We shall do the best we can, Commander, with what we have. It’s a miracle we even have a bearing on this Object. You’ve done a credible job, Commander. I’m giving the order.”
I wasn’t worried. I was gleeful! We had not seen action of this sort in many a month. I leaned out the control cabin of the borrowed Tyrian and pulled the lanyard on the steam whistle. Once, twice, then two together quickly. MAKE STEAM! Follow in battle line!
Slowly the fleet of somewhat groggy officers (recently toasting Lamunda’s success in escaping severe career damage in court martial) brought boilers to the true operational pitch, and formed a long battle line. I wish we had air cover for this mission, but I would not risk one of Jonas’ airships for spotting fire with the wind picking up. I would regret leaving him home in a few hours, but at the time I was blisfully ignorant… aye, and perhaps a tad overconfident.
Lavancos trailing, and Kotetsus on flank, with the mortar ships in the center– always delicate hulls, those.
We picked up steam, and crossed to the East of Althorn Point, dipping our flags to the Autocrat’s office as we passed it. I could see his lone figure on the observation deck of his mansion, silently staring out to sea as the Retribution Task Force gradually picked up steam to a level that all ships could maintain at a steady head of steam, with an interception point of 1.5 hours.
I gave the wheel to the helmsmen, and went down to the captain’s quarters to use his chart table as a desk. A seaman already had coffee ready. I nodded thanks.
As we steamed south, I pondered a note I noticed in my inbox just as we were walking out the door. A large cream colored note with an odd red wax seal. Not giving it much of a glance, I stuffed it in my jacket as we were running out to board ship.
Well, I had about an hour.
I slit the wax seal, and read the message. “To the Commodore of the Fleet of Wrath Exiles, from a leading citizen in the community you refer to as the Object”
That had my attention.
“It has come to my attention that you have visited our fair city at least once in the past few weeks, and might consider doing so again, perhaps this time with a little surprise.” I winced, for this was a job I was reserving for Lamunda, but this time with several pounds of dynamite.
“If you attempt incursion to our territory through that avenue of approach, you might find it blocked next time. Or perhaps not, if you will lend an ear to my proposal.”
“There is a certain troublesome individual that has blocked certain projects of mine at Armada. You would be doing myself (oh, and Armada) a great service if, somehow, she were to go missing in the attack that surely looms. I would wish to meet with you in advance of this attack to discuss certain matters of mutual benefit to both our communities. Signed…”
And an illegible scrawl followed.
I looked at the sheet, puzzled. What the devil? Still, one should never discard a useful tool. I set that down in my portfolio and went back on deck. The moon was at its height now and the Object, what they called ARMADA, should be hoving into view.. NOW.
Nothing.
I looked around the horizon, first with the naked eye, then with the Night-Glass.
Still Nothing.
“YOUR LADYYYYSHIP!”
CDR Bellambi appeared instantly to my bellow. I was calm.
“Madame, scan the horizon. We are at the coordinates you gave us. Where’s the Object?”
For the first time in a long time, she appeared less than certain.
“Commodore, I have no idea. Based upon what we know of projected course, state of the sea, wind and tide, THIS IS WHERE SHE SHOULD BE.”
“Hmph. Well, madame, I will not waste precious coal on this fool’s errand. We’ve been humbugged, it seems. Signal Fleet orders. Set course for Port Merrimac, return to base. Leave a Tyran and a few direct fire Ironclads out on long patrol, your choice, and the body of the fleet to return home at once.”
I leaned out the control window of the Tyrann to get some fresh air. An ironclad can get rather stale after two hours underway at three-quarters turn of the screw.
I looked out at the water, in the general direction of where the Object (Armada, I must learn to call it that) should be. Was it my imagination, or were there lights UNDER the water, flashing back and forth?
I shook my head. Trick of the light, to be sure.
I sighed, gulped my coffee, and returned to the Captain’s stateroom, to finish my coffee and ponder this unusual communication I had just received. We would not bombard Armada today. But the day would come, I knew it as sure as I was sitting here.
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