Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) (14 page)

Orlov sighed,
nodding his head. “Alright, Zolkin. What you say makes more sense than I have
had in my head for a good long while. I’ll mind my manners, and if no one
bothers me there will be no trouble. But don’t ask me to sit at Karpov’s table
just yet, eh?”

“It will be
easy for you to blame Karpov for what you did,” said Zolkin, “but not wise.
Look to yourself, Orlov. Make your peace there first, and if you can do so,
make your peace with the men. They are the ones you really let down. Now they
look to you with some praise in their eyes instead of fear. That has to feel
good for a change, and I hope it may open a new road for you.”

They
had no time to rest on the bridge.
Rodenko’s systems finally reached full range, with good, clear readings in all
directions. His screen was suddenly alight with numerous contacts, on the sea
and in the air. Fedorov interpreted one air contact moving from Sicily towards
Sardinia as the movement of German reserve aircraft to Sardinian airfields for
the major strike on the British convoy that would occur the following day. But
a surface contact to their west, and closing on an apparent intercept course,
was of some concern.

“I don’t
think the Germans are aware of our presence yet,” he said to Karpov. “That
surface contact, however, will be two light Italian cruisers—6 inch guns—and a
couple of destroyers led by Admiral Da Zara. They are fast, and will be able to
shadow us if they sight us. Though I am inclined to believe that they may think
we are friendly at first blush. They were ordered to rendezvous with other
cruiser divisions in this region, and will not expect any enemy ships this far
north of the planned convoy route.”

“Good,” said
Karpov. “May I suggest we run north for a time? We need waste no missiles on
those ships. If they find us and seem hostile, we can just use our deck guns at
superior range to drive them off.”

“I agree,”
said Fedorov. “But their main force is coming from other bases, with  more cruisers
and  destroyers. Two will be heavy cruisers
Bolzano
and
Gorizia
, moving
up from Messina with five more destroyers to join them. They intend to
rendezvous here, he pointed to a map on the clear Plexiglas of his old
navigation station. “The island of Ustica. It’s too bad that they lost their
nerve and were ordered to stand down, this will mean that several of these
ships will be lingering in the Tyrrhenian Sea, instead of heading southwest
away from us. We must be cautious, and ready for the possibility that the
Germans could also spot us at any time.”

The ship was
ordered on a heading just shy of true north and as they came about there was an
audible groan, with some vibration. Karpov noticed it immediately, though
Fedorov was frowning over his notes on Operation Pedestal.

“Did you
hear that?” Karpov asked.

Fedorov
looked up at him, clearly unaware of what had happened. He had been lost in the
history of 1942, oblivious for the moment while he considered how their present
course might best avoid further conflict.

“There was
an odd sound, and some vibration when we turned,” Karpov explained. As if on
cue the comm-link phone rang and Fedorov answered. It was damage chief Byko,
with a little more bad news for them.

“I think
we have some damage below the water line near the starboard propulsion shaft
and rudder,”
he said
,
“possibly from the explosion when they ditched the KA-40. Can you reduce power
so I can put divers overboard. 10 knots would do it.”

Fedorov
looked at his chronometer, calculating mentally. “Very well, Byko. We’ll slow
to 10 knots. Keep me informed.” He looked at Karpov, somewhat concerned. The
last thing they needed now was any loss of speed and maneuverability. If they
were sighted again, by air or sea, and became the object of enemy attention, it
could quickly embroil them in a fight Fedorov dearly hoped to avoid for the moment.

“Byko is a
competent man,” said Karpov to give him heart. “Don’t worry, he’ll have us on
our way in no time.”

Some
miles
to the west the
day faded towards dusk, the skies ripening to amber and rose as the sun fell
lower on the horizon. Aboard the battleship HMS
Nelson
, Vice Admiral
Edward Neville Syfret stood in overall command of the entire operation, and
principally of the main covering “Force Z.” Off his stern he was followed by
Nelson’s
sister ship, HMS
Rodney
, the core of real naval muscle assigned to the
operation, and more than enough to give the Italian Navy second thoughts about
any sortie as long as these two powerful ships were on the scene.

After an
uneventful passage of the Strait of Gibraltar on the previous day, the
operation began in earnest on the 11th of August, and was soon well informed
that the seas and skies they were sailing into would not be friendly. The loss
of HMS
Eagle
at mid day had been jarring, with 260 men lost in spite of
an outstanding effort made to save the bulk of her crew.

It was a day
of terrible setbacks and thankful consolation. Syfret grimaced at the stinging
loss of the venerable old carrier, along with sixteen much needed aircraft. The
sight of those Seafires sliding off the steeply listing deck as
Eagle
keeled over was still dark in his mind. Yet he took some comfort in the rescue
of over 900 crewmen. The oiling operation for his flock of thirsty destroyers
had also gone off well enough, and he had all of twenty-four of these fast
escorts at hand for this segment of the run. That said, a submarine had still
managed to slip through and hurt them badly, and it gave him worries about what
would lie ahead. This was only the enemy’s outermost screen of undersea boats,
he realized. The odds would be much worse later, when the bulk of his destroyer
escorts would have to turn back with his heavier ships and carriers. Thus far
they had only been bothered by a handful of enemy aircraft, shadowing the
convoy from a safe distance, but this too would change as they drew nearer to
the main enemy airfields on Sardinia and Sicily.

A careful
and experienced man, he knew this was just the opening round of the battle
ahead of them now, and the loss of the
Eagle
was a particularly telling
blow. It was clear that the air and undersea threats would have orders to
strike at his all important carriers as a priority. This was the first time the
Royal Navy had ever operated with five at once, though that distinction was
tragically short-lived now with the loss of
Eagle
.

Born in Cape
Town South Africa in 1889, Syfret’s career saw him hopping from battleship
Rodney
,
to command of a cruiser squadron and now a post at Gibraltar’s Force H. He had
seen the fire and steel required to push through to Malta on previous convoys,
and had no doubts about the difficulties ahead of them now. He had pushed 15 of
16 merchant ships safely through to Malta earlier while commanding HMS
Edinburgh
,
a record that had not gone unnoticed at the Admiralty.

Tonight may
be our last breath of calm for a while, he thought as he removed his admiral’s
cap and ran a hand through his fine wavy grey hair. Tall and trim, his face was
lean and serious, his eyes harboring the wisdom of many decades at sea, in both
good times and bad. It was going to get rather gritty, he thought, but grit was
one element of his character that was never found wanting. He had sat at
Churchill’s right hand as his secretary when the redoubtable Prime Minister had
served as First Sea Lord, and was soon sent back to real active service when
the war came.

Now he led two
of the Royal Navy’s biggest battleships, 38,000 ton behemoths when fully
loaded, with nine 16 inch guns each and a bristle of medium batteries and anti
aircraft guns as well. It was just as he preferred it—to be at sea on a ship
with some good brawn and armor, and the guns to sail where she pleased. There
was only one segment of the run in to Malta that he would have to forsake this
time out—the Sicilian Narrows—infested with U-boats and peppered with mines,
the two ponderous battleships would not have the sea room they needed to sail
on through the narrow gap in the Skerki Bank, a jagged series of limestone
reefs at the mouth of those narrows. They would cover the convoy as far as the bank,
and then turn back while lighter and more maneuverable cruisers under Vice
Admiral Burrough took on the duty of final escort to Malta with Force X.

It was
already time to deploy the paravanes, and he was watching the crews rigging the
lines to the bow, his gaze reaching down
Nelson’s
broad gun laden
foredeck to the tip of the ship. Two paravanes would be deployed on each side
of all the larger ships as night gathered its shadows before them. These were a
kind of underwater glider, the general shape and appearance of a winged
torpedo, yet shorter, and with stubby foils and a tail designed to maneuver it
in the water. They would be towed by a heavy cable rigged to the ship’s bow,
and the wings would serve to keep the paravane well away from the hull as it
trailed out to the side of the big ship. Their intent was to ensnare the
anchoring cables of hidden mines, and by so doing it would break those lines
and send the mines bobbing up to the surface where they could be spotted and
detonated by machine gun fire.

The game had
begun, he mused. No, not a game, but a grueling run of the gauntlet. Would they
win through this time? He remembered his final urgent instructions to the
convoy masters on his last run in to Malta at night…
“Don’t make smoke or
show any lights. Keep good station. Don’t straggle. If your ship is damaged
keep her going at the best possible speed…”
How many of the fourteen
precious merchantmen would get through this time?

At 16:34
hrs a message came through from Flag Officer North Atlantic that was not
unexpected. It warned of an imminent attack by enemy torpedo bombers, and the British
fighters were soon scrambling from the decks of their remaining carrier escorts,
Indomitible
and
Victorious
, and climbing up into the salmon sky.
When they came, the German Ju88s swooped low on the deck but were well harried
by the fighters, who broke up their sub-flights and sent at least three into
the water. Syfret gave the order to commence firing and the line of cruisers
and battleships began filling the gloaming skies with puffs of broiling fire
and grey smoke, laced with white tracers from the Bofors AA guns. He reckoned
this to be nothing more than a probing attack, some thirty to 36 planes from
the look of it. They would get much worse in the days ahead.

Now…what was
this last bit in that signal warning:
“Malta reports large enemy ship
sighted very near Sicilian Narrows. Sortie by this and enemy cruiser squadrons
deemed very possible.”

Large enemy
ship? A battleship? Couldn’t they be more specific?

Kapitän
Helmut Rosenbaum of U-73 received the
message from Untermittlemeer Squadron headquarters at La Spezia with real
satisfaction.
“Congratulations in order for our newest recipient of the
Knight’s cross.”
All he had to do now was stay alive to collect his medal,
and he was glad that he could soon make use of his new radar sets once he got
clear of the main enemy convoy and found some open water.

U-73 was a
very special boat, one of a very few to have the FuMO61 “Hohentwiel” radar
installed. Named for a fortress constructed at the top of an extinct volcano in
the year 914 by Burchard III, then Duke of Swabia, it became one of the most
powerful fortresses in the duchy, and a watchful outpost on the mountain passes
in the Baden-Wurttemburg region of Germany. The radar was perched atop the
starboard side of the U-boat’s conning tower, scanning the area around the boat
while she was surfaced to keep watch for enemy aircraft and surface units.

Her Kapitän
and commander, Helmut Rosenbaum, had put her to good use on seven sorties,
sinking six merchant ships and causing the loss of two the smaller vessels that
were being transported on one of these targets. The crew wanted to credit him
with eight ships sunk for the feat, but he was reluctant to count those last
two as kills.

“No boys,”
he told them. “I’m counting it at six, so now we go hunting for our lucky
number seven.” Most of his kills were obtained while operating out of St.
Nazaire and Lorient on the Brittany coast, but on one occasion the boat was
deep in the Atlantic operating with the Grönland Wolfpack when she sighted a very
odd looking warship that seemed to be the focus of a major operation. Rosenbaum
had no intelligence indicating that the enemy was running any convoy at that
time, so what was underway here in the icy North Atlantic, he wondered? He knew
there were no German surface raiders out to sea at that time, but here was a
warship of considerable size, with a lot of Royal Navy units thrashing about in
pursuit.

He peered
through his periscope, noting how ominous and threatening her profile was, but
perplexed by the lack of any big guns on the ship. Concluding that this must be
an old British battleship that had been stripped of her guns and put to sea for
maneuvers and drills, he decided to spoil the party and put the ship on the
bottom of the sea. The ship accommodated him by sailing right into firing
position as he hovered in the silent cold waters, and was preparing to set
loose one of his last torpedoes when he suddenly saw the ship put on an amazing
burst of speed and veer hard into a high speed evasive turn! He realized at
once what had happened. One of the other boats in the wolfpack had seen the
ship as well, and fired, probably U-563 operating on his right under Klaus
Bargsten.