Naval engagements in romantic ballads were portrayed as clashes of iron, screaming boarding parties, and rolling cannon thunder.
In a well-managed sky port, hostile warships were simply disorderly maritime vessels running in blatant rule-break of town navigation bylaws.
Lord Giles Croft stood upon the flying bridge of the newly commissioned Patrol #1. He held a light metal speaking trumpet and a brass revolution tachometer.
The cutter was a triumph of high-speed naval design. Sixty-five feet of gleaming, resin-bonded cross-layered pine, fitted with an axe-bow wrapped in hardened rubber shock buffers.
Unlike clumsy royal ironclads that relied on smoke-spewing coal furnaces and open paddle wheels, Patrol #1 was driven by twin steam-turbine water-jet thrusters.
The thrusters drew high-pressure water from internal suction chests and ejected it through steerable bronze nozzle deflectors beneath the waterline.
Mounted upon the forward foredeck and the aft quarterdeck sat two steerable brass deluge monitors. Giant water cannons capable of throwing four thousand gallons of cold mountain water per minute across two hundred yards.
Beside Giles at the brass steering helm stood Captain Kenneth Drake, his eyes sharp and steady behind his leather flight goggles.
