Karpov watched the lethal Moskit-II missiles bore in mercilessly on the big enemy ships, two salvos of three each. NATO had called them “Sunburn,” a good name for them, he thought. They were the fastest and most accurate anti-ship missiles ever developed, and there was virtually no way to defeat them once they were locked onto a target.
“That will give them something to think about,” he said to Fedorov. “The lead ship is burning badly. The next is getting more of the same. We have them programmed to hit above the waterline to avoid their heavy armor. With a full load of fuel to feed those fires they are going to have their hands full, even if we haven’t breached their hulls.”
“These ships are also vulnerable to plunging fire,” said Fedorov. Their laminated deck armor was not adequate, and its placement was questionable.”
“The range is too short for that now, but we have hurt them just the same. Look at those fires!” Karpov pointed at the thick black smoke pouring from the lead ship. “Yes! They are turning away.”
They saw the enemy task force wheel hard right, and the group of three destroyers matched the maneuver, all making smoke in a futile attempt to screen the bigger ships from further fire. Bright flashes of orange and yellow erupted from the battleships again as they both fired their big 15 inch guns in reprisal. They heard the drone of the heavy rounds coming in, and saw them plunge into the sea off the starboard bow, the geysers walking their way ominously towards the ship. A set fell very near, no more than half a kilometer off, and Fedorov held his breath as more rounds fell progressively closer.
“They’ve got our range now,” he said, the last round falling near enough to send sea spray showering over Kirov’s foredeck. They could feel something strike the ship’s hull, undoubtedly splinter damage from the very near miss.
“Left fifteen degrees rudder,” said Fedorov, “Ahead full!” They were out of the channel now, through the Bonifacio Strait, but it was still a risky maneuver to turn and put on speed. There could be hidden mines that Tasarov would not be able to detect with all the turmoil of shot and shell churning up the seas. Kirov came smartly around, and he gasped as one final shell from a late firing gun fell just where the ship might have been moments ago had they maintained their old course. This time they could feel the concussion of the heavy round as it plunged into the sea, so very close. The grating sound of something striking the hull again filled him with misgiving.
The Italians had fired that one last salvo, a defiant shake of their fist at an enemy they were clearly not prepared to face this day. Iachino elected to exercise the better part of valor—discretion. Both his battleships were on fire, but still seaworthy and without gun damage. Yet the fires were raging ever deeper into the guts of Vittorio Veneto, and he could clearly see that Littorio was in no better shape. Stunned and surprised by the powerful new weapons he had faced, he put on speed and ran north, hoping to find safe waters until the fires could be brought under control.
The billowing thick smoke was blinding, and the gunners would have a very difficult time re-sighting and ranging on the target. He might need another three or four salvos to find the mark again after his wild turn and change of course. Yet every weapon the enemy fired struck home with a vengeance. If they fired again… He did not want to think about the consequences. No, he would return to La Spezia, chastened and far less brazen than he had been when his proud ships set forth, but at least, he hoped, he would return to possibly fight again.
“Another day,” he said to the watch officer at his side.
“Another day, sir?” The man stared at him blankly. “When the British have ships that can do this?”
Iachino glared at the man, but said nothing more.
Part VI
Decisions
“In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions
which a minute will reverse.”
~T.S. Eliot.
Chapter 16
They all stared at Turing—Pound with annoyance, but the others with grave apprehension and some bewilderment evident on their faces. The Marine guard interrupted them yet again, another folded message decrypt in his white gloved hand. Tovey took it, noting the source first.
“Signal intelligence through our network in the Med,” he said. “Looks like one of the Twelve Apostles has come to supper.” He was referring to a secret network of American OSS and British Special Operations agents that had been scattered throughout the French North African Colonies to gather intelligence prior to the planned Operation Torch landings this coming November. There were twelve agents in all, and one had been put ashore on Sardinia to scout out military buildup there and map coastal fortifications—more grist for the mills of the war planners. Apparently he had seen or heard something more, and thought it urgent enough to risk a direct transmission through the network. The Admiral read it aloud this time:
“Major Duffing tips his hat to Little Victor and his friend off Balham Tube… It seems this one is a bit of a Chinese box—code within a code.”
“What’s all that twaddle about now?” Pound complained. “Hasn’t it been decrypted properly?”
“If I may, sir,” Turing spoke up again cautiously. “Major Duffing is the Northern Med operations section code handle indicating an enemy vessel—a capital ship, sir. The tipping of his hat will mean there has been a surface engagement with this Little Victor—‘Vittorio’ in Italian. That would be the Vittorio Veneto to be precise. The mention of a friend would indicate a sister ship of Veneto was present, most likely the Littorio, as both these ships were recently moved to La Spezia. As for Balham Tube, that is not the underground rail station in London, sir, it is code for the Strait of Bonifacio.”
Pound raised his eyebrows. “There’s been a naval engagement involving two Italian battleships off the Bonifacio Strait?”
“You have it exactly, sir,” said Turing with a smile.
“There’s one more bit,” said Tovey, reading: “Victor’s off home by any road, and not the better man.” He looked at Turing, suddenly appreciating the man in a new way.
“That would mean Vittorio Veneto, which I presume is the flagship, has broken off the engagement and is heading north for home.” Any road was a colloquial expression from northern England often used instead of the more common “anyway,” and it cleverly indicated the direction of the Italian withdrawal—north. “That would also mean that something has just engaged two of Regia Marina’s heaviest surface units and beaten them off with some significant damage. Vittorio Veneto was not the better man, gentlemen. Now then…This was clearly not one of our ships up there. What in the world could face down two Italian battleships and come off the better man for it? A ship flinging aerial rockets at our 248 Squadron, I might add.”
“Forgive me if I remain confused, Professor,” said Pound, “but this Geronimo—isn’t it a German ship? What’s it doing taking pot shots at the Italian Navy? The last time I looked Italy and Germany were thick as thieves together.”
Turing rubbed his hands nervously. The other officers all looked at him, obviously fielding the same objection in their own minds. He considered what to say, then realized he had no other course here. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought, and spoke his mind. “No, Admiral Pound. I have come to the conclusion that if these two ‘incidents’ were caused by the same vessel, then this is not German ship—not a year ago, and clearly not now.”
Pound was justifiably astonished. “Not German? My god, man, I suppose that you’ll be telling me it belongs to the King of Swabia next! What do you mean not German? What other navy would attack us in the North Atlantic as this ship did?”
“I’ve given that considerable thought,” said Turing. “Yes, it’s very perplexing. It makes good sense to think this ship was a secret German raider in light of the North Atlantic incident, but the road we’ve been walking here has led us far afield of that comfortable path. If this is the same ship as before, as this photography leads me to believe, then it clearly could not belong to the Kriegsmarin
e.”
“Then who?” Pound pressed him with growing irritation.
“Well sir, I thought it might be a Russian ship at one point, seeing as it was first sighted in the Arctic sea. Yet I had to discard that notion, considering the fact that Russia is our ally at the moment… ”
“Very well,” Pound harangued him. “Not German, not Russian, certainly not Italian….” He waited, like an irate school master dressing down a recalcitrant student.
“I must be frank and tell you I do not know what to make of all this just yet, gentlemen. Every line we take leads us into a corner. We’re faced with one impossible circumstance after another, but the fact remains: something is flinging advanced rockets and weapons of unimaginable power at the Royal Navy, and now at the Italian Navy as well. This ship, these weapons—well it would take the resources of a major power to design and build these things. It could be that this ship is German after all, or even Russian, and that we have maverick sea captain out there, some kind of Captain Nemo, a rogue warrior at odds with Hitler or Stalin and with a very bad attitude towards anyone else who crosses his path. Impossible as it sounds, he’s there, the ship is there, and we have to deal with this.”
Whitworth spoke up, clearly trying to tether the boat before it slipped its moorings. “Well it seems to me that our confusion results entirely from the assumption that these two ships are indeed one and the same. Suppose that incident was a German ship last year, or even some renegade Russian captain as your suggest, though I find that a stretch. How it gets to the Med is quite a rabbit trick. I’m more inclined to think of these incidents as unrelated. Perhaps this ship in the Med is French, though it doesn’t seem likely, or even possible, it makes more sense than anything else.”
Pound folded his arms, frowning, but saying nothing more. Tovey tapped the table top with his finger and looked at Wake-Walker with a knowing eye. Whitworth seemed folded inward on some dark inner muse, then leaned forward, speaking softly yet firmly.
“Gentlemen, it’s obvious that we need more information. Where is Force Z at the moment?” he asked, and the First Sea Lord replied.
“They should be somewhere between Bone on the Algerian coast and the southern tip of Sardinia. I have little doubt they’re mixing it up the Luftwaffe and Regia Aeronautica by now.”
“Then that would place them some 300 miles due south of this engagement—fifteen hours sailing, even at their best speed if Rodney and Nelson can still make twenty knots.”
“Are you suggesting we should divert the covering force north based on this single report?”
“Not north,” Whitworth said quickly, “West, gentlemen. West to Gibraltar. Respectfully, Admiral, it’s not just this one report. 248 Squadron sights, and later attacks an unknown surface contact in the southern Tyrrhenian Sea at noon yesterday. We hear about it and then the Italians engage it at midnight and get a bloody nose for their trouble. The ship heads north for the Bonifacio Strait, and Iachino must have sent out his bully boys after it to settle the score—only he got handed his hat in the matter, if that latest intercept is correct, and there it is. This is obviously a job for the Royal Navy, but if we don’t turn Force Z around quickly, this ship could make a run at the Rock before we could do anything about it.”
There it was, yet these professional sea dogs still found it very uncomfortable to look at. What were they seeing here? There was no sense to it at all; no rhyme or reason. Something was happening that was clearly beyond their imagining, and it worried them all. Pound reacted with irritation and was all too eager to scapegoat Turing in the matter. Whitworth was dancing round the point, although willing to embrace it, if he only knew what he was about to grasp. Wake-Walker was darkly silent, a military stirring reflected in his usually placid features, eyes brightening above his thin nose.
“I agree with Admiral Whitworth,” he offered, “I shouldn’t think it wise to send the covering force north at this juncture. I should leave it right on track, but get word off to Admiral Syfret that he should be prepared to turn about quickly, upon our word, and head for Gibraltar with all speed.”
Pound looked at him questioningly. “Have you lost your ardor for battle, sir? Shouldn’t we get up north and sort this business out?”
“Lost my ardor?” Wake-Walker overlooked the insult, accustomed to this line from Pound, who has accused him of this very same thing in the engagement with Bismarck. Tovey shifted uncomfortably as Wake-Walker continued. “No, sir I haven’t lost my ardor for battle, but I learned to keep my head on my shoulders and not run off half cocked until we know what we’re dealing with here. Perhaps this is a French ship. Perhaps not. But if this is, indeed, Geronimo, as impossible as it may seem to us now, then we must ask ourselves what in the world this ship is about? How could it possibly be cruising in the Med, unseen for a year, but now suddenly here and inclined to duel with anything that comes within its compass rose? We may never answer these questions to our satisfaction, but if we are to believe these reports and sightings then we had damn well better be prepared. We don’t have to go looking for this ship, Admiral. Something tells me it will soon come looking for us. Admiral Whitworth is correct. After all, there’s only one way out of the bottle it now finds itself in, and that way leads to Gibraltar. Given the course it has been on, I believe this ship will soon be heading west, and I say we get Admiral Syfret and the whole of his Force Z back to the Rock as soon as they have discharged their task with the convoy. The sooner, the better.”
Pound gave him a bemused look, but before he could say anything more Tovey spoke up, leaning forward on both elbows as he passed the latest intercept to Pound like a card dealer in a heated poker game. “And for my part,” he exclaimed. “I think it would be wise to send word to Home Fleet at once and get up four hour steam on anything seaworthy. I’m afraid we’ll have to inconvenience the Turkish Ambassador, but I want King George V, Prince of Wales, and Anson out to sea by noon if possible.”
“Anson?” Pound questioned. “But she’s only just completed her gunnery trials. Raw as a baby’s bum on a bad day.”
“She’s been working up with the fleet at Scapa Flow,” Tovey replied. “May I remind you that Prince of Wales sailed under similar circumstances when Bismarck sortied.”
“Yes, and with rather disastrous results,” Pound admonished, casting a sidelong glance at Wake-Walker.
“Well it can’t be helped. I want all the firepower we can muster if this ship is indeed this Geronimo raider we faced a year ago. As we’ve no further convoys to Russia planned at the moment, we might also bring Duke of York down from Hvalfjord as well. We’ll send out an oiler to top her off along the way. I don’t think the Germans can bother us with Tirpitz at the moment.”
“That leaves the cupboard fairly well empty if they do,” Pound warned again.
“We’ll leave Renown behind. She hasn’t the armor for this fight. The loss of Repulse made that quite evident last time around.”
“Yes, well she hasn’t the armor to stand with Tirpitz either.”
“Tirpitz is not our concern for the moment. She’s been dry-docked at Trondheim for repairs. I don’t think Jerry can do much of anything with her for weeks—possibly months. Renown can handle anything else they would dare to put to sea. You can get me on a plane to Holyhead on the west coast and have a cruiser pick me up to run me out to the fleet.”
“Good show,” said Wake-Walker. “It’s fortunate we persuaded the Prime Minister not to send Prince of Wales to the far east last August. She’s tangled with this Geronimo, and was in no shape for that long sea voyage in any case. Now she’s patched up and fit as a fiddle. Home Fleet is stronger than ever, and throw in Rodney and Nelson at Gibraltar and we’ll see who gets handed his hat this time around.”
“Here, here!” said Tovey, seconding the matter as he tapped the table with his open palm.
The First Sea Lord sighed audibly, looking askance at Turing, then back at Tovey and Wake-Walker. “Well it seems as though you haven’t lost your ardor
for battle, Admiral.” He smiled at Wake-Walker, mending fences. “Are you certain we can send the whole of Home Fleet’s heavy guns south like this? You understand that this means the plans for Jubilee will have to be cancelled.” He was refereeing to ‘Operation Jubilee’ the landing at Dieppe that was scheduled for 19 August, in just a few days time.
“I did have that in the back of my mind,” said Tovey. “Well, it can’t be helped. We won’t have the ships to cover this Dieppe raid and run for Gibraltar as well. I shouldn’t think we would want a division at sea in any wise until this Geronimo business is resolved.”
“And if this is a French ship? It’s going to be rather embarrassing when the Prime Minister returns and sees we’ve sortied with the whole of Home Fleet, cancelled major operations, and all this to run down a disaffected French sea captain.”
“In a ship using advanced rocketry and capable of beating off two Italian battleships? If there’s anything I’ve learned in this war, Admiral, it’s that we must plan for the very worst case imaginable.”
“I suppose you’re correct,” Pound put in one last time. “You say the Germans will not be able to sortie Tirpitz, but that may be the least of our worries. If this is Geronimo, let us not forget what happened to the Americans…”
He did not have to argue the point further.
The meeting was adjourned, and the Sea Lords soon scattered to their urgent duties. As they were led out, Tovey made it a point to nudge Turing’s arm. “A brief word, professor?”
The two men were alone in the hallway now and Tovey spoke his mind. “Look here,” he began. “This remark you made about Captain Nemo caught my attention. I read that story as a boy, and it always stayed with me. I wonder about Admiral Pound’s theory on this. We’ve been making overtures to the Vichy French with this Torch operation in the planning. Darlan has been trying to woo the fleet at Toulon to change sides. Might this be a French battleship, a rogue ship that has decided to join our side, or perhaps even trying to reach Vichy ports in their African Colonies?”
Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) Page 17
