Cauldron of Fire

Chapter 19

Dusk came after an uneventful voyage and a welcome interval of quiet. The ship had run out to sea at thirty knots to get well away from Sardinia and Corsica, cruising all day and into the fading light of sunset, and was now just off the largely deserted coast of Menorca Island. As the wan light faded, Fedorov was up from his bunk, feeling refreshed and well rested. He looked at the time: 19:thirty hours, just a few minutes before sunset. Menorca would be safe, he thought. There were no settlements of note there, particularly along this northern coast, and it was also neutral territory, officially a dominion of Spain.

He ate a brief meal and then went aft to find Byko and his damage control engineers. It was time to slow the ship, so he gave orders to make five knots and cruise in a wide circle so that Byko could put divers in the water to inspect the hull and forward sonar rims. Tasarov’s passive reception was still no good, and they were going to need that equipment in good condition if they did have to face the Royal Navy again at Gibraltar.

While he was aft he encountered Orlov, sitting with his back to a half open hatch along with several Marines where they usually occupied bays near the helicopters. It seemed that Orlov made some deprecating joke when he saw Fedorov approaching, and the men laughed, settling down as he drew near. Orlov made a half hearted salute, with an odd grin on his face.

“Captain Fedorov,” he said. The other men stood, a little more respectfully, but Orlov remained seated, his face a mask of derision.

“Mister Orlov,” Fedorov returned. “I heard about your intervention during the fire. Admiral Volsky was particularly pleased. I hope you were not injured badly.”

“What, these?” Orlov held out his still bandaged hands. “It’s nothing. Healing up well. The burns were not severe.”

“Good… Well, I would like the remaining KA-40 readied for operations. Rig for ASW. Byko may have to take the forward Horse Jaw sonar off line to complete his repairs. He tells me the aft towed array is also not ready for safe operation. That leaves us with this last KA-40. I’ll want it rigged with dipping sonar and sonobuoys, two torpedoes, and also a full air-to-air defense capability.”

“Yes sir, commander Fedorov, sir.” Orlov was clearly mocking him now, and in front of the men, who fought to suppress grins. Fedorov turned to him, considering what to say, and how to deal with his truculent manner when he caught a shadow at the hatch behind Orlov’s back. A man stepped through quickly, and took hold of Orlov’s jersey at the shoulders, his fists bunched tightly on the cloth as he wrenched the big man from his seat and pulled him up onto his feet. The other Marines seemed to freeze stone cold, real fear in their eyes now, and when Orlov squirmed around he saw the steely face of Sergeant Kandemir Troyak glaring at him. Troyak released him with a shove and spoke in a low, threatening voice.

“Mister Orlov, you are now standing before the Captain of this ship, and you will come to attention in his presence and act accordingly. The next time I see you sitting on your ass like that, particularly in front of these other men, I will personally see that you regret it. Now, apologize to the Captain—at once!”

It was more than Fedorov had ever heard Troyak say at any one time, and that, along with his rock-like presence and impenetrable countenance was enough settle the matter. Orlov’s neck reddened. He glared back at Troyak, but was of no mind to challenge him in this situation. He saluted, offering an apology in a low growl.

“I apologize, Captain—”

“What was that?” Troyak yelled. “None of us heard that, Mister Orlov!”

“Sir,” Orlov raised his voice, clearly unhappy. “I apologize for my disrespect.”

“Very well,” said Fedorov. “As you were, and see that the KA-40 is ready in thirty minutes.” He nodded to Troyak and moved on. He would make one more call to Dobrynin in engineering to make certain the reactors were in order, and it was not until he was well away from the scene that he allowed himself a smile.

U-73 was hovering in the still waters off Fornells Bay on the northern coast of Menorca Island and Kapitänleutnant Rosenbaum smiled as he peered through his periscope viewfinder, surprised to see a curious ship on his near horizon. Could this be the ship, he thought? What else could it be?

An hour ago one of his Funkegefreiten Telegram Operators had come to the con tower with a message from La Spezia. He was to look out for a fast British battlecruiser possibly heading his way, and last spotted on a heading of 245, cruising southwest towards the Island of Menorca, which was one of Rosenbaum’s favorite haunts. After his triumphant sinking of HMS Eagle, he had been congratulated and given permission to head home. But to celebrate, he took his boat north to an old hideaway once used by the Barbary Coast pirates, Fornells Bay. There were a few fisherman in a tiny cluster of huts that almost passed for a village there, along with the remnants of old watch towers that once served as lookouts for the pirate ships—but they would never see this pirate coming.

U-73 was creeping along at barely three Kph, its bow perfectly positioned to slip through the narrow entrance to the bay where the depth was just 18 fathoms. It was dangerous to navigate in such waters, but his boat had a draft under five meters and he could even remain submerged in that depth as he snuck into the bay, then sit quietly on the weedy bottom with over thirty meters of water above him. Tonight he would surface briefly and put men ashore for some fresh water or perhaps even a little fresh fish to celebrate the occasion.

As was his habit, Rosenbaum was taking a last look over his shoulder as the light faded, to be certain nothing threatening was at hand. When he saw the silhouette of the big ship emerge from behind the massive bulk of Sa Mola Isthmus to the east, he was shocked. There, not four or five kilometers distant, was one of the most threatening looking ships he had ever seen. It was big, fully the size of a battlecruiser, though he could only vaguely discern its guns from this range. It was creeping along at no more than five knots, he guessed, a perfect target if ever there was one! Then he noticed a smaller craft in the water near the ship as well. Probably inspecting the hull for damage, he reasoned, or putting men ashore.

Something immediately struck him about this ship, jangling loose a distant memory, and setting his adrenaline to rush. This had to be the ship his cable had warned him about, and he now found himself in a perfect position to fire his single aft torpedo in the stern of the boat. He immediately lowered his periscope, giving orders for silent running, and to the other men it seemed that the Kapitän was very much on edge. His second in command, Horst Deckert was watching him closely, noting the distant look in his eyes and just the hint of a glaze of fear.

“What is wrong, Kapitän?” he asked.

Rosenbaum looked at him apprehensively. “I think I have seen this ship before,” he said in a low voice, almost a whisper, as if the ship itself might overhear him and suddenly burst into action as he had seen it do earlier.

“A year ago,” said Rosenbaum. “In the north Atlantic. Do you remember, Deckert?”

“Ah, that ship you took to be a target vessel southwest of Iceland?”

“Yes—that’s the one!”

“The ship that killed Klaus Bargsten on U-563?”

Rosenbaum said nothing, nodding at young Hans Altmann, a watch officer who was surely listening to them out of the corner of his ear. He turned to the young man and gave an order. “See that that number five is pre-heated well.”

“Ja Kapitän,” said Altmann, and he passed the order back. For a long shot like this, they would get much better performance from a pre-heated torpedo. The boat had four tubes in the bow, and one aft in the stern, his number five tube, and there he was carrying one of the newer G7e model T2s, upgraded and designated T3 now to note that it was an improved torpedo. Heated to thirty degrees centigrade before launch, its battery would perform much better, running out to 7500 meters in trials. If he could get it to run true for four or five thousand meters he thought he stood a good chance to hit this ship. Then he planned to scoot into the bay and settled quietly on the silted floor for an hour in case this ship had a gaggle of destroyers in tow that he could not yet see.

“You’re going to try a long shot?” Deckert whispered. “Remember what happened to Bargsten! You already got a big kill with that carrier back there, Kapitän. And you’ve already got your Knight’s Cross waiting for you back home—if we can get there in one piece.”

“Don’t worry, Deckert, I have a good plan, you’ll see.”

He waited a few minutes consulting his chart for proper depth and angle on this shot while the torpedo was heated. A British battlecruiser, he thought. There were not many left, and this one did not look like anything he had ever seen before. His chart notes on HMS Renown, which sometimes operated in these waters, indicated her length at 242 meters and a draft of a little over eight meters. This ship was easily that long. If it were a cruiser, the length would be no more than 190 meters. Might this be a new ship? No matter. He would set his torpedo running depth at 8 meters and leave it at that. Word was soon passed that all was ready. He raised his periscope and took another look to be certain of the angle of his shot, leading the boat based on the running speed of the torpedo and that of the target. He had his solution.

The sun was gone now, but the gloaming light still sharply outlined the darker silhouette of the ship. All he had to do was nudge his boat gently to get the perfect angle. Gliding on battery, his boat was very quiet, and he could hear no sign of an Asdic signal indicating the enemy was suspicious of his presence. Once he had made his adjustment he clenched his jaw and gave the order.

“Feuer jetzt!”

The whoosh of the torpedo launch seemed the only sound in the boat at that moment, and he immediately lowered his periscope. “Ahead two thirds,” he whispered, wanting to get as far away from the track of his running fish as possible. There had been no need to rig it out with a Federapparat pattern running device, which was useful against convoys, but not in a situation like this. The last thing he wanted was for some enterprising seaman on deck to sight down the line of his incoming torpedo wake and get a fix on his periscope and location, so he went blind and nudged the boat ahead on battery power, content to slip behind the intervening mass of the Sa Mola Isthmus and then into Fornells Bay. Like a dangerous eel, he had taken a bite at the enemy, and now he would slink into his cave.

He looked to his man on the hydrophones, who was listening intently to the torpedo as it went. The man frowned, shaking his head. “It does not sound good, Kapitän. I think it is losing depth.”

Rosenbaum clenched his fist with frustration. They had a surface runner! Now the weapon would strike too high, where most ships in this class would have a strong torpedo bulwark for protection. Ideally he wanted the torpedo to strike much closer to its assigned depth, where the hull would curve from the vertical towards the bilge of the ship, and the armor protection could be avoided. If he had fired a magnetic head, set to explode beneath the hull, it might have been worse, he thought. At least this one has whiskers, four metal spikes in the nose that would detonate the 273kg warhead on contact. It could still do significant damage, even if it was running shallow.

The entrance to the bay was a little over 500 meters wide here, but it opened quickly to two kilometers, and was all of five kilometers long, just deep enough near the little village to give him a place to hide on the bottom. They’ll never find me here, he thought as he watched his wrist watch, counting down the seconds left in the long torpedo run. If he heard no detonation, indicating a miss, he would settle on the bottom and wait things out. The British would search for him in vain and, when he was ready, he would sneak out to have another look and begin the game again.

The second hand ticked away…

Byko was waiting on the fantail, watching the KA-40 slowly rise up from the flight deck, its twin rotors bronzed by the fading sunlight, its overhead engines roaring as the helo hovered, then slowly gained altitude. He was a big man, with good sea legs and burly shoulders and arms, sleeves rolled back and a spanner in one hand while he waited at the diving station. His features were raw, and weathered from years at sea, and his close cropped hair did little to conceal the prominent dome of his skull, with more hair on his short, thick neck than he seemed to have on his head.

The men had been in the water for two hours, coming and going from the small skiff where it hovered amidships. They had inspected the big forward bulge off the lower bow where the passive sonar array was installed and found it free of damage. The starboard hull was lightly dimpled by fragments of splintered metal, some still lodged there, and the men were removing them and filling the holes with a fast acting adhesive sealant. What little seawater they took had been confined to the inner void and was easily pumped out.

Now they were working the port side, and the divers had noted a large shrapnel fragment cutting cleanly across their underwater sonar rim. This was undoubtedly where the damage was, and after an initial assessment they had returned to the diving skiff to run round to the aft of the ship and use the side ladders and stair extension there to re-embark. They were going to need tools, and some replacement parts as well, including underwater Acetylene torches. A marine guard sat sullenly in the back of the skiff, standard procedure for security on any boat that was manned and away from the ship, no matter how close.

Andrey Siyanko had been with the 874th Naval Infantry Battalion for some years, and was excited to be included in the special detachment assigned to the new Kirov when she launched. Now he looked to the west, watching the last traces of sunlight fade and etch the distant islands of the Balearic chain in sharp relief. Then he caught something out of the corner of his left eye, and turned to squint at the placid sea. His eyes widened with shock when he saw it, the long thin trail of a fast moving torpedo aimed directly at the heart of the ship!

“Torpedo!’ He shouted, and he instinctively unslung his automatic weapon, taking aim as the deadly undersea weapon bored in on them. He had little chance of hitting it, but reacted by sheer reflex as it came surging in, firing on full automatic.

With Kirov’s sonar dark for this vital repair, no one saw the torpedo but this one man, and the sharp rattle of his weapon was the only reprisal the ship mustered against the attack. He was firing in sheer self defense, because the torpedo was now running up very near the surface of the water and aimed directly at his boat. Siyanko would not live to know what his reflexive, if futile, action had accomplished.

Chapter 20

The Torpedo ran true, right at the diving boat and struck it dead on, detonating and literally ripping the small boat to pieces. The fire from Siyanko’s automatic rifle may have helped in that, but it could not save his life, or even spare Kirov from being hurt by the powerful explosion.

On the bridge, Karpov had just resumed his post while Fedorov remained below seeing to damage control. He was watching the launch of their last KA-40 on the aft Tin Man camera feed, pleased that they had some protection airborne against submarines. Yet no sooner had that thought come to him when he heard the violent explosion, and felt the ship lurch in response. His only thought in that wild moment was that they had struck an unseen mine.

He ran out the side hatch of the citadel to the watch deck, looking aft with shock to see that there was a huge explosive spray washing up over the ship there. The diving tender boat was obliterated, and parts of it had been flung against Kirov’s hull. Then he saw it, the thin remnant of a torpedo wake dissipating on the water.

His heart pounded, eyes wide as he rushed into the citadel shouting at the top of his voice. “Torpedo! Submarine off the port quarter. Tasarov, do you hear anything? Go to active sonar!”

“Aye sir!” The sharp ping of the sonar resounded a second later. Kirov’s passive systems had been shut down for the diving repair, but she could still shout at the unseen enemy below and listen for the telltale return of the sound waves.

“Samsonov, be ready on the Shkval system and get me an immediate firing solution.”

But no solution came. Tasarov listened, and listened, and though he was one of the best sonar men in the fleet, he could hear nothing moving beneath the darkening still waters.

“We’re too close to this island,” he said. “I’m getting too many reflections from the coastal headlands. We need sea room, sir.”

Karpov’s mind raced ahead, trying to catch up with the unseen enemy. He noted the direction of the torpedo wake and resolved to immediately fire a salvo from the ship’s UDAV system down that line at once. The sub had to be somewhere between the island and the ship, probably a few hundred meters left of right of that track, and trying to slink away. He squinted at the narrow mouth of an inlet, but could see little in the dark. It seemed entirely too small a channel there and he discarded it as a potential escape route. The sub would be diving now and maneuvering out to sea as quietly as it could.

“Activate UDAV ASW system! Fire in an arc toward that island, three kilometer range. Now!”

Samsonov was flipping switches to key the manual fire, as he had no data incoming from Tasarov’s sonar. He quickly activated the UDAV-2 ASW system and fired two salvos sending a total of ten rockets out in a wide fan off the port side of the ship. They exploded with raging fury, generating a curtain of tumultuous seawater in the distance. If any submarine was lurking there, it would surely be shaken up by the sudden violence of the attack. Kirov had fired back, yet had not yet seen its foe. It was the first time they had fired without being able to precisely target their enemy, and with no real assurance of hitting or hurting him in the process. Even the frantic attempt by the young Siyanko had been directly aimed. This was no more than a random wall of fire intended to frighten their enemy and buy the ship some vital time while Karpov tried to better assess their situation and gain control of the engagement.

Karpov needed to move the ship now, but how bad was the damage? If he put on speed would he cause even more flooding? He decided to risk ten knots, feeling exposed and helpless at this slow speed. He could see the diving boat was gone, and they could come back for any man left in the water once he had found and destroyed this sinister enemy. But if they did not move soon they might all be in the sea.

The comm-link rang sharply and a watch stander answered. “It’s Byko, sir. He has initial damage reports.”

Karpov took the handset and heard what he had hoped. The torpedo had struck and destroyed the diving boat, which was five meters off the port side of the ship. The explosive concussion of the warhead was still enough to shake the ship and fling fragments of the destroyed boat against the hull, but learning lessons from the terrorist attack on the American Destroyer Cole in the port of Aden, Kirov had been reinforced amidships with a long 100mm anti explosive bulwark. It was enough to protect the watertight integrity of the hull, and Byko’s men reported some minor buckling, but no flooding or damage below the waterline. That was exactly what Karpov had hoped to hear. Now they had their speed and maneuverability back, and he immediately ordered all ahead full, with a hard turn to starboard and the open sea just as Fedorov burst in through the hatch, breathless from his long run up to the bridge.

“Captain on the bridge!”

“As you were,” Fedorov said quickly, seeking out Karpov, who quickly filled him in on what had occurred.

“What now?” asked Fedorov. “I think we should use the KA-40.”

“Correct,” said Karpov. “This sub must be very close. I used the ASW rockets as a kind of covering suppressive fire to keep his head down. These subs cannot fire when deeply submerged, yes?”

“Not at this stage of the war. They will need to be on the surface or at periscope depth to fire with any hope of hitting anything.”

“Good,” Karpov rubbed his hands together, the excitement of the battle animating him. “Now that we have full speed we will not be targeted again easily. How fast is this devil, Fedorov?”

“Slow. Perhaps no more than five knots submerged on battery power like it must be now. This is a diesel-electric boat, Captain. Where do you reckon it to be?”

“Do you have a chart?”

Fedorov motioned to his old navigation system and they had Tovarich call up the digital file for the Balearic Islands. “This is Menorca,” Fedorov pointed. “And we are here, near this long inlet.”

“Could he be there?” Karpov asked.

“I doubt it,” said Fedorov. The entrance is narrow and the size of that bay is deceptive. The charts show enough depth for a boat to enter submerged, but half way into the bay it shoals quickly to a very shallow depth.”

“Then I suspect this submarine is probably here.” Karpov pointed off the coast to their east. “He would not run west for fear of being penned up against the headlands of that long cape. No, the bastard will run east, along this shoreline here, and try to get round that fat isthmus east of the bay. I will have Nikolin move the KA-40 off that coastline and we will soon find out. In the meantime, I have given him our backside and put on thirty knots. What is the range of his torpedoes?”

“5000 meters at best.”

“Can they home on our wake?”

“No, they were largely straight runners after firing, unless fitted with a pattern running device, which would probably not be used here.”

“Good. We will be outside his firing range in just a few minutes. Then we use the helicopter to make contact and prosecute. If their Captain survives another hour he will regret the day he set eyes on this ship, I assure you.”

Karpov sighed heavily now, removing his cap and wiping the sheen of perspiration from his brow. He hated submarines—detested them—but now that he had Kirov safely away from the threat, moving at high speed, the foe did not seem so dangerous. It was slow, with old weapons that could not seek him out or follow his wake. He had little doubt that he would get this sub easily enough.

“Five knots?” he said. “Yes, they are slow. Compared to our training to go against those fast American attack subs, this will be no problem.”

Minutes later the KA-40 had dropped three sonobuoys in a triangular pattern well east of the small inlet but perfectly positioned to cover the coastline. One would use active sonar to make the contact, the second to determine its bearing and the third would calculate the range. The helo could also use its dipping sonar, lowering a device into the water from above to refine the data and get a hard fix.

They waited while the KA-40 conducted its search and fed the telemetry directly to Tasarov’s ASW board. Time passed, and the minutes stretched out without any sign of the enemy submarine, and Karpov began to pace, his boots hard on the deck as he walked back and forth, watching out the forward viewport.

“May I maneuver the ship?” He asked Fedorov, who nodded in the affirmative. “Very well, helm, reduce to two thirds and come right thirty degrees rudder to course 065 northeast.”

“Thirty degrees rudder, aye sir. Coming around to course zero-six-five and steady at twenty knots.”

Karpov was turning east to run parallel to the course he had expected the submarine to take, but as time passed and the KA-40 had no contact, he began to suspect they were up against a very wily U-boat captain.

“Come on, come on. Where is he?” he muttered as he paced.

Fedorov was still at the navigation station, studying the charts with Tovarich and missing his old post. What they needed now, he realized, was just a little time to complete repairs on their main sonar systems. They could just sail off at high speed to outrun this submarine. There would be no way the U-boat, if it was a German boat, would ever catch them, so he went over to consult with Karpov again.

“Captain, we are well out of range, and we can outrun this boat at any time. I suggest we use this interval to slow and complete our repairs. Take the ship back west and move the KA-40 between us and the island. We’ll work round that long cape there and find some open sea to complete these repairs. The KA-40 can cover us all night if necessary.”

“We’ll lose the bastard,” Karpov pointed at the sea, clearly unhappy.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s just too slow submerged to pose any further threat. Restoring full functionality on our sonar is more important now.”

Karpov clenched his jaw, but relented. “Very well,” he agreed. “The devil is most likely sitting on the bottom somewhere along that coast. If there are rocks there he would be hard to find in that kind of clutter. But if he so much as moves a rudder, I’ll be on top of him with the helo in no time.”

Karpov was angry that they had been caught sleeping like that. If this ship were in the Atlantic, he thought, we would not have a scratch on us. Nothing would have come within fifty miles of us to pose a threat. But here in these restricted waters we have seen one engagement after another, with damage to radar systems, sonar, the missile accident, hull damage, the loss of a KA-40, men dead and injured—even the Admiral. It was inexcusable.

“We lost men on that diver tender,” said Fedorov. “I’m putting another boat in the water to recover anyone still alive out there. I’ll notify Byko of our decision and have him get more men into wet suits, but this could take time. We have the aviation fuel to burn in this situation, so we’ll have to use it.”

That decided, they turned the ship and Fedorov ordered another boat launched for search and recovery. After an hour they had found only one survivor adrift at sea and clutching a floating spar of broken wood. Two other divers, the boat’s pilot and the marine guard Siyanko were gone. All in all their casualties were not high, but now they had lost seven men to the sea, and Fedorov wondered how many more would die in the days ahead.

He spent some time next to Tovarich at the navigation station, accessing his database on German U-boat movements. What was this submarine doing up here, he mused? Was it Italian? It would definitely not be a British boat. Most of the Italian boats should be in the Sicilian Narrows opposing Operation Pedestal, and they would base out of Cagliari, Palermo, or other bases in Southern Italy. The Germans were operating out of La Spezia, and he ran a search for this day trying to figure out who it might be.

U-205 was out and deployed against the British to the south, but it would not come this way, and returned to Pola on the Adriatic coast instead of La Spezia. U-83 was way off to the east near Alexandria, and U-331 had just departed La Spezia and was north of Corsica on this day. Unless that boat also left port early, then this contact had to be U-73 under Rosenbaum, the very same boat that had sunk its teeth into the carrier Eagle two days ago. He checked its daily reported track, noting that it should still be south along the line of the British convoy advance, but could he rely on the information any longer? The early movement of the Italian 7th cruiser Division, and the surprising sortie by those two battleships had shaken his faith in the history. It was clear that Kirov’s unexpected presence in these waters was causing ripples of variation in all directions. Ships were moving out on missions they had never been assigned in the history he knew. Engagements were being fought that never should have happened.

What if this U-73 had been moved north, or had come north earlier than the history recorded? He noted that when it did return to La Spezia, it came very near this very island of Menorca along the way. Suddenly curious again, he took yet another look at his navigation charts, his eye suspiciously falling on that long inlet of Fornells Bay. If this U-boat was running on battery it would be very quiet, but three sonobuoys and active dipping sonar should have found it if it was hiding along the coastline where Karpov expected it. He wondered…

That night U-73 put out divers as well, a team of two skilled frogmen slipping away to scout the bay for prying eyes. He had learned the trick from another U-Boat captain who used it up on the Norwegian coast, slipping his boat into the many fiords there and then putting men ashore to give him eyes and ears on the situation, and watch for enemy destroyers. When the proverbial coast was clear, they could sneak out again.

Once ashore on the eastern side of the bay they made their way up a prominent hill, some hundred meters in elevation, and crouched atop its rocky ridge to search the seas to the north. Able seaman Heinrich Waldmann peered through his binoculars to the north , but saw nothing in the moonless night. Then he caught sight of something winking in the distance, and an odd sound came to him.

He did not know it then but he had glimpsed and heard the KA-40 helicopter where it now orbited Kirov’s position, standing guard like a watchful sheep dog. Even so, he reasoned that must be the location of the enemy ship, and he and his mate slipped back down the craggy hill to get back to the U-boat and report. Sometime later the news gave Rosenbaum a chill, for it meant that this battlecruiser was still close at hand.

“Could you see any sign of fire? Smoke?”

“No sir, just an odd sound, almost like an aircraft, and a few running lights.”

He clearly heard an explosion, and knew his torpedo had struck the target, but apparently the damage was not as great as he hoped. At least we’ve wounded him, he thought. He’s probably cruising off shore with men in the water to survey the damage. It will be safe enough to surface here now for a quiet breath of fresh air. Then we can slip out of the bay and creep up on him again. They probably think I am long gone, and wishing to get as far away from this place as possible. But they are wrong. I’m going to get this ship, for Klaus, for U-73, and to beat my lucky number seven as well.

Chapter 21

Just before dawn on the 13th of August, 1942, Kirov was still hovering off the northern coast of Menorca, her sonar repairs and further hull inspections well underway, though it would be another six hours before they would finish. The KA-40 had good endurance and was able to stay up a full six hours before refueling. Though Fedorov regretted the loss of the aviation fuel, he kept the chopper aloft all that night and it kept a watchful eye and ear out for the enemy submarine, but saw nothing. Byko certified the aft Horse Tail towed array was now fully functional again and promised all would be ready on the forward dome by noon.

On his way back to the bridge he stopped briefly at sick bay, hoping to check up on Admiral Volsky. Zolkin was there with him, and the two men were chatting like the old friends they were, a bowl of good hot soup in the Admiral’s lap where he sat up on the recovery cot.

“Mister Fedorov,” Volsky smiled. “I was hoping to hear from you. What was it this time? Did we strike a mine?”

“No sir, the ship is well, but we had a very near engagement with a German U-boat.”

“A U-boat? You sound very confident about that.”

“ I believe I know the boat, sir. And I think I know where it might be hiding as well.”

“Your books tell you all this?”

“Not exactly, sir, but I have made some well informed assumptions. We put sonobuoys in the water where Karpov directed and yet did not find anything, so there is only one place this boat could be.”

“Did you tell Karpov about it? The man is very edgy when it comes to submarines.”

“I believe Captain Karpov has gone below, sir. Rodenko has the bridge for the moment, and I am heading there now. I just wanted to see how you were recovering and give you a report. Dobrynin says the reactors are stable, so the ship is stable as well.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well sir, every time we have moved—experienced these odd effects and time displacement, there has been a strange flux in the reactor core. I think it happened several times after we first vanished from the scene of that last nuclear detonation. I found these odd references in the history to the sighting of a ship the allies believed to be a Hipper class cruiser, and on the very course we were making when we went down to investigate Halifax.”

“Yes,” said Volsky. “I remember you bringing this up. You are still ruminating on that?”

“It’s just that I was considering that it might happen again, sir. It obviously did happen again, or why else do we find ourselves here, still stuck in the middle of this war?”

“Have you considered telling Dobrynin to fiddle with the reactors a bit more,” Zolkin spoke up.

“What do you mean, Doctor?”

“Tell him to turn his dials, or whatever else he does down there, and maybe we will move again. Then we don’t have this problem of Gibraltar in front of us and the British can relax, fight Germans and Italians, and leave us poor Russians alone.”

Volsky got a laugh from that, but held up his soup spoon, a glint in his eye and said: “The Doctor makes a good point. Tell Dobrynin to plot a course for Severomorsk, the year 2021. Then we could all go ashore and forget this nightmare.”

Fedorov smiled, still considering this for a moment. “I was thinking about something else,” he said. “Perhaps it is only a coincidence, but it was twelve days from the day of Orel’s accident until we eventually vanished into this odd green sea again. That was from July 28 through August 8, counting both days as bookends. Then we vanish again, and it is another twelve days sailing in that desolate world we discovered until 20 August—and we move again.”

“You are suggesting there is an interval involved here, that we move every twelve days?”

“It was just a thought, sir. Perhaps it is mere coincidence. For that matter, we have never determined what sent us back in the first place.”

“I thought it was all these nuclear explosions,” said Zolkin.

“We all assumed as much,” Fedorov agreed.

“Then if nobody tries to lock us up here in my sick bay and we can manage to keep our nuclear warheads in the magazine and not on the missiles, we should be fine,” Zolkin concluded glibly. “We’ll just sail about the Mediterranean until we run out of things to shoot at—or until we run out of missiles to fire at them.”

“Not a very appealing prospect,” said Volsky. “I would much rather find that deserted island in the South Pacific, but to do that we have to get there alive and in one piece. The longer we stay here, the more chance we have for these unhappy encounters with airplanes, battleships and submarines. Something tells me we have more trouble ahead of us than behind us if we are ever to get out into the Atlantic again.”

“I have an idea,” said Zolkin. “This submarine business aside, these waters are relatively safe, are they not? Wasn’t Spain neutral in the war? Don’t these islands belong to Spain? We could drop anchor here in neutral waters and wait another week or so to test Mister Fedorov’s new theory. Maybe the ship will move again, on the twelfth day, and then we don’t have to kill anybody else, and they don’t have to kill us.” He folded his arms, a satisfied look on his face.

Fedorov smiled, his thoughts returning to the problems in this moment. “Well, sir…We still have the KA-40 up and I could probably prosecute this submarine contact further, but repairs will be completed by noon and the ship is sound. However I am sorry to report the loss of four crewman in this last incident.”

He told Volsky what had happened, and the luck that had saved them from a direct torpedo strike when the diving boat inadvertently shielded the ship and took the blow instead.

“Astounding,” said Zolkin. “It could have been much worse.”

“Very much worse, Doctor,” said Volsky. “That torpedo would have probably caused severe damage, and flooding as well. We were very lucky.”

“Sometimes fate does things like that,” said Zolkin, his dark eyes wide. “We could have been hit, perhaps we should have been hit. Who knows how many we might have lost in that event? These four men died in their place, and that is all we have to console ourselves. It would be so much better if we were not sailing around here in these metal machines shooting at one another, but we are—until men come to their senses, I suppose, and realize that choosing life is better than death, even if it means you do not win the day or avenge a fallen foe.”

Fedorov nodded. Then to Volsky he asked: “Do you want me to destroy this submarine, sir?”

The Admiral looked at him from beneath his heavy brows, then slurped another spoonful of his soup. He realized that the young captain was asking him to shoulder the burden of this next kill, to give him the order so that he would not have to pull the trigger himself, but he considered it best to leave this matter alone, and said as much.

“You are presently acting Captain of this ship, Mister Fedorov. The decision is yours. Protect the ship, that is all I ask, and also, I think when you are done with this submarine business it would be wise to recover all the sonobuoys before we depart this area. Leave nothing in the water that might be found and raise a lot of questions, yes?”

“Very Good, Sir… Will you be returning to duty soon?”

“Ask Zolkin here,” Volsky inclined his head to his friend.

“Ask Zolkin, ask Zolkin. Everyone is always asking the doctor for advice. Well in this case, I think the Admiral is recovering nicely and should be back on his feet in little time. You may go chase your submarine, Mister Fedorov, but don’t get too close. A few less explosions would help the Admiral sleep a bit better.”

“Don’t worry about me, Fedorov,” said Volsky. “I’ll be fine.”

Fedorov left the sick bay, encouraged by the thought that the Admiral might soon recover to take the burden of command from him. He headed for the bridge, thinking what to do about this submarine. They had lost four men. He knew that the U-boat was still out there, and probably intent on stalking them further if they lingered here, yet he believed he knew what to do about it now. Moments later he stepped onto the bridge resumed command from Rodenko, sending him below for some rest.

Karpov had already gone below a few hours earlier, and would relieve him at dawn. Now he was ready to consider the matter of this submarine. The KA-40 was still up, though low on fuel, but he decided to follow his hunch and have a closer look at Fornells Bay. He had Nikolin radio the helo and ordered the pilot to overfly the inlet and use infrared cameras and sensors to have a look. Sure enough, when the telemetry was fed back to the ship he could see the knife like presence of a submerged submarine hovering in the shallow waters of the bay, very near the entrance. It was probably trying to sneak out at this very moment, he thought!

Returning to his navigation station he called up the reference to U-73 once more and clicked on the link to the boat’s captain, Helmut Rosenbaum. There was Germany’s newest recipient of the Knight’s cross for the sinking of HMS Eagle, he thought. So there you are, you crafty little bandit. He looked at the first photo of Rosenbaum, smiling amiably beneath his captain’s hat, a younger man in a better day. There was another photo of him arriving back at La Spezia after this very same patrol, a bouquet of flowers before him and his head turned left to the camera with a gritty smile, his beard unshaven and a jaunty look of pride in his eyes. He read the final notation on the man’s fate:

As Fedorov stared at the photo he felt a strange connection to the man, and an eerie sensation in knowing his future like this. It was a heady, almost God-like feeling, and something that no man should ever have in his grasp, he thought.

“KA-40 reports it can put a weapon on the target at any time sir,” said Nikolin, looking at Fedorov.

Roused from his muse, Fedorov looked at him for a moment and blinked. He could order the U-Boat destroyed in a heartbeat, snuffing out the lives of every man aboard as easily as he might blow out a match. In that event he suddenly realized the photo he was looking at would never even be taken!

Something in him revolted at that that. It was no longer a cold calculation of war or survival in the balance. Kirov was well off shore and safe from any harm this U-Boat might still wish upon them. It was his intention to sail west as soon as the helo was recovered, and even running at only twenty knots the ship would quickly leave Rosenbaum and his intrepid U-73 behind. He looked again at the photo, saw the pride in the man’s eyes as he accepted his laurels, and then he made up his mind. Rosenbaum would die in that plane crash on 10 May, 1944. The man was living out the last brief years of his life, and Fedorov would give them to him, come what may.

He remembered what Doctor Zolkin had said just a few minutes earlier, and he knew he had chosen correctly: “…choosing life is better than death, even if it means you do not win the day or avenge a fallen foe.”

“Mister Nikolin,” he said. “Order the KA-40 to secure all weapons and return to the ship immediately. They are to recover all sonobuoys as well. Leave nothing in the water, is that clear? We are heading west at once.”

Nikolin raised an eyebrow. “Very well, sir,” he said, and he passed the orders on. When Karpov returned to the bridge an hour later Kirov had sailed and was off the western edge of Menorca. Heading into the channel between that island and the largest landform in the Balearic chain, Majorca. He gave a heading of 270 degrees due west, intending to move north of that larger island and then down through the wider channel to its west. There would be plenty of sea room there and the ship could stay well off shore and safe from prying eyes. He would use that channel to head due south before plotting his course for the Alboran Sea, the last great bottleneck that would lead them to the cork—Gibraltar.

Fedorov communicated his intentions to Karpov and made ready to leave the bridge. “I stand relieved, Mister Karpov.”

“Aye, sir. Rest well.”

Once alone Karpov inquired about the submarine with Tasarov just as he was about to hand over his shift to Velichko. “Any sign of that devil?”

“We spotted it in that inlet a little over an hour ago. The Captain had the KA-40 right on top of it, but he did not fire, and ordered the helo back to the ship.”

Karpov’s face registered real surprise. He started to say something, then stopped himself, thinking. Fedorov had the U-boat in his crosshairs and let the damn thing live! He never said a word to me about it when I came up to relieve him. He had half a mind to refuel the helicopter and send it back out to avenge its dastardly attack on his ship, and avenge the lives of the men that had died, but another voice spoke to him from within. “He who seeks vengeance must dig two graves: one for his enemy and one for himself.” It was his headstrong obsession with righting perceived wrongs that had cause this trouble for them in the first place. He would let Fedorov’s decision stand.

“Very well,” he said at length, tapping Tasarov on the shoulder. “Get some sleep and wash the wax from those ears, Tasarov. We’ll need you back in your chair when we sail for Gibraltar.”

He let the matter go and turned to the helmsman: “Steady on two seven zero.”

U-73 slipped quietly through the narrow mouth of the bay and out into the wide sea beyond that rocky shore. Rosenbaum immediately raised his periscope for a look in case his enemy was still nearby. He saw no ship, but spied a strange craft in the air, heading northwest, its running lights winking as it went.

A strange feeling came over him, and an involuntary shudder shook his frame as he watched the aircraft vanish in the grey dawn. It was as if the hand of death had been poised above his head, and stayed itself. He felt strangely alive, a vibrant sense of the moment keening up his senses as he scanned the horizon. It was empty, and the sun was casting its first golden rays on the rocky crest of Cape Caballería off to the northwest. He knew he could never catch up with that British ship again, and something told him that it would not be wise to try. So he decided to take his boat quietly out to sea and then turn northeast for La Spezia. He would not get his number seven kill on this patrol, and he would have to put aside the attack he had planned to avenge the loss of U-563 and Klaus Bargsten. Enough was enough, he thought.

He smiled, lowering his periscope and thinking of home. His patrol was over. He would go back to La Spezia and collect his medal, and then off to a new assignment in the Black Sea—commander of a new flotilla of six Type II boats!

Life was good.