Kirov k-1

by John Schettler

  Not only would these two remarkable men be present, the meeting was also attended by the heads of the Army and Navy on both sides, a gaggle of high-ranking officers and other dignitaries. The gold on the hat bands, collars and cuffs would be fairly thick, as the British were intent on engaging in negotiations with the Americans.

  The Prime Minister had already boarded the battleship Prince of Wales at Scapa Flow earlier that morning, and the ship slipped quietly out to sea with only the very highest senior ranks in the Navy and War Cabinet aware of what was happening, and many of them were aboard. Volsky was still considering what to do about this meeting, and weighing his options if they held to this course.

  That same morning another man on the ship was exploring the same corridors of thought, though with a very different mind on the matter. Captain Karpov had cornered Fedorov below decks while the Admiral was on the bridge. He marched him into the officer’s ward room and, to the navigator’s surprise, he locked the door.

  “All right Fedorov, what is this book you’ve been reading from and bending the Admiral's ear with these last several days?”

  “Sir? It's a naval history, a chronology of the war at sea that has fairly detailed information about operations conducted during this time, throughout the whole of the war in fact.”

  Karpov eyes narrowed. “And where is this book?”

  “At the moment, the Admiral has been reading it in his cabin,” said Fedorov.

  “I would like to have a look at it. After all, I am Captain of the ship even if a fleet admiral is aboard. How is it you did not think to inform me as well?”

  “I'm sorry, sir. You seemed unwilling to consider the possibility early on, and I did not want to offend you by pushing the matter. The Admiral was particularly interested in what I had to say, so I loaned him the book at his request. I meant no disrespect, sir.”

  “Of course not,” said Karpov, changing his tack somewhat. He clasped his navigator on the shoulder. “Very well, Mister Fedorov, as you were. I will ask the Admiral about it myself.” He went to the door, opening the latch. “Dismissed, Lieutenant. That will be all.”

  “As Fedorov edged past him, the Captain spoke again. “One other thing, Fedorov,” he said. “The next time you contradict me in front of the Admiral…” He gave the Navigator a hard look that finished the sentence well enough.

  Fedorov went on his way, and so did Karpov, but the Captain had no intention of asking the Admiral a thing. He made his way directly towards the senior officer’s quarters, intent on finding this book and having a look for himself while the Admiral was busy on the bridge. The situation reminded him of his days in the university library, where he jealously guarded the reserved stacks, controlling access and doling out volumes to those he favored while denying them to others. A brash young arbitura, a freshman, had the temerity to sneak into the reserve vault and take out a reference volume while he was busy with another student. At first he thought to severely punish the lad for trying to bypass his authority, but inwardly, he admired the student’s initiative and guts. The boy saw an opportunity and he took it. It was something he might have done himself, he knew. So he let the matter pass.

  Now Karpov would do a little snooping around on his own to see what was on the Admiral’s mind. He had mentioned the Atlantic Charter in their initial briefings, this secret meeting between Churchill and Roosevelt. That had to be uppermost in Volsky’s mind now, but what was he planning? Karpov intended to find out. There were some things, he thought, that were simply a Captain's prerogative.

  Karpov was pleased to find the Admiral’s cabin door unlocked, and as this gangway was for senior officers only, there was little risk that he would be seen by a member of the crew. He slipped inside, flipping on a light and scanning the room and desk for any sign of the book. It was there on the night stand, and he was soon sitting at the Admiral’s desk, flipping to the bookmarked pages to locate August of 1941, looking for information on the Atlantic Charter conference. It was not long before he learned the details. Churchill and Roosevelt were at sea, this very moment, and bound for a secret meeting in Newfoundland! It was all there, the ships they would travel in, and their escorts, the timing of their arrival.

  The Captain smiled, his eyes narrowing. All these high ranking officers in one place. What a catch that would make, he thought. One well placed round, or a well targeted missile barrage could take them all out in a single blow, decapitating the American and British armed forces and eliminating these two vital heads of state as well. Could the US and Britain recover from such a loss? Would the men who replaced these giants have the courage and resolve to prosecute the war as Roosevelt and Churchill clearly did? All he had to do was get within firing range. A single missile could do all the rest, as long as he chose the right warhead.

  The Admiral’s strict order prohibiting the deployment of nuclear weapons was unwise, he thought. The impossible circumstances of this mission had to have some meaning. Kirov was here for a reason. She was bearing down on a time and place in history where her presence and firepower could make a profound impact. He doubted that they would ever again have an opportunity like the one that was before them now.

  “I’ll be damned if I’ll peck away at Royal Navy ships and then run off into the Atlantic to hide,” he said aloud. No. This was the time and the place. Volsky was correct that the judicious application of force was necessary here, but he was too cautious, too slow to perceive the true nature of the opportunity now before them. Yet he was the Admiral, and the men would follow his lead…unless…

  That pulse of anxiety leapt in his chest again with his next thought. His reflex would have been to get a message through to Severomorsk and seek to bypass Volsky by appealing to the Naval Board, or even to Navy Chief Suchkov himself. But Suchkov was not there. Severomorsk was not even there, at least not the same city he knew. There was no one senior in the ranks he could appeal to. The matter had to be decided here, on this ship. Kirov was all that mattered now. Kirov had the power to change everything, as long as she had the men aboard her with the will to do what was necessary.

  How could he convince the Admiral? He could try to bring Doctor Zolkin around to his point of view. The Admiral respected the Doctor’s opinion, and Zolkin was actually a Captain of the Second Rank, one rung above Orlov in the chain of command. He was not trained in the running of the ship, however, but his rank gave him power, particularly as the ship’s physician. Yet the more he thought on this the more he realized what Zolkin was likely to say to him. The man was weak kneed. He was a healer and caretaker; a lamb and not a wolf. He realized an appeal to Zolkin would be fruitless.

  What about Volsky’s new lap dog, Fedorov? The Lieutenant had maneuvered himself very close to the Admiral in recent days. He dismissed him earlier, but it was clear that Fedorov had one thing that was useful in this situation-knowledge. He was, in fact, the keeper of the books now. Fedorov’s little library held information that would be vital to them all in the days ahead. He was using that information skillfully, doling it out, like honey in the Admiral’s tea. Perhaps he had underestimated the Lieutenant. The man was demonstrating an understated craftiness worthy of the Captain himself.

  Menja naduli! He’s fooled me, thought Karpov, realizing he had been duped by the young officer. I warn him to watch his mouth and he gives me those big, innocent brown eyes. Yes, Fedorov had been very clever, and very bold. He was naive enough to believe what his eyes were telling him from the very first look he had at that long range video feed. Perhaps he saw what he wanted to see there, what he delighted in with his bookish reading and study. But he was correct; he has been one step ahead of me all along! He discretely fed this vital information to the Admiral while denying me access. Now he was going so far as to insert his opinions on the bridge, even contradicting me right in front of the Admiral.

  The Captain had overlooked the man before, thinking him to be no real threat, but now he reconsidered the matter. Fedorov… What else did he have in his pockets
? Perhaps he should have another little chat with the man and sound him out a bit more; see what else he knew. He might use Fedorov to help him persuade the Admiral. But that failing…

  Karpov thought about that problem for some time. Then he closed the book, a wary and harried look on his face. The thought in his head now was unlike anything he had ever considered before. If he could not appeal to Severomorsk, and if there was no one else on the ship he could use to bend the Admiral’s mind on this, then he had no other choice but to act himself, boldly, directly. Somehow that thought made him very uncomfortable. Yet he let his mind wander down that corridor for a moment, considering his options. I will need Orlov, he thought, and Troyak. The rest will be of no concern.

  Chapter 20

  Admiral Tovey was still fretting over the fact that his Prime Minister was now at sea in an active war zone as he sized up the situation. He realized that he may soon have a battle in front of him in which the presence of Prince of Wales could prove very valuable to him. But he could not afford to let that ship come anywhere near the Denmark Strait now, in spite of his earlier bluster with Brind, and so he strongly advised the Admiralty to route it by a more secure, southerly course. In fact, almost every convoy scheduled between the United States and Great Britain had also been deviously rerouted in the weeks from mid-July through tenth of August so as to clear the seas along the intended route the Prime Minister would travel. The logic was that if the convoys weren't there the U-boats would not be there either.

  Admiral Tovey hoped the decision had worked in his favor as well, as he had already been forced to detach his destroyer screen to Iceland for refueling, and was now calling on Vian’s two cruisers in Force K to effect a rendezvous with him for additional support. The American PBY spotting confused as much as it helped, though he had not seen the valuable photographs taken of the enemy ship. The description of a large cruiser or commercial armed vessel dovetailed with what the British had already discovered about this mysterious new German raider.

  “Could the Germans have modified one of their other cruisers and built a hybrid carrier, Brind? All the spotting reports mentioned smaller secondary type batteries aft, yet the forward deck was largely clear, except for these cargo hatches reported. Do you suppose the Germans have some way of deploying a makeshift deck platform there for launching planes? That would account for the relatively few air contacts we’ve had. If this is Graf Zeppelin I would expect to see more air activity, yet this American PBY just waltzed right in and got their sighting, completely unchallenged.”

  Brind wanted to stick with his assessment that this was, indeed Graf Zeppelin, but with only a very few modified planes, experimental models the Germans were testing on sea trials with their new Ack-Ack rocket defense. “Suppose Wake-Walker simply spoiled the party, sir, and came up on this ship while it was testing. He forced it to run west and south, and it may have had no intention of breaking out until Force P got in on the hunt. And as for that PBY sighting, the Germans may have been cautious about engaging the Americans if they sighted that plane.”

  “Whatever the case, these new German rockets are dreadful. I’ve read Wake-Walker’s report. They just cut his planes to pieces. Simply dreadful. We’ve got to bring this ship to heel, Brind. The Prime Minister is already at sea.”

  Tovey wanted to put on all possible speed, and was now running full out at 28 knots. Considering that this was either a modified cruiser or indeed the Graf Zeppelin, he thought about turning his battlecruiser loose to run the enemy ship down.

  “See here, Brind” he said. “Suppose we send Repulse out in front. She can run at over 31 knots, and deal with a cruiser handily. If we turn her loose, she may close the distance and get this enemy ship by the scruff of its neck until we come up and finish the job.”

  Brind thought, looking at their plotting charts closely. “If we split the force we may get better coverage,” he said. “And we’d only be thirty miles or so behind Repulse over the course of a day, sir. That’s close enough if she can sniff this villain out for us. Vian has had to detach his two destroyers to refuel, but his cruisers can put on 32 knots and effect a rendezvous with us tomorrow as well.”

  “Good,” said Tovey. “The better all around. Our experience with Bismarck taught us to pile it on if we want good results.”

  “Right, sir, but detaching Repulse could also have its risks. Remember what happened to Hood, and Repulse has no better armor.”

  “ Hood was up against Bismarck, with 15 inch guns,” said Tovey. “These secondary batteries on this new ship were estimated at no more than four or five inches, at least from the damage Wake-Walker’s destroyer sustained. In my view Repulse can handle herself well enough with her six 15 inch guns.”

  “Yes sir, but she hasn’t the flak defense of a ship like King George V. Suppose the Germans hit her with an air strike?”

  “Every indication is that the Germans have very few planes available. Perhaps it is just a cruiser, launching sea planes for spotting purposes. Let’s get a signal off to Sir William and turn Repulse loose, shall we?”

  He was referring to Sir William George Tennant commanding Repulse as she followed quietly behind Tovey’s flagship.

  “I’ll give the order, sir. Let’s see if we can run this fox down.”

  Captain Tennant was more than happy to take the lead and scout out ahead. This was, in fact, what his battlecruiser had been built for, a fast yet powerful scouting ship that would lead in the heavier battleships. Laid down in 1916, she had been given slightly better armor protection in refits prior to the war, and thus far had served well. She had assisted the evacuation of Norway and teamed up with the light carrier Furious to go after German raiders before. Now Furious was part of a group up north that had already sniffed out this new German raider, and Tennant was eager to bring the first big British ship into the chase. He put on all possible speed, and slowly moved out in front of King George V, slipping ahead to form the new vanguard of the Home Fleet, such as it was. Most of Tovey’s available cruisers had been up north in Force P and Vian’s smaller Force K. Now they were all bending their course to intercept the enemy ship before she could break out into the Atlantic.

  Like most men who had risen to captain one of Britain’s capital ships, Tennant had joined the navy as a young lad of 15 years in 1905. Beginning as a navigator, he had a ship shot from under him and sunk at Jutland in 1916, then joined HMS Renown, the sister ship of Repulse, when King Edward had toured the world on her in the 1920s. He made Captain quickly, and in this war he had skillfully masterminded the British evacuation at Dunkirk, earning the nickname “Dunkirk Joe.” Yet he had seen quite enough of sinking ships and stubborn retreats. Once he was seated aboard Repulse, he had put her to good use, chasing down and engaging the “Twins,” battlecruisers Scharnhorst and Gneisenau in the Norwegian campaigns, and driving them off. The loss of Hood galled him, and he was eager for a chance to even the score.

  “It’s a man’s game now,” he said to his Executive Officer. “Convoys are all routed south with the Prime Minister at sea. That means it’s all run and gun up here for the warships. I’ve been wanting to get into a scrap ever since Hood went down, god bless her. They wouldn’t let me try and sink my teeth into Bismarck after that, but this new contact is rumored to be a cruiser, or perhaps a fast carrier.”

  “ Graf Zeppelin, sir?”

  “Daddy Brind seems to think as much.”

  “Our 15 inch guns will deal with that easily enough, sir.”

  “That they will. The question is finding the damn thing out here. The weather is gray, though this front looks to be passing and we might get better seas in time. Let’s see if we can make 32 knots. We’ve only just come within a nip of that before. Let’s push her all out and find this enemy ship.”

  “Right, sir, but I wish we had better eyes. They’re still working up that radar equipment.”

  The ship had only just completed another minor refit, getting fifteen more 20mm Oerlikon AA guns and a type 284
surface gunnery radar set that the technicians had still been working on when Home Fleet sailed. They were kept aboard, stringing up the wiring and testing the antennas, but could get nothing more than a wash of noisy static when they tried out the new equipment. Repulse was also carrying six sets of the Type 286 Surface to Air radar, earmarked for ships in the Indian Ocean. She was slated for transfer that way with Prince of Wales after this official business had concluded, and eventual deployment to the Pacific as a deterrent against possible Japanese attack there.

  Some 100 miles to the west, there was nothing wrong with the radar sets aboard Kirov, and other eyes were watching the approach of both Repulse and King George V very closely. Admiral Volsky was on the bridge near the end of his watch, a sullen mood on him with the return of that bothersome headache that had been plaguing him for days now. He was tired, feeling the stress of the last few days and still making the interior adjustment to the bewildering fate of his ship and crew. He thought he might go and see the doctor, leaving Orlov on the bridge for the last hour of his watch before Karpov returned at 08:00 hours.

  The brief night had slipped by uneventfully, and the ship was now a little over 200 miles due west of Reykjavik. Though the British force that had been shadowing them continued to follow, they remained at a respectful distance and Rodenko saw no further signs of hostile activity. Apparently Karpov had given them quite a beating in that second air raid, and they were now licking their wounds, yet stubbornly holding on, even though the ship was now jamming most of the known frequencies British World War II radar would tend to operate on. They were most likely groping in the dark now, following on the last known heading they had on his ship. For the moment, geography was their friend in the matter. The Denmark Strait was a fairly narrow channel, and the only obvious route Kirov might have taken.