The wind at Southsea carried salt strong enough to sting the inside of Phillip's nose. It whipped across the ramparts of the old lighthouse fort where he and Henry stood with Commander Vale. Below them, the waves rolled in heavy sheets that crashed against the stone foundations. Several soldiers were already clearing a storage room inside the fort. Their movements were quick and disciplined, but Phillip could tell most of them had no idea what they were preparing for. They were working on instinct, driven by urgency rather than understanding.
Vale folded his arms. "This will be your station. It has its own watch rotation and a guard detachment at all hours. Communications will be safe here."
Phillip studied the structure. Thick stone. Narrow windows. Vent shafts. A low, vaulted ceiling. It could hold equipment, but not for long. Heat from the batteries would build up. Moisture from the sea breeze would seep in. They would need lining, sealing, constant drying.
