The Kaiser’s Navigator (Peter Sparke Book 2)

by Scott Chapman

  "Just this one to sign, sir," said one of the sergeants.

  Sparke looked over the page which appeared on the counter top before him. It was, basically, a disclaimer to the effect that Sparke accepted full personal responsibility for any event that might occur and that under no conditions would the UK's Ministry of Defence be held in any way liable regardless of what might happen. By getting on the plane Sparke was abdicating all rights.

  "Seems fair," said Sparke, signing. "I am supposed to be meeting Captain McCafferty here; has he arrived?"

  "Captain McCafferty, sir, yes as it happens. Just through that door there. She's been waiting for you to arrive," he added archly.

  Long years in the corporate world had attuned Sparke to every nuance of the dangers of assuming that people of different genders were more or less suited to different roles. He felt genuinely embarrassed by his assumption that Captain McCafferty would be some muscle-bound alpha-male Royal Marine officer.

  "Mr. Sparke," said McCafferty, standing and offering him her hand.

  "Captain McCafferty, a pleasure to meet you." He gestured towards her laptop computer which she had been working at. "Hope I'm not interrupting you. Catching up on emails I suppose?"

  "No, actually I was catching up on you, to be honest. I was given this job at short notice and I was going through the briefing pack."

  "Can I ask what you have been told?" asked Sparke.

  "Certainly. I understand that you are preparing several reports for our government on the implications of potential commercial activities in the South Atlantic. My task is to help you understand how military plans and resources might interface with any plans you may propose."

  Sparke nodded. "That sounds about right." He looked down at her computer, "What does your file say about me? Can I ask?"

  "As a general rule, you can ask any question you like. Very often I hope to be able to answer them for you. What your file tells me is that you have worked with our people before and that they have always been very complimentary of your cooperation and your judgement. In fact I was surprised to see that you were the civilian Person of Authority in the G'swaglo Washlands action."

  The mention of this cooled Sparke's good humour. "You have that in there?"

  "Yes, of course, but the Washlands action is used as a standard training case study of how such incidents should be managed, so I was pretty familiar with it anyway."

  Sparke had two piercing memories of that event: the picture of the young army officer racing towards his helicopter, and the shock and relief on the faces of the twenty-eight employees of his firm as they shuffled into the first aid station after their rescue.

  "I asked about what happened during the rescue, but could never find out," said Sparke. "I know that one of your men died and two were injured."

  "Why do you want to know?" asked McCafferty.

  "Why would I not? Those people in the Washlands facility were my responsibility. Your soldiers went in the recover them, to rescue them, because I asked them to. I asked your people for help and one of them died and two were injured."

  "Wounded," corrected McCafferty. "Soldiers are wounded, not injured. Injuries happen in traffic accidents or when you slip in the bath. Actually, four were wounded, but only two were serious enough to be evacuated as casualties. Two of the five casualties were the result of our own fire, a mortar round hit one of their Toyota trucks full of heavy calibre ammunition, blew up like a fragmentation grenade."

  "And the man who died?"

  "He and three others were already on the ground before our helicopters arrived. They had walked in through the bush and were surrounding the hut where the prisoners were being held. As soon as the choppers approached, half a dozen of the gunmen ran towards the hut, potentially to harm the hostages in our judgement. Our men killed them with silenced weapons. Other gunmen arrived and began spraying the bush with random fire; our man caught two rounds."

  "What happened after that?"

  "A lot of the gunmen were still asleep in the main building, pretty much none of them made it out. Several others made for their heavy guns on the pickup trucks and our force engaged them."

  Sparke tried to turn McCafferty's dry words into some kind of reality, but his experience of life was, thankfully, far too limited. "Engaged." He repeated the word and tried to relate its dry technical sound to McCafferty's understanding of the word.

  He stood for some time, alone with his thoughts.

  "Should we go over our itinerary?" suggested McCafferty.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Gneisenau and her sister ships could make up to 22.5 knots at full speed, the pursuing British battlecruisers, although larger and heavier, could make 25.5. Despite all the power and fury of the two fleets, the battle was defined by the British ships gaining on their enemies at little more than the pace of a brisk walk. All of the ships, both German and British, had been stripped for combat as soon as war had been declared. The softer comforts of a peacetime navy, such as soft chairs, wood panelling in the officers' messes, and anything not essential to fighting, had been either sent ashore, or simply jettisoned over the side. These luxuries were all highly inflammable and in ships filled to their maximum capacity with ammunition, fire was a deadly threat.

  Inexorably, the British closed the distance and the fifteen-mile head start the Germans had started with was whittled down through the morning. Opitz, on the bridge of the Gneisenau, was, like most of his fellow officers, facing directly astern. Ahead of them was an endless stretch of open Southern Ocean and, since all the ships were travelling in the same direction, there was little need to navigate to avoid other vessels. All through the morning, spotters had been glued to the eyesights of the range finders which all military ships carried. Every few minutes would come the terse command, "Enemy range, report." And with every response the distance was reduced.

  For long, agonising hours the chase continued over the flat seas. The clear sky offered no chance of a sudden storm or fog bank to escape into. Finally, a few minutes after 13.00 came the lookout report, "Enemy ships firing." The guns of the larger British ships fired shells twelve inches in diameter, greatly outdistancing the smaller eight-inch guns on the Gneisenau and Scharnhorst.

  As the first shells crashed into the sea near the rearmost German ship, the signalman on the Gneisenau reported to her Captain. "Signal from Scharnhorst, sir. Gneisenau and Scharnhorst to engage enemy."

  There was no hesitation amongst the officers and crew as the two huge German ships began to swing around to face their tormentors. As their step bows cut through the water, the ships began to move quickly towards the British, trying desperately to close the distance to a point where their own guns could be brought into range. Every man of the crews knowing that both ships were low on ammunition, having used up much of their stock in the weeks since they crossed the Pacific, and totally outgunned. They turned to fight, with the only possible objective being that some of the smaller ships of their squadron might escape.

  As the two large German ships turned, the smaller cruisers, on the orders of von Spee suddenly changed direction and made a break for safety. The move, however, had been anticipated by the British and their own lighter warships peeled off in hot pursuit.

  For some time the British gunners could not get a clear view of their quarry, the smoke from their own stacks obscuring the gun aimers. The German ships, heading into the wind, had a clear view. The Gneisenau and the Scharnhorst had some of the best naval gunners in the world; both had competed fiercely for the Kaiser's trophy for accuracy.

  As they closed the distance, the Germans fired from all forward-facing guns on both ships. Almost immediately they saw their shells make a direct hit on the superstructure of one of the leading British ships, but the thick armour of the British battlecruiser shrugged off the impact. Despite the hits, there was no slowing, and no visible damage. The German shells literally bounced off.

  The British finally managed to get out of their own smoke, and wi
th the distance narrowing, they turned full broadside on, allowing every gun they had to be turned on the Germans.

  From this moment on it was a slaughter. Hit after hit from the British guns smashed into the German ships. Armour-piercing shells plunged through their thinner armour before exploding deep within the bodies of the vessels. The shock of each broadside's impact heaved the German ships several metres to one side and the weight drove them down like a bottle cork so that the two ships literally bounced as British shells plunged down on them.

  The German ships could take an astonishing amount of damage. Some of the British shells pierced the German deck armour, tore through every deck, ripped their way out of her hull and into the sea below without stopping. Shortly after four o'clock in the afternoon, the German flagship, Scharnhorst, battered beyond all recognition but with her engines still running, plunged under the surface taking every officer and man of the crew with her.

  For almost two hours, the Gneisenau fought and manoeuvred under the rain of shells from the British fleet, now focussed solely on her, until, one-by-one, her massive gun turrets were silenced, her engine rooms flooded, and her superstructure mangled into a twisted wreck. She had kept firing until the last of her ammunition was exhausted.

  The Gneisenau was now dead in the water with most of the bridge officers lying dead at their posts. They had died, but they had not let their Kaiser down. Through the entire battle, Opitz had been on the bridge, watching his ship being reduced to scrap metal around him, seeing his comrades being carried below, one at a time as casualties, until there was no one left to carry them and the dead were left where they fell.

  The ship now began to list and, along with those fellow survivors who could reach the upper deck, he stepped into the sea which was now almost at the level of the deck. He lost his cap immediately and he kicked off his heavy shoes before abandoning the ship, but around his neck, by a slender, stout chain, hung the telescope from the Santa Simone which he had carried every day of his service.

  Despite the warmth of the sun, the water was barely above freezing, and as Opitz called on other survivors to gather together, he was conscious that the men could not last long.

  For hours the tiny knots of men bobbed in the freezing water, constantly watching the smoke from the British ships. Gradually, one of the grey monsters approached until it was close enough for Opitz to hear the commands being shouted from her deck. Then, suddenly, he heard the rhythmic splash of oars as boats, lowered from the British ships, approached the survivors. British sailors leaned over the sides of the boats and began pulling Germans out of the sea.

  The Germans were treated with surprising gentleness by their captors. The British were no longer dealing with a deadly enemy, but with fellow seamen who had lost their ship. Less than two hundred men had survived from the Gneisenau and none at all from the Scharnhorst.

  Like the rest of the survivors, Opitz was given an armful of fresh, dry clothes and a metal mug full of what he later learned was hot tea and rum. For the rest of his life even the smell of rum was enough to reduce him to tears.

  Chapter Eighteen

  "The two things I think Mr Sparke really wants to understand, sir, are the level of advanced warning which we might have should any foreign power make any potential acts of aggression in the region, and what our initial responses might be, short of the use of force." She turned to Sparke. "Is that about right?"

  "Perfect," answered Sparke.

  The Brigadier, Officer Commanding, British Forces, Falkland Islands, sipped his terrible coffee. The three sat around a low coffee table seated in the kind of comfortless wooden-framed armchair normally found in school staff rooms.

  “There are a number of contingencies to deal with any threat to the Falklands," he said calmly, "and they are currently being reviewed." He smiled. “But that is quite normal. Commanders like to be two steps ahead rather than two steps behind.”

  He paused, then continued, "To be frank, Mr. Sparke, the Argentinians are not in the position to invade these islands again, whereas we are very much able to defend them. Their armed forces are much weaker and less capable than they were in 1982, but that is not to say that they could not find ways of causing considerable disruption if they wanted to."

  "My focus is really to understand what sort of advance notice we would have if something like that were to happen," replied Sparke. "We need to be able to understand the threat level and see when it might change."

  "London has asked us to fully cooperate with you in your task, Mr. Sparke, so we will be showing you pretty much everything right up the point where we would change posture and move into a situation of armed response."

  He walked over to his desk and spoke softly into the receiver for a few seconds. "Our Situation people will show you how we go about keeping tabs on things. Then I understand that Captain McCafferty will be showing you some of our Forward Posture resources."

  The language the military used was always a delight to Sparke. Like the clues to a crossword puzzle, they always contained a meaning without specifically telling you what it was. The door to the office opened and a middle-aged woman walked in. Like all of the military he had seen since he arrived, Major Christie wore combat camouflage uniform and boots. There was no mistaking that this was an active service base.

  Christie greeted Sparke and McCafferty and the three left the Brigadier's office, crossed a gravel car park and entered a low, windowless building. Once inside, Sparke signed yet another release form and followed Christie into a darkened room filled with rows of computer screens, most empty, but several having personnel in front of them. Some were soldiers, some sailors, and some air force.

  Christie stood behind one of the servicemen and looked at his screen. "Daniels, could you explain to our guests what we see here?"

  Daniels looked up from his screen, smiled at Sparke, then stood to salute McCafferty. "Sorry, ma'am, I didn't notice you there.”

  "What we are looking at is the digital signature of various assets in the region which we like to keep an eye on."

  "By assets you mean – ?" asked Sparke.

  Daniels looked quickly at Christie then, apparently receiving some invisible sign of authorisation, continued, "At the moment I am taking a look at Argentinian warships and air bases. You see, pretty much everything nowadays is packed with electronic systems, and when they are switched on they leave a sort of electronic smell in the atmosphere. Satellite receivers, communication systems, radar, that sort of thing. What we do is keep sniffing around these assets and make a little note when any one of them gets smelly."

  "And the technical term for that?" prompted Christie.

  "We call these electronic smells 'farts', sir," said Daniels to Sparke, obviously enjoying the chance to share what was clearly the high point of humour amongst the team. "So this thing here is getting pretty farty just as the moment." He clicked his mouse over one of the flashing icons.

  Sparke peered at the screen. Along the coast of Argentina he saw more than a dozen bright icons, each with a scattering of numbers. One of the icons was flashing slowly.

  "What is it?"

  "That, sir, is an Argentinian frigate. The reason it is flashing is that she is getting ready to leave port. All the systems are being switched on in preparation, so the signal is flashing to show that there has been a change in the smell. Farting like a trooper, as we say."

  "And can't these signals be covered in some way?"

  "It can be done, but not by the Argentinians. They have no stealth assets."

  "So if several assets all start to smell at the same time..."

  "Then the Duty Officer takes an interest, sir."

  "And," added Christie, "at a certain level of interest we would advise the civilian Point of Contact about a change in posture."

  Sparke straightened up. "I am really here for a first look. Our company will be sending down a small team in the next few weeks to work out exactly how we can best work with you."

  "So I unders
tand," said Christie, escorting them out of the building. "I think Captain McCafferty will take you over to see the Forward Posture people now."

  The three shook hands and then McCafferty led Sparke to a nearby Land Rover. "The Forward Posture thing is not something we want the rest of your people to see, particularly. This is eyes-only, no notes or photographs, no questions except through me. Stay within my eyesight at all times. All clear?"

  "All clear," answered Sparke.

  McCafferty drove towards the airbase, then, as soon as they entered the perimeter fence, turned sharply left and continued around the road that skirted the runway. The Land Rover pulled up at the side of a small, low hangar that looked more like a farm building than a military facility.

  Again, Sparke was invited to sign various documents before entering the building. This time, in addition, he had to walk through an airport-style x-ray machine.

  Inside the hanger were three aircraft which looked very much like toy gliders, only many times larger and finished in a dull dark-grey colour, almost black. Running along the spine of each aircraft was a long ridge and protruding from their bellies were fat, onion shaped pods. There were no cockpits.

  "These are Albatrosses, Mr. Sparke," said McCafferty. "They can stay in the air for up to forty-eight hours and if needed can be refuelled mid-air. This," she said, indicating the ridge along the top of the aircraft, "is where the reconnaissance and monitoring systems are kept. Here," she said, crouching down to look at the dome shape which hung below the fuselage," is where the Munch is located."

  "Interesting name," said Sparke casually, well aware of when he was being invited to be the straight man.

  "Yes, indeed. Comes from the painting by Eduard Munch, The Scream. I'm sure you are familiar with it."