Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) Page 10

  “Damn!” said Jackson. His squadron was decimated—worse than decimated. What in hell were they shooting at us? He had his cameras running the whole while, and hoped the footage would be valuable if he could get it home safely. “Bad day’s work”, he said to Stanton on the radio.

  “Bloody hell!” came the return. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Torpedo in the water!” Tasarov called out loudly. “Two signals, both running true!”

  Karpov, turned to Fedorov near the comm-link. “Mister Fedorov,” he asked. “Will these torpedoes home in on the ship’s hull?”

  “No,” said Fedorov, “they will run true as aimed to their maximum range, and only detect the hull for purposes of detonation. They have no active tracking radar or sonar components. You can avoid them by maneuvering the ship.”

  “Helm, come hard to port and all ahead full!”

  “Aye, sir,” came the echo, “Hard to port and ahead full!”

  The ship went into a high speed turn, leaning heavily in the sea and surging forward with renewed speed. Karpov wanted to get as far off the torpedo bearing as possible, and he was easily able to maneuver the ship out of harm’s way. Then he went to the viewport, looking for his binoculars, pleased to find them hanging just where he had left them, so long ago it seemed now. A quick scan satisfied him that the evasive maneuver had worked. He saw the two torpedo wakes well off the starboard side of the ship and breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Two airborne contacts withdrawing,” said Rodenko. “I think they've had enough, sir.”

  Karpov nodded. “Let us hope this is the last we see of them for while.” And then to Fedorov he said. “Captain, how is the situation on the aft deck?”

  Fedorov had just finished being briefed and had a grim expression on his face. “Not good,” he said. “The KA-40 caught fire when the missile failed and they had to jettison it over the side. I don’t know how they managed that, but they did. That secondary explosion we heard was probably the fuel tanks going up. If the ship is in no further danger I suggested we slow to ten knots and get divers down to have a look. Byko tells me the aft Horse Tail sonar has been badly damaged and we may have sustained further harm from that explosion.”

  “I confirm that,” said Tasarov. “I have a red light on the aft sonar system, but the forward bow dome is still returning good signals. It looks like we won't be able to deploy the Horse Tail variable depth sonar, but at least our jaw isn't broken. And if we still have the other two helicopters in working order we can use their dipping sonar as well.”

  The ship utilized a variant of the older Horse Jaw low-frequency hull sonar system, principally deployed in a prominent bow dome and along the forward segments of the hull. But the aft quarter also allowed for the deployment of additional sensors towed by a long cable which allowed them to move the devices to variable depths and listen through thermal layers when necessary.

  Fedorov shrugged, stepping to the center of the command citadel and resting an arm on the Admiral's chair. Karpov drew near, and clasped him on the shoulder. “We are no longer in any immediate danger,” he said.

  “Glad to hear that,” said Fedorov. “It seems like I've been on my feet for hours now.”

  Karpov smiled. “Get used to it, Captain.” Then he looked at the Admiral's chair and gestured. “Have a seat, Fedorov. The ship is yours now.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” said Fedorov, and he slipped quietly into the chair, realizing it was the first time he had ever sat there. Something about the moment stayed with him the rest of his life. He was commander of the most powerful ship in the world, at least for the moment.

  Chapter 9

  Three men showed up at sick bay, and Zolkin was surprised when he saw Orlov among them, his face black with soot, and bleeding. He also quickly noticed his hands, clenched and held tightly near his soiled sweatshirt, as if protecting them from further harm. His wool cap was still on, and pulled low on his forehead, and he looked every bit the threatening, brute of a man that he had been while serving as Chief of Operations.

  But for Zolkin, a man in medical need was his charge and duty, and he put aside his ill feelings for Orlov and got him quickly onto a cot for some much needed first aid.

  “Well, I hope you don’t plan on getting into any boxing matches with those hands, Orlov. How did this happen?”

  Orlov grimaced as the Doctor applied antiseptic and bandages, but the burns were not severe. He told Zolkin of the fire, and the effort to ditch the helicopter before it exploded. The other two men in for minor bruises and burns heaped praise on Orlov, and not because they feared any reprisal on his part if they failed to do so. In the heat of a dire emergency Orlov had instinctively acted to save the ship, risking his own life and the lives of all the men he called to action with him, but narrowly averting that fate by a matter of seconds. Yet the fact remained that he was seen as a hero by the men for what he did, and Zolkin thought this good for a change, and a positive first step for Orlov in his new post.

  “In spite of what I might wish to say to you on other matters,” he said, “I put that aside now and congratulate you for your courage. Two other men were here before you with tales of your herculean feat. The Admiral will be pleased when I tell him what you have done.”

  When the other two men had been dismissed Orlov pressed the Doctor with a question. “What has happened, Zolkin? I have heard nothing. What were we firing at?”

  “Don’t ask me. Yes, I was in the briefing and can tell you that the ship has moved again, backward, into this mess of a war that we blundered into. Fedorov was able to pinpoint the date as August 12, 1942, a full year after our first adventure, to put things lightly. Apparently there is a lot of shooting going on south of us, and he’s maneuvered the boat into the Tyrrhenian Sea to avoid it. But, as you can see, we have been spotted. You are not the only officer wounded. Volsky is in the next room, sleeping at last again.”

  Orlov lowered his head.

  “I was a fool, Zolkin,” he said in a low voice. “Karpov duped me, that snake, and I fell for his vranyo hook, line and sinker. If I ever get my hands on him—”

  “Now, now—that will do you no good either, Orlov!” Zolkin wagged a finger at him, admonishing.

  “Let him rot in the brig, then. At least I have a post, and some measure of rank left.”

  “Don’t become perturbed, but Karpov was sent to the bridge as acting First Officer to Fedorov. The Admiral may not recover for some days yet, and we were under attack. What does Fedorov know about naval combat? Nothing. Karpov pledged to serve faithfully if given a second chance, and the Admiral sent him up.”

  Orlov shook his head. “It was his doing!” he said. “All his doing!”

  “Don’t hold yourself blameless, Orlov. You had a choice to make and you chose wrongly. If it is any consolation to you, Karpov was also reduced in rank three levels. He is Captain Lieutenant now, under Fedorov. I expect they will make a formal announcement when this business settles down. For your part, you have done something right in that action just now. Good for you. Now don’t let the bear in the kitchen over Karpov and keep your wits about you. You are a natural leader, Orlov, but you let your anger get the best of you all too often. Think about that—and don’t get any more stupid ideas in your head about Karpov. There is a limit to Volsky’s forbearance. He has given Karpov a chance to redeem himself. You now have yours.”

  He looked over the top of his glasses and smiled. “I’ll tell Troyak that you are to rest those hands for at least 48 hours. In the mean time—find a good book, or better yet, a good meal. Your rank as Lieutenant still gets you into the officer’s mess. And while you are at it, mending a few fences with the men would be in order as well.”

  Orlov sighed, nodding his head. “Alright, Zolkin. What you say makes more sense than I have had in my head for a good long while. I’ll mind my manners, and if no one bothers me there will be no trouble. But don’t ask me to sit at Karpov’s table just yet, eh?”

  “It wi
ll be easy for you to blame Karpov for what you did,” said Zolkin, “but not wise. Look to yourself, Orlov. Make your peace there first, and if you can do so, make your peace with the men. They are the ones you really let down. Now they look to you with some praise in their eyes instead of fear. That has to feel good for a change, and I hope it may open a new road for you.”

  They had no time to rest on the bridge. Rodenko’s systems finally reached full range, with good, clear readings in all directions. His screen was suddenly alight with numerous contacts, on the sea and in the air. Fedorov interpreted one air contact moving from Sicily towards Sardinia as the movement of German reserve aircraft to Sardinian airfields for the major strike on the British convoy that would occur the following day. But a surface contact to their west, and closing on an apparent intercept course, was of some concern.

  “I don’t think the Germans are aware of our presence yet,” he said to Karpov. “That surface contact, however, will be two light Italian cruisers—6 inch guns—and a couple of destroyers led by Admiral Da Zara. They are fast, and will be able to shadow us if they sight us. Though I am inclined to believe that they may think we are friendly at first blush. They were ordered to rendezvous with other cruiser divisions in this region, and will not expect any enemy ships this far north of the planned convoy route.”

  “Good,” said Karpov. “May I suggest we run north for a time? We need waste no missiles on those ships. If they find us and seem hostile, we can just use our deck guns at superior range to drive them off.”

  “I agree,” said Fedorov. “But their main force is coming from other bases, with more cruisers and destroyers. Two will be heavy cruisers Bolzano and Gorizia, moving up from Messina with five more destroyers to join them. They intend to rendezvous here, he pointed to a map on the clear Plexiglas of his old navigation station. “The island of Ustica. It’s too bad that they lost their nerve and were ordered to stand down, this will mean that several of these ships will be lingering in the Tyrrhenian Sea, instead of heading southwest away from us. We must be cautious, and ready for the possibility that the Germans could also spot us at any time.”

  The ship was ordered on a heading just shy of true north and as they came about there was an audible groan, with some vibration. Karpov noticed it immediately, though Fedorov was frowning over his notes on Operation Pedestal.

  “Did you hear that?” Karpov asked.

  Fedorov looked up at him, clearly unaware of what had happened. He had been lost in the history of 1942, oblivious for the moment while he considered how their present course might best avoid further conflict.

  “There was an odd sound, and some vibration when we turned,” Karpov explained. As if on cue the comm-link phone rang and Fedorov answered. It was damage chief Byko, with a little more bad news for them.

  “I think we have some damage below the water line near the starboard propulsion shaft and rudder,” he said, “possibly from the explosion when they ditched the KA-40. Can you reduce power so I can put divers overboard. 10 knots would do it.”

  Fedorov looked at his chronometer, calculating mentally. “Very well, Byko. We’ll slow to 10 knots. Keep me informed.” He looked at Karpov, somewhat concerned. The last thing they needed now was any loss of speed and maneuverability. If they were sighted again, by air or sea, and became the object of enemy attention, it could quickly embroil them in a fight Fedorov dearly hoped to avoid for the moment.

  “Byko is a competent man,” said Karpov to give him heart. “Don’t worry, he’ll have us on our way in no time.”

  Some miles to the west the day faded towards dusk, the skies ripening to amber and rose as the sun fell lower on the horizon. Aboard the battleship HMS Nelson, Vice Admiral Edward Neville Syfret stood in overall command of the entire operation, and principally of the main covering “Force Z.” Off his stern he was followed by Nelson’s sister ship, HMS Rodney, the core of real naval muscle assigned to the operation, and more than enough to give the Italian Navy second thoughts about any sortie as long as these two powerful ships were on the scene.

  After an uneventful passage of the Strait of Gibraltar on the previous day, the operation began in earnest on the 11th of August, and was soon well informed that the seas and skies they were sailing into would not be friendly. The loss of HMS Eagle at mid day had been jarring, with 260 men lost in spite of an outstanding effort made to save the bulk of her crew.

  It was a day of terrible setbacks and thankful consolation. Syfret grimaced at the stinging loss of the venerable old carrier, along with sixteen much needed aircraft. The sight of those Seafires sliding off the steeply listing deck as Eagle keeled over was still dark in his mind. Yet he took some comfort in the rescue of over 900 crewmen. The oiling operation for his flock of thirsty destroyers had also gone off well enough, and he had all of twenty-four of these fast escorts at hand for this segment of the run. That said, a submarine had still managed to slip through and hurt them badly, and it gave him worries about what would lie ahead. This was only the enemy’s outermost screen of undersea boats, he realized. The odds would be much worse later, when the bulk of his destroyer escorts would have to turn back with his heavier ships and carriers. Thus far they had only been bothered by a handful of enemy aircraft, shadowing the convoy from a safe distance, but this too would change as they drew nearer to the main enemy airfields on Sardinia and Sicily.

  A careful and experienced man, he knew this was just the opening round of the battle ahead of them now, and the loss of the Eagle was a particularly telling blow. It was clear that the air and undersea threats would have orders to strike at his all important carriers as a priority. This was the first time the Royal Navy had ever operated with five at once, though that distinction was tragically short-lived now with the loss of Eagle.

  Born in Cape Town South Africa in 1889, Syfret’s career saw him hopping from battleship Rodney, to command of a cruiser squadron and now a post at Gibraltar’s Force H. He had seen the fire and steel required to push through to Malta on previous convoys, and had no doubts about the difficulties ahead of them now. He had pushed 15 of 16 merchant ships safely through to Malta earlier while commanding HMS Edinburgh, a record that had not gone unnoticed at the Admiralty.

  Tonight may be our last breath of calm for a while, he thought as he removed his admiral’s cap and ran a hand through his fine wavy grey hair. Tall and trim, his face was lean and serious, his eyes harboring the wisdom of many decades at sea, in both good times and bad. It was going to get rather gritty, he thought, but grit was one element of his character that was never found wanting. He had sat at Churchill’s right hand as his secretary when the redoubtable Prime Minister had served as First Sea Lord, and was soon sent back to real active service when the war came.

  Now he led two of the Royal Navy’s biggest battleships, 38,000 ton behemoths when fully loaded, with nine 16 inch guns each and a bristle of medium batteries and anti aircraft guns as well. It was just as he preferred it—to be at sea on a ship with some good brawn and armor, and the guns to sail where she pleased. There was only one segment of the run in to Malta that he would have to forsake this time out—the Sicilian Narrows—infested with U-boats and peppered with mines, the two ponderous battleships would not have the sea room they needed to sail on through the narrow gap in the Skerki Bank, a jagged series of limestone reefs at the mouth of those narrows. They would cover the convoy as far as the bank, and then turn back while lighter and more maneuverable cruisers under Vice Admiral Burrough took on the duty of final escort to Malta with Force X.

  It was already time to deploy the paravanes, and he was watching the crews rigging the lines to the bow, his gaze reaching down Nelson’s broad gun laden foredeck to the tip of the ship. Two paravanes would be deployed on each side of all the larger ships as night gathered its shadows before them. These were a kind of underwater glider, the general shape and appearance of a winged torpedo, yet shorter, and with stubby foils and a tail designed to maneuver it in the water. They would be towed
by a heavy cable rigged to the ship’s bow, and the wings would serve to keep the paravane well away from the hull as it trailed out to the side of the big ship. Their intent was to ensnare the anchoring cables of hidden mines, and by so doing it would break those lines and send the mines bobbing up to the surface where they could be spotted and detonated by machine gun fire.

  The game had begun, he mused. No, not a game, but a grueling run of the gauntlet. Would they win through this time? He remembered his final urgent instructions to the convoy masters on his last run in to Malta at night… “Don’t make smoke or show any lights. Keep good station. Don’t straggle. If your ship is damaged keep her going at the best possible speed…” How many of the fourteen precious merchantmen would get through this time?

  At 16:34 hrs a message came through from Flag Officer North Atlantic that was not unexpected. It warned of an imminent attack by enemy torpedo bombers, and the British fighters were soon scrambling from the decks of their remaining carrier escorts, Indomitible and Victorious, and climbing up into the salmon sky. When they came, the German Ju88s swooped low on the deck but were well harried by the fighters, who broke up their sub-flights and sent at least three into the water. Syfret gave the order to commence firing and the line of cruisers and battleships began filling the gloaming skies with puffs of broiling fire and grey smoke, laced with white tracers from the Bofors AA guns. He reckoned this to be nothing more than a probing attack, some thirty to 36 planes from the look of it. They would get much worse in the days ahead.

  Now…what was this last bit in that signal warning: “Malta reports large enemy ship sighted very near Sicilian Narrows. Sortie by this and enemy cruiser squadrons deemed very possible.”

  Large enemy ship? A battleship? Couldn’t they be more specific?