Karpov was still frustrated and troubled. Yes, it felt good to sit in the Captain’s chair just now, without Volsky’s shadow over him, contradicting him, lashing him with one question after another. But all of this was risky. He felt the awkward glare of the overhead lights on him now, flinching. When in battle, the bridge was folded in shadows, with only the red gleam of the battle station lighting on, blood red lights that pulsed with warning, and yet seemed a comfort to him.
His mind wandered over the many possibilities ahead of him now. What if the Admiral were permanently disabled? As First Captain of the ship he would then be senior officer. There were two other Captains aboard, as both Doctor Zolkin and Orlov technically held the rank of Captain, though they were both of the second and third rating, and below him in the chain of command. Orlov was presently designated Chief of Operations. Karpov could declare an emergency and appoint Orlov as his Starpom, his number one, bypassing Zolkin easily enough. The other Lieutenants, of every rank and stripe, would have no choice but to fall in line. If necessary, he could call on Sergeant Troyak and his Marine detachment to impose his will. Yet if it came to a contest of authority with the Admiral, what would Troyak do? Volsky was not just any admiral, he was Admiral of the Fleet, one big star and four stripes above Karpov’s present rank as First Captain.
He decided he needed to get below decks for a while and take the measure of the ship and crew. Like a mouse stealing out into a dark, drafty house, he needed to skulk about a bit to size up his prospects. He knew where the cheese was. Could he get to it this time? He wanted to check on engineering first, then visit the Doctor to see about Volsky. On the way back he would have a brief chat with Troyak as well.
Chapter 27
August 6, 1941
The American Task Force 16 was steaming south with the four transports out in front this time, followed by the larger escorts which hoped to screen the cargo ships from any further attack. Behind them, Kirov crept slowly south in their wake, like a lone wolf tracking a herd of water buffalo. Along the way she sailed right over the seas where Wasp had burned and sank, along with Vincennes and Walke. Many of the crew were out on the main sea deck, leaning over the railings and peering out of hatches to look at the flotsam and dark slicks of burning oil there. Bodies still floated in the water, some having drifted out of the stricken ships below, a macabre scene that left the living in a sullen silence, tinged with a measure of guilt. For many it was their first real combat action, and their first personal glimpse of the consequences of war.
200 miles to the southeast, Admiral Tovey had been joined by the cruisers of Force P and Vian’s Force K. Wake-Walker was aboard Suffolk, with Devonshire at his side winking out his arrival on the ship’s lanterns. His two cruisers and five of his eight destroyers had refueled in Reykjavik and were ready for action. The two carriers had been sent home to Scapa Flow with an escort of three destroyers. Vian’s cruisers, Nigeria and Aurora had rendezvoused with an oiler just south of Iceland and topped off what they could before hurrying south to join the party. After these ships finally arrived, Tovey turned south, steaming out to pick up one more lost sheep, the Prince of Wales. When the watchmen saw her on radar, and the lookouts finally spotted her looming dead ahead, the Admiral sighed with relief.
“Well, it’s beginning to feel like I’ve a fleet to command here after all,” he said to Brind. Now he had two good battleships, along with Repulse, wounded but still battle worthy. The addition of four cruisers enabled him to screen these ships, and he then placed his five destroyers further out, as a picket line against U-boats and a means of sending him early warning if the German raider launched those infernal rockets again. They were now dead in the middle of the North Atlantic, half way between Ireland and Newfoundland.
Some 500 miles south of him, Admiral Somerville was out in Force H with another sizable battle group. Tovey planned to link up with him in two days time, just off the tip of Newfoundland. He would add the battleship Nelson, battlecruiser Renown, four more cruisers and the veteran carrier Ark Royal to the cards he could play. Together this would be the largest battle fleet England had assembled in any one place since Jutland in the First World War. Then, once he had the Prime Minister safely ashore, he would turn north and settle accounts with the Germans.
“Let them try to fling their fireworks at the whole of the Royal Navy,” he said, his spirits renewed and the light of battle in his eyes.
“The Americans will be there as well, sir,” said Brind. “Admiralty reports that their Admiral King has ordered the Atlantic Fleet to full battle readiness. They’ve even put out word to summon another aircraft carrier, the Yorktown, and the battleship Texas from their maneuvers in the Caribbean. It will give them damn near as many heavy ships and cruisers as we’ll have, sir.”
Tovey smiled. “Think of it, Brind. The Prime Minister is set to make his pitch to Roosevelt in the hopes of getting the Yanks in on our side. Then Jerry comes along with Graf Zeppelin and sticks his thumb in the pie! Can’t you see it now? Imagine both our fleets steaming shoulder to shoulder in the mightiest armada the world has ever seen. This business with Graf Zeppelin is the least of it, a mere nuisance. The main thing will be the photos of this grand Allied fleet scouring the seas, delivering just retribution on our enemies. It will give Herr Hitler fits, and let him know just exactly who he is trifling with now. We’re not alone any longer. This is going to change everything.”
“That it will, sir,” said Brind with a smile. “Yet considering that note of retribution. The Yanks will want to go all out to get this German ship.”
“We’ve got a score to settle as well,” said Tovey. “You don’t pull a sucker punch like that on the Royal Navy without hearing about it again.”
“That’s just it, sir,” said Brind. “This may seem a tad out of place given what’s happened. But we might give some thought to trying to capture this vessel intact. Then we could have a look at these ruddy rockets they’ve been using.”
“Not much chance of that, Daddy,” said Tovey. “First off, she’ll need every damn rocket aboard when she gets a look at our battle fleet darkening her near horizon. I wouldn’t think we’d find very much left aboard even if we were to seize the ship. For that matter, Jerry is likely to scuttle the ship if we do manage to corner her, just as they did with Graf Spee.”
“You’re probably right, Admiral,” said Brind. “Then I guess the only question is this-who gets to sink the Graf Zeppelin first?”
“I know the Americans will want to weigh in right off, but if the Prime Minister has anything to say about it, that honor will be reserved for the Royal Navy…and me!” He smiled broadly.
“Signal Prince of Wales: My regards to the FNP.” He was referring to the Former Naval Person, Churchill himself.
Miles away the analysts at Bletchley Park were having a look at some very unusual photographs. They had come in from Iceland on the Royal Post, and Western Approaches Command had prints made from the film them sent right over to the intelligence experts at Hut 8, as well as to the Admiralty. That, plus a bit of other news from agents on the ground had set jaws wagging again. Graf Zeppelin had been positively identified near Stettin, where the Germans had towed her some months ago to keep her safe from Russian air attacks. It seems the raider at loose on the seas was something else.
“Well this is odd,” said Atkins. “You’d better have another look at your chess set, Alan. We thought it was the Admiral Sheer, but she’s in port at Kiel. Then the Admiralty discovered Graf Zeppelin was missing and we thought that settled the matter. Now it seems she’s been found again, and not out south of Iceland where all this hubbub is going on.”
Alan Turing looked up from his chess board. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the yellow manila envelope Atkins had opened.
“Courier delivery. Reconnaissance photos taken by an American PBY. It seems Jerry been cheating at the game, Alan. He’s carved a new chess piece!” He brought the photos over to Turing, who glanced at them, still fixated on his game. But a second look soon commanded his complete attention, and he put down the pawn he had been fiddling with and took the photos in hand.
“It’s very odd looking,” Atkins went on. “Certainly not an aircraft carrier, or even a hybrid. Looks more like a
