Altered States – Volume II. Darkest Hour

Chapter 20

On the bridge of his fighting ship, Admiral Volsky explained his urgency to Fedorov when they were underway. “Golovko says he will radio the position of the German flotilla,” he said.

“We will most likely have them on long range radar as soon as we leave the Kola Bay,” said Fedorov. “What is your intention, sir?”

Volsky gave him a long look. “Someone has just broken into our neighbor’s house, Fedorov. No. That was our brother’s house. It will not go unpunished. Beyond that, I was alarmed to hear the name of that man taken as prisoner-Zolotov.”

“Who is he, Admiral?”

“You saw my surprise, yes? Well my father knew the man. Yes. Old Sasha. He told me stories of that ship when I was a boy. I used to imagine it pushing its way through the ice on the cold sea voyage east, a real pioneer ship. I often imagined I was there on the bridge, watching the ice crack under the ship’s bow. Zolotov was a friend of my father, and so you see, it cuts a bit close to the bone to hear what happened to him. I can still remember the look in my father’s eyes when he told me the Germans got him.”

“They captured him?”

“You can probably look it up in your old history books, Fedorov.”

“I did check on this operation, sir. It wasn’t supposed to happen until August of 1942! It is very odd that it should occur so soon in this new time line, or even reoccur at all.”

“Tell me about it. What ships were involved?”

“Just one, sir. The heavy cruiser Admiral Scheer. It did everything Admiral Golovko described-even the sinking of that icebreaker you mentioned. It’s very strange how the history seems to echo the events of the world we came from, yet things have shifted, slipped. This time there is a second German ship, and that is a new variation.”

“Just a piece of your cracked mirror that has moved out of place, Fedorov. Well, you will forgive me for what I am now going to do, and it may seem petty, but suddenly this little war has become personal for me. I will not allow this insult to stand. Do you understand?”

“Well sir,” Fedorov thought for a moment. “If the Germans think they can come to our home waters and attack Russian ships with impunity, they will likely come to believe that they can easily close these ports and isolate Soviet Russia from any outside assistance. This may have been a reason for this operation, to test Russian resolve and measure our capabilities.”

“They are going to need a very long measuring tape,” said Volsky grimly.

Sometime later Rodenko reported to the Admiral where he sat in his ready room off the main bridge. They had just cleared the bay and were now entering the Barents Sea.

“Nikolin has received word on the German location, sir. They were hovering up near Franz-Joseph and Alexandria Islands. Now they are headed west towards Spitzbergen.”

“That will put them some 400 kilometers northeast of us,” said Fedorov. “If we steer due north we should be on a good intercept course.”

“Make it so, Mister Fedorov. When do you anticipate contact?”

“We can be well within missile range in ten hours at 24 knots. Increase that a bit and I can put you on their horizon in that same timeframe.”

“Do so, and inform me when we get within fifty kilometers. I think we will have a little chat with the German Captain and ask him to apologize for what he has done. Of course he will laugh that off. Then we will show him the error of his ways.”

“It looks like they want to pass well north of Bear Island.”

“Cold desolate waters there,” said Volsky. “But it is July, and so there should still be plenty of sea room.”

It was a time when much of the sea ice was broken into drifts, with occasional larger ice bergs leaving trails of open water behind them as they forged a path through the smaller floes, like ghostly frozen ships.

The senior officers rested, but were back on the bridge for planned operations at 18:00 on the 11th of July. By that time Kirov was well north, and had now turned west on an intercept course as the German flotilla approached Spitzbergen. Fedorov had increased speed to 30 knots to begin closing the range, and Kirov ran easily, the time at Severomorsk being well spent by Chief Byko to get much needed repairs completed on the ship’s bow. Admiral Volsky was informed that the contact was being tracked on their Fregat radar, and he returned to the bridge, his manner serious.

“Very well,” he said gruffly. “Mister Nikolin, you will begin hailing the Germans on an open channel. Tell them that they have violated Soviet territorial waters and neutrality, and that they are now holding our nationals as prisoners. They must stop. These men must be returned, or they will suffer the consequences.”

“Do I send this in Russian, sir?”

“Yes. Fedorov tells me there is a good chance they have a team aboard that will understand you. Continue your hail and report any response.”

When the message was heard on the Admiral Scheer it caused a moment of levity on the bridge. Kranke looked at the signalman with incredulity, then broke into a broad smile.

“Who is sending the message, that zeppelin shadowing us?”

“No sir, it is coming from a ship. They have identified themselves as the battlecruiser Kirov.”

“The battlecruiser Kirov? My, my, the General Secretary of the Soviet Union is naming ships after himself. Well then, this must be the pride of the fleet, yes Heintz?”

Heintz stepped over, curious about the message. “What is it, Kapitan?”

“The Russians are not happy with our little foray into the Kara Sea. They want their prisoners back, or so they say.” The Kapitan turned to the signalman now. “Tell them these men are now in the custody of the Kriegsmarine and will be interrogated at our leisure. If they want to do anything about it they are invited to try.” He laughed, shaking his head. “The nerve of these Russians, eh Heintz? Perhaps they did not receive enough of a beating and we will have to take them to the woodshed yet again.”

Time passed and the message returned. “Stop and surrender all Soviet nationals or you will be engaged as a hostile ship.”

Kranke dismissed it as nonsense, thinking the transmission had to be coming from the Russian zeppelin that was still shadowing them, high above and just out of range of their guns. But the incident, a laughing matter to him now, was soon going to be more than he expected, and one that he would never forget.

At 21:20 hours the Germans spotted a contact off their port bow, and they knew that the Russians had indeed sortied another warship to challenge them. Kranke had a long look through the telescope on the weather bridge, returning somewhat bemused.

“One ship,” he said quietly. “And it looks to be something more than a cruiser.”

“The Russians have nothing more than a heavy cruiser, sir,” said Heintz. “It must be the light and shadow at this distance. Shall we steer on an intercept course and have a closer look?”

“No, I think we will just continue on this heading. Let them come to us if they can.”

“Battle speed, sir?”

“No need to rush, Heintz. Steady on at 24 knots.”

“But they will catch us if this is a Russian cruiser.”

“Then Schorner will deal with them.”

Messages continued to stream in with the same demand: Stop and surrender Russian nationals or be engaged. Kranke ignored them, a wry grin on his face, though Heintz could see that the Kapitan seemed just a little more serious now, with an air of concern shadowing his bravado.

Then it began, they heard a distant thump, and then some time later the telltale approach of a naval shell that landed smartly in the water about a hundred meters in front of the light cruiser Nurnberg where it was steaming in the van.

“They say that was our final warning,” said the signalman.

“Do they?” said Kranke. “What was that Schorner?”

“5.7-inch round by my estimation, sir, and very strange that they could get it anywhere near us at this range. We are over 26,000 meters away!”

Kranke began to slowly pull on his gloves. “The ship will come to battle stations. Hoist battle ensign and colors.” His voice was flat, all business, with just a bit of annoyance in it now.

“The impudence,” he muttered.

The sound of the alarm and the shouting and footfalls of the crew dominated the next few moments as Kranke stood calmly on the bridge, watching and listening. He saw the forward triple gun turret turn smartly and train on the Russian ship, the long barrels gleaming in the ruddy light. Soon the sounds diminished, and a hush seemed to fall over the Admiral Scheer, like the taking in of breath before some great exertion. The ship was ready, Kranke knew, and he turned to his gunnery officer.

“Schorner, announce us, if you please.”

“The range is too far to hit anything, sir. All we will do is bother the sea.”

“Give them one round in answer to their warning shot. I will not have it read that I did not follow protocols. They fired first, and we will answer.”

“Very good sir.”

The middle gun on the turret elevated in an obscene gesture, and fired. Kranke did not fail to appreciate the moment, smiling. “There, he said. “We have given them our middle finger and told them to fuck off. Now let’s see if they want to do anything about it. Signal Nurnberg to come left fifteen, and we will follow.”

The warning shot fell 3000 meters short, though it was well aligned. Volsky watched the round splash into the sea, tit for tat.

“They are turning on an intercept course,” said Fedorov noting his new predictive plot for the German contact on the Plexiglas screen.

“Steer to maintain range,” said Volsky.

Schettler, John

Kirov Saga: Darkest Hour: Altered States — Volume II (Kirov Series)

“Aye sir. Helm, come left fifteen and ahead thirty.” He re-established a parallel course, holding the range as the Admiral wanted.

“Mister Samsonov, how good is your eye these days?”

“Laser sharp, Admiral.”

“Can you put one round on the lead ship in that formation?”

“Of course, sir. Do you want it forward, aft, or amidships?”

“That good, are you? Very well kick the lead ship on the ass. Put it well aft.”

Fedorov had been studying the silhouettes of the German ships and now he spoke up. “Admiral, I believe that lead ship is a Leipzig class cruiser. The ship following is the Admiral Scheer, and that will be the flagship.”

“I will knock on their door soon, Mister Fedorov. First let’s see if Mister Samsonov can put on a little show. Their commander will have a very good view from his present location. You may open fire. One salvo please.”

Samsonov keyed his target, integrating radar lock and his laser range finder into one position fix. The computers arrived at a decision in milliseconds, and the forward deck gun swiveled, trained on the target, the twin barrels elevating high before they cracked to life. Two shell casings clattered onto the deck and they waited. It seemed a long time, some 40 seconds before they saw the bright flash aft on the lead ship. Samsonov had scored a direct hit.

“A hole in one, sir!” he said, smiling.

“Your eye is good, Samsonov. Mister Nikolin, kindly ask the Germans if they would like us to continue.”

Half way through Nikolin’s hail they saw the second ship light up, both fore and aft. The rounds came in short again, but the sight of the six geysers in the sea prompted Fedorov to caution the Admiral.

“If I may, sir. Those are 11-inch guns, very accurate, and the same weapon that the battlecruiser Scharnhorst hit the British carrier with at 26,465 yards. We are just a few thousand meters outside that range.”

“Which is exactly where we will stay, Mister Fedorov. Any answer, Nikolin?”

“No sir. No return on my hail.”

“Mister Samsonov, again please. This time hit the bow of ship number two if you can.”

“No problem, sir. Integrating data streams… Ready… Firing now.” The crack of the deck gun sounded again, another long arcing fall of the shells, which resulted in a straddle this time, showering the bow of Admiral Scheer with seawater.

The game continued, with the German ships turning in an attempt to close the range, and Fedorov using radar to precisely determine their movement and dance away, always holding the range just outside 26,000 meters. Samsonov was ordered to fire three salvos at the lead ship, and three more at Admiral Scheer, and they soon watched as small fires broke out on each ship, the thin smoke trailing like blood. It was as if Volsky was hunting a whale, putting small harpoons into it, dancing away, then pricking it again and again. In all there were three more hits registered on Nurnberg, and two more on Admiral Scheer.

All the while the German guns barked furiously in return, but the range was just beyond their means. An hour passed, with Volsky scoring hits on the enemy ships every fifteen minutes, like clockwork. Then he had Nikolin send another message. I have hit you every quarter hour, and you bleed. Surrender our nationals, or I will now sink you. In response the Germans launched a seaplane from Scheer and it slowly gained elevation and began to approach.

“They want to use the plane to try and improve their spotting, sir,” said Fedorov.

“Do they? Mister Samsonov. Use the Klinok system and shoot that plane down. It’s time we give them something more to think about.”

The missile soon hissed into the sky, tracked relentlessly, and bored in on the seaplane. Fedorov looked at Volsky, surprised to see him make a small sign of the cross quietly on his chest as he sat watching in the Captain’s chair. It was going to be a very unlucky day for the pilot.