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

  In these engagements it was Kirov’s incredible advantage in radar tracking that enabled her to see, target, and bring weapons to bear on all these simultaneous threats. The ship raced past the Maddalena Archipelago in the bright morning sun, up around Santa Maria and Razzoli Islands and turned into the Bonifacio Strait. Here they encountered a more devious passive threat when Tasarov’s active mine countermeasures system indicated numerous undersea contacts, and very near the ship. Some were moored mines, anchored to the seafloor by a long chain, detected by the ship’s forward looking high resolution sonar in the big bow dome.

  Federov slowed the ship to just ten knots, clearly worried about the mine threat now. It was perhaps the cheapest weapon the enemy might deploy against them and, unlike the enemy ships and planes, which could be seen and engaged well before they posed a danger to the ship, the mines lurked in waters Kirov had to pass through in order to transit the strait. He seemed very anxious, knowing that much of the threat would not be visible on the surface and that they might face an array of minefields here: delayed-action, magnetic, acoustic, and older contact mines; moored, and floating mines. Snag lines might also connect a series of mines to set off numerous detonations. He was not sure what to do.

  “It could take days to adequately sweep this channel and remove all threats,” said Karpov. “We will have to take more expedient measures and use the UDAV-2 ASW system.” Fedorov confessed he had no idea what the Captain was talking about, and Karpov explained.

  “There,” he pointed to a weapon system on the starboard side of the ship. “There is one on the bow as well. Think of it as a rocket launcher we can use against undersea threats.” The unit did, in fact, look a bit like the old German nebelwerfers of WWII, with ten rocket tubes, five on each side in a semicircle arc. It was derived from the British use of the “Hedgehog,” which was a kind of seaborne mortar system that could fire a pattern of twenty-four explosives out in front of an advancing ship. Russia’s modern day equivalent could range out to 3 kilometers with salvos of rockets bearing 300mm warheads. Karpov aimed them much closer to the ship, trying to saturate areas where Tasarov’s sonar detected heaver concentrations of mines. Minutes later the sea ahead in the windy channel seemed to erupt with explosions and geysers of white frothing seawater as the first salvos landed. Kirov was literally trying to blast her way through the minefields, slowing to five knots now as the ship slowly advanced through the turbulent waters.

  They fired three salvos at varying ranges ahead, using UDAV batteries on both sides of the ship, and the large secondary explosions told them their plan was working. Some of the mines were packed with up to 1000 kilograms of explosive material, and the concussion shook the ship, sometimes setting off other mines rigged to explode via pressure or sound. They would fire a salvo, wait while Tasarov reacquired new contacts with his active ranging sonar, then fire again. To any landward observer, it looked as if the big battlecruiser was at war with the sea itself.

  Soldiers of the 4th Coastal Defense Brigade stationed at Piazza La Maddalena and the northern coast of Sardinia gaped at the sight of the big ship out in the channel. If the British had such vessels, the war was lost for certain, some said. Others shook their fist at Kirov’s grey silhouette and claimed that the Navy would soon arrive to deal with this ship. The intruder had batted aside the light 795 ton torpediniera, but the 7th Cruiser Division was still coming up fast now, it’s lead elements just thirty kilometers from the scene with the heavy cruiser Trieste, light cruiser Muzio Attendolo and three destroyers. Behind them came heavy cruisers Goriza and Bolzano with three more destroyers, and the two groups were now coordinating their course and speed to join as one mailed fist and attack together.

  Rodenko had a good fix on them with his long range radars, but Fedorov decided not to use any of the ship’s precious anti-ship missiles, thinking they could push on through the Bonifacio Strait and out into the Mediterranean Sea beyond in another hour, and he did not think the pursuing ships would follow. He thought there would be nothing to oppose them at that point, and they might sail for the Balearic Islands as planned with only occasional observation by reconnaissance planes… But he was wrong again. As they reached the center of the channel, a new contact was sighted, not behind them in hot pursuit, but ahead of them, steaming towards the western exit of the Bonifacio Strait.

  Commando Supremo had sprung its well planned trap.

  Chapter 15

  “Sighting ahead, sir. Surface contact. Five units at a range of twenty-five kilometers. Speed twenty knots, increasing, and closing on our position!”

  Fedorov was surprised to hear this, coming quickly to Rodenko’s side to look at his screen. “Five units?”

  “It was apparently hugging the coast of Corsica, and masked by this landform.” He was pointing at the coastal signal returns, outlining the southern edge of Capo de Feno. The land rose steeply there to a height of over 200 meters, and this new enemy contact had been effectively hidden behind the cape. But what could it be, Fedorov wondered? There should be no further Italian warships in this sector. The last remaining threat should be behind them in the steady advance of the 7th Cruiser Division.

  “Focus the Tin Man optronics on that contact and see if we can get an image. Use the highest resolution possible.” Fedorov needed to know what he was dealing with. Could this be merchant traffic, or was it a threat? Minutes later he had his answer in the stalwart silhouettes of two very large warships on the far horizon. “My god,” he breathed. “Those are battleships!”

  “British? Up here?”

  “No…Those two stacks amidships right behind the main mast …These are Italian—Littorio Class ships, but this isn’t possible! All those ships were at Taranto! There is no way they could have reached this position from that distance, and they weren’t moved to La Spezia until December of this year.”

  “Yes, in the history you know, Fedorov, but apparently things have changed, just like the early arrival of those cruisers at our backside.” Karpov thumbed over his shoulder to the wake of the ship as they slowly crept through the straits. Then they heard the muted but prominent sound of a large detonation and the ship shuddered.

  “What was that?” said the captain. “Tasarov? Rodenko?”

  “I’m starting to see air contacts over land both north and south,” said Rodenko, “small flights of three to six planes, and nothing close enough to pose a threat at the moment. Tasarov had a trace of some undersea movement just before the explosion, which prompted him to rip off his headset, started by the sudden sound. The news sent Karpov to a higher pitch.

  “Another submarine? Ready on ASW systems!”

  “I don’t think so, sir. I think it was a moored mine, possibly jarred loose from its cable by our last UDAV barrage. I don’t think we hit it, but it exploded off our port side.”

  Even as he finished Fedorov saw bright flashes and billowing smoke obscure the image of the oncoming ships on the Tin Man display. They were under fire, and this was not from the small six inch rounds of a light cruiser or shore battery. This time it was coming from the 15 inch batteries of the lead battleship.

  “That is our main concern now,” he pointed, noting how the big ships were turning, their dark silhouettes more prominent and threatening with the maneuver. Ahead of them a fan of three smaller destroyers were churning their way forward to make a torpedo attack. They heard the whine of oncoming shells, and a deep whoosh as the first rounds swooped well over the ship and plunged into the channel behind them. Fedorov realized that at five knots they were now an easy target.

  “Very well,” said Karpov, folding his arms. “We’ll pepper them with our deck guns as before.”

  “That’s won’t be enough,” said Fedorov quickly. “These are battleships, Karpov. Those rounds they just flung over our main mast were from the most powerful 15 inch guns ever mounted on a naval ship. Don’t underestimate them, Captain.” His tone warned of danger, his eyes carrying the seriousness of the moment. The ship was now in
grave danger—a situation he had never thought to encounter. “They have 350mm belt armor and our 152 mm guns will not penetrate that,” he continued. “Their main gun turrets are equally well protected. They will be able to stand with us in a gun fight indefinitely if they have the will to do so, and the constricted water here gives us no room for maneuver. I hope you understand what would happen if we were to take just one serious hit from a fifteen inch gun!”

  “Then we will use the Moskit-IIs, as we did with the British.”

  “Yes, but you will need multiple hits to really harm these ships.”

  He shook his head, feeling that the history had played a cruel trick on him—but then again, he realized the very presence of Kirov, here and now, was a bald offense to this moment in time. They had already seen the catastrophic consequences of their actions on the future, the dark charred ruins of coastal cities still haunting them all. He realized now that the history of this period was also beginning to warp into a new shape. These battleships should not be here. For reasons he could not fathom, decisions had been made to move them to La Spezia three months early—three months…

  In a flash he realized that the course of events must have changed by the early entry of the Americans in the war! Kirov had tempted fate and created an incident equal to the Pearl Harbor attack with that desperate engagement in the cold North Atlantic. The effects of that incident had apparently rippled through time, subtly altering the course of events. Much of the history was still running true, even down to things like specific attacks on individual ships, such as the loss of HMS Eagle. Far to the south the machinations of war were still grinding along in the attacks on Operation Pedestal. But Kirov’s presence had caused a violent and increasingly escalating reaction by Regia Marina.

  He shrugged, his hopes for a speedy transit here fading with each second. The safe waters he thought to find as they exited the strait were guarded by these two formidable ships, and now they were in a fight for their lives.

  “Samsonov, activate Moskit-II system and spin up a full battery.” Karpov turned to the young ex-navigator. “Shall I engage?”

  There was no other way, thought Fedorov. Their only other course was either surrender or possible death. They were nearly through the channel, but still making only five knots. The range had fallen to 23 kilometers in just these few minutes and already he could hear the distant rumble of thunder as the big Italian ships fired their second salvo. They were obviously receiving position reports on his ship from observers on shore. The incoming roar of the shells was much louder, though the shots still fell in a widely dispersed pattern.

  In one last agonizing minute Fedorov let his precious history go, let fate and responsibility for generations yet to come slip from his weary shoulders. Instead he embraced the most basic instinct for self preservation. Survival!

  “Helm, ahead two thirds!” They were sitting ducks in the channel and he had to put on speed at once, in spite of the threat from the minefields. “Mister Karpov,” he said, a deflated look on his face. “Engage at once!”

  “Samsonov—fire!” Karpov ordered, and with a flick of a switch the missile launch warning sounded. The forward deck hatches sprung open and up leapt the sea sharks, sleek, deadly missiles, their gas jets precisely declining their sharp tips in the gleaming sun and the roar of their engines answering the distant boom of thunder ahead.

  Aboard battleship Veneto Admiral Iachino squinted at the distant contact through his field glasses, a smile edging his lips. Regia Marina had been correct after all. Word that a fast British battlecruiser was at large in the Tyrrhenian Sea had set the telephone wires ablaze for the last twenty-four hours, particularly after Da Zara’s ill fated sortie from Cagliari. Admiral Bergamini had pleaded with him to send out stronger forces, and join the 7th Cruiser Squadron in the hunt for this ship. Fuel was low, but the target invitingly close, and the northern squadron had been recently reinforced by the transfer of Veneto and Littorio from Taranto. Iachino decided on one more sortie. He had faced the British three times in the war, giving as good as he got from them, though many whispered that he had made mistakes at Cape Matapan that cost Regia Marina a much needed victory.

  This time, he thought, the British have made a mistake. Da Zara’s small force had been pummeled by the enemy, but now he sailed with his flag aboard Vittorio Veneto, one of Italy’s newest ships, and her sister ship Littorio followed in his wake. If this was a British battlecruiser the odds looked very good for him now. He had been receiving radio reports of the enemy’s position and speed for some time while his battleships worked their way down the western coast of Corsica, hidden by the prominent massif of Capo de Feno.

  Reports soon came to him that the British ship had engaged shore batteries near La Maddalena and was now attempting to run the Bonifacio Strait. They had been firing an odd weapon system, churning up the waters around the ship to try and force a passage through the well laid minefields there. Rounding the cape with his battle force he was pleased to finally catch a glimpse of the ship’s high main mast gleaming in the morning sun on the far horizon. He gave the order to increase speed to twenty-five knots and come right fifteen degrees so he could bring all his turrets to bear in an attempt to cross the enemy’s T as it emerged from the strait. It was a sound maneuver, as the British ship was now committed to a westerly heading where it would have to run true for some time. If the enemy adjusted their course southwest to run parallel to his own, the ship would be forced into the Gulf of Asinara where the restricted waters near Capo del Falcone would again prove a major obstacle.

  No, he thought. They will have to run due west and try to get up around Punta Caprara, the northernmost cape of the island of Asinara. If he aimed his own task force for that very same island, he would cut them off and cross the enemy’s T. Already his opening salvo had announced his presence and thrown down the challenge to this upstart British intruder. And when I finish with you, he thought as he watched the ship take shape and form on the horizon, then perhaps I will run down and rain hell on this convoy to the south as well.

  His first salvos were widely dispersed and well off the mark, which did not surprise him. Though his 15 inch guns were among the best in the world, they suffered from the same technical problem that often degraded the accuracy of the Italian cruisers—a lack of uniform consistency on the propellant charge bags. If he hit the enemy, he knew he could hurt her, as his guns could penetrate 450mm of armor at this range, and he doubted this ship was so well protected, particularly if this was a battlecruiser with its much lighter armor.

  His second salvo was up and booming toward the enemy. Moments later he clenched his fist with excitement, seeing a bright flash and billowing smoke emanate from the foredeck of the British ship. Had they scored a hit there, or was this the first reply from their forward turrets?

  His answer was not long in coming. Something rose up from the ship, a sleek barb that danced in the air for a moment, which led him to believe, in that fraction of a second, that he had struck a forward battery and smashed one of their guns. Then, to his utter amazement, the sleek fragment he took for a gun barrel surged into the sky with a fiery jet of flame! It moved with astounding speed! He saw another and another leaping up from the distant silhouette and streaking into the sky. A thin white contrail marked their deadly arc toward his ships and then he braced himself as the first came diving in with an awful roar and struck Vittorio Veneto amidships, some fifty feet behind the bridge, exploding with a violent fireball and immediately destroying three AA guns before penetrating at the base of the forward stack.

  The second missile came in just shy of the bridge itself, yet low on the main deck where it blasted into the secondary 6 inch gun battery there with a thundering concussion and broiling fire. Fueled to fire at much longer ranges, the full load of missile fuel ignited massive fires at both locations,

  Iachino was sent careening back against the binnacle, his field glasses flung madly on the deck as he struggled to stay on his feet. He was s
tunned by the suddenness of the attack and amazed by what he had seen. His eye fell on the navigation compass at the top of the binnacle and he was surprised to see the needle spinning about in wild circles. Now searing flame and coal black smoke erupted to completely obscure his view. What was this, a new British naval rocket of some type? He knew that the Germans and even Regia Aeronautica had been experimenting with radio controlled bombs, but these were to be delivered by aircraft. What was this? He had no time to think, as his ship was on fire and now he looked to see that Littorio had also been struck amidships, almost in the very same location as his own ship!

  His main guns had not been damaged, and the ship still seemed to be making way well enough, but a call from below decks painted a grim picture. The fire was extensive, the number one stack fully involved and now partially collapsed and tilting to one side. The warhead from this new weapon had apparently penetrated his relatively thin deck armor and bored deep into the ship sending a hideous hail of molten shrapnel in all directions. Yet all this damage was above his water line, and his ship remained seaworthy.

  Veneto’s third salvo fell closer in on the enemy ship, sending tall geysers of sea spray up into the crisp morning air. Close would not be nearly good enough, he realized. The enemy had also fired three times with far more deadly results. He squinted through the smoke, a red anger burning at the back of his neck as he caught sight of his adversary once more and saw the foredeck of the enemy ship erupt again with fire. One by one, three more rounds of this astonishing new rocket weapon burned their way toward his ships with roaring anger.

  “Right full rudder!” he screamed out an evasive order, but to no avail. All three missiles were going to find their targets. There was no maneuver or trick of seamanship that could save them, no gun on his ship that could track them to shoot them down, and no hope in the long run for his gallant task force as long as Kirov’s magazines still remained full.