Kirov Saga: Darkest Hour: Altered States - Volume II (Kirov Series) (10 page)

The bicycle also seemed to
conspire against him at regular intervals, its gear chain slipping and clogging
the works, bringing him to an ignominious stop on the long country roads. Then
he would be forced to remove his gas mask to see well enough to re-set the
chain, and the pollens would find his nose, still breathing heavily with the
exertion of his ride. So he took to carefully calculating the interval between
gear chain failures, counting each rotation of the pedals, and cleverly
intervened, tightening and adjusting it just before the average time elapsed to
ward off the failure.

In spite of his Hay Fever, he
remained fit and trim, sometimes taking to running the three miles from his
cottage to work each day, a
bona fide
marathon man in his own rite. All
the while, his mind was feverishly working on some problem or another, be it an
equation or expression in his calculations, a thorny problem in his effort to
crack some devilishly complex code, or perhaps dreaming up another of his
strange devices, like the Universal Machine that stood as a good foundation to
the modern understanding of computers. Find the flaws, he thought. Find the
loose ends, the contradictions. From those you can get a lever into the code
and deduce everything. Then all it required was the proper machine to aid the
decryption effort, and of course good signals intelligence. He was determined
to have a solution to the German Naval Enigma code in short order.

His associate, Gordon Welchman,
has been working with him on a device, which they called a “bombe,” but the
work was frustratingly slow. It was a series of drums arrayed in rows that
rotated at 120rpms with each setting off the next in a precise order, and the
motion migrating down and down to turn the positions of the lower drums, almost
like the gears of a clock…or a bicycle. By brute force of trial and error the
machine would test the possible relationship or “connection” between two
letters.

It might deduce that E was
connected to H until a contradicting case appeared in its machination that
proposed E was connected to J or some other letter. Since E could not be
connected to both H and J at the same time, it was the contradiction that
allowed the code breakers to eliminate one case or another and eventually
arrive at the correct connection—a connection that corresponded to the
assignments on the German Enigma code machine. In effect, Turing and Welchman
were building and using a massive analog computer to help them break the German
code. It was all much more complex than that, but the principle was sound, and
it was slowly producing results.

They had it up and running just a
few months ago, in the ides of March, 1940, and at times its clattering and
churning could be heard throughout the whole facility. To Turing, it sounded
much like the feverish pedaling on his bicycle, mixed in with the chugging
repetition of a printing press. The only problem was that there were too few
men on the job, and too few “bombe” machines clattering away to move the effort
forward. Building on the work of several Polish cryptographers, Turing was also
attempting to decipher the German Naval Enigma code. He boldly announced it
could be broken, and eagerly set to work on it.

“Look Gordon,” he said one day,
“no one else is doing anything about it and I could have it to myself.” That
was an idea particularly appealing to him, as it could become a perfect testing
ground for his methods and machines. He kept Peter Twinn busy on the project as
well, and innumerable girls providing hands and eyes for the enormous clerical
work involved. A little luck also helped when the British captured the German
Trawler
Polares
on April 26, 1940, which held numerous pieces of
equipment related to the code.

Known as the “Narvik Pinch” it
aided the work immensely. The German Enigma machine operators also helped in
many ways. Thinking the code unbreakable, they would often pair three letter
sets with a second series that was easily related. It was found that the three
letter code set for LON was often followed by DON for London, and the three
letter set for BER was often followed by LIN, just as HIT was finished off by
LER. If any one of the sets could be identified in a message, the related
series was easily deciphered.

 By May of 1940 Turing and other
dedicated cryptanalysts, notably Hugh Foss, had a breakthrough that led to the
deciphering of a complete day’s messages. The success was celebrated ever
thereafter as “Foss Day,” but as the code changed daily, there was still a
great deal of work to be done to allow reliable deciphering for an entire
month.

Hut 8 at Bletchley Park, or
Station X as it was sometimes called, was a very busy place. That day Turing
was wiping his weary nose, lamenting that his gas mask did not seem as reliable
as he hoped on the morning ride, even though he had successfully averted a gear
chain failure by stopping at a precise interval to effect a repair. A bit weary
and bedraggled by his Hay Fever, he went over to the cupboard and quickly
unlocked the padlock and chain which he used to secure his favorite coffee mug
from any “unauthorized use” as he called it. Coffee! That was what he needed
now to get the gears, wheels and bombes of his own mind working and clattering
again.

Just as he was settling back into
his chair and savoring the aroma as he breathed in thin curls of coffee vapor
to soothe his nose and sinuses, in came Peter Twinn, with what looked to be a
large photo in hand and a thick manila envelope under his arm. Turing caught
the return label and knew it had come in on the morning delivery from Whitehall
and the Admiralty.

“Well,” said Twinn, “we’re in
trouble, Alan. What, pray tell, do you make of that!”

“What is it?” Turing seemed
uninterested.

“It’s the prodigal son, that what
it is.” Twinn pressed the photographs into his lap.

Turing took the first photo,
eying it suspiciously. It was a typical aerial reconnaissance photo of what
appeared to be a large warship at sea. “Well it certainly is exactly what it
looks like,” he said. “A ship.”

“Yes, but not a German ship this
time, Alan. Take a good guess as to who owns this one. Then have a look at
these close-ups under my arm. I think you’ll be quite amazed.”

Turing set down his coffee mug,
reached for his magnifying glass, and took a closer look. “Russian naval
ensign,” he said definitively. “That’s clear enough. Where was it taken—the
Baltic?”

“Southwest of Iceland, right in
the middle of this big operation underway out there now.”

Turing looked again, this time
his gaze lingering on the photo, eye roving from place to place behind the big
round lens of the magnifying glass and a strange feeling coming over him that
he could not quite decipher. It was an odd ripple, shiver like, that ran up his
spine and tingled at the back of his neck, yet he could not see why he would
react thus way to a simple photograph.

“Dear Alan,” said Twinn. “Having
another allergy attack, are you? Don’t worry, I’m sure there’s a reasonable
explanation as to why we could have missed a ship like this in the Russian
order of battle. After all, we’ve never seen them as much of a threat. It’s the
Germans we’ve been hot about, eh?”

Saying nothing, Turing extended
an arm, gesturing for the manila envelope Twinn was holding, his eyes still
riveted to the original photo, a furrow of growing concern creasing his brow.
He had seen this ship before… That was the feeling at the back of his neck now,
and it was bloody dangerous, a rising discomfort and warning alarm in his mind.
He had seen this ship before, yet he could not recall the where and when of
that, strangely bothered, as his mind was a steel trap that little escaped from
once embraced by the cold steel of his logic. He took the envelope, opening it
hastily as Twinn looked on, now somewhat concerned himself.

“My Lord!” Turing exclaimed. “How
did they manage to get these? Why, it looks as though they were taken from a
ship steaming right alongside this big bad fellow.”

“That they were—taken from HMS
Invincible
just days ago and flown off to the Admiralty for the purview of Their
Lordships. So now they’ve come to us. Quite a ship, is it not? Note the label.
It was listed under the name
Kirov
, and they’ve classed it as a
battlecruiser of sorts, though I can’t see much in the way of armament.”

“Yes, just a few twin secondary
turrets, but my god, the damn thing is bristling with receiving antennae and
what looks to be radar dishes. Look at all these features here.” Turing pointed
out elements in the photo, the feeling he was reliving something of grave
concern still deeply rooted in his mind. He could even feel the rising magma of
fear there, an old fear, something learned long ago, and he noted how his pulse
quickened.

“Now here’s the amazing part,”
said Twinn. “This ship was commanded by a Russian Admiral, and he was invited
over for lunch and gin with our own Admirals Tovey and Holland! Word is the
Russians offered to throw in with us against the Germans! How’s that for news?”

“Officially?” Turing gave him a
searching look.

“We don’t know the details yet.
Tovey is still at sea, and things are getting quite hot from the latest signals
we’ve received. But it would be a rather welcome development. All we have to do
now is explain how the Russians built this ship without anyone here knowing
about it… and how it came to be found in the Denmark Strait! First word on that
monster was apparently sent in by an auxiliary cruiser escorting convoy HX-49
out of Halifax. Then came that aerial sighting from a pilot off
Ark Royal.”

“So we missed something,” said
Turing. “Ship watch isn’t our department.”

“But signals traffic is.
Admiralty wants us to listen in more on the Russians now to see what else they
might have up their sleeves. I don’t think they perceive them as a threat, at
least not Soviet Russia, but with the Orenburg Federation throwing in with the
Germans the situations is somewhat… fluid.”

“To say the least. A lot of
dominoes have been falling Peter, Italy, France, Belgium, Holland, Denmark,
Norway and now Orenburg. Well, they haven’t any navy to speak of, just those
antiquated old airship fleets.”

“That’s their navy of sorts,”
Twinn countered. “They’ve twenty four big zeppelins, rigged out for aerial
reconnaissance, air defense and even bombing missions now. Those new
self-sealing gas bags have proven very resilient. A typical fighter group has
fits trying to shoot one of the damn things down.”

“Yes, yes, well forget about
Orenburg for the moment.” Turing’s attention was still fixated on the photos of
the Russian ship. “Something tells me this ship is hiding something beneath
that long empty foredeck. See these hatches? I doubt if this is an armed
steamer or cargo vessel. Admiralty will have noticed this as well and they’ll
be wanting us to sort it all out.”

“I can ask Kendrick or Strachey
if they could listen in on Russian signals. This ship is bound to be receiving
orders.”

“Good idea, Peter… and let me
know, will you? Let me know the instant you hear anything at all about this
ship.”

“Finally got your attention, eh?”
Turing seemed to have an unusual interest in the matter now. “Well, Alan, I’ve
finally found something that can get you to interrupt your coffee time!” Twinn
smiled, but as he looked at Turing he could see he was again lost in his review
of the photos, a silence about him that seemed very troubled.

Part IV

Alliances

“Friendship is but another name for an
alliance with the follies and the misfortunes of others. Our own share of
miseries is sufficient: why enter then as volunteers into those of another?
―
Thomas Jefferson

Chapter 10

June 20, 1940

The
crews were working
feverishly, the Air Commandant’s voice harsh as he bawled through the voice
pipes to the nose of the ship.
“Cast off! All lines away! Ballast Chief, release
ground anchor an lighten load!”

The sun gleamed on the round nose
of the ship where the dull red of its serial number was painted on the slate
grey canvas—S6, “Siberian Six,” otherwise known as Siberian Airship
Abakan
.
Its broad tail fins were prominently marked with the Cross of Saint George, the
war time symbol of the Free Siberian State. The elevatorman was exerting
himself to spin the wheel, his eyes fixed on the elevator panel to note the
airship’s pitch, deflection and inclination. A glass leveling tube told him
much of what he needed to know, and his effort was to “chase the bubble” when
he wanted to level off the ship.

Abakan
rose slowly, its
interior gas bags struggling to get the necessary lift on the cold morning air.
This ship, like most all the others still in service, was a model by the
inspired genius of the German airship engineer Karl Arnstein, one of the great
pioneers of rigid airship design who had worked closely with Count (‘graf’)
Ferdinand von Zeppelin. The airship was every bit as big as the ship that first
bore the count’s name, the
Graf Zeppelin
, all of 770 feet long and just
over 100,000 cubic meters in total gas volume. A helium lifter, as all airships
in the Siberian fleet, it had incorporated the new Vulcan self-sealing gas
bags, eighteen in all from nose to tail, and this single breakthrough had
extended the life of the airship for decades.

The first designs had used
hydrogen, highly prevalent and easy to obtain, and the lightest of all gasses
to give it the best lifting power. Yet its Achilles heel was its volatile
nature and flammability, which was driven home during the First World War.