Kirov II: Cauldron of Fire

“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