Kirov

Chapter 16

“The message was cut short, sir,” said the signalman. “And we’ve heard nothing more.”

“Nothing more?” Captain Bovell on Victorious considered that for a moment. The plane could have suffered radio failure, or worse, some sort of engine trouble that forced her to ditch. Damn luck if that were the case. There would be no way they could get to the men in time, or even find them now in the wide Arctic seas. And there was no way this plane could have been shot down by the contact—not at that range. He considered the possibility that they may have come upon a German Kondor and exchanged fire, but yet there would have been some notification of that. In the end he decided it had to be a radio outage, and went to inform Admiral Wake-Walker, hoping the plane would find its way home.

“No range was reported on the contact?” asked the Admiral.

“The signal was cut off, sir. But that plane should have been about here when we got this signal.” He pointed to a navigation chart. “And considering its aerial set can range out no more than a hundred miles, on a good day, that would put the contact somewhere here, sir. Perhaps a hundred and fifty miles south by southwest of our present position. That’s well within strike range for the Albacores.”

Designed as a replacement for the older Swordfish torpedo bombers, the Albacore had nearly twice the range of the old “Stringbags” as the Swordfish had been called. With a maximum range of 930 miles, it could strike targets over 300 miles out, using the rule of thumb that an aircraft’s strike range was about a third of its maximum. It was still a bi-plane in design, yet had a metal framework and fuselage and a more powerful and reliable engine.

Yet the Albacores had much to do if they were to ever equal the storied achievements of their older predecessor. The British had used Swordfish in the daring attack on the Italian fleet at Taranto, losing only two planes in exchange for hits on three Italian battleships. A few squadrons of the old Stringbags based on Malta had accounted for 50,000 tons of enemy shipping per month in the Med, and it was a Swordfish off the carrier Ark Royal that eventually put a torpedo into Bismarck’s Achilles heel, damaging her rudders and causing her to steam in fretful circles while the Royal Navy finally closed in for the kill.

“What type of ship was it?” asked Wake-Walker. “I can’t very well send off my squadrons only to find this is a lone commercial steamer.”

“There was no word as to type,” said Bovell. “But we passed it off as a steamer the first time, sir, and Anthony took a punch for that mistake. Thank god there were no casualties.”

The Admiral nodded, thinking that he had been a bit sloppy in this business up until now and wanting to get on top of the situation. He had orders to engage a cruiser, yet only to shadow if this were anything bigger. What was out there? Anthony had been hit by a fairly small caliber gun, enough to warn her off but not enough to do much damage. If this were Tirpitz he could understand why she might refrain from using her big 15 inch guns on a small, fast moving target. If it were Hipper or another cruiser, she might well have fired her 8 inch guns, but apparently did not. Her captain even reported the ship signaled him in English. What was that all about?

The very first report he had on this contact still stuck in his mind. The pilot said he could see no big turrets that would be obvious on a cruiser or anything larger. He did note several smaller guns, and at one point seemed to indicate the ship’s forward deck was covered with cargo hatches. Could this be another fast German commercial raider disguised as a merchant ship? They had been a persistent nuisance, like Raider-C, the German auxiliary cruiser Atlantis. That ship looked like nothing more than a tramp steamer until it opened up with its six 5.9 inch naval guns.

On the other hand, the report from Anthony seemed to suggest this was a fairly large ship, and all those descriptions spoke of the threatening nature of her design and silhouette. He had to make up his mind, and decided if this was commercial traffic, all he had to lose by ordering a strike was a little aviation fuel. Yet if this were a German raider, then he stood to lose very much more if he let her slip away.

“Signal Furious,” he said quietly. “Have them spot an Albacore squadron first thing in the morning. We’ll keep steady on this intercept course and close the range somewhat tonight. Grenfell’s fighters can send out two radar equipped Fulmars to keep watch, but I want them at the extreme range of their equipment. Let’s not lose anyone else until we can coordinate a decent strike plan, and for that we’ll better light. Tomorrow morning we’ll get out there and have a look at this contact with something that can settle the matter if this is a German ship.”

“Very good, sir,” said Bovell. “Up here that won’t be far off. I’ll see that the men are ready.”

Just after dawn on August 2nd, Admiral Volsky had little time to wonder what his weapons might do to successive generations. Rodenko’s radars had spotted a substantial incoming contact, twenty four planes inbound at a fairly low altitude.

“It looks like we were too late getting a missile on that first contact,” said Karpov. “They have seen us and this is an obvious strike wave. We should engage it at long-range with the S-300 system as before. They will never know what hit them.”

Admiral Volsky considered that advice, but his thoughts strayed to his ammunition stores. His S-300 missiles were located up front, on the elevated forward prow of the ship, and mounted in vertical launch tubes, sixty-four missiles in all. He had used one to shoot down the enemy radar picket, and if he used the system again now in a normal barrage of sixteen or twenty-four missiles he would expend more than a third of his missile inventory for this battery. Once they were gone the ship would have to rely on its medium-range missile defense, or close in gun systems should they be attacked from the air again.

Modern combat at sea had been compressed into a few violent minutes and seconds where opposing forces would fling their arsenal of missiles at each other, with a decision final enough to end the conflict within the hour. Yet it was not hours, but long days, months, even years ahead for them that he had to think about now. Once these missiles were expended there would be no others to replace them. Yet he could not allow a single one of these planes to launch a torpedo that might have the slightest chance of striking Kirov. Their war had begun in earnest now, and he had little choice but to fire.

“Mister Fedorov was correct,” he said in a low voice. “The British can only assume we are German, and they are acting accordingly. Of course, we will have to defend the ship, but I’m afraid if we keep on this course there will just be more of the same ahead for us.” He shrugged, somewhat disconsolate, then turned to his weapons watch officer. “Mister Samsonov,” he said, his voice intoning an obvious authorization.

Samsonov’s systems could track and target a hundred separate contacts, but considering the large explosive warhead on these missiles, the Admiral decided to limit his outgoing salvo to a barrage of six. If these planes were flying in formation, he might take down several with a single missile.

“Arm six S-300 missiles, Mister Samsonov. Only six,” he repeated. “You may fire when the range is appropriate.”

“Sir, I have seven missiles left in the first module, shall I use them all?”

“Six please. Hold one missile in reserve.”

“Aye, sir,” said Samsonov. “Engaging target in ten seconds.”

He was toggling switches, selecting out his missile bank, and locking in the radar signatures being fed into the Combat Information Center. A moment later he fired. There was a warning claxon and again they watched the nose of the ship ignite in a wash of billowing smoke as missiles catapulted up from their enclosures, ignited their engines and lanced up and away into the gray sky ahead of them.

As before, the British pilots in their old biplane Albacore’s had little time to think when they first caught sight of strange white contrails streaking in toward their position. Nikolin was listening to see if he could pick up any radio communications from the strike group, and clearly heard the voices of men shouting as the missiles struck home. “Bloody hell,” he heard them say. “What in god’s name is that?”

Seconds later Rodenko noted the missiles struck home and sent the signal contacts spiraling off in all directions as if they had thrown a stone into a beehive. The salvo had taken a bite out of the main group of eighteen planes he had been tracking, and of these only eight now remained. The others were dancing about with evasive maneuvers, and a second group had branched off and was now also scattering in all directions. Nikolin could hear them calling to one another, their voices strained and desperate, trying to make sense out of what had happened.

The planes were now about seventy-five miles from Kirov, their crews straining their necks this way that, eyes scanning the gray sea ahead, thinking to see an enemy ship blazing away at them with its antiaircraft guns. Yet the seas were dark and empty, and the pilots were frantically steering their planes into any covering clouds they could get to, unaware of the fact that this made no difference to their fate whatsoever. Kirov was seeing them with other eyes, it’s radars penetrating even the thickest cloud cover to clearly pinpoint their positions on Rodenko’s screens.

“Have the contacts changed heading?” asked the Admiral.

“We’ve shaken them up, sir,” said Rodenko, “but they are still inbound.”

“One more missile, Mister Samsonov,” said the Admiral.”You may finish off that last tube now.”

Samsonov fired, and the last S-300 rocketed away toward the unseen enemy. Minutes later it exploded taking down yet another plane, and the Admiral was pleased to learn this last missile had had the effect desired. Nikolin turned to him, his eyes bright with a smile.

“I believe they’re breaking off, sir,” he said. “I can hear them!”

“Confirmed,” said Rodenko. “They are turning. The contact is moving away from the ship now, outbound on a heading of zero-nine-five. They are still within range, sir.”

“That will be all, Mister Samsonov,” said the Admiral. “Secure the S-300 system and await further orders.”

“Finish them off, Admiral,” said Karpov. “Destroy them now, or they may be back to bother us again.”

Volsky looked at him. “Perhaps, but they will be some time trying to discover exactly what has happened to them just now. I do not think they will bother us again today. Helm, increase speed to thirty knots.”

“Speed thirty knots,” the helmsman replied, and Kirov’s powerful engines increased rotations and churned the seas with a frothing white wake. As she did so one of the escorting Fulmars had a good look at her with its Type 279 Radar, and tapped out a fix on her position, course and speed.

What in god’s name was out there, thought Wake-Walker? His 828 Squadron had been cut to pieces. It was worse than that. Of the nine planes in that squadron, only one was left. Three more Albacore in his 827 Squadron had also been destroyed. His first thought was that the strike group had lumbered right over the contact without even seeing it, and had been cut to pieces by lethal and accurate antiaircraft fire. But when the report came in from one of the escorting Fulmars that they still had a reading on the target at a range of seventy-five miles, his mind spun off into confusion.

His strike group was badly shaken, clearly demoralized, broken up, and turning for home. It was apparent that they had no idea what they had encountered. Not one had reported seeing any ship, or any enemy aircraft. Several claimed they saw something streaking in at their planes from below until the whole formation was torn apart by one explosion after another. It was as if the Germans had them bore sighted all along, and were picking them off with some lethal new gun system. Yet not even the fearful eighty-eight millimeter dual-purpose gun could fire seventy-five miles!

What was happening? What in the name of heaven was he stalking now on the gray Arctic seas? As soon as he had recovered the strike wave he went down to the flight deck himself to get first-hand reports from the pilots. The men were still shaken, and he sent them off to the briefing room where he later learned that they had seen nothing whatsoever, nothing except the strange sets of white contrails clawing through the sky. It was as if a great dark Panther had reached out with its paw and gored them, swiping his planes out of the air. His aircraft hangers would be twelve planes short now, and there were a lot of empty chairs in the briefing room. He heard the men trying to explain, yet unable to sort it all out.

“We saw them streaks in the sky, sir,” one said. “Then it was as if we flew right into a storm of steel. Explosions and shrapnel everywhere. The formation was nice and tight, sir, and most of the lads up front were gone in seconds. Blew the hell out of the lead planes, it did. I saw two had their wings cracked right off and bang away they went down into the sea. After that we was all diving for cloud cover and looking for the ship. But there was no ship, sir! I was damn near down on the deck after our dive, and there was nothing I could see in any direction. Maybe it was a submarine, I thought. Could the Germans have some type of new U-boat with flak guns mounted up top, sir?”

“And no sign of enemy aircraft?” the Admiral asked his weary, frightened men.

“No sir,” said Stewart-Moore, the 827 Squadron leader. “No sign of enemy aircraft at all. What could they possibly have out that far anyway, sir? We were well beyond the range of German fighters from Norway, and there’s no Me-109 I ever heard of that could chop us up like that in one pass—not ten of them.”

“Could the Germans be using a rocket, sir?” Captain Bovell knew something of the new rockets being used now in artillery divisions of many armies.

“That’s it!” said Langmore, the leader and odd man out surviving the blast that had devastated his 828 Squadron. “Rockets! They looked for all the world like incoming rockets, but they moved like lightning. Came right in on us as if the damn things had eyes. I was well up above the main body when they hit. Just lucky I suppose, or I’d be in the drink along with all the others. It was horrible, sir.”

The Germans must have some awful new weapon, thought Wake-Walker. Bovell was right. There was no question that it wasn’t a plane, and there were no German flak subs that he had ever heard of. Only a rocket made sense as he pieced together the descriptions from the others. Yet they were still seventy five miles from the contact Grenfell’s Fulmar spotted on radar as the planes turned for home. Seventy five miles? What rocket could travel that distance, and strike with such precision? Could the Germans be experimenting with rocket systems aboard one of their cruisers? He resolved to get word off to the Admiralty as soon as possible.

When this intelligence did come in, it created quite a stir. The Admiralty passed it on to Bletchley Park, and asked them to see if they could ferret out anything more on the matter. Then they set their minds to working on exactly what this new weapon could be. Too many cuff stripes around the same question at a table often created what Tovey like to call an “Admiral’s Stew.” When he finally got word of the fate of 828 Squadron off Victorious, he couldn’t imagine what the Germans might be up to.

Home Fleet was a day out of Scapa Flow, steaming west and ready to make their turn northwest to come up on the southern outflow of the Denmark Strait into the Atlantic. It was here that Admiral Holland had stood his fateful watch with Hood and Prince of Wales when Bismarck ran through. And it was here that Tovey would take up his patrol as well.

“Bletchley Park says they think the only ship the Germans might have operational at this time would be the Admiral Scheer,” he said to Brind. “Eleven inch guns? That I can deal with. Rockets with the range and accuracy of this nature? Clearly impossible.”

“Somewhat bewildering,” said Brind. “But consider, sir, most of the German fleet is laid up for refit or repair right now. Suppose they’re all getting fitted out with this new weapon system?”

“My god, Brind. We would’ve heard something about it. Yes, we’ve known the Germans have had an interest in rocketry for years. If these reports are accurate, and this German ship was able to swat down Wake-Walker’s Albacores at a range of seventy-five miles, then this speaks of a highly sophisticated detection system as well. Think of it! The ship would need to spot the incoming squadrons well before they fired. They would have to track them with absolute precision to be able to hit anything at that range. Why, it would be like a sharp shooter knocking a man’s hat off at a range of ten miles! How the world could they make advances of this nature without us knowing about it?”

“The German radar must be better than we realize, sir.”

“That’s well over the horizon, Brind. They would have to have aircraft up with long-range radars to see out that far.”

“Our own type 279 radar is good up to 100 miles under decent conditions. Admiralty suggests they may have a pair of spotter planes up to either side of the ship setting up kind of triangulation. That would improve accuracy considerably if they were reading three signals and somehow managing to coordinate them.”

“Yes I suppose that’s possible, but guiding the rockets in like that? Almost every rocket in use today is unguided, like the Russian Katyushas. This is something altogether new. It changes everything. We’ll have to throw out the book and completely reevaluate the way we operate with our carriers now. If they can cut our torpedo squadrons to pieces like this before they get anywhere near the target, then ships like Victorious and Furious are practically useless as an offensive threat. We can use them as radar pickets and scout detachments, or to provide air cover over our own fleets, but not for very much else. Trying to throw Swordfish torpedo bombers, or even these new Albacore at the enemy is just throwing lives and planes away, not to mention the torpedoes.”

“Then again this could have been the lucky hit, sir. And if Wake-Walker had vectored in his squadrons from different approaches, the Germans might not have been able to track them as well, particularly if they are using some sort of triangulation system.”

“Good point. I suppose only time will tell. But for the moment, it’s beginning to look again like this bloody business is a job for the battleships. They can fling all the ack-ack rockets they want at King George V and they won’t put a scratch on us.”

Brind had another thought. “This may be a wild shot, sir, but what about Graf Zeppelin? It was a converted cruiser, that long forward deck reported on this contact might’ve been a landing strip, it explains how Jerry could have airplanes up triangulating like this, and the biggest gun reported to be on that ship is in the range of the weapon that struck the destroyer Anthony.”

Tovey considered that for some time, and then said: “You might be onto something there, Brind. We’ve heard nothing about Graf Zeppelin, yet we know the Germans have her in the works. You might pass that one on to the Admiralty and see what they think of it. In the meantime, Graf Zeppelin or not, my fourteen inch guns may have something to say about it soon enough.”

Chapter 17

Kirov raced south into the Denmark Strait, and behind her a dark, rolling front of bad weather surged in her wake. The British had been chastened, but not put off in the chase. They saw no further aircraft squadrons vectoring in on their position, but did note a single plane popping on and off their screens, a little under a hundred miles out. Admiral Volsky sent up a KA-40 helo to assist their over horizon coverage in the face of the oncoming storm, and they noted the British task force was still bearing on their heading, matching their speed knot for knot. As if anticipating their course, the angle of the enemy approach had change earlier, however, and they managed to cut twenty-five miles off the lead Kirov had for the moment.

They rounded the northernmost headlands of Iceland, and continued southwest, paralleling the distant icy coast of Greenland. With the KA-40 up, Rodenko had a good fix on the shadowing British task force, noting that it had broken into two groups, one out in front slowly gaining on their position, and a second body falling behind.

“What do you make of this?” Admiral Volsky asked Karpov.

“They are deploying a screen,” said the Captain. “They want to make sure they can adequately protect their carriers.”

Fedorov could not help overhearing the conversation, and though he thought it risky to contradict the Captain, he cleared his throat and ventured to speak up. “If I may, sir, we know the exact composition of this task force. It’s been matching our speed for the last six and a half hours now, and we’re running at thirty knots. The only ships in that force that could move out in front like this would be the destroyers, they could make thirty-five or thirty-six knots, which is why that leading group is slowly gaining on us. I believe they may have decided to try and catch us with these fast destroyers, sir. They did the same against Bismarck, detaching destroyers assigned to convoy duty to catch up with her and harass her until the bigger ships could come up.”

“More of those tin cans?” said Karpov. “We should’ve sunk that first destroyer when she came upon us earlier. That would have given them pause.”

“Mister Fedorov has a point,” said Volsky. “Keep an eye on this leading group, Mister Rodenko.”

“They are at the edge of our surface radar coverage now, sir. Unless we keep a KA-40 up I won’t have a good fix on them at this range. But if they do close on our position, I’ll see them in plenty of time. Our difference in speed is no more than five nautical miles per hour. At the rate they are gaining on us they could not pose a threat for quite some time.”

“In that case, I do not think it’s necessary to keep the helicopter airborne. We must conserve aviation fuel whenever possible.”

Kirov, in its original configuration, had used a combination nuclear and steam turbine propellant system. The new ship relied entirely on its nuclear propulsion system, and the space used by the old steam driven turbines had been utilized to add reserve stocks of aviation fuel for the three helicopters. But even this was a finite supply, and the Admiral was looking far ahead in his thinking.

“In the meantime,” said Volsky, “there is another consideration we must discuss. According to Mister Fedorov’s history book the Americans are now taking over garrison duty for the bases on Iceland. They have their flying boat patrol craft at two locations, and there may still be American naval units in this sector as well. I don’t have to remind you that the United States has not yet entered the war, and will not do so for another four months. We must be careful, and do nothing that might prompt them to reconsider their situation.”

“Why should we worry about that?” said Karpov.

“Because at this time Roosevelt is struggling with strong anti-war sentiment within the United States,” said Fedorov. “If we are reported as a new German raider, and we make a direct attack against American ships or planes, that could quickly change the situation. An early entry of the United States in this war would serve to undo your plan, Captain. Suppose the Americans end up getting to Berlin four months early?”

“Thank you, Mister Fedorov,” Karpov said dryly. He resented a junior officer countering him, particularly in front of the Admiral. Fedorov was becoming just a bit too forward, and he decided to have a word with Orlov about him. Then Volsky continued, extending his reasoning as he now saw the situation.

“Very well… the British believe we are a German raider as Mister Fedorov suggests. What else? At this very moment they’re trying to determine what ship we might be, and eventually they will narrow down the list and find the Germans have nothing whatsoever that can do the things they have been observing. They may well be wondering now what could have destroyed their aircraft so easily, and at such range. They’re not stupid, and soon their intelligence system will begin to put the pieces of this puzzle together, just as we did. We had the advantage of longer range detection systems and high-powered HD video. We faced the impossible question first, and eventually realized what had happened. At some point they will do the same. But until that time, we have the considerable advantage of surprise, in more ways than one. They have not yet seen a fraction of what we are capable of doing. I want to keep them in the dark as long as possible. We have played out the Jack, but still hold the Queen, King and Ace close to our chest.”

“And let us not forget the trump cards,” said Karpov. When they see those, there may be very many other things they pause to reconsider.”

“All things in time, Mister Karpov,” said the Admiral. “All things in time. Just remember your bridge game…Never lead into a suit unless you know you can pull their high cards and win.”

Aboard Victorious, Admiral Wake-Walker could see that his destroyers could not keep up their advance for very much longer. They were simply burning up too much fuel running full out in the ever more difficult seas. But at least they were headed the right direction. The Allied bases and fuel depots of Iceland lay ahead of them at Reykjavík and Hvalsfjord where the Americans were setting up their long range PBY patrol squadrons.

His thinking on exactly what this enemy ship might be had been given a nudge in an unexpected direction when Admiral Tovey sent him a message with Brind’s idea about the German carrier Graf Zeppelin. As far as they knew that ship was still in the dockyards. In fact, naval intelligence believed the Germans had removed many of her AA guns due to a shortage in Norway, where they were now deployed. That thought struck him—what if they were installing these new rockets in their place?

When the Admiralty relayed intelligence that they had finally gotten a clear look at Kiel and found Tirpitz and two other large ships resting quietly in dry-dock, the list of possibilities grew ever narrower. Subsequent photo analysis revealed that the other two ships were indeed the Deutschland class pocket battleships Lutzow and Admiral Scheer.

It was therefore decided to send a long-range reconnaissance bomber to Gotenhaven in the Baltic, where the Germans had towed Graf Zeppelin over a year ago. Much to the surprise of Royal Navy intelligence, the ship was not there! What they did not know, however, was that the Germans had decided to move the ship to Stettin after invading Russia in Operation Barbarossa, in order to safeguard her from possible Russian air attack. Preoccupied with the hunt for the Bismarck at the time, the British failed to pick up the move. The missing carrier therefore seemed to be the only possible ship the Germans could have at sea now, yet they could not understand how they could have completed her so quickly, or why they would risk such a unique and valuable vessel for a solo mission in the Atlantic, particularly without an adequate escort.

Capable of thirty-four knots, Graf Zeppelin clearly had the speed of the unknown contact ahead, which was traveling at a consistent thirty knots. This eliminated Wake-Walker’s ideas about a merchant type raider like Atlantis, which could make no more than eighteen knots at best. And none of the Deutschland class pocket battleships could do better than twenty-eight knots. Furthermore, from time to time Grenfell’s shadowing radar equipped Fulmars had seen what looked like airborne contacts in and around the ship they had been tracking. These clues, and suspicions that the Germans had somehow developed some new defensive anti-aircraft rockets that were used in conjunction with spotter planes, led Royal Navy planners to the conclusion that it was Graf Zeppelin that was now on the loose.

That being the case, Wake-Walker was given the go-ahead for another airstrike with his remaining Albacores. The pilots were none too keen to hear this, but in a preflight briefing it was stressed that they would be making an extreme low level attack, traveling right down on the deck the whole way, and splitting off into multiple groups of four planes each instead of one massed formation as had been the case earlier. With 828 Squadron all bunched together the Germans had managed to get a bull’s-eye with their new weapon system, taking out the heart of the squadron in one stunning blow.

This time the planes would fly very low, and would be widely dispersed. And to improve their chances of getting in close without being spotted, they were also going to make their approach in darkness, attacking in the early dawn. It was the most difficult assignment the aircrews had been given, especially after they had seen what had happened the last time out. But with stiff upper lips, they buckled down, mounted their aircraft and were assembled over Force P a half hour before dawn, late on August 3, 1941.

Wake-Walker was going to throw everything he had at the Germans this time. With the range closed to 125 miles, he would send nine Albacore from 817 Squadron, and another nine Swordfish from 812 Squadron off the Furious. 800 Squadron would send out all nine of its Fulmars with bombs as well, just in case the Germans had modified Me-109s aboard their suspected carrier. If they met fighter opposition they could jettison their bombs and engage—if German air cover was minimal, they could go in as makeshift dive bombers.

From his own flagship, Victorious, Walker could send only ten remaining Albacore and a half dozen Fulmar fighters. The fighters had the toughest assignment, for they were going to go in at much higher altitude in an attempt to further spoof the enemy radar. In effect, they were hoping to decoy the German rockets, allowing the torpedo bombers to skim in low and get some hits. Only their agility might allow then to pull that off without severe losses if the rockets were as accurate as they were the first time.

It was a remarkable plan considering all the unknowns in the situation, but was typical of the elasticity, flexibility, and determination of the Royal Navy. Force P had a bone to pick with this phantom German raider, and they intended to get even. The flight deck crews flagged off the last of the fighters and watched as the torpedo planes all dropped low heading away to the southwest, skimming over the crests of the fitful sea. Meanwhile the fighters climbed high and were soon lost in the gray cloud cover, the faces of the pilots set and grim, knowing they could now be flying their last mission.

Aboard Kirov, Admiral Volsky was sleeping in his cabin, getting some well-deserved rest while Captain Karpov stood the watch on the bridge. Rodenko, too, had been relieved by a junior officer, Fedorov had retired for the night, and Orlov was down in the wardroom kibitzing with the Junior officers. Samsonov was still at his post, and would be for another two hours before he was scheduled for relief. Tasarov was gone, as the threat from submarines did not require his particular attention with the ship running at thirty knots. A relief officer manned his post.

First Lieutenant Yazov was leading Rodenko’s station with a number of junior starshini at the eight workstations there when he noted something unusual on his screen. “Con, radar contact, airborne, altitude 10,000 feet, speed 240 KPH, now bearing on our position—multiple contacts, sir. I have fifteen separate targets, and they are dispersing.”

Karpov had been dozing quietly in the in the command seat, but was suddenly awake. He leapt off the chair and went to look at the scope himself, hovering over Yazov for a few minutes until he determined that this must be another inbound enemy strike wave. They’re trying to slip one in on us, he thought.

“Mister Samsonov, activate air defense systems at once.”

“S-300s, sir?”

Karpov thought for a moment, his mind racing, and he was interrupted once more by the young lieutenant Yazov who now spotted several groups of additional inbound aircraft, flying low and slow, and dispersing in a wide arc as they approached Kirov’s position. The Captain had to think quickly.

“Give me the Klinok ADF system.” He was referring to the NATO coded SA-N-92 Gauntlet missile system for air defense firefights. With its electron guided integrated beam radar, each missile was a fire and forget weapon that could acquire and track targets independently. The system was also a multichannel missile defense, capable of tracking several targets simultaneously at all altitudes and speeds, and if one target was destroyed, the missiles had the ability to redirect themselves at the next available target. It’s launch and reload intervals were quick enough to respond to any situation, and it had a high immunity to jamming and other electronic countermeasures. The only liability was a shorter range out to about forty-five kilometers at normal altitudes. And of course its overall effectiveness would be limited by its ammunition inventory, in this case 128 missiles in all.

“Sound general quarters, sir?” said Samsonov.

“Not yet,” Karpov smiled. “They’ll wake up soon enough. Monitor those contacts closely, Yazov. Notify me at fifty kilometer intervals.”

“Sir, inbound contacts at one-zero-zero, and closing.”

“Shouldn’t we notify the Admiral?” said Samsonov, a look of concern on his thick features.

Karpov put a hand on his shoulder pointing at his combat systems. “Keep your nose here, Samsonov. No need to bother Volsky. Let him sleep. You and I will swat this air strike down as easily as we did the last one. It will be over before the Admiral can get his britches on. We will fire in salvos of eight missiles each. Configure your system accordingly. Mister Yazov will feed you your initial targeting data.”

They waited until Yazov reported the leading contacts at fifty kilometers, and Karpov gave Samsonov his orders. “Sound general quarters, and then fire your first salvo immediately, Samsonov.”

“Aye, sir”

The quiet of the ship was broken by the jangling alarm and the sharp, tearing sound of the missile defense battery firing. The Gauntlet system was deployed on the aft deck, just forward of the helicopter landing pad, with four missile bays on either side of the ship. A vertical launch system like the S-300s, the missiles were ejected by catapult before igniting their engines to rapidly climb before leveling off to engage their active radars. By the time Samsonov fired the incoming British pilots and planes were forty kilometers out and ready to run the gauntlet. The next twenty minutes would be the most harrowing moments of their lives.

A couple of Fulmars from 809 Squadron were out in front, and Lieutenant Miller was the first to see the bright flashing lights racing up through the pre-dawn sky. “Look there, Les,” he thumbed as he called out the sighting to his tactical officer, Leslie Barrow. “The Germans have wind of us!”

“See any planes?” Barrow was craning his neck to look for German spotter planes or Me-109s, but saw nothing. By the time he turned his gaze again on the oncoming rockets they were perilously close, bearing in as if they had some magnetic attraction to his plane.

“Oh! Lookout now—” It was the last thing Miller said before a missile exploded very near his plane, its small 15 kilo warhead just enough to deliver a deadly shower of razor sharp shrapnel which tore his wing apart. Another Fulmar was suddenly “lit up” and the remaining planes quickly tipped their wings over and sped off into steep dives in the hopes of evading the rockets. For one pilot, the maneuver worked when the missile targeting his plane was unable to respond quick enough and make the turn to catch him. It simply moved on to another target. For another, transfixed by the oncoming rocket, his only thought was to fire his forward machine guns all out and, amazingly, he scored a hit, knocking the missile down before it could kill him. Another fell into a steep dive, aghast to see a second group of rockets streaking by below his plane, like a school of angry sharks smelling blood in the water as they vectored in on other targets.

Karpov had selected the perfect reprisal for a widely dispersed air attack like this. To the missile system, the high altitude fighters seemed like the primary incoming strike planes, and the low, slow Albacore torpedo bombers were much like sea skimming cruise missiles they might have launched. The missiles could handle either target type with ease. Some lanced up to strike the fighters, others sliced through the darkness until they were on top of the Albacores, then fell upon them, knocking down one plane after another.

827 Squadron off Victorious got hit particularly hard. Bond’s plane was blown apart, the debris vanishing into a swelling wave with a smoky hiss. McKendrick took it in the rightmost wing and went cart wheeling into the angry sea. Turnbull swooped low, banking suddenly to avoid a great wave and managed to fool the first rocket bearing down on him, yet another behind it found his plane and blew off his tail and half the rear fuselage. The shark-like missiles were having a feeding frenzy, and Olsen gaped in amazement, seeing one rocket maneuver sharply in a tight turn to leap after another hapless, lumbering Albacore. Greenslade went down next, then Miles. Only Olsen remained, shaken and stunned by what he had seen when the last of the rockets had finally flashed by. Five of the ten planes in 827 Squadron were gone within minutes. Three others would also die before they ever set eyes on their target.

It was much the same with 817 Squadron off the Furious. Squadron leader Sanderson had his nine Albacores in three groups of three planes each when the rockets came for them. Lee’s plane was an instant fireball, and Gorrie and Train went the same way. The other two flights split up and were frantically skipping over the crests of the waves, so low now that the spay and foam of the sea obscured one pilot’s vision and he plowed right into an oncoming wave. Two planes escaped. Sanderson died when a rocket actually struck a wave and exploded right in front of him, sending a rain of hot shrapnel rattling against his plane, shattering his wind screen and killing him instantly. Another had his top wing blown clean off by the high splinter penetration shrapnel of the missile warhead. He pulled hard on the stick in the hopes of avoiding the sea only to have a second rocket detonate itself right in front of the exposed belly of his plane and sheer it apart as though it had been struck with a thousand whirling razors.

The action could be seen three miles away by the frightened pilots of 812 Squadron. This was the only section of the attack that had not yet been targeted, for 812 was flying in nine of the older Swordfish torpedo bombers. The ‘old Stringbags’ seemed lost in the clutter of the wave tops, their canvass fuselage and wings wet with sea spray, but much more difficult to detect. Yet they watched, horror stricken, as the sky was lit up with the fiery trails of the rockets, their long white contrails just beginning to catch the light of dawn. The pilots all split up, banking and veering through the waves.

Wilkenson, Baker and Cross were out in front, and soon they saw what looked like a distant shadow on the far horizon. Eager to spot the possible target, Cross pulled his Swordfish up to gain some altitude, and it was only that unwise maneuver that enabled the young Lieutenant Yazov to get a fix on the Swordfish group.

Aboard Kirov, Yazov shouted out a sudden warning. “Con, new contact, 10 kilometers out and closing! Feeding target to CIC.” He had been so busy tracking on the other contact groups that he had not seen the signal winking in and out of resolution on his screen—the old Stringbags flying low and slow, and scarcely noticed in the heat of his very first live combat trial.

Samsonov had been firing his underdeck missile modules in pairs, with four missiles each for a barrage of 8 as Karpov had directed. Yet he knew that, within minutes, this new contact would be inside the minimum acquisition range of his system, and so he quickly redirected one module at this new threat. The missiles barely had time to turn and acquire after being catapulted out of their vertical launch tubes, inclining and igniting their engines to rocket away from the ship. Only two of the four found targets. Knocking down Jones and Heath. The other planes forged on until they had closed to three kilometers range.

“Tally ho!” Shouted one pilot over his radio when he spotted the ship ahead. Yet it looked nothing whatsoever like an aircraft carrier. As Maughan, Kindell and Sinclair steered their flight of three Swordfish in, Kirov responded with a lethal new evolution of its air defense system.

A unique feature of the new Gauntlet system was its close integration with a 30mm Gatling gun mount adjacent to each missile bank, one on each side of the aft quarter of the ship. This system automatically engaged and locked on to the oncoming Swordfish when missile lock was not obtained. The computer controlled barrels swung around to bear on the targets, jerked up and down briefly, then rattled off a withering burst of 30mm shells that literally tore the first plane to pieces. It was as if a kite had been blasted by buckshot at close range, riddled with so many holes that it could no longer have any structure.

Maughan was dead, and Kindell reflexively pulled his torpedo lever just as the Gatling gun targeted his plane and fired. The torpedo fell away and his plane, lightened by a considerable measure, surged up causing the rain of lethal rounds to shoot right through the gap where both plane and torpedo had once been. His torpedo hit the waves and began its run in toward the enemy ship as he banked away, elated, his mind bent only on getting home now. Yet the Gauntlet’s 30mm gun adjusted quickly, jerked to re-aim, and fired another burst, striking the plane as it turned and tearing off both wings on the left side. The Swordfish flopped down into the icy sea with a hard splash that knocked the pilot and his mates senseless. Five seconds later the deadly gun system had extinguished Sinclair’s plane as well. But Kindell’s torpedo ran true.

“Torpedo in the water!” a crewman shouted aboard Kirov.

Karpov ran to the forward view screen, seizing his field glasses and jerking them up to try and spot the torpedo wake, but he could see nothing in the churning seas.

Of all weapons ever directed against a ship at sea, a torpedo was the most feared. It’s lethal silence as it vectored in, largely invisible beneath the sea, and its considerable power to penetrate and tear open a ship’s hull made it a fearsome foe. The British Type XII fish was eighteen inches in diameter with 388 pounds of TNT for a warhead. It was running at just under 40 knots speed, but its intent was not to strike the ship’s hull. Instead it sank to its assigned depth of 32 feet to run beneath the target ship where its Magnetic Pistol, called a Duplex Coil Rod, would detect the enemy hull and explode the torpedo beneath the ship’s vulnerable bottom. The detonation was capable of lurching the ship violently upwards and literally breaking its keel.

Karpov was frantic when he could not see the torpedo’s wake. “Countermeasures!” he yelled, and Samsonov fired a barrage of decoys, hoping to spoof the torpedo. But it was too dumb to be fooled. It was not homing on the target with any active detection capability, but merely running on the course it had been given when launched. It ran true, right at Kirov, and Karpov’s eyes widened when he finally saw the telltale ripple of surface bubbles approaching dead amidships. It was too late to take further action.

“Brace for impact!” he shouted, seizing hold of the vertical steel beam near the view screen. The torpedo ran right under the battlecruiser, and continued on without its magnetic pistol firing at all. Whether it was due to the special anti-magnetic quality of Kirov’s hull, or to the inherently faulty and unreliable performance of the British Magnetic Pistol, Kindell’s desperate attack would count for naught. Samsonov had ceased firing his Gauntlet missiles, and the only sound now was the final deep growl of the system’s 30mm Gatling gun as it tore apart the last of the Swordfish. Falkner, Walthall and Waters were dead as well, their torpedoes never finding the sea.

The cold water roused Kindell from his stupor, and he struggled in the wreckage of the plane, seeing his gunner and mate shot through and slumped lifelessly in the rear seats. For one brief moment he caught a glimpse of Kirov before it ceased firing, saw the last four rockets roaring away with tails of fire, heard the deep snarl of the Gatling gun that had cut his plane to bits. It was not a carrier, but something vastly more threatening in design and shape. Its sleek prow sliced through the kelp green sea as it sped away, its battlements crowned with odd shaped domes and moving concave disks, gleaming with luminescent lights. It seemed, for all the world, like a great mechanized behemoth, with death and destruction as its only aim.

“What are you?” he rasped out with his final breath. “What in bloody hell are you?”

Chapter 18

Admiral Wake-Walker was listening to the strident calls of his pilots on radio as the squadrons went in. When the fighters out in front pushed on through to close to within 50 kilometers of their target, he hoped the Germans had been unable to react in time to coordinate their defense. Yet just minutes later they were engaged by the new enemy rocket AA barrage, and with deadly effect. Two, then three Fulmars were downed, the others broken up and maneuvering wildly to avoid the barrage of rocketry thrown up by the enemy. What was this new weapon? How could it range out so far from the mother ship like this? He was astounded, yet placed all his hopes on the low flying torpedo bombers, thinking they would get through for certain now that the Germans had taken the bait and fired at the overhead fighter cover instead.

Seconds later he heard his own 827 Squadron yelling out a warning, and it was soon clear that they were fighting for their lives. They called out warnings, cursed and exclaimed, their voices laced with an emotion he could only describe as awe. And they were dying. One by one his Albacore were lit up by the enemy rockets and taken down into the icy sea. When the same frantic calls came in from 817 Squadron off the Furious, Captain Bovell, tensely at his side the whole time, could bear it no more.

“For God’s sake, get them out of there!”

The Admiral’s jaw was set, his emotions tightly controlled. For a moment it sounded like the 812 Squadron was breaking through to the target. He heard one pilot call out the charge with a ‘Talley ho!’ but all was chaos after that. He toggled a switch and sent an order down to the strike controller in communications. “Abort, abort! Get the men out!” Yet he was too late. Kirov’s missiles and Gatling guns were finishing off the last intrepid flyers of 812 Swordfish Squadron, and Kindell’s torpedo, the only weapon fired at the target, was already running out to sea, an errant lance gone astray until its propellant was exhausted and it slowly settled to the bottom.

An hour later he got confirmation from the returning planes. They had again flown into a hailstorm of enemy rocketry, and of the forty-three planes he had massed for the attack only eleven returned: five Albacore and six Fulmar Fighters that had been following behind and bugged out early after that first rocket salvo. The Admiral signaled that all planes should land on his flagship, Victorious.

When finally recovered, the survivors gathered in the briefing room with their heads low, faces drawn and strained, the shock of the battle still on them. None of the Swordfish came home, yet one of the Fulmars, miraculously spared by the enemy fire, described the gallant, wave-top charge they made at the distant enemy ship, cheering them on as they went in, yet seeing them blown to pieces, only one getting close enough to launch its torpedo. With other yellow white tracks of rockets arcing up in his direction, he turned sharply and dove, eventually running home at low altitude to escape.

“Same as last time, sir,” said a rear seat crewman. “Before you could say ‘knife’ they were cutting us to pieces. We never got a fair crack of the whip at them, sir.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Wake-Walker, shaking each man’s hand. “Damn bloody business, this. Yet that was the bravest thing I think I’ve ever seen, and this was entirely my fault. You did all that could possibly be expected of you, and more.”

An hour later he got a signal off to the Admiralty informing them that his air strike had failed, with heavy casualties. “New enemy air defense system too formidable,” he sent. “Will shadow and attempt surface engagement, if possible.”

Admiral Tovey got the news from his Chief of Staff Brind at mid-day on the 3rd of August. He was steaming due west aboard the veteran battleship King George V, on his best course to intercept the enemy raider should they hold their present course and speed. The news that Wake-Walker and his carriers could not even close on the target was somewhat disturbing.

“They’ve pulled a fast one on us, Brind,” he said. “This new rocket AA defense could change the war. It’s put Wake-Walker and his carriers right on their back foot. My God, thirty-one planes down in under ten minutes time! They got off one bloody torpedo, but no hits were observed. Walker says his boys were in it up to their hatbands and barely got out alive. If the Germans manage to mount these new rockets on their fighter planes do you realize what they could do to our bombers?”

Brind nodded, his face etched with concern. “Wake-Walker’s carriers are not much good to us now, sir. He’s consolidated what was left of his Squadrons on Victorious, and is detaching Furious to sail for Scapa Flow. We’ll get her another air wing, but I can’t see that it will do us much good under these circumstances. They can serve as scouts, provide fleet air defense, lay mines, but as offensive weapons they are pretty much a liability now.”

“Odd thing about this…” Tovey was obviously perplexed. “I’m sure it must have been bandied about at the Admiralty as well. If Jerry has this new weapon system, and can mount it on a warship like this, then why haven’t they used it anywhere else? It could be set up for airfield defense, port defense. My God, they’ve got over a thousand AA guns protecting Brest, and we send Coastal Command and RAF squadrons in there week after week against high value targets like Scharnhorst and Gneisenau with nary a whisper of these new rockets.”

“Perhaps it’s still in the offing, sir,” Brind suggested. “This may be the first application of the technology. Graf Zeppelin may be the test run for naval systems, and we could very well see it deployed, as you point out, for land based defense as well.”

“God help us if that turns out to be the case,” said Tovey. “It would completely neutralize Bomber Command. In the meantime, rockets or not, I’ve got ten 14 inch guns on this ship. Our task now is to bring this rogue to heel, just as we did Bismarck. Any developments?”

“Wake-Walker is still trailing the contact, sir. Apparently the Germans loitered in the vicinity of Jan Mayen for a few days before they put on speed and ran south for the Denmark Strait. Its all of a thousand miles from their first reported position near Jan Mayen before they get down and out into the Atlantic. That delay allowed Wake-Walker to get back in the game, sir. Though given what has happened to his squadrons, I’m sure he’s had his regrets about that. At the moment, he’s got his destroyers out in front creeping up on Jerry, but if they can’t catch up soon they’ll have to make for Reykjavík to refuel. The rest of Force P is with the carriers, cruisers Suffolk, Devonshire, and one destroyer. Those ships might be able to deal with Graf Zeppelin, but they can’t catch her if she keeps on at 30 knots. So we’ll have to be ready to intercept her after she transits the Denmark Strait. We’ve moved Vian’s group into the Faeroes Gap with two cruisers and two destroyers, designated Force K. They’ll be northeast of our position by now and keep watch there if the enemy turns in that direction. If the Germans keep on their present heading, however, then we may have something to do for your big guns in another…sixteen hours or so.”

“Let them try that damnable Ack-Ack fireworks on my main armor belt,” said Tovey. “We’ll shrug them off and then deal with this carrier the old fashioned way.”

“Yet we’ll have to plan for the possibility that they may have modified Stukas aboard,” said Brind.

“Yes, strange that there was no counter strike mounted by the Germans against Wake-Walker’s carriers. He says they’ve picked up obvious airborne contacts near the surface vessel on radar, but haven’t really laid eyes on a German plane. Perhaps they only have a very few aircraft aboard for search and target spotting, insufficient to challenge our own carriers air defense fighter group. I do note that none of our strike planes spotted any enemy fighters. They seem to be relying entirely on these new rockets.”

“Right, sir.”

“Well, we may not have that wizard’s bag of tricks, but there’s nothing wrong with our flack guns either.” Tovey was justifiably angry. “And this business with the Prime Minister,” he said. “Can’t he be persuaded to postpone this meeting?” The Admiral had only recently learned that the “official visit” involving Prince of Wales was a transport mission leaving Scapa Flow very shortly to ferry Churchill to Newfoundland for a secret meeting with the American President Roosevelt. “Nice of them to finally give us notice!” he said, frustrated.

“I’ve asked the War Cabinet to reconsider. But Winston won’t hear of it. He’s dead set on this meeting. Wants to make his best pitch for American entry into the war. God knows we could use the help.”

“Well, if he can pull that off then I suppose we can get him there and back again in one piece. I can’t imagine we’ve anything to be too concerned about. Graf Zeppelin may be good at taking pot shots at our antiquated torpedo bombers, but let them try that with Prince of Wales.”

Brind was quiet for a moment. Then he said, ”They surprised us when Hood went down, sir. Now this…”

Tovey took his point well enough. He sighed, weary with the day already. “Yes… well given the present situation, we’ll have to tie our shoes on this one smartly, Brind. No sense mixing the Prime Minister into the brew here. Let’s make damn sure we stop this German raider straight away, and keep Prince of Wales out of this business.”

“That we will, sir,” said Brind.

Aboard Kirov Admiral Volsky had convened another meeting to sort out what had happened. He was angry on several counts. He had been sleeping fitfully in his cabin, his mind running over the scant information he had gleaned from Fedorov’s books concerning this Atlantic Charter. What to do about it? He could sail Kirov down and board the KA-226 to fly in and join the meeting if he wished, but what would he say there?

He had been ruminating on the matter in his bunk, taking a few brief moments of rest, though his mind was heavy with thought. The implications of this course weighed heavily on him now. If he did attempt to join the meeting, it would soon be clear that the mysterious ship confounding the Allies was a Russian Navy vessel, yet possessing weapons and capabilities unlike any other ship in the world. How would Churchill and Roosevelt react? Would they embrace him as a potential ally, forgive the fog of war that had set them as enemies? If so, they would most certainly want to know more about his ship and its formidable new weapons, yes? They would then come to see Kirov as a possible foil against the Germans; a means of bringing the war to a sure and swift end. How could he explain his presence there? Surely they would press him for information on the new weapon systems they had observed in action.

If he passed himself off as a contemporary, he might try and convince them that Russia possessed this awesome new technology at this very moment. They would have to believe the evidence of their own eyes, yes? But in this instance he would present himself as just another man of their era, not a superman from another world.

What if he should he tell them the truth—that he had come from a far distant future, bemused, bewildered and lost. If he did so he could then wield the awesome power of his foreknowledge as yet another weapon. Would they believe him? Could they accept the same impossible scenario he had been forced to acknowledge? And if they did believe him, they would surely realize that his knowledge of the outcome of the war, and the history that lay ahead, was the most terrible and potent weapon of all. It would take them years to try and reverse engineer his missiles or comprehend the intricate nature of the ship’s computer systems. But the old platitude that ‘knowledge was power’ would surely prevail. How could they let him blithely lecture them and then calmly board his helicopter to fly away again with such knowledge in his head?

Once in their grasp, he might be treated as an honored guest for a time while they tried to learn all they could from him. He would have power in that event, but what demands could he make of America and Britain—to behave themselves and treat his Mother Russia like a true brother in arms after the war? He knew in his bones that there was no way he could throw in with the Allies against Germany in this war. They would smile, and dissemble, and ask a question here and there as they tried to ferret out the secret of Kirov’s incredible technology, and the unseen pathways that lay ahead in time.

What, would he tell the Americans, that they must not open a second front in Europe and allow the Soviet Union to race to the Rhine? It suddenly occurred to him that he could use his position to fool them if he wished. He could simply tell them that their planned invasion at D-Day would end in absolute disaster, and that they must wait and pursue a more conservative strategy in the Mediterranean instead. Would they believe this?

If he refused to answer their probing questions, would they resort to more unpleasant methods? He could never allow the information in his head to fall into the hands of the Americans and British. What else to do then? What demands could he make of them across a negotiation table, with Mister Nikolin or Fedorov as his translator? The more he thought about the situation, the more ludicrous his position became.

He had put Fedorov’s book aside, his gaze drawn to the portrait of his wife and son on the night stand beside his bunk. His thoughts reached for them briefly, with fond recollection that loosened an emotion within him. Then the crushing insanity of the hour returned as he realized that, in this world, in this moment, his wife had not even been born, and his son no longer existed! An odd thought came to him.

If this was the year 1941, then his mother and father had not even met yet! They did not meet and marry until after the war, and it was some years later, in 1957, that he was born. The odd thought then became an impossible premise in his mind—assuming he lived out the next sixteen years, what would happen on the day he was to be born? Would another Leonid Volsky emerge from his mother’s womb? Would there be two of him, each holding one end of the long cord of life and fate that stretched between them?

Yet Fedorov’s warning haunted him. They were changing things. The British fleet was now maneuvering to intercept a ship they had never encountered in 1941. Men were dying, lives extinguished in one deadly ledger of war, while other men, slated to perish in the planned raids at Kirkenes and Petsamo, may be spared that fate now as the British carriers followed him west. It was too much for him to contemplate, but behind it all the kernel of a worrisome thought was ever present in his mind. How solid and sure was the line of causality that stretched forward from this moment to the distant future he had come from? If these changes rippled forward in time, what might they alter? Could the waves of variation affect the life lines of men aboard this ship? What would happen, he thought, if his parents never met? Would he keel over and die the instant that unseen variation contaminated his own personal line of fate? Or worse, would he simply vanish?

The sudden jarring sound of the ship’s alarm broke his stream of thought, and he stiffened, sitting up in his bunk. Action stations, the sound of surface-to-air missiles firing. Apparently the British were going to continue to force his hand by persisting in these attacks, but what else should he expect? They could only assume he was a hostile German ship, and now that Kirov had demonstrated some of her awesome combat capabilities, the conflict was only likely to escalate.

Now he had Karpov, Yazov and Samsonov in the wardroom, and the Captain was justifying his actions, as the Admiral expected. Yet with every word the man spoke, all Volsky could think about were the men that died in the action the ship had just fought, and those ripples of change and variation that now emanated forward from this moment.

“It was clearly meant as a surprise attack,” said Karpov. “I did what I determined necessary to protect the ship and crew.”

“Yes, but how was it I did not hear a call to battle stations until just before you fired? Are you telling me you did not detect this strike until it was within 50 kilometers?” The Admiral was looking at the chief radar man on duty, Yazov.

“Sir, I—”

“It was my decision.” Karpov interrupted. “When I saw the nature of the threat, over forty incoming aircraft, I elected to utilize our medium range SAM system. It’s rate of fire was superior to that of the S-300s, and it also integrated with our close in defense Gatling guns.”

“That was a proper weapons selection, but you should have sounded general quarters the instant you determined this was an attack.”

“I am sorry, sir, but I wanted to coordinate with Samsonov on the composition of our missile barrages. As you are well aware, we must be conservative with our ammunition.”

It was an easy lie. Karpov would not, of course, say why he had really waited those first minutes without putting the ship at battle stations. He knew the alarm would immediately rouse the Admiral, and send him huffing up to the bridge where he would likely override his decisions. He would lose control of the engagement, and he was eager to handle the matter himself. After all, he was Kirov’s Captain, even if the Fleet Admiral was aboard.

Volsky let the matter go, though he gave Karpov a look that clearly expressed his displeasure. “Forty aircraft? How many missiles did we use to repel this attack?”

“Thirty-two SA-N-92s, sir,” said Samsonov. “Four barrages of eight missiles each.”

“And how many hits?”

“We believe we destroyed twenty four enemy aircraft with missiles, Admiral. One tube failed to sync properly and the missiles did not initialize their search radar sets.”

Volsky shook his head. “Twenty four planes destroyed… Those are heavy casualties for the British. As for the missiles, the damn things have been sitting in the launchers without adequate live fire testing for far too long. Eight missiles failed to initialize? That is unacceptable. I want those systems fully checked and maintained.”

“The Gatling system accounted for six more kills, sir,” said Samsonov.

“Six more? Yes, I heard it firing, and believe me, it was no comfort to know that enemy planes had come so close to this ship—that a plane designed nearly a century ago was actually able to launch a torpedo that could and should have struck us a fatal blow.” Volsky let that sink in hard, staring at each man in the room, his gaze heavy with the full thirty years of his command. Even Karpov, normally jaunty and argumentative, was cowed.

“It will never happen again, sir,” said the Captain at last.

“See that it doesn’t,” said Volsky, though he knew if they held to this course there would likely be other encounters in the days ahead. He sighed heavily, as if releasing the moral weight of what they may have to do if confronted by the British fleet in force.

“This is war now, gentlemen,” said the Admiral. “I had hoped to be cautious here, but the British are forcing us to fight. We are a hard shelled crab with pincers like no other, yet we have just been dropped into a pot of slowly boiling water. We may not die quickly, in one glorious fight, but they will sap the life out of us week after week, and we will die slowly, like that boiling crab. When the last missile has been fired, what then? They can and will lose a thousand men, two thousand men, ten thousand men in the effort to destroy us. They made mistakes, and they have already paid dearly for them, but did you see how they adapted their tactics in this second strike? They split their force by altitude and dispersed their strike sections along a broad front. And it very nearly succeeded! Yet…”

He changed his tone, resigned to the matter and needing to strengthen his men as much as he chastened them. “This attack was repulsed. The weapons selection was correct. The maintenance problem will be rectified. We are all alive and well and the ship is unharmed. Yet I hope this has given us all a hard lesson. Our enemy is determined. Those were brave men out there in those aircraft, and they could scarcely know what was happening to them. Yet they came on through our missiles and died trying to target this ship for destruction. Think of them tonight. Think of the courage it would take to do what you just witnessed. This is our enemy now, and we must match him with equal courage and resolve—equal skill and wisdom.”

“We will, sir,” said Karpov. “I recommend that we come about and engage this enemy surface action group. Let us take out these carriers with a couple of Sunburn IIs and there will be nothing more to expend our SAM batteries on.” He was referring to the lethal, long range anti-ship missiles Kirov carried beneath her forward deck.

“Under the circumstances I do not believe that will be necessary. According to Mister Fedorov, the British carriers had no more than thirty planes each, and we have shot down over forty in the actions fought thus far. Yet we expended thirty-two SA-N-92s, and eight S-300s to do so. I must tell you, gentlemen, that we cannot trade the enemy missile for plane indefinitely. If they persist, and dare to launch another strike at us, then I will consider what you suggest, Captain. Otherwise, as they cannot close on our position further given our speed, I think we can safely proceed south into the Atlantic.”

“But Admiral,” argued Karpov. “They will shadow us. They have just enough planes left to keep long range radar watch on us.”

“For the moment,” said Volsky. “Mister Rodenko assures me that he will have jamming capability for this Type 279 radar by 0800 hours. His technicians are recalibrating the equipment now. Until then, I suggest we all get some rest. I believe you are scheduled for relief, Samsonov. Get some sleep. You have the remainder of the watch, Mister Karpov, but if you are fatigued I can send up Orlov.”

“I am fine, sir.”

“Very well…And one last thing. Good shooting, Mr. Samsonov. You did well, in spite of the missile failure. But have that system thoroughly checked.”

“I will, sir. There will be no more failures.”

“Dismissed. You too, Mister Yazov. You had a sharp eye tonight.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Samsonov smiled, saluted, and left the wardroom with Yazov, leaving Volsky alone with his Captain. The Admiral scratched the back of his neck and then took a sip of cold water.

“As for you, Captain, your decision to engage and your missile selection were correct. The enemy forced us to defend ourselves. But never leave this ship under threat again without sounding general quarters immediately. You owe that much to these men. If that torpedo had detonated…”

“I understand, sir.” There was nothing else Karpov could say.

“We have to be very careful, Karpov; very precise. One mistake, one oversight, one maintenance failure, and we could sustain a damaging hit. To lose eight missiles like that, and to come within inches of taking a torpedo in our gut should be something to keep you awake tonight.”

“It will, sir.”

The Admiral leaned back in his chair, looking at the chart map on the table. “It is going to get worse,” he said quietly. There was no further recrimination in his voice now. He was speaking man to man, and Karpov could hear the shift in his tone, thankful for the measure of respect the Admiral gave him now.

“I will need you, Vladimir. You have a sharp mind, amazing skills, sound tactical judgment.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Volsky pointed to the map. “Yet we must consider strategy as well. Yes, we are a strategic threat, just as you argued earlier. I think we will be here, according to Fedorov, if we maintain this course and speed for another day. That will get us down through this narrow channel. If I know the British, they will have already notified their Home Fleet about us, and we may soon encounter a heavier surface action group intending to intercept us as we exit the Denmark Strait.”

“I agree, sir.”

“We can most likely outrun them. This is our best option.”

“But if we cannot sir?”

Volsky nodded. “Then, Mister Karpov, you will get your chance to fire at a ship worthy of our Sunburn IIs. I would not be too eager to do so, however. We have chastened them, but not really hurt them, and if possible I would like to keep things this way. Consult with Mister Fedorov on the range of the enemy guns. We will see them on radar long before they know where we are, and maneuver to avoid contact wherever possible.”

“Avoid contact? Why should we fear these old ships? We can sink them at our whim, just like we handled these air strikes.”

“For the same reason we should fear those old planes that nearly put a torpedo into us,” said Volsky. “You may think the enemy brings a knife to a gun fight here, but if he gets close, a knife will do!” Our best course is to avoid close contact—use our speed to stay outside the range of their weapons. Their carriers are the only ships that can strike us at range, and I will decide what to do about them.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it, sir.”

“You will? Yes, I suppose you will. But are you also ready for what comes after such an engagement? Thus far we have been sparring with them, nothing more. This business with the air strikes is just the opening round. Sink one of their capital ships, however, and the gloves will come off. They will want vengeance and they will come after us with everything they have. Then our hand is forced to put this ship on a course where the outcome will be far from certain. Keep that in mind, Captain. Keep that in mind.”