Volsky frowned at the mention of nuclear weapons, the image of the massive explosion at sea all too fresh in his mind.
“Stalin would certainly appreciate that,” said Volsky. “I had some time to consider such a course when we first began this misadventure. We also have information about the course of events that will be more valuable than the weapons we could use. We know the timing of every German offensive and its objective, correct Mr. Fedorov?”
“True, sir, but that is 1800 sea miles to the Black Sea, and through the Strait of Messina, past Crete and all the Axis bases in Greece, then into the Dardanelles for a 200 mile cruise in those restricted waters, through minefields, past shore batteries and also within range of German air power. And once we do fight through we’ll still be bottled up in the Black Sea for the duration of the war, assuming we do not suddenly vanish again. Then what? How long before our own countrymen begin to insist on a little more than information from us? I have not forgotten what we all said about Stalin the first time we visited this question.”
Volsky nodded, a grim expression on his face.
Fedorov continued. “Here is another alternative. I think we could get up north into the Ligurian Sea easily enough, or into the Northern Med south of Toulon. We could hover off the coast there and wait out the operation. Let the two adversaries slug it out as they did historically and interfere as little as possible. If we sail anywhere near the action now then we will eventually be discovered and engaged by one group of forces or another. Yes, we can probably prevail in these actions, but eventually word will get out and the concentration of Axis forces will begin to mass against us—or British. We could even be attacked by both sides at once in the confusion. We can’t go west in the short run,” he reasoned, “and if we go south east through the Strait of Messina we are committed to a long voyage through the Aegean, with enemy airfields on every side and then internment in the Black Sea.”
“Then it looks like our only option is north away from the major fighting while we consider this question further,” said Volsky.
“A good possibility,” said Fedorov. “But it would mean we would have to run past these Italian cruiser patrols, and then surge north through the Tyrrhenian Sea again and either run north of Corsica, past the major Italian base at La Spezia and a lot of enemy aircraft, or else we must risk the narrows of the Bonifacio Strait and the Italian naval facility at La Maddalena there.”
“And then what,” said Volsky. “Suppose we do this and fight our way west of Sardinia and Corsica by one route or another. Suppose we work our way north of the Balearics, then what? We will be ready to run the final bottle-neck to Gibraltar, yes? And what will we find there?”
“The British,” said Fedorov flatly. “Everything they have left after the battle will withdraw in that direction, and the heavy units will be there well before us, unless we move quickly. Battleships Nelson and Rodney for a start, and a swarm of destroyers and cruisers. Their carriers get beat up pretty badly if the action follows the history. They have already lost Eagle, and later on Indomitible will also be hit and damaged to a point where she can no longer operate effectively. Argus is of no concern, but they will still have our old friends Victorious and Furious, and all the air power they have left flying out of Gibraltar, another unsinkable aircraft carrier like Malta.”
“Could we punch our way through, Karpov?” The Admiral wanted to bring the Captain into the discussion.
“Of course,” Karpov said immediately. “You saw what we did when the full power of this ship was focused as it can be in dire need. I do not wish to say that the course I took was the wisest….” He paused, and Volsky could see that this was difficult for him. “…or even that my choice of tactics was correct in that regard. I was obsessed at the time with the possibility of striking a decisive political blow—one that would truly alter the course of events and leave the world a better place for the Russia we left back home, the country we all swore to protect and defend.”
“True, but we have seen the result, Captain, and it was not pleasant. We found hell out there, or as close to it as any man can come while alive on this earth. We may all get there again on our own when we pass on,” he smiled. “But I have little desire to go there again now.”
“But that is what we must do if you sail west or east,” said Karpov. “We must pass through the gates of hell—be it Messina, Bonifacio, the Bosporus or Gibraltar. The western course is also some 1800 miles of dangerous sailing, and a major battle at the end.”
“Yet one you feel we can win?”
“Certainly, though much will depend on the status of our missile inventories when we reach that place. I know I invite your rebuke with this next remark, but I must tell you that where this ship sails, there are no unsinkable aircraft carriers.” He put his fingertip flatly on the desk to emphasize his point. “We have the means to obliterate either Malta or Gibraltar if it comes to that, and wipe their air power off the map in one blow. And if there is still any stomach for the ideas we discussed before this whole thing began, then I must also say that by destroying either of these bases we would decisively effect the outcome of this war, particularly now, at this moment, August of 1942. The loss of either base would seriously tip the balance in favor of Rommel in North Africa. He may not prevail in the end, but there would be a strong chance that he pushes into Alexandria, or even to the Suez Canal itself. It could effectively knock Britain out of the land war, at least for a time.”
Fedorov noted how each course eventually led to the deployment of nuclear weapons to make a decisive blow and alter the course of the war, at least in Karpov’s mind. He was cautious about getting into a shooting match here with the Captain, but was not surprised to hear this hard line from him. He glanced at Volsky before he spoke, waiting to see if the Admiral had any remarks, then offered another point.
“What about Operation Torch. The Americans are about to enter the war in those landings, scheduled for November 8th. If Rommel manages to push the British back to Suez, he will still find the American Army behind him in due course. All things considered, the loss of Malta may make a considerable difference—and certainly Gibraltar, but I believe the Allies would still persist with the plan for an invasion at Casablanca, Oran and Algeria, and then drive east.”
“We can guess and conjecture this all day,” said Karpov. “I do not say you are wrong, Fedorov, but without Malta or Gibraltar, the Axis forces will easily supply Rommel with anything he needs, while their own supply lines to Egypt will stretch thousands of U-boat infested sea miles around the Cape of Good Hope. Suppose Rommel were to defeat the Americans as well?”
“A possibility, Captain.”
“Yet how will we know?” The Admiral put his finger on the real problem. “That is our dilemma when we talk about decisive interventions. We can never really know what turn the history will take, and it may darken in ways we have already seen.”
“I agree, Admiral,” said Fedorov. “Suppose we leave off this line of argument and think to our more immediate needs—survival. Destroying Malta, Gibraltar or smashing the Sixth Army would certainly have a dramatic effect on the war, but haven’t we seen enough death and destruction already on this cruise?”
Zolkin had been listening to everything intently. He was not a military man, and so did not entirely grasp the implications of what Karpov and Fedorov were discussing. Instead he was watching the men, gauging their emotions, and sounding out things on another level. Now he spoke with a pointed remark that changed the tone of the argument.
“You have all been discussing what we might do, what we are capable of doing, and yes, what the consequences may be in the end, but speak now to what we should do…” The implication of some moral element in the decision was obvious. “Yes, we can smash our way through these ships, and blacken Malta or Gibraltar if we so decide, but should we? Simply to secure our own lives and fate? How many will die if we attempt this?”
The sharp alarm of general quarters came in answer, long an
d strident in the still air. Karpov sat up stiffly, his reflex for battle immediately apparent and a new light in his eyes. “Listen, Zolkin,” he said quickly, a finger pointing to the scrambling sound of booted feet on the decks above them. “Hear that? This is no longer a question of what we should do, but what we must do. It is either that, or we go to the bottom of the sea like so many before us.”
“Mister Fedorov, I think you should get to the command bridge,” said Volsky.
Fedorov was already up and heading for the hatch but Karpov pulled at him: “Fedorov,” he said quickly. “You can cross circuit the Klinok SAM system with any other radar. Rodenko—bypass the damaged systems and target via your primary search array. After that the missiles can operate on their own!”
Volsky, nodded and then gave one final order. “Protect the ship, Mister Fedorov. Do what you must. Rodenko, Tasarov—get moving!”
Part III
Redemption
" I never worry about action, but only inaction… If you are going through hell, keep going…A pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; an optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty.”
~ Prime Minister, Sir Winston Churchill
Chapter 7
By the time they reached the bridge the danger was acute. The younger officers there had picked up a single airborne contact that seemed to be passing astern, moving on a heading away from the ship. They watched it for ten minutes before Kalinichev on radar noticed a group of several planes coming on screen from the south. They were out over the sea, bypassing the Sicilian mainland and on a heading towards Kirov. They tracked the contact nervously for another ten minutes until, at a 130 miles out, they were convinced it was a threat and sounded battle stations.
Five minutes later Fedorov and the other senior officers rushed onto the bridge, and Rodenko assumed his station, immediately cross indexing the Klinok SAM system with their main Fregat 3D Search Radars as Karpov advised. It took him five minutes to bypass some damaged circuits and establish a link, and by the time he was ready to feed fire control data the contact was 80 miles out and closing at 300 miles per hour. It would reach them in fifteen minutes.
“We can use the S-300 system at once,” he said. “It has the range to engage now.”
Fedorov considered his options, wishing he knew more about the contact, but concluding it was most likely long range fighters or torpedo bombers off Malta. Its course made it obvious that it was vectoring in on a designated target. The ship was most likely spotted by the recon aircraft that was dismissed by the junior officers as no threat. It was obvious that Kirov had been spotted again, and was now targeted for a strike mission, yet he hesitated, realizing that he was now about to intervene in the history of this battle and possibly kill these planes and crews when they might have survived and made some significant contribution to the battle, or even the war at a later time. Volsky’s last words came to him again, “Protect the ship, Mister Fedorov. Do what you must…” He could engage now with the longer range S-300s, or wait until the planes moved inside forty-five kilometers to use the medium range system. He did not have long to decide.
“We’ll wait,” he said at last. They had only forty-seven more S-300s in inventory, and twice that number of Klinok SA-N-92 missiles. “Activate our Klinok missile system, Mister Samsonov, and prepare to fire.”
“Battery keyed and ready,” said Samsonov.
The missiles were installed both forward and aft on the ship, available in batteries of eight with one missile firing every three seconds. They were deployed in vertical silos beneath the deck, and would eject by catapult and decline towards their aiming point by means of a dynamic gas jet before igniting their rocket engines.
As he waited, Fedorov realized he was now judge, jury and executioner sentencing men he could not see or ever know to death, along with everyone they might ever sire, for all generations to come. He felt a tremor in his hand as he reached to adjust the fit of his cap, and when he spoke his voice sounded thin and detached. He knew now how the Admiral must have felt when he first engaged the British, and also had a taste of Karpov’s mindset when he stood in command of the battle.
“Fire at forty-five kilometers.”
“Aye, sir.”
The minutes seemed to extend interminably and tension elevated as they waited. Rodenko continued to call out range intervals on the contact, counting down audibly for Samsonov. At forty-five kilometers Samsonov acted reflexively, dispassionately, even as he had in previous engagements, and toggled the firing switch for launch. He was going to fire off a barrage of six missiles, holding the final two in the battery as a reserve should they be needed.
A claxon droned and warning lights flashed on the aft deck. Three seconds later the first missile ejected, declined, and ignited with a roar, streaking away with a long white exhaust in its wake. The next missile was up and away in seconds, then the third ejected—when disaster struck.
The dynamic gas system had been overcharged, the valve adjusted incorrectly, and it fired too hard and too long. The missile was tipped some forty-five degrees beyond its correct angle of fire when its rocket motor kicked in. Deployed just forward of the aft helicopter landing pad, it struck one of the rotors on the KA-40 there, and was deflected downward even more, careening into the stern of the ship and exploding right above the Polinom “Horse Tail” sonar system access panels. The rocket fuel ignited and there was a billowing explosion of flame and smoke.
As the fourth missile in the barrage popped up from its deck silo it was caught by the shock wave and was sent wildly off course when the rocket engine ignited, smashing into the sea where it fumed like a wild shark in a maddened rage. The fire quickly enveloped the nose of the KA-40 helo as desperate fire crews rushed to the scene even while missile five ejected, declined, and safely fired. As the shock of the explosion rippled through the ship, Samsonov realized something was seriously wrong and aborted the sixth missile. Now the stern of the ship was enveloped in an angry fire, and it looked impossible to save the KA-40. The frantic call came into the bridge, which had no direct view of the stern given its location forward of the ship’s main mast.
“This is Engineer Byko—cease fire on the aft deck systems, we have a major fire on deck! I repeat, cease fire!”
Orlov heard the warning claxon and call to arms. He had been sulking in the ready area for the ship’s commando unit, brooding over his fate and galled by the notion that he was now a common lieutenant again. Volsky had come to him the previous day and explained what he had decided, busting him three pegs and stripping him of his rank as Captain. At the same time he asked him to redeem himself and make the best of the new assignment. It was obvious to him that he could no longer maintain his post as Chief of Operations. Now everything he had worked for, and all the bruising and sweat of his climb up the ladder of command these last five years, was gone. At least he wasn’t a ranker, he thought. It could have been worse.
Karpov, he thought. I should have never listened to that weasel. What was I thinking? He was afraid to do what he wanted on his own, and so he thought he would find a strong ally in me. Yet I was a fool to think we could take the ship—no—an idiot! Yes, Severomorsk is gone and power is now anyone’s for the taking, but the collective of the ship, the ranks of officers and crew remained intact. I knew the men would follow Volsky. What was wrong with me? And Karpov, that bastard set me up with his sly arguments and clever reasons, and I was duped like a schoolboy…If I ever get my hands on that rat again—
The warning claxon cut his reverie short and he was immediately on his feet. Men reacted by reflex, and it was Orlov’s to look about him for anyone not moving to his post and lash them with the whip of his authority. Yet now he was the one without a post. He had been escorted to Troyak’s unit under guard, and released to his supervision. These were not the same ordinary crewmen he was so accustomed to bullying and cajoling with his brawn and bad attitude. They were highly trained combat veterans—Naval Marines, and Troyak was one
of the best in the fleet. In fact, it was only because Karpov had indicated Troyak was going to support him that Orlov allowed himself to fall under the Captain’s spell.
He stood there dumbly for a moment, watching men race to the weapon’s bay to fetch their rifles and helmets, yet he had not been integrated into the unit yet, and had no locker of his own. Then he heard the word fire, heard the men running on the decks above, and he instinctively rushed to a ladder to get topside. When he emerged on the aft deck he was stunned to see it embroiled in a major fire. Three men were struggling to deploy a fire hose and he turned to see five more running to the scene and immediately took charge.
“You men—follow me!” he shouted, and seeing Orlov the men responded at once, in spite of their surprise that he would even be at large after what they had heard in the rumors that passed through the ship: that Orlov had tried to take command with Karpov and was now in the brig.
The former Chief of the boat was still acting like one, whether or not he held the rank. He ran towards the KA-40 helo, seeing the fire enveloping the nose of the craft, and immediately ascertained that it could not be saved. And when the fire reached the fuel tanks behind the main cabin there would be another explosion, and even more fire and damage could result. They had to get the helo off the ship!
“Come on!” he shouted. “Unlatch the securing cables!”
He was on his knees, feverishly working to loosen the nearest cable that held the helo in place on the landing pad. Other men rushed to assist, and Orlov knew they had to be quick. Already the heat and smoke were terrible, but one man had a pair of heavy duty cable cutters and, after releasing the two cables they could reach, Orlov seized the tool, dove beneath the Helo, and strained to extend the biting jaws of the cutter to sever the last cable. Smoke nearly blinded him and the heat was awful, singeing his exposed, gloveless hands as he strained with all his might, shouting with the pain. Thankfully the tool had a hydraulic assist and the jaws clamped tight with a vicious snap. The last cable had been cut.
Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) Page 8
