Kirov Saga: Darkest Hour: Altered States - Volume II (Kirov Series) (37 page)

“I
suppose you’re right,” said Wells, but the thought of all those French sailors
that went down with those ships would haunt him for the rest of his days, and
he was ever bothered to think that his actions had tipped the delicate
political balance that was teetering in the operation, and made a new enemy out
of England’s old friend.

Germany
expressed immediate interest in the overtures put forward by Petain and Darlan.
They had already seized control of the fast cruiser
De Grasse
and the
nearly completed carrier
Joffre.
Now a pair of fast battlecruisers and a gaggle of other
ships were nesting at Toulon, within easy reach of either Germany or Italy. The
Vichy French knew they had a strong bargaining chip in the navy, and in the considerable
holdings they now still controlled in North Africa. In exchange for full
wartime cooperation with Germany, they would ask for governing authority over
all of France.

Hitler
equivocated, then decided that as long as the Germans would be permitted free
and unfettered access to all French Territory, with a German minister placed as
a kind of
chargé d'affaires
overseeing policy decisions and representing
German interests, the arrangement was entirely to his benefit.

As for
the French Navy, the ships would remain in French hands, except the two vessels
taken at Saint Nazaire. German naval “advisors” would be placed at the Flag
Officer level at Toulon, Casablanca and Dakar, and all French controlled ports
would be open to the Kriegsmarine and accept a German contingent in garrison.
It was a hard blow to the British hopes for holding on to Egypt in the long
run. It was, indeed, their darkest hour, with no other friend in the world,
standing alone against an array of foes that now seemed unconquerable. Now,
more than ever before, they set their minds on the destruction of the entire French
fleet.

* * *

Admiral
Somerville was initially
pleased with the results of Operation Catapult, in spite of the fact that his
own squadron had been prevented from engagement due to untimely withdrawal by
the French. The political consequences had been catastrophic, and his greatest
fears about the operation had been realized. That, however, was beyond his
control, though he knew the job of cleaning up the mess they had made of
affairs would also fall to him soon enough.

First
things first. He had summoned the young Captain of HMS
Glorious
,
receiving news that Wells was brooding over what had happened. Now he looked up
at Wells, who had just submitted his report to the fleet offices at Force H
headquarters, Gibraltar.

“All
things considered, Mister Wells, I find your actions and deployment entirely
consistent with the guidelines for fighting instructions involving fleet action
with a retiring enemy.”

“I
wish we could have done more, sir,” said Wells, still beset with mixed feelings
over the engagement.

“We
all do, and I regret that I was unable to lend a much needed hand. The task
assigned you was arduous, not only from a tactical standpoint but also
considering the fact that you were asked to raise your hand in anger against a
former friend and ally. We all felt the same way, Mister Wells. Most every senior
command level officer in the Med expressed strong reservations over what we
were ordered to do. I can imagine your stomach was in your throat when you
received code ‘Anvil.’ To ask you to break formation, move out ahead of the battlefleet,
and find and strike the enemy was a hard task, and it was one you performed
admirably.”

“Thank
you, Admiral, but I must point out that the bulk of the French fleet was able
to reach Toulon safely in spite of our actions. Now look what has happened.”

“That
may be so, but your tactical approach was correct. You followed section E
guidelines regarding air striking force operations, to the letter I might add, by
correctly attacking the rear enemy capital ships with the objective of reducing
their speed. In this case your attack produced stronger results in the sinking
of two battleships which would otherwise now be at large.”

“Yet
the consequences, sir…”

“The
consequences are not your consideration, Mister Wells. They were not my
consideration either after Whitehall and the Admiralty had set these orders in
stone. Had I come up on the French, my intention and effort would have been to
do exactly what you accomplished. The French rejected all our fair terms. It
was therefore our objective to sink those ships.”

“I
understand, sir.”

Somerville
gave Wells a long look, a sympathetic light in his eyes. He knew exactly what
the younger man must be feeling now, that it was all on his shoulders, the
burden of all the consequences that might result from this operation, the
alienation of Vichy France and the deep feelings of resentment and ill will
that this engagement would foster between former allies.

“I
know you put men in the water yesterday, Wells, and a good many lost their
lives. Take my advice and try not to think you put your hand on each one’s head
and held the man under. This is war. It’s cruel, mindless violence at root,
ever so carefully planned but yet wholly unreasonable. I will tell you that the
Germans gave no quarter during the recent evacuation forced upon us. We lost a
good many men, civilians too. I would be foolish to say we could put those
French sailors on the scales to try and balance that. They were simply doing
their duty, as you were. We did not want to make an enemy of them, but this war
has done as much, and I’m afraid this is only just beginning. You will find
yourself in similar circumstances again, Captain, perhaps even more trying. I
know this is the second hard blow you’ve been dealt.”

“Sir?”

“I
am aware that the ship you now Captain is only on the fleet active duty roster
because of your actions in getting her to safe waters under equally trying
circumstances. That was the hot fire of war, and you weathered it when you were
on the anvil. This time you were the hammer. So you’ve seen both ends of it now,
and that is what really shapes the metal of a man’s character. Stand proud,
Mister Wells. That will be all.”

“Sir!”
Wells saluted, feeling just a little better about what had happened, yet not knowing
which was worse—to be on that anvil, or to be the hammer.

Life
is a forge, he thought, and he put the matter out of his mind.

* * *

Alan
Turing was having a very bad day.
Thankfully his hay fever had abated somewhat, and he could at least breathe
again. And he had managed to keep his coffee mug chained up until he wanted it.
But the pressure was now mounting, as one intercept after another began to pile
up on his desk, in a well named German naval code that was proving to be a real
enigma.

Admiral
Tovey had been on the hot seat at Whitehall over losses and damage to the Home
Fleet in the recent duel with the Germans in the Denmark Strait. Questions had
been asked about the W/T intercepts of German command level signals, and why
they were not deciphered, but more so about the strange decision to parlay with
the Admiral of a Russian cruiser—the very same ship that Peter Twinn had dropped
in his lap with that handful of photographs. Now they wanted to know more, and
Turing was back in the storeroom rummaging through boxes of old photo
reconnaissance material. And that was when his day went completely bonkers.

How
could we have missed the construction and commissioning of such a ship, he
thought? They were saying that it must have been a secret project, possibly
built in Odessa or the shipyards at Nikolayev South, also known as Soviet
Shipyard No. 444. It was certainly not laid down in any of the Baltic
shipyards, and we have no evidence to suggest that the Soviets could build a
ship of that size at any of their northern ports. If it was laid down at
Shipyard 444 then they damn well must have had a magician’s cloak over it the
whole time.

I
was never on ship watch. I’m here to sort through the signals intelligence and
decipher the damn things. And that is all I’ll be doing for months now—going
over anything they pile up from three and four years back to ferret out the
trail on this ship. Surely there were orders, message traffic, commercial
contracts, personnel assignments, materials acquisitions. It would simply be
impossible to hide all that for very long. We should know about this ship,
chapter and verse. But yet I find nothing; nothing at all in the archives here.

He
stood up, frustrated, and ready to call it a long afternoon and go unchain his coffee
mug. Then he saw it, the box tucked discretely away behind the last indexed
photo box on the reconnaissance shelf. Someone got hasty, or very sloppy, he
said to himself. Here they’ve gone and mislabeled a photo box. He stooped down,
leaning in and wishing there was better light in the musty old storage room of
the archive. Well, what is it then? He pulled the box out, sliding it in to an
open space on the hard tiled floor, right beneath the bare light bulb hanging
from a cord above.

We
simply must find a better way to keep track of things. Now where does this
belong? The box was very odd, and it left him feeling strangely unnerved. No
label at all… Just stuck in here in a nook against the wall behind that entire
indexed series of photo boxes, and taped up rather well.

Curiosity
got the better of him now. If had always been one of his salient personality
traits, or flaws—that persistent curiosity that so often accessorized the mind
and character of a scientist and intellectual. Wondering about things was
always the first step down the garden path to the roses of understanding. Now
he wondered what he had dragged away from the old daddy long-legged spiders,
layered in dust and looking like it wanted nothing more than to be left
alone—for another century or two.

But
to Alan Turning a closed box wanted opening, just as any puzzle or chess
problem needed solving. He reached for the tape and had it off in a minute,
slowly opening the lid to the box and setting it aside. A last bit of masking
tape clung plaintively to one end of the lid as he did so, but Turing had his
way.

Now
what have we here, he said to himself, his curiosity redoubled? There was a
nice fat row of well stuffed manila envelopes, typical of the sort they all
used here to store files and reports and photos pertaining to one thing or
another. This one did have a label, which he read, though it rang no bell in
his mind as he did so. Must have been before my time here, he thought, though
the writing did not look all that weathered. Strangely, each and every envelope
bore the same label.

There
was no good trying to get into all that in the middle of the storeroom floor,
so he took a single envelope, the first in the series, and retreated down the
long aisle toward the light of the open door. It would make for a brief
diversion while he took a brief time out for some much needed coffee.

He
set the file down on his desk, fished about in his pocket for his padlock key,
and then slowly unchained his coffee mug, heading for the pot brewed fresh at four
in the afternoon, along with plain hot water for tea. Back at his desk he
settled in, enjoying those lingering first sips and the aroma of good hot
coffee as he picked up the manila envelope.

He
was not surprised to see what looked like typical aerial reconnaissance photos,
and as was his habit, he turned the first over without really looking at it to
note the location, source and time stamp.

No
wonder, he thought, as it was clear that someone botched the time stamp, fat
fingered the numbers and stamped the wrong year. A quick look at the back of
all the other photos in that envelope reinforced that, all misdated. Someone
was getting sloppy, he thought. They botched the labels on all these photos and
probably had to re-do them all again. But we never throw much of anything away
here, do we? So they bloody well threw them into an envelope and thought to
hide it all away in the back. He smiled, like a school master who had just
caught one of the students cheating on an exam, and turned the photo over to
have a look.

And
his heart nearly stopped dead.

There
was a ship… a ship at sea, making a wide turn, its wake curved out behind it.
It was obviously photographed by an aircraft, probably a seaplane out on a
scouting and recon mission. But that ship… He leaned in closer, squinting,
reaching for his magnifying glass, his pulse racing though he could not think
why. Yet it wasn’t a matter of thinking at that moment. It was all something in
the pit of his stomach, a feeling, a dark intuition, laden with misgiving and
an edge of fear.

A
ship… the ship… the ship that Peter Twinn had clued him in on! It was
unmistakable, the silhouette, high swept bow, long foreword deck that was strangely
empty, the strange domes and antennae mounted all about the dark
superstructure, and more, that feeling of dangerous menacing power, yet he
could not see why—there were hardly any guns worth the name to be seen.

What
is this, he thought? Has Peter been holding out on me? I told him to let me
know the moment we had anything more on that ship, and here’s an nice fat
envelope… in a
box
full of nice fat envelopes, all taped off in the
storeroom. Perhaps they did get wind of this ship years ago, and this was the
mother lode of information he had been looking for!