The 16-inch shell had penetrated the deck, just missing the heavier 11-inch side armor on the turret and striking the upper portion of the barbette instead. Here the armor was much thinner on this older class ship, between four and six inches above the main belt armor where the penetration occurred. It was a design flaw that had been corrected in the newer King George V class, which had barbettes with twice that armor thickness at 12.75 inches, but that did not comfort the stately Queen at that moment. The round had detonated one of the four magazine areas where the powder bags were stored, and with near catastrophic results. The bulkheads between the magazine and upper shell deck were blown apart and every man there was killed instantly. The working room just beneath the upper gunhouse was devastated, and the side of the ship itself was rent asunder with the blast.
On the bridge, Captain Barry struggled to keep his footing, instinctively flinching and raising an arm to shield his face when fragments of shrapnel flayed the conning tower. The ship shuddered and rolled with the force of the secondary explosion, and then the heavy black smoke obscured all. The sound had been deafening, and now he could barely hear the hoarse shouting of a man on the voice tube. He felt a warm wetness on his neck, and reached up to the side of his right cheek, his fingers wet with blood trickling from his ear. In spite of the shock he shouted an order, his voice seeming a bare whisper in the chaos of that moment. “Starboard twenty!” He was turning his wounded bow away from the heat of the action.
Captain MacRae saw the sea erupting around the British ships, heard the booming report of their guns, and was taken with the savage power of a close quarters battle at sea. His was a ship that had been designed to fight an enemy it should never see, except in the digital traces on the radar tracking screens. The sight of the smoke and fire, the resounding crack of the big guns, the brilliant orange flame blooming from the distant silhouettes when they fired, were all as exhilarating as they were terrifying. Then he saw the result of the hit Axel Faust had guided home on Queen Elizabeth.
“That looks bad,” said Mack Morgan when they saw the huge eruption of black smoke on the horizon ahead.
Argos Fire was well behind the main British formation, thinking to lead the enemy ship off their pursuit, but the enemy had not been fooled. They kept to an intercepting course against the main body, slowly turning to run parallel, and then converging by small five or ten point turns to gradually close the range. At that moment they were still behind the British, and just barely on the horizon from the perspective of Argos Fire. The enemy was closing the range on the British with their 15 knot advantage in speed, and there was no way the fleet would escape from the battle that was now being joined.
Queen Elizabeth was making no more than 14 knots, her forward hull opened very near the water line to allow the heavy swells to surge in. It had the saving effect of flooding the whole region, and preventing further explosions, but the ship would soon be down at the bow, a wounded water buffalo, and the wolves were rushing in to finish her off.
Malaya was directly behind when the explosion occurred, but did not match the turn made by the other ship, her Captain Arthur Pallister instinctively knowing it had been a near fatal blow. Three cruisers and three destroyers were ahead of the Queen, and carried on as the battleship fell off the line to the starboard side. The cruiser Berwick, behind Malaya, followed in her wake, but one of the two trailing destroyers turned to attend to Queen Elizabeth.
“That was quick shooting,” said MacRae, “Who’s the culprit, Mister Haley?”
“Radar traced shellfall from the number two ship in this formation here, sir.” Haley was fingering the Hindenburg.
“Well, we’d better answer that. No one raises their hand against the Queen on my watch, by god. Target that ship with a GB-7. Let’s see if we can get their attention.”
“Aye sir.” The missile was keyed and away, making a lightning swift run to the target that seemed only brief seconds, still accelerating to its top speed when it struck home and exploded, right amidships, but on the heavy belt armor of the ship. As with the hit on Normandie, the missile would not penetrate the 360mm armor, over 14 inches thick, but the large excess fuel reserve would cause a fire.
“That looks worse than it probably is,” said Morgan.
“I don’t think we can penetrate the armor on these ships, sir. We can’t fire in Mode A. If we don’t hit the superstructure, these ships will simply shrug off our missiles and put out the fires.”
MacRae nodded, inwardly kicking himself for firing without thinking this through. The GB-7 was a sea skimmer, defaulting to that attack profile unless reprogrammed for a popup maneuver. They had to strike above that belt armor.
