Cauldron of Fire

Chapter 22

Word came to Syfret in a brief respite in the middle of a very hard day on the 12th of August. It was marked highest priority, direct from the Admiralty, and he was to respond and confirm these new orders at once. It was more than he needed just then, as the Germans and Italians had been throwing everything they had at him. There was a relatively small attack that morning at 08:00 hours, easily beaten off with the substantial flak his escorts could put up. At noon, however, a stronger attack came, some seventy aircraft. It was just as the intelligence had indicated after intercepting and decoding orders sent to the Italian 77th Wing at Elmas, Sardinia. Yet there was also some odd chaff in that message about an engagement farther north, at Bonifacio Strait. What was that about? It was the only bright spot in his day, as it indicated that the Italian Naval units that had been gathering like a flock of black crows in the Tyrrhenian Sea had suddenly turned north, and were now well away from the planned convoy route.

It was clear from the intelligence that the whole operation was being taken in deadly earnest by the enemy. There were opinions expressed that the Germans now believed there was a direct threat to Benghazi, Tripoli or even to Crete, with the threat of Allied troop landings prompting them to reinforce all these areas with any available air and ground units.

Lord, he was having enough trouble simply trying to protect fourteen merchant vessels carrying supplies to Malta, let alone the notion of mounting an amphibious operation behind Rommel’s back. He knew that was coming, but for the moment those plans were still hush, hush. Now he looked at his new orders, curious as to what might be so urgent in them.

He frowned, noting how “at his earliest opportunity” had been duly strengthened by the addition “withdraw immediately.” Here the Germans and Italians were doing everything possible to impede his progress—high level bombers, dive bombers, low level torpedo planes, submarines, minefields, some twist on a new aerial torpedo dropped from planes that would circle in the midst of the convoy to seek out targets. The Italians would call them ‘motobombas.’ He had even heard they had packed a seaplane full of high explosives and planned to fly it by radio control and crash it into one of his carriers. Thankfully the plane could not be controlled and flew harmlessly across the Mediterranean Sea to crash in the desert, leaving a large crater where it exploded but doing no other harm. The Italians, he thought, shaking his head.

Now the Admiralty simply wanted him to turn about with the heart of the surface escort fleet, and run off home to Gibraltar. For what? He knew he would have to turn back in any case, as they were very near the Skerki Bank now, and the channel narrowed there to make a transit by his battleships an unwise operation in these circumstances. It had always been planned that Force Z would turn back at this point. The question was merely how long to hold with the convoy before he turned it over to Admiral Burrough and Force X with his cruisers and destroyers.

They would have the worst of what was yet to come, he knew. He was taking the carriers, and both Rodney and Nelson home with him, and Burrows was left with whatever they could spare him.

“Rodney reports she’s having difficulties with her steering, sir,” said a watch stander. The ship had been having trouble that way for the last month, Syfret knew, and now it was all she could do to make just fifteen knots. If the Admiralty wanted them home directly, he had little choice in the matter. He had to turn back now.

“Very well,” he said with a heavy heart, and gave an order to the midshipman at his side. “Signal Admiral Burrough Godspeed, and we’ll turn about at once and head east for Gibraltar.” He looked at his watch. It was 16:00 hours, some three hours before he was planning to make this turn.

So it was that the carrier Indomitable, which might have sailed on into the teeth of the enemy air attacks for another three hours, did not receive three critical bomb hits when the Axis air forces mounted a large and well coordinated attack with JU-88s, JU-87s, and Italian Cant 1007 torpedo bombers. Rodney was also spared three near misses and the crash of an Italian aircraft on her bow. The order from the Admiralty had changed the history—Kirov had changed the history by her very presence in this region, and by prompting those urgent orders.

Now Syfret sailed east chasing the setting sun, even as Kirov was beginning to put her first divers into the water north of Menorca Island. While Rosenbaum’s U-73 was taking that long torpedo shot and prompting Karpov to churn up the sea with his ASW rockets and initiate his search with the KA-40, Syfret was receiving bad news over his shoulder and burdened with considerable regret. Burrough was under attack, and his cruisers Nigeria and Cairo had both taken torpedoes, along with the one ship he had dearly hoped to protect, the American oil tanker Ohio. He was inclined to split his force and send Rodney on home to satisfy this order from the Admiralty, while taking Nelson back east to cover the eventual withdrawal of Burrough’s Force X. Yet he received further orders clarifying his options in no uncertain terms. He was to return to Gibraltar at his best speed, and with as much force as he could spare. At the very least he felt obliged to detach some of his escorts and send help to Force X, come what may. So he gave orders that cruiser Charybdis and destroyers Eskimo and Somali should be signaled by lantern to break off and return to the fray. It would end up doing little good.

In the next twenty-four hours the British would see two more cruisers torpedoed, Kenya and Manchester, and of the 14 ships they had mustered all this naval power to protect, only five would make it through the terrible gauntlet of fire and reach Malta. The Ohio was saved by a handful of dispossessed crewman who manned her AA guns while they watched the ship sink so low in the water that the waves were right at the height of the deck. Two British destroyers lashed themselves to either side of the beleaguered tanker and literally dragged her to port.

Five ships… only five made it through, but it was enough to keep the garrison and population of Malta from starvation, and the vital oil and fuel in Ohio’s holds was pumped out in the nick of time before she finally settled on the bottom at her berth, a ruined wreck. She would never sail again.

As the haggard Royal Navy ships fell back on Gibraltar, Force Z would limp home with the two big battleships, carriers Indomitable and Victorious, two light cruisers and twelve more destroyers. The carrier Furious would be their rear guard with five more destroyers in escort. The weary crews would get little respite.

To his great surprise, Admiral Syfret soon learned that they were to prepare for a make or break defense of Gibraltar itself! He was to make immediate plans to close those straits to any and all ship traffic.

What in the world can have the Admiralty all rousted up like this, he thought? He was not one of the select few that had been briefed on the details of the engagements of a year past. Yes, rumors flew throughout the whole of the fleet of this new German raider with its wonder weapons and the terrible end it brought to the Americans there. And yes, he had seen the damage to Prince of Wales and King George V himself when they had returned to Scapa Flow, and knew that the venerable battlecruiser Repulse had not come home with them. But that was a year ago, and this enemy ship had been sunk, or so the official line had been put out. He knew nothing of the Admiralty’s continued interest and preoccupation with the incident, and nothing of the code word “Geronimo” that had set these events in motion.

So what was all this bother about? Had the plans for Operation Torch been moved up? It was the only thing he could think of that made any sense, and so he made his plans for the fleet to refuel so his destroyers would to be ready to move out again on patrol in the straits of Gibraltar as soon as they reached that location. Perhaps he should invite Admiral Fraser over from Rodney and have a little chat. Maybe he knew something more and could explain matters to him.

Even as Syfret gave that reluctant order to turn about on the afternoon of August 12, Admiral Tovey was already aboard the cruiser Norfolk and well out to sea where he would soon transfer to the flagship, King George V.

While the KA-40 was searching in vain for U-73 on the night of August 12–13, Home Fleet had been pounding it sway south at twenty-four knots. While Fedorov had his last visit with the Admiral and Doctor, Tovey’s battleships were already off the coast of Brest. There German reconnaissance planes spotted the fleet, and telephones were soon jangling as the Germans tried to surmise what this big fleet movement was all about. They had already been spooked by Operation Pedestal, with strong opinions that the British were planning an imminent amphibious operation on the coast of North Africa. These ships must be mustering for that operation, they now believed, and began to strengthen their defenses all along that coast.

Kirov lingered well north of Menorca while U-73 slipped quietly away to the northeast, heading home. At one point they saw the U-boat on their powerful surface radar sets, and Karpov had a second chance to think about killing it with a missile. He decided the boat was not worth the expense, and let Rosenbaum go. In his mind, however, there was no calculus of what may or may not happen at some future date, nor was there any musing over life and death. It was simply a matter of economics at that point. Kirov needed her anti-ship missiles for what lay ahead of them now, not what lay behind.

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 disposition, 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 approaching 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.”

“Very well, Captain. Can you hold here for a few more minutes? I’ll relieve you at zero-one-hundred hours.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Karpov raised two fingers in a brief salute. Then he turned to the mishman and said in a clear voice: “Captain off the bridge!”

The men saluted as he went, and yes, he never would forget how it felt—so very different this time. He was the Captain. Not just one of three or four officers on the ship who held varying degrees of that rank. He was the Captain of Kirov, flagship of the Northern Fleet, and it felt good.

He was not long reaching the sick bay, and found Admiral Volsky looking much better on the cot, his cheeks reddening up again, eyes brighter, and that look of agonizing pain gone from his face.

“Mister Fedorov!” The Admiral greeted him, “You have just missed another good meal.”

“Something tells me he has a nose for good borscht,” said Zolkin. “They made it right this time, cooked it up yesterday so all the flavors would blend correctly—carrots, parsnips, turnips, good cabbage and of course, the roasted beets!”

“It smells wonderful,” said Fedorov. He removed his cap and took a deep breath.

“Sir,” he began. “I have increased to thirty knots with the aim of trying to reach our objective before the British fleet can return to Gibraltar.” He stood stiffly, hat tucked under his arm, waiting.

Volsky was still cleaning his hands with a white linen napkin. “I see,” he said. “Go on, Mister Fedorov.”

The young captain explained his reasoning, and Volsky listened quietly, saying nothing. “It will be close,” he said. “Even at thirty knots we may not get by them in time, but I won’t know that until I have an exact fix on their position, course and speed.”

“And how close will we be to this Force Z?” He looked at Zolkin for a moment. “It sounds dangerous, eh Dmitri? Force Z.”

“That will depend on a number of things,” said Fedorov, “whether they have sighted us and marked our heading; their position, their orders, and perhaps even their curiosity may all figure in the mix. But I must be honest and say that there is not much room in the Alboran Sea. We will be in the bottle neck, but there is still much more room there than we will find at Gibraltar in the straits.”

“Assuming we can get by them, we will of course outrun these ships?”

“Their big ships, yes. The battleships would have no chance to catch up with us if we take the lead in this race. They could pursue with their lighter ships, but not far, and they are much less a threat to us than those 16 inch guns. We have a number of factors in our favor sir. They have the lead at the moment, but I checked the service records on the battleships. HMS Rodney is having trouble with her boilers and steering mechanism. It has been an ongoing problem with the ship for the last several months and apparently was aggravated with all the maneuvering required when the convoy came under air attack. I would be surprised if she was capable of any more than fifteen knots, and we have twice her speed now. Nelson could probably get up twenty knots, but I think they would want to keep their battleships together.”

“Agreed,” said Volsky. “And what other cards do you see us holding?”

“We may have an advantage of surprise. They may not have a fix on us and our sudden appearance could hamper their response. Then we could try our ruse as a French ship and perhaps buy a few crucial minutes, or even hours. It is my intention to go in weapons tight unless we are immediately threatened. I want to use our speed, sir. That is our primary weapon now.” He paused a moment, then nodded as he spoke.

“Of course I understand you were considering negotiations, Admiral. I must tell you that I have come round to the belief that they will be fruitless. I cannot see the British taking any less than days to sort this out with us, and one question will likely pile in on top of another. There will be no expedient solution for us in my opinion. If, however, you wish to countermand my decision, I will support you in any way I can during any negotiation you may choose to initiate. For now, I have chosen to act first, and talk later if we must. If I have made an error, sir we can reduce to twenty knots at any time.”

Volsky looked at him, a smile brightening in his eyes. “No, Mister Fedorov. You have made no error. You have made a command decision, and I will support you. You have my approval to carry out your planned operation, but please keep me informed.”

Fedorov stood just a little taller. “I will, sir. Thank you, sir.” He smiled. “Then if you will excuse me, Admiral, I must check with Dobrynin and make certain we can run at high speed without any difficulties, and then I am scheduled to relieve Mister Karpov on the bridge.”

Chapter 24

Admiral Fraser settled into his chair in the officer’s wardroom aboard HMS Nelson, exhilarated by his recent transit to the ship, his cheeks and brow still red, the tang of the sea in his nose, and eyes alight. He took a moment to compose himself while the orderly brought in the afternoon tea. It was just as Admiral Syfret had promised him—Earl Grey, nice and hot.

Fraser was a fast rising star in the Royal Navy. He had served with distinction in the First World War, an expert in naval gunnery, and he supervised the internment of the German High Seas Fleet when that conflict concluded. His broad experience included a stint on the carrier Glorious, service as Chief of Staff for the Mediterranean Fleet, Third Sea Lord, and Knight Commander of the Order of the Bath. History would record that he would lead the British Battleship Duke of York and sink the German raider Scharnhorst in late 1943 before moving to a post in the Pacific Fleet, and he would one day sign the instrument of Japan’s surrender on behalf of the British Empire aboard the battleship Missouri in Tokyo Bay. History, however, had a way of taking some very unexpected turns, though Fraser could not know that as he sat down for tea that afternoon.

“Well, Neville, it seems we’ve got a bit of a mystery on our hands. I know you were in the thickets back there, and had a mind to see it through just a little longer, but I received the same orders as you undoubtedly have, to turn about at once and make all speed for Gibraltar.”

“I certainly hope you’re going to tell me why, Sir Bruce,” said Syfret. The two men had known each other for many years, and were accustomed to drop the formalities of rank and protocol when they met. They had shared many a toast and tea together, though seldom under circumstances such as these. “What, has there been a problem with this Operation Jubilee? I thought it was not to be mounted until this convoy was seen through to Malta and we could get Force H reconstituted at Gibraltar and in position to lend a hand if needed. You know we’ve been rather beaten up out there. They threw planes at us by the bushel, and God bless those boys in the carrier fighter squadrons, they were absolutely superb.”

“Quite so,” said Fraser, his sandy hair now white with his years, but his ruddy features still giving him an animated life and energy. He turned to the orderly, who was standing by the doorway in attendance. “That will be all, young man.”

“Very good, sir.” The man saluted, and quietly left the two men alone. When he had gone Fraser leaned forward and lowered his voice nonetheless, an air of caution about him now.

“No, it has nothing to do with Operation Jubilee—in fact that whole party has been cancelled. Sixty squadrons set back on their rumps at home, and the whole fleet up in a tither over something else.”

“Something else? Do go on, Sir Bruce.”

“Neville, I must first apologize that you will have no inkling of what I’m about to say here. Nobody knows everything, I suppose, and for that matter I only learned about this business when I assumed my post as Deputy Commander Home Fleet when Daddy Brind shipped over to the Admiralty as Assistant Chief of the Naval Staff. I’m just getting my feet wet, you see, and I never expected to hear very much more about the matter, but it concerns that incident a year ago south of Iceland. I’m sure you’ve heard something about it.” He smiled politely.

“I knew Repulse never came home,” Syfret said sullenly, “and we all saw the damage to King George V and Prince of Wales. I must say I made inquiries about it back then, but I’m old enough to know when a door’s being closed in my face, and so I shut up and let the matter go.”

“You heard the rumors, of course.”

“The rocketry? Some new German raider raising hell out there. It was hard not hear about it. Word has spread round through every bar and brothel in the kingdom by now. But sailors say a lot of things, don’t they. We were told to squeeze the necks of any man we caught spreading such rumors, and I dare say I’ve squeezed quite a few.”

Fraser nodded, taking a long sip of his tea and setting down the cup. “Well I’m to tell you that these rumors have more substance to them than we were first led to believe,” he said. “In point of fact, most every last one was the gospel truth. There was a ship, a German ship we believe, and there was quite a row at sea when Home Fleet went hunting for it a year ago. As you know, the Americans were in on it as well, and they were hurt even worse. You’ve read the papers.”

“Yes, that torpedo attack on the Mississippi. A stroke of good luck for us, if you want my mind on it. Brought the Yanks right in on our side just as Sir Winston was hoping.”

“Yes… well there was no torpedo attack…”

Syfret raised an eyebrow, realizing that Fraser was now getting round to the front door on the matter. “No torpedo attack?”

“It was something else,” said Fraser. “Bletchley Park says it was one of Herr Hitler’s wonder weapons. You know he’s got these rockets on the drawing boards, of all sorts. Well he’s also got one bloody hell of a warhead to mount on them. Why do you think we’ve scattered command elements all over the Kingdom in the last year? What do you make of those underground bunkers they’ve been building in the Scottish Highlands?”

“I thought they were to be for munitions stores.”

“So did I, until they started trucking in desks and telephone equipment, and all the other accouterments that clutter up the Admiralty offices. They’ve been spreading the butter and jam thin, Neville, because they don’t want everything together if another of these rockets comes thundering in on Whitehall one day.”

“I see… But what has this to do with our present orders, Sir Bruce? Why the rush home to Gibraltar?”

“Neville, this new General Montgomery is stiffening up the line at Al Alamein, and we think we can keep Rommel out of Alexandria for the time being. So that means Suez is safe—at least for the moment. Now, you’ve done your damndest to secure Malta, and in spite of the losses I think we got enough through to keep them running a few more months there. It’s a pity it cost us so much, what with Manchester, Nigeria, Cairo and others all gutted, and losing Eagle was a hard blow. But Burrough will be turning west in about three hours with the remainder of his Force X, and Admiralty has indicated to me that Operation Pedestal is now of secondary importance.” He tapped his finger on his tea cup as he spoke, his mind running on.

“Operation Jubilee is cancelled, and now all the plans for Operation Torch are up in the air as well. It’s come down to this, Neville. The threat now is to Gibraltar…” he left that on the table for a moment, sipping his tea and noting Syfret’s reaction.

“A threat to Gibraltar? Have the Spanish thrown in with Hitler after all?”

“No, Franco wants none of that. It’s something else, a matter for the Royal Navy, which brings us round to our orders again. It seems there’s another ship at large—right here in the Med. 248 Squadron got a look at it a few days ago. Park sent film through Gibraltar and it ran all the way into Bletchley Park. I’m not quite sure how just yet, but it apparently has something to do with this incident we had a year ago off Iceland. They’ve slapped a code word on it and we’re to be ready to oppose any and all unauthorized sea traffic approaching Gibraltar. You’re to go to full battle readiness at the first sign of any contact at sea, and they want your planes to begin searching north and northwest of our present position at once.”

“I see,” said Syfret, setting down his tea. “Forgive me if I seem a bit thick, sir, but what are we looking for?”

“A ship—a battlecruiser of sorts—the very same ship our 248 squadron took a nip at two days ago. We lost four of six Beaufighters, you know.”

“I heard the report, but had more on my plate to worry about and dismissed it.”

“Yes… well it was the way we lost these planes that got the Admiralty all rankled. They were shot down by rocketry, Neville. There’s another ship out there, and it’s apparently heading our way. That first sighting was in the Tyrrhenian Sea, and apparently this ship ran up north and on through the Bonifacio Strait.”

“An Italian ship?”

“That’s what we thought at first, but there was an engagement off the western approaches to Bonifacio that set Admiralty on its head. Apparently this ship tangled with a couple of Italian battleships, and came off the better for it. I was only informed this morning.”

“Then it must be a French ship,” said Syfret. “They’ve been goading the Vichy Fleet to Join Admiral Darlan for some time.”

“That was my opinion as well, but Admiralty isn’t sure. A few things add up. If it was a Vichy French ship it might be likely to take a shot at anything that came in range. That much makes sense. Then again, it might be a renegade ship and crew making a run out of Toulon. Nobody knows for sure, but we do know one thing, this ship is heading our way, and we’re to see that it gets nowhere near Gibraltar.”

“Well if it drove off a pair of Italian battleships it would have to be the Dunkerque, Strausbourg, or perhaps even both. Then again, Dunkerque took quite a pounding at Mers-el Kebir. Ark Royal put a torpedo into her a few days later for good measure. It would have to be Strasbourg. She got clean away in that incident, and was still seaworthy. Probably the only ship the French still have that might have a chance against the Italians like that.”

“This is what I suggested, but Admiralty isn’t sure.”

“What do you mean they aren’t sure? What else could it be?”

“They haven’t been able to get a long range reconnaissance flight over Toulon to see if all the eggs are still in the nest, and until they do, well, you know the routine.”

“Too well, I’m afraid.”

“Right then. They’ve given this ship, or ships, a codename—calling it Geronimo. That is to be kept close to your vest and not shared with anyone without this nice thick stripe on his cuff.” He pointed to his own cuff insignia, the thick gold base braid that indicated Admiral. “This ship appears to be heading our way, and they want us to find it and say hello. We’ll have company soon. Admiral Tovey is at sea this very moment with Home Fleet.”

“I see…” That last bit surprised Syfret. “Do you think that is really necessary? I certainly hope we won’t have another incident with the French, Sir Bruce. Wasn’t Mers-el-Kebir enough of a thumb in their eye?”

“If it comes down to it, your orders are to stop this ship, by whatever means. It may be running for Dakar, but it is not to approach Gibraltar. Supposing it is a renegade French ship, we have yet to know who’s side it might end up on. Strausbourg has eight big guns, all forward, and it seems to fit the general profile of this Geronimo—one main tower amidships, and a smaller one behind. I’d hate to see those 13 inch guns lobbing shells at Gibraltar. If we do have a disaffected captain out there, he may be looking to stick us one for Mers-el-Kebir.”

Fraser was referring to the regrettable but necessary decision by Admiral Somerville to order the British Fleet, Force H out of Gibraltar in fact, to fire on the French fleet at Mers-el-Kebir on Aboukir Bay when they refused to surrender.

“Some feel that the French may have even gotten wind of this Operation Torch, and that this might be some sort of preemptive action against Gibraltar, or even an attempt to reinforce their forces in North Africa.”

“I see, “ said Syfret, thinking for a moment. “Strausbourg can run up near thirty knots, Sir Bruce. You’re aware of the situation with Rodney. We’ve been lucky to make eighteen knots today.”

“And it’s likely we’ll have to trim that to fifteen knots. Those boilers are insufferable, but we’ll have to keep pushing on as best we can. It’s imperative that we get the cork in the bottle before this ship breaks through to Gibraltar.”

Fraser had put the best possible explanation to the mystery, and if he knew any more than he said, he wasn’t prepared to share it at the moment. Yet he reinforced the one message he had come to deliver here, leaning in to emphasize his point. “We’re to sink this ship if she won’t heave to, Admiral.” The added formality made it plain that this was an order.

“Very good, sir. If we get in front of them I think Nelson and Rodney can handle the matter.”

“Right you are.” Fraser’s tea was cold and he stared listlessly at the half empty cup. He knew that Tovey was heading south as well with a lot more firepower to throw in, though he couldn’t imagine why if this was, indeed, the Strausbourg as he suspected. It seemed entirely too much bother for a lone French battleship, but there it was. The Admiralty obviously knew, or at least believed, that this Geronimo was more of a threat than it seemed in his own mind. The fact that they cancelled Operation Jubilee was one surprise. Now he reasoned that the potential threat to the Operation Torch landing may be behind it all. If this French renegade were to add steel to the Vichy bastions on the North African coast it could become quite a problem. Still, this business about the rocketry was dangling like a badly tied shoe at inspection. He sighed heavily, sitting back in his chair.

“The world is going to hell, Neville. The whole bloody world is mixed up in this war now.”

“Sadly so, sir Bruce,” said Syfret, reaching for the tea pot to warm his friend’s cup. “But at least we’ve got our tea.”