“There will not be much there, a few destroyers, perhaps a few swift boats and other auxiliaries. I think we can get by without much difficulty. But the strait is only 11 kilometers wide and there will be little room to maneuver in the channel. We can expect minefields, and possibly even enemy submarine activity.”
Karpov’s eyes darkened at this. If there was anything that he truly feared at sea, it was an enemy submarine. Yet these were not the fast, stealthy modern American attack subs he had drilled against so often in their training maneuvers. These were old WWII subs, and he took heart in that, his confidence still unflagging.
“The loss of one of our KA-40s was regrettable,” he said. “And I am still concerned about the Horse Tail sonar. That said, I think we have more than enough capability to deal with these old boats.”
“They are diesel, and can run on battery as well,” Fedorov cautioned him. “I need not remind you that we were targeted earlier, and found these submarines difficult to find when they are simply hovering. So I want Tasarov on the sonar when we run the straits.”
“He’ll be there,” said Karpov. “With the best ears in the fleet. And with your permission sir, I’ll check on the status of systems repairs. We have trouble with radar sets, the aft Klinok systems, and the sonar there. Now that we are one helo short, we will need to be more deliberate in the event we encounter enemy forces, particularly undersea boats.”
“You believed I waited too long to engage here?”
“I do, sir, with no offense intended.”
Fedorov nodded. “None taken, Karpov. I know I have much to learn, and I will be relying on you and the other senior officers as well if we have to fight again.”
“Every man will give you their best, sir,” said Karpov. “With no doubt.”
Fedorov paused for a moment, then said something else that had been in the air between them and harbored inwardly by both men. “I know this must be difficult for you, Captain—I mean, being reduced in rank and placed beneath me this way. I am not saying I have earned this position either. I know I have no real experience in combat, or even running the ship, though having been a navigator I can maneuver well enough.”
“I understand your feelings, Fedorov, but I must shoulder my burden now as best I can. I asked the admiral for this post, and he was good enough to give it to me. I may have been wrong, even reckless before, and what I did should not be easily forgiven—not by the Admiral, or by you, or even by the junior officers. Yes, I admit it to you now. I had time enough to think about it in the brig these last ten days. You tried to warn me that the American carrier was no threat, but I had more on my head than I could hold at the time, and I acted… stupidly…”
“Alright, Captain,” said Fedorov. “I’ll make you a deal. You keep
“Done,” he said.
An hour later the ship was again brought to action stations when yet another squadron of Italian bombers approached from the southwest. Karpov suggested they break up the formation early with one well placed S- 300.
“If we throw a firecracker into their beehive they may just have second thoughts about attacking us,” he said confidently, and he was correct. He had Gromenko fire a single long range SAM at the formation, and it was able to kill two planes and send the remaining eight scattering in all directions. Nikolin could hear the pilots chattering on the radio, clearly distressed by what had happened. Then, one by one, the planes broke off and turned southwest for Cagliari.
“That was just a probing attack,” said Fedorov. “They have much bigger fish to fry later today when the British convoy approaches the Skerki Bank. The history records attacks by 20 aircraft at 08:00 hours, a major attack by 70 planes at noon, and then the real show before dusk with over 100 aircraft. Needless to say, I think we can feel fortunate that they are so preoccupied to the south. Tonight they will still be receiving aircraft from Sicily and the air crews will be getting the planes ready for those operations. They know where we are from that last abortive jab. My only hope is that they do not put us on their target list again in the morning.”
He looked at Nikolin, a sly gleam in his eye. “Here is a job for
“Sir?”
“I think it’s time for a little ruse…”
Chapter 12
Hut Four at Bletchley Park was a nondescript extension off the main mansion complex, with plain pale green siding and a tar black roof. Its special purpose was decryption of naval signals intelligence and photo analysis, and one of its frequent denizens was Britain’s top cryptographer Alan Turing, who was lounging at his desk a few minutes past midnight when the envelope first came in. Unlike all the other parcels received at Bletchley Park, it was delivered by a uniformed Navy courier, somewhat breathless as he clomped in with soiled boots, which immediately caught Turing’s attention. Most everything else would come in at six in the morning, in a quiet, routine manner, the adjutant making the rounds, desk to desk, with a squeaky wheeled cart. For a courier to burst in at this ungodly hour meant something rather important had been caught in the intelligence nets.
“Lucky enough to find someone up at this hour,” the man huffed.
Turing sat up, nodded perfunctorily as he signed the man’s clipboard, and then eyed the package he was handed with interest and a good measure of curiosity. Of late the load of intercepts, reconnaissance film and photos wanting the attention of the boys in Hut Four had lightened somewhat. It was marked URGENT — TOP SECRET, as they all were, and he flicked a lock of dark hair from his brow as he looked more closely at the source.
Something out of the Med, he thought. It had come in by special overnight courier flight from Gibraltar, which led him to believe that someone there wanted to give it some rather pointed attention. My God, they put the rush on this one! Curious, he opened the clasps, and unsealed the envelope, not surprised to find a reel of video footage, typical gun camera film, and a few enlargements. He took one in hand, immediately turning it over to see the notation and date. It was very fresh, not a day old, which was again quite surprising. The date read 14:thirty Hours, 11 AUG 42. Takali Airfield — MALTA — REQUEST ID. That raised an eyebrow, as he hadn’t seen much out of Malta for some time, particularly with an ID request. Most every enemy ship and sub operating in those waters was well photographed and documented. What are they fussing over now, he thought? Probably some recent aerial photography over Taranto or La Spezia. Or perhaps some low level runs over the German U-Boat base at Salamis. Could Jerry have slipped a new U-Boat type into the Med? They had been operating with a handful of Type VIIs in their 29th Flotilla. What now?
He flipped the photo over, surprised again to see what looked like a capital ship at sea, awash in a hail of gunfire from an attacking plane, and very oddly exposed. Something about the light on the sea drew his eye, and the peculiar darkness of the ship itself, an ominous looking shadow. It was hard to see much detail in the grainy photo, so he decided to rack up the film reel and give it a spin in the video room. Moments later he was deeply absorbed in what he saw. He ran it through once, finding he had slowly leaned forward for a close look by the time the film ended, then he rewound the whole thing and ran it again. It was very curious, and something seemed to turn in his stomach as he watched it the second time, a thrum of anxiety mixed with a thimble full of adrenaline. When the reel ended he looked at the two photos he held in his hand.
“Request ID…. Indeed,” he said aloud. His eyes seemed searching, darkly bothered, and his brow was low and set with the focus of his mind. He got up and walked with a fast, deliberate pace to the file room at the back of the hut. When was it now? Some time ago. He went through several files before the date came to him again. Yes…That was it. The file…
He had called it simply that in discussion with a select handful of mates there at the hut. “The File.” It had commanded their attention this very month, a year ago, and set the whole Royal Navy on its ears with the surprising emergence of a new German raider in the North Atlantic. The weapons the ship had deployed were awesome. Particularly the final blow that had been struck against the American Navy. It was a weapon of enormous power, frightening in its effect. And it prompted the whole intelligence community to work overtime for the next six months. They had been frightened half out of their wits when the photos on that monster came in. Yet just as the Royal Navy and her American allies were closing in on this phantom ship, it disappeared, and was presumed sunk in that final action. The Americans put it out that their gallant destroyer flotilla had charged into close quarters with
