Kirov

by John Schettler

  Now they were racing north through the choppy seas like a pack of hunting dogs sent to flush out prey. Little did they know that the dark panther they were stalking had teeth and claws to defend herself better than any ship in the world. Kirov was three times the size of these ships, though each destroyer carried nearly as many deck guns as the big Russian battlecruiser, with five 5 inch guns each. But their real teeth were the ten sleek 21 inch torpedoes on two quintuple racks amidships. The destroyer’s job was to rush in, fire their torpedo spread, then make smoke and withdraw, a determined harassment that could be deadly to any ship hit by one of their underwater lances.

  Kauffman was eager to get into the fray that day. Everyone aboard was equally ready to avenge the loss of Wasp and deliver a sting to the enemy on the carrier’s behalf. The watchmen were out on the bridge, eyes straining through field glasses as the ships surged forward. Every man was at action stations hoping to be the first to fire at the Germans. They would get their wish soon enough.

  As the evening progressed Desron 7 was running at high speed, closing on a distant grey horizon. They had seen strange contrails light up the sky there, and Kauffman followed them back to a single point on the horizon and steered his ships accordingly. Word was that the Germans had some slick new rocket weapon, and they had been lashing the Royal Navy pretty hard with it the last few days. Then came the attack on Wasp, and the Americans got a firsthand look at what these new weapons could do. Kauffman realized the danger ahead for them now. Destroyer Walke had taken a single hit from one of these rockets and was nearly blown in two, sinking in short order.

  He saw six, then eight contrails streaking across the sky, as if some enraged monster had clawed the serried clouds with fitful anger. His hounds were racing on, hot with the scent of the enemy now, the first sign they had of the Germans at sea since one of his group had lobbed a depth charge at a Nazi U-boat some months ago, the very first action against hostile forces in the Atlantic by a U.S. Navy vessel. The Germans seemed to be firing at something, but the contrails were not approaching his ships. Perhaps he could sneak up on them before his task force was even noticed, he thought.

  Piecing together sighting reports from PBYs out of Argentia, he reasoned that his ships were well inside a hundred miles south of where he suspected the enemy raider was cruising. Now they hurried to put on all possible speed, surging forward in the swelling seas, intent on battle. Their engines strained and their stacks belched out thick smoke as they surged ahead, making nearly 35 knots. With Kirov cruising at nearly top speed, the two groups were now approaching one another at over 75 miles per hour.

  Desron 7 was closing in. While Karpov had engaged the British fleet, Kauffman’s destroyers ate up the distance as they pounded their way north, the bows of the small tin cans rising and falling, foredecks awash in the churning seas. Some thirty minutes elapsed while Karpov assessed damage to the British Home fleet and engaged in a discussion with Orlov over how to proceed. In that long interval the destroyers had come within 15 miles of the enemy, though they did not know it yet.

  Five minutes later a watchman on DD-421, the Benson, spotted something darkening the distant horizon. He stared, wiping his field glasses clean again, and looking a long time. A shadow grew and thickened, resolving at last to the tall silhouette of a large fighting ship. There it was! He called down to the bridge with the news—enemy ship sighted, dead ahead!

  Soon the signal lanterns were winking from ship to ship and battle ensigns rose on the halyards, the flags snapping in the stiff headwinds to signal line abreast for attack. Desron 7 had finally found the Germans, or so they believed. The eight ships spread out in a broad line, racing forward as the anxious crews manned their battle stations. What was out there that had given the Royal Navy such a problem? Any man that managed to crane his neck and squint out a look at the distant enemy ship had but one thought in his mind when he first saw Kirov—the devil to pay…

  On they came, the crews tense at the swivel racks where five sleek 21 inch torpedoes were mounted on either side of the ships. Aboard Plunkett, Captain Kauffman knew he was taking a grave risk charging in broad daylight like this given all the scuttlebutt on this new German raider, but he wasn’t about to pass up this opportunity to even the score for Wasp. The Admirals had chewed the fat for some time over this, and turned his boys loose. Now he was going to attack and do his damndest to put a torpedo into the enemy, even if it cost him his ship.

  Deep in the heart of the destroyer sat the old electro-mechanical Mark I fire control ‘computer,’ which was a bit of a misnomer given the modern day understanding of that word. Developed in the early 1930’s by the Ford Instrument Company, it was really something more like a massive finely tuned Swiss watch, a bulky, six foot long metal sided box, all of three feet wide and four feet tall. Inside it was a tightly packed menagerie of precision tooled components: gears, rods, balls and bearings, metal plates, drive shafts, couplings and differentials so tightly packed that you could barely insert a finger into the device, and no one who ever looked inside one could believe it was capable of achieving any unified purpose.

  Yet the Mark I system was, indeed, an analog computer of sorts, and it was capable of interacting with both optical sighting and radar returns, along with information from gyroscopes, to calculate range, speed, and reach a predictive plot solution on a potential target to control the destroyer’s 5 inch deck guns. Benson had two turrets up front, with a single gun each, and three more aft. The guns could range out about ten miles, and so they were the first to fire in anger at the enemy ship, the rudimentary Mark I giving the orders and guiding the rounds in as best it could.

  Kaufman had the heat of battle on him. He signaled his destroyers to fire as soon as they had the range, and Benson, eager to be both the first to see and first to fight the enemy, opened fire at once. The charge of the tin-can destroyers had begun, eight ships abreast and closing on an ever darkening shadow the like of which they had never seen in their lives at sea, and would never see again.

  ~ ~ ~

  Karpov breathed in deeply, as if he were taking in a new measure of strength. The choice was no longer his now, not his alone. He at least had one confederate in Orlov and what would happen next would happen eventually, he knew. This and a hundred other justifications ran through his mind. The tactical situation was perfect. He had the element of surprise. The enemy target was heavily concentrated. The weapon of choice was clearly indicated, and his math was infallible.

  Samsonov interrupted him, his voice edged with urgency. “Sir, the number one contact on my screen is very close.” Rodenko had been distracted by the close proximity of the Captain and Orlov, his attention riveted to what they were saying to one another in tense, hushed voices. When he saw Orlov’s Glock pistol, his heart leapt to think what might be happening. What was the Captain doing?

  A moment later a watch stander at the forward viewing panes call out in a loud voice: “Captain, we are being fired on!”

  Karpov spun about, somewhat shocked, his gaze drawn out through the view ports to the gray sea, where he saw the unmistakable water plumes of shells landing some ways off, well short of the ship, yet Kirov was racing on, right into the range of the distant fire.

  “Rodenko?”

  “The number one surface action group, sir. American destroyers, I read eight ships, and they are fanning out in a line, range 20,000 meters and closing.”

  “20,000 meters?” Karpov’s face reddened with anger. “How did they get so close? Have you been sleeping?” Then to Samsonov he said, “Return fire at once. No missiles. Use the forward deck guns and blow them out of the water.”

  “Aye, sir!” There were only two gun mounts that could bear on the targets given Kirov’s present heading, her bow pointed directly at the enemy destroyers. One was the forward mounted 100mm battery, a single gun that they had first used to drive off the impudent British destroyer Anthony near Jan Mayen. Samsonov activated it, and fed in the initial targeting information. The
second battery was the larger twin 152mm deck gun, with heavier rounds, nearly 6 inches in diameter, and with better range and accuracy. Both batteries began to engage, the crack, crack, crack of their rapid firing guns punctuated by the metallic clatter of the shell casings ejected from the turret. And the fire control computer that guided these rounds was not an oversized Swiss watch, but a fully integrated, state-of-the-art advanced digital computer, many orders of magnitude more powerful than the largely clunky mechanical Mark I system on the American destroyers.

  Within milliseconds the computer had the range and six shells from the 152mm battery soon slammed into the Benson, pounding her with four direct hits on the foredeck and forward battery, destroying the gun there immediately. All the American destroyers replied with their two forward deck guns, outnumbering Kirov’s batteries by sixteen guns to three. The difference was the fire control systems. While the destroyers had yet to come into effective range for a chance at accurate fire, nearly all of Kirov’s rounds were finding targets, smashing into the lightly armored tin-cans as they boldly charged the raging bull before them.

  “Hit on the lead destroyer!” said Samsonov.

  “Good shooting,” Karpov returned. “Put the guns on full automatic. I want those ships chopped to pieces.”

  Benson was hit by two more 152mm rounds, a large explosion amidships shaking the ship when the starboard torpedo mounts went up. Soon there was a raging fire, and thick black smoke. The ship that was first to see and first to fire on Kirov, was also first to die. The fire control system on Kirov responded to a new target command sent by Samsonov, and the gun shifted smoothly, ranged on the next target, and cracked out a series of eight rounds in four tightly controlled two round salvos.

  DD Mayo was hit by six of the eight rounds, the other two near misses given the narrow beam of the ship. The 100mm forward deck gun had also ranged on Kaufman’s flagship, Plunkett, and struck her with three rounds in rapid succession. Jones was next in line, swamped by another eight rounds and set ablaze by Kirov’s radar guided 152mm battery. Then all the American ships seemed to be afire, with thick black smoke coming from every one. They were deliberately making smoke, but Karpov interpreted the sight as evidence his guns were making a swift end of the brash enemy.

  The Captain took up his field glasses, watched a moment longer, then snapped them down, his lips tight, eyes gleaming with a smile. His guns would do the job well enough. All the American destroyers were firing back at him, but they were still short or wide of the mark. One round was a little too close for comfort, and Karpov ordered chaff countermeasures just in case the enemy had a radar set at a wavelength their jamming might not be effectively suppressing. Satisfied that the engagement was bending toward an inevitable result, he turned to Samsonov with new orders. Now he had bigger fish to fry.

  “Mister Samsonov,” he said in a loud clear voice. “Activate the MOS-III missile battery, and enable CSSC module for the number ten missile.”

  Samsonov looked over his shoulder, a surprised look on his face, but when he saw Karpov fishing beneath his sea coat and drawing out his command level key, he realized the Captain was deadly serious. His was not to question, nor to reason why. He executed the order on reflex, announcing his system status in his deep baritone, “Sir, MOS-III battery now active. The number ten silo seals are broken and the missile is enabled. The coded switch set controller is in the ON position, awaiting command level key entry.”

  Karpov looked at Orlov, seeing both fear and hesitation on his face, but he did not delay an instant. It was now or never. He stepped forward into the command information center and sat down at a chair to the right of Samsonov. With a quick motion of his thumb he flipped up the plastic keyhole cover, inserted his key, and turned it firmly to the right. The system went on with an audible tone and Karpov quickly punched a keypad below, entering a five digit code. There were ten squared windows to display the numerals entered, and his heart raced as he hoped that Chief Martinov had indeed carried out his orders. He finished entering the code that he had long ago committed to memory, pressed the activate button, and held his breath, waiting. If the CSSC module had been set to position one as he ordered, his code would be all that was required to activate the missile warhead. If it remained at the default number two setting, another command level key and code would be required now on the adjacent module, but much to his relief the green activation light winked on with a low beep. The warhead was active.

  The Captain exhaled, steadying himself mentally before he stood up. He turned, clasping his arms behind his back. “Mister Rodenko,” he said, “are the enemy surface action groups still bearing on our position?”

  “Sir, the initial group targeted by our Moskit-II barrage has slowed to a speed of ten knots, all other contact groups still advancing at high speed.”

  “Very well…” Karpov gave Orlov one final look, but his chief said nothing. “Mister Samsonov, on my order, and seconded by the order of acting Executive Officer Orlov, I now authorize the use of nuclear weapons and instruct you to target the American task force at position number two on your screen. Ignore the destroyers. I want to strike their main battle fleet. You will launch the MOS-III number ten missile on my command.”

  Samsonov leaned in over his screen, noting the surface action group contact positions clearly labeled one through four, and selecting group number two. “Sir, weapon ready and targeted. Awaiting second confirming order to authorize fire.” Samsonov looked warily at Orlov, seeing the Chief nod his head.

  Orlov hesitated, ever so slightly. He had not counted on this. It was down to him now. If he failed to second the Captain’s order, Samsonov would not fire. What would Karpov do then? One look at Karpov’s face told him the Captain knew this moment was coming; knew it would be Orlov’s choice that would set the missile in motion. Was he being set up for the fall?

  “Orlov?” Karpov pressed him, his eyes widening with the tension of the moment.

  “Very well…” said Orlov in a low voice. “I second the Captain’s order.”

  At that moment the ship’s intercom crackled alive and Doctor Zolkin began speaking to the crew.

  “Fire.” The Captain spoke the word in a calm, level voice. There was no emotion in it, no regret or reluctance, and yet no hint of bravado either. And the word became an order; the order became a reflex; the reflex became a signal; the signal became a missile; the missile became death.

  Chapter 32

  Zero Hour

  Admiral Volsky hastened down the narrow gangway with Fedorov in his wake, and as he passed through work spaces crewmen smiled to see him up and about again, then stood stiffly to attention, their arms snapping up in salute. He passed with a brief salute and “as you were,” his face set and determined. Fedorov was quick to engineering and three men came with an acetylene torch to easily cut off the padlock and set the Admiral free.

  Seconds later the claxon alarm for battle stations jangled over the intercoms into every deck of the ship. A deep horn blared, and Volsky knew what would follow, the rush of missiles being ejected from their vertical launch tubes followed by the roar of the rocket engines igniting to propel the lethal darts on their way. Karpov was at war again on the bridge, and the Admiral quickened his pace, his breath coming fast as he climbed the narrow ladder up to the bridge citadel. Reaching the top he was surprised to see the hatch closed and sealed, a watchman posted there.

  “What is this? Stand aside, mishman.”

  The man stood to attention, saluting.

  “Open that hatch!” The Admiral’s order was sharp and pointed.

  “Sir, the emergency watertight seals have been set from inside the citadel. I cannot open the hatch, sir.”

  Volsky’s eyes flashed, and he immediately thumbed the intercom on the wall. “This is Admiral Volsky, I am standing outside the main hatch. Release the watertight seals and clear this hatch at once.”

  The roar of two more rockets firing split the air. Volsky repeated his command, yet there was
no answer from within. “What are they deaf in there? This is Admiral Volsky. Open this hatch!”

  The wash of static was his only response, and the Admiral quickly surmised what was happening. Karpov had disabled the intercom here as well. The Captain had ordered emergency protocols and sealed off his bridge. If they would not hear his command via the intercom, and the external hatches were most likely sealed off as well. There was only one choice for him now.

  “Those fools,” he said. “You,” he pressed a finger into the mishman’s chest. “Come with me.” The Admiral started down the ladder, his heavy soled shoes thudding on the steps with each hurried footfall. The mishman came behind him, a worried, anxious look on his face when he looked at Fedorov at the bottom. He did not understand what was happening, but orders were orders and this was the Admiral, so he followed.

  Two decks below Volsky heard Karpov’s voice on the ships intercom. “All hands, all hands. This is Captain Karpov speaking. I must inform you Admiral Volsky remains incapacitated, and I have assumed full command of this ship. Stand to action stations! Emergency protocols are now in force. We are engaging a large surface action group of enemy vessels. The enemy is closing on our position and I will defend this ship. I expect every man to do his duty. That is all.”