Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) Read online

  It left an uncomfortable feeling in the stomachs of men accustomed to much more certainty when it came to the intentions and capabilities of the enemy they were still facing. The intelligence failure had been profound. That was the way Churchill put it, and when the doughty Prime Minister stuck his umbrella in your gut it was sure to get your attention. Yet that was how they left it—a stinging black eye where the Abwehr had jabbed them blind. But Turing still had deep misgivings about the ship, and the weaponry it displayed. He kept it largely to himself, but inwardly never believed any of the official lines about the incident. He thought it useless to raise his suspicions with all the intensity of the brou-ha-ha then underway in the intelligence community. Yet he never gave them up or was able to put them to rest.

  Pound looked at him, somewhat perturbed. “Would you say this is a cruiser? It looks to be something quite more.”

  “That is what struck me immediately,” said Turing. “I can tell you definitively that this is not an Italian cruiser, sir. We have all those ships accounted for. Their battleships are very low on fuel, and they’ve taken to leaving them in port and using their oil to refuel smaller ships and submarines. Our operatives can verify that Taranto has not sent anything of this size out of in the last three days, and the same for La Spezia. Now we do know that Admiral Da Zara has sortied with his 3rd Cruiser Division out of Calabria—two light cruisers and three destroyers. And he is also moving the 7th Cruiser Division out of Messina and Naples with a couple of heavy cruisers and a handful of destroyers, but those ships were not anywhere near these coordinates when this photo was taken.” He indicated the message decrypt record, also a part of the file, which listed the exact coordinates of the sighting.

  “I can verify that,” said Whitworth. “I had a look at the latest intercepts this morning. We’ve got all those ships under observation. But there’s more to this sighting than these photographs. First off this ship was sighted alone, with no other escorts.”

  Pound shifted uncomfortably as Whitworth continued.

  “We sent 248 Beaufighter Squadron from Gibraltar to Malta on the 10th of August. They were the planes responsible for this sighting, and I have Park’s latest communiqué indicating this same group flew a strike mission on the afternoon of the 11th. They found the ship again, and, well…they were cut to pieces for their trouble. Four of six Beaus went down, and only two crews came out alive. And here’s the rub—they were shot down by some sort of naval rocketry.” He folded his arms gravely, looking at Wake-Walker and Tovey.

  “Rocketry?” said Wake-Walker, the memory of his own squadrons off Furious and Victorious still an unhealed wound. “You mean to say the Italians have these weapons now?”

  “Apparently so,” said Pound quickly. “It’s my belief that the Germans have brewed up a new lot of these fire sticks and they’ve shipped them to Regia Marina in an effort to tip the balance of the war in the Mediterranean theater. For that matter we might expect to find Tirpitz or their other heavy ships equipped with them in the near future as well. And should they be carrying anything more…” His implication was obvious to them all.

  Turing had a strange look on his face, set and determined. He had not heard about this second strike mission or the use of rockets until just this moment. Now his very worst suspicions were confirmed, at least in his own mind, but how could he broach the subject with the cream of Admiralty? These men were no-nonsense naval royalty. They had centuries of combined experience between them and were accustomed to having things nailed down with brass tacks and well in order at all times. Yet he could not remain silent. He had to say something.

  “Well sir,” he said to Admiral Pound. “I must say that from my close examination of the photography in hand, I do not believe this ship is anything in the Italian naval inventory.”

  Pound gave him a hard look. It was enough that he had ventured to contradict the First Sea Lord, but even more that he would suggest…What was he suggesting? “See here,” he began, somewhat perturbed. “Then you are telling me that this is not an Italian ship? It bloody well isn’t a German ship. That leaves us with something out of Toulon, and it would be quite a stretch of the imagination to believe the French would be at sea, and even more so with weapons described in that last communiqué from Malta.”

  A remnant of the French Navy was still holed up in Toulon, and it included some rather formidable ships, including the battleships Dunkerque, Strasbourg, and Provence, and numerous cruisers and destroyers, some 57 surface ships and numerous subs, torpedo boats, sloops and auxiliaries.

  Wake-Walker came in with another angle. “Could the Germans have gotten their hands on one of these French ships, and rigged her out with these new weapons? I dare say we haven’t kept a very close watch on the French Navy since Aboukir Bay.”

  “Hut Four cannot confirm that,” said Turing, “and I can say definitively that we have not seen anything in the Enigma coding that would in any way lead us to that conclusion over at Hut Eight.”

  Pound frowned at him. “I wish I could feel more reassured in hearing that, Professor Turing. After all, Bletchley Park had that same line concerning this Geronimo incident in the first place.”

  Turing ignored the obvious barb in the remark, feeling that the discussion was sliding away towards conclusions that would lead the Royal Navy to make a grave error. He had come to a far different conclusion about this ship when he first saw the gun camera footage and, as he tried to muster the courage to express his feelings, he realized that it was very likely that he would be scapegoated for any further intelligence failure here. Kill the messenger. It was all too common, even with all the apparent chin chin civility of these men. He girded himself, then finally began to speak his mind.

  “Admiral Pound,” he said flatly. “I have examined this photography very closely. The ship depicted is over eight hundred and twenty feet in length, and I estimate it to displace at least 30,000 tons or more. That is a hundred feet more than either Dunkerque or Strasburg from the French Navy, 60 feet longer than the Italian battleship Littorio, and the equal of our late departed HMS Hood. It has no visible armament above a few small deck guns, and yet it managed to bloody the nose of the entire Home Fleet: two carriers, three battleships, five cruisers and nine destroyers. Furthermore, it has demonstrated a speed in excess of thirty knots—faster than our most modern battleships of the line, and even some of our cruisers—yet it has no visible stacks, and has never been seen to be making steam of any kind, even in this latest photo…” He let that last bit dangle, his high voice somewhat strident as he realized he had let his passion for the point get the better of him.

  Pound made no effort to suppress his anger now. “Preposterous!” he slapped his hand on the table, more than annoyed now with the truculence of this upstart professor. He had heard a few barbed rumors about the man—that he was eccentric, given to strange flights of fancy, and that he had other peculiar habits that Pound did not wish to entertain further in his mind. Now to have him make such statements in this room, before the highest ranking officers of the Royal Navy. Preposterous was not half a word for what he felt at the moment, and his face clearly exhibited his displeasure.

  “Are you suggesting this latest photo is identical to the images we obtained a year ago—that the two ships are one and the same? Preposterous!”

  Part V

  The First Gate

  “Through me you pass into the city of woe: Through me you pass into eternal pain… All hope abandon, ye who enter here.”

  The Inferno, Canto III

  - Dante Alegeri

  Chapter 13

  When Karpov entered the officer’s dining hall, the conversations seemed to hush, particularly at the far table where he saw the broad shoulders and telltale woolen cap of Orlov. The former Chief of Operations, now a mere Lieutenant in the Marine detachment, was seated with a clutch of young Starshini, one stripe Junior Lieutenants that been laughing together as the big man joked about something. Their sudden silence prompted Orlov
to look over his shoulder, and as Karpov sat down, alone as always, he heard Orlov curse under his breath, “Mudak…” One of the other men at the table nudged him with a cautionary elbow, which prompted Orlov to say yet more—“Mne pohui!” he exclaimed, telling the man he didn’t give a fuck.

  Karpov ignored them, eating in the heavy silence that filled the room, and trying to keep his mind on Fedorov’s last briefing, and what might lie ahead for them. But the awkward situation dragged him back to those last moments on the bridge as he struggled to complete the missile firing, and how Orlov had stood there in silence, doing and saying nothing when the bridge was compromised.

  It felt so impossibly wrong now when he replayed the images in his mind. Orlov had agreed to back his decision, yet when it came to the moment, he let him drop into the stew without a second thought. On one level he felt betrayed, yet even more ashamed that he had ever thought to enlist the allegiance of an oaf like Orlov. Yet as he tried to muster a kernel of anger over what had happened, another voice within him whispered that he had been the one who opened the hatch when the Marines arrived, stupidly thinking they had come in response to his own orders, and not thinking that Volsky might have already regained control of the ship.

  You were an idiot, he thought. You knew it would only be a matter of time before someone tried the door at sick bay and the Admiral was freed. And you knew he would reassert his authority over the ship at once. That’s why you locked yourself away in the bridge, and thought Orlov’s presence there at your side would be enough to keep the other officers in line. You wanted to fire your damn missile, and that you did, blowing the Americans to hell where they belonged. But one day you will join them there. Yes, one day you will sit at the table with every man you have put under the sea in all this insanity. Forget Orlov, he concluded. Blame yourself, and yes you are every bit the bastard he calls you under his breath, that and more.

  In time Orlov let out an audible burp and stood to leave, a cup of coffee in hand as he moved toward the exit behind Karpov. The Captain realized something was wrong immediately, as officers always left their dishes at the table and they would be collected and cleaned by the rankers in the galley, and no one ever took anything out of the dining room. The silence thickened when Orlov deliberately drifted near Karpov’s table and then pretended to stumble.

  “Watch your step!” Karpov said sharply, but it was obvious to everyone that Orlov had deliberately spilled his coffee on Karpov’s right shoulder, and even more obvious that he was going to get away with it.

  “Sorry, Captain,” he said sarcastically. “I didn’t see you there. It’s these bandages,” he said, holding up his hands. “Can’t seem to hold on to anything, eh?” Orlov forced a strained smile that was more of a sneer, and Karpov waved him away, his eyes darkly on the far table where he could hear the muted, well restrained laughter of the junior Lieutenants. He could feel the heat on the back of his neck, and knew that Orlov had deliberately tried to humiliate and provoke him in front of the other men. He doused the stain on his jacket with a table linen, as Orlov left, sullen and angry. Had it been any other man, he thought bitterly…

  The junior officers finished, one by one, and a few were even bold enough now to drift Karpov’s way as they left, some holding cups of coffee as well, though not one dared to do anything more. If they had, Karpov would have shouted them deaf, but as it was the scene had clearly demonstrated to them that Karpov was not man enough to stand up to Orlov, and not even his rank and authority as acting Starpom was enough to protect him now.

  When they had all left, Karpov finished his stew, tired, angry, humiliated and wanting sleep. He stood up and saw where Orlov had set his stained coffee cup down on his table, right on its side, deliberately spilling the last remnant onto the table linen near his plate, and he swiped it angrily off the table, sending the cup clattering across the deck. His shoulders hunched, head low, he went through the door, immediately sensing a looming presence in the empty hall. It was Orlov.

  “Oh, Captain,” he said. “I just came back to say excuse me,” he grinned balefully. “Did I soil your Captain’s jacket?”

  “Yob tvou mat’ Orlov!” the Captain exclaimed, telling the big man what he thought he should do with his mother. “You want to act tough in front of the men, but when things came to a head how tough were you on the bridge?”

  It was the first time the two men had ever spoken of their failed attempt to take command of the ship from Volsky, and the words tumbled out, with pent up anger on both sides.

  “Fuck you,” Karpov. “You duped me! You played me for an idiot with all your reasons and arguments, and I was stupid enough to go along, that was all.”

  “Come on, Orlov, just say you lost your nerve, and your backbone along with it. You like to push the men around, but not the Marines—not someone who can set you back on your heels if you get out of line.”

  Orlov lunged at him, seizing Karpov by the jacket in spite of the obvious pain with his hands, pulling the smaller man close to his face. He was easily fifty pounds heavier and a good head taller than Karpov, and he used his strength to dominate him. “Right, Karpov. What was all that bullshit when it came down to firing the missile, eh? You give your orders then stand there looking at me to give the last word! You dumped the whole pile of shit in my lap, because you wanted to set me up to take the fall if it all came apart. Yes?”

  “Get your filthy hands off me!” The Captain’s face was red with anger.

  “Oh? What are you going to do now, Captain? No one is here. Where’s Troyak, eh? Are you going to go whine to Volsky, or slink back to the bridge and tell Fedorov? Piz-da!”

  The Captain tried to break loose, pushing hard, and then Orlov loosed one hand and buried a fist into Karpov’s gut, doubling him over with the blow, though he grimaced with the pain to his own bandaged hand. Orlov pushed hard, shoving the Captain off his feet, and standing over him with a satisfied grin on his face.

  “Na kaleni, suka,” he hissed at him. “Go tell Fedorov, and just be glad I didn’t put a knife in your belly instead.” He turned and tromped off, his heavy soled boots clomping hard on the deck as he went.

  The night deepened and the men aboard Kirov rotated in shifts, some snatching a few hours of fitful sleep while others manned battle stations. Still others started their shift in the mess hall, lining up for bowls of warm milk, cheese sandwiches, kasha and hot tea. Fedorov had decided to stand down from full alert, thinking his situational awareness was still solid enough in spite of the aberration he had discovered with the early sailing of the Italian 7th Cruiser Division. He had expected Da Zara’s 3rd Division would be handled easily enough, but the other contacts still bearing on their heading were still some cause for concern. The Italian cruisers were fast, with each group capable of thirty knots, and so Kirov continued to sail north just shy of her best speed.

  The ruse he had planned involved a fake distress call, sent out by Nikolin in Morse code with the intention of fooling the Italian Navy. Once decoded the message would read: “Force K – Critical gun damage in engagement 23:45 hours - Aborting mission under Case B.” And to be certain it would be decoded he had dug up an old reference book he had on Royal Navy codes and deliberately used a version that he knew the Italians would be able to decipher. His intention was to convince Regia Marina that his ship now presented no immediate threat to their home bases or airfields, hoping they might call off the pursuit and simply return their ships to friendly ports, as they had decided historically during Operation Pedestal. In that campaign the Italian Navy had aborted its operations when the Germans refused to provide air cover over the Sicilian Narrows. Fedorov hoped that he could count on them to stand down here as well—but he was wrong.

  Regia Marina had a bone to pick now. The fiery admiral Da Zara had escaped southeast to Cagliari with his battered task force, livid with anger that he did not get more air support during his sortie, and convinced that this was no mere British cruiser at large in the Tyrrhenian Sea, but a
fast battlecruiser. He concluded that this ship must have slipped through north of the Skerki Bank before the submarine picket lines had been established a day earlier, and while most air recon missions had been focused much farther west. It obviously intended to disrupt Italian surface fleet operations aimed at attacking the convoy—and that it had accomplished well enough.

  The arrogance of the British, he thought. They think to sail unchallenged into our home waters? On a secure phone line to Admiral Bergamini at La Spezia he was furious, demanding that the navy could not allow such an incursion into the Tyrrhenian Sea to go unpunished. What he heard in return gave him heart.

  Bergamini claimed to have known about this ship for some time, since the submarine Bronzo had sighted it, on fire aft, a little before sunset on the previous day. “Why do you think your Division was sent out in the first place?” he said in a thin, distant voice over the phone. “The Germans must have caught it during their ferry operations from Sicily to reinforce the air Squadrons at Cagliari. Furthermore, we have a new wire intercept concerning gun damage on this ship, and we believe it is now attempting to run for the Bonifacio Strait.”

  He praised Da Zara, assuming it was his timely action that had inflicted this further damage on the enemy, and he told him that the ships of 7th Cruiser division were still in the hunt, chasing the impudent raider north at high speed even as they spoke.