Crescendo Of Doom (36 page)

That was interesting. Admiralty seemed to have some urgent business for the old lady, so he dug a little deeper. Rodney had been rushed home, then managed to blunder into a small ASW trawler,
Topaze,
off the mouth of the Clyde. She had sustained little damage, but the
Topaze
was a total loss, along with her entire crew of eighteen men. That will be weighing on the big Scot, thought Tovey.

He was referring to Captain Frederick Dalrymple-Hamilton, assigned to that ship at the moment, and a big Scot he was indeed. He had been nursing
Rodney
along, as all capital ships had been pulling extended duty given these trying circumstances. But
Rodney
was having a number of problems with her turbines, and her boilers were also badly in need of an overhaul. He had assumed that the Admiralty pulled the ship from duty with Force H precisely for those reasons, but now he learned there was something more.

Rodney is to proceed to Scapa Flow with dispatch and prepare to take shipment as per private order.
Take shipment? Most likely the boiler tubes for this overhaul, thought Tovey. They’ll probably have the damn things stacked all over the deck. But he soon learned that that private order was officially “King’s business,” and that made it very much more than a maintenance issue. Tovey also knew enough to realize the mission, whatever it was, would be given a very high priority. Only the urgency imposed by unexpected enemy action might alter the ship’s intended course now, so there was no hope wrangling
Rodney
away for use by Somerville. He would just have to stick to his previous plan, and send Force H the two battlecruisers,
Renown
and
Repulse
. In the meantime, he had more than enough to worry about getting
Invincible
safely out west, and into the Atlantic.

As he was thinking this, the alarm sounded and he immediately knew they would soon be under threat of air attack. It was to be expected, he realized. We’re heading for the Sicilian Narrows now, and it is about time the Eye-Ties did something about it. Let us hope they aren’t to ardent today.

Chapter 32

Rodenko
was the bringer of bad news that day, as
Kirov
approached the Island of Pantelleria near dusk on May 3. He had been hovering near his familiar post when the radar operator saw the contacts emerging. One was a small group up from airfields on the island itself, the second much larger, a storm of crows gathering off the coast of Sicily.

“Con, radar contacts, bearing 085, range 200 kilometers. I’m reading fifty aircraft inbound at about 300kph.”

Admiral Volsky was on the bridge, but he turned to his Captain now, a glint in his eye. “What do you expect, Mister Fedorov?”

“Most likely Italian medium bombers, sir. I would guess these are SM-79s out of fields near Catania. If I’m correct, this will become a low altitude torpedo attack.”

“We have faced these planes twice before.”

“Yes sir, and with good results. I suppose that goes for any aircraft of this era. It is only a question of how many missiles we wish to trade for enemy planes.”

“Fedorov, you will fight this engagement. You have been trying to be a Marine Captain of late. It is time you take your proper role as Captain of the battlecruiser
Kirov
.”

“Very well sir. Mister Samsonov, sound air alert one. State current SAM inventory, if you please.”

“Sir, air alert one. My board reads fourteen S-400 long range SAMs, sixty-two Klinok medium range, and fifty missiles remaining on the close in Kashtan system.”

“Mister Nikolin, please signal
Argos Fire.
Tell them we are going to fire a barrage of 12 medium range missiles at the 80 kilometer mark to see if we can discourage this strike wave. Ask if they plan to engage.”

Nikolin soon had a message back that they were standing ready on their Aster-15 system to take up fleet defense at the 30 kilometer range mark.

“Very well,” said Fedorov. “Mark your targets and you may engage at the appropriate range, Samsonov. Let’s see how much stomach they have for a fight here. I’m assuming they now see our sortie as an attempt to interdict shipping in the Sicilian narrows. At this point, I cannot imagine they expect us to run the straits. Rodenko, what about those planes over Pantelleria?”

“A small formation, sir. Five contacts.”

“Most likely fighters on a reconnaissance sweep. They may want a better look at what they are facing.” Fedorov then realized that he had failed to inform Admiral Tovey on the
Invincible
. They were steaming in
Kirov’s
wake, about a thousand meters off the stern quarter.

“Tovey will not be aware that we are presently under attack. Mister Nikolin, please inform HMS
Invincible
of this impending action.” He then turned to Admiral Volsky and asked if he had any further recommendations.

“No Captain, I believe you have the situation well in hand. Please proceed as planned.”

Fedorov’s guess as to what they were facing was fairly accurate. There was a formation of thirty SM-79 Sparrowhawks up that day, the old tri-engine “hunchbacks” they had faced so long ago in the Tyrrhenian Sea. With them was another tri-engine plane, a flight of twenty CANT-Z 1007
Alcione
“Kingfisher” medium bombers, each carrying two 1800 pound torpedoes, as were the SM-79s. This meant that a hundred enemy torpedoes were now inbound. Some traveled at 40 knots, and would have a range of about 3000 meters, which was going to mean an attack would require the pilots to come within Gatling gun range to have any chance of a hit—those that survived the missile gauntlet.

The Kingfishers were carrying something different, a new Italian slow speed torpedo that had a very long range of about 15,000 meters. It was also deployed in a novel way, dropped by parachute into the sea near the target, whereupon it would begin circling like a shark, hoping to blunder into an enemy ship. This unaimed weapon was developed for use against enemy convoys, and was about to get its first wartime test. As the attack came in, the Kingfishers planned to break off, and fly to a position well ahead of the British ships to deploy their school of fish. At the same time, the Sparrowhawks would make a high speed, low level attack from the east, where they could see the targets silhouetted by the setting sun, and remain difficult to spot in the gloaming shadows of dusk.

But all this assumed that their defenders needed human eyes to see and target the incoming threat, which was also wrong. And the Kingfishers assumed they would be safely out of flak range when they deployed their weapons, which was also not the case. The Italian pilots were not expecting any flak threat for some time. Many were new, sent down from the mainland in recent weeks to flesh out the squadrons. They had been warned by their mates about the guided rockets that had so devastated earlier attacks against the British fleet, but most had not seen this happen, and would therefore have to endure the initial shock and horror of the SAM attack.

Volsky was watching Fedorov closely. The young man seemed to be well in charge of the situation, and he had become a very good officer in his brief, yet trying, time as Captain. Yet he had come to know Fedorov very well in these many long months, and he could also see that something was troubling him. He was covering it well, but it was there, just beneath the surface of his self-imposed calm. He eased over to his Captain, leaning his way and speaking in a quiet tone of voice, so the other members of the crew would not hear them.

“Something troubling you, Mister Fedorov?”

“Sir?” Fedorov did not quite know what was eating at him, but now he realized that it must be obvious if Volsky had seen it so plainly. He said the obvious thing, telling Volsky that he never really felt at ease in a combat situation.

“Ah,” said Volsky. “This is nothing unusual, Fedorov. I have over 30 years at sea, and I still get that twinge of anxiety when the missiles fly. It is not only the risk to the ship and crew. Lord knows we have seen some most unexpected things happen in battle of late. Half the time we end up somewhere else when things settle down.”

Fedorov gave him a thin smile. “I think we’ll be staying put this time, sir. But in some ways, that is what is bothering me.”

“Oh? Tell me.”

“Staying put. Dobrynin has removed those new control rods and put them in rad-safe containers. Rod-25 is still aboard
Kazan
, and I do not think we will be setting off a special warhead in this scenario. So I think we’ll stay put. Yet it is already May, Admiral. Now we have less than 60 days to spend here before we face that big, unanswered question.”

“I see… So you are worried about this paradox business again, and thinking we must be somewhere else come July 28.”

Fedorov nodded, glancing at Rodenko, who seemed absorbed with his radarman at the moment. Samsonov was receiving his targeting data, and keying his missiles to specific planes in the formation to make sure each missile found a unique target. In doing so, he was the unseen hand of death, passing casual and thoughtless judgment on the men now flying those planes, not knowing their fate was being decided by a tap of his finger on the digital display. He tapped away, consigning one soul after another to oblivion, until all twelve missiles were targeted.

“Well,” said Volsky. “Dobrynin can always re-install those control rods. For that matter, we could also try to move again the same way we got here.
Kazan
could hover right beneath us and use Rod-25.”

“I’ve considered that,” said Fedorov.

“But yet you take no comfort from those alternatives. You remain uncertain. Yes?”

“I do, sir. We already know that one of those two new rods moved us in space. It was able to take us slightly out of phase, but did not really open a breach in time. Yes, we vanished, but then re-appeared in this same time period. I think it was only the earth’s rotation during that interval that saw us manifest in a different location. And as for Rod-25, I’m worried about what Dobrynin tells me. He says that it is showing signs of wear and soon may reach a point where he would normally remove it from service for disposal.”

“Just like all the rest of us,” said Volsky. “Captains and Kings, Admirals and Emperors, we all get old one day, and then the world will find a way to dispose of us as well.”

That remark hit a deeper vein in Fedorov than Volsky may have intended. He had hoped to lighten the mood a bit, with the self-deprecating humor he often used, bemoaning the extra weight he carried in later years, the labor of getting up ship’s ladders and stairs, the inevitable loss of vitality that came with age. But Fedorov heard something more there, and it finally hit the real nub of the worry within him.

“There is one more alternative,” he said quietly.

Volsky gave him a long look, almost as if he was trying to read the other man’s thoughts. “What now, Fedorov, another of your mysterious plans? What alternative?”

“No sir… It won’t be my doing. The third alternative would be the hand of fate, and I guess that is why I feel somewhat anxious now. Yes, we have the missiles to defend ourselves here, but there is one other way we could leave this time period before July 28th, and it is not very pleasant to consider.”

“The hand of fate? I see what you are getting at now. You are thinking our luck may run out one day. Well, I am the first to admit that I worry about that as well. Yes, every time we go into battle like this. There have been numerous close calls, and the sight of those big shells hitting the water near us is enough to give any man at sea the cold chill of death. The British were good, were they not? They were good enough to force Karpov to use a special warhead. And as for the Japanese, every time I walk past the battle bridge aft, I realize how close we came to that moment you fear. Every time I see that fresh paint over the scars of battle on this ship, I wonder about it. Yes, we have been very lucky. We have been at large here for a good long while, with the power to have our way, to go where we please and do what we like. Those men out there on the planes heading our way do not know what is about to befall them, and the odds are heavily in our favor that we will prevail here easily enough. Still… that gives me no solace, and this is what is really bothering you. Yes? You are thinking our lease is running out here, and that if we cannot reach into our bag of tricks and find a way to move the ship safely somewhere else, that Mother Time will have no recourse but to take the matter into her own hands.”

Fedorov nodded, for this was truly the heart of his worry. “Yes sir, you have scored a direct hit. That is what I’m concerned about, because that may be all it would take to finish us, and make certain we are not in the way to create this insoluble paradox come late July. So yes, when we go into battle like this, I feel that nerve pulse somewhere inside—a little fear and anxiety is normal, but this is something more. The thought that our doom may be inevitable is most unsettling.”

“So you are thinking one of these planes may get through our defenses here? While that may be possible, I do not think it is likely. If need be we could destroy each and every contact well before they get into firing range. You said yourself that this will most likely be a low level torpedo attack, and the weapons of this day do not have a very long range.”

“They will have to get inside 3000 meters,” said Fedorov, the reflexive retrieval of that fact a small comfort to them both.

“Well then,” said Volsky with an air of finality. “This is really nothing special at all. The day you stop feeling that twist in your chest when you go into combat, is the day you should really be worried. Fight your battle, Mister Fedorov. We do what we must, and leave the rest to time and fate.”

Samsonov was ready for action, and this time
Kirov
would not be sorely tested, though the killing gave Fedorov little comfort. When the missiles came, the more experienced squadron leaders called out for their sub-flights to dive to attack elevation, hoping to evade the high flying rockets, but to no avail. The fiery lances swooped and dived, falling on the formation of SM-79s and lighting up the horizon with bright red-yellow explosions, each one the death of one plane and its unlucky crew, the souls tapped by Samsonov as he heedlessly made his target selections. Shocked by the attack, the Italian pilots craned their necks, thinking they may have miscalculated the range and flown right over an enemy ship. Others knew better, having seen the missile contrails that led back over the horizon. Yet knowing where the attackers were imparted no advantage to them. The fact remained that they would be seen, targeted, and killed long before they ever would get the chance to do the same to their enemy.