The sound of the severed copper cable whipping against the wet granite cliff was like the crack of a drover's whip in the sea wind.
Three hundred feet below the station, the heavy, gutta-percha-insulated wire hung uselessly in mid-air, its shredded core dripping seawater into the white foam. On the cliff top, the brass telegraph sounder inside the station was silent, its glass housing cracked by the shockwave of the naval shell.
Prince Bastian didn't waste time staring at the gap. He pivoted on his heel, his dark wool coat heavy with spray, his hand snapping his steel side-arm from its holster.
"Haddon! Get two squads onto the northern ridge!" Bastian bellowed over the roar of the surf. "They aren't shelling the building again—they want the cable head intact so their own signaling officers can re-wire it!"
