Turning the Storm (The After Dunkirk Series Book 3) Page 4

  Re-awakened Italian defenses concentrated their fire on the lone aircraft, but it pressed on, dropping its load of bombs on the Trento’s deck. With dismay, Clifford and Going watched the bombs bounce on the steel deck—without exploding.

  Three days later, the two admirals met again in Alexandria. “That was a magnificent job, Arthur,” Cunningham greeted Lyster. “We could not have asked for a better result.”

  “You weren’t so complimentary on the first day after the mission, sir.”

  “We didn’t have the full battle damage assessment,” Cunningham said, looking chagrinned.

  They sat in comfortable armchairs in Cunningham’s office and shared a brandy. “Thank you, sir. Our chaps deserve the praise.”

  “What they did was remarkable, and you’re owed a great deal of credit. I’m just sorry we lost two good men and two aircraft. By the way, we just received word that Hooch and Blood survived and are POWs. Did I get their nicknames right?”

  Lyster smiled grimly and nodded. “You did, sir. That’s good to know, thank you.” Then he shook his head. “Losing Bayly and Slaughter was painful. The men felt it. They had trained hard together. Their courage and skill were tested and proven, not mine.”

  “That’s a healthy view. I’m getting all the attention in London, and our country needed a victory, but all I did was say yes to your plan.” Cunningham shuffled some papers on his desk. “The damage assessments are impressive. Unbelievable, really. The largest and most modern navy behind our own—since France left the equation—was defeated by twenty-one cloth-covered biplanes that almost everyone, including me, thought were obsolete.”

  He brought a document close to his eyes, frowned, and then exclaimed, “My word. It seems that my only contribution to the plan was an utter failure.”

  “Sir?”

  “The bombs. I insisted on the bombs for the smaller ships, and they all failed. Every one of them.”

  “Not all, sir. The ones that hit the fuel-oil fields did extensive damage.”

  Cunningham nodded and tossed the paper on his desk. “We’ll have to do something about that. We won’t win this war with non-exploding bombs, will we? I should think not.” He looked up brightly. “Well, we sank three battleships. Who knows at this point if they can be repaired? We also damaged three cruisers and three destroyers; and intelligence informs us that battleships Vittorio Veneto and the Giulio Cesar have been ordered to Naples for safekeeping. That removes them as a threat for the time being.”

  “Hmm,” Lyster mused. “This should put to bed the argument of the primacy of carriers over battleships.”

  “I think so. Your pilots in their Stringbags set naval precedent. Carriers extend our projection of military might well beyond what’s possible with battleships.” He picked up another document. “Here’s what I wrote in my official report. ‘Taranto, and the night of 11–12 November 1940, should be remembered forever as having shown once and for all, that in the Fleet Air Arm, the Navy has its most devastating weapon.’”

  “I agree completely.” Lyster shifted in his seat. “What do you hear from the home front? Is anyone doing anything about that blitz Hitler rains on our cities?”

  “I have a little insight on that, but nothing to share right now. I’ll just say that Chief Air Marshal Dowding is an acquaintance. He’s under huge pressure to ‘do something’ about those nightly raids, and the argument between him and 12 Group’s Air Marshal Mallory continues over the merits of the ‘Big Wing’ strategy versus Dowding’s approach. I’m with Dowding on that. Having planes burning fuel and incurring wear-and-tear while orbiting and waiting for the rest of their formations to rendezvous makes no sense to me. What Dowding’s developing will affect our operations in the not-too-distant future, and I feel confident that it will alleviate that situation at home.”

  He sipped his brandy. “As for the night raids, I think Hitler miscalculated again. He thought he could defeat us by demoralizing our people, but he only makes them angrier and more resilient. He can’t bomb us forever. He’s stretched across the Continent and North Africa, and I suspect that he still wants to go after the Soviet Union, his treaty with them be damned. I’d wager he wants to do that more than he wants to conquer Great Britain.

  “Subduing the Bolsheviks was always in his plan; invading England never was until Churchill refused to make peace. That Austrian corporal is using up raw materials, equipment, fuel, food, his soldiers… He doesn’t have an infinite supply, and one of these days he’ll wake up and realize that.”

  Lyster listened intently. “So, what is Dowding doing to end that hell?” He took a deep breath. “We both have families and friends in the middle of the blitz. Some have buried loved ones.”

  “Yes,” Cunningham said, slowly and sadly. He locked his fingers and rested his chin on them. “I can’t say much because I don’t know much. But I’ll tell you what was told to me. Think Chain Home in miniature, installed on fighters; and the Germans still don’t have the large version.”

  Lyster drew back, wonder in his eyes. “Are you serious? That would change everything. The implications are enormous.”

  “My thought exactly. You presented us with one game changer. We could use another.”

  4

  November 14, 1940

  Bletchley Park, England

  Claire Littlefield took a deep breath and knocked on Commander Alastair Denniston’s office door. Though she had no notion of why she had been summoned, her relations with the head of the intelligence facility at Bletchley were cordial, even friendly.

  Bletchley’s employees had been sworn to secrecy about its existence, given its status as Great Britain’s greatest military secret. Claire had crossed a protocol line once by discussing one of the facility’s secrets with someone not authorized to know them. That the person was an intelligence officer in another part of MI-6, Bletchley’s parent organization, had made no difference, nor did the fact that Claire’s actions had helped to save a French Resistance network in northern France. The added fact that her brother, Paul, was the other intelligence officer had probably made things worse and jeopardized his career as well, but the net effect of their conversation was that the Resistance network was saved.

  Later, Claire had redeemed herself by discovering an opportunity to recruit a spy in Field Marshal Reichenau’s German 10th Army headquarters in Dinard, France, the very unit and commander responsible for planning Operation Sea Lion, the Wehrmacht’s planned invasion of the British Isles. Although she had received no direct feedback as to the value of information received from that source, she had to believe, based on messages she had decoded originating in Dinard, that her spy was successful.

  Claire had also sensed from those messages that Reichenau’s staff was becoming agitated that Britain seemed to know German moves before making them, and the locations of key facilities in France that the RAF then bombed. Such knowledge, the Germans seemed to conclude, must have come from within their own headquarters.

  What the Germans did not know, and the reason why Bletchley was such a closely guarded secret, was that it housed a German encryption machine and a group of highly educated and specialized people who had broken Germany’s military codes and could read their messages almost as fast as the intended recipients. Thus, while the Wehrmacht was correct in deducing that it might have a spy in the Dinard headquarters, they did not know that much of what British intelligence knew came from Germany’s own radio messages encrypted with code that they perceived to be unbreakable.

  Claire heard Denniston call to her to enter. When she did, he stood behind his desk in uniform, a fit man with an elegant manner and boyish good looks that included dimples on each cheek, although he must have been nearing fifty years of age. A hint of gray hair around his temples gave him away.

  “Come in,” he greeted, and waved her to a seat in front of his desk. “Seeing you is always a pleasure.” Despite his warm demeanor, she noticed that he seemed unusually distracted, concerned.

  “Tha
nk you. Likewise, I’m sure.”

  The commander took his seat, taking note despite his preoccupation that an air of world-weariness seemed to have overtaken Claire. Lines creased the corners of her eyes, and circles had formed around them. “Are you all right? You look a little tired.”

  “No more than anyone else, sir. The war wears on us all, particularly with the incessant bombing.”

  “You’re right, of course.” He regarded her with concern. “How are your brothers?”

  Involuntarily, Claire’s mouth quivered, and she felt tears rising at the corners of her eyes. She took a deep breath and fought back the emotion. “I don’t want to burden you with my problems. You sent for me. How can I help?”

  Denniston ignored the question. “Have you found out where your POW is yet?”

  Claire pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, touched it to her nose, and nodded. “That’s Lance. He’s in Colditz.”

  Denniston’s eyes narrowed as he stared at her. “I’m sorry to hear that. Isn’t Colditz the special prison for POWs who make frequent escape attempts?”

  Claire nodded. “That’s my understanding, from messages we’ve seen come through here.”

  “Hmm. Germany is still observing the Geneva Convention by and large. Can you take comfort from knowing that Lance is alive and still using his wits?”

  “I do, sir, but I worry that he’ll get himself shot. He can be a handful to deal with on occasion.”

  Denniston chuckled. “That seems to be a family characteristic.” Without waiting for a reaction, he asked, “What about Paul? Isn’t he the one you got in trouble with?”

  “Hmph,” Claire replied, fighting down agitation. “Your ability to find out about him is probably greater than mine. All I know is that he’s off on some secret assignment that might last for the duration of the war. I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him since September right after the last big daylight raid on our airfields. He could only tell me not to worry and that he would be safer than any of us here. I wish I could believe that.”

  “That surprises me. I know nothing of it.” He studied her a moment longer. “Tell me about Jeremy, the famous brother. Is he still convalescing at your house?”

  Claire shook her head. “He’s back flying again, but he can’t tell me what or where. He’s not in Spitfires, which surprises me, and his American friends transferred to another squadron, so I know no more about him than any other member of my family.”

  “Your parents? Are they coping all right on Sark?”

  At mention of her parents, Claire’s reserve nearly broke. She could not stop the tears, so she turned to hide her face. “Excuse me, sir…” Her voice convulsed and she could speak no further.

  “I apologize,” Denniston said, rising and coming around the desk. “I didn’t mean to pry. I thought you might have good news about some of your family.”

  “It’s all right,” Claire said, composing herself. “How can I help you?”

  He sat down behind his desk and leaned back while gathering his thoughts. “I’ll get to the point. I believe you decoded some of the messages coming out of Berlin concerning the raid on Taranto a few days back.”

  “Yes, sir. I did.”

  “What do you make of them?”

  Claire chuckled and lowered her eyes. “Sir, if you’ll recall,” she said, raising her gaze to meet his, “I’ve been admonished twice by your boss that I’m a decoder, not a translator or analyst.”

  Now Denniston laughed and leaned forward. “Yes, that’s right, but your analyses were correct both times, and if not for your language ability in both French and German added to your dedication, we would have missed them.”

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate the compliment. How can I help?”

  “I’ll get to the reason I called you in here shortly, but first, I’m interested in your impressions of what you’ve seen in those messages.”

  Claire settled back into her seat, thinking. “I can start with what I read.” She summarized the attack. “The Germans are upset that our Mediterranean fleet successfully raided and nearly destroyed roughly half of the Italian navy using obsolete aircraft. We’ve trumpeted our success, and the Japanese sent their military attaché from Berlin to Taranto to study what happened.”

  “Those are the facts as I know them,” Denniston said. “Do you draw any conclusions from them?”

  Claire pursed her lips. “I hadn’t given that aspect much thought and I don’t know much about Japanese military capabilities, but if I had to guess, I’d say they’re thinking of launching a similar attack somewhere.”

  Denniston sucked in his breath. “Those were my thoughts too, but I wanted to bounce them off someone who was not close to the day-to-day analysis. Japan just joined the Axis Powers two months ago, so the question becomes when, where, and against whom?” He rubbed his eyes. “Thank you, Miss Littlefield.”

  She started to rise. “Will that be all?”

  “Excuse me? Oh wait, no. The main reason I brought you in is that we’d like to offer you a promotion. The idea arose while we were discussing those messages about Taranto in a senior staff meeting. I mentioned that I’d like to get your take on it, and Director Menzies asked when I was going to promote you into our analysis section. He said you’d already demonstrated the ability, and the promotion was past due.”

  Claire stared at the commander in amazement. “MI-6 Director Menzies said that? He’s the one that scolded me so sternly.”

  Denniston laughed. “That’s his way. He’s uncompromising, and he has a tough job, but he recognizes talent and accomplishment. Are you interested?”

  While he spoke, Claire’s mind went to the series of messages she had decoded several months ago that led her to identify the potential for recruiting the spy in Dinard. She had even identified the lady by name, Jeannie Rousseau. Claire had brought the information to the commander with the suggestion that Jeannie might be open to recruitment. Claire suspected that the idea had been pursued successfully, because the alternative explanation for Jeannie’s employment in the headquarters was that she was a collaborator. If that had proved true, the intelligence Claire had supplied would have been enough for the local French Resistance in Dinard to execute Jeannie. The thought had horrified Claire.

  “Well?” Denniston prodded. “Would you like the promotion?”

  “I’m flattered—”

  Denniston frowned with disappointment. “You’re going to turn me down. Is that because of Timmy? No one knows his story more than those of us that work with you—”

  “No, no,” Claire protested. “Our nanny does a wonderful job of caring for him when I’m not there. That’s not the reason at all.”

  “If it were, we’d accommodate—”

  “Thank you, sir, but the reason is—how do I put this? I was coming to see you on a different matter. Do you remember the conversations we had about Miss Rousseau?”

  “Of course.” Denniston looked chagrinned. “I told you I’d get to you with feedback, and I haven’t.”

  “That’s fine, sir. We’re in a highly classified program. I wasn’t expecting any, but I’ve followed her progress in the same way that I became aware of her in the first place, via the messages I decode.”

  “I see. So, what’s the issue?”

  “I think someone in that headquarters is on to her, or at least suspects her. I think she might be in danger. If she is, I feel responsible. I wouldn’t want to make a move away from decoding until I know she’s safe.”

  Denniston leaned back, surprised. “That’s admirable, but you don’t even know her.”

  “Sir, if she’s in danger, I caused it. I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to her, and I hadn’t done everything possible to save her.”

  The commander studied Claire. “You are a rare human being,” he said softly. “If the world were like you, we wouldn’t be in this war.” He paused in contemplation. “How about this? I’ll run it up the staff to see if there’s a rescue
option, and we’ll speak again about moving you when we have a resolution.”

  “That works, and I’ll stay where I can monitor until I know she’s out of danger.”

  “Thank you for coming, Miss Littlefield.”

  Claire started to rise and depart, but on impulse, she settled back on the edge of the chair with her hands on her knees. Denniston glanced at her inquiringly.

  “Sir, dare I ask about the communications concerning the Luftwaffe’s Operation Moonlight Sonata, its plan to bomb Coventry?”

  The commander sat up straight in his chair and regarded her sternly. “Miss Littlefield, are you forgetting yourself again?”

  Taken aback by the severity of his reproach despite half expecting one, she met his glare with wide, concerned eyes. “But sir, this attack is going to be monstrous even by recent standards…”

  “Miss Littlefield,” Denniston tried to interrupt, but Claire pressed on.

  “…of what’s been dropped on London. Hitler himself ordered it. Coventry will be destroyed. Shouldn’t the city be warned?” Urgency and anxiety infused Claire’s tone. “It’s only forty miles…”

  “Miss Littlefield.” Denniston’s voice rose.

  “…from here, and members of our staff have family and friends who live there.” Claire’s insistence matched his stern voice.

  “Miss Littlefield!” the commander called grimly, and took to his feet abruptly.

  Claire also stood, her eyes fixed on his, her cheeks red. “And I know that Mr. Churchill has been informed.”

  Silence.

  “Sit down, Miss Littlefield.” Denniston’s stern command pierced Claire’s senses. She stared into his eyes as realization of her rashness sank in. Slowly, she settled back into her seat.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I overstepped again.”

  Denniston stood silently observing her a moment, and then came around to the front of his desk. “I want to tell you that the offer for your promotion is still open, but it’s good that you’ll have time to think about it.”