Orlov pushed himself back from under the helo, realizing the whole thing could explode at any moment. He staggered to his feet, rubbing his eyes and coughing. “Push!” he bellowed, his voice gritty and hoarse.
Five men ran to help, then seven. They took hold of the chopper wherever they could and together they strained with all their might, joined by five others, to heave the aircraft off its landing pad in one mighty lurch. It scudded across the deck on its wheels, aided by a timely roll of the ship which tilted sharply over. It was this extra momentum that allowed the men to keep the helo moving until it crashed violently against the aft starboard gunwale with a hard thud, nearly lurching off the side, but perched now with one stubby wing grinding on the handrails.
Orlov had his big shoulder under the aft tail section, shouting. “Heave! Lift it and push for your lives! Tip it over the side!” The crewmen strained and exerted themselves mightily, slowly lifting the helicopter’s tail end with their combined muscle and increasing the angle of its precarious tilt. The main cabin was now fully afire, and flames were licking at one of the overhead engines. They managed to move the helo again with one concerted shove and it finally tipped over the gunwale and reeled down into the sea. Seconds later there was another booming explosion when the engine fuel hose was licked by fire on the way down and ignited one of the fuel tanks. They staggered back from the gunwale and Orlov felt something graze his cheek, a fragment of shrapnel from the immolated helicopter. The ship shuddered again with the explosion, and several men were thrown off their feet to the deck, but their effort had saved Kirov from even worse damage if the helo had exploded on the landing pad.
Orlov was bent over, retching the smoke from his throat, his hands burned, face bleeding. He turned, a look of agonizing pain on his face, that soon gave way to an expression of relief. They had all come within seconds of losing their lives, but what in God’s name was happening? What was the ship firing at?
Melville-Jackson soon knew the answer to that question. A little over an hour ago a flight briefing aide had rushed into his squadron ready room at Takali airfield on Malta and he was informed that a Maryland of 69 Recon Squadron had re-acquired what they believed to be an Italian cruiser. It was heading northwest this time, away from the planned convoy route, but Jackson’s 248 Squadron was immediately activated with orders to fly a strike mission nonetheless. They were to intercept the contact, verify its identity and take hostile action if they deemed it an enemy ship. Word had come that elements of several Italian cruiser divisions had left their Mediterranean bases, and this ship was obviously part of that operation.
Six Beaufighters were soon aloft and heading northwest in a tight formation through the Sicilian Narrows as before. This time there were four Mark Is carrying torpedoes, and two newer Mark VI planes with the latest radar sets. Jackson was in one of these, and serving as acting flight leader.
They sped north, slowly closing the distance to the target. The plan was to split into two sub-flights and converge on the contact from two angles. Stanton would lead a group of three Mark I Beaus with torpedoes off the starboard side of the ship, and Jackson would take the last Mark I and the second Mark VI to attack the port side. The two sub-flight leaders signaled to one another, tightened their face masks and banked their planes away from one another, their mates following as planned. The flight split into two groups just as Kirov began to spin up her SAM barrage and fired.
The first two missiles were up, their integrated radars quickly acquiring the incoming planes, and both selected targets. When the flight split, they veered left to seek out, unknowingly, the group of Mark I beaus carrying torpedoes. Accelerating with their powerful rocket engines, they streaked out and lanced toward the oncoming planes. Staunton saw something odd in the sky. Blinking and leaning forward to squint through his cockpit, he first thought it to be a contrail from another plane rising to meet them. The enemy must have air cover, he reasoned.
He did not have long to wait before his mystery was solved. The first missile had acquired his sub-flight and was boring in. Seconds later he saw what looked like fireworks in the sky, and with a shuddering explosion a rocket obliterated his wingman to the right. Shocked, he hit the stick and rolled his plane, just as the second missile found and destroyed his last wing mate.
“God almighty!” he breathed as his plane dove for the cover of a low cloud bank.
Off to the east, it was only missile number five left from the initial planned barrage, and it was racing towards Melville-Jackson’s group. He suddenly heard a frantic radio call from Stanton: “Mayday! Mayday! We’re under attack! Two planes gone and I’m diving.”
Under attack? What was Stanton talking about? He immediately craned his neck, looking this way and that for sign of any enemy fighters. Two planes down? There must have been a group of long range German fighters, perhaps BF-110s if they were out this far. That was a twin engine fighter like his own Beaufighter, fast and dangerous. Then he saw it, the number five missile streaking up through a white cloud and heading straight for his flight. He passed a moment of shock and surprise, then instinct took over and he shouted into his mask radio set.
“Roll out, we’re under attack!”
His two mates reacted to the command and the sub-flight split in three, each plane angling off in an evasive maneuver. Jackson saw the awful streak turn suddenly to follow the plane on his left, and Billings was struck seconds later, his right wing blown clean off. The Beaufighter was sent cart wheeling down in flames, and Melville-Jackson gaped at the scene, his eyes quickly scanning the sky for sign of—of what? What in blazes had hit them? There was no sign of an enemy plane anywhere to be seen.
Chapter 8
Volsky heard the missiles firing, one—two—then he immediately knew that something had gone wrong. His eyes found Karpov’s when they heard the explosion and felt the ship shudder in response.
“Missile failure!” Karpov said at once, resisting the urge to leap to his feet and run to the bridge.
The Admiral nodded in agreement, his face set, still in obvious pain but now more concerned for the wellbeing of the ship. What had happened? His damage control officer Byko would get news to them in time, but he would call the bridge first, then engineering, and a call to sick bay would not be on his list at the moment. But Karpov had put his finger on it immediately. The ship had been through a great deal these last weeks. He should have used the time to finish all the system checks, particularly on the reactors, as they seemed to be strongly connected to the strange conditions that moved the ship in time. It still sounded so impossible, but here they were, firing at something bearing down on the ship again, and now they had another accident in the mix to complicate matters.
Volsky shook his head, with both regret and displeasure. “We have been far too sloppy,” he said. Then they heard the fire alarm and the commotion aft, men running, shouting, the hiss of a fire hose deploying.
“The aft missile bank,” said Karpov, listening. “It was probably a misfire, or perhaps the missile engine exploded. We will know in time. I heard two missiles get off safely. It was the third.”
The jarring sound of the alarms sent the Admiral’s head to throbbing even worse. He looked at his Captain. “Damn you, Karpov,” he breathed. “I need you! I need your experience, your skill at the helm, your battle sense and tactical awareness. Fedorov is a navigator! He’s never seen combat, or even trained on maneuvers. But how can I send you up there now, eh? Tell me?”
A much louder explosion shook the ship now, prompting them to brace themselves.
“What was that?” said Doctor Zolkin? “Have we been hit?”
“I don’t think so…” Karpov’s dark eyes seemed to scan the ceiling, as though he was straining to see through the decks above them to discover what had happened. “If I know Rodenko, they would fire at about forty-five klicks out. If these are old planes from the Second World War, then they would not close that distance so quickly. It must be related to the fire aft. Possibly one o
f the Helos was involved—it’s the only thing that makes sense at this point.”
“A KA-40?” Volsky raised his heavy brows.
“That or the 226 model. What did you have on the pad?”
“I was just aft for a deck walk before that first attack caught us by surprise. There was a KA-40 on the pad. The bay doors were shut and the other two helos were below decks. I hope we haven’t lost it.”
“That sounded very bad,” Karpov warned.
“Damn, I wish we could get a Tin Man video feed in here.”
“I’m sorry, Leonid, but I’m not fond of watching battles,” said Zolkin. “I’m like Byko. He picks up the pieces, I patch up the men—when I can.” He looked over his shoulder at the three body bags. “I hope I will not have to fill very many more of those any time soon.”
“As do I, Dmitri,” said Volsky, “as do I.”
Karpov looked down, rubbed the back of his neck, and took a deep breath. “What do you want me to say, Admiral?” he spoke quickly. “That I was wrong? Of course I was wrong. I was a fool, and I’ll pay for that mistake, but if you need me, I can help you now, in any way you order.”
The Admiral looked at him, then closed his eyes, rubbing his brow, so weary. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, and Zolkin gave him a concerned look, reaching to his medical stand and fetching a syringe.
“How can I send you back, Karpov?” Volsky said sadly.
“I swear to you—here and now—that I will serve this ship and obey your orders, or those of any man you place over me. Send a Marine with me to the bridge if you wish. I know what I did, and why, and that is over now. I know I deserve nothing but your contempt, but give me this chance and I will not fail you again—ever.” He had a pleading expression on his face, eyes wet, lips tight as he held his emotions in check.
Zolkin was going to administer a sedative to the Admiral, but he paused, one hand holding a cotton swab, the other holding the syringe. The admiral opened his eyes and looked at his Captain.
“Very well,” he said slowly. “If there is any shred of honor left in you, Karpov, I will give you this one chance to find it again. Fedorov is young, and yes, he is inexperienced at sea—particularly in battle. But I must tell you that his judgment is sound, his insight into what we have gone though exceptional. Without him I do not think this ship would have survived our last encounter with the combined British and American fleets. So Fedorov will remain senior officer in command, and I’ll give him the leg up in rank to make that clear. He is the one who will order what we should do, Doctor Zolkin,” he angled his head to his old friend now.
“But you, Karpov, you will do what we must do to accomplish his objectives. Assuming he accepts your presence on the bridge. And one more thing—leave off discussion of how we might best use our nuclear weapons, please. That question is mine to decide. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” said Karpov penitently. “I will serve as Fedorov’s first officer if you wish, and support him with all the skill I have. I will state my opinions fairly if asked, but will not argue the matter in the face of the enemy, or in front of the other men. And if he gives me an order, I will follow it—I swear it.”
“You are fortunate to be in sick bay,” said Volsky, with a smile. “That’s a lot of pride to swallow in one gulp, and you could choke.” He laughed, feeling a great burden of worry taken from his shoulders.
Karpov smiled, appreciating the old Admiral in a way he never could before. Now, when he looked over his shoulder at the man he was before—always resenting Volsky’s presence and authority over his ship, always scheming out ways to subvert him and oppose him, he felt nothing but shame. If Volsky gave him this chance, he could not let the man down—could not let himself down.
“Will the men accept his, Leonid?” said Zolkin.
“Perhaps,” said Volsky. “Perhaps not, but they will do their duty nonetheless.” Now he looked at Karpov, deciding. “This is a good ship, Captain, and a good crew. They deserve more than our lot now, and it is our job to save them, and preserve this ship. Very well… As punishment for your actions earlier, and the willful mutiny you instigated, you are hereby reduce in rank three marks to Captain Lieutenant. Fedorov I hereby promote one level to Captain of the third rank, and he and will assume the position of acting Captain of the ship until I can make a full recovery. You are hereby designated his first officer, Starpom, and immediately assigned to the current watch in that position. You will proceed to the bridge at once, and yes, I think I will send the Marine guard outside along with you, until you have proven the pledge you have made here today, to me, and to the other men on this ship.”
Karpov’s eyes were glassy as he nodded, grateful for the chance the Admiral was giving him now. “Rely on me to keep my word in this,” he said. “To you and to the men…”
“Go then,” said Volsky. “And Mister Karpov—when you get there, and inform Fedorov of his new rank and position, don’t forget to salute.”
Karpov smiled. “I will click my heels, sir.”
Volsky laughed again, but it subsided with a wince of pain. “Can we still that claxon? My head is killing me. And Doctor, you may give me your shot now. If you have a few hours sleep for me in that syringe I will be a new man myself.”
Fedorov was as surprised as anyone else when the citadel hatch opened and Karpov stepped onto the bridge, a Marine Guard in his wake. He had been staring up at the aft Tin Man video display, watching the chaotic effort to fight the fire there and seeing the desperate effort of the men as they heaved the KA-40 over the side just before it exploded. Now he and the other officers turned, equally surprised, and Karpov looked down, fighting his shame, then found resolve and straightened to attention in a way he had promised, literally clicking his heels as he saluted.
“Sir,” he said formally. “I am ordered here by Admiral Volsky, and with the new rank of Captain Lieutenant. I am to inform you that you are hereby promoted to Captain of the Third Rank, and the Admiral wishes you to assume formal command of the ship until such time as he is fully recovered. I have asked him, and I now ask you, to accept me as your first officer, and I pledge that I will serve you to the best of my ability.” He held his salute as he spoke.
Fedorov returned it, astonished, but inwardly relieved by this development. He had been distracted by the explosion aft and almost forgot that the ship was engaged. When he remembered the incoming aircraft he was thinking what to do next when Karpov appeared. The enormity of these events was a lot to process at once, but he maintained his composure and turned to Karpov, nodding.
“Very well,” he said, imitating the Admiral again. “Now hear this,” he said to the bridge crew. “I formally accept command of battlecruiser Kirov until such time as the Admiral returns to duty, and I hereby accept, and appoint, Captain Lieutenant Karpov as my First Officer. He will advise me and second my decisions according to protocol. Understood?”
The men nodded, particularly his senior officers, Rodenko, Tasarov, Samsonov. “Mister Karpov, please work with Rodenko to monitor the status of an incoming air contact and use your best judgment as to how to deal with it to ensure the safety of the ship. I must coordinate with Byko on the comm-link to assess what has happened aft.”
“Sir!” Karpov saluted again, and went immediately to Rodenko’s Fregat radar station to get on top of their present tactical situation. Rodenko felt his presence looming over him, but something seemed different in the man now. That edge of haughtiness was gone, and the arrogance. Instead he looked and saw Karpov scanning the readout with the quiet, cool assessment of a trained naval combat officer, and he was glad, relieved even, to have the burden taken from him. He had advised Fedorov as best he could, but in truth, his specialty was radar.
“Samsonov,” said Karpov, “You used bank seven on the Klinock system?”
“Aye, sir,” said Samsonov, and the mood of the bridge tamped down to business as usual. “We only got off three missiles before the misfire.”
“All three
hit, in spite of the damage to the main ship borne guidance radars. But we have lost time with this misfire and Rodenko is still showing three airborne contacts, very close now. We will have to switch to the Gatling guns, but they may need tracking assistance.”
“Aye, sir. Activating close in defense system.”
Melville-Jackson emerged from the bank of low flying clouds, his radar man shouting out the contact: “Three-o’clock, Jackie and Five miles out!”
“Roger that. Put your fish in the water now boys, and let’s get moving. We’ve bitten off more than we can chew from the looks of things. This is no cruiser. It’s a bleeding battleship! Look at the damn thing!”
Two of the three planes still had torpedoes, and there was no sense in trying a strafing run with his shattered flight now. He pulled the stick back, breaking round in a sharp turn. Then he caught a glimpse of the distant enemy ship as he emerged from a cloud, and could clearly see a fire aft. Perhaps one of his boys got a torpedo in the water after all! A moment later he heard Stanton calling “fish away,” but no word from Dobbs in the other Mark I.
Stanton’s shot was four kilometers out, just inside the maximum range for this torpedo, and then he turned on Jackson’s heading. But Dobbs kept running on, bearing in on the target to get a better shot. Jackson saw something flash out of the corner of his eye and craned his neck to get a look behind him. The dark silhouette of a warship lit up with the firing of a single gun, a Bofors from the looks of the volume it poured out, but it was lethally accurate. A hail of fire swamped Dobbs plane and it was riddled and on fire in seconds. He quickly lost control and went into the sea.
Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) Page 9
