Altered States k-9

by John A. Schettler

  ‘We have sent you to find and sink German ships,’ came the cable, ‘not to send our own home for the repair yards. The Prime Minister is of the opinion that you have shirked your duty to vigorously pursue and engage the enemy.’

  Tovey read the message with some dismay, and a rising anger. He knew enough about the musty halls of the Admiralty to know that Their Lordships were now in some heated discussion as to his eventual fate. Yet for the moment the timely dispatch of HMS Illustrious with much need air support and another heavy cruiser gave him hope that someone there was still pulling for him. He did not know who, but suspected that it might be Third Sea Lord Admiral Bruce Fraser. The two men had seen eye to eye before concerning fleet dispositions in the Med and there was much mutual respect between them. Tovey had great faith in the man.

  Yet the Admiral was ill tempered that day, and when young Lieutenant Commander Wells came in with a dispatch he was hastily dismissed.

  “Not now, Mister Wells!”

  Tall and stocky of frame, Tovey was an imposing figure in his wrath, and his temper was legendary. It was said his anger could melt a candle ay thirty paces when he really let it fly, and his displeasure had cowed and skewered more than one blundering officer in the past. Yet he was a fair man, aware of his own intemperate moods at times, and one to quickly set right any wrong unjustly delivered. He composed himself, looked up at Wells, seeing the man wilt a bit under his gaze, and spoke again.

  “There you stand only recently mentioned in dispatches for gallantry, Wells, and here I sit under suspicion of being a shirker and slacker at the helm. Don’t you mind my bluster one bit. I tend to blow off steam on occasion, and sometimes I deliver a broadside at an undeserving soul simply because he comes within range. Now then… what have you for me?” He eyed the dispatch in Wells’ hands.

  “Pardon the interruption, sir. Mister Villers sends that Scharnhorst and Gneisenau have turned north and appear to be withdrawing.”

  “Withdrawing? Well that is news. Don’t you ever belay it in the face of my bad manners again, young man. Here, let me have a look.”

  Tovey took the dispatch with interest now, more than surprised with what he saw there. “Apparent damage? Is Holland saying there’s been an engagement?” He got up from his desk and went to the situation map, waving Wells to his side.

  “Here, Mister Wells. Kindly update the board for me with these new positions, if you please.”

  “Sir…” Wells took back the dispatch, eying the coordinates and trying to remember his map work. The last thing he could do here would be to misplace a marker and set the whole damn strategy off on the wrong foot. He was justifiably nervous, but forced himself to think. Find a base latitude, my man, he thought. Then tick off the boxes and find your square on the grid. It’s right there in front of your nose, just read the coordinates, you dolt.

  He reached for the wooden marker representing the Twins, the naval ensign of the Kriegsmarine displayed prominently on the attached flag. “I would place them about here, sir, given the time elapsed since this sighting and their last reported heading and speed. I’ve placed a spot on the actual sighting coordinate here. Then we have Manchester withdrawing on Reykjavik here, and Admiral Holland with Hood and Repulse has turned and is presently about…here, perhaps 150 miles southwest of the Twins. He is at reduced speed to effect a rendezvous with us at your discretion, sir. As for Birmingham, we’ve heard nothing, Admiral, not since Manchester left her.” He picked up one last marker, uncertain about what he could say about it.

  “From the look of these postings,” said Tovey, “Holland never got anywhere near the Twins. Yet that report states one of the ships appeared damaged and was still on fire.”

  “Mister Villers has spoken with the pilot off Repulse, sir, and the man claims the smoke was visible for fifty miles. It’s how they first spotted them, then low fog and haze obscured the scene and forced them to turn and end the search.”

  “I wonder if they had a run in with Birmingham? It would do me well to learn she took a good bite out of one of those ships. Then again, her silence is most disconcerting. Well… you haven’t finished. What’s that in your hand?”

  Wells reflexively looked at the green marker, usually used to indicate a neutral ship. “This was the marker that was set for the Russian contact, sir. Yet from that dispatch I’m not exactly sure how to color it now. Mister Villers indicated the pilot off Repulse seemed convinced he was looking at a very large warship. The dispatch is suggesting Admiral Hipper.”

  “Indeed…Set the marker, Mister Wells. You can leave it green for the moment until we sort things out. We’ll be hell bent for leather the next nine hours getting west and up into the Denmark Strait. I was set to have a close look at that ship earlier, if it is that Russian cruiser, and to be honest I’m surprised it remains in the vicinity at all. When we do get there I intend to solve this little mystery if the situation permits.”

  Wells waited, still just a tad discomfited in the Admiral’s presence, then ventured a remark. “A bad throw for Renown, sir.”

  “It certainly was. Jerry slipped one in on us and played a good face card, Mister Wells. Graf Zeppelin has changed the game a bit here, which is why I have been forced to draw a new card with Illustrious. But you know what the old farmer said: who knows what is good or bad.”

  “Sir?”

  “Just an old tale I heard once, Wells. A farmer had a good plow horse to get in his crop, but just before the harvest it bolted in a storm and ran off on him. The neighbor commiserated with him, of course, and lamented that he and his son would not get much of their crop in without that horse. The farmer, stoic old chap that he was, simply said ‘who knows what is good or bad.’ Then, three days on, lo and behold if the old mare doesn’t return with a lusty wild stallion on her tail. This changed everything, at least in the neighbor’s mind, and he rushed over to laud the farmer for his good fortune. Now, with two horses, he told him, you will get the harvest in before anyone else!”

  Wells had heard the story, and though he thought he might be stealing the Admiral’s thunder he chanced a response. “But who knows what is good or bad, sir?”

  “Exactly. One never does know, does he? Sure enough the Farmer’s son broke his leg the next day trying to tame that horse, and the neighbor was quick to point out that without his son there to help him…Well, you can see where this is going, eh, Wells?”

  “I do, sir.”

  Tovey smiled. “So we’ve lost a horse in Renown, and it looks like the dog went with it now that Brimingham is missing, but who knows what is good or bad? It’s simply the situation now and we’ll deal with it as best we can. In the meantime, tomorrow morning things will start getting very dicey again. You may want to see about a good night’s rest, though there won’t be much of the night in these latitudes.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “Good enough. Dismissed, Mister Wells. My regards to the Flag Lieutenant, and you may inform Captain Bennett that with Illustrious in hand now we’ll be on our way. Destroyers are to make for Reykjavik for refueling. The rest of us go without.”

  * * *

  When the Twins received the hard shock Admiral Volsky had sent their way on the tip of a MOS-III missile, Kirov turned east into the void between the Germans and the British force that had been stalking them. They noted the approach of the British seaplane, saying and doing nothing in the fading light of June 17. The plane seemed to take a distant look at them, then turned away.

  Rodenko watched the Germans withdrawing on radar and, soon after, he saw the British relent with their southerly pursuit course and turn about as well. Now both groups were heading northeast at about 24 knots each, but separated by about 100 miles of ocean and with the British well to the south. He passed a brief moment realizing that from their present position Kirov could engage and easily destroy either one of these groups, remaining unseen and well beyond the range of any reprisal. Such was the power at their disposal, even crippled and hobbled as the ship present
ly was.

  If Karpov were here he had little doubt that he would have attacked all these ships by now. Admiral Volsky has been threading a needle here with his measured response to the situation. Yet if we continue on to the northeast something tells me we may run into a good deal more trouble than we expect. The decrypt from Fedorov’s Enigma program was somewhat ominous. What if the Germans have another strong battlegroup heading this way?

  He held the first night watch thinking on all that had happened to them, how Karpov had tried to take the ship and failed, and then how it had been given to him in trust, only to be lost again when he lost the trust of the men who served under him. He thought of all the harm they had done, all the lives they had taken, the brazen way they would sail into any situation confident in their ability to prevail.

  But what were they sailing into now? What had really happened with that new control rod? Were they trapped here if Chief Dobrynin could not discover how to make it work again? And what about Fedorov’s fear that they were now a candle burning low, and that time would be faced with an insoluble problem a year on when Kirov was supposed to arrive, like a patron at a theater finding someone else in his seat-himself!

  It was all too much for him to contemplate. There was only one thing to do in the situation now, and that was to keep faith with the men and protect the ship as best he could. It was clear, however that the Admiral had made a choice in this broken version of the events now underway. Fedorov seemed troubled about it in the beginning, but something had happened to him, he seemed to be looking at the situation with new eyes now, imbued with some newfound energy that was aimed at building something new, and no longer struggling to protect the sandcastle world from the inevitable sea. Yet he still exercised caution, a reasoned moderation. He did not want to engage those German ships, which is why he suggested that tanker was a better plan.

  One way or another, men went into the sea, and it was strange what he said-that they were all fated to die; that none would live to see 1943 but one. Is that man still alive out there somewhere? Did he make it off the ship this time? And were any of us any different? We are all fated to die.

  All these thoughts ran through his mind as he looked out the forward viewport. It would not be dark long. The sun had barely dipped beneath the horizon in this high northern latitude, leaving a pale gray wash over the sea, streaked by the glimmering reflection of the moon, fat and near full. Kirov was the darkest thing in the sea, a ghostly shadow adrift on the swells. It was the land of the midnight sun up here, and daybreak would come just a few minutes after the witching hour, very close now. There was no real darkness here, no place to hide and rest in the quiet, only this vast open liquid palette of grey, the ghostly specter of the moon, and a longing for sleep.

  What were they doing here, he wondered? Why had this happened to them? Would they ever know any other life but this endless vigilant watch on the sea?

  The words of that poem the Admiral had read to them still haunted him…there are wanderers o’re eternity, whose bark drives on and on, and anchored ne’er shall be. He had asked the Admiral about it, and Volsky had given him the book, though he had kept it in his jacket pocket with no time to read. Now he took it out again, opening to the place the Admiral had marked, his tired eyes scanning down the long thin column of poetry…

  ‘All heaven and earth are still-though not in sleep,

  But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;

  And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep — ’

  He looked out, seeing the moon, the quiet sea, feeling the breathless time before the return of the sun and the heralding of another day in these uncertain waters. Fog seemed to be forming in thin, spectral vapors over the water. It was already past the midnight hour, and he could see the horizon glowing with the coming of a new day, just as this man must have seen it once, and labored to put his feeling to words that morning…

  ‘The morn is up again, the dewy morn,

  With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom,

  Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,

  And living as if earth contained no tomb,

  And glowing into day: we may resume

  The march of our existence…’

  Chapter 30

  Kapitan Otto Ernst Lindemann stood on the bridge of the Bismarck, staring at the message he had just been handed, his beady eyes narrowing, lips taut to give him a bird like, hawkish aspect. Tall and thin, his ears jutted out like a pair of gun directors on the main mast of the ship.

  Enamored of the sea ever since he heard the stories of steamers on the wide Pacific that his uncle would tell, Lindemann was fortunate to come from a family that could afford the steep tuition for his years in the naval academy. Academically gifted, he was somewhat slight physically, and was almost disqualified from active service due to troublesome lungs from a bout with pneumonia as a youth. The condition meant that service on a U-boat was out of the question for him, but when World War One came he was gratified to be assigned to the battleship Lothringen commanded by the famous Admiral Reinhard Scheer.

  Assigned to patrol duties, the ship saw little combat, and Lindemann’s position as a Wireless Telegraphy Officer seemed inglorious enough to him in any case. But his luck soon saw him drawing high cards where ship assignments were concerned. He moved to the newly commissioned battleship Bayern in 1916, then the most powerful ship in the fleet, and he stayed with her through the sad end of the war, one of the last 175 crewmen to sail with her during the ignominious surrender and internment of the German High Seas Fleet at Scapa Flow in 1919.

  His heart was heavy as they sailed, and he was glad that he had been ordered back to Germany before the final end, when the entire fleet was scuttled right under the noses of the British. When he got word the ships were gone, however, he had to fight off the tears. “Hindenburg was the last to go,” a friend had told him, and it left him feeling bereft and sallow inside.

  He stayed with the new Kriegsmarine, one of only 15,000 men allowed in the service by treaty until Hitler tore it up and began to rebuild the navy. At one point he served on the Staff of Admiral Raeder, and came to know the man and appreciate his mind for strategy on the high seas. “The German Navy may never again be large enough to seek open battle with the British,” Raeder had told him, “but we can build ships that will teach them to fear us, fierce raiders that can ravage their convoys if war should come again. So work hard, Lindemann. One day you may find yourself on one of them, a real battleship again!”

  So Lindemann left off staff work and telegraphy and studied naval gunnery, eventually lecturing on the subject at the Naval Gunnery School in Kiel. Soon he did find his way onto one of the new ships, as First Gunnery Officer of the pocket battleship Admiral Scheer, one of the fast raiders the Admiral had spoken about. The ship served briefly in the Spanish Civil War, and they even showed it off to the British at Gibraltar. Having been educated in England as a youth, Lindemann was able to speak English, and jousted with the British Admiral Somerville there.

  “They call it a pocket battleship,” he said, “and it will give your heavy cruisers fits, Admiral. Yes?”

  “That it might,” Somerville had said diplomatically, “though I don’t think you would bother a real battleship with those guns. Touché.” Somerville smiled at him, but Lindemann had taken his point well enough. A real battleship… That was what he found himself standing on now. What would Admiral Somerville say if I should sail Bismarck into the harbor at Gibraltar to pay him another visit?

  The British were fond of queens and ladies of the sea. All their ships were old women, he thought. Well Bismarck will be referred to as “he,” and that will make the difference plain enough. When he got the ship as his first real command at sea he swelled with pride. As Germany’s most experienced gunnery expert, he was eager to see what the new 15 inch guns could do, and show the British what a real battleship truly was. It was a miracle that Raeder managed to get these ships in fighting trim in time for the ou
tbreak of war. We have dawdled away most of this year, but now we begin.

  He felt the sheer, raw power beneath his feet as they plowed through the storm in the vanguard of the fleet. The ship was riding the heavy seas well, and they had sailed right into the face of an oncoming weather front late on the 17th of June. The viewports were thick with rain, however, and the inclement weather had grounded all operations from Graf Zeppelin. Visibility was so low that Bismarck and Tirpitz had to turn on their search lights, aiming them at each other to allow for safe station keeping and prevent an untimely collision.

  Yet Lindemann had heard the forecast earlier from the weather officer. The storm would be brief and they would soon break through to clearing weather, with cold white clouds drifting like vagrant seafarers low on the water. The weather ship posted to that area had sent that heavy fog was forming behind the front, typical for this time of year.

  Hoffmann had been out of contact for some time, then the message came, confounding him when he received it. Now he was huddling with his personal adjutant, signals officer Second Leutnant Wolfgang Reiner and Fregattenkapitän Paul Ascher, a staff officer assigned to bridge operations on the battleship. Asher was another gunnery officer, having served aboard the Graf Spee during her spectacular but ill-fated sortie. He had personally directed the gunfire that damaged the British cruisers Exeter and Ajax at the Battle of the River Plate, and had escaped internment to return to Germany.

  “What is the meaning of this? Hoffman has withdrawn north?”

  “Apparently, sir,” said Reiner. “They broke through a British cruiser screen and attempted a rendezvous with the Altmark. When they got there they found the ship had been sunk.”

  “Sunk? There were no details?”

  “No sir, only that it was believed to be a torpedo. Then Hoffmann’s group was engaged by a battleship or battlecruiser and Gneisenau sustained damage amidships with speed down to 24 knots. Hoffmann broke off and turned to find Nordmark.”