December 26, 1907 – Department of the Navy, Washington, DC
Commander Douglas Snyder shifted imperceptibly in his chair, acutely aware of the lack of braid and medals on his uniform, despite his recent bump in grade. He looked surreptitiously around the boardroom taking in the dazzling symbols of rank and status, particularly seated around the large, highly polished walnut table. Snyder hadn’t been invited to a meeting of the General Board before this, and for the most part he was not impressed. He had expected weighty discussions of the ongoing war with Russia, fleet dispositions, and the gallant actions of the service. So far he was struggling to remain awake.
“Thank you, Admiral Stanton,” intoned the Chairman from the head of the table as an aged Rear Admiral sat down. “Armies march on their stomach, and we sail on coal.” The head of the Bureau of Supplies and Accounts had just finished a lengthy presentation on the state of the Navy’s supply system, and the intricate deals he’d made with the railroads to ensure a steady stream of fuel for the Atlantic fleet.
Snyder’s boss, Rear Admiral Robert Marler, was one of those at the table, he was slated to talk about their construction efforts in a bit. He’d invited Snyder to attend partially as a courtesy, and partially to support any technical discussion that came up. After seeing the attendees Snyder considered that vanishingly unlikely.
Another flag officer rose, this one bespectacled though much younger than the supply chief. This should be more interesting, thought Snyder. “Chairman,” began Rear Admiral Newton Mason, “I’ll keep this short. The fourteen inch gun is performing well at Dahlgren, in fact exceeding expectations. It’s firing accurately out beyond fifteen thousand yards, and at close range it can punch through over thirteen inches of armor plate. We’ve sorted out the manufacture of barrels and breech blocks, but the rammers are proving much too weak and will need additional time.”
“How much time?” asked Admiral Marler. “We’ve been throwing every possible resource at California, but without those guns she’s a very expensive and not very comfortable ocean liner.”
“My team says they can have beefed up rammers ready in five months,” answered Mason. “Anything earlier and we can’t answer for reliability.”
Marler narrowed his eyes, then turned toward the seats along the wall. “Snyder, what do you think. Can we live with not shipping the main guns until May?”
Snyder considered for a moment, as the entire room twisted in unison to wait for his answer. He paused for a moment before responding, thinking through a couple different scenarios.
“That is going to seriously compromise the schedule for sea trials. We could put her in the water this week, her hull and propulsion are largely complete. The problem is she’d be missing about a quarter of her light displacement, and I don’t think she’d even be stable enough for a run around Massachusetts Bay to test things out. And the rammers are so tightly combined with the design of the turrets that if you’re considering major changes, it would be difficult to swap the equipment after installation.”
“When are sea trials scheduled to start?” asked Marler.
“March,” answered Snyder. “Though we’re far enough ahead that if BuOrd delivered the guns today, we could realistically start next month.”
Mason shot him a glare, but before he could respond the Chairman cleared his throat, finally weighing in on the conversation. Heads swiveled back to the head of the table.
“Mason, you have until the first of April. I don’t care what it takes or how many engineers and craftsmen you need, make it happen.”
“Yes, sir,” Mason answered, somewhat abashed. “Turning to the twelve-inch system, we have had a good deal of success in the extended powder and shell hoists. Those will be ready to go well before the Ticonderoga starts building.”
“Very good,” answered the Chairman, “thank you Admiral Mason. So, Marler, are you ready to talk about the new cruisers?”
Marler rose and gestured to the entrance and the Petty Officer posted there pulled open the large double doors and stepped aside. Two junior officers walked in with a large tube and handed it to Marler, who extracted a rolled up drawing. He laid it down at his place and with a flick of his hand unfurled it the length of the table.
“Gentlemen, the Ticonderoga.”
The large-scale drawing showed a ship with a very clean hull and a knife-edged bow, carrying three enormous funnels and two of the graceful lattice masts that adorned California as well. The most striking feature though was an elevated turret, located just aft of the forward main guns, and set high enough above to allow both to be trained directly ahead.
A murmur ran around collected board members as they stood to better view the illustration, and Vice Admiral Newberry let out a low whistle. “If I’m judging this right,” he started, “she’s a quite bit bigger than a Michigan. How in the world will she make cruiser speeds?”
Snyder couldn’t help himself, he edged up to the table and looked over his boss’s shoulder. “She has to be spec’ed with turbines, right sir?” he asked, his excitement very evident and more than a little out of place in this august company.
Marler smiled slightly. “Yes, turbines, and we expect her to make twenty five knots.” He turned to the Atlantic Fleet head, “You’re in the ballpark Oliver, she’s actually about ninety feet longer than Michigan, on the same beam. More than six thousand tons lighter though, she carries half the armor belt. They’re not intended to stand up against battleships but they should mop up cruisers. We went with twelve-inch guns, as Admiral Mason mentioned, and we’ve kept the turret protection stout enough that they should be able to take most anything and keep firing as long as they float."
“When do they start building?” asked The Chairman.
“We’ll lay down Ticonderoga in Philadelphia next week, and the second, Lexington, at Newport News by the end of January. It looks like we’ll have enough funding for at least three.”
“Outstanding,” said Newberry, clapping Marler on the shoulder. “I can’t wait to get my hands on them.”
“You’ll have to,” said the Chairman wryly. “It’ll be a few years before they’re ready. Shall we talk about what you’re doing with what’s on hand today?”
The assembly took their seats, with Snyder lingering at the table to study the drawing long enough to earn a reproving glance from Marler. He winced inwardly and regained his own chair along the wall.
Newberry stood. “First, even with our Norwegian bases it’s been difficult to keep our forces on station. And second, the Norwegians are running their own ships into the ground. Their zeal is greatly outpacing what the machinery can handle, and their ships are starting to show wear.”
“Our own ships are struggling to remain fit for hard duty as well, the Norwegian facilities just aren’t meant to handle fifteen-thousand-ton battleships. We’re able to keep enough forces in the North Sea to bottle up the Russians most months, though we’re having to frequently rotate ships back to the East Coast for overhaul. The Norwegians have somewhat belatedly started sending their own ships for work as well, at least their lighter forces. Skagastølstind is in Boston right now.”
“For their part, the Russians have remained notably reluctant to sortie heavy units to face ours. We’ve had quite a few cruiser duels, and almost universally come out on the winning side, but the big battle that Mister Mahan would have liked has eluded us.”
“Yes, there’s been damned few chances,” answered The Chairman, “and those few haven’t been in advantageous conditions.”
“Certainly. Which is why I’ve authorized sending a major force north in February. Admiral Quimby asked for permission to land three battalions of Marines at Alta with artillery and engineers, followed by two battalions of the Norwegian Army and several of Norwegian militia. The war on land has crystallized just north of Narvik and this will force the Russians to either pull back north or risk about ten thousand troops being cut off.” Newberry gestured to an aide, who uncovered two large maps outlining the overall operation in broad strokes.
“A bold plan but is it even possible to move ships that far north this time of year?” asked one of the older Admirals after a minute. “It’s nearly dark around the clock and the fjords will be choked with ice.”
“The sun does stay fairly low in the sky, for sure,” Newberry answered. “But we expect the Russians will think it impossible too. Our initial objective is to seize Alta itself, it’s a significant staging base for the Russians to move supplies up to the front line. The Norwegians still have intelligence agents in the area and a major partisan presence. They believe the town to be thinly held, maybe a thousand Russians all told, mostly service troops. They’re reported to have small batteries emplaced on several of the headlands to defend the Altafjord but it’s army artillery and isn’t expected to be terribly effective against ships.”
“Once Alta is secure it will be up to Quimby and our commanders in the field to decide how to proceed next, and a lot will depend on the Russian reaction and weather. The road south out of Alta is the only decent one in Finnmark and we’ve tentatively planned to seize the town of Masi, about forty miles south of Alta. Intelligence reports a minor Russian troop presence there, as well as at Kautokeino and at Leppäjärvi in Russian Finland. Even if we only take Alta and Masi we’re directly threatening Russian territory, and in an area where the population doesn’t view the Tsar too kindly anyway. This is sure to force a decision on their part.”