Reluctantly, Rogge pressed the alarm button. There was no external sign of the result. Beneath the ship’s protective disguise, her 5.9-inch guns and torpedo tubes were being manned. She had two tubes on each beam and they could well be the deciding weapon if ever Atlantis had to fight for her survival. Her two twin 37mm guns and four 20mm weapons would probably be less valuable, but their crews were ready and waiting anyway. Oddly, the only gun that wasn’t being manned was the single 3-inch weapon sitting uncovered and exposed on the bow. That was there because an unarmed ship in the middle of a war would be suspicious in its own right, but the gun was really useless. Rogge looked at the cloud of smoke again. Now, there was obviously a ship underneath it; a long, low, lean ship. Not a heavy-hulled ponderous merchantman. Rogge knew that he was looking at the one thing he wished to see least of all, a warship. And out here, very few warships indeed were friendly.
“Sir, medium sized ship. Two gun turrets forward; two aft. Two funnels; catapult and aircraft between them. A modified Leander class cruiser, I think.”
“Australian.” That was something Rogge really did not want to see.
The situation was confused enough already. A British ship would be bound by the terms of the Armistice, or so Rogge believed. Hoped, anyway. He had heard that the Royal Navy station forces had put themselves under the command of the local Dominion governments, not the authorities in London. But, the Dominions had maintained a steady silence over the whole issue. Were they still at war with Germany? No peace had been agreed with them, but London had said its word held for the Dominions. Germany had agreed and was also of the opinion the war was over. Only, the Dominions had remained silent.
Rogge watched the cruiser close in. He wasn’t surprised to see her sheer off when she was around 10,000 meters away. He knew what Admiralty standing orders were when intercepting suspect merchant ships: stand off and cover with guns. Shoot at the first sign of a suspicious act. The cruiser was shower a proper, professional caution and 10,000 meters put the advantage firmly on her side. He watched the guns in the twin turrets foreshorten as the mounts were trained on Atlantis; Rogge also could see sailors on the upper deck leaning against the rails, watching the action play out. Obviously, the cruiser was not at action stations… yet. That changed as he watched. The sudden flurry on her decks showed that she was going to battle stations. “Signal, sir. The cruiser has hoisted signal IK. Beware of cyclone, hurricane or typhoon. That doesn’t make much sense.” The signals officer
paused. “She’s signalling again, sir. Signal reads NNJ. She’s asking for our signal letters.”
“Play for time. We might yet bluff our way out of this. Make sure all guns are loaded and the torpedoes ready to fire.” Rogge drummed his fingers on the rail.
“Another signal, sir. By signal lamp this time. It reads VH. That’s an order to display our signal letters.”
“Very well. Hoist PKQI.” Those were the signal letters for Atlantis’ cover identity, the Dutch MV Abbekerk. By now the Australian cruiser was clearly expecting trouble. Her Captain had sensed something amiss, although Rogge had no idea what it was.
“She’s the Hobart, sir. Signalling again. Signal reads IIKP. They’re ordering us to reveal our secret sign and prepare to be boarded.”
“That must have been that IK signal. We just got the middle of it.”
“Another message by signal lamp. We are ordered to heave-to and prepare to be boarded immediately.”
Rogge knew his standing orders at this point and they were clear.
Under no circumstances was he to allow his ship to be boarded. That left only one other option.
“Hoist the German naval ensign, drop the screens and open fire, every gun that can bear. Fire torpedoes as soon as the crews have a good aim.”
“Just what the hell is that damned merchie playing at?” Captain Harry Howden was frustrated. “We’ve been signalling them for the better part of half an hour and all they do is hoist some unintelligible nonsense. PKQI? That’s the Abbekerk and she’s in Batavia with engine trouble. Has been for weeks.”
The movement on the ship in front of Hobart grabbed his attention. The German naval ensign was breaking out from the stern while metal screens were falling down. They revealed guns that belched orange flashes Howden knew to be medium-caliber gunfire. The howl of approaching shells confirmed that impression. The first two shots were clean misses. One fell short; the other screamed between the two funnels and exploded in the sea beyond. Misses they might have been, but they were still close enough to send fragments pattering against Hobart’s hull.
“It’s the Hun raider Kemmendine warned us about! For God’s sake, open fire.”
Howden’s words were interrupted by a second pair of shots; this time, from the centerline guns mounted fore and aft on the raider. These missed as well. Again by a hair’s breadth, but enough to turn what could have been catastrophic damage into the pattering of fragments against armor. The raider had got off the first shots, but the long range and her crude fire control had robbed her of the decisive early blow she had hoped for.
In reply, Hobart squeezed out a four-round half-salvo that was just a touch short. A second half-salvo was a fraction over, but the cruiser now had the range.
“Make revolutions for 28 knots; bring us around in front of her. All guns, fire for effect. Full salvos.”
The orders made sense and Hobart leapt to obey them. Her stern dug in; the ship shaking as her engines powered up. Everybody knew that converted merchant ships like the raider had their guns on the beam. The British armed merchant cruisers were the same. That meant they were almost blind ahead. At most, one gun could be brought to bear to Hobart’s eight.
Through the vibration of the engines and the beginning of her bows swinging, Howden felt the shudder as all eight guns crashed out a salvo. Four of the shots hit square into the German raider’s hull, starting fires that quickly stained the sky black. They crashed into the raider’s waterline, penetrating her hull and knocking out her engines.
On the bridge, Howden cheered his gun crews on. The sixinch turrets settled into a steady routine that methodically blew the raider apart. This was what every cruiser captain dreamed of: a raider caught cold and under his guns. His only regret was that nobody paid out prize money any more.
“Get a radio message out. Signal we’ve been attacked by a German raider. We’re returning fire and we’ve got her, by George.”
“Periscope depth. Right now.”
Kretschmer almost snarled the order out. His submarine had much better hydrophones that they were normally given credit for and the thunder of gunfire had been clearly audible to U-99 cruising nearby. The scope ran up.
He did the submariner’s swing, a rapid scan that gathered as much information as possible while minimizing exposure. That brief swing told him everything he needed to know.
“Atlantis is gone. She’s burning like a torch up there.” The vast pyre of black smoke had been unmistakable. “There’s a cruiser close by. She has our auxiliary cruiser under fire.”