Kirov

Chapter 19

The PBY was an early bird out of Reykjavík from Squadron 74, a group of six front line planes scheduled to begin operations there in two days. At the request of the British, it was flying a search pattern over the southern exits of the Denmark Strait as the sun came up after barely leaving them for a brief interval of twilight that passed for night in these northern climes. The days were growing shorter, the twilight thickening just a bit each day, but visibility on the whole was very good where daylight was considered. This morning, however, the weather front that had been slowly tracking down from north of Jan Mayen was upon them, and the cloud cover was thicker, with puffy white clouds at altitude and a grey gauze of thinner low haze below.

With Britain still hard-pressed and America out of the war, President Franklin Roosevelt had ordered the occupation of Iceland by United States forces on 16 June 1941. This assignment was given to the first provisional Marine Brigade, a little over 3700 men out of San Diego California. Commanded by Brigadier General John Marston, the force sailed from Charleston South Carolina where it was surprisingly issued heavy woolen underwear. Soon it was joined by Navy Task Force 19 in Newfoundland before proceeding to Iceland.

The Americans made a strong showing at sea for the journey, sending battleships Arkansas and New York, two heavy cruisers Brooklyn and Nashville, and a screen of thirteen destroyers to escort the transports bringing the Marines out to Reykjavík. A second force designated Task Force 1 was built around the carrier Wasp with heavy cruisers Quincy and Vincennes and several destroyers of Desron 7. It was tasked with general protection of the sea routes between Iceland and Newfoundland.

The Yanks were ashore safely by 12 July, the skirl and drums of the Scottish Regiment of the 49th West Riding Division they were relieving playing a welcome as they came ashore. The Marines of the 1st Brigade were only the first wave of American units slated for duty on Iceland. They would stand a watch, cooperating closely with the British as they planned their withdrawal, until relieved by Army units some time later to be sent to warmer climes in the South Pacific to fight the Japanese the following year. To the British they looked like ghosts from the First World War, still wearing old tin helmets and bearing Springfield bolt action rifles from 1903. The Americans set up facilities in Reykjavík, which they came to call “Rinky-Dink,” and at Hvalsfjord, which they promptly renamed “Valley Forge.” Like the British before them, they were not much welcomed by the Icelandic population, who resented the occupation and wished both the Yanks and the Brits would go home and leave them in peace.

But for now, the Navy set about establishing an air base at Reykjavík to receive patrol squadron VP-73 and VP-74 flying Catalina PBY and Mariner search planes. The Squadrons were not arriving officially until the 6th of August but, flying out ahead of his squadron, Lieutenant Commander Arthur Vosseller had come in a few days early from Argentia Bay in Newfoundland to have a look at his new post. He was amazed to see that he was now the proud commander of a stark empty, open field that had not yet even been fully cleared of large stones and boulders to make for a suitable landing site. Appropriately naming it “Camp Snafu,” he settled in to a British Nissen Hut, much like the aluminum sided half dome Quonset Huts he was familiar with on US bases, until a curious telephone call came in from the British.

It seemed the Germans were up to something in the Denmark Strait, and they caught the British with their air squadrons all assigned to patrol runs to the south. The British commander asked if the Americans could possibly get a PBY or two up to have a look, and Vosseller was only too happy to accommodate them. It beat sitting around in that frigid hut. There was not even any kerosene about to heat the damn thing!

The Americans and the British would soon define a cooperative agreement that would see the United States largely responsible for the defense of the Denmark Strait. But as yet those negotiations had not been concluded. The sudden appearance of this dangerous and somewhat mysterious new German raider, however, was about to change the situation considerably.

Unbeknownst to Vosseller, his brief reconnaissance flight was to become the first official action in Admiral King’s Operation Plan Five, initiated on 15 July 1941. In that plan the Admiral ordered the Atlantic Fleet to support the defense of Iceland and to “capture or destroy vessels engaged in support of sea and air operations directed against Western Hemisphere territory, or United States or Iceland flagged shipping.” US units were authorized to engage any “potentially hostile vessels,” and the newly reorganized Task Force 1 centered on the new aircraft carrier Wasp was authorized to protect and defend all friendly shipping between United States ports, and Iceland.

FDR communicated the intent of the policy to admiral Stark when he wrote to him that very month: “It is necessary under the conditions of modern warfare to recognize that the words ‘threat of attack’ may extend reasonably long distances away from a convoyed ship or ships. It thus seems clear that the very presence of a German submarine or raider on or near the line of communications constitutes ‘threat of attack.’ Therefore, the presence of any German submarine or raider should be dealt with by action looking to the elimination of such ‘threat of attack’ on the lines of communication, or close to it.” Admiral King would subsequently modify the phrase “close to it” to read “within 100 miles.” There was to be no hesitation in handling these potential threats. Admiral Stark would chime in with clear orders defining the American response: “If there is conclusive evidence that she is a combatant naval vessel, either merchant type raider or a regular naval vessel, she shall be destroyed.”

The days ahead would see the American navy operating in a strange limbo between war and peace that was, in effect, an undeclared war. Admiral Stark made no bones about it when he said: “Whether the country knows it or not, we are at war.”The situation was very delicate, and Vosseller had some misgivings as he headed out to sea in his PBY that afternoon, rather hoping he would have an uneventful trip. It was not long before he found himself in a most interesting position. He would spot and report the very first violation the new King policy, and do so at a very critical time. It was Vosseller’s luck to stumble across the Russian battlecruiser just as he had completed the outward leg of his patrol and was turning for home.

Aboard Kirov, Admiral Volsky had just relieved Captain Karpov, who was ending his watch, and thankfully so. When the contact came in on radar, Karpov’s initial intention was to destroy it quickly. Volsky’s presence moderated the response however, as the Admiral had been reading up the previous night, and Fedorov had urged him to be cautious, telling him about the recent American occupation of Iceland and suggesting that this was likely to be an American plane.

“We are already at war with the British,” said Volsky. “Yes, this plane may spot us, but they will tell the British little more than they already know. It is obvious to them that we are running the Denmark Strait. I do not think we need to engage the Americans here. Let it pass.”

As the contact did not appear threatening, and because he believed the British already had a fix on his position, Admiral Volsky elected not to engage the plane. He was gratified when Rodenko reported it had turned and was now heading back to Iceland.

Vosseller was lumbering along in his big bullfrog of a plane, a flying boat with a thick hull for water landings and a small pontoon dangling from each wing. He had first seen the contact on a new British radar set that had been installed in his PBY a few weeks earlier, but he found the reading was soon awash in static and interference. He shook his head, writing it off to bad workmanship by the Brits. Yet he had been curious enough to continue on his heading, hoping to take a look himself the old fashioned way. Vosseller soon had had an eye full of the ship he was still scratching his head about.

When his radio report came in at Reykjavík, it sounded much like that given by the British patrols that had first managed to lay eyes on the Russian battlecruiser. “Sighted what appears to be a large cruiser, or a large commercial ship steaming south to the Denmark Strait.” He gave his best estimate of position course and speed, and then banked into a low drift of clouds, heading for home. At least he had the presence of mind to flip on his forward cameras as well, and got several decent pictures of the contact that would confound the analysts for days to come.

At his communications post aboard Kirov, Lieutenant Isaac Nikolin heard the American’s radio message in the clear, as Vosseller had stupidly made no effort to code it. “We’ve been spotted again, sir,” he notified the Admiral, relating what the American pilot had said.

Volsky smiled. They still have no idea who and what we are, he thought. All the better, though he realized the situation would likely change, and very soon. Mister Fedorov had reminded him of something else—the American president was as sea.

The previous day, on August 3rd, Franklin Delano Roosevelt had set out on the presidential yacht Potomac for what was described as a fishing trip. In fact he had secretly boarded US heavy cruiser Augusta and was even now headed for the new American naval base at Argentia in Newfoundland. The President’s yacht returned via the Cape Cod Canal with a fireman, presidential aide, and an army general dressed out in summer whites and posing on the forward deck lounge chairs with a pipe as if they were FDR and his party. They waved at a curious public lining the banks and gawking at them from overhead bridges as they passed, quietly enjoying their mission. The deception kept the lid of secrecy on Roosevelt’s planned meeting with Churchill in just a few days time.

Not only would these two remarkable men be present, the meeting was also attended by the heads of the Army and Navy on both sides, a gaggle of high-ranking officers and other dignitaries. The gold on the hat bands, collars and cuffs would be fairly thick, as the British were intent on engaging in negotiations with the Americans.

The Prime Minister had already boarded the battleship Prince of Wales at Scapa Flow earlier that morning, and the ship slipped quietly out to sea with only the very highest senior ranks in the Navy and War Cabinet aware of what was happening, and many of them were aboard. Volsky was still considering what to do about this meeting, and weighing his options if they held to this course.

That same morning another man on the ship was exploring the same corridors of thought, though with a very different mind on the matter. Captain Karpov had cornered Fedorov below decks while the Admiral was on the bridge. He marched him into the officer’s ward room and, to the navigator’s surprise, he locked the door.

“All right Fedorov, what is this book you’ve been reading from and bending the Admiral’s ear with these last several days?”

“Sir? It’s a naval history, a chronology of the war at sea that has fairly detailed information about operations conducted during this time, throughout the whole of the war in fact.”

Karpov eyes narrowed. “And where is this book?”

“At the moment, the Admiral has been reading it in his cabin,” said Fedorov.

“I would like to have a look at it. After all, I am Captain of the ship even if a fleet admiral is aboard. How is it you did not think to inform me as well?”

“I’m sorry, sir. You seemed unwilling to consider the possibility early on, and I did not want to offend you by pushing the matter. The Admiral was particularly interested in what I had to say, so I loaned him the book at his request. I meant no disrespect, sir.”

“Of course not,” said Karpov, changing his tack somewhat. He clasped his navigator on the shoulder. “Very well, Mister Fedorov, as you were. I will ask the Admiral about it myself.” He went to the door, opening the latch. “Dismissed, Lieutenant. That will be all.”

“As Fedorov edged past him, the Captain spoke again. “One other thing, Fedorov,” he said. “The next time you contradict me in front of the Admiral…” He gave the Navigator a hard look that finished the sentence well enough.

Fedorov went on his way, and so did Karpov, but the Captain had no intention of asking the Admiral a thing. He made his way directly towards the senior officer’s quarters, intent on finding this book and having a look for himself while the Admiral was busy on the bridge. The situation reminded him of his days in the university library, where he jealously guarded the reserved stacks, controlling access and doling out volumes to those he favored while denying them to others. A brash young arbitúra, a freshman, had the temerity to sneak into the reserve vault and take out a reference volume while he was busy with another student. At first he thought to severely punish the lad for trying to bypass his authority, but inwardly, he admired the student’s initiative and guts. The boy saw an opportunity and he took it. It was something he might have done himself, he knew. So he let the matter pass.

Now Karpov would do a little snooping around on his own to see what was on the Admiral’s mind. He had mentioned the Atlantic Charter in their initial briefings, this secret meeting between Churchill and Roosevelt. That had to be uppermost in Volsky’s mind now, but what was he planning? Karpov intended to find out. There were some things, he thought, that were simply a Captain’s prerogative.

Karpov was pleased to find the Admiral’s cabin door unlocked, and as this gangway was for senior officers only, there was little risk that he would be seen by a member of the crew. He slipped inside, flipping on a light and scanning the room and desk for any sign of the book. It was there on the night stand, and he was soon sitting at the Admiral’s desk, flipping to the bookmarked pages to locate August of 1941, looking for information on the Atlantic Charter conference. It was not long before he learned the details. Churchill and Roosevelt were at sea, this very moment, and bound for a secret meeting in Newfoundland! It was all there, the ships they would travel in, and their escorts, the timing of their arrival.

The Captain smiled, his eyes narrowing. All these high ranking officers in one place. What a catch that would make, he thought. One well placed round, or a well targeted missile barrage could take them all out in a single blow, decapitating the American and British armed forces and eliminating these two vital heads of state as well. Could the US and Britain recover from such a loss? Would the men who replaced these giants have the courage and resolve to prosecute the war as Roosevelt and Churchill clearly did? All he had to do was get within firing range. A single missile could do all the rest, as long as he chose the right warhead.

The Admiral’s strict order prohibiting the deployment of nuclear weapons was unwise, he thought. The impossible circumstances of this mission had to have some meaning. Kirov was here for a reason. She was bearing down on a time and place in history where her presence and firepower could make a profound impact. He doubted that they would ever again have an opportunity like the one that was before them now.

“I’ll be damned if I’ll peck away at Royal Navy ships and then run off into the Atlantic to hide,” he said aloud. No. This was the time and the place. Volsky was correct that the judicious application of force was necessary here, but he was too cautious, too slow to perceive the true nature of the opportunity now before them. Yet he was the Admiral, and the men would follow his lead…unless…

That pulse of anxiety leapt in his chest again with his next thought. His reflex would have been to get a message through to Severomorsk and seek to bypass Volsky by appealing to the Naval Board, or even to Navy Chief Suchkov himself. But Suchkov was not there. Severomorsk was not even there, at least not the same city he knew. There was no one senior in the ranks he could appeal to. The matter had to be decided here, on this ship. Kirov was all that mattered now. Kirov had the power to change everything, as long as she had the men aboard her with the will to do what was necessary.

How could he convince the Admiral? He could try to bring Doctor Zolkin around to his point of view. The Admiral respected the Doctor’s opinion, and Zolkin was actually a Captain of the Second Rank, one rung above Orlov in the chain of command. He was not trained in the running of the ship, however, but his rank gave him power, particularly as the ship’s physician. Yet the more he thought on this the more he realized what Zolkin was likely to say to him. The man was weak kneed. He was a healer and caretaker; a lamb and not a wolf. He realized an appeal to Zolkin would be fruitless.

What about Volsky’s new lap dog, Fedorov? The Lieutenant had maneuvered himself very close to the Admiral in recent days. He dismissed him earlier, but it was clear that Fedorov had one thing that was useful in this situation—knowledge. He was, in fact, the keeper of the books now. Fedorov’s little library held information that would be vital to them all in the days ahead. He was using that information skillfully, doling it out, like honey in the Admiral’s tea. Perhaps he had underestimated the Lieutenant. The man was demonstrating an understated craftiness worthy of the Captain himself.

Menjá nadúli! He’s fooled me, thought Karpov, realizing he had been duped by the young officer. I warn him to watch his mouth and he gives me those big, innocent brown eyes. Yes, Fedorov had been very clever, and very bold. He was naïve enough to believe what his eyes were telling him from the very first look he had at that long range video feed. Perhaps he saw what he wanted to see there, what he delighted in with his bookish reading and study. But he was correct; he has been one step ahead of me all along! He discretely fed this vital information to the Admiral while denying me access. Now he was going so far as to insert his opinions on the bridge, even contradicting me right in front of the Admiral.

The Captain had overlooked the man before, thinking him to be no real threat, but now he reconsidered the matter. Fedorov… What else did he have in his pockets? Perhaps he should have another little chat with the man and sound him out a bit more; see what else he knew. He might use Fedorov to help him persuade the Admiral. But that failing…

Karpov thought about that problem for some time. Then he closed the book, a wary and harried look on his face. The thought in his head now was unlike anything he had ever considered before. If he could not appeal to Severomorsk, and if there was no one else on the ship he could use to bend the Admiral’s mind on this, then he had no other choice but to act himself, boldly, directly. Somehow that thought made him very uncomfortable. Yet he let his mind wander down that corridor for a moment, considering his options. I will need Orlov, he thought, and Troyak. The rest will be of no concern.

Chapter 20

Admiral Tovey was still fretting over the fact that his Prime Minister was now at sea in an active war zone as he sized up the situation. He realized that he may soon have a battle in front of him in which the presence of Prince of Wales could prove very valuable to him. But he could not afford to let that ship come anywhere near the Denmark Strait now, in spite of his earlier bluster with Brind, and so he strongly advised the Admiralty to route it by a more secure, southerly course. In fact, almost every convoy scheduled between the United States and Great Britain had also been deviously rerouted in the weeks from mid-July through tenth of August so as to clear the seas along the intended route the Prime Minister would travel. The logic was that if the convoys weren’t there the U-boats would not be there either.

Admiral Tovey hoped the decision had worked in his favor as well, as he had already been forced to detach his destroyer screen to Iceland for refueling, and was now calling on Vian’s two cruisers in Force K to effect a rendezvous with him for additional support. The American PBY spotting confused as much as it helped, though he had not seen the valuable photographs taken of the enemy ship. The description of a large cruiser or commercial armed vessel dovetailed with what the British had already discovered about this mysterious new German raider.

“Could the Germans have modified one of their other cruisers and built a hybrid carrier, Brind? All the spotting reports mentioned smaller secondary type batteries aft, yet the forward deck was largely clear, except for these cargo hatches reported. Do you suppose the Germans have some way of deploying a makeshift deck platform there for launching planes? That would account for the relatively few air contacts we’ve had. If this is Graf Zeppelin I would expect to see more air activity, yet this American PBY just waltzed right in and got their sighting, completely unchallenged.”

Brind wanted to stick with his assessment that this was, indeed Graf Zeppelin, but with only a very few modified planes, experimental models the Germans were testing on sea trials with their new Ack-Ack rocket defense. “Suppose Wake-Walker simply spoiled the party, sir, and came up on this ship while it was testing. He forced it to run west and south, and it may have had no intention of breaking out until Force P got in on the hunt. And as for that PBY sighting, the Germans may have been cautious about engaging the Americans if they sighted that plane.”

“Whatever the case, these new German rockets are dreadful. I’ve read Wake-Walker’s report. They just cut his planes to pieces. Simply dreadful. We’ve got to bring this ship to heel, Brind. The Prime Minister is already at sea.”

Tovey wanted to put on all possible speed, and was now running full out at 28 knots. Considering that this was either a modified cruiser or indeed the Graf Zeppelin, he thought about turning his battlecruiser loose to run the enemy ship down.

“See here, Brind” he said. “Suppose we send Repulse out in front. She can run at over 31 knots, and deal with a cruiser handily. If we turn her loose, she may close the distance and get this enemy ship by the scruff of its neck until we come up and finish the job.”

Brind thought, looking at their plotting charts closely. “If we split the force we may get better coverage,” he said. “And we’d only be thirty miles or so behind Repulse over the course of a day, sir. That’s close enough if she can sniff this villain out for us. Vian has had to detach his two destroyers to refuel, but his cruisers can put on 32 knots and effect a rendezvous with us tomorrow as well.”

“Good,” said Tovey. “The better all around. Our experience with Bismarck taught us to pile it on if we want good results.”

“Right, sir, but detaching Repulse could also have its risks. Remember what happened to Hood, and Repulse has no better armor.”

“Hood was up against Bismarck, with 15 inch guns,” said Tovey. “These secondary batteries on this new ship were estimated at no more than four or five inches, at least from the damage Wake-Walker’s destroyer sustained. In my view Repulse can handle herself well enough with her six 15 inch guns.”

“Yes sir, but she hasn’t the flak defense of a ship like King George V. Suppose the Germans hit her with an air strike?”

“Every indication is that the Germans have very few planes available. Perhaps it is just a cruiser, launching sea planes for spotting purposes. Let’s get a signal off to Sir William and turn Repulse loose, shall we?”

He was referring to Sir William George Tennant commanding Repulse as she followed quietly behind Tovey’s flagship.

“I’ll give the order, sir. Let’s see if we can run this fox down.”

Captain Tennant was more than happy to take the lead and scout out ahead. This was, in fact, what his battlecruiser had been built for, a fast yet powerful scouting ship that would lead in the heavier battleships. Laid down in 1916, she had been given slightly better armor protection in refits prior to the war, and thus far had served well. She had assisted the evacuation of Norway and teamed up with the light carrier Furious to go after German raiders before. Now Furious was part of a group up north that had already sniffed out this new German raider, and Tennant was eager to bring the first big British ship into the chase. He put on all possible speed, and slowly moved out in front of King George V, slipping ahead to form the new vanguard of the Home Fleet, such as it was. Most of Tovey’s available cruisers had been up north in Force P and Vian’s smaller Force K. Now they were all bending their course to intercept the enemy ship before she could break out into the Atlantic.

Like most men who had risen to captain one of Britain’s capital ships, Tennant had joined the navy as a young lad of 15 years in 1905. Beginning as a navigator, he had a ship shot from under him and sunk at Jutland in 1916, then joined HMS Renown, the sister ship of Repulse, when King Edward had toured the world on her in the 1920s. He made Captain quickly, and in this war he had skillfully masterminded the British evacuation at Dunkirk, earning the nickname “Dunkirk Joe.” Yet he had seen quite enough of sinking ships and stubborn retreats. Once he was seated aboard Repulse, he had put her to good use, chasing down and engaging the “Twins,” battlecruisers Scharnhorst and Gneisenau in the Norwegian campaigns, and driving them off. The loss of Hood galled him, and he was eager for a chance to even the score.

“It’s a man’s game now,” he said to his Executive Officer. “Convoys are all routed south with the Prime Minister at sea. That means it’s all run and gun up here for the warships. I’ve been wanting to get into a scrap ever since Hood went down, god bless her. They wouldn’t let me try and sink my teeth into Bismarck after that, but this new contact is rumored to be a cruiser, or perhaps a fast carrier.”

“Graf Zeppelin, sir?”

“Daddy Brind seems to think as much.”

“Our 15 inch guns will deal with that easily enough, sir.”

“That they will. The question is finding the damn thing out here. The weather is gray, though this front looks to be passing and we might get better seas in time. Let’s see if we can make 32 knots. We’ve only just come within a nip of that before. Let’s push her all out and find this enemy ship.”

“Right, sir, but I wish we had better eyes. They’re still working up that radar equipment.”

The ship had only just completed another minor refit, getting fifteen more 20mm Oerlikon AA guns and a type 284 surface gunnery radar set that the technicians had still been working on when Home Fleet sailed. They were kept aboard, stringing up the wiring and testing the antennas, but could get nothing more than a wash of noisy static when they tried out the new equipment. Repulse was also carrying six sets of the Type 286 Surface to Air radar, earmarked for ships in the Indian Ocean. She was slated for transfer that way with Prince of Wales after this official business had concluded, and eventual deployment to the Pacific as a deterrent against possible Japanese attack there.

Some 100 miles to the west, there was nothing wrong with the radar sets aboard Kirov, and other eyes were watching the approach of both Repulse and King George V very closely. Admiral Volsky was on the bridge near the end of his watch, a sullen mood on him with the return of that bothersome headache that had been plaguing him for days now. He was tired, feeling the stress of the last few days and still making the interior adjustment to the bewildering fate of his ship and crew. He thought he might go and see the doctor, leaving Orlov on the bridge for the last hour of his watch before Karpov returned at 08:00 hours.

The brief night had slipped by uneventfully, and the ship was now a little over 200 miles due west of Reykjavík. Though the British force that had been shadowing them continued to follow, they remained at a respectful distance and Rodenko saw no further signs of hostile activity. Apparently Karpov had given them quite a beating in that second air raid, and they were now licking their wounds, yet stubbornly holding on, even though the ship was now jamming most of the known frequencies British World War II radar would tend to operate on. They were most likely groping in the dark now, following on the last known heading they had on his ship. For the moment, geography was their friend in the matter. The Denmark Strait was a fairly narrow channel, and the only obvious route Kirov might have taken.

Kirov was sailing south, well west of Iceland towards the tip of Greenland as she now hurried on at 30 knots. Two hours ago, Rodenko had spotted yet another contact, bearing in on them from the southeast on an intercept course. In a conversation with his history consultant, Fedorov, the Admiral deduced that this must be his counterpart, Sir John Tovey, commander-in-chief of the Royal Navy’s Home Fleet. Rodenko spotted only two ships, however another signal was tracking in on them as well, northeast of their position, yet some distance away. It was just as Mister Fedorov had warned them, the British were reacting, almost antibody like, against the incursion of any foreign element that might threaten their vital convoy routes.

Volsky watched the approach of what he assumed could only be heavier British units, and Fedorov had deduced that the most likely candidates would be King George V and possibly the battlecruiser Repulse or another heavy cruiser.

“These were the only two capital ships in Scapa Flow at this time, sir,” he said. “Aside from Prince of Wales, and I do not think the British would be sending that ship against us. It was supposed to ferry the Prime Minister to Newfoundland.”

“And what about the Germans, Fedorov,” asked the Admiral. “There were several entries in your book covering this time period, and it looked like a large concentration of U-boats was gathering south of Iceland.”

“I did some research on that, sir,” said Fedorov. “I’ve got the whole database from uboat.net here on my pad, and that wolfpack, designated Grönland, does not form up until mid August. The only boat that gets anywhere near us on this heading would be U-563 under Oberleutnant zur See Klaus Bargsten. That boat is prowling due south of Iceland right now, according to my data, sir. But we’re well to the west. I don’t think we have anything to worry about from the Germans, but Admiral Tovey might want to keep a sharp eye. He’ll be bringing his task force right through the Grönland wolfpack assembly area.”

“Very well, Lieutenant. Then I guess Mister Tasarov will be able to listen to his music under those headphones and actually get away with it!”

“There’s only one thing, sir…” Fedorov hesitated, not quite sure of himself now.

“Speak your mind, Fedorov,” Volsky urged him on.

“Well, sir, that first undersea contact we encountered, just after the detonation. I thought it might be Orel, sir, but if the accident aboard Orel was the cause of our dilemma here, then I assumed it must have been a German U-Boat.”

“And what of that?”

“I checked the database, sir, but could find no German U-boat on patrol on those waters for July 28th. It must have been one of ours.”

“One of ours?”

“A Russian submarine, sir, from 1941.”

“I see… Then it is good that we did not fire on that boat.”

“Right, sir. I just wonder if they might have spotted us before our helo chased them away.”

“If they did, then they would also assume we were a big German ship, yes?”

“Most likely, sir.”

“Then I think we have no worries there. That contact was not close enough to learn much about us, or see the ship clearly. I don’t think we need to worry that Papa Stalin knows about us. What would he do about it anyway?”

As they made these deductions, Rodenko was recording signal return characteristics of each contact, and trying to build a library file on them. The Admiral watched the range close between Kirov and this contact for some time, considering moving further west, but not wanting to get his ship boxed in against the coast of Greenland. He concluded that he could probably break free into the North Atlantic south of Greenland well before these British ships could possibly come within firing range, which suited him well enough.

He had time to get down to sick bay and see the doctor before returning to brief Karpov and leave him with instructions indicating his intentions for the next day. The Admiral wanted to run south by southwest for the warmer green waters of the Atlantic. He roused himself to go but, as he slipped off his chair, he felt a queasy dizziness, uncommon for man with sea legs of stone over all these thirty years.

“I must be getting old,” he said to Orlov. Then the entire bridge seemed to roll in his vision, spinning wildly. He swayed, instinctively reaching for the arm of his command chair to try and steady himself. Orlov saw him losing his balance, and ran quickly to his side.

“Are you all right, Admiral?” The Chief took his arm, helping to steady him, but could see a glazed look in Volsky’s eyes, which seemed to jerk this way and that, unable to focus. Then the Admiral started to fall.

Orlov shouted, and two Yeomen ran quickly to render assistance. “Call the doctor,” said Orlov. “Better yet, go and fetch a stretcher and we will take him to sick bay ourselves.”

Volsky’s eyes were open, yet he said nothing, clearly distressed by a severe attack of what seemed like vertigo. The lights above him, the milky green glow of the radar and combat stations, all blended with the faces of the men as they leaned over him, and he closed his eyes to fight off the nausea. At that moment the quiet fear he had dredged up earlier returned to harry him again. What if something had changed? The sharp bow of his ship had been knifing through the history for days now, shredding one seemingly unalterable fact after another. What if the future had changed enough to touch his own life? What was happening to him?

Orlov was up at the ship’s intercom as four men arrived with a stretcher and began to take the Admiral below. “Captain Karpov to the bridge please. I repeat, Captain Karpov to the bridge.” Then he turned to Rodenko. “You have the bridge, Mister Rodenko. The Captain will be here in a moment. I’m going below with the Admiral.”

He followed after the men as they worked their way through the rear hatch to the bridge, down the long narrow gangway, and struggled to carry the heavy man through a floor hatch and down a steep ladder to the decks below. Along the way, curious crewman looked on with concern and anxiety apparent in their eyes. Orlov waved them aside, yelling at them to return to their posts and mind their own affairs, which of course did nothing to improve the situation. Yet Orlov knew only one way in dealing with the men, a strong hand and a hot temper.

When Captain Karpov heard the intercom message, he was just finishing up a breakfast in the officer’s mess of boiled eggs, fresh dark bread with tvorog, a soft curd cheese, and strong hot tea. He passed on the unusual serving of Sirniki, a pan fried dough offering with cheddar cheese, milk and sugar. Someone was making sure the officers had a few comfort foods on the menu given the trying circumstances of the last days. Perhaps he would catch a good blini with sour cream and jam later, but for now he was still musing over the information he had read in Fedorov’s book.

Now he understood fully the scope and nature of the events surrounding this week in the history of the war. He made careful note of the dispositions of ships prior to this day, thought at length about this Atlantic Charter, an event of enormous significance that was now no more than a three day cruise to the South. The British prime minister, the American president, and the chief officers of all three services on both sides would be present. It was an opportunity that would seldom ever present itself to a military commander, a gathering of crows he might fell with one well placed shot. Yet how could he convince the Admiral to take the necessary action and use the power at his disposal in a decisive way?

Now he hurried to the bridge, brushing past curious crewman who wondered what was happening as he went. When he reached the forward bridge citadel a mishman announced his arrival.

“Captain on the bridge!”

“As you were.” He immediately saw that Orlov was gone, and his eyes went to the next senior officer. “What is our status Mister Rodenko?” The Captain wasted little time, walking immediately to Rodenko’s radar station to check on developments.

“The Admiral was taken ill, sir. Chief Orlov has gone below.” He continued briefing the Captain as to the status of the contacts he had been tracking both to the north and east of them now. Karpov was not happy to hear of this new surface contact, particularly when he saw that it was already inside the 200 mile range circle, and still closing on his ship.

“What are those ships?”

“They have been identified as British battleships,” said Rodenko. “Fedorov can tell you more, sir”

“Mister Fedorov?”

“Battleship King George V, and battlecruiser Repulse, sir. We had a look at them with a KA-40 on infrared last night. I recognized the silhouettes. Those contacts to the northwest are two heavy cruisers, and behind us, the shadowing force built around those British carriers is still following, but there has been no air activity, sir.”

“I can’t believe the Admiral allowed these heavy ships to come so close! What is the range of the guns on those battleships?”

“Sir? No more than 30,000 yards. Perhaps twenty-eight kilometers at best. They are well over 160 kilometers away now, and pose no threat. I believe the Admiral’s intention was to—”

“Thank you Mister Fedorov, you need not inform me of the Admiral’s intentions. I will discuss the matter with him myself.”

Karpov reached up adjusting the fit of his black sheep’s wool Ushanka, and slowly walked to the command chair to seat himself. It promised to be another cold day, and he had on a warm, black leather jacket as well. His eyes narrowed with thought. It was just as the Admiral had warned him. These British were like a dogs after a cat. They were vectoring in ships from three compass headings now, and these two battleships were maneuvering to block their path to the south. What was marshalling beyond the range of Kirov’s sensors?

“Fedorov. This other battleship, the Prince, where would it be located now?

“You mean Prince Of Wales, sir? That ship was scheduled to leave Scapa Flow on August 5th, tomorrow, sir. She was due to arrive in Newfoundland on the 9th, and considering that the British would most likely route her to the south, she will probably be somewhere off the north coast of Ireland tomorrow.” Somehow the question made Fedorov just a little uneasy. That was the ship carrying Churchill. Why was the Captain asking about it? In fact, how did he even know about it? He was fairly certain Karpov knew little or nothing about the composition of the Royal Navy at this time.

Karpov rubbed his chin, thinking. “Somewhere off the coast of Ireland,” he said aloud, “and carrying that grumpy old bulldog Churchill.”

“Sir?”

“Never mind, Fedorov.” Karpov chided himself for voicing his thoughts, yet the situation was very interesting. All he had to do was come around to a heading of one-three-five and he would very likely find the ship without much difficulty.

“What is our present heading?”

“Sir, the ship is presently steering 202 degrees, south by southwest. Speed 25 knots.”

He thought about the prospect for a time, but discarded the option. It would mean deviating from the course the Admiral had set, and he already knew where this ship was heading in any case.

At that moment Orlov returned, his eyes wide, a little breathless after having climbed up from the lower decks again. He immediately noticed Karpov.

“Good morning, Captain. I must report that the Admiral is indisposed.” He raised his eyebrows, giving Karpov a knowing look. “He was taken with a bad fit of vertigo, and Doctor Zolkin has decided he must sleep. He has given the Admiral a sedative and is keeping him under observation in the sick bay until further notice. It appears you have the con, sir.” He smiled.

“Very well,” said Karpov. “I’m assuming full command of the vessel until such time as the Doctor recertifies Admiral Volsky as fit for duty.” He made the statement loud enough for every man on the bridge to hear, settling comfortably into the command chair with Orlov at his side. Then to Orlov he said in a lower voice: “What do you make of these British battleships creeping up on us like this?”

“I don’t like it, sir,” said Orlov. “I believe the Admiral thought to simply run past them to the south. Fedorov doesn’t think they can catch us or get within range. But we should maintain good speed.”

Fedorov looked over his shoulder warily at the Captain, a worried look on his face. He had assured Admiral Volsky that if they kept on this heading they would be able to outmaneuver the British battleships when they cleared the Cape of Greenland, keeping well outside their firing range.

“Yes, they are dangerously close even now, in my opinion. And look at these other contacts to the northeast. The British persist, they will have to be taught a lesson. We are not to be trifled with.”

Chapter 21

“Con, radar airborne contact bearing twenty-two degrees northeast. I read three, now six contacts dispersing on a line approximately 170 kilometers north of us, incoming at speed 180kph.”

The Captain leaned on the arm of his chair, swiveling toward Rodenko as he did so. “Well, well, well,“ he said. “It appears the British did not pay attention in class yesterday. We may have to repeat the lesson, yes?”

“But only six planes,” said Orlov. “Nothing to really worry about.”

“Who knows what is behind those six?” said Karpov. “I will tell you one thing, there is a carrier behind them. Two carriers, am I not correct, Mister Fedorov?”

“Yes sir,” said the navigator. “We believe Victorious and Furious are still in that task force shadowing us.”

“Very well. Those ships could have taken on fresh squadrons from Iceland by now. Mister Orlov, bring the ship to condition three readiness. Speed 30 knots.”

“Aye sir.” Orlov went to a panel and sounded the alert, sending the crew to condition three, one state below full battle readiness. “The ship is at 30 knots,” he confirmed.

“But sir,” said Fedorov, “those are most likely radar pickets. There were no torpedo strike aircraft on Iceland. We’ve been jamming their radars and they are probably trying to get a wide-angle look at us on a broader front. We decimated their strike planes yesterday. Those are probably nothing more than Fulmar fighters equipped with type 279 radar. Rodenko has recalibrated his equipment and—”

“Thank you, Mister Fedorov,” said Karpov, a touch of annoyance in his voice. “Yet I read in your own book that the Americans delivered a squadron of P-40 fighters to Iceland, yes?”

“Correct, sir, but those planes have not even arrived yet—” Fedorov suddenly realized what the Captain had said. “Which book are you referring to, sir?”

“Your Chronology of the War at Sea. The Admiral was good enough to share it with me, even if you were not.” Karpov covered his tracks a bit with the easy lie, though he realized he might be making a mistake here. He decided to sound out the young Lieutenant a bit and see if he could be useful.

“What do you think about this secret meeting at sea, Fedorov, this Atlantic Charter?”

“I’m not sure what you’re asking me, sir.”

“Don’t be stupid, Fedorov. Don’t you see a fish on the hook when it’s right in front of you? This is an opportunity, is it not?”

“An opportunity for what, sir?”

“You heard the Admiral earlier. These men gathering for this meeting, they are the chief officers and leaders of the entire allied war effort. Think of it, Fedorov, what would have happened if the Germans rolled into Moscow and found old Stalin napping with all his major generals and field marshals as well? Wouldn’t that have been a prize?”

“I suppose it would, sir.”

“Then this situation is very interesting, yes?” The Captain glanced at Orlov as well. “ I think this is what the Admiral has been stewing about, what to do about it.” He looked at Fedorov again. “What would you do about it, Lieutenant?”

Fedorov hesitated, nodding his head to one side. “Well… I’m not sure what the Admiral is considering, sir, but I would steer well clear of this area, and get safely out into the Atlantic.”

Karpov raised his brows, eyes narrowing. It was what he expected. Fedorov had no stomach for the business at hand. He was another weak sister, just like Zolkin. His fawning over the Admiral was nothing to worry about, but he decided to press the Lieutenant further.

“You would go out into the Atlantic? Why, Fedorov?”

Fedorov was beginning to feel a bit manipulated. He had learned enough about Karpov to be very wary of the man, and he wondered why he would ask him these questions when all he had ever received from the Captain before was a veiled disdain.

“This is a dangerous situation, sir,” Fedorov began. “With the President and Prime Minister at sea, the Americans and British will be very wary until they are both safely at their destinations. They already know about us—or at least they think that the Germans have another raider running the Denmark Strait, and that means they will be doubly on guard now. They know we are not the Tirpitz if they’ve bothered to check their intelligence and overfly Kiel. In that instance they know we are not Admiral Sheer as well. But they are coming, sir, with everything they can make seaworthy. This is the worst possible time for a German raider to appear. If we turned east soon we might not seem so threatening, particularly if we vanish. They can’t spot us on radar now, not with Rodenko jamming them. They’ve managed to keep a hold on us because we’ve kept to this heading. They can calculate our farthest on based on our estimated speed, so they assume we must still be in this narrow channel. But I would turn east, and soon, to throw them off the scent and get well out into the Atlantic.”

“And if we persist on this heading?”

“Then we may have more trouble than we need, sir. The Americans are out there too, and in force. They have three battleships, at least seven cruisers, twice that in destroyers, and an aircraft carrier in their Atlantic Fleet at the moment, and all these ships are presently at sea, gathering for this conference, and for the second relief convoy bound for Iceland—that’s the one delivering those planes you mentioned, sir.”

Karpov considered all this, remembering what he had read in Fedorov’s book. The navigator had one thing correct, the situation ahead of them was, indeed, very dangerous. Ships were gathering from all compass headings, and all bound for this one place.

“These American ships, would they attack us?”

“I believe so, sir. The King doctrine is now in effect. The American Navy has authorization to engage any perceived threat, U-boat or surface raider, within a hundred miles of their ships.”

“I see… and where is this meeting to be held, Fedorov?”

“Argentia, Bay, sir, on the south cape of Newfoundland. We should get well away from this area, unless we want to end up fighting the whole Atlantic Fleet along with the British. The situation is very dangerous,” he repeated.

“This is a war, Fedorov, or haven’t you noticed. The British nearly put a torpedo into us not too long ago. That won’t happen again, but the point is, they have already decided the matter, haven’t they? Unless we run out into the Atlantic and hide, as you suggest, we’re going to run into these ships on this heading.”

“It’s not just that, sir,” said Fedorov, his eyes troubled now, and somewhat anxious. When he spoke of the Royal Navy, quoting the names of ships, talking about their speed and guns, he was completely in his element, a master of the information he was relating. But now he seemed to be feeling his way forward, unsure of what he was saying.

“We could change things…” he hesitated, then tried to finish his thought. “It’s like the Doctor said earlier, sir. Every plane we shoot down has a pilot and every ship we engage has a crew. These are not great men, I suppose. They are just like us, enlisted men and officers out to do their duty as best they can. But those that survive this war may have children, and that goes on into the future, all the way to our day and beyond. I can’t tell you that any of them might matter in our world, but some might. Everything we do here is having some effect on that history, and we cannot know what the outcome might be. As for Churchill and Roosevelt—these are great men; this we know. And should anything happen to them….” He did not quite know how to finish.

Karpov was somewhat surprised. Fedorov had been thinking about this from more than one angle, he realized. He was considering possible consequences of their actions here, worried about the future he knew, the history of all the days from this day forward to the year 2021, and then all the unknown days that might lay ahead. This was what he was most worried about, his precious history. Kirov could render all his books invalid in one mighty blow. Didn’t the Lieutenant see that? Yes, he did see that, but instead of seeing opportunity here, he wallowed in fear. Fedorov was afraid, that was all. Every man had something to anchor him in this world of uncertainty. For Fedorov it was his history books. He found his comfort in the stolid, unchanging facts there, and now things were changing, spinning wildly off in a new direction, becoming something altogether new, and Fedorov was afraid of it.

“You worry too much, Fedorov. Did it ever occur to you that we could become great men too?” Karpov looked at his navigator with the question. “Did it ever occur to you that this ship is here for a reason? You don’t want your history bothered, yes, I understand this. But to quote Dostoevsky: ‘Do you expect me to ‘accept fate obediently as it is, once and for all, and stifle everything in myself?’ A man must be ready to act, not just sit meekly and accept his fate like so many do back home. After all… Men are men, and not piano keys. Yes, I have read some books too, Mister Fedorov. I too, studied at the university. Don’t look so surprised.”

A silence intervened, and then Fedorov said: “Yes sir, you are correct. I am worried about the history—very much so. It was a long dark road we walked after this war, through Stalin, Khrushchev, and Brezhnev. They were men too, some say great men, yet I do not think you will find very many back home too eager to see such men back in power again. There were times when our nation strayed very close to annihilation under their leadership. And if what you say is true, and we are here for some reason, I can only hope it may be achieved without walking in the their shadow.”

“How long do we blame Stalin, Khrushchev and Brezhnev for our woes, Fedorov? One day we must come to blame ourselves for what we have become. It has been a long time since the old Soviet system collapsed. What we’ve made of the country since then has been none of Brezhnev’s doing. But the Americans and British? Yes, they’ve made our lives a living hell, have they not? So I choose to blame them for the moment.”

“I do not say this is entirely Russia’s fault, sir. Your points at the briefing were heard by all of us. Yes, we are here, and we must do something. That is agreed. I was only suggesting that you should consult with the Admiral, sir, and—”

“That is none of your concern, Fedorov. And this discussion is pointless. Attend to your charts now.” Karpov had learned all he needed to know from the Navigator. He gave him a stern look. “You have become just a bit too brash, Fedorov. Watch your mouth, eh? Just because we both have one stripe and one star on our cuff does not mean that you have license here.” He pointed to the floor of the bridge.

The cuff insignia for a junior Lieutenant and a Captain of the First Rank did indeed look very similar, only the thickness of the stripe differentiated them, Karpov’s being twice the width. “If you ever do want to thicken up that stripe on your cuff, Lieutenant, then you had better thicken up your skin first. Now busy yourself and plot me a heading to this anchorage at Newfoundland, and let me worry about the British and Americans.”

“To Argentia Bay, sir?”

“Correct.”

Fedorov knew exactly what was on the Captain’s mind now, and he wisely said nothing more, his eyes worried as he bent to his navigation to plug in some numbers on the long range weather radar screen.

The Captain settled into his chair, flashing a grin at his Chief of the boat. “Listen, Orlov,” he said quietly. “We have business here, and a chance to make some rather interesting decisions. The Americans and British want to have this secret little meeting, but they don’t invite their newfound friends in Russia. They will plot how best to lay down the law after this war, and leave us out of it. All we are supposed to do is bleed away the lives of ten million or more and defeat Germany for them while they pay us off with a few trucks, spam, and powdered eggs in their Lend-Lease program. Does that sound fair to you?”

Orlov smiled. “Not at all, Captain.”

“Then perhaps we can get a better deal for Russia if we pay a little visit to this secret hideaway in Newfoundland. Before we do so, however, we will need to watch our backs. I cannot have these British battleships creeping up on us, nor will I tolerate the continued harassment of these carriers. I want to put unholy fear into the British before we sit at the negotiating table.” He planted his finger firmly on the arm of his chair. “Then we deal from a position of strength,” he said emphatically.

Orlov nodded, casting a glance at the other crewmen on the bridge. “Yet we should be a little careful, sir,” he advised. “Fedorov has a point. Perhaps you should discuss this with Volsky.”

“Careful? Volsky is sedated; asleep. Who knows how long he will be under? So the matter is for us to decide, you and I. We are the senior officers in command now. Yes, we must by cautious, yet firm,” Karpov agreed. “But I’ll be damned if we’ll turn tail and run out into the Atlantic as our young Navigator suggests.”

He lowered his voice further so that only Orlov could hear him. “Listen to me, Orlov… We’re never going to see the future we shape with our actions here. How do we get back there? So we will never know what the consequences of our actions will be, nor will anyone else alive today. We can guess, conjecture, have long discussions with Mister Fedorov about it, but in the end, this is our reality now and we had better get used to the fact that this is the world we’re living in, as impossible as it seems. At this moment, that world is tearing itself apart with this war. There will be winners, and there will be losers. That is the case in every game, yes? I intend to be one of the winners, and with this ship we can make sure that happens, and make certain that we do not become one of the scraps the Allies fight over when they finally do defeat Germany and Japan.”

Orlov nodded, but remembered something the Captain himself had argued at the first briefing. “You see a couple of heads of cabbage on the cutting board and you want to chop it while you can.” Orlov was thinking in terms of profit or loss here. There was no mistaking who’s heads were on the cutting board. He knew the Captain was talking about Churchill and Roosevelt now.

“Look, you said it yourself, Karpov. The British and Americans win this war. Russia too! So what are you going to do, attack them? Then who’s side are we on? And why should they deal with us further?”

In the tough world of the Russian criminal underground Orlov had come from, one had to pick his friends and enemies very carefully. “Everybody serves a boss,” he continued. “Which side will we be on in a few years if we sink half the British and American navies? You don’t hit somebody in the face unless he disagrees with you. The same goes here. Talk first, and if no one listens, then take stronger measures.”

“Look, we didn’t throw the first punch, Orlov.” The Captain handed him back his own image. “You saw what those planes were up to. What? Was I suppose to sit here negotiating on the radio while those torpedo planes came in on us?”

“Of course not, but this business…this secret meeting. I think this is something different. If you sail down there we’re bound to run into all these ships Fedorov is talking about. Then what?”

“We don’t have to get too close,” Karpov whispered. “What is the range of our cruise missiles? Well over 300 kilometers.” He answered his own question. “We’ve got the weapons, and I intend to use them to best effect.”

“Every weapon, Captain?” Orlov had a serious look on his face, realizing what Karpov was saying now.

“When necessary,” said Karpov. “But for now, let us settle the matter at hand and deal with the Royal Navy. If we stay on this course we’ll need to discourage further pursuit. Remember, this is the course the Admiral has set for the ship. It’s his responsibility. All I am doing is making sure we get there in one piece. Are you with me?”

Orlov hesitated, ever so slightly. He noticed how Karpov talked about great men out of one side of his mouth, and then how he foisted off responsibility for his actions on the Admiral out of the other side. It was not that he didn’t agree with Karpov. If it were up to him he’d stick a fat fist in anyone’s face he disagreed with. Yet there were limits, he thought. How far was the Captain willing to go?

“Very well,” he said at last. “But just remember, Captain. You must eat the porridge you cook. And not just you. There are over seven hundred men on this ship.”