Kirov II: Cauldron of Fire

“Forgive me if I remain confused, Professor,” said Pound, “but this Geronimo—isn’t it a German ship? What’s it doing taking pot shots at the Italian Navy? The last time I looked Italy and Germany were thick as thieves together.”

Turing rubbed his hands nervously. The other officers all looked at him, obviously fielding the same objection in their own minds. He considered what to say, then realized he had no other course here. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought, and spoke his mind. “No, Admiral Pound. I have come to the conclusion that if these two ‘incidents’ were caused by the same vessel, then this is not German ship—not a year ago, and clearly not now.”

Pound was justifiably astonished. “Not German? My god, man, I suppose that you’ll be telling me it belongs to the King of Swabia next! What do you mean not German? What other navy would attack us in the North Atlantic as this ship did?”

“I’ve given that considerable thought,” said Turing. “Yes, it’s very perplexing. It makes good sense to think this ship was a secret German raider in light of the North Atlantic incident, but the road we’ve been walking here has led us far afield of that comfortable path. If this is the same ship as before, as this photography leads me to believe, then it clearly could not belong to the Kriegsmarine.”

“Then who?” Pound pressed him with growing irritation.

“Well sir, I thought it might be a Russian ship at one point, seeing as it was first sighted in the Arctic sea. Yet I had to discard that notion, considering the fact that Russia is our ally at the moment… ”

“Very well,” Pound harangued him. “Not German, not Russian, certainly not Italian….” He waited, like an irate school master dressing down a recalcitrant student.

“I must be frank and tell you I do not know what to make of all this just yet, gentlemen. Every line we take leads us into a corner. We’re faced with one impossible circumstance after another, but the fact remains: something is flinging advanced rockets and weapons of unimaginable power at the Royal Navy, and now at the Italian Navy as well. This ship, these weapons—well it would take the resources of a major power to design and build these things. It could be that this ship is German after all, or even Russian, and that we have maverick sea captain out there, some kind of Captain Nemo, a rogue warrior at odds with Hitler or Stalin and with a very bad attitude towards anyone else who crosses his path. Impossible as it sounds, he’s there, the ship is there, and we have to deal with this.”

Whitworth spoke up, clearly trying to tether the boat before it slipped its moorings. “Well it seems to me that our confusion results entirely from the assumption that these two ships are indeed one and the same. Suppose that incident was a German ship last year, or even some renegade Russian captain as your suggest, though I find that a stretch. How it gets to the Med is quite a rabbit trick. I’m more inclined to think of these incidents as unrelated. Perhaps this ship in the Med is French, though it doesn’t seem likely, or even possible, it makes more sense than anything else.”

Pound folded his arms, frowning, but saying nothing more. Tovey tapped the table top with his finger and looked at Wake-Walker with a knowing eye. Whitworth seemed folded inward on some dark inner muse, then leaned forward, speaking softly yet firmly.

“Gentlemen, it’s obvious that we need more information. Where is Force Z at the moment?” he asked, and the First Sea Lord replied.

“They should be somewhere between Bone on the Algerian coast and the southern tip of Sardinia. I have little doubt they’re mixing it up the Luftwaffe and Regia Aeronautica by now.”

“Then that would place them some 300 miles due south of this engagement—fifteen hours sailing, even at their best speed if Rodney and Nelson can still make twenty knots.”

“Are you suggesting we should divert the covering force north based on this single report?”

“Not north,” Whitworth said quickly, “West, gentlemen. West to Gibraltar. Respectfully, Admiral, it’s not just this one report. 248 Squadron sights, and later attacks an unknown surface contact in the southern Tyrrhenian Sea at noon yesterday. We hear about it and then the Italians engage it at midnight and get a bloody nose for their trouble. The ship heads north for the Bonifacio Strait, and Iachino must have sent out his bully boys after it to settle the score—only he got handed his hat in the matter, if that latest intercept is correct, and there it is. This is obviously a job for the Royal Navy, but if we don’t turn Force Z around quickly, this ship could make a run at the Rock before we could do anything about it.”

There it was, yet these professional sea dogs still found it very uncomfortable to look at. What were they seeing here? There was no sense to it at all; no rhyme or reason. Something was happening that was clearly beyond their imagining, and it worried them all. Pound reacted with irritation and was all too eager to scapegoat Turing in the matter. Whitworth was dancing round the point, although willing to embrace it, if he only knew what he was about to grasp. Wake-Walker was darkly silent, a military stirring reflected in his usually placid features, eyes brightening above his thin nose.

“I agree with Admiral Whitworth,” he offered, “I shouldn’t think it wise to send the covering force north at this juncture. I should leave it right on track, but get word off to Admiral Syfret that he should be prepared to turn about quickly, upon our word, and head for Gibraltar with all speed.”

Pound looked at him questioningly. “Have you lost your ardor for battle, sir? Shouldn’t we get up north and sort this business out?”

“Lost my ardor?” Wake-Walker overlooked the insult, accustomed to this line from Pound, who has accused him of this very same thing in the engagement with Bismarck. Tovey shifted uncomfortably as Wake-Walker continued. “No, sir I haven’t lost my ardor for battle, but I learned to keep my head on my shoulders and not run off half cocked until we know what we’re dealing with here. Perhaps this is a French ship. Perhaps not. But if this is, indeed, Geronimo, as impossible as it may seem to us now, then we must ask ourselves what in the world this ship is about? How could it possibly be cruising in the Med, unseen for a year, but now suddenly here and inclined to duel with anything that comes within its compass rose? We may never answer these questions to our satisfaction, but if we are to believe these reports and sightings then we had damn well better be prepared. We don’t have to go looking for this ship, Admiral. Something tells me it will soon come looking for us. Admiral Whitworth is correct. After all, there’s only one way out of the bottle it now finds itself in, and that way leads to Gibraltar. Given the course it has been on, I believe this ship will soon be heading west, and I say we get Admiral Syfret and the whole of his Force Z back to the Rock as soon as they have discharged their task with the convoy. The sooner, the better.”

Pound gave him a bemused look, but before he could say anything more Tovey spoke up, leaning forward on both elbows as he passed the latest intercept to Pound like a card dealer in a heated poker game. “And for my part,” he exclaimed. “I think it would be wise to send word to Home Fleet at once and get up four hour steam on anything seaworthy. I’m afraid we’ll have to inconvenience the Turkish Ambassador, but I want King George V, Prince of Wales, and Anson out to sea by noon if possible.”

“Anson?” Pound questioned. “But she’s only just completed her gunnery trials. Raw as a baby’s bum on a bad day.”

“She’s been working up with the fleet at Scapa Flow,” Tovey replied. “May I remind you that Prince of Wales sailed under similar circumstances when Bismarck sortied.”

“Yes, and with rather disastrous results,” Pound admonished, casting a sidelong glance at Wake- Walker.

“Well it can’t be helped. I want all the firepower we can muster if this ship is indeed this Geronimo raider we faced a year ago. As we’ve no further convoys to Russia planned at the moment, we might also bring Duke of York down from Hvalfjord as well. We’ll send out an oiler to top her off along the way. I don’t think the Germans can bother us with Tirpitz at the moment.”

“That leaves the cupboard fairly well empty if they do,” Pound warned again.

“We’ll leave Renown behind. She hasn’t the armor for this fight. The loss of Repulse made that quite evident last time around.”

“Yes, well she hasn’t the armor to stand with Tirpitz either.”

“Tirpitz is not our concern for the moment. She’s been dry-docked at Trondheim for repairs. I don’t think Jerry can do much of anything with her for weeks—possibly months.