Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) (8 page)

This massive
force had sailed from home waters down to the Bay of Biscay where the carriers
had drilled their planned operations, scrambling fighters and staging fly bys
over the convoy for plane recognition drills. For their own part, the fourteen
ships practiced high speed emergency turns, and movement from the open sea four
column formation to a tighter two column sailing order that they would use in
more constricted waters. They sailed through the Pillars of Hercules, passing
the mighty Rock of Gibraltar on a grey, moonless night enshrouded in fog,
August 10, 1942. The very next day the five carriers went into action, their
new Sea Hurricanes replacing the older Fulmar fighter squadrons to provide air
cover over the convoy. HMS
Furious
was living her third life, rebuilt
from near scrap metal after her harrowing encounter with a strange German
raider a year ago in the North Atlantic and pressed again into service on her
ferry mission, flying off her Spitfires that same day.

All seemed
to be going according to plan in those first hours, until disaster struck the
convoy an hour after mid day on the 11th of August when a stealthy and
experience German U-Boat commander, Kapitän Rosenbaum, slipped past the fitful
escort of destroyers and sent a fan of four torpedoes into HMS
Eagle
.
All the torpedoes hit home in four shuddering explosions, one after another.
The ship was ripped open and water surged into her gutted bowels sending the carrier
into an immediate and unrecoverable list. In the next few minutes men rushed
about for their lives, leaping in to the sea to grasp anything around them that
seemed to float. One man flailed over to a comrade, recognizing his ashen face,
only to find that the man had been ripped in two, his lower torso and legs
sheared off in the initial explosions.

After twelve
successful missions in those same waters, and a long, distinguished career, HMS
Eagle
keeled over and sank in a matter of minutes. Thankfully the bulk
of her crew was saved and plucked from the sea by nearby destroyers. It was the
fifth carrier lost in the war to date by the Royal Navy, and twelve Sea
Hurricanes went into the sea with her, the bulk of 801 Squadron and all four
planes comprising 813 Squadron were lost. Only four planes in her 801 Squadron
survived, as they were already in the air and were able to land on the carrier
Indomitable
.

The plan,
like all plans before it, was beginning to fray right at the outset. It was
hoped that the heavy escorts would guarantee a safe passage at least as far as
Bizerte, but HMS
Eagle
was sunk hundreds of miles to the west, due north
of Algiers. The suddenness and shock of the attack was an awful harbinger of
what was yet to come on this adventure—“Operation Pedestal” as it came to be
called. It told the Admirals and Captains that their enemies were well aware of
their plans and had assembled a considerable force in opposition. Kesselring
boasted that, after recent reinforcements from other theaters, he could fling
upwards of 700 planes at the British fleet. Beyond this there were U-Boats and
Italian Subs in the Med, and near the islets of Pantelleria and Lampedusa, the
Italians also had a hornet’s nest of fast attack torpedo boats to strike at any
ships that made it past Cape Bon at the northernmost tip of Tunisia to begin
the last desperate run for Malta. In those narrow, mine infested waters, a
place where the more powerful British battleships could not go, the small, fast
craft were the ideal defenders.

Yet there
was one other element the Admiralty had not planned for—could never have
planned for, in spite of their harrowing encounter with the same dreadful
raider a year ago—
Kirov
.

Chapter 5

Melville-Jackson
strode through the outer entrance to
the flight officer’s room at Takali airfield on Malta, ready for debriefing,
and with quite a story to relate. Wing Commander David Cartridge was there
along with another pilot out that morning for reconnaissance, George Stanton,
and for this occasion Air Vice Marshall Keith Park, chief of the Malta Air
Defense effort was also waiting when he entered. Jackson saluted crisply and
took his chair.

“Good afternoon
gentlemen,” said Park with an amiable smile. “How’s the new radar kit?”

“Well
enough, sir,” said Stanton, “A bit limited in range but more than suitable for
low level sea search.”

“I must say
we had rather a different experience on our flight,” said Melville-Jackson. “I
made a visual sighting of my target before we ever got a peep on the radar. Thought
my mate was sleeping at first, but he swears his scope was clear until we were
right on top of the damn thing.”

“Ah, yes,”
said Park. “This big Italian cruiser you reported… Latitude 39.00, Longitude 11.16
from your report. Some two hundred miles east of the Cagliari, on a heading of
225 south by southwest.”

“Yes sir.
Came up on it all of a sudden. Odd disturbance in the sea as well. Thought it
was a submarine blowing tanks until I saw the disturbance was much too big, and
the contact as well. It was definitely a warship, sir, though I must say we
haven’t had much of a look at the Italian Navy just yet, so I can’t be more
specific other than to say this was at least a cruiser—most likely a heavy
cruiser at that.”

Park was a
crisp and thorough officer, with a penchant for details and a good
understanding of all the new technology that was impacting the war effort,
particularly the new radar sets. “Well Jackson, you’ve only arrived yesterday
from Coastal Command, and yes I dare say the Italians are not too fond of
sailing that far west, but do have a look at ship silhouettes before you fly
out again this afternoon. The waters in these regions get fairly busy, and
you’ll want to know exactly what you are shooting at next time around.”

For his
part, Park knew well what he was talking about when it came to air operations.
A New Zealander and First World War flying ace, he soon rose through the ranks
to become a commander in the RAF. He was also well versed in naval matters,
having gone to sea at the early age of nineteen on a steamship where he earned
the nickname “skipper.” He later fought at Gallipoli, and the battle of the
Somme where he learned firsthand how valuable good aerial reconnaissance could
be to the outcome of any military conflict. In fact, he had flown old Bristol
fighter recon planes in the First World War, biplanes then, and had many kills
against German fighters for his effort. When the second war came Park was an
air vice Marshal taking part in the defense of London with Number 11 Group, RAF.
He had fought in the skies over the city, and taken part in the planning and
briefing in the Battle of Britain bunker at RAF Uxbridge. After a stint in
Egypt, Malta seemed the perfect place to post a man like Park, for it was enduring
its own daily struggle with the Luftwaffe and his experience fit hand in glove.

“You say you
took gun camera footage of this ship?”

“Yes, sir,”
Jackson replied. “Gave them a taste of my cannon as well. Caught them flat
footed, it seems. They never fired a shot before I was over them and gone. Yet
I thought the better of trying to come round for a second pass after waking
them up. A cruiser that size is a job for the full squadron.”

“Indeed,” said
Park. “Well, we’ll have a good deal to do over in the Ditch these next few
days.” He was referring to the underground cave sites beneath the city of
Valletta where the island’s fighter defense was coordinated. “I was going to
send you out to hit Comiso on Sicily this afternoon. We need to pound their
airfields there as well before things get so hot with this convoy that we’re
thrown completely on the defense. But seeing that you’ve jumped on something
here, we’ll give that mission to 235 Squadron with the Mark I Beaus. You’ve a
couple newer planes in 248 Squadron, and two with these new radar sets. So it
looks like your job will be to hunt north for this contact and ascertain her
position and intentions. Admiralty indicated that the Italians have their 3rd
and 7th Cruiser Divisions operating in the Tyrrhenian Sea, and they will
definitely be up to no good insofar as this convoy is concerned.”

“Right
enough, sir.” Jackson was game for any sortie they would put his name to, and the
four men spent the next several minutes going over the briefing for the Comiso
air strike mission for 235 Squadron before the technicians brought in his gun
camera footage and began to mount it on the projector.

“These other
two gentlemen have had a look or two at Italian cruisers,” said Park. “And I
daresay I’ve a fair amount of experience in the matter as well.” They looked at
the film with interest and, as the footage ran, Park found himself edging
forward, hands clasped behind his back, leaning in slightly to get a better
look. The opening frames were clearer, though the range was farther away and
the contact seemed shrouded in shadow. When Jackson began firing in earnest the
shells sent a wild forest of thin geysers spraying up all around the ship,
which was struck amidships near the main superstructure where a fire soon
started and began to obscure the images with smoke.

“Can you run
that back to the start and hold a few stills?” said Park over his shoulder.
“Yes… There now… Have a look at that gentlemen. What do you make of if, Mr.
Cartridge?”

The wing
commander was quick to reply. “Not an Italian cruiser sir, where are the
stacks?” He pointed at the screen. “That tall mainmast area there where most of
the fire was concentrated—I don't see a stack. It should be about here on most
Italian cruisers, and angled slightly back, with one more smaller stack located
aft. That could be this feature here,” he pointed again, “but this main
superstructure area is all wrong for an Italian ship in my view—at least for
their cruiser designs. And it looks too big, sir.”

“Yes, quite
a monster this one,” said Park. “Look at that shadow on her aft deck. Is that a
float plane? Could it be a battleship?”

“Can't see
much in the way of big guns from this angle. The forward deck seems rather empty,
but these images aren't very clear, sir. Odd shadows and light, and too much
smoke when you get in close.”

“All the
same, I'm glad you took your shot Jackson.” Park folded his arms, a glint in
his eye as it lingered on the images.

“If that's
the case, sir, they’ll need a whole squadron to deal with a battleship—a flight
of six planes at a bare minimum. But I thought fuel shortages are keeping most
of their big ships in port.”

“Yes,
they've been using them to refuel their destroyers and lighter escort ships,
but if they've gotten wind of this operation they may be pulling out all the
stops and sending out heavy units.”

“Doesn’t
sound much like the Italian Navy I know, sir,” said Cartridge. “They’ll fight
when they have to, but more often than not they think twice about that,
particularly if they can’t provide adequate air cover, or if we’ve got heavy
units in the vicinity. For that matter, I can't imagine a battleship would be
there all by itself, sir. It might be a big freighter, but that would surprise
me as well with no escort.”

Park raised
his eyebrows in agreement. “Let’s send this along to Intelligence and see if we
can find this fellow again later today for confirmation. For the moment,
however, I don't think there's much else we can do about it. Good job, Jackson.
You may have put us on to something here. Get some rest and be ready for
another sortie in short order. In the meantime we’ll get a Maryland from 69
Recce Squadron over at Luqa Field to fly reconnaissance and make sure this ship
isn’t heading our way. Carry on, gentlemen.”

Aboard
Kirov
Fedorov was convening his own
briefing in the sick bay with Rodenko, Tasarov and a very woozy Admiral Volsky who
had awakened with a raging headache, just as Zolkin had predicted. He was
stabilized, and the shrapnel wounds had been thankfully minor. Still, he was
not clear headed, and the pain killers Zolkin gave him made him somewhat
drowsy.

Is this what
it is to sit at death’s door, he thought to himself. Memories of that awful
sound of the chattering machine guns, then the sharp bite of metal on metal,
the whine of ricochet, the hot fire of the pain in his leg and side as he
slipped from his perch on the ladder and made that headlong fall. Then he felt
the hard thump on his head, a flash of white light, sharp pain and darkness as
his awareness seemed to collapse inward on itself like a black hole.

Now he
longed for sleep, and just a moment’s rest without the burden of command, but
here was Fedorov, with another impossible story that he must certainly believe.
His voice seemed to echo in his mind, and he struggled to focus his attention. The
young officer had been right at every step in their first encounter in the
dangerous waters of WWII, and there was no reason to believe otherwise now.

“Operation
Pedestal,” he said slowly after his First Officer had finished speaking. “Yes,
I studied this battle in the academy, but that was too long ago to remember the
details. Something tells me you have that well in hand, Mr. Fedorov, and I can
give my aching head a rest. Yes?”

“I have a 50
page paper from the American Naval War College on the campaign, sir. It will
tell us everything we need to know—down to the last details: dates, times,
orders of battle—everything.”