Grand Alliance (Kirov Series)

by John Schettler

  “The problem now is occupying all the Ground Rommel has decided to give us back,” said O’Connor. “We did it once, but it took us a good long month. I was able to clear the Jebel country with the 6th Australian Division, while I took everything else across the base of the peninsula to Agedabia and Beda Fomm. We’ll likely do that again, but that report of Italian troops massing on Benghazi is bad news. If they decide to hold out there it would require us to invest the place, and we just haven’t enough infantry yet to do that, and also hold a front facing the Germans at Mersa Brega.”

  “I think General Wavell will be recalling the 4th Indian Division from the East African campaign,” said Fedorov. “You’ll have the 2nd New Zealand Division too.”

  “Even with those troops our prospects for any further offensive will be slim. They will barely be enough to hold a line along the coast near Mersa Brega, which is where I believe Rommel is heading. Your Brigade can be the tip of the spear, General Kinlan, but as you’ve explained, you only have so much ammunition in train, and you’ll need to be supplied just like any other unit in this environment. My instincts tell me to dash off in hot pursuit here, but that’s just what got Rommel into the stew he’s eating now. No. I think it best we arrange these logistics before contemplating any major move west. I’m sure this is what Wavell will advise. Our men just made the long slog from Agheila to Tobruk, Bardia and beyond. They’ll need rest and refitting before we can ask them to turn around and move west again. Given your situation, I think we’d be much better off planning the next offensive carefully, so we can get the most from your force while it remains viable.”

  There it was again, thought Fedorov—the 7th Brigade represented power that was absolute, but finite. He knew full well how Kinlan must feel now. He would have to get back to Alexandria to brief Wavell, and then his own ship would be needing him soon. He felt reluctant to leave, wanting to help guide and advise Kinlan at this most critical initial phase of his experience here. At the same time, he harbored a lingering feeling of guilt for being the man who had let the bear out of his cave here. He knew the knowledge of Kinlan’s presence was very dangerous, and wanted to watch over things and prevent further contamination. On one level, he knew he was being foolish. Events had now been set in motion that would gather their own momentum, for good or for ill. At least I’ve manage to move things in the right direction, he thought. We’ve stopped Rommel’s advance, and saved Egypt for the moment. That was no small feat.

  Beyond all this he still had the Germans to worry about, and yes, what they needed now was good intelligence. He needed to get up and find out what was going on, but he had limited fuel. He would have enough to get to Alexandria, brief Wavell, and then he would need to return to Kirov to refuel and huddle with Admiral Volsky again.

  For now, he thought, it will be a long slow advance for the British as they try to re-occupy Cyrenaica, just as O’Connor said. I’ll have to have faith in him, and in Kinlan. There is nothing else to do. I certainly won’t be the man running operations here, so it’s time I returned to the ship.

  It was then that a runner came in with more news off the radio, and it was most welcome.

  “There’s been a battle at sea,” he said. “Apparently the Royal Navy has given the Italians quite a beating.”

  “Good show,” said O’Connor. “They’ll be happy to know we’ve done the same to Jerry here, thanks to you fellows showing up in the nick of time. Well then, I think we all will have our hands full in the next few days and weeks. Let’s get on with it.”

  Fedorov turned and shook hands with both men, wishing them well. He told them that he would report soon on his meeting with Wavell and relate the General’s intentions.

  “Now,” he said himself in English. “I have ten hungry Marines to feed, and a ship to look after. Good luck to you both!”

  He saluted, and took his leave, heading for the KA-40 where Troyak and the Marines had assembled, more than ready to be moving again. They had stewed in confinement for some time, until Fedorov managed to forge his alliance with Kinlan. Most had no idea what was happening, but they had followed Fedorov’s orders to sit tight and stay quiet. He spied Orlov, a thought coming to mind.

  “Chief,” he said. “What ever happened to that thing you say you found in Siberia?”

  “You mean this?” Orlov reached in his pocket, producing the strange tear shaped object, about the size of a small egg. Fedorov simply extended his hand, waiting for Orlov to hand it over. “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” said Fedorov, “but I’d like to have a closer look at this thing, if you don’t mind. Maybe the ship’s engineers can figure out what it is.”

  “Dobrynin? I was going to ask him about it, but he was too busy.”

  “You say you were near the Stony Tunguska River when you found this?”

  “Very close. We spied something from above, and I thought someone was signaling me. So Troyak and I went down to have a look. I told you what happened. The Sergeant calls it the Devil’s Teardrop. Good name for it. There was something very strange about that place—very bad. In fact, it scared the crap out of me, and I’m not ashamed to admit that. It was as if… well I could feel something was terrible there, a real feeling of doom. Your senses were keened up like a grizzly bear was on your trail, but it was deathly quiet. I never felt anything quite like it. All I could think of was getting the hell away from that place.”

  “Yes… Well, I think I’d better hold onto this.”

  “Be my guest,” said Orlov, “but be careful. It gets warm sometimes. Damn thing almost burned my hand—right when we saw those odd lights in the desert.”

  Fedorov thought about that, but said nothing. He took the object and tucked it into his service jacket pocket, his thoughts musing on the possible connection between this object and the incident involving Kinlan.

  Just what I need, he thought, another mystery to solve.

  Part VIII

  The Sheepdog

  “While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind,"

  But it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind,

  There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,

  O it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind.”

  ― Rudyard Kipling

  Chapter 22

  The British fleet steered south, away from the action and on a heading that would take it down to Benghazi as planned. Tovey worried that the Franco-German fleet would attempt an immediate engagement before they could slip away, but he was heartened to learn that his radar picket, Argos Fire, reported the enemy was heading east.

  What could they be up to, thought Tovey, but he soon realized that Crete could be the target, and the enemy might be planning to strike there even as the Royal Navy steamed on Benghazi. Under any other circumstances I would be trying to engage that fleet, but not with so many ships licking wounds from that air strike. We were lucky to get off as well as we did. Without that rocket defense things would have been much worse. My God, they must have shot down sixty planes, a hard knock to the Germans and Italians, but yet they kept on coming.

  And that is the sticky wicket, he thought. They will keep coming. All those planes can be replaced, but not the missiles that shot them down. There is really only so much Kirov and Argos Fire can do for us. It will come down to a steady hand and good fleet air defense from the FAA in the end, just as it always has. What we need here now are more aircraft carriers. Eagle and Hermes can barely do the job, and we simply haven’t the fighter strength in theater to challenge the enemy.

  In that he was very correct. There were no more than 77 Hurricanes in the Mediterranean theater at that very moment, and the few FAA fighters that had been assigned to the two carriers. Everything they had sent to Malta was gone. The 12 Swordfish and the Wellington bombers had managed to evacuate, but none of the fighters survived. Most of the German fighter strength had then shifted to North Af
rican airfields, but most of the Stukas were still on Sicily, and as long as they remained there, they could dominate the waters of the Central Med unless we can challenge them with good fighters.

  All that day the two fleets were on divergent courses, but the British progress south was limited to the 16 knots that Queen Elizabeth could make. Malaya was in no better shape with the torpedo she had taken, but the flooding had been controlled and the ship was in no immediate danger of sinking. The three cruisers that had also taken bomb hits, Calcutta, Coventry, and Orion, were all still seaworthy, though they would all need repairs when they returned to Alexandria.

  Argos Fire continued to shadow the Franco-German fleet, steaming about 100 kilometers to the south on a parallel course. Captain MacRae continued to feed updated reports on the enemy location, and Tovey was amazed at the accuracy. There’s something to be said for these advanced radars, he thought. They provide a situational awareness that is unsurpassed.

  With this knowledge, Tovey concluded that the enemy was definitely heading for Crete, and warning alerts were sent out to see if the RAF there could return the favor and hit the enemy fleet. But in communication with Cunningham, Tovey received a coded message updating him on current air strength for Crete. Twelve Hurricanes, and eight old Gladiators made up the fighter defense. For strike aircraft they had 27 Blenheims, and while the airfields had adequate fuel for operations, there were no spare parts for maintenance. RAF had made the difficult decision to eventually pull the remaining aircraft off to North Africa. Meanwhile, disturbing reports continued to show German air strength building up in Greece—over a thousand planes.

  Crete will be next, thought Tovey. So it looks like my little visit here will be extended. After all, Hindenburg is here, and there is simply no way I can return HMS Invincible to Home Fleet at the moment, Cunningham will need me, and every ship I can give him. For starters, I think I’ll have to bring in another carrier as soon as possible. That thought immediately brought the face of his young protégé to mind, Christopher Wells on the carrier Glorious. He turned to an aide and asked for an update on ongoing operations with Force H, and he soon learned that Somerville had concluded the occupation of the Canary and Cape Verde Islands, and was now maintaining a guarded watch on Casablanca. There was a new carrier just about to join the fleet, HMS Victorious. That now made it possible to shift carrier strength here, so he cut orders to have Glorious steam for Alexandria at once.

  Good enough, he thought. Now we’ll give the Italians a good pounding at Benghazi, and hope our boys don’t get too much of the same on Crete. Yet one day soon we’ll have to face that Franco-German fleet, and that will decide who controls the Eastern Mediterranean. At the moment, we risk losing the whole thing! I have Invincible, Warspite and our friends from another time. Who knows how long it will be before I get Queen Elizabeth and Malaya back in shape? I had better get them to Alexandria as soon as I possibly can.

  He made the decision to detach those two old warriors, and send them home directly with an escort of five destroyers and the cruisers that had also taken bomb damage. The guns of Invincible and Warspite would be more than enough to pound Benghazi.

  * * *

  “Any deviation in that course track, Mister Healey?”

  “No sir. I still have the main body heading 090, due east at 24 knots. But a couple of smaller contacts look like they are getting a bit curious about us. I have two ships bearing on our position.” He toggled his history track on those ships and saw they had broken off from the main body just five minutes earlier.

  “These ships are fast, sir. I’m making them at 36 knots!”

  “I knew we should have taken that spotter plane out an hour ago,” said MacRae. They had seen a single incoming aircraft coming in from the north, high and slow. MacRae had decided not to waste a missile on it, and now knew that he must have been spotted. Fair enough, he thought. Anybody gets too nosey and they’ll get more than a nasty surprise for their trouble.

  “Keep an eye on them, Mister Haley. What is the range now?”

  “Seventy five kilometers and closing, sir.”

  “Notify me if they cross the 50 kilometer line. Mister Dean, please message the British and see if they have any sheep astray. I’ll be on the helo deck aft.”

  About forty minutes later MacRae got that notification at the fifty kilometer mark, and he was back on the bridge, this time with Mac Morgan in tow.

  “Two fast ships inbound,” said MacRae. “We could give them a nice poke on the chest, but at this range I really don’t know what I’d be shooting at. British fleet says they have nothing on that heading, and this contact was seen to break off from the main body we’ve been tracking at long range.”

  “Easy enough to assume these are a couple destroyers sent to look us over.” Morgan stroked his thick beard. “Well don’t look at me to give you the name of the ships, Captain. I’m your intelligence master, but nothing has come in over the black line from sources since we arrived here, if you know what I mean.”

  “Well enough, Mack. From here on out we rely on conventional methods for intelligence gathering. You’re probably correct, but I’d prefer to look a man in the eye before I punch him in the nose.”

  Morgan nodded, leaning close so only MacRae might hear him now. “Look Gordon, are you going to let every ship we run into out here get within gun range to satisfy your proprieties?”

  “I see what you mean,” said MacRae. “Very well, air contacts have been clean for a good long while. Let’s get an X-3 up to have a look. I was just on the helo deck and the birds are all oiled and ready for action.”

  “Suit yourself. But they have got to be destroyers, and if I can get the first good punch off in a bar fight I always feel I got my money’s worth.” He smiled, and MacRae sent the order down to the helo deck. His caution turned out to be unwarranted. Twenty minutes later the X-3 helo reported in that they had long range cameras on the contacts, two fast destroyers, flying the tricolor of France, and they were beating to quarters.

  This wasn’t the Georgian Coast Guard, thought MacRae. Mack Morgan is right. I’ve got to re-set my watch to war time. It’s no good thinking I can back down a potential combatant with a warning or the simple flash of our deck gun. These ships undoubtedly mean business, just like the Russian Black Sea Fleet did, and so that’s what we’ll have to get down to here.

  “Mister Dean,” he said stiffly.

  “Sir?”

  “Stand up the Gealbhans, a single missile to begin. Target those close contacts. You may take your pick as to which ship you hit. I want them to know what we’re capable of.”

  “Aye sir.” Dean spun on his heel, ready for action. “You heard the Captain. Light up the forward cell and sound deck claxon.”

  The blaring warning came and the forward deck was cleared as the covering plates opened to expose the missile cells. Seconds later the missile was away, fast on its way to find a pair of troublesome birds in the two French destroyers.

  Agile and Vautor were the uninvited guests that day, the Eagle and Vulture. They had been coming at their top speed, all four stacks darkening the sky with smoke, with crews at the ready on their five 138mm guns. Their mission was to find the ship reported by the German reconnaissance plane out of Greece, and to ascertain whether the British fleet was on a parallel course south of the main Franco-German force. MacRae did not know it at that moment, but he was about to tell the enemy exactly what they wanted to know.

  The missile came in low and fast, a sleek sparrow out to challenge the bigger birds of prey. Vautor was the ugly duckling that day, its crews spying something bright and low on the horizon. The missile came so fast that the ships barely had time to swivel their AA guns on the heading before it pulsed in to find its target, a silver streak of death. At just a little over 3000 long tons, full load, and no armor to speak of, the Vautor was exactly the kind of ship the missile had been designed to kill. It penetrated the hull easily, and the resulting explosion set off the big 22 inch tor
pedo tubes, with catastrophic results.

  Captain Degarmo aboard the Agile stared with disbelief at the chaos when he saw the other destroyer erupt in angry fire and smoke. A rocket, just as he had been warned. He did not believe the tales circulating about these new British naval weapons, until he saw the skies laced with the ragged remnants of the winding white contrails from the aerial missile defense. Yet he had not actually seen any of those rockets in action, and the thought that one could come at him like this, so fast and low over the sea to unerringly strike his squadron, was most unnerving. He found himself spinning this way and that on the weather bridge, field glasses pressed tight against his eyes in a vain attempt to spot the enemy who had fired upon him.

  Nothing was to be seen.

  Mon Dieu! Could they have hit us from beyond the horizon? Was this fired from an unseen aircraft that sped away after delivering its weapon? He immediately sent a signal to the main fleet, warning him that he was under attack by rocket weaponry, and the die that would decide the fate of many on the sea that day had just been cast.

  Admiral Jean de Laborde received the message with some concern, turning to his aide, Lieutenant Giroux. “Rocket weapon? Then the British do have these things as reported. Notify the Germans. It seems the enemy is south of us, and on a parallel course as we suspected.”

  This had implications for the planned German attack against the harbors and airfields of Crete. They would have to move north of Crete into the Aegean to strike the main harbors, which would allow the British to steam north and try to seal off the roughly 100 kilometer passage between Kithira and the main island. This would either force a battle there, or compel the Axis fleet to take the longer route around the eastern tip of Crete before moving west again. So a quick conference with Lütjens resulted in a most unexpected decision—they would turn south now and face the enemy full on.