Kirov Saga: Darkest Hour: Altered States - Volume II (Kirov Series) (5 page)

A bell rang three times, and this
time it was Connors finger on the firing pistol, and the guns fired the first
ranging salvo, using only the centermost barrel on each of the three turrets.
If he was close again he had six more rounds ready to fling at the enemy at
once.

* * *

Aboard
Graf Zeppelin
the
air crews had completed the recovery of their strike wing and were now
feverishly working to re-arm and re-fuel the planes on the hanger deck. Marco
Ritter’s Messerschmitt was one of the last to return, his right wing studded
with dings where a
Fulmar
had managed to get a bite out of him. His
sub-flight had managed to break up and harass the
Swordfish
strike from
Illustrious
,
and he labored to note the direction the enemy planes took on their return leg.

“If one of our seaplanes can
swing round and have a good look to the south we may be able to catch their
carriers,” he said to one of his pilots, then he spied the young Hans Rudel
standing by his
Stuka
and smiled. My lucky eighteen, he thought,
striding over to the man and clasping him on the shoulder.

“I saw what you did again this
time, Rudel! Keep it up! Three more hits and you’ll be in line for your first
Knight’s Cross.”

“Thank you, sir. I did my best.”

“Yes, and the British know it!
You put that egg right in the nest, just like the first time. And where is that
stupid Maintenance Chief, eh? He said you could not fly combat missions, but he
can eat those words now. Tonight we’ll drink to success, but for the moment,
maybe you can get one more hit before Lindemann sinks those ships!”

“I’m ready, sir. As soon as they
patch that hole in my tail, we can go out and hurt them again.”

Ritter finished his tin of coffee
and set it down. “Let’s get up to the flight deck. They’ll serve up your plane
in no time.” Together they took the ladder up.

Graf Zeppelin
was a big
ship, over 860 feet in length and 119 feet abeam, the ship displaced as much as
Kirov
would at a full load of over 33,000 tons. 1700 officers and men
crewed the ship, which had sortied
streikschwere,
with a strike-heavy
compliment primarily composed of modified
Stuka
dive bombers. As such,
the ship was configured for an offensive role, instead of loading up with
fighters and playing defense for Lindemann’s fleet. The decision had paid good
dividends, largely due to the discerning eye of Marco Ritter and his discovery
of a top notch pilot in Hans Rudel.

Up on deck Ritter saw they were
already finishing the mounting of two BF-109s on the forward catapults, perched
right near the ship’s bow. Behind them the main hanger deck yawned open, and
the sound of the air crew chiefs shouting orders echoed up from below. High
above them the tall yet graceful curve of the black stovepipe funnel darkened
the sky. The ship was making speed into the wind, ready to launch. Already the
first of the black winged
Stukas
were coming up on the elevator and
being maneuvered aft to their pre launch positions.

Three planes had been lost in the
1st Squadron, two hit by flak and one caught by the British fighter defense.
This left nine there, and two had damage enough to keep them below decks in the
maintenance bays. Seven remaining planes were spotted and ready. The twelve
planes in 2nd Squadron had all made it back, with eight still serviceable and
being armed for action, including Rudel’s plane.

Ritter offered Rudel a cigarette,
but he declined, never indulging in the habit during those rigorous and
challenging years in naval flight training school. All he could think of now was
getting back in his plane and hearing the thrum of the engine as he pulled away
from the deck of the carrier.

The sleek destroyer
Sigfrid
was cruising just off their starboard side, and its brother
Beowulf
was
off the port side, effectively screening the ship’s vitals from any possible
torpedo attack by a lurking submarine. Both ships were new, the
Atlantik
class project that had conspired to build a fast destroyer that could run with
the carrier and have the endurance to stay at sea. Sometimes called
Spähkreuzers
,
or “scout cruisers,” the ships were larger than any other German destroyer,
with a dual propulsion system that used diesel engines for long cruises, and
steam turbines for emergency speed.

The destroyers had six 5.9-inch
guns in three twin turrets, a pair of 88s for high altitude AA defense, and a
lavish battery of eight 37mm flak guns with another eight 20mm caliber. Ten
21-inch torpedoes amidships finished off this impressive weapons suite for a ship
displacing just 5,700 tons. Two depth charge racks were also mounted astern so
the ships could also provide ASW defense. Unfortunately their designers could
provide no defense for the enemy they would soon encounter.

Ritter saw it first, thinking he
was seeing a shooting star, a fast moving light in the hazy ocher sky. A billow
of slate grey clouds drifted across the glowing orb of the low sun, dimming the
light and making the contrast of the fire in the sky more noticeable. It was
high up, then began to fall rapidly, towards the sea.

“Look there, Rudel. Are you sure
all our planes are back?”

He thought it might be a fallen
angel, one of the missing
Stukas
that had managed to get close enough to
the carrier before eventually being forced to ditch. But no plane could move
like that. Seconds later his eyes widened as he saw the light swoop low over
the ocean and then accelerate! Its movement was inherently threatening, as it
came, heading right for the ship, surging in like a hot star thrown down from
the heavens. Then it smashed right into the hull of the Destroyer
Sigfrid
where it was keeping station two hundred yards from the carrier. The resulting
explosion vibrated the air and an angry red fire scored the red twilight. Fire
leapt up in a terrible sheet of flame.

“Mein Gott!” he exclaimed. Then a
massive secondary explosion nearly shook them from their feet, and Rudel heard
the hard chink of metal on metal as fragments of the ravaged destroyer were
flung against the carrier’s hull. He felt a nudge on his foot and looked to see
one small piece of shrapnel had scuffed the toe of his boot. The torpedo mounts
amidships had gone up in the fire, and the destroyer’s back was broken.

Graf Zeppelin
swept on,
leaving the stricken destroyer behind. Ritter looked at Rudel, a stunned
expression on his face. “That demon was meant for us, Rudel! It must have been
a rocket!
Sigfrid
was just in the way. Get to your plane. I’ll be damned
if I’ll get caught on this deck if another comes in.” he eyed the heavens
darkly, as if another star would suddenly shake itself loose from the sable sky
and come hurtling from above, like a javelin cast by a vengeful god.

Ritter threw his cigarette down,
tapped his companion on the shoulder, and ran to the forward catapult, making
for his fighter. Rudel wasted no time either, his feet taking him aft as shouts
of alarm and the signal for air alert resounded through the ship. The growl of
the hydraulics on the elevators seemed more urgent now. They were under attack,
but he could see no ship near them on any horizon save the foundering
Sigfrid
and now destroyer
Beowulf
, which had slowed to render assistance to its
fallen brother.

Stop gawking and get to your
plane, he thought. Ritter is correct! The sooner you get aloft, the better. Yet
even as he had that thought, he wondered if the carrier would still be there
when he returned from this last mission.

Chapter 5

“Something
has gone
amiss,” said Rodenko as he hovered over the radar scope. He pointed to the
screen, noting how the contacts they had been tracking had separated, one
moving on ahead, and two behind.

“Any change of speed or heading?”
asked Fedorov.

“No, I still read the primary
contact as bearing on eighty true, and look, those look to be aircraft now. I
think they are launching.”

“Could our missile have missed or
failed in some way. It’s almost certain they could not have any chance to shoot
it down.”

“No sir, we detected the
detonation. I think we must have hit one of the smaller ships. The contacts
were very close to one another in that formation—so close that we almost read
it as a single contact until I did some signal processing.”

“The carrier was probably being
screened by those destroyers. If that is what happened then we may be too late
to stop them from launching.”

“I’m reading at least seven
aircraft up already, but we can put another missile on them in three minutes.”
Rodenko folded his arms, waiting for a decision.

Admiral Volsky had been listening
from across the Captain’s chair, brooding as he watched the dull red sky. “It
is clear we must have struck one of those destroyers,” he said.

Their plan to disrupt the
carrier’s launch operation had been foiled by the lucky positioning of the
destroyer
Sigfrid
close off the carrier’s starboard side—lucky for
Graf
Zeppelin
, but not for
Sigfrid
, which took the P-900 that was meant
for its bigger brother right amidships, and died an agonizing death.

“We might have used the Vodopad
system,” thought Fedorov. “But we were just not close enough. The range was
well over 200 kilometers from our present position, and the Vodopads max out at
120 klicks.”

“The same result could have
happened, even if we configured it to wake homing mode as you suggested
Fedorov. These weapons make a target selection, and it could have run right up
the wake of one of those screening ships. Remember, our systems were never
designed to fire in isolation at a battlegroup like this. We have always fired
in salvos or three to twenty SSMs, enough to completely saturate a modern
defense and obliterate the target. If that were a modern American carrier we
would have fired with nearly every missile we had. As it stands, one of their
screening units was just hit, and now they must be wondering what happened.”

“Well, we’ve stuck a big stick in
the bee hive,” said Rodenko. “I’m reading another eight planes up—make that ten—seventeen
planes aloft now.”

“Are they bearing southwest to
the scene of the surface action?”

“Not yet, but where else would
they be headed?”

Volsky shrugged. “We tried a
little surprise attack, just like our late Mister Karpov would have advised, but
I think he would have put at least three missiles to this task. We had to be
stingy, and now we got nothing for our trouble, and our missile inventory slips
another notch.”

“This means we will have to
extend our SAM umbrella over the battle zone, sir.” Fedorov knew that would
also have a cost. They wanted to try and be discreet, applying the tremendous
power of their modern weapons incrementally to try and affect the outcome here,
but it was going to take something more. Beyond the missiles they would have to
commit, the visibility of their SAM defense could have unforeseen consequences.

“Mister Samsonov,” Volsky said
quietly. “What is our SAM inventory?”

“Sir, my board reads thirty S-400
Triumf
missiles remaining, and all conversions to full SAM mode have
been completed. On the
Klinok
system we have ninety-eight missiles
ready, and our
Kashtan
system still has fifty missiles available.”

Volsky thought. “Then if we had
to shoot down all those planes Rodenko is now reporting we would use ten
percent of our SAM inventory, but after that I think this German aircraft
carrier will pose no further threat. If, however, we decide to use an SSM now,
it may take several hits to disable that ship, and its planes are already in
the air. Very well, secure SSMs. Extend SAM shield over the battle zone, and
let us hope the British planes are not so eager to return to the action.”

“We may not have to shoot them
all down,” said Fedorov. “And once we let those missiles fly they are going to
turn every head within sighting range.”

“Well, gentlemen,” said Volsky.
“Time for the fireworks.”

* * *

Aboard
Bismarck
,
Lindemann was exhilarated with the excitement of the battle, until he felt the
hard impact of an enemy shell, the sea erupting as a 15-inch round from HMS
Hood
plummeted in to strike the ship’s heavy side armor. Seconds passed, then he
received the call from Oels, who had gone down to his damage control post. The
armor had stopped the shell, and the ship had not been hurt.

“A little higher and we would
have lost one of the secondary batteries, Kapitän. The hit was very close to
one of the 5.7 inch gun magazines, but it did not penetrate our side armor.”

“That is good,” said Lindemann,
smiling. But the Kapitän did not have time to savor his good fortune.
Hood
had found the range, and he immediately altered course ten points to try and
throw the British gunnery off. The message that came next was as puzzling as it
was disconcerting.

“Kapitän—a message from Böhmer on
Graf Zeppelin
. They have come under fire from what appeared to be a
rocket of some kind!”

Lindemann had been too focused on
his firefight with
Hood
, lost in the fire and smoke of battle now, and
he had not seen the solitary P-900 rise and fall in the sky as it arced over
the scene, racing north another 150 kilometers to where
Graf Zeppelin
was cruising in the rear.

“A rocket?” Now Kapitän Hoffmann’s
words returned to haunt him. Rockets… fired by a mysterious British cruiser—a battlecruiser—a
ship the size of
Hood
itself. He tried to warn us all that the British
had these new weapons. But clearly
Hood
has nothing of the kind. No.
They rely on good artillery, as we do.