Kirov

Chapter 13

Kirov sailed east where they loitered for some time to sort through the data and reach a conclusion. They were huddled around the video monitor in the officers wardroom for another closed-door meeting to review the tape, and this time there could be no possibility that NATO could have spoofed their cameras. Fedorov was zooming in and pointing out features of the ships he had observed, and flipping through pages of his copy of Jane’s Fighting Ships to show them similar images.

Captain Karpov could hardly believe his eyes, but it was clear to even him that these were the same ships, old ships that should have been busted up in the scrap yards years ago. He had a good look at the one they fired on, and it was not a Type 45 modern British destroyer, which would have been more than twice its size. At first he thought it might have been an older Type 42, but the distinctive forward radar dome was entirely missing, and when Fedorov enhanced his video he could clearly see this was an antiquated old tin-can destroyer from an earlier era. Yet it was flying the Royal Navy ensign from its top mast as it bravely charged at them. The destroyer even had the correct number on her bow, number 40 identifying the ship as HMS Anthony, and he had seen it with his own eyes. Then, as it wisely turned behind a smoke screen to run, Karpov’s mind wheeled about in its wake, amazed, astounded, yet convinced at last that he was now sailing in another world.

There is something deep in the psyche of the Russian soul that believes that fate has the power to unhinge any reality and make a shambles of the mighty. Russia had seen the long dynasties of the Tsar crumble, the upheaval of a modern revolution, the invasion and fire of war from the time of Napoleon to Hitler. Though she emerged from World War II as one of the most powerful nations on earth, the Iron Curtain crumbled and the Soviet Union fell into decline as well. There was no government, no nation, that could escape the capricious machinations of fate, or so it seemed from a Russian’s point of view. And clearly this now applied to the ship itself. Fate had brought Kirov to a new place, though it was an old time in an old world that had been little more than a sad chapter in the history books for all of these men.

For Karpov, however, is was something entirely new now. In one sweeping realization the whole creaking, calcified power structure of the Russian Navy had just collapsed like a badly made bridge. There was no longer anyone back in Severomorsk as a check and balance on the decisions and actions of any man aboard this ship. They answered only to their own inner compass now, or to the cruel whim of fate, but the long rein of accountability, the game of fawning and planning and currying favor with just the right men, that was gone now, extinguished in one startling moment in the Captain’s mind. In its place came that vague thrum of anxiety again.

Severomorsk no longer had any say in the matter. They would never answer their plaintive radio calls again. Fate had set him down on this sea of uncertainty, and now his own personal fortune was in his own hands, or so he thought, with only one man standing senior to him on the most powerful ship in the world.

He turned to the Admiral, a glint in his eye. “What now?” he asked, eager and strangely energized. Yet Volsky could perceive a darkness there, and a yawning ambition that warned him to be cautious.

“We must consider our situation carefully,” said the Admiral. “First off, this will be difficult to explain to the crew. We have spent two days discussing it and testing the proposition with one scenario after another, and only now do we begin to believe the impossible. There will be many among the crew who will not accept this explanation any more than you did, Captain.”

“We had to be certain,” Karpov said defensively as he folded his arms. Was the Admiral calling him a bull headed ox? He overlooked the insult, and made another suggestion. “You are correct, Admiral. At least for the foreseeable future, I suggest we do not make a general announcement. The men will not understand it, and it will be bad for morale. Orlov might convince them in time.”

“Yes, but we do not need to bully them,” the Admiral looked at Orlov, the strict disciplinarian on the ship. “Cut them a little slack, as the Americans might say. This is going to be a difficult adjustment for all of us. I am sure you have all stopped a moment to consider the fact that our wives, our children, our friends… They are all gone. Many have yet to be born! Perhaps they never will be born. This will be a shock to the men when the realization hits home, as it was to me when I first accepted the situation we so obviously find ourselves in now. We need time to pull ourselves together. Perhaps you are wise, Karpov, we must grieve it ourselves before it settles in to the bone; give it time. What do you suggest, Doctor Zolkin?”

“I could not have said it better, Admiral,” said the Doctor. “And we will likely have many long days to dwell on the memory of those we once knew and loved back home. If we do inform the men, we should do so gradually, perhaps in small groups. But what you say is sadly true. We have no home. Yes, we are sworn to protect and defend the Rodina, and that we can do with this brave ship and crew, but we can never sail this vessel into Severomorsk to be taken by the Soviet government as it stands now. The government that sent us here was bad enough. But Stalin? That is a black hole I do not think any of us might wish to return to.”

“Why not?” said Karpov, immediately challenging the Doctor. It was a reflexive comment. A part of him seemed to want to put the old world he knew back—to keep the old power structures in place, any power structure that he could cling to again instead of this awful void. None of the men knew anything real about Stalin. He was just a name in one of Fedorov’s history books, and a dark shadow from their past. As far as Karpov knew, Stalin left Russia as one of the most powerful nations on earth. Her fall after that may have largely been due to the corruption that grew in that shadow, and the fear and mistrust it bred at every level of society. Why couldn’t they fight for Russia now, he thought?

“Think of it, Captain. Ninety-nine percent of all the computing power now on earth is right here on this ship. We have technology, weapons, capabilities that will not be developed for nearly a century! Should this vessel fall into the wrong hands…”

“Since when is our homeland a place to be feared?” said Karpov.

“What do you know of Josef Stalin, Captain? I mean you no disrespect, but consider what would Stalin do, right now, this very day, if he could command this ship in battle?”

“He would most likely rename it at once,” quipped Volsky. The one time hero of the revolution, Sergey Kirov, did not survive Stalin’s purges after opposing his policies in the politburo.

“True Admiral,” said Zolkin. “But how would he stop the Germans as they close in on Moscow, choking off the nation’s breath, smothering her, killing and raping and leveling whole cities as they come? Do you think he would hesitate for one moment to unleash the arsenal of nuclear weapons we have aboard? We sit here, with the hindsight of history as our guide, and we tell ourselves not to worry, Russia wins the war, one way or another. Yet a man like Stalin will not see things in this light. He will want to use this ship for any expediency that comes to mind, and he will be as ruthless and merciless as we all know he was. How many died at his command in the next few years? Give him this ship and he will destroy Germany first, yes, but god only knows what else he will do when he is finished.”

They were all silent, the gravity of their situation finally becoming apparent to them. The agony of the Great Patriotic War was not something any of them understood on a personal level. Even the oldest man aboard the ship, the Admiral himself, had been born in the year 1957. The Second World War was just a dark gray story of generals and armor, old black and white photographs and lines on maps. They knew nothing of the terror, the horror of war. The six rounds of 100mm ammunition Kirov had just lobbed at the oncoming British destroyer was one of the few times a Russian naval vessel had actually fired in anger in nearly a decade! They had trifled with a few Somali pirates, using a few rounds of their close in defense Gatling guns, but the ship had never once employed its formidable missiles in real combat.

“Yes,” said Admiral Volsky, “God only knows. It is clear to me that we cannot simply sail home to Severomorsk, as tempting as that prospect might be. There is no way we could make certain that the technology and weaponry on this ship could be kept from the hands of a man like Stalin, short of destroying the ship outright first.”

“We might consider that,” Doctor Zolkin suggested lightly. “Suppose we find some nice Pacific island, well south of the conflict there, and then off-load just a few weapons and all our supplies before scuttling the ship.”

“Are you insane?” said Karpov sharply.

“I’m a psychiatrist, Captain, at least grant me some latitude here. We don’t just have Stalin to worry about in considering the things we have on this ship. We have the British and Americans too! What would they do if the ship, or any of the technology we have aboard, were to fall into their hands?”

“Some say the Germans aboard Bismarck scuttled the ship to prevent the British from towing her off and discovering the secret of her hull design,” said Fedorov.

“Exactly,” said the Doctor. “This ship must not fall into enemy hands. Period. And I am afraid that given the knowledge we have of the history of these years in Russia, Stalin will have to be considered an enemy as well. Do you agree, Admiral?”

“You make a good point, Doctor,” said the Admiral. “We must not allow either side to gain possession of the technology we have, let alone the weapons. Yet if I understand what Mister Fedorov was trying to tell us earlier, we may soon be in a fight for our very lives. Mister Rodenko tells me the main body of the fleet we were tracking yesterday has halted its eastward progression and reversed course. It seems that the word is getting out, one way or another, that there is something dangerous prowling the waters of the Arctic sea. We may have to move south soon.”

“My guess is that they will be as confused as we were at first,” said Fedorov. “In fact, they will logically conclude we are a German ship. So far they have seen nothing of the weaponry and capabilities we truly possess. We fired all of six rounds of what would be considered a small secondary gun mount on any ship of this day. But we look threatening. This is a big ship, as large as any typical battleship the British put to sea in the Second World War. They’ve spotted us, that much is certain, and it’s likely the phones are already ringing in the Admiralty with the news that a big German battlecruiser is at large again. And believe me, Admiral, Captain Karpov, the Royal Navy will stop at nothing to hunt us down, just as they did with Bismarck. This destroyer was no match for us, but their fleet has many more powerful ships, and they will use them all.”

“It may come to that,” said Karpov, “but I assure you, if the Royal Navy wishes to tangle with this ship they will pay a terrible price. We may have to sink them all.”

“You had best think on that a while, Captain, and let us keep our Ivans bundled up,” said the Doctor. He was referring to Ivan the Terrible, the brutal Tsar who had become legendary for his cruelty, and a distant forerunner to men like Josef Stalin. The mindset was deep in the Russian psyche, and it was said that every man had his “Crazy Ivan” under three woolen shirts, something he hid deep within himself in the normal discourse of life, and sometimes put to sleep with vodka, but a demon to keep a careful watch on lest it be given free rein and devour his soul. Zolkin continued.

“Before we worry what Stalin might do with this ship, it may be wise to consider what we are going to do with it,” said Zolkin. “Every ship we strike will kill living, breathing men, yes? These are not merely machines we war on now. Some of these men may have died in this war, as that was their fate, but there will be others that will have survived it. Yet when you unleash your missiles they will give no thought to that. They will not think of sons or daughters yet to be born, or tears in a mother’s eyes. No, they are killing machines, and they will do the job with lethal efficiency, as certain as the ticking of a clock. But we do not need to be so heartless. So we must do that thinking for them, and well before we press the launch button to send them on their way. Suppose you kill a man tomorrow who survived this war? You take from him what God and Fate gave in another time, the time we came from. And once you do that you cannot easily give back what you have taken. Who knows what the consequences might be?”

Admiral Volsky nodded, agreeing with his old friend.” I had this same thought the first moment we had to fire on that ship,” he said.

“Think of it,” said Zolkin. “The British have no idea what they’re dealing with. There’s almost a quality of innocence about them as I think this through. They are like children, yet they are men, brave men, and they will fight to the bitter end if we threaten their lifeline in the Atlantic.”

“We are men as well,” said Karpov, “are we not? And this crew will fight, if we lead them.”

“True,” said Zolkin, “but you must carry fire in one hand and water in the other. Do not be so quick to look for war here, Captain, it will find you all on its own. After all, Mister Fedorov makes a good point. The whole world is at war. Then we come along and you want to jump right into the borscht! One does not take a samovar to Tula.”

Volsky smiled at this. The city of Tula was renowned for making the finest samovars in the world, and no one would ever bring one with them when visiting there. The fires of war and conflict here were already well kindled. The flames of the Second World War were only just beginning, but soon they would become a conflagration that would consume most of the developed world.

“Kirov is a powerful fighting ship, to be sure,” said Zolkin, “but how long could she stand against the combined armed might of the Western Allies we have just fired on?”

“The Doctor also makes a good point about this ship.” The Admiral pressed his thick finger on the table. “Yes we have power, but all power has limits. We must hold the reins tightly for a while and think this situation through carefully. And should it come to that moment when we perceive that the ship may fall into the hands of any other nation, then we must destroy her first. That will be a standing order that every man here must agree and swear to before this begins. As to that desert island you talk about, Dmitri, I hope it has lots of pretty Polynesian girls!” He forced a smile, lightening the mood somewhat.

“But before it comes to such a weighty decision, we will have much to think about. Much to plan and consider. The Captain made an interesting point earlier when he suggested that a prudent and measured application of force at just the right place and time may be all that is necessary to make the world our country lives in just a little better in our day if we should choose to do so. That said, it is the British we must nudge, and perhaps the Americans. Most of the German army is deep inside Russia now. Only our ten cruise missiles could range that far, and then only if we were firing from the Baltic Sea. I do not think we will go there. What impact would we have? It would be like throwing stones at ants. We will not easily change the situation on the eastern front. And yes, we don’t fight for Stalin in any case. Who would fight for that man knowing what we now know about him? But there will be a Russia after he is gone, and there will be one seventy years from now, even if none of us may ever live to see her again…”

They stood in silence for some time, their eyes downcast, each man lost in his own inner thoughts, thinking of home, thinking of girlfriends, wives, mothers, children that they would never see again. How long could they last? How much pain would they inflict before that awful moment when the final decision came to end it? How many of them would live out this year, or the next? All of these thoughts ran through their minds, a haunting chorus of unanswered questions and riddles with no end.

They all seemed to share that cup of toska together now, yet it was something only Karpov would not drink. There was no one back home to miss him now. All he left behind was his own closeted life, and the creaking system that had grown up in Russia during the arduous second “great depression” of the early 21st century. In some ways he felt adrift now, like a ship that had been moored at harbor, rusting away, suddenly swept out to sea in a raging storm. All the mooring lines were cut, their anchor lost, as they were lost now on a sea that seemed all too familiar, although it was a world of complete unknowns.

While the others felt the yearning nostalgic sadness of toska, Karpov’s reaction was more one of anxiety. He had been creeping and climbing through that old system back home for some time, and had come to know its every nook and cranny. Like a mouse in a mansion, he knew where to find the bread crumbs on the old kitchen floor, and where to find the cheese. All of that was gone now, and it left him strangely afraid as his mind felt its way through the sea of shadows that hid their immediate future from them. But there were possibilities in those shadows, he knew, and opportunities.

To calm that thrum of fear in his chest, the Captain was soon thinking of something else, his mind occupied with the immediacy of their situation. The British had a good look at them just now, and as much as he hated to admit it, Fedorov had been correct. They will soon be marshalling their resources to hunt for them. Karpov was already thinking what they might do about that when the Admiral led them forward again with the same thought.

“On the other hand,” said Volsky. “We are a naval fighting ship, and in this we have the power to considerably affect the conduct of the war at sea in the Atlantic if we choose to do so. But we must take things slowly, as the good doctor says. Should we fight here? For either side? If we do, then what do we propose to accomplish? We must give ourselves a little breathing room first, and time to think on these things. We could stay up here, in the cold Arctic sea. It is not much traveled, and we’re fast enough to keep well ahead of anything that tries to run us down.”

“But there is not much room to maneuver here,” said Karpov, his mind sizing up their predicament from a tactical perspective. “The temptation to return home to Severomorsk will be very great, particularly when the winter comes in just a few months. This will be a very cruel place to live and fight.”

“Then we are faced with the prospect of breaking out into the Atlantic,” said the Admiral. “If we do so, we must move south. Word is only now just reaching the British Admiralty, as you suggest, Mister Fedorov. We are in a good position to transit the Denmark Strait. I think it best that we run on through and out into the Atlantic. With our knowledge of the history we can keep ahead of the enemy for some time. I do not think we will suffer the fate of Bismarck, hunted down and killed in just a few days time. Eventually we might work our way down into the South Atlantic and around the Cape of Good Hope into the Indian Ocean. Those waters are less traveled as well, and therefore less dangerous. Perhaps we could look for one of those little islands Doctor Zolkin was talking about. We have unlimited fuel in our nuclear reactors, but we must also keep our bellies full, yes? There is food aboard for thirty days or more, but eventually we will have to seek a landfall somewhere to replenish our stocks, and I do not think we can sail into any port nearby, yes? But for now, one thing at a time, let us get to the Denmark Strait and out into the North Atlantic. I’m tired of this cold gray place.”

“You propose we turn this ship into a simple convoy raider? Or worse, that we just slink off to the Indian Ocean?” Karpov tapped his fingernail on the table as he spoke, a habit he had when ready to argue a point.

“I would not underestimate the impact of a convoy raider,” said Fedorov, “assuming we did decide to oppose the British. The Germans had a few very successful sorties. Not every ship suffered Bismarck’s fate. The Admiral Scheer sunk well over 100,000 tons before making it safely back to a friendly port. Scharnhorst and Gneisenau fought well together, and there were others like the raider Atlantis and the armed commercial ship Penguin that made remarkable sorties.”

“Yes, and none of them mattered in the long run,” said Karpov. “We could cruise out into the middle of the Atlantic and become little more than a rock in the stream. They would simply divert convoys to the north and south of our position. And even if we pursued them, we could sink sixty merchant ships before our missile inventory would be expended, or even a hundred ships considering our deck guns, and it would all have little real impact on the war. We do not have a friendly port to go home to and replenish our ammunition. Every U-boat the Germans put to sea had no effect in the end, and they sank considerably more than a hundred ships, yes?”

“In that you are correct, sir. The U-boats sank nearly 2800 ships, accounting for about 70% of all allied ship losses in the war.”

“And look what good it did them. No. If we want to have any real impact on events then we must work to bring about a situation where the power we have will be feared and respected by our enemies to a point where they may be willing to negotiate.”

“Negotiate? What do you mean, Captain?” asked the Admiral. “Do you expect Great Britain and the United States to surrender to this ship?”

Karpov hesitated, as if unwilling to reveal the full dimension of his thinking, but he continued. He glanced briefly at Orlov, but the Chief seemed lost in some inner muse, listening, but eyes averted as he fiddled with a folded pocket knife.

“This ship is not merely a tactical threat to the allied sea lanes. Our sea power does not rely solely on our limited ship-to-ship missile inventory, or our speed, or the fact that we can out think and out maneuver our enemies. We also pose a strategic threat, and this is irrefutable. You spoke earlier about certain weapons we possess, Admiral, weapons that we must not use, and weapons that we must allow no other to use as well. But understand this, the Americans, Germans, and Russians are even now in the early stages of their programs that will eventually lead to the development of the atomic bomb. The first detonation is only a few years away. If we use just a single warhead, and demonstrate the power that we have, our words may then speak as loud as our guns and missiles. And we do not have to destroy London or New York to make a demonstration of this power. A deserted rock like Bear Island will do just fine or, if you prefer a warmer clime, perhaps a deserted Caribbean island. The British and Americans will be our most formidable foe if we move into the Atlantic, and they are the ones we must persuade, to put it lightly.”

“I agree with the Captain,” said Orlov, stirring from his reverie. “With all due respect, Admiral, a demonstration such as he proposes would put fear into the hearts of our enemies, and give them pause before they set loose their navy or even think of hunting us down. For the moment we are an unknown, a ghost ship, and we have not done much harm aside from frightening off an old destroyer. But if we cruise out into the Atlantic, we will have a knife to the jugular of Britain’s lifeline.” He flicked open his pocket knife, illustrating his point. “We have just given them a little shove on the shoulder, that is all, but if they push back? Fedorov is correct, the British will defend those convoy routes, the Royal Navy will fight, unless we convince them that to do so would be suicidal. But how to accomplish this?”

The Admiral thought deeply. “I believe I just might have a solution, gentlemen. That book you lent me was very enlightening, Mister Fedorov. I did some reading myself, and it seems to me there is an event of considerable significance looming on the near horizon, assuming this is 1941. And I think we are finally coming to an agreement on that. A small notation caught my eye beginning August 9, 1941. On that day President Roosevelt and Churchill meet on board the British battleship Prince of Wales and the heavy US cruiser Augusta in Argentia Bay, Newfoundland for the proclamation of the Atlantic Charter. If I am not mistaken, this agreement forms the basis of what became known as the United Nations in our day. Some believe it also underlies the foundation of NATO, the two demons that continue to haunt us in our day, yes? This being the case, we may find ourselves in the interesting position of being able to kill two birds with one stone, and influence both the past as well as the present we have come from.”

“Roosevelt and Churchill?” said Karpov, his eyes brightening. “Do you realize what we could do?”

“I realize all too well what we could do, what this ship is capable of doing if we chose to operate her aggressively,” said the Admiral. “But as you yourself argued so ably, Captain, we must be judicious, careful, and plan it well. And yes, words may speak as loud as our weapons in time. I will be relying on each and every one of you in the days ahead. But now hear this, gentlemen. My order concerning the use of nuclear weapons is this: There will be no deployment or use except on my expressed order. Yet I will consider what we have discussed here, and who knows,” he smiled. “Perhaps Mister Roosevelt and Churchill would like a front row seat to the theater. We must consider this situation carefully.”

Chapter 14

That evening the Admiralty was abuzz with the electrifying news of the sighting of another large German raider out near Jan Mayen. What could it be? Latest intelligence indicated Tirpitz was laid up at Kiel for repairs, but the Fleet Air Arm was immediately ordered to send two Beaufort fighter bombers to have another look. In the meantime, First Sea Lord, Admiral Dudley Pound was taking no chances. He was on the phone to Scapa Flow, using the long red line that had stretched from London over the Scottish Highlands for decades, hopping buoys as it finally left the land and reached out to the command Flagship of Fleet Admiral Sir John Tovey aboard King George V.

Admiral John “Jack” Tovey looked at the list of all his available ships that morning. A professional man, well schooled in the operational arts and dedicated to the Navy from an early time in his life, Tovey was an amiable, quick to smile, but just as likely to redden up with a temper when things did not suit him. Strong-willed and highly disciplined, he could be relentless when focused on a mission or a particular naval objective. Yet in the heat of battle his one great virtue was that he would remain cool under fire in spite of the temper that he was all too willing to show if things did not go as he expected.

A natural leader, Tovey was a student of tactics and ship handling, as capable a captain as the Royal Navy possessed until he was promoted to acting Admiral of the Home Fleet. He was a sea going admiral, seeing the duty aboard ship as essential to morale. What was good enough for his sailors was good enough for him, and his men had both great admiration and respect for him. The man at sea, he believed, had the best information at hand to make a decision in any engagement. As such he sometimes resented the overweening interference by desk laden officers in the Admiralty, including the First Sea Lord, Admiral Pound, who had a predilection for sticking his thumb in the pie whenever possible.

This evening he was looking at the long list of ships still operational under his command, still the most extensive and well armed navy in all of Europe, and by a considerable margin. He had all of fifteen battleships, with one sunk and one consigned to the far east, leaving thirteen of the big ships in theater. Admittedly, it was an aging fleet, but still imposing on paper. Only three on the list would be considered modern battleships by 1941, his own flagship King George V, and her sister ships Prince of Wales and Duke Of York, the latter still running through trials. He wouldn’t even have that third ship were it not for Churchill’s earlier urging that the Germans were up to something in their shipyards and the Royal Navy had better be ready to answer. Two more ships in that class would come on the line later in the war, Anson and Howe, but these three were the only true fast battleships he had in hand, and that said, they could make only 28 knots on a good day. For modern ships they had very little range but compensated with decent firepower and very good protection.

The heart of his fleet, however, were the ships laid down before or during the Great War, all aging, yet proven and capable designs, even if they looked somewhat antiquated with their reverse inclined bows and stodgy smokestacks. He had three Revenge class battleships and five in the Queen Elizabeth class. They could plod along at 18 to 21 knots under normal circumstances, but had good firepower with their 15 inch guns. The two Nelson Class battleships were the only ships in the fleet carrying larger 16 inch guns. With an ungainly design they were well armored yet also slow at a maximum speed of 23 knots. For all practical purposes, these ten ships would be excellent convoy escorts, enough to deter lighter and faster German raiders, and also capable of standing with anything bigger.

Tovey also had a small squadron of fast battlecruisers, once led by the pride of the fleet, the mighty HMS Hood. A little over 60 days ago, Bismarck had run this stalwart knight thru with a fatal lance from her fearsome 15 inch guns, and put Hood, along with Admiral Sir Lancelot Holland, at the bottom of the Denmark Strait. The Renown and Repulse were the last of the British battlecruisers, with a little less firepower, carrying only six 15 inch guns for the extra speed that gave them. Yet, their speed alone made these ships suitable for hunting and interception roles, and he could pair these lighter ships with his three King George V class battleships to form fast search and intercept groups capable of confronting and dealing with any known German raider. The campaign against Bismarck proved that, even though both Hood and Prince of Wales had a rough time of it in that first, awful engagement.

This role would be ably supported by divisions of strong and capable cruisers, both heavy and light, and these ships could serve as escorts to any convoy or capital ship squadron he put to sea. They were also excellent as picket line scouts along the main breakout corridors used by the Germans. At any given time a string of cruisers stretched from Iceland to Scapa Flow, plying the seas with forward searching radars and the eyes of many able seamen.

Tovey also made good use of his fleet of aircraft carriers, though these were lighter ships carrying anywhere from sixteen to fifty planes, mostly old bi-planes: Swordfish torpedo bombers or other search aircraft, and a few Fairey Fulmar dive bombers. They had only a fraction of the striking power of the bigger modern carriers in the Japanese or American navies, but they served him well as escorts, hunters at sea, and could manage a sting or two if their torpedo squadrons could close with an inviting target.

In all it was a capable fleet given the primary role it had in securing the vital Atlantic shipping lanes. If anything, it lacked speed in its heavy ship elements, and range. Yet the Royal Navy made up for its deficiencies by sheer weight and quantity, and the considerable experience it had at sea. It tripled the size of the German Fleet, even though it mostly sailed with older designs. Yet Tovey still had to assign ships to Cunningham in the Eastern Med, and Somerville at Gibraltar, and this thinned out the ranks of capital ships available for home waters and Atlantic operations. God forbid that he should ever lose Gibraltar. The Rock was the gateway to the Med, and an excellent dual purpose base. Ships there in Force H under Somerville could sortie to aid Cunningham in the Eastern Med, or venture out into the Atlantic, particularly to cover the French ports or receive southbound convoy traffic.

His Chief of Staff, Patrick “Daddy” Brind would be in shortly with the latest reports, and together they would plan the fate of Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, the next two German raiders on his list for quick elimination. At present they were both holed up in the French port of Brest on the Atlantic coast, and that is precisely where he wanted to keep them. Yet when Brind arrived he was all in a fluster, a fistful of cable intercepts in his hand and a look approaching shock on his face.

“I’m afraid there’s some bad news this evening, sir,” said Brind. “It seems we have more than Scharnhorst and Gneisenau to worry about. A new German raider was spotted southwest of Jan Mayen earlier today. The signal suggests it might be Tirpitz, or possibly a Hipper class cruiser again. We got a Beaufort reconnaissance flight off to have another look at Kiel, but it will be some time before we hear on that. Something is up, sir, and we’re going to have to be on our toes up are going to catch up with it.”

Brind laid out a map on the table, leaning heavily on one hand as he gestured. “The Norwegian weather team on Jan Mayen also reported the landing of an odd aircraft with a squad of marines. The men said nothing, searched the place and then left. Very strange, sir. Wake-Walker is up there with Force P, and he forwarded the report yesterday. Perhaps it was a search plane off this new raider, wanting to make sure they had not been spotted passing the island. A Fulmar off Victorious overflew the contact yesterday and gave a confused report. The pilot thought it looked like a heavy cruiser, except for the guns.”

“Except for the guns?”

“That’s just it, sir. He said he couldn’t see any large guns or turrets, except a few smaller caliber secondary batteries. He claimed the forward decks were largely empty. And another odd thing was the fact that the ship held its fire. If it was a German cruiser they would have lit up with everything they had.”

“No photographs?”

“In the heat of the moment the plane was not properly fitted out. Wake-Walker was hurrying off to the east, but thank god he at least had the presence of mind to have a second look by sending out a scout detachment, though I can’t say much for his choice of ships. He sent the mine laying cruiser Adventure up with a destroyer yesterday, and it seems they bumped noses with this contact this morning. Destroyer Anthony took three hits on her bow, putting a gun turret there out of action, and the scout force wisely broke off action. This is looking very suspicious, sir.”

“Well, they damn well fired on the ships, even if Walker’s planes caught them napping,” said Tovey. “Yes. It has all the markings of another Atlantic sortie. Strange that they didn’t blow that destroyer out of the water.”

“German radio traffic has been very quiet. It looks like Jerry is making an effort to keep his cards close to his chest this time around. What do you make of it, sir?”

“Damn bloody business,” said Tovey. “And just when we’ve got convoys spread out over half of the Atlantic, with Mr. Churchill due in next week on the hush, hush.”

It was going to be a long night, thought Tovey. Weather was bad across the board, seas were rising, and the crews on the ships riding fitfully at anchor in Scapa Flow were ever more edgy. The fleet was put on yellow alert, with eight hour steam up, meaning his main battleships could be ready to put to sea first thing in the morning.

“We haven’t got a solid fix on this ship’s position yet,” said Brind. “If it is Tirpitz we’ve got a real witches brew again. Do you really think they would risk this last battleship in a major operation now, sir?”

“It could be a feint,” said Tovey. “They might have gotten wind of our Russian convoy planning, and could be running this about just to get our attention. Our last fix on Tirpitz had her at Kiel three days ago. They would have had to move very quickly after that if she’s up near Jan Mayen now. We’ll have to watch this very closely, and of course we’ll have to take Home Fleet to sea as well, just in case.

“Aye, sir,” said Brind. “The crews are restless enough as it is. Time to put some of that energy to good use. I’ve taken the liberty of informing Captain Leach on Prince of Wales as to our intentions. He’s still shining the decks for that official visit next week, so I’m afraid we may have to leave her in port, sir. But we’ve a few other knights we can put in the saddle as it stands. Repulse is available, and she has the speed we need for something like this.”

“What in the world is Winston up to this time?” said Tovey. “All we have is this notice to hold Prince of Wales for an official visit. Damn inconvenient when Hitler and the Germans have other ideas.” He sighed, resigned to the machinations of command after all these years. “I suppose we’d best start rattling the sabers here and get the cavalry up in good order. It’s a pity Duke of York isn’t ready for action yet. After what we went through with Bismarck, I won’t risk a battlecruiser like Repulse in another engagement like that. Thank god for Rodney. The old girl gave Bismarck quite a pounding. Where are Nelson and Rodney?”

The Admiral wanted to know where his big 16 inch guns were. The Nelson and Rodney had been built between the two wars to an odd looking configuration that saw three big 16 inch gun turrets mounted on the forward end of the ship. The weight of the big guns made for slow going, which made them very suitable for convoy escort duty. Yet with nine 16 inch guns, they had more firepower than any ship in the fleet. In a tight spot, a well armored ship like that would come in very handy.

“Rodney is still in Boston for a refit and scheduled for sea trials again on August 12, sir. Her sister ship Nelson is presently at Gibraltar with battlecruiser Renown, preparing to escort another Winston Special convoy out to Malta.”

“Yes, Sir Winston has too many chips on the markers for our battleships these days, doesn’t he? It may be prudent to inform Admiral Somerville of this development. That operation may have to be delayed if we need those ships. We had better take a look at the Atlantic convoy situation as well. We may have to pull some ships off escort duty if it comes down to it. But I want to make sure those convoys have all the protection we can give them.”

“Right, sir,” said Brind. “We’ve got at least one battleship with every convoy over 24 ships. Anything less gets an escort of at least one cruiser. We’ve been moving most of the OB series well north of Ireland after departure, so that’s going to put them in a rather vulnerable spot if the Germans push anything down into the Atlantic in the near run. These are rather large convoys, sir. Upwards of 40 to 50 ships each. Their official designation is to move on to the Middle East and reinforce Cunningham.”

Something told the Admiral that the ships in those convoys would have more to do along the way than they bargained for. “If Jerry is planning another raider operation, then they’ll certainly have to coordinate with their U-boats as well.”

“Which means we may have to assign more destroyer squadrons to convoy traffic from this point forward, sir.”

“Indeed.” The Admiral’s mood was darkening with the weather this morning. The war was finally heating up. 1940 had seen little more than a few enterprising raids by the pocket battleships Graff Spee and Admiral Scheer. They gave his cruiser squadrons a fit for a time, and sunk well over 150,000 tons of shipping before the first was sunk and the latter slipped back home to German waters. Then came Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, even more dangerous ships. They were faster and more powerful than the pocket battleships, which were really little more than heavy cruisers in Tovey’s mind. Finally Bismarck decided to join the party and was thankfully sunk, but at great cost.

Now, if the Germans were sending Tirpitz into the fray, they would again be escalating the conflict to a whole new level. If that ship managed to get into the Atlantic and link up with the other two battlecruisers at Brest, the Germans would have the most formidable task force they had put to sea since Dogger Bank. He had little doubt that this was what they had originally planned for Bismarck, and perhaps they were out to have another go at it. He had no choice in the matter now. He would have to put major warships out to sea again, throwing in his last reserve to forestall any potential breakout by this new German raider, whatever it was. What else did Admiral Raeder have in the cupboard, he wondered? He’s planned this very well, because my cupboard is rather bare for the moment.

Aside from his flagship, all he had was Repulse and Prince of Wales in hand, and the latter was sweeping the decks for this visit involving the Prime Minister. He looked over his list… The only other battleship available was the Revenge, presently at Halifax and scheduled join the Royal Sovereign for convoy duty in the Indian Ocean. The latter was at the Clyde getting fitted out with all the new radar sets and was not scheduled to have that work completed until September. All of his active carriers were already up north with Wake-Walker. The rest, Illustrious and Formidable, were in US harbors undergoing repairs. He still had Ark Royal with Force H at Gibraltar, and Hermes in the Indian Ocean. Other than that, the only new carrier coming on line was Indomitable, just starting her sea trials last month.

Tovey leaned back, stretching and scratching his head. “Well,” he said. “It looks like I’m headed out to sea with King George V and Repulse then—and first thing in the morning. We can’t assume this new raider is all the Germans will bring to the party,” he warned. “We’ll have to keep a close eye on Scharnhorst and Gneisenau as well.”

“Whatever Jerry is up to, we’ll give him another bloody nose for it, sir.”

“Yes, Raeder may be taking on more than he can chew, Brind, but we’ll have to plan for every possible contingency.”

An orderly rushed in, handing Brind a freshly decoded signal. The grey haired chief of staff read it with obvious frustration.

“Thick cloud cover over Kiel,” he said. “Fleet Air Arm says they can’t see a thing in this weather, and won’t be able to confirm the situation regarding Tirpitz until things clear up, sir.”

“Damn,” said Tovey. “We’ll have to assume the worst then. That’s what Admiral Pound will do.”

“That we will, sir,” said Brind. “May I suggest that we get orders off to Wake-Walker as soon as possible? We can’t very well have him dancing off to the North Cape in this light. Vian is up there as well, sir.”

“Better get them both moving west as soon as possible. Even if they can’t cover the Denmark Strait, at least they can seal off the Faeroes Gap.” Tovey thought for a moment. “And Brind,” he said, “I suppose we should also cable the Americans at Reykjavík. They’ve only just begun relieving our garrison there, and they’ll likely be in for a big surprise if this raider is heading for the Denmark Strait.“

“Indeed, sir. I nearly forgot about the Yanks. They’re not in it yet, but there’s a considerable naval presence assigned to the convoy routes between Newfoundland and Iceland. That’s going to be their watch now sir.”

“Yes, well whether they’re in the war or not, the Germans may have something to say about it soon enough.”

“I believe they’re planning to send a couple of PBY flying boat squadrons to Reykjavík,” said Brind. “If we put the word out those planes could come in very handy. And with that in mind, I’ll order Home Fleet to prepare to get underway first thing in the morning.”

Chapter 15

Wake-Walker was having a terrible day. His whole operation had been turned on its head by this unexpected new contact. He should be up at the North Cape by now, but he was still southeast of Jan Mayen, and heading back along the track he had taken from Iceland. What he thought to be a wayward steamer with loose lips had since mushroomed into the considerable threat of a big German surface raider heading for the Atlantic. His scout detachment had found the ship, as he feared it might, and the destroyer Anthony had been a little too bold, getting a bit of a bloody nose for her effort, but managing to report the contact’s position nonetheless.

Just hours ago his only real worry was a few long range German Kondor recon planes nosing about. Now this! It was the same nightmare he had just gone through with Bismarck a few months ago. He was at least glad that his own instincts had prompted him to hold station the last two days. Something told him there was trouble afoot, and when the frantic reports came in from Anthony and Adventure he took it upon himself to turn about and render assistance, knowing this would most likely compromise his mission up north. Orders came in a few hours later advising him to head for the Denmark Strait with all possible speed. Now he was racing west at 28 knots, and he had Grenfell’s pilots up out in front of him with their type 279 aerial radars to try and re-acquire this phantom ship.

The Admiralty was all in a dither about it, and Admiral Tovey wanted him to do everything possible to ascertain the nature of the threat. It was a pity his destroyer captain could not provide a positive identification. If he determined it to be a Hipper Class Cruiser, he was authorized to engage. If however, he believed this ship to be Tirpitz, his orders were to attempt to maintain contact and shadow. There was nothing in his task force that was a match for the big German battleship. He could launch an air strike, but apparently Tovey wanted to coordinate this with his capital ships, only now getting up steam at Scapa Flow.

The boys at Bletchley Park missed something, he thought. They had been so busy rounding up German auxiliary oilers and weather ships after getting hold of the German enigma code boxes that they let something slip through the cracks.

Miles away, up a country lane outside Milton Keynes, the men at work on the estate known as Bletchley Park were wondering much the same. Naval intelligence was on the phone, curious as to any ciphers that might indicate the Germans were again planning some sort of breakout into the Atlantic with a commerce raider. A few of the analysts over in ‘Hut 8’ were kibitzing over a chess problem, just the sort of thing to delight a code breaker. Chess problems were said to be the church hymns of mathematics, and the brilliant Alan Turing had led the effort against Nazi Germany through the artful music of his craft.

“Riddle this,” said Atkins, a former student and close associate of Turing at the Park. Sir Dudley thinks the Germans have pulled another rabbit out of their hat. It seems there’s a been a sighting up north of what appears to be a large warship.”

“Odd,” said Turing, fiddling with the chess pieces. “Let’s see what it could be.” He was familiar with all the intelligence that had been passed on to the Admiralty late, and had the German Navy all set up in his head like the pieces on the board.

“Let’s not worry about the pawns,” he began. “The two Rooks, Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, are down at Brest taking a pounding night after night from the RAF. So no real threat there. The two bishops, Admiral Scheer, and Lutzow, are both down at Kiel with the Queen. That’s where Tirpitz is as well, all three neatly on the back row. Now, there were only five Hipper class cruisers built. The Russians bought one, another’s being converted to an aircraft carrier, and Blucher is sunk. So that just leaves the Admiral Hipper and Prince Eugen, the two knights. And guess what, the former is laid up at Kiel, and the latter is laid up at Brest! Jerry’s got all his pieces on the back row; nothing is developed at all. So unless Bismarck truly is unsinkable, and has somehow miraculously refloated herself, I don’t think we need put much credence to this report.”

“But we did get one cable saying that Admiral Scheer’s refit was just about complete,” said Atkins. She was the most successful of the German raiders, and since we put a torpedo into the Lutzow the last time she tried to break out, I don’t think the Germans could have her fit for duty anytime soon. So I’m putting my money on Admiral Scheer.”

“Tirpitz would certainly be a surprise if she were out and about,” said Turing. “But I rather tend to agree with you, Atkins. One doesn’t sortie with the Queen before there’s been proper development of the minor pieces. And the minor pieces all appear to be coming apart at the seams these days. If I were the Germans, I’d keep Tirpitz safe and sound for a while. Just the fact that she’s sitting there on the back row is enough to keep Admiral Pound on his toes and give John Tovey a case of indigestion every time the subject comes up. Yes, I rather tend to agree with you. If this contact is anything at all, it would most likely be the Admiral Scheer. Suppose we say so and get a message off to the Admiralty so they will leave us alone for a while and we can have a weekend in the country.”

Young Turing indeed had a brilliant mind, but it didn’t take a genius to put these clues together and determine the ships most likely to be available for duty on the German roster. He would go on to lead the effort at crypto-analysis throughout the war, instrumental in deciphering and breaking the German Enigma code which they used to send and decode signals through a deviously complex machine, a kind of analogue computer with wheels and levers and rods that would all work in a harmony, like the inner workings of a clock, to plot the machinations of war.

Turing had been busy with his own similar machines for some time. He devised clever systems where variables could be represented on a long tape and fed into a machine that could execute instructions and subroutines based on the state of any given variable it was “considering.” It was, in fact, some of the first serious groundbreaking development for digital computers, a device he came to call his “universal machine.”

“Mark my words,” he had told Atkins one day while they were working on it. “These machines will do everything for us in time. Imagine an infinite memory capacity obtained in the form of an infinite tape like this, with a symbol for everything that matters printed out on these little squares. Why, it could do anything, anything we told it to do.”

“Everything that matters, Alan? I’m not sure you could possibly manage that, but I suppose you’ll try. Just be sure we’re the ones doing the telling in that story. I’d hate to think what might happen in a world where these things have a mind of their own.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Turing. “They can only know what we tell them to know, and it’s just a mechanism, Atkins, like a clock—only it will tell us much more than the simple time of day. Yes, it will have an intelligence about it, not a conscious intelligence, mind you. There’s no heart or soul in the thing. That’s our part. The logic and intelligence of this machine will just help us to better use our own. After all, it’s intelligence that will eventually win this war, not the bombs in and of themselves, but knowing where to drop them. That’s the main thing, right?”

Little did he know that the children of his genius would one day defeat the greatest human chess master alive, and that they were already hard at work that same day, aboard a ship he would have a most difficult time placing on his chessboard or fitting into the equations chalked on his blackboard.

Kirov had sailed west away from Jan Mayen, and then turned southwest towards the Denmark Strait on the 1st of August. Radar man Rodenko watched with amusement as the two British ships, Adventure and Anthony, scurried away.

The Admiral had the ship steaming quietly at about twenty knots, just enough to stay ahead of the oncoming weather. They had a long three day cruise at that speed if they were to run the Denmark Strait down into the North Atlantic. Karpov wanted to increase speed to thirty knots and get out quickly, but the Admiral thought it best to give the junior officers time take in the news of what happened and prepare them for the action that might lie ahead. In doing so he sacrificed some advantage of speed and surprise in order to secure his ship and put it on the best possible footing.

“When we turn south we will be sailing into unfriendly waters,” he said. “The men need to know what has happened, and that we may be facing combat situations in short order. It needs time.”

So later that day he had gathered his senior officers and junior petty officers and made a formal announcement concerning their situation. It took some time, and a great deal of explanation, but eventually the loyalty of the crew led them to accept what the Admiral was telling them, and believe his assurances that this was not an exercise any longer. Petty officers were told to keep the news quiet in the rank-and-file ratings. “In time we will bring them all to this table,” he said, “yet for now, I rely on you as leaders, and advise discretion.” Anyone with questions or a serious problem was advised to go and see the Doctor.

“When will we be going home, sir?” one man asked, voicing a question that was surely in the minds and hearts of all gathered.

The Admiral was going to say that they would soon find a way back, but he did not. Instead he just took hold of the man by the shoulder, in an almost gentle way, and he said: “I cannot tell you that with any certainty yet. And it may be that we will never see home again. That’s the truth of it, because we still have no real idea how this happened, or why we are here. I owe you all this truth, and I ask you to help me carry it. It is a heavy burden for any one man, but together, if fate is on our side, we will pull through.”

The words had exactly the effect he intended. He gave them the only thing they really had now—each other, strengthening that invisible, yet unbreakable bond that all soldiers and sailors feel for their comrades in arms. It was enough.

As the news began to slowly spread through the ship, some men laughed off the proposition, others sat with distant, fearful eyes, still others lingered a little longer at the officer’s mess hall leaning close in small groups of two or three, whispering with one another. Digesting this was worse than the beef that would come out of a bad tin on a cold winter’s day. Eventually, however the men realized there was nothing they could really do about the situation other than to man their stations and fulfill their daily duties about the ship. Those with doubts about the story quietly hoped time would prove them right. Others were seen lingering over wrinkled notepaper, writing letters that would never be mailed, pulling pictures out of their wallets and staring at the faces of loved ones they may never see again.

Yet when Orlov would make the daily rounds with a couple of pale faced starshina (petty officers) beside him, things seemed much the same as always. For some men the only disappointment was that they weren’t turning about to return to Severomorsk, and for others, young starshina fresh out of the academy, the sudden prospect of an Atlantic cruise seemed very appealing. There is a thirst for discovery on most young men, and for sailors that goes double.

Later in the day, Rodenko noted a distant airborne contact headed their way.

“Con, radar reports airborne contact, bearing one-one-zero, range 226 kilometers at approximately 10,000 feet, inbound at 180 KPH.”

“Another of your museum pieces, Mister Fedorov?” said the Admiral.

“More than likely it’s another Fulmar, sir. The British will use them to extend their aerial radar coverage out in front of a task force like this. I would not be at all surprised to learn that those carriers have turned about and are now approaching our position. Once the British get wind of something they will be fairly diligent in pursuing it.”

“We should not allow that contact to re-acquire our position,” said Karpov. “We will lose the element of surprise altogether.”

The Admiral sighed, nodding. It was beginning, he thought. Those first rounds from the 100mm cannon on the nose of the ship were just the opening tapping of a drum heralding the overture that was now about to commence. He had been listening to his ship this last day like a conductor might listen backstage to his orchestra as it tuned before the concert. All the various instruments were quietly playing and tuning themselves, still abuzz with the news he had given them. Yet he saw how his officers gathered them into smoothly functioning groups again, like the first violin sounding the ‘A.’ It was not long before the discordant notes soon fell into harmony again, and the ship continued on, carrying out its daily evolutions with smooth efficiency. Now it was time to step on stage. The curtain was about to rise.

“Mister, Fedorov,” the Admiral turned to his navigator. “What is the range of the radar the British would be using on that plane?”

Fedorov had to reach for a well thumbed volume on his desk, quickly looking up the information in the index. “160 kilometers at best, depending on conditions, sir.”

“Will they see us through our ECM jamming?”

Fedorov slapped his forehead, suddenly remembering. “We’ll be jamming all the wrong frequencies, sir! All our equipment is set to oppose modern day radar sets. We’ll have to re-calibrate to lower frequencies…” He had his nose back in the book again, his finger tracing down the fine print. “The wavelength would be around 7.5 meters.”

“Mister Rodenko?”

Rodenko was already working his board. “I’ll need to make some adjustments,” he said quickly. 7.5 meters was at VHF in the range of 30 to 300 Megahertz. Some of his equipment no longer even included dial positions at those wavelengths, as they had not been used for radar signals for many years. Rodenko was working his T-181 data reception unit, and he could see that these adjustments would take some time. He put two men on the job, somewhat angry that they had not considered this probability earlier. “We’ll need some time, sir,” he reported.

“I trust there is nothing wrong with your MR-90 radars?” Karpov was referring to the ships medium range air defense guidance radar sets for the ship’s SA-N-92 Surface to Air Missile systems, (SAMs).

“Of course not,” said Rodenko. “But that SAM will only range out 30 to 90 kilometers depending on the elevation of the target. Can they see us before that?”

“Very likely,” said Fedorov. “That old radar was one of the longest range sets deployed in the war, out to 100 nautical miles. I am sorry we did not consider this.”

“Don’t worry, Mister Fedorov,” said Volsky. “We will adjust the equipment in time. For the moment, however, we will just have to use our long range SAM systems. Perhaps we can discourage this plane with a near miss detonation.”

“We would have seen the plane earlier if we had one of the KA-40 helos up,” Karpov admonished.

“True,” said the Admiral, “but how much aviation fuel do you think we are carrying, Captain? We should use our helicopters judiciously. Remember, we are going to also have to consider the German U-boats. They may think we are a British ship, yes? In effect, we are at war with everybody, the British, Americans and Germans alike. And these U-boats are very quiet, as Mister Tasarov will attest.”

“When submerged and operating on battery power they will be difficult to hear on passive sonar,” said Tasarov. “Even the Americans could not find some of our old diesel submarines on occasion.”

“Very well, we were caught unprepared at the outset, but when Mister Rodenko sorts out his equipment we will neutralize this British radar. For now…”

“Contact range one-eight-zero.” said Rodenko. “We can engage with the S-300s in a few minutes. They range out to 150 kilometers.” These missiles would streak out at a blistering speed exceeding Mach 6.0 and deliver a large 150kg warhead if it got anywhere near the target, sending a hail of withering shrapnel in all directions. They were so accurate that they could even be used against short range ballistic missiles.

If he fired, the Admiral had little doubt that he could shoot this plane down, yet he hesitated, a strange thought entering his mind, the echo of his good friend Dr. Zolkin’s warning. Who was the pilot? Did he survive this war, or was he one of the thousands that perished in the conflict? Was he married? Would he have sons after the war, and who would they be? If he killed this man, how many others might never be born in the years stretching out from this day forward? He realized this was war, yet he might not simply be extinguishing a single life here, but whole generations that would follow this man into the future. Yet it was impossible to know any of this, and an agonizing and debilitating torture to consider it all at a moment like this. He had to act.

“Contact approaching 150 kilometers,” said Rodenko. “They’ll have us on their radar soon, sir.”

“Mister Samsonov,” he said quietly. “Activate our long range air defense system and target the contact with a single S-300 and fire.”

“Aye, sir.” Samsonov had not the slightest inkling of regret or recrimination in his mind. He was a naval gladiator, trained to react and fight in the split second time spans of modern combat. It was as if he was no more than a human extension of the ship itself, one that could simply hear and execute the orders he received. He toggled his Air Defense System on, enabled the forward battery and pressed the button to fire a single missile. There was a loud warning claxon, and then they saw the missile fire and streak away, climbing loudly up at an amazing rate of speed to vanish in the low overhead cloud cover seconds later.

Over a hundred kilometers away, Fulmar N4029 of 800 Squadron off the carrier Furious had just noted a contact on their radar set. Lieutenant James Beardsley called it out to the pilot, Lt. Seymour Burke. “Looks like we’ve got her,” he said. “I’ll get a message off.” He began keying in the sighting through his code set…. ‘Contact bearing two-nine-two, speed 20, course—’

At that moment the pilot saw something oddly out of place in the gray sky ahead of him, yet before he could even think to consider what it was the object flashed up through a bank of clouds and seemed to leap at the plane. “My god!” His instinctive prayer was cut short, along with his flying mate’s contact signal when the S-300 ignited its warhead and literally blew the Fulmar fighter to pieces.

Burke and Beardsley were dead. They were supposed to have flown off Furious this very day, escorting a flight of Albacore torpedo bombers in to strike the German occupied harbor at Petsamo on the North Cape of Norway. There they were to meet a group of German Me-109 fighters lying in wait and sustain damage that would see them ditch their plane at sea six miles off the coast. They would have been spotted, alive in a dinghy, by one of the Albacores they had been escorting, but they were never seen again, and were listed as KIAs a few days later.

So Admiral Volsky’s worrisome thoughts about them were of no consequence, though he could not have known that when he gave the order to fire. Burke and Beardsley had met their rendezvous with death after all, yet in a way neither of them could ever have imagined possible. All that was denied them were those last cold hours alone together in their dinghy on the frigid Arctic Sea, the hope they may have clung to in those first frantic moments as they struggled to inflate their raft, the words and thoughts they may have exchanged with one another, and the long, freezing death they most likely endured when they finally realized that there was no ship coming for them on that that grim morning. Instead they vanished from the continuum in a flash of violence with scarcely a second to know what had happened to them. Their lives had been checked off as scheduled on the ledger of Fate. Time was balancing her books.