Cauldron of Fire

Chapter 31

There was one more attack just before dawn out of Gibraltar. A well coordinated strike from both land based aircraft and the remaining strike aircraft from Force Z’s Carriers. As before, the planes and pilots were gallant, but they were seen from the every moment they took off and assumed their formations to begin their approach, and they were targeted by Kirov’s deadly SAM systems long before they could pose any threat. Yet it cost them another eighteen Klinok missiles before Rodenko reported the remaining flights were breaking off and turning away. They had already expended twenty-four Klinoks earlier that morning to repel the first carrier strike.

“What is our magazine still holding?” Fedorov asked, concerned.

Samsonov took note, a look on his face like a poker player who was slowly watching his chips diminishing as he pushed one stack after another out onto the table, winning hand after hand, but getting nothing in return. “Sir,” he began, “this last action has reduced our Klinok SAM inventory to thirty-seven missiles, and we still have thirty-five S-300s remaining—seventy-two total SAMs.”

“What about our primaries?”

“Nine missiles each on the Moskit-II system and MOS-III Starfires. Eight P-900 cruise missiles remaining.”

That was now a matter of some concern. He looked at Karpov, his eyes clearly carrying the message he was trying to convey. “Twenty six missiles,” he said slowly. “That’s all we have left in the way of anything that can seriously damage a ship. When they are gone this invincible battlecruiser becomes a big, fast anti-aircraft cruiser, and little more. When the SAMs are expended, then we have only the Gatling Guns remaining against air strikes, and when they run out of ammunition, we will be more vulnerable to enemy air attacks than a tramp steamer. I note from Rodenko’s screen that we did not sink either of the two British battleships, though we undoubtedly hurt them badly. Force Z will still be behind us now, though I would think they would be more than cautious about engaging us again, even if they could. That said, they will soon be reinforced by Admiral Burrough’s detachment, Force X. He was escorting the surviving merchant ships on their final leg to Malta, and his force took some significant damage, but he will have destroyers to reinforce Force Z and a couple of damaged cruisers, Nigeria and Kenya. My guess is that they will reform as one new task force to block the route east again if the Straits of Gibraltar prove a major obstacle for us. They will put out the fires on those battleships and still be a dangerous force coming up on us from behind.”

“Not if we race for the straits now,” said Karpov. “What else might they throw at us? Are there more ships at Gibraltar?”

“I cannot be certain,” said Fedorov. “The reference material I have is not comprehensive, and things are already in a jumble. Destroyers have been shuffled about from one task force to another and the history is starting to look like well stirred cream in a cup of hot tea—hard to see my tea leaves now. I think we are fortunate that they dispatched so many ships east to support Operation Pedestal, but anything they do have in Gibraltar will be deployed to block the straits. Given the situation with our missile inventory, we must be very judicious in how we employ them.”

“Will there be large capital ships?”

“No, I think we can safely rule that out.”

“Then the deck guns should be sufficient. Our rate of fire and accuracy is so superior that we can handle their destroyers and cruisers easily enough, and our ammunition there is still solid, is it not Samsonov?”

“Sir, we have expended a total of 434 of 3000 rounds on the 152mm batteries.”

“Good. That leaves us well over 2500 rounds. I have a suggestion, Fedorov. What about the KA-40? We could send it ahead to survey the area and report back. With its jammers they will not be able to see it on radar, and it can defend itself from anything that might happen to spot or attack it. In fact, it can even drop a few sonobuoys to see if any more submarines have been deployed in the straits. This way we will know what cards the enemy is holding and can make better tactical decisions on how to best employ our remaining weapon systems.”

Fedorov thought for a moment. “This is our last helo,” he said. “Yet I suppose it does us no good to leave it sitting in the hanger as though it were already gone. Alright, Karpov, we’ll risk it. We certainly have plenty of aviation fuel left for it with the other two helicopters gone. You can make the arrangements. I must go and inform Admiral Volsky of our situation and see if he has any orders for us. The next stage is crucial and I want to keep him in the soup.”

“Certainly, Fedorov. Certainly.” Karpov nodded, but inwardly wished they could handle the matter themselves. Volsky was an experienced and wise commander, but Karpov thought the Admiral was too cautious, and believed himself to be the superior tactician. Thus far they had come over a thousand miles through hostile seas and the ship had been fought well. He was proud of himself, and confident they could complete the last leg of their marathon and get safely out into the Atlantic.

Two messages were to change all that. The first was from damage control Chief Byko, calling on the ship’s comm-system to report a matter of some concern. He had been below decks in the aft of the ship where those two near misses had fallen close off the stern. Now he reported that they were taking seawater below decks near the vital machinery that would run the ship’s drive shafts.

“It is a slow leak, sir. Nothing the pumps cannot handle for the moment, but it could get worse, particularly as we continue to run the engines near full like this. If you could give me some time, a few hours, I might get a better look at the damage. I can’t get men in there when the ship is at thirty knots.”

This weighed heavily on Fedorov. They could not afford to lose the great advantage of speed. Still wary of Force Z at his back, he told Byko that they would have to maintain this speed for another two hours, but when they had put more distance between the ship and their pursuers, he would cut power to any speed he advised. As long as Rodenko could still see the enemy behind them, they could take any action necessary before a threat closed the range. This was the one great advantage Kirov still had at her disposal. She could both see and fight her enemies at very long rage range, like an aircraft carrier might do in WWII. Her only problem was that when she sent out her missiles to attack, they never returned.

That matter settled, he was about to exit the bridge when the second message came in, this time from Nikolin at communications. The young Lieutenant was sitting at his station, weary, but dutiful nonetheless as he waited for his shift to end. Then he heard something odd in his headset, and it drew his attention, a steady beeping which he soon realized was old Morse code. At first he thought to ignore it as simple signals traffic from the many ships and bases in the region around them. But being curious, he decided to listen in. The message seemed to be repeating itself, over and over. He began to decode it, writing the letters down on a note pad he had been doodling on, but it made no sense when he assumed the language was English. Perhaps it was being sent by a Spanish operator, or even French. Then something in his innately Russian head heard a Russian Morse code, with its unique melodies that would be used to convey their special alphabet. He immediately began to make sense of the signal, writing the letters down in large capital letters. The signal faded slightly, but repeated. Dash—dash—dash… dot—dash—dot—dot… He had written that last set of letters below the first, and then put them together, staring at them, quite surprised: НИКОЛИН. It repeated three times, and two short words followed.

“Captain…” he said tentatively. “I have just received an odd message.” Both Fedorov and Karpov turned, waiting.

“Well don’t just sit there with that stupid look on your face, Nikolin,” said Karpov. “What is it?”

“Well sir…It’s in Morse code and I’ve written down the letters, but it’s Russian Morse, sir, and look what they spell!”

Karpov walked over to his station, somewhat annoyed, but when he looked at what Nikolin had written he turned for Fedorov, clearly bothered by what he had seen.

Half way out the aft hatch Fedorov waited. “Well, what is it?”

“My name,” said Nikolin. It repeats three times and then sends two more words: ‘you lose.’ It repeated three times, sir. Then I lost the signal.”

“Russian Morse code? Your name?”

“My surname, sir—Nikolin. Everyone calls me that. No one ever uses my given name. But sir…” he bit his lip, and then launched his missile. “I was playing cards with Orlov below decks on my last leave after dining yesterday. I thought I had a winning hand, sir, two pair, but then Orlov drew one last card and…Well, that was all he said to me: Nikolin, Nikolin, Nikolin—you lose. Then he laid down his cards and there were five spades…”

An hour later both Fedorov and Karpov were with Volsky in the sick bay, their faces grim and worried.

“I thought I had a headache before,” said Volsky. “Then the missiles and gunfire started again. Now this! Why didn’t you report this Orlov business to me earlier?”

“I’m sorry, Admiral,” Doctor Zolkin spoke up. “That was my doing. Fedorov gave me the news while you were sleeping. I thought it could wait.”

“Then what does this mean? Orlov is alive? Nikolin believes that he sent this Morse code?”

“He does, sir,” said Karpov. “And I tell you it would be just like Orlov to do such a thing. He must have bailed out before we targeted the KA-226, and now he’s goading us. We got the helicopter, so you have nothing to worry about on that account.”

“Yes, we got the helicopter, now all I have to worry about is Orlov! The man may not be a historian like Mister Fedorov here, but he knows enough to cause real problems if he opens his mouth.”

“Who would believe anything he said? Besides that, he’s in Spain, and speaks only Russian. No one could even understand him. Yes, he’ll cause a little trouble. He’ll need food, and money, and he’ll have to find new clothes. So he may hurt a few people until he gets what he wants, and then he’s more than likely to just get himself drunk in a bar, and attract the attention of the local authorities. They’ll arrest him and he’ll be detained for the duration of the war. Perhaps it will do him some good.”

“We might hope so,” said Volsky, “but I have read the file on this man when I took command of the ship. He was mixed up with some very shady characters before he came to the navy. He is cagy, and ruthless. Look how he planned his escape. We may have much more to fear in this situation than we realize. It would not be surprised if he evaded capture, and then what might he do? I can tell you one thing. He will not stay in Spain. He will try to make his way to Russia if he can, and then we get real trouble.”

“He’s a long way from Russia, through a lot of enemy occupied countries.”

“Even if he is captured and detained, what happens after the war ends and they release him?”

Karpov frowned. “We just sent the last KA-40 out an hour ago to scout the straits. It’s due back soon, and we could send a detachment of Marines to look for Orlov. Send Troyak after him. He’ll get the job done.”

“That may not be as easy as it first sounds,” said Fedorov. “Where would they look? Orlov could be anywhere along that coast east of Cartagena now, or well inland if he made it to shore. The signal we received was too brief to get a fix on his location. Finding him may be impossible. It is not like we can simply send Troyak over to make discrete inquiries. None of the Marines speak the language either, and for that matter that whole scenario is simply not practical. I had a bad feeling about this the moment we fired those S-300s. This may have implications we can scarcely imagine now.”

Admiral Volsky shook his head. “I have the same feeling. The man will cause nothing but misery and trouble. Perhaps there is nothing we can do about it beyond hoping that his bad temperament gets him jailed as Karpov suggests, or even killed. I know that is a hard thing to say or wish on one of our own, but there is little more we can do now.”

He looked at them, a weariness in his eyes. “Now for the rest of your bad news. What does Byko say?”

“Flooding below the waterline near the propulsion shafts.” Fedorov was blunt and to the point. “He wants us to reduce revolutions so he can get men inside near the shafts, and put out divers to seal the leak on the hull again. It must have been splinter and concussion damage from those near misses. It aggravated the initial damage there when the helicopter was jettisoned.”

“Can we make these repairs safely?”

“We have been running at thirty knots since midnight. In that time we fought our battle and moved well west. We are now ninety nautical miles from the Straits of Gibraltar. Force Z is sixty nautical miles southeast of our present position, and making fifteen knots in a slow circle. They are gathering all their remaining ships and covering the carriers. Even if they turned to try and engage us again, that gives us at least three hours for Byko to get men in the water and effect repairs before we would have to move again…Unless they release their cruisers and destroyers to pursue us.”

“If they head in our direction we can discourage them at long range if need be,” said Karpov. “Remember, our deck guns can range out to 50,000 meters if need be with radar guided round tracking. That long range ammunition is very limited, but we have a couple hundred rounds in the magazines.”

“Very well,” said Volsky. “Tell Byko to get started.”

“His men should be in the water in ten minutes, sir.”

“And what does our helicopter report? We must have received telemetry by now.”

Karpov looked at Fedorov, clearly uneasy. Then the young Captain spoke up, his manner somewhat discouraged, and almost apologetic. He had been surprised by the Italian battleships earlier, but this was an even harder blow.

“I’m afraid we have more trouble ahead than we do behind us. Our KA-40 had a good look west of Gibraltar and reports another large British fleet at sea off Lagos, Portugal, and moving south at about twenty-five knots.”

“I would like to think that is just another convoy heading for Gibraltar,” said Volsky, “but not at that speed.”

“True, sir.” Fedorov was looking at his shoes, clearly bothered.

“Then this is a battle fleet?”

“We spotted four capital ships in a long battle line, a carrier, at least four cruisers and a handful of destroyers. It can only be Home Fleet, sir. How they could have learned of us and moved south so quickly is amazing.”

“But they did,” said Volsky, his eyes dark with concern. “So now it is our turn to be astounded by the sudden appearance of an unexpected enemy at sea. Lagos… How far away are they?”

“Some 200 miles, sir. If they keep to their present course and speed they would arrive at the western approaches to the straits in another eight hours, right around 16:00.”

“We are ninety miles from Gibraltar now. Yes? Then let me do some mathematics. If we give Byko two hours, and can then run again at thirty knots for three more, it will take us five hours to reach the eastern approaches to these straits. That is a slim margin to slip through. I imagine we may have minefields to contend with?”

“Very likely, sir.”

“We used the UDAV-2 missile system to blast our way through at Bonifacio,” Karpov put in quickly.

“Yes, and that was very clever, Captain, but how long did it take you to transit the strait?”

“Two hours,” said Fedorov.

“Two, plus three, plus two makes seven. If this British Fleet hurries they can probably trim another hour’s sailing time from their run as well. Gentlemen, the numbers do not add up very favorably.” The admiral was not happy.

“Our choices are clear,” said Karpov. “We must now decide whether to forego these repairs Byko wishes to make, and run for the straits at once, or to wait and risk another major battle if we are late.”

“You say four capital ships, Fedorov?”

“Yes, sir. Probably all four King George V class battleships. We fought the first two earlier in the Atlantic and, though we damaged them, it took three hits to force Prince of Wales to drop out of their battle line, and all from our best missile, the Moskit-IIs.”

“Yes, I have been listening to them launch all night. I lost count. How many are left?”

“Nine, sir.”

“And another nine Mos-IIIs, with eight more P-900 cruise missiles,” said Karpov. “It is enough, sir. I can get us through.”

“Who is commanding this British fleet?” The Admiral looked to Fedorov now.

“We cannot know for certain, sir, but my best estimate would be the fleet commander himself, Admiral John Tovey.”

“What kind of man is he?”

“Experienced, highly disciplined, an excellent military planner, well respected by his peers and all who serve under him. He can be a single minded and determined foe, sir. His pursuit of the Bismarck was typical of his style at sea.”

“This is the same man we encountered earlier?”

“Yes, sir. After the Captain struck him at range, he fell off, linked up with additional forces, called for the support of Force H, and then continued his pursuit.”

“You fought this man, Mister Karpov. What is your military opinion?”

“He was determined, that much is clear. But outmatched, sir. Kirov can do the job, I assure you.”

“Oh? Then why did you have to resort to tactical nuclear weapons?”

Karpov was silent. “I have answered this, Admiral. In my mind I saw no reason why the ship should not use the full measure of our real power.”

“Yet I have spoken with the other officers on the bridge that day, and they tell me the tactical situation was not favorable. We were confronted by four separate task forces, and to engage them all would have most likely depleted our entire missile inventory.”

“Which is why I elected to let one missile do the work of many.”

“Yes, we noticed,” said Zolkin.

“I am well aware of your opinion in the matter, Doctor,” Karpov said sharply.

“There is no need to go over all that again,” said Volsky. “What was done, was done. Karpov knows what he did, and why. He has asked to serve and redeem himself, and he has done that.”

Karpov raised his chin, sniffing. “Thank you, Admiral. While I believe I can win the battle with our conventional weapons, it is also my duty to state that we still have our nuclear option should it become necessary.”

“I am well aware of that, Mister Karpov, but this consideration is a cold logic. It asks me to trade the ammunition we save for the lives of hundreds, perhaps thousands of men. Believe me, I do not relish that thought. What I wish to know now is how this Admiral Tovey will fight us if it comes to that?”

“He will be a tenacious and dangerous opponent in battle sir. If you want my opinion he will not like his tactical situation at dusk this evening , and may wish to wait and fight his battle tomorrow. We will be arriving near sunset, and his ships will all be starkly silhouetted by the sun.”

“That makes no difference,” said Volsky. “We can see them as easily at midnight.”

“Yes, sir, but he does not know that. Remember that he will think tactically like a man of his era. If our striking power was as limited in range as his own, I do not think he would hesitate to close and engage. As it is, however, I believe he will have learned from his experience in the North Atlantic. He will think we fight more like an aircraft carrier than a battleship. He knows we are capable of scouting his forces out and striking at very long ranges, and this is, in fact, our great advantage. The key to battling a strong enemy carrier has always been air power, but our tremendous SAM defense has neutralized this option. Every time they throw an air strike at us it gets cut to pieces. If he uses his planes again, it will simply be to harass us, or distract us.”

“You agree, Karpov?”

“I do, sir. Their air power is not a concern for the moment. At least not in this engagement. We have enough missiles to keep it at bay and neutralize it.”

“Then how do you attack a strong carrier, Captain. One that can neutralize your air power?”

“Sir? You saturate it with missiles, a minimum eight, and preferably sixteen or more if you have them.”

“How could the British replicate such a tactic against us?”

“They would have to come at us with more targets than we can neutralize.” Karpov did not like the direction this was heading.

“Do they have enough planes to do this, Fedorov?”

“Probably forty to fifty at Gibraltar, perhaps twenty four on the carrier they have with them. We hurt the air squadrons in Force Z badly, but they could throw in another twenty or thirty aircraft as well, mostly fighters, but they can still carry bombs.”

“Mostly fighters….We have seen what just one of those did when it got in close. I have not forgotten why I have spent the last three days with Doctor Zolkin. That is enough planes to seriously deplete our remaining SAM inventory. I am not liking what I am hearing, gentlemen. Now, what about his surface ships? How will he fight?”

Fedorov spoke again. “After what happened to the Americans Admiral Tovey will also be wary of concentrating his force in any one central task force. For this reason I believe he will not enter the Straits of Gibraltar tonight, even if he does get there first. No, sir. He will wait for us in the western approaches, and he will disperse whatever force he has in a web there, which we will have to penetrate. Then, once we commit ourselves to a breakout heading, he will make one mad dash and engage us with everything he has—all his ships and every plane they can put into the air. His dilemma is how to close the range on us as quickly as possible so the fourteen inch guns on his battleships can have a chance at getting some hits. And it would only take one hit from a shell of that caliber to decisively shift the battle in his favor. Yet, there have been engagements where as many as a hundred rounds are fired with no hits obtained. Last night the darkness, their inability to use radar, and our tremendous speed helped us a great deal. That said, they put rounds so close to us that it damaged our aft hull. We have been lucky thus far against the Italians and Force Z.”

“Will we also have to also watch our back?”

“Force Z will certainly move up behind us and block the straits, particularly if we are engaged with the British Home Fleet.”

“Volsky took that in, his eyes distant, and focused on his inner muse. “Karpov?” he said at last.

“I agree with Fedorov’s assessment.”

“Then how will we proceed?”

“If they disperse their forces as Fedorov suggests, then we must pick one point in the line for our breakthrough, preferably at one of the extreme flanks. We will attack this point in his defense and neutralize it quickly. We do not have enough missiles left to engage all the battleships decisively at one time in this option. But we can hit one very hard, and then simply run through the gap at high speed. I suggest we focus on a route to the southwest, and hit them on their left flank.”

“How many missiles will it take us to do this?”

“We will target the most dangerous ship along our route of advance and use perhaps three missiles—five if necessary. If cruisers are deployed there, then a single missile should be sufficient to stop a ship in that class. For their destroyers, I will simply use the cannon.”

“Those tactics did not stop those other battleships in Force Z.”

“It slowed them down sufficiently to allow us to use our speed and break through, sir. It jarred them and limited their gunnery effort as well. We can fight this battle exactly as we did at Bonifacio or against this Force Z”

Volsky nodded. “Unless our luck finally runs out and we take a serious hit. What if this Admiral Tovey places his battleships close enough to one another for supporting fire? These big guns have a long range, correct Fedorov?”

“They do sir. With good light for sighting we can expect fire from as far away as 28,000 meters, even 32,000.”

“So even if we do saturate and neutralize one of these big ships the others may very well still have the range on us. This is not a very satisfactory situation, Karpov. And I must tell you that this business aft with Byko is most disturbing now. If our speed is affected…” He did not have to say anything more.

“I have another strategic option,” said Karpov. “And no, Doctor, it will not involve nuclear weapons.” He gave Zolkin a sidelong glance.

“Very well, let me hear it,” Volsky folded his arms, waiting.

“Fedorov’s remark about the night action is very true, sir. The darkness prevented their optical sighting and allowed us to use our speed to evade their gunnery efforts. If possible, it would be better to run the strait at night as well. We should not wait until dawn. Let Byko have all the time he needs to assure we’ll have no trouble with speed. Then move for Gibraltar so as to arrive there after sunset.”

“That will give us better odds, I suppose,” said Volsky. “But I am still not entirely convinced we can face four battleships and run through their defense without taking even one hit.”

“I was not finished, sir, begging your pardon, Admiral.”

“Continue, Mister Karpov.”

“We arrive after sunset, and if Fedorov is correct they will be deploying in the western approaches. We use the KA-40 to scout their position on the other side of the straits and feed us targeting information, and then we hit them with the cruise missiles before we even enter the straits. Fedorov suggested I begin the last engagement with a P-900 simply because it was slow, and he wanted them to see it coming. That was clever, because I believe this had a strong psychological impact on them. We must break their will as much as the steel in their ships. So consider this… Darkness falls. We linger near the eastern entrance to the strait and target two P-900s on each of the four battleships. The missiles make quite a shocking display at night. They will see them arc over the headlands, from a completely unseen enemy, and when they hit home it will shake their morale considerably. This Admiral Tovey will look at his well laid trap and see all four of his precious King class battleships on fire, and yet he will not have any inkling of where we are, and will be powerless to strike back at us.”

“They will see us firing the missiles from Gibraltar, and radio our position” said Fedorov.

“All the better. The fact remains that they will not be able to do anything about it. Not without entering the straits and coming for us. We will be well out of the range of his guns in that position.”

“Very dramatic,” said Volsky. He looked at Zolkin now and said: “I told you this man was one of the best tactical officers in the fleet, Doctor.”

“Yes,” said Zolkin. “He has the bravery of being out of range. It’s very comfortable—but just a little a bit devious at the same time.”

Karpov rolled his eyes, but was not willing to get into a missile war with Zolkin at the moment. “Consider it…Now the British have all four of their best ships hit and burning, and then we make our demand that they stand down or we will rain hell upon them. They will not know we are low on missiles. Tell them if they do not give way we will sink their ships before they ever lay eyes on us. We need never come within range of their guns, because they will be at the bottom of the sea before we transit the Strait of Gibraltar. If they do not yield, then we send over the Moskit-IIs, only this time there will be sufficient range to program them for a plunging attack angle. One on each battleship could have very good results.”

Volsky scratched his head, looking from one to the other, and then came to a conclusion. “Well here we are at the eleventh hour, gentlemen. I have heard your analysis, and yet there is one other weapon we have not discussed that we might try using here.”

“Sir? I thought you did not wish to consider our nuclear option.”

“Oh, I considered it, Mister Karpov, and I have discarded it. The weapon I am thinking of now is intelligence. We have looked at two options here. The first has considerable risk. We make a run at this man, give him a shove as we go and hope to slip by him in the dark. It might work if our luck holds out. Now you suggest that we punch this man in the face first, and then threaten him with further harm if he does not stand aside. Yes, it is a strong tactic. Something our old friend Orlov might do. But I will propose another solution. Suppose we talk to this man before we punch him in the nose, eh? I think he might be more inclined to hear us.”

“Negotiate first? Before we’ve shown him what we can do to him if he persists?”

“Exactly. Mister Karpov, I believe he has already seen what we are capable of—weeks ago in the North Atlantic. He already knows we can hurt him before he even catches a glimpse of us. This is why he will position his ships to be within range from the moment we first exit the strait. Yes, he knows how dangerous we are. He knows we can hurt him severely, and yet here he comes. That is a different sort of bravery, is it not.” He glanced at Zolkin.

The Admiral’s eyes gleamed with a sudden inner fire. “I want to talk to this man—face to face. I want to look him in the eye and see if we can reach an understanding before any more men or ships die—on either side.”

He smiled, looking at the Doctor. “Dmitri, it has been a wonderful stay, but now I feel sufficiently recovered to re-assume my duties. Mister Fedorov, Mister Karpov, you have served well. I commend you both, but as of this moment I am formally re-assuming command of the ship. Fedorov will continue as Starpom, and you will remain on the bridge as Executive Tactical Officer, Karpov. Now, gentlemen. Let us get the ship in order and I will tell you what we are going to do.”

Aboard King George V the wireless operator got a most unusual message, just before sunset, and in plain English. It was directed to Admiral John Tovey, coming as a great surprise to him when he heard it. He listened to it carefully, repeating quietly over and over, and thinking about it as he listened. Considering the gravity of the situation, Tovey found it welcome. He had to hurry on if he was to get a good blocking position in the western approaches. He was nearly there, but all reports out of Gibraltar indicated the enemy was now in a very good location to make a run for the straits, heading south of the Rock, just outside the range of their shore batteries. These circumstances were going to see him arriving there just before sunset, a most unfavorable situation, with all his ships nicely silhouetted on the horizon.

When he finally caught up with Bismarck, he wisely elected to refuse battle at dusk and fight in the morning. If at all possible he wanted to fight at sunrise, with his enemy well silhouetted instead of his own ships. That may not matter to the enemy, he thought, but it would certainly help his own gunners. This message gave him just what he needed now—time—and he agreed to it at once, smiling at his flag officer of the watch.

“Get a message off immediately,” he said. “Send it in the clear.” He folded his arms.

“What shall we send, sir?”

“Las Palomas. Just that. Nothing more.”

Chapter 32

The island of Las Palomas is the southernmost point in all of Spain, poised at the edge of the Straits of Gibraltar and marking the boundary between the Atlantic Ocean and Mediterranean Sea. It dangles like a pendant from the Spanish mainland, a small heart-shaped spit of land no more than 1800 feet wide, with an equal length. Layers of history can be found there, from yawning caves where Paleolithic petroglyph drawings of horses grace the stony walls, to ruins of ancient Roman sites, and on through the centuries. Its strategic position at the entrance to the Straits of Gibraltar had seen it fortified by many empires. The nearby Spanish town of Tarifa just north of the island on the mainland was named after the Moorish general Tarif Ben Malik, who spearheaded the invasion in the year 711. Some said that the word “tariff” was derived from his name when the island became one of the first ports in the region to levy fees on ships seeking an anchorage. Remnants of castle walls and towers can still be found there, some built by the famous Abdul Ar Raman, a prominent Caliph of the Moors who invaded southern Europe until he was eventually stopped by Charles Martel at the Battle of Tours.

Given the island’s location, it had seen many desperate battles over the years. The Spanish fought to reclaim their land from the Moors for centuries, and the island had also been noted for a few famous last stands, one in the year 1292 when the Spanish Lord Guzman El Bueno was holed up in a fortress there and besieged by 5000 Moorish warriors. A treacherous rival, the Lord Don Juan had kidnapped Guzman’s son and thought to force his surrender with the threat of the boy’s execution. Yet stalwart to the end, Guzman refused, standing on the high walls and even throwing down his own knife so his antagonists might use it to kill his son.

In 1812 it was the British who joined the Spanish there to make a gallant defense against the invading Armies of Napoleon. Jean Francois Leval sent 15,000 French soldiers against Tarifa and was stopped by the tenacious defense of the 3000 man garrison. In the end the miserable and incessant rains had as much to do with the outcome of the battle as anything else. The French army slogged away, wet and beset with illness, leaving many of their siege guns stuck in the thickening mud. Now it would see warriors meet again, for a delicate negotiation on the razor’s edge of war.

Just after 17:00 hours on August 14, 1942 the ominous shadow of Kirov stretched in the wake of that imposing ship where it waited in the eastern approaches to the narrow Straits of Gibraltar. Her active sonar was pinging audibly, to make certain no undersea threat could come anywhere near them. Her radars rotated to scan the airspace all around them equally alert. To the northwest they could see the stark angles of the Rock itself, one of Great Britain’s most important and strategic bases in all the world.

A small motor craft had been launched from the ship, and it made its way under a flag of truce slowly through the straits toward the rocky eastern shore of Las Palomas. Admiral Volsky sat proudly in the center of the boat, flanked by five other men. They could have made a much more dramatic appearance by landing on the island with the KA-40, but Volsky had decided not to create a spectacle that would simply lead to more uncomfortable questions. The less these men knew about them, the better.

He knew, however, that what he was attempting now was dangerous, perhaps more dangerous than anything the ship itself had faced in these last few harrowing days. Soon the Admiral’s party made landfall and worked their way ashore. Now they stood beneath one of the old coastal ramparts, a beautiful castle ruin built in Neo-Renaissance fashion, smooth walls of amber sandstone with crenulated tops and styled parapets where the swarthy Moorish archers once stood their vigilant watch. Beneath it sat the squat rounded shapes of heavy stone encasements where old naval guns cast off from Spanish WWI Dreadnaughts had been installed as shore batteries in 1941. Their stark steel barrels jutted from the recessed gun ports, cold and threatening, and shadowed Volsky with the thought that war seemed to have no end, persisting through every generation throughout the whole of human history. The ruins and fortifications of one epoch after another were all folded together here on this tiny sentinel outpost, yet here he was, an outcast from another era, fighting in a war where he was never meant to be.

In the distance he could see the whitewashed stone lighthouse that marked the entrance to the straits. Built in the 1800s, it sat on a high cliff and towered over the rocky coastline below, where squadrons of sea birds soared in from the restless ocean, gliding over the stony shore. The wind was up, whipping the wave tops out in the straits, and he could look across and see the hazy silhouette of Jebel Musa rising on the coast of Spanish Morocco in the distance.

Volsky’s boat had come in on the Mediterranean side of the island with his small detachment that included Fedorov, Nikolin as translator, and the redoubtable Kandemir Troyak with two of his best Marines. Admiral Tovey’s launch had landed on the Atlantic coast on far side of the islands, and they would meet here, men of two different eras standing in the shadow of all this history, the legacy of mariners, sailors and soldiers that had occupied this tiny demarcation point in the long stream of time.

They saw Admiral Tovey’s detachment approaching from the northwest, making their way slowly along the rocky shore. The Admiral stood tall in his dark navy blue uniform, his deportment clearly marking him as much as his uniform and cap as a man of authority. Admiral Volsky waited for him at a point he deemed to be the thin borderline between the ocean and the inland sea, a fitting place, he thought, for the meeting of two minds. There were six men in the British party as well, one clearly come from the Admiral’s staff, his uniform crisp and proper, then another seaman in common dungarees and sweats, with three more men at arms to match his own. As they approached Volsky heard one of his Marines shift his automatic weapon to a ready position, and he turned, gesturing with his palm for the man to stand down. Troyak glared at the Marine, who quickly assumed a position at ease, lowering his weapon.

The British party came up, stopping about thirty paces off, a mixture of curiosity and caution in their eyes. Tovey indicated that his armed escorts should stand where they were, and he tapped the shoulder of his Chief of Staff Denny and the Able Seaman who would serve as their translator, leading them forward with a steady, measured pace. For his part, Volsky turned to Fedorov and Nikolin with a wink, and then stepped forward to greet the British, a noticeable limp still evident as he favored his bandaged right leg. He stopped, taking in the man before him now, noting Tovey’s thin nose and narrow eyes beneath his well grayed hair.

Fedorov stood just a pace behind him, his eyes filled with awe and admiration as he stared at Tovey, a man with whom he had spent many long hours in his mind, within the history books he so loved. It was as if a living legend was before him now, yet flesh and blood, not the small black and white photos he would stare at to try and see into the man’s mind. Here he was, Admiral of the Home Fleet!

Volsky extended his hand, his eyes warming as he greeted this fellow officer and denizen of the high seas. Tovey took the man’s big hand, listening as Volsky spoke first, with Nikolin quickly translating what he said.

“My admiral says that, as it is impossible to get any sleep with all these guns and rockets and torpedoes flying off, he thought it might be best to have a little talk and see if we could calm things down before dinner.”

The remark brought a smile to Tovey’s face, softening the hard lines of his taught cheeks and easing the tension inherent in the situation. So here was his modern day Captain Nemo, human after all, he thought to himself, a hundred questions in his mind. But which to ask first? Politeness was always best, and he introduced himself with a tip of his cap. “I heartily agree, sir. I am Admiral John Tovey, Commander of the British Home Fleet, Royal Navy.” The Able Seaman translated slowly, and Volsky nodded. Nikolin was to speak up if he heard anything mistranslated, but all was well.

“You will forgive me, Admiral, if I do not introduce myself beyond saying that I, too, am a commander of a proud fleet, and so we stand as equals here, at the edge of these two seas, and hopefully to find a better way to resolve our differences without further bloodshed. As you can see, I have a bit of a limp today, from a fragment of shrapnel that found me while I was climbing a ladder and decided to bite my leg. So I know only too well what can happen when men speak first with the weapons they command, and not their wits instead.” Nikolin’s voice echoed Volsky’s, the Able Seaman listening, and satisfied that all was translated correctly.

“My apologies, Admiral,” said Tovey. “It’s just that your ship has made its way into a war zone, and has been taken as hostile from the moment it was first encountered. The attacks made on numerous Royal Navy ships did little to dissuade us from that conclusion.”

“That is understandable,” said Volsky. “But wrong. I must tell you that it was never my intention to involve my ship or my crew in battle with your navy. Yet one thing leads to another, does it not? Particularly at sea, when faced with uncertainty and driven by the need to defend your ship, and your country, from all harm.”

“Then I’m to understand that you now wish to claim that everything that has transpired these last days had been an exercise of self defense?”

“That is so,” said Volsky, his eyes trying to convey his sincerity.

“In defense of what country, may I ask?”

“You may not. The answer would not mean anything, and it would not help us resolve the issue before us now.”

That confused more than it helped, but Tovey pressed on, edging out on a limb he had been climbing for so very many long months, ever since those first rockets branded his ship, and he saw that awful mushroom cloud of sea water towering over the cold North Atlantic.

“May I ask the Admiral if it is true that our ships and planes have met once before in this war, a year ago to be more precise, in the waters southwest of Iceland?”

Volsky shrugged. “Yes, you may ask it, and you may know it as well without the question. But I think it best we confine our chat to what lies ahead now, Admiral, and not what we have left behind us. Nothing that has happened can be undone—or at least that is something I once believed. I am not so sure any longer. But I will tell you that what we decide here today may have a grave impact on days that lie ahead, and more than either you or I can fathom at this moment.”

Was the man being deliberately evasive, Tovey wondered? Yet he seems sincere. I can see it in his eyes, and hear it in his tone of voice. Yet who is he? Where has he come from? What is this dreadful Nautilus of a ship he commands with weapons the like of which this world has never seen?

“Then it was your ship that engaged the Royal Navy a year ago? Well now it is I who must ask your forbearance sir, but this is incomprehensible to us. How is it possible that we now find you here, in these waters, and yet have not had the ghost of a whisper of you, your ship, or these terrible weapons you possess, not in all the world for a whole long year? Your ship is not a submarine like the German U-Boats which use the swift currents in these straits to drift silently into the inland sea, unseen. You could not have passed Gibraltar without our knowing about it, and for that matter unchallenged. Nor could you have entered via the Suez Canal. Your presence here is therefore a matter of grave concern, and utterly confounding.”

“Believe me when I say this, Admiral, but I am as much bewildered by these questions as you are. Yet I must be frank with you, sir. I do not wish to speak of who and what we are, or where we have come from, or how we came to be here. Yes, I know these questions beg answers, but the less that is said about them, the better. You may come to your own conclusions, I suppose. First off, you have found a young Able Seaman here who speaks our mother tongue.” He let his eye rest on Tovey’s, noting the man’s reaction as he continued. “And from this you may surmise that we are a Russian ship and crew, but I must tell you that Joseph Stalin back in Moscow will have no inkling of us either—no knowledge whatsoever of our presence here, and he would have these very same questions for us if this were Murmansk and we were standing at the edge of the Kara Sea. We do not now sail in his name or serve the interests of the Soviet state he commands.”

He paused, letting Nikolin catch up in his translation, but could see Tovey’s frustration, and the confusion that must surely be plaguing him. Yet he noted how the man composed himself, inclining his head and asking another question.

“Was your ship built by the Soviet Union? And are you telling me you are at sea without orders, and against the wishes of the Soviet government? You are a renegade ship out of the Black Sea?”

“Admiral…You know very well that Soviet Russia could not build a ship that can do what you have witnessed my vessel do in battle, at least not today. We have just fought a long night engagement with two of your battleships. What were they called Fedorov?”

“Nelson and Rodney, sir.”

Volsky nodded, repeating the names as best he could. “Nelson and Rodney. More a admirals. It was an unfortunate engagement, and one I hope we do not have to repeat. It was our intention to outrun these ships and avoid combat. At least that is what my young Captain here, who commanded that action, tells me. But your ships fought well. I will express my regret to you now for any loss of life, but to secure the safety of my own ship, this engagement became an unfortunate necessity. Suppose I were to tell you that my ship was built in Russia. Could you believe that? I do not think so. What ship in Stalin’s navy could stand with your Nelson and Rodney and come away from that battle unscathed? No. The Soviet government does not know that we even exist.”

“I see…” Tovey was silent for a moment, thinking. “These weapons you deploy…They are certainly beyond our own means for the moment, unlike anything we have ever seen. Oh, I must tell you that rocketry is as old as gunpowder, but yet you seem to have perfected the art in a manner that is… rather frightening, at least to the men who have faced your weapons, and died…”

“For that I am truly sorry. I will tell you that I, too, have put men into the sea that I would rather see standing at their posts this evening. What more can be said of that? I will weep for them in my own time.”

“Then do you serve a nation, Admiral? You are not German as we first thought; not Italian, not French as you wished us to believe. You clearly are Russian, but claim you bear no allegiance to the Soviet Union, our ally in this war at the moment, as I hope you must know.”

“At the moment,” said Volsky, thinking he had said just a little too much with that. “Admiral Tovey,” he settled his voice, intent on forcing some new line in the discussion. “None of this matters, and there is no point in discussing these details. We are here, you are there. This thin boundary separates us, this line between the ocean and the sea at our feet, and yet it is a gulf that may seem impossible for either of us to ever cross. Still we must try to do so as best we can.”

Tovey considered that, his eyes narrowed under his thin brows, lips taut. “I must tell you, Admiral, that I have brought my fleet here to make an end of your ship, and to put it at the bottom of the sea if I can do so. The oceans wide may appear to be the province of God, and God alone, but at this moment, as I stand here now before you, they are in point of fact the domain of the Royal Navy, and the British Empire that built it.”

“And there is a difference between us now,” said Volsky. “For I will not lay claim to God’s great seas, nor did I bring my ship here to quarrel with you or your nation. I will admit that there are officers aboard my vessel who wished you no good once our battle was joined. Yet I do not sail here to throw down a gauntlet before your British Empire, or to contest these waters for any hope of gain. Your ships gave challenge. We defended ourselves. Men have died on both sides, and I am seeking a way to end this nightmare and go home. Yes, if you must know the truth, Admiral, I am simply trying to find my way home again.”

“And yet you cannot even say where that is? Where in blazes did you come from?”

Nikolin had a little difficulty translating that last line, but knew enough to indicate that Admiral Tovey was expressing some anger. “He wants to know where we have come from, and I believe he getting a little angry about it, sir.”

“You might say: where the hell you’ve come from?” The Able Seaman at Tovey’s side put in.

Volsky nodded his understanding. “For the third time, I cannot answer that,” he said. “For both our sakes. You will not know what I mean just yet, but perhaps you will in time.” Then he spied the high promontory of the fortress wall on the hillside above them, and noted the gun casements that had been built for shore batteries at the foot of the walls. “Look there,” he pointed. “My young officer Fedorov here tells me those walls were built by the Moors in the twelfth century. And below them there are casements and gun positions to be manned by men guarding these waters today. Years ago the Caliph of Morocco was master of these straits. Today it is your ships and guns who guard the way. And what if you were to sail here in your flagship one day, Admiral, and find those gun casements missing, seeing only the walls of that castle in their place? What if you were to meet the Moorish swordsmen and archers there, and they boldly told you that all you could see, on every quarter, was the domain of Abdul Ar Rahman?” Volsky glanced at Fedorov, a quiet smile on his lips, then continued.

“Things change, Admiral Tovey. Things change. I cannot answer your questions any more than you could explain your existence to the men who built that fortress. I can only say this: If you wish to try and put my ship at the bottom of the sea, then I must prevent you from doing so. Yes, your Royal Navy is here, and no doubt with all your finest ships, but they will not be enough, Admiral. They will not be enough. I must tell you that I did not wish to see the destruction that occurred when last we met at sea. There was great disagreement among my senior officers as to what should be done, and how much force should be used. Unfortunately, I was indisposed when it came to battle, and my ship was under the command of another officer, with another mind as to how the matter should have been dealt with. And yet, while I am reluctant to act in that same manner, I must tell you that I have the power to do so—that my ship has the power to sail on though these narrow straits, and find the open sea by force of arms if necessary, and you have not seen even a small measure of what we are truly capable of doing in battle.”

Tovey frowned, a grave expression on his face, but Volsky continued, his tone changing now, more human, and with no hint of bravado in his voice. “There,” he said. “We have both thumped our chests like a pair of old fools, and now we must decide what happens next. We can decide as Admirals in a sea of war, or we can decide as men, eye to eye, and face to face, and find another solution. We can use our warships to settle the matter, or our intelligence, and perhaps a little more. There was a great Russian writer who put it this way: ‘It takes something more than intelligence to act intelligently.’ We must find what that is, you and I, or I’m afraid a great many more men will pay the price of our stupidity.”

Tovey took that in, considering. Yes, it made all the sense in the world now to find a way to settle this amicably, and without more loss of life, or ships for that matter. If he fought here, as he had hastened south with so much might to do, what would be left of his fleet at battle’s end, even if he did prevail? Yet how could he allow a ship with such power to sail out into the Atlantic where the life blood of the Empire now moved in big fat convoys, guarded by ships of war—convoys like the one they had just risked so much to fight through to Malta. If he let this ship pass it could pose the gravest threat to those sea lanes. The outcome of the entire war effort could depend on their security. He had this mysterious ship before him now, and wondered if he would ever have such an opportunity again. He cleared his voice and spoke his mind.

“I am charged with the security of these sea lanes, sir. Surely you must understand that.”

“Well, Admiral, it has come to the eleventh hour, and fearing what might happen if we let the time slip by to midnight without reason having a seat at the table, let me make a proposal. I seek an armistice in our private little war within a war here. You are busy enough with the Germans and Italians. Yes? So I ask you to leave my ship alone now and grant us safe passage through these straits and to give us the open sea you claim to rule. You may wish to know my intentions, and I will tell you that I have no hostile aim, nor do I wish to engage in any further combat, or even contact with your navy or that of any other nation. As to the security of your convoys, I must leave that to you, but I will give you my pledge that my ship will not fire on any merchant vessel we encounter, on any side in this war. We will give them a wide berth and do no harm. This is my word to you.” He paused briefly, allowing Nikolin to catch up, and noting Tovey’s facial expressions to read his response.

“All I wish is to find a nice peaceful island somewhere out of the stream of this war and consider how I can get my men and ship home again. To put this formally, I ask you now for safe passage in exchange for a pledge of armistice and neutrality. It would be my intention to get as far away from your war as my ship can possibly take me. Yes, I know it is a world war, and that may prove difficult, but there must be some island out there where I can get some sleep and find some peace and quiet to think. And if I never see another man die at sea, particularly as a result of my commands, then I will be a happier man for it. So that is my offer. That is all I desire, Admiral.” He nodded his head. “And perhaps a nice bowl of borscht and a bottle of good vodka once in a while.” He smiled, seeing his last remark well taken by Tovey.

Then the British Admiral’s eyes hardened for a moment. Tovey clasped his hands behind his back, thinking as he gazed up at the tawny sundrenched walls of the Moorish fortifications. This Captain Nemo had said a good bit with that business about the castle, he realized. Perhaps he said more than he might have wished.

His eyes seemed to see far now, as if he were suddenly aware of distant events, a future time unseen, when this war was long over…when the British Empire itself was long gone, and when other men might walk the rocky shores of this island with no thought of conflict and war in their minds. Was that ever possible? He knew what the Admiralty would advise him here—what they would in fact order him to do. Somerville had faced it at Mers-el Kebir when he had asked the French fleet to join the Empire, and that failing, to scuttle their ships. They refused, of course, even as he himself would in the same situation. Yes, pride goeth before the fall, but pride could be as much a virtue as a vice, and he had little doubt that this Admiral before him would be found a proud and willful man if put to the test.

The man wanted to find an island, he thought, a mysterious island where he could rest and think. Well, we moved heaven and earth to put Napoleon on one. Here he is looking to make a graceful bow and drop anchor on his own St. Helena. The man’s earnest desire to avoid further conflict was both obvious and admirable. Might he consider another proposal? It was worth the offer, and he spoke his mind.

“Admiral, I am inclined to believe you when you state your wish to avoid further hostilities. You have asked me to consider the question of armistice. May I ask you if you would consider the question of alliance? Might we two become friends instead of the witless enemies we have been up until now?”

Volsky smiled, as he had thought long and hard about this possible meeting, and knew this question would inevitably arise. The matter was coming to a head, and he knew his response now would be critical. He looked Tovey squarely in the eye. “If you had lightning in a bottle, would you pour it in your friend’s glass, or your enemies?” He smiled. “I think to make either choice would end up killing them both. No, Admiral. I cannot join your war. We fought only because we had to—fought Italians ships and German planes, and you British as well. For a long time I think you believed we were a German ship. And the Italians and Germans may now think we are British. But if it is all the same to you, I think we would be most unwise to take any side in this war. We have done enough harm as it stands.”

“I see,” said Tovey, not surprised by the answer. The question was now starkly before him. There would be no alliance, but would there be war or peace with this man and his mysterious and terrible ship of war? With four battleships at hand Tovey still believed he had the means to prevail if it came to further conflict, but he was under no illusion that the task would be easy, or that he would even live to see it to a successful completion. He was going to lose ships and men if he fought now, that much was certain. Then an idea came to him. He knew it might cost his command, and even his rank and position in the Royal Navy itself, but somehow neither of those things seem to weigh in the balance.

“We faced this same dilemma with the French fleet, on more than one occasion,” he began. “Now they are sitting comfortably at Toulon, though we did have word that the Strasbourg had been heading this way.” He gave Volsky a knowing smile. “That said, might you consider sailing to a neutral country, under Royal Navy escort, and accept internment for the duration of the war?”

Again, this was not unexpected, but Volsky shook his head, smiling. “Admiral, do you think this ship would be left in peace under such circumstances? In what port, on any shore, could we drop anchor without fear that there would be men who would be very, very curious about us, men who would want to ask the same questions that remain in your mind? No. Such questions must remain unanswered, and it would be better if they were never asked. We must have freedom of movement to assure ourselves that this would be the case.”

“But surely, you’ll need fuel, water, food and supplies for your crew.”

“We carry all the fuel we will ever need, and then some.” He realized that Tovey would not comprehend that, so he manufactured a little white lie, a little vranyo to smooth the matter over. “We have a way to convert seawater to steam, so fuel is never a concern. As for food and water, these things we will find on our own, and with as little interference with others as possible.”

“Then you don’t see any further room for compromise?”

“I have compromised, Admiral. I did not have to ask for this conference, but yet I found it a wiser course than the one I was sailing at the time. I know the issue foremost in your mind now is trust. I suppose your Mister Churchill is thinking the same thing at this very moment as he sits down to dinner with Joseph Stalin in his dacha at Moscow.” He saw Tovey raise an eyebrow at that, and pressed his point home. “Perhaps that is the one thing a man really needs to act intelligently—a little trust, a little faith, and a good heart. I know that you are driven to find answers to the questions in your mind about all of this, but I must caution that you stand to lose very much more than you gain should you do so.”

Tovey breathed deeply, struck by that last remark. There was something more in the what the Admiral said just now. Something very much more. The conference in Moscow was held as a state secret and a matter of high security. Only very few knew it was taking place, even within the highest circles of the British government. For this man to know of it, and speak of it so casually…He regarded this Admiral with a knowing eye.

“Very well, Admiral. I will consider what you have said and asked here, but I think it best that I return to my ship for the moment, and you to yours. I will contact you at Midnight with an answer to this dilemma.”

Volsky reached and again shook the man’s hand. “Consider well, John Tovey. I will await your message.”

Tovey spent those last hours considering the careful logic of his war plan, and wondering about all the subtle clues he had taken from this extraordinary encounter. Russian, he thought. They were clearly Russians, but yet they denied any affiliation with Stalin or the Soviet state. But how could they know of Churchill’s meeting with Stalin in Moscow? Were they lying? The man’s candor was clearly apparent, but more than that it was the logic of his argument that weighed more heavily on the issue. When I mentioned that Russia was our ally, the man’s remark was rather telling … ‘At the moment…’

He said it as though he knew something to the contrary. Could this ship be a new Russian model, one they managed to build in the Black Sea, perhaps? Is that how it came to be in the Med—sneaking out through the Bosporus? Was it trying to get out into the Atlantic to strike at our convoys? Was Russia about to switch sides in this war? Then what about that business a year ago. The man clearly led me to believe that this ship was the same we encountered earlier. Was it? Could it have come out of Murmansk a year ago, and was it sunk by the Americans? This could be a sister ship, perhaps launched from Odessa or Sevastopol…But could the Russians build something like this, and without our knowing about it?

One question after another ranged through his mind, and he ticked them off, discarding each as utterly impossible. The Russians could not have built this ship any more than the Germans could have built it. Even if they did, how would it have escaped our notice? How could it have passed our coast watchers along the Dardanelles unseen, sailed through the Aegean like a phantom and then right past Vian’s cruisers in the Eastern Med, let alone the Italians at Taranto? Impossible! No nation on this earth could have built it, unless there was some mysterious island out there where a consortium of renegade mad scientists had built this ship. The mystery was profound.

And what did this man mean when he pointed to those old fortifications like that, saying I would have a good deal of trouble explaining the presence of my fleet here to the Moors. There was clearly something there that kept tugging at the edge of his thinking, all wrapped up with his muse about Jules Verne and his strange story of Captain Nemo, and again, with the odd look in Professor Turing’s eye in that hallway back at the Admiralty.

Why was this man being so blasted evasive? He refused to account for his presence, either here or in the North Atlantic a year ago, and it was as if the disclosure would cause some irreparable harm. He chided himself for not being more insistent, more forceful. By God, he had all the muscle and sinew of Home Fleet with him here. Syfret and Fraser had a couple of old, slow inter war battleships, their keels laid down in the early 1920s. He had four of Britain’s newest dreadnoughts, fast, well protected, well gunned. He could force the issue and have an answer to these nagging questions once and for all, but the Admiral’s remark still haunted him: “I know that you are driven to find answers to the questions in your mind about all of this, but I must caution that you stand to lose very much more than you gain should you do so.” Was that simply another veiled threat should it come to battle here, or was there some darker implication in the Admiral’s warning?

The damage reports from Fraser on Rodney finally reached him. There were over 200 casualties, yet the fires had finally been put out. Neither ship could make more than twelve knots, and Nelson’s C turret was out of commission. But beyond that they were both still sea worthy, and their remaining guns were in good order. It would take them some time to come up behind this enemy ship again, but eventually they could throw in with his own fleet and he could squeeze this Geronimo between his fingertips like a bug.

Or could he… Memories of that awful mushroom of seawater and the capsized hull of the American battleship Mississippi glistening in the angry sea like a dead whale still haunted him, and told him that this bug might not be so easily squashed, and might as yet have some considerable bite.

Damn it then, Jack, he anguished. What’s it to be? Did you sail here with the whole of Home Fleet to bandy about like this? The man wanted an island, he said. He just wanted to be left in peace and find his way home. And where was that?

He thought of Nemo coming at last to that Mysterious Island to die an old man, his vengeful sorties against navies of the world now ended. He would not accept internment at a neutral port…Then he thought of Napoleon again and had his answer. Yes! St. Helena! Suppose he offered this man safe passage and escort to St. Helena, a place far enough away from the curious eyes of anyone, to be sure. Yet his ships were already low on fuel and St. Helena was another thousand sea miles to the south. Yet he could transfer fuel to Norfolk and Sheffield, topping them off. That accomplished those two ships would have both the range to serve as escorts, and the speed to serve as a shadow if this ship attempted to slip away.

That thought was a foil opposing his hope in this alternative. If he needed every battleship the Royal Navy could spare here just to have an even chance with this demon, then Norfolk and Sheffield would be no match. They could not prevent this ship from sailing off if it wished. Then he realized it all came down to that one thing this Admiral had argued—trust. He had looked in this man’s eyes and the mysterious and impenetrable riddle had become a human being, just another ordinary man and not a wizard from heaven or a monster from hell. His ship and its weapons might be monstrous, but so were the guns on King George V. Men build these monsters, and it is men who decide whether or not they will be used.

He folded his arms, staring at his battle plots in the chart room, seeing the action unfold in his mind’s eye, wondering which ships would be stricken by those deadly sea rockets, or if the ocean would again be seared and boiled away by another of those terrible atomic weapons. He could probably sink this ship, but a very great many men would die tomorrow if he tried.

He decided.