Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) (12 page)

Five men ran
to help, then seven. They took hold of the chopper wherever they could and
together they strained with all their might, joined by five others, to heave
the aircraft off its landing pad in one mighty lurch. It scudded across the
deck on its wheels, aided by a timely roll of the ship which tilted sharply
over. It was this extra momentum that allowed the men to keep the helo moving
until it crashed violently against the aft starboard gunwale with a hard thud,
nearly lurching off the side, but perched now with one stubby wing grinding on
the handrails.

Orlov had
his big shoulder under the aft tail section, shouting.
“Heave!
Lift it
and push for your lives! Tip it over the side!” The crewmen strained and
exerted themselves mightily, slowly lifting the helicopter’s tail end with
their combined muscle and increasing the angle of its precarious tilt. The main
cabin was now fully afire, and flames were licking at one of the overhead engines.
They managed to move the helo again with one concerted shove and it finally
tipped over the gunwale and reeled down into the sea. Seconds later there was
another booming explosion when the engine fuel hose was licked by fire on the
way down and ignited one of the fuel tanks. They staggered back from the
gunwale and Orlov felt something graze his cheek, a fragment of shrapnel from
the immolated helicopter. The ship shuddered again with the explosion, and
several men were thrown off their feet to the deck, but their effort had saved
Kirov
from even worse damage if the helo had exploded on the landing pad.

Orlov was bent
over, retching the smoke from his throat, his hands burned, face bleeding. He
turned, a look of agonizing pain on his face, that soon gave way to an
expression of relief. They had all come within seconds of losing their lives,
but what in God’s name was happening? What was the ship firing at?

Melville-Jackson
soon knew the answer to that
question. A little over an hour ago a flight briefing aide had rushed into his
squadron ready room at Takali airfield on Malta and he was informed that a
Maryland of 69 Recon Squadron had re-acquired what they believed to be an
Italian cruiser. It was heading northwest this time, away from the planned
convoy route, but Jackson’s 248 Squadron was immediately activated with orders
to fly a strike mission nonetheless. They were to intercept the contact, verify
its identity and take hostile action if they deemed it an enemy ship. Word had
come that elements of several Italian cruiser divisions had left their
Mediterranean bases, and this ship was obviously part of that operation.

Six
Beaufighters were soon aloft and heading northwest in a tight formation through
the Sicilian Narrows as before. This time there were four Mark Is carrying torpedoes,
and two newer Mark VI planes with the latest radar sets. Jackson was in one of
these, and serving as acting flight leader.

They sped north,
slowly closing the distance to the target. The plan was to split into two
sub-flights and converge on the contact from two angles. Stanton would lead a
group of three Mark I Beaus with torpedoes off the starboard side of the ship,
and Jackson would take the last Mark I and the second Mark VI to attack the
port side. The two sub-flight leaders signaled to one another, tightened their
face masks and banked their planes away from one another, their mates following
as planned. The flight split into two groups just as
Kirov
began to spin
up her SAM barrage and fired.

The first two
missiles were up, their integrated radars quickly acquiring the incoming
planes, and both selected targets. When the flight split, they veered left to
seek out, unknowingly, the group of Mark I beaus carrying torpedoes.
Accelerating with their powerful rocket engines, they streaked out and lanced
toward the oncoming planes. Staunton saw something odd in the sky. Blinking and
leaning forward to squint through his cockpit, he first thought it to be a
contrail from another plane rising to meet them. The enemy must have air cover,
he reasoned.

He did not
have long to wait before his mystery was solved. The first missile had acquired
his sub-flight and was boring in. Seconds later he saw what looked like fireworks
in the sky, and with a shuddering explosion a rocket obliterated his wingman to
the right. Shocked, he hit the stick and rolled his plane, just as the second
missile found and destroyed his last wing mate.

“God
almighty!” he breathed as his plane dove for the cover of a low cloud bank.

Off to the
east, it was only missile number five left from the initial planned barrage,
and it was racing towards Melville-Jackson’s group. He suddenly heard a frantic
radio call from Stanton:
“Mayday! Mayday! We’re under attack! Two planes
gone and I’m diving.”

Under
attack? What was Stanton talking about? He immediately craned his neck, looking
this way and that for sign of any enemy fighters. Two planes down? There must
have been a group of long range German fighters, perhaps BF-110s if they were
out this far. That was a twin engine fighter like his own Beaufighter, fast and
dangerous. Then he saw it, the number five missile streaking up through a white
cloud and heading straight for his flight. He passed a moment of shock and
surprise, then instinct took over and he shouted into his mask radio set.

“Roll out,
we’re under attack!”

His two
mates reacted to the command and the sub-flight split in three, each plane
angling off in an evasive maneuver. Jackson saw the awful streak turn suddenly
to follow the plane on his left, and Billings was struck seconds later, his
right wing blown clean off. The Beaufighter was sent cart wheeling down in flames,
and Melville-Jackson gaped at the scene, his eyes quickly scanning the sky for
sign of—of what? What in blazes had hit them? There was no sign of an enemy
plane anywhere to be seen.

Chapter 8

Volsky
heard the missiles firing,
one—two—then he immediately knew that something had gone wrong. His eyes found
Karpov’s when they heard the explosion and felt the ship shudder in response.

“Missile
failure!” Karpov said at once, resisting the urge to leap to his feet and run
to the bridge.

The Admiral
nodded in agreement, his face set, still in obvious pain but now more concerned
for the wellbeing of the ship. What had happened? His damage control officer
Byko would get news to them in time, but he would call the bridge first, then
engineering, and a call to sick bay would not be on his list at the moment. But
Karpov had put his finger on it immediately. The ship had been through a great
deal these last weeks. He should have used the time to finish all the system
checks, particularly on the reactors, as they seemed to be strongly connected
to the strange conditions that moved the ship in time. It still sounded so
impossible, but here they were, firing at something bearing down on the ship
again, and now they had another accident in the mix to complicate matters.

Volsky shook
his head, with both regret and displeasure. “We have been far too sloppy,” he
said. Then they heard the fire alarm and the commotion aft, men running,
shouting, the hiss of a fire hose deploying.

“The aft
missile bank,” said Karpov, listening. “It was probably a misfire, or perhaps
the missile engine exploded. We will know in time. I heard two missiles get off
safely. It was the third.”

The jarring
sound of the alarms sent the Admiral’s head to throbbing even worse. He looked
at his Captain. “Damn you, Karpov,” he breathed. “I
need
you! I need your
experience, your skill at the helm, your battle sense and tactical awareness.
Fedorov is a navigator! He’s never seen combat, or even trained on maneuvers.
But how can I send you up there now, eh? Tell me?”

A much louder
explosion shook the ship now, prompting them to brace themselves.

“What was
that?” said Doctor Zolkin? “Have we been hit?”

“I don’t
think so…” Karpov’s dark eyes seemed to scan the ceiling, as though he was
straining to see through the decks above them to discover what had happened.
“If I know Rodenko, they would fire at about forty-five klicks out. If these
are old planes from the Second World War, then they would not close that distance
so quickly. It must be related to the fire aft. Possibly one of the Helos was
involved—it’s the only thing that makes sense at this point.”

“A KA-40?”
Volsky raised his heavy brows.

“That or the
226 model. What did you have on the pad?”

“I was just
aft for a deck walk before that first attack caught us by surprise. There was a
KA-40 on the pad. The bay doors were shut and the other two helos were below
decks. I hope we haven’t lost it.”

“That
sounded very bad,” Karpov warned.

“Damn, I
wish we could get a Tin Man video feed in here.”

“I’m sorry,
Leonid, but I’m not fond of watching battles,” said Zolkin. “I’m like Byko. He
picks up the pieces, I patch up the men—when I can.” He looked over his shoulder
at the three body bags. “I hope I will not have to fill very many more of those
any time soon.”

“As do I, Dmitri,”
said Volsky, “as do I.”

Karpov
looked down, rubbed the back of his neck, and took a deep breath. “What do you
want me to say, Admiral?” he spoke quickly. “That I was wrong? Of course I was
wrong. I was a fool, and I’ll pay for that mistake, but if you need me, I can
help you now, in any way you order.”

The Admiral
looked at him, then closed his eyes, rubbing his brow, so weary. He wanted
nothing more than to sleep, and Zolkin gave him a concerned look, reaching to
his medical stand and fetching a syringe.

“How can I
send you back, Karpov?” Volsky said sadly.

“I
swear
to you—here and now—that I will serve this ship and obey your orders, or those
of any man you place over me. Send a Marine with me to the bridge if you wish. I
know what I did, and why, and that is over now. I know I deserve nothing but
your contempt, but give me this chance and I will not fail you again—ever.” He
had a pleading expression on his face, eyes wet, lips tight as he held his
emotions in check.

Zolkin was
going to administer a sedative to the Admiral, but he paused, one hand holding
a cotton swab, the other holding the syringe. The admiral opened his eyes and
looked at his Captain.

“Very well,”
he said slowly. “If there is any shred of honor left in you, Karpov, I will
give you this one chance to find it again. Fedorov is young, and yes, he is
inexperienced at sea—particularly in battle. But I must tell you that his
judgment is sound, his insight into what we have gone though exceptional.
Without him I do not think this ship would have survived our last encounter
with the combined British and American fleets. So Fedorov will remain senior
officer in command, and I’ll give him the leg up in rank to make that clear. He
is the one who will order what we
should
do, Doctor Zolkin,” he angled
his head to his old friend now.

“But you,
Karpov, you will do what we
must
do to accomplish his objectives. Assuming
he accepts your presence on the bridge. And one more thing—leave off discussion
of how we might best use our nuclear weapons, please. That question is mine to
decide. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,”
said Karpov penitently. “I will serve as Fedorov’s first officer if you wish,
and support him with all the skill I have. I will state my opinions fairly if
asked, but will not argue the matter in the face of the enemy, or in front of
the other men. And if he gives me an order, I will follow it—I swear it.”

“You are
fortunate to be in sick bay,” said Volsky, with a smile. “That’s a lot of pride
to swallow in one gulp, and you could choke.” He laughed, feeling a great
burden of worry taken from his shoulders.

Karpov
smiled, appreciating the old Admiral in a way he never could before. Now, when
he looked over his shoulder at the man he was before—always resenting Volsky’s
presence and authority over his ship, always scheming out ways to subvert him
and oppose him, he felt nothing but shame. If Volsky gave him this chance, he
could not let the man down—could not let himself down.

“Will the
men accept his, Leonid?” said Zolkin.

“Perhaps,”
said Volsky. “Perhaps not, but they will do their duty nonetheless.” Now he
looked at Karpov, deciding. “This is a good ship, Captain, and a good crew.
They deserve more than our lot now, and it is our job to save them, and
preserve this ship. Very well… As punishment for your actions earlier, and the
willful mutiny you instigated, you are hereby reduce in rank three marks to
Captain Lieutenant. Fedorov I hereby promote one level to Captain of the third rank,
and he and will assume the position of acting Captain of the ship until I can
make a full recovery. You are hereby designated his first officer,
Starpom
,
and immediately assigned to the current watch in that position. You will
proceed to the bridge at once, and yes, I think I
will
send the Marine
guard outside along with you, until you have proven the pledge you have made
here today, to me, and to the other men on this ship.”

Karpov’s
eyes were glassy as he nodded, grateful for the chance the Admiral was giving
him now. “Rely on me to keep my word in this,” he said. “To you and to the
men…”