Cauldron of Fire

Chapter 16

They all stared at Turing—Pound with annoyance, but the others with grave apprehension and some bewilderment evident on their faces. The Marine guard interrupted them yet again, another folded message decrypt in his white gloved hand. Tovey took it, noting the source first.

“Signal intelligence through our network in the Med,” he said. “Looks like one of the Twelve Apostles has come to supper.” He was referring to a secret network of American OSS and British Special Operations agents that had been scattered throughout the French North African Colonies to gather intelligence prior to the planned Operation Torch landings this coming November. There were twelve agents in all, and one had been put ashore on Sardinia to scout out military buildup there and map coastal fortifications—more grist for the mills of the war planners. Apparently he had seen or heard something more, and thought it urgent enough to risk a direct transmission through the network. The Admiral read it aloud this time:

“Major Duffing tips his hat to Little Victor and his friend off Balham Tube… It seems this one is a bit of a Chinese box—code within a code.”

“What’s all that twaddle about now?” Pound complained. “Hasn’t it been decrypted properly?”

“If I may, sir,” Turing spoke up again cautiously. “Major Duffing is the Northern Med operations section code handle indicating an enemy vessel—a capital ship, sir. The tipping of his hat will mean there has been a surface engagement with this Little Victor—‘Vittorio’ in Italian. That would be the Vittorio Veneto to be precise. The mention of a friend would indicate a sister ship of Veneto was present, most likely the Littorio, as both these ships were recently moved to La Spezia. As for Balham Tube, that is not the underground rail station in London, sir, it is code for the Strait of Bonifacio.”

Pound raised his eyebrows. “There’s been a naval engagement involving two Italian battleships off the Bonifacio Strait?”

“You have it exactly, sir,” said Turing with a smile.

“There’s one more bit,” said Tovey, reading: “Victor’s off home by any road, and not the better man.” He looked at Turing, suddenly appreciating the man in a new way.

“That would mean Vittorio Veneto, which I presume is the flagship, has broken off the engagement and is heading north for home.” Any road was a colloquial expression from northern England often used instead of the more common “anyway,” and it cleverly indicated the direction of the Italian withdrawal—north. “That would also mean that something has just engaged two of Regia Marina’s heaviest surface units and beaten them off with some significant damage. Vittorio Veneto was not the better man, gentlemen. Now then…This was clearly not one of our ships up there. What in the world could face down two Italian battleships and come off the better man for it? A ship flinging aerial rockets at our 248 Squadron, I might add.”

“Forgive me if I remain confused, Professor,” said Pound, “but this Geronimo—isn’t it a German ship? What’s it doing taking pot shots at the Italian Navy? The last time I looked Italy and Germany were thick as thieves together.”

Turing rubbed his hands nervously. The other officers all looked at him, obviously fielding the same objection in their own minds. He considered what to say, then realized he had no other course here. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought, and spoke his mind. “No, Admiral Pound. I have come to the conclusion that if these two ‘incidents’ were caused by the same vessel, then this is not German ship—not a year ago, and clearly not now.”

Pound was justifiably astonished. “Not German? My god, man, I suppose that you’ll be telling me it belongs to the King of Swabia next! What do you mean not German? What other navy would attack us in the North Atlantic as this ship did?”

“I’ve given that considerable thought,” said Turing. “Yes, it’s very perplexing. It makes good sense to think this ship was a secret German raider in light of the North Atlantic incident, but the road we’ve been walking here has led us far afield of that comfortable path. If this is the same ship as before, as this photography leads me to believe, then it clearly could not belong to the Kriegsmarine.”

“Then who?” Pound pressed him with growing irritation.

“Well sir, I thought it might be a Russian ship at one point, seeing as it was first sighted in the Arctic sea. Yet I had to discard that notion, considering the fact that Russia is our ally at the moment… ”

“Very well,” Pound harangued him. “Not German, not Russian, certainly not Italian….” He waited, like an irate school master dressing down a recalcitrant student.

“I must be frank and tell you I do not know what to make of all this just yet, gentlemen. Every line we take leads us into a corner. We’re faced with one impossible circumstance after another, but the fact remains: something is flinging advanced rockets and weapons of unimaginable power at the Royal Navy, and now at the Italian Navy as well. This ship, these weapons—well it would take the resources of a major power to design and build these things. It could be that this ship is German after all, or even Russian, and that we have maverick sea captain out there, some kind of Captain Nemo, a rogue warrior at odds with Hitler or Stalin and with a very bad attitude towards anyone else who crosses his path. Impossible as it sounds, he’s there, the ship is there, and we have to deal with this.”

Whitworth spoke up, clearly trying to tether the boat before it slipped its moorings. “Well it seems to me that our confusion results entirely from the assumption that these two ships are indeed one and the same. Suppose that incident was a German ship last year, or even some renegade Russian captain as your suggest, though I find that a stretch. How it gets to the Med is quite a rabbit trick. I’m more inclined to think of these incidents as unrelated. Perhaps this ship in the Med is French, though it doesn’t seem likely, or even possible, it makes more sense than anything else.”

Pound folded his arms, frowning, but saying nothing more. Tovey tapped the table top with his finger and looked at Wake-Walker with a knowing eye. Whitworth seemed folded inward on some dark inner muse, then leaned forward, speaking softly yet firmly.

“Gentlemen, it’s obvious that we need more information. Where is Force Z at the moment?” he asked, and the First Sea Lord replied.

“They should be somewhere between Bone on the Algerian coast and the southern tip of Sardinia. I have little doubt they’re mixing it up the Luftwaffe and Regia Aeronautica by now.”

“Then that would place them some 300 miles due south of this engagement—fifteen hours sailing, even at their best speed if Rodney and Nelson can still make twenty knots.”

“Are you suggesting we should divert the covering force north based on this single report?”

“Not north,” Whitworth said quickly, “West, gentlemen. West to Gibraltar. Respectfully, Admiral, it’s not just this one report. 248 Squadron sights, and later attacks an unknown surface contact in the southern Tyrrhenian Sea at noon yesterday. We hear about it and then the Italians engage it at midnight and get a bloody nose for their trouble. The ship heads north for the Bonifacio Strait, and Iachino must have sent out his bully boys after it to settle the score—only he got handed his hat in the matter, if that latest intercept is correct, and there it is. This is obviously a job for the Royal Navy, but if we don’t turn Force Z around quickly, this ship could make a run at the Rock before we could do anything about it.”

There it was, yet these professional sea dogs still found it very uncomfortable to look at. What were they seeing here? There was no sense to it at all; no rhyme or reason. Something was happening that was clearly beyond their imagining, and it worried them all. Pound reacted with irritation and was all too eager to scapegoat Turing in the matter. Whitworth was dancing round the point, although willing to embrace it, if he only knew what he was about to grasp. Wake-Walker was darkly silent, a military stirring reflected in his usually placid features, eyes brightening above his thin nose.

“I agree with Admiral Whitworth,” he offered, “I shouldn’t think it wise to send the covering force north at this juncture. I should leave it right on track, but get word off to Admiral Syfret that he should be prepared to turn about quickly, upon our word, and head for Gibraltar with all speed.”

Pound looked at him questioningly. “Have you lost your ardor for battle, sir? Shouldn’t we get up north and sort this business out?”

“Lost my ardor?” Wake-Walker overlooked the insult, accustomed to this line from Pound, who has accused him of this very same thing in the engagement with Bismarck. Tovey shifted uncomfortably as Wake-Walker continued. “No, sir I haven’t lost my ardor for battle, but I learned to keep my head on my shoulders and not run off half cocked until we know what we’re dealing with here. Perhaps this is a French ship. Perhaps not. But if this is, indeed, Geronimo, as impossible as it may seem to us now, then we must ask ourselves what in the world this ship is about? How could it possibly be cruising in the Med, unseen for a year, but now suddenly here and inclined to duel with anything that comes within its compass rose? We may never answer these questions to our satisfaction, but if we are to believe these reports and sightings then we had damn well better be prepared. We don’t have to go looking for this ship, Admiral. Something tells me it will soon come looking for us. Admiral Whitworth is correct. After all, there’s only one way out of the bottle it now finds itself in, and that way leads to Gibraltar. Given the course it has been on, I believe this ship will soon be heading west, and I say we get Admiral Syfret and the whole of his Force Z back to the Rock as soon as they have discharged their task with the convoy. The sooner, the better.”

Pound gave him a bemused look, but before he could say anything more Tovey spoke up, leaning forward on both elbows as he passed the latest intercept to Pound like a card dealer in a heated poker game. “And for my part,” he exclaimed. “I think it would be wise to send word to Home Fleet at once and get up four hour steam on anything seaworthy. I’m afraid we’ll have to inconvenience the Turkish Ambassador, but I want King George V, Prince of Wales, and Anson out to sea by noon if possible.”

“Anson?” Pound questioned. “But she’s only just completed her gunnery trials. Raw as a baby’s bum on a bad day.”

“She’s been working up with the fleet at Scapa Flow,” Tovey replied. “May I remind you that Prince of Wales sailed under similar circumstances when Bismarck sortied.”

“Yes, and with rather disastrous results,” Pound admonished, casting a sidelong glance at Wake-Walker.

“Well it can’t be helped. I want all the firepower we can muster if this ship is indeed this Geronimo raider we faced a year ago. As we’ve no further convoys to Russia planned at the moment, we might also bring Duke of York down from Hvalfjord as well. We’ll send out an oiler to top her off along the way. I don’t think the Germans can bother us with Tirpitz at the moment.”

“That leaves the cupboard fairly well empty if they do,” Pound warned again.

“We’ll leave Renown behind. She hasn’t the armor for this fight. The loss of Repulse made that quite evident last time around.”

“Yes, well she hasn’t the armor to stand with Tirpitz either.”

“Tirpitz is not our concern for the moment. She’s been dry-docked at Trondheim for repairs. I don’t think Jerry can do much of anything with her for weeks—possibly months. Renown can handle anything else they would dare to put to sea. You can get me on a plane to Holyhead on the west coast and have a cruiser pick me up to run me out to the fleet.”

“Good show,” said Wake-Walker. “It’s fortunate we persuaded the Prime Minister not to send Prince of Wales to the far east last August. She’s tangled with this Geronimo, and was in no shape for that long sea voyage in any case. Now she’s patched up and fit as a fiddle. Home Fleet is stronger than ever, and throw in Rodney and Nelson at Gibraltar and we’ll see who gets handed his hat this time around.”

“Here, here!” said Tovey, seconding the matter as he tapped the table with his open palm.

The First Sea Lord sighed audibly, looking askance at Turing, then back at Tovey and Wake-Walker. “Well it seems as though you haven’t lost your ardor for battle, Admiral.” He smiled at Wake-Walker, mending fences. “Are you certain we can send the whole of Home Fleet’s heavy guns south like this? You understand that this means the plans for Jubilee will have to be cancelled.” He was refereeing to ‘Operation Jubilee’ the landing at Dieppe that was scheduled for 19 August, in just a few days time.

“I did have that in the back of my mind,” said Tovey. “Well, it can’t be helped. We won’t have the ships to cover this Dieppe raid and run for Gibraltar as well. I shouldn’t think we would want a division at sea in any wise until this Geronimo business is resolved.”

“And if this is a French ship? It’s going to be rather embarrassing when the Prime Minister returns and sees we’ve sortied with the whole of Home Fleet, cancelled major operations, and all this to run down a disaffected French sea captain.”

“In a ship using advanced rocketry and capable of beating off two Italian battleships? If there’s anything I’ve learned in this war, Admiral, it’s that we must plan for the very worst case imaginable.”

“I suppose you’re correct,” Pound put in one last time. “You say the Germans will not be able to sortie Tirpitz, but that may be the least of our worries. If this is Geronimo, let us not forget what happened to the Americans…”

He did not have to argue the point further.

The meeting was adjourned, and the Sea Lords soon scattered to their urgent duties. As they were led out, Tovey made it a point to nudge Turing’s arm. “A brief word, professor?”

The two men were alone in the hallway now and Tovey spoke his mind. “Look here,” he began. “This remark you made about Captain Nemo caught my attention. I read that story as a boy, and it always stayed with me. I wonder about Admiral Pound’s theory on this. We’ve been making overtures to the Vichy French with this Torch operation in the planning. Darlan has been trying to woo the fleet at Toulon to change sides. Might this be a French battleship, a rogue ship that has decided to join our side, or perhaps even trying to reach Vichy ports in their African Colonies?”

“That makes good sense on one level, sir. If it was a battlecruiser out of Toulon it might certainly explain these last two engagements with the Italians. But the rocketry, sir. That was your point, and the odd man out in all this.”

Tovey nodded. “Well, I didn’t want to press the matter, particularly with Admiral Pound, but I have the feeling you haven’t quite fired a full broadside at us yet, professor Turing. Is there something else you haven’t told us? Something you’re holding back?”

Turing looked at him, appreciating the man’s candor and glad to be spoken to with a measure of respect. He knew his arguments would likely do little to dispel the rumors circulating about him in higher circles, that he was a bit of a maverick himself, a madman at times, with wild theories and undisciplined habits. He did not wish to encourage that line further, fearing where it might eventually lead if the authorities got too curious about him, but Tovey’s face was serious, receptive and wholly sincere. Was this his chance to truly speak his mind?

“I can’t say as I’ve got my hand on the neck of this one entirely, sir,” he compromised, “but I’ll say this much, Admiral. You and I both know that it takes years to build a ship of that size—massive resources. The Germans have very few shipyards capable of building something that big. It simply isn’t something that Germany, or any nation, could hide. Yes, we know the Japanese have been keeping a lid on a couple of monster ships of their own, but Rodgers and Bemis knew about those designs as early as 1938.”

Captain Fred F. Rogers was a U.S. naval attaché in Tokyo, who had reported that ‘Japan had designs for warships of 45,000 to 55,000 tons.’ His successor, Harold M. Bemis, confirmed the report, the first clues that would eventually lead the American intelligence to the existence of the super battleships Yamato and Musashi. Turing continued.

“You see, sir. You just can’t hide something like this. The Japanese have tried mightily, but we still know about their covert battleship program. If this was a German ship, we should have known about it. As for these rockets used against our ships and planes… They’re graspable in our minds because we ourselves have similar projects in development, and we know the Germans have the same, but certainly not the French. I’ve been aware of Polish intelligence regarding development of a “flying torpedo” by the Germans, and there are other similar technologies they are working on. The Italians have been using air dropped torpedoes against this latest Malta convoy as well. But everything we have seen of these developments, everything, is far less advanced than the weapons used against us by this ship. Furthermore, we haven’t seen a single peep from these weapons in a year. Why not? If the Germans could mount them on a ship, then they could also easily deploy them on land or even aircraft. Yet we’ve seen nothing.”

“Yes,” Tovey agreed. “I’ve thought this as well.”

“I have come to the conclusion that the Germans simply do not have the capability, or the technology this ship has demonstrated. It saw your ships well before you ever knew it was there—so it must have very advanced radar, far beyond anything we have today. It targeted your vessels with amazing precision, and with weapons so lethal that I frankly believe they are beyond the means of any nation on this earth to produce…” he paused, a glint in his eye. “At least at this point in time.” He knew he was running on now, and towards a very dangerous precipice, but here was a man willing to stand and listen to him. Perhaps he could lead him to the same conclusions he had drawn himself.

“I may have said too much here, admiral, so you can forgive me if I seem a young and foolish man, but I assure you, I am not.”

Tovey looked at him, his eyes creased with a warm smile. “No, professor, the last thing I would take you for is a fool, nor I do consider this line of thought to be in any way preposterous, as Admiral Pound might put it. You forget that I have seen these weapons first hand—seen them thunder in against my very own ship. You say such technology is beyond our means at this time, but how long before we might have weapons like this ourselves if we put our minds to it? Have you considered that?”

Turing’s mood seemed to darken with that, and there was a hint of hesitation, even fear in his eyes when he answered. “If you want my very best estimation, Admiral, it would take years of rigorous testing and development to reach this level of sophistication. You see it’s not that the technology is beyond our thinking. We know the road, and where it might lead us, it’s just that it will take us time to get there, perhaps decades. Where there’s a will there’s a way, right? It’s all a matter of time, sir.”

“I see,” said Tovey, thinking deeply, his eyes betraying both uncertainty and concern, though he said nothing more on the matter, extending his hand. “Good work, Turing. Carry on, will you?”

“Thank you, sir. I shall.”

Tovey walked off to find a fast plane to Holyhead and Turing ambled slowly down the long corridor, still thinking about what he had said, and wondering if the government would end up putting the thumbscrews to him for his rash ideas. I wonder if he got what I was really aiming at, he thought to himself. No, you can’t come out with it plainly. That much is obvious given the reaction of men like Pound. No doubt there will be others very much like Pound and they would make your life a living hell if you push on this door too hard. But you’ve squeaked it open with Admiral Tovey, haven’t you? He listened to what you had to say, and perhaps he’ll come round to it on his own.

He looked at his wrist watch, realizing he had a plane to catch if he wanted to get back to Bletchley Park. Time, he said inwardly. Yes, that’s the heart of the matter now. It is only a matter of time…

Chapter 17

By the time they passed Punta Caprara, the northernmost cape of the island of Asinara, it was well after 10:00 in the morning. They had fought their way past shore batteries, through minefields, torpedo boats, a submarine, an air strike, and a brief, violent surface engagement with two battleships. Fedorov counted his good fortune that the ship had come through it all with little more than splinter damage on the hull, but that was a testament to the amazing technological edge Kirov had over its adversaries. Yet one thing bothered him as they finished the damage control assessment. Tasarov was restless at his station, claiming that his systems were erratic, and he was losing signal processing integrity of the forward Horse Jaw sonar dome. With the towed array already damaged and still under repair, this was a matter of some concern.

Fedorov was troubled, but was hoping that the history would hold true for a time, as it indicated that most all available axis submarines were far to the south opposing Operation Pedestal. They watched the Italian 7th cruiser Squadron race towards the eastern approaches of the Bonifacio Strait, then slow to assume a defensive patrol there, guarding the waterway in the event this bold British raider might think to return.

“As I expected, they have no interest in trying to follow us, particularly after they must've learned what happened to their battleships.”

For the moment he deemed their main threat to be further air strikes launched at them from bases in Sardinia, but again, he knew that the Axis air power would now be focused against Operation Pedestal, some 300 miles to the south. The situation presented them with an opportunity to get safely away from Sardinia and Corsica, and well out to sea. He set a course due west at twenty knots, wanting to put at least 150 miles between the ship and any potential land based enemy aircraft. Later he would slow to ten knots or less and put divers over the side to inspect the hull for splinter damage. He suspected something may have happened to the forward sonar dome as well, or the sensors along the outer rim of the hull. They would take whatever time was needed to effect repairs, perhaps near Menorca in the Balearic islands.

Rodenko reported that he could still see the Italian battleships on radar heading north, then northeast as they withdrew towards La Spezia. It had been an ill-fated sortie for them, perhaps the last gallant charge by the Italian Navy in the war.

The next item on his list was an assessment of their current weapons inventories. He took Karpov aside and the two of them hovered over Samsonov’s CIC boards to see what was left in the cupboard. Two critical systems were beginning to run thin on ammunition. Their long range S–300 SAM system was now at sixty-four percent, with only forty-one missiles remaining. In like manner, the Klinok Gauntlet medium range SAM system was down to only seventy-nine missiles left in inventory. More serious than this, their primary anti-ship missile, the deadly Moskit-II Sunburns that had proved so effective against enemy shipping, was now at forty percent with only fourteen missiles left in the silos. They were lucky to have even these. A normal load-out would be twenty missiles, but they had taken on a complete set of twenty additional missiles before the live fire exercises that had first sent them on this strange saga, but all these were expended in the North Atlantic.

Beyond this they still had nine of the swift MOS–III Starfire missiles, which were extremely fast at mach 6 acceleration, but carried only a 300 kilogram warhead compared to the heavier 450 kg warhead on the sunburns. They still had a little more punch left with ten P-900 Sizzler cruise missiles, each with a 400kg warhead. All in all, the three systems left them with thirty-three anti ship missiles out of the sixty they began the voyage with.

As for their deck guns, the 152 millimeter batteries were presently at eighty-nine percent on the magazine, and they still had almost a full load for their smaller 100 millimeter forward deck gun. They had expended six percent of their close in defense rounds on the thirty millimeter Gatling guns, and two of the deadly Shkval anti-submarine torpedo rockets, with eight more remaining. Beside that they still had most of their UGST torpedoes, fifteen in stock, and there were additional load-outs available for their last remaining KA-40 helicopter. All in all, the ship still had a formidable array of firepower at its disposal, but the numerous engagements they had fought in the last day were beginning to slowly drain their weapons inventories.

“Now, more than ever, we are going to have to be judicious in the way we deploy our weapons,” said Fedorov.

“What can we expect ahead on this course?” asked Karpov.

“For the time being we should have a little peace and quiet, enough to effect repairs and give the men some much needed rest. I intend to sail west to Menorca and into the Balearic Sea. That channel is between 160 to 200 kilometers wide for a good long while, and when we exit to the South will have at least a eighty kilometers of sea room between Spain and Santa Eulana Island. Then we enter the final bottleneck, the Alboran Sea. It's nearly 250 kilometers wide at the outset, but narrows to about150 kilometers as we approach Gibraltar. That's the last gate, about fifteen kilometers wide at its narrowest point. If we can get through that safely then we've got the whole Atlantic out there, and our speed can be a great advantage in that situation.”

“And Gibraltar?” said Karpov. “What will the British have waiting for us there?”

“That remains to be seen,” said Fedorov. “We will be all day getting out to sea, and I'll put divers over the side near dusk near Menorca. So we should be well into the Balearic sea by dawn tomorrow. I'm hoping our damage control situation can be easily resolved, but I would like to discuss this matter with Admiral Volsky, and come to some agreement on how we might handle the Strait of Gibraltar. Would you feel comfortable joining that conference Captain?”

“Of course,” said Karpov. “We will need to know what we are facing, and let us hope the history settles down for a bit. Those two Italian battleships were a bit of a surprise, I know, but our Moskit-IIs seemed more than a match for them.”

“We used six missiles,” Fedorov cautioned. “Yes, we drove them off, but my guess is that they will live to fight another day. Counting all three of our SSM systems, we now have only thirty-three anti-ship missiles remaining in inventory.”

“No problem,” said Karpov. “Six more to send this Rodney and Nelson packing, and plenty left over for any cruisers and destroyers they would care to throw at us.”

“I wouldn't be so self-assured, Captain. The Royal Navy is a tough professional force. They'll learn from any mistakes they make, and they've had a lot of lessons in recent years. As for the Nelson Class battleships, yes they are old and slow, but with 16 inch guns and good protection. That aside, it's 1942 now, and once we get out into the Atlantic we’ll find the British have added two more fast battleships to their home fleet with Duke of York and Anson. A third in this same class is scheduled to be commissioned in just a few weeks, HMS Howe. In short, their home fleet is twice as strong as it was when we first faced it, at least insofar as the big battleships are concerned.”

“I think Volsky will want to head south, well away from the Royal Navy.”

“True. Yet we’ll first have to transit the Strait of Gibraltar much like we just fought our way through this last one. Very likely we will find ourselves in range of those heavy guns on Nelson and Rodney if they get there first. And Captain,” he paused for emphasis. “We won't be deploying any nuclear weapons against the British this time out, at least not while I command the ship.”

Karpov's eyes narrowed at that last statement, but he said nothing for a moment, then shifted to another topic. “If the landforms inhibit Rodenko’s radar we can still deploy helicopters to enhance our over the horizon awareness. That may take the surprise factor out of the situation.”

“That is a good plan, Captain.” Fedorov concluded. “Very well, I’ll go below and see how the Admiral is doing. You have the bridge for the moment. We’ll send for you if Admiral Volsky is well enough to conference.”

Fedorov started for the sick bay, a thousand things running through his mind. He had had very little sleep since this new saga unfolded. The ship had been pressed by unexpected adversaries, and sustained real damage for the first time. The constricted waters of the Mediterranean served to neutralize one of Kirov’s greatest technological edges—the ability to see the enemy at long range before they were even aware of the Russian battlecruiser. And what you could see, you could also target and kill. The landlocked sea here meant that they were surrounded by airfields on every side, and recon planes were almost certain to find them and report their position, speed and heading. To prevent that they would have to detect and shoot down virtually every airborne contact they encountered, and that was not going to be practical given their slowly dwindling SAM magazines.

This was going to give their adversaries much more situational awareness than they ever had before. They will know approximately where we are, he thought, and that was compounded by the fact that the ship had only three options if it wanted to exit these waters. Suez was not really a viable choice, and the Bosporus route, though appealing in one sense, would only leave them masters of the Black Sea, with the same long, grueling task of sailing to Gibraltar through an active war zone if they ever wanted to leave that place. This reason, and the circumstances that found them running straight for the chaos of Operation Pedestal, had prompted Fedorov to take this northern route. Now that the Bonifacio Strait was behind them they might at least have some time to think, rest and plan what they should or could do next.

Other thoughts plagued him, more ominous in his mind, and filled him with a nagging doubt. The ship’s presence was like an irritating grain of salt in a clam shell here. What pearl would it produce in the history? Already both the British and Italians had used resources, men, ships and planes, that they might have otherwise deployed against each other. This was introducing more and more subtle changes in the history, and his great extra advantage of knowing the course of future events was no longer something he could rely on. He did not think his engagement with Da Zara’s 3rd Cruiser Division, or the pursuit of the 7th Cruiser Division mattered much, as these forces had both been ordered to stand down. The 3rd Division sustained damage from Kirov that should not have occurred, but the 7th Division had been ordered to return to Messina historically, where it ran afoul of the British Submarine Unbroken and saw both heavy cruiser Bolzano and light cruiser Muzio Attendolo torpedoed. Now these ships were safely at the eastern approaches to the Bonifacio Strait. He thought the balance here was a wash.

The presence of the two Italian Battleships had been a dangerous surprise to him, shaking his confidence in the future course of events. They should not have been at La Spezia, or in any position to intervene here. He thought that the heavy Italian ships were all still at Taranto, which was another reason he had discarded the journey to the Black Sea.

Now, as he looked at the route ahead, he mused darkly over what the British may have learned about their battle in the Bonifacio Strait. They knew that none of their own ships were deployed in that region. Who would they think the Italians were engaging? This thought filled him with misgiving as he reached the sick bay and knocked lightly on the hatch.

“Mister Fedorov,” Zolkin greeted him as he entered and removed his hat, smiling at the amiable doctor. The young navigator was also relieved to see Admiral Volsky awake and looking much more alert than the day before.

“I was hoping someone would come down here and tell me what all this shooting has been about. How is an old man to get any sleep?” The Admiral forced a smile, then asked the most important question on his mind. “Is the ship safe, Fedorov? What has happened? Zolkin has had me strapped to this cot and refused to let me go.”

“Doctors give orders too, Leonid,” said Zolkin, his brows lowering with admonition.

“Don’t worry, Admiral, the worst is over and we should have safe waters for at least the next twenty-four hours or more.” He gave Volsky a briefing on all they had been through, finishing up with an account of that surprise engagement with Veneto and Littorio.

“Battleships?” said Volsky. “So that is what was shaking things up down here. I thought it might be bombs from aircraft. The concussion was severe.”

“A few big rounds fell a little closer than I would have liked,” he explained. “We may have some splinter damage on the bow hull area, and Tasarov is having trouble with his sonar. We’ll put divers over the side near dusk to have a look.” He ran down the details of Byko’s damage control report and then asked if he might summon Captain Karpov to discuss the route ahead in more detail. While they waited Volsky took a moment to sound out another matter.

“How are things on the bridge,” he asked. “Have the men accepted Karpov? Do you feel comfortable with him there?”

“Yes sir,” Fedorov did not hesitate. “In fact, his knowledge and ability to fight the ship in combat is invaluable. He can make quick decisions, put weapons on target, and the other officers seem to hold no grudge over what happened. I think Karpov is legitimately trying to rehabilitate himself. Yes, his pride is wounded, but he has lost that arrogance and argumentative edge, and frankly, he does not seem so obsessed with effecting some decisive blow, though I cannot say that has entirely left his thinking.”

Zolkin spoke up: “You mean he won’t be trying to fire of another nuclear bomb off any time soon. That is a relief.”

“I have told him that option is out of the question, and he did not argue,” said Fedorov.

“And you,” said Volsky. “How do you feel at the helm, young man?”

“It’s a great deal of responsibility, sir. I have much to learn, and I’m grateful for Karpov’s assistance and the competency of the other officers. Now we have some hard decisions to make, and so I wanted you to guide us, and express your thoughts on what we should do.”

“Not what we must do?” said Zolkin.

“I’m afraid we must consider both, my good Doctor.”

Karpov arrived and stepped in to the room, looking as tired as Fedorov, and somewhat haggard. “Rodenko has the bridge,” he said. “All is quiet for the moment. But Fedorov thinks we have some difficult hours ahead of us.”

“Alright,” said Volsky. “Let us hear your briefing Fedorov, and then we will decide.”

Chapter 18

“If the history remains intact,” said Fedorov, then Force Z should turn back for Gibraltar at 1855 hours, or just before sunset this evening. At most they can make twenty knots. That's all the speed the heart of that task force can muster, two battleships, Rodney and Nelson. They have 16 inch guns, and 16 inch armor on the belt, main turrets and barbettes. These are slow but durable ships. They may never be listed among the top battleships in the war, but they are dangerous and should not be underestimated. Captain Karpov drove off the Italian battle squadron with six Moskit-II hits above the weather deck. I do not think the British will be moved so easily.”

“You believe they will fight to the finish?” asked Volsky.

“I do, sir. For one thing, we will be threatening one of the most strategically important bases in the British Empire. Look at what they committed here to the defense of Malta. The British know they have to hold three places at this stage of the war: Suez, Malta, and Gibraltar. They will fight, sir. We cannot expect the them to break off, even if things go badly for them.”

“What will they know about us?” Volsky’s question was pointed and had been nagging at Fedorov for some time.

“I’ve been considering that, sir. If they learn of the engagement we just fought with the Italians then we may have created quite a conundrum for them.”

“Yes, we’re a big fish in this very small tank, and we’ve been nipping at the other fish. They will have to wonder who the Italians were slugging it out with just now, and why we can’t seem to decide who’s side we are on in this war.”

“And remember, they had aircraft over us as well yesterday in the Tyrrhenian Sea. We could have been photographed. At that time they probably believed we were an Italian heavy cruiser, but after the engagement at Bonifacio, I don’t know what they will think. Perhaps they might consider that we were a renegade French ship out of Toulon. That is my hope. There was a great deal of dissatisfaction in the French Navy about Vichy French cooperation with the Axis. Remember that the Allies are planning the Invasion of North Africa right now, and Eisenhower is urging the French fleet to join them. They will make an agreement with Admiral Darlan and use him as a standard to rally the fleet. Hitler was suspicious about all this, and he planned Operation Lila to attempt to seize that fleet intact and turn it over to the Italians. These events were to occur in just a few months time, but one thing I have noted is that things are happening sooner than they did historically. There has been a subtle shift in the course of events. Perhaps we could confuse British intelligence if Nikolin were to broadcast that we were a renegade French ship. They would have to overfly Toulon to verify that, and it might buy us some time.”

“You think we could pose as a French vessel as we approach Gibraltar?”

“It’s worth a try sir, though we have no real idea what the British may know about us now, and they may see through the ruse in time. Even if they do believe us, they will still send out ships to escort us, and then, well, the bear is out of his cave.”

“We must assume as much,” said Karpov. “They are not going to simply let us sail on through with the tip of a hat. What we need to know now is how they would plan to defend the Strait of Gibraltar.”

“Our experience in the Bonifacio Strait will be your guide in that, Captain.” Fedorov rubbed his brow, very weary. “Only it will be a much stronger defense. There’s a hundred ton gun installation at Gibraltar, at Magdala battery over looking Rosia Bay. It’s an old gun, but can still fire an 18 inch, two thousand pound shell to a range of five or six kilometers. It’s not very accurate, but it we would be wise to sail south of that range line as a precaution. There may also be submarines, minefields, and the British will have planes at Gibraltar as well. Many more than we have encountered so far. We can avoid their coastal guns, but not the Royal Navy. We must assume that we’ll be facing at least two battleships, three cruisers and many destroyers. If the history repeats itself, their best carrier, Indomitable, will take serious bomb damage tonight. This will still leave them with our old friends Victorious, Furious, and perhaps the smaller carrier Argus.”

Karpov shook his head sullenly. “I tried to sink them earlier, but no one would listen to me. Now we may have to finish the job.”

“Anything more that we might face?” Volsky had a gloomy expression on his face already, clearly not happy with their situation.

“Well, sir,” said Fedorov, “I doubt they could bring reinforcements down from Home Fleet. Those ships would have to be underway now to reach Gibraltar in time. I think we can safely say that Force Z, probably Force H again after it arrives at Gibraltar, will be our principle foe.”

Volsky seemed to be weighing something in his mind. Then he spoke, suggesting another alternative. “Mister Fedorov, Captain Karpov… Might the British be receptive to negotiations concerning our safe passage of these waters?”

Karpov’s brows raised with surprise. “Negotiations? I hardly think so. What would we tell them, that we were out on a pleasure cruise when suddenly one of their fighter planes attacked us and we were only defending ourselves?”

Fedorov’s eyes brightened a bit at the prospect of negotiations, yet he knew that even this was a double edged sword. “I understand your point, Captain, but it still might be preferable to battle. If we fight, a great many men are going to die. We have already ripped a hole in the history of these events, and every ship and plane we destroy, every man that dies when our missiles strike, will be something that time will find missing from her balance sheets that day. There will be consequences—this we have seen.”

“I don’t think we could possibly make things any worse than the nightmare world we have just come from,” said Volsky.

“And we might even change things for the better, Fedorov,” Karpov put in. “Yes, I know my decisions and actions may have caused the Americans to enter the war early. So perhaps I am responsible, Vladimir Karpov, the man who destroyed the world. Don’t you think I’ve carried that in my gut ever since? So consider this—might we have a chance to correct this now?”

“How?” Volsky looked at him with a blank expression, yet open to his suggestion.

“Well… considering that our initial aim was to bring about post war conditions more favorable to Russia, my thought was to strike a decisive blow against the Allies.”

“Yes,” said Zolkin. “And if you had finished your dirty business you would have probably dropped another nuclear warhead on Roosevelt and Churchill!”

Karpov frowned, a flash of resentment in his eyes. “I’ll admit that thought did cross my mind, Doctor. Such action may seem insane to you from the quiet of your infirmary here, but from the bridge of a fighting ship under attack things look a little different. That said, such drastic measures may not be necessary now. The mere threat of action can be as effective as the thing itself. If we do consider negotiation, as Admiral Volsky suggests, then I hope we will remember that we have power in our hands here—real power—and not simply to sink a few more British ships. The British need Gibraltar, yes? Tell them that unless they stand down we will flatten that rock and everything on it. This is negotiating with strength. Don’t forget that.” He folded his arms, his hand finding the pain in his side.

The Admiral rubbed the stubble on his chin, thinking. He could see that Fedorov seemed somewhat anxious now, and restless. “Something more, Mister Fedorov?”

The young man spoke, a tentative edge to his voice, as if he were still feeling his way through his argument. “I favor the idea of negotiation,” he began, “but even that course is not without risk. I might point out that there are over 40 kilometers of tunnels under the rock at Gibraltar, a complete military city. That aside, if we communicate with these men, of this era and time, they will want to know who and what we are. Can we tell them? Remember that any information we divulge can also have an impact on the future course of events. Information was, in fact, one of the principle weapons of this war. We know a very great deal, and that is also power—real power, Captain—to change the future that may unfold from this encounter.”

Volsky smiled inwardly. He had walked this same corridor in his own mind as he considered the prospect of negotiating with Churchill and Roosevelt earlier. In the end he realized that any such contact was fraught with as much peril as opportunity. “I don’t think we can pass for a French battleship for very long,” he said at last. “That ruse might buy us a little time, but the British will see through in due course. Then any negotiation we have with them must be tightly controlled. Perhaps we could simply ask for safe passage through the Strait in exchange for our pledge of neutrality for the duration of the war. We could tell them we will sail to the southern hemisphere, and stay as far as possible from forces on any side in this conflict.”

“And when they demand to know who we are,” said Karpov, a little too sharply. “Then what?”

“I don’t know yet, Mister Karpov, but give me time and I will consider it—along with everything else we have discussed here. It may be that we will have no safe option.”

“Particularly if the British are not so keen on negotiating. Remember they have a considerable score to settle, and I would not be surprised to find them intent on nothing other than our destruction.”

“Everything we do involves risk, Captain. But tell me…Given the forces Fedorov has described, can we push through this last gate of hell and get back into the Atlantic?”

“Leave that to me, sir. Yes. We can get through.”

“But at what cost?” asked Fedorov.

Karpov knew he was talking about British lives now, and he said as much. “If the enemy wishes to stand against us in battle, then they must carry the burden of the losses they sustain. Ours is to look to the safety of this ship and crew.”

“That I understand,” Volsky agreed with him. “It is all this talk about power and decisive blows aimed at changing the future that I do not yet grasp. We can never know what our actions here may lead to.” He paused, tired again and wanting to sleep without interruption by 15 inch gun salvos. “Very well, gentlemen,” he continued. “I order the two of you to get some sleep, which is what I plan to do. Hopefully no one will shoot at us for the next five hours.”

Fedorov thanked the admiral and slipped out of the hatch, longing for a few more hours in his bunk. Karpov stood with a grunt and started for the door.

“Mister Karpov,” said Zolkin. “You seem to be favoring that ribcage. Is there something I can help you with?”

“It’s nothing, Doctor.” He rubbed his side where Orlov has buried his fist in their brief encounter. “I slipped on a wet deck and stumbled into a ladder. It’s nothing. Just a bruise.”

“Carry on then,” said Volsky. “And Karpov… Thank you for what you have done to support that young man. He’ll make a fine officer. Help him, yes?”

“I will, sir.”

Aboard the cruiser Norfolk later that afternoon, Admiral Tovey was asking himself the same question that plagued Fedorov. What would it cost them this time? He had boarded a plane to Holyhead on the Irish Sea, where the intrepid cruiser was waiting for him at 14:00 hours. It had come all the way down from Scapa Flow, leading the charge of the Home Fleet. Behind it came three more fast cruisers and the light carrier Avenger, also new on the Home Fleet roster and still working up with 825 and 802 Squadrons. The battleships followed in a stately line, their sharp bows raking the light swells as they made way at twenty-four knots, four knots shy of their best speed. Even at that speed they would not get down to the warmer waters off the Spanish coast until late afternoon of August 14th. Destroyers escorted them on either side, though only a few of these ships would have the range make the long journey south. Tovey wondered if they would make it in time.

If this ship stays put in the Med, he thought, then we’ve got her, along with the answer to this mystery once and for all. If she moves now for Gibraltar, then God help Force Z. Syfret was an able man, his flag aboard HMS Nelson, and he would fight the good fight. His own second in command of Home Fleet, Admiral Bruce Fraser, was also there incognito aboard HMS Rodney to survey the whole of this Operation Pedestal and make a special report. Could Rodney and Nelson hold on until Home Fleet arrived? What might the cost be if he ordered Syfret to hold the Pillars of Hercules at all cost? He had seen the weapons this mysterious ship was capable of deploying. Was he merely sending these good men and ships to their doom? And if this unaccountable raider blasts its way through the strait and out into the Atlantic again, what then? Home Fleet will come charging up, tired and thirsty. His battleships were well gunned and armored, but with short legs. He could operate for a few more days, and then he would need to refuel. By that time this Geronimo could get well out to sea and leave them holding an empty bag again. Was he just burning up valuable fuel oil in another fruitless chase?

These and a hundred other questions turned in his mind, and he could still see the look in Professor Turing’s eyes, almost pleading it seemed to him. What was he getting at in that last conversation they had had together? He had told him there was no nation on this earth that could have built and deployed a ship like Geronimo, or managed to perfect any of the weaponry they had seen her use with such deadly effect—that it would take years, decades to reach that level of sophistication. Yet Tovey had seen the flatly contradicting truth of the matter first hand, felt the shuddering impact of those infernal rockets against his armor plate, seen the proud bow of HMS Repulse slip beneath the angry sea and die….and that hideous mushroom of seawater! A chill shook him just to think of how the American task force had perished.

Years… Decades… he considered every implication of what Turing had said. What was this terror ship? Where had it come from? It wasn’t German—not if it fought with the Italians at Bonifacio Strait—and it certainly wasn’t French, not with this rocketry as its primary weapon. Could the Russians have built a ship like this? Impossible! What then? The notion that there was some Captain Nemo out there building such a ship on a deserted island as Jules Verne had it in Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea was also not one he could entertain for long. Yet this ship was indeed a profound riddle, as confounding as that Mysterious Island Verne wrote about in his sequel, and apparently bent on picking a fight with the British Empire or anyone else, just as this Captain Nemo had in the novels Tovey had delighted to read in his youth.

Captain Nemo…Prince Dakkar, son of a Hindu Raja. Verne had said he discovered the lost civilization of Atlantis, and hinted that his wizardry had been derived from ancient knowledge he had uncovered. Tovey never forgot how he mused over the story, and especially when Nemo returned in Mysterious Island, old and gray after having sailed the oceans wide, the last survivor on the Nautilus. The odd thing there had been the strange incongruity with time, for the Nautilus escaped the maelstrom at the end of Verne’s first book in June of 1868, then the ship strangely appears, with Nemo an old man, all his crew gone, and the captain dies in October of that same year on that mysterious “Lincoln” Island. He remembered thinking that perhaps his strange submarine had also traveled in back time during its many adventures, arriving at the end of its long journey right at the same place and time it had begun.

Traveling in time… He smiled, putting the story out of his mind and squinting at the gray horizon as Norfolk rose and fell in the gathering swell. The tang of the sea was in the air, and he felt at home again, his feet firmly rooted in the here and now. It wasn’t possible, he thought. Jules Verne or H.G. Wells might have the liberty to delight themselves with such fanciful notions in their writings, but not the Admiral of the Home Fleet of the Royal Navy.

A flight of seabirds cruised by overhead, making for land, and his questions soared after them, seeking some comprehensible home in his mind. What was this ship? Who could have built it? The mystery drove his resolve, and he would move heaven and hell, and the considerable weight of Home Fleet to have his answer.