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

  If there was anyone who could sketch out the dire nature of the situation, it was Churchill, and he had done so, convincing his Admirals that the defense of Malta was of utmost importance. “We may lose our ships at sea in this struggle,” he argued “but Malta is an unsinkable aircraft carrier, sitting right astride the supply convoy lanes the enemy needs to use to reinforce Rommel.” From Malta the RAF could send out far ranging patrols to spy out the enemy supply ships and vector in their strike aircraft. After their disaster at Crete, the German Army was not likely to attempt another parachute assault on the tiny island, and the Italian Navy had not demonstrated either the resolve or the ability to cover an invasion by sea.

  So Malta had become an echo of the fabled Battle of Britain, bombed day by day from airfields on Sicily and Sardinia, and defended by flights of Spitfires ferried in by Royal Navy carriers. The Germans could swarm the whole of North Africa, Churchill argued, but the British needed to hold only three places to ensure eventual victory: Gibraltar at one end, the Suez Canal at the other, and Malta in the middle of that cauldron of fire and steel. The island was a rock in the enemy’s soup, and as long as it could be held Rommel’s supply lines could never be fully secured.

  So it was that the “Operation,” as it came to be called in the discussion, was deemed so vital that the Royal Navy would be asked to send fully half of its available escort fleet to secure it. Churchill’s eloquent arguments, shouted from the pedestal of his commanding position as Prime Minister, could not be dismissed, and so there would be another convoy—another “Winston Special” to be designated WS-21S. Its mission was the delivery of vital food and oil to Malta, and it was to be given the most powerful escort of any convoy in the war to date.

  No less than five aircraft carriers would support various aspects of the operation, to muster as much seaborne air power as possible. The two grand old battleships of the interwar period, Nelson and Rodney, would both be assigned at the heart of the main escort. Identical in design, and representing the whole of their class, there were no others like them, with the biggest guns in the Royal Navy at 16 inches. Ponderous and slow at a top speed of just 21 to 23 knots on a good day, they were nonetheless well armored and perfect in this role of escorting slower merchant ship traffic. Both had served well in guarding the Atlantic convoys from German surface raiders, and one, HMS Rodney, had been instrumental in the hunt for the Bismarck a little over a year earlier.

  Nine other cruisers and some thirty destroyers, including forces from the Eastern Med as well, would combine in one of the largest sea operations ever attempted. All these warships had been gathered to the defense of just fourteen precious merchant ships, including the vital fast oil tanker Ohio that Churchill had wrangled from the Americans after much exertion of his unique powers of persuasion.

  The five carriers bore exalted names born of empire: Indomitable, Victorious, Eagle. Two others would join as well, the Argus and Furious, the latter with a special assignment in ferrying thirty-eight Spitfires to Malta’s hard pressed air squadrons. The cruisers were named for provinces and outposts of that empire: Nigeria, Kenya, Manchester, Cairo, and others bore names of the same ancient Greek Gods who had presided over the fate of men on these waters in ages past: Charybdis, Sirius, and Phoebe.

  This massive force had sailed from home waters down to the Bay of Biscay where the carriers had drilled their planned operations, scrambling fighters and staging fly bys over the convoy for plane recognition drills. For their own part, the fourteen ships practiced high speed emergency turns, and movement from the open sea four column formation to a tighter two column sailing order that they would use in more constricted waters. They sailed through the Pillars of Hercules, passing the mighty Rock of Gibraltar on a grey, moonless night enshrouded in fog, August 10, 1942. The very next day the five carriers went into action, their new Sea Hurricanes replacing the older Fulmar fighter squadrons to provide air cover over the convoy. HMS Furious was living her third life, rebuilt from near scrap metal after her harrowing encounter with a strange German raider a year ago in the North Atlantic and pressed again into service on her ferry mission, flying off her Spitfires that same day.

  All seemed to be going according to plan in those first hours, until disaster struck the convoy an hour after mid day on the 11th of August when a stealthy and experience German U-Boat commander, Kapitän Rosenbaum, slipped past the fitful escort of destroyers and sent a fan of four torpedoes into HMS Eagle. All the torpedoes hit home in four shuddering explosions, one after another. The ship was ripped open and water surged into her gutted bowels sending the carrier into an immediate and unrecoverable list. In the next few minutes men rushed about for their lives, leaping in to the sea to grasp anything around them that seemed to float. One man flailed over to a comrade, recognizing his ashen face, only to find that the man had been ripped in two, his lower torso and legs sheared off in the initial explosions.

  After twelve successful missions in those same waters, and a long, distinguished career, HMS Eagle keeled over and sank in a matter of minutes. Thankfully the bulk of her crew was saved and plucked from the sea by nearby destroyers. It was the fifth carrier lost in the war to date by the Royal Navy, and twelve Sea Hurricanes went into the sea with her, the bulk of 801 Squadron and all four planes comprising 813 Squadron were lost. Only four planes in her 801 Squadron survived, as they were already in the air and were able to land on the carrier Indomitable.

  The plan, like all plans before it, was beginning to fray right at the outset. It was hoped that the heavy escorts would guarantee a safe passage at least as far as Bizerte, but HMS Eagle was sunk hundreds of miles to the west, due north of Algiers. The suddenness and shock of the attack was an awful harbinger of what was yet to come on this adventure—“Operation Pedestal” as it came to be called. It told the Admirals and Captains that their enemies were well aware of their plans and had assembled a considerable force in opposition. Kesselring boasted that, after recent reinforcements from other theaters, he could fling upwards of 700 planes at the British fleet. Beyond this there were U-Boats and Italian Subs in the Med, and near the islets of Pantelleria and Lampedusa, the Italians also had a hornet’s nest of fast attack torpedo boats to strike at any ships that made it past Cape Bon at the northernmost tip of Tunisia to begin the last desperate run for Malta. In those narrow, mine infested waters, a place where the more powerful British battleships could not go, the small, fast craft were the ideal defenders.

  Yet there was one other element the Admiralty had not planned for—could never have planned for, in spite of their harrowing encounter with the same dreadful raider a year ago—Kirov.

  Chapter 5

  Melville-Jackson strode through the outer entrance to the flight officer’s room at Takali airfield on Malta, ready for debriefing, and with quite a story to relate. Wing Commander David Cartridge was there along with another pilot out that morning for reconnaissance, George Stanton, and for this occasion Air Vice Marshall Keith Park, chief of the Malta Air Defense effort was also waiting when he entered. Jackson saluted crisply and took his chair.

  “Good afternoon gentlemen,” said Park with an amiable smile. “How’s the new radar kit?”

  “Well enough, sir,” said Stanton, “A bit limited in range but more than suitable for low level sea search.”

  “I must say we had rather a different experience on our flight,” said Melville-Jackson. “I made a visual sighting of my target before we ever got a peep on the radar. Thought my mate was sleeping at first, but he swears his scope was clear until we were right on top of the damn thing.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Park. “This big Italian cruiser you reported… Latitude 39.00, Longitude 11.16 from your report. Some two hundred miles east of the Cagliari, on a heading of 225 south by southwest.”

  “Yes sir. Came up on it all of a sudden. Odd disturbance in the sea as well. Thought it was a submarine blowing tanks until I saw the disturbance was much too big, and the contact as well. It was definitely a
warship, sir, though I must say we haven’t had much of a look at the Italian Navy just yet, so I can’t be more specific other than to say this was at least a cruiser—most likely a heavy cruiser at that.”

  Park was a crisp and thorough officer, with a penchant for details and a good understanding of all the new technology that was impacting the war effort, particularly the new radar sets. “Well Jackson, you’ve only arrived yesterday from Coastal Command, and yes I dare say the Italians are not too fond of sailing that far west, but do have a look at ship silhouettes before you fly out again this afternoon. The waters in these regions get fairly busy, and you’ll want to know exactly what you are shooting at next time around.”

  For his part, Park knew well what he was talking about when it came to air operations. A New Zealander and First World War flying ace, he soon rose through the ranks to become a commander in the RAF. He was also well versed in naval matters, having gone to sea at the early age of nineteen on a steamship where he earned the nickname “skipper.” He later fought at Gallipoli, and the battle of the Somme where he learned firsthand how valuable good aerial reconnaissance could be to the outcome of any military conflict. In fact, he had flown old Bristol fighter recon planes in the First World War, biplanes then, and had many kills against German fighters for his effort. When the second war came Park was an air vice Marshal taking part in the defense of London with Number 11 Group, RAF. He had fought in the skies over the city, and taken part in the planning and briefing in the Battle of Britain bunker at RAF Uxbridge. After a stint in Egypt, Malta seemed the perfect place to post a man like Park, for it was enduring its own daily struggle with the Luftwaffe and his experience fit hand in glove.

  “You say you took gun camera footage of this ship?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jackson replied. “Gave them a taste of my cannon as well. Caught them flat footed, it seems. They never fired a shot before I was over them and gone. Yet I thought the better of trying to come round for a second pass after waking them up. A cruiser that size is a job for the full squadron.”

  “Indeed,” said Park. “Well, we’ll have a good deal to do over in the Ditch these next few days.” He was referring to the underground cave sites beneath the city of Valletta where the island’s fighter defense was coordinated. “I was going to send you out to hit Comiso on Sicily this afternoon. We need to pound their airfields there as well before things get so hot with this convoy that we’re thrown completely on the defense. But seeing that you’ve jumped on something here, we’ll give that mission to 235 Squadron with the Mark I Beaus. You’ve a couple newer planes in 248 Squadron, and two with these new radar sets. So it looks like your job will be to hunt north for this contact and ascertain her position and intentions. Admiralty indicated that the Italians have their 3rd and 7th Cruiser Divisions operating in the Tyrrhenian Sea, and they will definitely be up to no good insofar as this convoy is concerned.”

  “Right enough, sir.” Jackson was game for any sortie they would put his name to, and the four men spent the next several minutes going over the briefing for the Comiso air strike mission for 235 Squadron before the technicians brought in his gun camera footage and began to mount it on the projector.

  “These other two gentlemen have had a look or two at Italian cruisers,” said Park. “And I daresay I’ve a fair amount of experience in the matter as well.” They looked at the film with interest and, as the footage ran, Park found himself edging forward, hands clasped behind his back, leaning in slightly to get a better look. The opening frames were clearer, though the range was farther away and the contact seemed shrouded in shadow. When Jackson began firing in earnest the shells sent a wild forest of thin geysers spraying up all around the ship, which was struck amidships near the main superstructure where a fire soon started and began to obscure the images with smoke.

  “Can you run that back to the start and hold a few stills?” said Park over his shoulder. “Yes… There now… Have a look at that gentlemen. What do you make of if, Mr. Cartridge?”

  The wing commander was quick to reply. “Not an Italian cruiser sir, where are the stacks?” He pointed at the screen. “That tall mainmast area there where most of the fire was concentrated—I don't see a stack. It should be about here on most Italian cruisers, and angled slightly back, with one more smaller stack located aft. That could be this feature here,” he pointed again, “but this main superstructure area is all wrong for an Italian ship in my view—at least for their cruiser designs. And it looks too big, sir.”

  “Yes, quite a monster this one,” said Park. “Look at that shadow on her aft deck. Is that a float plane? Could it be a battleship?”

  “Can't see much in the way of big guns from this angle. The forward deck seems rather empty, but these images aren't very clear, sir. Odd shadows and light, and too much smoke when you get in close.”

  “All the same, I'm glad you took your shot Jackson.” Park folded his arms, a glint in his eye as it lingered on the images.

  “If that's the case, sir, they’ll need a whole squadron to deal with a battleship—a flight of six planes at a bare minimum. But I thought fuel shortages are keeping most of their big ships in port.”

  “Yes, they've been using them to refuel their destroyers and lighter escort ships, but if they've gotten wind of this operation they may be pulling out all the stops and sending out heavy units.”

  “Doesn’t sound much like the Italian Navy I know, sir,” said Cartridge. “They’ll fight when they have to, but more often than not they think twice about that, particularly if they can’t provide adequate air cover, or if we’ve got heavy units in the vicinity. For that matter, I can't imagine a battleship would be there all by itself, sir. It might be a big freighter, but that would surprise me as well with no escort.”

  Park raised his eyebrows in agreement. “Let’s send this along to Intelligence and see if we can find this fellow again later today for confirmation. For the moment, however, I don't think there's much else we can do about it. Good job, Jackson. You may have put us on to something here. Get some rest and be ready for another sortie in short order. In the meantime we’ll get a Maryland from 69 Recce Squadron over at Luqa Field to fly reconnaissance and make sure this ship isn’t heading our way. Carry on, gentlemen.”

  Aboard Kirov Fedorov was convening his own briefing in the sick bay with Rodenko, Tasarov and a very woozy Admiral Volsky who had awakened with a raging headache, just as Zolkin had predicted. He was stabilized, and the shrapnel wounds had been thankfully minor. Still, he was not clear headed, and the pain killers Zolkin gave him made him somewhat drowsy.

  Is this what it is to sit at death’s door, he thought to himself. Memories of that awful sound of the chattering machine guns, then the sharp bite of metal on metal, the whine of ricochet, the hot fire of the pain in his leg and side as he slipped from his perch on the ladder and made that headlong fall. Then he felt the hard thump on his head, a flash of white light, sharp pain and darkness as his awareness seemed to collapse inward on itself like a black hole.

  Now he longed for sleep, and just a moment’s rest without the burden of command, but here was Fedorov, with another impossible story that he must certainly believe. His voice seemed to echo in his mind, and he struggled to focus his attention. The young officer had been right at every step in their first encounter in the dangerous waters of WWII, and there was no reason to believe otherwise now.

  “Operation Pedestal,” he said slowly after his First Officer had finished speaking. “Yes, I studied this battle in the academy, but that was too long ago to remember the details. Something tells me you have that well in hand, Mr. Fedorov, and I can give my aching head a rest. Yes?”

  “I have a 50 page paper from the American Naval War College on the campaign, sir. It will tell us everything we need to know—down to the last details: dates, times, orders of battle—everything.”

  “Where are we now?” asked Volsky.

  “Sir, I changed our heading to 210 right after the attack, and we
held that course for two hours at twenty knots. But we are about to exit the Tyrrhenian Sea, and I believe that course will be very dangerous for us now. I have just come about to head northeast again on a heading of 45 degrees. We are making our way back into the Tyrrhenian Sea, which could provide us a little maneuvering room away from the major action getting underway now while we catch our breath.”

  “And you tell me you believe the current date and time is August 11, 1942 at sixteen hundred hours—give or take a few minutes I suppose.” Volsky managed a wan smile, though it was clear to them all that he was still in considerable pain. “Not August 20th?”

  “Yes, sir. I can only go by radio intercepts we’ve made, but events reported would seem to indicate that HMS Eagle was sunk today at mid-day, at 13:10 hours. Nikolin says he is still getting residual radio traffic on that event regarding the movement of survivors to Gibraltar. We would not be hearing that traffic a week later if it was August 20th.”

  “So what happened to those days we were sailing across the Atlantic?”

  “I cannot say, sir. I can only make my best estimate of our current time.”

  “Of course…Well done, Mister Fedorov, as always. Your prompt action may have saved the ship from blundering into the middle of something we would come to greatly regret. It is imperative that we steer well away from this operation. The only question now is what course to set in our present circumstances? But before we begin, I would like to ask that one more officer be included in this briefing.” The Admiral looked at his good friend Dr. Zolkin. “Would you kindly summon Mister Karpov, Doctor?”