The rain off Cape Mercy came sideways, driven by a gale that whipped the black sea into six-foot crests.
Through the salt spray, five miles off the starboard bow, the narrow channel of the Southern Gap gleamed under the erratic, flickering glow of burning petroleum. Offshore Rig Seven was a twisted frame of blackened iron, its ruptured riser pipe spewing a roaring plume of orange fire fifty feet into the dark afternoon sky.
On the open bridge wing of the Vanguard, Prince Bastian stood with his boots wedged against the iron gunwale, his dark oilskin coat soaked through. He adjusted his heavy brass marine glasses, his jaw set as he tracked the grey shapes moving through the smoke.
Line abreast, thirty heavy ironclad dreadnoughts flew the solid black ensign of the Southern Syndicate. They were massive, coal-burning warships with armored casemates, four-inch deck plating, and twin twelve-inch naval guns mounted in forward barbettes.
