“I understand, sir.”
“Good… Then you will also understand that when Volsky gets that message, it will seem as though it has been sent from our own naval headquarters in 2021. The fact that it concludes with the correct authentication code will be very strong evidence supporting that conclusion. So they will have a bit of a mystery on their hands, depending on how much evidence they have uncovered about this time—1941. Right now, if they have followed the orders I sent in that message, they should be steaming for Severomorsk, under radio silence. When they get there, things could get a little more complicated.”
“How so?”
“First off, the Germans have the North Cape of Norway, do they not?”
“Yes sir, they have troops at Petsamo and Kirkenes, and airfields there. There is also a garrison at Tromso, and they have a destroyer flotilla there.”
“Petsamo… That will be Pechenga in our day, about a hundred kilometers east of Severomorsk. The Germans… This could get very interesting. The first time we arrived, it was the British Royal Navy that got too curious about us. They naturally assumed we were some unknown German raider. This time the shoe will be on the other foot. When the ship approaches Tromso, there is a chance they might encounter those German destroyers, or aircraft from these bases up there. That will start things off, if I am not mistaken. Have the Germans been aggressive up there?”
“They’ve been mounting regular air-sea patrols, sparring with trawlers and Soviet subs.”
“Interesting… Do you know, the British were planning an attack on those airfields this very month. I wonder if that will happen? In any case, when the ship gets up north, things could get difficult. If they determine what has really happened to them, then the authenticity of that recall order could be called into question. If necessary, we may have to take other measures.”
“Other measures sir?”
“Well, if they get spooked, and decide to play it cautious, they may not sail blithely into the inlet at Kola Bay. Our little reception could be all for naught. In that instance, if the mountain won’t go to Mohammed…”
“You mean to take Tunguska out there and attempt a rendezvous?”
“I see no other option. If Volsky won’t come home, we’ll have to go to him and try and persuade him to let me board. This option will be very dangerous. While we may be able to beat off attacks from the aircraft of this day, Kirov is another matter entirely. One missile from that ship could rip Tunguska apart, so we will be very vulnerable.”
“Then what is your plan, Admiral?”
“If it comes to this, I’ll have to use my wits. Remember, I have knowledge of all modern day naval operations procedures and protocols from our time. I can be a voice of reason, and a tether to certainty in a sea of chaos. This is what I am counting on. They will be confused, struggling to come to grips with what has happened to them. I must put the icing on the cake they will have in the oven there, but to do so, I’ll need to get aboard that ship. To that end, I borrowed a Soviet Naval Ensign, and we’ll mount that to show the colors of the Soviet fleet. If nothing else, it may make them hesitate to take any rash action against us. Then, when I get on the radio with Volsky, I will find a way to talk myself aboard.”
“And once you are there?”
Karpov smiled. “Then I find a way to eat that cake, Tyrenkov. In this I’ll have to use all the guile and intelligence at my disposal, but I’ll want some good men to come aboard with me. Is Grilikov with us?”
“Aye sir, he’s with the Siberian Guard.”
“Excellent. This Sergeant Troyak I mentioned earlier… Well if there is any man on this earth who might match him, it would be Grilikov. I’ll want him with me, and at least three other men. You pick them, but I want the very best we have—and I’ll want you there as well, Tyrenkov—your brains, Grilikov’s brawn. Together, and under my leadership, we must find a way to prevail. But one way or another, I’m going to take command of that ship.”
“But sir, you said earlier that those Marines aboard—the Black Death—could hold off our entire guards company.”
“They might… But once I get aboard I’ll have the element of surprise. That counts for a great deal.”
“And the ship’s crew? How many are they?”
“Over 700 men.”
“And men who love this Admiral Volsky,” said Tyrenkov. “Suppose they don’t want to go along with your plan, and these Marines back them? Yes, Grilikov is very tough, but we’ll be too few to control that ship by force.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Karpov. “I’ve been thinking about this a good long while, as you may have guessed. I have a plan, Tyrenkov. Trust me, I have a plan.”
Chapter 8
Tasarov heard them long before Rodenko had them on his radar screens. The sound of fast screws churning the sea was unmistakable, though there was a strangeness about the signal. It was not like the things he was accustomed to hearing, not the slow sedate progression of an oil tanker or cargo ship. There was a frenetic energy in the sound, and he knew at once that this was a small flotilla of ships, and not a single contact.
“Con, Sonar. Multiple surface contacts bearing 060. High speed screw noise. Processing range… I make it just over 100 kilometers, but I’ll need more time for a better reading and target motion analysis.”
“High speed?” Karpov was at his sonar man’s side at once. “Missile Patrol boats out of Norway?”
“Possibly sir, but this sounds like something a little bigger.”
“Nansen class frigates? What would they be doing so far north?”
After lingering for three days near the last reported position of the cruiser Slava, Kirov had been ordered home, and was now off the northern cape of Norway. It was only a day’s sailing from Jan Mayen at 20 knots, and the grey dawn found the bridge crew bleary eyed, yet eager for home, wanting to put the confusion of all that had happened well behind them.
Yet as they approached the North Cape, Karpov felt a rising sense of anxiety, knowing that there would be very many questions once they made port at Severomorsk, and the investigation would likely put every senior officer on the ship under a magnifying glass. He had been thinking over everything that had happened, making notes, rehearsing his testimony in his mind, well prepared to defend himself. He knew his own assessment of their situation would differ from that of Admiral Volsky, and still believed he had acted appropriately in assessing the threat. Yet going up against a fleet Admiral on his home turf was not a comfortable prospect. He had to be cautious here, and consider just how far he could push the blame for the loss of Slava and Orel onto Volsky’s side of the line.
They had maintained radio silence, and he had the ship come to a level three permanent alert status, though nothing was seen or heard in the sea and skies, until Tasarov’s sudden report.
“I don’t think this is Nansen class,” said Tasarov. “I listened to those ships many times, and this is very different. Whatever it is, sir, its coming fast. And now there is another signal sir… Well north, but I’m getting distinct screw noise—multiple ships.”
Two surface action groups, one north, one south, and both suddenly darkening the morning with their unexpected appearance, like a well laid trap being sprung. Karpov was taking no chances. The fact that they had not received the normal naval air cover for this return leg was bothersome enough. Uninvited guests for breakfast was something else entirely.
“The ship will come to level two alert,” said Karpov. “Mister Tasarov, get me accurate bearing, speed, and range on these contacts, and feed your data directly to Samsonov.”
*
There were four ships out that day, the 6th DD Flotilla out of Tromso comprised of the Karl Galster, Hermann Schoemann, Friedrich Eckoldt, and Richard Beitzen. They had moved to Tromso from Narvik a day earlier, then set out in the grey twilight of the endless arctic day intent on finding and harassing any enemy shipping they might encounter.
Z20, the Karl Galster, was the flotilla lea
der that day, a new 1936 class ship under Kapitan Theodor Bechtolsheim. The ship was fast at 36 knots, with five gun turrets mounting a single 5-inch barrel, 60 mines, and a pair of 21 inch torpedoes. The other three ships were older 1934 class vessels, equally fast and with identical armament. There had been intelligence that the British were planning an attack on the airfields at Kirkenes and Petsamo, where flights of Stukas and Messerschmitts were supporting the attack of the 2nd Mountain Division against Soviet positions east of Murmansk. Two U-Boats, U-81 and U-652, were also operating off the Kola Coast, where the latter had narrowly missed the Russian Patrol Ship Musson in an attack the previous day.
Bechtolsheim had heard the British also had cruisers to the north, near Bear Island, which was presently about 550 miles north of Kirov’s present position. Tromso was due south, an equal distance, and so the Kapitan was thinking to get up towards Bear Island and see what he might find.
“The British are out here,” he said to his first officer. “ I can smell them. When will that Do-18 be up from Tromso?”
“Any time now,” said Werner, a starchy young officer, eager and bright, yet very proper, just as the aristocratic Bechtolsheim preferred.
Ten minutes later, Werner was proved correct when they spotted the German naval seaplane, coming in low in salutation. The unwieldy flying boats were serving as good patrol scouts, trying to live down the ignominious fate of being the very first plane that the British shot down on the 26th of September, 1939. Riddled with machinegun fire by a pair of Blackburn Skuas off the Ark Royal, the seaplane landed on the water, only to be ignominiously engaged by the British destroyer Somali, and sunk. Thus the plane had the dubious distinction of being shot down and sunk on the same day, and this one was to suffer an equally grim fate as it wagged its wings and continued on north, looking for the same British cruisers that Bechtolsheim was hunting that morning, as bold and dangerous as that might be.
*
Rodenko had the plane on his Fregat system, seeing the range diminishing as it approached.
“Single contact, low and slow. Elevation falling beneath 300 meters.”
“Trying to get down on the deck,” said Karpov, seeing this development as part and parcel with the scenario he was building in his mind. The prospect of an attack was a looming threat in his thoughts, and now his anxiety over the imminent investigation waiting for them at home redoubled. What if I have to take action, he thought? Volsky is still in sick bay, and this is all on my watch now. If I make a mistake here…
Clearly Karpov was not yet the man he might soon become. His instinct for survival had prickled up, but his mind was now on how he could act without exposing himself to any rebuke or accusation of wrongdoing when the ship made port. Long years of devious maneuvering in the corporate world of Gazprom had served him well. When facing risk, always make certain you cover your actions, and be prepared to set up another man for any failure—shift the blame, find a safe mouse hole, and wait out the controversy while working behind the scenes to quietly undermine any potential threat.
He had already set Orlov loose on Fedorov, filling his head with the suspicion that had been growing there. The Navigator was not scheduled for duty until the noon bell today, and Petrov was in his place. He passed a quick moment, wondering where Orlov was, as the Chief was below decks making his morning rounds. So there was no one else on the bridge to consult now, and he was Captain of the ship in Volsky’s absence. What should he do?
“Mister Rodenko,” he said. “Karpov was heading for the main hatch. “I must inform the Admiral of our present situation. If that aircraft comes within 50 kilometers, put the ship on Air Alert One. I will be no more than ten minutes away. You have the bridge.”
The Siberian Karpov would have never left his post on the bridge of the world’s premier surface action ship, not with unknown and potentially hostile contacts on two sides, apparently converging, and an aircraft up on what looked to be an intercept course. Yet Karpov was serving himself first that morning, and the fate of his ship and the nation it served were waiting in a long line behind the anxiety that now drove him to sick bay. There he would seek out higher authority, recommend his desired course of action, and obtain the Admiral’s approval before he took any combat action here. If anything happened, the blame would not be his.
*
The northern end of the threat Karpov perceived that morning was Force K under Vice Admiral Philip Vian, lurking quietly north of Bear Island after investigating Russian and Norwegian settlements on the much bigger land mass of Svalbard further north.
Vian had the cruisers Aurora and Nigeria, and destroyers Punjabi and Tartar, and they had set out on July 27 from Scapa Flow for this long range reconnaissance mission to the icy north. They had reached Spitzbergen on the 31st of July, and Vian intended to scout Bear Island before heading south again to join up with Force-P under Wake-Walker. The planned attack on Kirkenes had been tabled when the Dervish Convoy operation was teed up, but now this sudden order for a recall to Scapa Flow on 1 August was most unexpected.
“What do you make of this sudden rush home sir?” His executive officer Arlen Holmes was standing on the weather deck with him aboard the Crown Colony class light cruiser Nigeria, where Vian had set his flag.
“Not much to say about it. Home Fleet has other business for us, which is all I can read in that order.”
“The Dervish Convoy?”
“Most likely. Wake-Walker was ready to head north three days ago. In fact, he should be up near Jan Mayen by now, unless the party has been called off for some reason. We’ve heard nothing since that recall order, and we’re to light foot it home as soon as possible. Orders are to avoid any engagement with the enemy, which seems odd, wouldn’t you say?”
“Very odd, sir.”
“Well, get that shore party over to have a look for that Jerry weather team. We move in three hours, or sooner if the Marines can get their business done. Force K will be the last sheep home, I should think. Something must be in the wind, Mister Holmes. Otherwise why would Home Fleet be herding cats into Scapa Flow like this?”
“My money is on another German operation, sir.”
“A raider? Most of their fleet is down in French Ports. RAF is certainly happy about that. Word is they dropped a nice 500 pounder on the Hindenburg. Good icing on the cake after Tovey got the Graf Zeppelin.”
“Right sir. A pity we lost Rodney like that.”
“Just her time I suppose,” said Vian with an air of resignation. “But you may be right, Mister Holmes. The Germans still have those pocket battleships up here, and those new fast demons they’ve built, Rhineland and Westfalen. One of those would give this ship a run for its money. It would be our twelve six-inchers against their six 11 inch guns.”
“Dash and jab for us,” said Holmes.
“Yes, and haymakers for the other fellow. Well, if the Germans have something teeing up, then this order makes perfect sense. I suppose we’ll soon find out what this young lady beneath our feet can really do.”
Nigeria was a new ship, laid down in 1938 just before the war, 10,400 tons full load, with twelve 6-inch guns on four triple turrets and another eight 4 inchers on four twin mounts. Six 21 inch torpedoes finished off her main armament, and she also had three quad 2-inch pom-pom AA guns for air defense to compliment those four inch batteries. A second light cruiser, the Aurora, was at her side, more lightly armed with only six main guns, and only half the displacement of Nigeria, which was a ship that approached a true heavy cruiser in size and weight.
The previous month, Nigeria had been involved in a most auspicious mission, intercepting the German weather ship Lauenburg along with destroyer Tartar. The Germans decided to scuttle their ship, but a boarding party off the Tartar was able to recover precious ENIGMA code books before the ship went down. The find had helped Alan Turing and his team at Bletchley Park immensely, as they were working to read the German code.
They were off Bear Island to investigate, and eliminate, a re
ported German weather station, and a contingent of Marines was preparing to go ashore. He was also assessing possible refueling locations for the Murmansk convoy routes, and the island looked to be a good candidate. They would find their weather station that morning, making short work of it, and then pulling off a few Norwegian nationals wanting a ride to better climes. It was what they would encounter soon after that would make this a day Philip Vian would long remember, and it would start with that odd sighting in the southern sky, just after the noon bell.
Chapter 9
“There you are, Fedorov.” Orlov’s voice was gruff and unfriendly. “I’ve been looking all over the damn ship for you.”
Fedorov looked over his shoulder in the officer’s mess, seeing Orlov and dreading the encounter that was obviously now upon him. Yet he steeled himself, setting down his tea and greeting the man, as he would anyone.
“Good morning, Chief. Did you need me for something?”
Orlov pulled out a chair, and plopped himself down opposite Fedorov, leaning a big elbow on the table. “Dobrynin says you were snooping around down in engineering. What have you been up to, Fedorov?”
“Up to? Nothing, Chief. I was just asking Dobrynin how the reactors were doing after what happened and all.”
“Oh? So now you’re an engineer too? I thought you were the Captain—at least that’s the way you’ve been acting around here. What’s with that big mouth on you now? Karpov isn’t too happy with your little theater on the bridge. Something come loose in that head of yours when you took that fall?”
“I know what I saw, Chief, that’s all. So I spoke my mind. You don’t have to believe me, but no, this is not theater. The situation is very serious.”
“Yes it is….” Now Orlov leaned across the table staring at Fedorov in the way he would often intimidate the crew. “You run your mouth on the bridge like that again and I’ll make your life miserable for the next three months. Understand? And what was that crap you told the Admiral to send on the radio? What was that, Fedorov? Some kind of code word? Are you a stinking little Zampolit or something? Karpov thinks so, and maybe I think so too.”
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