Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series)

by Schettler, John

  “Karpov?” Zolkin was quick to express the reaction they all had, his face clearly registering displeasure.

  “Yes, yes, I know how we all still feel about the man given what happened. But he is a highly trained officer, one of the best combat officers in the fleet. I would like him to hear this briefing so that we might have the benefit of his opinion from a military perspective.”

  The Doctor folded his arms, frowning.“Well if you want my opinion, there was nothing admirable in the tactics he displayed in the North Atlantic. He sailed directly into the teeth of strong enemy forces and engaged them with no regard to life, principle or anything else beyond his own personal ambition. God only knows what he was planning to do at Argentia Bay, set another nuclear missile loose on Churchill and Roosevelt?”

  “I understand, Dmitri,” said Volsky, addressing his friend in a more personal manner. “But you are the psychologist here. What will we do with this man? Do we leave him rotting in the brig for the duration of this business? Who knows how long we will be at sea, perhaps indefinitely, yes? I agree that Karpov made serious mistakes. His judgment was clouded by his own desire to make some decisive intervention, and perhaps by something darker. He will be the first to know this. Yet he is a serving officer in the Northern Fleet, or at least he once was. Perhaps we see what he did as the work of a madman, or worse, an animal. But if he is ever to have the chance to redeem himself and become a man again, in his eyes and in ours, then we must find a way to give that opportunity to him. Don’t you agree?”

  Zolkin started to say something, then checked himself, thinking for a moment. He rubbed his dark beard and nodded. “Perhaps you are right, Admiral. We may not like the man—even despise what he did—but yes, he is a man nonetheless, and one of our own. Would I be pleased to see him become something more than we all may think of him now? Yes, of course. But I must tell you that I have real misgivings at this stage.”

  “As do I,” Volsky agreed. “But we must begin somewhere—he must begin. Send for him…Unless I hear further objection from these young officers?” He looked first at Fedorov, then Rodenko and Tasarov. They all took the situation with the seriousness it deserved, but none voiced an objection, and the Admiral sent a guard to fetch Karpov while they discussed the recent air attack and damage sustained by the ship. Rodenko reported that he had good response from the main search arrays, though he was somewhat concerned over the condition of the medium range tracking radars for the ship’s missile defenses. Tasarov said he had no problems with subsea sensory capabilities, and also noted that he was very pleased with young Velichko’s improving abilities on sonar.

  Zolkin threw one more comment in while they waited. “What about Orlov? He’s down in the brig as well—in a separate cell I hope. The last thing we need is for the two of them to be commiserating together.”

  “I have given him some serious thought as well,” said Volsky. “Orlov did not come up through the naval schools like Karpov. He was a mishman and advanced to his position the old fashioned way, by waiting it out and working his way up the ranks. I accepted him as Chief of Operations, as that is where I found him when I came aboard for these maneuvers, if we can use such a word for this ordeal. Yet I have never been fond of the way he handled the men. Beyond that, Orlov has no combat naval training to speak of, and I doubt he has the brains for it in any case. No—he was clearly subverted by Karpov in the events that transpired days ago. Karpov needed his authority, and I think his muscle in many respects, before he would dare what he attempted. I do not hold Orlov blameless—not by any means. But I do not think he had anything to do with initiating this mutiny.”

  “I’m glad you have called it that,” said Zolkin. “Because that is exactly what it was.”

  Volsky nodded, but continued with one last thought. “Perhaps one day we will hold a proper hearing and court martial for them both. But for now we do not have the time to bother with that. As to Orlov, I assigned him to Troyak’s team yesterday. He’s a bull out of his pen for the moment, and too accustomed to bullying anyone who opposes him. But Troyak—” Volsky smiled. “Troyak is the one man on this ship that can back Orlov down if he has to, from a physical standpoint and also considering the temperament of the man.”

  “Yes, thank God for Troyak,” Zolkin was quick to agree.

  “He knew his duty when he saw it. Such men are natural leaders. So sending Orlov to join the ship’s commandos where Troyak can smooth out a few of the rough edges seemed like a good idea. That is exactly the sort of situation that will benefit a man like Orlov, do you agree?”

  “A good plan,” said Zolkin, and the other men nodded.

  “Very well,” said Volsky, turning his head when a knock came on the outer hatch. “I believe that will be Mister Karpov under escort from the brig. Let him in, gentlemen. And then let us see if we can sort out this mess and decide what best to do.”

  Chapter 6

  Karpov entered the room, eying the others with a guarded expression, but saying nothing. He had expected this, a kangaroo court where the others would flay him and decide his punishment, and he had already resigned himself to the fact that he would likely be busted down to Able Seaman, and rot in the ranks aboard this doomed ship for years. It came as some surprise then when Admiral Volsky indicated this was to be a tactical briefing, gesturing that they should all have a seat around Zolkin’s desk. He endured the edgy glances and looks from the others, but seated himself next to Tasarov in sullen silence, waiting.

  “Very well,” Volsky began from his recovery cot. “I will give the floor to my First Officer, Mister Fedorov.”

  Karpov suppressed a wince at that, realizing again what he had risked, and done, and lost. He fixed his gaze on the desktop, not meeting the eyes of the others, ashamed on one level, and angry on another at his own stupidity. Here was a young Starshina, still wet behind the ears and three ranks beneath him now elevated to First Officer of the ship. But when Fedorov began to speak he was again shocked at what he heard.

  “To bring you abreast of our earlier, discussion, Captain,” Fedorov began by addressing Karpov, who did not fail to notice he was referred to by his proper rank, which he appreciated. One thing about Fedorov—he was always respectful, even if Karpov no longer believed he deserved that respect. “…the attack three hours ago was made by a twin engine fighter aircraft, possible a British plane out of Malta, or even a German long range fighter off Sicily or Sardinia. I did not get a good look at it, but I’m inclined to believe the former. Its sudden appearance led me to research that has since indicated we have slipped backward in time again and remain involved in the Second World War. I don’t know how it has happened, but Dobrynin reported that same odd reactor flux just before the event, and …well…here we are, strafed by a twin prop fighter aircraft. To be as specific as I can at this point, I believe the present day and time to be August 11, 1942, at 16:20 hours.” He glanced at the wall clock, which Zolkin had reset earlier to account for the time shift they experienced.”

  Karpov’s eyes widened as he heard the unbelievable yet once more, but there was no way he could argue otherwise, and he had come to accept the impossible as a matter of daily occurrence on this ship by now, so he waited to hear more.

  “We are now in considerable danger, bottled up in the Mediterranean Sea, and very close to a major air-naval campaign that was fought as the British attempted to relieve Malta by sending a convoy of much needed supplies and oil. The next three days will see major combat operations to the southwest of our current position, which is presently here.” He stood up and indicated a position on the wall map in the infirmary. “Our present course is 45 degrees and we are making twenty knots. We have minor damage, but most critical systems are functional, and Chief Engineer Dobrynin tells me that the reactors are now stable and in good operating order.”

  “Operation Pedestal, Karpov,” said Volsky looking at his ex-Captain. “You recall it from the academy?” Karpov thought for a moment, and then nodded in the affirmative
and Fedorov continued his briefing.

  “The action has begun,” he said. “The convoy reached the first Axis submarine picket line north of Algiers at mid-day and, true to the recorded history, the British light carrier HMS Eagle was sunk by torpedoes. They are continuing east and will not be engaged again until 20:00 hours, near dusk this evening—a probing attack by some 36 planes off of Sardinia. There will be two more attacks until the convoy reaches the Skerki Bank northeast of Bizerte. At that point, if the history repeats itself, the heavy escorts will turn back while a force of lighter cruisers and destroyers attempts to ram the convoy home, around Cape Bon, down through the Sicilian Narrows, and then to Malta. They will endure heavy attacks by fast torpedo boats from units based at Pantelleria near Cape Bon, and as they approach Malta by renewed air attacks from Comiso and other airfields on Sicily. This convoy was the most heavily escorted of the war to date, with some 50 British warships, including two heavy battleships and five…now four aircraft carriers, all trying to secure the safety of just fourteen merchant ships. That said, only five supply ships got through to Malta, and one, the tanker Ohio, was barely afloat and had to be sandwiched by two destroyers under tow to get her there. Beyond that, the British are going to lose several valuable cruisers and a few destroyers as well.”

  “To make it simple,” said Volsky, “it is a hornet’s nest of fire, right astride our most logical route of escape. If we head for the Atlantic as planned now, we will most certainly become embroiled in this operation, and I do not think the British will welcome us at the Suez Canal, or facilitate our transit there, so we have quite a problem on our hands here. Now I want the best opinions from each of you—particularly from you, Captain Karpov, as you are one of the finest tactical officers in the fleet.”

  Karpov heard the admiral’s praise and it seemed to bolster his flagging spirits, particularly in front of the other men, making the mantle of his shame a little easier to bear. He glanced at Volsky appreciatively, and sat just a little straighter in his chair, no longer slouching with averted eyes, but now stealing sidelong glances at the others to gauge their response to his presence.

  “Our present course will lead us into the Tyrrhenian Sea again,” said Fedorov. “That area was not much involved in the action, as both sides were focusing their efforts more on the triangle formed by the Cape of Tunisia, Sardinia and Palermo on Sicily. That said, the Italians had several cruiser divisions planning to rendezvous off Palermo for a possible run at the convoy when it attempts to transit the Sicilian Narrows. Our radars are clearing up, and we may soon have a fix on their positions. But we have been spotted, and I have little doubt that whoever fired on us will be looking to confirm the sighting, and may have planes in the air at this very moment searching for us. If British, they will most likely assume we are one of these Italian cruisers, but they also arranged regular reconnaissance runs over Italian ports in the vicinity, and in time they will make an accounting of all ships in the Italian inventory. Then the real game begins for them, and they will wonder who and what we are, just as before.”

  “And if it was an Italian or German plane that attacked us?” Volsky asked.

  “Then they will have to assume we are part of the Allied operation, perhaps a fast cruiser intending to mount a raid on coastal facilities. That would be rather risky, but it is possible. The danger for us now is therefore acute. On 11 August, there were upwards of 780 Axis aircraft in the region, 328 Italian and 456 German if the history echoes true. The Allies had 140 aircraft on Malta spread over nine fighter squadrons, three torpedo squadrons, four bomber squadrons, and two more for dedicated reconnaissance. They were just reinforced by 37 more Spitfires flown off HMS Furious at about the same time the Eagle was torpedoed.”

  “Furious?” Karpov finally said something, somewhat surprised to hear the name of an aircraft carrier he had made a point of attacking just days ago—a year ago now, as astounding as the prospect seemed.

  “Apparently the ship survived,” said Fedorov. “Probably towed to Iceland and then back to Scapa or the Clyde. In any case, they’ve repaired her and put her back in service if she’s here—though we have no real confirmation of that yet. She is mainly used for these ferry operations, just as CV Wasp was first used to send those fighters to Iceland…”

  The men shifted uncomfortably. It was as close as Fedorov wanted to come to any recrimination for Karpov here, but it needed to be said. Karpov stewed, but said nothing, though his posture was more closed now, arms folded, and just a touch of anger in his eyes.

  “The British managed to keep fighter strength on Malta high, and will bring even more to the fight on their carriers. Needless to say, we do not have that many air defense missiles aboard.” His point was obvious, and Rodenko spoke up on that note about the damage to the Klinok system tracking radars.

  “We can replace one system within twenty-four hours,” he advised, “and probably rebuild the second from spare components, but that will take much more time. The long range S-300 system is viable, and there was no damage to our close in defense systems, but the First Officer makes a good point—780 or more Axis aircraft, 140 or more on Malta and then their carriers. How many there, Fedorov?”

  “Forty-six on Indomitable, including four recovered from Eagle, another thirty-eight on Victorious—yes, we fought that ship as well in our first encounter, Captain Karpov. The old carrier Argus was present, but no real threat with a flight of just six Sea Harriers, and there would be four more Albacores on Furious after her Spitfire deliveries, though she is heading west for Gibraltar and out of the immediate combat zone. So let us call it about ninety carrier borne aircraft escorting the convoy at this point.”

  Rodenko nodded his head, raising an eyebrow. “That makes over a thousand aircraft in the region. Well, we have ninety-six Klinok medium range SAMs still available in inventory, and forty-seven of the longer range S-300s.” If my arithmetic is correct, then we have about one missile for every seven planes out there in theater.”

  “Not a very good equation,” said Admiral Volsky. “The attack just hours ago showed us how vulnerable we are should even one enemy plane get through our defense umbrella.”

  “At the moment we are perhaps in more danger from Axis aircraft than from the British,” said Fedorov. “Kesselring has ordered numerous squadrons of II Air Corps in Italy, and also units that were based at Sicily, to airfields on Sardinia for the first phase of the gauntlet they are setting up for the British. So the center of gravity is moving west at the moment. There may be flights up this minute and we could be called to battle stations again at any moment. The only good thing about our position here is that we would probably be presumed to be Italian—by both sides. We must decide what course to set, and that quickly, before we are spotted again and that presumption changes.”

  “What about submarines,” said Karpov, and with an audible tinge of foreboding in his voice.

  Fedorov was quick with an answer. “The initial Axis picket line is much farther west, but they had seventeen Italian subs and two German U-Boats available for the operation. Here, I have the reference from my paper… Seven Italian and two German U-boats deployed north of Algeria. Ten more Italian submarines between Fratelli Rocks just west of Bizerte and the northern entrance to the Skerki Bank closer to Sardinia. This is their second picket line, and some of these submarines will move northwest off Cape Bon to operate in cooperation with aircraft. In addition, an Italian submarine should be deployed just west of Malta, another off Navarino, and three boats about a hundred miles west-southwest of Crete.” He put the document aside but pointed out these areas on the wall map. “As for the British, they’ll have a couple subs watching the Strait of Messina, and then four more well west of Malta. Again, there shouldn’t be anything near us now.”

  Tasarov confirmed that they had located no signals that might be hostile submarines thus far, and this seemed to ease the tension in Karpov’s shoulders a bit. He shifted, leaning on his right arm where the elbow rested on th
e side of the desk.

  “We would have to cross both those Axis submarine picket lines if we move west now by the most direct route,” said Fedorov.

  “Out of the question,” Volsky replied quickly. “And I think we can thank our stars that we emerged where we did. A few more hours and we would have been right in the thick of things. Yet the question still remains: what course should we take in the long run, and where should we be in twenty-four to forty-eight hours at the height of the battle? Opinions gentlemen?”

  Rodenko ventured to speak first “What about the Strait of Messina?”

  “That will not be easy sailing for us, I can assure you,” said Fedorov. “There’s an Italian cruiser base there and two more British subs are lurking nearby as well.”

  “I can take out those British subs easily enough,” said Tasarov.

  “And we have sufficient missile inventory to deal with air strikes at the moment, and plenty of Moskit-IIs left for those cruisers if they bother us.” Rodenko reinforced his idea, waiting.

  “There will also be shore batteries, and the channel is very narrow. But suppose we do bull our way through as we surely can,” said Fedorov. “Then where do we go? As you have said, the British will not welcome us at Suez. I suppose we could run through the Aegean and try to run the Dardanelles. After another transit of narrow and dangerous waters, we would then be master’s of the Black Sea.”

  “We could smash Axis forces there and assist our comrades!” Tasarov smiled.

  “Comments on this course?” asked Volsky, his bushy brows rising as he looked to the others, particularly Karpov, who spoke next.

  “Heading for the Black Sea is a definite possibility,” said Karpov. If we made it through the Bosporus then we might join in the fighting around Novorossiysk. For that matter, we might even be able to smash the German Sixth Army with our remaining nuclear weapons and prevent the misery and death of Stalingrad. That option could reverse the course of the war in the east much sooner. If we have to fight again, why not fight directly for Russia this time?”