Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) (40 page)

From
Kirov’s
perspective the scale and violence of
the explosions seemed decisive. Karpov folded his arms, satisfied that he had
smashed their enemy, and that the ship would now be free to sail on, but he was
wrong. He was looking at Fedorov, a smile on his face when he caught the young
Captain’s eye, and just as he was about to crow they heard yet another
explosive salvo fire in the distance. Karpov thought it was a secondary
explosion from his missile strike at first, until they heard the dreadful wail
of the shells overhead, mostly long this time, though one fell short, no more
than a thousand meters off their starboard bow.

“Con – Air radar contact. Multiple readings at
one-eight-zero degrees. Range forty kilometers and closing on our position at
200kph. Altitude 15,000.” Rodenko has spotted the squadrons of Albacore II torpedo
bombers off the British carriers. There were nine each from 827 and 831
Squadrons off
Indomitable
, and another twelve with the whole of 832 Squadron
off
Victorious
. A flight of six Sea Harriers from 800 Squadron escorted
them in, some thirty-six planes in all.

“Those will be torpedo bombers,” said Fedorov. “They are
biplanes like the ones we faced earlier. Helm, come hard left twenty degrees.”

“Aye, sir. Coming left full rudder on a heading of
two-six-zero.”

“I can see the carrier task force on radar,” said Rodenko,
looking at Karpov.

“Let’s discourage any further air strikes. Give me one
Moskit-II, Mister Samsonov. Put it in the center of that task force.” He knew
there were three carriers south of him, but did not want to commit three
missiles. Perhaps if he lit a fire on one carrier the others might relent, or
scramble to recover her aircraft, which would disrupt further offensive
operations. It was thinking that failed to consider the measure and mettle of
his opponent, but he soon turned his attention to the Klinok SAM system,
ordering both forward and aft silos activated to deal with the incoming tide of
planes. The 152mm batteries stopped firing, and he clutched his field glasses,
seeing the two smaller British destroyers that had been rushing at them both
burning and nearly swamped.
Ashanti
was listing to port, and
Tartar
was a burning wreck. But he was soon surprised to see four more ships on his
port side. The British had released the hounds.

They want to make a coordinated air/sea torpedo attack, he
knew at once. Four destroyers and thirty six planes! He rushed to Samsonov,
noting the inventory readouts on his missile panel. The missile he had ordered
against the carriers fired and surged away to the south, and the readout on his
Moskit-II inventory now reduced to nine missiles available. He also had eight
more of the slower P-900 cruise missiles and nine more MOS-III Starfire
missiles, blistering fast, yet with slightly smaller warheads.
Kirov
had
just twenty-six ship killers left. He had put three missiles into each of the
British battleships and still he saw their guns booming in the distance, the
range still agonizingly close for a ship accustomed to firing at adversaries up
to a hundred kilometers or more away.

“Fedorov! What is the range of the torpedoes on these ships
and planes?”

“A maximum range of about 11,000 meters, but they will
probably try to fire much closer. Remember the torpedoes will not track us.
They run true as aimed. The destroyers may fire at long range just to harass
us, but I don’t think the planes will fire much beyond three or four thousand
meters.”

That was welcome news to Karpov. His Klinok’s would deal
fiery hell to this air strike, and now he ordered all three 152mm batteries to
engage the destroyers.

Some 15,000 meters to the south, on came the British hound
dogs.
Lookout
was leading the way,
Lightning
just a five hundred
meters off her starboard quarter. Behind them came
Intrepid
and
Matchless.
As Karpov stared at them he had bad memories of those final hectic moments on
the bridge when the American
Desron 7
had come charging in while he
struggled to fire that devastating MOS-III missile with its powerful nuclear
warhead. With a flash he remembered how he had ordered Martinov to also mount a
warhead on the number ten cruise missile as well! Was it still there, he
wondered, or had the missile crews replaced it with a conventional warhead?
That did not matter. He had no missile key around his neck, and he was not the
same man now. Those frantic memories seemed to come to him from another life,
but the heat of battle was on him, and his adrenaline rushed. They had been
engaged for over thirty minutes now, much more time than he thought it would
take to stop the British battle force. He had wanted this fight, and the
British were giving it to him.

“Aircraft descending rapidly,” said Rodenko. “They are
dropping down low and dispersing on a wide front.”

The crack of
Kirov’s
deck guns shuddered in the air,
a sharp head-pounding staccato. Fedorov again maneuvered the ship, even as the
distant battleships blasted yet another salvo. How could they have weathered
those missile hits? The heavy rounds came wailing in, much closer, and then one
fell terribly close off
Kirov
’s port side, exploding in a violent
upheaval of seawater and shaking the ship so hard that he could feel it roll
from the force. The concussion was enough to buckle the hull slightly, but it
did not break. Yet splinters of metal had showered that side of the ship near
the impact, and there were many men down, blood staining their bright yellow
life preservers where they manned their posts.

“Come right, twenty degrees hard!” shouted Fedorov, still
maneuvering the ship in fast evasive turns.
Nelson
had found the range
on them at long last, but
Rodney’s
salvo fell well off their port side.
That was close he thought. That was oh, so very close. Then he heard Karpov
shout the orders to engage the incoming air strike, and
Kirov’s
decks
were soon awash with fuming white smoke as one missile after another popped up
from the decks, like wet barracudas, and then went streaking off to the south.
This time there were no misfires.

Chapter 30

The four
destroyers raced forward, their sharp bows
cutting smartly through the calm seas, their commander’s eyes riveted on the
distant silhouette of the enemy ship ahead.
Lookout
made the grievous
mistake of trying to illuminate their adversary with its searchlights, and was
soon given the primary attention of
Kirov
’s deck guns. The armor
piercing rounds piled into the ship and riddled her with five successive hits
and one near miss. She was burning forward and aft, with two of her four 4.7
inch guns now blazing wrecks.

As the other ships fanned out to set up for their torpedo
runs their crews could hear the distant drone of the Albacore IIs, right on
cue. Then they saw the alarming missile fire from
Kirov
, gaping at the wild
rush of black darts in the sky, driven by fire and steam. The missiles rose and
veered in swift jerking motions, like a school of angry fish seeking prey. And
they found the lumbering Albacores with little difficulty, blasting one after
another from the sky as they descended to make their torpedo runs.

Aboard the destroyer
Intrepid
, Lieutenant Commander Colin
Douglas Maud stood squarely on the bridge, his stout frame and thick black beard
making him look for all the world like an old pirate captain of old. All he
needed was an eye patch and scarf, but instead he wore a woolen black beret
instead of his hat, one hand grasping a long blackthorn walking stick which he
tapped on the deck as they made their torpedo run, almost as if to urge his
ship on just a little faster.

He had joined the Royal Navy in 1921, with two years on the
old
Iron Duke
before eventually coming to serve with the destroyers. He had
killed two U-boats earlier in the war, and was out with several other
destroyers in the hunt for the
Bismarck
, over a year ago. It was his
ship,
Icarus
, that had first come upon the flotsam of HMS
Hood’s
tragic
sinking, ropes rigged on her sides and ready to pull men out of the water, but
they found only three souls alive that day.

He had also been out with Tovey’s fleet a year ago,
screening Home Fleet as it closed on another fast German raider in the North
Atlantic. His was one of two ships that suffered badly when the enemy used
rockets to strike the fleet at long range, and Maud’s luck ran out when his
destroyer,
Icarus
, was struck amidships and sunk. Thankfully, he was
pulled out of the water and saved, but lost many shipmates, and his beloved
bulldog Winnie as well. The loss of his ship was a shock that took some time to
get over, but he recovered, steeled himself, and immediately asked Home Fleet
for another destroyer. They gave him the
Intrepid
.

The Malta convoys had been his lot of late, but this was
something different, and he growled out commands to the bridge crews, full of
pluck and vigor as the ships sped forward. He had seen the rockets that struck
the battleships, his mind frozen with the memory of those awful moments in the
North Atlantic, the terrible explosion and fire, the bone chilling cold when he
went into the sea. Yet this was what a destroyer leader lived for, he thought,
not the slogging drudgery of escort duty, nor even the prowling measured hunt
for enemy U-boats. It was the mad dash he loved most, even if it meant he might
rush again into fire and death. That was the thing that gave its name to these
ships—
Lighting
,
Intrepid
, and as he urged his men on his heart
also burned with the thought that he was now bringing vengeance to the ship
that had taken
Icarus
from him. He would get in close and fire his
torpedoes at the monster, or he would die trying.

“Come on, lads,” he shouted at the torpedomen as they
worked to get the tubes ready on both sides of his ship. “Get yer backs into
it!” He was well lined up on the enemy ship, some 9000 yards out and cruising
at his top speed. By god, this ship was fast! It was running over thirty knots
and his 36 knot destroyer was laboring to close the range. He would have to
come left to lead the ship by a good measure if he was to have any chance of
hitting it, and that would make his ship a fine target when he turned.

Above them the black night was being ripped open with
blazing fireballs and the hideous streaks of the enemy rockets. As he stared at
the enemy ship it seem a seething medusa, with each missile contrail a winding,
hissing snake with venomous death in its fangs.
Lookout
was swamped and
on fire, falling off to their stern,
Lightning
was battered by enemy
gunfire, straddled and hit amidships, where one of her torpedoes exploded,
breaking the ship near in two, yet
Intrepid
plowed on. And when the
enemy guns began to range on him, the first round blackening the forecastle off
the starboard side, he bellowed out the order to fire. He would bloody well get
his torpedoes in the water, come what may.

The other three destroyers had been pounded into submission
by the incredible rate of deadly accurate fire from the enemy deck guns. They
were turning away, some making smoke, others burning so badly that that would
have been a needless afterthought. It was
Intrepid
that still carried
the charge forward the only ship that got her fish into the sea.

Captain Maud watched the torpedoes go, looking to see a
subflight of three Albacores come right up the wakes of the destroyers, roaring
in over the wave tops on his starboard side as they veered to attack. He raised
his blackthorn and shook it at his comrades with a hearty cheer. “Go on and get
the bastard,” he shouted. “Get your bloody teeth in ‘em, boys!”

It was Tom Wales of 827 Squadron and two of his mates. They
had put their planes right on the deck, just feet above the water and came
roaring down the wakes of the four destroyers, shielded by the ships until they
came under that deadly shell fire.

“Stay down real low, and find any cover you can…”
That was what Parsons had told him outside the briefing room.

As
Kirov’s
shells found their marks on the
destroyers, several Klinoks did not see the three Albacores running up behind the
destroyers, and they selected other targets at higher elevation. The planes
veered at the last minute, emerging from behind the ships and roared on past,
like flying fish that had come up from under the sea, their fuselages and wings
wet with spray. It was the most daring thing Maud had ever seen, and he
continued to wave his blackthorn walking stick high overhead, his deep voice
urging the planes on. Then he saw a burst of fire from the dark enemy ahead,
and heard a grinding rattle.

Samsonov had seen the planes at the last minute, so close
now on his targeting radar, and he immediately activated the ship’s close in
defense Gatling guns. There were three guns on each side of the ship, with six
rotating barrels and sinister looking housings that looked like looked like
soldier’s helmets. The barrels whirled and bright fire burst from the guns,
sending a hail of steel toward the oncoming planes. Two were hit, riddled with
shells and careening wildly, end over end, as they hit the water, but Tommy
Wales pulled hard on his torpedo release and he got his fish in the water. Immediately
veering behind the burning mass of
Lightning
just ahead on his left, he
was shielded from the withering fire of the Gatling gun that had targeted his
plane.

He would be the only man that would return from 827
squadron that night. The rest had all been taken by the SAMs. Three of nine men
survived in 831 Squadron. They had pulled their levers early and then dove for
the deck, but their fish were not well aimed and they went wildly astray. 832
Squadron off
Victorious
lost eight of her twelve planes, and only
because
Kirov’s
missiles had broken up the squadron as it descended and
scattered it so badly that the remaining four pilots bugged out. They had never
seen anything like the terrible fireworks this ship had flung at them, and they
hoped they never would again. They had flown bravely threw enemy flak, dodging
the mindless rounds as they puffed and exploded in the sky around them. But
these things came at you as if they knew your name. They were death in a steel
cased shell with wings on it, and frightening beyond belief.