Kirov

Chapter 25

When Samsonov reported that the American planes had been decimated, and their carrier struck by three Moskit-II Sunburn missiles, the crew in the CIC cheered loudly. Karpov stood proudly on the bridge, his arms clasped behind his back, a satisfied grin on his face as the Weapon’s Chief finished his report. In all their maneuvers and war games the Kirov had been pitted against their one great nemesis, an American carrier task force. They had finally sunk one, or so they now believed.

Admittedly, this was a far more scaled down version of that threat, an old light escort carrier compared to the massive nuclear strike carriers Kirov had been built to oppose. It was little wonder, then, that the Russian ship dispatched her easily enough. The Americans had been steaming blithely along, without the slightest inkling that any threat was near. They had received no official word of the British dilemma concerning this new German raider until it was too late. Their P-40s had carried nothing more than a standard load of machine gun ammunition, and the main attack squadrons assigned to Wasp had been left behind in Norfolk. The carrier had only 3.5 inch side armor, and so Samsonov was able to use sea skimmers in the final approach to easily penetrate this and wreak havoc deep inside the ship. The explosions erupted up through the unarmored flight deck, igniting fires the length of the whole ship. Four of her six boilers were destroyed and the remaining two were off line within minutes due to the heat of the fires, which were so hot that bulkheads protecting undamaged areas around them were glowing red.

Of the 1600 men aboard Wasp that day, 572 died within the first five minutes of the explosions. The remaining crew scrambled for life preservers and desperately tried to fight the fires. Fifteen minutes later, secondary explosions blew a hole in her thin hull and she began shipping water at an uncontrollable rate, listing fifteen degrees in a matter of minutes. Her captain, John Reeves, gave the order to abandon ship and struggled with his bridge crew to find a way out of the growing inferno, forced to exit via a side hatch and literally leap from the ship to save his life. Hundreds of other men were already in the cold Atlantic waters, and the death toll would rise to 1127 before the day would end.

The destroyers O’Brien and Walke had been churning about dropping depth charges at an enemy that was not even there. The cruiser Vincennes was firing at the last wayward survivors of Army Pursuit Squadron 33, until she was also struck by two more of the deadly Sunburns. One bored in at sea level, it’s own pinpoint accuracy again working in favor of the target when the missile struck the thickest part of her belt armor. Yet even that was only 5 inches of steel, less than the British battlecruiser Repulse that had been damaged by a similar attack. This time the missile warhead was able to penetrate a little deeper, and the resulting explosion was far more serious on a smaller ship, only a third the displacement of Repulse.

The second missile, however, was one of Samsonov’s reprogrammed Sunburns where he had eliminated the sea skimming leg of its flight path. Instead the missile flew in at just under Mach 3, then simply dove directly down into the ship. It struck the forecastle, blasted clean through, and gutted the ship, igniting two secondary magazines and then blowing a hole in the bottom of the hull for good measure. Another 568 men of her compliment of 708 would die. While the Wasp was deepening her list and sagging lower in the sea, Vincennes was a scorching wreck.

The remaining two destroyers stopped their anti-submarine runs and desperately tried to rescue as many men as they could pull out of the water, their crews fearfully eyeing the horizon. Walke had nets and ropes down, and launched every boat and life raft she had aboard, but those unlucky enough to have found a rope were out of the frying pan, into the drink and then back in the fire within minutes. One final Sunburn missile, a sea skimmer, came lancing in at the destroyer where it lingered near the stricken cruiser, and the impact easily penetrated the small unarmored ship, igniting one of her quadruple torpedo mounts, which joined the explosion and literally broke her in two. She sunk within minutes, taking 163 of her 192 man crew with her, along with every man she had managed to pull out of the sea.

Seeing this, the skipper of the last destroyer O’Brien quickly maneuvered his ship behind Wasp and used the burning carrier as a screen while his men tried to pull in as many souls as they could. He was lucky that day. Captain Karpov, satisfied with his kill, had decided to fire only one section of his lethal Sunburn missiles, six in all, and in doing so Task Force 1 was all but destroyed. The death toll mounted up to 1882 killed, another 460 wounded; almost as many as the Japanese attack might have killed at Pearl Harbor four months later. The date was August 5, 1941, and it was the greatest peacetime disaster in US naval history, and a new “day of infamy” when the American president finally learned the gruesome details of the surprise attack three hours later.

It was just after a late lunch aboard the heavy cruiser Augusta, and President Franklin Delano Roosevelt was resting on the bed in his sea cabin. He was enjoying one of his favorite pastimes, examining a few new stamps with a magnifying glass and thinking where he would add them to his collection once he returned home. On December 8, 1934, the dirigible Graf Zeppelin, named in honor of Graf Ferdinand von Zeppelin, a German inventor of hydrogen airships, departed from its home base at Friedrichshafen, Germany, bound for Recife, Brazil. It was Christmas and the airship carried 19 passengers, a load of freshly cut Christmas trees, and bundles of postcards and other holiday mail. Roosevelt was looking at one such card, Luftpost, Par Avion, and noting the distinctive circular green stamp showing the dirigible overlaid with a Christmas tree, when there was a knock at his door.

The president’s Scottish terrier, Fala, barked at once, and bodyguard, Mike Riley, got up and went to the door. His son, Franklin Junior, looked over his shoulder, seeing the shadows of three men outside and hearing the distinctive voice of George C. Marshall speaking softly to the guard. The door swung open and in came Marshall with Admirals Stark and King, their faces grave and set. Marshall was the first to speak, getting right to the point.

“Mister President,” he said, “we’ve been hit.”

Roosevelt looked up at him, a perplexed look on his face. “The Japanese?” He had been expecting trouble in the Pacific for some time now, but so soon? What had happened?

“No, sir,” said Marshall. “The Germans. Task Force 1 with the carrier Wasp was ferrying a squadron of P-40s to Iceland this morning. Apparently the British have been chasing down another German raider that broke out through the Denmark Strait.”

“We just got word of this, sir,” said Admiral King.

“It looks like Wasp ran afoul of this ship,” Marshall went on. “She’s been hit and is badly damaged. It’s likely that we’ll lose her within the hour.”

“I see…” Roosevelt put down his magnifying glass.

“There’s more, sir,” said Admiral Starke. “Cruiser Vincennes and destroyer Walke were also hit. Both sunk, sir.”

“My Lord,” said Roosevelt. “What was this ship, a U-boat?”

“No sir. It’s a surface raider of some kind. The British seem to think it may be the Graf Zeppelin.”

Roosevelt’s face registered real surprise. He looked down at his postcard, eyeing the stamp of the airship he had been examining just moments ago. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Our ships were attacked by an old blimp? How is that possible?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Admiral King. “The Graf Zeppelin is also the name of the new German aircraft carrier—a converted cruiser—and the British say this ship has a new weapon… some kind of rocket system, very accurate and capable of hitting ships and planes at extreme ranges. We just received word, sir. We don’t know how they’re launching them, or even seeing the targets, but the devil is in the details.”

Roosevelt’s eyes darkened. “What did we do to the enemy?” he wanted to know, but the three men were silent for a moment.

Admiral Stark cleared his voice. “Well, sir. It appears our boys never even saw this German ship. It was over the horizon. They had no visual or radar contact of any kind. In fact, the Germans hit our P-40 Squadrons shortly after they launched from Wasp for the run out to Reykjavík. They never knew what hit them, sir. It was a complete surprise—a deliberate attack against a neutral country.”

“I see…” Roosevelt’s face suddenly looked a hundred years old. His cheeks were sallow and drawn, eyes deep set and shadowed, with a distant, icy look in them. It was a look one might only describe as an ominous calm, as if he was suddenly seeing events that would now be set in motion the world over, cascading down through the days, months, and years from this moment, years of fire, and struggle, and the smoke and destruction of battle and war. And something in those eyes spoke to his own renewed awareness of his own mortality, as if some final, inner clock had tolled, and his own days were now to be counted off, like leaves falling from a tree, the long, lazy autumn of his life gone, and the winter of cold death waiting for him just ahead.

“Mister President,” said Marshall. “The casualties were… rather high. We don’t have the final numbers yet but there were well over two thousand men on those ships and planes. In light of the situation, I advise that we turn about and return to Washington.”

Roosevelt thought. “Where is Churchill?”

“His still at sea, sir. Apparently the British got a bit of a bloody nose when they went after this raider as well. Just like the Bismarck incident. Their ships are consolidating around Prince of Wales now, sir. That’s the ship presently transporting the Prime Minister.”

“Well is he coming or not?” asked Roosevelt.

“As far as we can determine, Mister Churchill seems intent on getting here to meet you, but we can advise him of this decision and postpone the conference until—”

“No, no, no, General. That won’t be necessary. If Mister Churchill is steaming on in the face of this threat, we’ll do the same. That’s a battleship out there with us, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Right, sir,” said Admiral King. “But the British inform us that two of their battleships were also damaged when they tangled with this new German ship. In the interest of safety, sir, I second the General’s suggestion.”

“And I veto it,” said Roosevelt bluntly. “That settles the matter. Put on speed, gentlemen. I don’t care how you do it, but get me up to Newfoundland as soon as you possibly can. And tell Churchill I’ll be waiting for him.”

Marshall had seen Roosevelt this way before, and he knew that once the President had made up his mind like this, there was no persuading him otherwise.

“Very well, sir,” he said. “If we increase to full speed I believe we can get you to the conference site a day early.”

“Good…” Roosevelt allowed himself a wan smile. Then his face was set and grim again. “Get word over to Mister Welles and the others. Also send a coded telegram to Secretary of State Hull back in the states. Tell him I’ll want a joint session of Congress convened immediately upon my return—sooner if he can learn to herd cats before that. This isn’t some U-Boat playing with a destroyer on convoy watch, gentlemen. This is something entirely different.”

There came another knock at the door, Roosevelt’s other son Elliot came in, his hat under his arm and eyes alight. “We just got word,” he said, a bewildered look on his face. “The Wasp has been sunk!”

Roosevelt leaned over, reaching for his pipe and tobacco. “Pull up a few chairs, gentlemen. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Aboard Prince of Wales, the doughty prime minister received the word of the American president’s resolve with great satisfaction. He clapped his hands, his eyes alight with an inner fire and renewed hope. It was as if a new sun was finally rising on the gray horizon, dispelling the heavy fog of war and promising a blazoning new hour that would save his embattled nation and assure the eventual defeat of Nazi Germany once and for all.

He was with General Sir John Dill, Chief of the Imperial General Staff, and Admiral Sir Dudley Pound, First Sea Lord and Chief of the Naval Staff. News of the engagement by his forces reached him the previous day, just as he was about to depart on the destroyer Oribi and slip out to Prince of Wales where she waited at anchor, her decks swept clean, guns and forecastle shining with a fresh coat of paint. The Admiralty had not been pleased to hear the results of Wake-Walker’s air strikes against this troublesome German raider, and when Tovey reported his big ships were under attack as well, from an enemy no one had even set eyes on, there was talk of keeping the Prime Minister at home.

Churchill would hear none of it, and insisted on boarding and departing for his long awaited conference with the American president at Argentia Bay. Admiral Pound reluctantly agreed, and the battleship cruised from Scapa Flow a few hours early, wanting to get out to sea as soon as possible. It was not long before they ran into foul weather and the three destroyers escorting Prince of Wales lost contact with the bigger ship, but Churchill demanded that they steam on, determined. “Full steam ahead,” said the ‘Former Naval Person,’ as he oft referred to himself. Churchill had once held the Admiral’s post as First Sea Lord himself.

By midnight, Prince of Wales was well out to sea and some miles east of Ireland. They soon received word of the attack on Repulse and King George V, and Tovey’s intention to gather all his ships and form a strong covering force to insure the Prime Minister’s safety.

“Why doesn’t he just get after this German ship and make an end of it?” Churchill grumbled.

“Under normal circumstances I would agree with you, sir,” said Admiral Pound. “But considering the situation, I rather tend to second Tovey’s decision. You insisted on putting yourself in harm’s way, sir. It’s our duty to see that you reach your destination safely. Tovey’s got a sound head on his shoulders. I expect he’ll want to join up with us in due course. And then, when we have you safely off to Newfoundland, we’ll get out there and settle the matter, just as we did with Bismarck, sir.”

Churchill chewed on his cigar, nodding. “Yes, but at what price, Sir Dudley? We gave up Hood to get at that demon, and now this. What do you make of this new rocket weapon the Germans appear to be using.”

“It’s rather confounding, sir. I can’t say as we’ve heard anything much about it. Bletchley Park seems to have missed something.”

“That they have,” said Churchill. “Well now… Let me put it this way. How many of these rockets can this ship have? If we press her she’s bound to run out, and then we’ll run up on her, take her by the throat, and throttle the life out of her.” He clenched his fist to make the point.

“I’m afraid the Americans suffered rather badly.”

“Yes, but as tragic as this attack was from the American standpoint, it was just the sort of dastardly deed that will enrage them. If Roosevelt allows this to stand, he’s not the man I think he is. This changes everything, gentlemen. I’m convinced the Americans will join us now after this. In this grave hour we’ll stand shoulder to shoulder and let the sinking of this new German ship be the first shot we fire as allies in this war. It was bound to happen sooner or later. The sooner the better, as far as England is concerned. The sooner the better.”

“Right, sir,” said General Dill. “We would welcome full support from the Americans. In fact, the Admiral here tells me that they’ve a considerable naval presence in and around Newfoundland at the moment. Jerry’s picked the wrong time to take a sucker punch at the U.S. Navy. Frankly, I can’t imagine what went through their minds, attacking a neutral country in such a blatant and grievous manner. You’re quite correct, sir. The Americans won’t let this stand. We’ve got word that Roosevelt is pressing on to Newfoundland.”

“Then we won’t be late either,” said Churchill. “I’ll want to get a cypher off to Parliament soon as well. If Roosevelt decides to declare war against Germany, then it’s very likely Japan will throw in on the other side. In that event, I want to be fully prepared to make an immediate declaration of war on Japan. In fact, I think our plan to send Prince of Wales and Repulse on to the Pacific after the conference is right on track.”

“Repulse will need some patching up first,” said Pound. “She’s still seaworthy, and there’s nothing wrong with her guns, but the Germans poked a couple of holes in her side armor that will have to be mended.”

“Yes, and they poked a few into, Furious as well.”

“King George V brushed them off, sir. We’ve nothing to worry about on that account.”

“That’s a comforting thought, Admiral. Because I fully intend to catch and sink this German ship. And if I can fish her captain out of the sea after we’re done with it, I’ll see that he hangs.”

Chapter 26

Fedorov slipped out of his quarters and made his way to the sick bay as fast as he could. Thankfully, there was no line outside the doctor’s office, and no chance Orlov would see him as he edged through the door, relieved to see Zolkin sitting at his desk.

“Yes, Mister Fedorov, how may I help you?”

“How is the Admiral, doctor?”

“Everyone wants to know how the Admiral is. Did you bring flowers? He is doing much better, but I have him sleeping in the next room.”

The navigator shifted uncomfortably, as if hesitating over what he wanted to say. Zolkin gave him a long look, seeing more there than met the eye. Yet he also noticed Fedorov had a bruise mark on his upper cheek, and stood up, walking around to the examination table.

“Over here,” he slapped the table with the palm of his hand, and Fedorov eased himself to a sitting position on the table.

“Where did you get this?” Zolkin nudged his chin to one side, reaching for some antiseptic and a gauze as he did so.

“It was nothing,” Fedorov said quietly.

“Oh, I think it was something more,” said the doctor. “I think it was Chief Orlov’s bad temper, yes?”

Fedorov sighed, nodding a quick affirmative. “You know what’s been happening since the Admiral fell ill,” he said. “The Captain…”

Zolkin gave him a long look, then dabbed the antiseptic on his cheek. “Karpov has been somewhat aggressive, it seems.”

“He’s made a terrible mistake,” said Fedorov, and he told the doctor what had happened on the bridge, how the American planes had simply been flying a transit mission, unarmed. “I tried to warn him—reason with him, but he had me relieved. Then he engaged the American task force as well. I fear there were very many casualties…”

At this Zolkin took pause, his manner more solemn, concern evident on his face. “It looks like the Captain didn’t like his cigar thrown out the window, and threw out the dog after it,” said Zolkin. He was referring to an old Russian tale, from Dostoevsky’s The Idiot, when the character of General Ivolgin claimed he had been berthed with a woman on a long train ride who complained about his cigar and threw it out the window. Ivolgin told his listener that he was so put off that he threw the woman’s dog out after the cigar in reprisal! The story was entirely fabricated, a perfect example of Russian vranyo, and the listener in Dostoevsky’s tale claimed he had read about a similar incident in a Belgian newspaper just days ago. In doing so he broke the time honored forms of vranyo by contradicting the liar, instead of quietly listening, straight faced and concerned.

Doctor Zolkin did not know how much was true and how much was manufactured in Fedorov’s tale, but he stayed in the role of the believing listener, then asked. “What ships did he fire on? Was it serious?”

“An aircraft carrier and several smaller escorts were leading the next convoy out to Iceland. They were not even aware of our presence, sir! He fired a full battery of Moskit-IIs. Didn’t you hear them when they launched?”

“I wouldn’t know a Moskit from a mosquito, Mister Fedorov. Everything this ship fires off sounds the same to me, and it’s all for killing one thing or another, so I pay no attention to it.”

“It’s not an exercise any more, Doctor. We’re not on maneuvers. Men died out there this morning, a great many I fear.”

Zolkin nodded, quiet for a moment before he said: “That’s the business of a warship. We spend billions of rubles to build them, pack them with men, missiles, guns and torpedoes, then put on these nice pressed uniforms and hats to make us feel better about the dirty business we’re up to. In the end, we are a shark, nothing more. This ship is a great white shark, and she has very sharp teeth. Do not be surprised, then, if it ends up doing exactly what a shark would do when the men commanding this ship become sharks themselves.”

Fedorov looked down, still upset. “Does the Admiral know?”

“He should never have stood that last night watch,” said Zolkin. “I suspect that, even when he was in his cabin, he was too busy reading your book to find time to sleep. The man was exhausted, and at his age he will not have the stamina to function as he should without sleep. At least I was able to see that he stayed here all day and got some much needed rest.”

“What happened to him?” Fedorov’s eyes were searching, worried.

“BPV. Benign Positional Vertigo. It will not be serious, and it will pass. Particles in the fluid of his inner ear went one way, the ship went the other. Throw in fatigue and stress and he had a case of sudden vertigo. It is not serious. Another day and I will have him back on his feet—but I want him to rest.” He held up a finger.

“I understand, sir…But doctor.”

“Yes, I knew there would be a ‘but doctor’… what is it Mister Fedorov?”

“The engagement today…The men are saying we have sunk an American carrier! They laugh and joke about it, as if we were on maneuvers. But this attack could have consequences we cannot even imagine now. It will enrage the Americans, just as the Japanese attack on them at Pearl Harbor roused them to anger, and look what happened? They built thirty aircraft carriers, another hundred smaller escort carriers, ten battleships, seventy cruisers, over 800 destroyers and escorts and 200 submarines, not to mention over 400,000 planes!

“They crushed the Japanese empire and practically incinerated their entire country with just a third of their war effort. And liberated half of Europe, and all of Asia in just four years. This is not the United States we know from our time, Doctor. This United States doesn’t start with soft words and sanctions. They don’t move a battalion here, a brigade, a few planes, a carrier steaming offshore for a week or two. They won’t take ten years fighting a war like the US did in Iraq and Afghanistan and then leave with nothing in hand when they are done. No…This United States will stop at nothing to achieve its ends. And this war is like nothing we could possibly imagine. A hundred thousand will die on a bad weekend in this conflict. Karpov has stuck his hand into a beehive. We are one ship. How many missiles does he think we have?”

“You know your history well, Mister Fedorov.” The Doctor finished up with a little antiseptic ointment on his cheek. “I think it would be wise if you stay clear of Mister Orlov for a while. As for the Admiral, I’ll have a little chat with him.”

“We need more than a little chat, Doctor. I’m afraid the Captain has his mind set on something involving the Atlantic Charter conference. It’s just a few days from now, and as soon as the ship’s engines are certified for high-speed rotations again he will hasten on his way, and he will strike at anything in his path.”

Zolkin nodded gravely. ”What exactly is in his path?”

“At the moment, another US surface action group. The battleship Mississippi, two cruisers, five destroyers, and four transports. And behind them there will be much the same escorting their president to Argentia Bay. He will engage these ships if he spots them. We’re jamming all their radar frequencies now. They can’t see us, and he’ll shoot down any plane that comes near us. We can fire at five times their range and hit them before they even know we are here. It’s not warfare, doctor, it’s murder. Our only weakness is the fact that we have a limited weapons inventory, and I’m afraid that when our missiles begin to run low…”

The Doctor knew what Fedorov was angling toward. He scratched his chin, his head to one side as he thought. “I understand,” he said. “I’ll do what I can, Mister Fedorov.”

“Thank you, sir. Anything you can do to get the Admiral back on his feet might help.”

Zolkin smiled. “That’s what doctors are for. The admirals and captains and generals send men out to fight, and we doctors, we try to put them back together again when they fall apart. In the meantime, I suggest you get some sleep as well. The Chief Engineer was in here an hour ago. It may comfort you to know that I told him to take his time working on the engines. In fact I was rather insistent.” He winked at Fedorov again, removing in one gesture some of the loneliness and isolation the young navigator had carried on his shoulders for days now.

“Now then,” said the Doctor. “Sleep! Doctor’s orders! I will summon you to sick bay at 1800 hours for your prescription.”

“What prescription, sir?”

Zolkin just smiled, and Fedorov knew he had found an ally.

On the bridge the excited flush of victory was well savored. Karpov ordered the KA-226 to scout out toward the position of the American task force and send back live video, and this time he trusted what he saw. The scene was still shrouded with smoke and burning oil, though the sole remaining American destroyer had limped away to the south, her decks laden with every man she could pull out of the sea. All too many were left there, either dead before they hit the water, or dead within the hour. O’Brien lingered as long as she could, but after CV Wasp leaned over and finally began to sink, her skipper felt it would do no good to the survivors if another attack came in and blew his own ship apart. He sped south, back towards the Mississippi in TF 16, which was hurrying north to render any assistance possible.

The four troop and cargo transports were immediately ordered to turn about and return to Argentia Bay. Two destroyers went with them, the remaining three hastening north at full speed to pick up the last of the survivors. Behind them came the heart of the task force, cruisers Quincy and Wichita, and the battleship Mississippi. But at 16:00 hours a signal came in ordering the ships to hold position, then turn about and steam for Argentia Bay as well. Apparently the Admirals wanted to get all their eggs in one basket, count them well, and then hatch some plan of attack against this lethal, unseen German raider.

Karpov studied the footage, watching the movements of the three destroyers closely, then assured himself that they were there only to rescue the fallen. Before long they, too, turned and steamed south leaving only the still burning flotsam on the oily sea. The men on the bridge gathered round the video monitor, their eyes alight at first, until the helo zoomed in on the floating bodies of sailors adrift in the wreckage. They saw the arm of one man raise up, as if he was trying desperately to call back one of the destroyers. Then exhausted or stricken by the cold, he slipped from the spar of a mast he had been clinging to, and was taken by the sea.

There is an unwritten law among men who go to sea that binds each one in a silent kinship. The essence of it is that they live or die at the whim of a force greater than any man can sound or fathom, and that a man alone in the water was every man among them in his place.

Watching that last man slip beneath smoky green-gray waves and die took the fire and light of battle out of the eyes of the young mishman on the bridge. It was a perceptible shift in the tone of the emotion they shared, and a sullen silence came over them, perhaps as each one realized now that they had made a mortal enemy of the two single powers that mutually ruled these seas, and that from this point forward, their lot was to fight for their very survival, or to die like the men they had seen on the video screen. And slowly, one by one, they drifted away, back to their posts, keeping the last of their thoughts to themselves the way a man keeps the review of each day he lives in the quiet minutes before sleep takes him. Orlov noticed it, felt it as well, yet his only way of understanding it was to channel the emotion into derisive anger.

“Those stupid bastards,” he said. “What did they think they were doing launching those planes at us? What did they think we were supposed to do, sit here and let them come in on us and put our balls in the sea? No. They got what they damn well deserved, and I hope to god they learned from it.”

The men glanced his way warily as he spoke, but no one said anything, the echo of Fedorov’s warning still in their minds. It was not as Orlov had told it, they knew. The Americans had no intention of attacking. They were unarmed. They had no idea Kirov was even there, and not one of them ever laid eyes on the enemy that had struck them down; butchered them with weapons and capabilities they could not begin to comprehend. Somewhere in that train of thought was a ripening seed of guilt, and each man sat with it, dealt with it in his own way.

For Karpov, it was his to retreat to the silence of command. With Orlov at his side, no one questioned him. So his mind was already leaping past any notion of recrimination and on to the next evolution of his maneuver to the south. Yes, he would have to explain his actions to the Admiral, but he could claim, and justifiably so, that the Americans had struck the first blow in launching those planes, just as Orlov had said.

Why was the engine room taking so long on the reactor cooling problem, he wondered? The ship had been making no more than ten knots throughout the whole engagement. He wanted to put on speed, and cruise south to get into the most favorable position for the confrontation he knew was only a matter of days and nautical miles ahead of them now. What was done, was done. He would live with it and waste no time brooding over his fallen enemy.

Karpov knew he had taken a risk here. It was a feeling that had come to him many times before when he had finally set his schemes and plans in motion against a potential rival, because he knew he might fail. The Americans were just another rung on the ladder he saw himself climbing, that was all. Tomorrow was another day, and anything could happen. A man could never be too careful, or too daring, he thought. Which would it be for him?

He had been careful most of his life. Careful planning, patience and a lot of quiet suffering had brought him to this place. Now he had finally done something daring, and he felt strangely light headed as he looked at the battle damage assessment feed. This must be something akin to what Orlov felt just after he punched a man in the face, he thought. It was a heady, self-satisfied feeling of power. Somehow it quenched the smell of shame that had dogged him all these many years, and it made him feel just a little bigger than he was before.

Now he focused his thoughts on his munitions inventory, and turned to Samsonov, asking him for an update.

“Sir, we have fired a total of 12 Moskit-IIs, 28 remain in inventory. We have fired 16 S-300 SAMS, leaving a total of 48. We have fired 32 Klinok/Gauntlet SAMs, and 96 remain. Our Gatling guns have expended 5% of available rounds. Our forward 100 millimeter cannon has expended six of one thousand rounds. The 152 millimeter batteries and torpedoes are at full load, as are the auxiliary ship-to-ship missiles.”

The Captain rubbed his hands together. Aside from his Moskit anti-ship missiles, and the S-300s his inventory was near full, and not one of the better 152mm deck guns had come into play as yet. He also had two more SSM missile systems aboard, with ten missiles each.

“Did we receive additional missiles for the MOS-III Starfires? And what about the cruise missiles?”

“No sir, neither of those weapon systems were scheduled for test firing, and so they were not replenished. But we still have our standard load of ten missiles for each of those two systems.”

Karpov thought about this in silence. Adding in those last two weapons, he now had a total of 48 missiles capable of targeting and hurting an enemy ship. His two primary air defense systems were still well provisioned, but he would have to be economical in using his ship killers in the days ahead. There was one other point he wanted to check.

“And what about our special warheads?”

Samsonov looked at him. “I’m sorry sir, that information is not on my board. Only the Admiral is aware of our status for special warheads on deployment.”

Correct, thought Karpov, and the Admiral will have a key around his neck even as I have one around mine. “Thank you, Mister Samsonov,” he said calmly.

His problem now was that it would require both keys, inserted into Samsonov’s Combat Information Display, to activate and fire a nuclear warhead, at least if the default protocols were in place. If he wanted to get his hands on that other key, now was the time to do it, while the Admiral was indisposed. But how to present this in a way that would not cause undo trouble with the crew? He knew their love and respect for Admiral Volsky could become an insurmountable obstacle if it came to a confrontation over the issue.

He considered his situation deeply. Orlov was with him for the moment. Orlov loved a good bar fight, and he understood all too well the effect of direct and bold action when it came to dealing with a problem. The problem was not Orlov, he thought, it’s me! I’m the one still a little weak in the knee over what I have just done, still a little worried at what the Admiral might say and do when he learns of this.

He took comfort in the thought that Orlov seemed to back his decisions, but would the fiery Chief waffle and recede into the background should Volsky return to the bridge? What about the other officers? Rodenko would answer to whomever held the watch on the main bridge. He thought he might be able to rely on Samsonov, but clearly Fedorov was a weak sister, and Tasarov seemed lost, as always, beneath his headphones, his mind in the depths of the sea and concerned with little else. But what were they really thinking? A bit of the old doubt and fear that had always bothered him in times of trouble like this reasserted itself. But what was done, was done.

What was the Admiral’s status? How much time did he have before Volsky would be back on his feet? Could he reason with the Admiral; explain the situation to him properly? Could he force him to see the opportunity they now had before them? He could insist on the use of nuclear weapons all he wanted, but what if the Admiral refused?

Karpov was still frustrated and troubled. Yes, it felt good to sit in the Captain’s chair just now, without Volsky’s shadow over him, contradicting him, lashing him with one question after another. But all of this was risky. He felt the awkward glare of the overhead lights on him now, flinching. When in battle, the bridge was folded in shadows, with only the red gleam of the battle station lighting on, blood red lights that pulsed with warning, and yet seemed a comfort to him.

His mind wandered over the many possibilities ahead of him now. What if the Admiral were permanently disabled? As First Captain of the ship he would then be senior officer. There were two other Captains aboard, as both Doctor Zolkin and Orlov technically held the rank of Captain, though they were both of the second and third rating, and below him in the chain of command. Orlov was presently designated Chief of Operations. Karpov could declare an emergency and appoint Orlov as his Starpom, his number one, bypassing Zolkin easily enough. The other Lieutenants, of every rank and stripe, would have no choice but to fall in line. If necessary, he could call on Sergeant Troyak and his Marine detachment to impose his will. Yet if it came to a contest of authority with the Admiral, what would Troyak do? Volsky was not just any admiral, he was Admiral of the Fleet, one big star and four stripes above Karpov’s present rank as First Captain.

He decided he needed to get below decks for a while and take the measure of the ship and crew. Like a mouse stealing out into a dark, drafty house, he needed to skulk about a bit to size up his prospects. He knew where the cheese was. Could he get to it this time? He wanted to check on engineering first, then visit the Doctor to see about Volsky. On the way back he would have a brief chat with Troyak as well.

Chapter 27

The American Task Force 16 was steaming south with the four transports out in front this time, followed by the larger escorts which hoped to screen the cargo ships from any further attack. Behind them, Kirov crept slowly south in their wake, like a lone wolf tracking a herd of water buffalo. Along the way she sailed right over the seas where Wasp had burned and sank, along with Vincennes and Walke. Many of the crew were out on the main sea deck, leaning over the railings and peering out of hatches to look at the flotsam and dark slicks of burning oil there. Bodies still floated in the water, some having drifted out of the stricken ships below, a macabre scene that left the living in a sullen silence, tinged with a measure of guilt. For many it was their first real combat action, and their first personal glimpse of the consequences of war.

200 miles to the southeast, Admiral Tovey had been joined by the cruisers of Force P and Vian’s Force K. Wake-Walker was aboard Suffolk, with Devonshire at his side winking out his arrival on the ship’s lanterns. His two cruisers and five of his eight destroyers had refueled in Reykjavík and were ready for action. The two carriers had been sent home to Scapa Flow with an escort of three destroyers. Vian’s cruisers, Nigeria and Aurora had rendezvoused with an oiler just south of Iceland and topped off what they could before hurrying south to join the party. After these ships finally arrived, Tovey turned south, steaming out to pick up one more lost sheep, the Prince of Wales. When the watchmen saw her on radar, and the lookouts finally spotted her looming dead ahead, the Admiral sighed with relief.

“Well, it’s beginning to feel like I’ve a fleet to command here after all,” he said to Brind. Now he had two good battleships, along with Repulse, wounded but still battle worthy. The addition of four cruisers enabled him to screen these ships, and he then placed his five destroyers further out, as a picket line against U-boats and a means of sending him early warning if the German raider launched those infernal rockets again. They were now dead in the middle of the North Atlantic, half way between Ireland and Newfoundland.

Some 500 miles south of him, Admiral Somerville was out in Force H with another sizable battle group. Tovey planned to link up with him in two days time, just off the tip of Newfoundland. He would add the battleship Nelson, battlecruiser Renown, four more cruisers and the veteran carrier Ark Royal to the cards he could play. Together this would be the largest battle fleet England had assembled in any one place since Jutland in the First World War. Then, once he had the Prime Minister safely ashore, he would turn north and settle accounts with the Germans.

“Let them try to fling their fireworks at the whole of the Royal Navy,” he said, his spirits renewed and the light of battle in his eyes.

“The Americans will be there as well, sir,” said Brind. “Admiralty reports that their Admiral King has ordered the Atlantic Fleet to full battle readiness. They’ve even put out word to summon another aircraft carrier, the Yorktown, and the battleship Texas from their maneuvers in the Caribbean. It will give them damn near as many heavy ships and cruisers as we’ll have, sir.”

Tovey smiled. “Think of it, Brind. The Prime Minister is set to make his pitch to Roosevelt in the hopes of getting the Yanks in on our side. Then Jerry comes along with Graf Zeppelin and sticks his thumb in the pie! Can’t you see it now? Imagine both our fleets steaming shoulder to shoulder in the mightiest armada the world has ever seen. This business with Graf Zeppelin is the least of it, a mere nuisance. The main thing will be the photos of this grand Allied fleet scouring the seas, delivering just retribution on our enemies. It will give Herr Hitler fits, and let him know just exactly who he is trifling with now. We’re not alone any longer. This is going to change everything.”

“That it will, sir,” said Brind with a smile. “Yet considering that note of retribution. The Yanks will want to go all out to get this German ship.”

“We’ve got a score to settle as well,” said Tovey. “You don’t pull a sucker punch like that on the Royal Navy without hearing about it again.”

“That’s just it, sir,” said Brind. “This may seem a tad out of place given what’s happened. But we might give some thought to trying to capture this vessel intact. Then we could have a look at these ruddy rockets they’ve been using.”

“Not much chance of that, Daddy,” said Tovey. “First off, she’ll need every damn rocket aboard when she gets a look at our battle fleet darkening her near horizon. I wouldn’t think we’d find very much left aboard even if we were to seize the ship. For that matter, Jerry is likely to scuttle the ship if we do manage to corner her, just as they did with Graf Spee.”

“You’re probably right, Admiral,” said Brind. “Then I guess the only question is this—who gets to sink the Graf Zeppelin first?”

“I know the Americans will want to weigh in right off, but if the Prime Minister has anything to say about it, that honor will be reserved for the Royal Navy…and me!” He smiled broadly.

“Signal Prince of Wales: My regards to the FNP.” He was referring to the Former Naval Person, Churchill himself.

Miles away the analysts at Bletchley Park were having a look at some very unusual photographs. They had come in from Iceland on the Royal Post, and Western Approaches Command had prints made from the film them sent right over to the intelligence experts at Hut 8, as well as to the Admiralty. That, plus a bit of other news from agents on the ground had set jaws wagging again. Graf Zeppelin had been positively identified near Stettin, where the Germans had towed her some months ago to keep her safe from Russian air attacks. It seems the raider at loose on the seas was something else.

“Well this is odd,” said Atkins. “You’d better have another look at your chess set, Alan. We thought it was the Admiral Sheer, but she’s in port at Kiel. Then the Admiralty discovered Graf Zeppelin was missing and we thought that settled the matter. Now it seems she’s been found again, and not out south of Iceland where all this hubbub is going on.”

Alan Turing looked up from his chess board. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the yellow manila envelope Atkins had opened.

“Courier delivery. Reconnaissance photos taken by an American PBY. It seems Jerry been cheating at the game, Alan. He’s carved a new chess piece!” He brought the photos over to Turing, who glanced at them, still fixated on his game. But a second look soon commanded his complete attention, and he put down the pawn he had been fiddling with and took the photos in hand.

“It’s very odd looking,” Atkins went on. “Certainly not an aircraft carrier, or even a hybrid. Looks more like a battlecruiser of sorts. And a rather dangerous looking one at that. Look at all those odd domes and antennae. The ship looks like it is bristling with electronic devices.”

Turing took a closer look, his attention suddenly captured by the strange looking ship. “My, my… what have we here,” he breathed. “Those have to be radio direction finding sets and radar equipment. And that’s odd…no smoke stacks amidships at all. Could they be hidden elsewhere?”

“Some of the Japanese carrier designs had side venting stacks, but I don’t see anything like that here.”

“Make a note of that—no stacks. Very odd, indeed.”

“And have a look at these guns…” Atkins pointed, handing Turing the magnifying glass.

“Odd shape for a gun turret, but nothing out of the ordinary there. They look to be 5.7 inchers or thereabouts. This monster can’t take much of a bite out of anything with those. But these hatches on the forward decks look interesting. They must be mounting those rockets the Admiralty has been in a dither about there, below decks. Ingenious!”

“Atkins gave him a bemused look. “Alan…How in the world could we have missed something like this? The keel would have been laid down years ago. There’s no way we could fail to detect the construction of a ship like this—particularly one of this size. Every report we have on this raider speaks to its size. Frightened that destroyer captain out of his wits when he bumped noses with the damn thing up near Jan Mayen.”

“Interesting…” Turing’s eye seemed grossly enlarged as he peered through the magnifying glass. “No flags or insignia,” he murmured quietly, almost to himself. Then he seemed to focus intently on the sharp forward bow of the ship, thinking he spied the vague outline of a single star there. He couldn’t be sure, given the resolution of the photo, yet his brow furrowed with obvious concern.

“Look there, Atkins… That’s a man standing on the foredeck. See his shadow there? Let’s use him for scale and work out the dimensions. Make sure the chaps in Hut 8 see that and send it all over to the naval intelligence unit. I’m here to sort out the cyphers, not bandy about with ships.” He had tried to appear glib about the matter but his expression revealed some discomfiture. It was clear that the lapse of intelligence on this had bothered him, and if he had come to any inner conclusion on what he thought he saw on the ship’s prow, he said nothing more about it.

“You know what this means,” said Atkins, a warning in his voice. “They’re going to want us to go over all the code for the last six months or more to see how we could have missed this little darling. It’s going to be quite busy around here the next few weeks.”

Turing sighed, resignation evident on his face. “Quite,” he said. Then he moved his white bishop and put the enemy queen in jeopardy. “Better get over here, Atkins. I’m about to ruffle your lady’s skirts!”

Admiral Volsky was sitting up in bed, quietly drinking tea. The doctor was lounging on a nearby chair, keeping an eye on the Admiral, and was pleased when he finally stirred from sleep. He took a moment to get his pulse and temperature, and then looked in his eyes, gratified to see they were focusing and tracking properly. Then he served up his favorite remedy, a cup of hot Earl Grey tea.

“That’s it, Leonid, drink up. I’ll have you back on your feet in no time. I’ll say one thing for the British, they make good tea.”

“They sell good tea,” Volsky corrected him. “The Chinese grow the stuff.”

“Ah, feeling your old self again?”

“Much better now. The room has settled down, and my stomach along with it. But what in the world went on while I was down for the count? I could hear the ship, feel it in battle.”

“I suppose you had better know sooner than later,” said the doctor. “Your Mister Karpov has been taking pot shots at anything that comes within a hundred and fifty kilometers of us.”

“The British?”

“Yes, but Mister Fedorov says he’s also engaged an American Task Force as well. It was supposed to be delivering planes to Iceland. He was quite upset about it. Karpov had him relieved and sent below.”

“Relieved?” The Admiral raised his heavy brows, his eyes troubled again. “Did we get hurt?”

“No, the ship is fine. But I’m afraid the Americans cannot say the same. Karpov sunk a few ships. They never saw what hit them.”

Volsky closed his eyes, exhaling as if he could purge the trouble in his mind with his breath, then he opened them again, afraid the room would be spinning. Thankfully it was not. “What ships?” he said calmly, waiting.

“Well, don’t ask me, Leonid. Send for Mister Fedorov.”

At that moment there was a knock on the outer door, and Zolkin looked over his reading glasses, seeing the Captain leaning in through the half open entrance.

Karpov had been making his rounds, and this was to be his second stop. Earlier he had vented his ire on Chief Engineer Dobrynin and told him that if his ship could not make at least twenty knots in an hour’s time he would be relieved. He received word soon after that the reactor cooling situation was now sorted out, and the ship was certified for any speed up to ‘all ahead full’ at thirty-two knots. The Captain called up on the intercom to set the ship’s course just shy of 180 true, and increased to two thirds, cruising at twenty knots. Then he made for the sick bay to check on the Admiral.

“Come in, Captain,” Zolkin called out to him. “We’re in here having tea. Don’t tell me you have a stomach ache as well.”

Karpov entered, surprised, and inwardly disappointed to see Volsky sitting up, awake, and obviously alert. “Good to see you have recovered, Admiral,” he lied. “How are you, sir?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose. It seems thirty years at sea have taken their toll on me. And the ship?”

“We had a problem with our reactor coolant, but the engineers have fixed it. We’re back up at twenty knots and cruising south.”

“I see,” said Volsky. ”Did Dobrynin say anything about the sound of the reactors? Any unusual readings?”

“No, sir, it was just a cooling problem. It’s been fixed.”

The Admiral seemed relieved. “So tell me what you have been shooting at, Mister Karpov.” It was an obvious request, not a question.

“Sir, we engaged enemy surface and air units that threatened to penetrate our outer defense exclusion zone. The British have since broken off their pursuit. Their battlegroups to the north and east have turned away.”

“Exclusion zone? You are getting very testy with the British I see. And to the south? What about the Americans? There was a task group bound for Iceland as part of their occupation force. It was bringing supplies, aircraft. Don’t tell me you sunk those cargo ships.”

“No sir, I did not.”

“It was just an aircraft carrier,” said Zolkin quietly, folding his arms. Karpov looked at him, annoyed.

“An aircraft carrier?” Volsky stiffened and sat up higher, his heavy features registering obvious surprise.

“We were under attack by a large formation of aircraft. I took the steps necessary to defend the ship and crew.” The Captain immediately defended his actions.

“Those planes weren’t attacking,” said Volsky dismissively. “They were just being ferried out to Iceland. The carrier’s strike aircraft weren’t even aboard! Didn’t you consult with Fedorov?”

The remark annoyed the Captain even further. Fedorov was a junior lieutenant, and the thought that he needed his advice before taking appropriate action galled him.

“That may be the case, sir, at least insofar as Fedorov’s books tell you this. But on my radar scope a flight of thirty aircraft bearing on my position is a threat, and I dealt with it as such. The British could have informed the Americans about us,” he repeated his logic on the matter. “All the American ships had orders to attack. Fedorov will tell you as much. And for that matter, the history could have changed. These planes could have been rearmed for a strike mission. What? Was I supposed to let them fly right over us? We were directly in their flight path.”

Volsky rolled his eyes, this time with aggravation, not vertigo. “Yes, and why is that, Captain? Do you recall our last conversation? I told you I wanted to avoid contact with the enemy, and engage them only if we had no other option. I told you to use our speed to evade their ships, and that I would decide what to do about the carriers, yes? Did it occur to you that you could have steered east into the Atlantic long before this? And the carrier? That would have been the Wasp if I recall my notes from Fedorov’s book. You sunk this ship?”

Karpov was silent for a moment, then he raised his chin, folding his arms. “That I did, sir. In my judgment—”

“Your judgment? Do you have any idea of the likely consequences of this act? You wanted to prevent the Americans from getting to the Rhine? Well, it’s very likely you have just given them four months head start!” Volsky put his tea down, clearly upset, and ran his hand through his well grayed hair. “I heard the missiles in my sleep,” he said quietly, holding up a finger, which wagged as he spoke. “I thought I was just having a nightmare. Now I wake up only to find this is the nightmare. What day is it?” He had not even thought to ask Zolkin earlier.

“August 6th, 1941,” said the doctor. “Or so we believe.”

“August 6th…” Volsky thought. “Then in just three days time the Americans and British will meet at Argentia Bay. What is our present position, Captain?”

“We are due east of Cape Farewell, Greenland, and I have just turned on a heading of 180. The remainder of the American task force is withdrawing south as well. They have been taught a lesson, sir. I do not think we will be bothered further.”

“Yes, but who is going to teach you a lesson, Mister Karpov? Did I waste my breath with our last discussion?”

“I promised you that enemy planes would not threaten us again, sir. I removed the threat, and the carrier that launched it. Under similar circumstances I would do so again.”

The Admiral shrugged. “Every time I leave the bridge you begin firing off missiles! What, do I have to bring my cot up to the citadel and sleep there as well? How many missiles did you expend in these attacks?”

“They were not attacks, sir. They were necessary defensive operations.”

“Don’t quibble with me, Captain. Answer my question.”

“We have used twelve Moskit-IIs and a few more S-300s.”

“Twelve? Good God. That ship must have been an inferno. Did it occur to you that we do not need to use saturation barrage tactics on these targets?”

“You misunderstand me, admiral. I used the missiles very selectively. Only three were targeted against the aircraft carrier. Three more engaged her screen, and the remainder were expended earlier, shortly after you were taken ill. With those I drove off the other British units closing on our position, including the two carriers to our north. We have not seen an enemy aircraft since, or ship, for that matter. They have learned to respect us, sir.”

“That and more,” said Volsky. He paused, fixing the Captain with heavy eyes. “Do you know what they are doing out there now, Karpov?” The Admiral pointed to a distant location outside the ship. “The British have not run home for tea. Their Prime Minister is at sea, and bound for these very waters. No, no… they are most likely marshalling every ship of war within a thousand miles of our last known heading, and the next time they appear on Rodenko’s radar screen we will have more targets than you might think. As for the Americans, they are thinking now how to turn the anger and shock of your thoughtless act into a sure and steady momentum that will bring them into this war, not with a declaration against Japan, but one against Germany. And they will be sending out the whole of their Atlantic Fleet to find the ship and crew who sunk the Wasp…to find you, Captain,” he pointed.

“And unfortunately, all of the rest of us are aboard as well, so we will have to live with the consequences of your short temper and eagerness for war. That is what we have in front of us now, Mister Karpov. It will not be a few ships here, a few ships there. They will come out to look for us in force, to hunt us down with nothing but well justified vengeance in their minds and hearts. And do you know what? I think there may even be a little contest between them to see which one finds and sinks us first.” He paused to see if that might sink into his Captain’s head, but Karpov seemed as stolid and unbending as ever.

Vengeance was something he understood all too well, and he expressed his thought. “They are not the only ones needing a little revenge, sir. Now they get a taste of it from us for a change.”

Volsky sighed. “You think these are the men responsible for our lot in life? You think they have caused our economy to collapse, our cities to stagnate and rot? They were all dead before the Iron Curtain fell and the nation that men like Stalin and Khrushchev built came down in a pile of stink. What did you hope to accomplish with this attack?”

“I was only defending the ship, sir.”

“I can see this is leading us nowhere. Defending the ship? All you have done is increase the danger that lies ahead for us. It might have been possible to reason with these men. I was steering this course to consider that possibility, but after this, I’m afraid they will not care much for a friendly chat.”

“But at least they will respect us,” said Karpov, and just a little too sharply. The Doctor noticed his tone immediately, shifting uneasily in his chair.

The Captain continued. “This brings us to a point I feel compelled to raise now, sir.” He looked at Zolkin. “But perhaps the Doctor would excuse us?”

Zolkin looked up at him, then leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “I think you are wanting to talk about nuclear bombs, yes? No, Captain, I will not wander off to my sick bay and rattle about with my stethoscope and thermometers. I am a Captain of the Second Rank, and third in the chain of command aboard this ship. In fact, it is mine to say whether either one of you, or any man aboard, is deemed fit for duty. So I think I will stay. If you have some idea about blowing up the world out there, I’d like to hear about it. It may help me decide whether or not you are still sane.”