The second twelve-inch naval shell detonated against the eastern breakwater at six-fifteen in the morning, blowing a thirty-foot gap through the granite sea wall and hurling pulverized masonry into the foaming tide.
The concussive shockwave slammed through the wooden telegraph hut on the breakwater pier, shattering its glass windows and scattering yellow ledger sheets across the floor.
Inside the station, the young telegraph operator didn't run. He wiped wet sea salt and concrete dust from his eyes, clamped his leather headphones tighter against his ears, and continued keying in the incoming battery telemetry.
Four hundred feet above the burning pier, perched on the sheer granite ridge of Mount Sentinel, the high-ridge rail battery stood ready in the morning mist.
