Cauldron of Fire

Chapter 4

Fedorov flipped through the pages of his book, intent on running down Nikolin’s clues in the history. His first thought was that the ship had rebounded in time, and had returned to the year 1941, but as he read the entries for activity in the Mediterranean, he could see nothing that mated with the cryptic message his radio man had received. He was sitting in the quiet of the Admiral’s cabin, where he had found the book there on the nightstand, just as Zolkin had advised him.

“An eagle, a ship, the fifth of the war,” he muttered aloud. He was sure of his hunch now. HMS Eagle was the name of a British aircraft carrier operating in the Med during 1941 and 1942. She was found by a German U-boat that slipped inside her destroyer screen and the carrier was hit by four torpedoes broadside, keeling over and sinking in a matter of minutes. There! He had the reference now, and he had slipped in a photograph of the from page of the Daily Telegraph when the story broke in England under the glaring headline: “Fifth Aircraft Carrier Lost.” He squinted at the blurry text, reading:

Eagle was the fifth carrier lost in the war, thought Fedorov. He had been correct! But oddly, when he checked the date of the article it read August 12, 1942, a full year after their last dreadful ordeal in the North Atlantic. Since then they had vanished into to some unknown future time where blackened cinders seemed to be all that remained of the world. They had cruised across the whole of the Atlantic and Mediterranean Sea, and their chronometer now read August 20. Yet checking his references it was clear that the Eagle had been sunk August 11, 1942 at 1:15PM, and that story in the Daily Telegraph had come out a day later. The dates did not match up, and he was suddenly confused.

The attack by that plane, clearly not a modern aircraft of any sort, and the sudden change from darkest night to mid-day sunshine convinced him that they were indeed outcasts in another time again. Was Nikolin receiving a radio story about an event that happened weeks ago? Or was the event current, happening now, and a clear signpost to their present position in time? He needed more information, and he looked to his radioman eagerly for any further news.

He stood up, feeling the urgency of the moment and nagged by the realization that he should be on the bridge. As he did so he noticed a photo of the Admiral and his wife together there on the nightstand, and the thin tracings of pen on paper. The Admiral had been writing a letter, it seemed, and Fedorov had been so intent on getting his hands on the Chronology of the War at Sea that he did not even notice it until he stood to leave. He passed a brief moment tussling with the temptation to read the letter. The clear salutation was written at the top in a firm hand, “My Darling Wife….”

He smiled to think that if the Admiral had begun this letter earlier, when they were in the heat of action in the Denmark Strait, the woman had not even been born yet! And if he composed it in recent days it was clear that she could not have survived the devastation they had seen as they cruised from one blackened shore to another.

He was touched by the moment, but his thoughts suddenly left him feeling very alone. Every man finds his comfort somewhere within, he realized. Even the Admiral needed someone to hear him out on the long, empty nights aboard ship, lost as they were in this impossible dilemma, so he wrote to his unseen wife. Every man held on to something—memories, places, people he had known and loved, all wrapped up in that nurturing inner place he called “home.”

Is there any place in this world where my heart can be at ease, he wondered? He had left no sweetheart behind when he sailed. His books and his history were his only true companions—the faces and haunting echoes of men, all long dead. He knew them so well that they often seemed more real and vital to him than his shipmates, and now here he was, thrown like a teabag into this hot water of time and in their very midst! At this moment, he realized with his sharp grasp of the history, Churchill was probably sitting down with Stalin in Moscow, and ready to break the news to him that there would be no second front in the west any time soon—if this was the year and month he now suspected.

The Eagle had been sunk on August 11, 1942. He had to be sure, and that pulsing urgency snapped his reverie and set him moving again, out the door and on his way to the bridge.

An hour later Fedorov had the answer to the many questions circling in his mind. Nikolin had been monitoring radio traffic closely, and the bands were slowly clearing up. He got hold of snippets of new broadcasts, and segments from the BBC. One after another they began to paint the gruesome new picture that Kirov now found herself in. The German 6th Army had just crossed the Don and captured the town of Kalach as they drove for their ill-fated attack on Stalingrad. Further south Operation Edelweiss was in full swing as well, and the Russians had lost the oil fields of Maykop as they fell back on the Black Sea coastal ports in considerable disorder.

There were other gleanings, smaller engagements that were given passing mention in the news stream. In the South Atlantic a U-boat attack sunk Norwegian SS Mirlo and all 37 crew members abandoned ship in 3 lifeboats to be picked up by the British sloop HMS Banff. Fedorov was able to hone in on the exact time and place of that attack in his research library: 2:27 PM, some 870 miles west of Freetown, Sierra Leone—the work of U-130. The night raid on Mainz by 154 RAF bombers was also reported, all events that had occurred on Aug 11, 1942. The evidence mounted to the conclusion that Kirov had slipped into the cauldron of fire once again.

Yes, thought Fedorov, out of the frying pan of the North Atlantic and into the fire of the Med! But they had lost all the days they had sailed in that black oblivion of the future. They had never really determined what year they had been in when Volsky set the ship on a course across the Atlantic, but now they were back, just a few days after they had disappeared in that first engagement with the Royal Navy, but a full year had passed in the war while they were gone. And this time there was no easy option to turn off into the wide expanse of the Atlantic and avoid conflict. This time they had sailed right into the bottle. There were only three ways out of the Mediterranean Sea: Suez, the Bosporus, and Gibraltar, and none of the three would be easy sailing. They had been sighted and attacked in the very first seconds when they emerged in this new time frame, and Fedorov had little doubt that they would soon be facing the most difficult decisions of their lives.

The young Executive Officer was finally convinced of the where and when of their present fate. That had been the easy part for him. He was a willing believer after all they had been through, and there was no Karpov on the bridge to oppose his speculation this time. Now he had to decide what to do about it, and more than ever he wished Admiral Volsky was sitting there in the command chair. What should he do?

The other men on the bridge were watching him, their attention moving from their radar screens and equipment to his own fitful activity near the navigation station. They could see the furrowed brow and dark eyes as he flipped through reference books, and peered at data stored on his pad. The more they watched, the more it became evident that Fedorov was very worried about something.

“Well Captain Lieutenant?” Rodenko finally came out with it. “What have you been digging up this last hour and a half—another bad dream?”

“Bad dream?” Fedorov looked over at his sensor chief. “You’ve said it well enough, Rodenko. If I’m correct, and these reports Nikolin has intercepted are accurate, then we’ve a real nightmare on our hands this time, and the only question in my mind now is what to do about it.”

“Don’t worry, Fedorov,” said Rodenko. “My systems are beginning to clear up now. I’m getting coastal returns from both Sicily and Sardinia, and I can see air contacts over those islands, though nothing is headed our way. We won’t be caught by surprise like that again, and we can blast anything we encounter out of the sea. So all you have to do is set our course. What are you worried about?”

“Well… If the date is what I think it is, then this is August 11, 1942, and we are very close to one of the largest naval operations of the war. What am I worried about?” Fedorov gave him a hard look, lowering his voice so the other men would not hear. “I can tell you that in one short word,” he said darkly, “survival.”

They had argued it for a very long time when the hatbands finally gathered at the Admiralty. PQ-17 had been a disaster when twenty-four of 39 merchant ships had been sunk in the ill fated attempt to run supplies up to Murmansk. Now the Prime Minister had insisted that they do the very same thing in the Mediterranean! The Admiralty had its reservations, to be sure. They were already stretched too thin in the Atlantic, and losses of both men and material had been rather severe. The German U-Boats had been having a field day feasting on convoys and sinking far too many ships, and there never seemed to be enough cruisers and destroyers to go around.

Now he was asking the navy to clench their fist with all of 50 warships to serve as escort for a convoy of only 14 transports to Malta! It seemed preposterous at first. The disaster on that last run to Murmansk had forced the cancellation of all convoys to Russia for the moment, and now this? Yet with his usual forceful eloquence the Prime Minister has clarified the critical importance of the island to the whole war effort then underway in the west.

Things had not been going well for Britain that year. Rommel had landed in Africa and chased Auchinleck back to Gazala, then sent him packing again in May on a long retreat to the Nile Delta. Now the battle lines were no more than 60 miles west of Alexandria, and Tobruk sat in stubborn isolation for a time, invested by Italian troops well behind that battlefront, the sole remnant of the favorable positions the British 8th Army once commanded in North Africa. It had finally fallen on the 21st of June, leaving nothing for the British to do in their desert war but lick their wounds near El Alamein and ferry fighters to Malta’s embattled garrison. The tide of Axis victory threatened to sweep their entire position away, and Malta was now the last, solitary rock in the stream.

If there was anyone who could sketch out the dire nature of the situation, it was Churchill, and he had done so, convincing his Admirals that the defense of Malta was of utmost importance. “We may lose our ships at sea in this struggle,” he argued “but Malta is an unsinkable aircraft carrier, sitting right astride the supply convoy lanes the enemy needs to use to reinforce Rommel.” From Malta the RAF could send out far ranging patrols to spy out the enemy supply ships and vector in their strike aircraft. After their disaster at Crete, the German Army was not likely to attempt another parachute assault on the tiny island, and the Italian Navy had not demonstrated either the resolve or the ability to cover an invasion by sea.

So Malta had become an echo of the fabled Battle of Britain, bombed day by day from airfields on Sicily and Sardinia, and defended by flights of Spitfires ferried in by Royal Navy carriers. The Germans could swarm the whole of North Africa, Churchill argued, but the British needed to hold only three places to ensure eventual victory: Gibraltar at one end, the Suez Canal at the other, and Malta in the middle of that cauldron of fire and steel. The island was a rock in the enemy’s soup, and as long as it could be held Rommel’s supply lines could never be fully secured.

So it was that the “Operation,” as it came to be called in the discussion, was deemed so vital that the Royal Navy would be asked to send fully half of its available escort fleet to secure it. Churchill’s eloquent arguments, shouted from the pedestal of his commanding position as Prime Minister, could not be dismissed, and so there would be another convoy—another “Winston Special” to be designated WS-21S. Its mission was the delivery of vital food and oil to Malta, and it was to be given the most powerful escort of any convoy in the war to date.

No less than five aircraft carriers would support various aspects of the operation, to muster as much seaborne air power as possible. The two grand old battleships of the interwar period, Nelson and Rodney, would both be assigned at the heart of the main escort. Identical in design, and representing the whole of their class, there were no others like them, with the biggest guns in the Royal Navy at 16 inches. Ponderous and slow at a top speed of just 21 to 23 knots on a good day, they were nonetheless well armored and perfect in this role of escorting slower merchant ship traffic. Both had served well in guarding the Atlantic convoys from German surface raiders, and one, HMS Rodney, had been instrumental in the hunt for the Bismarck a little over a year earlier.

Nine other cruisers and some thirty destroyers, including forces from the Eastern Med as well, would combine in one of the largest sea operations ever attempted. All these warships had been gathered to the defense of just fourteen precious merchant ships, including the vital fast oil tanker Ohio that Churchill had wrangled from the Americans after much exertion of his unique powers of persuasion.

The five carriers bore exalted names born of empire: Indomitable, Victorious, Eagle. Two others would join as well, the Argus and Furious, the latter with a special assignment in ferrying thirty-eight Spitfires to Malta’s hard pressed air squadrons. The cruisers were named for provinces and outposts of that empire: Nigeria, Kenya, Manchester, Cairo, and others bore names of the same ancient Greek Gods who had presided over the fate of men on these waters in ages past: Charybdis, Sirius, and Phoebe.

This massive force had sailed from home waters down to the Bay of Biscay where the carriers had drilled their planned operations, scrambling fighters and staging fly bys over the convoy for plane recognition drills. For their own part, the fourteen ships practiced high speed emergency turns, and movement from the open sea four column formation to a tighter two column sailing order that they would use in more constricted waters. They sailed through the Pillars of Hercules, passing the mighty Rock of Gibraltar on a grey, moonless night enshrouded in fog, August 10, 1942. The very next day the five carriers went into action, their new Sea Hurricanes replacing the older Fulmar fighter squadrons to provide air cover over the convoy. HMS Furious was living her third life, rebuilt from near scrap metal after her harrowing encounter with a strange German raider a year ago in the North Atlantic and pressed again into service on her ferry mission, flying off her Spitfires that same day.

All seemed to be going according to plan in those first hours, until disaster struck the convoy an hour after mid day on the 11th of August when a stealthy and experience German U-Boat commander, Kapitän Rosenbaum, slipped past the fitful escort of destroyers and sent a fan of four torpedoes into HMS Eagle. All the torpedoes hit home in four shuddering explosions, one after another. The ship was ripped open and water surged into her gutted bowels sending the carrier into an immediate and unrecoverable list. In the next few minutes men rushed about for their lives, leaping in to the sea to grasp anything around them that seemed to float. One man flailed over to a comrade, recognizing his ashen face, only to find that the man had been ripped in two, his lower torso and legs sheared off in the initial explosions.

After twelve successful missions in those same waters, and a long, distinguished career, HMS Eagle keeled over and sank in a matter of minutes. Thankfully the bulk of her crew was saved and plucked from the sea by nearby destroyers. It was the fifth carrier lost in the war to date by the Royal Navy, and twelve Sea Hurricanes went into the sea with her, the bulk of 801 Squadron and all four planes comprising 813 Squadron were lost. Only four planes in her 801 Squadron survived, as they were already in the air and were able to land on the carrier Indomitable.

The plan, like all plans before it, was beginning to fray right at the outset. It was hoped that the heavy escorts would guarantee a safe passage at least as far as Bizerte, but HMS Eagle was sunk hundreds of miles to the west, due north of Algiers. The suddenness and shock of the attack was an awful harbinger of what was yet to come on this adventure—“Operation Pedestal” as it came to be called. It told the Admirals and Captains that their enemies were well aware of their plans and had assembled a considerable force in opposition. Kesselring boasted that, after recent reinforcements from other theaters, he could fling upwards of 700 planes at the British fleet. Beyond this there were U-Boats and Italian Subs in the Med, and near the islets of Pantelleria and Lampedusa, the Italians also had a hornet’s nest of fast attack torpedo boats to strike at any ships that made it past Cape Bon at the northernmost tip of Tunisia to begin the last desperate run for Malta. In those narrow, mine infested waters, a place where the more powerful British battleships could not go, the small, fast craft were the ideal defenders.

Yet there was one other element the Admiralty had not planned for—could never have planned for, in spite of their harrowing encounter with the same dreadful raider a year ago—Kirov.

Chapter 5

Melville-Jackson strode through the outer entrance to the flight officer’s room at Takali airfield on Malta, ready for debriefing, and with quite a story to relate. Wing Commander David Cartridge was there along with another pilot out that morning for reconnaissance, George Stanton, and for this occasion Air Vice Marshall Keith Park, chief of the Malta Air Defense effort was also waiting when he entered. Jackson saluted crisply and took his chair.

“Good afternoon gentlemen,” said Park with an amiable smile. “How’s the new radar kit?”

“Well enough, sir,” said Stanton, “A bit limited in range but more than suitable for low level sea search.”

“I must say we had rather a different experience on our flight,” said Melville-Jackson. “I made a visual sighting of my target before we ever got a peep on the radar. Thought my mate was sleeping at first, but he swears his scope was clear until we were right on top of the damn thing.”

“Ah, yes,” said Park. “This big Italian cruiser you reported… Latitude 39.00, Longitude 11.16 from your report. Some two hundred miles east of the Cagliari, on a heading of 225 south by southwest.”

“Yes sir. Came up on it all of a sudden. Odd disturbance in the sea as well. Thought it was a submarine blowing tanks until I saw the disturbance was much too big, and the contact as well. It was definitely a warship, sir, though I must say we haven’t had much of a look at the Italian Navy just yet, so I can’t be more specific other than to say this was at least a cruiser—most likely a heavy cruiser at that.”

Park was a crisp and thorough officer, with a penchant for details and a good understanding of all the new technology that was impacting the war effort, particularly the new radar sets. “Well Jackson, you’ve only arrived yesterday from Coastal Command, and yes I dare say the Italians are not too fond of sailing that far west, but do have a look at ship silhouettes before you fly out again this afternoon. The waters in these regions get fairly busy, and you’ll want to know exactly what you are shooting at next time around.”

For his part, Park knew well what he was talking about when it came to air operations. A New Zealander and First World War flying ace, he soon rose through the ranks to become a commander in the RAF. He was also well versed in naval matters, having gone to sea at the early age of nineteen on a steamship where he earned the nickname “skipper.” He later fought at Gallipoli, and the battle of the Somme where he learned firsthand how valuable good aerial reconnaissance could be to the outcome of any military conflict. In fact, he had flown old Bristol fighter recon planes in the First World War, biplanes then, and had many kills against German fighters for his effort. When the second war came Park was an air vice Marshal taking part in the defense of London with Number 11 Group, RAF. He had fought in the skies over the city, and taken part in the planning and briefing in the Battle of Britain bunker at RAF Uxbridge. After a stint in Egypt, Malta seemed the perfect place to post a man like Park, for it was enduring its own daily struggle with the Luftwaffe and his experience fit hand in glove.

“You say you took gun camera footage of this ship?”

“Yes, sir,” Jackson replied. “Gave them a taste of my cannon as well. Caught them flat footed, it seems. They never fired a shot before I was over them and gone. Yet I thought the better of trying to come round for a second pass after waking them up. A cruiser that size is a job for the full squadron.”

“Indeed,” said Park. “Well, we’ll have a good deal to do over in the Ditch these next few days.” He was referring to the underground cave sites beneath the city of Valletta where the island’s fighter defense was coordinated. “I was going to send you out to hit Comiso on Sicily this afternoon. We need to pound their airfields there as well before things get so hot with this convoy that we’re thrown completely on the defense. But seeing that you’ve jumped on something here, we’ll give that mission to 235 Squadron with the Mark I Beaus. You’ve a couple newer planes in 248 Squadron, and two with these new radar sets. So it looks like your job will be to hunt north for this contact and ascertain her position and intentions. Admiralty indicated that the Italians have their 3rd and 7th Cruiser Divisions operating in the Tyrrhenian Sea, and they will definitely be up to no good insofar as this convoy is concerned.”

“Right enough, sir.” Jackson was game for any sortie they would put his name to, and the four men spent the next several minutes going over the briefing for the Comiso air strike mission for 235 Squadron before the technicians brought in his gun camera footage and began to mount it on the projector.

“These other two gentlemen have had a look or two at Italian cruisers,” said Park. “And I daresay I’ve a fair amount of experience in the matter as well.” They looked at the film with interest and, as the footage ran, Park found himself edging forward, hands clasped behind his back, leaning in slightly to get a better look. The opening frames were clearer, though the range was farther away and the contact seemed shrouded in shadow. When Jackson began firing in earnest the shells sent a wild forest of thin geysers spraying up all around the ship, which was struck amidships near the main superstructure where a fire soon started and began to obscure the images with smoke.

“Can you run that back to the start and hold a few stills?” said Park over his shoulder. “Yes… There now… Have a look at that gentlemen. What do you make of if, Mr. Cartridge?”

The wing commander was quick to reply. “Not an Italian cruiser sir, where are the stacks?” He pointed at the screen. “That tall mainmast area there where most of the fire was concentrated—I don't see a stack. It should be about here on most Italian cruisers, and angled slightly back, with one more smaller stack located aft. That could be this feature here,” he pointed again, “but this main superstructure area is all wrong for an Italian ship in my view—at least for their cruiser designs. And it looks too big, sir.”

“Yes, quite a monster this one,” said Park. “Look at that shadow on her aft deck. Is that a float plane? Could it be a battleship?”

“Can't see much in the way of big guns from this angle. The forward deck seems rather empty, but these images aren't very clear, sir. Odd shadows and light, and too much smoke when you get in close.”

“All the same, I'm glad you took your shot Jackson.” Park folded his arms, a glint in his eye as it lingered on the images.

“If that's the case, sir, they’ll need a whole squadron to deal with a battleship—a flight of six planes at a bare minimum. But I thought fuel shortages are keeping most of their big ships in port.”

“Yes, they've been using them to refuel their destroyers and lighter escort ships, but if they've gotten wind of this operation they may be pulling out all the stops and sending out heavy units.”

“Doesn’t sound much like the Italian Navy I know, sir,” said Cartridge. “They’ll fight when they have to, but more often than not they think twice about that, particularly if they can’t provide adequate air cover, or if we’ve got heavy units in the vicinity. For that matter, I can't imagine a battleship would be there all by itself, sir. It might be a big freighter, but that would surprise me as well with no escort.”

Park raised his eyebrows in agreement. “Let’s send this along to Intelligence and see if we can find this fellow again later today for confirmation. For the moment, however, I don't think there's much else we can do about it. Good job, Jackson. You may have put us on to something here. Get some rest and be ready for another sortie in short order. In the meantime we’ll get a Maryland from 69 Recce Squadron over at Luqa Field to fly reconnaissance and make sure this ship isn’t heading our way. Carry on, gentlemen.”

Aboard Kirov Fedorov was convening his own briefing in the sick bay with Rodenko, Tasarov and a very woozy Admiral Volsky who had awakened with a raging headache, just as Zolkin had predicted. He was stabilized, and the shrapnel wounds had been thankfully minor. Still, he was not clear headed, and the pain killers Zolkin gave him made him somewhat drowsy.

Is this what it is to sit at death’s door, he thought to himself. Memories of that awful sound of the chattering machine guns, then the sharp bite of metal on metal, the whine of ricochet, the hot fire of the pain in his leg and side as he slipped from his perch on the ladder and made that headlong fall. Then he felt the hard thump on his head, a flash of white light, sharp pain and darkness as his awareness seemed to collapse inward on itself like a black hole.

Now he longed for sleep, and just a moment’s rest without the burden of command, but here was Fedorov, with another impossible story that he must certainly believe. His voice seemed to echo in his mind, and he struggled to focus his attention. The young officer had been right at every step in their first encounter in the dangerous waters of WWII, and there was no reason to believe otherwise now.

“Operation Pedestal,” he said slowly after his First Officer had finished speaking. “Yes, I studied this battle in the academy, but that was too long ago to remember the details. Something tells me you have that well in hand, Mr. Fedorov, and I can give my aching head a rest. Yes?”

“I have a 50 page paper from the American Naval War College on the campaign, sir. It will tell us everything we need to know—down to the last details: dates, times, orders of battle—everything.”

“Where are we now?” asked Volsky.

“Sir, I changed our heading to 210 right after the attack, and we held that course for two hours at twenty knots. But we are about to exit the Tyrrhenian Sea, and I believe that course will be very dangerous for us now. I have just come about to head northeast again on a heading of 45 degrees. We are making our way back into the Tyrrhenian Sea, which could provide us a little maneuvering room away from the major action getting underway now while we catch our breath.”

“And you tell me you believe the current date and time is August 11, 1942 at sixteen hundred hours—give or take a few minutes I suppose.” Volsky managed a wan smile, though it was clear to them all that he was still in considerable pain. “Not August 20th?”

“Yes, sir. I can only go by radio intercepts we’ve made, but events reported would seem to indicate that HMS Eagle was sunk today at mid-day, at 13:10 hours. Nikolin says he is still getting residual radio traffic on that event regarding the movement of survivors to Gibraltar. We would not be hearing that traffic a week later if it was August 20th.”

“So what happened to those days we were sailing across the Atlantic?”

“I cannot say, sir. I can only make my best estimate of our current time.”

“Of course… Well done, Mister Fedorov, as always. Your prompt action may have saved the ship from blundering into the middle of something we would come to greatly regret. It is imperative that we steer well away from this operation. The only question now is what course to set in our present circumstances? But before we begin, I would like to ask that one more officer be included in this briefing.” The Admiral looked at his good friend Dr. Zolkin. “Would you kindly summon Mister Karpov, Doctor?”

“Karpov?” Zolkin was quick to express the reaction they all had, his face clearly registering displeasure.

“Yes, yes, I know how we all still feel about the man given what happened. But he is a highly trained officer, one of the best combat officers in the fleet. I would like him to hear this briefing so that we might have the benefit of his opinion from a military perspective.”

The Doctor folded his arms, frowning.“Well if you want my opinion, there was nothing admirable in the tactics he displayed in the North Atlantic. He sailed directly into the teeth of strong enemy forces and engaged them with no regard to life, principle or anything else beyond his own personal ambition. God only knows what he was planning to do at Argentia Bay, set another nuclear missile loose on Churchill and Roosevelt?”

“I understand, Dmitri,” said Volsky, addressing his friend in a more personal manner. “But you are the psychologist here. What will we do with this man? Do we leave him rotting in the brig for the duration of this business? Who knows how long we will be at sea, perhaps indefinitely, yes? I agree that Karpov made serious mistakes. His judgment was clouded by his own desire to make some decisive intervention, and perhaps by something darker. He will be the first to know this. Yet he is a serving officer in the Northern Fleet, or at least he once was. Perhaps we see what he did as the work of a madman, or worse, an animal. But if he is ever to have the chance to redeem himself and become a man again, in his eyes and in ours, then we must find a way to give that opportunity to him. Don’t you agree?”

Zolkin started to say something, then checked himself, thinking for a moment. He rubbed his dark beard and nodded. “Perhaps you are right, Admiral. We may not like the man—even despise what he did—but yes, he is a man nonetheless, and one of our own. Would I be pleased to see him become something more than we all may think of him now? Yes, of course. But I must tell you that I have real misgivings at this stage.”

“As do I,” Volsky agreed. “But we must begin somewhere—he must begin. Send for him…Unless I hear further objection from these young officers?” He looked first at Fedorov, then Rodenko and Tasarov. They all took the situation with the seriousness it deserved, but none voiced an objection, and the Admiral sent a guard to fetch Karpov while they discussed the recent air attack and damage sustained by the ship. Rodenko reported that he had good response from the main search arrays, though he was somewhat concerned over the condition of the medium range tracking radars for the ship’s missile defenses. Tasarov said he had no problems with subsea sensory capabilities, and also noted that he was very pleased with young Velichko’s improving abilities on sonar.

Zolkin threw one more comment in while they waited. “What about Orlov? He’s down in the brig as well—in a separate cell I hope. The last thing we need is for the two of them to be commiserating together.”

“I have given him some serious thought as well,” said Volsky. “Orlov did not come up through the naval schools like Karpov. He was a mishman and advanced to his position the old fashioned way, by waiting it out and working his way up the ranks. I accepted him as Chief of Operations, as that is where I found him when I came aboard for these maneuvers, if we can use such a word for this ordeal. Yet I have never been fond of the way he handled the men. Beyond that, Orlov has no combat naval training to speak of, and I doubt he has the brains for it in any case. No—he was clearly subverted by Karpov in the events that transpired days ago. Karpov needed his authority, and I think his muscle in many respects, before he would dare what he attempted. I do not hold Orlov blameless—not by any means. But I do not think he had anything to do with initiating this mutiny.”

“I’m glad you have called it that,” said Zolkin. “Because that is exactly what it was.”

Volsky nodded, but continued with one last thought. “Perhaps one day we will hold a proper hearing and court martial for them both. But for now we do not have the time to bother with that. As to Orlov, I assigned him to Troyak’s team yesterday. He’s a bull out of his pen for the moment, and too accustomed to bullying anyone who opposes him. But Troyak—” Volsky smiled. “Troyak is the one man on this ship that can back Orlov down if he has to, from a physical standpoint and also considering the temperament of the man.”

“Yes, thank God for Troyak,” Zolkin was quick to agree.

“He knew his duty when he saw it. Such men are natural leaders. So sending Orlov to join the ship’s commandos where Troyak can smooth out a few of the rough edges seemed like a good idea. That is exactly the sort of situation that will benefit a man like Orlov, do you agree?”

“A good plan,” said Zolkin, and the other men nodded.

“Very well,” said Volsky, turning his head when a knock came on the outer hatch. “I believe that will be Mister Karpov under escort from the brig. Let him in, gentlemen. And then let us see if we can sort out this mess and decide what best to do.”

Chapter 6

Karpov entered the room, eying the others with a guarded expression, but saying nothing. He had expected this, a kangaroo court where the others would flay him and decide his punishment, and he had already resigned himself to the fact that he would likely be busted down to Able Seaman, and rot in the ranks aboard this doomed ship for years. It came as some surprise then when Admiral Volsky indicated this was to be a tactical briefing, gesturing that they should all have a seat around Zolkin’s desk. He endured the edgy glances and looks from the others, but seated himself next to Tasarov in sullen silence, waiting.

“Very well,” Volsky began from his recovery cot. “I will give the floor to my First Officer, Mister Fedorov.”

Karpov suppressed a wince at that, realizing again what he had risked, and done, and lost. He fixed his gaze on the desktop, not meeting the eyes of the others, ashamed on one level, and angry on another at his own stupidity. Here was a young Starshina, still wet behind the ears and three ranks beneath him now elevated to First Officer of the ship. But when Fedorov began to speak he was again shocked at what he heard.

“To bring you abreast of our earlier, discussion, Captain,” Fedorov began by addressing Karpov, who did not fail to notice he was referred to by his proper rank, which he appreciated. One thing about Fedorov—he was always respectful, even if Karpov no longer believed he deserved that respect. “…the attack three hours ago was made by a twin engine fighter aircraft, possible a British plane out of Malta, or even a German long range fighter off Sicily or Sardinia. I did not get a good look at it, but I’m inclined to believe the former. Its sudden appearance led me to research that has since indicated we have slipped backward in time again and remain involved in the Second World War. I don’t know how it has happened, but Dobrynin reported that same odd reactor flux just before the event, and… well… here we are, strafed by a twin prop fighter aircraft. To be as specific as I can at this point, I believe the present day and time to be August 11, 1942, at 16:20 hours.” He glanced at the wall clock, which Zolkin had reset earlier to account for the time shift they experienced.”

Karpov’s eyes widened as he heard the unbelievable yet once more, but there was no way he could argue otherwise, and he had come to accept the impossible as a matter of daily occurrence on this ship by now, so he waited to hear more.

“We are now in considerable danger, bottled up in the Mediterranean Sea, and very close to a major air-naval campaign that was fought as the British attempted to relieve Malta by sending a convoy of much needed supplies and oil. The next three days will see major combat operations to the southwest of our current position, which is presently here.” He stood up and indicated a position on the wall map in the infirmary. “Our present course is 45 degrees and we are making twenty knots. We have minor damage, but most critical systems are functional, and Chief Engineer Dobrynin tells me that the reactors are now stable and in good operating order.”

“Operation Pedestal, Karpov,” said Volsky looking at his ex-Captain. “You recall it from the academy?” Karpov thought for a moment, and then nodded in the affirmative and Fedorov continued his briefing.

“The action has begun,” he said. “The convoy reached the first Axis submarine picket line north of Algiers at mid-day and, true to the recorded history, the British light carrier HMS Eagle was sunk by torpedoes. They are continuing east and will not be engaged again until 20:00 hours, near dusk this evening—a probing attack by some 36 planes off of Sardinia. There will be two more attacks until the convoy reaches the Skerki Bank northeast of Bizerte. At that point, if the history repeats itself, the heavy escorts will turn back while a force of lighter cruisers and destroyers attempts to ram the convoy home, around Cape Bon, down through the Sicilian Narrows, and then to Malta. They will endure heavy attacks by fast torpedo boats from units based at Pantelleria near Cape Bon, and as they approach Malta by renewed air attacks from Comiso and other airfields on Sicily. This convoy was the most heavily escorted of the war to date, with some 50 British warships, including two heavy battleships and five…now four aircraft carriers, all trying to secure the safety of just fourteen merchant ships. That said, only five supply ships got through to Malta, and one, the tanker Ohio, was barely afloat and had to be sandwiched by two destroyers under tow to get her there. Beyond that, the British are going to lose several valuable cruisers and a few destroyers as well.”

“To make it simple,” said Volsky, “it is a hornet’s nest of fire, right astride our most logical route of escape. If we head for the Atlantic as planned now, we will most certainly become embroiled in this operation, and I do not think the British will welcome us at the Suez Canal, or facilitate our transit there, so we have quite a problem on our hands here. Now I want the best opinions from each of you—particularly from you, Captain Karpov, as you are one of the finest tactical officers in the fleet.”

Karpov heard the admiral’s praise and it seemed to bolster his flagging spirits, particularly in front of the other men, making the mantle of his shame a little easier to bear. He glanced at Volsky appreciatively, and sat just a little straighter in his chair, no longer slouching with averted eyes, but now stealing sidelong glances at the others to gauge their response to his presence.

“Our present course will lead us into the Tyrrhenian Sea again,” said Fedorov. “That area was not much involved in the action, as both sides were focusing their efforts more on the triangle formed by the Cape of Tunisia, Sardinia and Palermo on Sicily. That said, the Italians had several cruiser divisions planning to rendezvous off Palermo for a possible run at the convoy when it attempts to transit the Sicilian Narrows. Our radars are clearing up, and we may soon have a fix on their positions. But we have been spotted, and I have little doubt that whoever fired on us will be looking to confirm the sighting, and may have planes in the air at this very moment searching for us. If British, they will most likely assume we are one of these Italian cruisers, but they also arranged regular reconnaissance runs over Italian ports in the vicinity, and in time they will make an accounting of all ships in the Italian inventory. Then the real game begins for them, and they will wonder who and what we are, just as before.”

“And if it was an Italian or German plane that attacked us?” Volsky asked.

“Then they will have to assume we are part of the Allied operation, perhaps a fast cruiser intending to mount a raid on coastal facilities. That would be rather risky, but it is possible. The danger for us now is therefore acute. On 11 August, there were upwards of 780 Axis aircraft in the region, 328 Italian and 456 German if the history echoes true. The Allies had 140 aircraft on Malta spread over nine fighter squadrons, three torpedo squadrons, four bomber squadrons, and two more for dedicated reconnaissance. They were just reinforced by 37 more Spitfires flown off HMS Furious at about the same time the Eagle was torpedoed.”

“Furious?” Karpov finally said something, somewhat surprised to hear the name of an aircraft carrier he had made a point of attacking just days ago—a year ago now, as astounding as the prospect seemed.

“Apparently the ship survived,” said Fedorov. “Probably towed to Iceland and then back to Scapa or the Clyde. In any case, they’ve repaired her and put her back in service if she’s here—though we have no real confirmation of that yet. She is mainly used for these ferry operations, just as CV Wasp was first used to send those fighters to Iceland…”

The men shifted uncomfortably. It was as close as Fedorov wanted to come to any recrimination for Karpov here, but it needed to be said. Karpov stewed, but said nothing, though his posture was more closed now, arms folded, and just a touch of anger in his eyes.

“The British managed to keep fighter strength on Malta high, and will bring even more to the fight on their carriers. Needless to say, we do not have that many air defense missiles aboard.” His point was obvious, and Rodenko spoke up on that note about the damage to the Klinok system tracking radars.

“We can replace one system within twenty-four hours,” he advised, “and probably rebuild the second from spare components, but that will take much more time. The long range S-300 system is viable, and there was no damage to our close in defense systems, but the First Officer makes a good point—780 or more Axis aircraft, 140 or more on Malta and then their carriers. How many there, Fedorov?”

“Forty-six on Indomitable, including four recovered from Eagle, another thirty-eight on Victorious—yes, we fought that ship as well in our first encounter, Captain Karpov. The old carrier Argus was present, but no real threat with a flight of just six Sea Harriers, and there would be four more Albacores on Furious after her Spitfire deliveries, though she is heading west for Gibraltar and out of the immediate combat zone. So let us call it about ninety carrier borne aircraft escorting the convoy at this point.”

Rodenko nodded his head, raising an eyebrow. “That makes over a thousand aircraft in the region. Well, we have ninety-six Klinok medium range SAMs still available in inventory, and forty-seven of the longer range S-300s.” If my arithmetic is correct, then we have about one missile for every seven planes out there in theater.”

“Not a very good equation,” said Admiral Volsky. “The attack just hours ago showed us how vulnerable we are should even one enemy plane get through our defense umbrella.”

“At the moment we are perhaps in more danger from Axis aircraft than from the British,” said Fedorov. “Kesselring has ordered numerous squadrons of II Air Corps in Italy, and also units that were based at Sicily, to airfields on Sardinia for the first phase of the gauntlet they are setting up for the British. So the center of gravity is moving west at the moment. There may be flights up this minute and we could be called to battle stations again at any moment. The only good thing about our position here is that we would probably be presumed to be Italian—by both sides. We must decide what course to set, and that quickly, before we are spotted again and that presumption changes.”

“What about submarines,” said Karpov, and with an audible tinge of foreboding in his voice.

Fedorov was quick with an answer. “The initial Axis picket line is much farther west, but they had seventeen Italian subs and two German U-Boats available for the operation. Here, I have the reference from my paper… Seven Italian and two German U-boats deployed north of Algeria. Ten more Italian submarines between Fratelli Rocks just west of Bizerte and the northern entrance to the Skerki Bank closer to Sardinia. This is their second picket line, and some of these submarines will move northwest off Cape Bon to operate in cooperation with aircraft. In addition, an Italian submarine should be deployed just west of Malta, another off Navarino, and three boats about a hundred miles west-southwest of Crete.” He put the document aside but pointed out these areas on the wall map. “As for the British, they’ll have a couple subs watching the Strait of Messina, and then four more well west of Malta. Again, there shouldn’t be anything near us now.”

Tasarov confirmed that they had located no signals that might be hostile submarines thus far, and this seemed to ease the tension in Karpov’s shoulders a bit. He shifted, leaning on his right arm where the elbow rested on the side of the desk.

“We would have to cross both those Axis submarine picket lines if we move west now by the most direct route,” said Fedorov.

“Out of the question,” Volsky replied quickly. “And I think we can thank our stars that we emerged where we did. A few more hours and we would have been right in the thick of things. Yet the question still remains: what course should we take in the long run, and where should we be in twenty-four to forty-eight hours at the height of the battle? Opinions gentlemen?”

Rodenko ventured to speak first “What about the Strait of Messina?”

“That will not be easy sailing for us, I can assure you,” said Fedorov. “There’s an Italian cruiser base there and two more British subs are lurking nearby as well.”

“I can take out those British subs easily enough,” said Tasarov.

“And we have sufficient missile inventory to deal with air strikes at the moment, and plenty of Moskit-IIs left for those cruisers if they bother us.” Rodenko reinforced his idea, waiting.

“There will also be shore batteries, and the channel is very narrow. But suppose we do bull our way through as we surely can,” said Fedorov. “Then where do we go? As you have said, the British will not welcome us at Suez. I suppose we could run through the Aegean and try to run the Dardanelles. After another transit of narrow and dangerous waters, we would then be master’s of the Black Sea.”

“We could smash Axis forces there and assist our comrades!” Tasarov smiled.

“Comments on this course?” asked Volsky, his bushy brows rising as he looked to the others, particularly Karpov, who spoke next.

“Heading for the Black Sea is a definite possibility,” said Karpov. If we made it through the Bosporus then we might join in the fighting around Novorossiysk. For that matter, we might even be able to smash the German Sixth Army with our remaining nuclear weapons and prevent the misery and death of Stalingrad. That option could reverse the course of the war in the east much sooner. If we have to fight again, why not fight directly for Russia this time?”

Volsky frowned at the mention of nuclear weapons, the image of the massive explosion at sea all too fresh in his mind.

“Stalin would certainly appreciate that,” said Volsky. “I had some time to consider such a course when we first began this misadventure. We also have information about the course of events that will be more valuable than the weapons we could use. We know the timing of every German offensive and its objective, correct Mr. Fedorov?”

“True, sir, but that is 1800 sea miles to the Black Sea, and through the Strait of Messina, past Crete and all the Axis bases in Greece, then into the Dardanelles for a 200 mile cruise in those restricted waters, through minefields, past shore batteries and also within range of German air power. And once we do fight through we’ll still be bottled up in the Black Sea for the duration of the war, assuming we do not suddenly vanish again. Then what? How long before our own countrymen begin to insist on a little more than information from us? I have not forgotten what we all said about Stalin the first time we visited this question.”

Volsky nodded, a grim expression on his face.

Fedorov continued. “Here is another alternative. I think we could get up north into the Ligurian Sea easily enough, or into the Northern Med south of Toulon. We could hover off the coast there and wait out the operation. Let the two adversaries slug it out as they did historically and interfere as little as possible. If we sail anywhere near the action now then we will eventually be discovered and engaged by one group of forces or another. Yes, we can probably prevail in these actions, but eventually word will get out and the concentration of Axis forces will begin to mass against us—or British. We could even be attacked by both sides at once in the confusion. We can’t go west in the short run,” he reasoned, “and if we go south east through the Strait of Messina we are committed to a long voyage through the Aegean, with enemy airfields on every side and then internment in the Black Sea.”

“Then it looks like our only option is north away from the major fighting while we consider this question further,” said Volsky.

“A good possibility,” said Fedorov. “But it would mean we would have to run past these Italian cruiser patrols, and then surge north through the Tyrrhenian Sea again and either run north of Corsica, past the major Italian base at La Spezia and a lot of enemy aircraft, or else we must risk the narrows of the Bonifacio Strait and the Italian naval facility at La Maddalena there.”

“And then what,” said Volsky. “Suppose we do this and fight our way west of Sardinia and Corsica by one route or another. Suppose we work our way north of the Balearics, then what? We will be ready to run the final bottle-neck to Gibraltar, yes? And what will we find there?”

“The British,” said Fedorov flatly. “Everything they have left after the battle will withdraw in that direction, and the heavy units will be there well before us, unless we move quickly. Battleships Nelson and Rodney for a start, and a swarm of destroyers and cruisers. Their carriers get beat up pretty badly if the action follows the history. They have already lost Eagle, and later on Indomitible will also be hit and damaged to a point where she can no longer operate effectively. Argus is of no concern, but they will still have our old friends Victorious and Furious, and all the air power they have left flying out of Gibraltar, another unsinkable aircraft carrier like Malta.”

“Could we punch our way through, Karpov?” The Admiral wanted to bring the Captain into the discussion.

“Of course,” Karpov said immediately. “You saw what we did when the full power of this ship was focused as it can be in dire need. I do not wish to say that the course I took was the wisest….” He paused, and Volsky could see that this was difficult for him. “…or even that my choice of tactics was correct in that regard. I was obsessed at the time with the possibility of striking a decisive political blow—one that would truly alter the course of events and leave the world a better place for the Russia we left back home, the country we all swore to protect and defend.”

“True, but we have seen the result, Captain, and it was not pleasant. We found hell out there, or as close to it as any man can come while alive on this earth. We may all get there again on our own when we pass on,” he smiled. “But I have little desire to go there again now.”

“But that is what we must do if you sail west or east,” said Karpov. “We must pass through the gates of hell—be it Messina, Bonifacio, the Bosporus or Gibraltar. The western course is also some 1800 miles of dangerous sailing, and a major battle at the end.”

“Yet one you feel we can win?”

“Certainly, though much will depend on the status of our missile inventories when we reach that place. I know I invite your rebuke with this next remark, but I must tell you that where this ship sails, there are no unsinkable aircraft carriers.” He put his fingertip flatly on the desk to emphasize his point. “We have the means to obliterate either Malta or Gibraltar if it comes to that, and wipe their air power off the map in one blow. And if there is still any stomach for the ideas we discussed before this whole thing began, then I must also say that by destroying either of these bases we would decisively effect the outcome of this war, particularly now, at this moment, August of 1942. The loss of either base would seriously tip the balance in favor of Rommel in North Africa. He may not prevail in the end, but there would be a strong chance that he pushes into Alexandria, or even to the Suez Canal itself. It could effectively knock Britain out of the land war, at least for a time.”

Fedorov noted how each course eventually led to the deployment of nuclear weapons to make a decisive blow and alter the course of the war, at least in Karpov’s mind. He was cautious about getting into a shooting match here with the Captain, but was not surprised to hear this hard line from him. He glanced at Volsky before he spoke, waiting to see if the Admiral had any remarks, then offered another point.

“What about Operation Torch. The Americans are about to enter the war in those landings, scheduled for November 8th. If Rommel manages to push the British back to Suez, he will still find the American Army behind him in due course. All things considered, the loss of Malta may make a considerable difference—and certainly Gibraltar, but I believe the Allies would still persist with the plan for an invasion at Casablanca, Oran and Algeria, and then drive east.”

“We can guess and conjecture this all day,” said Karpov. “I do not say you are wrong, Fedorov, but without Malta or Gibraltar, the Axis forces will easily supply Rommel with anything he needs, while their own supply lines to Egypt will stretch thousands of U-boat infested sea miles around the Cape of Good Hope. Suppose Rommel were to defeat the Americans as well?”

“A possibility, Captain.”

“Yet how will we know?” The Admiral put his finger on the real problem. “That is our dilemma when we talk about decisive interventions. We can never really know what turn the history will take, and it may darken in ways we have already seen.”

“I agree, Admiral,” said Fedorov. “Suppose we leave off this line of argument and think to our more immediate needs—survival. Destroying Malta, Gibraltar or smashing the Sixth Army would certainly have a dramatic effect on the war, but haven’t we seen enough death and destruction already on this cruise?”

Zolkin had been listening to everything intently. He was not a military man, and so did not entirely grasp the implications of what Karpov and Fedorov were discussing. Instead he was watching the men, gauging their emotions, and sounding out things on another level. Now he spoke with a pointed remark that changed the tone of the argument.

“You have all been discussing what we might do, what we are capable of doing, and yes, what the consequences may be in the end, but speak now to what we should do…” The implication of some moral element in the decision was obvious. “Yes, we can smash our way through these ships, and blacken Malta or Gibraltar if we so decide, but should we? Simply to secure our own lives and fate? How many will die if we attempt this?”

The sharp alarm of general quarters came in answer, long and strident in the still air. Karpov sat up stiffly, his reflex for battle immediately apparent and a new light in his eyes. “Listen, Zolkin,” he said quickly, a finger pointing to the scrambling sound of booted feet on the decks above them. “Hear that? This is no longer a question of what we should do, but what we must do. It is either that, or we go to the bottom of the sea like so many before us.”

“Mister Fedorov, I think you should get to the command bridge,” said Volsky.

Fedorov was already up and heading for the hatch but Karpov pulled at him: “Fedorov,” he said quickly. “You can cross circuit the Klinok SAM system with any other radar. Rodenko—bypass the damaged systems and target via your primary search array. After that the missiles can operate on their own!”

Volsky, nodded and then gave one final order. “Protect the ship, Mister Fedorov. Do what you must. Rodenko, Tasarov—get moving!”