Karpov thought about that for some time as they walked, and when they had reached the officer’s mess, he leaned close and gave Orlov a quiet order. “When we finish up here, Chief, I think it best we put some men to work and remove any obvious insignia on the ship. Pull down the ensigns as well. Just as a precaution.” He forced a weak smile.
Orlov grinned. “You’ve been thinking about this from a few different angles, haven't you, Captain? Your point about securing a better position for us after the war was well taken. Yes, we have a very powerful ship here, but consider what the Admiral said… We have just sixty missiles on board, and we are lucky to have even that many. The reloads for the Moskit-IIs are stacked high in the crates below decks, so if we were to take a hit, we would go off like a firecracker. We must be careful in the early going, no matter whose ships are out there, no matter what year it is. The silence from Severomorsk is also very disturbing. I don't know which scenario frightens me the most. If things turn out to be the way you see them, and this isn’t World War II, then World War III might have started eight hours ago. Take your pick. It’s a nightmare in either case as far as I’m concerned.”
“If that is so, then we are in the fight of our lives, Chief. Yet we have the means to defend ourselves adequately, and we can punch harder than any ship in the world.”
As Orlov stood to leave, Karpov left him with one final thought. “Yes, we have limited ammunition, and we must be very prudent in the way we use it. But we have other means, and I am not so squeamish as the Admiral when it comes to using them.”
At that, Orlov said nothing. He took his leave, out to make the rounds below decks and see that the scheduled maintenance checks had been finished.
Karpov sat with his dinner for some time, though his appetite had vanished. He ate, reflexively, sopping up the gravy with some good black Russian rye bread, but his mind was wandering in distant fields. As usual, except for those times when Orlov was with him, he ate alone. None of the junior officers seemed to want to share his table, and when he was in the officer’s mess they often stilled their conversation as well, talking in hushed tones with one another as if they might disturb the Captain.
Karpov was used to such reactions from the men under him. In one sense, he took it as a sign of respect, though deep down he knew they shunned him out of fear. One voice in his mind believed that was good. The men should have a healthy fear and respect for their senior officers, yes? But a deeper feeling that could only be described as loneliness whispered something else to him about it. He did not want to listen to that voice.
Yet, by and large, he was alone in the world. Take him out of this small kollectiv on the ship and there was no one back home waiting for him. When the ship returned to Severomorsk, all the other crewmen would rush down the gangways and into the waiting arms of wives, children, parents, but not Karpov. His parents were long gone, and he had been too preoccupied with the machinations of his career to ever contemplate marriage. There was no secret photo tucked away in his wallet of a sweetheart left behind. Yes, he had rank and authority now, but even the lowly mishman, the warrant officers he would post to the watch, and the able seamen busy with menial tasks below decks had something, someone, where he was denied. It made their banal and pointless existence bearable, he thought. They were too easily contented by the fat cheeks of their devushkas and babushkas.
He was still perturbed with Fedorov, that damn z’opoliz, an ass kisser if ever there was one. The man seemed to have read the Captain’s own book—buttering old Volsky’s bread as he pushed his war books and silly ideas on him. Yet, the more he thought about it, the more he realized Fedorov had nothing of the cold, hard ruthlessness in him to make any use of his new found connection to the Admiral. Fedorov was too naive to have any notion of the game where real power was concerned, except perhaps to be a good victim. He was just a little chaynik, wet behind the ears, he thought, and he dismissed him as another young fool of an officer, and by no means an opponent worthy of his attention. He could crush Fedorov any time he chose.
That said, the Lieutenant’s suggestions seemed to be driving their mission now—a junior officer’s advice taken over that of a Captain of the First Rank! The man had turned this tactical maneuver behind Jan Mayen into a fishing expedition for his theories. He considered all the arguments again, that something had happened to the ship, to all the facilities on Jan Mayen, to the entire Royal Navy as well. It was entirely nonsensical, yet even Orlov was vacillating in doubt now, and he had to admit that last briefing had shaken him somewhat as well.
What if it were true, he wondered? Every time he let that thought take center stage in his mind there was a thrumming pulse of anxiety in his gut. If it were true, then there was no one back home at Severomorsk they would ever have to answer to again—not for him, nor for anyone else. Suchkov, the God of the navy, would be a four year old boy! A line from Dostoyevsky entered his mind soon after this thought: ‘If god is dead, then everything is permitted.’
Another thought, or more a feeling came to him now. There was no one waiting for any of the men now either. They were all just like him now. Every man aboard was alone, cut off, isolated here in the kollectiv of the ship. Kirov was the only reality for them now, the only vestige of home they would ever know again. Why did that thought make him so uneasy—the thought that every man among them was now a derelict in time, as lost and forlorn as he felt at times? ‘If God is dead…’
The bulk of the crew did not know any of this as yet. Only the senior officers and the mishman warrant officers of the bridge crew knew what they had been dealing with. The rank and file had no idea what was happening. He dragged himself up from the table and buttoned his jacket before he ventured out to walk the ship for a bit.
As he passed small groups of men quickly came to attention, and Karpov forced a wan smile as he greeted them. If it were true; if Severomorsk and the entire world they knew were gone now, then they were all just zombies, walking dead men, dispossessed souls adrift in the cold seas of the world.
They were all just like him now.
Chapter 12
On board HMS Victorious, Admiral Wake-Walker was studying his plotting map carefully, with Captain Bovell at his side. “This message from the Admiralty has done it,” he said with some irritation. “Sounds like Admiral Pound is worried the Germans may be trying to slip another raider out into the Atlantic. I can’t imagine what ship this is. We put a torpedo into Lutzow and laid her up at Kiel with Tirpitz, but they’re having another look to see if anything has moved. Apparently this report of a cruiser to our north has got the boys over at the Golf, Cheese and Chess Society all in a dither.”
He was referring to the GC&CS, which stood for Government Code & Cipher Station at Bletchley Park, some 40 miles outside of London where the code breakers worked over intercepts to try and piece together clues of what the enemy may be up to. Also called “Station X” or simply “BP” for Bletchley Park, the code breaking effort had been aided by the capture of several German cipher machines in recent months, machines that had been provided by Royal Navy units intercepting German auxiliary ships in the region. Since the recent sortie by Bismarck had jangled the nerves of the entire system, it seemed particularly sensitive to the report of any lone warship steaming in the frigid Arctic waters with the possible intent of working its way over to the Denmark Strait west of Iceland for a shot at the Atlantic convoy traffic.
“It was a fairly unusual contact, sir. Perhaps they want us to have another go at identifying that ship.”
“Well it seems that they do, Captain. I have informed them that Adventure and Anthony were detached yesterday with just this intent, but they want us to linger until we get some confirmation.”
“And then there is this unusual signal from Jan Mayen, sir,” said Bovell. “Something about a helicopter landing there? Admiralty says the Norwegians thought it was Russian. I'm aware of the fact that the Russians were working on these, but intelligence indicates they have made no signi
ficant production or deployments of such an aircraft even if they do have it in development.”
“It might've been a German machine,” said the Admiral. “I read reports about a Focke Wolf model, number sixty-one I believe. It was tested in 1936. Nothing more than an old biplane with its wings taken off and a pair of rotors mounted on struts where the wings might be.”
“The signal did say it had twin rotors, sir,” said Bovell.
“Yes, very curious. Could the Germans have something like this in production? If they do, Norway would be the perfect place to deploy such an aircraft, what with all the mountainous terrain and all. Yet Jan Mayen is some 600 miles from the Norwegian coast. The Focke Wolf-61 had a maximum range of no more than 150 miles. Unless Jerry has been exceptionally busy of late, I doubt they managed to fly an FW-61 out there.”
“It was said a full squad of infantry landed with this aircraft sir. The FW-61 might carry one or two men of the most, but a full squad? And they were a little too polite to have been Germans, wouldn’t you say?”
“Quite so…” Admiral Walker was somewhat perplexed over the report. “Well, perhaps Adventure and Anthony will shed some light on the subject. In the meantime, it seems operations to the North Cape area have been put on hold until we can learn more one way or the other. Vian’s Force K was out making a run up to Svalbard off to our east. First time a Royal Navy ship has visited that island since Nelson's day. Well, it looks like that's been put on hold as well. The Admiralty wants us to coordinate with Force K in the event this unknown ship is a German cruiser. I'm afraid we stuck our foot in it by sending off that report yesterday.”
“It seems so, sir.”
“We are to move back west toward Jan Mayen to support our scout detachment in the event this contact firms up. See to it that Grenfell is notified about this, will you? I'll want his boys up by mid-day.”
~ ~ ~
HMS Adventure was riding at anchor off the narrow neck of Jan Mayen, there to check on the status of the Norwegian weather station. Aside from tall tales of an unusual aircraft that had landed the previous day, all seemed well. The Norwegians seemed to think the craft was Russian, noting the single red star insignia it bore, which seemed odd. The station team leader, Ullring, was a reliable man, and his report was taken and relayed on to the Admiralty as well as Wake-Walker with Force P. At 10:00 hours, however, the lookouts spotted what looked like a large vessel on the southwestern horizon.
Captain Norman Grace was peering through his field glasses with a worried expression on his face. What would the Russians be doing with a whirlybird out on Jan Mayen? Ullring’s report made some sense. If the interlopers had been German he doubted they would have left the station intact or any of the Norwegians alive. It was all very curious, but the Captain had more to worry about than he bargained for now.
His ship was at anchor, he had a shore party still on the island, and beyond that his engines had been doggy ever since he was detached. They could make no more than 22 knots the whole way up. A mine layer and AA picket by trade, Adventure had run afoul of one of her own mines off Liverpool earlier in the war and was laid up for repairs. Live by the sword, die by the sword, he thought. Apparently there had been unseen damage to one of the turbines, and he was getting a noticeable wobble at high rotations. He had his stokers and ERA men, the Engine Room Artificers, working the boilers and turbines below, but nothing seemed to solve the problem. Now this!
From the look of it he was seeing a fairly large ship, obviously a warship, and with a dangerous looking silhouette at that. Undoubtedly this was the vessel he had been told to be on the lookout for. He wanted to get underway immediately, but to possibly buy him some time to recover his landing party he waved down an Ensign and gave an order, his voice edged with just enough disquiet to be noticeable.
“Make to Anthony,” he said. “Tell her to up anchor and steam out to that contact and see what we have. I’ll be underway as soon as possible.” He raised his field glasses again, a look of real concern on his features.
Captain John Michael Hodges received the message with some chagrin aboard the destroyer. “What’s this?” he said. “I’ve got four 4.7 inchers and a lot of gall running out against a ship with the looks of this one.” He, too, had seen the approaching vessel and did not like the look of it one bit. “I’ve a bad feeling about this.”
“Portia in Arduia,” said his Executive officer, repeating the ship’s motto, ‘brave under difficulties.’ And it was soon apparent to the Captain that he would have to be exactly that. He sounded general quarters, got up steam quickly enough, and was off to the races, heading southwest toward an ominous silhouette on the horizon.
~ ~ ~
Aboard Kirov at 09:30 hours they were making their approach to the enemy contact. Rodenko had been tracking the ships on radar from one of the KA-40s while they were north of Jan Mayen. Once they cleared the masking bastion of the island, they recovered the helo and took up long range radar scans from the ship. The mysterious submarine contact had long since vanished, and Tasarov had nothing further to report on his ASW watch. Admiral Volsky was satisfied that threat was reduced now, and was intent on getting a closer look at these two ships. The contact , whatever it was, did not alter its course to intercept Kirov when the Admiral steered west of Jan Mayen. It seemed to be heading for the island itself, which was curious.
Perhaps the men at that makeshift weather station had filed a report, he thought, and the British were sending in the cavalry. It’s a pity Orlov didn’t have the presence of mind to destroy the radio equipment on that island outpost.
He gave the orders to come about in a long graceful turn that eventually saw his ship approaching the southernmost tip of the island from the southwest. They had out run the weather front on the way down and still had good visibility, though the seas were beginning to rise. It was not long until his navigator called down from the maintenance deck on the high mainmast of the ship where he had set up his long-range observation gear.
“It's still difficult to make out at this range, sir, can you get us just a little closer?”
“As you wish, Mister Fedorov.”
The Admiral was cautioned by Rodenko a moment later. “Con, radar contact breaking off and heading in our direction, speed thirty knots.”
“Someone is just as curious about us as we are about them. Please sound action stations, Mister Samsonov.”
“Aye, sir.” Samsonov toggled a switch and the alarm klaxon sounded throughout the ship sending the crew scurrying to battle stations. Kirov was drawing her sword.
Moments passed and the distant contact was small ship that grew larger on the horizon until Fedorov called down from above, a definitive edge to his voice. “Getting a good look at her now, sir. You should be seeing her well on the Tin Man cameras. Definitely two stacks, a small destroyer class vessel, possibly no more than 1300 tons, but she looks a little angry, sir.”
“Like an impudent little dog on a leash,” said the Admiral. “Range to contact, Mister Rodenko?”
“18,300 meters and closing.”
The Admiral thought quickly. In another few minutes that ship would be within its maximum firing range with the weapons Mister Fedorov had described. Kirov herself was making near thirty knots, so the two ships were closing on each other at 60 miles per hour. That gave him just one minute to decide what to do. At that moment Karpov burst through the hatch, his face red with obvious exertion, responding to the alarm for general quarters.
“Welcome, Captain,” said the Admiral. “Good of you to join us. It seems we have a visitor.” He gestured to the flat panel monitors where video feed from the Tin Man optical systems on the forward watch decks clearly displayed the image of a small ship. It was churning its way forward through the choppy seas, a frothing white bow wave visible with the high speed it was making.
“Care to have a look through your field glasses?” said Volsky.
Karpov said nothing, striding to the forward view screens where his field gl
asses hung from a peg. He threw the strap around his neck and raised the lenses up to have a look. “That ship is getting very close,” he warned.
“Fedorov here,” the navigator's voice came over the intercom again. “I've got good imaging now, sir. There's no question that this is a World War II type A class British destroyer. This one was commissioned over ten years before the war. We can't outrun her Admiral. She's capable of thirty-five knots, so you'll have to decide what to do here, and soon.”
“What is he saying—ten years before the war?” Karpov had an incredulous look on his face. He peered through his field glasses, and caught a glimpse of the ship, catching the number 40 when her bow wave diminished. It looked to be a small corvette—certainly not a modern British destroyer.
Seconds seemed like minutes, yet the Admiral's mind was a whirl. If he fired on the ship, it would surely return fire, and if it persisted he would have to destroy it to protect Kirov from damage, or at least put it out of action. If he waited and the enemy struck first… Karpov looked at him, tense and irritated, and it was clear from his expression that he wanted to engage at once. “Mister Samsonov,” the Admiral said slowly. “Please lock our 100mm forward deck cannon on the oncoming ship.”
“Aye, sir,” said Samsonov. “Gun ready and radar lock established. The signal is good.”
“Helm come about, hard to port, left thirty degrees.”
“My helm is left thirty, sir.”
“You’re going to turn away?” Karpov looked at him. “It’s just an old rust bucket, and you’re going to run from the damn thing?”
“Well I am pleased to see you agree that this is not one of our contemporaries, Mister Karpov. An old rust bucket indeed. No, we are not running. Do you recall we have two 152 millimeter batteries on the aft section of the ship as well? In the event it becomes necessary I want to disable that ship quickly.”
Suddenly there was a distant wink from the interloper, and a puff of smoke. The destroyer had fired its forward deck guns, barking out a warning as it charged boldly forward. Seconds later the shells landed well wide of Kirov, and short by a considerable margin.
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