“Fantastic…! Captain Donelson will be bloody happy about that.”
“Indeed, sir,” Mountbatten agreed. “My uncle says she sends her warmest regards. Her last report indicated she was transferring to HMAS Sydney to carry on the chase…”
There was that feeling… that lurch you feel when a lift drops unexpectedly, or you hit a rise in the road at high speed and come down the other side faster than you think, and your stomach just falls away as if someone has just opened your guts and let them slip through, splattering the ground at your feet. It was that desperate, lonely, sinking feeling that struck Max Thorne like a pile driver in the seconds that passed following that off the cuff remark and his brain actually processed what he’d just heard.
“Sydney…” he repeated lamely, as if the name were completely meaningless. “Sydney is the ship closest to Kormoran, right…?”
“Why yes, sir… how did you guess...? There was something in the man’s dull, lifeless tone that told Mountbatten something had suddenly gone very wrong, although he couldn’t for the life of him work out what he might have said.
“Lieutenant,” Thorne began slowly, silencing the young man with a raise finger, his hand clearly shaking uncontrollably. “I need you to listen very carefully to what I’m about to say, because Captain Donelson’s life depends on it, along with everyone else’s on that bloody ship… do you understand me so far?”
“Yes, sir…!” Mountbatten declared crisply, rising and snapping to attention as he realised the situation had taken a dramatically serious turn.
“Lieutenant, you need to get to Lord Mountbatten at once and have him send a message to Sydney. He must tell the captain to break off the chase. Do you understand me?” He asked again. “The Sydney must break off the chase immediately and hand off to another warship. I don’t care if we lose Kormoran and she’s in Tokyo Harbour before we find her again… he must send that message. Tell him it’s to do with history… you understand?”
“Crystal clear, sir,” Phillip assured, still at attention.
“Then go…” Thorne said simply, his tone still soft, dull and measured as if under far more control than was normal. “I’ll be along shortly once I’ve taken care of a few things…”
The moment Mountbatten was gone, Thorne rose carefully and stepped across the room to slowly close and lock the hatch to his quarters. He turned then, fists clenched at his sides as he stared unfocussed at the wall above his bunk, desperately fighting the almost irresistible urge to fall to the deck in tears.
“Did you know…?” He whispered softly, the words hanging in the air like an accusation.
I did not…
“Did you know…?” He screamed, turning toward the mirror on the far wall and bellowing the words at his own reflection.
I swear, I did not…
“But I should have,” Thorne moaned softly, falling hard on knees before the bed but ignoring the flare of pain as he hit the steel deck. “It was Kormoran… why should I need you to tell me something so obvious…?”
They know it’s a raider… they know what to expect. There’s nothing to suggest it will go down the same way… Unusually, it was the voice in the back of his mind trying to stay optimistic for a change, and he suddenly realised how lame he must’ve sounded doing the same so many times.
“…But you and I both know it will…” Thorne breathed softly, his voice as empty and lifeless as a crypt as he buried his head in his hands on the bed, fifteen hundred nautical miles away from Eileen Donelson and feeling more helpless than at any other time in his living memory.
Banda Sea
150nm west of Ambon Island
For Eileen Donelson, Evan Lloyd and Mal Langdale, the last week felt like one long, physically-draining series of uncomfortable flights interspersed by nights spent on extremely uncomfortable barrack beds and ships’ bunks. The flight from Darwin to Penfui had been followed by an overnight stay, then a helicopter ride out to HMAS Canberra off the Tanimbar Islands, where they’d spend another restless night followed by yet another flight back to Timor for refuelling and then on to the Sydney, again by helicopter.
HMAS Sydney was a Leander-class light cruiser. Laid down in 1933 as Phaeton, she’d been transferred to Royal Australian Navy service prior to completion and had served with distinction in the Mediterranean prior to the fall of the United Kingdom. With eight six-inch guns in four twin turrets and a brace of smaller dual-purpose and anti-aircraft weaponry, she was of fairly conventional layout for a vessel of her size with a displacement at full load of almost 9,000 tons. Fast and manoeuvrable, she was easily capable of overhauling a lumbering merchantman without any strain whatsoever to her oil-fired boilers.
As Eileen stood on the bridge not far from Captain Burnett, both staring out at the calm ocean ahead, the blazing sun continued to drop toward the western horizon over the distant, dark silhouette of the Celebes coastline. Evan Lloyd was present also, dressed in standard camo-pattern army fatigues rather than the navy whites surrounding him, and he spent his time also staring out at the passing sea from a seat toward the rear of the bridge, content that there was an opportunity to rest and do nothing for a few hours before the expected excitement began.
There was probably less than four hours of daylight left now, and half that at least was still to be spent in hot pursuit before they would be within firing range of their quarry. Heavy smoke poured from Sydney’s stacks, falling away behind in the light, evening breeze as she steamed on at full power, slicing through the water at better than thirty knots. Her machinery was ready, her guns were ready and her crew was ready, and Captain Burnett had no doubt they would quickly put paid to this errant surface raider once and for all.
“We’ve received a flash message, sir,” the radio officer announced loudly, drawing the attention of everyone on the bridge. “Plain language from HMS Repulse in Singapore, relayed through Batavia. They’re advising us to break pursuit and withdraw, sir… it’s from Lord Mountbatten himself.”
“What…?” Burnett snarled in disbelief. “Bring that here!”
“Sir…!” The ensign acknowledged immediately, stepping over and handing the typed report across. Burnett proceeded to read the short message carefully, his expression darkening with every passing word.
“This is ludicrous…!” He exclaimed with frustration. “We’re within thirty miles of opening fire on this bloody ship: one that half the bloody fleet’s been chasing for the better part of a week. What do they think they’re playing at?” He remembered Donelson’s presence in that moment and cast a sharp glare in her direction, somehow suspecting the presence of a woman on his ship must have something to do with it all. That he was one hundred per cent correct for reasons other than he actually believed was an irony that most likely would’ve been lost on him in his current mood. “Do you have any idea what this might be about, captain?” He demanded, his gaze almost daring her to come up with an answer.
“No possible reason I can think of, sir,” she responded instantly, forcing away the frown of indignance she’d felt spreading across her features. Although both of identical rank, Burnett had been commissioned in 1938 and therefore held seniority. She’d also noted the easily-recognisable flash of sexism in the man’s scornful glare but she managed – barely – to hold her tongue, reminding herself of that seniority and the fact that she was not in the 21st Century. “There was no explanation given?” She asked the radio officer as Burnett passed across the message and she scanned quickly through it.
“That’s all there was, ma’am. Break off pursuit of Kormoran and withdraw…”
“‘Kormoran…’…?” Lloyd piped up for the first time at the mention of that ship’s name. He rose from his seat and crossed the bridge to join them in a few long strides, sudden surprise and consternation showing on his face. “The ship we’re chasing is Kormoran…?”
“Aye, Evan, what of it? Did ye not know that?”
“Never thought to ask,” Lloyd admitted, momentarily flustered. �
��You do know what happened, right…?” He added, suddenly sounding somewhat evasive in recognition of the fact that Burnett, so far as he knew, had never been apprised of Hindsight’s true origins.
“Why do people keep askin’ me that?” Donelson snapped in frustration, recalling a similar question from Thorne back on Repulse. “My memory is eidetic, Evan: photographic…! If I’d ever bloody heard of the bloody Kormoran, I’d bloody-well know about it…”
“Sorry, sir…” Lloyd began sheepishly, directing that apology at a bemused and equally-annoyed Captain Burnett. “If it’s alright, I’d like to have a word to Captain Donelson outside for a moment?”
“Oh, by all means captain,” Burnett advised with a wave of his hand, clearly emphasising the army rank of which the naval equivalent was far lower than his own. “Please don’t let anything so insignificant as fighting a bloody war interrupt you. Ensign!” He barked loudly, turning back to the radio officer. “I want a priority despatch sent back to HQ immediately. Mountbatten be damned, I’m asking Canberra for orders before I proceed based on this ridiculous bloody message...!”
“What is so bloody important about this bloody ship, for Christ’s sake?” Donelson growled as she and Evan stepped out into the hallway behind the bridge.
“Eileen, in Realtime the Sydney was lost on November 19, 1941… lost with all hands following a battle with the auxiliary cruiser Kormoran off the coast of Western Australia….” Lloyd explained slowly, still not able to believe she’d never heard of an Australian naval mystery that had lasted the better part of seventy years.
“Th – this ship?” She asked falteringly, momentarily taken aback by that information. “Sunk by Kormoran and lost with all hands…?”
“The raider was sunk too, eventually, but a few hundred crew survived from her. Not a single man was recovered from Sydney though, and no one knew what had really happened to her until her wreck was finally located off the WA coast in 2008. I was at Swanbourne at the time, and it was huge news all over Western Australia. Every politician in the country was trying to get their head on telly at the memorial in Geraldton, after she was discovered.”
“That message was from Max…” Eileen decided immediately as Lloyd nodded in agreement. “Mountbatten wouldn’t have known that any more than I did.”
“And what do we do about it?” Lloyd asked pointedly, arching one eyebrow.
“Well I’m not going to bloody-well run away just because of something that might not even bloody happen,” she declared indignantly, hands on hips. “Maybe it can influence how we approach, but we’re going to take that bastard and synchronicity be buggered…!”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Lloyd agreed with a grin, SAS-trained and never likely to run from a fight.
“Are we all done with any discussion, captain?” Burnett enquired, making no attempt to hide his sarcasm as the pair returned to the bridge. “Feeling inclined to follow that order from Repulse and turn tail and run?”
“Not at all, sir,” Donelson countered evenly, refusing to be baited and deciding to cut the captain some slack, willing to assume his poor mood was a result of the unpleasant order he’d unexpectedly received rather than any actual animosity toward her – something he’d not previously displayed in the time she’d been aboard. “Ready and raring to go in, boots and all…”
“Glad to hear it!” He nodded, almost surprised by her positive answer and left momentarily flummoxed. “All academic in any case: orders from Darwin are to continue to plan, regardless… they want that raider stopped, and we’re going to be the ones to do it.”
Not far to the north, Detmers and his crew were well aware of the fact that they were being followed. They dared not use radar for fear of raising suspicion – no legitimate merchantman would have it fitted – however the constant sightings of patrol aircraft across the southern horizon had become far too numerous over the last twelve hours to be coincidence, and the faint plume of smoke that had appeared directly aft just before noon clearly belonged to a warship of some kind.
Kormoran was capable of a top speed of 18 knots, and the ship’s engineer was wringing every single one of them out of her hammering diesels as she cut through the water, exhaust pouring from her own stack in protest. None of them believed they’d be able to outrun whatever was pursuing them, but if they could hold off until nightfall there might be some small hope of losing them in the darkness. It was a slim chance, but not all smaller Allied warships were fitted with radar as yet and if they were lucky and found cover in the bay or inlet of some secluded little island, they might still yet stand a chance of eluding the enemy.
“Alarm… alarm…! Aircraft of the starboard bow…!” The bellowed warning came from the bridge lookout, lowering his field glasses and pointing in terror.
“Battle stations…!” Detmers ordered immediately, diving across the bridge to stare out that side window also as the warning klaxon began to sound. “All flak prepare to fire!”
“You will give us away…!” Fuchs warned from the other side of the bridge, fear showing plainly on his face.
“We’ve been shadowed by patrols all day and have a warship in pursuit!” Detmers snarled back, his own frustration showing. “They already know what we are! All guns free to engage! Hard right rudder! Turn into the attack…!”
At the very bow and stern of the ship, false panels fell away as a pair of low, flat turrets rose out of the deck from their semi-recessed positions. Based directly on the turret of the standard Wirbelwind mobile flak vehicle used by the Wehrmacht in every theatre of war so far, each mounted a four-barrelled 23mm cannon capable of a combined rate of fire of almost 4,000 rounds per minute at its highest setting. They were lethal against low-flying aircraft and were greatly feared by Allied pilots as a result.
At the same time, further false panels fell away on the upper deck, aft of the ship’s stack. On either side, a pair 37mm twin-mounts also appeared, these protected only by a light steel shield rather than a fully enclosed turret. Although they had nowhere near the rate of fire of their smaller colleagues, they were far more powerful and longer-ranging, and the starboard mount was able to engage almost immediately as it came online.
The trio of B-25D Mitchell bombers came roaring in from low level in in an elongated line-astern formation, all members of RAAF No.13 Squadron flying out of nearby Laha airfield on Ambon. Originally developed by North American Aviation as a land-based tactical bomber, it had since become popular in the role of maritime interdiction, particularly with the release into service of the current D-model. The original clear bomb-aimer’s nose had been replaced by a solid fairing, into which had been fitted a pair of .50-caliber machine guns and, in the lower left corner, a 75mm tank gun so long that its breech lay behind the pilot, the weapon being loaded by the navigator.
“Coming in fast, boys,” Squadron Leader Carter called over the radio from the leading bomber. “She’s a big bugger, so watch out if something goes up… might be a big show. You right back there, Gough?”
“Right as rain, sir,” Flying Officer Edward Gough Whitlam acknowledged quickly, ramming the breech closed over a huge 75mm high-explosive shell. “Gun loaded…!”
Coming out of a shallow dive at better than 250 knots, the bombers closed on the turning vessel quickly, and were well within gun range by the time Kormoran’s defences were ready to engage. The twin fifties opened up first, tracer reaching out like pink fingers of death toward the freighter below as it began to come about, with the occasional spark of impacts and spray of debris flying into the air as thumb-sized .50-inch slugs tore through unarmoured decks and flesh alike.
Carter had trained enough with the aircraft to know where the shell was going to go, now he could see tracer hitting the target below. Bringing the nose up slightly to account for the weapon’s lower muzzle velocity, he keyed the firing button on his joystick and the 75mm cannon discharged with a deafening roar. A huge cloud of flame burst from the muzzle and a single, sparkling ball of trac
er arced away and smashed into Kormoran’s main superstructure amidships, aft of the bridge. The weapon recoiled sharply, the action automatically ejecting the spent case and remaining open as Whitlam quickly slammed another round into the breech.
Carter banked away to port, bringing the B-25 around for another attack run as the second Mitchell in line scored a direct hit on the forward flak turret. Even as the first streaks of tracer from Kormoran began to reach up into the sky from its other guns, the heavy tank shell smashed the mount to pieces and put its four cannon completely out of action without firing a shot. Fire from the amidships 37mm mounts followed it as it powered away, circling around in the opposite direction to also re-join the attack.
The third Mitchell fared less well, coming in to attack from further astern than the others. Its position unfortunately brought it under the concentrated fire of the aft quad-mount, the squat turret turning unerringly in its direction as it approached and releasing a torrent of 23mm shells into the air as clouds of flame burst from its muzzles. Tracer quickly found the bomber and tore through it, shredding one wing and tearing it off at the root as the stricken aircraft spiralled away in flame, smashing apart against the surface of the ocean seconds later.
“Gun loaded…!” Whitlam confirmed again in his characteristically deep, booming voice. Although christened Edward, he’d been known by his middle name almost from birth due to ‘Edward’ also being the given name of his maternal grandfather.
“The bastards got Barry!” Flight Lieutenant Holbrook growled from the co-pilot’s position, turning his head to the side in time to watch the plane go into the water. Flak’s pretty bloody heavy…” he added with a grimace as a stream of 37mm tracer sizzled past the cockpit, far too close for comfort.
The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3) Page 49
