Cauldron of Fire

Chapter 25

At 18:00 hours Orlov got the word he had been waiting for. They wanted the KA-226 scout helo rigged for takeoff and mounted with the new Oko 901-M early warning radar panel. The Oko, or ‘Eye,’ was first deployed on the older KA-31 around the turn of the century, and the 901 model was a more compact panel that was mounted on the underside of the fuselage and could be deployed by the pilot to a assume a vertical position in flight. It would rotate slowly, and provided a 360° azimuthal coverage. The surveillance range against a fighter aircraft target was up to 150 kilometers, and for ships this range could extend to 200 kilometers.

Apparently someone on the bridge wanted to have a look around, he thought. When he heard the work order come down, he rushed to his quarters under the pretense that he was going to get the proper tools to rig the device, inwardly rubbing his hands together, and sure that this was his one last chance to do what he had planned.

Back in the helicopter bay below the flight deck he supervised the installation of the Oko panel, as he had many times in the past, occasionally taking a tool in hand and making adjustments. The two able seamen also assigned to his engineering detail pretty much wanted to stay out of his way, and no one said anything when he blustered about their sloppy work and claimed he was going to have to board the helo for the mission to make sure the damn thing deployed properly. He pointed a spanner at Ludvich, always finding a scapegoat first unless something really went wrong. Then he donned a flight jacket and helmet, muttering to himself as he boarded the helo. The pilot looked over his shoulder, surprised to see Orlov in the rear compartment.

“What are you doing, Lieutenant? There’s supposed to be a Marine guard aboard.”

“Don’t call me Lieutenant, Pratkin, you stupid oaf. Haven’t you heard? I’m in the Marines now, so get moving. Our baby faced Captain wanted this helo up ten minutes ago. If you want to make sure your damn radar panel deploys, be glad I’m here with my tools. Those idiots used the wrong control cables and I will have to work on it in flight. See?” He held up a fistful of tightly wound cabling, grinning balefully at the pilot, who just shook his head and radioed the aft helo con tower for permission to take off. Minutes later the KA-226 was aloft and heading south with orders to get some seventy to a hundred kilometers out and sweep the area for signs of a large enemy task force.

Fedorov was still on the bridge when Karpov arrived to begin his next shift. He was consulting with Kalinichev at radar and waved his first officer over.

“We turned on our planned heading of 200 degrees about thirty minutes ago, he said. The ship’s radar might pick up Force Z soon, but I need information now. I’ve sent the KA-226 up with an Oko panel and we’ll have a good look to the south. My best guess is that Force Z is some 225 kilometers southwest of our position now, and most likely approaching Oran. We should be getting some good signal returns from the helo in about twenty to thirty minutes.”

“What about the enemy carriers,” said Karpov. “Won’t they have fighters up?”

“Probably, but they won’t get a whiff of our KA-226. Remember, it’s also got good jamming equipment, and I had it re-tuned to include British aerial radar bandwidths six hours ago. The game is on now, Mister Karpov. We want to find and mark their position as soon as possible, and keep them in the dark about our whereabouts at the same time. If they do happen to spot a British fighter, they can easily avoid it, and that failing, they will have to shoot it down.”

The helo could mount interchangeable mission pods in the space that would normally be the rear cabin. This load out would include a thirty mm cannon and also air-to-air and light surface attack missiles. The Oko panel was mounted beneath this cabin and controlled by connecting utility cables. They waited while Nikolin monitored the routine signal feed from the helo, and routed it to the ship’s main radar systems. Kalinichev was also watching the progress of the helo on his air search radar.

“Tell them it looks like they are a little too far west,” he said over his shoulder, and Nikolin passed the message on a secure, encrypted radio channel. His voice was digitized, then encrypted for the transmission and decoded on the helo to play on the pilot’s speakers. Anyone who might manage to intercept the signal would just hear garbage.

“Command one to KA-226. You are too far west. Resume heading of one-eight-zero and deploy your panel for radar sweep—over.”

The helo was too far west for a good reason, or a bad one depending on whose perspective you took in the matter. Orlov had been sitting in the back compartment, and drinking from a flask as they moved south. He waited patiently, until the helo was about a hundred kilometers out, then took a long swig on his flask and pulled out his pistol.

“Are you ready back there, Lieutenant? It’s time to deploy the radar panel.”

“I told you not to call me Lieutenant,” Orlov growled. “Am I ready?” Orlov grinned. “Oh yes, I’m ready. Are you ready, Pratkin?” And without a second thought he pulled the trigger and put a bullet right through Pratkin’s head. The pilot slumped forward, and for a moment the helo danced wildly in the sky, but Orlov quickly scrambled into the co-pilot seat up front and seized the controls. He had taken some rudimentary flight training on the KA-226 years ago, as he often was tasked as a mission leader when the Marines would deploy on the chopper. Now he struggled to remember what he had to do to stabilize the helo and get it moving where he wanted it to go.

Orlov managed to gain control before the aircraft got a mind of its own, and he nudged it into a slow turn to the west, and put on speed. Then he picked up the auxiliary microphone from the flight instrument panel and sent Nikolin back a message of his own. “I’m sorry, sir, but I won’t be deploying your damn radar today. You lose, Nikolin.” He shut the system down, laughing. Then he looked over at the limp body of the pilot, saw the blood oozing from the bullet hole in his head, and laughed again. “What do you say we take a little vacation, Pratkin? Because that’s the last either one of us are ever going to see of that stinking ship and crew.”

He suddenly remembered something very important, and reached down to turn off his transponder and activate all his jamming gear at full power. The last thing he wanted now was a visit from one of Kirov’s lethal surface to air missiles.

Back on the bridge Nikolin had a shocked expression on his face. He looked for Fedorov and reported. “Sir…that was Orlov on the radio just now, and he says they cannot deploy the radar panel.”

“Orlov? He wasn’t assigned to that mission. He was just supposed to lead the rigging and load out. What’s he doing on that helo?” He shook his head, looking at Karpov and seeing his eyes narrow with suspicion.

“Tell them to report. What is the trouble with the radar panel?”

“I can't, sir. I've lost all telemetry. It looks like he switched off his transponder. The whole band is garbled now.”

“Garbled?”

Kalinichev saw the telemetry feed terminate on his board and also immediately recognized the jamming signatures clouding his screen. “He switched on his jamming pods, sir, I can't see him any longer.”

“What was his last recorded heading?” asked Fedorov quickly.

“It looked like he turned west sir. That's all I was able to get before the signal clouded over.”

Fedorov looked at Karpov and saw that his suspicion had become a flash of anger now. “That bastard,” he said. “What in God's name does he think he's doing?”

“Are you saying he did this deliberately?” Fedorov was stunned. He knew Orlov was an irascible and cantankerous officer, unruly and undisciplined, yes, and downright disrespectful at times, but this was more than he ever expected from him.

“If he’s heading west he's making for the Spanish coast,” said Karpov. “I should've known he was up to no good! Do you realize he actually assaulted me outside the officer’s mess yesterday? The man is insane!”

“He assaulted you?”

“Yes, a good punch in the ribs. I suppose he thought I had it coming, and perhaps I did. He didn’t like being stuck down there in the engineering bay. I think we have a renegade on our hands, Fedorov. I don't think he has any intention of returning to the ship.”

“But… He can't take the helo like this! What in the world is he trying to do? Where could he possibly be going?”

“Spain,” Karpov said flatly. “It's the only neutral land close enough, and with his jammers running full out like this he knows we can't see him or shoot him down. That lunatic is planning to take that helicopter and land there.”

“That's crazy,” said Fedorov, and his mind was awhirl with the consequences of what could happen if the helicopter were to be taken by the authorities there. “Do you realize what this means? We'll have to go after him, Karpov. We can't let him do this. That technology must not fall into the hands of any other living soul.”

“I don't think we'll find him easily sir,” said Karpov. “Not in the short run. Look at your map. That's fairly hilly country north and west of Cartagena. He could set down anywhere in those mountains, and it might take us days to find him. He's obviously planned this very well. Who knows what he is going to do? Perhaps the lunatic doesn't even know himself.”

Fedorov was deeply concerned now. This was something totally unexpected, that one insane moment in the flow of events that could simply not be predicted no matter how carefully he had planned his course to the south. All he could think about was what effect this would have on all the history from this point forward. If Orlov survived, how might he changed things? He knew he was not an educated man, yet Orlov knew enough to cause real havoc if the information about days yet to come would ever be believed by anyone he encountered. Believed and acted upon…

Yet worse than this was the presence of the helicopter itself here in the middle of World War II. No matter how skillfully Orlov set it down, perhaps on some remote hilltop, one day it would be found and that discovery would have a dramatic and incalculable effect on the history. He lowered his head confused, angry, and frustrated. It was hard enough trying to learn how to command the ship when he had never been trained for such a position. He relied on the support of the Admiral, Captain Karpov, and his good officers here on the bridge. All it takes is one bad apple, he thought, and Orlov was as sour as they came. Why didn't he see it sooner? The man should've been left locked up in the brig. After the fire and incident with the KA-40 he thought Orlov might have a chance at redeeming himself, just as Karpov had. Now all that had gone to hell in one unpredictable moment, and how in the world could he possibly fix things this time? Where in all of his history books would you find a solution this time?

“I have an idea, sir.” Kalinichev spoke up. “I'm very aware of the signatures his ECM pods are going to put out. I think I can follow them, sir.”

“You mean you can still track him?”

“Not exactly sir, but what I can do is get a good estimate on the signal strength of this interference and isolate it to determine the source. I know what waveforms to look for because I helped program that system. I think I can get at least a general idea of his location.”

“How close?” Karpov was at his side at once.

“I won't be able to pinpoint it but I can get it within… several hundred meters.” Kalinichev was guessing, but neither Fedorov nor Karpov would know any different. Now Karpov turned and made a suggestion.

“Think submarine here, Mister Fedorov. We don't know exactly where he is, but we get enough of a signal to know approximately where he is. We know where he won't go, certainly not out to sea. And at this moment he is still in a range of our S-300 SAM system. If Kalinichev can get a close enough fix on his location, then a barrage of three or four missiles might have a chance of knocking him down before he reaches the coastline. If we can do that, then he goes into the sea and no one is likely to find it, or ever know about it.”

Fedorov's eyes widened. He had to do something, and this was as good a plan as any he could've possibly devised. Then he remembered what he had told Karpov about the jammers just a few moments ago. “Kalinichev!” he said excitedly. “Can you isolate on the 150 to 176 MHz bands? Can you fine those wavelengths and home in on the source?”

“Well yes, sir, but we don’t usually jam those wavelengths,”

“We do now! Find them if you can. Karpov! Get your missiles ready!” He didn't hesitate a moment. If there is any way possible that they could shoot this helicopter down, he had to act at once.

Karpov was only too happy to oblige. He gave orders to activate the S-300s and told Kalinichev to manually feed his best possible estimate of the helicopter’s present and predicted position to the CIC. He knew they would be taking a long shot, like a destroyer lobbing depth charges into the sea where they thought a submarine might be hiding. They were going to take a proverbial shot in the dark, but the S-300s had a very wide shrapnel dispersion pattern. If he fired three to five missiles he might just saturate the area with enough metal to hit this target. He knew they had very few missiles to waste, but something in him also understood what had spooked Fedorov so deeply about this incident. Beyond that, something else want to throw a punch back at the man in a way that he never could do with his own fist. Kirov would punch back for him, and three tense minutes later he gave the order to fire.

They watched, their eyes transfixed by the phosphorescent glow of the radar screen which received the missile telemetry feedback and clearly tracked the outgoing salvo of five precious S-300 missiles. Their speed was incredible, and they quickly overtook the spot on the scope where Kalinichev had made his best guess as to the location of the jamming source. It was very near the coast, and Fedorov bit his lip, hating what they had to do, yet hoping against hope that it would work. Because if it didn’t work, he thought; if that man vanishes into the midst of the Spanish countryside in 1942, then God only knows what kind of havoc the head and darkened heart of Gennadi Orlov might visit upon the world.

Chapter 26

Five missiles roared from the forward deck of Kirov, the deadly S-300s, capable of Mach 6 speed out to a range of 150 kilometers. They had been aimed at a location Kalinichev had selected at the most likely source of the intense radar jamming, with a focus on any signal emanating at 176MHz or lower as Fedorov suggested. As they fired Karpov realized they had yet another option and he shouted to the tactical officer over the deafening sound of the missile engines.

“Activate the secondary infrared terminal seekers on those missiles!” If they got anywhere near a good target, the missiles could also find it by other means. The five steel fingers reached out from the ship, like a mailed gauntlet clawing the sky as they went.

On the KA-226, Orlov saw the missile warning indicator and he knew he might have only seconds to live. “Bastards!” he shouted, and grabbed the safety parachute harness, knowing he had to get out of the helo at once if he was to survive. He had it on in fifteen seconds, frantically clawing at the release on the side hatch and grunting hard as he dragged it open. Thirty seconds—he was poised at the edge, feeling the hard wash of the overhead rotor and the cool evening air on his face. In that brief interval the missiles accelerated to their top speed and were already over thirty kilometers from the ship, closing fast.

His heart leapt with fear and adrenaline when he looked down. The helo might normally cruise at 1000 meters but they had climbed much higher for the planned radar sweep and were up over 4000 meters. He jumped, battered by the rushing wind, his big frame tumbling and soon falling all of sixty meters per second in freefall. Would he get far enough away before the missiles found their target? He prayed to all gods and demons that he would.

Karpov clenched his fist with jubilation when he saw the telemetry signal go white, indicating a hit. “Got him!” he shouted. The missiles had found their target. The jamming signatures Kalinichev had been monitoring immediately cut off, and now they could clearly see the detonation site of the attack on the radar scope, very close to the coast line northwest of Cartagena. “We got the bastard!”

He looked at Fedorov, who had a grim expression on his face, his eyes dark and searching. “Are you certain?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Karpov. “Nothing could survive that. Five S-300s? It was a high price to pay for that scumbag, not to mention the loss of another helicopter.”

Fedorov nodded, thinking for a moment, then quietly said: “Goodbye, Mister Orlov….” The others remained silent, something uncomfortable in the moment. They all knew the irascible Chief, and each one held some memory of their interaction with him. None among them had been close to the man, and many had felt his rude temperament and brutish ways, yet there was something in the way that Fedorov said that, and it pulled some undefined emotion from them, perhaps pity, perhaps regret, or a sense of waste, and in some way they felt diminished with his loss, and beset by a vague notion of dread, though no man would mourn him. But their emotion was misplaced…

Orlov fell a long kilometer before he groped for the parachute release, his unshielded eyes puckered near shut by the cold wind. He pulled hard, his body shaken when the chute deployed to brake his fall and he shouted, releasing the tension, ecstatic that he had managed to get out of the helo in one piece. Then he saw them, the five fingers of doom emerging from a low white cloud and moving at an impossible rate of speed towards his general location. The helo had flown on, cruising at 360 Kph for those last twenty seconds, moving two kilometers off. He had fallen over another kilometer and was now far enough away from the target to be relatively safe from the exploding shrapnel.

Four of the five missiles had locked on to the helo, the verdict of their infrared modules guiding them mercilessly in on its big heat signature. The last S-300 took passing note of another small heat signature hovering near and well below the target. In a few split seconds its missile mind considered what to do, then dismissed the object as a parachuting thermal decoy and joined its comrades, a majority opinion of five now. Seconds later the missiles ripped the evening sky apart with one explosion after another, and the KA-226 was obliterated.

Orlov winced at the sight, realizing how close he had come to death. It had seen him, reached for him, and he felt the cold brush of its steely hands as it nearly grasped him. But he was not dead—he was alive! He was a great laugh, a wild roar of elation, a bellowing shout of thanks to the heavens above as he fell through the cool evening air, vanishing into a low cloud. When he broke out through a gap in the clouds he gasped at the beauty of the last fading light on the stillness of the sea, tears streaking his face, his still bandaged hands gripping the harness of his parachute, oblivious to the pain.

He was alive, alive, alive! And in that jubilant singularity of this moment he realized that he was the only one who knew that. They would see the destruction of the helicopter and think he was dead. He was free, drifting in this sublime white mist, as if a second life had come to him. He was completely reborn—a demigod falling from the skies to a world unprepared for the power he might one day wield. Yes, he knew in that fleeting instant that he was like a god, for he had knowledge of all the days to come. Knowledge was power, and if there was one thing Orlov understood in this life, it was power.

He drifted down and down, and then he realized that he was still well out to sea and probably headed for a long slog in the water. This wasn’t over yet. He pulled the tab on the life preserver embedded in his flight jacket and inflated it with a dry hiss. It would probably keep him afloat, but night was at hand and it would be much colder in the water. He had nothing to eat or drink, the pistol in his jacket pocket being the only other thing he had managed to hold onto in those wild moments before he leapt. Then he remembered that this parachute could be steered, and he began to work the harness, gliding it gently toward the land he could see to the west, wrapped in a purple haze of twilight.

As he descended he could suddenly see that the ocean was not empty below him. There was a flotilla of small fishing boats on the water, their bows pointed west toward the small ports and villages that undoubtedly dotted the coastline there, and he whispered thanks, hopeful that someone would see him go into the water and come to his aid.

That was what eventually happened, but it wasn’t until he had been pulled from the sea like a big wet fish and was sprawled out on the wooden deck of the fishing boat that he felt that thrum of hope again, and realized his old life might really be behind him. He had been in the water for an hour before the boat drew near and saw his arms waving and heard his hoarse, deep shouts in the gloaming dark.

Now he sat, tired and drenched, his wool cap still pulled low on his forehead. He smiled and spoke to them gratefully. “Spasibo!” He said, thanking the three clueless brown eyed men staring at him. “Za druzhbu myezhdu narodami!—To friendship between nations!”

The men did not understand a word he said, of course, and Orlov spoke no other language but his native Russian, but his manner and the look on his face communicated his gratitude, and they all nodded, smiling. The heavy set man in the middle of the three spoke back to him. “Bienvenidos a bordo!”

The Spaniards had seen and heard the explosions in the sky, and saw the slow descent of his parachute. It was not all that unusual an event. There was a war on, though thankfully Spain had managed to stay out of it. They had seen Italian bombers flying in from their far bases to try and bomb Gibraltar in the past, and at first they presumed this was some hapless Italian pilot, but Orlov’s appearance and language set them off that assumption. Perhaps German, or Eastern European, they thought. Polish soldiers sometimes fought for the British now. In any case, he was a man in need and they helped him below to get out of his wet clothes and get some welcome food into him. When they saw his pistol they gave it a second look, but then went about their business as normal, not wanting to provoke and trouble with this big man. Perhaps he was a commando, they thought. He certainly wore a uniform, and he looked threatening as well. The heavy set man was speaking to him, though Orlov simply nodded and smiled.

“Tenga cuidado, amigo mío. Si las autoridades descubren que eres un soldado, van a arrestar y detener a usted por la duración de la guerra. Tenga cuidado.”

Orlov realized he was going to hear a lot of this unintelligible speech for a while, but for now the sound of another human voice was welcome, and he needed only one thing from these men—a little food, some dry clothing, and a few hours to sleep while the boat put in to shore. He was living in a new world now, and though he had nothing of value he could use for money, and little idea where he even was, he knew that he would have no trouble getting what he wanted, or where he wanted, in the long run.

Yes, he thought. This is going to be very interesting. There would be good food, and drink, and women. He knew that no one on Kirov would ever be able to find him now. He was safe, reborn, and free to live out a whole new life, if he just kept a good head on his shoulders. If this was 1942 he might make an awful lot of money with what he knew. He’d be living in a world where Karpov and Volsky and all the others were not even born yet, and he could settle more than a few scores if he wanted. How old was Karpov, he wondered? Somewhere in his forties? He would have to wait thirty odd years before he could pay him another visit, but it would be worth it. Then again…what would that rat Karpov do when I find his grandfather and strangle the man, eh? He smiled inwardly just to think about it.

Fedorov gave some fleeting consideration to sending out their remaining KA-40 to confirm the kill and see if Orlov might have survived, but Karpov convinced him it would be fruitless.

“We’ll only waste more time and aviation fuel. It was bad enough that this incident cost so much as it is. Nothing could survive that barrage. All five missiles detonated on the target. He’s gone, and I say good riddance. Now we must turn our attention to what lies ahead. If we send up the KA-40 it should be to find these British ships you are worried about.”

Fedorov hesitated. He did not want to risk losing their last helicopter, and decided to just hold to their planned course. He had little doubt that they would soon see Force Z on their long range radar, and said as much.

“You have the bridge, Mister Karpov. I’ll inform Admiral Volsky of what occurred and then take a few hours rest. Run steady on this course for another two hours, then come right to course two-two-five southwest.”

He went below, his heart heavy, and reluctant to be the bearer of yet more gloomy news for the Admiral. When he reached sick bay he found that Volsky was asleep in the back room, and so he left the news with Doctor Zolkin.

“Don’t take it too hard,” said the Doctor. “Men like Orlov have a way of making their own fate, and their own misery. If it is any comfort to you, I will say you did the right thing. The Admiral gave a standing order that none of our weapons or equipment were to fall into enemy hands. You prevented that, at great cost, but it was wise to do so in any case.”

“At first I thought Orlov might survive,” he said, and then I felt even worse for wishing him dead.”

“I know, I know. He was no friend of yours, but your conscience still bothers you. That is only because you are a good man, Fedorov. There was another man on that helicopter, Yes? I don’t think Orlov was as kind to him. That makes nine now. Nine men dead in this business. At least I don’t have to put these last two into the sea. Remember that this was none of your doing, and look to what you must do now to keep us safe.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

He left without much sense of consolation in spite of Zolkin’s words. He still felt responsible for everything that had happened thus far, for all those nine dead men, even though he knew he was being hard on himself to do so. This was the dark shadow of command, he thought, the other side of the pride and excitement he felt that first time on the bridge. It weighed on him, every last ounce of it, and the responsibility seemed a crushing burden now, not just for the ship and crew, but for the history he had been stubbornly trying to defend. But how do you save tomorrow, he thought? Everything was once so certain; so predictable. Then those Italian battleships appeared from nowhere, and he could never feel safe or content with all the knowledge he had stuffed in his brain again.

As he walked to his cabin he was still harried by a strange, unaccountable feeling that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. It was more than Orlov’s betrayal and blind stupidity, and more than his death or the loss of the helicopter. It was something deeper, a great yawning uncertainty that overshadowed his every step now. It was a profound sense of misgiving and dread that he simply could not chase from his mind.

He reached his cabin and lay down on his bunk, staring up at the ceiling and trying to see just where it was that he had made some great but unseen mistake. He needed rest, but sleep would not come to him, and as he lay there the nagging question returned to his mind again.

What if he’s alive, he thought to himself? Oh God, spare the world from this man if you will. Find a place in heaven for him and get him there soon. For if you do not he will surely find a place for himself in hell—for himself and how many others?

Chapter 27

When Fedorov returned to the Bridge three hours later Karpov reported all was well, and they now had a clear surface contact to their southwest.

“We are on course 225 now and the sea is calm. The ship is running smoothly at thirty knots and we’ve found your Force Z. You were correct. We spotted them about 150 nautical miles out. They are still well ahead of us on a heading of 255 degrees, but we’ve cut their lead and they just reduced speed to fifteen. If we increase to full battle speed that will give us another five knot edge to see if we can make up that distance.”

“It won’t be enough,” said Fedorov, walking to his navigation board. His well trained eye took in the position, course and speed of the British task force relative to Kirov’s and he knew at once that they had lost their race. “It’s what I was afraid of,” he explained. “If we had more sea room to the starboard side I could turn another fifteen or twenty degrees and then perhaps we could outrun them. Unfortunately, that course would send us right across Cabo de Gata—Cat’s Cape here.” He pointed to the prominent land mass southeast from Almiera. We can’t sail on land and if they come any further to their starboard side, even a few points, then our situation is even worse. They just had too long a head start on us, but I can’t see why. They seem to be several hours ahead of where I expected them.”

Again, something was wrong. Something had changed. Unless Rodney’s boiler problem was miraculously cured, they must have turned Force Z earlier. They were supposed to turn back at 18:55, but there is no way Force Z could be where it is now unless… He ran a hasty calculation.

“Damn,” he breathed. “It’s slipped again. They must have turned west as early as 16:00 hours! This means Indomitable wasn’t exposed to that attack that put three bombs on her flight deck at 18:thirty hours, and they’ll likely have her intact.”

Karpov shrugged. “Three carriers now?”

“It seems so.”

“And I could have taken out at least two of them if I had just had a free hand weeks ago. The cat you don’t feed today will scratch your leg twice as hard tomorrow. Now we fight them again.”

Fedorov seemed unsure of himself now. Their plan had failed. They would not be able to slip past Force Z tonight, and the prospect for a battle was looming on the far horizon, drawing ever closer with each turn of Kirov’s powerful screws. He looked at the navigation plots, thinking.

“An hour before midnight, at 23:00 hours, they will be here if they stay on their present course. I doubt if they’ll have planes up tonight, except perhaps to provide local air cover over the task force. We might be visited by some long range recon planes out of Gibraltar, but otherwise, I don’t think they’ve seen us yet.”

“And where will we be at that hour?”

“Here—about forty nautical miles off their starboard aft quarter.” Then he saw it—one slim chance, but they would have to plan it very well, and it would be very risky. Karpov could see the new light in his eyes, and he probed him.

“What? Do you see another option?”

“Look… At 23:00 hours we’ll also be about forty nautical miles due east of Cabo de Gata. Suppose we turn due west at that time and run directly for the cape. If they don’t see us then we just might slip past them. If they do see us then they would have to turn fifteen degrees to starboard—but I think we could still out run them. The only thing is this: they won’t catch us in this event, but they will spot us, and those guns range out to 36,000 meters, with an effective range of 32,000 meters for battle.”

“We’ll be inside that?”

“Unfortunately yes.” He looked ahead in his mind, wondering. “We’ll have no room to maneuver to starboard. We’ll be right on the damn coast, so we’ll just have to run the gauntlet.”

“Let’s try, Fedorov. When our first salvo of missiles hits home we’ll give them a real surprise, just like the Italians. It will be a night action. We can jam any radar they may deploy. We have twice their speed, and plenty of firepower.”

“Yes, but they have three carriers, and they’ll launch everything they have at us. Gibraltar will get in the game soon after with their air squadrons.”

“We still have thirty-five of our S-300s and seventy-nine more on the Klinok system, and we’re going to hit anything we fire at.”

“There may be submarines.”

“Our sonar is now fully operational and we can use the Shkval rocket torpedoes to snuff them out like a match.”

“And minefields in the straits…”

“You saw what we did at Bonifacio. We can get through, Fedorov! Don’t lose your nerve now. Our only other choice is to drop anchor here and get Nikolin on the radio to Gibraltar.” He pointed to the unseen base, somewhere to the west. “Do that and I guarantee you that this Force Z will come steaming up in any case, and then we’ll have our battle right here. It will happen, sooner or later, Fedorov. But if we try to get by them we’ll at least have a chance to win through.”

Fedorov looked at it, and looked at it, and he knew that Karpov was right. “Very well,” he said. “I suggest you get a few hours rest while you can, Captain, and a good meal. I’ll want you back on the bridge with me at 23:00 hours, and we’ll make our turn for Cabo de Gata, come what may. We’ll call the whole plan Operation Gauntlet.”

“Aye, sir. A good name for it.”

Karpov had his battle.

At that very moment Admiral Tovey was also looking at his plotting board on King George V, in the chart room with his Chief of Staff, Michael Denny and the ship’s Captain Patterson. They were passing Vigo, Spain and racing south for Lisbon, though they had many hours of sailing time ahead of them.

“As things stand,” said Tovey, “we won’t get into the western approaches to Gibraltar until 14:00 hours tomorrow.”

“I’m astounded we moved this quickly,” said Denny. “You would think the entire war effort was riding on this sortie.”

A younger man at forty-six, he did not sport the gray mantle that many of the senior officers had. After service on the cruiser Kenya and carrier Victorious, he had been groomed to replace Daddy Brind as Tovey’s Chief of Staff, and he brought all the sharpness and energy of his relative youth to the job. Still, Tovey was missing Brind at this moment, his grizzled wisdom and rock hard common sense was ever a touchstone for him.

“That may not be too far off the mark, gentlemen,” said Tovey. “I hope I don’t have to remind you what happened to the American fleet last year. I’ve sent word to Fraser and told him to offer Admiral Syfret a seat at the Round Table, so he’s been briefed on this Geronimo business at long last. He’s still of the mind that this is a French ship—Strasbourg. If that’s the case then we’ll all breathe easier and all we’ve lost in this little trip is the fuel oil.”

“Rodney and Nelson will make quick work of Strasbourg,” said Captain Patterson. “But if it isn’t a French ship?” He had seen what Geronimo could do, felt the hard impact of those rockets on his ship’s heavy armor.

“Then it comes down to guns and steel, gentlemen. Nothing more; nothing less.” Tovey had a grim expression on his face. “What have we got at Gibraltar?”

Denny spoke up, referring to a clip board where he had the latest tally from the Rock. “Hudson bombers will be up from 233 squadron at first light. Campbell’s 808 Squadron will give us strike capability with his Fulmar IIs. Hutchinson with have his Sea Harriers up with 813 Squadron, and then we’ll have a few more Beaufighters from Coastal Command and a handful of fighters in 804 Squadron on the Argus. That’s all of 48 planes. We darn near emptied the cupboard for Operation Pedestal, but Syfret still has three carriers with Force Z and they’ve got thirty-six Fighters, and another forty-two Albacore strike aircraft between them. We’re bringing in 825 Squadron with sixteen Swordfish and 802 Squadron with twelve more Sea Harriers on the Avenger. That make s a total of 154 aircraft fit for duty.”

“That’s sounding much better,” said Tovey. “Submarines?”

“We’ve got Talisman in Gibraltar and we’re lucky to have even that boat in position now. She was mistakenly depth charged by a Sunderland in the Bay of Biscay and is docked at Gibraltar for repairs. Traveler is heading home as well, but has no torpedoes until she replenishes. Everything else is in the central and eastern Med.”

“Not very promising, but Talisman will have to do.” Tovey tapped his plotting pen on the map. “Gentlemen, here’s the plan. Force Z is out looking for this Geronimo and with three carriers I expect to hear from them shortly. It’s his job to bring them to heel, and that failing he’s to hang on to their coat leg and buy us some time to get Home Fleet further south. If our aircraft, this single sub, and Force Z can do the job, all the better. But if things take a turn for the worse, then we’re the goalie in this game. I’m not taking the fleet into the straits. Not enough sea room there, and we’ll be bunched up like a row of fat geese. No, gentlemen, We’ll fan out in a widely dispersed arc as I’ve drawn it here.” He gestured to the western approaches to Gibraltar.

“We won’t be forming a battle line either. All those tactics went down the drain the first time we tangled with this ship. So I plan to spread our four battleships out along this arc, each one within supporting fire range of the other three, but spaced far enough to force the enemy to disperse his fire. The cruisers and destroyers will deploy as a forward screen. We’ll keep the carrier well back and to the north along the Spanish coast. Avenger can launch everything she has. I’ll want all those Sea Harriers in her 802 Squadron armed with bombs. The Swordfish can go in low with the Harriers up topside. They, too, will fly in a widely dispersed approach. There will be no formation of squadrons and sub flights once aloft. It will be every man for himself. These rockets were taking out two and three planes at a time in the Atlantic. It won’t happen here.”

They looked at the plan, noting the careful dispersion of forces to cover any route of escape if the enemy exited the straits, and Tovey explained his reasoning further.

“If this ship is Geronimo, and they fling one of those blasted wonder weapons our way as they did with the Americans, they stand to hit no more than one of our capital ships in a single strike. It’s a damn ruthless logic, but after what we saw a year ago, it’s the only way to fight this engagement. If this ship breaks through Force Z, we had better be in position and ready for anything. As soon as they put their nose into the Straits of Gibraltar, I’ll order Home Fleet to go into action. It will be the charge of the heavy cavalry, gentlemen. Every ship is to go in full out, and with all guns blazing. Just counting the two forward turrets on the four battleships, we’ll have twenty four 14 inch guns in play. If any ship gets the range on the target and wishes to effect a turn to bring their rear X turret to bear, all the better, but I want you to close the range smartly, and get hits. You can expect hits as well if they fling those damn naval rockets at us again. As I said before, it will come down to the armor in the end—the armor, good gunfire, and a good measure of nerve. Now we’ve got King George V, Prince of Wales, Duke Of York, and Anson. One of us has to run this bastard through.”