“I saw such a notation in your book,” said Karpov, “but the dates were vague.”
Fedorov wished he had never told the Captain about that book but nothing could be done about it now. “Just a second, Captain. I think I can get more specific information.” He was hoping that the added weight of the American presence in the region would be enough to tip the argument in his favor. He reached for another volume from the shelf above his station, and quickly looked up a reference while Karpov watched with some interest, his eye drawn to Fedorov’s small book collection, noticing them for first time. “Here it is, sir. Two groups: Task Group A with the carrier Wasp, the heavy cruiser Vincennes and two destroyers. They were ferrying those Army P-40 fighters to Iceland—” His eyes widened. “They’re due to arrive on August 6th, Captain! They must be just south of us, and very close by now. It would be best if we steered to avoid them.”
“Rodenko has seen nothing south of us for hours.”
“We may pick them up soon, sir. And behind them will come Task Force 16 with the battleship Mississippi, heavy cruisers Quincy and Wichita, five destroyers and several transports.”
“Another battleship?”
“An older ship, sir. Her keel was laid down in 1915. She’s slow, perhaps no more than 21 knots, but had decent protection with belt armor just over 340 millimeters thick, and she has twelve 14 inch guns and fourteen more 5 inch guns. We cannot get anywhere within twenty kilometers of that ship, sir. The carrier may pose no immediate threat, given that she is on a ferry mission and probably not at full battle readiness.”
“Well we’ve already beaten off the professionals,” said Karpov, speaking of the Royal Navy. “I suppose it’s time to send the amateurs packing as well. Rodenko!” He shouted at his radar Chief. “Let me know the moment you have any contact south of our position. Samsonov, how is the missile reprogramming progressing?”
“The men are working on it now sir. I have a few Sunburns reset to disable their low altitude descent. They’ll just come right down on the target, sir.”
“A few? How many, Samsonov?”
“Four, sir,” the Chief said sheepishly. “But we’ll have another four ready in a few hours. As for the other missiles, some will have to be taken out of their firing tubes to get at the guidance module. It may take a while.”
Karpov was not happy. All his ship’s weapons were still largely calibrated to fight another class of warship altogether. “Will the Americans be hostile?” Karpov turned to his navigator again.
Fedorov was thinking what to say. Was the Captain seriously thinking of engaging the Americans too? What could he say to dissuade him?
“If they believe us to be a German raider, I fear they will treat us that way, sir. As I explained earlier, there were policies in place at this time to treat any hostile contact within a hundred miles as an enemy and sink her. There was a great deal of discussion about it, but the end of it was that the Americans decided to consider any German surface raider or U-boat as a hostile threat if found in these waters. Their naval forces were given the orders to engage and destroy such contacts if encountered.”
“Then we must consider any American ship hostile as well,” said Karpov. “What else may lay ahead?”
“But sir, you don’t want to engage the Americans, do you? I thought your plan was—”
”What else is out there, Fedorov. Don’t concern yourself with my plans.”
“Well, sir, they’ll have two battleships anchored in Argentia Bay, the Arkansas and New York. And they will also have another available on the East Coast, the Texas. The Carrier Yorktown is also operating with the Atlantic Fleet at this time, but she is in the Caribbean at the moment. The heavy cruiser Augusta is already en route to Newfoundland with the American president aboard. There will be other ships in that group as well.”
“My, my,” said Karpov. “Their entire Atlantic Fleet, and most everything the British can put to sea on top of it! And they are all within a few days cruising distance from us at this very moment. Get busy, Samsonov. We’ll be needing those missiles as soon as possible.”
“But sir,” said Fedorov. “We must be very cautious now. There were several incidents involving German submarines and American destroyers in these months leading up to Pearl Harbor. None of them were serious enough to force an early American entry into the war, but if we engage any of these American ships and do any significant damage, that could change everything. Sink an American capital ship in these waters and it could have the same effect as the sinking of the Maine before the Spanish-American War. Give the Americans a rallying cry and they will become implacable enemies.”
“Are they not already our enemies?” said Karpov. “They have worked ceaselessly to impede, degrade, and humiliate the Russian Republic for decades. Make no mistake, Fedorov. The Germans may be our enemy now, but we handled them well enough. It is the Americans who will make an end of us later.”
“I understand, Captain, but if the Americans enter the war early against Germany, then they will also have to declare hostilities against Japan. This could preclude the Japanese from having to plan or execute their attack on Pearl Harbor. It could change everything, sir. The entire course of the war could be altered.”
“Has it not already occurred to you, Fedorov, that is exactly what we are here to do? You think I can tiptoe quietly past all these ships out into the Atlantic to find that comfortable tropical island the Admiral was speaking about? This is war. These are our enemies. I am the Captain of a ship of war, and I intend to use her for exactly that purpose. We’re heading south. They are cruising north. Let us see who gives way. If you don't have the stomach for it, then go below and I will put someone else in your station.”
Fedorov was silent, realizing now that every bit of information he revealed to Karpov was dangerous—that Karpov himself was dangerous, and without the Admiral available as a countervailing force, there was no telling what he might do next.
Chapter 24
On the 23rd of July, the warm sun dappled the waters of Willoughby Bay and Hampton Roads where the carrier USS Wasp, moved with the gentle incoming tides at dock seven of the American naval operations base at Norfolk, West Virginia. The stevedores had been working all day, loading long wooden crates up on to the ship where they were quickly unpacked to reveal several squadrons of Army P-40C fighters earmarked for deployment at the new American airfields on Iceland. Curious sailors watched the planes being brought aboard with three PT-17 trainers, all assigned to the 33rd Pursuit Squadron out of Mitchel Field, on Long Island, New York. And with them came a gaggle of Army Air Force pilots, saluting as they came aboard reporting for temporary duty on the big navy ship, and seeming just a little bit out of their element.
The Wasp was a scaled-down version of the Yorktown class carrier, but lighter, with smaller engines, virtually no armor, and a displacement under 20,000 tons with full load. The Navy had been looking for ways to cut corners while adding another carrier to its inventory, trying for a smaller ship that still had the same aircraft capacity of the larger Yorktown class. Wasp was the result. She wasn’t rigged for battle yet. Most of her VF-7 flyboys would sit this one out on nearby airfields, as her mission was just a ferrying operation. A few days later, she cast off her moorings and eased quietly away from her berthing to slip out into Chesapeake Bay and make her way into the North Atlantic. There she rendezvoused with the heavy cruiser Vincennes, and destroyers O'Brien and Walke for the run up to Iceland.
Along the way she encountered a larger US task force also bound for Reykjavík. Task Force 16 was led by the hulking presence of the battleship Mississippi with cruisers Quincy and Wichita, and five other destroyers. They were escorting three transport ships and a naval maintenance ship, Semmes, carrying Army Air Corps gear and supplies, heavy road building equipment, and other personnel assigned to duty as America took up its watch on this distant, cold outpost. The Marines were already there, setting up in the abandoned Nissen huts the British had left them, but they nee
ded planes to provide air cover and secure their lodgment on the island. As Yorktown was still down in the Caribbean, Wasp got the job.
Now, on the morning of August 5th, she and her escorts were just a long day’s cruise from Iceland at the leisurely speed of 15 knots they were making. Wasp signaled farewell to the Mississippi, and angled away, out to sea where she could get some maneuvering room, turn into the wind, and begin launching those Army P-40s. The planes would then fly into Reykjavík on their own, a little over 400 miles to the northeast.
When the P-40s were spotted on the flight line, the navy crewmen razzed and called to their army brethren, telling them that now they would finally learn what it takes to fly off a flattop. As the first plane spun its engines up to full power and was flagged for takeoff, the sailors hooted and cheered when they saw the P-40 dip and finally rise into the sky. Then, one by one, the other twenty-nine fighters were spotted and launched, until the whole wing of thirty were circling noisily overhead. When they had assembled into their squadrons and sub flights, Captain Jim Reeves aboard Wasp radioed his best wishes and bade them farewell. The planes started north by northeast on a heading of about 45 degrees and slowly winged away toward the horizon.
“Message, Captain,” said a signalman.
“What is it, Yeoman?”
“It says to look out for a German raider exiting the Denmark Strait, sir.” The yeoman looked down at his signal decode, reading it now. “Presume hostile and very dangerous. Proceed with caution.”
“A German raider? I thought the limeys had everything under control out here. Well, there’s nothing those Army flyboys can do about it. They’re not even armed. But signal them to be on the lookout, just in case. Maybe we can spot the damn thing and send in the Mississippi to see about it.”
“Aye, sir.”
~ ~ ~
Minutes later the American planes appeared on Rodenko's long-range air detection radars aboard Kirov, and he immediately notified the Captain. “Con, radar air contact bearing on our position, speed one-eight-five at 10,000 feet, range 180 kilometers I read a large group of aircraft, sir, possibly twenty-five or thirty discrete contacts.”
That got the Captain's attention immediately. He moved quickly to Rodenko’s side looking at the scope, his eyes dark and serious. “Chief Orlov, bring the ship to battle stations. Mister Samsonov, ready on the S-300 SAM system.” This was the same long-range missile-defense system that the Admiral had used so effectively against the first British strike launched by Victorious and Furious three days ago. The Captain thought to get off a missile barrage as soon as possible, before the enemy had a chance to close with his position. There would be no repeat of the near run torpedo that had nearly struck the ship.
As he gave the order, Fedorov turned, the anxiety clear on his face. He had been reading more about the American presence in the North Atlantic and knew what these planes were and where they were bound. “Excuse me, sir,” he called, but Karpov waved him off.
“Not now, Mister Fedorov, this is a man's work.”
Fedorov ignored the insult, for he knew he had to speak. “Sir, this is not a strike wave!” he said emphatically. “These are the American P-40 fighters that I told you about earlier. They are simply being transferred from the carrier to their bases in Iceland. They are unarmed, sir!”
Karpov scowled at him. “And how might you know this? Simply because it is written in that book of yours? You expect me to put this ship and its crew at risk? The British may have contacted the Americans and advised them of our position. The history you are reading may have changed, Mister Fedorov. You were just worrying about that a moment ago. So don't bother me with these silly details, we have another battle to fight. If you are afraid of wolves, don’t go to the woods, but that is where we find ourselves.”
The Captain ordered Samsonov to begin programming his barrage, locking acquisition radars onto the targets. “This is a large group of planes,” he said. “I want no mistakes here. I assume you have completed your maintenance checks on these missiles?”
“We have, sir,” Samsonov was sitting upright in his seat, his back and shoulders taut, eyes bright, his hands quickly adjusting the dials and switches of his Combat Information Center. He turned and gave an order to a junior mishman, watching until he was satisfied the command had been carried out properly. Karpov could see the heat of battle was on him, and it was exactly why Samsonov was the perfect warrior for a situation like this. He didn’t think, he simply acted. He was like a spring in a well crafted mechanism, and would do his job the instant Karpov pushed on the right lever.
Rodenko interrupted, calling out a new target. “Con, I have surface contact, extreme range, reading four ships bearing two-two-five, speed approximately 20 knots.”
“Captain—” Fedorov tried again, but Karpov spun about, pointing at him.
“There,” he said starkly. “What are these ships doing, Mister Fedorov, delivering milk?”
“That will be the carrier Wasp and her escorts. They should be turning about soon and heading south. They pose no threat, sir.”
“They most certainly will pose no threat when I have finished with them,” said Karpov.
“But, sir, you cannot attack these ships! Remember what the Admiral said? What if the Americans react by entering the war early?”
“Mister Orlov…” Karpov turned to look for his dour Chief of Operations. “Please escort Mister Fedorov from the bridge. He is relieved.” Karpov had other plans for the Americans. Whether they entered the war now or four months from now was no longer his concern. He would see to it that they never reached the Rhine River before Russian troops got there first. This was only the beginning.
“Aye, sir.” Orlov’s looming presence was a shadow over Fedorov a moment later, and though he knew the Captain was about to make a terrible mistake, there was nothing more the navigator could do. Orlov would make a point of making his life miserable for the next month, he knew, if any of them lived that long. He gave the Captain a long, sullen look, then started for the rear hatch of the bridge citadel, receiving a not so gentle nudge in the back by Orlov as he went. The Chief looked over his shoulder, grinning at the Captain. “I’ll send up Tovarich,” he said. “He’s not so talkative.”
~ ~ ~
The 33rd Pursuit Squadron was a part of the larger 33rd Fighter Group defending the East Coast of the United States. Its pilots proudly wore the shoulder patch of a blue shield with a flaming sword above the moniker, “Fire From the Clouds.” Yet they were to encounter exactly that as they flew in formation, when the barrage of eight S-300 missiles suddenly clawed through the morning sky in front of them. 2nd Lieutenant Joe Shaffer saw them first, calling out the sighting on his radio.
“Hey, what’s that coming up at twelve-o-clock?” It looked for all the world like a flaming sword, long, sleek and burning in the sky with a fiery tail and fuming exhaust. He only had a second to think this, however, for the high speed missiles closed the distance at a frightful rate and soon the sky ignited with fire and a hail of lethal metal fragments ejected from a series of tightly packed metal rods in the exploding warheads. Shaffer was dead before he could say another word, his plane riddled with shrapnel. So were Dunks and Bailey, his two wing mates. His sub-flight of three planes extinguished by a single missile.
Far back in the formation, Lt. Commander Boone watched with amazement and horror as six more violent explosions took down the old P-40s as if they had been flies swatted from the sky. Six, then eight more were flaming their way down towards the sea, Meeks, Hubbard, Walker, Huntsdorf and Freeman dead as they fell; Bethel, Bradley and Riggen all unlucky enough to still be conscious as their planes crashed. The Warhawks, the famous planes of the Flying Tigers, were falling.
Boone’s only instinct was to push hard, open the throttle, and put the plane into a sudden dive. There was no way he would ever out climb the fiery streaks that had devoured his fellows, so he would get down as low as he could. Only those who had the same idea in those fran
tic first few split seconds would survive. Anyone who thought to bank left, right, or to put on power and climb was caught up in the wild spray of searing razor-like shrapnel that had gutted the heart of the formation, just as the missiles had skewered the planes off Furious. At least then, the British pilots may have had some expectation that they were flying into danger. For the Americans, their sunny morning, after having had the thrill of taking off from an aircraft carrier, was suddenly transformed into a blazing nightmare.
Eighteen planes were destroyed by the missile salvo, with six others damaged so badly that they also went down into the sea. Of these only one man would be rescued. The remaining six, who had thought to dive hard to the deck along with Boone, were the only planes to make it back to the carrier Wasp. Not knowing what was ahead of them, they wisely turned back towards the naval Task Group, shaken with fear and alarm, and careening low over the wave tops. Boone had the presence of mind to get on the radio and shout out the only warning Wasp would receive. “Mayday! Mayday! We’re under attack!”
Along the way back there was one last harrowing moment when he looked over his shoulder and saw yet another fiery contrail streaking in toward his position, high overhead, yet it went on by, ignoring the tiny fighter planes below, intent on other prey. Another followed it, then a third, and when he and his hapless comrades finally saw the distant silhouettes of the task force he could see the anger of fire and smoke darkening the horizon. What had happened? His mind had no reference point for the things he had seen in the sky that morning, and as he drew near the task force and began to pull up to gain altitude, he could see that the cruiser Vincennes and destroyers O’Brien and Walke were spitting out flak from every gun they had—at him! A moment later he saw why. Behind them the carrier Wasp was a mass of broiling flame and smoke.
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