He turned to his Executive Officer Schaefer with a gleam in his eye. “Pass the word for battle stations, but make it very quiet. No alarm. There are four destroyers up there!” His blood was up and he was eager for a fight.
“You’re going to take a shot at that battleship?”
“What do you think they give us torpedoes for, Herr Schaefer? I think this is the ship we were told to look for.”
“Are you certain?” asked his navigator Souvad. The thought of those four destroyers was none too comforting.
“Look out for convoys escorted by battleships,” said Wohlfarth. “Well, that is exactly what we have in front of us.”
“Shouldn’t we report it first?”
“And let it slip away? The damn ship is probably zig-zagging. It could turn at any moment, and right now, we have perfect alignment, and plenty of torpedoes. Ready forward tubes!”
And so he fired his underwater version of a naval rocket. The torpedoes had a very short range, but they were very deadly, and soon struck home with a big water splash and booming sound that they could all hear. U-556 had put its hands on HMS Rodney, interfering with the King’s business, and it was going to complicate things more than anyone realized just then.
* * *
“Well Gentlemen,” said Tovey. “We have a problem.” The Admiral had signaled Kirov that he wished to convene a private conference using the special equipment the Russian engineers had given him. They had rigged out a small radio set, with special encryption module, that would allow Kirov and Invincible to communicate by voice without the need to worry their conversations might be intercepted. Using the computing power available to them, they were rapidly rotating the encryption stream on the data, and unscrambling it as the signal was received on each unit. Anyone listening in would just hear a wash of static that would sound like jamming, but the communication was crystal clear on both the friendly ships, and it was something no power on this earth of 1941 could ever decipher or unscramble. A similar unit was given to the Argos Fire to allow Miss Fairchild to listen in from her executive office.
Tovey had more to discuss than simple wireless message traffic could easily carry. He opened the conference with the news he had just received from Captain Dalrymple-Hamilton on Rodney.
“In spite of our best effort, it appears we’re already too late. Rodney has happened across a German U-boat, and she’s been hit by a torpedo, right amidships. There’s flooding below decks, very near the cargo hold, and a small list has started. They will counter-flood, but the outcome is uncertain. Seas are rising, and things could get… difficult.”
Elena Fairchild cringed at that. She was listening with her own Captain Gordon MacRae, and Mack Morgan. She fingered the send button, unable to contain herself. “Is the ship in danger of sinking?” she asked, the worry evident in her voice.
“Not at the moment,” came Tovey’s reply. “But that could change. There were four destroyers in escort, and they went off like mad hounds after that U-boat. There was no confirmed kill, but the enemy appears to have been beaten off. Rodney has had to cut speed to ten knots, and now it appears unlikely that she’ll be able to make the transit to Boston. Her Captain has convened a meeting of his own, and he’s asking me for orders now. Admiralty will hear about this in due course and weigh in. It’s very likely the ship may be recalled to a British port. In that event, sailing in and announcing you have a cargo inspection to make will be somewhat complicated. In fact, it may be out of the question. Any suggestions?”
“We need to get to that ship while she is still at sea,” said Elena. “I can break off and make the rendezvous directly if you still wish to stay in pursuit of the Hindenburg.”
“Yes,” said Tovey. “I had thought I might be of some use in that meeting, but we’ve other news that bears on all of this. The Tirpitz group is making a good run on the Faeroes-Iceland Gap. King George V and Prince of Wales are on that watch, but we must plan for every contingency. If those ship’s break through, I’m afraid Invincible, and the Fleet Admiral commanding her, will have to continue west.”
“Then we must divide our forces,” Admiral Volsky suggested. “I might recommend that we send our own submarine, Kazan, along with Miss Fairchild. That would secure the undersea threat to Rodney. As for your business west, Admiral Tovey, I do not think it wise that you sail alone. Kirov will accompany you, and we will stay in the chase. Does anyone object?”
“That is well and good, Admiral,” came Tovey’s voice. “Captain Hamilton has asked about transferring his cargo to Britannic. In fact, if it is determined that his ship is seriously compromised by this damage, I believe that is exactly what the Admiralty will order.”
“They’ll attempt to move all that cargo?” said Fairchild. “Won’t that be dangerous. Gold bullion and these Elgin marbles are quite heavy.”
“Indeed,” said Tovey. “It would mean that Britannic will have to moor alongside Rodney, and the two ships will be one big target if there are any more U-Boats in the region.”
“All the more reason to get Kazan moving as soon as possible,” said Volsky. “Gromyko may have more work than he expected out here.”
The Admiral’s comment was prophetic, and it was a matter of some discussion far to the north, where another conference of Naval hat bands was being convened aboard the Battleship Rodney.
Chapter 17
HMS Rodney, 00:10 hours, 6 May, 1941
“Well Gentlemen, that’s our present situation,” said Captain Hamilton. “We’ve no further instructions from the Admiralty, but that could change. Your thoughts are, of course, welcome.”
The Captain had pulled his senior officers together, the Commander John Grindle, RN, the navigator Lt. Cdr. George Gatacre, RAN, the Torpedo Officer Lt. Cdr. Roger Lewis, RN, Captain Coppinger from Britannic, and an American, one Lieutenant Commander Joseph H. Wellings, USN. He looked at the American as if he knew the man would be the first to speak, and he was not disappointed.
Wellings had come aboard as a liaison officer, and was now returning home to the United States. He seemed to want Dalrymple-Hamilton’s ear the moment he arrived, and had pressed him on details concerning the ship’s course, and other events underway that might affect operations here.
“If I may, sir,” said Wellings. “What’s to be gained by holding this heading? With that torpedo damage, we’ll be lucky to make ten knots, and the danger from U-boats remains very real. Beyond that, I have learned there is a strong German battlegroup to our northeast. A lame duck makes for easy prey. If they get wind of us here, our situation could become even more perilous.”
He was a tall, thin man, dark eyed, clean, and dressed out in proper US Navy whites. The stripes on his cuff and shoulder insignia made him to be a Lieutenant Commander.
But Wellings was more than he seemed.
He had first come on the scene in Bristol, England, near the Clyde anchorage where HMS Rodney had been waiting to escort Convoy WS-8B on her initial outward leg, before breaking off with Britannic and heading west to Halifax and Boston. It was the second half of the ‘Winston Special’ series that was bound to reinforce the British position in Egypt. The first half had been designated WS-8A, dubbed the Tiger Convoy by Sir Winston himself, as he wanted it to sail boldly across the Med instead of going round the Cape of Good Hope. Thankfully, he had been persuaded that would be suicidal, and the presence of unexpected reinforcements in Egypt mitigated the urgency.
So Tiger Convoy had become a domestic cat instead, passing safely round the cape, and making a much needed delivery of precious Matilda and Crusader tanks, and Hurricane fighters, to General Wavell. Those tanks would soon help Wavell and O’Connor hold off Rommel’s new offensive aimed at Tobruk.
That night in Bristol the real Lieutenant Commander Wellings, USN, was having dinner at a hotel when a tall man in crisp navy whites came drifting into the dining room, his eyes searching and immediately falling on his fellow naval officer. He came right over, removing his cap as he spoke.
/> “Lieutenant Wellings?”
“Yes?”
“May I join you, sir?”
Wellings was accustomed to receiving odd messages at any hour, for he had been an American Assistant Naval Attaché in London for the last year. Now he was heading home, scheduled to board the British battleship Rodney for the trans-Atlantic cruise. The battleship would escort Convoy WS-8B out of the Clyde, and then eventually steam for New York and Boston for a refit.
The man seated himself opposite Wellings and smiled. “Forgive the interruption, sir, but I have new orders for you.”
“New orders?”
“Yes, sir.” The man handed him an envelope. “It seems Washington would like you home just a bit sooner. You’re now scheduled to fly out of Bristol on DC-3 number 171, sir. Your flight will leave at 20:30 hours. One stop at Reykjavik, Iceland for a 24 hour layover.”
“Damn,” said Wellings. “That’s only just enough time to get to the air field.”
“Oh, don’t worry, sir, I’ve arranged a cab for you. It should be waiting outside in about twenty minutes. They’ll hold the plane.” The man looked at a wrist watch, too loose on his thin wrist, and smiled again. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. Somewhat of an inconvenience, but at least you’ll get straight home in a couple of days.”
“Better than idling aboard Rodney for a week,” said Wellings, finally warming to the idea. The man saluted, excused himself, and slipped away. He didn’t even recall his name, though he did note the man was of equal rank. Funny he should not have met him sooner, but he assumed he was one of many new officers arriving in theater as the war began to heat up to a low boil.
We’ll be in it soon enough, he thought, but for the moment I’m happy to be out of it. Wellings finished his steak, quaffing down the glass of wine he had hoped to linger over, then opened the envelope and briefly noted his new assignment. Everything seemed in order—a bit hastily typed, but in order. He sighed, looking at his watch, then got up and went to look for the cab.
Hours later a man boarded HMS Rodney with a crisp salute as he was piped on, one Lieutenant Commander Wellings, American Liaison to the Admiralty, at least according to the guest manifest. Yet he was not who he seemed.
Sometime later Wellings sat contentedly in his navy whites, and comfortably in his assumed identity, one of seven men around a table in the Captain’s quarters on HMS Rodney. They had been detached ten hours ago, and Convoy WS-8B was now steaming due south, diverted away from the area where the Royal Navy was trying to find and engage a German raiding task force led by the much feared battleship Tirpitz. Captain Hamilton was looking for support for a decision he was already leaning heavily on, and Wellings was just the man to give it to him.
“I’ve got some information I’ve been ordered to share, sir.”
“Information?”
“Yes, sir,” Wellings leaned in, lowering his voice slightly as if to convey the notion that he was now speaking confidentially. The others were clearly interested.
“We have a Coast Guard cutter at sea in the vicinity of the operations out west,” he began. “Her regular duty is ice watch patrol, but it seems one of your convoys out of Halifax took it on the chin recently. She was therefore detailed to assist in survivor recovery for convoy HX-126.”
“Yes,” said Hamilton. “Bloody business that. The poor lot ran afoul of a wolf pack. Lost quite a few ships, I’m afraid.”
“Right,” said Wellings, “Cockaponset, and British Security went down in the final attack. Darlington Court had a near miss. Well, the Modoc, that’s our cutter, reported in yesterday, sir, and I am now at liberty to disclose this message to you here. She sighted battleship Tirpitz at these coordinates and times.” He handed the Captain a paper, and Hamilton squinted at it briefly before handing it off to his navigator.
“If you chart that,” Wellings continued, “You’ll see that this present heading is all wrong, sir. Your Admiralty may believe the Tirpitz group was still on a heading to the southwest, but from this sighting, it’s clear they have turned southeast. We believe they are now attempting to rendezvous with another German task force emerging from the Med.”
“Bad dinner guests,” said Captain Hamilton, “the lot of them.”
“I’m afraid so sir,” said Wellings. “Remember, Tirpitz is not alone. We had seaplanes up from Iceland to see if we could spot this battlegroup, and one had a good look… before it was shot down.”
“Nasty flak guns on the Tirpitz,” said the Captain. “Or so I’ve heard.”
“Oh, it wasn’t shot down by flak, it ran into a German fighter patrol. Gentlemen, the German carrier Graf Zeppelin is also a part of this enemy battlegroup, along with the battlecruisers Scharnhorst, Gneisenau, a heavy cruiser and two destroyers. If this is so, our position here, and any further movement west on this course, is extremely hazardous. You’ll have to turn due south at once to have any chance in the world of evading the Tirpitz battlegroup. In fact, returning to England would be the better course.”
“I see,” said Hamilton. “Excepting the fact that I have orders to the contrary, Mister Wellings. I assume this report of yours was also forwarded to the Admiralty? We’ve heard nothing from them at all on this.”
“As you might imagine, sir, Western Approaches Command is all astir with this business. The message was sent, but whether it received prompt attention or not is anybody’s guess. They may not have picked up this heading change yet. I’ve been there, and I can say the situation gets a bit chaotic at times, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir.”
“Not at all,” said Hamilton. “Get enough Admirals in any one room and no one ends up knowing what to do.” He considered for a moment. “And what course would you say we adopt, Mister Wellings?”
“If you intend to stay at sea, then 180 degrees due south, sir. It’s really your only option, and you will have to make your best speed even then, in spite of the damage. Wellings folded his arms. He had made his pitch, and knew enough not to say anything further until someone else spoke first.
“Gentlemen?” Captain Hamilton regarded the other men present, but no one seemed to have any objection to the idea. The navigator knew his business well, and even without having to look at a chart he confirmed what Wellings was saying. “We’ll definitely be in the stew here if we don’t turn, sir,” he said.
“Very well, gentlemen,” Captain Hamilton decided. “It may also interest you that I am in receipt of a message from Admiral Tovey that pertains to this decision. In fact, I was just discussing it with Captain Coppinger of the Britannic when this damn U-boat stuck it to us. This isn’t just any mission we’re on here. This is the King’s business, and my charge is to get this ship, and its cargo, safely to Boston. However, Admiral Tovey is of a mind with Mister Wellings here. He suggests that given the German operation now underway, to proceed west as planned would be very perilous. In fact, he has asked me to move south to effect a rendezvous at sea with a ship being detached from his task force, an air defense cruiser, though he did not mention what ship. Considering his opinion on this matter as the commander of Home Fleet, and in the absence of any response to my request for instructions from the Admiralty, I think we have a consensus here. I must agree with everything that Mister Wellings has said.”
To his navigator and senior staff officer he said: “Come round to course 180 degrees south at once, and give me all the speed we can manage. The faster the better, should there be any more U-boats about. I know the damage control teams will have fits, but it can’t be helped. That’s a good bit of timely intelligence, Wellings. I appreciate your candor. Now then, let’s get another signal off to the Admiralty notifying them of our intentions. I daresay Admiral Pound may have other ideas about it, but I believe Admiral Tovey on Invincible will be more than gratified to learn of the action we’re taking here.”
“Very good, sir,” said Captain Coppinger. “Then you won’t be transferring your cargo to Britannic?”
“That may become necessary at some point,” s
aid Hamilton. “But for the moment, we’ll keep things as they are.”
“Of course,” said Coppinger. “And as I would be a fool to continue west under these circumstances, Britannic will stay right in your wake.”
“That would be wise,” said Hamilton. “At least there’s nothing wrong with those guns on my forward deck. If things heat up, you’ll be glad we’re here. Then again, we may be grateful to have a ship at hand capable of taking on our cargo and crew if that damage below cannot be controlled.”
“If I may, sir,” said Wellings. “I’d like to have a look down below at the damage situation. I heard it was very near the torpedo magazine.”
“Close,” said Torpedo Officer Lewis, “but no cigar, as you Yanks like to say. We’ve managed to seal off the water tight doors, and the magazine is not in danger at the moment.”
“Might I have a look?” said Wellings again.
“I don’t see any harm in that, Wellings. Suit yourself, but some of the engineers can get a bit surly with officers underfoot. Just a warning.”
“I understand, sir.”
So it was that Wellings had given the situation a brief nudge in the right direction, insofar as he saw things. His intelligence concerning the German movements had been most alarming, and enough to move Dalrymple-Hamilton off his perch of uncertainty. Tovey’s request had made that a little easier, in spite of what the Admiralty might say when they got his message informing them of the decision to head south.
All of this had been an unknowing conspiracy of sorts, for Director Kamenski’s assessment of one possible reason how those mysterious file boxes might find their way into this world had been very telling. There were, indeed, other agents moving in time, and not only Karpov, driven as he was by his own quest for revenge and personal aggrandizement. They were not the key makers, as Miss Fairchild came to call those mysterious voices and signals from the future that had suddenly gone silent, but one man had once been a key holder himself, the same enigmatic figure who had stopped off at that hotel on a cool night in Bristol, the man who now posed as one Lieutenant Commander Joseph H. Wellings, USN.
Paradox Hour Page 15