Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) (23 page)

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 stunned 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.

Karpov
watched the lethal Moskit-II missiles
bore in mercilessly on the big enemy ships, two salvos of three each. NATO had
called them “Sunburn,” a good name for them, he thought. They were the fastest
and most accurate anti-ship missiles ever developed, and there was virtually no
way to defeat them once they were locked onto a target.

“That will
give them something to think about,” he said to Fedorov. “The lead ship is
burning badly. The next is getting more of the same. We have them programmed to
hit above the waterline to avoid their heavy armor. With a full load of fuel to
feed those fires they are going to have their hands full, even if we haven’t
breached their hulls.”

“These ships
are also vulnerable to plunging fire,” said Fedorov. Their laminated deck armor
was not adequate, and its placement was questionable.”

“The range
is too short for that now, but we have hurt them just the same. Look at those
fires!” Karpov pointed at the thick black smoke pouring from the lead ship.
“Yes! They are turning away.”

They saw the
enemy task force wheel hard right, and the group of three destroyers matched
the maneuver, all making smoke in a futile attempt to screen the bigger ships
from further fire. Bright flashes of orange and yellow erupted from the
battleships again as they both fired their big 15 inch guns in reprisal. They
heard the drone of the heavy rounds coming in, and saw them plunge into the sea
off the starboard bow, the geysers walking their way ominously towards the
ship. A set fell very near, no more than half a kilometer off, and Fedorov held
his breath as more rounds fell progressively closer.

“They’ve got
our range now,” he said, the last round falling near enough to send sea spray
showering over
Kirov’s
foredeck. They could feel something strike the
ship’s hull, undoubtedly splinter damage from the very near miss.

“Left
fifteen degrees rudder,” said Fedorov, “Ahead full!” They were out of the
channel now, through the Bonifacio Strait, but it was still a risky maneuver to
turn and put on speed. There could be hidden mines that Tasarov would not be
able to detect with all the turmoil of shot and shell churning up the seas.
Kirov
came smartly around, and he gasped as one final shell from a late firing gun
fell just where the ship might have been moments ago had they maintained their
old course. This time they could feel the concussion of the heavy round as it
plunged into the sea, so very close. The grating sound of something striking
the hull again filled him with misgiving.

The
Italians
had fired
that one last salvo, a defiant shake of their fist at an enemy they were
clearly not prepared to face this day. Iachino elected to exercise the better
part of valor—discretion. Both his battleships were on fire, but still
seaworthy and without gun damage. Yet the fires were raging ever deeper into
the guts of
Vittorio Veneto
, and he could clearly see that
Littorio
was in no better shape. Stunned and surprised by the powerful new weapons he
had faced, he put on speed and ran north, hoping to find safe waters until the
fires could be brought under control.

The
billowing thick smoke was blinding, and the gunners would have a very difficult
time re-sighting and ranging on the target. He might need another three or four
salvos to find the mark again after his wild turn and change of course. Yet
every weapon the enemy fired struck home with a vengeance. If they fired again…
He did not want to think about the consequences. No, he would return to La
Spezia, chastened and far less brazen than he had been when his proud ships set
forth, but at least, he hoped, he
would
return to possibly fight again.

“Another
day,” he said to the watch officer at his side.

“Another
day, sir?” The man stared at him blankly. “When the British have ships that can
do this?”

Iachino
glared at the man, but said nothing more.

Part VI

Decisions

 “
In a minute there is time for
decisions and revisions

which a minute
will reverse.”

  ~T.S. Eliot.

Chapter 16

They
all stared at Turing—Pound with
annoyance, but the others with grave apprehension and some bewilderment evident
on their faces. The Marine guard interrupted them yet again, another folded
message decrypt in his white gloved hand. Tovey took it, noting the source
first.

“Signal
intelligence through our network in the Med,” he said. “Looks like one of the
Twelve Apostles has come to supper.” He was referring to a secret network of
American OSS and British Special Operations agents that had been scattered
throughout the French North African Colonies to gather intelligence prior to
the planned Operation Torch landings this coming November. There were twelve
agents in all, and one had been put ashore on Sardinia to scout out military
buildup there and map coastal fortifications—more grist for the mills of the
war planners. Apparently he had seen or heard something more, and thought it
urgent enough to risk a direct transmission through the network. The Admiral
read it aloud this time:

“Major
Duffing tips his hat to Little Victor and his friend off Balham Tube… It seems
this one is a bit of a Chinese box—code within a code.”

“What’s all
that twaddle about now?” Pound complained. “Hasn’t it been decrypted properly?”

“If I may,
sir,” Turing spoke up again cautiously. “Major Duffing is the Northern Med
operations section code handle indicating an enemy vessel—a capital ship, sir.
The tipping of his hat will mean there has been a surface engagement with this Little
Victor—‘Vittorio’ in Italian. That would be the
Vittorio Veneto
to be precise.
The mention of a friend would indicate a sister ship of
Veneto
was
present, most likely the
Littorio
, as both these ships were recently
moved to La Spezia. As for Balham Tube, that is not the underground rail
station in London, sir, it is code for the Strait of Bonifacio.”

Pound raised
his eyebrows. “There’s been a naval engagement involving two Italian
battleships off the Bonifacio Strait?”

“You have it
exactly, sir,” said Turing with a smile.

“There’s one
more bit,” said Tovey, reading: “Victor’s off home by any road, and not the
better man.” He looked at Turing, suddenly appreciating the man in a new way.

“That would
mean
Vittorio Veneto
, which I presume is the flagship, has broken off
the engagement and is heading north for home.” Any road was a colloquial
expression from northern England often used instead of the more common
“anyway,” and it cleverly indicated the direction of the Italian withdrawal—north.
“That would also mean that something has just engaged two of Regia Marina’s
heaviest surface units and beaten them off with some significant damage.
Vittorio
Veneto
was not the better man, gentlemen. Now then…This was clearly not one
of
our
ships up there. What in the world could face down two Italian
battleships and come off the better man for it? A ship flinging aerial rockets
at our 248 Squadron, I might add.”

“Forgive me
if I remain confused, Professor,” said Pound, “but this
Geronimo
—isn’t
it a German ship? What’s it doing taking pot shots at the Italian Navy? The
last time I looked Italy and Germany were thick as thieves together.”

Turing
rubbed his hands nervously. The other officers all looked at him, obviously
fielding the same objection in their own minds. He considered what to say, then
realized he had no other course here. In for a penny, in for a pound, he
thought, and spoke his mind. “No, Admiral Pound. I have come to the conclusion
that if these two ‘incidents’ were caused by the same vessel, then this is
not
German ship—not a year ago, and clearly not now.”

Pound was
justifiably astonished. “Not German? My god, man, I suppose that you’ll be
telling me it belongs to the King of Swabia next! What do you mean not German?
What other navy would attack us in the North Atlantic as this ship did?”

“I’ve given
that considerable thought,” said Turing. “Yes, it’s very perplexing. It makes good
sense to think this ship was a secret German raider in light of the North
Atlantic incident, but the road we’ve been walking here has led us far afield
of that comfortable path. If this
is
the same ship as before, as this
photography leads me to believe, then it clearly could not belong to the
Kriegsmarine.”

 “Then who?”
Pound pressed him with growing irritation.

“Well sir, I
thought it might be a Russian ship at one point, seeing as it was first sighted
in the Arctic sea. Yet I had to discard that notion, considering the fact that
Russia is our ally at the moment… ”