Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) (17 page)

The pilot of
the last brave hunchback was clenching his stick and ready to pull the release
on his torpedo when he felt his plane shake violently as the fragmentation
rounds ripped off his right engine and half the wing. Low over the sea, his
plane went into an immediate and unrecoverable dive, plunging into the water
with a huge splash.

Up in the
citadel they could hear the sound of the men cheering on the decks below as the
last plane went down, and Karpov smiled, giving Fedorov a sidelong glance. “You
may secure your gun system, Gromenko.”

Fedorov
breathed deeply, his lips tight. He had no real idea how to fight the ship as
Karpov did, but he stowed the lesson away. Karpov stepped over to him and spoke
quietly. “I know how you feel, Captain,” he said in a low voice so that none of
the other officers would hear. “What
must
be done is sometime very
unpleasant. When it comes down to their ships and planes or the loss of ours,
you will know what you must do.”

Fedorov
looked down, still unsatisfied within, but he nodded, acknowledging what Karpov
was saying. Then he straightened up, turning Gromenko. “How many missiles
remain for our Klinok system?”

“Sir, my
board notes 17 missile fires in the last two engagements, and we now have 79
missiles remaining in inventory on that system.”

“Something
to consider,” he said to Karpov. “We have a long way to go before we reach safe
waters.” He looked about, noting the time. “Helm—left fifteen degrees rudder
and come to course 315.”

“Left
fifteen and stead on three-one-five” echoed the helmsman “Speed thirty knots,
aye, sir.”

 “Walk with
me, Captain.” Fedorov had heard Admiral Volsky say and do this, when he wanted
a private talk with an officer, and it seemed appropriate for the moment.
Karpov grinned, but followed respectfully, and the two men entered the briefing
room at the back of the citadel.

“I’m going
to take us up to the Strait of Bonifacio,” Fedorov began as he switched on the
digital wall map and displayed the region. “At thirty knots we should be there
by dawn, roughly six hours. It would be better if we could run the strait at
night, but I don’t want to linger in these waters any longer than I have to.”
He pointed to the map where the ship’s current position was clearly indicated
with a bright red dot, and there were several blue dots north and east of their
position indicating other contacts already designated and tracked by their long
range radar system. He tapped one of these contacts, well east of the ship.

“This is the
heavy cruiser group,” he said, “
Bolzano
and
Goriza
— both with 8
inch guns and better armor than the ships we just engaged. There will be
another heavy cruiser here,
Trieste
, and each group will have destroyer
escorts. This other group out of Naples will be another light cruiser. By
steering 315 I’m taking the most direct route north to get us out of the
Tyrrhenian Sea. These cruisers are fast, but I think we can stay well ahead of
them at thirty knots and reach the strait before they can pose any threat. And
my understanding of the Italians at this point in the war, I don’t think the
lighter surface action groups will attempt to engage us without support from
more air units or heavier ships. There is considerable air power mustered near
Cagliari, and we may remain in range of planes from those fields for some time
on this route. But they have a mission against the British convoy as their
first priority, and we may simply be an inconvenient barb in their side at the
moment. They had a run at us, but with little more than twenty percent of the
strength they might deploy in a well planned attack. At dawn, however, we will
have to get past the naval base at La Maddalena. And we could also face some
danger from German and Italian planes at Grosseto. That airfield would be here,
very near the Island of Elba on the Italian mainland. The other route north
around Corsica takes us very near the major Italian base at La Spezia.
Thankfully, the really dangerous ships are at Taranto. They didn’t move their
battleships to La Spezia until later in 1942.”

 “No
matter,” said Karpov glibly. “If they were there, and they dared to send them
against us those ships would get the same treatment.”

Fedorov let
that remark pass and simply said: “Well my hope is that we can avoid engagement
whenever possible, Captain.”

“Very well,”
said Karpov. “I agree that we must conserve our missile inventories, but what
about this naval base?”

“There will
not be much there, a few destroyers, perhaps a few swift boats and other
auxiliaries. I think we can get by without much difficulty. But the strait is
only 11 kilometers wide and there will be little room to maneuver in the
channel. We can expect minefields, and possibly even enemy submarine activity.”

Karpov’s
eyes darkened at this. If there was anything that he truly feared at sea, it
was an enemy submarine. Yet these were not the fast, stealthy modern American
attack subs he had drilled against so often in their training maneuvers. These
were old WWII subs, and he took heart in that, his confidence still unflagging.

“The loss of
one of our KA-40s was regrettable,” he said. “And I am still concerned about
the Horse Tail sonar. That said, I think we have more than enough capability to
deal with these old boats.”

“They are
diesel, and can run on battery as well,” Fedorov cautioned him. “I need not
remind you that we were targeted earlier, and found these submarines difficult
to find when they are simply hovering. So I want Tasarov on the sonar when we
run the straits.”

“He’ll be
there,” said Karpov. “With the best ears in the fleet. And with your permission
sir, I’ll check on the status of systems repairs. We have trouble with radar
sets, the aft Klinok systems, and the sonar there. Now that we are one helo
short, we will need to be more deliberate in the event we encounter enemy
forces, particularly undersea boats.”

“You believed
I waited too long to engage here?”

“I do, sir,
with no offense intended.”

Fedorov
nodded. “None taken, Karpov. I know I have much to learn, and I will be relying
on you and the other senior officers as well if we have to fight again.”

“Every man
will give you their best, sir,” said Karpov. “With no doubt.”

Fedorov
paused for a moment, then said something else that had been in the air between
them and harbored inwardly by both men. “I know this must be difficult for you,
Captain—I mean, being reduced in rank and placed beneath me this way. I am not
saying I have earned this position either. I know I have no real experience in
combat, or even running the ship, though having been a navigator I can maneuver
well enough.”

“I
understand your feelings, Fedorov, but I must shoulder my burden now as best I
can. I asked the admiral for this post, and he was good enough to give it to
me. I may have been wrong, even reckless before, and what I did should not be
easily forgiven—not by the Admiral, or by you, or even by the junior officers. Yes,
I admit it to you now. I had time enough to think about it in the brig these
last ten days. You tried to warn me that the American carrier was no threat,
but I had more on my head than I could hold at the time, and I acted… stupidly…”

“Alright,
Captain,” said Fedorov. “I’ll make you a deal. You keep
me
from acting
stupidly when it comes to fighting the ship, and I’ll do my best to keep
you
from acting stupidly.” He smiled, and Karpov clasped him on the shoulder.

“Done,” he
said.

An hour
later the ship was again brought to action stations when yet another squadron
of Italian bombers approached from the southwest. Karpov suggested they break
up the formation early with one well placed S-300.

“If we throw
a firecracker into their beehive they may just have second thoughts about
attacking us,” he said confidently, and he was correct. He had Gromenko fire a
single long range SAM at the formation, and it was able to kill two planes and
send the remaining eight scattering in all directions. Nikolin could hear the
pilots chattering on the radio, clearly distressed by what had happened. Then,
one by one, the planes broke off and turned southwest for Cagliari.

“That was
just a probing attack,” said Fedorov. “They have much bigger fish to fry later
today when the British convoy approaches the Skerki Bank. The history records
attacks by 20 aircraft at 08:00 hours, a major attack by 70 planes at noon, and
then the real show before dusk with over 100 aircraft. Needless to say, I think
we can feel fortunate that they are so preoccupied to the south. Tonight they
will still be receiving aircraft from Sicily and the air crews will be getting
the planes ready for those operations. They know where we are from that last
abortive jab. My only hope is that they do not put us on their target list
again in the morning.”

He looked at
Nikolin, a sly gleam in his eye. “Here is a job for
you
Nikolin.”

“Sir?”

“I think
it’s time for a little ruse…”

Chapter 12

Hut Four
at Bletchley Park was a nondescript
extension off the main mansion complex, with plain pale green siding and a tar
black roof. Its special purpose was decryption of naval signals intelligence
and photo analysis, and one of its frequent denizens was Britain’s top
cryptographer Alan Turing, who was lounging at his desk a few minutes past
midnight when the envelope first came in. Unlike all the other parcels received
at Bletchley Park, it was delivered by a uniformed Navy courier, somewhat
breathless as he clomped in with soiled boots, which immediately caught
Turing’s attention. Most everything else would come in at six in the morning, in
a quiet, routine manner, the adjutant making the rounds, desk to desk, with a
squeaky wheeled cart. For a courier to burst in at this ungodly hour meant
something rather important had been caught in the intelligence nets.

“Lucky
enough to find someone up at this hour,” the man huffed.

Turing sat
up, nodded perfunctorily as he signed the man’s clipboard, and then eyed the
package he was handed with interest and a good measure of curiosity. Of late
the load of intercepts, reconnaissance film and photos wanting the attention of
the boys in Hut Four had lightened somewhat. It was marked URGENT – TOP SECRET,
as they all were, and he flicked a lock of dark hair from his brow as he looked
more closely at the source.

Something
out of the Med, he thought. It had come in by special overnight courier flight
from Gibraltar, which led him to believe that someone there wanted to give it
some rather pointed attention. My God, they put the rush on this one! Curious,
he opened the clasps, and unsealed the envelope, not surprised to find a reel
of video footage, typical gun camera film, and a few enlargements. He took one
in hand, immediately turning it over to see the notation and date. It was very
fresh, not a day old, which was again quite surprising. The date read 14:thirty
Hours, 11 AUG 42. Takali Airfield – MALTA – REQUEST ID. That raised an eyebrow,
as he hadn’t seen much out of Malta for some time, particularly with an ID
request. Most every enemy ship and sub operating in those waters was well
photographed and documented. What are they fussing over now, he thought?
Probably some recent aerial photography over Taranto or La Spezia. Or perhaps
some low level runs over the German U-Boat base at Salamis. Could Jerry have
slipped a new U-Boat type into the Med? They had been operating with a handful
of Type VIIs in their 29th Flotilla. What now?

He flipped
the photo over, surprised again to see what looked like a capital ship at sea,
awash in a hail of gunfire from an attacking plane, and very oddly exposed.
Something about the light on the sea drew his eye, and the peculiar darkness of
the ship itself, an ominous looking shadow. It was hard to see much detail in
the grainy photo, so he decided to rack up the film reel and give it a spin in
the video room. Moments later he was deeply absorbed in what he saw. He ran it
through once, finding he had slowly leaned forward for a close look by the time
the film ended, then he rewound the whole thing and ran it again. It was very
curious, and something seemed to turn in his stomach as he watched it the
second time, a thrum of anxiety mixed with a thimble full of adrenaline. When
the reel ended he looked at the two photos he held in his hand.

“Request
ID….Indeed,” he said aloud. His eyes seemed searching, darkly bothered, and his
brow was low and set with the focus of his mind. He got up and walked with a
fast, deliberate pace to the file room at the back of the hut. When was it now?
Some time ago. He went through several files before the date came to him again.
Yes…That was it. The file…

He had
called it simply that in discussion with a select handful of mates there at the
hut. “The File.” It had commanded their attention this very month, a year ago,
and set the whole Royal Navy on its ears with the surprising emergence of a new
German raider in the North Atlantic. The weapons the ship had deployed were
awesome. Particularly the final blow that had been struck against the American
Navy. It was a weapon of enormous power, frightening in its effect. And it prompted
the whole intelligence community to work overtime for the next six months. They
had been frightened half out of their wits when the photos on that monster came
in. Yet just as the Royal Navy and her American allies were closing in on this
phantom ship, it disappeared, and was presumed sunk in that final action. The
Americans put it out that their gallant destroyer flotilla had charged into
close quarters with this sea faring goliath, and died to a man sending the
dreadful ship to the bottom of the sea. Yet the matter was never fully set at
ease insofar as British intelligence was concerned.