B00DSDUWIQ EBOK (31 page)

Ah,
if they really knew what it was all about, he thought. The whinstone on Beblowe
Crag hides more than anyone could possibly imagine. Good hard rock, whinstone, which
is why it has survived the tides of both time and sea for so very long, not to
mention the considerable turmoil and bother of politics through the ages. A
pity that it will not survive any longer.

They
had but three days left…all the Angels were ready to leap from this heaven on earth
into worlds of newfound freedom. How would it be? Lucifer fell for nine days,
he thought—nine days falling into hell. That will certainly not be the case for
me, not for his Grace Sir Roger Ames, the Duke of Elvington. I’m off to keep a
special appointment with yet another Duke! Let the other Angels and Demons fall
where they may.

Part XI

Breakout

“This
late dissention grown betwixt the peers

Burns
under feigned ashes of forged love

And
will at last break out into a flame.”

―
William Shakespeare

Chapter 31

Battleships
are awesome things, thought Halsey. He was
riding one now, and staring off the starboard side of the bridge at its twin
sister.
Missouri
and
Iowa
were works of sublime engineering, steel
shaped in long, graceful lines, yet with stark edges and raw power that was
evident in every angle and curve of the ship.

Speak
softly and carry a big stick, thought Halsey.
That’s exactly what he had
in hand now. ‘The Big Stick,’ battleship
Iowa,
was winking at him as it executed
a 10 point turn to starboard, signaling by lantern. Her long, swept bow cut
through the rising sea leaving a frothy white spray to wash the foredeck where
the big “61” was painted in clear block numerals.

The
two ships had steamed north together, but now, in keeping with the new plan of attack
proposed by the British Admiral Fraser, the they were spreading out in a wide
line of advance.
Iowa
was peeling off to starboard to take a position at
least ten kilometers to the northeast. Halsey’s ship, ‘Mighty Mo’ held steady
on. Together the two big battleships would be the center of the line with their
massive 16 inch guns. Heavy cruisers would flank them at ten kilometer
intervals.
Boston
and
St. Paul
were on the far right, speedy
ships at 33 knots but with nine 8 inch guns and twelve 5 inchers to go with
them.

A
third ship in this same class was to the left, the
Chicago
, and further out
were the light cruisers San Diego and Flint, with no less than sixteen 5 inch
guns. A destroyer from Desron 50 filled the gap between each of the larger ships,
and all together Halsey was moving a line of steel north that stretched nearly
a hundred kilometers long. As
Iowa
pulled away he saw the much smaller
destroyer
Gatling
move up to take her place, slowly shifting east to
take up her position in the gap.

It
was unlike anything Halsey would have ever ordered, this long line of widely spaced
ships. A task force should be tightly grouped, with smaller ships screening the
principle units and the supporting umbrellas of flack from the entire group
providing the air defense. Not so here. Each ship would be on its own, within
visual range of vessels to either side but at very wide intervals. Fraser’s
argument for the formation had seemed ludicrous at first, until Halsey saw that
mushroom cloud off his starboard bow as promised by the Russians. Now they
would position their assets so that if the enemy threw another at them, they
could take out no more than one or two ships in the line. It was a cold calculus,
but it just might work. There were enough ships to snag the enemy in a steel
dragnet, and once contact was made, the sighting ship would radio its position,
course and speed to all the others, then the line would coil to that spot like
a whip, and they would lash the Russians to death on the cruel seas of the
north.

So
it was planned.

Halsey’s
group was only part of the line. Further west Ziggy Sprague had forsaken his post
on Big T and was leading in more heavy ships on the battleship
Wisconsin
.
He had the smaller
North Carolina
and
South Dakota
to either side,
no less formidable, and a pair of light cruisers on either flank.

My,
my, thought Halsey. This whip is knotted with steel. We’re sweeping north with no
less than five battleships, and once we find these bastards we’ll give the word
to the carriers and send 500 planes up to join the show. Bomb or no bomb, the
Russians had bitten off more than they could chew this time, and he was looking
forward to sinking the big teeth of Mighty Mo into the enemy, to end this
thing, once and for all.

Hopefully
the weather would cooperate and give them clear skies for good hunting. A pair of
tropical storms had bedeviled the fleet the last few weeks. Tropical Storm Frances
had just dissipated 150 miles due east of Tokyo, but now a second storm named
Grace was making a beeline right for Tokyo Bay. Luckily the fleet’s advanced
search line had already moved well north, because Halsey still had bad memories
of the big storm last December that laid up a number of good ships and men in
the hospital. Typhoon Cobra had sunk three destroyers, ripped the bow off a
cruiser and damaged carriers and even battleships when it caught the fleet at
sea.

They
were calling it “Halsey’s Typhoon” now. The weather men had reported its location
to him so he could try and avoid the storm, but they were dead wrong. He ended
up sailing Third Fleet right into the maw of 145mph winds. They had lost a
hundred planes, and worse, 790 men in the incident, and Mother Nature had hurt
the fleet in a way the Japanese were now powerless to do.

They
probably thought it was another of their “Divine Winds,” he thought. Not this time.
Wind estimates on this Tropical Storm Grace were no more than 70mph and the
barometer was reading only 985 at its low point. That would kick up the seas
behind them, but they were already clear of the storm. He had ordered the carriers
to move a little farther north as well to avoid difficulties, and hoped all would
be well.

The
fleet was as strong as ever. The word had been passed that Halsey was going north,
gloves off, and ready for anything. He was taking nearly sixty ships with him,
and behind them there were sixty more with Admirals Spruance, Ballentine and others.
The US Navy was the biggest typhoon in the sea now, and the storm was blowing
north.

* * *

Aboard
Kirov
they saw it coming on the radar
feeds, a long line of contacts spreading out on a wide front and heading north.
Karpov studied the tactical board for some time with Rodenko, ready to transmit
his battle orders to the other ships in his small flotilla. A picket line of
thirty four ships was forming up, spaced at intervals of 5 to ten kilometers.
The line stretched nearly 200 kilometers, with the western end sweeping off the
coast of the Kuriles and extending east into the Pacific.

“They
came to this idea in the Atlantic as we approached Newfoundland,” said Karpov. “And
this was the same tactic the British thought to employ in the western approaches
to Gibraltar.” He could clearly recall Fedorov’s assessment of the situation in
the last briefing with Admiral Volsky in the Med.

 “After
what happened to the Americans Admiral Tovey will also be wary of concentrating
his force in any one central task force. For this reason I believe he will not enter
the Straits of Gibraltar tonight, even if he does get there first. No, sir. He
will wait for us in the western approaches, and he will disperse whatever force
he has in a web there, which we will have to penetrate. Then, once we commit
ourselves to a breakout heading, he will make one mad dash and engage us with
everything he has—all his ships and every plane they can put into the air. His
dilemma is how to close the range on us as quickly as possible so the fourteen
inch guns on his battleships can have a chance at getting some hits. And it
would only take one hit from a shell of that caliber to decisively shift the
battle in his favor.”

Then
he heard his own voice answering:
“If they disperse their forces as Fedorov suggests,
then we must pick one point in the line for our breakthrough, preferably at one
of the extreme flanks. We will attack this point in his defense and neutralize
it quickly. We do not have enough missiles left to engage all the battleships
decisively at one time in this option. But we can hit one very hard, and then
simply run through the gap at high speed.”

The
Admiral had his doubts about the tactic. He could still hear Volsky’s heavy voice;
see his finger wagging in his mind’s eye:
“What if this Admiral Tovey places
his battleships close enough to one another for supporting fire? These big guns
have a long range, correct Fedorov?”

“They
do sir. With good light for sighting we can expect fire from as far away as 28,000
meters, even 32,000.”

“So
even if we do saturate and neutralize one of these big ships the others may very
well still have the range on us. This is not a very satisfactory situation,
Karpov.”

Not
a very satisfactory situation…It was Volsky’s typical way of discarding the most
direct and obvious option in battle. The Admiral had always been cautious at
sea, he thought. My advice to Admiral Volsky back then was to send out the P-900s
and put one on each of the big battleships with pinpoint precision. Then make
the offer to parley. The enemy would see all four of their best ships hit and
afire. Even if they were not wounded badly by the single missile, it would still
be a strong psychological blow.

Volsky’s
conclusion echoed in his mind now as he considered that the enemy was setting up
the same kind of battle they had faced at Gibraltar…

“Well
here we are at the eleventh hour, gentlemen. I have heard your analysis, and yet
there is one other weapon we have not discussed that we might try using here.”

“Sir?
I thought you did not wish to consider our nuclear option.”

“Oh,
I considered it, Mister Karpov, and I have discarded it. The weapon I am thinking
of now is intelligence. We have looked at two options here. The first has
considerable risk. We make a run at this man, give him a shove as we go and hope
to slip by him in the dark. It might work if our luck holds out. Now you suggest
that we punch this man in the face first, and then threaten him with further harm
if he does not stand aside. Yes, it is a strong tactic. Something our old
friend Orlov might do. But I will propose another solution. Suppose we talk to
this man before we punch him in the nose, eh? I think he might be more inclined
to hear us.”

“Negotiate
first? Before we’ve shown him what we can do to him if he persists?”

“Exactly.
Mister Karpov, I believe he has already seen what we are capable of—weeks ago in
the North Atlantic. He already knows we can hurt him before he even catches a
glimpse of us. Yes, he knows how dangerous we are. He knows we can hurt him severely,
and yet here he comes. That is a different sort of bravery, is it not.”

Negotiate
first. Well I have tried that option as well, Admiral, Karpov spoke inwardly to
Volsky, missing him strangely, and wishing he was here now. When Volsky was
present the full weight of the decision to fight and inflict grievous harm on
the enemy was not Karpov’s alone. He could advise, lay out tactics and
strategy, and execute as a skilled fighting officer that he was. But the moral
weight of the action rested with Volsky.

This
time the Admiral was not here. He was decades away, fighting his own war with the
Americans, and Karpov wondered if he was even still alive. He sent me out as
his strong knight, he thought, He gave me the Red Banner Pacific Fleet, and here
is all that remains of it, still fighting the Americans.

Negotiate
first—and look where that got me. Halsey is still out there, every bit as determined
as the British Admiral was, and here he comes.

“We’re
going to have a real fight on our hands, Rodenko,” he said in a low voice. “They
are throwing out this skirmish line with the intent of locating us. Our jammers
have fogged over their radar screens and they will need to make visual contact
now.”

“That
they will, sir,” said Rodenko.

“I
expect that they will have planes up soon as well.”

Something
in Karpov’s voice seemed hollow and empty now, a weariness, a resignation. Rodenko
was watching the Captain closely, seeing how his eyes shifted back and forth
over the tactical board, noting one position or another, his mind engaged,
calculating, yet a kind of mechanical reflex to it all. It was as if he was a
machine, a computer engaged in the cold operations of war. Yet behind his eyes
Rodenko knew there was also a man, and one who had suffered and endured much
emotional turmoil. Karpov seemed wasted and spent now, and very tired. The
adrenaline began when the fleet engaged Captain Tanner…so long ago it seemed
now, but only days ago in real time. The Captain had not had much sleep, and
from time to time he could perceive the odor of vodka on his breath. There is
only so much a man can take.

He
wondered what he would do if something happened to Karpov. How should he carry on
the fight? What if it came down to that same desperate moment that had prompted
Karpov to use nuclear weapons? Would he have the guts to do the same?

“Well
I am not going to sit here and wait for the planes to show up like a bad weather
front on our radar screens, Rodenko. The instant I see them forming over those
carriers, I’m going to attack. If one of those ships spots us before that, I’ll
blow it out of the water.”

“Aye,
sir,” Rodenko said quickly, yet he could feel and hear the edge in Karpov’s voice.
Everyone on the bridge could feel it too.

Rodenko
glanced at the ship’s chronometer. It was only a matter of time before the Americans
got close enough to spot them. Then the planes would come—perhaps more planes
than they had missiles. There would be carnage in the skies for a wild hour…Then
something would get through.

“Sir,
Captain Yeltsin on
Orlan
requests battle orders.”