TIPOTS: Those In Peril On The Sea

[MKSheppard]

Those In Peril On the Sea
Chapter One - General Quarters

DAY ONE -24 MAY 1941 - 2300 GMT

The electronic tone sounded twice in the headsets of the production staff in Studio 5A at the Columbia Broadcasting System's New York studios, signaling that they had a solid connection with their London studios, a rare enough event over the last few days. The engineers had worked furiously all day to insure that they would get a good clear signal, to the millions of Americans who were waiting for this report. From the sounds of it, they had done their job admirably. The engineers could even hear the sounds of London traffic through their bulky headsets. All right, gentlemen," the director announced, "we go live to London in fifteen, stand by! Ed, you all set?"

"London's ready," came the deep, familiar voice through the circuit. "Got it. Stand by." A last minute bustle of activity in the control room as everyone settled into their places. The director looked at the huge clock on the wall and watched as the second hand marched with exquisite precision towards seven PM, Eastern Standard Time. The director leaned forward, his hand on the master switch as he cued the announcer on the other side of a heavy plate glass window. "We now take you to London for the latest on this incredible, historic day at sea from Edward R. Murrow."

"And three...two...one." The ON AIR sign lit as the director threw the switch, just as the second hand snapped in place above the twelve. "Are you there, Ed?" The pause - two heartbeats, Murrow was legendary for the precision with which he did it - and the crisp, precise tones that America paused for every night came through the circuit, clear as a bell "Good evening. This is London."

"By now, not a single city, village, or hamlet on this valiant little island is without knowledge of the fate of the battle cruiser HMS Hood, lost today with all hands in single combat with the Nazi battleship Bismarck. A sense of shocked, stunned and angry horror pervades every discussion on the subject, as if talking about a beloved friend or relative who has been senselessly killed. Hood was not only the pride of the Royal Navy; she was the very real embodiment of the Navy's spirit and technological superiority. But early this morning, off the coast of Iceland, something went terribly, terribly wrong, and Hood was lost within minutes of the opening salvos. Her consort, the new battleship Prince of Wales, was severely damaged moments later, and had to leave the field of honor. At that point, according to the War Ministry, Bismarck vanished into the mists of the North Atlantic. Her present whereabouts are unknown."

If the millions of listeners who sat raptly by their radios could see the London studio, they would have seen Murrow turn his head and take a long drag on one of the Camels he chain-smoked, exhale quickly, then turn back to the mike. All anyone heard was a quick, perfectly timed pause. "But if Bismarck’s whereabouts are unknown, her aim most certainly is not. Along with her escort ship, believed to be the heavy cruiser Prince Eugen, she is most likely headed southeast, for the convoy routes that are Britain's frayed, slender lifeline in this second year of war. Should Bismarck continue to elude the Royal Navy and get loose in the convoys, the damage she could do among the slow and thin-skinned ships would be catastrophic. It would not be out of the realm of possibility that she could sink enough tonnage to bring into doubt England's continued struggle. It is no secret here that supplies of all kinds are perilously low, and the loss of a number of convoys could be the straw that breaks the camel's back."

Millions of Americans, glued to their radios, pictured in their mind's eye the awesome slate-gray hulk of Bismarck, rampaging through the panicked convoys like a wolf through a flock of sheep. Her massive guns spitting death and destruction in unimaginable quantities. Many shivered at the thought, and more than a few said a silent prayer for the men they knew lay in the monster's path.

"The mood of the Royal Navy, the men charged with hunting down this specter of steel, is one of grim determination. Rare is the Jack Tar who never served aboard Hood, or at least saw her sleek, lethal beauty in any number of parades or reviews. And in a service as tightly knit as the Royal Navy, far too many men knew someone aboard the doomed ship. The sentiment is plain and clear - the Bismarck will be hunted down and destroyed, at all costs. The men who are the heirs of Nelson and Drake know of no other possibility.

“At the War Ministry, and the highest circles of government, the determination is shadowed by a cold, awful fear. The fear that Bismarck will not be found before she reaches the shipping lanes, less than a day's sail from her last reported position. The fear that before she can be cut off from her Norwegian base and destroyed, she will have done appalling and perhaps fatal damage to the narrow, battered artery that barely keeps Britain in the war. The mood of the men whose job it is to keep the British Empire alive for just one more day is not so much one of determination this day, but desperation. In the meantime, an entire nation sits waiting for word that the beast has been cornered and brought to bay, that one more shadow has been lifted from the rolling green fields of this ancient, proud, and defiant island. The cost of that cornering, however, may be a terrifying one. For CBS News, this is Edward R. Murrow in London."

Winston Churchill leaned across the table and switched off the blocky Halicrafters short-wave set, and sat back in his chair, puffing thoughtfully on a cigar. It had taken a direct order to the War Information Office to let Murrow put out as much as he had, and Murrow, for all his good sense, didn't seem to suspect a thing. The more the cousins believed that the Royal Navy was in over its head, the more likely the President was to cross that vague, indefinable line that would make the difference between disaster and survival for the British Empire. Looking up at the First Sea Lord, Churchill growled, "Words like 'desperation' should never be used to describe a military situation, and far less still when it happens to be true."

The First Sea Lord was silent, looking grimly at the huge map of the North Atlantic on the wall. All the last positions were marked clearly, but it chilled his blood to see them. POW, a blue silhouette, heading east, NOR, a smaller one going southwest. Bismarck and Prince Eugen, red with the times of there last confirmed sightings. Hood a broken blue silhouette with the cryptic notation 0600/632000N031500W beside it. 1,400 men and four centuries of British naval tradition reduced to a position number on a map showing trackless ocean.

"Was there any confirmation of the hit on Bismarck, First Sea Lord?" The First Sea Lord continued to look at the map, answering through clenched teeth. "No, Prime Minister. Prince of Wales insists they got a hit on Bismarck, but it now seems likely that it was a dud." "I see." Churchill leaned back in his chair, and reached for the snifter of Madeira that he always seemed to have available at times like this. "First Sea Lord," he said quietly but firmly, "I believe it may now be necessary to ask for our cousins' assistance." First Sea Lord's voice was quiet but hard. "We haven't lost her yet. Norfolk is still in contact, and the rest of the force is coming up from the south. We still have a chance."

"If given time that we may not have."

Silence. "There is still a chance."

Churchill did not answer, instead rising and walking slowly to the windows that looked out on the country estate of Chequers, country home of Prime Ministers for more than a century. It was pitch black outside, not even a moon to cast a defining glow on the shrubs and garden walls that surrounded the house. Churchill knew that somewhere out in the darkness was a platoon of Commandos, detailed with his safety against assassination or capture. The Prime Minister smiled grimly to himself, reflecting for a moment that at this moment, his personal safety was far more assured than that of any of the people he led a state of affairs that could not be permitted. "First Sea Lord, I must ask you for your honest appraisal of the situation." Churchill turned away from the window and looked directly at the admiral. "As of now, you tell me that Bismarck and her consort are less than a day's sail from the convoy lanes. Can you guarantee me that you can stop her before she gets there? Can you assure me beyond any question that the monster will not be at our throats?"

The hollow feeling in the Admiral's stomach reminded him that the reply he had to make was the worst one any First Sea Lord had ever had to give. Hood was gone. Prince of Wales was out of the fight. Most of his fleet was in the wrong place at the wrong time. First Sea Lord turned to Churchill and drew himself up to his full height. Quietly, he answered, "No, Prime Minister, I cannot. It is quite possible that if the Americans." a pause, a swallow to choke down the words," if the Americans have acted on the information we have given them, they may be better positioned to find Bismarck than we are."

Churchill considered this for a moment. "The question now, First Sea Lord, is will they be able to kill her?" Picking up a phone, Churchill dialed a single digit. "Signals," he said to the voice answering him. "Please activate the direct line to the President."

DKM Bismarck
DKM Prinz Eugen
65N/17W SOUTH OF ICELAND

There was faint moonlight on the North Atlantic, turning the leaden seas into rippling black satin, broken only by the white peaks of waves breaking in the mild chop. And by two gray shapes knifing across the water in cold, majestic silence, leaving only roiled water in their passing. Prinz Eugen was in the lead, her massive turbines throbbing as she moved with lethal, effortless grace across the ocean. She was a wolf, leading her pack, loping gracefully across trackless ocean with every sense straining to detect danger ahead.

Behind her, as ponderous as Eugen was supple, was forty-five thousand tons of the ultimate in German warship design, and probably the last word in warship design anywhere. From Eugen's masts, shivering lookouts could see a phosphorescent line across the water, and towering above it, a mountain faintly outlined in silver moonlight, was a black shape that looked for all the world like a medieval knight riding out on his horse, lance at the ready. But there was none of the color and pageantry of an ancient tournament about her that night, none of the shine of polished armor or rustle of colorful banners. Almost every man on Eugen had seen her do her job that morning, and as proud as they were of what had been accomplished, none of them had the slightest illusion about the ship they escorted being a knight in armor, fighting as a noble champion in single combat. She was Bismarck. No knight she, but rather an executioner.

Prinz Eugen's captain, Ernst Kolb, a stocky, heavily built man, had already heard his crew's change in attitude. They were still proud of escorting the most powerful warship on earth, but now they were calling her Der Henker, the hangman. Everyone had watched in awe that morning as Bismarck had almost effortlessly snuffed out the Hood with the same skill with which they had performed target practice back in the Baltic. Captain Kolb looked around his bridge as he settled back in his elevated seat, a steaming cup of coffee warming him. It might be May, but that only meant spring back home, out here, that only meant your survival time in the water increased to a few tens of minutes instead of just four or five minutes, most of which you were unconscious anyway. Kolb shuddered involuntarily, then swiveled to look behind him as a sliver of light shot across the bridge from an open hatch. A young lieutenant stepped over to him and came to attention, handing Kolb the watch report. Kolb scanned it briefly, and then scrawled his signature across the bottom. Looking at the young officer he asked, "Is Bismarck still keeping station?"

"Jawohl, Herr Kapitan. Apparently the hit on her dynamos did not do serious damage."

"Would only that they gave us a bit more information on it. She's running about two knots slow, but they haven't bothered to inform us about it yet. Dismissed." The officer clicked his heels and did a perfect about face as he strode off the bridge, passing Eugen's executive officer as he came onto the bridge. Kolb looked back at his exec and nodded to him. "Guten abend, Schmidt."

"Abend, Herr Kapitan. I hadn't expected to find you still here. "Kolb made a noncommittal sound. "After this morning, I intend to spend a great deal of time here." Looking at Schmidt, he said, almost offhandedly, "We have a price on our heads now, you know." Schmidt nodded, looking out the ports at the choppy Atlantic. "A little luck, Kapitan. All we need. We have an entire ocean to hide in."

"An ocean that is getting progressively more crowded. I'll be much more comfortable once we've run down a convoy or two and headed home. "Kolb slid down out of his chair, straightening his heavy peacoat. "I'd also feel a lot more comfortable if Lütjens would talk to me occasionally and let me know what I'm up against. You have the conn, Schmidt. I'll be in the sea cabin." The two men traded salutes and Schmidt took his place beside the conn.

Aboard Bismarck, Captain Lindemann sat quietly in his sea cabin while Admiral Lütjens paced back and forth like some great caged cat. Since the victory over Hood and Prince of Wales this morning, Lütjens had been almost manic, first calm and composed, then almost wildly jubilant about their victory and their mission. Right now was a jubilant phase, with Lütjens describing in detail what the British and American convoys faced when they spotted them sometime tomorrow, punctuating the descriptions with far too many "Führers" and "National Socialists". Lindemann made the proper noises at the proper intervals as he watched the admiral march up and down the cramped sea cabin, describing in detail what the two ships of Force Rheinubung would do to the lightly protected convoys once they caught them. Lindemann nodded, but his attention was not on the admiral's theatrics. Rather, he was now carefully considering his ship's ability to survive the next week.

"Lindemann!" Lütjens' voice brought him out of his reverie. "Have you heard a word I've said?"

"My apologies, Herr Admiral. Please understand I now command a damaged ship quite some distance from home on a combat mission that could decide the fate of the war. I would not be worthy of my command were I thinking about anything else."

Lütjens smiled a feral grin that had an unnerving effect on Lindemann. "But you are worthy, Kapitan. Today you defeated the very personification of five centuries of British naval power." Lütjens' grin only widened and for a second, Lindemann had the chilling thought that he was looking at a hyena. "The name Hood will be forever entwined with yours, and your name will be a beacon to the legions of National Socialists who will follow us into the Atlantic..." Lütjens' eyes unfocused for a moment, before he looked at Lindemann again and said, more gently, "...the German ocean. "Lindemann swallowed hard, not entirely sure whether or not to consider the possibility that his commanding officer had become thoroughly unhinged in the wake of their victory that morning. He had known when assigned to Bismarck that the Admiral's National Socialist leanings had been known to color his judgment, but he had been thoroughly unprepared for this.

Lindemann was a practical man, admired and respected by his crews and his superiors for it. It hadn't been Nazi pride that sunk Hood this morning; it had been old-fashioned discipline and weeks of target practice. And for all the speed with which they had killed the enemy - just five quick salvos - the enemy had performed well too. Captain Lindemann wanted nothing more than to get his crew, his family; back home in one piece, and to do so, Admiral Lütjens would have to be reminded of some details he had overlooked about the fight in the Denmark Straits.

"Admiral," Lindemann began firmly but respectfully, "We do need to consider now, the effect of the hits the British scored. We "Are undamaged!" Lütjens replied triumphantly. Our fighting ability is completely unimpaired!"

Patiently, Lindemann replied, "Our fighting ability is unimpaired, true, sir. However, our endurance and sea keeping is not. We are two knots below our maximum speed because of the dynamo hit, and we are still shipping water from the other hit midships. It is only by the grace of God that the third round didn't hit in the fuel tank. We would have lost so much fuel that our only option would be to turn for home."

Lütjens dismissed the captain's concerns with an irritated wave of his hand. "At Jutland we killed the best the Royal Navy could send against us with half of our main battery gone. You are too cautious, Captain." The wave turned into a wagging finger, and that was too much for Lindemann. No one, not even an Admiral, spoke to him that way on his own ship. When Lindemann replied, his voice was firm. "Admiral, when we were briefed by the Kriegsmarine staff, I advised them then that the only way Rheinubung would be successful would be if everything worked perfectly. That was far from impossible, Admiral, but since that briefing, we have lost half of our planned force."

"You don't think I wanted to wait until Scharnhorst or Tirpitz was ready?"

"I know you did, sir! But Raeder sent us out here anyway! We are now faced with the entire Royal Navy looking for us,"

"Their dispositions were badly, badly flawed, Captain! They are too far to the east to even have a chance of catching us!"

"And in a position that we may have to fight our way back through them if we continue on as planned! And for that matter, low on ammunition and fuel by that point after chasing the convoys down!"

Lütjens leaned in close to Lindemann; the feral smile now a grimace. "Captain, if you do not believe we can accomplish our mission, say so NOW!"

Lindemann was silent. The Admiral leaned back, a look of triumph spreading across his features. "You KNOW we can."

"Admiral, we have achieved a victory unlike any other in the history of the German fleet. To return now would be no disgrace and it would insure our survival until the Twins and Tirpitz, and perhaps even the Graf Zeppelin are ready, and then imagine the havoc we could wreak on the convoys."

The dismissive wave again. "Göring's toys will have no effect on the battle of the Atlantic, Captain. Armor and rifled barrels will win the day, not a few playboys in their little flying machines." Lindemann prepared to reply, but Lütjens cut him off. "I will hear no more of it. The Führer and Grossadmiral Raeder did not select me to lead us out here, just to turn tail for home after a few scratches! I have already sent word back to Berlin that we are pressing on with our mission and will NOT return until the British see dozens of merchantmen on the bottom and they beg for mercy! All that lies between the convoys and us right now is empty, featureless ocean, Captain! There is not another vessel for hundreds of miles."

The sound of a sharp rap on the door to the sea cabin shot through it like a thunderclap. "Komm!" barked Lindemann.

The door swung open and a sailor poked his head inside. "Kapitan, we have spotted a vessel, bearing 263, eight kilometers!"

Lindemann swore and burst out of the cabin, followed by Lütjens. "General Quarters!" Lindemann barked.

USCG MODOC

Modoc was a basic Coast Guard cutter, designed for stopping smugglers and rescuing yachtsmen, not cruising the North Atlantic on some cockamamie search mission. But they were Coasties, and they reveled in taking missions that their nose-in-the-air Navy brothers wouldn't. Or couldn't, thought Captain Will Rivers, USCG, as he braced himself against another slow, sluggish roll. After the last day or so, he'd never complain again about slogging up and down off Nantucket for days on end. Turning to the lookout, Rivers asked, "Still got her?"

The lookout, a kid from Brooklyn with the accent and attitude to match, answered, "Hard to freakin' miss, Skipper. Constant speed and bearing, decreasing' range." The lookout paused, focusing his binoculars once more. "Geez, she's freakin' big."

"That's the nature of battleships, Miller," the Captain replied with a smile. "Freaking big." Rivers looked over at his XO. "Think they noticed the message going out?"

"I'm not sure they've seen us yet, Cap'n. Even if they have, I'm not sure they're monitoring our radio frequencies."

"Well, we'll find out. Helm, bring us about to parallel the German's course to her port side, make sure we have plenty of room, and give me full speed ahead. I want to be able to jitterbug if we have to."

"Aye aye, sir!" Helm replied smartly as the engine room bells rang and Modoc half skidded, half rolled onto her new course. Her ancient engines digging into the cold Atlantic.

Lütjens and Lindemann stood on the wind swept bridge, watching Prinz Eugen slip nimbly into place between the unidentified contact and Bismarck. Lütjens was now silent; peering into the darkness past Eugen, trying to see whatever might be hiding in the darkness. Lindemann turned to the watch officer who had been on the bridge when they'd spotted her. “Not much to tell, Captain. Rundt picked her up, sharp man, good with a set of field glasses - and we notified you. Sent to Eugen as well, they completely missed it."

Bismarck was coming alive, no longer just a ship in the ocean but a living, breathing weapon as her crew got to general quarters, ready to fend off whatever they had run across. Lindemann could faintly, distantly see movement on Eugen as well, and was sure Kolb had his crew at battle stations.

Rivers almost jumped out of his chair as a second ship knifed across Bismarck’s path and heeled into a turn towards them, its bow wave building as it built up speed. The XO swung his field glasses up and peered across the night. "Who the hell are they?"

"Gotta be her escort," Rivers replied, "Prince Something. XO, bring us to battlestations!"

"Aye sir!" Picking up the handset for the 1MC, the XO announced, "Attention all hands, attention all hands, battle stations, battle stations, this is not a drill, battle stations!" Throughout her hull, Modoc echoed with the sounds of boots and helmets, of hatches and ladders. Rivers looked over the bridge rail and saw his gun crew pound over the deck, unlimbering the 3" gun with a speed and efficiency that made him proud until he looked back up at Prince Eugen. Something, bearing down on him at 20+ knots, and wondering how many of those rounds he could avoid if he had to.

Ernst Kolb swore quietly into the wind that blew back over Eugen's bridge. Somehow his men had managed to miss a threat to the ship they were supposed to be escorting...well, enough time afterwards to apportion blame.

"All hands at battle stations, Captain!"

"About bloody time," Kolb roared. "Light that damned ship up so I can see what I'm going to kill!"

Blue-white glare stabbed out from Prinz Eugen, sweeping across the wavetops. Modoc's bridge flared into brilliance, and Rivers held up his hand to block it out. "They got us," XO announced. "No @#%$," muttered a voice from the rear of the bridge. Rivers had to smile at that, but there was not much else to smile about at this point. But on the other hand...turning, he asked, "XO, you think those Germans know how to play poker?"

One of the XO's eyebrows arched as he listened to what the Captain had in mind...then he smiled.

[MKSheppard]

Chapter Two - Battle Stations

Eugen's two forward turrets - Anton and Bruno - swung noiselessly to port, the barrels of the 8"/203mm rifles remaining absolutely flat. At this range, Kolb thought, you didn't NEED elevation. Turning to his first officer, he asked, "Do we have an identity yet?" Schmidt covered the end of the handset he was on.

"Nein, Herr Kapitan, though definitely a warship, a small one, wait, "Schmidt listened intently. "Possible British frigate, Captain!" Kolb nodded. Not much of a challenge, but they would deal with it like professionals. "Very well, get me a range and stand by to fire!"

"Captain, Eugen has the target, possible British frigate!"

Lindemann looked at Lütjens with a small smile. "Well, Admiral, ALMOST no one out here." Lütjens ground his teeth together and said nothing.

"Sir, range to the German is...just over five thousand yards!"

Thank you." Miller and the XO watched the glare of the German searchlight come ever closer. XO was still looking through his glasses as he quietly said, "If they wanted to..."

Rivers nodded, picking up the handset to gunnery. He said, "This is the Captain...tell the gun crew to track, but do not, I repeat do NOT fire on the target?. Hanging up, he turned to the helm. "Remember, as close as we can along her port side."

"Aye aye, sir," came the answer, and the helmsman gave a gentle turn to the wheel, lining Modoc up a little more precisely. A runner came charging out on deck to the 3" turret.

"Cap'n says track but do NOT fire!" The gun captain looked at the runner in disbelief, then back at the approaching target. "Oh, heavens to Betsy, no," he said, shaking his head. "Wouldn't think of it!"

WHUPWHUPWHUP

The sound powered phone next to Schmidt's ear rattled and he fairly snatched it off the hook. "Kapitan, the vessel is an American, I say again, an AMERICAN Coastguardsman!"

Kolb's blood ran cold. "Hold fire, hold fire!!" The captain practically burst thru the hatch to get a better look. Through precise Zeiss optics, Kolb was finally able to see the American clearly. Smaller than a frigate, but with impressive range, and sea keeping for such a small vessel. If we'd had a proper destroyer force, they'd have spotted him long before we did, Kolb thought grimly, and dealt. -Wait-

Kolb wasn't going insane; he wasn't hallucinating from stress. The American's tiny popgun forward was unlimbered - and tracking him. He reflexively looked down at Anton and Bruno, and saw that they were still pivoting, a click at a time, to keep the American tracked.

"Range four thousand yards, Cap'n!"

"Very well." Rivers felt Modoc heel over just slightly as the helm made one final adjustment. Modoc was now moving parallel to the German and would pass within about two hundred yards off her port side...assuming the Germans didn't call their bluff. Turning to the XO, Rivers smiled. "XO," he grinned, "Light 'em up and give this to signals."

"Range to the American now - AH!" Eugen's bridge suddenly lit up as Modoc's searchlight crackled into life. "Gott!" roared Kolb. What was this maniac trying to do? "Helm, maintain your course!" Kolb was just barely able to make out a signal blinker start as the searchlight faded slightly. The two ships now had each other pinned with light like rare butterflies pinned to a velvet board. Kolb swung up his glasses and started to read the message.

"ATTENTION...ATTENTION...THIS IS US SHIP MOH-MOD-DOC.... ON NEUTRALITY PATROL...IDENTIFY YOURSELF..." It was easier for Bismarck to read the message from the tiny cutter, and Lütjens and Lindemann had it first. Lindemann shook his head. "Admiral, most certainly the British will know of our location within an hour."

Lütjens simply stared out over the water at Modoc and Eugen, chin down and hands jammed in his peacoat. "No matter," was his firm reply. "They still cannot catch us." Lindemann could not reply this time. He had no words left.

"Range to the German twenty five hundred yards, sir."

"Very well." Rivers asked his XO, "Did we ever get an acknowledgment from Norfolk??

The hatch to the bridge swung open and a runner handed the XO a yellow message carbon. The XO quickly scanned it, then handed it to the Captain. Rivers looked at it then shook his head. "They don't want too much, do they? Helm, hold us absolutely steady." Rivers shook his head once more. "'Positive visual ID...'good grief."

"They're sending back, Cap'n." Rivers could just barely see the blinker atop the German's bridge. Waiting for signals to get it, he and the XO looked at the reply. US VESSEL US VESSEL WE ARE GERMAN WARSHIP ON MILITARY OPERATIONS STAND CLEAR SAY AGAIN STAND CLEAR

"Lookouts!" the XO barked, "ID yet?"

One of the lookouts, holding a sea-stained naval intelligence silhouette book, poked his head into the bridge. "Yes sir, contact is definitely Prinz Eugen, second contact is almost certainly Bismarck or Tirpitz!"

"Answers that question," the XO grinned. Cap'n, range to target now twenty one hundred yards!"

"Captain, aye. Maintain course."

"Kapitan, the American is now at eighteen hundred meters!" Kolb watched as Modoc kept on her course determined to parallel Eugen. Was he planning to ram him, to slow them down for the British that way? Or worse - was he calling the British right now?

"Fifteen hundred yards!"

Rivers could see Eugen VERY clearly now, and she wasn't flinching. "Has Norfolk acknowledged yet?"

XO shook his head. "Not a peep."

Lindemann leaned his arms on the bridge coaming to steady his glasses as Modoc approached. Without turning, he said to Lütjens, "Admiral, whatever you intend to do next, I advise it to be quick. I have no doubt that as we speak our position is being transmitted to the British."

"They...cannot...catch...us." Lütjens snarled through gritted teeth.

"Mmm." Lindemann acknowledged. No, they can't, he thought. In all truthfulness, the British can't catch us, at least for a day or two. A small voice in the back of his head began to say something, something he had not considered before. Suddenly Lindemann turned to face Lütjens.

"Admiral," he said quickly, "Have you considered the possibility that ...the British aren't the ones trying to catch us?"

Lütjens looked into the darkness and spray for a moment, and then even in the darkness, Bismarck's captain could see that he had gone as white as a sheet. That was all the answer Lindemann needed. Stepping back into the bridge, he ordered, "Helm, bring us about, course 180, flank speed, signals send the same to Eugen, and be quick about it!"

Rivers could see Bismarck begin to heel to port, followed a few seconds later by Eugen. Oh boy, Rivers thought, this is gonna be close. "Lookouts, range to Eugen!"

"Sir, nine hundred yards and closing!"

"XO, I have a feeling it might be time to leave this party. Helm bring us about to zero, zero, zero and be smart about it." Leaning over the speaking tube to the engine room Rivers called, "Cheng, I need every turn you can give me down there!"

"You got it, Cap'n!" and even as the voice died away, Rivers could feel Modoc dig in just a bit deeper as the little cutter heeled to port.

Eugen was turning, hard now, as her rudder strained to move nineteen thousand tons of fuel, ammunition and Kruppstahl. And the American was turning too, but fast enough? Oh no, no, thought Kolb, a collision out here would be the end of it; he'd end up doing the Americans' work for them. ?Range, dammit!"

"Four hundred and twenty five meters, Sir!"

Bismarck was leaning tight now as well, sluggish with the water she'd shipped earlier that day, but still coming around steadily. Lindemann looked at the Admiral, who still stood outside the bridge, looking grimly into the night at the little cutter. If it was in his power to do so, Lindemann thought, he would blow it out of the water. Suddenly, Lütjens roused himself and strode into the bridge. Without a word, he headed back towards signals. I wonder what conversation we'll have with Berlin this time, the captain thought as he watched the intricate, lethal ballet in an empty ocean.

Rivers and the XO let out collective sighs of relief as Modoc and Prinz Eugen rolled out onto their new headings, just two hundred yards from each other. In silence, illuminated by each other's searchlights, the two ships passed one another, Modoc's starboard to Eugen's.

"All right everybody," Rivers called, "sail casually." In his hand, the Captain held a message carbon:

ACKNOWLEDGED MSG ID GERMAN VESSELS GET CLEAR IMMEDIATELY SIGNED KING.

The gun crew was still tracking Eugen, but at this range it wasn't hard. Both ships were close enough to see each other's crew standing quietly, looking at one another across the foaming water. The thudding of Modoc's little engines was being overwhelmed by the sound of Eugen crashing through the whitecaps, a continuous hiss sliding across the water as the lean cruiser clipped through the waves. Rivers looked to his right to make sure the bosun's mate was getting every picture he could as they passed, it wasn't likely that anybody would get a chance like this again. Eugen looked every bit the warship, her low freeboard and elongated turrets giving her...how to describe it?

"A lean and hungry look'", the XO said, reading his thoughts.

Rivers stood silently for a moment as the ships passed each other. His attention was focused on the greater bulk a few thousand yards further away still dark and forbidding even at that distance. "Actually, XO," Rivers finally said, "I was thinking of something else." Nodding towards Bismarck. Rivers asked, "Remember that cartoon that Walt Disney did a while back - the one with all the music?"

XO thought for a second. "Fantasia, I think...yeah, I remember." Part in there about some mountain that comes to life at night...scared the hell out of my kids. That thing looks just like that damned mountain, XO."

The two men watched the Germans disappear into the velvet darkness, then Rivers turned to the XO and said quietly, "Well, it's somebody else's fight now. Give me max turns and get us as far away from here as we can. I think we've raised enough hell for one night."

DAY TWO
THE WHITE HOUSE MAP ROOM - 25 MAY 41 - 0930 EST

It had taken a Herculean effort for his staff to get all the information together, but Admiral Harold Stark, Commander In Chief, US Fleet, had the briefing ready for President Roosevelt and his advisors. Not that he was at all happy about this, Not one bit.

Harold Stark was a fastidious, precise man. One does not rise to high command without being so. And this whole operation, from its beginnings earlier this week, was anything but fastidious or precise. Bad enough that they had to lay on something as harebrained - and possibly illegal - as this, but worse STILL was the sound of Ernie King's stentorian bellow over the map table as some poor yeoman made a minor mistake. Of all the people to be in charge when something like this happened. Stark shook his head and reminded himself that in January of 1942, he could retire and leave this nonsense to others.

There was a brief commotion at the door as it opened and Franklin Roosevelt wheeled himself in, followed by the cadaverous form of Harry Hopkins. Most people were unprepared for the physical impression the President made, even in a wheelchair. But his upper body had been so well conditioned that he could almost be mistaken for an athlete if you didn't see him in the chair. The cigarette holder was at its usual jaunty angle, the grin at its usual brilliance. "Good morning, all!" boomed the patrician voice, to be greeted with a round of polite, "Good Morning, Mister Presidents".

Rolling himself to the big map table, Roosevelt scanned the huge display of the North Atlantic with interest. Roosevelt had been a fairly accomplished seaman before his illness, and even King respected him as more than just a talented amateur. Roosevelt looked around the group of officers gathered around him, and said, "So gentlemen - tell me what we have here."

Stark spoke first. "Mister President, the Coast guard cutter Modoc contacted Bismarck and Prinz Eugen approximately three hours ago here", Stark explained, pointing to a spot on the map where two lines, red and blue, intersected, then diverged. "We notified the British immediately to determine if there was still any way they could intercept Bismarck without us."

Roosevelt nodded. "And?"

Stark's lips pursed in disdain. "At this time, Mister President, the bulk of the British fleet is headed in the wrong direction and is almost out of fuel. The best they can hope for right now is that they can refuel and then set up a barrier that Bismarck will have to cross in order to get back to France. The only vessel they have that even has a hope of intercepting Bismarck is the battleship HMS Rodney, which has just been detached from a convoy and is now headed northwest at her best speed."

"So it's up to us after all?"

Everyone looked at Stark, except Ernie King, who kept staring impassively at the map with his arms folded, going over every possible move in his head like a chess grandmaster whose life depended on winning his next game. Stark though for a second, then realized if he didn't say it now, he'd never get another chance.

"Mister President, I feel I must say my piece here. This is not our fight. We are not ready to take on one of the most advanced warships in the world with what we have there, no more really than the British were. Bismarck's commander must be assuming that his position has been transmitted to the Royal Navy. They will not stay out there for us to hunt them down. I recommend that we simply keep tabs on Bismarck for the British and stay out of the fight."

"Hmmm," Roosevelt pondered. "And the fact that even running from us, Bismarck will be in a position to sink American vessels does not bother you?"

Stark stiffened at that. "It does, Mister President, but -"

Then we really don't disagree, do we, Betty?" Roosevelt smiled as he used the long-ago Academy nickname that Stark loathed with every fiber of his being. Stark gritted his teeth and replied, "No, sir."

That thousand, watt smile came back again. "Good, good! Ernie, why don't you explain our dispositions?"

King stepped forward to lean over the map, and picked up a slim yellow pencil to use as a pointer. "All right, then. This is Bismarck's last known position, we figured it was best to get Modoc out of there before the shooting started. To the south," King pointed to a blue dot some distance south of Bismarck, "is Task Force One, the battleship New York, the cruiser Tuscaloosa, and the destroyers Ericsson and Nicholson. If Bismarck keeps on her present course, TF 1 will intercept in just about six hours. To the southeast is Task Force Two, carriers Ranger and Wasp, battleship Texas, cruiser Augusta, and destroyers Russell and Wainwright. TF 2 will be within air range very early tomorrow morning, in the event that New York is unable to intercept. And as Admiral Stark mentioned, here," King pointed to a spot ENE of TF 2," is HMS Rodney. The Admiralty is sending her to rendezvous with TF 2, though that won't happen before late tomorrow afternoon."

Roosevelt pondered the map for a moment, then looked up. " I don't see the North Carolina. Where is she?"

Embarrassed looks traveled around the table before King spoke up. "She's not goddamned seaworthy and she's still in New York, Mister President. " Stark went livid at that and interjected, "Mister President, North Carolina has some teething problems, after all, she's the first new battleship we've built in twenty years."

King gave a derisive laugh. "Betty, BuShips screwed up the design beyond any hope of redemption and you know it! It'll take a minor miracle to get it straightened out. Mister President, the North Carolina is suffering from severe vibration problems - so bad that her aft turret can't even be properly trained at high speed. She's spent so much time cruising up and down the East River trying to fix it that the yard workers call her the Showboat."

"I see," Roosevelt muttered, looking right at Stark, then shifting his attention to the map again. "You say that Task Force One will catch her sometime tonight?"

King nodded. "Yes sir, I estimate around two o'clock this afternoon our time."

Roosevelt looked hard at the map. "Can the New York take her? I don't mean to cast any aspersions on the ship and her crew, but...she is almost thirty years old. " King shook his head. "Mister President, New York and Texas are my best battleships in the Atlantic. Everything else that could go after Bismarck is in the Pacific, without enough time to call them back. They'll have to, Mister President."

"Right, then," Roosevelt announced. "Lets set up the command post here, I'll see to it that the kitchen keeps you all fed and that we get some cots set up for you. Betty, Ernie - I want hourly updates on what's going on and I want to be called as soon as New York contacts Bismarck, got that?" A chorus of "Yes, Sirs" came from around the table as Roosevelt wheeled out, followed by Hopkins. The doors closed behind them and Roosevelt and Hopkins could hear the sounds of activity in the room fade as they headed back down the hall towards the Oval Office.

"You know," Hopkins finally said with a cruel smile. "I do believe you were about to give poor Betty Stark apoplexy."

"He had it coming," Roosevelt said around his cigarette holder. "How dare he not tell me that North Carolina wasn't ready! We based this entire operation on the premise that she could sail if we needed her, and now we find out that she's not combat ready. I swear, he did that simply because he doesn't want to help the British."

Hopkins nodded to the Secret Service man who stood outside the Oval Office as he opened the door for them. "Teach him a lesson, Franklin," Hopkins grinned. "When the war finally does start, send him to London as the Naval Representative."

Roosevelt threw his head back with a bark of laughter. "You are a cruel, cruel man, Harry Hopkins." Hopkins didn't smile back this time, but instead looked at Roosevelt with a skeptical expression. The President shook his head and smiled. "Okay, Harry, out with it. You aren't really on Stark's side, are you?"

"No, I'm not...but I am wondering what we're going to tell Congress . If the New York actually does have to open fire out there, we're going to need one hell of an explanation."

Roosevelt had already rolled over to the small liquor cabinet behind his desk and poured two glasses of Kentucky sipping whiskey. Handing one to Hopkins, they wordlessly toasted each other. Roosevelt took a sip, then looked up at Hopkins. "One set of disasters at a time, Harry...one set of disasters at a time. Until then." Roosevelt made another small toast, "'To a willing foe and sea room". Smacking his lips, Roosevelt looked up at Hopkins. "Now, Harry, get me Winston."

[MKSheppard]

Chapter Three - In Mortal Combat

DIE KRIEGSMARINE - 25 MAY 1941 - 0930 HOURS LOCAL

The awful fin-de-siecle wedding cake that was the German Admiralty squatted on the Tirpitzallee like some hideous pleasure barge in the midst of the solid, practical Roman revival buildings that Albert Speer had planted all over the Government district. People were used to seeing officers stride in and out of the building at all times, so no one looked at it unusually this Sunday afternoon as a line of sleek black Mercedes staff cars lined up outside the building. Had they looked closely, passersby would have seen the largest of the cars flying the blue and white flag of the Kriegsmarine chief of staff parked immediately alongside the steps, where two sailors stood guard before the building, Mauser rifles at port arms.

Grossadmiral Erich Raeder hadn't been enjoying his week very much so far, and having to call this meeting on a Sunday afternoon had been icing on the cake. As he looked out the window of the conference room, he saw the Berlin traffic roll by on what was, for the rest of the world, a perfectly ordinary spring day. Raeder sometimes resembled his HQ, a short, stocky man who favored an updated version of the old Imperial naval uniform with all the braid and ribbons befitting a man of his position. His staff, on the other hand, more resembled proper New German Men, in the severe, tailored uniforms of the new Kriegsmarine. Little boys playing sailor, snorted Raeder. Not even Dönitz, who had a respectable career in the old navy himself, could entirely avoid Raeder's scorn, playing with his submarine boats the way he did. Anyone knew that it would still be Kruppstahl and courage that would defeat the British, not all this sneaking around under the sea.

Raeder turned to face the men seated around the massive oaken conference table. Each of them had a copy of the message that Lütjens had sent several hours before, and that Raeder had run right up the chain to the Führerpalast. This one was a matter of politics, not combat, and Raeder was perfectly willing to let the Führer, who had pushed them into this in the first place, make the call. Trouble was, as every minute ticked by, it was harder and harder for things to come out well.

Before anyone could say anything, the door was swung open by a white-jacketed orderly, and a tall, portly man in a tan Party uniform entered. "My apologies, Herr Grossadmiral," he said smoothly, "far too many people out enjoying our fine Berlin sunshine."

Raeder frowned, but bit his tongue as Walter Hewel, Ambassador Plenipotentiary of the Third Reich, took his place at the table. Hewel, officially an aide to Foreign Secretary Von Ribbentrop, actually was far closer to the Führer and more importantly, more respected than Ribbentrop. Hewel could say and do things that would have gotten Ribbentrop thrown out a window.

Raeder spent no time on preliminaries. "Well?" he growled. Everyone watched quietly as Hewel opened his briefcase and withdrew a yellow folder with a red stripe around it, and the room suddenly became quite still, for that folder was the prerogative of the Führer himself. And those who carried it were considered his personal emissaries. Hewel put on a pair of nickel rimmed spectacles and opened the folder.

"Herr Grossadmiral, the Führer and the Foreign Minister had - shall we say - a very animated conversation. As you know, both of them feel quite strongly that America should be taught a lesson, and neither of them had any difficulty in agreeing with you wholeheartedly that Bismarck and Prinz Eugen should be permitted any means available to defend themselves against any aggression on the high seas." Everyone around the table visibly relaxed, if only slightly.

"However...."

Raeder's arms were crossed as he regarded Hewel with a baleful stare, one that didn't seem to affect the diplomat in the slightest.

"The Führer, after considerable thought, cannot in good conscience authorize the deployment of more warships to assist Bismarck and Prinz Eugen."

Jaws slowly dropped all around the table, but Raeder's jaw just tightened to the point where his lips became a thin, bloodless line. After a few seconds, Raeder slowly said, "I beg the Ambassador's pardon, but it was explained to the Führer that Bismarck's situation is extremely precarious... was it not?"

Hewel nodded, his expression one of polite sympathy, as if being told that a friend had slipped and fallen. "Oh, the Führer is quite aware of the situation. He feels, as I am sure we all do that though Bismarck is in a risky position. She is still the most advanced warship on earth, as she proved the other morning against the British. And that she should be more than able to elude her pursuers, continue on to the convoy routes, and return to France."

Unfortunately," one of the staff officers said, "it appears that the British are not the only concern she has right now." The officer pushed a stack of yellow dispatch forms towards Hewel, who regarded them with mild curiosity. "Those messages, "the officer continued, " are from a dozen U-boats, freighters, weather patrols, and radio intercept stations. They all point to the same thing - at least two groups of American warships headed for Bismarck. At last count, Herr Ambassador, those ships included two aircraft carriers, two battleships, and an unknown number of heavy cruisers and destroyers. In short, Herr Ambassador, Bismarck and Prinz Eugen are both outnumbered two to one. And that does not take into consideration what the odds will be once the British get their ships back into position, which will undoubtedly happen sometime within the next forty-eight hours."

Hewel idly riffled thru the stack of messages. "Well," he finally said, "It's good to see that the rest of the fleet is keeping their eyes open for Bismarck. However, the Führer's orders are quite explicit, gentlemen." Hewel tossed the folder to the center of the table. "No other ships are to be sent out to assist Bismarck and Prinz Eugen. Now, Admiral Dönitz may detach whatever U-boats he can spare. And I have no doubt Reichsmarchall Göring will be more than happy to help, but the Führer's word, gentlemen..." Hewel stood, picking up his briefcase, and left, nodding with a smile to everyone as he shut the heavy oak door behind him.

The silence was palpable. Somewhere out there in the North Atlantic was the pride of the Kriegsmarine, and Adolf Hitler had just cut its lifeline. The men around the table simply looked at the polished mahogany surface in silence for a moment until a solitary voice spoke up.

"You know...I think the Reichsmarchall might just want to help." Everyone looked up to see Colonel Klaus Wittermann, the Luftwaffe's liaison to the Kriegsmarine staff, looking thoughtfully at the map of the North Atlantic that covered one wall.
Raeder snorted. "Colonel, normally I have the utmost respect for your opinions, but this time I must wonder exactly what you have in mind. Der Eiserner helps no one but himself."

"Even if he was so inclined," another staff officer spoke up. "What do you propose he help us with? As I remember, he assured the Führer that the Luftwaffe could deal with the BEF and as it turned out, the RAF had something to say about that. No offense," the officer added hurriedly, for Wittermann was genuinely respected at Kriegsmarine. Wittermann smiled, making a dismissive gesture. "None taken. As far as what he could help us with..."Wittermann strode to the map and considered it for a moment, then turned to the men seated behind him and explained as quickly as he could what he had in mind.

Raeder walked to the map, considering Bismarck's position, and that of the Americans, shaking his head. "Won't work," he said curtly. Wittermann nodded. "Actually, Herr Grossadmiral, you're right, it won't - we'll need a U-boat." Raeder began to reply, but Wittermann cut him off. "First, I know two of the unit commanders out there - they would give anything just to try this. Secondly, strictly by the book, you own the U-boats, Herr Grossadmiral. And thirdly...no one else here has come up with any other idea. No offense," he smiled at the table.

Raeder simply looked at the map. He had friends out there. Sons of friends, too. And to get them home would be worth giving credit to that arschloech Göring. Looking Wittermann dead in the eye, he simply said, "We shall do it. Make your calls, Wittermann. Hollenbach, get me Dönitz on the phone. And somebody get this signal to Bismarck."

DKM Bismarck - 1430 HOURS LOCAL

Lütjens simply stood at the porthole gazing out at the late afternoon sunlight as the Bismarck's staff debated their next move. The message from Berlin hadn't been much help, continue on course, best speed, we have a plan.

Rubbish, Lütjens snorted. The 'plan' probably consisted of writing a most impressive eulogy for the two ships that were now thoroughly alone in the North Atlantic, to be delivered by Dr. Goebbels personally. He also had a series of advisories on his desk as well, a sighting here, a radio intercept there, and a thoroughly disturbing picture had been formed on the huge map board in Flag Plot. They had expected to find the British, and beat them, which they had done quite well. He hadn't expected the Americans, with more ships and not yet exhausted from almost two years of war. No one had.

Turning back to the crowded wardroom table, Lütjens listened as each of Bismarck's staff rattled off their present situation to Lindemann. While Lindemann himself listened and reviewed the reports transmitted by Prinz Eugen. They hadn't expected it, Lütjens though once more, they hadn't expected it.

"Admiral?" Lindemann's voice was gentle, yet firm. "Admiral, we are going to need a decision."

Lütjens looked around at the men who waited for his decision. It had almost been a lark four days ago...it had been triumph two days ago. It was now a very, very different feeling.

It had been a long time since Lütjens had felt fear. He'd known it that day at Jutland, standing in a hurricane of shellfire, but somehow he had always managed to ignore that and remember the heroism, the courage that had helped him stay at his post that day. But at least then there had been others he could look to, others he could rely on. Not here, not with the hopes of an entire nation riding here, not on the backs of an entire fleet. But on two lonely outnumbered ships in the middle of nowhere.

Lütjens exhaled slowly, as would a man who had just had a great weight removed from his shoulders. "Lindemann." He said softly, so much so that the others had to strain to hear him over the hum of Bismarck's engines and her ventilation system. "We shall continue on course until we reach the convoy lanes. If we do not find any vessels there, we shall turn for home. Is that understood? In the meantime, we will remain vigilant and defend ourselves as necessary."

Everyone in the room knew what Lindemann had just said and remained outwardly calm, but grateful on the inside. They would reach a convoy lane very early tomorrow morning, and in the darkness it would be very easy to miss anything that might be out there. And the fact that the lane they were headed for was on the same heading as the course they needed to get to Saint-Nazaire was, of course, thoroughly coincidental. None of them were cowards. All they wanted was that if they had to fight, it be on better terms than this.

USS NEW YORK, BB-34 - 1500 HOURS LOCAL

The Curtiss Seagull was hurled off the catapult with a BANG and a hiss of escaping gases. Seeming to hang motionless for a moment until its howling Pratt and Whitney engine bit air. Clawed it forward and pulled it up, seeming to struggle for every inch, but finally, almost painfully, beginning its slow climb upwards.

Admiral James Blaine, USN, watched from New York's flag bridge as the blue and gray Seagull steadied itself and headed off into a solidly overcast sky, waggling its wings as it passed behind the stern of the Tuscaloosa, and then towards the horizon. He'd seen enough catapult launches in his time, to know that the plane always looked like it was on the verge of falling completely out of the sky. When in fact, the Seagull was in its element able to stay aloft for hours at a cruising speed that his old Studebaker could easily beat.

"So, now we wait," Blaine said to Captain Pete Danton, New York's CO. Blaine nodded. "She's gotta be close, assuming the information Washington is feeding us is correct." Blaine shook his head. "Took a lot of balls for that Coastie skipper to get that close to 'em."

Danton looked at the rapidly disappearing Seagull once more as it rose slowly into the north. "Admiral, we ought to go ahead and let the men in on the fun now. They've been at GQ for long enough, and you know how rumors get started. By now they've probably got us invading Brazil," Danton smiled.

Blaine grinned back. "You may have a point, Captain." As Danton strode to the intercom, Blaine turned to one of his staff and said, "Have signals send to Tuscaloosa and the destroyers that they should let the men know." The young officer nodded and sprinted towards the radio shack. Danton picked up the 1MC, and nodded for the bosun's mate to sound his three-toned whistle into the speakers.

"Now hear this, now hear this, this is the Captain. I know a great many of you have been wondering why we've been running this exercise as long and as hard as we can, and I know a good many of you have already figured out that it might be more than just an exercise."

The heavy cruiser Tuscaloosa knifed through the mounting seas two miles ahead of New York with just a hint of a roll. But Captain Carroll Rickard felt like a kid on a hayride as he stood at the 1MC." For the last four days, since we left Norfolk, the US and the Royal Navy have been tracking the German battleship Bismarck and her escort, the heavy cruiser Prinz Eugen. As all of you know, Bismarck sank the battlecruiser Hood and badly crippled the Prince of Wales. At that point, the British asked for our help. One of our Coast Guard cutters found Bismarck this morning. We are going in to stop her."

Commander Terence Wingard braced himself against a hatchway on the bridge of the destroyer Ericsson as they took another roll, this one combined with a sharp jolt as they bucketed across the trough of yet another wave. Tightening his grip on the 1MC, Wingard toggled the switch again, and his clipped New England accent ran through the ship. "Now, every minute that Bismarck is out there, she's a bigger and bigger threat to the convoys, and it's not too far off to say that if she got loose long enough, she could change the course of the war. And no matter how you feel about it, the bottom line is that if the British lose, eventually we'll have to fight the Germans ourselves."

Commander Mike Allen was hanging on to a stanchion with one arm and the 1MC box with the other as the destroyer Nicholson rolled like a wobbly prizefighter. His Southern accent though, was undiminished by the roll:" an' when that happens, we'll have to fight them over on our side of the pond - in sight of Myrtle Beach and Miami instead of Iceland. Now, I know y'all weren't expecting a fight like this, and neither was I. But it's our job, pure and simple. Now, we expect to find Bismarck within the next few hours. Admiral Blaine on New York says if we find her early enough. Then we will deal with her. If not, we'll shadow her through the night and let the carriers get the first licks in at dawn. Either way, it has been a very long time since a US ship of the line went up against an enemy vessel like this. We're going to be in good company, with ships like Constitution, Constellation, men like Decatur, and Truxtun." Blaine paused for a moment, unsure of what to say next "There's a lot of people counting on what we do in the next few hours. We can't let them down. Blaine out."

CURTISS SOC-3 SEAGULL - 'LADY LIBERTY' - 1700 HOURS

The cloud layer was getting steadily lower, and Lieutenant Paul Keller was having a hard time keeping the Seagull out of the clouds yet high enough to be able to see anything. The wind was picking up as well, and the little scout was starting to bounce hard.

Keller felt a tap on his shoulder as Petty Officer Olnewski, his observer, let him know it was time to make another turn, and the P&W engine picked up slightly in tone as he hauled it to port. The water below them was a steely gray, whitecaps rippling across the surface as far as he could see. He took a quick glance at the clock, just in time to see the hands snap into place at 1700. His fuel status was right where it was supposed to be - he had roughly twenty minutes left before he'd have to turn for home.

Actually, Keller mused, with the winds getting heavier; maybe we needed to go back now. By the time they got back to the New York, he might need to make a couple of passes before setting down along the battlewagon's lee side.

"Ski!"

"Yo, Lieutenant?"

"I'm calling it quits with this weather. We're gonna need all we got to make sure we get back in one piece."

"No arguments, sir." Olnewski made a notation on the acetate covered map and nodded to himself. Keller was a lot smarter than some of those cowboys he'd flown with, and had an excellent sense of knowing just when to pull the plug on a mission. Oh well, he thought. The Ranger and Wasp had almost a hundred aircraft between them, and when they launch in the morning -

Wait -

Olnewski grabbed his binoculars and looked out to starboard, where he thought he had seen.

What? ...A wave?

Waves don't leave wakes.

Focusing the binoculars against the vibration of the airplane, Olnewski strained to see through the wisps of clouds that were wrapping themselves around Lady Liberty. Waves don't leave TWO wakes.

"Lieutenant! Contact to starboard, bearing.... Eighty five degrees, two wakes, sir!"

[MKSheppard]

Chapter Four - On The Field of Honor

DKM Prinz Eugen

"Kapitan! Air contact, 45 degrees!"

Kolb leapt down from his elevated seat to sprint to the starboard side of the bridge. Grabbing a pair of field glasses, he looked into the gray scud. Damn, there it was, ducking in and out of the fringes; its blue/gray colors almost invisible. A small biplane, most likely an American Curtiss. Kolb had his instructions from Lütjens a few hours before, and he had no compunctions about what he had to do next.

"Bring it down," he snapped, "and notify Bismarck." Kolb knew the limitations of the 3.7cm AA guns, and he knew full well that trying to bring down the Seagull was pointless, but he had to try. The battle stations gong sounded, but since most of the crews were already at general quarters, it didn't take long. Aboard Bismarck, the message from Eugen hadn't been transcribed yet before the bridge crew and lookouts saw the guns aboard Eugen start banging away.

Lütjens and Lindemann were on the bridge in moments, looking at the spray of black cloudbursts appearing off Eugen's starboard bow. Lindemann tried to make out the plane as Lütjens hovered to his left.

"Well?" demanded the Admiral.

"American Seagull spotter plane, not quite as advanced as our Arados," Lindemann said as he watched the fire thicken. "And like ours, it can be launched from a cruiser, or a battleship."

"Range?"

"Almost fifteen hundred kilometers, Admiral. But as a rule, their tactical doctrine doesn't call for launching until they're close enough to do something about it should they find something."

Lütjens looked into the distance, the sound of Eugen's AA fire coming back to them as short, hollow bangs. "Therefore..." Lütjens let the comment go unfinished. At the very least, somewhere out there was a ship with enough firepower to hurt Bismarck and her consort, at worst enough to kill them. And without question, that ship knew where they were.

USS New York

The bridge and Navigation were beehives of activity as the last echoes of the battle stations bell died away. Blaine, Danton, and their staffs were crowded around the table in flag plot as the navigator quickly laid out Bismarck's position based on the call from the Seagull.

"Okay.... Hmmm, all right, got it." The navigator stood back a moment, as much to admire his work as to let others crowd around the map table. "All right, gentlemen. Right now, Bismarck is showing as forty nautical miles away. At our present speed, we'll intercept in just about two hours, and within maximum firing range in just over an hour, practical firing range in about ninety minutes."

Everyone looked up at the clocks on the forward bulkhead. It was now 1705. A low whistle came from one of the officers gathered around the plot table. "1930 hours will be cutting it damned close," he said. "Maybe we ought to just have Tuscaloosa and the destroyers shadow her until TF2 can catch up."

Blaine looked carefully at the plot. "And if the shadows lose them during the night?" he asked. Pointing to the last position of TF2, he shook his head. "With the weather closing in and darkness coming on, it's not impossible that they could even get past two carriers and a battleship. And speaking of weather..." New York's meteorology officer was ready and he leaned forward to show Blaine the latest numbers.

"Right now, visibility is just over four nautical miles, with a five hundred foot ceiling. Darkness will be at 1955 hours local."

Blaine pondered what he had to work with for a moment, then looked up. "Gentlemen, this is going to be close, but I don't think we have a choice here. If we wait, especially in this weather, Bismarck stands a good chance of getting away. We lose her, and I don't think anyone will ever get a chance like this again. If we go after her now, worst case we slow her down and finish her in the morning, before the carriers get here."

That brought a chuckle from almost everyone there, Blaine was known as a battleship man through and through, with a polite respect for the carrier force, and no more than that. "All right then, it's settled. We'll do this the old fashioned way, Tuscaloosa covering the destroyers, then go in and deal with Bismarck ourselves. Pete, get the Seagull back, I want it aboard before we start getting into formation. Signals, send to all ships - we're going in."

DKM Bismarck

"Kapitan, Prinz Eugen reports that the American plane has left the area."

"Thank you." Lindemann hung up the handset and folded his arms as he looked out across the bow at Eugen. They'd tried; inadequate weapons weren't their fault. Lütjens stood next to him as silent as he had been for the last fifteen minutes, then suddenly turned to face Lindemann. "What time is sundown?"

Weather says five minutes to eight. The cloud deck will make it darker much earlier than that."

Lütjens nodded. He'd just come back from Navigation, and it was obvious his options were few. Turning east now would send them right into the redeploying British, with all the consequences that brought with it. He had no idea what lay to the west, and in any event their fuel status wouldn't permit it. One option and one only, continue southeast until they reached that convoy lane, and then east. God willing, by that point they'd be in range of the Luftwaffe's longest ranged patrol planes and they'd have a chance.

Lindemann never looked at the admiral as he asked, "What can they throw at us?

Lütjens thought for a moment. "Three or four old battleships. I saw some of them after the Great War. They look like castles gone to sea. We can deal with them."

Lindemann still gazed out over his forecastle. "Assuming the circumstances are in our favor."

"As long as we have a single gun firing...they are."

"Admiral." Lindemann's voice was quiet, but firm. "Please know that this ship and her crew will fight to their last breaths against any enemy who challenges us. But," Lindemann held up a warning finger as Lütjens began to interrupt. "But, Herr Admiral, we shall do it because we are Germans. Not because we are National Socialists, or because we are fighting for lebensraum, or anything else you care to attribute it to. We fight because we are Germans, no more and no less."

Lütjens said nothing for a moment. "Captain," he said slowly, "have you considered that possibility that I believe as I do because to do otherwise...would be to admit defeat?"

Lindemann thought for a moment, then replied, "No Admiral, I had not. Up to this point, I did not think you could."

"I can, Captain. Quite easily, in fact. But I would prefer to believe that we have a chance to get past both the British and the Americans and get home. As long as they," the Admiral motioned vaguely towards the horizon, " believe we can fight, they will be cautious. As long as they are cautious, we can win." Turning to Lindemann, determination in his eyes, he asked, "Do you believe we can win, Captain?"

Lindemann regarded him carefully. "I believe we can survive, Admiral. No more."

"Then let us survive. Like Germans. " For the first time since they had killed Hood, Lindemann began to think that Lütjens wasn't completely beyond hope. Nodding slowly, Lindemann replied. "Like Germans, Admiral. What do you have in mind?"

Lütjens thought for a moment, then turned to Lindemann. "Do you remember why we were able to get at Hood the way we did?"

"Yes, because they seem to have thought..."And suddenly, Lindemann smiled, already working out the maneuvers in his head.

USS Ericsson - 1745 HRS

The waves were breaking over Ericsson's forecastle now at an increasing rate, and Terence Wingard knew that no matter what happened, tonight was going to be a rough one. Gripping a rail as hard as he could, Wingard pulled himself over to the port side of the bridge. Just barely in view on the horizon was Nicholson, and Wingard knew that Mike Allen was probably having the time of his life over there. Astern, lost in mist, spray and smoke, was Tuscaloosa, and still further behind was New York. Admiral Blaine had said they would do this the 'old-fashioned' way, and he meant it. Covered by Tuscaloosa, Ericsson and Nicholson would go in and execute a torpedo attack, the idea being to take out Prinz Eugen so that Tuscaloosa and New York could finish off Bismarck.

Of course, Wingard thought, that sort of thing was 'by-the-book' only on the green tile floor of the Naval War College at Newport. Plus, it had been forty-two years since the last time a US fleet went up against an enemy at sea...and we won mostly because, as his instructors at Annapolis had pointed out, they were marginally more incompetent than the US fleet had been. Wingard, the descendant of generations of New England whaling captains and clipper mates, had made up his mind very early on that there wasn't going to be any incompetence out here.

Wingard was known as a stickler for detail, but a reasonably decent man to serve under, the kind of man who would cross all the T's and dot all the I's, and definitely the sort of man you would want to be with right now. A hundred or so feet aft of him his torpedo crews were standing by, soaked to the skin but ready. The Mark 15's had all been set for a run at 33 knots, enough to send them five nautical miles out, still uncomfortably close to Prinz Eugen's guns. But Wingard was pretty sure that between two destroyers, the Germans would have a pretty difficult time deciding whom to shoot at first. He looked again over the foc'sle as a wave spread itself against the bridge, hoping his lookouts would be able to even see anything out there.

USS Nicholson

Mike Allen rolled deftly with his ship as a wave was neatly sliced in two by her bow. Five miles out was Ericsson, looking as hard as they were for the Germans. Hopefully, if everything went right, they would come up on either side of Prinz Eugen, and execute a perfect torpedo attack, all the while evading the cruiser's fire.

"Bridge, contact on the starboard bow, 22 degrees!"

Allen thought for a moment that the destroyer would roll to starboard as almost everyone on the bridge headed for that side to see what the lookout was hollering about. "Damn," said Allen, almost to himself, locking his gaze on a thin wisp of black smoke, just barely visible over the horizon. It wasn't much, just a narrow, almost invisible tendril snaking up over the spray.

USS Tuscaloosa

"They've got them, Sir!"

The runner's grin was triumphant, but Captain Rickard's mood was anything but. He'd read too many of the intelligence reports that had come in from the Brits, and he knew what heavy gunfire was capable of doing to his ship and the two destroyers. Nodding, he replied, "Send to New York, tell them we'll hold the door as long as we can." Turning to the bridge staff, he said, "All right people, this is the payoff. Guns, get your solutions ready based on that sighting."

USS New York

Danton grabbed the handset that connected him with Fire Control. "Guns, how about it?"

"Not yet, sir," came the almost disappointed reply. "In this weather, seventeen thousand is probably a lot more realistic, and ten thousand's a lot more practical. On the other hand, Bismarck shouldn't be able to shoot accurately outside of twelve, and we ought to be able to scoot past that."

"Got it." Danton hung up the phone and went back to the bridge windows that looked for the entire world like the armored helm of some medieval knight. Turning to his executive officer, Danton asked, "Lookouts got it yet?"

"No, sir," the XO shook his head. "They can just barely see the Tuscaloosa."

The two destroyers were knifing through the waves with bones in their teeth, effortlessly sawing whitecaps apart at 35 knots with Ericsson to the east and Nicholson to the west. It would be a classic destroyer attack, and so far it looked pretty good, Wingard thought as they got into position. "Distance to target?" he called.

"Fifteen thousand yards, sir! Target is maintaining constant speed and bearing!"

Wingard focused his binoculars once more. Heading into the wind, the waves were blocking them from getting a really good view of the Prinz Eugen, and right now the cruiser was hull down, mostly hidden by the whitecaps. But she was still being quite obliging and maintaining her speed and bearing.

Mike Allen had no doubt that any second now, those eight inchers would start barking, and he would have to hold his ship steady as they went in on the last few minutes of the run. Stepping quickly to the starboard bridge wing, he looked astern, spray running over his helmet, to see Tuscaloosa banging up as quickly as she could, her turrets already trained slightly to starboard at Prinz Eugen. Nicholson bucketed hard suddenly, and Allen felt her bow swing to starboard as the helmsman struggled to hold her. "Steady as she goes, son," came the South Carolina drawl. "Y'all have plenty of chances to see how she dances in a few minutes."

Zeiss optics, exquisite in their precision, tracked the two destroyers as they approached their stadia lines unmoving over undulating ocean and rolling ship.

"Range!"

"Ten thousand meters and closing!" Quite comfortable, the gunnery officer thought to himself, but the Kapitan wanted to be VERY sure.

"Range to the destroyers?"

"Eight thousand yards, sir!"

Rickard could see Prinz Eugen now. Geez, she was big for a cruiser...wait a second.... Rickard put his field glasses back up to his eyes again and studied the cruiser very, very carefully.

"Damn, she's big, Skipper," Nicholson's XO muttered to Allen. Allen smiled in reassurance, though he didn't feel it. "Op-tickle illusion, XO, comes from spendin' all your time a whole lot closer to the water than most people. " Allen guessed his range at just over eleven thousand yards now, and in just couple minutes they'd launch and boogie out while Tuscaloosa slugged it out with that monster.

"Range!

"Ninety-five hundred meters, sir!" The Kapitan had said to hold fire until they got to nine thousand, and be ready for some fairly violent maneuvering. "All turrets, stand by!"

Rickard's mouth went dry as he studied Prinz Eugen carefully. Something was definitely wrong...too long...way too many barrels...oh lord...that WASN'T Prinz Eugen...

Whipping around, he barked to the helmsman. "Bring us about, ninety degrees, now, now, now!" As Tuscaloosa heeled to starboard, Rickard lunged for the TBS to warn the destroyers, but the lookout called first, 'Target turning to port, sir, she is training her turrets, second target moving to her starboard!"

"Range is nine thousand meters, Kapitan!"

Lindemann smiled in cold fury and gave a simple order, "Commence firing."

Bismarck's forward turrets, still locked on the two destroyers, spoke first. It would be a second or two yet before the aft turrets, still locking onto Tuscaloosa, would fire. A shudder rippled through the entire ship as flame burst from the muzzles, followed by thick black smoke, almost like a shroud over the guns.

Splashes, towering overhead like massive gray and white trees, bracketed Ericsson as Wingard realized just what had happened, the two ships, intentionally designed to look alike, had just led him and Allen into an ambush. Everyone on the bridge realized it as well, and froze for a moment as they tried to figure out what to do next. Wingard could only think of one thing, and it was his only chance. "Bring us about," he roared, "one hundred eighty!" Spinning the helm, everyone on the bridge held on as the destroyer spun about, her hull now slammed broadside by waves she had been cutting seconds before.

"Range to target!"

"Ninety-five hundred yards, sir!" Nicholson was at the apex of her turn, and in just a second she would be pointing away from the German battleship. Perfect, thought Wingard as he bellowed, "Torpedoes away!" The torpedo crew had done a great job of tracking , and it paid off as the tin fish leapt from their tubes with a combined bang and hiss as their motors lit off, their props snarling as they dug into the water.

"Sir, torpedoes report six away, running straight and true!"

From Tuscaloosa they could see it clearly - Bismarck's guns roaring a second time, a short interval of silence, then a black and orange smear obliterating Ericsson's stern. The destroyer seemed to pivot on her fantail, then settled down, quickly losing headway as she leaned drunkenly to port.

"Somebody tell New York the plan just went to hell." Rickard said calmly. Somebody pointed off the port bow, and there came what had to be Prinz Eugen, cutting through the waves like a bayonet, preparing to get between Bismarck and the American ships. Bismarck was still heading east, at about 28 knots, Rickard guessed. Her forward turrets were masked now, but the aft turrets were training on them, and -oh boy there they go, "Helm, hard a port!"

On Ericsson, all hell had broken loose. The ship had shaken like a rat caught by a terrier, and the 35-knot turn stopped as if she had been lassoed by a rope, and why are we listing to port, Wingard thought to himself. But then he realized why. They'd been hit - no familiar hum of the engines beneath his feet, no banging as her keel slapped down on another wave. Struggling to his feet, Wingard pulled himself through the hatch on the port bridge wing and saw only smoke aft of the number three five-inch mount, with crewmen struggling to get fire hoses along the narrow deck. Every alarm on the ship was going off, and it was only then it hit him - the world's most dangerous ship was shooting at him, and he couldn't move.

"Kapitan, torpedoes in the water!!!!" Lütjens and Lindemann both ran to the starboard side, and it was hard to see anything until one of them porpoised up out of the whitecaps, a black, evil shape, mindless in its purpose, and heading for them.

"Holy @#%$..." Allen breathed as he watched Ericsson spin out of control and stop, and then two awesome splashes towering over his own ship, short by about two hundred yards, but close enough. It HAD been Bismarck; they'd been faked out. Okay, Allen thought, y'all want to play, we'll play. "Helm, flank speed, and point me at that damned cruiser!"

Rickard was pretty sure he knew what the Germans were trying to do - get Prinz Eugen between them and Bismarck while the battlewagon made a run for it, but that meant Eugen would also foul the range between them. Not a problem, he thought. We can handle the Eugen.

"Gunnery, open fire on Prinz Eugen!" Tuscaloosa's forward turrets barked, and at eight thousand yards, he was going to show them why they had been the Atlantic Fleet gunnery champs.

"The American is firing!"

Ernst Kolb thought to himself that the message was quite unnecessary as one, then two rounds splashed over on the port side, then a grinding THUD as he felt two solid hits aft of the bridge. Fire alarms went off as his damage control teams sprung into action. Calmly picking up the DC phone, Kolb asked, "How bad?"

"Both on the catapult deck, sir, the Arado is on fire and we seem to have a gasoline fire as well."

"Thank you." Kolb knew his crews were good enough to deal with it without his hovering over them. Eugen's guns spoke again, and this time they saw Bismarck's aft turrets roar one again, and they were - turning?

Bismarck was heeling hard to starboard as her helmsman tried something that should only work in the movies, 'combing' between the torpedo tracks as the five tin fish barreled towards them. Carefully, making sure he didn't overcorrect, the helmsman swung Bismarck's course between two of the oncoming tracks. With a little luck, thought Lindemann...in the meantime, he picked up the phone to main fire control.

"This is the Kapitan, Anton and Bruno on the first destroyer, Caesar and Dora on the cruiser!" He had barely hung up the phone when all four turrets let go a terrifying roar.

Aboard Tuscaloosa, the crew cheered when they saw the first impacts on Prinz Eugen, and cheered even louder when they saw Nicholson banging away, her five inchers spitting defiance as she came up on the portside. The TBS buzzed as another salvo left the cruiser, and Rickard picked it up, ducking as a salvo from Eugen landed in the water to port.

"Rickard!"

"This is Allen, turn to starboard NOW." Rickard looked up to see Nicholson's torpedo tubes swing out to port. Damn, Rickard thought, this is going to be close. "Hard a-starboard, now!"

"Torpedoes away!" Allen called as Nicholson banked hard to the right, cutting across Tuscaloosa's course, though out of the corner of his eye Allen saw the big cruiser heeling hard over, we ought to be okay, we ought to be okay and then the world went red and then black -

"Jesus!"

Tuscaloosa's X O had been looking directly at Nicholson's bridge when a fireball blossomed just beneath the number two five inch mount, spraying debris and smoke into the air. But before anyone could say anything else, four splashes bracketed Tuscaloosa, sending towers of water high overhead.

Like the devil pointing a finger at you, Lindemann thought as he saw the wakes stream harmlessly past to either side of Bismarck. The destroyer that had fired them was still dead in the water, and aflame from its third turret aft. Pity, the captain thought, but they would have to be taught a lesson. Anton and Bruno, twin warriors with a common cause, spoke once again.

Wingard had just gotten his feet back under him when the entire ship seemed to jump, then roll again to port. Staggering back against the bulkhead, Wingard caught a glimpse of the inclinometer swinging wildly, then stabilizing at around fifteen degrees? Oh God...

The XO staggered in, blackened from head to toe and an ugly gash down his left cheek, his voice breaking as he tried to stand in the hatchway. "We took at least two...maybe three hits from that son-of-a-bitching battleship," he panted. "She's awash from the fantail forward to frame 42, and afire from number three mount aft. I don't think she's gonna make - " Ericsson gave a sudden lurch and both men watched in horror as the inclinometer dangled at seventeen degrees. Wingard looked out at Bismarck, racing past, but now seemingly shooting over their heads.

"Get the men off, XO. Abandon ship."

It wasn't until the smoke cleared from Eugen's second salvo that her lookouts saw the torpedoes, and Kolb knew he wouldn't be able to evade at that range.

The whole ship suddenly rattled and Kolb felt the impact of two more, again aft from the bridge. The destroyer that they had been shooting at was now lurching off at high speed, smoke and flame still pouring from forward of her bridge. All four turrets spoke as one, and Kolb reasoned it might very well be for the last time as he stabbed the collision alarm.

"Skipper," Tuscaloosa's XO shouted, "The fish are gonna get her. " Rickard never had a chance to answer as the entire ship staggered under Prinz Eugen's final broadside, smoke and flame rippling aft from the number one stack.

Thud THUD THUD - and Eugen was rolling to port as three torpedoes slammed into her hide, blasting everyone on the bridge off their feet and into whatever bulkhead or upright would stop them. The lights flickered, then died in the deepening twilight, and Kolb felt the engines pulse, surge, then die. At the same time, the ship started listing to starboard. Pulling himself back up, he saw everything forward of Anton bent unnaturally off center, the two turrets themselves now silent, with Bruno's guns depressed towards the ocean.

Mike Allen was only aware of how cold it was as he opened his eyes and looked up into a gray sky shot through with smoke and flames. He felt something tugging on his right leg and saw a corpsman doing, something, then looking up to see his Captain looking at him. "Relax, sir, " the Corpsman said with a smile, " we'll have you back on your feet in a few."

It would be a lot more than a few, the corpsman thought, but you never said that to a wounded man. Then Allen looked past him and saw a five-inch barrel sticking up from what had once been a turret, and the entire exterior of the bridge blackened and twisted. "Did we get that SOB?" he asked the Corpsman weakly. The Corpsman grinned from ear to ear, reached down, and rolled Allen's head so he could see the flaming wreck of Prinz Eugen.

Lindemann was on the starboard bridge wing as they turned west, and he could clearly see Prinz Eugen, motionless and starting to burn against the sky, with the American cruiser heading after it, aflame herself but with her forward turrets spitting out salvo after salvo. Lütjens hurried down the ladder from the Flag Bridge, and stood beside him. "Eugen's gone, Admiral. I'm going to try and get that cruiser off of her the best I can so Kolb can get the crew off. "

Lütjens nodded as the two forward turrets roared. "Any sign of an American battleship?"

Lindemann shook his head. "Not yet, but I have a feeling we will, very soon."

Rickard was huddled in one corner of the bridge with the senior DC officer, listening to the rundown of the damage. Number three turret out and on fire, all the starboard secondaries out, the boat deck and catapult deck aflame. Out of the corner of his eye, Rickard saw a ripple of fire across Prinz Eugen again, merging with the flames that were already billowing from beneath her number two turret and from amidships. "What I'm asking," Rickard said, "is can we hold her together?"

Everyone ducked as light flashed, a solid shock wave rumbled through the ship, and water poured over the bridge. Bismarck was at full speed now, crossing astern of Tuscaloosa, and closer than anyone had thought. Oh Lord, thought Rickard. Bismarck was crossing his T astern, where he didn't have even so much as a popgun to shoot back with. Where the hell was the New York, dammit, where was she?

Eugen shuddered once more as another detonation rocked her aft but Kolb could tell just by the feel of it that this one wasn't another hit. This was INSIDE -

"We have a fire control solution, Kapitan!"

Ernst Lindemann looked through his field glasses at the American cruiser, still moving smartly but at near point blank range for Bismarck's massive 15" rifles. The command was short and succinct.

"Shoot."

All four turrets roared, flame lancing out a hundred feet from each muzzle, the weather covers rippling in the shockwave, and if you looked carefully you could actually see the rounds moving in the twilight.

"DAMMIT-"

Everyone on Tuscaloosa's bridge hit the deck when they heard the lookout call that Bismarck had fired. Anton went long, arcing over the ship and bursting off her starboard bow, but Bruno scored first, both rounds plunging deep into Tuscaloosa aft of the #1 stack and Rickard felt his entire ship snap like a whip. On deck, the crew saw fountains of flame jet backward out of the penetrations, followed by gouts of filthy smoke and debris. No one wanted to even think about what it was like below decks right now where the rounds had landed. Caesar hit next, with one round missing but the second knifing through Tuscaloosa's side just forward of #3 turret, cutting cleanly through six decks into portside engine room. Finely tuned and carefully maintained marine engines became disintegrating slabs of hot metal, boilers became cauldrons that engulfed and killed their keepers. Dora didn't strike home, but it was almost as good, with both rounds bursting just a few yards off the stern, turning fluid water into steel hammers more powerful than those that had built the cruiser.

With a grinding, awful CRUNCH the hydraulic effect of the water tore the starboard side shaft cleanly out of its mounts, and it dangled precariously from one of the 'V' shaped supports that had held it in place. As it did so, the rushing water pounded the cruiser's finely balanced rudder, bending and twisting it until it could barely turn. Tuscaloosa had gone in seconds from a sleek thoroughbred warship to a near-powerless hulk, rapidly losing headway as the portside engines strained to keep her going.

"We can't get the fires out, Kapitan!" The young lieutenant had to bellow to be heard over the cacophony of sounds over Prinz Eugen in what Ernst Kolb knew were her last moments. "The crews are already reporting detonations amidships from the secondary magazines!"

Kolb looked over the bridge rail at what had once been his ship. She was nothing but scrap iron now, and if he waited much longer she would be his crew's tomb. Damn, he thought. Close, so very close... Turning to his First Officer, Kolb shouted, "Abandon ship, get the men off and -"- Rumble-rumblerrumble THUD-

-NO -

Six decks below and aft, in a secondary magazine, a single shell, battered and fractured by shock and heat, detonated. Chemical reactions formed, expanded, dissipated, leaving incandescent gas in their wake that moved at thousands of feet per second, exploding other shells in its path and repeating the process thousands of times in the space of a few seconds, increasing its violence exponentially.

Prinz Eugen's armor and structural members, forged of the finest Kruppstahl, were intended to take direct assaults from a human enemy and survive. But in their worst nightmares her designers had never considered this - a mass, uncontrolled detonation almost precisely amidships of hundreds of tons of the finest high explosives Germany could produce.

The men fighting the fire on the starboard side disappeared, vaporized as shock and heat waves moved outwards seeking the paths of least resistance as they sought escape from their gray prison. Hatches flew off hinges, vents and bulkheads burst as if they were paper. Before a single second had passed, the explosion had engulfed the cruiser's midsection and was expanding ever outwards, dark jets of smoke and debris blasting up from hatches and vents. By the time Kolb felt the last detonation begin deep inside his ship's heart, she was already a gutted carcass.

Overpressures far beyond anything she had ever been intended to face were now tearing the cruiser apart from inside. Even as Kolb felt his feet whip out from under him Prinz Eugen's midsection was disintegrating, simultaneously collapsing and expanding as the explosion came closer and closer to freedom. Almost two hundred feet of the ship was now vanishing in a mushrooming black and red ball as the major structural members of the ship flexed and shattered.

Now Prinz Eugen was no longer a ship, she was two disconnected hulks, both doomed. Separating just forward of the engine rooms, the dead weight of the massive turbines dragged water into the stern half, so quickly and heavily that the fantail moved almost perpendicular within seconds, the engines that had thrust her through the Denmark Strait now acting as anchors and dragging the graceful stern under with an awful roaring and hissing of escaping air.

In the forward half, the explosion had found itself trapped again and like any trapped creature it became angry, clawing its way up, forward and out even as the forward section began a slow, majestic roll to starboard. On its side and down by the bow, shells in the forward magazine rolled, tumbled, collapsed bulkheads from their weight and crashed through into the dying explosion, renewing it, giving it one last moment of life as the forward main magazine detonated with....

....Complete silence as the crews of Tuscaloosa and Bismarck watched horrified as Prinz Eugen's forward section disappeared in a ball of white light, a shock wave racing outwards like some luminous soap bubble towards Tuscaloosa. Rickard watched in detached fascination as he saw a complete 8" turret sail leisurely upwards, describing a wobbly, lazy arc as it impacted the water a few hundred yards from Eugen, then the entire ship shuddered as the shock wave hit, and the power went out. Tuscaloosa illuminated by her own fires and the funeral pyre of her enemy was now adrift, with the world's most dangerous warship bearing down on her. The cruiser's stern was swinging to port as she vibrated to a stop, so there was at least the possibility the forward turrets would come to rest pointing towards Bismarck...no, thought Rickard, Bismarck would turn them into scrap metal long before they ever got power back to the turrets. They'd gone down swinging, Rickard thought. Turning to the XO, he said quietly, "Pass the word for everyone to take cover as best they can...stand by to abandon ship." A lookout's voice called, "Sir, Bismarck is training her turrets on us!"

Lindemann and Lütjens stood on Bismarck's bridge, impassive and silent as they saw something red and molten disappear into the ocean where Prinz Eugen had been, falling debris creating a shroud of spray around her grave. Anton and Bruno moved noiselessly into position, barrels depressing to train on the crippled American.

Gunnery called, "Kapitan, we have a firing solution, standing by!" Lindemann looked once more at the place where Eugen and his friend Kolb had been, then said quietly, "I intend to have the main battery fire at will, Herr Admiral. I want nothing left of that ship except a memory." Lütjens nodded. "As you wish, Herr Kapitan."

Lindemann picked up the phone to gunnery.

"Range to Bismarck, six thousand yards, sir!"

Carroll Rickard stood as tall as he could, and the men on the bridge behind him took comfort from it, standing a little taller as well. If they had to die, it sure as hell wouldn't be hiding behind some piece of metal. They'd look their executioners in the eye.

A portside lookout saw it first. He thought at first, it might have been something from Prinz Eugen's pyre reflecting off the clouds. No?definitely a flash, lightning? The freight-train noise that followed seconds later told him otherwise, building to a crescendo before a flash illuminated Bismarck's amidships, a wicked flower of black and orange blossoming just aft of the stack, spraying hot shards of metal and wood across the ship.

"GOT HIM! SKIPPER, WE GOT HIM!" A cheer sounded throughout New York as the word spread that they'd laid one squarely on Bismarck, and Danton allowed himself a small smile of triumph. The hard part now was going to be getting her again.

[MKSheppard]

Chapter Five - Half A League Onwards

Everyone on the bridge snapped to as they felt the solid THUD of New York's round landing on the boat deck almost simultaneously with a lookout calling, "Bridge, Lookout five, battleship to port, range eighteen thousand yards!" Lindemann swore under his breath as he grabbed the phone to Gunnery. "Gunnery, bring all turrets to bear on that battleship!"

On Tuscaloosa, Rickard and his crew watched in amazement as the turrets that had been trained on then suddenly swung almost 180 degrees away. And for a moment, Rickard thought that Bismarck was just toying with them. But then he saw a flash in the darkening skies behind Bismarck, as the battleship turned away from them. He knew - hell, anyone who could see what was going on KNEW - they were going to have a few more minutes, and as long as they had time, they had a chance.

"Range?" Bismarck was just barely visible now in the dying sunlight, masked further by the spray and mist as Captain Danton asked for the distance to the German battlewagon as it slowly began to change its aspect to New York.

"Sir, range is now...seventeen five!" Danton nodded, almost to himself. "Helm, bring us about, ninety degrees!"

"Aye aye, sir, ninety degrees!" New York heeled slightly, but otherwise held rock steady as she swung to starboard, unmasking her main battery - ten fourteen inch rifles, each capable of throwing two rounds per minute. In terms of metal thrown, Bismarck was able to fire faster, but New York could put more rounds on a given spot - at least in theory.

Danton looked quickly at the clock. 1952. It was going to be dark in minutes, and the only chance they had was to lay a broadside on Bismarck within the first two or three salvos. After that, all they could to was hope that Task Force Two could slow it down enough in the morning for Texas and Rodney to finish the job. And after what had happened to the two destroyers and Tuscaloosa, there was no way that any man on the ship would let Bismarck get away. Turning to his XO, Danton quietly said, "XO, give the order to commence firing at will."

"Aye aye, sir!" The order rang through the ship and within seconds, New York let go a full broadside, a Jurassic roar echoing over the ship.

"...And shoot!"

Bismarck had nimbly brought herself around to a heading of ninety degrees, now parallel to New York as all four of her turrets spoke as one. Almost simultaneously, Lindemann felt the ship surge beneath him as the engines spooled up to flank speed. The plan now, such as it was, was simple: get away from the American battleship as quickly as possible. More than likely Bismarck would be able to fire quickly enough to make them keep their heads down, and without the cruiser and destroyers to protect them the Americans would have to be very, very cautious. The difficulty though was that Bismarck would end up with her T crossed at some point by the American.

"Bismarck has fired-"

Everyone on the bridge heard the freight-rain roar, saw the drowned flashes of light as the first salvo neatly straddled New York.

"Not good," the XO said to Danton, as he tried to focus his binoculars on the last place he'd seen the rapidly disappearing German.

"Straddle, Kapitan!"

Yes! thought Lindemann as he watched the tree-like barrels of Anton and Bruno pivot downwards slightly as they locked up on their targets. The flashes from the straddle, though doused in seawater, had illuminated New York just enough that his gunners had the range.

"Talk to me, Pete, where is she?" Admiral Jim Blaine's voice had just the slightest edge to it as he searched the horizon for the Bismarck.

"Damned if I know, sir - wait, incoming!"

Eight 15" muzzles flashed the fire and smoke extending like a sheet from Bismarck's side. The hollow thud from the guns came across the water, simultaneously with the sound of rustling leaves and the rising piercing whistle, and everyone on the bridge instinctively ducked as Anton's two rounds both impacted squarely on New York's foc'sle, a spray of glowing debris and flames spreading to starboard. The shock wave from the explosion shattered the ports along the bridge and everyone still upright staggered back under a blast of heat, sound, and glass fragments, only to be staggered again as New York replied, all ten barrels roaring defiance.

They were getting to be veterans now, Lindemann thought with some pride. They didn't even duck when the fountains of water sprayed upwards in the gathering darkness short of Bismarck's billowing wake. Lütjens was on the starboard bridge wing, watching New York shake off the first hit. Lütjens wanted to rush back into the bridge and take command, to lead, but he knew better at this point. Lindemann knew what he was doing, and so far seemed to have things well in hand. The world flashed orange once more as the broadside lashed out. "How bad?"

"Took away most of the foc'sle deck, Skipper. Fires in the chain locker right now and we may have flooding below."

"Handle it."

Danton hung up the phone to DC and turned back just in time to see Bismarck's guns flash again. "XO, what's the problem! Why can't we hit the damned -"

With an appalling roar, another round landed solidly on New York, this time just forward of #1 turret, sending wood, metal, and God only knew what flying into the air and sending everyone on the bridge staggering again.

"Solid hit, Kapitan!"

From Bismarck, Lütjens could see only a faintly glowing cloud enveloping New York forward of her first turret, and for a moment he wondered what the Americans called their turrets, then shook off the thought. That was making them too much like us, and that was not good in combat. Respect your enemies, even honor them, but do not make them your friends.

Blaine staggered back to his feet to be greeted by the brimstone heat and glow of fire, and the sting of ocean spray coming in through the shattered bridge ports. There were flames leaping up from the base of the #1 barbette, evil orange pillars that writhed as if possessed, reaching up high enough that their tips loomed over the tops of #2 turret. Danton was out on the bridge wing, leaning over to see how bad it was, then called, "Hard a port, now!"

The helmsman spun the wheel around, but Danton felt it as he watched the turrets swivel - the bow seemed like it didn't want to move, sluggish and wallowing. The firefighting teams were on deck, trying to wrestle hoses out and ignoring the fact that in seconds another round was very likely to end their efforts - and their lives. Danton could see the turrets moving smartly to starboard and he instinctively looked up at the conning tower, hoping that gunnery was going to get on the ball up there. In gunnery, the whirr of the mechanical computers, still state of the art despite their age, buzzed through the compartment, a counterpoint to the sound of men calling out distances, proportions and angles then feeding them through to the turrets themselves.

As New York pivoted slowly to port, the starboard wing turret was unmasked and its crew, ready and waiting since the fight started, stood by for the word that a firing solution had been reached and they could open fire. Young gunners and rough-edged Chiefs alike did their best to stay calm - or at least look it. But none of them could ignore the unfamiliar thuds that shook them between the steady booms of the big guns.

One old Chief, a grizzled veteran named Kolchack who - or so rumor had it - had been at Manila Bay as a powder monkey, strode through the crowded, almost claustrophobic interior of Number Three, making sure his men knew he was behind them, and just as importantly making sure they knew that this time there was no margin for error. Normally his tone was a cross between a construction boss, and a drill sergeant. But now it was simply firm and direct, loud enough to be heard over the crash and roar of combat but still a comfort to men who had been on farms and street corners just a few months back.

"All right people, look sharp!" Kolchack's voice echoed even through the confines of the turret. "Miller, watch that bag, get the powder to the gun, not the deck!" Kolchack kept looking over his shoulder, at the rating that held the heavy brass trigger in his hand, headsets strapped tight over his ears. As he waited for the command to fire in unison with the other turrets or to fire at will, but the young sailor just shrugged with a look of near confusion. Now Kolchack was starting to get worried, but he had no intention of showing it. Just to be on the safe side though, he started easing towards the turret's local control system, their last resort for training and controlling the twin 14" rifles if something had gone wrong topside.

On Bismarck, Lütjens had his glasses focused on the fire that was now burning strongly on the American's foredeck. He wasn't quite able to make out the details, but...Arkansas, perhaps, or Arizona? What fools would send men as brave as these against him in a ship like that, the Admiral wondered, saying a silent prayer that their new one, a Nord Carolina, whatever a Carolina was, was still fitting out. Just then, as he tensed his shoulders for the expected roar of another broadside. It never came but instead, Bismarck heeled to starboard. Turning to look back at Lindemann, he saw the captain and the bridge staff pointing into the distance. Looking again through his glasses, he saw the American, turning -

Danton had the phone in a death grip as he tried to peer through the smoke and haze into the darkness, where somewhere out there Bismarck was waiting for them. "Gunnery!" "Guns, Captain, hit that goddamned ship!" The pause that followed chilled Danton to the core.

"Sir, we can't...SEE her. Our optics aren't designed for night fighting and the fire forward is keeping us from getting a firing solution...we're shooting blind, Skipper." As if to emphasize the point, turrets One, Two, Five and Six roared once more, but into empty darkness.

"We need illumination, Skipper!"

Danton's head snapped around to face Admiral Blaine, his face pale in the red battle lights. "Fire Control's lost her, Admiral. I think we need to - "

The lookout's voice was high-pitched and strained. "Sir, target aspect is changing!"

Lindemann wanted this over and he wanted it over NOW. The American had kept firing short and ahead, but as the range closed, they'd begin to get themselves sorted out, and he wanted no more of this, especially with the Ami about to try and cross his T astern. Ordering a turn to starboard, he watched as Anton and Bruno, mirrored by Caesar and Dora aft, pivoted to track the Ami with all the awesome, ponderous dignity of a knight drawing his sword. There was a brief pause and....

"Bismarck is shooting, sir, estimate range twelve thousand yards!" Oh my God, Danton thought, they're CLOSE...

More than seven tons of metal and high explosive soared into the dark Atlantic night from Bismarck, moving at almost two thousand feet per second. Spinning along their long axis, the rounds kept climbing until they felt the inexorable tug of gravity start to pull them down, gracefully and steadily. They were invisible to anyone at their target, just as they had been to the crew of Hood two days ago. It was just as well.

The first round impacted solidly onto the bridge overhead, cutting through steel and wire sinew as if there had been nothing there at all. An observer would have seen the bridge windows flare orange, red then white before the bulkhead bulged, expanded, then ruptured before the force of nearly one ton of high explosive. The next two landed shorter by only a few feet, but that placed them on New York's citadel, just below the viewing slits. When she had been built, New York had been the last word in the ultimate weapon, and her armor had been proof of that, but no more. Armor buckled, bulged, shattered and then vaporized as two 15' rounds cut into the citadel and detonated.

Another round drilled straight through the side of Turret 2, and a shaft of fire and smoke shot straight back from the hole as blast covers tore apart and smoke was blasted outwards around and through the mounts and the 14" barrels. Turret 2 was dead, and its death throes cut power and hydraulics to Turret 1, whose men now found themselves locked in the dark, echoing turret.

As fire and heat spread through what had been Turret 2, the men who had been below it, the shell handlers and ordnancemen who had survived the initial tried to escape the magazine area. One Chief held a hatch open as his men tried to escape, stumbling in choking yellow smoke, illuminated only by the rapidly failing emergency lanterns.

Suddenly the compartment illuminated like high noon, there was a wave of heat, and the Chief found himself at the base of a ladder leading up from the magazine proper.

What the hell am I doing here? And something didn't feel quite right awfully warm and bright here...oh hell, the Chief thought, looking around him to see flames leaping up around him throughout the magazine space. He knew what had to have happened - the powder stores, lined up for New York's next shot, had to have been hit and let go.

Gotta get out... But legs that had worked just a few miutes before didn't respond.

Gotta think...what's wrong, dammit...the Chief reached down to check his legs.

Oh hell...they weren't there.

The Chief looked around in terror, his heart racing, then wincing as another powder charge partially burned, partially exploded over his head.

I'm dead. I'm not getting out. Closing my eyes is so much easier.

The mag's gonna go. The mag's gonna go the same way that Kraut did.

As the ship shuddered under the blow, Chief Kolchack looked up to see a red light suddenly illuminate, confirming his worst fears. Something had killed Fire Control, and he and his crew might very well be on their own. Lunging for the local turret controls, he had almost made it there when the ship began to heel to port, and for one awful heartbeat, Kolchack thought they were going over, but no, she was TURNING...

The mag, the Chief thought.

Gotta flood it. Gotta flood the mag. That'll do it, gotta flood'em.

Rolling over the best he could, the Chief lay face down for a moment on the cool linoleum covered deck, breathing hard and coughing as he inhaled the thick, choking fumes.

God, that HURTS, stop, think.

The Ship.

Always. The ship first.

The Chief nodded to himself as he felt heat coming closer.

The Ship.

Not like this, not here.

It took everything he had to hike his arms forward and start pulling himself along the deck....

[MKSheppard]

Chapter Six - The Valkyrie's Escorts

From Tuscaloosa's bridge, Rickard and his staff could see the impacts on New York, feel the dull thuds in the pits of their stomachs. Rickard swallowed hard as he watched the battlewagon literally stagger once, twice, then remained wreathed in smoke and flame. Rickard stepped back out on the bridge wing amidst the acrid smoke that was still billowing up from his ship's innards and looked grimly down on the bodies being brought out. He was still looking when the runner came bounding up the ladder and almost slammed into him.

"The Cheng's compliments, sir!" the young seaman saluted breathlessly. "He'll have power back -" the whole ship gave a sudden BUMP, and the hum of electrical equipment spooling back up vibrated through the Tuscaloosa - and the runner grinned from ear to ear - "right about now, Cap'n!"

Rickard smiled, even as he felt the propeller shafts vibrating in their mounts. They were MOVING, and as long as they were moving, they had time.

"Cap'n, Lookout reports destroyer approaching from the aft port quarter, looks to be Nicholson!" Rickard looked back again, and sure enough, the Nicholson was racing forward with a bone in her teeth, smoke still pouring from the number two mount and a signal light blinking WHERE'S THE PARTY? Damn, thought Rickard with a smile. That old moonshiner Allen never gave up, even if he was flat on his back. "Okay, people, ? Rickard bellowed above the din, "We're back in the war! Give me every turn you can and point us at that damned Kraut, we gotta think of something!" Obediently but almost painfully, United States Ship Tuscaloosa swung her bow towards the rapidly disappearing Bismarck, Nicholson moving up at flank speed alongside her.

The Chief took a deep, quivering breath, getting just enough oxygen to keep him from going under.

Okay, just a little further....piece of cake, right...? No time at all...

He knew this mag as well as he knew his own quarters, and even though the big valve wheel couldn't have been more than a few feet away, it still seemed like it was on the other side of the ship. One more deep breath and the scarred, blackened elbows began to hike him forward once more of the deck. The heat was getting far too intense now, and some vaguely remembered piece of training told him, quickly, that when it got to the point where you were sweating from generated heat inside a mag, you only had...what...?

Minutes...?

Seconds..?

No time at all...

The DC parties on the bridge level knew it would be bad, they had steeled themselves for that, but when one burly seaman pried the hatch open with a crowbar, they saw nothing. The hatch that had once opened onto the crowded, cluttered bridge opened onto empty space, framed only by a few jagged pieces of metal jutting up from what had once been bulkheads. Where once had been heard orders and directives, only the sound of wind and combustion echoed thru the space.

Where the deck plates and the wheel and the binnacle and the skipper's chair had been was just...a hole...going down into an smoldering inferno surrounded by what had been the conning tower. The wind blew briefly, and smoke from the wrecked number two turret, burning paint, wood, and oh, gawd.... It was an unfamiliar odor, but each man in the DC party knew what it was as they turned around to find the nearest sound powered phone to report to auxiliary control. There was nothing that could be done here for anyone, and in a few moments that might become the epitaph for United States Ship New York.

Several hundred feet aft, the men in Auxiliary Control were trying to figure out what had happened when New York suddenly heeled over to port, now swinging away from Bismarck. The helmsman reached for the emergency wheel, only to have it whip out of his hands, burning them with its friction. Unknown to them, when New York's bridge vanished; the wheel locked in a turn to port before it vaporized in the blast from Bismarck's shells. The massive hydraulic rams that moved New York's rudder were frozen in position, obedient to their last command.

And in Turret Three, Chief Kolchack had taken command. He was ensconced firmly in the local control gear, peering out through the stereoscopic rangefinders, even as New York continued to turn, he knew he still had a minute or two to fire...if he could just find the goddamned target....

The Chief's hand slapped down on the red valve wheel as another wave of blackness swam over him. He knew that this was his last warning. That the next one wouldn't end...with one last, superhuman effort, he twisted the wheel to the left, and felt a blast of cool air from somewhere as he heard an odd popping noise.

I know that noise...

He was a young bluejacket on the Delaware...

It was a beautiful day...a Virginia summer day that would never, ever end...warm, so very warm...

And some ass dropped a box of fuze boosters onto the quay...

And they were going off...

A cheer unlike any Lindemann had ever heard roared up through Bismarck as flames and smoke rose up from the Ami's bridge and turrets. The men hadn't been that excited when they'd taken out Hood, but then, even Hood hadn't been able to score a hit on them. Although the distance was opening up, Lindemann knew the Ami's guns were still dangerous, but he could easily leave Caesar and Dora to deal with them as he got his ship out of danger.

As if in answer to his thoughts, the two aft turrets roared into life, illuminating the low clouds as they sent four more rounds headed towards the Ami. There was just enough reflected light from the blazing ship to see two land short, and two land just over, that sudden turn, that had to be it. "Helm, bring us about to starboard, parallel to the enemy battleship!"

"Jawohl, Herr Kapitan!"

Picking up the phone, Lindemann didn't even wait for the gunnery officer to answer. "I want a full broadside directly on that ship, no excuses!" Lütjens heard the exchange and smiled with grim satisfaction. Two battleships in one cruise, he thought. This might even scare the Tommies the rest of the way off.

Rickard grabbed the phone to Gunnery and seemed almost surprised when his gunnery officer answered. "Guns, we gotta help New York!"

"Not at this range, Skipper, but I'll try!"

"Good, get to it!," Rickard paused for a heartbeat, then it hit him why New York hadn't scored.

"Guns, belay that, load everything with starshell and fire directly at Bismarck, open fire when ready!"

"Aye aye, sir!" Turning to his XO, Rickard shouted, "Get Nicholson on the TBS and get them in on this!"

Aboard New York, all hell was breaking loose. There were no communications with the forward half of the ship. The Auxiliary Control crew was still fighting the steering gear, though the turn had leveled out enough that she was now turning in a wider circle than before, but still bringing her perilously close to Bismarck, which had now turned south again, and had unmasked her entire main battery. The DC crews were reporting nothing left of the bridge or fire control, and now she seemed to be...down by the bow?

Aboard Bismarck, her gunnery officer was watching with pride and no small amount of satisfaction the efforts of his crew to line up the broadside in the American. At this range, it was quite likely they'd penetrate to a magazine and then pay back a little bit of what Prinz Eugen had gotten. "Take your time, men, one good shot and we send them to join the Hood!" The cheers were deafening, but no one even looked up.

"Starshell loaded all guns, Captain!"

Rickard looked out over the bow and saw Bismarck illuminated like some nightmare ghost by her victim's fires.

"Solution complete, Herr Kapitan!"

Lindemann raised his binoculars one last time. He wondered who she was, they'd find out once they'd gotten home. A pity about what must be done, but that was the nature of their calling.

With a flat, sharp CRACK, both of Tuscaloosa's forward turrets spoke, as did Nicholson's number one mount, sending starshells winging upwards in a perfect ballistic arc towards their targets. Before Bismarck's lookouts could even call in what they had seen, the shells burst overhead, illuminating the sea for miles around in a harsh, glaring light that cast deep shadows everywhere on the ship, except for one round from Tuscaloosa's number two turret. Instead of the time fuze bursting it overhead, it continued in a perfect ballistic arc and impacted on Bismarck aft of her rakish conning tower. Immediately, the magnesium fillers burst into hellish flame, their heat scorching, charring, and deforming everything nearby.

Admiral Lütjens, just a few yards away on the starboard bridge wing, felt a wave of heat unlike anything he had ever felt wash over him. Fire, he thought, the sailor's worst enemy, one thing you could find no refuge from at sea. Lütjens watched transfixed as the crews standing by for just such an emergency raced ahead, only to be pulled up short as their fire hose wrapped itself around a bollard. Cursing, Lütjens flung himself down the ladder to help, unnoticed by Lindemann and his staff as they spun around the other way to see where the starshells had come from.

Chief Kolchack smiled like the Devil himself as Bismarck was suddenly, perfectly silhouetted in Turret Three's sights, with...an aiming point...right...about...there....

Bismarck's gunnery officer had a sense of history, and deep inside fire control he rose to his feet, unaware of the sudden glare above. If they were about to kill their second battleship, he would make it a moment to remember. Snapping to attention, he roared, "Men of the Bismarck - Ein Reich!"

"EIN REICH!", returned the chorus.

"Ein Volk!"

"EIN VOLK!"

"Ein-"

"FIRE!" Kolchack's roar could have been heard outside the armored turret walls as a gunners mate squeezed the heavy brass triggers.

Turret Three threw two 14" shells at a perfectly illuminated target, barrels recoiling backwards and breech blocks clanging open as the gunners moved like men possessed to reload as quickly as they could. It took just three heartbeats for the massive fourteen-inch rounds to travel the distance from New York to their targets, and when they arrived, they struck true.

Over Lütjens' shoulder he heard the awful freight train roar, knew too late what had happened and I've got to get DOWN - but the blast did it for him, crushing him to the deck with an appalling snarl of rending metal and expanding gas. The admiral gasped for air as the concussion from the simultaneous explosions knocked the breath from his lungs, and he struggled to look up only to see another flash from the Ami. The same ship they had so casually written off just a few moments before.

Kolchack felt the ship reach the apex of her turn and knew he'd only get one more shot before the turret would reach her stops. He risked a glance down to see the gunners hold their hands up, indicating the breeches were loaded and sealed. Looking back through the viewfinder ...GOT THE SONUVABITCH! A rapidly expanding cloud of gas, flame, debris and God only knew what else was right where he'd put it and with a silent prayer that he could do it again. He roared, "FIRE!" one last time.

Kolchack's instincts weren't quite perfect. The next two rounds landed a little ahead and below, detonating against the base of Bruno turret and deforming the heavy bearing races, insuring that Bruno wouldn't move again short of a long dockyard visit.

Lütjens struggled to his feet and collapsed against a bulkhead. Looking up, he saw smoke and red flames streaming from the bridge. Racing up the ladders as quickly as he could, he was almost immediately enveloped in choking billows of heavy, gagging smoke. Staggering through, he felt rather than heard the thud of the damage control and fire parties coming up the ladders. All he could really hear was the crackling of small tongues of flame and the pop of shorted electrical circuits, occasionally punctuated by a shower of sparks. It looked like the Ami had hit just below the bridge into the conning tower. But the explosion had wrecked everything. Lütjens looked around, paralyzed for a moment, then he heard movement, peering into the murk, he saw Lindemann ...

...Moving towards him, emerging from the smoke like a wraith, a look of grim determination on a blackened face and mein Gott, oh mein GOTT something, a length of pipe or conduit run right thru his chest. Lütjens' stomach rebelled, and a dry heave wracked him as Lindemann shuffled closer, then stopped and slowly sank to his knees on the blasted, littered deck. Lütjens reached forward to keep him from falling over, and the captain's eyes suddenly focused on his. With what had to be the last strength in his body, Lindemann grabbed the lapels of the heavy peacoat Lütjens was wearing and moved his lips, soundlessly at first then, three faint words...."Yours...to...command...", then a hacking, bubbling cough as he collapsed, this time with a slow, dignified finality. The DC parties were on the bridge with him now, and they didn't move, but rather watched the tableau without a word. Finally, one stepped forward and gently took the captain's body from Lütjens, carefully easing him onto what remained of his bridge. The space was suddenly filled with men racing about, extinguishing fires and tending to the motionless black forms that were now becoming visible on the deck. Lütjens stood motionless for a moment, then looked aft through the stinging smoke. An irregular shape was disappearing into the darkness and two faint, phosphorescent streaks alongside it. The Amis, they did worse than kill us. They hurt us.

Lütjens barely acknowledged the runner who came pounding up the ladder, panting as he snapped to attention. Finally, Lütjens slowly swiveled his gaze to him. "H-herr Admiral," the young seaman stuttered, "The Chief engineer's damage report." Lütjens said nothing, just continued to gaze at him. Swallowing hard, the seaman said, "Main fire control is out of action, and Bruno is jammed in place. The ship is under control from the emergency helm, we have taken on no water and all fires are being fought."

Lütjens stood silently for a moment, so long that the seaman was about to repeat himself when the admiral spoke in a low voice, almost indistinguishable in the din. The look in his eyes was one of shock, of hurt, of sadness as he quietly said, "Tell emergency helm to set a direct course for home, best possible speed."

The admiral then spun on one heel, and slowly walked away, being very deliberate and careful not to tread on the bodies of the bridge crew. After all, they were heroes. On reflection, Lütjens thought, they were more than that. They would be the heralds. The men whose trumpets and banners would announce the arrival of that greatest of Nordic warriors, the Valkyrie. It would be a sight to truly stir the soul as flags snapped in the wind and the braying notes echoed off cliff and canyon, as the Valkyrie ascended, amidst flame and smoke and honor, unto Valhalla. The cries of wounded and dying echoed off Bismarck's gray flanks as Lütjens passed, but he only heard the sounds of glory.

RENNES AERODROME, OCCUPIED FRANCE - 1935 HRS LOCAL

Colonel Willi Hautgren stood on the long, grassy meadow that was his flightline in the early twilight and watched the frantic activity that surrounded his charges. The call had only come through a few hours before - from the Reich Marshall himself, no less, and if Willi hadn't personally known him, he'd have thought it was a joke, until he sat down and thought about it for a second. It was completely foolhardy and most likely impossible, not to mention simply insane, but the more he thought about it, the more the idea began to have some vague possibility of success. But actually, vague was as good as it was going to get, but it would have to do. They were being tasked with the most incredible rescue mission the Luftwaffe had ever attempted, and they were GOING to succeed or die trying.

Hautgren turned to see a Volkswagen bucket its way towards him, and once it stopped, out jumped Major Robert Ritter Von Arngrim, his executive officer. From the looks of his uniform, Hautgren thought with a smile, he had been downtown enjoying a little company when the sentries had found him. "Bloody hell, Willi!", Von Arngrim snarled as he strode towards his commander. "A man can't even enjoy a simple dinner-"

"Quiet," Hautgren said with a smile, but before he could continue, he realized Von Arngrim was looking at the bustle of activity all over the field. "Willi, what the hell is happening? It can't be the Invasion, it's a couple of years too early, according to those idiots in intelligence."

"No, but perhaps the next best thing. Follow me."

The two men walked across the grassy field in the spring twilight, and soon a shape took form - a trim, slender four-engined aircraft in dark green with light gray undersides, sitting on two stalky, oddly bent landing gears. The Focke-Wulf Fw200C Kondor started life as an airliner, and had fate decreed differently, fleets of them would have been hauling Lufthansa's silver and red colors to the four corners of the globe. But instead, war had come, and the Kondor's incredible range and payload capacity made her a world-class maritime patrol plane. If the Luftwaffe had any sense, Hautgren mused, a pretty fair heavy bomber as well, but the Reich Marshall had his heart set on some tandem-engined monstrosity from Heinkel that always seemed to be almost ready to fly...but never did.

When the two men reached the first Kondor on the line - Hautgren's personal ship, the long bomb bay doors were open and light was streaming from inside. Von Arngrim ducked under the doors and peered inside to see his armorers finishing the installation of a blocky ferry tank. Just ahead of the tank were the grim, stubby shapes of two 500-kg bombs. Von Arngrim turned back to Hautgren, puzzlement on his face. "All right, Willi," he finally said, "I give up. What the blazes is going on here?"

Willi Hautgren smiled like a man who had the secret of how to break the bank at Monte Carlo. Putting his arm around Von Arngrim's shoulder, he led the puzzled Major away, asking in a genial tone, "Tell me, Herr Baron, how are your over water navigation skills?"

[MKSheppard]

Chapter Seven - Day of The Condors - Dispositions

25 MAY 41 USS Wasp CV-7 - 2345 HRS LOCAL

It is almost axiomatic that a knock on the Captain's door during daylight is usually just routine business, but after lights out, a knock means some sort of problem. Captain Robert Dorrant of the carrier Wasp had that in the back of his mind as he rolled over to answer the knock with a sleepy, "Enter." Light filled the compartment, silhouetting a Marine orderly in the hatch. "Beggin' your pardon, Sir," the Marine rumbled. "Admiral Scarbrough's compliments, an' he needs to see you on the bridge as soon as possible."

Dorrant shook his head to clear the cobwebs, then peered at the Big Ben with the luminous dial beside his rack. Not quite midnight, he thought. "Okay, tell him I'm getting dressed and I'll be there shortly."

"Aye aye, sir", and the Marine gently closed the hatch, his footsteps echoing back up the passage. Dorrant swung his long frame out of be and quickly donned a fresh pair of khakis, then grabbed a jacket as he headed out. It might be May, he thought, but it could still get cold out there.

Less than two minutes later; Dorrant was in Wasp's flag plot, the red battle lights adding an air of unreality to the whole thing. Bent over the map table, surrounded by his staff, was VADM Mitchell Scarbrough, USN, and the task force commander. Dorrant strode over to the map table and said a quiet, "Good evening, sir," to Scarbrough.

Scarbrough, a tall patrician aviator, who was one of the first Naval Aviators to make Admiral, and stood a very good chance of becoming CINC of the fleet someday. Until then, however, Scarbrough was a real pain in the ass to have on your bridge. Scarbrough nodded to Dorrant and wordlessly handed him a yellow message flimsy. It was hard to read in the battle lights, but the important words stood out very clearly. After a moment, Dorrant put the flimsy down on the map table. "Dear God," he said quietly. "How the hell did that happen?"

Scarbrough shook his head. "It'll be a few days before we know for sure. All we know right now is that Ericsson's gone, Nicholson and Tuscaloosa are crippled, and New York basically has a broken jaw. They're headed for Reykjavik right now."

"Has anybody talked to Pete Danton? We went to the Academy together, I can't believe that he'd get himself in a situation like this."

Scarbrough's expression was, for once, as sympathetic as anyone else's. "Bob?" Scarbrough said gently, "They can't find Pete, or Admiral Blaine. New York took one right in the bridge, Bob. I'm truly sorry. For what it's worth, they laid a couple of good ones on Bismarck before they withdrew. Last report was that the Krauts were on fire and heading away."

Dorrant's mouth set in a grim line, then he nodded. "Okay," he said quietly, "okay. How do we get the sons of bitches?"

Scarbrough smiled mirthlessly. Pointing to a spot on the map, he explained, "This is Bismarck's last reported position and heading. Assuming it doesn't change, we'll launch the SBs at about 0430 to find her. As soon as we do find her, we launch everything, and I mean EVERYTHING we can put in the air, from both the Ranger and us. We'll send her to the bottom so fast they'll never know what hit them."

Dorrant nodded, looking at the map. Doing some quick mental arithmetic, he figured that if their luck held, they'd need the strikes loaded and on deck by about five. That meant they'd better get to work. Turning to the OOD, Dorrant ordered, "Go to general quarters, and get the CAG up here."

"Aye aye, sir!" A heartbeat later the GQ gong was sounding through Wasp, and a moment later through Ranger as well. Within a few moments after that, Commander Bart Newell, Wasp's Carrier Air Group commander, was in flag plot being briefed. Newell listened carefully to the situation; his mind going over the three-dimensional chess game that was modern carrier warfare.

"Admiral, the only problem I can see here is that this is going to be at the absolute limit of our effective range," Newell pointed out. "I understand that you want a maximum effort, but putting the entire air group out there?" Newell shook his head. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea."

Scarbrough dismissed Newell's concerns with a wave. "We'll have the Ranger's TBDs act as navigators, if that's your concern. Once the scouts find them, we'll have everything on deck and ready. There'll be little risk."

Captain Dorrant folded his arms and looked once more at the map. "Admiral," he said cautiously, "I'm inclined to agree with Commander Newell, and I think Commander Brockaway aboard Ranger would too. Maybe we should be looking at a mixed strike - a squadron each of our TBDs, Ranger's SBDs, and then send everyone out when we're closer and we have a damage assessment. Not to mention that since about," Dorrant looked at the bridge clock - "four hours ago, we've been at war with Germany.

We're going to need an anti-sub patrol, and that's going to chew up a bunch of our SBDs."

The look Scarbrough gave to his two officers could have frozen seawater, and they both knew what was coming, it was the same speech every time they did their jobs and offered options other than the ones he'd laid down.Roughly along the lines of, I-helped-forge-the-carrier-force-and-this-is-our-chance-to-prove-ourselves. Scarbrough could be relied on to launch into it at least once a day.

"Sir," Dorrant replied, "No one's arguing with your judgment. We just think that there ought to be a different approach, that's all." Scarbrough shook his head with the absolute confidence of a man who has made up his mind beyond any possible change. "We're way too far south to have to worry about any U-boats. CINCLANT would have given us a heads up if there were any danger. Even if there were, the destroyers can handle it. I want every aircraft that can fly on deck at 0500, fully fueled and loaded with bombs, gentlemen, and not depth charges. This is our chance to prove that the day of the battlewagon is just about through, and we're going to do it." At that, all three men looked through the darkened port towards a vague point on the horizon about fifty miles away, where their own battlewagon was on station.

USS TEXAS, BB-35

Captain Brian Shannon, USN, had been on his bridge since the report had come in from Norfolk about the fight between Bismarck and TF 1, his crew at GQ and the helm zigzagging. Officially, they were part of TF2, now on its way to intercept Bismarck, but they had been coming off a patrol far to the north of the carriers' position, and all they could do was make best speed to try and link up. Somewhere along the line, probably in the next seven or eight hours, Shannon thought, checking his watch, the British battleship HMS Rodney would meet up with them, and they would in turn RV with TF2 and VADM Scarbrough.

Shannon heard steps coming onto Texas' cramped bridge and turned to see his XO, Commander Tiornu stride in. Shannon gave a smile. "T, I thought I told you to get some sleep."

"Sorry, Skipper. Not entirely sure what I should be doing, but I know sleeping isn't it."

Shannon nodded. "After tonight, I don't think anybody knows what to do next. My God, T?I honestly don't think anybody believed we could have been so far outclassed."

Tiornu nodded in the red battle lights. "We hadn't built a new battleship in what, almost fifteen years? The Germans paid very close attention to what they learned in the last war."

"As did we."

"But they got there first." That thought alone was enough to give the two officers pause. Both knew the North Carolinas could beat Bismarck. But the North Carolina couldn't fight her way out of a paper bag right now, while Washington was still fitting out. The South Dakotas would do just fine, too, but they were still on the ways. And the BB-61s - still unnamed - would be the equal and better of anything on Earth. But they were still mostly paper, while an even bigger monster was contemplated after them. And not one of those ships, for all their superiority, was available now, when they were needed. Hard to believe, Shannon thought, that after all this time we'd have to fight a come-as-you-are war.

Steps on the bridge again as a runner came up from the radio shack with a yellow flimsy. Saluting smartly, he handed the form to Shannon, who returned the salute and signed for it. Putting on his glasses in the dim red light, he quickly scanned the message before handing it to Tiornu. Tiornu read through it then gave a low whistle. "Ol' Scarbrough is gonna let them have it but good. Think he can pull it off?"

Shannon made a noncommittal noise. "Those guys on the Ranger and Wasp are good, I've seen 'em fly. Trouble is, I don't know if they can bring down a battleship all by themselves."

"If the guys from Torpedo 7 can get in there, they can. At a hundred and ten miles an hour, under a hundred feet Geez, T, our tow targets are faster and more maneuverable than that. The only advantage the torpedo guys will have is that they'll be attacking out of the sun."

The two men turned to see one of the black mess stewards stride in with a tray of coffee, steaming in traditional handleless mugs. Shannon and Tiornu each took a mug, nodding to the steward, Petty Officer Williford Robinson. "How you holding up, Robbie?" Tiornu asked.

"I'll make it, Mister Tiornu"; Robinson smiled back, his voice smooth with the accent of his native South Carolina. In combat, Robinson was the bridge runner, and he made sure the rest of his stewards lived up to the same standards as he did, in short, move as though the life of the ship relied upon it. Shannon wished he could give Robinson, and for that matter, all of his men - the kind of responsibility and authority that they deserved. But the Navy wasn't quite ready for that yet. Shannon smiled though and said, "Glad to hear it, Robbie. Make sure your men are on the ball, we'll probably need 'em in a few hours."

"Good to go, Cap'n,", Robinson replied as he headed around the rest of the bridge. Shannon and Tiornu looked back out the port towards where TF 2 was supposed to be in silence for a moment before Shannon spoke. "Well, T, as long as you're up do a quick walkaround, see if there's any last minute problems we need to know about. If Scarbrough has his way, we'll never get into combat, but I want to be sure."

"Got it, Skipper." Tiornu sipped from his mug as he headed thru the hatch on the aft bulkhead. Shannon leaned back in the thinly upholstered captains' chair and contemplated what the next day might bring. Whatever happened, it was going to be a long one.

DKM Bismarck

The officers' wardroom was ordinarily a place of relative happiness and peace aboard Bismarck. But it was unlikely it would ever be so again as the senior staff met to decide what to do next. Lütjens sat, stunned, at the head of the table, his eyes focusing some distance past the bulkhead at the end of the wardroom. Around him sat Bismarck's chief engineer, her senior surviving navigator and senior surviving gunnery officer.

As Lütjens stared at the gray metal, the damage control officer was running down the litany of disaster. "The engines, thank God, are still in perfect condition, though I am now beginning to be concerned about our fuel level if we maintain maximum speed. I had urged that we refuel before leaving Norway, but apparently time constraints prevented it. We are now looking at being under ten percent fuel remaining in the bunkers once we dock, and that, of course, assumes that we take no further damage or fuel losses. As far as combat damage...in addition to the damage we took from Hood and Prince of Wales, we now are without the main bridge and main gunnery. I estimate the hits we took were fourteen inch, obviously armor piercing."

"We should have easily been able to shrug that off," one officer said glumly, but a young gunnery officer shook his head. "We were under ten thousand yards and the Ami was firing at almost zero elevation. There would have been severe damage no matter where it hit." Lütjens looked up at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. "Do I know you?" he said quietly, a look of quiet confusion on his face. "I don't think I know you."

The gunnery officer, a young Leutnant with a Norddeutsch accent, stood respectfully and clicked his heels. "Leutnant Nicholas, Ritter Von Demus, second assistant gunnery officer, at the Herr Admiral's command." Lütjens regarded Von Demus for a moment, then weakly waved him back into his seat. Still with his gaze fixed on the bulkhead, Lütjens asked, "So tell me, Baron Leutnant, can we still fight?"

Von Demus nodded, but with a grim expression on his face. "Of the main battery, turret Bruno is frozen in place from the hit just at the base of the turret. It is locked at zero degrees to centerline, but both rifles can still be elevated. We still have plenty of ammunition, and the secondary batteries are untouched. Our real problem is the loss of main fire control. We realized while working up that local control of the main battery was less than ideal. I estimate at least a thirty percent loss of accuracy under the best conditions."

Lütjens regarded this silently for a moment, then asked, "How is it you are alive?" Lütjens' question silenced the entire room. Von Demus looked the Admiral straight in the eye and didn't flinch. "I was at my duty station on the Emergency Bridge, Herr Admiral. Believe me when I tell you I would proudly lie alongside my comrades right now."

Lütjens said nothing for a few moments, then spoke quietly. "We have been ordered to maintain our present course. Kriegsmarine says they have something planned, but wouldn't tell us what over an open circuit. They simply said they would tell us once they know it has been successful. "

Pause.

"I am not confident, but we shall preservere." That silenced the room once more, and this time, a pall of dread began to spread through the assembled officers. Their captain was dead, their ship crippled, and their enemies surrounding them and the senior officer aboard had just announced that he was not confident of success. Quietly, each man to himself began calculating the odds of survival. Whatever the Kriegsmarine had in mind, it had better be good.

Kondor One - Somewhere Over the Atlantic

One nice thing about the Kondor's civilian ancestry was that it had what were probably the most comfortable seats ever put in a combat aircraft. And after eight to ten hours in the air, thought Willi Hautgren, that was a real benefit. He looked back over his shoulder at Leutnant Baden, the best navigator KG 40 had. The bespectacled young officer had really risen to the challenge and was getting them to their marks right on the money. Given the fact that they'd only had eight hours to but together the longest bombing mission in aviation history, overall he couldn't complain.

The big BMW radials were droning away, and every plane was behaving beautifully in the cloudy Atlantic skies. Stretched out approximately five kilometers behind and to either side was the rest of Kampfgruppe 40, nearly fifty aircraft in perfect formation. Von Arngrim had one group, Dolfo Becker the third. An appreciable fraction of the Luftwaffe's maritime strike force was being gambled on this, and every man aboard knew it.

Hautgren saw Baden make a notation, then get up and move forward to the radar operator's station where a young Feldwebel sat hunched over the weird blue glow of the ASV radar, four stalky antennas mounted along the nose of Kondor One. The two men watched silently for a moment, then a pale white spike appeared on the cathode ray tube, weakly at first, then pulsing into a solid, strong signal. Baden looked at Hautgren and nodded vigorously. They'd hit the waypoint, a surfaced U-boat, right on the dot. Baden plugged into the intercom system and said, "Herr Oberst, turn to new heading, three zero zero."

"New heading, three zero zero." The Kondor moved smoothly and obediently to the new heading, and Hautgren reflexively took a look at the clock on the panel. Just after midnight, he thought. That should put them in the target zone about...let's see...about five more hours. The ride there would be quiet, but at around four o'clock they'd need to start getting ready. The possibilities of this strike had Hautgren smiling in grim anticipation. Come in low, out of the rising sun, and they had a good chance of being the first Luftwaffe unit to sink a battleship at sea, along with its carrier escorts.

[MKSheppard]

Chapter Eight - Day Of The Kondor - Execution

USS TEXAS - 26 MAY 41 - 0345 LOCAL

Taptaptap-

Captain Brian Shannon woke with a start as the tapping of an orderly shot thru the sea cabin just aft of Texas' bridge. Shannon had lain down, lord, it seemed like just a minute ago. "Come," he called as the door opened, and Robbie Robinson leaned his head in.

"Sorry to disturb you, Cap'n," Robinson said quietly. "But the OOD said to let you know when the British showed up." Shannon looked at the luminous dial on the Big Ben his parents had given him. Three forty five, for cripes sake.

"Okay, Robbie," he said thickly. "I'll be right there."

"Aye aye, sir," Robinson replied as he closed the door. Quickly shrugging back into his khakis, Shannon strode onto the bridge, where the OOD saw him first and announced.

"Captain on the bridge." Shannon nodded to the young Lieutenant and asked, "Where away?"

"Bearing one zero two, Captain." Shannon picked up the field glasses and stepped out onto the chilly gallery outside the bridge. It was a few moments before Shannon saw the black shape on a blacker ocean, then was startled briefly by the flash of a signal lamp.

HIS MAJESTY'S SHIP Rodney

Captain Edward Haliburton, RN, stood shivering slightly just outside of HMS Rodney's bridge as he watched the approaching American ship. The Texas, he knew, had been in service for more than a decade when his ship had been new. But the Cousins had a way of making a ship last almost forever, or at least to the point where an RN ship that age would have been lucky to be a receiving hulk or a training ship, and not long since sent to the breakers. Rodney herself had seen long, hard use over the last three years, but she was still sound as a penny, and by all accounts, so was Texas. The kind of ships you want to go into battle with, Haliburton thought.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of steps beside him, and he turned to see Admiral John Dalrymple-Hall, RN stride up next to him. DH, as he liked to be known, was not entirely happy about having to sail into combat against Bismarck alongside the Americans, and was not making any secret about it. "Morning, Haliburton. The Cousins on time?"

"Morning, sir. A few minutes late. Apparently they've been zigzagging too."

"Mmm," DH said noncommittally. "They learn fast." Turning to the signalman standing beside the heavy blinker light, the Admiral took a small note pad from his pocket, scribbled something and handed it to the signalman, saying. "Send that to the Americans." The signalman read it and went to his work, albeit with a skeptical look on his face. Haliburton turned to DH with a questioning expression, and the Admiral gave a quick smile.

"Just a little humor to let our Cousins know we're glad to see them. I had him send..."

The signalman standing next to Shannon read the message as it blinked across the night sky. "Good morning...good morning...Where...exactly...is...Texas?"

Shannon blinked for a moment, trying to frame a suitable response, then a smile spread across his face. "Signals, send back..."

"Texas is sending back sir," Rodney's signalman.

"Go ahead," DH said. The signalman read it, and wrote it down, looking at the message then back at DH.

"Go on," DH said.

"Sir-", the signalman hesitated.

DH fixed the signalman with the same glare that had frozen a thousand sub-lieutenants. "I said...read it."

The signalman swallowed hard and read in a clear, strong voice, "Good morning, good morning, ...We'll tell you where Texas is if you'll tell us what a Rodney is."

Even in the darkness, Haliburton could see DH's lips compress to a thin line as he spun on one heel and stalked back inside. Haliburton had to suppress a snort of laughter and gave as firm a look of warning as he could to the signalman, who was dissolving in giggles.

"Signals," Haliburton smiled, "this will stay between us. Now, send this back to Texas - "Sorry about...that...Admiral...humor...good...to...see...you...Haliburton."

Shannon grinned as the signalman read back the message, and considered for a moment that admirals seemed to be the same everywhere. "Send back that its an honor, etceteras, and we'll assume station off their starboard side."

The two ships met like armored knights of old approaching a battlefield, and headed into the night.

USS RANGER CV-4 - 0415 LOCAL

Commander Richard Brockaway, Commander of Air Group Four, stood on Ranger's flight deck as the first of the ship's F4F Wildcats was brought up on the forward elevator. The first streaks of dawn were starting to appear through the cloud layer to the east, and he looked at the sky with an aviator's practiced eye. The F4Fs coming up now would be the carrier's combat air patrol, the airborne shield against other aircraft. Not that there would be many this far out, Brockaway thought, but the book called for it, so you did it.

Below, on Ranger's hangar deck, the final touches were being put on the birds that would go out after Bismarck, twenty-four Vought SB2Us with a five hundred pound bomb slung beneath, led by four lumbering Douglas TBD Devastators as navigation ships, each of them carrying a five hundred pound bomb as well. A few miles away, Wasp was putting together her own strike, bringing the total number of strikers to nearly sixty. Two Wildcats were on deck now, pilots strapping in and the Airedales moving the props through a few turns, with another four on the way. Tough little ships built like beer barrels, they didn't have the rubber-ball maneuverability of the old F3Fs they'd replaced but were a damned sight more powerful, with six .50 caliber machine guns bolted onto its rotund frame.

Brockaway was worried, often, that when it came down to it, the Wildcat just wouldn't be maneuverable enough in combat, but so far it looked like they wouldn't have to test it out here. The Pacific, now that would be another matter. Brockaway's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the 1MC blaring,

"Air Group Commander to the bridge, please, Air Group Commander to the bridge."

Brockaway strode through the nearest hatch and started the short climb up Ranger's compact island. By the time he stepped onto the bridge, he could hear the staccato coughs of the first two Wildcats turning over.

Captain Hal Drummond, Ranger's CO, was perched in his chair overlooking the flight deck shaking his head as he handed Brockaway a message flimsy. "You're not gonna believe this," Drummond said.

Brockaway took the flimsy and scanned it quickly, then looked at Drummond. "You're right," he said, "I don't. Why no CAP?"

"Scarbrough wants everything we have carrying bombs, including the 'Cats. He wants to make sure that the last thing Bismarck sees is a sky full of the US Navy."

Brockaway looked back over his shoulder to the flight deck. The first two fighters were being spotted for takeoff, their engines rumbling in the early morning mist. "It's a bit late, Skipper," Brockaway noted. "That's six 'Cats already fragged for CAP, getting 'em back down now will just delay everything else. It's crowded enough down on the hangar deck without having to bring another half dozen planes back down there and reconfigure them."

Drummond nodded. As much as he loved his ship, Ranger had her faults, and a lack of space was one of them. Brockaway had a point, and Scarbrough was going to have to live with it. Nodding, he turned to Brockaway and said, "Okay Rich, I'll handle Scarbrough. You gonna be ready at 0430?"

Brockaway nodded. "Piece of cake. I plan on being in the lead SB." Drummond smiled. "Wouldn't have expected anything else, Rich. Let me know when the planes are loaded."

Mitchell Scarbrough looked like he had just tasted something sour as he read the message from Captain Drummond aboard Ranger. They had assumed standard operating procedure, and now that was six fewer planes he'd be able to send against Bismarck. No matter, the fighters just would have been the icing on the cake.

A phone buzzed on the bulkhead and Dorrant picked it up. "Captain...got it." Hanging up, Dorrant turned to Scarbrough. "Everything's loaded, Admiral. The airedales are going to start bringing up the scouts now, and the strike will be on deck by 0500."

Kondor One - Somewhere Over the Atlantic

Willi Hautgren and his crews could already see dawn, but it was a leaden pewter gray, not the blue they were hoping for. Looking below once more, the clouds were a solid graphite colored deck stretching out endlessly before them. This was going to complicate matters even more, because he could use the ASV to locate the Americans; it wasn't accurate enough to bomb with. They had planned on going in low in any event, but he had hoped for better weather. Plugging into the intercom, He called, "Baden."

"Just over an hour, Herr Oberst."

Hautgren thought for a moment. "Baden, if we drop down now, constant speed and under the clouds, will we have enough fuel?" Even with the Kondor's built in range and the ferry tanks; it would still be a very close thing.

The Kondors were built for relatively sedate high-altitude cruising, not combat maneuvers at low altitudes. A number of Kondors had been lost on missions from what was apparently overstress of the airframe, the fuselage shearing itself in half just forward of the vertical stab, a problem that seemed to be exacerbated by manhandling the big patrol plane around at low altitudes with heavy loads. Just like they would be doing, Hautgren thought grimly.

A pause, then Baden's voice, firm but clearly concerned. "Just barely, Herr Oberst."

Well, nothing else for it. Stooging around at altitude, they couldn't see anything, and the ASV just wasn't accurate enough for them to make a completely blind approach. Selecting the short-range radio, Hautgren called, "Kondor Flight, Kondor Flight, this is Kondor Leader. Follow me down." Hautgren pushed forward on the yoke, and the Fw 200 obediently nosed over into the steel-gray murk. Within seconds, the armada had vanished from sight into mist and cloud.

In Wasp's radar room, a technician looked at his display for a moment, then blinked. The display had spiked, violently, then went clear again. He tweaked a control briefly and, there. Again the spike, at almost the maximum range of the radar, just about two hundred miles out. Turning to an officer behind him, he called, "Mister Pico? Could you come here for a second?"

Stepping over and leaning over the sailor's shoulder, Lt. Andy Pico asked, "What do you have?"

"Sir, I'm not sure. It looked like we had a contact, a big one, out on the far edge of the scope."

Pico studied the green cathode ray tube carefully. He still didn't quite understand how this damned thing worked, but he knew it was going to keep him and the rest of his shipmates safe, and that was enough to make him a believer. "What was the bearing?"

"I didn't get much of a fix on it, Mister Pico. About one ten. " The tube glared silently at them for a moment, then...

- WHOA -

Even in the training school, Pico had never seen a contact like that. Whatever it was, it was big, or there were a lot of them.

"Keep an eye on that," Pico instructed the sailor, then he picked up the phone to flag plot.

VADM Scarbrough ran to the charts and checked the bearing of the contact Pico's troops had picked up. Oh lord, oh lord.. The bearing was right. It's a Brit patrol plane, he thought for a moment, then just as quickly dismissed the thought. Pico knew his stuff, it was either the world's biggest airplane, or a large flight of something was headed his way. But out this far?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the first scouts roaring off the decks of the Wasp and Ranger, their gray coloring quickly disappearing into the dawn mist. Bob Dorrant stood behind Scarbrough, looking out at the lightening northern sky. It was still going to be overcast, with a low cloud deck, but rumor had it that the Germans could blind-bomb with their airborne radars, still a generation or two ahead of anything the US had.

DAMMIT!

Slamming the chart table, Scarbrough turned to Dorrant. "Get every fighter we have airborne - NOW."

"They're fragged for strike, sir."

"The hell with the strike. They can salvo their bombs on takeoff if they have to, but get 'em in the air. Same to Ranger."

"Aye, aye sir!" Dorrant turned to the OOD. "Sound battle stations, and tell Newell I want every Wildcat that can fly in the air now." The sound of the battle stations gong was echoing through the ship before Dorrant had finished speaking.

The cloud deck was less than three hundred meters, but the Kondors were handling well at the low altitude. Hautgren had the three groups in an inverted triangle, himself at the left, Von Arngrim at the right, and Becker bringing up the rear. They were now about forty-five minutes out, and the crew were starting to bustle about, getting the 20mm and 12.5mm weapons ready, the clatter of ammunition belts and drums being dragged through the fuselage even overcoming the drone of the Kondor's radials. In the bomb bay, a sergeant was carefully stepping along the narrow catwalk, pulling the arming plugs from the fuses and dropping each one carefully into a small red cloth bag. Wouldn't do to have them rolling about underfoot.

Turning around, Hautgren called to Baden, "Activate the radar, let's see where we are!" Obediently, Baden threw a switch and the cathode ray tube hummed to life, casting an eerie blue glow on the navigator's face. The spikes were there...but the formation didn't look big enough. There were two BIG contacts right on their track but there had to be at least one more, and it wasn't there.

"Herr Oberst," Baden called through the intercom, "We are right on track, but I am picking up only two, repeat two large targets." Damn, Hautgren thought. Two carriers, or a battleship and a carrier, either way, whatever he had laid out one hundred miles ahead was a more powerful fleet than even the entire Kriegsmarine could put to sea. And no mater what was there, he had to try and sink them to give Bismarck a fighting chance.

Taking a quick look at the fuel gauges, Hautgren saw them just over fifty percent. He had hoped to be able to stretch things just a little farther, but it was too late to turn back now. Hautgren knew, and so did his pilots, they were no fools. That they were facing a long trip home in possibly damaged aircraft and with barely enough fuel to get back to France, much less Rennes. Adjusting the throat mike on his helmet, Hautgren switched communications to the short-range radio used to give orders to other planes.

"Hello, Kondor Two and Three, Kondor Two and Three. We're going in. Tell your lads to keep their eyes open, the American will have their patrols up any minute now."

The crews had gotten to battle stations in record time, and Augusta had positioned herself on the threat axis, between whatever was out there and her charges. Between Augusta and the carriers, the Russell and the Wainwright had positioned themselves like two terriers, ready to attack whatever came their way. And in the sky above, three squadrons of Wildcats were desperately clawing for altitude, forming up over their ships as the radar operators on Wasp called the chilling countdown. Ranger's VF-41 was almost done, wheeling overhead like angry birds of prey, while Wasp's VF-71 and VF-72 were still frantically launching and forming up overhead.

Scarbrough stepped back off the bridge gallery and poked his head into flag plot. "How far?"

The location of all the ships in the area, superimposed on a giant circular grid with Wasp at its center. With a tick of a grease pencil, the sailor called, "Twenty-five miles, fifteen minutes, sir!"

VOUGHT SB2U VINDICATOR 42-S-8

The cloud deck was getting progressively lower as the gray dive-bomber droned onwards through the mist. Daring a glance at the altimeter, the pilot saw it unwind steadily through one thousand feet without any sign of things getting better. His gunner was carefully peering through a pair of binoculars, but it was with the careful effort of a man who really didn't think it was going to make much difference.

The sound of a tone in his headset got his attention as he tried to focus on the incoming radio message over the steady roar of the engine."... Say again, all aircraft, task force is under imminent aerial attack, do not acknowledge! Large force of aircraft inbound from the northeast, we will keep you posted as best we can! Ranger out!"

Naval aviators have their own unique set of fears. But probably none is as awful as the possibility that their ship might not be there when they get back, and for a few quiet seconds. The pilot did the mental calculations to try and figure out what his best chances were. The answer was, none. He was hundreds of miles from the nearest land - as was everyone else in the scout force, and even if they made it back to where the Ranger should be, there was no guarantee they'd survive a ditching. Setting his jaw, the pilot snugged his goggles on a bit more tightly and swore to himself that if somebody was going to take out his home. Then he'd make sure that they took a few of them with them.

If only they could find them. The altimeter unwound through seven fifty as the gunner looked up from his glasses for a moment, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The clouds started parting, fleecy strands pulling apart as a curtain. Might even be water visible now, the gunner thought as he put the glasses back up to his eyes. They dropped out of the clouds, and a massive gray shape, bristling with guns and with a huge black scar across her filled the binoculars.

The Vindicator dropped out of the clouds just a few hundred yards ahead of Bismarck's port bow, and for a moment every man on lookout stood transfixed as it shot across and back into the clouds again. Its engine suddenly snarling with power, seemingly close enough to see the crew's stunned faces. Someone had the presence of mind to hit the battle stations alarm, but by the time the crews rushed to the AA weapons, the little scout was back in the clouds again.

"Admiral!"

A runner sprinted out of Flag Plot with a scrawled message flimsy and shoved it at Scarbrough. The last of the Wildcats was now heading northeast, and just on the horizon's edge, a vague, indistinct shape was forming, spread across the bottom of the cloud deck. Scarbrough read it, then looked back at the oncoming bombers. "Get the strikers airborne - NOW!" The admiral looked back up once more and began to quietly pray that the fighters could buy them just a little more time.

"Achtung! Achtung! Enemy vessels, twelve o'clock low!" Hautgren had to strain, but they were just barely visible. By God, he smiled, Baden had done it.

"Herr Oberst, incoming fighters, one o'clock!" and Hautgren only had time to see a stubby, dark-gray shape appear, then disappear in the bottom of the cloud deck, like wolves ducking in and out of cover as they stalked their prey. Firewalling the throttles, Hautgren pushed the Kondor as low as he dared, simultaneously calling, "All units, attack, attack, attack!"

GRUMMAN F4F WILDCAT 41-F-1

Just a few short months ago, these planes had been beautiful polished metal with green tails that fairly glowed against an Atlantic blue sky, but they were all a solid blue-gray now, almost undistinguishable from the clouds they snarled through, wisps of curling gray mist. Spade lead swiveled his head from left to right in an easy, practiced motion, mentally checking off his troops. Twelve Wildcats were now airborne and heading away from Ranger. Seventy-Two from Wasp had finally gotten their ducks in a row and were now heading out, but it would still be several minutes before they got here. Until then...

"Spade Lead to all aircraft, they're at about one thousand feet. First section follow me, second and third sections scissor 'em. Tally ho!"

With that, Spade Lead pulled back on the stick with one hand, charging his six .50 caliber machine guns with the other. Three Wildcats followed him, while the rest broke left and right. The bombers were close enough to make out details now, slender and graceful things with green and gray topsides broken only by the black and white of stylized iron crosses on either wing.

Willi Hautgren had long ago stopped watching the clock or the altimeter and was focused on the approaching ships a few short miles ahead of him as he heard the gunners swiveling to the right. He couldn't see the other two groups and hoped they were still holding position on either side, the plan being to catch the Amis in a three-way vise. Hautgren watched with professional detachment as AA guns opened up almost simultaneously throughout the task force. Flat sharp cracks and bangs followed by ugly bursts of black and gray. We've seen worse, he thought. Then his gunners opened up.

Brian Shannon pounded up the ladder to the bridge, pulling his kapok vest and helmet on as he bounded through the hatch. Tiornu was already there, calling "Captain on the bridge!"

"What the hell's up?" Shannon asked.

"Message from Wasp. They're under attack, looks like a couple squadrons of heavy bombers."

Shannon reflexively looked at the sky, but saw nothing. Then he remembered that they were running behind, almost ninety minutes right now...and it had saved them. "Anybody tell the Brits?

Tiornu nodded. "As soon as we got the word. Skipper." Tiornu paused, not knowing how to frame his words.

"What?"

The XO shook his head. "Skipper, I don't think they got the strike off in time."

Spade Lead flashed through the Germans, his guns making an awful ripping noise as he squeezed the trigger. Ignoring the orange balls that floated almost lazily upwards toward him, he held the plane's stubby nose steady and watched the flashes of his ammo as it struck home against the lead plane, pieces of aluminum spraying off into the slipstream. Risking a glance to either side as he arrowed through the formation and pulled up in a tight bank, he saw Second and Third sections whipping past, smoke trailing from their wings as they fired and DAMN -

Three suddenly flared into brilliance and snap-rolled to the right, hitting the leaden water almost before anyone could realize what had happened. But even as he registered the loss of three, two of the German bombers were falling out of formation, staggering like drunken prizefighters as they headed down to meet the ocean in a flash of white and black and red. Two and Four rolled nimbly into position on either wing as they lined up for the next pass.

The decks of the two carriers were vibrating, first with the sounds of radial engines screaming into life, then pulling their aircraft up and into the air. Then with the sounds of the long-range AA fire opening up, the planes had been given a set of coordinates, with a simple set of orders, get airborne and sink that damned ship. About a dozen Vindicators were now airborne, and heading northwest, with more winding up. A few lumbering Devastators were slowly pulling themselves up to altitude, trying to get into some semblance of a formation. But to the northeast, the evil black shapes were now growing distinct, with smaller ones buzzing angrily around them.

Hautgren could make out two carriers now, along with what were probably heavy cruiser and destroyer escorts, but no battleships. No matter, Bismarck could handle the battleships. They would have to, he thought grimly as he reached over his head and activated the bomb bay doors. A few feet ahead of and below Hautgren, the Kondor's bombardier hunched over his sight, watching the ships approach closer. He was focused on the lead carrier, dialing it in while trying to ignore the appalling roar all around him. It looked like one of the Yorktowns....

VF-71's commander watched in grim satisfaction as one of the Germans tried to knife-edge away from his men, only to suddenly stagger and break in two just forward of the empennage. The bulk of the plane plummeting into the water almost too fast to follow while the tail fluttered lazily downwards. That was three so far, but the Krauts had gotten two of his, and at this rate, the trade wasn't going to be anywhere near even.

"Lead, I have him, the son of a bitch is all mine!"

"Red Three, you okay?"

"Blue Two's hit, but I th-AHHHH-"

"Damn, got him!"

On Texas' bridge, Shannon and his crew listened silently to the fighter crews in their struggle sixty miles away. It was like listening to a football game, he thought, but then the sounds of someone losing their airplane, and probably their life, would erupt out of the speakers, and no one felt like cheering.

The destroyers were banging away with everything they had now, and the gunners were shooting over open sights, firing directly into the oncoming formation. Hautgren watched in horror as a Kondor suddenly vanished in a greasy smear of black and orange, nothing even recognizable as an airplane left to spray down to the water. His bombardier was now locked onto his target, carefully adjusting the sights with one hand as he carefully picked up the release toggle with the other. "Almost.... " he breathed to himself.

VF-72 had cut through the third group of Germans like avenging angels, bringing down three on the first pass and two more on the second, but on the third pass the German gunners had held their fire until the very last second and opened up almost as one. An almost solid wall of orange tracers coming up to meet them. Six had vanished in a white fireball, while Nine's right wing separated almost in slow motion and the plane started a lazy, gentle spiral down to the water. Lead pulled the stick deep into his lap as the Wildcat spun on one wingtip back towards the Germans, the ships of the task force now looming far too close. They weren't going to make it...

Aboard Wasp, Scarbrough and Dorrant watched silently as the Germans approached closer, the black plumes of dying bombers punctuated by the bright flashes of Wildcats vanishing under the heavy German guns. Wasp's engines were firewalled now, and Scarbrough checked the positions of his escorts one more time to make sure that when, not IF, he have the order to evade, this disaster wouldn't be compounded by a collision. Just then, Wasp's short range AA began opening up, with an awful clatter that sounded like it could sink the ship all by itself.

Spade Lead watched in horror as a Kondor passed over one of the picket destroyers and salvoed its bombs, the destroyer breaking in half, and subsiding into a blister of dirty water and flame. Two of his men - or were they from the 72? - pounced on the Kondor and within seconds it was a streak of flame arrowing into the waves.

Scarbrough turned to the helm and called, "Evasive action, evasive action, send to all ships!" Almost at once, Wasp was in a tight turn to starboard, and within a second Ranger was following, only to nimbly turn back to port again, but not fast enough as what seemed like dozens of bombers all converged on the two carriers simultaneously. The two officers could say nothing. There simply wasn't time.

"Nail him, nail him!"

"Oh my God -"

"God DAMMIT!"

"He got the Wasp -"

"The 'cans got him, he just went in-"

"Anybody know how many?"

"At least ten, fifteen down so far-"

Of theirs, Shannon wondered, or ours?

The calls went on, slowly winding down over the next ten minutes until an authoritative voice came on and announced, "All aircraft, all aircraft, this is Ranger, say again, this is Ranger. Wasp is unable to recover aircraft at this time. Recover aboard CV-4."

Shannon turned to his XO. "T, call Ranger, give 'em our ETA and ask what we can do."

"Got it." Tiornu strode back towards the radio shack, and was back more quickly than Shannon had expected. Silently, Tiornu handed his captain a message flimsy.

FROM USS RANGER
TO USS TEXAS

WASP OUT OF ACTION STOP FORWARD FLIGHTDECK SEVERELY DAMAGED STOP TASK. FORCE CC TRANSFERRING HERE MOMENTARILY SENDS YOU ARE TO IMMEDIATELY RPT. IMMEDIATELY PURSUE BISMARCK STOP STRIKE FORCE IN AIR NOW EXPECT ATTACK WITHIN THE HOUR STOP DRUMMOND.

Below that was a set of coordinates with Bismarck's last known position. Shannon lowered the message and strode to the chart table, Tiornu alongside. Leaning over the chart, Shannon thought for a moment, then took a pair of dividers and worked out the distances. "About a hundred and seventy five miles,"

Tiornu noted. "Roughly eight hours at best speed, say about 1400."

Shannon nodded. "And after all of this..." his hand waved over the chart, cluttered with the tracks and positions of the task forces, "it all comes down to us and the Brits." Stepping back onto the bridge, Shannon announced, "This is the Captain, I have the conn. Helm; make your course three one zero, flank speed. XO, stand the men down to GQ and make sure everybody gets fed and rested, we've got a long day ahead of us. Signals, c'mere, we need to tell our friends what's up..."

"Bloody hell," breathed DH as he read Shannon's message before showing it to Haliburton, who quickly scanned it. "My sentiments exactly, Admiral. I take it then we're going to do things the old fashioned way?"

DH grinned wolfishly. "The right way, Haliburton...the RIGHT way. Have signals acknowledge to Texas and let's get to speed. Notify the Admiralty what's going on and then let's see if the Yanks want to do this properly."

[MKSheppard]

Chapter Nine - Unto The Breach, Part One

Lütjens stood quietly on the starboard side gallery, looking into the mists that hung just a few hundred feet off the water's surface, not even reacting as he heard feet pounding their way up the ladder. There was silence for a moment, and then he turned to see Leutnant Von Demus standing at attention. Nodding slightly, Lütjens said, almost gently, "We have been found."

Von Demus relaxed slightly. "I have heard, Herr Admiral. My gunners are at maximum readiness." But even as Von Demus said it, he was going over in his own mind just what kind of chance they would have against a full-dress air attack by the Americans. Although Bismarck had a fairly respectable anti-aircraft rig, it had been intended more for use against lone patrol aircraft or a few heavy bombers coming in from high altitude, not a carrier strike, and the standard for that had been British, not American. British carrier aircraft, Von Demus thought, were deficient in just about everything from looks to capability. But the Amis, he considered, practically invented the concept of the carrier strike.

"I would expect," Lütjens said quietly, "that the Americans will have their aircraft over us within the next hour or so. Please make sure your gunners are at their best. Dismissed." Von Demus said nothing, simply turning and leaving the gallery.

Lütjens turned slowly to look inside once again at what was left of the bridge enclosure. The more dangerous parts of the wreckage had been cut away, but anything cosmetic would have to wait until they made it back to Brest, IF they made it back to Brest. With an American strike almost certainly in the air, that prospect was highly doubtful.

It had taken several very long minutes to get the planes that had gotten away from Ranger and Wasp formed up, and Rich Brockaway wasn't happy with what was left. A handful of fighters and dive-bombers from Ranger and six ships from VT-7 had gotten away...and that was it. A few quick radio calls had established that Bart Newell had gotten his Wildcat off of Wasp and waded head on into the oncoming formation of bombers.

After that, no one was sure where he was. At least one of the DDs was gone, and Wasp was definitely hurt, but still afloat as far as anyone knew. Okay, Brockaway thought, fine. The plan had gone to hell in a handbasket, but you were supposed to expect that. Anybody could handle things when everything went right. He got paid to handle things when they went wrong. Except he was now going after one of the world's most dangerous ships with a pickup force of planes that wouldn't have been acceptable for a peacetime exercise.

The drone of an ungainly TBD pulling up alongside him in the markings of Ranger's VS-42 interrupted Brockaway's thoughts. At least one thing went right, Brockaway thought - in the TBD was Bob Henneman, who could navigate a flight through Armageddon himself if he had to, and Brockaway knew beyond doubt that Henneman had Bismarck's coordinates before they'd gotten away. Giving Henneman thumbs up, Brockaway throttled back and let the Devastator waddle into the lead. Almost instinctively, like geese falling into formation, the planes slipped into an arrowhead. The Wildcats were above and ahead, the SB2Us lower and back, with the Devastators wallowing behind. Henneman's TBD, struggling mightily to stay up front, waggled its wings and turned north.

Hell of a way to start a war, Brockaway thought.

I'm dead, Willi Hautgren thought, far more calmly than he had ever imagined. Wait a twinge of pain, worse than anything he'd ever known in his life, shot through him, and something deep in his brain told him, that you can't be dead, you HURT. There was noise around him now, something he was just becoming aware of, a very odd movement...not an airplane's steady forward push, but something different.

Open your eyes Willi, his brain told him. Try and figure out what happened and suddenly it all came rushing back like a wave, the run up to the American carrier, the sight of the other groups being cut to pieces. And the sickening feeling of his trusty Condor disintegrating around him as he pulled the bomb release...then a flash of red...and...,with an effort, Hautgren opened his eyes. He was in a room of some kind, everything uniformly gray with men in white smocks and blue dungarees hurrying back and forth.

And the largest man Hautgren had ever seen, wearing green fatigues and carrying a massive rifle, standing at the foot of his bed, staring down at him unblinkingly. If Hautgren could have jumped, he would have, but it hurt too much to do ANYTHING!

"Wie geht es dir?" The German words startled him, and painfully, Hautgren turned his head to one side to see one of the white smocks standing beside him.

"Nicht gut." The words came out almost as a whisper. "Wo bin ich?"

The smock thought for a second, trying to frame his words. "Sie sind an bord des Flugzeugförder maschine Ranger. Sie sind ein Kriegsgefangen."

It didn't work, Hautgren thought sadly. And worst of all...he was a prisoner. The smock leaned a little closer. "Sprechen sie Englisch?"

Hautgren nodded. The white smock seemed almost relieved to hear that.

"You've had quite a morning."

Hautgren was about to smile when a shadow suddenly crossed his mind. "My men-"

White smock laid a hand on his shoulder and the look on his face was one of genuine sorrow. "I'm sorry, Colonel"

"How many?"

White smock swallowed hard. "Our planes and ships confirmed twenty-two of your aircraft were lost. Several more were seen to be seriously damaged."

Hautgren said nothing and simply looked at the ceiling over his head, strung with conduit, pipes, and light fixtures. More than half. "Are any others here?" White smock had to think for a moment until he realized what Hautgren meant, then a look of understanding passed over his face. All he could do was shake his head, and Hautgren knew. The flier nodded, saying nothing for a moment, then said, almost to himself, "My family will want to know..."

White Smock nodded. "I imagine that as soon as we reach port, the Red Cross will contact your government and let them know your status."

"Danke." White Smock nodded and started to walk away, when he heard Hautgren croak, "Bitte. "White Smock turned and looked at Hautgren questioningly.

"I must know..." The question was faint and raspy and unfinished, but White Smock knew what it was. Returning to the bed, he bent close to Hautgren.

"Your men did magnificently, Colonel. They sank one of our destroyers and may have slowed us down to where we can't catch Bismarck. We'll know in a little bit."

Hautgren said nothing, but simply gazed at the overhead and repeated, "Danke."

White Smock nodded, walked to a small office, where he picked up a phone, dialing a four-digit number. "This is Commander Dale, let me talk to Captain Burke."

Burke was Scarbrough's chief of staff and was already making himself at home in a series of thoroughly unpleasant ways. "Yes, sir, this is Commander Dale, I just - no, sir, he didn't. Sir, the docs tell me he's in shock and probably couldn't tell us much - I know how important it is, Sir, but - yes, sir." Dale hung up the phone and turned to Ranger's chief medical officer, a stocky man in khakis with a white smock over his uniform. "When he's ready to be interrogated, let me know."

"Could be a while. I told you what his condition was."

Dale nodded. "That you did, Doctor. And if there's another attack on the way, I guarantee you our condition will be far worse than his."

Ranger's island was a crowded place under the best of conditions, but with Scarbrough and his staff aboard, it was worse, with staff officers running everywhere and generally making nuisances of themselves. Captain Hal Drummond had long since left Navigation and was now over in Air Operations, monitoring the progress of the strike. Grease pencil tracks marched steadily north towards Bismarck's projected position, and next to that red dot was a projected TOT of just over forty-five minutes from now, assuming they could still find the battleship in the crud they were flying into. Meteorology was still showing a cloud deck of just over two thousand feet, damned close for anything like a successful dive attack, which meant that Brockaway was going to have to go in level.

Drummond stepped out onto the gallery just outside of navigation to look at Wasp, staggering to keep up about a mile and a half away. Even from here, Drummond could see the charred wreckage of what had been Wasp's foc'sle, gray skies clearly seen through gaping holes in the flight deck and hull. The only reason Scarbrough hadn't detached her immediately was the fact that he might still need her to recover the strike, even if she couldn't launch anything.

Drummond shook his head once more as he walked back into Air Ops. No matter how things worked out, it was going to be a long trip back to Norfolk.

Aboard Rodney, DH and Haliburton were in Navigation reviewing their approach to Bismarck one more time. After a conversation with Shannon aboard Texas, it had been decided that Rodney would lead the approach, about a mile ahead of and to the north of the old dreadnaught. Now it was just a matter of waiting to see what kind of luck the airstrike had.

"I'm not confident," DH said quietly. "Nobody's yet been able to take down a major warship at sea that way."

Haliburton nodded, moving around the table to look at the approach from a different angle. "The cousins are pretty resourceful, Sir, " he said, bending down to get a look at the board, and for a moment DH had a picture of a billiards player examining the table, looking at it from every conceivable angle so as to find just the right one. Haliburton stood up and nodded slowly, signifying that he was as satisfied as he was going to be with it. Looking up, he saw DH looking quietly out the porthole at the leaden-gray seas.

"Sir?"

DH didn't respond for a moment, and when he did, he continued to gaze through the port. "You know...I don't think there's anyone on this ship who didn't know someone aboard Hood."

Haliburton nodded. "Commander Bill Banner, down in the engine room. Known him since Dartmouth. I always used to needle him about hanging around those bloody noisy engines of his" Haliburton pursed his lips, as if tasting something bitter, and paused, looking around the compartment to make sure no one saw the emotion he felt, then looked up again to see DH with his jaw quivering slightly.

"Sub Lieutenant Matthew Whitely, Gunnery. My godson..." Haliburton felt a lump in his chest, and he had no idea what to say. His wife and sons were safely at home in Plymouth, well away from the dockyards, but DH had lost his wife during the 'flu in 1918. She'd been expecting their first.

"Sir, I'm sorry..."

DH gave a slight wave of his hand. "They sent us the report from Prince of Wales already, you know. They said that when Hood...broke up...Turret Two, that was Matthew's, actually fired as it went down." DH rubbed the corner of his eye for a second, with a quiet sniff. "Must have had a go in the breech and the firing circuits closed, that's all." Haliburton was about to try and say something comforting, when DH suddenly turned, eyes moist and a look of utter fury on his face. "A load of bloody rubbish, Haliburton." the admiral said with more venom than Haliburton had ever heard him use before. "I knew that lad from the day he was born. If he was still alive as she went down, he fired that turret...I KNOW it."

Haliburton swallowed. "Yes, sir."

A pause. "Now let's get those bastards."

The gray clouds whirled past the Devastator's greenhouse like wisps of cotton candy in a breeze. LCDR Bob Henneman checked his compass and watch once more, remembering the words he'd taught to thousands of Annapolis freshmen in Elementary Navigation. "If you know your speed, you have a watch, and a compass, you can navigate around the world if you have to." Well, he had all three, wasn't really sure where he was, and was hoping above all else that none of those middies were in the ragtag strike flight he was leading towards Bismarck. Plugging into the intercom, Henneman watched the second hand on the panel clock slowly twitch upwards.

"Okay, Gablensky...on my mark...NOW."

The radioman aft made a quick tick on acetate with a red grease pencil, then quickly pushed the map through the TBD's maze of rollover bars towards Henneman. ...Plus ten seconds...

Quickly straightening the map in the cramped confines of the cockpit, Henneman followed the red line...and damned if it wasn't just a little to the south of where he'd expected to find it. Henneman allowed himself a triumphal grin, then remembered why they were there. Looking back over his right shoulder, he saw Rich Brockaway's SB2U, patiently keeping station. Henneman flipped the stick back and forth a few times, and was rewarded with the sight of the SB waggling its wings in reply.

Okay, thought Brockaway. Time to go to work... Snuggling his goggles down over his eyes, he keyed the radio. "Tally ho, tally ho, tally ho!" Throughout the flight, wings rocked once, acknowledging the call as pilots checked their harnesses once more and crewmen armed lethal payloads. Brockaway watched Henneman's TBD throttle back and slide into place with the other SBs - Ranger's TBDs only carried bombs, and that's how Henneman was going to go into action today.

One last tug on the harness, wouldn't do to get bounced all over the cockpit now, and Brockaway waggled his wings again. But this time, on the third wave, he brought the port wingtip back through the horizontal and into the vertical, deploying the massive airbrakes under the SB's wing as he did so. The SB shuddered, hanging on the ragged edge of a stall, but Brockaway coolly trimmed the throttle back and the bombers, lithe gymnasts to the TBD's lumbering prizefighters, rolled smoothly over and down almost as one, the TBDs moving more slowly and deliberately, but with a more ponderous menace to their actions. Brockaway looked over his left shoulder once more to see the strikers beginning their plummet downwards, the Wildcats following at close range...

...And into light, the gray fog of the cloud deck stripped away to reveal the mosaic of the North Atlantic churning fifteen hundred feet beneath them, almost in anger and defiance of the violence about to be visited upon its surface. Brockaway barely had time to get his bearings when he heard a voice over the TBS...

"Contact, ten o'clock, about five nautical miles!"

[MKSheppard]

Chapter Ten - Unto The Breach, Part Two + Last Post

"Where! Where!" Lütjens demanded, and a terrified young lookout, his eyes wide obliged his Admiral by pointing off to port, where a swarm of gray dots had materialized beneath the cloud deck and were now headed directly for Bismarck. A warrant officer lunged past Lütjens and swatted his hand down on the battle stations gong and the battleship was suddenly alive, awakening like some sleeping dragon aroused from slumber. But the anti-aircraft crews had already been awake for a very long time, and they were ready. Even before the pounding of feet on the deck had echoed away, Bismarck's guns were throwing down the gauntlet. The twin 37mm turrets on the port side had already swung out and were banging away at one round every two seconds, just like in practice. At 9500 yards out, the preset fuses on the fragmentation rounds detonated with a sharp CRACK, spraying jagged pieces of metal through the sky like showers of deadly confetti spreading outward from the filthy brownish-black burst that corrupted the sky.

Brockaway saw the bursts start, still some distance ahead of the strike and swallowed hard. He'd seen flak before, a long time ago over the Caribbean on a mission that still officially never happened, and it was enough to bring back memories of what it had been like in the little Curtiss Sparrowhawk. This time though, he had the bulk of the SB2U around him, and that was a lot more comforting than the light aluminum and cloth of the F3C. He quickly looked to either side and saw the TBDs splitting off into two sections, just like they'd briefed. The plan, insofar as they had one, would be to distract the gunners with the dive-bombers while the Devastators got into position for their runs. Brockaway just hoped that they could hold it together long enough.

Still more than five miles out, their ominous drone now audible to the men aboard Bismarck, the strike flight could clearly be seen splitting off into three, no, four groups, two weaving off on their own, while two more bored straight in, fast and low. In Emergency Gunnery, Niklous Von Demus, now the ship's gunnery officer, stood at the center of a jury-rigged pastiche of sound and electric-powered phones that ran to the turrets and fire control centers. Blohm und Voss had most efficiently, and fatally, ran every turret communication circuit through a central switch beneath main fire control...Which, Von Demus remembered, was now nothing more than a hole within the ship, wind and gunfire echoing through it.

Von Demus picked up one line he had made sure worked, the direct line to the Auxiliary Bridge, where Lütjens had the conn. After the Americans had found them this morning, he had made sure they'd had a chance to sit down and plan ahead as to what would have to be done to save Bismarck when the airstrike arrived. And it was now or never. Looking through the rangefinders, Von Demus waited until the phone was picked up on the bridge and announced, "Attacking aircraft at six kilometers, stand by!" THIS was going to be close...

Brockaway registered the Wildcats breaking off as they closed to just over two miles, and the flak was getting thick now, the tracers coming up at him confirming that their light stuff, probably 20mm, was now opening up. There was a bright flash, TOO close, off his right wing, and part of his brain registered that they finally had the range.

Bismarck had smoothly built up to speed and was leaving a wide streak through the tossing waves, her prow digging in and cutting effortlessly through them and tossing them aside, a grizzly bear trying to escape a swarm of angry hornets. Von Demus watched stoically as the planes approached, knowing in his heart that the next few minutes would decide whether or not any of them ever saw home again. He hoped - prayed - that whomever was on the emergency bridge with Lütjens right now had one hand on the wheel and one hand on the Admiral...he was going to need it.

On the Emergency Bridge, Admiral Lütjens lowered the binoculars from his eyes as the planes got closer. You could start to see shapes moving inside them now, and he feared that whatever resolve he had built up might be last if he saw the faces of the men who had come to kill him and his ship. He looked around the tight, confined little space for a moment, looking at the faces of the men - boys, really - who had taken their ship out on its first mission. And in one brief flash, one stark moment, Lütjens suddenly understood how Lindemann had felt about his crew and his ship, what he had been trying to tell him the other morning when they'd found the American Coastguardsman. They were family from a thousand different families, the best the Reich had to offer. No, the thought quietly. Not the Reich. Germany.

It was if steel had suddenly filed his soul, as if the years had melted away and he was once again Leutnant Lütjens on the Seydlitz at Jutland. Cheering like everyone else as they saw Scheer give the order and the High Seas Fleet turned to meet the enemy. As they would. With a snap and bark to his voice he hadn't felt in two days, Lütjens turned to the helmsman and called, "Helm, give me flank speed, I need every bit of power we have!"

"Jawohl, Herr Admiral!" The helmsman reached forward and ran the engine room telegraph through its stops and Bismarck hesitated for only a second, then dug deeper and surged forward. The banging noise outside was growing faster now.

The SB2Us were down low, holding steady at just five hundred feet, Bismarck now filling their windscreens. The flak was closing in now, and it was going to be a race between speed and mathematics as to who would win. Okay, thought Brockaway, let's make it tough. Holding his hand out of the open cockpit, Brockaway held up two fingers and the other SBs waggled their wings in response.

On Bismarck, the gunners saw one flight of bombers suddenly knife-edge to the left, crossing what would be Bismarck's path. With commendable efficiency, a number of the 37mm turrets swung forward to follow them, only to pause as the bombers completed their turn and now headed away from Bismarck, and too late to resume tracking Brockaway and his flight.

Von Demus saw it, realized what happened, and knew he only had a heartbeat at most. Grabbing the bridge phone, he screamed, "NOW! NOW! NOW!" On the emergency bridge.? Lütjens roared, "Hard a port, NOW!"

Bismarck began to heel to port, her bow suddenly going broadside to the waves, her bulk suddenly rolling to one side. Men braced themselves, while anything that wasn't nailed down began to slide inexorably down. Men standing on the starboard side watched in detached fascination as the horizon suddenly sank below the deck line and they staggered back against bulkheads.

Brockaway realized what had happened, but it was too late, he had already pulled the stick back into his lap and yanked the bomb release, as had his wingman. Obediently, two five hundred-pound bombs swung out on u-shaped trapezes and released, weightless for a moment, then pulled by gravity's implacable tug, the black shapes arrowed downwards. Brockaway swore to himself as the SB stood on its port wingtip and raced over Bismarck, and he swore louder when he heard the ringing clatter of 20mm rounds puncturing the SBs wings and tail - just the way they were supposed to. Slamming the stick hard over to starboard and down, Brockaway was conscious of tracers racing past him from behind as the roiled surface of the water rushed up at him and he leveled the plane out, just a few feet above the waves.

Risking a glance over his shoulder, he saw two more SBs - LT Brad Smith and his wingman - race in from off Bismarck's starboard bow. Two more bombers were hurtling in from starboard, in the AA batteries' blind spot and it was clear that the battleship wouldn't swing around far enough or fast enough to get a decent shot. They tried though, the 37mm and 20mm guns banging gamely away as the SBs roared in. Brockaway was turning to port now, his neck twisted as far as he could get it to see a flash suddenly erupt on Bismarck's second turret, the flames lancing past her superstructure. And right about now...Right on cue, a bulky shape shot past Bismarck's superstructure from port, and spun about on one wingtip. Bob Henneman, getting his shot in and from the looks of things, a fireball on the other side of the ship, aft of the bridge, the shot had counted.

Lütjens staggered once and never had a chance to regain his balance before the second bomb hit, a hot wind blowing back from where a bomber had planted one just at the base of the citadel. Bismarck had been designed to take far worse than that, but it was still worrisome that they were getting through.

Further aft, Von Demus watched in satisfaction as the Amis dropped low on the water and scuttled away. He hadn't really expected to knock down any of the bombers, they were simply too fast. The torpedo planes, though - the torpedo planes! Von Demus whirled about with his binoculars and sure enough, almost hidden by the steady eruption of flak shells, he saw several planes beginning to whirl in ahead of Bismarck's track, almost impossibly low to the water. Picking up the phone, he called, "Torpedo bombers inbound, torpedo bombers inbound!"

The flak was still above the 100-foot level where the TBD's had to work. Commander Joe Czarnecki knew that he would have his work cut out for him in the lumbering Devastator as he popped the speed brakes one more time to get his speed down to around 100 knots. As he pulled the throttle back a little more, he caught sight of two more Devastators approaching from the opposite side of Bismarck.

The 'classic' attack would be a series of alternating attacks from each side of the battleship across her path, and in theory one or more would have to hit her. Theory and practice though, mused Czarnecki, were two very different things. The Devastators weren't exactly nimble even at full throttle, and down low under 110 knots, they were positively dangerous. But until the new planes, the big Grumman ship and the more fighter-like Vought bird, came on line, they'd have to do what they could with the bulky but reliable Douglas.

The plane's controls began to get mushy as the plane settled down in the ground effect, and they were low enough that Czarnecki could actually smell the salt spray beneath him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his wingman tuck in tight alongside and slightly behind to his left, the evil bulk of the Bliss-Leavitt torpedo extending below the plane's belly. For a few seconds, the AA fire stopped, but Czarnecki knew better than to take comfort in it; it only meant that the gunners were lining up on him and didn't want to waste ammo 'walking' the bursts down to where they were. Even at this distance, Bismarck looked like some seaborne fortress whose battlements towered high above him, almost seemingly endless, and all of whose weapons were pointed at him.

Like a sudden squall, the flak started up again, and it was in range almost instantly, though blessedly too high. Czarnecki winced involuntarily as he heard the PING of fragments ricocheting off the Devastator's tough hide and scooted down just a little bit further in his seat. Giving the plane just a little right rudder, the Devastator's nose pulled slowly to the right, and in his mind Czarnecki started a quick countdown.

Too close, Lütjens thought, too close, they'd never get Bismarck swung around in time if the torpedo planes got their weapons off. The turrets were firing as quickly as they could, solid lines of tracers lancing outwards then starting a slow arc downwards. Lütjens turned to a crewman and called, "Sound collision alarm!" Eyes wide, the sailor hit the toggle that sounded a raucous WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP throughout the ship.

Bismarck was filling his windscreen as Czarnecki punched the button that released the torpedo, the plane bouncing into the air as he slammed the throttle forward. Just in time to see his wingman drop his fish and instead of the smooth, rooster tailed splash, saw a burst of white spray and silver torpedo components go flying crazily outward.

DAMMIT, Czarnecki thought, a breakup was exactly what they didn't need right now. Reefing the Devastator hard over to the right, he was able to see the two planes on Bismarck's port side drop. But one of them was suddenly connected to the ship by a bright line of tracers as it started its turn and vanished in a flare of black and orange, extinguished in a heartbeat by the unforgiving waves. Czarnecki clenched his jaw and kept the stick pulled back into his lap. Three out of four inbound...

"TORPEDOS, PORT AND STARBOARD!!" Lütjens hesitated for just a second while he tried to figure out his best option, and realized he had only one. "Bring her about, hard a starboard!" Physics, momentum, and kinetic energy worked against the battleship as the helmsman struggled to bring the bows to starboard, the massive rudder eight hundred feet behind him fighting to swing almost completely in the other direction. There was one chance and one chance only, if they could comb past the first torpedo to starboard...

As Czarnecki held the Devastator at full throttle a few feet above the waves, he turned around and saw the last two planes come in behind him from left to right, looping out and around to make one more pass at Bismarck. Behind him, strapped tightly into his seat. Czarnecki's gunner watched as the battleship's bow began to swing towards them and realized that the damn fish might just miss.

It seemed like an eternity before Lütjens saw the bow start to move the flagstaff at the forepeak starting to slide along the horizon. But to port, two tracks still pointed directly at where they were headed, and the one track to starboard was arrowing ever closer, now seemingly pointed right at the bridge like an accusing finger.

"C'mon, c'mon!" The gunner was leaning forward in his seat, as if he could urge the torpedoes to their goals with his will alone. There was no doubt now, Mister Czarnecki was going to get his hit, and so were the other two, clearly visible as they crossed Bismarck's bow. This was going to be great, the gunner smiled to himself...

Lütjens started to call it out himself, but one of the junior officers called, "Brace for impact!" and his mind instead went to a dispassionate consideration of what would happen when three torpedoes slammed into his ship from opposite sides almost simultaneously. Massive structural deformation, definite penetration of his fuel bunkers, likely penetration of the forward magazines, and in his mind's eyes he saw again a picture he hadn't thought of in years, of a British battlecruiser at Jutland disappearing in an awful and strangely silent fireball.

At least it would be quick, and then there was a nightmarish roar and shock and water was pouring over them as a huge spout towered up from alongside Anton. And blew back over them, the ship involuntarily rolling to port enough for Lütjens and everyone else to see the other two torpedoes disappear under the edge of the deck, and...

Czarnecki's gunner looked on first in triumph, then stunned amazement. "Mr. C!" he called in shock, "We got the hit but the other two missed!" Czarnecki whipped his head around and sure enough, he could still see the smoke and spray from the hit they'd gotten, but where there should have been two more to port...nothing. Not a goddamned thing! Czarnecki slammed the panel coaming in frustration as he saw the battlewagon continue its turn.

They had still been trying to get back on their feet from the torpedo hit to starboard. Von Demus realized that they shouldn't have been able to, that they should have been thrown right back down by the impact of two more on the port but there was nothing but the ringing sound of ONE explosion. Getting back upright, Von Demus staggered to the port side and saw the tracks still clearly visible in the water, and what looked like - a torpedo body? - floating half-submerged and bouncing off the ship's plating, spinning in the wake like some demented toy. Von Demus broke into a smile that ran from ear to ear and went back to his post, the continued racket of the AA battery music to his ears. God must have joined the Kriegsmarine, he thought.

Lütjens wasn't inclined to argue with a miracle, but he still had to worry about whatever damage the first hit had done. Whatever it was, it wasn't good - smoke was still pouring from where the hit had struck. Picking up a phone, the Admiral called "Damage Control, report!" There was a pause and a click, then a voice made hollow by the sound-powered phone.

"This is Krantz in DC. The hit appears to have been right at frame nineteen, stand by!" Lütjens knew his flagship well. The bunkers had been penetrated, that would explain the smoke, but it had kept the hit from going into the magazines - but the mere fact that they had already lost tons of fuel may have just signed their death warrant. There was no time to think about it, though, as a lookout called. "Planes inbound, starboard rear quarter!"

They were VT-7's last two Devastators, and their pilots had already heard the radio calls as they circled around to make their pass on Bismarck. The AA hadn't eased up any at all, and they could see the bursts still forming a wall around Bismarck. But they were Naval Aviators, and their target was still moving. The element leader waggled his wings, and the two torpedo planes snap rolled to the right, then left and down, hurtling towards the waves.

Brockaway watched as the planes started their run, flaps and speed brakes sliding out, catching the air and slowing the heavy TBDs even further. One hit wasn't enough, Brockaway thought, to give the Texas and the Brits a fighting chance. C'mon guys, just one, just one...The two planes moved into position as one, LT Tom Brady in the lead, and...looked like Nine, that would be LTJG Mirek, the new guy, tight on his right wing.

Brady risked a look behind him and to the right as the flak started up again, and he knew the sudden feeling he had of everything on that damned ship being pointed right at him wasn't far off the mark. Mirek, a tall quiet kid from a farm in Pennsylvania, was right where he was supposed to be, mirroring his every move. Suddenly, the flak was all over them, fragments whirring off the Devastator's hide, and a spray of Plexiglas glittering in the pale sunlight told him that one shard had struck uncomfortably close.

Von Demus was outside on the gallery now, almost reveling in the staccato bark of the AA battery, barrels firing so fast that spray landing on them was vaporizing into wisps of steam. The only interruption a brief pause in the middle of this Devil's symphony as the 20mm gunners changes ammo drums. Von Demus could see an almost solid wall of fragment splashes in front of the oncoming aircraft. But the planes were boring through like dragonflies moving through mist on a pond, the drone of their engines audible now and growing louder each second.

Mirek took a deep breath as the Devastator shuddered from a close burst and he hard a sickening groan from behind him, followed by silence. His heart pounded as he called, "Gunner, you okay? Gunner, answer me! Gunner!" Only silence came back through the intercom, and this low and slow, he didn't dare look behind him to check.

Okay, he thought, stay calm, that's what they taught you. Stay CALM, oh sweet Jesus the gunner's dead and he was out here by himself and the next thing he knew LT Brady's plane was doing a berserk somersault backwards. Spinning apart as its own fuel consumed it in a black and yellow fireball and his world went red and full of pain.

"Oh Lord, no..." Czarnecki's prayer trailed off into the slipstream as he watched the tatters of Brady's plane spin back into the ocean and Mirek's plane stagger, then recover, the port side blackened and torn. The 37mm gunners had the range now, and along with the 20mm gunners were pouring everything they had at the lone Devastator, still boring doggedly in.

Bismarck's men cheered as one of the torpedo planes vanished, Von Demus guessed from a direct hit, but the other one wobbled and kept coming. He was tempted to grab the phone and tell everyone to direct their fire on the last plane, but he knew he didn't have to, that everyone out there knew that this was their last chance.

It hurt, oh my God it hurt, thought Mirek and his brain only dimly registered the pain and dark wetness that was spreading down his left side. All he could see was the red haze that kept blocking his eyes and the ever-growing gray wall in front of him. Gotta launch the fish, he thought, gotta launch it and he stabbed the release button with everything he had left-. Nothing. He knew he should have felt the jolt of the heavy fish falling from the plane, but he felt only the continuing rattle of fragments on his airplane. No, no, no, he thought, shaking his head to clear it, fish is still there, gotta go around again, and with a painful grunt that only he heard, Mirek pushed the stick to starboard to go around.

Czarnecki was on his port wing as he saw Mirek start to roll away towards Bismarck's stern. He instinctively knew what the kid had in mind, knew that the kid still had the airplane, until there was another 37mm burst close by, far too close by, far too close for the Devastator to survive. But survive it did, only now trailing oily black smoke and ugly tongues of orange flame trailing back from the cowling, licking around the tin fish still in its cradle.

Mirek was only just conscious now, and he knew he didn't have a chance, that his fight was over...and that he wasn't going to let Commander Czarnecki down...not now... There was only a dark blur in front of him now, like the foothills at the base of a mountain, going up, upwards into sunlight, and he knew only that he wanted to go there, and his hands moved the stiffening controls by instinct.

NO, mouthed Von Demus, who pushed one of the gunners mates to the deck as the torpedo plane thundered past with a nightmarish roar, followed by an impact that shook the entire ship. And in that second, Von Demus knew it was all, all over.

Those who saw it later would speak of it in awe, like a pilgrim describing some miracle long gone. Mirek held the plane steady, almost as if it was on rails, and though no one ever knew if he had really been aiming it, all agreed later that he couldn't have done better if he had. The Devastator, its lacerated engine shrieking at full throttle, slammed into Bismarck's hull at the waterline, rupturing the comparatively thin plating just above the propeller guards. Even as the metal bent, bulged and finally split, the wreck of the torpedo plane was already a wingless hulk penetrating into the steering gear spaces far better than any bomb could have.

But long before that, the shackles that held the torpedo in the plane failed, sheared off by forces hundreds of times greater than the mere one or two g's that they had been designed for. The torpedo, now in its? element, lanced downward like some huge bullet and impacted the hull just above the portside outer propeller shaft. That fast and that hard, not even the miserable detonators the Navy had put on the Bliss-Leavitt could fail on impact and the warhead detonated. A shockwave spread out from the impact, blasting the propeller and shaft away from their mounts.

Inside, the shaft, a thousand tons of metal spinning wildly lifted up from its mounts, free of the balancing weight as the propeller fell towards the ocean floor five miles below. The aft end of the shaft reared upwards, still spinning, punching upwards through decking and bulkheads for a terrifying heartbeat before the bearings froze and its momentum was spent.

Rich Brockaway watched silently as the strike formed up around him; all eyes on the battleship below as it slowly drifted to a stop. He didn't know who that guy from Torpedo Seven was, but if it was the last thing he ever did, he'd see to it that there was a memorial somewhere for him. They did one circle around the ship, flak still coming up at them, and then Brockaway waggled his wings and turned them for home.

"Message from Ranger, Cap'n." Willie Robinson handed Shannon the clipboard with the flimsy attached, and Shannon scanned it quietly before handing it to Tiornu. The XO looked at it for himself, then wordlessly picked up the 1MC mike and handed it to Shannon.

"Attention all hands, this is the Captain." Shannon paused for a moment, then continued. " We just got word from Ranger. The strike was a success, the flyboys are saying that Bismarck is dead in the water. Now, I don't expect her to stay like that for long - it's a tough ship manned by tough men, and I expect that they would try as hard as we would to get home. As of now, we estimate intercept in - " Shannon looked at his watch - "about four hours. I expect every man to be ready to do his duty. Stay alert, stay focused, and don't think for an instant that this will be a pushover now that she's hurt. Remember that the only thing more dangerous than a wild animal is a wounded and cornered wild animal. Captain out."

The report was everything Lütjens had feared and more. The propeller shaft and the portside engine room were gone, unusable. The steering gear was still intact, but only just, and turning the ship took a combination of rudder, speed changes on the starboard engines, and brute force. Their top speed was now - at best - approximately fifteen knots. They had lost hundreds of tons of fuel through the ruptured forward bunkers, and taken on almost as much water. The Admiral looked around the compartment at his officers, gathered around rolls of blueprints and schematics, all quietly waiting for some answer, any answer...but in their deepest souls fearing the one they knew would come.

It was Von Demus who spoke up first, asking the question that all of them knew had to come. "Admiral, " he asked quietly, "Your thoughts?..."

It was a long moment before Lütjens spoke, and when he did, it was with the knowledge that he had let them all down. They weren't going home, and they knew it. They couldn't avoid the ships that were coming for them, and they knew it. Gunther Lütjens had one and only one thing left that he could do for the men of the Bismarck. Standing as tall as he could, squaring his shoulders in a way he had not done since his days as a cadet, he spoke quietly and clearly.

"All of you understand...surrender is not an option." Heads nodded silently around the table. "Go back to your departments...talk to your men. I assume we shall see the enemy in approximately four hours." Pausing for a moment, Lütjens turned to one of the officers. "Signals, " he said, gently, "Please accompany me to the radio room. The rest of you are dismissed." Slowly, gravely, men turned and quietly shuffled out of the compartment and went to see their men.

Aboard Rodney, Admiral Dalrymple-Hall and Captain Haliburton stood quietly on the bridge gallery, looking at the northern horizon. They knew their quarry was still hours away, yet each man wondered what it would look like, what they would see. There was silence for a moment, then DH spoke quietly.

"Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, Or close the wall up with our English dead! In peace there 's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility; But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger: Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood."

Haliburton nodded. "Henry V. Fitting." DH continued to look out at the horizon, saying nothing, then turned to stride back into the bridge.

USS Texas, 1045 HRS LOCAL

"Skipper?"

Brian Shannon turned to hear his friend's voice coming from the hatch leading onto the bridge. "Yeah, T?"

Tiornu pursed his lips, then cocked his head back towards the radio room. "You better hear this for yourself." It was a quick walk back to the radio room, where Shannon saw one of the ship's clerks scribbling furiously as one of the officers from the intelligence section sat with a pair of headsets on, speaking slowly and haltingly.

Shannon looked at LT Tollich, the Communications division officer and asked, "What do you guys have?"

Tollich tilted his head towards the RDF, a solid-looking black monolith that squatted in one corner of the compartment with two sailors in attendance, carefully turning and twisting knobs. "About twenty minutes ago, we started picking up a strong carrier signal from the northwest. We got on it and we ended up receiving the signal we're monitoring now, it's apparently?" Tollich paused for a second, then pressed on, "from Bismarck."

Shannon's eyebrow rose high enough so that it disappeared beneath the lip of his helmet. "How can you be so sure?" he asked.

Tollich held out a piece of paper. "These are some of the names and call signs that they've used in the transmission so far. I ran 'em past the intelligence shop, Skipper, they belong to Bismarck."

Shannon simply held the lists in his hand for a moment, not quite knowing what to make of it, then realized what he had. "How long have you been monitoring them?"

"About fifteen minutes now."

"Enough time to..."

Tollich grinned at Shannon, then turned to grab a clipboard from a desktop. "More than enough, Skipper." The mimeographed map of their operations area was blurred, with what seemed to be a hundred random doodlings on it. But Shannon knew they were far from random, because four of them stood out, three red lines from three positions along their track taken roughly four minutes apart, and a line from each point extending to a series of points along a steady track to the northwest. Bismarck.

Flipping the paper over, Shannon saw a quick summary of what the clerk and translator had copied so far, lists of dead crew members, crew members nominated for decorations, damage summaries, and so on. He handed it to Tiornu, who scanned it quickly, then looked at Shannon with a puzzled expression. "Why?"

Shannon shook his head. "If I was sending a last message from here, it wouldn't be this stuff. It would be a request for help...our position...anything other than this."

Tiornu looked thoughtfully at the clipboard for a moment, then looked at Shannon. "They wanted us to pick this up, Brian. They wanted us to intercept it, they wanted us to get the bearings."

Shannon looked at his XO as if he had casually suggested jumping overboard. "T, that wouldn't make any sense unless," Shannon paused for a second as it hit him, and he placed himself in the shoes of his counterpart aboard Bismarck.

Tiornu nodded, a sad smile on his face. "They want to get it over with, Brian." His eyes unfocused for a moment, as if he was looking at something far, far away, and indeed he was - a crippled ship, blocked from home at the last moment, unable to run that last awful gauntlet. Looking back at Shannon again, the XO had a sympathetic expression, as if he was himself feeling the pain and dread of the men who had become their enemies. "They want to make it quick. They don't want any long chase that ends with them almost in sight of home. They just want it over with."

It was a long moment before Shannon spoke, but when he did it was with quiet earnestness, and with no irony. "We'll give it to them, T. We'll give it to them." The two men strode wordlessly back to the bridge to notify the Rodney.

The signalman felt Lütjens' hand on his shoulder and looked up. Lütjens was smiling gently as he said, "I think that's enough now. Go ahead and get your things in order." The signalman nodded and rose to start gathering signal books, code pads, and other sensitive paperwork as Lütjens strode out the door towards the emergency bridge.

Four hours, two hundred and forty minutes, it doesn't seem like that long. You go to work, do your job, and four hours later it's time for lunch. But on a warship headed out to meet the enemy, four hours is an eternity. There is nowhere to pace, to walk off the nervous energy that even the veterans feel. Most tasks on a warship are surprisingly simple, so you can only check and recheck what needs to be done so many times before you start to get that nagging feeling you've done something wrong. That no matter how closely you have followed The Book, that something is horribly wrong and you've missed it, and then you worry that you've over-checked things.

And the toughest job aboard is that of the Captain. The XO's job is to obsess over everything the Captain doesn't have time for, so there's always something for him to do. The ChEng has a million little adjustments and parameters to check, and as long as the ship is moving, his job never ends. Gunnery just makes sure his optics work and his crews are ready to start throwing shells, but that involves him prowling through five turrets on a constant basis. But the Captain has to stay on the bridge, listening to all the reports. No matter how bad the situation is, no matter how difficult, he has to convince the crew that he is completely in control, that he will make the right decision every time, and that he will bring them all safely home. And for four hours, the hard, barely padded seat on the port side of the bridge becomes the most exposed, the most vulnerable, and the loneliest place on Earth. There is no glory, no excitement, and no satisfaction at being there. There is simply the whispered, fervent prayer of a man who only wants to bring his ship home intact and his crew home alive.

Sir?"

Shannon's head whipped around to see the runner standing beside his right shoulder and the poor kid almost jumped backwards at the Captain's reaction.

"Sorry," Shannon said with as comforting a smile as he could manage, but he didn't feel it. Geez, he thought grimly, this poor kid has got to be convinced the Skipper's off in Dreamland. "What do you have?"

"Message from the Brits, Sir." Shannon took the clipboard and read the heavy block letters:

LARGE RADAR CONTACT TO NW STOP BEARING 280 DISTANCE APPROX THREE TWO NAUTICAL MILES STOP. BELIEVE TO BE BISMARK STOP EXECUTE INTERCEPT AS PLANNED STOP

ENDIT DALRYMPLE HALL

Shannon looked at the huge clock mounted on the bulkhead just behind him. Not quite 1340 hours. Nodding, Shannon scribbled a reply and pointed towards the signal lamp station on the starboard side, where Rodney could be seen knifing through the mounting waves.

The runner replied, "Yes, sir!" And took off at a dead run.

"Helm, this is the Captain, I have the conn!" Command voice, just the way they taught you.

"Aye aye sir, Cap'n has the conn!" You could almost hear the smile in the kid's voice.

Shannon recognized it. That tone told him they believed in the Old Man. Now all I have to do is live up to it. "Helm, bring us about, heading two ten, flank speed!"

"Aye aye sir, two ten, flank speed!" The rumble of the heavy ship's wheel could be felt through the deck plates as the bells to the engine room echoed off the gray steel bulkheads.

"Mister Tiornu!"

"Sir!"

A pause. "Bring the men to battle stations, please."

"Aye aye, sir!" Tiornu turned to the bosun's mate standing beside the 1MC and gave a sharp nod. The bosun brought a small brass whistle to his lips and as he activated the 1MC, blew the three-note trill that a sailor knew as well as he knew his mother's voice.

"Attention, all hands, battle stations, battle stations! This is not a drill! Battle stations, battle stations!"

Aboard Rodney, the crew was already there as DH and Haliburton watched Texas pivot off to the southwest.

"About bloody time," muttered DH. "I hope they're up to this."

Haliburton nodded. "They are, sir. Captain Shannon has quite a reputation in the fleet as a first rate skipper."

DH raised one eyebrow. "And how would you know this?"

Haliburton smiled slightly. "Well?you might say we served together for a brief period about seven years ago." A long silence.

"I'm waiting, Captain."

Haliburton grinned like a schoolboy as he turned to go back into the bridge. "Oh, I'd tell you, Sir. But then I'd have to throw you overboard." Haliburton held the hatch open for DH, listening with a barely concealed grin as the admiral stomped through, muttering dire imprecations about the kind of men His Majesty allowed to command his ships in wartime.

There really was nothing left to be done, thought Von Demus as he leaned against the bulkhead of the emergency gunnery control post in the conning tower. He had checked and rechecked every gun, every phone circuit, patted every gunner on the back one last time. Now it was just a matter of waiting for the enemy to show up on the horizon. You couldn't give up, he thought. There was always the chance, always the possibility that they could get the hits in when they needed them.

No, he thought to himself with a surprising calmness, there wasn't. Not this time. Not with Primary Fire Control a gutted wreck a few yards ahead of him. Not with a relatively green crew working on local control of each turret, and not with Bruno locked firmly into place, frozen in her bearing races. A good death, he thought. Fighting to the end, the stuff of legends.

No, he thought once more, he didn't believe that either. Bismarck would be reduced to blasted, gutted scrap iron, and it would be far from good. He had talked to the old survivors of Jutland, heard the stories of literal hurricanes of steel and fire, sheets of razor sharp shrapnel gouging, eviscerating.

But he would stand up and face it anyway. For one sharp moment, he wanted to be back home in Hamburg, away from the goddamned war, and away from this goddamned SHIP, Von Demus brought himself up short, afraid that he had somehow spoken out loud. But a quick glance told him that everyone else was lost in their own reverie, someplace very far away from right now.

"HERR LEUTNANT!" And at that moment, Niklous Von Demus knew that Right Now had just arrived.

Aboard Rodney, Gunnery looked at his stopwatch intently, then pushed the stop button. "Rounds on target."

Haliburton peered through his binoculars through the few wisps of smoke that still clung to Rodney's superstructure. "Not likely at twenty-two miles, Gunnery. But on the other hand, I believe we probably have their attention."

The shell splashes were short by about two miles, Lütjens thought, but it was irrelevant - they still hadn't even seen a ship yet, and something was firing on them. He started to turn and order evasive action, but stopped himself. Bismarck was beyond maneuvering except in the most general sense, and even trying would rob the main battery of what little accuracy it had left. All they could do?was take it.

Rodney's B Turret let go with a roar that shook the entire ship, and if one looked closely, you could see the rounds themselves actually disappearing into the cloud deck. In any other situation, DH didn't trust radar enough to set up a firing solution on it, and even the boffins back home were honest enough to say it would be another year or so before you could do it with any accuracy. But accuracy, just yet at least, wasn't a necessity. They were firing at close to the maximum range of the Mk I 16" rifle, which was none too accurate to begin with, but all DH wanted to do right now was let the damned Jerries know that someone very close by was waiting for them.

The next set of splashes fell dead ahead, but still more than a mile off. Every splash made the lookouts catch their breath, not knowing if the next one would land right atop their position. Von Demus looked over Anton and Bruno, watching Anton swivel slightly from side to side, like a wolf trying to pick up the scent of a hunter.

"FIRE!" X Turret bellowed, flame and acrid smoke washing back across Rodney's towering superstructure. Haliburton watched in professional detachment as the three barrels dropped back down to allow the gun crews to reload as at the same time all three barrels in A Turret hauled up and fired, the concussion rattling the tightly fitted flag bridge ports. DH was taking one hell of a chance, he thought. The Mk Is were unusually prone to barrel wear and the weapons boffins guessed that at best each barrel could only take a hundred and eighty full charge firings...like the ones they were doing right now.

The shockwave rumbled up through Bismarck's keel as the three rounds cut a perfect swath directly across her path. These were only about a thousand yards off now, but still spaced widely enough apart that they would still straddle the battleship - which means, Lütjens thought, they still couldn't see US yet. It amazed him to consider that the enemy ship might be firing on radar, the Seetakt rig that was mounted to their foretop was at best useful for letting them know when a merchantman or smaller warship was nearby, if and when it worked.

All three turrets were going in sequence now; thirty seconds apart as Rodney closed the distance to Bismarck. They still didn't have visual contact yet, but the radar was giving them a decent enough fix that they could keep a steady rain of shells going into the mist. The battlewagon was in her element now, her weapons living, breathing symbols of the justice they had come to administer to the ship that had killed the pride of their fleet and so many of their friends.

The gun crews were working in perfect cadence, each movement spare, economical, precise and purposeful as they loaded the shells themselves, the silken bags of propellant, then the abrupt ramming of the package into the shimmering breechblocks. The numbing roar of all three rifles letting fly at once.

"Thirty seconds between salvoes, Herr Leutnant!" Von Demus guessed from the size of the splashes that they were at least thirty-eight centimeter, like their own, and possibly even larger - sixteen inch? My God, he thought, Nelson? Rodney? The new Ami battleship? And with thirty seconds between salvos they were still a good twenty miles off?Picking up the line to the emergency bridge, he paused for a second until someone answered.

"Gunnery, Von Demus. Advise Admiral Lütjens that I estimate the fire to be at least thirty eight centimeters, possibly forty eight centimeters, approximately twenty nautical miles." A pause. "Understood." and the phone clicked off.

Lütjens considered the information. The enemy was apparently still not in accurate range?but they were just inside their maximum range. All right then?with the salvos coming down as steadily as they were, all of their turrets had to be firing, which meant they were broadside to Bismarck.

As we shall be to them. "Helm," Lütjens called, "bring us about, approximate heading one hundred eighty degrees!"

Had it not been so dangerous, it would have been almost comical to watch the helm wrestle with the wheel while a petty officer carefully manipulated the engine room telegraphs. Bismarck's two remaining screws bumped fast and slow, back and forth, and slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the bow began to swing to the south. The phone buzzed in gunnery as soon as the ship started its hesitating turn and Von Demus was ready. Within seconds, Anton, Caesar, and Dora had all swung dutifully to port, barrels rising to maximum elevation, then shot flames a hundred feet outboard, momentarily flattening the sea with a semicircular shockwave.

The splashes were just visible from Rodney's bridge and off to port, and DH and Haliburton watched them fall, creating pillars of green-gray foam. DH nodded approvingly. "Usually Jerry doesn't RSVP that quickly. They must be teaching them some manners over there these days. Helm, match bearings and make for the German, flank speed." The entire ship shuddered once more as all three turrets fired, then began to train as one along their new course.

The next set of splashes was much closer and there were more of them, but they had an odd pattern to them, and it was worrying Von Demus. Then he realized what he was seeing...nine shots, coming from the same angle even after they changed course...grabbing the phone again, Von Demus called the bridge. "This is gunnery, advise the Admiral that we may be dealing with a Nelson class battleship."

"Understood." Click, Lütjens stood wordless for a moment. The matter was rapidly coming down to simple mathematics. His eight 38cm guns, two of which he couldn't train, and a crippled hull against nine 48cm weapons and a fully capable ship. So be it. "Gunnery, Lütjens"

"Von Demus, Admiral."

"Keep firing until the barrels melt." A pause. "Jawohl, Herr Admiral."

The two ships were now closing at almost forty knots, and the range was closing fast. Haliburton winced slightly as the Rodney launched another broadside, then turned to the plotters a few feet behind him. "Anything yet?"

"No sir, lookouts are still trying!"

A new set of splashes came down a mile off their starboard bow, and Haliburton realized that Bismarck was doing a very good job of firing back down the bearing of Rodney's broadsides. A few more minutes at most and they'd start to get uncomfortably close.

It was Rodney's next broadside that did it, that rustling-leaves noise that told Von Demus it would be close, then the rustling leaves turning into an express train headed right for him. Three splashes neatly over the starboard side and a godawful roar that shook the ship as two landed neatly on the Boat Deck, splinters and smoke and flame blowing aft in the wind. Bismarck pressed on, and Von Demus could see the DC parties in their white hoods and smocks frantically trying to extinguish the fires.

"GOT HER! Captain, lookouts report a visual contact, bearing dead ahead, range fifteen miles!"

Haliburton and DH immediately raised their binoculars and saw it, a black mountain low on the horizon - With a faint red glow amidships - Haliburton grabbed the phone to Gunnery and barked, "This is the Captain, fire at will and give it everything you've got!"

"Aye aye, sir!"

The next broadside straddled Bismarck, but this time, Lütjens could see the reflected flash of turrets firing off of the overcast, knew in seconds they'd have the enemy in sight. Von Demus knew it too, and had directed the main battery to track in on the flashes they'd seen. In seconds, three turrets spoke as one and sent a broadside lancing out towards the Britisher.

The rustling leaves?and Haliburton knew it would be close. The first two landed off the port side, but one landed squarely on the forecastle, spraying flame and debris back towards the bridge. DH hadn't flinched, but instead regarded Haliburton, who had, with a cool eye. "Bad form, Captain," DH said quietly as the ports rattled once more with a full broadside going out.

"Bridge, lookouts have a Nelson class battleship at-"

The first shell landed squarely on Bismarck's foretop, punching a brutal fist down and through the lookout positions. The second burst between the number three-15cm turret and the forward boat racks, while the third detonated against the base of the stack, shredding the graceful structure into shards of blackened steel.

Von Demus picked himself up, choking on the acrid yellow smoke that was drifting down from where the lookouts had been, and pulled himself up on the rail to see what else had been hit. The smoke and flame aft looked to have a good hold now, and he knew that as they closed with the Britisher, the DC parties wouldn't have a chance. But as if in reassurance, the main battery spoke as one once more.

Even DH ducked slightly this time, as they clearly saw the tongues of fire arc out from Bismarck. Most of the salvo went long, but one slammed squarely into the base of the superstructure below the bridge. The entire ship seemed to shake, splinters and debris slicing upwards and caroming off the armor of the bridge. Haliburton wasn't so much rattled as angry, as if that one shot had been directed right at him. "That won't do at all," he said out loud. "Helm, I want every knot we can wring out of the old lady!"

DH turned to Haliburton. "Captain, I think it's time we got the main event underway, don't you?"

Haliburton smiled, and turned to a signal runner with a few short words, punctuated by another broadside.

Shannon took the message flimsy and grabbed the phone to gunnery, barking out a set of numbers. Texas' main battery was already trained to starboard, and it took only a few seconds for Guns to tweak them before all ten rifles burst forth with her first combat broadside. "Here goes nothing," Tiornu said almost to himself.

Lütjens' head snapped around as he suddenly found his ship bracketed by, what, fifteen or TWENTY splashes, this latest set coming from across their bow. In an instant, the Admiral realized what had happened, another ship, dear God?He still couldn't see the other ship, and for a moment Lütjens had to compliment the enemy, they'd laid their ambush well, with the second ship down in the low clouds. But he COULD see the Britisher?"Helm!"

"Jawohl, Herr Admiral!"

"Bring us about - " Bismarck shuddered from another hit, and this one felt close, over on the starboard side "- aim us right at the Britisher!" The helmsman and engine room telegraph operator said nothing, but their eyes were wide with fear as they horsed Bismarck around towards the growing, flaming mountain on the horizon, making sure to keep her at a slightly oblique angle towards the Britisher and keeping all the turrets in play. After the battleship had gotten its bows pointed in the right direction, Lütjens himself grabbed the telegraphs and rang up flank speed, or at least what they could make of it.

Down in the engine room, Bismarck's Chief Engineer was hovering over his men, helping them wring every last ounce of speed from the lacerated propulsion system. He paused for a moment to listen to the turbines scream, knowing he was pushing them beyond their limits. But, he thought, in a few minutes it wouldn't matter?and then he would have only one task left.

"Bloody hell," muttered one of Rodney's lookouts as he grabbed the phone to the bridge.

"Bridge!"

"Lookout three, target is changing aspect, I say again, target is changing -"

The lookout never got to finish as two shells landed on Rodney's foredeck, the first one just short of A Turret, but the second knifing into the turret between the barrel of the number one gun and the turret embrasure itself. Passing effortlessly through the blast covers, the shell detonated as it slammed into the gun mounting. For a brief second, Haliburton thought the shell was a dud, then a jet of black and orange shot backwards from the turret face, and the gun barrel suddenly reared upwards to full elevation, smoke and flame pouring from around it.

Haliburton lunged for the DC phone and was about to close his fingers around it when it suddenly dropped below his grasp. He realized that he was moving UPWARDS, tumbling end over end, and so was everyone else SLAM into the bulkhead. My God that hurt as ports shattered, heavy weather glass spraying inward, followed by heat and smoke from the 38cm round that had impacted just a few feet below the bridge. Haliburton watched, almost detached, as DH pulled himself up and grabbed the gunnery phone, shouting something he couldn't understand as the main battery fired once more. Slowly, pain stabbing him with every breath, he began to stand back up.

"Solid hit!" Von Demus shouted into the bridge phone, but his breath caught, as he saw, not more than about ten kilometers out now, the Britisher fire, and there was no doubt that it would hit. Three rounds crashed into the number five-15cm turret and along the catapult, making Bismarck almost leap under the shock. Von Demus looked closely, and now A deck from the base of the stack all the way back to #5 15cm was aflame, and he didn't see a single DC team member anywhere.

Rodney's bridge was eerily quiet after the hit, until people started trying to speak and realized they were all shouting because they were partially deaf. As the smoke and haze blew past, DH saw that A turret had slewed to starboard, the third gun barrel pointing almost straight up, yellowish smoke seeping from the turret as the DC crews got to work. He'd been at Jutland; he knew what they would find once they opened the turret, but that couldn't be helped. He ducked slightly, waiting for the next go, but only X turret fired, the acrid smell of cordite and burning stabbing his senses.

(continued in next post)

[MKSheppard]

(continued from previous post)

Haliburton, now back on his feet, knew something was horribly wrong when B Turret remained silent, and this time got hold of the Gunnery phone.

"Guns, Captain! What the bloody hell's wrong down there?" WHAM as another round impacted on the portside boat deck, everyone on the bridge ducking now.

"Sir, the damned interlocks failed in B! We're trying to free them up now!" Oh Good God, Haliburton thought. The turret safety interlock system on Rodney had been a direct outgrowth of Jutland experience, but in practice had turned out to be impractical at best, and at worst damned dangerous. The system was always about to be redesigned, but budget problems always canceled it...and they were now about to pay the price.

Tiornu lowered his binoculars and turned to Shannon. "Skipper, I think the Brits got a problem!"

Shannon focused his binoculars on Rodney, and it was already apparent that her fire had slackened considerably, and God only knew what that hit they could see near her bridge had done. They were now in visual range of Bismarck as well, and smoke and flame were obscuring the middle third of the ship. Texas was banging away every forty seconds, but still hadn't gotten a hit.

"Damn?" Shannon said, almost to himself. "Helm, bring us about to zero four five, smartly!"

Tiornu raised an eyebrow.

Shannon made a quieting motion. "Trust me." As the turn started, Shannon and Tiornu watched silently as blossoms of fire broke out all over Rodney's turrets.

"Christ," Haliburton panted. "How many was that?"

DH shook his head to clear it from the blasts. "I'd guess three." Looking through the gaping ports, DH could see that B turret wasn't moving at all now though didn't seem to be penetrated. It looked as though it had protected X turret from the worst of it, and as if to let the bridge know they were still in the fight, it let go with a roar that brought cheers from the crew.

Two sailed cleanly over Bismarck's forecastle, but the third detonated against the portside sighting box on Anton, shearing it cleanly off and destroying the turret's ability to aim accurately. On the other hand, Von Demus realized, the Britisher couldn't have been more than seven or eight kilometers away. Caesar and Dora let go with an earsplitting bang, and Von Demus watched the rounds sail straight and true, And crash against the base of X Turret. The turret itself didn't seem to be damaged, but it wasn't moving. And that's it, then, thought Haliburton. Even in its damaged condition, Bismarck would be able to inflict unspeakable damage on them before the Yanks got any hits in. Even DH was looking out the ports at Bismarck, seemingly more disappointed than angry.

Nine guns, Haliburton thought grimly, and not a one functional. NO main damned battery -- Wait?Two shell splashes close to port punctuated the thought, and then he realized DH was looking at him with a quizzical expression. Haliburton's face lit up, and he dove for one of the phones, shouting, "The fish!! The damned tin fish!!"

Twelve decks below, a phone buzzed on a bulkhead, and the technician who answered it looked at it for a moment, as if it was some inanimate object suddenly come to life. And in a way, it was, because in the six years he had been aboard His Majesty's Ship Rodney. That phone had NEVER rung. Picking it up cautiously, he said, "Torpedo Room."

The voice that came back was loud and firm, but very, clear. "This is the captain! Stand by to fire both tubes, I say again, stand by to fire both tubes!"

The technician's head whipped around, eyes wide, to look at the two massive 21" torpedo tubes, the only ones of their kind in the Royal Navy. Not once had Rodney ever fired a live torpedo, just water slugs during exercises and maintenance. He'd loaded them out of habit when they went to battle stations, but had never, EVER expected to hear the call to fire the bloody things.

"Sir - you - you mean launch the torpedoes?"

The torpedoman felt and heard the thud and rumble of another round landing squarely topside before the Captain's voice came back, sharp enough to scorch paint. "Of course I mean launch them, you bloody idiot!! Target bearing is?zero one zero, distance approximately nine miles! Fire them when ready!" The phone clicked off, and for a long second he stood there trying to remember HOW to do what the captain had just told him, then he leaped into action, shouting commands to his assistant as they set the torpedoes for their run. It took only about twenty seconds, but it seemed like an eternity before he practically jumped on the firing handles and yanked them down, hoping that they still worked.

They did, perfectly. Two torpedoes left the tubes, running at full speed, racing like steel dolphins for the surface where they porpoised once, then settled down, propellers snarling. As Haliburton saw them clear the bow, he ordered, "Hard a starboard, now now now!!"

Why, Lütjens thought, was the Britisher turning, and then he saw it, a wave where there shouldn't have been one, then two, in a perfectly straight line, and he knew there was no time, but ordered, "Hard over starboard, immediately!!" anyway and couldn't believe how slow it was moving and looked ahead and saw the American neatly crossing his T again, and this time there would be no missing.

Captain Brian Shannon said one quick, silent word of prayer asking that somewhere, somehow, someone would forgive him for doing his job, then barked, "Fire!" "Fire!"

Texas' main battery fired in perfect synchronization, ten rounds sailing away in mathematical precision towards a point less than seven miles away. Two went long. One went short. Six fourteen inch armor-piercing rounds landed squarely on Bismarck, obliterating the forward citadel, leveling what was left of the stack, and crashing into the aft superstructure.

The last one sailed cleanly through the boiling inferno left by the shell that wrecked the stack, into the uptake trunks and penetrated deep into the bowels of the ship before detonating with a muffled THUD. Shock waves ruptured, then shredded ducts and pipes, and Bismarck's turbines screeched to a halt, steam pouring from fractured joints. The lucky snipes in the engine room had time to get clear as live steam flooded the engine rooms, but the rest died far too slowly. One deck at a ship began to slow down and die. The power loss doubly doomed her - without engines, she couldn't move at all.

The two torpedoes from Rodney moved on her like wolves on a helpless prey. It was close, so very close, if the turbines had just kept going for a few more seconds, they might have carried Bismarck past them, but it wasn't enough. Both torpedoes cut through the slackening wake and impacted the stern just forward of where the Devastator had cut into it. Two fountains of water merged into one, and the entire stern jumped into the air, groaned, and then fell back, oddly out of kilter with the rest of the ship. Bismarck, now wreathed in flame and smoke, slid to a stop, water hissing along her flanks, and began to die.

"She's stopped, sir!" Rodney's lookout was pointing toward the flaming target, already beginning to settle by the stern. DH, his face bloody and smudged from the impacts, broke into a grin from ear to ear.

"Haliburton, keep the secondaries trained on her until we see what happens next."

Shannon and the rest of the bridge crew watched in silence as they sailed past Bismarck at a little less than a mile, the turrets still slowly, quietly pivoting on their target, watching for the slightest sign that she might still be alive. There was none, save for a few dazed crewmen who could be seen beginning to wander about on deck as if lost. "T, bring us in close and stand by to launch the boats." Tiornu hesitated for a moment, and Shannon looked surprised. "Skipper?we don't know what else might be out there."

Shannon looked at his friend for a moment, then quietly said, "Commander, they aren't the enemy any more. The ocean tries hard enough to kill us, and Lord knows we've tried hard enough to kill them. Let's get them out of the water."

Leutnantleutnantleutnant!...Von Demus looked up with a start to see a terrified seaman shaking him. The last thing he remembered was the impacts forward and below. The Admiral, racing to the rail, Von Demus looked down at where the emergency bridge had been, and saw only twisted wreckage pouring smoke. Admiral Lütjens was not going to be giving any more orders.

"Herr Leutnant!" Von Demus still didn't reply, trying to take in what had happened. He could see the Britisher turning back towards Bismarck, while a second ship, an American, from the looks of her, was coming close, turrets trained on them, and it looked like men were getting ready to lower boats.

"Who's in charge?" Von Demus asked.

"Herr Leutnant...no one! The staff was on the emergency bridge with the Admiral, and the Chief Engineer!" The seaman looked back over his shoulder at the flames and smoke boiling out of the uptake trunk, then turned back to Von Demus with a pained expression.

In his time in the Kriegsmarine, Niklous Von Demus had never expected anything quite like this. He'd known and admired Captain Lindemann, knew how hard he would have tried to get them men and the ship home. The American cruised past, starting to slow now, not even three kilometers away. If they opened fire again, it would be worse than target practice.

So be it then. The ship was never going home, and most of her crew was going to find a cold dark grave in the North Atlantic. But Von Demus would be damned if he would let those who had survived the battle die out here.

Looking the seaman dead in the eye, Von Demus said, quietly yet firmly, "You listen to me. I am assuming command of the Bismarck."

One long last look at what had been the most lethal, and feared, warship in history, down by the stern now, enough to notice the deck starting to tilt upwards.

"Get the men off."

[MKSheppard]

Chapter Eleven - Nacht Und Nebel

29 MAY 41 - 1300 HRS EST

"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, this is Bob Trout at CBS News in New York. It is now 1 PM Eastern Standard Time here, 10 AM Pacific Standard Time in Los Angeles. As you all know this has been a momentous week, and we have every reason to believe it is not over yet. To recapitulate, last Tuesday evening New York time, the German battleship Bismarck was brought to heel by units of the Royal Navy and the United States Navy and sunk late that afternoon. After a period of uncharacteristic silence, the venom that has issued forth from Berlin has surpassed even their own impressive standards, culminating in an announcement this morning of an emergency session of the Reichstag at 7 PM Berlin time, 1 PM here. We have been told that Chancellor Hitler will be present, and we will be bringing you a live broadcast of that meeting as soon as it begins. To help us analyze these events for you, we have of course Edward R. Murrow in London and Bill Shirer in Berlin."

"Let's go first to Bill -"

"Good evening, Bob." Millions of Americans pictured the bearded, avuncular Shirer at his microphone in the Reichstag, from where he had patiently and clearly explained the Byzantine world of Nazi politics for five years now. The audience didn't know what Trout and Murrow both did, as soon as the first rumors emerged that the US Navy had been helping to hunt down Bismarck. The entire CBS News staff, as well as every other US media office in Berlin, had gotten their families out of the country as quickly as possible before the Germans closed the borders. Shirer, who had made it into Poland and France after the occupations knew that the Third Reich wasn't at all pleasant with people it felt had annoyed it. Shirer's own wife and daughter had made it to Switzerland that morning, and the last of the families and nonessentials had gotten out that afternoon.

"Bill, while we wait for the special session to start, can you give us some idea as to what things have been like there since Tuesday?"

"Well, Bob, at first the attitude seemed to be one of utter disbelief. As you know, the official line here is that US help to the British is limited and not terribly useful, and that our military is far too weak to take action on behalf of the Allies. Needless to say, when the first rumors came out early Monday here, the people were stunned and didn't quite know what to believe. The military and political response was almost as shocked, apparently this possibility simply never occurred to them."

"Bill, this is Ed Murrow in London. We are hearing here that there will be some major shakeups in the German High Command over this?"

"Most certainly, Ed. We know that Grossadmiral Raeder, the commander of the German Navy, has already offered his resignation. The real surprise was the announcement just a few minutes ago that Reichsmarchall Hermann Göring, commander of the German Air Force and one of Hitler's oldest and closest friends. Not to mention his announced successor, had stepped down for 'reasons of health'. His replacement has not yet been announced, but we expect it to be one of the Air Fleet commanders who helped defeat France last year."

"Any idea why Göring stepped down?"

"Well, hard information has been very difficult to come by the last few days. But the best guess we can make here is that Göring apparently made some very powerful promises about air support for Bismarck, and when they didn't come through, that was added to the Luftwaffe's failure over Dunkirk last year at about the same time. My guess would be that this failure was one that couldn't be hidden, and Göring had no choice but to step down. His personal safety is probably quite secure, but he will never hold power again in the Third Reich."

"Bill, Bob Trout here. Who does that leave as Hitler's successor?"

There was a pause while Shirer framed his answer. "Bob, there are so many 'crown princes' here who will be vying for the succession, it would be like handicapping the Kentucky Derby." There was laughter in New York and London, but it was the polite, uncomfortable laughter one reserves for a difficult subject. "If I had to make a guess, I would say that Heinrich Himmler, the commander of the SS, Hitler's elite guard, probably has the best chance of being named as Hitler's successor."

"Thank you Bill. Ed Murrow in London, what's the mood like there right now?"

"Bob, the people of this tight little island are ecstatic. Although all anyone here knows is that the US Navy helped hunt Bismarck down and there has been no formal declaration of war on our part, the British people believe that the tide has been turned and that now America is in it with them for the long haul. I might note that Prime Minister Churchill has really not made any attempt to dissuade the nation from this belief, which leads me to believe that - as always - the Prime Minister has something up his sleeve. Another interesting point is," Suddenly, a roar like a hundred freight trains filled the radio. Shirer, speaking loudly to be heard, said, "Ed, I'm sorry to interrupt, but Führer Hitler has just entered the Reichstag." The sounds that came out uninterrupted for the next ten minutes sounded like what the Roman Coliseum must have sounded like on those days two thousand years before when gladiators and Christians fought for their lives amidst blood and sand. And every few seconds, the primal shouts of "SIEG HEIL!! SIEG HEIL!!" would literally ring the microphone.

Shirer came back on line, describing the scene. "Hitler is standing at the podium, his hands crossed in front of him, every now and then giving a quick, almost perfunctory 'heil'. Those on the dais with him are literally screaming, but most noticeable by his absence is Hermann Göring. Hitler looks...determined, much the way he did before the attack on Poland."

The sounds of the frenzied crowds continued on for another ten minutes, with Shirer providing commentary, until the roaring finally settled down. "It looks like Der Führer is about to speak," Shirer said quietly, as if describing a golf game. "I will translate as he speaks."

"My fellow Germans!" Roars of "SIEG HEIL!!!" once more, then Hitler raises his hand for silence and the brown mob is hushed. "Since National Socialism came to power nine years ago, we have fought for one thing and one thing only, Germany's rightful place in the sun!"

"We sought only - ONLY - what was rightfully ours, taken from us by the forces of suppression and evil in this world. We fought for it once before!" More shouts. "...and were defeated when victory was in SIGHT!!! By Communist conspirators, and their Jew financiers. We were STABBED IN THE BACK!!! by those who would have made us slaves."

Hitler looks around, those unearthly blue eyes connecting with an almost electric shock. "And then? When we had found our voice again? When we had found the strength to stand tall again and say, "NO MORE!!!" we were attacked AGAIN! POLAND! FRANCE! ENGLAND! ALL THOSE NATIONS WHO WANTED TO GRIND GERMANY INTO DUST FOREVER!!!!!!" The screaming starts once more, and Hitler acknowledges it this time, nodding in furious agreement.

"And now to that list, we must add...the United States of America." Boos and hisses erupted through the Reichstag, but Hitler only nodded and motioned for quiet.

"America has begged for peace."

"America has asked for restraint."

"America says it only 'wants' justice."

"AMERICA LIES!!!!!" More thunderous screams for a full five minutes. Pounding the podium so hard it bounced, Adolf Hitler let loose with the full vandal vehemence he was capable of, his words arcing over the berserk crowds.

" AMERICA LIES, AND THE PROOF IS IN THE BODIES OF OVER ONE THOUSAND GERMAN SAILORS WHO WERE BRAVELY FIGHTING ONE ENEMY WHEN THEY WERE STABBED IN THE BACK BY ANOTHER!!! AMERICA LIES WHEN THEY SAY THEY WANT NO WAR!!! WELL, AMERICA, YOU SHALL HAVE YOUR WAR WHETHER YOU WANT IT OR NOT!!!! AMERICA WILL MEET THE FATE IT DESERVES AT THE HANDS OF THE THIRD REICH, DEFEAT, DISHONOR, AND FINALLY DISAPPEARANCE INTO NACHT UND NEBEL - NIGHT AND FOG!!!"

Hitler folded his arms and looked over the brown sea before him, taking it all in as they chanted, "HEIL HITLER!!! HEIL HITLER!!!" When the chanting had died to a dull, savage roar, Hitler looked at his audience once more and said, in statesman-like tones, "I therefore ask that since the dastardly, and UNPROVOKED, attack on the Bismarck, the Reichstag speak in the name of the German people and declares that a state of war exists between Germany and the United States!!!"

Thousands of voices chanted, "JA! JA! JA!!" as if it were some tribal incantation, as the ministers and generals stood in support of Hitler's request.

"Well," Shirer said in an avuncular, almost offhanded way, "there you have it - the Third Reich has just declared war on the United States." The sound of the Reichstag's chanting sounded like a native war cry, primitive and sinister.

Trout scribbled those words along with the date and time onto a piece of paper, then handed it to a production aide, mouthing the words, "get this out NOW". The aide tripped twice, but headed for the teletype to send the word out. Turning back to the mike, Trout said, "Bill, this is Bob Trout in New York, am I to understand you correctly, Germany has just declared war on the United States?"

Shirer's voice was calm, but direct. "That is correct, Bob. We are at war; the Reichstag has just passed the matter by affirmation." Before Shirer could amplify on that, a sudden chill ran up his spine and he looked up to see a squad of beefy men, all in leather coats and black Homburgs, pushing their way through the crowd towards the press table, one pointing directly at him. Shirer knew who they were and had a good idea of what they wanted, and felt a strange calm. At least, he thought, he had been the one to give the alarm.

Leaning forward into the mike, Shirer said, just loud enough to be heard, "Gentlemen, there are some men here from the German government who wish to speak with me?and it may be quite some time before I am on the air again. From Berlin, for CBS News, this is William Shirer," Murrow's voice had lost any trace of its cool professionalism. "Bill, get OUT!!"

"Signing off until better days - " Another voice, cruel and harsh, shouted, "Amerikanischer Spion, sind Sie unter Anhalten!" Followed by the sounds of a scuffle, a harsh squeal of feedback, and the echoing chant of "SIEG HEIL!! SIEG HEIL!! SIEG HEIL!!!"

Then the awful, quiet finality of dead air.

A few hundred yards away at the Luftministerium, Colonel Walter Novotny turned off the radio and looked once more at the back of the heavy leather swivel chair that was one of the perks of being commander of the Luftwaffe. The only indication that there was anyone in it was a thin tendril of cigar smoke wafting up from inside it and two mirror-polished leather boots perched on the exquisitely carved wooden desktop. "You know," Novotny said acidly, "the caretakers will have a fit when they see that."

The chair wheeled around to reveal the gap-toothed grin of Luftmarschall Adolf Galland, his face wreathed in cigar smoke. "Tell them not to worry. I own the place." THAT still sounded strange, but one had to admit that Der Führer occasionally did strange things. Galland had a reputation as a warrior, but he also had a reputation for integrity, and over the last few days it had been quite apparent that the Luftwaffe needed a heavy dose of it. "Galland," Hitler had said, "Make my Luftwaffe the scourge of Europe." And then he'd given him carte blanche to do it.

"Look at these files, Novotny." Galland motioned to a stack more than two feet high on the desk. "We've got the finest technology on earth out there, and we're arguing over who gets the biggest kickback when we build it?assuming of course we can put any of this into some kind of priority."

"You're going to have a hard time getting anyone to listen." Galland shook his head and took a long drag on the cigar. "That's why I asked for this," he said, tapping the folder with Hitler's letters in it. "I told him I wanted absolute authority, the same Göring had. You know what he said? 'It's yours, just use it better than he did.' "Novotny nodded as he looked at the designations on the folders?. He177, Me262, Do332, Wasserfall?."My God, Dolfo, how many projects did they have underway?"

"Hundreds, maybe thousands. That's why we have a couple of busy days ahead of us."

Novotny raised an eyebrow so high it nearly left his forehead. "We?" Galland released a huge puff of smoke. "We, I'm going to call in a few friends, and I want you to call four men you trust implicitly. By Monday I want to be able to take a good look at everything here and decide what we're going to keep and what we'll get rid of," Novotny nodded. "Not impossible. Damned difficult, but not impossible. What about the Luftwaffe staff?"

Galland waved his cigar dismissively. "Half have already asked for medical retirement, and most of the rest are already licking my boots. They can keep on licking too; the only one I'm keeping is Kesselring. "Novotny took one long look at the stack of files. "I assume this isn't all of them?"

"Just the tip of the iceberg."

"Oh well?I didn't have anything planned for this weekend anyway."

"Keep them free for the foreseeable future. If we're going to take on the Amis, we'd better understand right now that we'll NEVER out produce them. Mark my words, they can and WILL bury us in tanks, planes and ships. The only hope we have is to come up with weapons that are so superior to what they can put in the field, that we can hold off their numbers." Novotny picked up one file labeled Ju388 and started leafing through it. "Can we do it?"

Galland paused for a minute, a slow stream of smoke billowing out from around his cigar. "We'd damned well better try. Here, " Galland smiled, throwing him another handful of files. "Don't be shy."

[MKSheppard]

Chapter Twelve - We, The Emperor

6 Jun 41 - 1300 HRS LOCAL

On the other side of the vine covered wall, the most densely populated urban area on earth bustled about its business, but in a polite, controlled way that would have been - was, in fact - incomprehensible to just about anyone else on the planet. Cars zipped about in almost random patterns, pedestrians were jammed up against each other to a degree that would be intolerable anywhere else, and everyone smiled and stayed polite, and above all saved face. It was their way. Even when you were in mortal danger, you smiled and saved face.

Admiral Yamamoto Isoruku, CINC of the Imperial Japanese Navy's Combined Fleet, sat quietly in his office's garden, his uniform seemingly out of place in the raked paths and bonsai. It was relaxing here, if nothing else, and the wall kept most of the noise out. He could think here, and he had a great deal to think about. His nation was jammed up against other, richer, more populous nations, but had to remain polite and smiling. His nation was in mortal danger, with its primary sources of raw materials either cut off or about to be, but they smiled, and they would die rather than lose face.

A hummingbird, seemingly out of place outside the wall but perfectly natural inside, whirred past him to hover in front of a small bundle of blossoms. Japan was much like the hummingbird - it had to constantly move to feed and survive. It had tried to do so in China and Korea and Cochin China. Just as the other great nations had done, only to be told that it could not do so and must give up what had been won by the skills of its diplomats and the bravery of its warriors. When Japan refused, the nations of the world began to shut off the supplies of raw materials.

This can not be permitted, the politicians said. We will talk, but we will prepare for war. Give us victory.

And that, Yamamoto reflected, was the problem. Victory against the United States was impossible for Japan. At best, a brief string of tactical victories, then grinding defensive battles until American material superiority eventually won out. And then?defeat. Final, utter, and total defeat for the first time in ten centuries. And God alone knew what would follow after that. Yamamoto had tried to tell them about America's production capacity, about their bottomless appetite for revenge when they felt they had been wronged, about their deep inner strength that was so often masked by foolish desires and wild living.

There had been silence, and then he was told, Give us victory. Or we will find someone who can.

He was grateful for the post of CINCCF. It was a dream come true, and he was grateful to the friends who had gotten him there, as much to utilize his talents wisely as to keep him out of the way of the berserk nationalist officers. Who would set fire to the entire Pacific Basin in Japan's name? So, he followed orders and gave them victory, or at least a temporary strategic edge. It was the same plan the British had used at Taranto, only scaled up here to use every fleet carrier Japan had, a long-range strike far into American waters to the fleet base at Pearl Harbor. Fast, hard, and utterly unexpected even though the Americans had routinely war-gamed the same thing for years. With luck - and a great deal of that, Yamamoto had pointed out, they could damage the Pacific Fleet badly enough to keep it out of the way while Japan took the oilfields of Borneo, Java, and Indonesia. The best case could give them six months, eight at the most, to consolidate their gains and present the Americans with a fait accompli. The worst case at least four, and perhaps six carriers gone and hundreds of the finest naval aviators on the planet gone as well. It was the only choice they had, however, and they took it. He assured them that he could have the strike fleet ready by November.

But that was in March. That was before the Americans had started a war with Germany, before Germany started pressing Japan to fulfill its commitments under the Tripartite Pact. And suddenly, the fire-eaters who had been so eager to take on America with a rapier thrust suddenly began to fear for the safety of the rapier.

They will be on alert now. They will suspect. We could suffer intolerable losses.

He had tried, time and time again, to show then that if they wanted the United States Navy out of the way, this was the only way to even have a fighting chance. It was then that the battleship admirals, still harnessed to their guns and armor plate, coughed discreetly behind their gloves and suggested an alternative, Operation Plan 2.

The Decisive Battle, Gentlemen, the one that Admiral Togo taught us must be the fulcrum of a naval campaign. Lure the US Navy into the Philippine Sea. Cripple it at the end of a fragile logistic leash, then cut it off and kill it.

Banzai.

I knew Togo, Yamamoto thought with a frown. He would have told these fools to be silent and use the advantages they have, not play to an enemy's strengths. And so the civilians, who knew no better, found themselves having to make the decision between a grand and glorious battle that would salve the honor of Japan's admirals, and a lightning strike that would do the same thing in a far more direct fashion. The arguments had roared back and forth for two months now, and on the last occasion had almost broken into physical violence. That was when the Prime Minister made the unprecedented decision to take the decision to the Privy Council - and by implication, to the Emperor himself.

That meeting was going on now. Yamamoto looked at his watch and tried to guess what would be going on at that point. In order to avoid any undue influences, and the possibility of swordplay, he thought with a grim smile, both sides sent their chiefs of staff to brief the Council. His chief of staff, Captain Shigure, knew the plan inside and out, the benefits and the drawbacks. He could almost certainly argue it better than Yamamoto himself could.

The hummingbird whirred past him once more and over the garden wall, almost too fast to be followed. That would HAVE to be the way Japan must strike, he thought. Fast. To do otherwise would be to expose them to the risks of a long, drawn out campaign, which they would eventually lose, one way or the other.

Yamamoto looked up and rose as he heard the sound of a door opening in his office, and hushed voices. The garden door opened, and Yamamoto's aide strode out, leading Shigure. Shigure's face was set in stone and he clutched a small yellow scroll. The admiral's heart sank, and he knew without even being told what the answer was.

Shigure and the aide bowed, and the aide about-faced back into the office. Shigure stood silently, eyes downcast, and it was a moment before he spoke. "Admiral." Shigure swallowed hard before continuing. "It is my fault, Admiral. My resignation is unnecessary," Yamamoto said, placing an encouraging hand on Shigure's shoulder. "We will speak no more of it." Yamamoto reached for the scroll, a heavy parchment tied with a red ribbon and sealed with gold wax with a chrysanthemum in the center. Sliding the ribbon off, he sat back on the bench to read it.

"The Privy Council to His Most Gracious Majesty Hirohito, Acting In Concert And In Accordance With His Majesty's Wishes, And Desiring Only That The Safety Of The Empire Be Secured In The Most Effective And Direct Manner Possible, And Realizing The Great And Momentous Import Of Their Decision; Therefore Directs The Commander In Chief Of The Combined Fleet And The Commander In Chief Of The Imperial Army To Cooperate In A Spirit Of Harmony And Mutual Respect For The Formulation Of Plans, Operations, And Tactics Intended To Achieve The Following:

One, The Liberation Of The Philippine Islands, Guam Island, Wake Island, Borneo, Java, Hong Kong, And Singapore,

Two, The Destruction Of Such Enemy Forces Which Intend To Challenge That Liberation By Means Of A Decisive Battle In Accordance With Doctrine And Tradition; And

Three, The Security Of The Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere Thereafter.

And beneath that, in carefully printed characters that differed from the rest, words that chilled Yamamoto's heart:

We, The Emperor, Desire That Our Wishes Be Carried Out With the Utmost Dispatch.

Yamamoto rolled the scroll back up tightly and sighed. "All that work."

"Admiral," Shigure asked "would it be possible to preserve Operation Z as part of this? That is, use the strike on Pearl Harbor as the means to draw the enemy out."

Yamamoto shook his head. "Operation Z is dead, my friend. There is no chance that Kido Butai will sail east of the Philippines now. The battleship admirals have won and we must now play the game according to their rules?and under the thumb of the Army. Did they give any idea of just when we should try to accomplish all of this?"

Shigure nodded. "They want it on the same time frame as Operation Z."

Yamamoto snorted derisively. "Not now, it won't be. Especially if the Admirals want Yamato and Musashi in the line as well."

"They will."

"December is impossible." Yamamoto thought for a moment. "April is more likely, and May is much more realistic."

"Hai."

Yamamoto took a deep breath and clapped his hands softly together. "Well, then, we need to get to work. Call Genda and Fuchida at once and have them stand Kido Butai down and return here. I will explain to them personally."

"Hai."

Yamamoto paused for a moment, about to say something, then checked himself. With the ghost of a smile upon his face, he looked at Shigure and said. "But perhaps before we begin planning, we should take a trip to Kobe tomorrow and inspect Yamato. I think I need a deck under my feet for a bit."

Shigure smiled. "I'll make the arrangements, Admiral. Anything else?"

Yamamoto shook his head. "Just arrange for a full staff meeting on Monday so we really can get down to business. I will draft the formal reply to the Council."

"Yes, sir." Shigure stiffened, saluting Yamamoto. The Admiral returned the salute, and Shigure spun on one heel and strode away. But just before he entered the office, Yamamoto called, "Shigure?"

The captain stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "Sir?

Yamamoto's lips were tight, as a man who had tasted a bitter seed. "They will have their damned decisive battle, you know. And they will live to regret it."

Shigure could only nod slowly and walk away.

[MKSheppard]

Chapter Thirteen - Valedictory

25 MAY 2001 - 0945 HRS LOCAL

She moved with a nimble grace that belied her ninety-eight thousand tons, propelled by the force of the sun itself and even the waves of the North Atlantic parting before her in deferential obedience. One particularly high wave challenged her bows and threw itself at her with an almost human fury, but instead impaled it self on her bows as she proceeded onwards at thirty knots, uncaring in her mastery of the seas.

USS Texas (BBGN-77) was riding through the spring seas like a toy boat on a pond, and that suited Captain Marina O'Leary just fine. She'd done her first cruise on the second Lexington, and the old CV had bobbed around like a cork for almost a week, but for Texas, it was as if the waves didn't even exist. Swiveling her chair to the right, she reached for the huge coffee mug in the gimbaled holder next to her and surveyed the bridge crew for a moment. The weather outside may have been miserable but all was warm and dry and right with the world here, almost a hundred feet above the water. Texas' XO, CMDR Mike Kozlowski, stood towards the rear of the bridge, arms folded and looking at every single crewman at their station.

O'Leary sipped her coffee, and reflected with a grin that if the job of a good XO was to obsess over everything the Captain didn't have time for. Then Ski was probably the finest XO on the planet, because as one crewman put it, "Ain't NOBODY as obsessive as Commander Ski." But he'd helped weld nearly five thousand men and women into the best BB crew in the Navy, and they had the blue E's painted on the bridge gallery to prove it. O'Leary would miss him after they got back to Norfolk in three weeks, Ski had gotten his promotion to 06, and his orders to the Finishing School, then on to take over the USS Georgia.

Words that could make any battleship officer shudder, O'Leary remembered grimly. The Finishing School was ten horrifying days on the Mississippi, where you and another prospective BB skipper were put through a series of non-stop, day-night tactical drills with a minimum of sleep designed to see how much it took to rattle you, and then break you. The exercises were so demanding that regulations mandated two weeks free leave for all hands after they got back, regardless of the outcome. A handpicked team of admirals deprived you of sleep and food, all the while throwing every emergency and combat situation in the book at you, and for that matter, she mused, a few that weren't. Every now and then, it happened, somebody snapped, or more likely made some error that left the admirals dumbfounded. Then they would quietly terminate the exercise and have a brief, earnest conference. Rarely, VERY rarely, they'd restart the exercise. More often though the prospective CO would be gently told to go below and pack, and an Osprey would be out to pick him up the next day.

His file would receive 'further evaluation' upon return to Norfolk. Oh, nobody ever lost that cuff stripe, and a few even went on to solid finishes in their careers. After all, just to be selected to command a BB was an honor. Reflexively, O'Leary looked down at her battleship line officer's badge, a gray pewter side view of the first Texas, now a museum near Houston, with a gold wreath around the silver star atop the small battleship. But for most there would be no more promotion, no more command, and just an out-of-the way desk somewhere until you got the hint and put in your papers. She sipped her coffee again. Ski would do just fine. The details were everything, and he was a detail guy.

She watched Ski step towards the massive armored glass ports that ran across the bridge and peer outside with undisguised dislike. Putting the mug down, O'Leary asked, "Problems with the weather, Ski?"

Kozlowski gave a noncommittal grunt that every member of the crew recognized as meaning, "Hell, YES." Shaking his head, Kozlowski turned to O'Leary and said, "Captain, I'm still not sure that we ought to try and recover that Osprey. I'm worried about having a deck crew out there as it is, much less trying to bring that damned flying egg whisk aboard."

O'Leary grinned. "And its passenger?"

Kozlowski grimaced. "Skipper, don't EVEN get me started on that. I look up to the man like everybody else, but bringing him out here in this crud?" The XO shook his head in wonderment, then picked up a phone and punched three buttons.

"Air Ops, Lieutenant Ballard."

"This is the XO. What's the status on our company?"

A brief pause, then Ballard replied, "Sir, they're about twenty-five minutes out. The aircraft commander advises that he might not be able to make it back to Keflavik today and may request an RON."

Great, Kozlowski thought. "Got it. Get the recovery team out there and I'll be down in a minute." Looking back to O'Leary, the XO said, "About twenty-five out. The pilot's saying he may need to stay over until things settle down."

O'Leary nodded. "We'll probably end up with the ceremony in the hangar anyway. Is everything,"

Kozlowski smiled and handed O'Leary a thick manila envelope from inside his windbreaker. "Billeting, messing, and ceremonial arrangements, all organized chronologically."

O'Leary could only smile. ?Wherever will I find another maitre'd like you, Ski?"

Kozlowski grinned sideways and said, "I would strongly suggest the Captain try the Waldorf." Checking his watch, Kozlowski said, "I'm heading aft, Skipper. Shall I give your respects?"

O'Leary shook her head. "No, I'll be down there by the time the 22 shows up. Ski, you've done a great job on this project, it's appreciated."

Kozlowski gave a brief nod and smiled. "Thank you, Ma'am. I really do want this to go off without a hitch, that's all?and after all, it is Bismarck Day. I just want it right." Kozlowski turned on his heel and strode off the bridge. O'Leary turned back to the bridge ports, absentmindedly adjusting the black patch over her left eye. That was her personal reminder of a VERY bad day aboard the old O'Bannon off Taiwan during the Matsu War. Funny how you tended to forget the bad moments, she thought. It had taken a while to get used to it, but soon enough she had discovered that the troops got a kick out of having a skipper who looked like a buccaneer. When she'd gotten Texas, some smart alec had run a Jolly Roger up the mainmast and waited for the explosion. But instead of ordering it down, she'd flown it all the way through the '99 Med Cruise and from that moment on, Texas was known as a ship people fought to serve on.

This, thought CMDR Bob Dedmon, was flying, as he held the VV-22 up through another downdraft. Admittedly, it didn't have the same thrill as taking an A-12 over the beach in the Kuriles at fifty feet in a squall, but it had its own unique set of challenges - like seeing just how far he could push it in this weather. But, when the Long War wobbled to its conclusion, the Navy had found itself with a serious surplus of attack drivers, so Dedmon took the retraining and quickly established a reputation for being as good with the Osprey as he had been with the Avenger. Word moved fast, and in a couple of years he was CINCLANT's personal pilot. Couldn't argue - home a lot more often than he used to be, and Bec and the kids never complained about that, plus CINCLANT had promised him command of VA-289 when that came open in the fall. But every now and then he got a special job, like this one, and Dedmon wouldn't have minded wrestling with an A-12 one more time. The -22 was notoriously skittish in weather, and the VIP version of the Osprey had a thoroughly rotten reputation for handling in anything other than perfect weather on the other hand, CINCLANT usually only flew in perfect weather.

The -22 bounced again, and Dedmon looked at the surface search radar display. A lot of surface returns today with the waves being as rough, but Texas stood out like a mountain in the middle of a prairie. Pulling the yoke back into a gentle bank to starboard, Dedmon pushed the COMM button on the grip.

"Lone Star, this is Navy Five Eight commencing downwind leg."

"Copy Five Eight, deck crew is standing by. "

"Five eight rog." Dedmon's copilot turned to him and asked, "Think we ought to wake him up?"

"He is awake." The voice came loud and clear from the passenger bay without need of the intercom, even as the Osprey's snarling turboprops changed pitch, signaling the beginning of their descent.

The copilot winced, and Dedmon gave a wolfish grin as he switched to intercom. "Admiral, we're beginning our descent to the Texas now. Please make sure you're secure back there."

"I've been secure back here since we left Reykjavik. You'd think after all this time you could avoid the weather instead of flying through it."

"Sorry about that, Sir. With all that upholstery back there, the Osprey handles pretty badly at higher altitudes. We'll be aboard Texas in about seven minutes." Dedmon shook his head as he buckled on his helmet. CINCLANT had warned him the Admiral could be a handful, but for the most part he'd been pretty quiet since they'd left Iceland. Well, in a few minutes, he'd belong to the VIP handlers aboard Texas and then Dedmon could get a cup of coffee and relax.

Mike Kozlowski stepped out onto the fantail from Texas' hangar and was slammed by a gust of wind that almost staggered him. One could get so used to traveling all over the ship without ever going on deck that you could forget just how miserable it could be out here. It wasn't that cold, but there was still a nip in the air that belied the date on the calendar.

The recovery crew was securely safety roped to the tie down pads, ready to chock and tie down the Osprey the minute it touched down. They'd have to do it on the helo deck - the weather was going to force them to hold the ceremonies in the hangar the next morning.

At the forward edge of the helo deck, were two Honor Guard teams. Four Marines in full battle armor, carrying a US flag and a Marine Corps flag, and a Navy team in whites, with a US flag, a Texas state flag, the USN flag and a blue banner with five silver stars surrounding a gold anchor, the flag of a Fleet Admiral, United States Navy. The last five star, Kozlowski thought. He looked at the Marines for a second and was glad his involuntary shudder could be attributed to the weather.

They were always friendly and polite enough in their fatigues or other duty uniforms, but when they got into the armor...they changed. Kozlowski could never explain it, but he knew a lot of people who felt the same way.

The nickname, Robojarhead, wasn't always a backhanded compliment, damned few people had ever seen the pictures from Desert Storm, where the 1 MAU had landed south of Basra and literally torn apart two Iraqi divisions that had stood in their way in the first big combat use of the Excalibur suit (or X-suit to everybody except the PR guys). It was just a little...creepy, that's all.

The hatch behind him opened again and Captain O'Leary stepped up onto the deck, holding her hat down against the wind. "How far out?" She called over the waves and wind.

"About seven minutes," Kozlowski replied. "Pilot's going to do a downwind pass to let the Admiral have a look."

The Osprey wasn't more than a hundred feet above the wavetops as Dedmon took them down Texas' starboard side prior to turning around her bow and then alighting on the hangar deck. The massive gray bulk slid by, seemingly immobile until you saw the massive bow wave built up at the stem of her bow.

Fleet Admiral Brian Shannon, United States Navy, knew Texas almost as well as he knew his own children. He'd helped design her, build her, and test her, and he never tired of going to see her, but it had been a while now since the last time. What now, five years? That's right, just after Marie died.

They had married in the spring of '42, after she'd left the Army following the raid on Hampton Roads. They'd raised five kids together and buried one. Chris had been gone for thirty-eight years now; he'd been a JO on the Bennington when the Russians ran her down at the beginning of the Cuban War. Brian had made CINCLANT, and he was a damned good one. Moira? Well, being the Marines' first female combat commander counted for something. Terry was in the captain's chair of the Florida, and Sean was running a Tigercat squadron on the Ranger.

Shannon swallowed hard and tried to redirect his thinking, but it usually never worked. He had always been told that as you got older you forgot things, but he was ninety-eight years old now, and hadn't forgotten anything. Unfortunately, the only reason he was even out here was because he still had his wits about him, though his aide Chief Cochran - buckled in across the fuselage from him - would probably argue that. But in the end, a five-star was a public charge for life, and when Secretary of Defense DiGiulian AND President Derdall both called to ask him to go, it was tough to say no.

That and the fact that Cochran had pushed him to get out for a bit. And every Shannon child and grandchild and great-grandchild had urged him to get away from the cavernous Quarters One at NB Norfolk and get out to sea again. Wasn't sure if they wanted him to enjoy the feeling of a deck under his feet or they wanted him to do it knowing that it would probably be the last time.

The massive 18"/75 rifles seemed to go on forever as they emerged from the low, flat-topped turrets, and Shannon marveled once again at weapons that were so far beyond what he'd served with. T Tiornu would have loved them. Except Tiornu had died on the flag bridge of the Montana at Sagami Bay back in '47.

Every now and then Shannon read a book that called Sagami "the Admiral's graveyard" and he remembered how close he'd come to being one of the ten flag officers who'd stayed there forever. Only that damned bomb had saved them, and as grateful as he was for being alive, he hated that damned thing. What had the scientists nicknamed it? d-something? Dingbat? Hard to remember little things like that any more. But the big things?they stayed with you.

Dedmon had one hand on the throttles and the other on the stick as he slowed the Osprey to a near standstill, simultaneously pulling the nose to the left. It would be a textbook approach as Texas' stern would slide under him and he would pull into a hover with the Osprey's massive rotor blades slicing through the air above him. He could see the deck crews drop to one knee and avert their heads - not a gesture of respect but rather safety - the downdraft from an Osprey could literally flail a man standing the wrong way.

The snarl of the Osprey's twin turboprops turned into a howl as the engine nacelles pivoted upwards through ninety degrees, bringing the tilt-rotor to a near standstill, hovering about thirty feet above Texas. This was the tricky part, but Dedmon made it look easy, bringing the Osprey down at just a bit less than a foot per second. The deck crews were moving the instant the tilt-rotor came to a rocking stop, throwing heavy chocks under the wheels and securing the Beartrap landing assist unit. Dedmon chopped the throttles closed. "Lone Star, this is Navy Five Eight, secure."

"Copy Five Eight, welcome aboard."

It took only a few seconds for the rotors to stop spinning, and as they did the two honor guard teams moved into place, flanking the red strip of non-skid carpeting that had been moved into place. The hatch moved down with a whine of hydraulics and Chief Cochran leaned out, one hand on a door brace to steady it. O'Leary could see Cochran look up and suddenly stiffen, as if being given an order, and then -

There he was. Still tall, just the way they remembered him from Academy graduations, and he hadn't missed one since 1950. A bit thinner - a lot thinner, actually, and a lot grayer too. But he still carried himself with the bearing and aplomb they all remembered. As the teams crashed to attention, Shannon's eyes shot back and forth between the two teams as the three-note trill of a bosun's whistle flew into the spray.

His step away from the Osprey was a little unsteady, but Crockett was behind him, one hand extended just a little in case. O'Leary and Kozlowski stepped forward and stopped precisely two paces in front of Shannon, their hands snapping up in salute as the bosun called, "Fleet, arriving!"

"Good morning Admiral, and welcome aboard Texas!" O'Leary had to shout to be heard above the waves. Shannon returned the salute, a little slowly, but with precision none the less. "It?s great to see you again! You remember my XO, Commander Mike Kozlowski. Would you please follow us?" O'Leary motioned towards the hatch and they fell in on either side of Shannon.

The walk down Broadway was a pleasant one, with every sailor and officer snapping to and greeting Shannon and O'Leary as they strode through. Kozlowski was pleased to see that everything had been polished within an inch of its life, but he was a little bothered to see Shannon only nodding in response to the greetings, almost distracted. Well, the XO thought, he is almost a hundred years old, and four hours in an Osprey would rattle anybody. But just to be on the safe side, he'd mention it to the Skipper once they had him settled down.

Shannon couldn't get his eyes off the impressive murals that stretched seemingly the length of Broadway. The one they were passing now was Texas - his Texas - whipped by hurricane winds in Hampton Roads that wild September night, just a few months after they'd nailed Bismarck, locked in a death grip with a Nazi raider. That's funny, he thought, he remembered that damn thing being closer to his ship than the artist had shown her. Memory did funny things. Ought to be his motto anymore, the thought grimly, and nodding absently to half-heard salutes and 'good mornings'.

The Third Reich had died very, very hard. The U-boats had damn near strangled the US with the mine and submarine blockade, and when that had been beaten - and England barely pulled back from the brink - they'd had to move the whole damned US Army over there. It had taken five awful years, and at the end, it had been vicious. The V5 attacks on the US had been bad, but there'd only been a handful - the Brits had suffered them far worse. The Russians had taken their sweet time getting into the fight, not entering the war until the summer of '45, and then promptly ending up in a nightmarish re-run of World War I in a trench system that bisected Poland from top to bottom. When Eisenhower finally announced on March 21st, 1946, that 'all organized resistance had ceased', there were no cheers, no wild celebratory mobs. The first reports of what the Dingbats had done to Berlin, Hamburg, and Munich had seen to that. The burned, blasted remains of the camps had finished whatever impulses remained to celebrate.

Another mural, this one of the Oregon taking it wet with her turrets swung to starboard and lashing out at something unseen to the south.

The Last Duel, the one author had called it, the last time a United States Navy ship of the line slugged it out with an enemy vessel in single combat. 1959, Shannon remembered, but for the life of him he couldn't remember the date. He remembered the ship, though. Sovietsky Soyuz, a long, lethal looking bastard, too. The mural showed a warm greenish-white glow approximately where the bridge should be, and Shannon assumed that the artist had assumed that everything had been well lit, warm and dry on the bridge that night.

It hadn't been. A pair of rounds from the Soyuz had opened up the bridge. And of all the nightmares that still came back to haunt him, the one that he still saw the most was of being on that bridge in the rain and cold. His left arm and face torn up almost their full length and the panicked, bleeding, dying kids on that bridge trying to keep their ship between the Soyuz and a fleet full of women and kids.

One more mural, this one of the new Texas, painted from her starboard quarter with number two turret elevated all the way, torches flashing out and up. The other half of the mural showed a painting taken from a grainy long-distance camera shot, of a ship dissolving into a fireball. The Iranian CB Reza Pahlavi, taking two laser-guided 18" rounds through the bridge and literally splitting her in half lengthwise in the first hours of Operation Desert Storm. For the first time in battleship history, a BB had killed her opponent without ever actually seeing her from her own decks. Texas - Bill Kargel had been her CO then, good man, Shannon remembered, had nearly swept the Persian Gulf clean of the United Islamic Fleet single-handedly. And at almost the same time, in the North Atlantic, the Atlantic Battle Line had gone up against the Red Banner Fleet in a last ditch effort to stop a nuclear war - and won."But in so doing," read the official congressional report, "the battleships sealed their own fate. With the destruction of the Red Banner Fleets and the effective neutralization of the Red Chinese Fleet, there is simply no further rationale for the Battle Line."

They had already started decommissioning them, Shannon thought sadly, and the goal was that they would all be gone by 2010, except for Texas, which would stay on until 2025 as a command and control ship. The last Iowas were gone now, the last two Montanas swinging quietly at anchor in Philadelphia. The Oregons would all be gone by '05, and then one New York a year until they were gone-and poof. Two hundred years of tradition and history turned into so much scrap metal. Oh, a couple would be saved as museums, but they'd be hollow shells, more jungle gyms for unruly kids than the living, breathing weapons they'd been.

No further rationale for the Battle Line, Shannon thought sadly as they pulled up short in front of what must be his quarters.

Only fitting, he thought sadly as they opened the door and ushered him in. Hadn't been any rationale for him in a very long time.

The afternoon had passed pretty quickly as he'd sat down to get some rest. The VIP quarters were nice - not as nice as home, but still nice nevertheless. He'd changed into his khakis without the nameplate or ribbons - Marie had pointed out to him once that first, everybody knew who he was, and second, if he wore all his ribbons he'd fall over.

The davenport was comfortable enough, and it took him a couple minutes to figure out the remote for the TV. TV on a battleship, f'r God's sake. They were lucky to have a radio. The networks back home, and ONS, which was running a squib about -- Bismarck Day. Wonderful. Orbital News Network was congenitally incapable of telling a battleship from a harbor tug, and they were at it again. Hood sunk, Texas and New York to the rescue, and that same damn stock footage of some German battlewagon - Hindenburg, he thought - blowing up as it rolled over. Made him want to throw something at the screen every time?

"Admiral?"

Shannon gave a start and found himself looking up at Cochran, who was looking down at him with an expression of mild concern.

"Oh, sorry Chief, sorry...must have nodded off."

Cochran smiled and held out a cup of coffee. "No problems, sir. Just wanted to get you going - it's coming up on 1700."

"Mmm." Shannon took a sip of the coffee - at least that was right, made with just a pinch of salt the old Navy way. Shannon got up, holding on tight to the coffee mug. Turning to Cochran, he asked, "Chief, did I -?"

Cochran shook his head. "No sir, not yet."

Shannon paused for a second. He wasn't sure if Cochran was being a smartass or he'd already asked him something. Dammit, he muttered to himself. Never should have come here -

The knock on the door got his attention, and reflexively he looked up and said, "Come!" Before Cochran could get to the door, it swung open and a face popped in - long and thin, with a gray goatee. Shannon took a heartbeat to recognize him, but he didn't need any longer than that.

"Guten tag, meine freund. Zey make you answer your own door now?" Niklous, Grossadmiral Ritter Von Demus, limped into the cabin and he and Shannon embraced like the friends and family they were. Shannon stepped back and smiled, grinning from ear to ear. "You old pirate," he laughed. "I thought you weren't going to be able to make it!"

Von Demus made a noncommittal motion with his right hand. "Victoria was sehr pushy about it." She said, "Iff mein fathzer in law can go, you can too!"

Shannon winced, but with a smile. "Vicky needs to keep her mouth shut. Brian's got enough problems."

Von Demus drew himself up to his full height. "Admiral," he said in mock indignation, "I will haf you know zat mein daughter is ze very flower of German womanhood. She vould neffer defy her hussbant-unless of course it was absolutely necessary."

Cochran entered and shook Von Demus' hand. "Admiral! Good to see you again!"

Von Demus grinned. "Und you, Chief. I see you vere able to get der alte buzzard out of ze house." Cochran grinned as Shannon shot him an unpleasant look. "Believe me, Admiral, it wasn't easy. Excuse me, please, I've got to get the Admiral's uniform laid out." Cochran ducked back into the other compartment while Shannon and Von Demus sat down. "Zo," Von Demus said, "you are vell?"

Shannon sat back with a frown. "No, I am not vell. I'm ninety-eight goddamned years old, Nick. I should be home, not out here again."

Von Demus shrugged. "I am eighty-one. I should be home as well, but zis is special."

"Bah. I have other things to do."

"Vor instanss?"

Shannon didn't even look at his old friend, but instead just muttered, "Things, that's all." Von Demus considered this for a moment, nodding. "No doubt matters of great urgency." Shannon gave Von Demus a sour look but gave no reply. Von Demus nodded at that as well, and stood. "Vell,in zat case, Brian, I shall zee you at ze dinner later this abend. Assuming, of course, that you shall not be otherwise occupied." Von Demus was grinning, but he wasn't being friendly. Shannon said nothing as his old friend left the cabin.

The Flag Mess would have been a respectable cafeteria anywhere ashore, but on a battleship at sea it was luxurious dining, and Texas' crew had outdone themselves in doing the place up, not to mention a superb dinner. Shannon enjoyed it - food always tasted better aboard ship, no matter what it was, but frankly he'd have enjoyed some old fashioned SOS at that point rather than some formal affair.

It felt good after a little while, better than it had felt in a long time. The gray bulkheads, the smells and subtle sounds of a ship at sea-lots of memories, mostly good ones. The laughter of friends...comrades...family...

It took a few seconds for Shannon to realize that Nick was standing at the podium, telling a mildly ribald joke about a former shipmate named Fockker, and everyone was laughing hysterically, Cochran hardest of all. As the laughter settled down, Cochran leaned over and said quietly, "I think this is going to be your cue, Admiral." Shannon nodded absently; patting his inside jacket pocket for the manila envelope that he'd remembered to tuck in there. When he looked up again, he was hearing his name over the speakers and everyone was standing and applauding.

Well, he thought. At least there's going to be one enjoyable thing this evening. Moving slowly to the podium, Shannon nodded in quiet acknowledgement until everyone sat down. Shannon slowly slipped his glasses on, then looked up with as serious an expression as he could muster. Looking out at the assembled officers as if they were a bunch of middies on their first cruise.

Reaching into his jacket and removing the manila envelope, he opened it as he began to speak. "Before I make my remarks...a matter has been brought to my attention...that leads me to question the standards...and indeed the competence... of the staff of this ship..."

The room went dead silent, and Kozlowski and O'Leary shot what-the-hell looks at each other as Shannon continued. "I know of no other way...to deal with this...than to deal with it myself." Shannon took a deep breath, knowing he'd be hoarse for a week after this, but it would be worth it. Turning to O'Leary, Shannon gave his best quarterdeck bellow as he said, "Captain O'Leary, front and center!!" Marina O'Leary hadn't been spoken to like that since her first day at the Academy, but reflexes are reflexes and she leapt up and came to attention. For his part, Mike Kozlowski sat stock still, thinking to himself that the Old Man had finally and completely slipped off the davits.

O'Leary was locked in a brace as Shannon looked at her with an expression that ran somewhere between disgust and disdain, and after what seemed like an eternity, Shannon snarled, "Captain, you should be ashamed of yourself...appearing at a function like this...out of uniform!"

O'Leary could only blink in utter confusion and ask, "...How?"

Shannon's face never cracked as he said in a much gentler voice, "Admirals are supposed to have stars on their epaulets." Before it could sink in to anyone, Shannon finally smiled and handed her the paperwork that had been in the envelope along with two epaulets. "Your scores for the last board got recomputed. You are hereby promoted to the rank of Rear Admiral, United States Navy, effective immediately. Congratulations, Admiral O'Leary." With that the room erupted into a roar of applause and cheers and literally everyone came forward to congratulate her as she veered between whoops of joy and laughter.

The way it's supposed to be, Shannon thought as he stood back and watched. After a few minutes, Shannon looked over and saw that Chief Cochran was looking in the other direction, and with a speed and agility he didn't think he had any more, slipped out the door into the passageway. In Flag Country few people were wandering around, and he was surprised how easily he remembered how to get back topside.

It was cool, cooler than Shannon remembered it being out here...It might be May, but that only meant spring back home, out here, that only meant your survival time in the water increased to a few tens of minutes instead of just four or five minutes, most of which you were unconscious anyway. Wonderful. Of all the things to remember.

Texas was lit up like a Christmas tree, the silver-green glow of MercArc lights cutting through the spray. The deck was empty, save for a lone soul in a red and gold Marine t-shirt and shorts jogging steadily forward. The breeze was gently snapping the weather covers on guns and equipment as the ship glided through the waves toward England. The way it's supposed to be, Shannon thought. Quiet. Nobody else, no speeches, no dinner, no nothing. Just you and the ship. Shannon leaned on the rail and just relaxed, really relaxed for the first time in a few days as he watched the Atlantic Ocean slip past and away.

Shannon didn't know how long he'd stood along the rail when he heard the footsteps, a shuffle-step that he didn't have to look up to identify.

"You know, chumping ofer the rail vould be a terrible blot on Admiral O'Leary's record."

Shannon just continued to look into the ocean. "That's not what I had in mind, and you know it."

"Schuilgen sie, bitte."

"Didn't you ever learn decent English, Nick?"

Von Demus smiled. "Decent enough. Besides, people tend to be sehr understanding when they think you cannot speak it."

"Well, I know better."

There was a pause before Von Demus spoke again. "I vould haff thought you knew better than to leaf a dinner in your honor, especially after you promoted your host."

Shannon watched a wave slip alongside, vanish, and then reform in the battleship's wake. "It wasn't for me, Nick. It was for somebody I used to be... who did something a very long time ago."

"Ja. Somethink you should be proud uff."

Shannon finally turned to look at Von Demus. "I've had to be proud of it for sixty years. I don't want to be proud of it any more. I've been questioned, inquired, asked, interviewed, and just about anything else you can think of. The rest of my life changed because that goddamned Führer of yours agreed to send you into the North Atlantic on a suicide mission."

There was silence for a moment, and Shannon immediately regretted his words. "Nick, I'm sorry, that was -"

"Absolutely correct, actually. I for one was convinced zat ve would go out und come back. But he was not my Führer. I cared not who vass in charge, zo long as ve had our chance at glory. It mattered not to you either, nicht wahr?"

"What do you mean?"

Von Demus thought for a moment, framing his words. "Did it matter who gavff you your orders that day, Brian? Did it matter if it was Roosevelt or Calfin Coolitch sending you after Bismarck or Tirpitz or ze Graf Zeppelin, for Gott's sake? You did your job, no?"

Shannon nodded. "I did my job, yes."

'Ah.' A pause. "You defented your country. The manner in vich you did so is what brought you glory."

"Perhaps I just don't want to hear about it any more. I'm almost a hundred years old, Nick...and no matter how much older I get, my life is still...there.." Shannon tilted his head toward the invisible horizon. "I'm still there. And when they bury me, the name of that damned ship will be right there next to mine."

Von Demus stood quietly for a moment before speaking again. "No, Brian, you are wrong. Ze worts United States Nafee will be next to your name. Ze Nafee zat you gave an example to. And still do. You make it zound as iff zat vass bad luck."

"Wasn't it? To be saddled with this for sixty years, Nick, wasn't it?"

Von Demus looked out at the waves, and then straightened up to leave. Before he did though, he looked at his friend with a sad smile. "Brian," he said quietly, "in eighty years, you haff commanted ships of the line. You have destroyed those who would haff harmed your country. You helped safe the world. You marriet a vonderful woman, who gafe you five children-all of whom honored you and zeir nation. And to zis day, Brian - to zis day - you are an inspiration to zose who haff followed. If zat iss bad luck, Brian...may it please Gott to send you more." With that, Von Demus bowed slightly and walked away.

When Von Demus walked back into the Flag Mess, Chief Cochran headed directly for him followed by O'Leary and Kozlowski. Before they could say anything, Von Demus held up a hand. "He iss fine," he said. "He bears the veight of many years." Kozlowski replied, "Admiral, that is most profound , but not terribly illuminating."

Von Demus gave a thin smile. "You know, Commander, Atmiral Schannon told me you were a - vat iss ze vord - smartass?"

Kozlowski swallowed hard at that and said nothing as O'Leary and Cochran tried to stifle laughter, but before anyone else could say anything, the door to the mess opened and Shannon walked in, pausing to straighten his jacket as the door swung closed behind him. Shannon slowly made his way through the crowds to Von Demus, O'Leary, Cochran and Kozlowski. They stood straight as Shannon stood silently for a second, and then looked at O'Leary. "My apologies, Admiral. Just needed some fresh air."

"Understood, sir," O'Leary replied, relief clear in her voice. "Can I get you something to drink, perhaps?"

"No thanks, " Shannon replied, then turned to Kozlowski and asked, 'And what about you - any more souvenirs to pass out?' Shannon nodded towards the huge 14" shell that squatted beside the door, a brass plaque on its side and its nose cap missing. Kozlowski grinned and said, 'No sir, not recently - at least nothing the skipper will let me bring home.'

There were grins all around at that, and then Shannon asked, 'Just out of curiosity, Commander, you understand that by the book, you're now the commanding officer of this tub.' Kozlowski gave him a mildly confused look, and then his eyes went wide. 'Oh, hell,...' Kozlowski said, almost as much to himself as to everyone else. 'I have got a lot of work to do, maybe I better call it a night -?"

Shannon shook his head. 'I don't think so, Captain. After all, I am the senior officer in the United States Navy. I hereby order that you will not assume command until tomorrow at midnight. Relax.'

Kozlowski grinned. 'By your command, sir.' At that, Shannon put his hand on O'Leary's shoulder. 'Just out of curiosity Admiral, did I ever tell you the story of the battle of Hampton Roads?'

O'Leary thought for a moment, then answered, 'No sir - at least not your side of it.'

'Then you're in for a treat. Mister Kozlowski here thought he knew the story but he was full of it, so don't listen to his version. You need to hear the real thing -us old timers need to take care of those in peril on the sea...' Shannon led O'Leary away, saying, 'Now first of all, don't listen to anything the History Channel or Mister Kozlowski have to say...'

The End Of Those In Peril On The Sea