What Prices Paid_Part 2

by Jim Rapkins

HMS Excellent

Whale Island

Portsmouth, England

4 June 1908

“No matter how many times I see it, John, it still takes my breath away.” First Sea Lord John Arbuthnot Fisher, the ubiquitous “Jackie” Fisher, glanced up at the stoic figure standing next to him on the small jetty attached to the Commandant’s Quarters. Admiral John Jellicoe grunted in agreement. He followed Fisher’s steely gaze back towards the floating behemoth hovering languidly in the air as it moved away from its moorings, the newest addition to the Royal Sky Fleet taking its place with its brethren.

It truly was a breathtaking sight—thousands of tons of steel and wood filling the air with the crackling static of discharging electroid tanks. Jellicoe felt the exposed hairs on his rough hands come to attention; a familiar feeling for those that rode the Devil’s Breath. It might be a magnificent sight, but the leviathans were still beasts to be feared more than respected. Whale Island was dotted with the brass plaques bolted onto concrete pylons commemorating the “glorious sacrifice” of some poor farm boy who didn’t understand what a tether was for. Amongst other losses.

Both men wore the typical garb of the Sky Fleet despite Fisher’s new civilian status, greatcoats and scarves hiding their identity from the casual observer. Jellicoe rubbed his hands together to chase off the early morning chill. He really should have worn his gloves; he’d thought this meeting would be conducted indoors. He wasn’t a fool; the political wheel was turning and the “exorbitant” cost of the Sky Fleet was being questioned yet again, and he was one of the senior officers of the fleet. Fisher needed to show the detractors in Parliament that the Sky Fleet—hell, the Royal Navy in general—was worth the millions of pounds being spent upon it.

And that meant using them.

It was a tricky situation, as leviathans were first and foremost war machines. Whilst the constant threat of the French was a motivating factor in keeping the fleet prepared, it would not do to risk yet another open confrontation with them. Jellicoe knew that the leviathans of the Sky Fleet were more than a match for the French, but like most naval officers, he was of the opinion that open war was definitely not a desirable outcome. Fisher was more adamant than most regarding that, too. Parliament—especially after the abortive Russian mutiny of previous years—was of the opinion that the leviathans were scalpels; instruments of war that could be used to lance a particularly nasty boil, and yet avoid hurting the rest of the body. Even after bloody Christian had leveled half of Calcutta, an act which had seen the more traditional Admiralty establishment call for a halt to the leviathan build-up, Parliament was beginning more and more to see the Sky Fleet as their first choice of diplomacy.

Jellicoe knew how wrong that was. Unfortunately, he was not the First Sea Lord, or even the Sky Lord. Admiral Scott was in London arguing with the Admiralty bureaucrats yet again for more resources, and at the end of the day, the politicians decided what they did or did not get. So to prove their worth, and solve their continued funding dilemma, Fisher would use the Sky Fleet to score some minor diplomatic points, so the chaps at Whitehall could pat themselves on the back and the boys on Fleet Street could have some good copy. Jellicoe turned to address his superior, tired of the slow build to what he knew was coming.

“Where are we going, sir?”

Fisher grunted appreciatively. Jellicoe was no fool; and his political acumen was starting to match his obvious martial skills, something that had failed the taciturn officer in the past. Jellicoe was a micro-manager, wanting to oversee every action in the smallest detail, and it had seen his career almost cast adrift with the ocean-going Navy. The advent of leviathans, or more accurately the Russian victory at Tsushima, had given the younger man a new lease on his naval career, embracing the new technology and quickly becoming one of Fisher’s closest advisers. He had also brought out such luminaries as Frederic Dreyer, the young man whose range-finding invention had been the target of much interest from both the Admiralty and foreign powers. The older man measured his words carefully before responding.

“Germany. The Baltic.” At Jellicoe’s raised eyebrow, he elaborated. “The Germans have put forth their own version of the Salisbury Doctrine, only applying it to the Baltic. My orders are to bottle in the German fleet, and inform them that the Royal Navy goes where it wishes.”

Jellicoe nodded absently. “Basically waving the flag at them then.” The Germans’ leviathan corps was woefully outclassed by the Sky Fleet, and their ocean-going navy was barely worth mentioning. This would be an exercise in intimidation more than anything else.

“Exactly. As per the standing orders, the mission will be carried out by a joint task force. Under your command, John.” Fisher turned his piercing gaze to Jellicoe’s eyes, unconsciously looking for any sign of reluctance or apprehension. As always, conviction shone brightly within. “Understand, John, we don’t want a shooting war with the Germans; just to demonstrate the Royal Navy is not beholden to their whims when it comes to territorial claims. If it looks like they won’t back down, make them, but for God’s sake man, gently. The French will jump at any chance to expand a conflict.” Not to mention some of those in Parliament.

“I understand, sir. My boys and I will make the Navy proud, and you don’t need to worry about a larger conflict. The Germans can’t match us. They’ll see sense.” Jellicoe smiled confidently, expecting to see the reassuring expression mirrored on his mentor’s face. Instead, Fisher turned to face the slow-moving leviathan floating gracefully out to sea. Crows’ feet danced out from the corners of his eyes as he grimaced.

“Honestly, John, it’s not the Germans I’m worried about.”

To Be Continued…