Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series)

by Schettler, John

  “And there is more,” he said quietly. “We have a surprise or two prepared for this uninvited dinner guest. I cannot say more, Da Zara, but you will soon see that Regia Marina has more fight left in it than you may believe. I will encode details through normal channels. In the meantime. If any of your ships remain seaworthy, get them ready for action!”

  “Seaworthy?” Da Zara said sharply. “Yes, they will float I suppose. But ready for action? I think not. It will take weeks, probably months to repair the damage we sustained.”

  “Then do not worry. We will handle the matter from La Spezia.”

  It was that very night, that Admiral Tovey had been awakened with that jarring coded message and sent on his way to a meeting with the Admiralty on the morning of August 12, just as Kirov was approaching the Strait of Bonifacio. Now he sat in the meeting with Admiral Pound and the other Sea Lords, and this curious Professor from Bletchley Park. In spite of Admiral Pound’s reaction, Tovey could see more in those photographs than he wished, and it turned his stomach as well.

  “The same ship?” Pound flailed at Turing. “May I remind you, Professor, that the final engagement with this raider occurred on the 8th of August, a full year ago. I’ll admit that we’ve had our suspicions about the American story that this ship was sunk by their destroyer squadron, but for it to have survived for an entire year on its own in the Atlantic, and to have entered the Mediterranean undetected by our forces is absolute rubbish.”

  Tovey spoke up, wishing to clarify the situation. “Professor Turing,” he began in a more civil tone. “The Admiral’s point is well taken. Surely you don’t suspect this is, in fact, the very same vessel we engaged a year ago. How can we possibly explain its presence in the middle of such a hotly contested war zone?”

  Turing had his right hand at his temple, elbow on the table, thinking he had been foolish to express his suspicions in this room, at this time, before the weight of evidence might mount on his side of any argument. Now he thought how he might smooth this ruffle over without dampening the urgency he needed to communicate to these men. He was about to speak when there came a soft knock at the door, granting him a welcome respite.

  Tovey looked over his shoulder and gestured to the Marine guard there, who held two neatly folded papers, decoded cable intercepts fresh from the cypher station. He took them, opening the first quickly to see it marked ‘Most Urgent – ULTRA’ and read it quietly before looking up with raised brows and a look on his face that conveyed his obvious concern.

  “Well gentlemen,” he said as he handed the intercept to Admiral Pound. “It appears that Regia Marina has found its backbone after all.” He waited politely while Pound read the intercept, and Turing watched with some interest, the irony of the moment galling him. Here was a cable decoded as a direct result of his work, and the Navy was quick to embrace it as truth, yet he knew he would have to argue his point at some length to overcome their stalwart opposition to his suspicions about this ship.

  Pound handed the cable off to Whitworth and spoke up. “The Italians got up steam on their heavy surface units six hours ago and sortied from La Spezia a little after midnight. It seems that Admiral Syfret may have somewhat more to deal with than we first anticipated. Battleships Littorio and Veneto were both confirmed as part of the task force.”

  “Battleships?” said Wake-Walker. “We thought they were laid up without adequate fuel for a major operation.”

  “Apparently not,” said Pound. “Either they managed to obtain more fuel oil, or they’ve decided to make do with what they have. Either way it amounts to the same thing, and I must tell you gentlemen, that a move of this magnitude may mean they’ve decided to risk everything to stop this convoy to Malta.”

  “It’s not surprising,” said Tovey. “We’ve thrown fifty warships at this operation.”

  “Yes,” said Pound. “Well it looks like Rodney and Nelson may have some work to do beyond blasting away at the Luftwaffe. What’s this last bit in the cable?”

  “Oh, excuse me, sir,” said Tovey. “It refers to further movements of the Italian 7th Cruiser Division with ships based at Messina and Naples. Apparently they’ve put to sea as well, though they seem to be concentrating on the Italian Naval base at La Maddalena, which is somewhat surprising. Odd thing is this—the heavy units out of La Spezia haven’t entered the Tyrrhenian Sea. They sailed west, on a course that might put them off the northwest coast of Corsica right about now.” He looked at his watch, noting the time.

  “The Bonifacio Strait?” asked Whitworth.

  “Indeed,” said Tovey.

  “But why not just make a run down through the Tyrrhenian Sea and hit us north of the Skerki Bank? Their ships would be well covered by the airfields around Cagliari.”

  Tovey slowly opened the second intercept as Whitworth reasoned the situation out. “They may be thinking to swing down the western coast of Sardinia and get to the convoy that way.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” said Wake-Walker. “They would be much better positioned just west of Cagliari as Whitworth has it. They must know we’ve timed it to try and get round Cape Bon late tonight. If they’re low on fuel they won’t be making top speed, that’s for sure. So even at twenty knots that’s another twelve hours before they’d be anywhere near the convoy route by sailing west of Sardinia, and by that time our ships will be north of Bizerte. They’ll find themselves well behind the action.”

  “Unless they mean to have a go at our covering force,” Whitworth suggested.

  “Engage Rodney and Nelson?” said Pound. “They’ll regret that, I assure you.”

  “Well I can think of no other good reason for this La Spezia Squadron to be where it is,” said Tovey. “In fact I can put forward no sound reasoning for it to be at sea at all!” Now he read the second cable intercept. “Hello,” he said in a low voice. “Beaufighter Reconnaissance report out of Malta…It seems there was another engagement last night northeast of Cagliari. Malta reports no sorties, so none of our aircraft were involved, but the Italian 3rd Cruiser Division under Da Zara got shoved about rather rudely… All five ships are back at Cagliari this morning, and every single one appears to have sustained damage.”

  That news fell hard on the table and quieted the entire discussion. Then Turing spoke, his high voice clear and steady. He had been listening with some interest, and finally decided to throw another spanner in the works

  “If I may, sir,” he began, “and correct me if I am wrong, but I don’t think we have any ships in the Tyrrhenian Sea at the moment—not northeast of Cagliari, which would be right about where 248 Squadron engaged and photographed this vessel yesterday afternoon, and got a fistful of rocketry for their trouble. I say the Italians have tangled with this very same ship! Now it’s not ours, so it’s quite evident, gentlemen,” he said flatly, and then spoke the single word that had gathered them all round the table that morning. “Geronimo…”

  Chapter 14

  The dawn came in hues of scarlet and vermillion, brightening to pale rose as the skies lightened quickly. Kirov had raced northwest, a steel arrow aimed at the Strait of Bonifacio, and behind her a gaggle of Italian Cruisers and destroyers hurried in pursuit. Fedorov was back on the bridge after a brief two hours rest below when he gave over command to Rodenko coming off his leave at three in the morning. Now he studied the radar plots, satisfied that they were still well ahead in the race and would reach the Maddalena Archipelago in plenty of time to run the strait before these pursuing ships could interfere.

  “I expect some more work for the deck guns,” he said to Samsonov, also back at his station in the CIC.

  “Good!” said Samsonov. “Gromenko’s been boasting below decks and I’ve some catching up to do.”

  Fedorov didn’t like the sound of that, but he let it pass. Then again, he thought, if they were going to have to fight again, why not do it without reservation? This is one thing Karpov had tried to impress upon him. He stared at the radar returns as daylight began to bathe the
citadel in pale light. Another half hour, he thought, and by then we’ll see what they have to throw at us from La Maddalena. His timing was just a little off.

  Tasarov sat up quickly and sounded off at sonar. “New Contact – Undersea boat – Bearing 325 degrees, range 10.3 kilometers, depth forty feet, speed 5 knots. Designate Alpha One.”

  A diesel boat was creeping in on them from the northwest, very near the strait and obviously assuming a blocking position where it might get a shot at any passing ship. Fedorov went to Tasarov’s station, encouraged. “It appears our sonar is operating well enough in spite of the loss of the towed array. Then again, I’m told you have the best ears in the fleet, Tasarov. Can you track this boat easily now?”

  “As long as it continues to move, sir. If it stops and hovers, we may have to go to active sonar, but for now, I have a good location plot.”

  “Then you can kill this sub? Do you need one of the helicopters up?” Fedorov recalled the wild opening minutes when one of their first contacts had been a submarine. He remembered how the Admiral immediately sent up helicopters, and wondered if he should do the same. Tasarov’s answer reassured him greatly.

  “Sir, I can put a weapon on this target at any time. Our Shkval ASW system is in range now and can close this distance in a matter of seconds.”

  Again, the amazing technological leap that Kirov represented over its WWII naval adversaries was decisive. The creeping enemy sub was still far from the ideal range it needed to launch a torpedo at Kirov. For any chance of a hit it would want to be at no more than a 1000 to 2000 meters before firing. By contrast, Kirov’s super cavitating Shkval rocket propelled torpedoes could strike targets at many times that range, and they would accelerate to incredible underwater speeds exceeding 200 knots by generating a gas bubble around the weapon that literally displaced the ocean water as the torpedo surged forward. In effect, the seawater was never touching the weapon to create drag. If launched at this target it would eat up the ten kilometer run to the enemy sub in just a minute and fifteen seconds.

  “Just say the word, sir.”

  Fedorov thought for a moment. “What is our inventory on this system?”

  “Sir, we have expended only one torpedo, and have nine remaining.”

  “And when they are gone?”

  “We still have one KA-40 with sixteen standard torpedoes in the magazine. Normal load out is two per mission. Then we have the close-in UDAV-2 system, though it is far less effective than the Shkval.”

  “Very well,” said Fedorov. “Make ready on your primary system, Mister Tasarov, but we will hold our fire momentarily.”

  “Aye, sir…But we are running at thirty knots and will be inside this sub’s firing range in nine minutes.”

  “I understand,” said Fedorov. “Helm, ahead two thirds.”

  “Ahead two thirds, sir and steady on 315.”

  “Come left fifteen degrees rudder to course three-zero-zero.”

  “Sir, my rudder is left on 300 degrees, aye.”

  He thought to buy himself just a few short minutes with the reduction of speed, as they were drawing very near the Maddalena Archipelago now, a cluster of rocky islands that harbored the Italian naval base. It was time to decide.

  “Mister Samsonov, bring the ship to full battle stations. I‘ll want all systems manned with lookouts to both port and starboard to scan for mines. We may also face shore based guns.”

  The alarm sounded, and Kirov pushed on swiftly towards the first major bottleneck they would have to run if they were ever to find safe water again. Crews manned machine guns on both sides of the ship, and Samsonov also activated the AK-730 close in defense system to assist with floating mines.

  The Maddalena Archipelago dominated the eastern approaches to the strait, a cluster of seven large islands with many more smaller islets. Their strategic position had seen them fortified during the days of the Roman empire, with old towers and bastions perched atop the rocky crags of the hills. In WWII these forts were improved with the addition of modern concrete gun casements in several areas, particularly on Caprera in the east, La Maddalena in the center of the archipelago and Spargi to the west. Both naval and anti-aircraft guns were placed in these sites, and they were elements Fedorov had failed to fully consider in his thinking. He knew they existed, but was not sure of their locations. The course change he had made would skirt the northern coastlines of the islands, and the first surprise came when battery Candero opened fire from Caprera Island just after dawn.

  The sharp report and whine of the shell startled Fedorov, even though he had half expected it. Kirov was five kilometers off the coast, and well within the range of this battery.

  “Samsonov,” he said quickly. Can you locate that gun emplacement?

  “Let them fire one more time and I can back-trace their approximate location from the arc of the shell on my weapons locating radar.” The art of counter battery radar systems was highly advanced, and Kirov soon had a lock on the gun position.

  Karpov rushed onto the bridge, clearly winded, just as the ship’s forward 100mm deck gun began to fire. “I’m sorry Fedorov, the alarm caught me by surprise.”

  Fedorov looked to see that the Captain seemed to clutch his side, in some pain, but thought it was just the long climb up from the lower decks. He waved Karpov over to his side, and briefed him on the action as he pointed to the Tin Man display.

  “There,” he said. “Do you see it? That is the Candero shore battery on Caprera Island. They fired three rounds at us—all well off the mark—but I think Samsonov has a lock on them now.” They watched the display as Kirov’s forward deck gun put ten rounds on the target, enveloping the battery and surrounding hillside in a billow of smoke and dust.

  “Sir, air contact, 150 kilometers, bearing 45 degrees northeast, altitude 7200 meters, speed 280kph.” Rodenko’s voice sounded the warning. He paused a moment, then continued. “Surface contacts, group of three vessels bearing 202 degrees southwest, speed thirty and closing on our position.”

  “Those are probably long range aircraft out of Grosseto,” said Fedorov. “The surface contact will most likely be fast torpedo boats.”

  “I have them on my tracking radar,” said Samsonov. “Permission to engage, sir?”

  “Granted,” said Fedorov. “Mister Karpov, will you plot an appropriate air defense with Rodenko?”

  “At once!”

  “Sir,” said Tasarov, “Sub surface contact now at five kilometers.”

  “Submarine?” Karpov turned, his attention immediately focused on this threat.

  “We have a good fix on their position,” said Fedorov.

  “Then I recommend we fire at once, sir.” Karpov said quickly. “The Shkval system should easily neutralize this threat.”

  “I believe Tasarov has plotted this solution. You may engage, Mister Karpov.” The sharp staccato of machine gun fire split the air, and Fedorov rushed to the port side view pane to see rounds churning up the sea. Fedorov immediately knew they had encountered a floating mine, and his great fear was that there were many more unseen threats ahead of them.

  Kirov was now simultaneously engaging threats on land, sea and air, but Karpov was quick to put an end to the submarine threat. The super-cavitating Shkval fired, ejecting for a short run at 50 knots before the rocket motor ignited and sent it hurtling toward the unseen enemy submarine, a lethal underwater lance that they had no chance avoid. A minute later Tasarov verified a hit, and with it SS Avorio, which had been maneuvering to block the entrance of the strait, exploded and died a quick underwater death, its captain and crew never aware of what had hit them until they heard the screeching sound of the weapon just before contact.

  Kirov’s deck guns had already shifted targets to the torpediniera racing towards them from the gap between Caprera Island and La Maddalena. Three Spica class boats were out that morning, Antares, Centauro and Lira. When the 152mm shells began to range in on them, their astonished captains clutched their field glasses in a vain attempt
see the enemy ship. Kirov was still well off shore, and firing at a range of over seven kilometers. How could the enemy have spotted his small boats so quickly? Now the torpediniera would have to run a gauntlet of fire to get within their 2000 meter firing range, and not one of the three boats would survive. Samsonov worked with his brutal efficiency, locking the guns in on the targets with radar and quickly bracketing the small flotilla with the fire from all three of the ship’s 152mm batteries. Centauro died first, struck amidships and set on fire, the bridge shattered and the boat careening wildly about when helm control was lost. Antares exploded in a brilliant orange fireball when a round struck and ignited one of her torpedoes, and Lira died a slower death, peppered by five hits that riddled her hull and superstructure and sent her foundering, burning in three places. A total of thirty-six rounds had dispatched this threat with little difficulty.

  The attack had been ill timed, as the air strike out of Grosseto was late, and it too would not get anywhere near the battle zone. Kirov’s piercing radars could see and engage the squadrons of enemy planes well before they had any thought of making their attack runs. Karpov selected a barrage of six S-300 long range SAMs, firing them like a spread of aerial torpedoes at five second intervals. The first two missiles caught the lead formation of twelve JU-87s, blowing three planes away and sending the remainder diving with the shock of the attack. Behind them came a squadron of Do-217s, six planes, and two of these fell to the next two missiles, with shrapnel clawing through the wings of two others, and setting one engine afire, forcing them to abort their attack. The nine remaining Stukas found their evasive maneuvers provided them no respite from the attack, and watched in shocked amazement as the last two S-300s turned to seek them out, one shattering a sub flight of three planes before the pilots realized they had to completely break formation and scatter in all directions to save themselves from certain death.