If this was the year 1941, then his mother and father had not even met yet! They did not meet and marry until after the war, and it was some years later, in 1957, that he was born. The odd thought then became an impossible premise in his mind—assuming he lived out the next sixteen years, what would happen on the day he was to be born? Would another Leonid Volsky emerge from his mother’s womb? Would there be two of him, each holding one end of the long cord of life and fate that stretched between them?
Yet Fedorov’s warning haunted him. They were changing things. The British fleet was now maneuvering to intercept a ship they had never encountered in 1941. Men were dying, lives extinguished in one deadly ledger of war, while other men, slated to perish in the planned raids at Kirkenes and Petsamo, may be spared that fate now as the British carriers followed him west. It was too much for him to contemplate, but behind it all the kernel of a worrisome thought was ever present in his mind. How solid and sure was the line of causality that stretched forward from this moment to the distant future he had come from? If these changes rippled forward in time, what might they alter? Could the waves of variation affect the life lines of men aboard this ship? What would happen, he thought, if his parents never met? Would he keel over and die the instant that unseen variation contaminated his own personal line of fate? Or worse, would he simply vanish?
The sudden jarring sound of the ship’s alarm broke his stream of thought, and he stiffened, sitting up in his bunk. Action stations, the sound of surface-to-air missiles firing. Apparently the British were going to continue to force his hand by persisting in these attacks, but what else should he expect? They could only assume he was a hostile German ship, and now that Kirov had demonstrated some of her awesome combat capabilities, the conflict was only likely to escalate.
Now he had Karpov, Yazov and Samsonov in the wardroom, and the Captain was justifying his actions, as the Admiral expected. Yet with every word the man spoke, all Volsky could think about were the men that died in the action the ship had just fought, and those ripples of change and variation that now emanated forward from this moment.
“It was clearly meant as a surprise attack,” said Karpov. “I did what I determined necessary to protect the ship and crew.”
“Yes, but how was it I did not hear a call to battle stations until just before you fired? Are you telling me you did not detect this strike until it was within 50 kilometers?” The Admiral was looking at the chief radar man on duty, Yazov.
“Sir, I—”
“It was my decision.” Karpov interrupted. “When I saw the nature of the threat, over forty incoming aircraft, I elected to utilize our medium range SAM system. It’s rate of fire was superior to that of the S-300s, and it also integrated with our close in defense Gatling guns.”
“That was a proper weapons selection, but you should have sounded general quarters the instant you determined this was an attack.”
“I am sorry, sir, but I wanted to coordinate with Samsonov on the composition of our missile barrages. As you are well aware, we must be conservative with our ammunition.”
It was an easy lie. Karpov would not, of course, say why he had really waited those first minutes without putting the ship at battle stations. He knew the alarm would immediately rouse the Admiral, and send him huffing up to the bridge where he would likely override his decisions. He would lose control of the engagement, and he was eager to handle the matter himself. After all, he was Kirov’s Captain, even if the Fleet Admiral was aboard.
Volsky let the matter go, though he gave Karpov a look that clearly expressed his displeasure. “Forty aircraft? How many missiles did we use to repel this attack?”
“Thirty-two SA-N-92s, sir,” said Samsonov. “Four barrages of eight missiles each.”
“And how many hits?”
“We believe we destroyed twenty four enemy aircraft with missiles, Admiral. One tube failed to sync properly and the missiles did not initialize their search radar sets.”
Volsky shook his head. “Twenty four planes destroyed… Those are heavy casualties for the British. As for the missiles, the damn things have been sitting in the launchers without adequate live fire testing for far too long. Eight missiles failed to initialize? That is unacceptable. I want those systems fully checked and maintained.”
“The Gatling system accounted for six more kills, sir,” said Samsonov.
“Six more? Yes, I heard it firing, and believe me, it was no comfort to know that enemy planes had come so close to this ship—that a plane designed nearly a century ago was actually able to launch a torpedo that could and should have struck us a fatal blow.” Volsky let that sink in hard, staring at each man in the room, his gaze heavy with the full thirty years of his command. Even Karpov, normally jaunty and argumentative, was cowed.
“It will never happen again, sir,” said the Captain at last.
“See that it doesn’t,” said Volsky, though he knew if they held to this course there would likely be other encounters in the days ahead. He sighed heavily, as if releasing the moral weight of what they may have to do if confronted by the British fleet in force.
“This is war now, gentlemen,” said the Admiral. “I had hoped to be cautious here, but the British are forcing us to fight. We are a hard shelled crab with pincers like no other, yet we have just been dropped into a pot of slowly boiling water. We may not die quickly, in one glorious fight, but they will sap the life out of us week after week, and we will die slowly, like that boiling crab. When the last missile has been fired, what then? They can and will lose a thousand men, two thousand men, ten thousand men in the effort to destroy us. They made mistakes, and they have already paid dearly for them, but did you see how they adapted their tactics in this second strike? They split their force by altitude and dispersed their strike sections along a broad front. And it very nearly succeeded! Yet…”
He changed his tone, resigned to the matter and needing to strengthen his men as much as he chastened them. “This attack was repulsed. The weapons selection was correct. The maintenance problem will be rectified. We are all alive and well and the ship is unharmed. Yet I hope this has given us all a hard lesson. Our enemy is determined. Those were brave men out there in those aircraft, and they could scarcely know what was happening to them. Yet they came on through our missiles and died trying to target this ship for destruction. Think of them tonight. Think of the courage it would take to do what you just witnessed. This is our enemy now, and we must match him with equal courage and resolve—equal skill and wisdom.”
“We will, sir,” said Karpov. “I recommend that we come about and engage this enemy surface action group. Let us take out these carriers with a couple of Sunburn IIs and there will be nothing more to expend our SAM batteries on.” He was referring to the lethal, long range anti-ship missiles Kirov carried beneath her forward deck.
“Under the circumstances I do not believe that will be necessary. According to Mister Fedorov, the British carriers had no more than thirty planes each, and we have shot down over forty in the actions fought thus far. Yet we expended thirty-two SA-N-92s, and eight S-300s to do so. I must tell you, gentlemen, that we cannot trade the enemy missile for plane indefinitely. If they persist, and dare to launch another strike at us, then I will consider what you suggest, Captain. Otherwise, as they cannot close on our position further given our speed, I think we can safely proceed south into the Atlantic.”
“But Admiral,” argued Karpov. “They will shadow us. They have just enough planes left to keep long range radar watch on us.”
“For the moment,” said Volsky. “Mister Rodenko assures me that he will have jamming capability for this Type 279 radar by 0800 hours. His technicians are recalibrating the equipment now. Until then, I suggest we all get some rest. I believe you are scheduled for relief, Samsonov. Get some sleep. You have the remainder of the watch, Mister Karpov, but if you are fatigued I can send up Orlov.”
“I am fine, sir.”
“Very well…And one last thing. G
ood shooting, Mr. Samsonov. You did well, in spite of the missile failure. But have that system thoroughly checked.”
“I will, sir. There will be no more failures.”
“Dismissed. You too, Mister Yazov. You had a sharp eye tonight.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Samsonov smiled, saluted, and left the wardroom with Yazov, leaving Volsky alone with his Captain. The Admiral scratched the back of his neck and then took a sip of cold water.
“As for you, Captain, your decision to engage and your missile selection were correct. The enemy forced us to defend ourselves. But never leave this ship under threat again without sounding general quarters immediately. You owe that much to these men. If that torpedo had detonated…”
“I understand, sir.” There was nothing else Karpov could say.
“We have to be very careful, Karpov; very precise. One mistake, one oversight, one maintenance failure, and we could sustain a damaging hit. To lose eight missiles like that, and to come within inches of taking a torpedo in our gut should be something to keep you awake tonight.”
“It will, sir.”
The Admiral leaned back in his chair, looking at the chart map on the table. “It is going to get worse,” he said quietly. There was no further recrimination in his voice now. He was speaking man to man, and Karpov could hear the shift in his tone, thankful for the measure of respect the Admiral gave him now.
“I will need you, Vladimir. You have a sharp mind, amazing skills, sound tactical judgment.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Volsky pointed to the map. “Yet we must consider strategy as well. Yes, we are a strategic threat, just as you argued earlier. I think we will be here, according to Fedorov, if we maintain this course and speed for another day. That will get us down through this narrow channel. If I know the British, they will have already notified their Home Fleet about us, and we may soon encounter a heavier surface action group intending to intercept us as we exit the Denmark Strait.”
“I agree, sir.”
“We can most likely outrun them. This is our best option.”
“But if we cannot sir?”
Volsky nodded. “Then, Mister Karpov, you will get your chance to fire at a ship worthy of our Sunburn IIs. I would not be too eager to do so, however. We have chastened them, but not really hurt them, and if possible I would like to keep things this way. Consult with Mister Fedorov on the range of the enemy guns. We will see them on radar long before they know where we are, and maneuver to avoid contact wherever possible.”
“Avoid contact? Why should we fear these old ships? We can sink them at our whim, just like we handled these air strikes.”
“For the same reason we should fear those old planes that nearly put a torpedo into us,” said Volsky. “You may think the enemy brings a knife to a gun fight here, but if he gets close, a knife will do!” Our best course is to avoid close contact—use our speed to stay outside the range of their weapons. Their carriers are the only ships that can strike us at range, and I will decide what to do about them.”
“I’ll be looking forward to it, sir.”
“You will? Yes, I suppose you will. But are you also ready for what comes after such an engagement? Thus far we have been sparring with them, nothing more. This business with the air strikes is just the opening round. Sink one of their capital ships, however, and the gloves will come off. They will want vengeance and they will come after us with everything they have. Then our hand is forced to put this ship on a course where the outcome will be far from certain. Keep that in mind, Captain. Keep that in mind.”
Part VII
Battle Stations
“As in the mechanism of a clock, so also in the mechanism of military action, the movement once given is just as irrepressible until the final results … Wheels whizz on their axles, cogs catch, fast spinning pulleys whirr …the lever catches, and, obedient to its movement, the wheel creaks, turning, and merges into one movement with the whole, the result and purpose of which are incomprehensible to it.”
—Leo Nikolayevich Tolstoy
War and Peace
Chapter 19
August 4, 1941
The PBY was an early bird out of Reykjavík from Squadron 74, a group of six front line planes scheduled to begin operations there in two days. At the request of the British, it was flying a search pattern over the southern exits of the Denmark Strait as the sun came up after barely leaving them for a brief interval of twilight that passed for night in these northern climes. The days were growing shorter, the twilight thickening just a bit each day, but visibility on the whole was very good where daylight was considered. This morning, however, the weather front that had been slowly tracking down from north of Jan Mayen was upon them, and the cloud cover was thicker, with puffy white clouds at altitude and a grey gauze of thinner low haze below.
With Britain still hard-pressed and America out of the war, President Franklin Roosevelt had ordered the occupation of Iceland by United States forces on 16 June 1941. This assignment was given to the first provisional Marine Brigade, a little over 3700 men out of San Diego California. Commanded by Brigadier General John Marston, the force sailed from Charleston South Carolina where it was surprisingly issued heavy woolen underwear. Soon it was joined by Navy Task Force 19 in Newfoundland before proceeding to Iceland.
The Americans made a strong showing at sea for the journey, sending battleships Arkansas and New York, two heavy cruisers Brooklyn and Nashville, and a screen of thirteen destroyers to escort the transports bringing the Marines out to Reykjavík. A second force designated Task Force 1 was built around the carrier Wasp with heavy cruisers Quincy and Vincennes and several destroyers of Desron 7. It was tasked with general protection of the sea routes between Iceland and Newfoundland.
The Yanks were ashore safely by 12 July, the skirl and drums of the Scottish Regiment of the 49th West Riding Division they were relieving playing a welcome as they came ashore. The Marines of the 1st Brigade were only the first wave of American units slated for duty on Iceland. They would stand a watch, cooperating closely with the British as they planned their withdrawal, until relieved by Army units some time later to be sent to warmer climes in the South Pacific to fight the Japanese the following year. To the British they looked like ghosts from the First World War, still wearing old tin helmets and bearing Springfield bolt action rifles from 1903. The Americans set up facilities in Reykjavík, which they came to call “Rinky-Dink,” and at Hvalsfjord, which they promptly renamed “Valley Forge.” Like the British before them, they were not much welcomed by the Icelandic population, who resented the occupation and wished both the Yanks and the Brits would go home and leave them in peace.
But for now, the Navy set about establishing an air base at Reykjavík to receive patrol squadron VP-73 and VP-74 flying Catalina PBY and Mariner search planes. The Squadrons were not arriving officially until the 6th of August but, flying out ahead of his squadron, Lieutenant Commander Arthur Vosseller had come in a few days early from Argentia Bay in Newfoundland to have a look at his new post. He was amazed to see that he was now the proud commander of a stark empty, open field that had not yet even been fully cleared of large stones and boulders to make for a suitable landing site. Appropriately naming it “Camp Snafu,” he settled in to a British Nissen Hut, much like the aluminum sided half dome Quonset Huts he was familiar with on US bases, until a curious telephone call came in from the British.
It seemed the Germans were up to something in the Denmark Strait, and they caught the British with their air squadrons all assigned to patrol runs to the south. The British commander asked if the Americans could possibly get a PBY or two up to have a look, and Vosseller was only too happy to accommodate them. It beat sitting around in that frigid hut. There was not even any kerosene about to heat the damn thing!
The Americans and the British would soon define a cooperative agreement that would see the United States largely responsible for the defense of the Denmark Strait. But as ye
t those negotiations had not been concluded. The sudden appearance of this dangerous and somewhat mysterious new German raider, however, was about to change the situation considerably.
Unbeknownst to Vosseller, his brief reconnaissance flight was to become the first official action in Admiral King’s Operation Plan Five, initiated on 15 July 1941. In that plan the Admiral ordered the Atlantic Fleet to support the defense of Iceland and to “capture or destroy vessels engaged in support of sea and air operations directed against Western Hemisphere territory, or United States or Iceland flagged shipping.” US units were authorized to engage any “potentially hostile vessels,” and the newly reorganized Task Force 1 centered on the new aircraft carrier Wasp was authorized to protect and defend all friendly shipping between United States ports, and Iceland.
FDR communicated the intent of the policy to admiral Stark when he wrote to him that very month: “It is necessary under the conditions of modern warfare to recognize that the words ‘threat of attack’ may extend reasonably long distances away from a convoyed ship or ships. It thus seems clear that the very presence of a German submarine or raider on or near the line of communications constitutes ‘threat of attack.’ Therefore, the presence of any German submarine or raider should be dealt with by action looking to the elimination of such ‘threat of attack’ on the lines of communication, or close to it.” Admiral King would subsequently modify the phrase “close to it” to read “within 100 miles.” There was to be no hesitation in handling these potential threats. Admiral Stark would chime in with clear orders defining the American response: “If there is conclusive evidence that she is a combatant naval vessel, either merchant type raider or a regular naval vessel, she shall be destroyed.”
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