Cauldron of Fire

Chapter 7

By the time they reached the bridge the danger was acute. The younger officers there had picked up a single airborne contact that seemed to be passing astern, moving on a heading away from the ship. They watched it for ten minutes before Kalinichev on radar noticed a group of several planes coming on screen from the south. They were out over the sea, bypassing the Sicilian mainland and on a heading towards Kirov. They tracked the contact nervously for another ten minutes until, at a 130 miles out, they were convinced it was a threat and sounded battle stations.

Five minutes later Fedorov and the other senior officers rushed onto the bridge, and Rodenko assumed his station, immediately cross indexing the Klinok SAM system with their main Fregat 3D Search Radars as Karpov advised. It took him five minutes to bypass some damaged circuits and establish a link, and by the time he was ready to feed fire control data the contact was 80 miles out and closing at 300 miles per hour. It would reach them in fifteen minutes.

“We can use the S-300 system at once,” he said. “It has the range to engage now.”

Fedorov considered his options, wishing he knew more about the contact, but concluding it was most likely long range fighters or torpedo bombers off Malta. Its course made it obvious that it was vectoring in on a designated target. The ship was most likely spotted by the recon aircraft that was dismissed by the junior officers as no threat. It was obvious that Kirov had been spotted again, and was now targeted for a strike mission, yet he hesitated, realizing that he was now about to intervene in the history of this battle and possibly kill these planes and crews when they might have survived and made some significant contribution to the battle, or even the war at a later time. Volsky’s last words came to him again, “Protect the ship, Mister Fedorov. Do what you must…” He could engage now with the longer range S-300s, or wait until the planes moved inside forty-five kilometers to use the medium range system. He did not have long to decide.

“We’ll wait,” he said at last. They had only forty-seven more S-300s in inventory, and twice that number of Klinok SA-N-92 missiles. “Activate our Klinok missile system, Mister Samsonov, and prepare to fire.”

“Battery keyed and ready,” said Samsonov.

The missiles were installed both forward and aft on the ship, available in batteries of eight with one missile firing every three seconds. They were deployed in vertical silos beneath the deck, and would eject by catapult and decline towards their aiming point by means of a dynamic gas jet before igniting their rocket engines.

As he waited, Fedorov realized he was now judge, jury and executioner sentencing men he could not see or ever know to death, along with everyone they might ever sire, for all generations to come. He felt a tremor in his hand as he reached to adjust the fit of his cap, and when he spoke his voice sounded thin and detached. He knew now how the Admiral must have felt when he first engaged the British, and also had a taste of Karpov’s mindset when he stood in command of the battle.

“Fire at forty-five kilometers.”

“Aye, sir.”

The minutes seemed to extend interminably and tension elevated as they waited. Rodenko continued to call out range intervals on the contact, counting down audibly for Samsonov. At forty-five kilometers Samsonov acted reflexively, dispassionately, even as he had in previous engagements, and toggled the firing switch for launch. He was going to fire off a barrage of six missiles, holding the final two in the battery as a reserve should they be needed.

A claxon droned and warning lights flashed on the aft deck. Three seconds later the first missile ejected, declined, and ignited with a roar, streaking away with a long white exhaust in its wake. The next missile was up and away in seconds, then the third ejected—when disaster struck.

The dynamic gas system had been overcharged, the valve adjusted incorrectly, and it fired too hard and too long. The missile was tipped some forty-five degrees beyond its correct angle of fire when its rocket motor kicked in. Deployed just forward of the aft helicopter landing pad, it struck one of the rotors on the KA-40 there, and was deflected downward even more, careening into the stern of the ship and exploding right above the Polinom “Horse Tail” sonar system access panels. The rocket fuel ignited and there was a billowing explosion of flame and smoke.

As the fourth missile in the barrage popped up from its deck silo it was caught by the shock wave and was sent wildly off course when the rocket engine ignited, smashing into the sea where it fumed like a wild shark in a maddened rage. The fire quickly enveloped the nose of the KA-40 helo as desperate fire crews rushed to the scene even while missile five ejected, declined, and safely fired. As the shock of the explosion rippled through the ship, Samsonov realized something was seriously wrong and aborted the sixth missile. Now the stern of the ship was enveloped in an angry fire, and it looked impossible to save the KA-40. The frantic call came into the bridge, which had no direct view of the stern given its location forward of the ship’s main mast.

“This is Engineer Byko—cease fire on the aft deck systems, we have a major fire on deck! I repeat, cease fire!”

Orlov heard the warning claxon and call to arms. He had been sulking in the ready area for the ship’s commando unit, brooding over his fate and galled by the notion that he was now a common lieutenant again. Volsky had come to him the previous day and explained what he had decided, busting him three pegs and stripping him of his rank as Captain. At the same time he asked him to redeem himself and make the best of the new assignment. It was obvious to him that he could no longer maintain his post as Chief of Operations. Now everything he had worked for, and all the bruising and sweat of his climb up the ladder of command these last five years, was gone. At least he wasn’t a ranker, he thought. It could have been worse.

Karpov, he thought. I should have never listened to that weasel. What was I thinking? He was afraid to do what he wanted on his own, and so he thought he would find a strong ally in me. Yet I was a fool to think we could take the ship—no—an idiot! Yes, Severomorsk is gone and power is now anyone’s for the taking, but the collective of the ship, the ranks of officers and crew remained intact. I knew the men would follow Volsky. What was wrong with me? And Karpov, that bastard set me up with his sly arguments and clever reasons, and I was duped like a schoolboy…If I ever get my hands on that rat again—

The warning claxon cut his reverie short and he was immediately on his feet. Men reacted by reflex, and it was Orlov’s to look about him for anyone not moving to his post and lash them with the whip of his authority. Yet now he was the one without a post. He had been escorted to Troyak’s unit under guard, and released to his supervision. These were not the same ordinary crewmen he was so accustomed to bullying and cajoling with his brawn and bad attitude. They were highly trained combat veterans—Naval Marines, and Troyak was one of the best in the fleet. In fact, it was only because Karpov had indicated Troyak was going to support him that Orlov allowed himself to fall under the Captain’s spell.

He stood there dumbly for a moment, watching men race to the weapon’s bay to fetch their rifles and helmets, yet he had not been integrated into the unit yet, and had no locker of his own. Then he heard the word fire, heard the men running on the decks above, and he instinctively rushed to a ladder to get topside. When he emerged on the aft deck he was stunned to see it embroiled in a major fire. Three men were struggling to deploy a fire hose and he turned to see five more running to the scene and immediately took charge.

“You men—follow me!” he shouted, and seeing Orlov the men responded at once, in spite of their surprise that he would even be at large after what they had heard in the rumors that passed through the ship: that Orlov had tried to take command with Karpov and was now in the brig.

The former Chief of the boat was still acting like one, whether or not he held the rank. He ran towards the KA-40 helo, seeing the fire enveloping the nose of the craft, and immediately ascertained that it could not be saved. And when the fire reached the fuel tanks behind the main cabin there would be another explosion, and even more fire and damage could result. They had to get the helo off the ship!

“Come on!” he shouted. “Unlatch the securing cables!”

He was on his knees, feverishly working to loosen the nearest cable that held the helo in place on the landing pad. Other men rushed to assist, and Orlov knew they had to be quick. Already the heat and smoke were terrible, but one man had a pair of heavy duty cable cutters and, after releasing the two cables they could reach, Orlov seized the tool, dove beneath the Helo, and strained to extend the biting jaws of the cutter to sever the last cable. Smoke nearly blinded him and the heat was awful, singeing his exposed, gloveless hands as he strained with all his might, shouting with the pain. Thankfully the tool had a hydraulic assist and the jaws clamped tight with a vicious snap. The last cable had been cut.

Orlov pushed himself back from under the helo, realizing the whole thing could explode at any moment. He staggered to his feet, rubbing his eyes and coughing. “Push!” he bellowed, his voice gritty and hoarse.

Five men ran to help, then seven. They took hold of the chopper wherever they could and together they strained with all their might, joined by five others, to heave the aircraft off its landing pad in one mighty lurch. It scudded across the deck on its wheels, aided by a timely roll of the ship which tilted sharply over. It was this extra momentum that allowed the men to keep the helo moving until it crashed violently against the aft starboard gunwale with a hard thud, nearly lurching off the side, but perched now with one stubby wing grinding on the handrails.

Orlov had his big shoulder under the aft tail section, shouting. “Heave! Lift it and push for your lives! Tip it over the side!” The crewmen strained and exerted themselves mightily, slowly lifting the helicopter’s tail end with their combined muscle and increasing the angle of its precarious tilt. The main cabin was now fully afire, and flames were licking at one of the overhead engines. They managed to move the helo again with one concerted shove and it finally tipped over the gunwale and reeled down into the sea. Seconds later there was another booming explosion when the engine fuel hose was licked by fire on the way down and ignited one of the fuel tanks. They staggered back from the gunwale and Orlov felt something graze his cheek, a fragment of shrapnel from the immolated helicopter. The ship shuddered again with the explosion, and several men were thrown off their feet to the deck, but their effort had saved Kirov from even worse damage if the helo had exploded on the landing pad.

Orlov was bent over, retching the smoke from his throat, his hands burned, face bleeding. He turned, a look of agonizing pain on his face, that soon gave way to an expression of relief. They had all come within seconds of losing their lives, but what in God’s name was happening? What was the ship firing at?

Melville-Jackson soon knew the answer to that question. A little over an hour ago a flight briefing aide had rushed into his squadron ready room at Takali airfield on Malta and he was informed that a Maryland of 69 Recon Squadron had re-acquired what they believed to be an Italian cruiser. It was heading northwest this time, away from the planned convoy route, but Jackson’s 248 Squadron was immediately activated with orders to fly a strike mission nonetheless. They were to intercept the contact, verify its identity and take hostile action if they deemed it an enemy ship. Word had come that elements of several Italian cruiser divisions had left their Mediterranean bases, and this ship was obviously part of that operation.

Six Beaufighters were soon aloft and heading northwest in a tight formation through the Sicilian Narrows as before. This time there were four Mark Is carrying torpedoes, and two newer Mark VI planes with the latest radar sets. Jackson was in one of these, and serving as acting flight leader.

They sped north, slowly closing the distance to the target. The plan was to split into two sub-flights and converge on the contact from two angles. Stanton would lead a group of three Mark I Beaus with torpedoes off the starboard side of the ship, and Jackson would take the last Mark I and the second Mark VI to attack the port side. The two sub-flight leaders signaled to one another, tightened their face masks and banked their planes away from one another, their mates following as planned. The flight split into two groups just as Kirov began to spin up her SAM barrage and fired.

The first two missiles were up, their integrated radars quickly acquiring the incoming planes, and both selected targets. When the flight split, they veered left to seek out, unknowingly, the group of Mark I beaus carrying torpedoes. Accelerating with their powerful rocket engines, they streaked out and lanced toward the oncoming planes. Staunton saw something odd in the sky. Blinking and leaning forward to squint through his cockpit, he first thought it to be a contrail from another plane rising to meet them. The enemy must have air cover, he reasoned.

He did not have long to wait before his mystery was solved. The first missile had acquired his sub-flight and was boring in. Seconds later he saw what looked like fireworks in the sky, and with a shuddering explosion a rocket obliterated his wingman to the right. Shocked, he hit the stick and rolled his plane, just as the second missile found and destroyed his last wing mate.

“God almighty!” he breathed as his plane dove for the cover of a low cloud bank.

Off to the east, it was only missile number five left from the initial planned barrage, and it was racing towards Melville-Jackson’s group. He suddenly heard a frantic radio call from Stanton: “Mayday! Mayday! We’re under attack! Two planes gone and I’m diving.”

Under attack? What was Stanton talking about? He immediately craned his neck, looking this way and that for sign of any enemy fighters. Two planes down? There must have been a group of long range German fighters, perhaps BF-110s if they were out this far. That was a twin engine fighter like his own Beaufighter, fast and dangerous. Then he saw it, the number five missile streaking up through a white cloud and heading straight for his flight. He passed a moment of shock and surprise, then instinct took over and he shouted into his mask radio set.

“Roll out, we’re under attack!”

His two mates reacted to the command and the sub-flight split in three, each plane angling off in an evasive maneuver. Jackson saw the awful streak turn suddenly to follow the plane on his left, and Billings was struck seconds later, his right wing blown clean off. The Beaufighter was sent cart wheeling down in flames, and Melville-Jackson gaped at the scene, his eyes quickly scanning the sky for sign of—of what? What in blazes had hit them? There was no sign of an enemy plane anywhere to be seen.

Chapter 8

Volsky heard the missiles firing, one—two—then he immediately knew that something had gone wrong. His eyes found Karpov’s when they heard the explosion and felt the ship shudder in response.

“Missile failure!” Karpov said at once, resisting the urge to leap to his feet and run to the bridge.

The Admiral nodded in agreement, his face set, still in obvious pain but now more concerned for the wellbeing of the ship. What had happened? His damage control officer Byko would get news to them in time, but he would call the bridge first, then engineering, and a call to sick bay would not be on his list at the moment. But Karpov had put his finger on it immediately. The ship had been through a great deal these last weeks. He should have used the time to finish all the system checks, particularly on the reactors, as they seemed to be strongly connected to the strange conditions that moved the ship in time. It still sounded so impossible, but here they were, firing at something bearing down on the ship again, and now they had another accident in the mix to complicate matters.

Volsky shook his head, with both regret and displeasure. “We have been far too sloppy,” he said. Then they heard the fire alarm and the commotion aft, men running, shouting, the hiss of a fire hose deploying.

“The aft missile bank,” said Karpov, listening. “It was probably a misfire, or perhaps the missile engine exploded. We will know in time. I heard two missiles get off safely. It was the third.”

The jarring sound of the alarms sent the Admiral’s head to throbbing even worse. He looked at his Captain. “Damn you, Karpov,” he breathed. “I need you! I need your experience, your skill at the helm, your battle sense and tactical awareness. Fedorov is a navigator! He’s never seen combat, or even trained on maneuvers. But how can I send you up there now, eh? Tell me?”

A much louder explosion shook the ship now, prompting them to brace themselves.

“What was that?” said Doctor Zolkin? “Have we been hit?”

“I don’t think so…” Karpov’s dark eyes seemed to scan the ceiling, as though he was straining to see through the decks above them to discover what had happened. “If I know Rodenko, they would fire at about forty-five klicks out. If these are old planes from the Second World War, then they would not close that distance so quickly. It must be related to the fire aft. Possibly one of the Helos was involved—it’s the only thing that makes sense at this point.”

“A KA-40?” Volsky raised his heavy brows.

“That or the 226 model. What did you have on the pad?”

“I was just aft for a deck walk before that first attack caught us by surprise. There was a KA-40 on the pad. The bay doors were shut and the other two helos were below decks. I hope we haven’t lost it.”

“That sounded very bad,” Karpov warned.

“Damn, I wish we could get a Tin Man video feed in here.”

“I’m sorry, Leonid, but I’m not fond of watching battles,” said Zolkin. “I’m like Byko. He picks up the pieces, I patch up the men—when I can.” He looked over his shoulder at the three body bags. “I hope I will not have to fill very many more of those any time soon.”

“As do I, Dmitri,” said Volsky, “as do I.”

Karpov looked down, rubbed the back of his neck, and took a deep breath. “What do you want me to say, Admiral?” he spoke quickly. “That I was wrong? Of course I was wrong. I was a fool, and I’ll pay for that mistake, but if you need me, I can help you now, in any way you order.”

The Admiral looked at him, then closed his eyes, rubbing his brow, so weary. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, and Zolkin gave him a concerned look, reaching to his medical stand and fetching a syringe.

“How can I send you back, Karpov?” Volsky said sadly.

“I swear to you—here and now—that I will serve this ship and obey your orders, or those of any man you place over me. Send a Marine with me to the bridge if you wish. I know what I did, and why, and that is over now. I know I deserve nothing but your contempt, but give me this chance and I will not fail you again—ever.” He had a pleading expression on his face, eyes wet, lips tight as he held his emotions in check.

Zolkin was going to administer a sedative to the Admiral, but he paused, one hand holding a cotton swab, the other holding the syringe. The admiral opened his eyes and looked at his Captain.

“Very well,” he said slowly. “If there is any shred of honor left in you, Karpov, I will give you this one chance to find it again. Fedorov is young, and yes, he is inexperienced at sea—particularly in battle. But I must tell you that his judgment is sound, his insight into what we have gone though exceptional. Without him I do not think this ship would have survived our last encounter with the combined British and American fleets. So Fedorov will remain senior officer in command, and I’ll give him the leg up in rank to make that clear. He is the one who will order what we should do, Doctor Zolkin,” he angled his head to his old friend now.

“But you, Karpov, you will do what we must do to accomplish his objectives. Assuming he accepts your presence on the bridge. And one more thing—leave off discussion of how we might best use our nuclear weapons, please. That question is mine to decide. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” said Karpov penitently. “I will serve as Fedorov’s first officer if you wish, and support him with all the skill I have. I will state my opinions fairly if asked, but will not argue the matter in the face of the enemy, or in front of the other men. And if he gives me an order, I will follow it—I swear it.”

“You are fortunate to be in sick bay,” said Volsky, with a smile. “That’s a lot of pride to swallow in one gulp, and you could choke.” He laughed, feeling a great burden of worry taken from his shoulders.

Karpov smiled, appreciating the old Admiral in a way he never could before. Now, when he looked over his shoulder at the man he was before—always resenting Volsky’s presence and authority over his ship, always scheming out ways to subvert him and oppose him, he felt nothing but shame. If Volsky gave him this chance, he could not let the man down—could not let himself down.

“Will the men accept his, Leonid?” said Zolkin.

“Perhaps,” said Volsky. “Perhaps not, but they will do their duty nonetheless.” Now he looked at Karpov, deciding. “This is a good ship, Captain, and a good crew. They deserve more than our lot now, and it is our job to save them, and preserve this ship. Very well… As punishment for your actions earlier, and the willful mutiny you instigated, you are hereby reduce in rank three marks to Captain Lieutenant. Fedorov I hereby promote one level to Captain of the third rank, and he and will assume the position of acting Captain of the ship until I can make a full recovery. You are hereby designated his first officer, Starpom, and immediately assigned to the current watch in that position. You will proceed to the bridge at once, and yes, I think I will send the Marine guard outside along with you, until you have proven the pledge you have made here today, to me, and to the other men on this ship.”

Karpov’s eyes were glassy as he nodded, grateful for the chance the Admiral was giving him now. “Rely on me to keep my word in this,” he said. “To you and to the men…”

“Go then,” said Volsky. “And Mister Karpov—when you get there, and inform Fedorov of his new rank and position, don’t forget to salute.”

Karpov smiled. “I will click my heels, sir.”

Volsky laughed again, but it subsided with a wince of pain. “Can we still that claxon? My head is killing me. And Doctor, you may give me your shot now. If you have a few hours sleep for me in that syringe I will be a new man myself.”

Fedorov was as surprised as anyone else when the citadel hatch opened and Karpov stepped onto the bridge, a Marine Guard in his wake. He had been staring up at the aft Tin Man video display, watching the chaotic effort to fight the fire there and seeing the desperate effort of the men as they heaved the KA-40 over the side just before it exploded. Now he and the other officers turned, equally surprised, and Karpov looked down, fighting his shame, then found resolve and straightened to attention in a way he had promised, literally clicking his heels as he saluted.

“Sir,” he said formally. “I am ordered here by Admiral Volsky, and with the new rank of Captain Lieutenant. I am to inform you that you are hereby promoted to Captain of the Third Rank, and the Admiral wishes you to assume formal command of the ship until such time as he is fully recovered. I have asked him, and I now ask you, to accept me as your first officer, and I pledge that I will serve you to the best of my ability.” He held his salute as he spoke.

Fedorov returned it, astonished, but inwardly relieved by this development. He had been distracted by the explosion aft and almost forgot that the ship was engaged. When he remembered the incoming aircraft he was thinking what to do next when Karpov appeared. The enormity of these events was a lot to process at once, but he maintained his composure and turned to Karpov, nodding.

“Very well,” he said, imitating the Admiral again. “Now hear this,” he said to the bridge crew. “I formally accept command of battlecruiser Kirov until such time as the Admiral returns to duty, and I hereby accept, and appoint, Captain Lieutenant Karpov as my First Officer. He will advise me and second my decisions according to protocol. Understood?”

The men nodded, particularly his senior officers, Rodenko, Tasarov, Samsonov. “Mister Karpov, please work with Rodenko to monitor the status of an incoming air contact and use your best judgment as to how to deal with it to ensure the safety of the ship. I must coordinate with Byko on the comm-link to assess what has happened aft.”

“Sir!” Karpov saluted again, and went immediately to Rodenko’s Fregat radar station to get on top of their present tactical situation. Rodenko felt his presence looming over him, but something seemed different in the man now. That edge of haughtiness was gone, and the arrogance. Instead he looked and saw Karpov scanning the readout with the quiet, cool assessment of a trained naval combat officer, and he was glad, relieved even, to have the burden taken from him. He had advised Fedorov as best he could, but in truth, his specialty was radar.

“Samsonov,” said Karpov, “You used bank seven on the Klinock system?”

“Aye, sir,” said Samsonov, and the mood of the bridge tamped down to business as usual. “We only got off three missiles before the misfire.”

“All three hit, in spite of the damage to the main ship borne guidance radars. But we have lost time with this misfire and Rodenko is still showing three airborne contacts, very close now. We will have to switch to the Gatling guns, but they may need tracking assistance.”

“Aye, sir. Activating close in defense system.”

Melville-Jackson emerged from the bank of low flying clouds, his radar man shouting out the contact: “Three-o’clock, Jackie and Five miles out!”

“Roger that. Put your fish in the water now boys, and let’s get moving. We’ve bitten off more than we can chew from the looks of things. This is no cruiser. It’s a bleeding battleship! Look at the damn thing!”

Two of the three planes still had torpedoes, and there was no sense in trying a strafing run with his shattered flight now. He pulled the stick back, breaking round in a sharp turn. Then he caught a glimpse of the distant enemy ship as he emerged from a cloud, and could clearly see a fire aft. Perhaps one of his boys got a torpedo in the water after all! A moment later he heard Stanton calling “fish away,” but no word from Dobbs in the other Mark I.

Stanton’s shot was four kilometers out, just inside the maximum range for this torpedo, and then he turned on Jackson’s heading. But Dobbs kept running on, bearing in on the target to get a better shot. Jackson saw something flash out of the corner of his eye and craned his neck to get a look behind him. The dark silhouette of a warship lit up with the firing of a single gun, a Bofors from the looks of the volume it poured out, but it was lethally accurate. A hail of fire swamped Dobbs plane and it was riddled and on fire in seconds. He quickly lost control and went into the sea.

“Damn!” said Jackson. His squadron was decimated—worse than decimated. What in hell were they shooting at us? He had his cameras running the whole while, and hoped the footage would be valuable if he could get it home safely. “Bad day’s work”, he said to Stanton on the radio.

“Bloody hell!” came the return. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Torpedo in the water!” Tasarov called out loudly. “Two signals, both running true!”

Karpov, turned to Fedorov near the comm-link. “Mister Fedorov,” he asked. “Will these torpedoes home in on the ship’s hull?”

“No,” said Fedorov, “they will run true as aimed to their maximum range, and only detect the hull for purposes of detonation. They have no active tracking radar or sonar components. You can avoid them by maneuvering the ship.”

“Helm, come hard to port and all ahead full!”

“Aye, sir,” came the echo, “Hard to port and ahead full!”

The ship went into a high speed turn, leaning heavily in the sea and surging forward with renewed speed. Karpov wanted to get as far off the torpedo bearing as possible, and he was easily able to maneuver the ship out of harm’s way. Then he went to the viewport, looking for his binoculars, pleased to find them hanging just where he had left them, so long ago it seemed now. A quick scan satisfied him that the evasive maneuver had worked. He saw the two torpedo wakes well off the starboard side of the ship and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Two airborne contacts withdrawing,” said Rodenko. “I think they've had enough, sir.”

Karpov nodded. “Let us hope this is the last we see of them for while.” And then to Fedorov he said. “Captain, how is the situation on the aft deck?”

Fedorov had just finished being briefed and had a grim expression on his face. “Not good,” he said. “The KA-40 caught fire when the missile failed and they had to jettison it over the side. I don’t know how they managed that, but they did. That secondary explosion we heard was probably the fuel tanks going up. If the ship is in no further danger I suggested we slow to ten knots and get divers down to have a look. Byko tells me the aft Horse Tail sonar has been badly damaged and we may have sustained further harm from that explosion.”

“I confirm that,” said Tasarov. “I have a red light on the aft sonar system, but the forward bow dome is still returning good signals. It looks like we won't be able to deploy the Horse Tail variable depth sonar, but at least our jaw isn't broken. And if we still have the other two helicopters in working order we can use their dipping sonar as well.”

The ship utilized a variant of the older Horse Jaw low-frequency hull sonar system, principally deployed in a prominent bow dome and along the forward segments of the hull. But the aft quarter also allowed for the deployment of additional sensors towed by a long cable which allowed them to move the devices to variable depths and listen through thermal layers when necessary.

Fedorov shrugged, stepping to the center of the command citadel and resting an arm on the Admiral's chair. Karpov drew near, and clasped him on the shoulder. “We are no longer in any immediate danger,” he said.

“Glad to hear that,” said Fedorov. “It seems like I've been on my feet for hours now.”

Karpov smiled. “Get used to it, Captain.” Then he looked at the Admiral's chair and gestured. “Have a seat, Fedorov. The ship is yours now.”

“Thank you, Captain,” said Fedorov, and he slipped quietly into the chair, realizing it was the first time he had ever sat there. Something about the moment stayed with him the rest of his life. He was commander of the most powerful ship in the world, at least for the moment.

Chapter 9

Three men showed up at sick bay, and Zolkin was surprised when he saw Orlov among them, his face black with soot, and bleeding. He also quickly noticed his hands, clenched and held tightly near his soiled sweatshirt, as if protecting them from further harm. His wool cap was still on, and pulled low on his forehead, and he looked every bit the threatening, brute of a man that he had been while serving as Chief of Operations.

But for Zolkin, a man in medical need was his charge and duty, and he put aside his ill feelings for Orlov and got him quickly onto a cot for some much needed first aid.

“Well, I hope you don’t plan on getting into any boxing matches with those hands, Orlov. How did this happen?”

Orlov grimaced as the Doctor applied antiseptic and bandages, but the burns were not severe. He told Zolkin of the fire, and the effort to ditch the helicopter before it exploded. The other two men in for minor bruises and burns heaped praise on Orlov, and not because they feared any reprisal on his part if they failed to do so. In the heat of a dire emergency Orlov had instinctively acted to save the ship, risking his own life and the lives of all the men he called to action with him, but narrowly averting that fate by a matter of seconds. Yet the fact remained that he was seen as a hero by the men for what he did, and Zolkin thought this good for a change, and a positive first step for Orlov in his new post.

“In spite of what I might wish to say to you on other matters,” he said, “I put that aside now and congratulate you for your courage. Two other men were here before you with tales of your herculean feat. The Admiral will be pleased when I tell him what you have done.”

When the other two men had been dismissed Orlov pressed the Doctor with a question. “What has happened, Zolkin? I have heard nothing. What were we firing at?”

“Don’t ask me. Yes, I was in the briefing and can tell you that the ship has moved again, backward, into this mess of a war that we blundered into. Fedorov was able to pinpoint the date as August 12, 1942, a full year after our first adventure, to put things lightly. Apparently there is a lot of shooting going on south of us, and he’s maneuvered the boat into the Tyrrhenian Sea to avoid it. But, as you can see, we have been spotted. You are not the only officer wounded. Volsky is in the next room, sleeping at last again.”

Orlov lowered his head.

“I was a fool, Zolkin,” he said in a low voice. “Karpov duped me, that snake, and I fell for his vranyo hook, line and sinker. If I ever get my hands on him—”

“Now, now—that will do you no good either, Orlov!” Zolkin wagged a finger at him, admonishing.

“Let him rot in the brig, then. At least I have a post, and some measure of rank left.”

“Don’t become perturbed, but Karpov was sent to the bridge as acting First Officer to Fedorov. The Admiral may not recover for some days yet, and we were under attack. What does Fedorov know about naval combat? Nothing. Karpov pledged to serve faithfully if given a second chance, and the Admiral sent him up.”

Orlov shook his head. “It was his doing!” he said. “All his doing!”

“Don’t hold yourself blameless, Orlov. You had a choice to make and you chose wrongly. If it is any consolation to you, Karpov was also reduced in rank three levels. He is Captain Lieutenant now, under Fedorov. I expect they will make a formal announcement when this business settles down. For your part, you have done something right in that action just now. Good for you. Now don’t let the bear in the kitchen over Karpov and keep your wits about you. You are a natural leader, Orlov, but you let your anger get the best of you all too often. Think about that—and don’t get any more stupid ideas in your head about Karpov. There is a limit to Volsky’s forbearance. He has given Karpov a chance to redeem himself. You now have yours.”

He looked over the top of his glasses and smiled. “I’ll tell Troyak that you are to rest those hands for at least 48 hours. In the mean time—find a good book, or better yet, a good meal. Your rank as Lieutenant still gets you into the officer’s mess. And while you are at it, mending a few fences with the men would be in order as well.”

Orlov sighed, nodding his head. “Alright, Zolkin. What you say makes more sense than I have had in my head for a good long while. I’ll mind my manners, and if no one bothers me there will be no trouble. But don’t ask me to sit at Karpov’s table just yet, eh?”

“It will be easy for you to blame Karpov for what you did,” said Zolkin, “but not wise. Look to yourself, Orlov. Make your peace there first, and if you can do so, make your peace with the men. They are the ones you really let down. Now they look to you with some praise in their eyes instead of fear. That has to feel good for a change, and I hope it may open a new road for you.”

They had no time to rest on the bridge. Rodenko’s systems finally reached full range, with good, clear readings in all directions. His screen was suddenly alight with numerous contacts, on the sea and in the air. Fedorov interpreted one air contact moving from Sicily towards Sardinia as the movement of German reserve aircraft to Sardinian airfields for the major strike on the British convoy that would occur the following day. But a surface contact to their west, and closing on an apparent intercept course, was of some concern.

“I don’t think the Germans are aware of our presence yet,” he said to Karpov. “That surface contact, however, will be two light Italian cruisers—6 inch guns—and a couple of destroyers led by Admiral Da Zara. They are fast, and will be able to shadow us if they sight us. Though I am inclined to believe that they may think we are friendly at first blush. They were ordered to rendezvous with other cruiser divisions in this region, and will not expect any enemy ships this far north of the planned convoy route.”

“Good,” said Karpov. “May I suggest we run north for a time? We need waste no missiles on those ships. If they find us and seem hostile, we can just use our deck guns at superior range to drive them off.”

“I agree,” said Fedorov. “But their main force is coming from other bases, with more cruisers and destroyers. Two will be heavy cruisers Bolzano and Gorizia, moving up from Messina with five more destroyers to join them. They intend to rendezvous here, he pointed to a map on the clear Plexiglas of his old navigation station. “The island of Ustica. It’s too bad that they lost their nerve and were ordered to stand down, this will mean that several of these ships will be lingering in the Tyrrhenian Sea, instead of heading southwest away from us. We must be cautious, and ready for the possibility that the Germans could also spot us at any time.”

The ship was ordered on a heading just shy of true north and as they came about there was an audible groan, with some vibration. Karpov noticed it immediately, though Fedorov was frowning over his notes on Operation Pedestal.

“Did you hear that?” Karpov asked.

Fedorov looked up at him, clearly unaware of what had happened. He had been lost in the history of 1942, oblivious for the moment while he considered how their present course might best avoid further conflict.

“There was an odd sound, and some vibration when we turned,” Karpov explained. As if on cue the comm-link phone rang and Fedorov answered. It was damage chief Byko, with a little more bad news for them.

“I think we have some damage below the water line near the starboard propulsion shaft and rudder,” he said, “possibly from the explosion when they ditched the KA-40. Can you reduce power so I can put divers overboard. 10 knots would do it.”

Fedorov looked at his chronometer, calculating mentally. “Very well, Byko. We’ll slow to 10 knots. Keep me informed.” He looked at Karpov, somewhat concerned. The last thing they needed now was any loss of speed and maneuverability. If they were sighted again, by air or sea, and became the object of enemy attention, it could quickly embroil them in a fight Fedorov dearly hoped to avoid for the moment.

“Byko is a competent man,” said Karpov to give him heart. “Don’t worry, he’ll have us on our way in no time.”

Some miles to the west the day faded towards dusk, the skies ripening to amber and rose as the sun fell lower on the horizon. Aboard the battleship HMS Nelson, Vice Admiral Edward Neville Syfret stood in overall command of the entire operation, and principally of the main covering “Force Z.” Off his stern he was followed by Nelson’s sister ship, HMS Rodney, the core of real naval muscle assigned to the operation, and more than enough to give the Italian Navy second thoughts about any sortie as long as these two powerful ships were on the scene.

After an uneventful passage of the Strait of Gibraltar on the previous day, the operation began in earnest on the 11th of August, and was soon well informed that the seas and skies they were sailing into would not be friendly. The loss of HMS Eagle at mid day had been jarring, with 260 men lost in spite of an outstanding effort made to save the bulk of her crew.

It was a day of terrible setbacks and thankful consolation. Syfret grimaced at the stinging loss of the venerable old carrier, along with sixteen much needed aircraft. The sight of those Seafires sliding off the steeply listing deck as Eagle keeled over was still dark in his mind. Yet he took some comfort in the rescue of over 900 crewmen. The oiling operation for his flock of thirsty destroyers had also gone off well enough, and he had all of twenty-four of these fast escorts at hand for this segment of the run. That said, a submarine had still managed to slip through and hurt them badly, and it gave him worries about what would lie ahead. This was only the enemy’s outermost screen of undersea boats, he realized. The odds would be much worse later, when the bulk of his destroyer escorts would have to turn back with his heavier ships and carriers. Thus far they had only been bothered by a handful of enemy aircraft, shadowing the convoy from a safe distance, but this too would change as they drew nearer to the main enemy airfields on Sardinia and Sicily.

A careful and experienced man, he knew this was just the opening round of the battle ahead of them now, and the loss of the Eagle was a particularly telling blow. It was clear that the air and undersea threats would have orders to strike at his all important carriers as a priority. This was the first time the Royal Navy had ever operated with five at once, though that distinction was tragically short-lived now with the loss of Eagle.

Born in Cape Town South Africa in 1889, Syfret’s career saw him hopping from battleship Rodney, to command of a cruiser squadron and now a post at Gibraltar’s Force H. He had seen the fire and steel required to push through to Malta on previous convoys, and had no doubts about the difficulties ahead of them now. He had pushed 15 of 16 merchant ships safely through to Malta earlier while commanding HMS Edinburgh, a record that had not gone unnoticed at the Admiralty.

Tonight may be our last breath of calm for a while, he thought as he removed his admiral’s cap and ran a hand through his fine wavy grey hair. Tall and trim, his face was lean and serious, his eyes harboring the wisdom of many decades at sea, in both good times and bad. It was going to get rather gritty, he thought, but grit was one element of his character that was never found wanting. He had sat at Churchill’s right hand as his secretary when the redoubtable Prime Minister had served as First Sea Lord, and was soon sent back to real active service when the war came.

Now he led two of the Royal Navy’s biggest battleships, 38,000 ton behemoths when fully loaded, with nine 16 inch guns each and a bristle of medium batteries and anti aircraft guns as well. It was just as he preferred it—to be at sea on a ship with some good brawn and armor, and the guns to sail where she pleased. There was only one segment of the run in to Malta that he would have to forsake this time out—the Sicilian Narrows—infested with U-boats and peppered with mines, the two ponderous battleships would not have the sea room they needed to sail on through the narrow gap in the Skerki Bank, a jagged series of limestone reefs at the mouth of those narrows. They would cover the convoy as far as the bank, and then turn back while lighter and more maneuverable cruisers under Vice Admiral Burrough took on the duty of final escort to Malta with Force X.

It was already time to deploy the paravanes, and he was watching the crews rigging the lines to the bow, his gaze reaching down Nelson’s broad gun laden foredeck to the tip of the ship. Two paravanes would be deployed on each side of all the larger ships as night gathered its shadows before them. These were a kind of underwater glider, the general shape and appearance of a winged torpedo, yet shorter, and with stubby foils and a tail designed to maneuver it in the water. They would be towed by a heavy cable rigged to the ship’s bow, and the wings would serve to keep the paravane well away from the hull as it trailed out to the side of the big ship. Their intent was to ensnare the anchoring cables of hidden mines, and by so doing it would break those lines and send the mines bobbing up to the surface where they could be spotted and detonated by machine gun fire.

The game had begun, he mused. No, not a game, but a grueling run of the gauntlet. Would they win through this time? He remembered his final urgent instructions to the convoy masters on his last run in to Malta at night… “Don’t make smoke or show any lights. Keep good station. Don’t straggle. If your ship is damaged keep her going at the best possible speed…” How many of the fourteen precious merchantmen would get through this time?

At 16:34 hrs a message came through from Flag Officer North Atlantic that was not unexpected. It warned of an imminent attack by enemy torpedo bombers, and the British fighters were soon scrambling from the decks of their remaining carrier escorts, Indomitible and Victorious, and climbing up into the salmon sky. When they came, the German Ju88s swooped low on the deck but were well harried by the fighters, who broke up their sub-flights and sent at least three into the water. Syfret gave the order to commence firing and the line of cruisers and battleships began filling the gloaming skies with puffs of broiling fire and grey smoke, laced with white tracers from the Bofors AA guns. He reckoned this to be nothing more than a probing attack, some thirty to 36 planes from the look of it. They would get much worse in the days ahead.

Now… what was this last bit in that signal warning: “Malta reports large enemy ship sighted very near Sicilian Narrows. Sortie by this and enemy cruiser squadrons deemed very possible.”

Large enemy ship? A battleship? Couldn’t they be more specific?

Kapitän Helmut Rosenbaum of U-73 received the message from Untermittlemeer Squadron headquarters at La Spezia with real satisfaction. “Congratulations in order for our newest recipient of the Knight’s cross.” All he had to do now was stay alive to collect his medal, and he was glad that he could soon make use of his new radar sets once he got clear of the main enemy convoy and found some open water.

U-73 was a very special boat, one of a very few to have the FuMO61 “Hohentwiel” radar installed. Named for a fortress constructed at the top of an extinct volcano in the year 914 by Burchard III, then Duke of Swabia, it became one of the most powerful fortresses in the duchy, and a watchful outpost on the mountain passes in the Baden-Wurttemburg region of Germany. The radar was perched atop the starboard side of the U-boat’s conning tower, scanning the area around the boat while she was surfaced to keep watch for enemy aircraft and surface units.

Her Kapitän and commander, Helmut Rosenbaum, had put her to good use on seven sorties, sinking six merchant ships and causing the loss of two the smaller vessels that were being transported on one of these targets. The crew wanted to credit him with eight ships sunk for the feat, but he was reluctant to count those last two as kills.

“No boys,” he told them. “I’m counting it at six, so now we go hunting for our lucky number seven.” Most of his kills were obtained while operating out of St. Nazaire and Lorient on the Brittany coast, but on one occasion the boat was deep in the Atlantic operating with the Grönland Wolfpack when she sighted a very odd looking warship that seemed to be the focus of a major operation. Rosenbaum had no intelligence indicating that the enemy was running any convoy at that time, so what was underway here in the icy North Atlantic, he wondered? He knew there were no German surface raiders out to sea at that time, but here was a warship of considerable size, with a lot of Royal Navy units thrashing about in pursuit.

He peered through his periscope, noting how ominous and threatening her profile was, but perplexed by the lack of any big guns on the ship. Concluding that this must be an old British battleship that had been stripped of her guns and put to sea for maneuvers and drills, he decided to spoil the party and put the ship on the bottom of the sea. The ship accommodated him by sailing right into firing position as he hovered in the silent cold waters, and was preparing to set loose one of his last torpedoes when he suddenly saw the ship put on an amazing burst of speed and veer hard into a high speed evasive turn! He realized at once what had happened. One of the other boats in the wolfpack had seen the ship as well, and fired, probably U-563 operating on his right under Klaus Bargsten.

“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…