Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) (27 page)

“I don’t
know yet, Mister Karpov, but give me time and I will consider it—along with
everything else we have discussed here. It may be that we will have no safe
option.”

“Particularly
if the British are not so keen on negotiating. Remember they have a
considerable score to settle, and I would not be surprised to find them intent
on nothing other than our destruction.”

“Everything
we do involves risk, Captain. But tell me…Given the forces Fedorov has
described, can we push through this last gate of hell and get back into the
Atlantic?”

“Leave that
to me, sir. Yes. We can get through.”

“But at what
cost?” asked Fedorov.

Karpov knew
he was talking about British lives now, and he said as much. “If the enemy
wishes to stand against us in battle, then they must carry the burden of the
losses they sustain. Ours is to look to the safety of this ship and crew.”

“That I
understand,” Volsky agreed with him. “It is all this talk about power and
decisive blows aimed at changing the future that I do not yet grasp. We can
never know what our actions here may lead to.” He paused, tired again and
wanting to sleep without interruption by 15 inch gun salvos. “Very well,
gentlemen,” he continued. “I order the two of you to get some sleep, which is
what I plan to do. Hopefully no one will shoot at us for the next five hours.”

Fedorov
thanked the admiral and slipped out of the hatch, longing for a few more hours
in his bunk. Karpov stood with a grunt and started for the door.

“Mister
Karpov,” said Zolkin. “You seem to be favoring that ribcage. Is there something
I can help you with?”

“It’s
nothing, Doctor.” He rubbed his side where Orlov has buried his fist in their
brief encounter. “I slipped on a wet deck and stumbled into a ladder. It’s
nothing. Just a bruise.”

“Carry on
then,” said Volsky. “And Karpov…Thank you for what you have done to support
that young man. He’ll make a fine officer. Help him, yes?”

“I will,
sir.”

Aboard
the cruiser
Norfolk
later that
afternoon,
Admiral Tovey
was asking himself the same question that
plagued Fedorov. What would it cost them this time? He had boarded a plane to
Holyhead on the Irish Sea, where the intrepid cruiser was waiting for him at
14:00 hours. It had come all the way down from Scapa Flow, leading the charge
of the Home Fleet. Behind it came three more fast cruisers and the light
carrier
Avenger
, also new on the Home Fleet roster and still working up
with 825 and 802 Squadrons. The battleships followed in a stately line, their
sharp bows raking the light swells as they made way at twenty-four knots, four
knots shy of their best speed. Even at that speed they would not get down to
the warmer waters off the Spanish coast until late afternoon of August 14th. Destroyers
escorted them on either side, though only a few of these ships would have the
range make the long journey south. Tovey wondered if they would make it in
time.

If this ship
stays put in the Med, he thought, then we’ve got her, along with the answer to
this mystery once and for all. If she moves now for Gibraltar, then God help Force
Z. Syfret was an able man, his flag aboard HMS
Nelson
, and he would
fight the good fight. His own second in command of Home Fleet, Admiral Bruce
Fraser, was also there incognito aboard HMS
Rodney
to survey the whole
of this Operation Pedestal and make a special report. Could
Rodney
and
Nelson
hold on until Home Fleet arrived? What might the cost be if he ordered Syfret
to hold the Pillars of Hercules at all cost? He had seen the weapons this
mysterious ship was capable of deploying. Was he merely sending these good men
and ships to their doom? And if this unaccountable raider blasts its way
through the strait and out into the Atlantic again, what then? Home Fleet will
come charging up, tired and thirsty. His battleships were well gunned and
armored, but with short legs. He could operate for a few more days, and then he
would need to refuel. By that time this
Geronimo
could get well out to
sea and leave them holding an empty bag again. Was he just burning up valuable
fuel oil in another fruitless chase?

These and a hundred
other questions turned in his mind, and he could still see the look in
Professor Turing’s eyes, almost pleading it seemed to him. What was he getting
at in that last conversation they had had together? He had told him there was
no nation on this earth that could have built and deployed a ship like
Geronimo
,
or managed to perfect any of the weaponry they had seen her use with such
deadly effect—that it would take years, decades to reach that level of
sophistication. Yet Tovey had seen the flatly contradicting truth of the matter
first hand, felt the shuddering impact of those infernal rockets against his
armor plate, seen the proud bow of HMS
Repulse
slip beneath the angry
sea and die….and that hideous mushroom of seawater! A chill shook him just to think
of how the American task force had perished.

Years…
Decades… he considered every implication of what Turing had said. What
was
this terror ship? Where had it come from? It wasn’t German—not if it fought
with the Italians at Bonifacio Strait—and it certainly wasn’t French, not with
this rocketry as its primary weapon. Could the Russians have built a ship like
this? Impossible! What then? The notion that there was some Captain Nemo out
there building such a ship on a deserted island as Jules Verne had it
in
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea
was also not one he could entertain
for long. Yet this ship was indeed a profound riddle, as confounding as that
Mysterious
Island
Verne wrote about in his sequel, and apparently bent on picking a
fight with the British Empire or anyone else, just as this Captain Nemo had in
the novels Tovey had delighted to read in his youth.

Captain
Nemo…Prince Dakkar, son of a Hindu Raja. Verne had said he discovered the lost civilization
of Atlantis, and hinted that his wizardry had been derived from ancient
knowledge he had uncovered. Tovey never forgot how he mused over the story, and
especially when Nemo returned in
Mysterious Island,
old and gray
after
having sailed the oceans wide, the last survivor on the
Nautilus
. The
odd thing there had been the strange incongruity with time, for the
Nautilus
escaped the maelstrom at the end of Verne’s first book in June of 1868, then the
ship strangely appears, with Nemo an old man, all his crew gone, and the
captain dies in October of that same year on that mysterious “Lincoln” Island.
He remembered thinking that perhaps his strange submarine had also traveled in
back time during its many adventures, arriving at the end of its long journey right
at the same place and time it had begun.

Traveling in
time…He smiled, putting the story out of his mind and squinting at the gray
horizon as
Norfolk
rose and fell in the gathering swell. The tang of the
sea was in the air, and he felt at home again, his feet firmly rooted in the
here and now. It wasn’t possible, he thought. Jules Verne or H.G. Wells might
have the liberty to delight themselves with such fanciful notions in their
writings, but not the Admiral of the Home Fleet of the Royal Navy.

A flight of
seabirds cruised by overhead, making for land, and his questions soared after
them, seeking some comprehensible home in his mind. What was this ship? Who
could have built it? The mystery drove his resolve, and he would move heaven
and hell, and the considerable weight of Home Fleet to have his answer.

Part VII

The Enemy Below

“
He who seeks vengeance must
dig two graves:

one for his enemy
and one for himself.”

~ Old Proverb

Chapter 19

Dusk came
after an uneventful voyage and a
welcome interval of quiet. The ship had run out to sea at thirty knots to get
well away from Sardinia and Corsica, cruising all day and into the fading light
of sunset, and was now just off the largely deserted coast of Menorca Island. As
the wan light faded, Fedorov was up from his bunk, feeling refreshed and well
rested. He looked at the time: 19:thirty hours, just a few minutes before
sunset. Menorca would be safe, he thought. There were no settlements of note
there, particularly along this northern coast, and it was also neutral territory,
officially a dominion of Spain.

He ate a
brief meal and then went aft to find Byko and his damage control engineers. It
was time to slow the ship, so he gave orders to make five knots and cruise in a
wide circle so that Byko could put divers in the water to inspect the hull and
forward sonar rims. Tasarov’s passive reception was still no good, and they
were going to need that equipment in good condition if they did have to face
the Royal Navy again at Gibraltar.

While he was
aft he encountered Orlov, sitting with his back to a half open hatch along with
several Marines where they usually occupied bays near the helicopters. It
seemed that Orlov made some deprecating joke when he saw Fedorov approaching,
and the men laughed, settling down as he drew near. Orlov made a half hearted
salute, with an odd grin on his face.

“Captain
Fedorov,” he said. The other men stood, a little more respectfully, but Orlov
remained seated, his face a mask of derision.

“Mister
Orlov,” Fedorov returned. “I heard about your intervention during the fire.
Admiral Volsky was particularly pleased. I hope you were not injured badly.”

“What,
these?” Orlov held out his still bandaged hands. “It’s nothing. Healing up
well. The burns were not severe.”

“Good… Well,
I would like the remaining KA-40 readied for operations. Rig for ASW. Byko may
have to take the forward Horse Jaw sonar off line to complete his repairs. He
tells me the aft towed array is also not ready for safe operation. That leaves
us with this last KA-40. I’ll want it rigged with dipping sonar and sonobuoys,
two torpedoes, and also a full air-to-air defense capability.”

“Yes sir,
commander Fedorov, sir.” Orlov was clearly mocking him now, and in front of the
men, who fought to suppress grins. Fedorov turned to him, considering what to
say, and how to deal with his truculent manner when he caught a shadow at the
hatch behind Orlov’s back. A man stepped through quickly, and took hold of
Orlov’s jersey at the shoulders, his fists bunched tightly on the cloth as he
wrenched the big man from his seat and pulled him up onto his feet. The other
Marines seemed to freeze stone cold, real fear in their eyes now, and when
Orlov squirmed around he saw the steely face of Sergeant Kandemir Troyak
glaring at him. Troyak released him with a shove and spoke in a low,
threatening voice.

“Mister
Orlov, you are now standing before the Captain of this ship, and you will come
to attention in his presence and act accordingly. The next time I see you
sitting on your ass like that, particularly in front of these other men, I will
personally see that you regret it. Now, apologize to the Captain—
at once!”

It was more
than Fedorov had ever heard Troyak say at any one time, and that, along with
his rock-like presence and impenetrable countenance was enough settle the
matter. Orlov’s neck reddened. He glared back at Troyak, but was of no mind to
challenge him in this situation. He saluted, offering an apology in a low
growl.

“I
apologize, Captain—”

“What was
that?” Troyak yelled. “None of us
heard
that, Mister Orlov!”

“Sir,” Orlov
raised his voice, clearly unhappy. “I apologize for my disrespect.”

“Very well,”
said Fedorov. “As you were, and see that the KA-40 is ready in thirty minutes.”
He nodded to Troyak and moved on. He would make one more call to Dobrynin in
engineering to make certain the reactors were in order, and it was not until he
was well away from the scene that he allowed himself a smile.

U-73
was hovering in the still waters off
Fornells Bay on the northern coast of Menorca Island and Kapitänleutnant
Rosenbaum smiled as he peered through his periscope viewfinder, surprised to
see a curious ship on his near horizon. Could this be the ship, he thought?
What else could it be?

An hour ago
one of his Funkegefreiten Telegram Operators had come to the con tower with a
message from La Spezia. He was to look out for a fast British battlecruiser
possibly heading his way, and last spotted on a heading of 245, cruising
southwest towards the Island of Menorca, which was one of Rosenbaum’s favorite
haunts. After his triumphant sinking of HMS
Eagle
, he had been
congratulated and given permission to head home. But to celebrate, he took his
boat north to an old hideaway once used by the Barbary Coast pirates, Fornells
Bay. There were a few fisherman in a tiny cluster of huts that almost passed
for a village there, along with the remnants of old watch towers that once
served as lookouts for the pirate ships—but they would never see this pirate
coming.