At noon Fedorov came off his rest shift and the two men were again together on the bridge for an hour before Karpov would take his rest. Fedorov now had one more weighty decision to make, and he decided to sound Karpov out on the matter.
“Here is the situation,” he said quietly. “Force Z is now withdrawing towards Gibraltar. If we put on speed we might be able to beat them there, but I think it would be very close, and we would have to run at thirty knots from our present location to have any chance at all. I was going to turn south and run west of Palma, but I have now plotted another route southwest aimed at Cabo de Nao, Spain, and from there we would race down the Spanish coast past Cartagena and then enter the Alboran Sea south of Almeria. On the other hand, Force Z will be well west of Oran by that time, and if we are spotted, which is likely given the air traffic in this region, they will probably be vectored in to engage us.”
“This means we fight these ships in the Alboran Sea, and not in the Straits of Gibraltar,” said Karpov.
“Correct, but we could also take a more deliberate route at normal cruising speed and in this event they would reach Gibraltar ahead of us. We could then wait in the Alboran Sea and see what Admiral Volsky decides about these negotiations we spoke of earlier. It would then be his decision as to how we proceed.”
Karpov thought for a moment. “From a military viewpoint, I would much rather fight this Force Z with good sea room, and in a situation where we can make the best use of our strengths—speed and ranged firepower. Yes, we may be spotted as we move south, but we will also see them easily enough, and I can engage at good range with our cruise missiles. Then perhaps we could have Nikolin order them to yield and if they have taken enough of a pounding, like the Italians, we could then transit the straits and leave them in our wake.”
“I understand,” said Fedorov, “but taking that course is almost certain to result in an engagement. It will not be easy to negotiate with them while we are hurling our missiles at their ships to keep them at bay. I think they will be slightly ahead of us, even if we run at top speed now.”
“Then why waste time,” said Karpov. “They may be ahead when we draw near, but from that moment our speed is decisive. We will overtake them and leave them in our wake, but to do this we need sea room if we are to stay outside the range of these sixteen inch guns you talk about all the time. Let’s get the ship moving and see if we can win this race!”
“My inclination is to wait,” said Fedorov, and he immediately saw Karpov’s frustration increase a notch.
“Alright, Fedorov… I learned where our U-boat friend was after I came on duty. Hiding in that little bay, eh? And Nikolin told me you had the KA-40 right on top of the bastard and then just ordered it back to the ship. Alright,” he held up a hand, head cocked to one side, “I let that pass. I understand why you decided to let him go. In fact, we saw the boat on radar later when it surfaced, and I could have finished it myself. I just didn’t want to waste a missile. But this—this is something entirely different. If we have a chance to outrun these British ships, then we should take it. All we have to do is put enough damage on them to slow them down. They won’t be able to touch us, and we’ll win through. What are you waiting for?”
Fedorov looked at him trying to think his way through this. “But can we really use measured force here? It will be close, Captain. If we have any further difficulties—an air strike, another submarine, a mechanical problem, we will not get past them in the Alboran Sea.”
“But we should at least try,” said Karpov, though he could see the reluctance and hesitation in Fedorov’s eyes. He pressed him further.
“What do you want to do—go to Volsky with this? How much time will that take, an hour? Two hours? And by then we will have lost our chance. You are captain of this ship now, Fedorov. I know this was the last thing you ever expected when that honor came to you, but Volsky is asleep in the sick bay and you are standing on the bridge. Now I have given you my best tactical advice, and I will follow and support any course you take here, but think carefully, Fedorov. Do you honestly think the British will negotiate with us? How much do we tell them? How many questions will they have before they are satisfied? You think they will just calmly agree to let us sail through the Straits of Gibraltar and go merrily on our way? Think, Fedorov. You know these men. You have studied them in your history books all your life. Look what they are doing this very moment to the south of us, risking half their fleet to save five merchant ships for Malta. That tells you everything you will ever need to know about them. What are they going to do when we come sailing up to Gibraltar with a white flag flying and ask them to kindly step aside? What did they do at Mers-el-Kebir? What did they do against Bismarck? Negotiate?”
Fedorov lowered his head, beset with what he knew to be the truth in the Captain’s hard words. That was one thing about Karpov—he was a grim realist. Fedorov had indeed studied this war, and the men who fought it, for many, many years. They were an entirely different breed. He remembered how he had tried to explain this to Zolkin in the sick bay when he was hoping to prevent Karpov from attacking the American fleet. And now Karpov was making the very same argument—that these men were of a different mettle, they were exceptional, that they would not hesitate or equivocate or accept anything less than complete victory. They would stand, stalwart, implacable at Gibraltar and bar the way. They would become the very things they named their ships at sea: Indomitable, Victorious, Furious. This was the British Empire. This was the Royal Navy. These were men of character, backbone and unflinching courage. They would not give way in the niceties of discussion. They were going to want to know what Kirov was, where she came from, and so very much more, and they would not be satisfied until they had their answer. Karpov was right, but now that he stood at the edge of it, he could not decide what to do.
The captain saw his hesitation, and spoke one last time. “Fedorov, if we negotiate then they will decide our fate, but don’t you understand? If we act now then the choice is ours—we become the very thing we hope to win from them with reasons and arguments—we become fate itself, Fedorov, and the future is ours to decide.” He had given his last argument. Now he stood up straight, took a deep breath and looked Fedorov in the eye, as an equal this time, waiting.
Fedorov thought he knew what they had to do, what they should do. Karpov’s words were a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down that could change everything from this moment forward. He had been so certain in his mind before, but now it was coming down to something else entirely. What must they do to save themselves, and save the future intact to have a world to live in again? Could he find a way to achieve both?
He decided.
Chapter 23
Orlov sulked in his quarters, still burning with the humiliation forced upon him by Troyak, and thinking how he might even the score one day. No one put their hands on him like that. No one! He was Gennadi Orlov, Chief of the Boat! At least he once was, after years and years of slogging up through the ranks. Now he was busted back to a stinking lieutenant, along with all the other stinking lieutenants, and his recent demotion still weighed heavily upon him. More than that, he hated the fact that Karpov still held forth in a command role on the bridge while he had been discarded to the aft maintenance bay, and put under Troyak with his Marine detachment. He wasn’t used to taking orders from anyone junior to himself, either, and the thought that dog eared Fedorov was actually acting Captain of the ship galled him as well.
His only satisfaction since his release from the brig had been the brief measure of face he had won back by leading the effort to jettison the burning KA-40, though it had been short lived. His old habits of bullying and deriding the men in the ranks soon grew even worse now, almost as if he needed to have someone there in the pecking order below him to make him feel stronger, better, more privileged, even if he knew his career and life had gone to shit. The brief respect he had won from the other men that day had quickly been overshadowed by his innate bad temper and disagreeable disposi
tion, and the others seemed to shun him now, seeing that everywhere Orlov went some kind of trouble eventually followed.
He still blamed Karpov for his misfortunes, and had some small gratification when he had eventually cornered the devious captain outside the mess hall and put a fist in his belly, but he doubted he would get away with anything like that again. He should have killed him, then and there, he thought.
Yes, I could have choked the living breath out of that weasel of a man, and left him dead right there outside the mess hall, he thought. No…That would have been another mistake, eh? Too many men saw what you did when you spilled that drink on his jacket. It would have come back to you too quickly, and you would be rotting in the brig again.
He was sitting at his small desk, thankful at least that they had not yet taken away his officer’s quarters. On the desk before him he stared at a well oiled pistol he had been cleaning between swigs from a small flask of vodka that he had hidden away in his locker. His life was going to be one miserable step and fetch it after another now, with Troyak hovering over him like a shadow every minute of the day. He was not a trained soldier. He had never gone through combat drills. Why did Volsky stick him here with the Marines? He knew why, and it only soured his mood further as he ruminated. It only made him feel more useless when he was assigned to the engineering section, and issued a tool box instead of a rifle and helmet. Now he was supposed to become a dutiful grease monkey and rig out all the helicopters, and that was bullshit too.
What would he ever find again on this damn ship but the drudgery of daily work and menial servitude to skunks like Karpov and choir boys like Fedorov? And now any time he said anything there would be Troyak, that bastard Siberian, rock like, immovable, fearsome. He was going to have to do something about it, but he did not yet know what it was.
As he stared at the pistol in his hand he realized how stupid Volsky and the others had been. They never even bothered to search his cabin! What, did they think he was just going to fall in line with the Mishmanny and Starshini down here and eat shit for the rest of his life? Oh, no, he was going to do something, that much was certain, and as he slipped one bullet after another into the ammo clip, an idea came to him at last. It was as if his own wretched condition had brought him to the edge of a cliff in his mind, and his sorry, decrepit soul had finally thrown down a gauntlet, daring him to jump…. daring him to jump… Yes! That was it!
Yes! To hell with Troyak, and Karpov and Fedorov and fat Volsky too. To hell with them all. To hell with this damn ship and everyone on it! He pushed home the ammo clip with a hard snap, holding the pistol in one hand, and the vodka in the other. The loose ends of a dark and exciting idea were milling about in his head, like the ragged strips of the bandages on his hands, and he finally knew what to do.
Admiral Syfret looked out on the remnants of Force Z, still harried by reports coming in from the action he was leaving behind. It galled him to cut and run like this. Still, he held fast to the thought of those brave men fighting their way around Cape Bon, and down past Pantelleria with those infernal E-Boats nipping at them every step of the way and those vulture-like Stukas overhead, screeching in on them as they dove for the kill.
He looked at the time, weary already, and it was only noon. His haggard ships were already past Algiers, and dangerously close to the coast in his mind, but he had received further cables advising him to take the most direct route possible to Gibraltar, and make all haste. Thus far they had been snooped out by a few high flying reconnaissance planes, and no doubt they’ve had a look at my three aircraft carriers to give the buggers second thoughts about launching an air strike on his ships.
What in the world was going on back at the Rock, he still wondered? Did Fraser over on Rodney know anything about it? He had half a mind to get him on the wireless and have a talk, but as Fraser was the Deputy Commander of Home Fleet itself, and traveling incognito, he discarded that idea.
Nelson and Rodney, were the heart of his task force, making all the speed they could given Rodney’s dodgy boilers and steering gear. He reckoned it at eighteen knots, which would put Force Z off Oran at 18:00 hours that evening. Thereafter the danger from enemy air strikes should diminish as he came within the patrol range of friendly aircraft from Gibraltar to augment the fighters he still had with his carriers. The Fleet Air Arm had lost twelve fighters in combat, and another sixteen went into the sea when HMS Eagle went down. Six more were on the Argus, which was already back in Gibraltar.
That left him with 36 Sea Harrier and Martlet fighters, and another 42 Albacore strike aircraft spread out among his three remaining carriers. Victorious had also been lucky today. The Italians slipped in a pair of fighters that were mistaken for British Sea Harriers and not fired upon as they approached the carrier. When they suddenly peeled off and dove to make bomb runs, one fighter scored a near miss, while the other planted a bomb square of the ship’s forward armored flight deck. It took a good bounce, but did not go off, and so he was lucky to have these ships intact and ready for further operations.
He stared out the view screen, down the long ponderous foredeck of Nelson, her three big main batteries all mounted forward of the bridge. This was the only battleship class in the fleet where that was the case—all guns forward, no guns aft. You would think the designers thought to make this a pursuit ship, he mused, though they neglected to give her anything near the speed required for that.
He squinted at the hapless destroyer Ithuriel off his starboard quarter. Her captain had been a bit too rash when they encountered an Italian sub surfaced near the task force, and he went charging in to ram the damn thing, disabling the sub but also mangling his bow in the process. Syfret took a dim view of that. What? Don’t these men realize that we’ve put deck guns on their destroyers? There had been two ramming incidents on this operation, and he was quite unhappy with both. He would have words with this Captain Crichton when they got back to Gibraltar.
The bridge phone rang and a midshipman indicated that there was a call from HMS Rodney on the wireless. That was odd, he thought as he went to the wireless room to see about it. To his great surprise, it was Deputy Commander of the Home Fleet, Admiral Fraser.
“Good day, Neville” came the voice. “Sorry to interrupt lunch, but there’s been a development.”
“I assumed as much,” said Syfret.
“Yes, well I haven’t got all the details yet, but Admiralty contacted me directly and asked me to brief you. Hush, hush and all. Now I won’t say anything more on the wireless, but if you would be kind enough to let Rodney come up on your starboard side, I’ll swim on over for tea and fill you in. And, oh yes, after this we’re to lock everything down and go W/T silent.”
Syfret raised an eyebrow at that. W/T stood for ‘Wireless Transmission,’ and apparently this would be the last authorized transmission until further notice.
“I’ll put the word out, Admiral,” he said. “And we’ll fall off to 10 knots while you come aboard. It will be Earl Grey at 15:00. One lump or two?”
“Straight up for me, Admiral. I think we’ve already had our sugar on this outing. But more on that later. That’s is all.”
Fedorov was standing tensely on the bridge of Kirov, his mind finally set. The surge of adrenalin thrummed in his chest, and he pursed his lips tightly, jaw set. Karpov waited, holding his breath, and then Fedorov turned to the helm and gave an order.
“Helm. Come round to two-three-zero degrees southwest and ahead full,” he said, a slight tremor in his voice.
“Aye, sir, my rudder is left and coming around for steady on two-three-zero. Speed thirty knots.”
He turned to Karpov, noting a jaunty glint in his eye. “Captain, you have your race. We’ll hold this course until about 17:thirty hours, then come left to 200 degrees and run past Cabo de la Nao and southwest to Cartagena. From there its back on 225 for the run into the Alboran Sea. Force Z has a good lead on us, and is probably near Algiers by now. By the time we make our next turn they should be appro
aching Oran. We might be able to pick them up on the long range radar, but if we can’t see them, I think we should send up the scout helo to have a look south. I want to nail down their position, course and speed so I can calculate our best course from that point. And I’m saving those last two knots just to keep something in reserve if we need it.” Kirov could make all of 32 knots if pressed to full battle speed.
Karpov smiled. “You have made the right decision, Captain.” He said it proudly now, his eyes alight as he clasped Fedorov on the shoulder. “Now you know,” he continued. “Now you know what it’s like.”
“We’ll have some quiet for the next ten to twelve hours, I think,” said Fedorov. “I’ve made my decision, but I think it best I inform the Admiral. Understand that if he countermands my order…”
Karpov shrugged. Volsky… There was yet one more hurtle they had to leap, as if the long race south to a near certain rendezvous with a British battle fleet was not enough. His first thought was to accompany Fedorov and put in his opinion on the matter, but then he realized that this was Fedorov’s bone to chew. He had asked him to stand up and be Captain of the ship, and he did so. He would leave the matter to him.
“I think the Admiral will listen to your reasoning, Fedorov. He respects you, and that is worth a great deal. Give him your mind on this matter, and Volsky will do what he thinks best. I’ve come to a new understanding of the man. Yes, he may take the reins from your grasp again soon, but as you walk down to sick bay, feel them in your hands, Fedorov. You are riding the tiger’s back now. Yes? And you will never forget it.”
Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) Page 23
