Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) (22 page)

“There,” he
pointed to a weapon system on the starboard side of the ship. “There is one on
the bow as well. Think of it as a rocket launcher we can use against undersea
threats.” The unit did, in fact, look a bit like the old German nebelwerfers of
WWII, with ten rocket tubes, five on each side in a semicircle arc. It was derived
from the British use of the “Hedgehog,” which was a kind of seaborne mortar
system that could fire a pattern of twenty-four explosives out in front of an
advancing ship. Russia’s modern day equivalent could range out to 3 kilometers
with salvos of rockets bearing 300mm warheads. Karpov aimed them much closer to
the ship, trying to saturate areas where Tasarov’s sonar detected heaver
concentrations of mines. Minutes later the sea ahead in the windy channel
seemed to erupt with explosions and geysers of white frothing seawater as the first
salvos landed.
Kirov
was literally trying to blast her way through the
minefields, slowing to five knots now as the ship slowly advanced through the
turbulent waters.

They fired
three salvos at varying ranges ahead, using UDAV batteries on both sides of the
ship, and the large secondary explosions told them their plan was working. Some
of the mines were packed with up to 1000 kilograms of explosive material, and
the concussion shook the ship, sometimes setting off other mines rigged to
explode via pressure or sound. They would fire a salvo, wait while Tasarov
reacquired new contacts with his active ranging sonar, then fire again. To any
landward observer, it looked as if the big battlecruiser was at war with the
sea itself.

Soldiers of
the 4th Coastal Defense Brigade stationed at Piazza La Maddalena and the
northern coast of Sardinia gaped at the sight of the big ship out in the
channel. If the British had such vessels, the war was lost for certain, some
said. Others shook their fist at
Kirov’s
grey silhouette and claimed
that the Navy would soon arrive to deal with this ship. The intruder had batted
aside the light 795 ton
torpediniera
, but the 7th Cruiser Division was
still coming up fast now, it’s lead elements just thirty kilometers from the
scene with the heavy cruiser
Trieste
, light cruiser
Muzio Attendolo
and three destroyers. Behind them came heavy cruisers
Goriza
and
Bolzano
with three more destroyers, and the two groups were now coordinating their
course and speed to join as one mailed fist and attack together.

Rodenko had
a good fix on them with his long range radars, but Fedorov decided not to use
any of the ship’s precious anti-ship missiles, thinking they could push on
through the Bonifacio Strait and out into the Mediterranean Sea beyond in
another hour, and he did not think the pursuing ships would follow. He thought
there would be nothing to oppose them at that point, and they might sail for
the Balearic Islands as planned with only occasional observation by
reconnaissance planes… But he was wrong again. As they reached the center of
the channel, a new contact was sighted, not behind them in hot pursuit, but
ahead
of them, steaming towards the western exit of the Bonifacio Strait.

Commando
Supremo
had sprung
its well planned trap.

Chapter 15

“Sighting
ahead,
sir. Surface
contact. Five units at a range of twenty-five kilometers. Speed twenty knots,
increasing, and closing on our position!”

Fedorov was
surprised to hear this, coming quickly to Rodenko’s side to look at his screen.
“Five units?”

“It was
apparently hugging the coast of Corsica, and masked by this landform.” He was
pointing at the coastal signal returns, outlining the southern edge of Capo de
Feno. The land rose steeply there to a height of over 200 meters, and this new
enemy contact had been effectively hidden behind the cape. But what could it be,
Fedorov wondered? There should be no further Italian warships in this sector.
The last remaining threat should be behind them in the steady advance of the
7th Cruiser Division.

“Focus the
Tin Man optronics on that contact and see if we can get an image. Use the
highest resolution possible.” Fedorov needed to know what he was dealing with.
Could this be merchant traffic, or was it a threat? Minutes later he had his
answer in the stalwart silhouettes of two very large warships on the far
horizon. “My god,” he breathed. “Those are battleships!”

“British? Up
here?”

“No…Those
two stacks amidships right behind the main mast …These are Italian—
Littorio
Class ships, but this isn’t possible! All those ships were at Taranto! There is
no way they could have reached this position from that distance, and they
weren’t moved to La Spezia until December of this year.”

“Yes, in the
history you
know
, Fedorov, but apparently things have changed, just like
the early arrival of those cruisers at our backside.” Karpov thumbed over his
shoulder to the wake of the ship as they slowly crept through the straits. Then
they heard the muted but prominent sound of a large detonation and the ship
shuddered.

“What was
that?” said the captain. “Tasarov? Rodenko?”

“I’m
starting to see air contacts over land both north and south,” said Rodenko, “small
flights of three to six planes, and nothing close enough to pose a threat at
the moment. Tasarov had a trace of some undersea movement just before the
explosion, which prompted him to rip off his headset, started by the sudden
sound. The news sent Karpov to a higher pitch.

“Another
submarine? Ready on ASW systems!”

“I don’t
think so, sir. I think it was a moored mine, possibly jarred loose from its
cable by our last UDAV barrage. I don’t think we hit it, but it exploded off
our port side.”

Even as he
finished Fedorov saw bright flashes and billowing smoke obscure the image of
the oncoming ships on the Tin Man display. They were under fire, and this was
not from the small six inch rounds of a light cruiser or shore battery. This time
it was coming from the 15 inch batteries of the lead battleship.

“That is our
main concern now,” he pointed, noting how the big ships were turning, their
dark silhouettes more prominent and threatening with the maneuver. Ahead of
them a fan of three smaller destroyers were churning their way forward to make
a torpedo attack. They heard the whine of oncoming shells, and a deep whoosh as
the first rounds swooped well over the ship and plunged into the channel behind
them. Fedorov realized that at five knots they were now an easy target.

“Very well,”
said Karpov, folding his arms. “We’ll pepper them with our deck guns as before.”

“That’s
won’t be enough,” said Fedorov quickly. “These are battleships, Karpov. Those
rounds they just flung over our main mast were from the most powerful 15 inch
guns ever mounted on a naval ship. Don’t underestimate them, Captain.” His tone
warned of danger, his eyes carrying the seriousness of the moment. The ship was
now in grave danger—a situation he had never thought to encounter. “They have 350mm
belt armor and our 152 mm guns will not penetrate that,” he continued. “Their
main gun turrets are equally well protected. They will be able to stand with us
in a gun fight indefinitely if they have the will to do so, and the constricted
water here gives us no room for maneuver. I hope you understand what would
happen if we were to take just one serious hit from a fifteen inch gun!”

“Then we
will use the Moskit-IIs, as we did with the British.”

“Yes, but
you will need multiple hits to really harm these ships.”

He shook his
head, feeling that the history had played a cruel trick on him—but then again,
he realized the very presence of
Kirov
, here and now, was a bald offense
to this moment in time. They had already seen the catastrophic consequences of
their actions on the future, the dark charred ruins of coastal cities still
haunting them all. He realized now that the history of this period was also
beginning to warp into a new shape. These battleships should not be here. For reasons
he could not fathom, decisions had been made to move them to La Spezia three
months early—three months…

In a flash
he realized that the course of events must have changed by the early entry of
the Americans in the war!
Kirov
had tempted fate and created an incident
equal to the Pearl Harbor attack with that desperate engagement in the cold
North Atlantic. The effects of that incident had apparently rippled through
time, subtly altering the course of events. Much of the history was still
running true, even down to things like specific attacks on individual ships, such
as the loss of HMS
Eagle
. Far to the south the machinations of war were
still grinding along in the attacks on Operation Pedestal. But
Kirov’s
presence had caused a violent and increasingly escalating reaction by Regia
Marina.

He shrugged,
his hopes for a speedy transit here fading with each second. The safe waters he
thought to find as they exited the strait were guarded by these two formidable
ships, and now they were in a fight for their lives.

“Samsonov,
activate Moskit-II system and spin up a full battery.” Karpov turned to the
young ex-navigator. “Shall I engage?”

There was no
other way, thought Fedorov. Their only other course was either surrender or
possible death. They were nearly through the channel, but still making only
five knots. The range had fallen to 23 kilometers in just these few minutes and
already he could hear the distant rumble of thunder as the big Italian ships
fired their second salvo. They were obviously receiving position reports on his
ship from observers on shore. The incoming roar of the shells was much louder, though
the shots still fell in a widely dispersed pattern.

In one last
agonizing minute Fedorov let his precious history go, let fate and
responsibility for generations yet to come slip from his weary shoulders.
Instead he embraced the most basic instinct for self preservation. Survival!

“Helm, ahead
two thirds!” They were sitting ducks in the channel and he had to put on speed
at once, in spite of the threat from the minefields. “Mister Karpov,” he said,
a deflated look on his face. “Engage at once!”

“Samsonov—fire!”
Karpov ordered, and with a flick of a switch the missile launch warning
sounded. The forward deck hatches sprung open and up leapt the sea sharks,
sleek, deadly missiles, their gas jets precisely declining their sharp tips in
the gleaming sun and the roar of their engines answering the distant boom of
thunder ahead.

Aboard
battleship
Veneto
Admiral
Iachino squinted at the distant contact through his field glasses, a smile
edging his lips. Regia Marina had been correct after all. Word that a fast
British battlecruiser was at large in the Tyrrhenian Sea had set the telephone
wires ablaze for the last twenty-four hours, particularly after Da Zara’s ill
fated sortie from Cagliari. Admiral Bergamini had pleaded with him to send out
stronger forces, and join the 7th Cruiser Squadron in the hunt for this ship. Fuel
was low, but the target invitingly close, and the northern squadron had been recently
reinforced by the transfer of
Veneto
and
Littorio
from Taranto.
Iachino decided on one more sortie. He had faced the British three times in the
war, giving as good as he got from them, though many whispered that he had made
mistakes at Cape Matapan that cost Regia Marina a much needed victory.

This time,
he thought, the
British
have made a mistake. Da Zara’s small force had
been pummeled by the enemy, but now he sailed with his flag aboard
Vittorio Veneto
,
one of Italy’s newest ships, and her sister ship
Littorio
followed in
his wake. If this was a British battlecruiser the odds looked very good for him
now. He had been receiving radio reports of the enemy’s position and speed for
some time while his battleships worked their way down the western coast of
Corsica, hidden by the prominent massif of Capo de Feno.

Reports soon
came to him that the British ship had engaged shore batteries near La Maddalena
and was now attempting to run the Bonifacio Strait. They had been firing an odd
weapon system, churning up the waters around the ship to try and force a
passage through the well laid minefields there. Rounding the cape with his
battle force he was pleased to finally catch a glimpse of the ship’s high main
mast gleaming in the morning sun on the far horizon. He gave the order to
increase speed to twenty-five knots and come right fifteen degrees so he could
bring all his turrets to bear in an attempt to cross the enemy’s T as it
emerged from the strait. It was a sound maneuver, as the British ship was now
committed to a westerly heading where it would have to run true for some time.
If the enemy adjusted their course southwest to run parallel to his own, the
ship would be forced into the Gulf of Asinara where the restricted waters near
Capo del Falcone would again prove a major obstacle.

No, he
thought. They will have to run due west and try to get up around Punta Caprara,
the northernmost cape of the island of Asinara. If he aimed his own task force
for that very same island, he would cut them off and cross the enemy’s T.
Already his opening salvo had announced his presence and thrown down the
challenge to this upstart British intruder. And when I finish with you, he
thought as he watched the ship take shape and form on the horizon, then perhaps
I will run down and rain hell on this convoy to the south as well.