Kirov

by John Schettler

  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 Reykjavík. 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.

  Kirov was sailing south, well west of Iceland towards the tip of Greenland as she now hurried on at 30 knots. Two hours ago, Rodenko had spotted yet another contact, bearing in on them from the southeast on an intercept course. In a conversation with his history consultant, Fedorov, the Admiral deduced that this must be his counterpart, Sir John Tovey, commander-in-chief of the Royal Navy’s Home Fleet. Rodenko spotted only two ships, however another signal was tracking in on them as well, northeast of their position, yet some distance away. It was just as Mister Fedorov had warned them, the British were reacting, almost antibody like, against the incursion of any foreign element that might threaten their vital convoy routes.

  Volsky watched the approach of what he assumed could only be heavier British units, and Fedorov had deduced that the most likely candidates would be King George V and possibly the battlecruiser Repulse or another heavy cruiser.

  “These were the only two capital ships in Scapa Flow at this time, sir,” he said. “Aside from Prince of Wales, and I do not think the British would be sending that ship against us. It was supposed to ferry the Prime Minister to Newfoundland.”

  “And what about the Germans, Fedorov,” asked the Admiral. “There were several entries in your book covering this time period, and it looked like a large concentration of U-boats was gathering south of Iceland.”

  “I did some research on that, sir,” said Fedorov. “I’ve got the whole database from uboat.net here on my pad, and that wolfpack, designated Grönland, does not form up until mid August. The only boat that gets anywhere near us on this heading would be U-563 under Oberleutnant zur See Klaus Bargsten. That boat is prowling due south of Iceland right now, according to my data, sir. But we’re well to the west. I don’t think we have anything to worry about from the Germans, but Admiral Tovey might want to keep a sharp eye. He’ll be bringing his task force right through the Grönland wolfpack assembly area.”

  “Very well, Lieutenant. Then I guess Mister Tasarov will be able to listen to his music under those headphones and actually get away with it!”

  “There’s only one thing, sir…” Fedorov hesitated, not quite sure of himself now.

  “Speak your mind, Fedorov,” Volsky urged him on.

  “Well, sir, that first undersea contact we encountered, just after the detonation. I thought it might be Orel, sir, but if the accident aboard Orel was the cause of our dilemma here, then I assumed it must have been a German U-Boat.”

  “And what of that?”

  “I checked the database, sir, but could find no German U-boat on patrol on those waters for July 28th. It must have been one of ours.”

  “One of ours?”

  “A Russian submarine, sir, from 1941.”

  “I see… Then it is good that we did not fire on that boat.”

  “Right, sir. I just wonder if they might have spotted us before our helo chased them away.”

  “If they did, then they would also assume we were a big German ship, yes?”

  “Most likely, sir.”

  “Then I think we have no worries there. That contact was not close enough to learn much about us, or see the ship clearly. I don’t think we need to worry that Papa Stalin knows about us. What would he do about it anyway?”

  As they made these deductions, Rodenko was recording signal return characteristics of each contact, and trying to build a library file on them. The Admiral watched the range close between Kirov and this contact for some time, considering moving further west, but not wanting to get his ship boxed in against the coast of Greenland. He concluded that he could probably break free into the North Atlantic south of Greenland well before these British ships could possibly come within firing range, which suited him well enough.

  He had time to get down to sick bay and see the doctor before returning to brief Karpov and leave him with instructions indicating his intentions for the next day. The Admiral wanted to run south by southwest for the warmer green waters of the Atlantic. He roused himself to go but, as he slipped off his chair, he felt a queasy dizziness, uncommon for man with sea legs of stone over all these thirty years.

  “I must be getting old,” he said to Orlov. Then the entire bridge seemed to roll in his vision, spinning wildly. He swayed, instinctively reaching for the arm of his command chair to try and steady himself. Orlov saw him losing his balanc
e, and ran quickly to his side.

  “Are you all right, Admiral?” The Chief took his arm, helping to steady him, but could see a glazed look in Volsky's eyes, which seemed to jerk this way and that, unable to focus. Then the Admiral started to fall.

  Orlov shouted, and two Yeomen ran quickly to render assistance. “Call the doctor,” said Orlov. “Better yet, go and fetch a stretcher and we will take him to sick bay ourselves.”

  Volsky's eyes were open, yet he said nothing, clearly distressed by a severe attack of what seemed like vertigo. The lights above him, the milky green glow of the radar and combat stations, all blended with the faces of the men as they leaned over him, and he closed his eyes to fight off the nausea. At that moment the quiet fear he had dredged up earlier returned to harry him again. What if something had changed? The sharp bow of his ship had been knifing through the history for days now, shredding one seemingly unalterable fact after another. What if the future had changed enough to touch his own life? What was happening to him?

  Orlov was up at the ship’s intercom as four men arrived with a stretcher and began to take the Admiral below. “Captain Karpov to the bridge please. I repeat, Captain Karpov to the bridge.” Then he turned to Rodenko. “You have the bridge, Mister Rodenko. The Captain will be here in a moment. I'm going below with the Admiral.”

  He followed after the men as they worked their way through the rear hatch to the bridge, down the long narrow gangway, and struggled to carry the heavy man through a floor hatch and down a steep ladder to the decks below. Along the way, curious crewman looked on with concern and anxiety apparent in their eyes. Orlov waved them aside, yelling at them to return to their posts and mind their own affairs, which of course did nothing to improve the situation. Yet Orlov knew only one way in dealing with the men, a strong hand and a hot temper.

  When Captain Karpov heard the intercom message, he was just finishing up a breakfast in the officer’s mess of boiled eggs, fresh dark bread with tvorog, a soft curd cheese, and strong hot tea. He passed on the unusual serving of Sirniki, a pan fried dough offering with cheddar cheese, milk and sugar. Someone was making sure the officers had a few comfort foods on the menu given the trying circumstances of the last days. Perhaps he would catch a good blini with sour cream and jam later, but for now he was still musing over the information he had read in Fedorov’s book.

  Now he understood fully the scope and nature of the events surrounding this week in the history of the war. He made careful note of the dispositions of ships prior to this day, thought at length about this Atlantic Charter, an event of enormous significance that was now no more than a three day cruise to the South. The British prime minister, the American president, and the chief officers of all three services on both sides would be present. It was an opportunity that would seldom ever present itself to a military commander, a gathering of crows he might fell with one well placed shot. Yet how could he convince the Admiral to take the necessary action and use the power at his disposal in a decisive way?

  Now he hurried to the bridge, brushing past curious crewman who wondered what was happening as he went. When he reached the forward bridge citadel a mishman announced his arrival.

  “Captain on the bridge!”

  “As you were.” He immediately saw that Orlov was gone, and his eyes went to the next senior officer. “What is our status Mister Rodenko?” The Captain wasted little time, walking immediately to Rodenko's radar station to check on developments.

  “The Admiral was taken ill, sir. Chief Orlov has gone below.” He continued briefing the Captain as to the status of the contacts he had been tracking both to the north and east of them now. Karpov was not happy to hear of this new surface contact, particularly when he saw that it was already inside the 200 mile range circle, and still closing on his ship.

  “What are those ships?”

  “They have been identified as British battleships,” said Rodenko. “Fedorov can tell you more, sir”

  “Mister Fedorov?”

  “Battleship King George V, and battlecruiser Repulse, sir. We had a look at them with a KA-40 on infrared last night. I recognized the silhouettes. Those contacts to the northwest are two heavy cruisers, and behind us, the shadowing force built around those British carriers is still following, but there has been no air activity, sir.”

  “I can't believe the Admiral allowed these heavy ships to come so close! What is the range of the guns on those battleships?”

  “Sir? No more than 30,000 yards. Perhaps twenty-eight kilometers at best. They are well over 160 kilometers away now, and pose no threat. I believe the Admiral's intention was to—”

  “Thank you Mister Fedorov, you need not inform me of the Admiral's intentions. I will discuss the matter with him myself.”

  Karpov reached up adjusting the fit of his black sheep’s wool Ushanka, and slowly walked to the command chair to seat himself. It promised to be another cold day, and he had on a warm, black leather jacket as well. His eyes narrowed with thought. It was just as the Admiral had warned him. These British were like a dogs after a cat. They were vectoring in ships from three compass headings now, and these two battleships were maneuvering to block their path to the south. What was marshalling beyond the range of Kirov's sensors?

  “Fedorov. This other battleship, the Prince, where would it be located now?

  “You mean Prince Of Wales, sir? That ship was scheduled to leave Scapa Flow on August 5th, tomorrow, sir. She was due to arrive in Newfoundland on the 9th, and considering that the British would most likely route her to the south, she will probably be somewhere off the north coast of Ireland tomorrow.” Somehow the question made Fedorov just a little uneasy. That was the ship carrying Churchill. Why was the Captain asking about it? In fact, how did he even know about it? He was fairly certain Karpov knew little or nothing about the composition of the Royal Navy at this time.

  Karpov rubbed his chin, thinking. “Somewhere off the coast of Ireland,” he said aloud, “and carrying that grumpy old bulldog Churchill.”

  “Sir?”

  “Never mind, Fedorov.” Karpov chided himself for voicing his thoughts, yet the situation was very interesting. All he had to do was come around to a heading of one-three-five and he would very likely find the ship without much difficulty.

  “What is our present heading?”

  “Sir, the ship is presently steering 202 degrees, south by southwest. Speed 25 knots.”

  He thought about the prospect for a time, but discarded the option. It would mean deviating from the course the Admiral had set, and he already knew where this ship was heading in any case.

  At that moment Orlov returned, his eyes wide, a little breathless after having climbed up from the lower decks again. He immediately noticed Karpov.

  “Good morning, Captain. I must report that the Admiral is indisposed.” He raised his eyebrows, giving Karpov a knowing look. “He was taken with a bad fit of vertigo, and Doctor Zolkin has decided he must sleep. He has given the Admiral a sedative and is keeping him under observation in the sick bay until further notice. It appears you have the con, sir.” He smiled.

  “Very well,” said Karpov. “I'm assuming full command of the vessel until such time as the Doctor recertifies Admiral Volsky as fit for duty.” He made the statement loud enough for every man on the bridge to hear, settling comfortably into the command chair with Orlov at his side. Then to Orlov he said in a lower voice: “What do you make of these British battleships creeping up on us like this?”

  “I don't like it, sir,” said Orlov. “I believe the Admiral thought to simply run past them to the south. Fedorov doesn't think they can catch us or get within range. But we should maintain good speed.”

  Fedorov looked over his shoulder warily at the Captain, a worried look on his face. He had assured Admiral Volsky that if they kept on this heading they would be able to outmaneuver the British battleships when they cleared the Cape of Greenland, keeping well outside their firing range.

  “Yes, they are d
angerously close even now, in my opinion. And look at these other contacts to the northeast. The British persist, they will have to be taught a lesson. We are not to be trifled with.”

  Chapter 21

  “Con, radar airborne contact bearing twenty-two degrees northeast. I read three, now six contacts dispersing on a line approximately 170 kilometers north of us, incoming at speed 180kph.”

  The Captain leaned on the arm of his chair, swiveling toward Rodenko as he did so. “Well, well, well,“ he said. “It appears the British did not pay attention in class yesterday. We may have to repeat the lesson, yes?”

  “But only six planes,” said Orlov. “Nothing to really worry about.”

  “Who knows what is behind those six?” said Karpov. “I will tell you one thing, there is a carrier behind them. Two carriers, am I not correct, Mister Fedorov?”

  “Yes sir,” said the navigator. “We believe Victorious and Furious are still in that task force shadowing us.”

  “Very well. Those ships could have taken on fresh squadrons from Iceland by now. Mister Orlov, bring the ship to condition three readiness. Speed 30 knots.”

  “Aye sir.” Orlov went to a panel and sounded the alert, sending the crew to condition three, one state below full battle readiness. “The ship is at 30 knots,” he confirmed.

  “But sir,” said Fedorov, “those are most likely radar pickets. There were no torpedo strike aircraft on Iceland. We’ve been jamming their radars and they are probably trying to get a wide-angle look at us on a broader front. We decimated their strike planes yesterday. Those are probably nothing more than Fulmar fighters equipped with type 279 radar. Rodenko has recalibrated his equipment and—”