“Battleships?” said Volsky. “So that is what was shaking things up down here. I thought it might be bombs from aircraft. The concussion was severe.”
“A few big rounds fell a little closer than I would have liked,” he explained. “We may have some splinter damage on the bow hull area, and Tasarov is having trouble with his sonar. We’ll put divers over the side near dusk to have a look.” He ran down the details of Byko’s damage control report and then asked if he might summon Captain Karpov to discuss the route ahead in more detail. While they waited Volsky took a moment to sound out another matter.
“How are things on the bridge,” he asked. “Have the men accepted Karpov? Do you feel comfortable with him there?”
“Yes sir,” Fedorov did not hesitate. “In fact, his knowledge and ability to fight the ship in combat is invaluable. He can make quick decisions, put weapons on target, and the other officers seem to hold no grudge over what happened. I think Karpov is legitimately trying to rehabilitate himself. Yes, his pride is wounded, but he has lost that arrogance and argumentative edge, and frankly, he does not seem so obsessed with effecting some decisive blow, though I cannot say that has entirely left his thinking.”
Zolkin spoke up: “You mean he won’t be trying to fire of another nuclear bomb off any time soon. That is a relief.”
“I have told him that option is out of the question, and he did not argue,” said Fedorov.
“And you,” said Volsky. “How do you feel at the helm, young man?”
“It’s a great deal of responsibility, sir. I have much to learn, and I’m grateful for Karpov’s assistance and the competency of the other officers. Now we have some hard decisions to make, and so I wanted you to guide us, and express your thoughts on what we should do.”
“Not what we must do?” said Zolkin.
“I’m afraid we must consider both, my good Doctor.”
Karpov arrived and stepped in to the room, looking as tired as Fedorov, and somewhat haggard. “Rodenko has the bridge,” he said. “All is quiet for the moment. But Fedorov thinks we have some difficult hours ahead of us.”
“Alright,” said Volsky. “Let us hear your briefing Fedorov, and then we will decide.”
Chapter 18
“If the history remains intact,” said Fedorov, then Force Z should turn back for Gibraltar at 1855 hours, or just before sunset this evening. At most they can make twenty knots. That's all the speed the heart of that task force can muster, two battleships, Rodney and Nelson. They have 16 inch guns, and 16 inch armor on the belt, main turrets and barbettes. These are slow but durable ships. They may never be listed among the top battleships in the war, but they are dangerous and should not be underestimated. Captain Karpov drove off the Italian battle squadron with six Moskit-II hits above the weather deck. I do not think the British will be moved so easily.”
“You believe they will fight to the finish?” asked Volsky.
“I do, sir. For one thing, we will be threatening one of the most strategically important bases in the British Empire. Look at what they committed here to the defense of Malta. The British know they have to hold three places at this stage of the war: Suez, Malta, and Gibraltar. They will fight, sir. We cannot expect the them to break off, even if things go badly for them.”
“What will they know about us?” Volsky’s question was pointed and had been nagging at Fedorov for some time.
“I’ve been considering that, sir. If they learn of the engagement we just fought with the Italians then we may have created quite a conundrum for them.”
“Yes, we’re a big fish in this very small tank, and we’ve been nipping at the other fish. They will have to wonder who the Italians were slugging it out with just now, and why we can’t seem to decide who’s side we are on in this war.”
“And remember, they had aircraft over us as well yesterday in the Tyrrhenian Sea. We could have been photographed. At that time they probably believed we were an Italian heavy cruiser, but after the engagement at Bonifacio, I don’t know what they will think. Perhaps they might consider that we were a renegade French ship out of Toulon. That is my hope. There was a great deal of dissatisfaction in the French Navy about Vichy French cooperation with the Axis. Remember that the Allies are planning the Invasion of North Africa right now, and Eisenhower is urging the French fleet to join them. They will make an agreement with Admiral Darlan and use him as a standard to rally the fleet. Hitler was suspicious about all this, and he planned Operation Lila to attempt to seize that fleet intact and turn it over to the Italians. These events were to occur in just a few months time, but one thing I have noted is that things are happening sooner than they did historically. There has been a subtle shift in the course of events. Perhaps we could confuse British intelligence if Nikolin were to broadcast that we were a renegade French ship. They would have to overfly Toulon to verify that, and it might buy us some time.”
“You think we could pose as a French vessel as we approach Gibraltar?”
“It’s worth a try sir, though we have no real idea what the British may know about us now, and they may see through the ruse in time. Even if they do believe us, they will still send out ships to escort us, and then, well, the bear is out of his cave.”
“We must assume as much,” said Karpov. “They are not going to simply let us sail on through with the tip of a hat. What we need to know now is how they would plan to defend the Strait of Gibraltar.”
“Our experience in the Bonifacio Strait will be your guide in that, Captain.” Fedorov rubbed his brow, very weary. “Only it will be a much stronger defense. There’s a hundred ton gun installation at Gibraltar, at Magdala battery over looking Rosia Bay. It’s an old gun, but can still fire an 18 inch, two thousand pound shell to a range of five or six kilometers. It’s not very accurate, but it we would be wise to sail south of that range line as a precaution. There may also be submarines, minefields, and the British will have planes at Gibraltar as well. Many more than we have encountered so far. We can avoid their coastal guns, but not the Royal Navy. We must assume that we’ll be facing at least two battleships, three cruisers and many destroyers. If the history repeats itself, their best carrier, Indomitable, will take serious bomb damage tonight. This will still leave them with our old friends Victorious, Furious, and perhaps the smaller carrier Argus.”
Karpov shook his head sullenly. “I tried to sink them earlier, but no one would listen to me. Now we may have to finish the job.”
“Anything more that we might face?” Volsky had a gloomy expression on his face already, clearly not happy with their situation.
“Well, sir,” said Fedorov, “I doubt they could bring reinforcements down from Home Fleet. Those ships would have to be underway now to reach Gibraltar in time. I think we can safely say that Force Z, probably Force H again after it arrives at Gibraltar, will be our principle foe.”
Volsky seemed to be weighing something in his mind. Then he spoke, suggesting another alternative. “Mister Fedorov, Captain Karpov… Might the British be receptive to negotiations concerning our safe passage of these waters?”
Karpov’s brows raised with surprise. “Negotiations? I hardly think so. What would we tell them, that we were out on a pleasure cruise when suddenly one of their fighter planes attacked us and we were only defending ourselves?”
Fedorov’s eyes brightened a bit at the prospect of negotiations, yet he knew that even this was a double edged sword. “I understand your point, Captain, but it still might be preferable to battle. If we fight, a great many men are going to die. We have already ripped a hole in the history of these events, and every ship and plane we destroy, every man that dies when our missiles strike, will be something that time will find missing from her balance sheets that day. There will be consequences—this we have seen.”
“I don’t think we could possibly make things any worse than the nightmare world we have just come from,” said Volsky.
“And we might even change things for the better, Fedorov
,” Karpov put in. “Yes, I know my decisions and actions may have caused the Americans to enter the war early. So perhaps I am responsible, Vladimir Karpov, the man who destroyed the world. Don’t you think I’ve carried that in my gut ever since? So consider this—might we have a chance to correct this now?”
“How?” Volsky looked at him with a blank expression, yet open to his suggestion.
“Well… considering that our initial aim was to bring about post war conditions more favorable to Russia, my thought was to strike a decisive blow against the Allies.”
“Yes,” said Zolkin. “And if you had finished your dirty business you would have probably dropped another nuclear warhead on Roosevelt and Churchill!”
Karpov frowned, a flash of resentment in his eyes. “I’ll admit that thought did cross my mind, Doctor. Such action may seem insane to you from the quiet of your infirmary here, but from the bridge of a fighting ship under attack things look a little different. That said, such drastic measures may not be necessary now. The mere threat of action can be as effective as the thing itself. If we do consider negotiation, as Admiral Volsky suggests, then I hope we will remember that we have power in our hands here—real power—and not simply to sink a few more British ships. The British need Gibraltar, yes? Tell them that unless they stand down we will flatten that rock and everything on it. This is negotiating with strength. Don’t forget that.” He folded his arms, his hand finding the pain in his side.
The Admiral rubbed the stubble on his chin, thinking. He could see that Fedorov seemed somewhat anxious now, and restless. “Something more, Mister Fedorov?”
The young man spoke, a tentative edge to his voice, as if he were still feeling his way through his argument. “I favor the idea of negotiation,” he began, “but even that course is not without risk. I might point out that there are over 40 kilometers of tunnels under the rock at Gibraltar, a complete military city. That aside, if we communicate with these men, of this era and time, they will want to know who and what we are. Can we tell them? Remember that any information we divulge can also have an impact on the future course of events. Information was, in fact, one of the principle weapons of this war. We know a very great deal, and that is also power—real power, Captain—to change the future that may unfold from this encounter.”
Volsky smiled inwardly. He had walked this same corridor in his own mind as he considered the prospect of negotiating with Churchill and Roosevelt earlier. In the end he realized that any such contact was fraught with as much peril as opportunity. “I don’t think we can pass for a French battleship for very long,” he said at last. “That ruse might buy us a little time, but the British will see through in due course. Then any negotiation we have with them must be tightly controlled. Perhaps we could simply ask for safe passage through the Strait in exchange for our pledge of neutrality for the duration of the war. We could tell them we will sail to the southern hemisphere, and stay as far as possible from forces on any side in this conflict.”
“And when they demand to know who we are,” said Karpov, a little too sharply. “Then what?”
“I don’t know yet, Mister Karpov, but give me time and I will consider it—along with everything else we have discussed here. It may be that we will have no safe option.”
“Particularly if the British are not so keen on negotiating. Remember they have a considerable score to settle, and I would not be surprised to find them intent on nothing other than our destruction.”
“Everything we do involves risk, Captain. But tell me…Given the forces Fedorov has described, can we push through this last gate of hell and get back into the Atlantic?”
“Leave that to me, sir. Yes. We can get through.”
“But at what cost?” asked Fedorov.
Karpov knew he was talking about British lives now, and he said as much. “If the enemy wishes to stand against us in battle, then they must carry the burden of the losses they sustain. Ours is to look to the safety of this ship and crew.”
“That I understand,” Volsky agreed with him. “It is all this talk about power and decisive blows aimed at changing the future that I do not yet grasp. We can never know what our actions here may lead to.” He paused, tired again and wanting to sleep without interruption by 15 inch gun salvos. “Very well, gentlemen,” he continued. “I order the two of you to get some sleep, which is what I plan to do. Hopefully no one will shoot at us for the next five hours.”
Fedorov thanked the admiral and slipped out of the hatch, longing for a few more hours in his bunk. Karpov stood with a grunt and started for the door.
“Mister Karpov,” said Zolkin. “You seem to be favoring that ribcage. Is there something I can help you with?”
“It’s nothing, Doctor.” He rubbed his side where Orlov has buried his fist in their brief encounter. “I slipped on a wet deck and stumbled into a ladder. It’s nothing. Just a bruise.”
“Carry on then,” said Volsky. “And Karpov…Thank you for what you have done to support that young man. He’ll make a fine officer. Help him, yes?”
“I will, sir.”
Aboard the cruiser Norfolk later that afternoon, Admiral Tovey was asking himself the same question that plagued Fedorov. What would it cost them this time? He had boarded a plane to Holyhead on the Irish Sea, where the intrepid cruiser was waiting for him at 14:00 hours. It had come all the way down from Scapa Flow, leading the charge of the Home Fleet. Behind it came three more fast cruisers and the light carrier Avenger, also new on the Home Fleet roster and still working up with 825 and 802 Squadrons. The battleships followed in a stately line, their sharp bows raking the light swells as they made way at twenty-four knots, four knots shy of their best speed. Even at that speed they would not get down to the warmer waters off the Spanish coast until late afternoon of August 14th. Destroyers escorted them on either side, though only a few of these ships would have the range make the long journey south. Tovey wondered if they would make it in time.
If this ship stays put in the Med, he thought, then we’ve got her, along with the answer to this mystery once and for all. If she moves now for Gibraltar, then God help Force Z. Syfret was an able man, his flag aboard HMS Nelson, and he would fight the good fight. His own second in command of Home Fleet, Admiral Bruce Fraser, was also there incognito aboard HMS Rodney to survey the whole of this Operation Pedestal and make a special report. Could Rodney and Nelson hold on until Home Fleet arrived? What might the cost be if he ordered Syfret to hold the Pillars of Hercules at all cost? He had seen the weapons this mysterious ship was capable of deploying. Was he merely sending these good men and ships to their doom? And if this unaccountable raider blasts its way through the strait and out into the Atlantic again, what then? Home Fleet will come charging up, tired and thirsty. His battleships were well gunned and armored, but with short legs. He could operate for a few more days, and then he would need to refuel. By that time this Geronimo could get well out to sea and leave them holding an empty bag again. Was he just burning up valuable fuel oil in another fruitless chase?
These and a hundred other questions turned in his mind, and he could still see the look in Professor Turing’s eyes, almost pleading it seemed to him. What was he getting at in that last conversation they had had together? He had told him there was no nation on this earth that could have built and deployed a ship like Geronimo, or managed to perfect any of the weaponry they had seen her use with such deadly effect—that it would take years, decades to reach that level of sophistication. Yet Tovey had seen the flatly contradicting truth of the matter first hand, felt the shuddering impact of those infernal rockets against his armor plate, seen the proud bow of HMS Repulse slip beneath the angry sea and die….and that hideous mushroom of seawater! A chill shook him just to think of how the American task force had perished.
Years… Decades… he considered every implication of what Turing had said. What was this terror ship? Where had it come from? It wasn’t German—not if it fought with the Italians at Bonifacio Strait—and
it certainly wasn’t French, not with this rocketry as its primary weapon. Could the Russians have built a ship like this? Impossible! What then? The notion that there was some Captain Nemo out there building such a ship on a deserted island as Jules Verne had it in Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea was also not one he could entertain for long. Yet this ship was indeed a profound riddle, as confounding as that Mysterious Island Verne wrote about in his sequel, and apparently bent on picking a fight with the British Empire or anyone else, just as this Captain Nemo had in the novels Tovey had delighted to read in his youth.
Captain Nemo…Prince Dakkar, son of a Hindu Raja. Verne had said he discovered the lost civilization of Atlantis, and hinted that his wizardry had been derived from ancient knowledge he had uncovered. Tovey never forgot how he mused over the story, and especially when Nemo returned in Mysterious Island, old and gray after having sailed the oceans wide, the last survivor on the Nautilus. The odd thing there had been the strange incongruity with time, for the Nautilus escaped the maelstrom at the end of Verne’s first book in June of 1868, then the ship strangely appears, with Nemo an old man, all his crew gone, and the captain dies in October of that same year on that mysterious “Lincoln” Island. He remembered thinking that perhaps his strange submarine had also traveled in back time during its many adventures, arriving at the end of its long journey right at the same place and time it had begun.
Traveling in time…He smiled, putting the story out of his mind and squinting at the gray horizon as Norfolk rose and fell in the gathering swell. The tang of the sea was in the air, and he felt at home again, his feet firmly rooted in the here and now. It wasn’t possible, he thought. Jules Verne or H.G. Wells might have the liberty to delight themselves with such fanciful notions in their writings, but not the Admiral of the Home Fleet of the Royal Navy.
A flight of seabirds cruised by overhead, making for land, and his questions soared after them, seeking some comprehensible home in his mind. What was this ship? Who could have built it? The mystery drove his resolve, and he would move heaven and hell, and the considerable weight of Home Fleet to have his answer.
Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) Page 19
