“I understand, my Fuhrer, but the situation has changed. Certainly we cannot consider the seizure of the entire French fleet. It would take years just to train men to crew those ships. But the ships I just mentioned are presently in the occupied zone, not the Vichy sector. In effect, they are not under Admiral Darlan’s control. The ships are incomplete. They will need work, and there is no risk that they might flee. Taking them as a prize of war may be controversial, but necessary-particularly the aircraft carrier.”
There came a knock on the door, and Hitler looked over his shoulder. The SS guard entered, saluting crisply. “Forgive the intrusion, but I was told this was a matter of some urgency. Message for Admiral Canaris.” He handed off a folded paper and made a quick withdrawal.”
“Dinner invitation, Canaris?” Hitler smiled for the first time in the meeting, and Goering laughed appropriately. Canaris, however, seemed to know what he had been handed, and he sighed heavily as he read the note.
“I hardly think we will want a seat at this dinner table,” he said with an edge of warning in his voice. “This is a message from my network in Spain. As you know, we keep a good eye on ship movements at Gibraltar. It appears that a big British buildup is underway. Two more battleships and another aircraft carrier have arrived.”
Raeder nodded his head, raising a finger as he spoke. “I am not surprised to hear this. Was your man good enough to determine what ships these were?”
“Battleships Nelson and Rodney, along with the carrier Glorious.”
Hitler listened closely, his dark eyes moving from one man to another. “Gibraltar,” he said gruffly. “Ever a British thorn in the underbelly of Europe. If I could convince Franco to acquiesce, I would take the place and be done with it.”
Raeder’s ears perked up at this, his eyes alight. “These ships can be assembling for only one reason, my Fuhrer-the French fleet. Now the British have the firepower necessary to force the issue. There were already three battleships in Gibraltar, now they have five.”
Hitler shook his head, a frustrated look on his face. “All our ships laid up after this disastrous operation, and yet the British have sufficient resources to send five battleships to Gibraltar! That is more than we have in the entire Kriegsmarine, correct?”
“Do not concern yourself with numbers,” said Raeder. “Most of those ships were built during the first war, and these latecomers soon after, in the 1920s. They are old and slow, nothing like our new ships. Yet it is not any threat to our operations they now pose. No. The British mean to bring the French fleet under their guns, and if they cannot capture them or force them to demilitarize, they will destroy them.” He folded his arms with an air of finality. “And here we sit worrying about a clause in the armistice!”
Hitler looked at him, his eyes fierce now. “At last you are completely correct, Raeder. The British have no qualms. They do what is in their own interest, and the niceties of politics be damned. So we will do the same. Take those ships in occupied ports. I order it this very minute! Then put any resources you have available and get them ready for operations as soon as possible.”
“As you wish, my Fuhrer, and this is a wise decision in light of these developments. I will admit my caution earlier regarding the French fleet, but events have proven me wrong.”
“Then what about the remainder of their ships? What can we do about this, Raeder?”
“Frankly, there are only a few we might wish to get our hands on-the fast new battleships, perhaps a few cruisers and destroyers.”
“Certainly any submarines we can secure,” said Doenitz.
“What are we now, a pack of scavengers? Saying is one thing,” said Canaris, “doing quite another. How do you propose to get these ships? Yes, the carcass is there for the pickings, but soon the British will be circling like vultures. Toulon is Vichy controlled. The rest of the French ships are in African ports. I’m sure you don’t plan on sailing Bismarck and Tirpitz down there after you patch them up.”
There was just a bit of a smirk in that, and Raeder bristled, but calmed himself. Canaris won’t give up easily, thought Raeder. I must be very careful in the way I handle him.
“No Admiral, we’ll concern ourselves with operations in the north for the moment. As for Toulon, I’m afraid I have no solution for you. Might something be done politically? After all, we remain in a position to exert considerable influence on the Vichy French. They exist only by our leave, do they not?”
“Correct again, Raeder,” Hitler’s eyes were that dark well again, vast, deep, endless darkness there. “The bar fight is well under way, and now Franco and Petain want to sit quietly and watch. These little men should be of no concern to us, nor will they impede me in any way that matters. If they will not join us they will be dealt with. We could demand the surrender of all French ships at Toulon, or threaten to rescind the occupation and our agreement not to divide France permanently.”
“But my Fuhrer,” Canaris began.
“Not now, Canaris. I know you are quite comfortable with your arrangements in Spain, and nice and cozy with Franco. Set your mind to discovering his intentions! Will he join the Axis, or not? Find out, because once I am through speaking with the French, he will be next. Then this fellow in Russia. First things first. The British are the real problem now. But let us see how things look if we can get these ships you speak of, Raeder. Yes, and things will be quite different once our ships are anchored in Gibraltar instead of the Royal Navy.”
The Fuhrer smiled, a cold, evil smile that made every man there uncomfortable. This was the twilight of the British Empire. It was fading and failing, descending into the dark night that would be ruled by the iron hand of the Third Reich. Gibraltar, Malta, Alexandria, Suez… It would be just like shooting birds on a wire, thought Hitler. But first things first, the French fleet.
Part IX
“In a world where the dead have returned to life, the word ‘trouble' loses much of its meaning.”
Chapter 25
July 24, 1940
They spent some days in the harbor at Severomorsk, and Fedorov was making good use of every minute of free time he had. He was in the officer’s mess hall, the table covered with the cache of books he had been given by the Russians, and was happily perusing one after another.
Much had changed, but he was still amazed to find that other parts of the history remained remarkably consistent with events he already knew so well. The history of his own homeland was badly fractured. Stalin’s death was a backwater footnote now, the assassination of a minor figure on the fringes of the incipient revolution, well before it had taken real form in 1917. Stalin had been relatively obscure in the early years, gaining prominence in revolutionary circles only after Lenin’s return to Petrograd in April of 1917. In his place it was Sergei Kirov who shined by the borrowed light of Lenin.
The twin defeats at the hands of the Japanese in 1905, and again in 1908, had humiliated Russia. Karpov’s great dream of Russian Pacific power had completely backfired. The Japanese Empire was catalyzed by the events in 1908, and incursions into mainland Asia, on both Chinese and Russian territory, soon followed.
This crisis did much to cause many defections in the military, eroding the power base of the Tsar, but the nation was still swept into the gathering maelstrom of the First World War, and continued to bleed. The revolution happened right on schedule, between February and October of 1917. A few faces were different, but it all played out much the same.