Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) (15 page)

“What are
you doing, Klaus?” he breathed. The shot was far too long to have any chance of
success. It was not like Bargsten to make a mistake like that, but the reaction
of the target ship made Rosenbaum realize that this was no old battleship. The
speed and precision of the evasive maneuver took his breath away. Then he saw
something flash from the side of the dark ship and streak off at an impossible
speed. Moments later there was an explosion, and he pivoted his scope to see a
geyser of water in the distance, right on U-563’s line of fire. Something had
lanced out and destroyed Bargsten’s torpedo! He wanted nothing more to do with
this ship, and immediately ordered an immediate dive to reach a cold thermal
layer and slip away. His comrade was not so lucky. The ship found U-563
sometime later and Rosenbaum’s boat and crew could feel the throbbing vibration
in the sea when they killed the U-Boat.

The Kapitän remembered
how he had turned to his First Officer of the Watch, Horst Deckert, amazed.
“That was a battleship if I have ever seen one,” he breathed. Or at least it
was something easily that big. Yet the way it moved and turned, it was like a
destroyer, and the damn thing…” He checked himself, unwilling to say more. “Get
us out of here, Deckert. Get us out of here.”

A year
later, and now on her 8th sailing, U-73 would slip through the guarded gates of
Gibraltar, her engines off, just drifting silently through the channel pushed
by the swift ocean currents. She would join Unterseeboote Mittelmeer (Undersea
Boat Group Med), with the 29th Flotilla, and make her way to a new operating
base at La Spezia in Northern Italy. She had been out on patrol since August 4,
this time in the Med, looking for another kill when Rosenbaum got word that a
big British operation was underway and was vectored in as part of the initial
U-Boat trip-wire defense north of Algeria. There he spotted the British convoy
assembled for Operation Pedestal and slipped around to the rear to where the
carriers were operating to provide air cover.

Rosenbaum
skillfully escaped detection, in spite of a close escort of four British
destroyers in his immediate vicinity, and worked his way stealthily into a
perfect firing position on the old British carrier HMS
Eagle
, ripping
her open with four hits and sending her to the bottom in a matter of minutes. In
the ensuing chaos he eluded detection and withdrew from the slowly advancing
Allied convoy. In time he would work his way north to hover off the Balearic
Islands. For the sinking of HMS
Eagle
he soon learned that he was to be awarded
the Knight’s Cross and given a new assignment—command of the Black Sea U-Boat
flotilla, Hitler’s “lost fleet” in the inland waters of southern Europe.

In an
ingenious and daring operation, the Germans had partially disassembled a
flotilla of six Type IIB Coastal U-Boats at Kiel, removing their conning towers
by oxyacetylene torches before they moved them overland on the most powerful
land haulers and tractors in Germany. They eventually reached the Danube where
they were packed in pontoon crates and then made their way slowly by barge to
the Black Sea! Originally scheduled to arrive there in October of 1942, they
were two months early, and the newly decorated Helmut Rosenbaum would now take
command as soon as he returned from his current mission.

He rubbed
his hands together, grateful for the new assignment where he could now command
a flotilla of six U-boats. Yet in a strange twist of fate, he would have one
more chance encounter at sea before he made it home to collect his laurels, and
one more chance to best his lucky number seven kill. U-73 seemed to have some
strange magnetic attraction to the center stage of danger where
Kirov
was concerned, for she was to soon come once more within firing range of the
very same ship Rosenbaum had seen a long year ago in the North Atlantic…

Part IV

Geronimo

“We took an oath not to do any wrong,
nor to scheme against one another…I was no chief and never had been, but
because I had been more deeply wronged than others, this honor was conferred
upon me, and I resolved to prove worthy of the trust.”

~ Geronimo

Chapter 10

Aboard
Kirov
Rodenko was watching his long range
radar screens with some concern. A small flotilla of five contacts continued to
move east from Cagliari, and with the ship now slowed to just 10 knots while
the divers were working astern, this put the contact on a direct intercept
course. Fedorov seemed lost in his research, trying to ferret out any
information he could concerning the details of the Italian presence gathering
in the Tyrrhenian Sea. He began to make notations on the Plexiglas at the Nav
station, and Karpov watched him out of the corner of one eye while he received
reports from Byko on the status of the damage control operation.

Apparently a
sizable piece of the exploding KA-40 had been flung against the side of the
ship, causing some minor buckling, though water tight integrity was not lost on
the hull.
Kirov
had a shrapnel wound there as well, but the divers were
able to seal it off, and also clear some debris that was dangerously near their
starboard propulsion shaft and rudder. Two hours later Byko was pulling his men
out of the water, and he called up to the bridge to report that he could
certify normal cruising speed in ten minutes.

“As for
the Horse Tail sonar unit
,”
he said.
“I will have to replace the retraction motors and a few cowling
plates, but that will take another eight to twelve hours.”

“Well put
your grandpa on it! We’ll need that system up as soon as possible.” Karpov was
referring to the ship’s chief mechanic, often called the “Grandpa” when it came
to all things mechanical. He passed the information on to Fedorov.

“Good
enough,” he said. “I think we will have no major concerns for the next several
hours. That contact to the west out of Cagliari will continue to make a gradual
approach, but if we take no overtly threatening action we may just be able to
slip by. I expect visitors from the north and east as well, but not for some
time. The men need rest. Can you stand a watch until midnight?”

Karpov gave
him assurances, and so he went below with several members of the senior bridge
crew. Dusk gave way to a clear, dark night, returned to them at last since it
was so rudely stolen, and the time slipped towards midnight. Karpov was
grateful that Fedorov had enough faith in him to let him stand a command watch,
though the Marine guard still remained at his post as a precaution. Still, he
had the bridge for the first time in a long while, and slipped into the
Admiral’s chair, remembering how it felt when he was the unchallenged master of
the ship, and thinking how foolish he had been, how blinded by his own ambition.

He still
struggled inwardly with it all, and his mind offered up arguments and
justifications as it had so many times while he languished in the brig. But
here he was given a second chance by the man he had betrayed, and that came to
few men in the Russian Navy, particularly those charged with mutinous conduct.
In any other circumstances he realized he would still be in the brig, and
facing severe disciplinary action, or even a desultory court martial and
possible death sentence.

Kalinichev
was at radar when he noted that the contact he had been monitoring to their
west, which had been steaming at fifteen knots, had suddenly increased speed.
“It looks like that have increased to twenty knots, sir,” he reported, “And
they are now within 15 kilometers.”

“Still
bearing on an intercept course?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Range to
horizon?”

“From the
top of one of those ships, sir?” Kalinichev made a hasty calculation. “I would
say we are probably on their horizon now, sir, but it is very dark.”

“Shut down
all running lights,” said Karpov, concerned. “Rig the bridge for black.”

“Aye, sir.”

He
considered what to do as the night seemed to flow into the bridge, the
phosphorescent glow of the radar and sonar screens the only illumination. He
could put on speed and race north to outrun the contact. This is what Fedorov
would advise, he knew. But something in his bones refused to give way to these
ships, galling him. He decided, in the end, to advise Fedorov and avoid any
suspicion or charge that he was again attempting to engage the ship in combat,
even if that was what he might prefer. He had given his word to Volsky, a man
who had little reason to grant him the grace of his present position, and so he
would honor it.

Ten minutes
later Fedorov returned to the bridge, still bedraggled with half-sewn sleep.

“Captain on
the bridge!” a watch stander called, announcing his arrival. He took a moment,
adjusting to the darkness, then found Karpov near the radar station. “I relieve
you, sir,” he said politely, taking formal command of the ship again.

“I stand
relieved,” Karpov repeated the forms, still fighting off his inner demons in
having to relinquish command to a former navigator. Yet he stood to one side,
waiting as Fedorov studied Kalinichev’s screen.

The ship’s
new captain had expected the contact would occur right around midnight, and he
was gratified that events seemed to be unfolding as the history was recorded,
like the well oiled mechanism of a clock. He made the decision Karpov had
predicted.

“Helm,
maintain course and give me thirty knots.”

A bell rang
and the helmsman echoed the order. They could feel the powerful surge of the
ships twin turbines as the
Kirov
forged ahead. Fedorov went to the
forward view pane, noting Karpov’s field glasses. “May I?” he asked gesturing
to the binoculars.

“Of course,”
Karpov nodded.

Fedorov
looked off their port quarter for a few moments, but was not satisfied. “The
moon is still down,” he said. “Not that there will be much of it when it
arrives. It is very dark. Nikolin, please activate the port side Tin Man and
scan the horizon at 315 degrees.”

The Tin Man
rotated and deployed its special night optical filter, with infrared
capability, moments later they were staring at an enhanced HD video of a small
task force to the northwest. The ships were right on schedule, cruisers
Savoia
and
Montecuccoli
, and destroyers
Oriani, Gioberte
and
Maestrale
.

“The contact
is increasing speed to twenty five knots,” said Kalinichev. “Thirty knots now,
sir.”

Karpov gave
Fedorov a hard look. “They would not be making that speed for a casual
rendezvous,” he said. “I suggest we come to general quarters, Fedorov. I can
smell trouble here.”

“Anything
else on the screen?” asked Fedorov. “Use your extended range systems.”

“Sir, I have
two contacts at 25 degrees northeast at a range of 62 kilometers and three contacts
at 55 degrees northeast at a range of 120 kilometers.” Kalinichev adjusted his
screen, using their long range over the horizon radar system to report these
additional sightings. Fedorov was suddenly concerned.

The numbers
and bearings of the contacts did not surprise him, but their timing did. The
first would be the heavy cruiser
Trieste
and a destroyer escort, the
Camica
Nera
, the latter would be light cruiser
Muzio Attendolo
and two more
destroyers, the
Aviere
and
Geniere
. They seemed to be early and
he went to his old desk at the navigation station to study his notes again
while Karpov fidgeted, his eyes watching the overhead Tin Man Display.

“Something
is wrong,” Fedorov muttered to himself, confirming his misgivings. “The
Muzio
Attendolo
should not have received its orders to move this soon.
Something has changed…”

Karpov
overheard him, drifting in his direction. “Look to the screen Fedorov, not your
history books. Something has changed? Most likely. Who knows what, eh? We lit
up like a candle when that fire started earlier, and the British are obviously
aware of our presence. Do not surprise yourself if the Italians have discovered
us as well. All I can say is that the movement of those ships does not look
friendly.” He pointed at the Tin Man Display, which was now good enough to zoom
and show that forward turrets were rotating on the lead cruiser and coming to
bear on their heading.

Fedorov
stared at the display, his heart beating faster. The history had changed! As
much as he might want to slip quietly away,
Kirov’s
presence was a shaft
of fire and steel in the very heart of the Italian Navy’s innermost exclusion
zone—the Tyrrhenian Sea. Now he realized that the early arrival of these other
contacts and the sudden movement of the nearest group had to be related to
their presence here. To make matters worse, Kalinichev spoke up again, in a
loud clear voice.

“Sir, I now
have airborne contacts in a large group at 255 degrees southwest, range 92
kilometers. They just emerged from the landform clutter of Sardinia. I’m
reading twenty discrete contacts.”