John Schettler - Kirov

That said, the Lieutenant’s suggestions seemed to be driving their mission now-a junior officer’s advice taken over that of a Captain of the First Rank! The man had turned this tactical maneuver behind Jan Mayen into a fishing expedition for his theories. He considered all the arguments again, that something had happened to the ship, to all the facilities on Jan Mayen, to the entire Royal Navy as well. It was entirely nonsensical, yet even Orlov was vacillating in doubt now, and he had to admit that last briefing had shaken him somewhat as well.

What if it were true, he wondered? Every time he let that thought take center stage in his mind there was a thrumming pulse of anxiety in his gut. If it were true, then there was no one back home at Severomorsk they would ever have to answer to again-not for him, nor for anyone else. Suchkov, the God of the navy, would be a four year old boy! A line from Dostoyevsky entered his mind soon after this thought: ‘If god is dead, then everything is permitted.’

Another thought, or more a feeling came to him now. There was no one waiting for any of the men now either. They were all just like him now. Every man aboard was alone, cut off, isolated here in the kollectiv of the ship. Kirov was the only reality for them now, the only vestige of home they would ever know again. Why did that thought make him so uneasy-the thought that every man among them was now a derelict in time, as lost and forlorn as he felt at times? ‘If God is dead…’

The bulk of the crew did not know any of this as yet. Only the senior officers and the mishman warrant officers of the bridge crew knew what they had been dealing with. The rank and file had no idea what was happening. He dragged himself up from the table and buttoned his jacket before he ventured out to walk the ship for a bit.

As he passed small groups of men quickly came to attention, and Karpov forced a wan smile as he greeted them. If it were true; if Severomorsk and the entire world they knew were gone now, then they were all just zombies, walking dead men, dispossessed souls adrift in the cold seas of the world.

They were all just like him now.

On board HMS Victorious, Admiral Wake-Walker was studying his plotting map carefully, with Captain Bovell at his side. “This message from the Admiralty has done it,” he said with some irritation. “Sounds like Admiral Pound is worried the Germans may be trying to slip another raider out into the Atlantic. I can’t imagine what ship this is. We put a torpedo into Lutzow and laid her up at Kiel with Tirpitz, but they’re having another look to see if anything has moved. Apparently this report of a cruiser to our north has got the boys over at the Golf, Cheese and Chess Society all in a dither.”

He was referring to the GC and CS, which stood for Government Code amp; Cipher Station at Bletchley Park, some 40 miles outside of London where the code breakers worked over intercepts to try and piece together clues of what the enemy may be up to. Also called “Station X” or simply “BP” for Bletchley Park, the code breaking effort had been aided by the capture of several German cipher machines in recent months, machines that had been provided by Royal Navy units intercepting German auxiliary ships in the region. Since the recent sortie by Bismarck had jangled the nerves of the entire system, it seemed particularly sensitive to the report of any lone warship steaming in the frigid Arctic waters with the possible intent of working its way over to the Denmark Strait west of Iceland for a shot at the Atlantic convoy traffic.

“It was a fairly unusual contact, sir. Perhaps they want us to have another go at identifying that ship.”

“Well it seems that they do, Captain. I have informed them that Adventure and Anthony were detached yesterday with just this intent, but they want us to linger until we get some confirmation.”

“And then there is this unusual signal from Jan Mayen, sir,” said Bovell. “Something about a helicopter landing there? Admiralty says the Norwegians thought it was Russian. I'm aware of the fact that the Russians were working on these, but intelligence indicates they have made no significant production or deployments of such an aircraft even if they do have it in development.”

“It might've been a German machine,” said the Admiral. “I read reports about a Focke Wolf model, number sixty-one I believe. It was tested in 1936. Nothing more than an old biplane with its wings taken off and a pair of rotors mounted on struts where the wings might be.”

“The signal did say it had twin rotors, sir,” said Bovell.

“Yes, very curious. Could the Germans have something like this in production? If they do, Norway would be the perfect place to deploy such an aircraft, what with all the mountainous terrain and all. Yet Jan Mayen is some 600 miles from the Norwegian coast. The Focke Wolf-61 had a maximum range of no more than 150 miles. Unless Jerry has been exceptionally busy of late, I doubt they managed to fly an FW-61 out there.”

“It was said a full squad of infantry landed with this aircraft sir. The FW-61 might carry one or two men of the most, but a full squad? And they were a little too polite to have been Germans, wouldn’t you say?”

“Quite so…” Admiral Walker was somewhat perplexed over the report. “Well, perhaps Adventure and Anthony will shed some light on the subject. In the meantime, it seems operations to the North Cape area have been put on hold until we can learn more one way or the other. Vian’s Force K was out making a run up to Svalbard off to our east. First time a Royal Navy ship has visited that island since Nelson's day. Well, it looks like that's been put on hold as well. The Admiralty wants us to coordinate with Force K in the event this unknown ship is a German cruiser. I'm afraid we stuck our foot in it by sending off that report yesterday.”

“It seems so, sir.”

“We are to move back west toward Jan Mayen to support our scout detachment in the event this contact firms up. See to it that Grenfell is notified about this, will you? I'll want his boys up by mid-day.”

HMS Adventure was riding at anchor off the narrow neck of Jan Mayen, there to check on the status of the Norwegian weather station. Aside from tall tales of an unusual aircraft that had landed the previous day, all seemed well. The Norwegians seemed to think the craft was Russian, noting the single red star insignia it bore, which seemed odd. The station team leader, Ullring, was a reliable man, and his report was taken and relayed on to the Admiralty as well as Wake-Walker with Force P. At 10:00 hours, however, the lookouts spotted what looked like a large vessel on the southwestern horizon.

Captain Norman Grace was peering through his field glasses with a worried expression on his face. What would the Russians be doing with a whirlybird out on Jan Mayen? Ullring’s report made some sense. If the interlopers had been German he doubted they would have left the station intact or any of the Norwegians alive. It was all very curious, but the Captain had more to worry about than he bargained for now.

His ship was at anchor, he had a shore party still on the island, and beyond that his engines had been doggy ever since he was detached. They could make no more than 22 knots the whole way up. A mine layer and AA picket by trade, Adventure had run afoul of one of her own mines off Liverpool earlier in the war and was laid up for repairs. Live by the sword, die by the sword, he thought. Apparently there had been unseen damage to one of the turbines, and he was getting a noticeable wobble at high rotations. He had his stokers and ERA men, the Engine Room Artificers, working the boilers and turbines below, but nothing seemed to solve the problem. Now this!