Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) (11 page)

“What about
Operation Torch. The Americans are about to enter the war in those landings,
scheduled for November 8th. If Rommel manages to push the British back to Suez,
he will still find the American Army behind him in due course. All things
considered, the loss of Malta may make a considerable difference—and certainly
Gibraltar, but I believe the Allies would still persist with the plan for an
invasion at Casablanca, Oran and Algeria, and then drive east.”

“We can
guess and conjecture this all day,” said Karpov. “I do not say you are wrong,
Fedorov, but without Malta or Gibraltar, the Axis forces will easily supply
Rommel with anything he needs, while their own supply lines to Egypt will
stretch thousands of U-boat infested sea miles around the Cape of Good Hope.
Suppose Rommel were to defeat the Americans as well?”

“A
possibility, Captain.”

“Yet how
will we know?” The Admiral put his finger on the real problem. “That is our
dilemma when we talk about decisive interventions. We can never really know
what turn the history will take, and it may darken in ways we have already
seen.”

“I agree,
Admiral,” said Fedorov. “Suppose we leave off this line of argument and think
to our more immediate needs—
survival
. Destroying Malta, Gibraltar or
smashing the Sixth Army would certainly have a dramatic effect on the war, but
haven’t we seen enough death and destruction already on this cruise?”

Zolkin had
been listening to everything intently. He was not a military man, and so did
not entirely grasp the implications of what Karpov and Fedorov were discussing.
Instead he was watching the men, gauging their emotions, and sounding out things
on another level. Now he spoke with a pointed remark that changed the tone of
the argument.

“You have
all been discussing what we might do, what we are capable of doing, and yes,
what the consequences may be in the end, but speak now to what we
should
do…” The implication of some moral element in the decision was obvious. “Yes,
we can smash our way through these ships, and blacken Malta or Gibraltar if we
so decide, but should we? Simply to secure our own lives and fate? How many
will die if we attempt this?”

The sharp
alarm of general quarters came in answer, long and strident in the still air.
Karpov sat up stiffly, his reflex for battle immediately apparent and a new
light in his eyes. “Listen, Zolkin,” he said quickly, a finger pointing to the
scrambling sound of booted feet on the decks above them. “Hear that? This is no
longer a question of what we should do, but what we
must
do. It is
either that, or we go to the bottom of the sea like so many before us.”

“Mister
Fedorov, I think you should get to the command bridge,” said Volsky.

Fedorov was
already up and heading for the hatch but Karpov pulled at him: “Fedorov,” he
said quickly. “You can cross circuit the Klinok SAM system with any other
radar. Rodenko—bypass the damaged systems and target via your primary search
array. After that the missiles can operate on their own!”

Volsky,
nodded and then gave one final order. “Protect the ship, Mister Fedorov. Do
what you must. Rodenko, Tasarov—get moving!”

Part III

Redemption

"
I never worry
about action, but only inaction…
If
you are going through hell, keep going…A pessimist sees the difficulty in every
opportunity; an optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty.”

~ Prime Minister, Sir Winston
Churchill

Chapter 7

By the
time
they reached the
bridge the danger was acute. The younger officers there had picked up a single
airborne contact that seemed to be passing astern, moving on a heading away
from the ship. They watched it for ten minutes before Kalinichev on radar
noticed a group of several planes coming on screen from the south. They were
out over the sea, bypassing the Sicilian mainland and on a heading towards
Kirov
.
They tracked the contact nervously for another ten minutes until, at a 130
miles out, they were convinced it was a threat and sounded battle stations.

Five minutes
later Fedorov and the other senior officers rushed onto the bridge, and Rodenko
assumed his station, immediately cross indexing the Klinok SAM system with their
main Fregat 3D Search Radars as Karpov advised. It took him five minutes to
bypass some damaged circuits and establish a link, and by the time he was ready
to feed fire control data the contact was 80 miles out and closing at 300 miles
per hour. It would reach them in fifteen minutes.

“We can use
the S-300 system at once,” he said. “It has the range to engage now.”

Fedorov
considered his options, wishing he knew more about the contact, but concluding
it was most likely long range fighters or torpedo bombers off Malta. Its course
made it obvious that it was vectoring in on a designated target. The ship was
most likely spotted by the recon aircraft that was dismissed by the junior officers
as no threat. It was obvious that
Kirov
had been spotted again, and was
now targeted for a strike mission, yet he hesitated, realizing that he was now
about to intervene in the history of this battle and possibly kill these planes
and crews when they might have survived and made some significant contribution
to the battle, or even the war at a later time. Volsky’s last words came to him
again,
“Protect the ship, Mister Fedorov. Do what you must…”
He could
engage now with the longer range S-300s, or wait until the planes moved inside forty-five
kilometers to use the medium range system. He did not have long to decide.

“We’ll
wait,” he said at last. They had only forty-seven more S-300s in inventory, and
twice that number of Klinok SA-N-92 missiles. “Activate our Klinok missile
system, Mister Samsonov, and prepare to fire.”

“Battery keyed
and ready,” said Samsonov.

The missiles
were installed both forward and aft on the ship, available in batteries of
eight with one missile firing every three seconds. They were deployed in
vertical silos beneath the deck, and would eject by catapult and decline
towards their aiming point by means of a dynamic gas jet before igniting their
rocket engines.

As he waited,
Fedorov realized he was now judge, jury and executioner sentencing men he could
not see or ever know to death, along with everyone they might ever sire, for all
generations to come. He felt a tremor in his hand as he reached to adjust the
fit of his cap, and when he spoke his voice sounded thin and detached. He knew
now how the Admiral must have felt when he first engaged the British, and also had
a taste of Karpov’s mindset when he stood in command of the battle.

“Fire at forty-five
kilometers.”

“Aye, sir.”

The minutes seemed
to extend interminably and tension elevated as they waited. Rodenko continued
to call out range intervals on the contact, counting down audibly for Samsonov.
At forty-five kilometers Samsonov acted reflexively, dispassionately, even as
he had in previous engagements, and toggled the firing switch for launch. He
was going to fire off a barrage of six missiles, holding the final two in the
battery as a reserve should they be needed.

A claxon
droned and warning lights flashed on the aft deck. Three seconds later the
first missile ejected, declined, and ignited with a roar, streaking away with a
long white exhaust in its wake. The next missile was up and away in seconds,
then the third ejected—when disaster struck.

The dynamic
gas system had been overcharged, the valve adjusted incorrectly, and it fired
too hard and too long. The missile was tipped some forty-five degrees beyond
its correct angle of fire when its rocket motor kicked in. Deployed just
forward of the aft helicopter landing pad, it struck one of the rotors on the
KA-40 there, and was deflected downward even more, careening into the stern of
the ship and exploding right above the Polinom “Horse Tail” sonar system access
panels. The rocket fuel ignited and there was a billowing explosion of flame
and smoke.

As the
fourth missile in the barrage popped up from its deck silo it was caught by the
shock wave and was sent wildly off course when the rocket engine ignited,
smashing into the sea where it fumed like a wild shark in a maddened rage. The
fire quickly enveloped the nose of the KA-40 helo as desperate fire crews
rushed to the scene even while missile five ejected, declined, and safely fired.
As the shock of the explosion rippled through the ship, Samsonov realized
something was seriously wrong and aborted the sixth missile. Now the stern of
the ship was enveloped in an angry fire, and it looked impossible to save the
KA-40. The frantic call came into the bridge, which had no direct view of the
stern given its location forward of the ship’s main mast.

“This is
Engineer Byko—cease fire on the aft deck systems, we have a major fire on deck!
I repeat, cease fire!”

Orlov
heard the warning claxon and call to
arms. He had been sulking in the ready area for the ship’s commando unit,
brooding over his fate and galled by the notion that he was now a common lieutenant
again. Volsky had come to him the previous day and explained what he had
decided, busting him three pegs and stripping him of his rank as Captain. At
the same time he asked him to redeem himself and make the best of the new
assignment. It was obvious to him that he could no longer maintain his post as
Chief of Operations. Now everything he had worked for, and all the bruising and
sweat of his climb up the ladder of command these last five years, was gone. At
least he wasn’t a ranker, he thought. It could have been worse.

Karpov,
he thought. I should have never listened
to that weasel. What was I thinking? He was afraid to do what he wanted on his
own, and so he thought he would find a strong ally in me. Yet I was a fool to
think we could take the ship—no—an idiot! Yes, Severomorsk is gone and power is
now anyone’s for the taking, but the collective of the ship, the ranks of
officers and crew remained intact. I knew the men would follow Volsky. What was
wrong with me? And Karpov, that bastard set me up with his sly arguments and
clever reasons, and I was duped like a schoolboy…If I ever get my hands on that
rat again—

The warning
claxon cut his reverie short and he was immediately on his feet. Men reacted by
reflex, and it was Orlov’s to look about him for anyone not moving to his post
and lash them with the whip of his authority. Yet now
he
was the one
without a post. He had been escorted to Troyak’s unit under guard, and released
to his supervision. These were not the same ordinary crewmen he was so
accustomed to bullying and cajoling with his brawn and bad attitude. They were
highly trained combat veterans—Naval Marines, and Troyak was one of the best in
the fleet. In fact, it was only because Karpov had indicated Troyak was going
to support him that Orlov allowed himself to fall under the Captain’s spell.

He stood there
dumbly for a moment, watching men race to the weapon’s bay to fetch their
rifles and helmets, yet he had not been integrated into the unit yet, and had
no locker of his own. Then he heard the word
fire
, heard the men running
on the decks above, and he instinctively rushed to a ladder to get topside. When
he emerged on the aft deck he was stunned to see it embroiled in a major fire.
Three men were struggling to deploy a fire hose and he turned to see five more
running to the scene and immediately took charge.

“You
men—follow me!” he shouted, and seeing Orlov the men responded at once, in
spite of their surprise that he would even be at large after what they had
heard in the rumors that passed through the ship: that Orlov had tried to take command
with Karpov and was now in the brig.

The former
Chief of the boat was still acting like one, whether or not he held the rank.
He ran towards the KA-40 helo, seeing the fire enveloping the nose of the
craft, and immediately ascertained that it could not be saved. And when the
fire reached the fuel tanks behind the main cabin there would be another
explosion, and even more fire and damage could result. They had to get the helo
off the ship!

“Come on!”
he shouted. “Unlatch the securing cables!”

He was on
his knees, feverishly working to loosen the nearest cable that held the helo in
place on the landing pad. Other men rushed to assist, and Orlov knew they had
to be quick. Already the heat and smoke were terrible, but one man had a pair
of heavy duty cable cutters and, after releasing the two cables they could
reach, Orlov seized the tool, dove beneath the Helo, and strained to extend the
biting jaws of the cutter to sever the last cable. Smoke nearly blinded him and
the heat was awful, singeing his exposed, gloveless hands as he strained with
all his might, shouting with the pain. Thankfully the tool had a hydraulic
assist and the jaws clamped tight with a vicious snap. The last cable had been
cut.

Orlov pushed
himself back from under the helo, realizing the whole thing could explode at
any moment. He staggered to his feet, rubbing his eyes and coughing.
“Push!”
he bellowed, his voice gritty and hoarse.