Three Kings

The vapor war… Rommel pressed on for another day, and then decided to get into hisStorch reconnaissance aircraft and go up to have a better look at what was happening on the ground. To his surprise, he soon determined that the British were in full retreat. The infantry that had been shaking itself out into defensive positions had been ordered to get back to their lorries and head north to Benghazi at all speed. As for the tanks of the 2nd Armored, O’Connor had moved them east along the very same track that had been used to unhinge the Italian control of Cyrenaica. Rommel’s troops were pressing forward, but he was basically attacking into thin air.

The British Terrier had decided to fence, and his first move was to lean back and away from the bold thrust of his enemy. O’Connor had heard all he wanted to know when he listened to the attack-theAriete Division, the Trieste Motorized Division, the 5th Light Division, and behind it something even more ominous, what looked to be an even stronger German formation that was later identified as the 15th Panzer Division. There he was, all set to probe up the road towards Sirte with a single armored brigade and the tired Australian 6th infantry. Now he thanked his lucky stars that he had the foresight to insist that every loose truck he could get running, much of the equipment captured from the Italians, was given to the Aussies to motorize that division. Those trucks would save it now from almost certain destruction.

Behind these four mobile units in the vanguard of the enemy attack, there were at least six leg infantry divisions, all Italian, but enough fodder to throw on any fire Rommel could get started if he could find and grapple with his enemy. Knowing that he was outnumbered this badly, O’Connor radioed the situation to Wavell at Alexandria, and the information came in at a most opportune time, right in the middle of a meeting that had been arranged to decide future operations in the Med. Wavell ordered O’Connor to get on a plane and fly to Alexandria, and that simple order was going to change a good many things.

They watched as the ship moved slowly through the canal, starkly silhouetted by the bare desert backdrop and clear blue sky. A thousand eyes were on the tall battlements and strange rounded domes, transfixed by the sleek, powerful lines, yet mystified, as so many others have been, by the lack of any heavy armament to speak of. Kirov looked like the world’s largest and most threatening destroyer, but nothing more, and many shook their heads wondering why in the world the Russians would waste so much metal and effort to build a destroyer of that size, carrying only three small twin gun turrets and an even smaller single barrel bow gun.

Then the crowds stirred again, seeing the next ship coming through, just as big, just as threatening, yet proudly flying the flag of Great Britain, HMS Invincible.

“Now there’s a battleship if I’ve ever seen one,” said a Lieutenant from one of the Canal Zone garrisons. “Those are guns! I reckon she’d make short work of that Russian ship, eh?”

“That she would,” said a nearby Sergeant, “and short work of anything else that crosses her bow, sir. Just you let the Italians get word the fleet flagship is here, and watch them get to scurrying back to port.”

“The Russian ship has a fine cut,” the Lieutenant conceded. “Sharp crew as well.”

Admiral Volsky had turned out the ship’s personnel in dress whites, and they lined the decks in smart ranks, the men standing tall and proud, unborn souls each and every one in this day and year, phantoms from a distant time, refugees from a holocaust whose roots were fixed in the soil tilled by the iron spades of war.

Volsky was on the bridge with Fedorov, smiling as he heard the crowds cheer the arrival of the fleet flagship. The distant strains of a military band struck out with “God Save the King,” which was suddenly interrupted on the bridge with a furtive look towards Rodenko by the young watchstander at the main radar station.

The Starpom eased over, inclining his head to take a brief look at the screen, and immediately noting what was happening. “Mister Chernov,” he admonished quietly. “I don’t care if we are all sitting at a table dressed out in white linen and about to toast Admiral Volsky on his birthday. When you see a contact on that screen, you damn well sing out and report it.”

Chernov swallowed hard, then did exactly that. “Con, Radar. Airborne contact at seventy kilometers, Bearing 280. Fifteen aircraft, sir. Elevation low, at 8,000 feet.”

Volsky looked over, seeing the half smile on Rodenko’s face. “Well,” he said. “Someone seems eager to greet us here. Mister Nikolin, kindly inform Admiral Tovey that we are about to have uninvited guests.”

“Aye sir.”

“Mister Samsonov, Klinok system please. What is our remaining inventory?”

“Ninety-seven missiles, sir.”

“Very well, salvo of three, please. Track and be ready to fire on my command.”

“Here sir?” Fedorov gave the Admiral a look.