Kirov Saga: Hinge Of Fate: Altered States Volume III (Kirov Series) (22 page)

“Well, we’ve got a man or two
there, don’t we? Latest word from the signals traffic is that both French
battleships are still sitting in port.”

“At the moment,” Wells cautioned.
“We’re still a full day south of them here. Let’s hope we find them there this
time tomorrow morning when we’re sitting off Dakar.”

It was going to be a long 24
hours steaming at 18 knots to get the British squadron up north to Dakar. By
this time tomorrow Wells expected he would have most of 823 Squadron’s
Swordfish
in the air, with 825 Squadron spotting on deck to join them. Before that he
would have to get a reconnaissance flight up north of their position to look
for any sign of that flotilla from Toulon.

Wells passed a sleepless night,
up from his bunk twice and pacing on deck with a pipe that he had taken to
smoking. The rituals of the habit seemed to calm him a bit, and let him think
things through, his thoughts wafting up with the smoke.

Morning came with the signal
arriving from Vice Admiral Cunningham aboard HMS
Resolution
:
“Ultimatum
to be delivered by wire at 09:00 hrs. Mine laying to begin 09:15, with torpedo
squadron ready to receive strike orders at that time.”

Wells was ready. He had
dispatched four
Swordfish
of 823 Squadron north on a wide reconnaissance
fan, with four more loaded for the mine laying operation. The last four would
join with the twelve planes of 825 Squadron to form his strike element. He was
to send one plane in at the crack of dawn to overfly Dakar and report any signs
that the French might be trying to get up steam.

The report he received from that
little sortie was most disconcerting. The lone
Swordfish
was up at 05:00
and on its way. Thirty minutes later the word came back that changed
everything. There would be no need to issue any ultimatum later that morning.
The French fleet was gone.

Chapter 20

“This
latest information
from Bletchley Park is somewhat alarming, sir.” Daddy Brind had come in with
another dispatch, but the mention of Bletchley Park immediately got Admiral
Tovey’s attention.

“The Germans seem to be running
several mobile divisions through training in Southern France, very near the
Spanish frontier. I don't know quite what to make of it, but scuttlebutt seems
to think the Germans may have intentions involving Spanish neutrality. We
received word from Bletchley Park yesterday that there may be a high level
meeting being arranged.”

The implications of what Brind
was saying were not lost on the Admiral. Spain's neutrality had been a great
bulwark for the British operating out of Gibraltar. The vast land area of the
Iberian Peninsula, safe behind the ragged walls of the Pyrenees mountains,
offered a welcome buffer of security for the vital British base. Admiral Tovey
raised an eyebrow, thinking.

“If the Germans have intentions
involving Spain,” he said, “then all these troop movements we’re seeing may
have a darker purpose. Perhaps the Admiralty is keeping a hat on this for the
time being, but I expect we'll hear about it if there is any truth to these
rumors. Lord, what a nightmare.” The Admiral’s mood was somber and serious now,
and Brind found him somewhat distracted, a distant look in his eye, as if he were
considering something deeply that seemed insoluble to him. He seemed a bit
haggard of late, ever since that meeting at the Faeroe Islands with the
Russians.

 “Do you really think the Germans
would attempt to mount an invasion of Spain at this time, sir?” Brind folded
his arms, his eyes serious, his expression one of genuine concern.

Tovey set down his tea and perked
up, drawn back to the here and now. “It may interest you to know that R.A.F.
has had a look at this concentration in southern France, Mister Brind,” said
the Admiral. “It appears there are two full mechanized divisions forming up
just north of the passes. Latest intelligence has them designated 16th Panzer
Division and 16th Motorized Division.”

“Only two divisions?” Brind was
not impressed. “It's a long way from France to Gibraltar, sir. If the Germans
commenced an operation of this nature my guess is it would take 30 days or
more, even if Spanish resistance folded in the face of such an attack. That
would give us plenty of time to load up fast troop ships and get some boys down
to Gibraltar if need be.”

“And suppose there is no
resistance…” Tovey let that hang there, watching Brind close to gauge his
reaction.

“You mean to say—”

“Yes Daddy, this note from
Bletchley Park you mention could be the ticket the Germans need now. What if
Franco throws in with them? These two heavy divisions in southern France could
just roll right in unopposed. This is an entirely new kettle of fish. It’s not
my watch, but if the Germans are bold enough to pull off something like this
we’ll be looking at plans for a counter-invasion of Spain before we know it,
and the Navy will be paramount in that instance. In this light, all this steam
up in the German fleet seems rather ominous. Let's just hope the rumors are
simply that.”

“Well sir, there are also rumors
about the buildup on the Polish Russian frontier, but that may not be a wise
move for Hitler, not now that hostilities have resumed between Orenburg and the
Siberians.”

“That's what's so damnably
bothersome about all this.” The Admiral leaned back in his chair wishing he had
had another three hours sleep. “That meeting at Omsk led us to believe Volkov
had come to an arrangement with the Siberians. Then a week later he crosses the
border with six divisions. Well he won’t want a fight with the Soviets until
that resolves itself, and the Germans would be wise to leave Russia sleeping
quietly as well—and that is what worries me. Spain… It's the logical next move
for them. It's either that or they open hostilities against Russia. Big build
up there as well. Hitler may be taking on more than he can chew, but we'll have
to plan for every possible contingency.”

“That we will, sir,” said Brind.
“Good to know the Russians have thrown in with us. This offer of a technology
transfer was gracious. Is their radar really that good, sir?”

“So I have been told.” Tovey
folded his arms, wishing he could fully unburden himself here and let Daddy
Brind in on all that he had learned during that conference with the Russians.
Away from them three days now, the normal routine of his work at fleet
headquarters here at Scapa Flow had occupied his mind, but the amazing
revelations that had been made still lay on him like a magic spell. At times he
found himself sitting at his desk, staring out the window, or pouring tea and
taking a single sip and then letting it go cold in his hand as he sat, his
thoughts ranging on distant possibilities that he struggled to foresee.

“Well,” he said. “I’ve been
sitting on my duff reading and writing reports the last three days. Now I must
make a few deliveries. Have a plane waiting for me at Kirkwell, will you?”

“Of course, sir.”

“I see
Hood
has been
swaddled up at Greenock. I’m going down to have a look at her and see how the
work is going. But I’ll be flying directly to London from there. Have the two
new fellows out there ready for a stroll in 48 hours. I’ll want them north of
Londonderry, and HMS
Invincible
can join them. I’ll collar a destroyer
in the Clyde and come out to join the party when my business is concluded.” The
two new fellows were
King George V
and
Prince of Wales
, Britain’s
newest additions to the fleet.

“Very good, sir. I’ll make the
arrangements and see that all the invitations go out.”

“Good then… Oh, and Mister Brind,
make sure I’m kept fully in the loop regarding that operation at Dakar. And as
to that buildup north of the Spanish Border—phone down to RAF Saint Eval and
ask them to have another look. Put my name to the request.”

“I will, sir.”

Tovey was up and on his way,
opening the door and hearing a dry squeak that seemed to grate on him. We’ll
need to get that oiled, he thought, stuffing the thought away like a man
pocketing his handkerchief and forgetting about it. But far to the south, the
dry squeak of the hinge of fate was grating on other men, in the warm late
summer waters off Dakar.

* * *

“The
Flagman seems to be
well into it this morning,” said Wells as he stood on the weather bridge of HMS
Glorious
. Commander Lovell nodded agreeably, smiling as the man stiff
armed his flag signal and sent the last plane from 823 Squadron running down
the deck for takeoff.

Wells leaned on the gunwale,
noting how the new slate grey paint still looked so fresh on the ship’s wounds.
They had done a bang up job to get her up and running again, but he knew the
old girl was still scarred underneath that greasepaint, with the char of smoke
and battle.

“Mister Heath has called up,
sir,” said Lovell. “He’s recommending another pair of Gladiators from 802
Squadron come up for fleet air defense.”

“Good enough,” said Wells. “In
fact, I’d be more comfortable with a full flight of four planes up. See that
Heath gets the message.”

“Aye sir.” Lovell flicked off a
salute and went inside, leaving Wells to his muse.

So today’s the day, he thought,
another showdown with the French. I can’t believe they will be any less
agreeable, and they’re out there somewhere, probably within easy range of Dakar
if they hope to defend that place.

Dakar was situated on a long 40
kilometer isthmus that jutted east from the African mainland and came to a
sharp point, which was the westernmost point of Africa. Beneath this the isthmus
stretched another 14 kilometers, angling back towards the mainland until it
reached another sharp point at Cape Mamuel. The harbor was just north of this,
one of the best on the African coast, and a knife pointed directly at British
convoy routes bound for Freetown and Capetown.

After learning that the harbor at
Dakar was empty, Wells had a bad feeling about this mission. This was not
expected, though it should have been assumed after what happened at
Mers-el-Kebir, he thought. The French were of no mind to sit on their backsides
and wait for us to come calling. They obviously got wind of what we were up to
here and slipped away. Now I’ve got to find them. HMS
Glorious
is the
eyes of this battle squadron, and the thought that a pair of French battleships
are at large now is most disconcerting.

He remembered the last two
battleships that had caught
Glorious
napping on her return leg from Norway.
That would never happen again, he resolved, but the shadow of that engagement
still lay heavily on him. Two more battleships… I don’t think Vice Admiral
Cunningham had things planned this way. We’ve a pair of old ladies out there
ourselves, good ships, but a bit long in the teeth.
Barham
was passed
over when they refit the rest of her class. They had only replaced a few AA
batteries and pulled her old wisdom teeth in the two remaining torpedo tubes.
She had just come out of the dock yards at Liverpool a few months back, after suffering
a torpedo hit from U-30 the previous December.
Resolution
had kept
company with the 1st Battle Squadron of the old Grand Fleet during WWI. Both
were slow at no more than 23 knots, and if it came to a chase they would have
no chance against the newer French ships they were now hunting.

How could the French have slipped
away like this, he wondered? Our cover operation to Freetown as Force M
obviously didn’t fool anyone. It was put out that Force M was in transit to
Capetown to pick up a convoy. The French might have men there who relayed
information as to our departure, but we turned south and got well out to sea
before swinging around to head north for Dakar. In spite of that the French seemed
to know our every movement. It was as if they had read the fleet orders and
knew our exact planned arrival time here at Dakar.

With the French fleet missing,
the troop convoy assigned to the landing operation was kept to the south until the
enemy could be located again. There was no way the operation could be launched
until those ships had been accounted for. Three hours later Wells received a
signal from his scout planes. The French fleet had been spotted north of the
long Ishmus of Dakar, but they were not running north for Casablanca as Vice
Admiral Cunningham believed they would. Instead they were heading south, and
the light of battle and a thirst for vengeance was in the eyes of their
commander, on one of the most formidable ships that would ever sail, the
battleship
Normandie.

* * *

Rear
Admiral Plancon, Flag
Officer, French Navy West Africa, had decided to take personal command of the
operation. Once inclined to continue as an ally of Great Britain, he had
suffered a hard change of heart after the attack on Admiral Gensoul’s fleet fleeing
from Mers-el-Kebir. He called an emergency meeting with Admiral Laborde on the
Normandie
,
and Captain Marzin on the battleship
Richelieu,
and resolved to
immediately put to sea when he received the dispatch indicating the British
intended to occupy Dakar. He would not allow his ships to be caught in the
harbor. So after first steaming north to evade detection and communicate with
his reserve squadron at Casablanca, he turned about and resolved to hover north
of the long isthmus of Dakar and lie in wait there.

Plancon knew the British had a
great advantage with their carrier based aircraft, and he was under no
illusions that he would actually surprise his foe, but the sudden realization
that the French intended to seek battle here would certainly give them second
thoughts about pressing any claim to Dakar, or so he believed. France had
produced some superb modern battleships, but had been blind to the utility
aircraft carriers would provide. Their single operational carrier, the
Bearn
,
was now in the Caribbean with a pair of cruisers. The ship they had begun to
build to replace the aging
Bearn
had just been captured by the Germans.