Paradox Hour (23 page)

“To be honest, Kapitan,”
Hoffmann had said.
“I thought it was the size of HMS Hood. In fact at first blush we thought it might actually be Hood, but the silhouette was all wrong.”

“It had no stacks as Hood should have,”
Fein put in.

“That was another thing,”
Hoffmann held out his cigar, letting the thin trails of smoke curl their way up from the ashen tip.
“No smoke either. The ship was cruising at probably fifteen knots, but making no visible smoke.”

“You engaged this ship?”
asked Lindemann.

“We did. I fired a warning shot across the bow thinking this might be an American ship. That is the last time I act as a gentleman in these waters,”
said Hoffmann
. “But I wasn’t quite sure what I had in front of me. It’s what came back that we must now discuss.”
Topp still remembered the grim expression on Hoffmann’s face.

“Your dispatch said something about a rocket,”
Lindemann pressed.
“I assumed you were writing poetry, Hoffmann. You say this ship had no big guns but it obviously returned enough fire to blast that hole in Gneisenau.”

“Oh it returned fire, Kapitan Lindemann, but not with its guns. We were hit by something else, something quite extraordinary, and every man here would be wise to heed my words on this, because if the rest of the British fleet has this weaponry, the entire nature of warfare at sea has just sailed into new waters, and we have missed the boat.”

 Topp looked at Muller, a glint in his eye. “These are the ships the British rushed to the Mediterranean. They gave the Italians and French fits, not to mention the damage that was put on
Hindenburg
and
Bismarck
. Kurt Hofmann says he was almost certain the British had another large warship in that last big engagement we fought north of Iceland. He’s seen this rocketry first hand, and so have I. The damn things claw through the sky like shooting stars, high up, and then descend like meteors. They come in right on the water, and never miss. If this is the same ship we encountered before, the same ship that struck
Bismarck
again in the Med, then it is nothing to be trifled with.”

“True, sir, but we hurt the Royal Navy badly in that first engagement.”

“Yes, and it has taken both sides a year to repair all the damage. Now we’re out for round two. Let us hope we do a little better this time, or we may find that the Führer will order our ships scrapped as well!”

Muller nodded, knowing that Topp was referring to the order to cancel all further work on the
Oldenburg
. “Yet we have seen no sign of those rocket weapons thus far, sir.”

“Be glad for that, Muller. But I think you may be correct. Those weapons are on the
Invincible
, this is what the Abwehr now believes. They may have one or two other ships with these new anti-aircraft rockets, and this is most likely what we are looking at in that squadron you point out here.
Invincible
is their fleet flagship. I have little doubt that we may soon make its acquaintance.”

“Excellent sir,” said Muller. “Sinking the
Invincible
will teach the British to name their ships more carefully.”

“That may be more easily said than done,” said Topp. “For the moment, let us keep our eyes on this
Rodney
. With any luck we can get to that ship before the British flagship does.”

“Two for the price of one if they get there first, sir.”

Topp smiled. “I appreciate your confidence, but don’t underestimate the British. They’ve been out here for generations—professionals to a man. They will fight, and give a damn good account of themselves, and this is the first time the bow of this ship has tasted the salt of the Atlantic. This may not be as easy as you think.”

“Well sir, Admiral Lütjens and
Hindenburg
have turned as well.”

“Have they? Well don’t forget the British will still have another four battleships and two aircraft carriers behind us. Contact Kapitan Böhmer on
Graf Zeppelin.
I want to know how their air wing looks after that last engagement.”

“Right away sir.”

Muller was off to the wireless room, leaving Topp to mull over the navigation plots. He could see the course tracks twisted on to new headings, and the predictive plots all pointing to what might be a massive engagement off to the east. It was as if some strange gravity was pulling on all these ships now, the lines of fate bending under its influence. What was so damn important about this single British battleship that Raeder orders the entire fleet to reverse course and go hunting? Well, we probably would have had our battle with those battleships behind us tomorrow. Now that will have to wait.
Rodney
is limping south, and we will visit her soon enough. She’ll have no speed, but still has heavy arms with those 16-inch guns…

I’ll have to be careful here.

* * *

Wellings
made his way forward, past squads of sailors, and gritty damage control teams that were none too happy to see him there, as Captain Hamilton had warned. One spied his dress whites and officer’s cap, without even realizing he was an American.

“No worries, sir,” he said gruffly. “You can attend to your business topside. We’ve the situation well in hand here.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Wellings. “Where was the hit taken man?”

“Right ahead, sir. In the cargo hold. We were lucky with that, as the torpedo tube and magazines were missed by a whisker.”

“Can I get in there?”

“Not on your life,” said the Chief. “We’ve had to shut watertight doors in those compartments. It’s all sealed off until the lads get here with the hull plates and welding torches. Then we’ll have to rig the pumps. The worst of it is in hold B. A lot of that cargo will be well submerged. But a few of the other holds may only have minor flooding.”

“I see,” said Wellings, cursing his bad luck. Was it his luck? Something told him more was at work here than that. He could feel the heavy hand of fate on the bulkheads around him, and knew that key must have something to do with it.

“Any chance we may go down?” he asked. “Is the ship in danger?”

“No sir, like I say, we’ll manage well enough. You’d be better up topside. It’s tight enough down here as it stands with the hoses coming forward now.”

“Very good. Carry on, Chief.”

Wellings shrugged and turned about, casting one last glance at that sealed hatch on the near bulkhead behind him. No way to get in there now, at least not from this deck.

“Chief,” he said, one hand on a hand rail to steady himself as the ship rolled. “Are there any ladders down into those holds?”

“Sir? Well, I suppose there are. But you’d have to get up to number four deck. That’s where the survey teams are working now to see what’s what. You don’t want to be anywhere near there now sir. The lads are probably knee deep in water and grease if any managed to get in there.”

“Thank you Chief. Good advice.”

Wellings turned and was on his way, looking for the nearest ladder up. He was going to number four deck strait away, but now he realized that the sight of his dress white officer’s uniform would likely be greeted with the same unwelcome reaction as he had here. The man was polite, deferring to his obvious rank, but it was clear he wasn’t happy to see an officer here now.

I might do better looking more like a grease monkey down here. In fact, if I shed this officer’s coat and get myself into some dungarees… Yes, he thought. It was very likely he’d be swept up in anything that was going on, and if there was any way he could get into that cargo hold, he had to try.

He started off, thinking to find the nearest crew’s quarters. The men would be at their stations. He might find what he needed easily enough. Then again, the ship’s laundry would have everything he needed. Another work party appeared in the corridor, and he hailed one man.

“Dirty business down here,” he said lightly. “Which way to the ship’s laundry, seaman? I’ve gone and soiled my jacket.”

“Oh? Right that way, sir, another deck up and amidships.”

Wellings was on his way with a grateful smile, but the man just shook his head.

Chapter 20

Volkov
stormed down the long hallway, his footfalls hard on the marble as he went. Before him the great doors of the grand gallery loomed, the lacquered mahogany easily ten feet tall. Two guards waited like stolid statues, their boots clicking sharply at the heels as the General Secretary approached, hands taut on their rifles, elbows jutting at perfect angles, chins up. They moved, robot like, opening the doors and then standing stiffly at attention as Volkov blew past them like bad weather, oblivious. The instant the doors closed behind him it began.

There was a moment of breathless silence, then the guards herd the harsh clatter of a chair being thrown across the gallery floor. There came a shattering noise of a chandelier being smashed, then the smoking urn, table lamps, more chairs, and the mirror on the far wall all fell before the wrath of Ivan Volkov. Not knowing what was happening, a steward came rushing in, to see the General Secretary at the height of his rage. Volkov turned, his eyes white with anger, then simply reached into his grey jacket pocket, pulled out a revolver, and shot the man dead.

Outside the doors the two guards knew better than to move a single muscle in response. This was the inner sanctum, the heart of Volkov’s secure command center in Orenburg. Layer after layer of security cordoned off these chambers, and it would be impossible for any person to have entered with a weapon here. They immediately knew who had fired that pistol, and only the cautious sideward glance of one to another marked their response. Then, as quickly as the tumult had started, a heavy silence fell. Moments later they heard the hard footfalls recede deeper into the complex. Apparently things had not gone well in the operation recently mounted against the Siberians.

After his jousting duel of words with Karpov, Volkov had pointed
Pavlodar
west and ran at the highest speed he could achieve at that elevation, his eyes warily scanning the underbelly of the rolling storm clouds above, like a submarine Captain might fearfully regard the imminent attack of a hunting destroyer. He knew that if Karpov pursued, there was every chance that he might out run his ship.
Tunguska
was a massive adversary, with six powerful engines, and at higher elevation he might catch a jet stream and race ahead.

But not this time. The weather system he had emerged from would not allow that, with the winds swinging round, and now blowing from the west.
Pavlodar
raced away, and for a moment Volkov thought a rain of bombs might soon fall from above like depth charges, but nothing came. It was long hours in his cabin alone before they finally reached the city his fleet flagship had been named for. Officers of every stripe saw the formation come in, shocked and surprised when
Pavlodar
finally tethered to the main mooring tower near the complex, and the rattle of the elevator slowly descended. Where was the
Orenburg?

Volkov had moved like a grey shadow, in through the concentric layers of security, layer after layer, onion like about the center of his command bunker. He had not spoken a word, and no man had been bold enough or foolish enough to approach him. As he passed, men stiffened to a stony silence, for they knew what was coming at the end.

Now the silence again. Sometimes long days would pass before Volkov emerged from his hidden chambers. Then, one by one, the warden of the gate would call out names, Generals, Admirals, Captains and Colonels, each one summoned to answer for the holes they had left in the planning. There would be questions, interrogations, the hard whip of Volkov’s voice as he shouted his displeasure. And sometimes there came again the harsh crack of that pistol, and a gilded body would be carried out by two stretcher bearers, their faces white with fear. The fallen Captains, usually cogs in Volkov’s vast security apparatus, were simply carried to a deep trench outside the main complex walls, and summarily dumped, like so much unwanted trash.

Then the orders would come, new orders that would begin moving divisions on the land, airships in the heavy skies. The long front with Soviet Russia was now teeming with men and machines as the hour drew near for the real war to begin. Volkov’s forces stretched from the city of Ufa well north of his capitol near the lower Urals, then west along the winding Belaya River until it joined the Kama, that soon merged into the mighty flows of the upper Volga. Troops from either side manned outposts along that river, reaching down to the great knobby bend of Samara, which was a hard fortified city controlled by Volkov’s 2nd Army. From there it flowed down through Balakovo and Saratov, eventually reaching the vast Soviet stronghold of Volgograd, the city that had been called Stalingrad in another telling of these events.

Divisions of his 3rd Army faced off against the bristling gun forts of the Soviet forces there, with each side routinely shelling the other across the wide expanse of the river. The Volga dog-legged east, then splayed through the thick marshlands as it made its way down to Volkov’s main base on the Caspian at Astrakhan. He had tried for a decade to take Volgograd and secure the lower Volga region, but the city was now an impregnable stronghold, where Kirov posted some of his best divisions.

So a new strategy would have to be devised, one that would soon see Volkov’s armies strike across the Volga to the north, between Saratov and Volgograd. There were only a few suitable crossing points in that region, and it was difficult to achieve surprise. The Soviet controlled west bank of that mighty river had higher ground, and steep ridges in places, while the east bank lay on open, exposed flat ground. But years ago, the Grey Legions had fought for a bridgehead near Samara, which they stubbornly defended, and now they would use it to make a daring attack timed with the great onslaught the German Army was about to unleash.