On the surface of the Gulf of Thalassos, the war for the ocean floor was a storm of fire and smoke.
Twenty royal first-rate battleships formed a dense double line of battle two miles off Port Haven.
From their broadsides, heavy bronze mortars hurled five-hundred-pound iron-hooped blast kegs into the surf.
Pillars of white, foaming water and black gunpowder smoke erupted two hundred feet into the air every thirty seconds, turning the bay into a churning whirlpool that scared the gulls and deafened the coastal watchers.
Beneath the waves, inside the underwater floating tube bridge, a brass samovar of spiced peppermint tea sat on a polished walnut table. The tea didn’t have a single ripple on its surface.
Giles Croft sat in an upholstered green velvet armchair in the watching lounge of The Abyssal Comet, checking his pocket watch against the brass pocket watch mounted above the dark wood bar.
“Departure time: eight o’clock exactly,” Giles said.
“Power factor at sixty hertz. Toby, clear the signal block.”
