Cauldron of Fire

Chapter 13

When Karpov entered the officer’s dining hall, the conversations seemed to hush, particularly at the far table where he saw the broad shoulders and telltale woolen cap of Orlov. The former Chief of Operations, now a mere Lieutenant in the Marine detachment, was seated with a clutch of young Starshini, one stripe Junior Lieutenants that been laughing together as the big man joked about something. Their sudden silence prompted Orlov to look over his shoulder, and as Karpov sat down, alone as always, he heard Orlov curse under his breath, “Mudak…” One of the other men at the table nudged him with a cautionary elbow, which prompted Orlov to say yet more—“Mne pohui!” he exclaimed, telling the man he didn’t give a fuck.

Karpov ignored them, eating in the heavy silence that filled the room, and trying to keep his mind on Fedorov’s last briefing, and what might lie ahead for them. But the awkward situation dragged him back to those last moments on the bridge as he struggled to complete the missile firing, and how Orlov had stood there in silence, doing and saying nothing when the bridge was compromised.

It felt so impossibly wrong now when he replayed the images in his mind. Orlov had agreed to back his decision, yet when it came to the moment, he let him drop into the stew without a second thought. On one level he felt betrayed, yet even more ashamed that he had ever thought to enlist the allegiance of an oaf like Orlov. Yet as he tried to muster a kernel of anger over what had happened, another voice within him whispered that he had been the one who opened the hatch when the Marines arrived, stupidly thinking they had come in response to his own orders, and not thinking that Volsky might have already regained control of the ship.

You were an idiot, he thought. You knew it would only be a matter of time before someone tried the door at sick bay and the Admiral was freed. And you knew he would reassert his authority over the ship at once. That’s why you locked yourself away in the bridge, and thought Orlov’s presence there at your side would be enough to keep the other officers in line. You wanted to fire your damn missile, and that you did, blowing the Americans to hell where they belonged. But one day you will join them there. Yes, one day you will sit at the table with every man you have put under the sea in all this insanity. Forget Orlov, he concluded. Blame yourself, and yes you are every bit the bastard he calls you under his breath, that and more.

In time Orlov let out an audible burp and stood to leave, a cup of coffee in hand as he moved toward the exit behind Karpov. The Captain realized something was wrong immediately, as officers always left their dishes at the table and they would be collected and cleaned by the rankers in the galley, and no one ever took anything out of the dining room. The silence thickened when Orlov deliberately drifted near Karpov’s table and then pretended to stumble.

“Watch your step!” Karpov said sharply, but it was obvious to everyone that Orlov had deliberately spilled his coffee on Karpov’s right shoulder, and even more obvious that he was going to get away with it.

“Sorry, Captain,” he said sarcastically. “I didn’t see you there. It’s these bandages,” he said, holding up his hands. “Can’t seem to hold on to anything, eh?” Orlov forced a strained smile that was more of a sneer, and Karpov waved him away, his eyes darkly on the far table where he could hear the muted, well restrained laughter of the junior Lieutenants. He could feel the heat on the back of his neck, and knew that Orlov had deliberately tried to humiliate and provoke him in front of the other men. He doused the stain on his jacket with a table linen, as Orlov left, sullen and angry. Had it been any other man, he thought bitterly…

The junior officers finished, one by one, and a few were even bold enough now to drift Karpov’s way as they left, some holding cups of coffee as well, though not one dared to do anything more. If they had, Karpov would have shouted them deaf, but as it was the scene had clearly demonstrated to them that Karpov was not man enough to stand up to Orlov, and not even his rank and authority as acting Starpom was enough to protect him now.

When they had all left, Karpov finished his stew, tired, angry, humiliated and wanting sleep. He stood up and saw where Orlov had set his stained coffee cup down on his table, right on its side, deliberately spilling the last remnant onto the table linen near his plate, and he swiped it angrily off the table, sending the cup clattering across the deck. His shoulders hunched, head low, he went through the door, immediately sensing a looming presence in the empty hall. It was Orlov.

“Oh, Captain,” he said. “I just came back to say excuse me,” he grinned balefully. “Did I soil your Captain’s jacket?”

“Yob tvou mat’ Orlov!” the Captain exclaimed, telling the big man what he thought he should do with his mother. “You want to act tough in front of the men, but when things came to a head how tough were you on the bridge?”

It was the first time the two men had ever spoken of their failed attempt to take command of the ship from Volsky, and the words tumbled out, with pent up anger on both sides.

“Fuck you,” Karpov. “You duped me! You played me for an idiot with all your reasons and arguments, and I was stupid enough to go along, that was all.”

“Come on, Orlov, just say you lost your nerve, and your backbone along with it. You like to push the men around, but not the Marines—not someone who can set you back on your heels if you get out of line.”

Orlov lunged at him, seizing Karpov by the jacket in spite of the obvious pain with his hands, pulling the smaller man close to his face. He was easily fifty pounds heavier and a good head taller than Karpov, and he used his strength to dominate him. “Right, Karpov. What was all that bullshit when it came down to firing the missile, eh? You give your orders then stand there looking at me to give the last word! You dumped the whole pile of shit in my lap, because you wanted to set me up to take the fall if it all came apart. Yes?”

“Get your filthy hands off me!” The Captain’s face was red with anger.

“Oh? What are you going to do now, Captain? No one is here. Where’s Troyak, eh? Are you going to go whine to Volsky, or slink back to the bridge and tell Fedorov? Piz-da!”

The Captain tried to break loose, pushing hard, and then Orlov loosed one hand and buried a fist into Karpov’s gut, doubling him over with the blow, though he grimaced with the pain to his own bandaged hand. Orlov pushed hard, shoving the Captain off his feet, and standing over him with a satisfied grin on his face.

“Na kaleni, suka,” he hissed at him. “Go tell Fedorov, and just be glad I didn’t put a knife in your belly instead.” He turned and tromped off, his heavy soled boots clomping hard on the deck as he went.

The night deepened and the men aboard Kirov rotated in shifts, some snatching a few hours of fitful sleep while others manned battle stations. Still others started their shift in the mess hall, lining up for bowls of warm milk, cheese sandwiches, kasha and hot tea. Fedorov had decided to stand down from full alert, thinking his situational awareness was still solid enough in spite of the aberration he had discovered with the early sailing of the Italian 7th Cruiser Division. He had expected Da Zara’s 3rd Division would be handled easily enough, but the other contacts still bearing on their heading were still some cause for concern. The Italian cruisers were fast, with each group capable of thirty knots, and so Kirov continued to sail north just shy of her best speed.

The ruse he had planned involved a fake distress call, sent out by Nikolin in Morse code with the intention of fooling the Italian Navy. Once decoded the message would read: “Force K — Critical gun damage in engagement 23:45 hours — Aborting mission under Case B.” And to be certain it would be decoded he had dug up an old reference book he had on Royal Navy codes and deliberately used a version that he knew the Italians would be able to decipher. His intention was to convince Regia Marina that his ship now presented no immediate threat to their home bases or airfields, hoping they might call off the pursuit and simply return their ships to friendly ports, as they had decided historically during Operation Pedestal. In that campaign the Italian Navy had aborted its operations when the Germans refused to provide air cover over the Sicilian Narrows. Fedorov hoped that he could count on them to stand down here as well—but he was wrong.

Regia Marina had a bone to pick now. The fiery admiral Da Zara had escaped southeast to Cagliari with his battered task force, livid with anger that he did not get more air support during his sortie, and convinced that this was no mere British cruiser at large in the Tyrrhenian Sea, but a fast battlecruiser. He concluded that this ship must have slipped through north of the Skerki Bank before the submarine picket lines had been established a day earlier, and while most air recon missions had been focused much farther west. It obviously intended to disrupt Italian surface fleet operations aimed at attacking the convoy—and that it had accomplished well enough.

The arrogance of the British, he thought. They think to sail unchallenged into our home waters? On a secure phone line to Admiral Bergamini at La Spezia he was furious, demanding that the navy could not allow such an incursion into the Tyrrhenian Sea to go unpunished. What he heard in return gave him heart.

Bergamini claimed to have known about this ship for some time, since the submarine Bronzo had sighted it, on fire aft, a little before sunset on the previous day. “Why do you think your Division was sent out in the first place?” he said in a thin, distant voice over the phone. “The Germans must have caught it during their ferry operations from Sicily to reinforce the air Squadrons at Cagliari. Furthermore, we have a new wire intercept concerning gun damage on this ship, and we believe it is now attempting to run for the Bonifacio Strait.”

He praised Da Zara, assuming it was his timely action that had inflicted this further damage on the enemy, and he told him that the ships of 7th Cruiser division were still in the hunt, chasing the impudent raider north at high speed even as they spoke.

“And there is more,” he said quietly. “We have a surprise or two prepared for this uninvited dinner guest. I cannot say more, Da Zara, but you will soon see that Regia Marina has more fight left in it than you may believe. I will encode details through normal channels. In the meantime. If any of your ships remain seaworthy, get them ready for action!”

“Seaworthy?” Da Zara said sharply. “Yes, they will float I suppose. But ready for action? I think not. It will take weeks, probably months to repair the damage we sustained.”

“Then do not worry. We will handle the matter from La Spezia.”

It was that very night, that Admiral Tovey had been awakened with that jarring coded message and sent on his way to a meeting with the Admiralty on the morning of August 12, just as Kirov was approaching the Strait of Bonifacio. Now he sat in the meeting with Admiral Pound and the other Sea Lords, and this curious Professor from Bletchley Park. In spite of Admiral Pound’s reaction, Tovey could see more in those photographs than he wished, and it turned his stomach as well.

“The same ship?” Pound flailed at Turing. “May I remind you, Professor, that the final engagement with this raider occurred on the 8th of August, a full year ago. I’ll admit that we’ve had our suspicions about the American story that this ship was sunk by their destroyer squadron, but for it to have survived for an entire year on its own in the Atlantic, and to have entered the Mediterranean undetected by our forces is absolute rubbish.”

Tovey spoke up, wishing to clarify the situation. “Professor Turing,” he began in a more civil tone. “The Admiral’s point is well taken. Surely you don’t suspect this is, in fact, the very same vessel we engaged a year ago. How can we possibly explain its presence in the middle of such a hotly contested war zone?”

Turing had his right hand at his temple, elbow on the table, thinking he had been foolish to express his suspicions in this room, at this time, before the weight of evidence might mount on his side of any argument. Now he thought how he might smooth this ruffle over without dampening the urgency he needed to communicate to these men. He was about to speak when there came a soft knock at the door, granting him a welcome respite.

Tovey looked over his shoulder and gestured to the Marine guard there, who held two neatly folded papers, decoded cable intercepts fresh from the cypher station. He took them, opening the first quickly to see it marked ‘Most Urgent — ULTRA’ and read it quietly before looking up with raised brows and a look on his face that conveyed his obvious concern.

“Well gentlemen,” he said as he handed the intercept to Admiral Pound. “It appears that Regia Marina has found its backbone after all.” He waited politely while Pound read the intercept, and Turing watched with some interest, the irony of the moment galling him. Here was a cable decoded as a direct result of his work, and the Navy was quick to embrace it as truth, yet he knew he would have to argue his point at some length to overcome their stalwart opposition to his suspicions about this ship.

Pound handed the cable off to Whitworth and spoke up. “The Italians got up steam on their heavy surface units six hours ago and sortied from La Spezia a little after midnight. It seems that Admiral Syfret may have somewhat more to deal with than we first anticipated. Battleships Littorio and Veneto were both confirmed as part of the task force.”

“Battleships?” said Wake-Walker. “We thought they were laid up without adequate fuel for a major operation.”

“Apparently not,” said Pound. “Either they managed to obtain more fuel oil, or they’ve decided to make do with what they have. Either way it amounts to the same thing, and I must tell you gentlemen, that a move of this magnitude may mean they’ve decided to risk everything to stop this convoy to Malta.”

“It’s not surprising,” said Tovey. “We’ve thrown fifty warships at this operation.”

“Yes,” said Pound. “Well it looks like Rodney and Nelson may have some work to do beyond blasting away at the Luftwaffe. What’s this last bit in the cable?”

“Oh, excuse me, sir,” said Tovey. “It refers to further movements of the Italian 7th Cruiser Division with ships based at Messina and Naples. Apparently they’ve put to sea as well, though they seem to be concentrating on the Italian Naval base at La Maddalena, which is somewhat surprising. Odd thing is this—the heavy units out of La Spezia haven’t entered the Tyrrhenian Sea. They sailed west, on a course that might put them off the northwest coast of Corsica right about now.” He looked at his watch, noting the time.

“The Bonifacio Strait?” asked Whitworth.

“Indeed,” said Tovey.

“But why not just make a run down through the Tyrrhenian Sea and hit us north of the Skerki Bank? Their ships would be well covered by the airfields around Cagliari.”

Tovey slowly opened the second intercept as Whitworth reasoned the situation out. “They may be thinking to swing down the western coast of Sardinia and get to the convoy that way.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” said Wake-Walker. “They would be much better positioned just west of Cagliari as Whitworth has it. They must know we’ve timed it to try and get round Cape Bon late tonight. If they’re low on fuel they won’t be making top speed, that’s for sure. So even at twenty knots that’s another twelve hours before they’d be anywhere near the convoy route by sailing west of Sardinia, and by that time our ships will be north of Bizerte. They’ll find themselves well behind the action.”

“Unless they mean to have a go at our covering force,” Whitworth suggested.

“Engage Rodney and Nelson?” said Pound. “They’ll regret that, I assure you.”

“Well I can think of no other good reason for this La Spezia Squadron to be where it is,” said Tovey. “In fact I can put forward no sound reasoning for it to be at sea at all!” Now he read the second cable intercept. “Hello,” he said in a low voice. “Beaufighter Reconnaissance report out of Malta…It seems there was another engagement last night northeast of Cagliari. Malta reports no sorties, so none of our aircraft were involved, but the Italian 3rd Cruiser Division under Da Zara got shoved about rather rudely… All five ships are back at Cagliari this morning, and every single one appears to have sustained damage.”

That news fell hard on the table and quieted the entire discussion. Then Turing spoke, his high voice clear and steady. He had been listening with some interest, and finally decided to throw another spanner in the works

“If I may, sir,” he began, “and correct me if I am wrong, but I don’t think we have any ships in the Tyrrhenian Sea at the moment—not northeast of Cagliari, which would be right about where 248 Squadron engaged and photographed this vessel yesterday afternoon, and got a fistful of rocketry for their trouble. I say the Italians have tangled with this very same ship! Now it’s not ours, so it’s quite evident, gentlemen,” he said flatly, and then spoke the single word that had gathered them all round the table that morning. “Geronimo…”

Chapter 14

The dawn came in hues of scarlet and vermillion, brightening to pale rose as the skies lightened quickly. Kirov had raced northwest, a steel arrow aimed at the Strait of Bonifacio, and behind her a gaggle of Italian Cruisers and destroyers hurried in pursuit. Fedorov was back on the bridge after a brief two hours rest below when he gave over command to Rodenko coming off his leave at three in the morning. Now he studied the radar plots, satisfied that they were still well ahead in the race and would reach the Maddalena Archipelago in plenty of time to run the strait before these pursuing ships could interfere.

“I expect some more work for the deck guns,” he said to Samsonov, also back at his station in the CIC.

“Good!” said Samsonov. “Gromenko’s been boasting below decks and I’ve some catching up to do.”

Fedorov didn’t like the sound of that, but he let it pass. Then again, he thought, if they were going to have to fight again, why not do it without reservation? This is one thing Karpov had tried to impress upon him. He stared at the radar returns as daylight began to bathe the citadel in pale light. Another half hour, he thought, and by then we’ll see what they have to throw at us from La Maddalena. His timing was just a little off.

Tasarov sat up quickly and sounded off at sonar. “New Contact — Undersea boat — Bearing 325 degrees, range 10.3 kilometers, depth forty feet, speed 5 knots. Designate Alpha One.”

A diesel boat was creeping in on them from the northwest, very near the strait and obviously assuming a blocking position where it might get a shot at any passing ship. Fedorov went to Tasarov’s station, encouraged. “It appears our sonar is operating well enough in spite of the loss of the towed array. Then again, I’m told you have the best ears in the fleet, Tasarov. Can you track this boat easily now?”

“As long as it continues to move, sir. If it stops and hovers, we may have to go to active sonar, but for now, I have a good location plot.”

“Then you can kill this sub? Do you need one of the helicopters up?” Fedorov recalled the wild opening minutes when one of their first contacts had been a submarine. He remembered how the Admiral immediately sent up helicopters, and wondered if he should do the same. Tasarov’s answer reassured him greatly.

“Sir, I can put a weapon on this target at any time. Our Shkval ASW system is in range now and can close this distance in a matter of seconds.”

Again, the amazing technological leap that Kirov represented over its WWII naval adversaries was decisive. The creeping enemy sub was still far from the ideal range it needed to launch a torpedo at Kirov. For any chance of a hit it would want to be at no more than a 1000 to 2000 meters before firing. By contrast, Kirov’s super cavitating Shkval rocket propelled torpedoes could strike targets at many times that range, and they would accelerate to incredible underwater speeds exceeding 200 knots by generating a gas bubble around the weapon that literally displaced the ocean water as the torpedo surged forward. In effect, the seawater was never touching the weapon to create drag. If launched at this target it would eat up the ten kilometer run to the enemy sub in just a minute and fifteen seconds.

“Just say the word, sir.”

Fedorov thought for a moment. “What is our inventory on this system?”

“Sir, we have expended only one torpedo, and have nine remaining.”

“And when they are gone?”

“We still have one KA-40 with sixteen standard torpedoes in the magazine. Normal load out is two per mission. Then we have the close-in UDAV-2 system, though it is far less effective than the Shkval.”

“Very well,” said Fedorov. “Make ready on your primary system, Mister Tasarov, but we will hold our fire momentarily.”

“Aye, sir…But we are running at thirty knots and will be inside this sub’s firing range in nine minutes.”

“I understand,” said Fedorov. “Helm, ahead two thirds.”

“Ahead two thirds, sir and steady on 315.”

“Come left fifteen degrees rudder to course three-zero-zero.”

“Sir, my rudder is left on 300 degrees, aye.”

He thought to buy himself just a few short minutes with the reduction of speed, as they were drawing very near the Maddalena Archipelago now, a cluster of rocky islands that harbored the Italian naval base. It was time to decide.

“Mister Samsonov, bring the ship to full battle stations. I‘ll want all systems manned with lookouts to both port and starboard to scan for mines. We may also face shore based guns.”

The alarm sounded, and Kirov pushed on swiftly towards the first major bottleneck they would have to run if they were ever to find safe water again. Crews manned machine guns on both sides of the ship, and Samsonov also activated the AK-730 close in defense system to assist with floating mines.

The Maddalena Archipelago dominated the eastern approaches to the strait, a cluster of seven large islands with many more smaller islets. Their strategic position had seen them fortified during the days of the Roman empire, with old towers and bastions perched atop the rocky crags of the hills. In WWII these forts were improved with the addition of modern concrete gun casements in several areas, particularly on Caprera in the east, La Maddalena in the center of the archipelago and Spargi to the west. Both naval and anti-aircraft guns were placed in these sites, and they were elements Fedorov had failed to fully consider in his thinking. He knew they existed, but was not sure of their locations. The course change he had made would skirt the northern coastlines of the islands, and the first surprise came when battery Candero opened fire from Caprera Island just after dawn.

The sharp report and whine of the shell startled Fedorov, even though he had half expected it. Kirov was five kilometers off the coast, and well within the range of this battery.

“Samsonov,” he said quickly. Can you locate that gun emplacement?

“Let them fire one more time and I can back-trace their approximate location from the arc of the shell on my weapons locating radar.” The art of counter battery radar systems was highly advanced, and Kirov soon had a lock on the gun position.

Karpov rushed onto the bridge, clearly winded, just as the ship’s forward 100mm deck gun began to fire. “I’m sorry Fedorov, the alarm caught me by surprise.”

Fedorov looked to see that the Captain seemed to clutch his side, in some pain, but thought it was just the long climb up from the lower decks. He waved Karpov over to his side, and briefed him on the action as he pointed to the Tin Man display.

“There,” he said. “Do you see it? That is the Candero shore battery on Caprera Island. They fired three rounds at us—all well off the mark—but I think Samsonov has a lock on them now.” They watched the display as Kirov’s forward deck gun put ten rounds on the target, enveloping the battery and surrounding hillside in a billow of smoke and dust.

“Sir, air contact, 150 kilometers, bearing 45 degrees northeast, altitude 7200 meters, speed 280kph.” Rodenko’s voice sounded the warning. He paused a moment, then continued. “Surface contacts, group of three vessels bearing 202 degrees southwest, speed thirty and closing on our position.”

“Those are probably long range aircraft out of Grosseto,” said Fedorov. “The surface contact will most likely be fast torpedo boats.”

“I have them on my tracking radar,” said Samsonov. “Permission to engage, sir?”

“Granted,” said Fedorov. “Mister Karpov, will you plot an appropriate air defense with Rodenko?”

“At once!”

“Sir,” said Tasarov, “Sub surface contact now at five kilometers.”

“Submarine?” Karpov turned, his attention immediately focused on this threat.

“We have a good fix on their position,” said Fedorov.

“Then I recommend we fire at once, sir.” Karpov said quickly. “The Shkval system should easily neutralize this threat.”

“I believe Tasarov has plotted this solution. You may engage, Mister Karpov.” The sharp staccato of machine gun fire split the air, and Fedorov rushed to the port side view pane to see rounds churning up the sea. Fedorov immediately knew they had encountered a floating mine, and his great fear was that there were many more unseen threats ahead of them.

Kirov was now simultaneously engaging threats on land, sea and air, but Karpov was quick to put an end to the submarine threat. The super-cavitating Shkval fired, ejecting for a short run at 50 knots before the rocket motor ignited and sent it hurtling toward the unseen enemy submarine, a lethal underwater lance that they had no chance avoid. A minute later Tasarov verified a hit, and with it SS Avorio, which had been maneuvering to block the entrance of the strait, exploded and died a quick underwater death, its captain and crew never aware of what had hit them until they heard the screeching sound of the weapon just before contact.

Kirov’s deck guns had already shifted targets to the torpediniera racing towards them from the gap between Caprera Island and La Maddalena. Three Spica class boats were out that morning, Antares, Centauro and Lira. When the 152mm shells began to range in on them, their astonished captains clutched their field glasses in a vain attempt see the enemy ship. Kirov was still well off shore, and firing at a range of over seven kilometers. How could the enemy have spotted his small boats so quickly? Now the torpediniera would have to run a gauntlet of fire to get within their 2000 meter firing range, and not one of the three boats would survive. Samsonov worked with his brutal efficiency, locking the guns in on the targets with radar and quickly bracketing the small flotilla with the fire from all three of the ship’s 152mm batteries. Centauro died first, struck amidships and set on fire, the bridge shattered and the boat careening wildly about when helm control was lost. Antares exploded in a brilliant orange fireball when a round struck and ignited one of her torpedoes, and Lira died a slower death, peppered by five hits that riddled her hull and superstructure and sent her foundering, burning in three places. A total of thirty-six rounds had dispatched this threat with little difficulty.

The attack had been ill timed, as the air strike out of Grosseto was late, and it too would not get anywhere near the battle zone. Kirov’s piercing radars could see and engage the squadrons of enemy planes well before they had any thought of making their attack runs. Karpov selected a barrage of six S-300 long range SAMs, firing them like a spread of aerial torpedoes at five second intervals. The first two missiles caught the lead formation of twelve JU-87s, blowing three planes away and sending the remainder diving with the shock of the attack. Behind them came a squadron of Do-217s, six planes, and two of these fell to the next two missiles, with shrapnel clawing through the wings of two others, and setting one engine afire, forcing them to abort their attack. The nine remaining Stukas found their evasive maneuvers provided them no respite from the attack, and watched in shocked amazement as the last two S-300s turned to seek them out, one shattering a sub flight of three planes before the pilots realized they had to completely break formation and scatter in all directions to save themselves from certain death.

In these engagements it was Kirov’s incredible advantage in radar tracking that enabled her to see, target, and bring weapons to bear on all these simultaneous threats. The ship raced past the Maddalena Archipelago in the bright morning sun, up around Santa Maria and Razzoli Islands and turned into the Bonifacio Strait. Here they encountered a more devious passive threat when Tasarov’s active mine countermeasures system indicated numerous undersea contacts, and very near the ship. Some were moored mines, anchored to the seafloor by a long chain, detected by the ship’s forward looking high resolution sonar in the big bow dome.

Federov slowed the ship to just ten knots, clearly worried about the mine threat now. It was perhaps the cheapest weapon the enemy might deploy against them and, unlike the enemy ships and planes, which could be seen and engaged well before they posed a danger to the ship, the mines lurked in waters Kirov had to pass through in order to transit the strait. He seemed very anxious, knowing that much of the threat would not be visible on the surface and that they might face an array of minefields here: delayed-action, magnetic, acoustic, and older contact mines; moored, and floating mines. Snag lines might also connect a series of mines to set off numerous detonations. He was not sure what to do.

“It could take days to adequately sweep this channel and remove all threats,” said Karpov. “We will have to take more expedient measures and use the UDAV-2 ASW system.” Fedorov confessed he had no idea what the Captain was talking about, and Karpov explained.

“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.

His first salvos were widely dispersed and well off the mark, which did not surprise him. Though his 15 inch guns were among the best in the world, they suffered from the same technical problem that often degraded the accuracy of the Italian cruisers—a lack of uniform consistency on the propellant charge bags. If he hit the enemy, he knew he could hurt her, as his guns could penetrate 450mm of armor at this range, and he doubted this ship was so well protected, particularly if this was a battlecruiser with its much lighter armor.

His second salvo was up and booming toward the enemy. Moments later he clenched his fist with excitement, seeing a bright flash and billowing smoke emanate from the foredeck of the British ship. Had they scored a hit there, or was this the first reply from their forward turrets?

His answer was not long in coming. Something rose up from the ship, a sleek barb that danced in the air for a moment, which led him to believe, in that fraction of a second, that he had struck a forward battery and smashed one of their guns. Then, to his utter amazement, the sleek fragment he took for a gun barrel surged into the sky with a fiery jet of flame! It moved with astounding speed! He saw another and another leaping up from the distant silhouette and streaking into the sky. A thin white contrail marked their deadly arc toward his ships and then he braced himself as the first came diving in with an awful roar and struck Vittorio Veneto amidships, some fifty feet behind the bridge, exploding with a violent fireball and immediately destroying three AA guns before penetrating at the base of the forward stack.

The second missile came in just shy of the bridge itself, yet low on the main deck where it blasted into the secondary 6 inch gun battery there with a thundering concussion and broiling fire. Fueled to fire at much longer ranges, the full load of missile fuel ignited massive fires at both locations,

Iachino was sent careening back against the binnacle, his field glasses flung madly on the deck as he struggled to stay on his feet. He was stunned by the suddenness of the attack and amazed by what he had seen. His eye fell on the navigation compass at the top of the binnacle and he was surprised to see the needle spinning about in wild circles. Now searing flame and coal black smoke erupted to completely obscure his view. What was this, a new British naval rocket of some type? He knew that the Germans and even Regia Aeronautica had been experimenting with radio controlled bombs, but these were to be delivered by aircraft. What was this? He had no time to think, as his ship was on fire and now he looked to see that Littorio had also been struck amidships, almost in the very same location as his own ship!

His main guns had not been damaged, and the ship still seemed to be making way well enough, but a call from below decks painted a grim picture. The fire was extensive, the number one stack fully involved and now partially collapsed and tilting to one side. The warhead from this new weapon had apparently penetrated his relatively thin deck armor and bored deep into the ship sending a hideous hail of molten shrapnel in all directions. Yet all this damage was above his water line, and his ship remained seaworthy.

Veneto’s third salvo fell closer in on the enemy ship, sending tall geysers of sea spray up into the crisp morning air. Close would not be nearly good enough, he realized. The enemy had also fired three times with far more deadly results. He squinted through the smoke, a red anger burning at the back of his neck as he caught sight of his adversary once more and saw the foredeck of the enemy ship erupt again with fire. One by one, three more rounds of this astonishing new rocket weapon burned their way toward his ships with roaring anger.

“Right full rudder!” he screamed out an evasive order, but to no avail. All three missiles were going to find their targets. There was no maneuver or trick of seamanship that could save them, no gun on his ship that could track them to shoot them down, and no hope in the long run for his gallant task force as long as Kirov’s magazines still remained full.

Karpov watched the lethal Moskit-II missiles bore in mercilessly on the big enemy ships, two salvos of three each. NATO had called them “Sunburn,” a good name for them, he thought. They were the fastest and most accurate anti-ship missiles ever developed, and there was virtually no way to defeat them once they were locked onto a target.

“That will give them something to think about,” he said to Fedorov. “The lead ship is burning badly. The next is getting more of the same. We have them programmed to hit above the waterline to avoid their heavy armor. With a full load of fuel to feed those fires they are going to have their hands full, even if we haven’t breached their hulls.”

“These ships are also vulnerable to plunging fire,” said Fedorov. Their laminated deck armor was not adequate, and its placement was questionable.”

“The range is too short for that now, but we have hurt them just the same. Look at those fires!” Karpov pointed at the thick black smoke pouring from the lead ship. “Yes! They are turning away.”

They saw the enemy task force wheel hard right, and the group of three destroyers matched the maneuver, all making smoke in a futile attempt to screen the bigger ships from further fire. Bright flashes of orange and yellow erupted from the battleships again as they both fired their big 15 inch guns in reprisal. They heard the drone of the heavy rounds coming in, and saw them plunge into the sea off the starboard bow, the geysers walking their way ominously towards the ship. A set fell very near, no more than half a kilometer off, and Fedorov held his breath as more rounds fell progressively closer.

“They’ve got our range now,” he said, the last round falling near enough to send sea spray showering over Kirov’s foredeck. They could feel something strike the ship’s hull, undoubtedly splinter damage from the very near miss.

“Left fifteen degrees rudder,” said Fedorov, “Ahead full!” They were out of the channel now, through the Bonifacio Strait, but it was still a risky maneuver to turn and put on speed. There could be hidden mines that Tasarov would not be able to detect with all the turmoil of shot and shell churning up the seas. Kirov came smartly around, and he gasped as one final shell from a late firing gun fell just where the ship might have been moments ago had they maintained their old course. This time they could feel the concussion of the heavy round as it plunged into the sea, so very close. The grating sound of something striking the hull again filled him with misgiving.

The Italians had fired that one last salvo, a defiant shake of their fist at an enemy they were clearly not prepared to face this day. Iachino elected to exercise the better part of valor—discretion. Both his battleships were on fire, but still seaworthy and without gun damage. Yet the fires were raging ever deeper into the guts of Vittorio Veneto, and he could clearly see that Littorio was in no better shape. Stunned and surprised by the powerful new weapons he had faced, he put on speed and ran north, hoping to find safe waters until the fires could be brought under control.

The billowing thick smoke was blinding, and the gunners would have a very difficult time re-sighting and ranging on the target. He might need another three or four salvos to find the mark again after his wild turn and change of course. Yet every weapon the enemy fired struck home with a vengeance. If they fired again… He did not want to think about the consequences. No, he would return to La Spezia, chastened and far less brazen than he had been when his proud ships set forth, but at least, he hoped, he would return to possibly fight again.

“Another day,” he said to the watch officer at his side.

“Another day, sir?” The man stared at him blankly. “When the British have ships that can do this?”

Iachino glared at the man, but said nothing more.