technicians brought in his gun camera footage and began to mount it on the projector.
“These other two gentlemen have had a look or two at Italian cruisers,” said Park. “And I daresay I’ve a fair amount of experience in the matter as well.” They looked at the film with interest and, as the footage ran, Park found himself edging forward, hands clasped behind his back, leaning in slightly to get a better look. The opening frames were clearer, though the range was farther away and the contact seemed shrouded in shadow. When Jackson began firing in earnest the shells sent a wild forest of thin geysers spraying up all around the ship, which was struck amidships near the main superstructure where a fire soon started and began to obscure the images with smoke.
“Can you run that back to the start and hold a few stills?” said Park over his shoulder. “Yes… There now… Have a look at that gentlemen. What do you make of if, Mr. Cartridge?”
The wing commander was quick to reply. “Not an Italian cruiser sir, where are the stacks?” He pointed at the screen. “That tall mainmast area there where most of the fire was concentrated—I don't see a stack. It should be about here on most Italian cruisers, and angled slightly back, with one more smaller stack located aft. That could be this feature here,” he pointed again, “but this main superstructure area is all wrong for an Italian ship in my view—at least for their cruiser designs. And it looks too big, sir.”
“Yes, quite a monster this one,” said Park. “Look at that shadow on her aft deck. Is that a float plane? Could it be a battleship?”
“Can't see much in the way of big guns from this angle. The forward deck seems rather empty, but these images aren't very clear, sir. Odd shadows and light, and too much smoke when you get in close.”
“All the same, I'm glad you took your shot Jackson.” Park folded his arms, a glint in his eye as it lingered on the images.
“If that's the case, sir, they’ll need a whole squadron to deal with a battleship—a flight of six planes at a bare minimum. But I thought fuel shortages are keeping most of their big ships in port.”
“Yes, they've been using them to refuel their destroyers and lighter escort ships, but if they've gotten wind of this operation they may be pulling out all the stops and sending out heavy units.”
“Doesn’t sound much like the Italian Navy I know, sir,” said Cartridge. “They’ll fight when they have to, but more often than not they think twice about that, particularly if they can’t provide adequate air cover, or if we’ve got heavy units in the vicinity. For that matter, I can't imagine a battleship would be there all by itself, sir. It might be a big freighter, but that would surprise me as well with no escort.”
Park raised his eyebrows in agreement. “Let’s send this along to Intelligence and see if we can find this fellow again later today for confirmation. For the moment, however, I don't think there's much else we can do about it. Good job, Jackson. You may have put us on to something here. Get some rest and be ready for another sortie in short order. In the meantime we’ll get a Maryland from 69 Recce Squadron over at Luqa Field to fly reconnaissance and make sure this ship isn’t heading our way. Carry on, gentlemen.”
Aboard
Is this what it is to sit at death’s door, he thought to himself. Memories of that awful sound of the chattering machine guns, then the sharp bite of metal on metal, the whine of ricochet, the hot fire of the pain in his leg and side as he slipped from his perch on the ladder and made that headlong fall. Then he felt the hard thump on his head, a flash of white light, sharp pain and darkness as his awareness seemed to collapse inward on itself like a black hole.
Now he longed for sleep, and just a moment’s rest without the burden of command, but here was Fedorov, with another impossible story that he must certainly believe. His voice seemed to echo in his mind, and he struggled to focus his attention. The young officer had been right at every step in their first encounter in the dangerous waters of WWII, and there was no reason to believe otherwise now.
“Operation Pedestal,” he said slowly after his First Officer had finished speaking. “Yes, I studied this battle in the academy, but that was too long ago to remember the details. Something tells me you have that well in hand, Mr. Fedorov, and I can give my aching head a rest. Yes?”
“I have a 50 page paper from the American Naval War College on the campaign, sir. It will tell us everything we need to know—down to the last details: dates, times, orders of battle—everything.”
“Where are we now?” asked Volsky.
“Sir, I changed our heading to 210 right after the attack, and we held that course for two hours at twenty knots. But we are about to exit the Tyrrhenian Sea, and I believe that course will be very dangerous for us now. I have just come about to head northeast again on a heading of 45 degrees. We are making our way back into the Tyrrhenian Sea, which could provide us a little maneuvering room away from the major action getting underway now while we catch our breath.”
“And you tell me you believe the current date and time is August 11, 1942 at sixteen hundred hours—give or take a few minutes I suppose.” Volsky managed a wan smile, though it was clear to them all that he was still in considerable pain. “Not August 20th?”
“Yes, sir. I can only go by radio intercepts we’ve made, but events reported would seem to indicate that HMS
“So what happened to those days we were sailing across the Atlantic?”
“I cannot say, sir. I can only make my best estimate of our current time.”
“Of course… Well done, Mister Fedorov, as always. Your prompt action may have saved the ship from blundering into the middle of something we would come to greatly regret. It is imperative that we steer well away from this operation. The only question now is what course to set in our present circumstances? But before we begin, I would like to ask that one more officer be included in this briefing.” The Admiral looked at his good friend Dr. Zolkin. “Would you kindly summon Mister Karpov, Doctor?”
“Karpov?” Zolkin was quick to express the reaction they all had, his face clearly registering displeasure.
“Yes, yes, I know how we all still feel about the man given what happened. But he is a highly trained officer, one of the best combat officers in the fleet. I would like him to hear this briefing so that we might have the benefit of his opinion from a military perspective.”
The Doctor folded his arms, frowning.“Well if you want my opinion, there was nothing admirable in the tactics he displayed in the North Atlantic. He sailed directly into the teeth of strong enemy forces and engaged them with no regard to life, principle or anything else beyond his own personal ambition. God only knows what he was planning to do at Argentia Bay, set another nuclear missile loose on Churchill and Roosevelt?”
“I understand, Dmitri,” said Volsky, addressing his friend in a more personal manner. “But you are the psychologist here. What will we do with this man? Do we leave him rotting in the brig for the duration of this business? Who knows how long we will be at sea, perhaps indefinitely, yes? I agree that Karpov made serious mistakes. His judgment was clouded by his own desire to make some decisive intervention, and perhaps by something darker. He will be the first to know this. Yet he is a serving officer in the Northern Fleet, or at least he once was. Perhaps we see what he did as the work of a madman, or worse, an animal. But if he is ever to have the chance to redeem himself and become a man again, in his eyes and in ours, then we must find a way to give that opportunity to him. Don’t you agree?”
Zolkin started to say something, then checked himself, thinking for a moment. He rubbed his dark beard and nodded. “Perhaps you are right, Admiral. We may not like the man—even despise what he did—but yes, he is a man nonetheless, and one of our own. Would I be pleased to see him become something more than we all may think of him now? Yes, of course. But I must tell you that I have real misgivings at this stage.”
“As do I,” Volsky agreed. “But we must begin somewhere—
