The Great Martian War: The Gathering Storm - Snippet #8
Jan 14, 2020 12:35:59 GMT
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Post by scottwashburn on Jan 14, 2020 12:35:59 GMT
A continuation from Snippet #7
For the next two days, Lindemann found it very difficult to concentrate on his work. Instead of staring at the Martian control mechanisms, he prowled Bushy House, digging up everything he could on the subject of coil guns, convinced that Churchill would want to talk about them. Chadwick was a bit of nuisance, but he found odd jobs to keep him busy. Fortunately, Eccles gave him no difficulty about leaving work early to attend the meeting.
In fact, he barely came to work at all that day. After only an hour or so at his desk, he slipped off and returned to his apartment in Brentford to bathe and dress. The generous allowance his father granted, along with his salary from the Laboratory, allowed him to dress like a proper gentleman, even though he did not employ an actual valet. He vacillated a bit over exactly which suit to wear, but eventually decided on sober gray trousers and vest with a vertical pinstripe, white shirt, black cravat, a slightly darker gray jacket, and a light gray top hat with black band. He recalled that in photos he’d seen of Churchill, he rarely wore spats, so Lindemann dispensed with those. A gold watch and chain completed the ensemble. He hesitated a moment on whether to carry a walking stick, but finally decided against it. A young, healthy man carrying a stick seemed like an affectation—and if he didn’t carry one, he wouldn’t have to figure out what to do with it once he got there.
He hired a cab to make the trip to Admiralty House, which was about six miles from Brentford. The early January weather was brisk, but warmer than normal for that time of year, so he dispensed with an overcoat. The streets were moderately crowded, but mostly with civilians. During the periods of alert when Mars came into opposition with Earth and a new wave of cylinders could be expected, there would be soldiers everywhere, but in the intervals—like now—the army was less numerous.
Admiralty House was a four-story structure of yellow brick built in the Georgian style. Its three broad bays faced Whitehall and its entrance was on the corner of Ripley Courtyard. The rear of the large structure was on the Horse Guards Parade, beyond which was Downing Street where the Prime Minister’s home was situated. That side of the building had been heavily damaged during the first invasion and had been largely rebuilt. The workmen had done a fine job, but you could see where the new met the old.
Lindemann, in fear of being late, had arrived very early and spent the next hour strolling about the neighborhood, dodging snow flurries and taking care not to get any dirt on his fine suit. This wasn’t easy because with London’s thousands of factories working around the clock, everything had a fine layer of coal soot on it. The air was thick with the stuff, making him cough. He pondered whether the humans were unwittingly creating their own version of the Martians’ poisonous black dust weapon and using it on themselves.
Finally, it was time and he presented himself to the Royal Marine sentry at the doors of Admiralty House, showed him his letter of invitation, and was ushered inside. He had mentally prepared himself to have to ask someone where he should go in the large building since the invitation had not given any details, so he was much surprised to find Churchill right there in the foyer.
He was engaged in an animated discussion with another man, shorter and stouter than himself, and considerably older. But despite his age, the other man was waving his arms around and speaking loudly and forcefully. “Winston, it doesn’t matter a damn what kind of guns we have! The only thing which matters is hitting the damn target! Gunnery! Gunnery! Gunnery! Hit them before that can hit us!”
Churchill appeared to be mustering a response when he glanced up and saw Lindemann. He smiled and took the other man by the arm and turned him around. “Ah, Jacky, here’s the fellow I was telling you about. Professor Lindemann, so good of you to join us.” He stepped forward and extended his hand. Lindemann had never liked the unsanitary custom, but there was no choice here. He grasped Churchill’s hand and shook it.
“Honored to be here, sir.”
“Jacky, this is Professor Lindemann of the National Physical Laboratory. Professor, I imagine you recognize our First Sea Lord?”
Now Lindemann did recognize the man, but he had to force himself not to flinch away. Admiral Sir John Arbuthnot Fisher, Baron Fisher, GBC, OM, GCVO, the First Sea Lord, was a legend, perhaps the second most famous admiral in British history, behind only Nelson, himself. Despite the fact that he had never commanded a fleet in combat, he had left his mark on the navy and generations of sailors, like no one before him. Now seventy, he was still in the thick of things, helping direct the navy’s actions against the Martians.
Photographs of Fisher that Lindemann had seen had always seemed a bit… off. There was something very odd about the man’s eyes. But now, seeing him in the flesh; flesh that had a decidedly yellowish tinge, along with those Mongoloid eyes, why the man looked like a bloody Chinaman! Lindemann had always been uncomfortable around other races and he tried to avoid them whenever possible. But there was no avoiding Lord Fisher.
“Uh, very pleased to meet, you, sir.”
Fisher frowned. “So you’re the scientist fellow Winston’s been going on about? Hope you can add something useful to the circus today.” He did not offer his hand and Lindemann was grateful.
“I’m sure he will, Jacky,” said Churchill. “But look at the time, we’d better be along.” He steered them toward the grand staircase at the far end of the foyer and they went up, only slowing their pace slightly to match the elderly Fisher. On the second floor they went into a large meeting room which had tall windows looking out on to the Horse Guards Parade, although today there were drapes nearly covering them. The room was sumptuously appointed and there was a huge octagonal table in the center of it. A map of the world nearly covered the wall opposite the windows. It had hundreds of pins stuck in it, each with a small colored label.
There were a dozen other men in the room, about half in uniform and the rest in civilian clothing. Churchill did not attempt to introduce them all, but did present Lindemann to the assembly, calling him ‘my new science advisor’. Lindemann nodded to the men, but his attention was focused on the First Lord. My Science Advisor! Did he really mean that?
Churchill called the meeting to order and they all took seats. Lindemann noted with interest that the higher ranking men had a whole side of the octagon to themselves, while the lower ranking ones had to double up. He found himself sitting next to the Third Sea Lord, Rear Admiral Charles Briggs. A half-dozen junior officers stood around the periphery ready to supply their seniors whatever they needed, be it refreshments or information.
The meeting began and Lindemann quickly became totally lost in the technical navy reports which followed. Reports on new ships under construction, ships in repair yards, ships taking on supplies, men training to man the new ships, officers being promoted or transferred to command those ships; the amount of information flowing across the table was enormous. The Royal Navy was a vast organization, but he had never appreciate just how vast until now. Hundreds of ships and thousands upon thousands of men scattered across the globe and they were all directed from this room. A thrill passed through him at the thought that he had been invited here. But to do what?
After an hour or so there was a short break and Lindemann accepted a cup of tea and then had to awkwardly ask one of the junior officers where the facilities were located. But they were soon back at the table again and Churchill said: “Now gentlemen, I want to get your opinion on the matter of these coil guns.” Lindemann immediately came to attention. “As you know, after we figured out the properties of the Martian wire, we realized we could build coil guns with it. So we built some. A few hundred smaller ones for the army and a few dozen larger ones for the navy. But we only had a limited amount of the stuff and no way to make any more.
“But now, thanks to successes in India and Egypt, we have access to a new supply. Teams of brave men are salvaging the wrecks of the Martian machines wherever they can get to them and sending the useful materials back home. We can now build coil guns again, although we are also finding new uses for the wire, too, so the supply is limited and somewhat dependent on the fortunes of war. The question is now who gets the wire? Naturally, we would like the navy to get its fair share, but K of K is demanding virtually all of it for the army.”
There was a rumble around the table. Lindemann blinked in confusion for a second, and then realized that ‘K of K’ was Lord Kitchener. ‘Kitchener of Khartoum’, Field Marshal and Secretary of State for War, a general every bit as legendary as Admiral Fisher was with the navy; the most famous and admired military commander since Wellington.
The rumble grew to a shout when Fisher rose to his feet and flung his arms in the air. “All? All for the army? Is he mad? He cannot be allowed to get away with this! Winston, we must stop the bounder!”
“I know, Jacky, I know,” said Churchill, making calming motions with his hands. “The Prime Minister has promised we will get a fair share. But we need to give him an honest appraisal of just what our fair share should be…”
“Half! At least half! The honor of the Fleet is at stake!”
“I know how you feel, but we have to be realistic here. The army is facing the Martians on a dozen fronts every day. The navy is helping them wherever we can, but only when the Martians get close enough to the water to come within range.”
“If we had the wire to make bigger coil guns, we could hit them a hundred miles from the sea! Farther!” Lord Fisher’s face was turning red and Lindemann was afraid the old man was going to have a stroke. But no one else in the room seemed concerned. Indeed, a few were rolling their eyes. Did he do this at every meeting?
“Well, that’s something we need to talk about and one of the reasons I’ve asked Professor Lindemann to join us. Kitchener has argued that scoring hits at such ranges is next to impossible and that it makes far more sense to make a larger number of smaller guns which the army can bring into effective range. Can we produce a counter-argument in favor of more and larger naval coil guns? Professor, do you have any thoughts?”
All eyes turned to Lindemann and he felt like he was sitting in the sights of a coil gun right at that moment. What to say? It was clear what Churchill and Fisher, and probably all the others at the table, wanted, but could he give it to them? Field Marshal Kitchener’s argument was a strong one. The Martians fought on land and sea power could only be brought to bear if they got too near the ocean. The army, on the other hand, could go where the Martians were. It probably made sense to give the army the lion’s share of the wire. But if he said that, it would disappoint Churchill and probably enrage Fisher and it would be highly unlikely that he’d ever be invited to another meeting.
And he very much wanted to be invited to more meetings. Despite his lack of understanding of naval matters, this was a place where things happened. This was one of the primary centers of power in the Empire and he desperately wanted to be a part of it, have a voice in it, contribute to it. So, naval coil guns… He’d looked over the technical specifications carefully, but he had not given much thought to the tactics of using them. What advantages did they have over army coil guns? He thought furiously.
“Professor?” prompted the First Lord.
“Uh, yes. Well, there are a number of factors concerning the coil guns which need to be considered. First is the, uh, unprecedented velocity of the projectiles. A standard chemically propelled projectile might have an initial velocity of from two thousand to as much as two thousand-five hundred feet per second. Coil guns can accelerate the projectile to much higher velocities; six, seven, even eight thousand feet per second. You must understand that I am no expert on gunnery, but one of the main factors in hitting a moving target is the time it takes the projectile to travel from the gun to the target. The longer the time, the less chance of a hit you will have. Conversely, the shorter the time, the greater the chance. With a coil gun, that time is going to be from one half, to as little as one third the time as a conventional projectile. It would seem to me then, that this would significantly increase the range of the weapon. Ships equipped with coil guns could hit targets at much greater ranges but with the same accuracy of conventional guns at shorter ranges.”
“Yes!” cried Fisher, on his feet again. “Exactly what I’ve been saying! Exactly what I’ve been saying! This young man is a genius! Listen to him!” The First Sea Lord smiled at him and Lindemann found himself smiling back.
“But Admiral,” said another officer, the second sea lord, Lindemann thought. “That fact holds true whether the gun is mounted on a ship or on the ground. Lord Kitchener can make the same argument in favor of giving him more coil guns. Fisher sputtered and looked back at Lindemann.
In the crosshairs again, he frantically tried to assemble an argument in seconds which he normally would have spent days perfecting. “Uh, well, another factor we need to consider is the size of the projectile, sir. The standard coil guns currently in use by the army fire a very small projectile weighing only two pounds. It is so small it carries no bursting charge at all. It relies on the enormous kinetic energy its velocity gives it to smash through the Martian armor and destroy their machines through impact alone. While it has proved effective, it must score a direct hit to have any effect. The coil guns built so far by the navy are somewhat larger, firing a twelve pound projectile, I believe, and do carry a small bursting charge, but still so small as to not be of much effect unless it too, scores a direct hit.” He swallowed, resisted the urge to wipe the beads of sweat on his brow, the room suddenly seemed very hot, and continued.
“But there is no theoretical upper limit to the size of a coil gun projectile, any more than there is with conventional artillery. We could, in theory, build coil guns which would have the same sort of bursting charge as current large naval guns, but keeping the unprecedented range of the coil gun. Such projectiles have proven capable of doing heavy damage to Martian machines with even a near miss.”
Fisher slammed his fist down on the table. “Yes!”
“And… uh, and such large coil guns would have a size and weight—and most importantly—power demands which would make them impractical to mount on anything other than a naval vessel.” He finished the last sentence in a rush and then gasped for breath.
“There! There!” said Fisher in triumph. “Let K of K put that in his pipe and smoke it!”
Churchill was nodding and seemed satisfied. “Very good, thank you, Professor, you’ve been invaluable today. I will prepare a report for the Prime Minister presenting these very compelling arguments for our case.”
“And don’t forget to demand a decision on my new battlecruiser design,” said Fisher. “And warn him about the bloody Germans, too! They’re building dreadnoughts at a furious rate!”
“I will, Jacky, I will.” Churchill stood up. “I think that wraps things up for the moment. I will see you all again next week.” The others in the room, got up and moved away. Fisher strode off, head down, hands clasped behind his back, but Churchill lingered a bit and came over to Lindemann.
“That was extremely useful, Professor, you have my thanks.”
“I was glad to be of service, sir. And I’m at your service any time you might need me.”
“Good, good, I was hoping that would be the case. Please come to our next meeting. Oh, and are you free for dinner next Tuesday? I was hoping we could have a bit of a chat.”
“Sir? Yes, certainly, sir. I’d be honored.” Honored and eager. This was exactly what he’d been hoping for.
“Excellent. I have a few ideas I’d like to run by you.”
“I, uh, on any particular topic, sir? I can… I can be of more help if I have the time to prepare.”
“Of course, of course. Preparation is the key, always. As for my idea, well, despite your excellent reasoning today, the fact remains that we can only get at the bloody Martians when they venture too near the coast. And truthfully, it isn’t going to matter much if ‘too near’ is twenty miles or fifty, we still can’t reach inland far enough. We need a way to project our power farther ashore.”
“I can see that, sir.”
“Ah, but can you see how? I’ve gotten word that the Americans have started work on some sort of giant land-ship. A battleship on wheels or something like that. I’ve talked to a few men and they think the idea is ridiculous, but I’m not so sure. By God, they thought the idea for the tanks was ridiculous when I brought it back from Australia and look where we are now: tanks are our most effective land weapon! So I want to pursue this and I’d be grateful if you can help me with the technical details.”
“I’d be happy to, sir,” replied Lindemann, his mind already working on the problem.
“Good, good! See you on Tuesday.”
“Yes, sir. Oh, can we get more information on what the Americans are doing? Do we have any observers over there?”
“Observers? God in Heaven, yes, we have observers. Everyone has observers. Us, the French, the Germans, the Russians, Italians, Japanese, you name it. Observers watching everything—including the other observers. But we do have some people over there in America. I’ll see what they can do.”
For the next two days, Lindemann found it very difficult to concentrate on his work. Instead of staring at the Martian control mechanisms, he prowled Bushy House, digging up everything he could on the subject of coil guns, convinced that Churchill would want to talk about them. Chadwick was a bit of nuisance, but he found odd jobs to keep him busy. Fortunately, Eccles gave him no difficulty about leaving work early to attend the meeting.
In fact, he barely came to work at all that day. After only an hour or so at his desk, he slipped off and returned to his apartment in Brentford to bathe and dress. The generous allowance his father granted, along with his salary from the Laboratory, allowed him to dress like a proper gentleman, even though he did not employ an actual valet. He vacillated a bit over exactly which suit to wear, but eventually decided on sober gray trousers and vest with a vertical pinstripe, white shirt, black cravat, a slightly darker gray jacket, and a light gray top hat with black band. He recalled that in photos he’d seen of Churchill, he rarely wore spats, so Lindemann dispensed with those. A gold watch and chain completed the ensemble. He hesitated a moment on whether to carry a walking stick, but finally decided against it. A young, healthy man carrying a stick seemed like an affectation—and if he didn’t carry one, he wouldn’t have to figure out what to do with it once he got there.
He hired a cab to make the trip to Admiralty House, which was about six miles from Brentford. The early January weather was brisk, but warmer than normal for that time of year, so he dispensed with an overcoat. The streets were moderately crowded, but mostly with civilians. During the periods of alert when Mars came into opposition with Earth and a new wave of cylinders could be expected, there would be soldiers everywhere, but in the intervals—like now—the army was less numerous.
Admiralty House was a four-story structure of yellow brick built in the Georgian style. Its three broad bays faced Whitehall and its entrance was on the corner of Ripley Courtyard. The rear of the large structure was on the Horse Guards Parade, beyond which was Downing Street where the Prime Minister’s home was situated. That side of the building had been heavily damaged during the first invasion and had been largely rebuilt. The workmen had done a fine job, but you could see where the new met the old.
Lindemann, in fear of being late, had arrived very early and spent the next hour strolling about the neighborhood, dodging snow flurries and taking care not to get any dirt on his fine suit. This wasn’t easy because with London’s thousands of factories working around the clock, everything had a fine layer of coal soot on it. The air was thick with the stuff, making him cough. He pondered whether the humans were unwittingly creating their own version of the Martians’ poisonous black dust weapon and using it on themselves.
Finally, it was time and he presented himself to the Royal Marine sentry at the doors of Admiralty House, showed him his letter of invitation, and was ushered inside. He had mentally prepared himself to have to ask someone where he should go in the large building since the invitation had not given any details, so he was much surprised to find Churchill right there in the foyer.
He was engaged in an animated discussion with another man, shorter and stouter than himself, and considerably older. But despite his age, the other man was waving his arms around and speaking loudly and forcefully. “Winston, it doesn’t matter a damn what kind of guns we have! The only thing which matters is hitting the damn target! Gunnery! Gunnery! Gunnery! Hit them before that can hit us!”
Churchill appeared to be mustering a response when he glanced up and saw Lindemann. He smiled and took the other man by the arm and turned him around. “Ah, Jacky, here’s the fellow I was telling you about. Professor Lindemann, so good of you to join us.” He stepped forward and extended his hand. Lindemann had never liked the unsanitary custom, but there was no choice here. He grasped Churchill’s hand and shook it.
“Honored to be here, sir.”
“Jacky, this is Professor Lindemann of the National Physical Laboratory. Professor, I imagine you recognize our First Sea Lord?”
Now Lindemann did recognize the man, but he had to force himself not to flinch away. Admiral Sir John Arbuthnot Fisher, Baron Fisher, GBC, OM, GCVO, the First Sea Lord, was a legend, perhaps the second most famous admiral in British history, behind only Nelson, himself. Despite the fact that he had never commanded a fleet in combat, he had left his mark on the navy and generations of sailors, like no one before him. Now seventy, he was still in the thick of things, helping direct the navy’s actions against the Martians.
Photographs of Fisher that Lindemann had seen had always seemed a bit… off. There was something very odd about the man’s eyes. But now, seeing him in the flesh; flesh that had a decidedly yellowish tinge, along with those Mongoloid eyes, why the man looked like a bloody Chinaman! Lindemann had always been uncomfortable around other races and he tried to avoid them whenever possible. But there was no avoiding Lord Fisher.
“Uh, very pleased to meet, you, sir.”
Fisher frowned. “So you’re the scientist fellow Winston’s been going on about? Hope you can add something useful to the circus today.” He did not offer his hand and Lindemann was grateful.
“I’m sure he will, Jacky,” said Churchill. “But look at the time, we’d better be along.” He steered them toward the grand staircase at the far end of the foyer and they went up, only slowing their pace slightly to match the elderly Fisher. On the second floor they went into a large meeting room which had tall windows looking out on to the Horse Guards Parade, although today there were drapes nearly covering them. The room was sumptuously appointed and there was a huge octagonal table in the center of it. A map of the world nearly covered the wall opposite the windows. It had hundreds of pins stuck in it, each with a small colored label.
There were a dozen other men in the room, about half in uniform and the rest in civilian clothing. Churchill did not attempt to introduce them all, but did present Lindemann to the assembly, calling him ‘my new science advisor’. Lindemann nodded to the men, but his attention was focused on the First Lord. My Science Advisor! Did he really mean that?
Churchill called the meeting to order and they all took seats. Lindemann noted with interest that the higher ranking men had a whole side of the octagon to themselves, while the lower ranking ones had to double up. He found himself sitting next to the Third Sea Lord, Rear Admiral Charles Briggs. A half-dozen junior officers stood around the periphery ready to supply their seniors whatever they needed, be it refreshments or information.
The meeting began and Lindemann quickly became totally lost in the technical navy reports which followed. Reports on new ships under construction, ships in repair yards, ships taking on supplies, men training to man the new ships, officers being promoted or transferred to command those ships; the amount of information flowing across the table was enormous. The Royal Navy was a vast organization, but he had never appreciate just how vast until now. Hundreds of ships and thousands upon thousands of men scattered across the globe and they were all directed from this room. A thrill passed through him at the thought that he had been invited here. But to do what?
After an hour or so there was a short break and Lindemann accepted a cup of tea and then had to awkwardly ask one of the junior officers where the facilities were located. But they were soon back at the table again and Churchill said: “Now gentlemen, I want to get your opinion on the matter of these coil guns.” Lindemann immediately came to attention. “As you know, after we figured out the properties of the Martian wire, we realized we could build coil guns with it. So we built some. A few hundred smaller ones for the army and a few dozen larger ones for the navy. But we only had a limited amount of the stuff and no way to make any more.
“But now, thanks to successes in India and Egypt, we have access to a new supply. Teams of brave men are salvaging the wrecks of the Martian machines wherever they can get to them and sending the useful materials back home. We can now build coil guns again, although we are also finding new uses for the wire, too, so the supply is limited and somewhat dependent on the fortunes of war. The question is now who gets the wire? Naturally, we would like the navy to get its fair share, but K of K is demanding virtually all of it for the army.”
There was a rumble around the table. Lindemann blinked in confusion for a second, and then realized that ‘K of K’ was Lord Kitchener. ‘Kitchener of Khartoum’, Field Marshal and Secretary of State for War, a general every bit as legendary as Admiral Fisher was with the navy; the most famous and admired military commander since Wellington.
The rumble grew to a shout when Fisher rose to his feet and flung his arms in the air. “All? All for the army? Is he mad? He cannot be allowed to get away with this! Winston, we must stop the bounder!”
“I know, Jacky, I know,” said Churchill, making calming motions with his hands. “The Prime Minister has promised we will get a fair share. But we need to give him an honest appraisal of just what our fair share should be…”
“Half! At least half! The honor of the Fleet is at stake!”
“I know how you feel, but we have to be realistic here. The army is facing the Martians on a dozen fronts every day. The navy is helping them wherever we can, but only when the Martians get close enough to the water to come within range.”
“If we had the wire to make bigger coil guns, we could hit them a hundred miles from the sea! Farther!” Lord Fisher’s face was turning red and Lindemann was afraid the old man was going to have a stroke. But no one else in the room seemed concerned. Indeed, a few were rolling their eyes. Did he do this at every meeting?
“Well, that’s something we need to talk about and one of the reasons I’ve asked Professor Lindemann to join us. Kitchener has argued that scoring hits at such ranges is next to impossible and that it makes far more sense to make a larger number of smaller guns which the army can bring into effective range. Can we produce a counter-argument in favor of more and larger naval coil guns? Professor, do you have any thoughts?”
All eyes turned to Lindemann and he felt like he was sitting in the sights of a coil gun right at that moment. What to say? It was clear what Churchill and Fisher, and probably all the others at the table, wanted, but could he give it to them? Field Marshal Kitchener’s argument was a strong one. The Martians fought on land and sea power could only be brought to bear if they got too near the ocean. The army, on the other hand, could go where the Martians were. It probably made sense to give the army the lion’s share of the wire. But if he said that, it would disappoint Churchill and probably enrage Fisher and it would be highly unlikely that he’d ever be invited to another meeting.
And he very much wanted to be invited to more meetings. Despite his lack of understanding of naval matters, this was a place where things happened. This was one of the primary centers of power in the Empire and he desperately wanted to be a part of it, have a voice in it, contribute to it. So, naval coil guns… He’d looked over the technical specifications carefully, but he had not given much thought to the tactics of using them. What advantages did they have over army coil guns? He thought furiously.
“Professor?” prompted the First Lord.
“Uh, yes. Well, there are a number of factors concerning the coil guns which need to be considered. First is the, uh, unprecedented velocity of the projectiles. A standard chemically propelled projectile might have an initial velocity of from two thousand to as much as two thousand-five hundred feet per second. Coil guns can accelerate the projectile to much higher velocities; six, seven, even eight thousand feet per second. You must understand that I am no expert on gunnery, but one of the main factors in hitting a moving target is the time it takes the projectile to travel from the gun to the target. The longer the time, the less chance of a hit you will have. Conversely, the shorter the time, the greater the chance. With a coil gun, that time is going to be from one half, to as little as one third the time as a conventional projectile. It would seem to me then, that this would significantly increase the range of the weapon. Ships equipped with coil guns could hit targets at much greater ranges but with the same accuracy of conventional guns at shorter ranges.”
“Yes!” cried Fisher, on his feet again. “Exactly what I’ve been saying! Exactly what I’ve been saying! This young man is a genius! Listen to him!” The First Sea Lord smiled at him and Lindemann found himself smiling back.
“But Admiral,” said another officer, the second sea lord, Lindemann thought. “That fact holds true whether the gun is mounted on a ship or on the ground. Lord Kitchener can make the same argument in favor of giving him more coil guns. Fisher sputtered and looked back at Lindemann.
In the crosshairs again, he frantically tried to assemble an argument in seconds which he normally would have spent days perfecting. “Uh, well, another factor we need to consider is the size of the projectile, sir. The standard coil guns currently in use by the army fire a very small projectile weighing only two pounds. It is so small it carries no bursting charge at all. It relies on the enormous kinetic energy its velocity gives it to smash through the Martian armor and destroy their machines through impact alone. While it has proved effective, it must score a direct hit to have any effect. The coil guns built so far by the navy are somewhat larger, firing a twelve pound projectile, I believe, and do carry a small bursting charge, but still so small as to not be of much effect unless it too, scores a direct hit.” He swallowed, resisted the urge to wipe the beads of sweat on his brow, the room suddenly seemed very hot, and continued.
“But there is no theoretical upper limit to the size of a coil gun projectile, any more than there is with conventional artillery. We could, in theory, build coil guns which would have the same sort of bursting charge as current large naval guns, but keeping the unprecedented range of the coil gun. Such projectiles have proven capable of doing heavy damage to Martian machines with even a near miss.”
Fisher slammed his fist down on the table. “Yes!”
“And… uh, and such large coil guns would have a size and weight—and most importantly—power demands which would make them impractical to mount on anything other than a naval vessel.” He finished the last sentence in a rush and then gasped for breath.
“There! There!” said Fisher in triumph. “Let K of K put that in his pipe and smoke it!”
Churchill was nodding and seemed satisfied. “Very good, thank you, Professor, you’ve been invaluable today. I will prepare a report for the Prime Minister presenting these very compelling arguments for our case.”
“And don’t forget to demand a decision on my new battlecruiser design,” said Fisher. “And warn him about the bloody Germans, too! They’re building dreadnoughts at a furious rate!”
“I will, Jacky, I will.” Churchill stood up. “I think that wraps things up for the moment. I will see you all again next week.” The others in the room, got up and moved away. Fisher strode off, head down, hands clasped behind his back, but Churchill lingered a bit and came over to Lindemann.
“That was extremely useful, Professor, you have my thanks.”
“I was glad to be of service, sir. And I’m at your service any time you might need me.”
“Good, good, I was hoping that would be the case. Please come to our next meeting. Oh, and are you free for dinner next Tuesday? I was hoping we could have a bit of a chat.”
“Sir? Yes, certainly, sir. I’d be honored.” Honored and eager. This was exactly what he’d been hoping for.
“Excellent. I have a few ideas I’d like to run by you.”
“I, uh, on any particular topic, sir? I can… I can be of more help if I have the time to prepare.”
“Of course, of course. Preparation is the key, always. As for my idea, well, despite your excellent reasoning today, the fact remains that we can only get at the bloody Martians when they venture too near the coast. And truthfully, it isn’t going to matter much if ‘too near’ is twenty miles or fifty, we still can’t reach inland far enough. We need a way to project our power farther ashore.”
“I can see that, sir.”
“Ah, but can you see how? I’ve gotten word that the Americans have started work on some sort of giant land-ship. A battleship on wheels or something like that. I’ve talked to a few men and they think the idea is ridiculous, but I’m not so sure. By God, they thought the idea for the tanks was ridiculous when I brought it back from Australia and look where we are now: tanks are our most effective land weapon! So I want to pursue this and I’d be grateful if you can help me with the technical details.”
“I’d be happy to, sir,” replied Lindemann, his mind already working on the problem.
“Good, good! See you on Tuesday.”
“Yes, sir. Oh, can we get more information on what the Americans are doing? Do we have any observers over there?”
“Observers? God in Heaven, yes, we have observers. Everyone has observers. Us, the French, the Germans, the Russians, Italians, Japanese, you name it. Observers watching everything—including the other observers. But we do have some people over there in America. I’ll see what they can do.”