A second US Task Group quickly formed around the carrier Long Island to expand the search zone. The British dispatched Force F with the carrier Eagle and the cruisers Dorsetshire and Newcastle, and pulled the battleship Revenge off of convoy duty, with three more fast cruisers. In all, the combined Anglo-US forces amounted to three carriers two battleships, twelve cruisers and twenty destroyers. But the suspected ship seemed to simply vanish again, and the Admiralty received good aerial photos of Brest to assure themselves that Scharnhorst, Gneisenau and Prince Eugen were all still quietly sleeping in their berths. Days later, however, a US coast Guard cutter, Alexander Hamilton, again raised the alarm with a report of a Hipper class cruiser near Newfoundland.
Thinking the Germans might be trying to sneak back to home ports, the US quickly dispatched a new Task Group from Reykjavik built around the battleship New Mexico to block the Denmark Strait. Yet nothing was found, and the watch slowly faded away.
But not Kamenski’s watch. He had been fascinated by these odd reports in the narrative, and spent much time ferreting them out. His next notation in the margin led him on to the odd “incident” in the Mediterranean at the conclusion of the Malta relief Operation Pedestal a year later. The British covering force with battleships Rodney and Nelson had engaged another mysterious ship, presumed to be a French battlecruiser out of Toulon…
But Kamenski knew for a fact that it had not been a French battlecruiser, for his father had once been involved with Soviet naval intelligence, and Kamenski had once been a boy just like Alexi, enamored by the sleek lines and threatening battlements of warships. One day his father told him something, well after he had retired from his service, and it always stuck in Kamenski’s mind. He had been reading this very book, for it was given to him by his father, and the man had come to this very passage and shook his head with a wry smile. “That was no French ship,” Kamenski remembered him saying. “We had a man there, on that very coast, and he saw the whole thing. No, it wasn’t a French battlecruiser, so you can figure out what it really was, eh Pavel?” But his father would say nothing more about it.
Pavel Kamenski had taken up that challenge, joining the intelligence services and quietly perusing the mystery that had begun with the odd appearance of “Raider X.” He had followed the trail for many years, through libraries, books and old dusty files, staring at grainy photos in black and white-the last one being taken by a seaplane out of Milne Bay that had photographed another strange ship in the Coral Sea.
Kamenski closed the book, but he carried it with him to his reading desk, and set it down next to a cold cup of tea. Now he shuffled slowly over to the table by the easy chair where Alexi’s mother, his own daughter Elena, would always leave the morning newspaper. He picked it up, the headline bold and strong, with a photo of a big ship in the harbor and crowds of jubilant people. It read simply:
KIROV COMES HOME!
Chapter 9
The car pulled up along the wide concrete quay a few days later, well after sunset. The dim street lamps cast a wan light over the dull gray wharf, but out on the bay the lights of the city shimmered on the calm water. The rear door opened and a man stepped out, wearing a long dark overcoat and a black fedora hat. He carried a thick brief case, and was followed by another man in a long gray overcoat before the car drove quietly off. The two men stood for a moment, staring up at the high battlements of the heavy guided missile cruiser Kirov where the ship rode at anchor, tied off to the long quay and now served by a floating pier off the starboard side where several grey metal gangways climbed up to the ship’s main deck.
The man with the briefcase was Gerasim Kapustin, Chief of the Naval Inspectorate, and fresh from the airport and a long flight from Moscow. The taller uniformed man was Captain Ivan Volkov, Russian Naval Intelligence, and the two stood for some time, their eyes searching the long, sharp contours of the ship, with Volkov occasionally pointing at something. They noted the canvass tarps draped over the wound to Kirov’s aft quarter, and the area that had once been her reserve battle bridge. Kapustin’s eyes strayed along the tall main mast, up to note the missing radar antenna there.
With a shrug the Chief picked up his briefcase and started for the nearest gangway. They were met by a Marine Guard, who saluted, noted their identification, and then opened the gate to admit them to the ship. Their footfalls on the long metal gangway had an ominous clatter as they went, and the Marine waited a few moments before he picked up a phone from the gateway call box and rang up the bridge.
“Gate two,” he said in a low voice. “They are here.”
“Very well. Thank you, Corporal.” It was the voice of Captain Vladimir Karpov.
Ten minutes later Karpov turned to greet the two men as they stepped onto the bridge. He walked forward extending a hand. “Welcome aboard, Director…Captain.”
Karpov had never met either man, and the Director removed his hat to reveal a crop of curly grey, hair fringing an otherwise balding head, with sharp blue eyes, and a well managed mustache and beard. He looked the part, a careful minded professor of a man accustomed to long hours at a desk pouring over charts, tables, reports and computer screens. The other man was taller, a grey wolf, colder and more aloof.
“Things appear well in order here,” said Kapustin.
“Although from the look of things that cannot be said of the ship in general,” put in Volkov.
Karpov’s eye met the other man’s where he perceived a steely coldness in the Captain, a dark haired, grey eyed career officer, tall, with stiff bearing and a pallid complexion.
“It was a bit of a rough ride, Captain,” said Karpov.
“So we hear.” Volkov continued to study the Captain, noting Karpov’s trim, well kept uniform, his cap smartly in place and an air of sure authority about the man. This one is a fighter, he thought. He’s another grey wolf, just as I am, and a man to be reckoned with. He had read up on Karpov’s service history on the plane, noting how quickly he had risen in the ranks to his post as Captain of the fleet’s newest and finest warship. He knew that such a post would not be given lightly, though he had heard more than one rumor about this man, that he was mean and conniving, a bit of a back stabber at times, and driven by an aggressive, restless energy. Those were qualities he understood easily enough, for his own career in the Naval Intelligence arm had seen more than enough infighting within the ranks before he secured his present position.
“Well, gentlemen,” said Karpov, extending a hand to the still open citadel hatch. “We’ll have more than enough time on the bridge tomorrow. I imagine you must be tired after your flight. If you would care to accompany me to the officer’s dining hall, we have prepared a light meal, a little uzhin, and some refreshment.”
Uzhin was the Russian third meal of the day, always served well after six though it was lighter than the main meal, obed, served around 2:00pm.
“Thank you, Captain,” said Kapustin. “That would be most welcome.”
Karpov led the way, pausing and turning as the other men stepped through the hatch. “You have the bridge, Mr. Rodenko.”
“Aye, sir,” Rodenko echoed smartly, “Captain off the bridge.”
The men reached the bottom of the stairs and continued down another ladder and then through a long corridor before Karpov indicated they should turn left into the officer’s dining hall.
“And how is the damage control situation progressing, Captain?” Kapustin stepped into the well warmed dining room, smiling as he handed off his fedora and overcoat to an orderly, though he set his briefcase right beside his chair where the orderly gestured that he should be seated, and the white coated mishman knew better than to touch it further.
“We are making good progress,” said Karpov. “Thankfully the spare parts were in inventory and our Chief Byko had had men up on the aft mast all day re-cabling the Fregat system.”
“That must have been a severe explosion when we lost the Orel.”
“It was, sir. Unfortunately we lost a KA-40 and the KA-226 at the same time. You may have seen the damage aft.”
“Not yet,” said Kapustin, “but we will have a look in better light tomorrow.”
Karpov gestured to the table, nicely set with white linen and silver, and full-stemmed crystal for water and wine. There were appetizers, deviled eggs, accented with marinated mushrooms, as well as a plate of small
