“It’ll be a job for the engineers,” said MacRae. “Eventually we’ll be needing the Ro-Ro ships as well, unless they fancy leaving Kinlan’s Challengers in that desert for the duration of the war.”
“Well, that will take a little more doing than we may realize,” said Morgan. “We’ll need control of the Western Med for that, and that means we’ll have to finish the job here with the Germans and French.”
“Things haven’t exactly gone our way in that,” MacRae shrugged.
“Not yet, but the Yanks will be on board soon. This was the year they planned Operation Torch, and now something like that same operation will have to be teed up again soon.”
“Well, they’ll have to run them off the Canary Islands first,” said MacRae. “And then I suppose the main attack will fall on Casablanca.”
“Don’t forget Gibraltar,” said Morgan. “That gets your hand in the honey pot fairly deep. You know damn well that Churchill will want the Rock back, and Franco won’t like it one damn bit. Gordie, this is going to be one hell of a war from here on out. The gloves are starting to come off.”
“Aye, and here we are pinching pennies and holding our punches, just when the bar fight gets interesting.”
“Ah, don’t despair, we’ve an important role to play here. That radar up on the mainmast will make a real difference, just like you say. We’re the eyes and ears of the Royal Navy now. That’s our proper role. Yes, we’ll be holding their coat instead of rolling up our sleeves for the fight, but we’ll matter. Believe that. We’ll matter a very good deal.”
MacRae thought a long time about that. Here I am, back in the Royal Navy again, only not the one I signed on to all those years ago… all those years hence. It was still so very confusing. And here is Argos Fire back in the service of that fleet, for in truth, the Royal Navy built and commissioned this hull, until her Ladyship got her purse open and took charge of it for Fairchild & Company. Now she’s gone and rigged out that special red phone of her’s to answer to Tovey. Odd to think that was always where those calls were coming from—that secret group within the Admiralty started by Tovey himself—the Watch. Now I wonder whether he’s gone and done that again, and just what all this business with these bloody keys is about? Perhaps it’s a good time to wine and dine Miss Fairchild. She just might get loose enough to tell me another tale.
Gordon MacRae had a good idea with that one. She did.
* * *
“A heavy loss,” said MacRae. “I can’t say I knew the man, him being Russian and all, but he held himself well from what I did see of him. Saved that damn ship in the thick of things. Saved your Admiral Tovey as well.”
He had had his dinner, and yes, they had their wine. There in Miss Fairchild’s stateroom aboard Argos Fire, the night was thick, and the talk thicker. “I’m not sure how I feel about it,” said Elena. “So many years at sea were spent standing the Watch on that man’s coming and going. To be honest, when we first came into contact with that ship, I believed we might come to blows.”
“That would have gone ill, and for both of us,” said MacRae. He had donned his dress white naval jacket for the dinner, but now that was cast off and the two were settled on the couch, allowing themselves the grace of informality that this sliver of privacy permitted. The Captain could think of a few other ways he might better spend this time with her, but this business of the keys was gnawing at him, and he wanted to know everything she knew. He had broached the subject in bringing up Volsky, for they both knew what Tovey had found in the Admiral’s blood stained jacket, the key that the young Russian Captain had entrusted to him to deliver to Tovey.
“It seems to me that a lot of good men have gone down in service to those keys. What’s it all about, Elena? What in God’s name are we supposed to do with them? Where in bloody hell did they even come from?”
“I wish I had the answer to both of those questions,” she said, and with a look that promised she was leveling with him now.
“Yet your organization—the Watch—you’ve had a so called Keyholder in the mix all along. You mean to say they had no idea what that was all about?”
“No, I mean to say I had no such idea, but I was next in line to know.”
“What do you mean?”
“We only had one Keyholder, and that person was always designated Watchstander G1. Normally that title would be conferred in a quiet, secret ceremony, and the key transferred. In this case, circumstances did not permit that. So it was delivered to me, and the message I found was the first inkling that the torch had been passed. I’m Number One now. When the key comes to a new Watchstander, they are charged with holding it, keeping it secure, and continuing the search for any other key that might exist. One day they may be called upon to use it. In my case, I got both charges at the same time.”
“When you were ordered to Delphi?”
“Correct—but Gordon, we’ve been over all of this.”
“Aye, that we have. I was just hoping there might be something more to it. I mean… someone sends you a message—Tovey himself from all accounts. He sends you off to Delphi, and for what? That bloody box, that’s what. It brings the ship here, and gives us a shot at getting our hands on the key that went missing from the Elgin Marbles. I won’t ask how you knew about it, but there it is. Then, out of thin air, this Russian Captain produces yet another key. Some bloody fine rabbit he pulled out of his hat. And that was rather dramatic when he honed in on those engraved numbers being geographic coordinates. The key we lost on Rodney was supposed to open, or secure something in St. Michael’s Cave. Only now the Germans have the place, and that’s the way it will likely stand for some time. I wonder what’s been hidden there, another of those thick metal doors and underground passages?”
“Those caves get very deep, and there are segments that have not yet been fully excavated. But… there is one thing more I can tell you.”
“Ah! You’ve been holding out on me, have you? Out with it, wench!” There was enough of a jesting tone in his voice to get that familiar with her now. The two had cast off more than dress whites in their quiet sessions alone, and they were closer every day.
“It happened a year before we set out on this mission… A man stumbled into a bar in Ceuta harbor, right south of Gibraltar across the straits. He claimed the Germans had taken the Rock, but that he had found a way out. Said he was a British Sergeant fighting there when it happened, at least that was the story in the police report. They assumed he had one too many that night, and that he was just a vagrant sailor off a tramp steamer, but nobody claimed him when the authorities contacted the ships in port that day. He had no passport, but did carry some authentic looking documents—a ration book, right from the war—this war.”
“How did this come to your attention?”
“It was just one of those odd stories that bounced around the web for a day or two, but somebody in British intelligence got curious about this fellow’s tale. They got hold of that police report. The fellow had it chapter and verse. His name was in the register of troops assigned to garrison duty at Gibraltar in 1940.”
“Anybody could have gotten hold of that kind of information.”
“True, but his story included a few details that now strike a nerve or two. The man said he was up on Windmill Hill Flats, above Europa Road, when a British battleship ran the straits and shelled German positions in and around the harbor. After that, they got the order to withdraw to St. Michael’s Cave. Ring a bell?”
“The same bloody cave associated with that key we lost on the Rodney?”
“The same bloody cave. You know…. There always was a legend that there was a hidden tunnel beneath the straits that led all the way to Morocco. The Macaws were said to be using it to come and go. It’s only fifteen or sixteen miles across those straits.”
“Aye, and 80 years between 1940 and 2020. That’s quite a trek, even if such a hidden passage ever existed.”
“Well, you asked me if there was anything else I knew about it.
Now you know.”
MacRae scratched his head. “When you figure out what all that is supposed to mean, the two of us will have another drink on it. Until then…”
He leaned closer.
Chapter 32
After the near disaster when Kaiser Wilhelm had stalked Convoy WS-15, the British were taking no further chances. The next Winston Special in the series, WS-16, would be composed of 21 ships, though two would fall out in rough seas early on when cargo shifted and caused hull damage. The remaining 19 ships would have the comfort of knowing they would have a most distinguished visitor in escort. HMS Formidable had been under repair in the US, patching up damage suffered in the Med while sparring with the Italians. The new Type 281 radar was installed, and the ship was out to the Azores to join force H. There her planes had jousted with the Germans over the Canary Islands, and after Glorious and Furious returned to Force C, she was to be detached to accompany convoy WS-16 south to Freetown.
Admiral James Somerville had come aboard in the Azores, bound to take command of the Far Eastern Fleet, where two more carriers already awaited him, bolstering up the defense of Singapore with those timely deliveries of 90 Hurricanes. Formidable had taken on 20 more, crated below deck. She also carried 818 and 820 Squadrons with 12 Albacore torpedo bombers each, and 888 Squadron with 12 Grumman Martlets. Light carrier Argus was also along for the ride, with 15 more crated Spitfires bound for Madeira. The carriers would always be attended by cruisers and destroyers, and so light cruiser Newcastle would join the convoy on February 21st, along with destroyer Paladin, and Lookout and Lightning would join from Force H as they reached the Azores on the 22nd.
This being a vital convoy, with troops, supplies, crated aircraft and even armored fighting vehicles, Tovey asked the Fairchild group if they would lend a hand. The role that MacRae had presumed his ship might settle into was not to be his fate. Argos Fire would accompany WS-16 to Freetown, where she would then turn over that duty to destroyers Boreas, Brilliant and Wild Swan.
There was one other notable change, a transfer of personnel. Somerville had noted the outstanding performance of Captain Wells with Glorious, and so he decided he wanted the bright young officer at his side as he sailed to face the Japanese. He came aboard Glorious in a rendezvous off Madeira, personally commending the ship and crew, and then meeting privately with Wells to deliver his new orders.
“Captain, you’ve done a bang up job here, perhaps the most outstanding record among any carrier commander in the navy. Churchill asked me to dispose of the French Fleet at Mers-el-Kebir, but in fact, you are the man who has done the heavy lifting in that. I want you with me as I establish the Far East Fleet, and I have orders to that effect here in hand.”
Wells was surprised. “Glorious is sailing to the Pacific?”
“Not exactly. She’s been invaluable here since you saved her in that close shave with the Twins, but you and I will both agree the ship is a bit long in the tooth. Besides that, she hasn’t the legs required for an assignment to the Pacific. Her range is simply inadequate. No Mister Wells, it isn’t Glorious I’m after here, but her Captain will do quite nicely. You’re being transferred to take command of HMS Formidable, effective today.”
“I see,” said Wells, not knowing whether he should be happy or sad over this unexpected development.
“Yes,” said Somerville. “Formidable is Illustrious Class, with twice the endurance at sea. Now I realize you’ve settled in well here, and I’m not giving you much time to take your leave of the men.” The Admiral looked at his watch. “Formidable will continue on with WS-16. Take the day if you wish, two days even. Then hop aboard an Albacore and hitch a ride out to find us at sea. Captain Bisset has already slipped off to Madeira. He’ll transfer in to take command here in your place.”
“Very well, sir. Is this to be a permanent reassignment?”
“Onwards and upwards, Mister Wells. There’s one more thing involved in all of this. I’ve discussed it with the Admiralty, and there’s full agreement. Those four Captain’s stripes on your cuff are going to be pinched together in to one nice fat stroke of gold. You’re to assume the rank of Commodore, 2nd Class, upon your arrival aboard Formidable.”
Wells took a deep breath. “I hadn’t expected any of this.”
“Yes, well you’ve earned it. Your actions at Mers el Kebir, off Dakar, and now here with Force C were commendable in every respect. Damn good work getting after the French like that. Put Dunkerque right on the bottom.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Somerville inclined his head, knowing the news, even of the promotion, would be unsettling, but that was war. Men would not sit in their chairs very long before the music would start again, and then it was up and into the mad dance. “Any questions?” he asked, feeling more sympathy for the young man than he could express in this brief meeting.
“Will you be setting your flag aboard Formidable sir?”
“Ah… Will you be standing in my shadow? Only until we reach the Pacific. My personal effects have already been shipped out to Illustrious on station there, and that is where I’ll plant my flag. There’s also one more thing…” Somerville looked Wells in the eye now. “The German raiders that slipped away after Fuerteventura went south. There was an air attack on Ascension Island some days ago, so they’ve gone very deep into the South Atlantic. Once we deliver WS-16 to Freetown, we’re going down there to have a look. So a fighting Captain, or should I say Commodore, is just the ticket we need now.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.”
“And I have every intention of finding that rascal,” said Somerville. “This is hush-hush, but we’ll have a little help. That new fast rocket cruiser will be accompanying us, the Argos Fire.”
Wells had heard of the ship, and the Russian battlecruiser with all that advance rocket weaponry. Yet he had no idea of the true origins of either ship, nor did Somerville, until the Admiral was finally taken into Tovey’s confidence in a meeting at the Azores, aboard Invincible. Tovey had decided it was high time to establish the group he supposedly founded as a result of these events, and the Watch had its newest member in Somerville.
“I heard of that ship, sir. Will we all get those rockets soon?”
“Perhaps… Though it may take a good long while. That ship is a prototype.” Somerville reached for the easiest cover story. “As such it is highly secret, and any discussion or mumble fest among the crew concerning its existence and operations should be roundly discouraged.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Good enough, Mister Wells. Take whatever time you need here, and I shall meet you on the flight deck when they pipe you aboard Formidable.”
Wells would spend most of that time with his good friend Woodfield, who rejoiced at the fact that he was getting a promotion, even though he was sad to see Wells leave Glorious.
“Can’t keep a good man on a drafty old bird like this one for long,” said Woodfield. “I’ll miss you, Welly, but by god, give the Japanese hell when you get out there. You’re likely to be tangling with them right from the get go. Commodore Wells! That has a nice ring to it. Good show!”
“Yes? Well don’t make a fuss with the men. I’ll make the announcement tonight as I make my rounds. No bother or ceremony. They’ll be getting a good officer in my place.”
He looked about the ship a good long while that night, wandering into odd corners and passageways that he seldom traveled as Captain, and talking with the men, thanking them for their stalwart service. By the time he was finished he had a hollow, lonesome feeling, for any man who leaves his first command will not do so lightly. Then he retired, confiding to Woodfield that he would slip off quietly the following morning. He asked him to have an Albacore spotted on deck at 08:00, and then spent a few hours alone in his cabin, packing up a duffel bag and having it sent down to the hanger deck.
HMS Glorious was a good old lady, he thought. He was a Zombie Captain on a ship of ghosts, men that should have mostly all gone under t
he sea by now, though he never knew that. Come morning, he awoke with a thrum of mixed anxiety and excitement, shaved at the same old sink and mirror, had a light breakfast delivered to his stateroom, and then wandered out onto the bridge for one last moment there. The memory of that first desperate minute he had spent at the wheel returned like a bad dream, with a pair of steel demons out there gunning for his life, and the life of the ship that day. But he had saved her, and all these men, and he had stood his watch here with as much skill and dedication as he could muster.
He saw Woodfield eyeing him from his post near the binnacle, and then proffered a brief salute. “You have the bridge, Mister Woodfield.”
“Thank you, sir. I have the bridge. Let the log record that it passed from the most able man I will have ever served with, and right into my bumbling grasp, until a real Captain shows up.” He smiled, saluting crisply.
Wells gave him a smile and a nod, returning that last salute as he stepped through the aft hatch and started down. At that moment, Woodfield stepped lightly to the flag bridge and the men ran up a signal. It seemed there was a rustle of many feet aboard, and when the newly appointed Commodore Wells emerged from the hatch on the flight deck, he saw it filled with the ship’s personnel, all standing to attention.
Damn it, Woody, he thought, immediately craning his neck to look up to the conning tower where he saw his old friend smiling down at him from the weather deck. Then all the men broke into a rousing chorus of “He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” and they sang it until he had made his way to the waiting Albacore, its engine sputtering to life as the men finally cleared the flight deck. They sang him right into the skies that morning, and he could hear that last loud chorus even as the plane rolled down the deck…. “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow, which nobody can deny!”
* * *
Kapitan Otto Falkenrath was a very careful man. Joining the Luftwaffe in 1918 at the age of 18, he aspired to become a fighter pilot, and was even briefly befriended by the famous Manfred von Richthoven before the latter’s death in April of that same year. Falkenrath got a little experience in that war, making Lieutenant before it ended. Between the wars he became fascinated with the prospect of flying a plane from a ship, and keenly followed developments that eventually led to the design and building of the Goeben. He transferred to the air arm of the Kriegsmarine, just to get a shot at serving on that ship, and now he was its Kapitan.
Knight's Move (Kirov Series Book 21) Page 27