Part VII
The Enemy Below
“He who seeks vengeance must dig two graves:
one for his enemy and one for himself.”
~ Old Proverb
Chapter 19
Dusk came after an uneventful voyage and a welcome interval of quiet. The ship had run out to sea at thirty knots to get well away from Sardinia and Corsica, cruising all day and into the fading light of sunset, and was now just off the largely deserted coast of Menorca Island. As the wan light faded, Fedorov was up from his bunk, feeling refreshed and well rested. He looked at the time: 19:thirty hours, just a few minutes before sunset. Menorca would be safe, he thought. There were no settlements of note there, particularly along this northern coast, and it was also neutral territory, officially a dominion of Spain.
He ate a brief meal and then went aft to find Byko and his damage control engineers. It was time to slow the ship, so he gave orders to make five knots and cruise in a wide circle so that Byko could put divers in the water to inspect the hull and forward sonar rims. Tasarov’s passive reception was still no good, and they were going to need that equipment in good condition if they did have to face the Royal Navy again at Gibraltar.
While he was aft he encountered Orlov, sitting with his back to a half open hatch along with several Marines where they usually occupied bays near the helicopters. It seemed that Orlov made some deprecating joke when he saw Fedorov approaching, and the men laughed, settling down as he drew near. Orlov made a half hearted salute, with an odd grin on his face.
“Captain Fedorov,” he said. The other men stood, a little more respectfully, but Orlov remained seated, his face a mask of derision.
“Mister Orlov,” Fedorov returned. “I heard about your intervention during the fire. Admiral Volsky was particularly pleased. I hope you were not injured badly.”
“What, these?” Orlov held out his still bandaged hands. “It’s nothing. Healing up well. The burns were not severe.”
“Good… Well, I would like the remaining KA-40 readied for operations. Rig for ASW. Byko may have to take the forward Horse Jaw sonar off line to complete his repairs. He tells me the aft towed array is also not ready for safe operation. That leaves us with this last KA-40. I’ll want it rigged with dipping sonar and sonobuoys, two torpedoes, and also a full air-to-air defense capability.”
“Yes sir, commander Fedorov, sir.” Orlov was clearly mocking him now, and in front of the men, who fought to suppress grins. Fedorov turned to him, considering what to say, and how to deal with his truculent manner when he caught a shadow at the hatch behind Orlov’s back. A man stepped through quickly, and took hold of Orlov’s jersey at the shoulders, his fists bunched tightly on the cloth as he wrenched the big man from his seat and pulled him up onto his feet. The other Marines seemed to freeze stone cold, real fear in their eyes now, and when Orlov squirmed around he saw the steely face of Sergeant Kandemir Troyak glaring at him. Troyak released him with a shove and spoke in a low, threatening voice.
“Mister Orlov, you are now standing before the Captain of this ship, and you will come to attention in his presence and act accordingly. The next time I see you sitting on your ass like that, particularly in front of these other men, I will personally see that you regret it. Now, apologize to the Captain—at once!”
It was more than Fedorov had ever heard Troyak say at any one time, and that, along with his rock-like presence and impenetrable countenance was enough settle the matter. Orlov’s neck reddened. He glared back at Troyak, but was of no mind to challenge him in this situation. He saluted, offering an apology in a low growl.
“I apologize, Captain—”
“What was that?” Troyak yelled. “None of us heard that, Mister Orlov!”
“Sir,” Orlov raised his voice, clearly unhappy. “I apologize for my disrespect.”
“Very well,” said Fedorov. “As you were, and see that the KA-40 is ready in thirty minutes.” He nodded to Troyak and moved on. He would make one more call to Dobrynin in engineering to make certain the reactors were in order, and it was not until he was well away from the scene that he allowed himself a smile.
U-73 was hovering in the still waters off Fornells Bay on the northern coast of Menorca Island and Kapitänleutnant Rosenbaum smiled as he peered through his periscope viewfinder, surprised to see a curious ship on his near horizon. Could this be the ship, he thought? What else could it be?
An hour ago one of his Funkegefreiten Telegram Operators had come to the con tower with a message from La Spezia. He was to look out for a fast British battlecruiser possibly heading his way, and last spotted on a heading of 245, cruising southwest towards the Island of Menorca, which was one of Rosenbaum’s favorite haunts. After his triumphant sinking of HMS Eagle, he had been congratulated and given permission to head home. But to celebrate, he took his boat north to an old hideaway once used by the Barbary Coast pirates, Fornells Bay. There were a few fisherman in a tiny cluster of huts that almost passed for a village there, along with the remnants of old watch towers that once served as lookouts for the pirate ships—but they would never see this pirate coming.
U-73 was creeping along at barely three Kph, its bow perfectly positioned to slip through the narrow entrance to the bay where the depth was just 18 fathoms. It was dangerous to navigate in such waters, but his boat had a draft under five meters and he could even remain submerged in that depth as he snuck into the bay, then sit quietly on the weedy bottom with over thirty meters of water above him. Tonight he would surface briefly and put men ashore for some fresh water or perhaps even a little fresh fish to celebrate the occasion.
As was his habit, Rosenbaum was taking a last look over his shoulder as the light faded, to be certain nothing threatening was at hand. When he saw the silhouette of the big ship emerge from behind the massive bulk of Sa Mola Isthmus to the east, he was shocked. There, not four or five kilometers distant, was one of the most threatening looking ships he had ever seen. It was big, fully the size of a battlecruiser, though he could only vaguely discern its guns from this range. It was creeping along at no more than five knots, he guessed, a perfect target if ever there was one! Then he noticed a smaller craft in the water near the ship as well. Probably inspecting the hull for damage, he reasoned, or putting men ashore.
Something immediately struck him about this ship, jangling loose a distant memory, and setting his adrenaline to rush. This had to be the ship his cable had warned him about, and he now found himself in a perfect position to fire his single aft torpedo in the stern of the boat. He immediately lowered his periscope, giving orders for silent running, and to the other men it seemed that the Kapitän was very much on edge. His second in command, Horst Deckert was watching him closely, noting the distant look in his eyes and just the hint of a glaze of fear.
“What is wrong, Kapitän?” he asked.
Rosenbaum looked at him apprehensively. “I think I have seen this ship before,” he said in a low voice, almost a whisper, as if the ship itself might overhear him and suddenly burst into action as he had seen it do earlier.
“A year ago,” said Rosenbaum. “In the north Atlantic. Do you remember, Deckert?”
“Ah, that ship you took to be a target vessel southwest of Iceland?”
“Yes—that’s the one!”
“The ship that killed Klaus Bargsten on U-563?”
Rosenbaum said nothing, nodding at young Hans Altmann, a watch officer who was surely listening to them out of the corner of his ear. He turned to the young man and gave an order. “See that that number five is pre-heated well.”
“Ja Kapitän,” said Altmann, and he passed the order back. For a long shot like this, they would get much better performance from a pre-heated torpedo. The boat had four tubes in the bow, and one aft in the stern, his number five tube, and there he was carrying one of the newer G7e model T2s, upgraded and designated T3 now to note that it was an improved torpedo. Heated to thirty degrees centigrade before launch, its battery would perform muc
h better, running out to 7500 meters in trials. If he could get it to run true for four or five thousand meters he thought he stood a good chance to hit this ship. Then he planned to scoot into the bay and settled quietly on the silted floor for an hour in case this ship had a gaggle of destroyers in tow that he could not yet see.
“You’re going to try a long shot?” Deckert whispered. “Remember what happened to Bargsten! You already got a big kill with that carrier back there, Kapitän. And you’ve already got your Knight’s Cross waiting for you back home—if we can get there in one piece.”
“Don’t worry, Deckert, I have a good plan, you’ll see.”
He waited a few minutes consulting his chart for proper depth and angle on this shot while the torpedo was heated. A British battlecruiser, he thought. There were not many left, and this one did not look like anything he had ever seen before. His chart notes on HMS Renown, which sometimes operated in these waters, indicated her length at 242 meters and a draft of a little over eight meters. This ship was easily that long. If it were a cruiser, the length would be no more than 190 meters. Might this be a new ship? No matter. He would set his torpedo running depth at 8 meters and leave it at that. Word was soon passed that all was ready. He raised his periscope and took another look to be certain of the angle of his shot, leading the boat based on the running speed of the torpedo and that of the target. He had his solution.
The sun was gone now, but the gloaming light still sharply outlined the darker silhouette of the ship. All he had to do was nudge his boat gently to get the perfect angle. Gliding on battery, his boat was very quiet, and he could hear no sign of an Asdic signal indicating the enemy was suspicious of his presence. Once he had made his adjustment he clenched his jaw and gave the order.
“Feuer jetzt!”
The whoosh of the torpedo launch seemed the only sound in the boat at that moment, and he immediately lowered his periscope. “Ahead two thirds,” he whispered, wanting to get as far away from the track of his running fish as possible. There had been no need to rig it out with a Federapparat pattern running device, which was useful against convoys, but not in a situation like this. The last thing he wanted was for some enterprising seaman on deck to sight down the line of his incoming torpedo wake and get a fix on his periscope and location, so he went blind and nudged the boat ahead on battery power, content to slip behind the intervening mass of the Sa Mola Isthmus and then into Fornells Bay. Like a dangerous eel, he had taken a bite at the enemy, and now he would slink into his cave.
He looked to his man on the hydrophones, who was listening intently to the torpedo as it went. The man frowned, shaking his head. “It does not sound good, Kapitän. I think it is losing depth.”
Rosenbaum clenched his fist with frustration. They had a surface runner! Now the weapon would strike too high, where most ships in this class would have a strong torpedo bulwark for protection. Ideally he wanted the torpedo to strike much closer to its assigned depth, where the hull would curve from the vertical towards the bilge of the ship, and the armor protection could be avoided. If he had fired a magnetic head, set to explode beneath the hull, it might have been worse, he thought. At least this one has whiskers, four metal spikes in the nose that would detonate the 273kg warhead on contact. It could still do significant damage, even if it was running shallow.
The entrance to the bay was a little over 500 meters wide here, but it opened quickly to two kilometers, and was all of five kilometers long, just deep enough near the little village to give him a place to hide on the bottom. They’ll never find me here, he thought as he watched his wrist watch, counting down the seconds left in the long torpedo run. If he heard no detonation, indicating a miss, he would settle on the bottom and wait things out. The British would search for him in vain and, when he was ready, he would sneak out to have another look and begin the game again.
The second hand ticked away…
Byko was waiting on the fantail, watching the KA-40 slowly rise up from the flight deck, its twin rotors bronzed by the fading sunlight, its overhead engines roaring as the helo hovered, then slowly gained altitude. He was a big man, with good sea legs and burly shoulders and arms, sleeves rolled back and a spanner in one hand while he waited at the diving station. His features were raw, and weathered from years at sea, and his close cropped hair did little to conceal the prominent dome of his skull, with more hair on his short, thick neck than he seemed to have on his head.
The men had been in the water for two hours, coming and going from the small skiff where it hovered amidships. They had inspected the big forward bulge off the lower bow where the passive sonar array was installed and found it free of damage. The starboard hull was lightly dimpled by fragments of splintered metal, some still lodged there, and the men were removing them and filling the holes with a fast acting adhesive sealant. What little seawater they took had been confined to the inner void and was easily pumped out.
Now they were working the port side, and the divers had noted a large shrapnel fragment cutting cleanly across their underwater sonar rim. This was undoubtedly where the damage was, and after an initial assessment they had returned to the diving skiff to run round to the aft of the ship and use the side ladders and stair extension there to re-embark. They were going to need tools, and some replacement parts as well, including underwater Acetylene torches. A marine guard sat sullenly in the back of the skiff, standard procedure for security on any boat that was manned and away from the ship, no matter how close.
Andrey Siyanko had been with the 874th Naval Infantry Battalion for some years, and was excited to be included in the special detachment assigned to the new Kirov when she launched. Now he looked to the west, watching the last traces of sunlight fade and etch the distant islands of the Balearic chain in sharp relief. Then he caught something out of the corner of his left eye, and turned to squint at the placid sea. His eyes widened with shock when he saw it, the long thin trail of a fast moving torpedo aimed directly at the heart of the ship!
“Torpedo!’ He shouted, and he instinctively unslung his automatic weapon, taking aim as the deadly undersea weapon bored in on them. He had little chance of hitting it, but reacted by sheer reflex as it came surging in, firing on full automatic.
With Kirov’s sonar dark for this vital repair, no one saw the torpedo but this one man, and the sharp rattle of his weapon was the only reprisal the ship mustered against the attack. He was firing in sheer self defense, because the torpedo was now running up very near the surface of the water and aimed directly at his boat. Siyanko would not live to know what his reflexive, if futile, action had accomplished.
Chapter 20
The Torpedo ran true, right at the diving boat and struck it dead on, detonating and literally ripping the small boat to pieces. The fire from Siyanko’s automatic rifle may have helped in that, but it could not save his life, or even spare Kirov from being hurt by the powerful explosion.
On the bridge, Karpov had just resumed his post while Fedorov remained below seeing to damage control. He was watching the launch of their last KA-40 on the aft Tin Man camera feed, pleased that they had some protection airborne against submarines. Yet no sooner had that thought come to him when he heard the violent explosion, and felt the ship lurch in response. His only thought in that wild moment was that they had struck an unseen mine.
He ran out the side hatch of the citadel to the watch deck, looking aft with shock to see that there was a huge explosive spray washing up over the ship there. The diving tender boat was obliterated, and parts of it had been flung against Kirov’s hull. Then he saw it, the thin remnant of a torpedo wake dissipating on the water.
His heart pounded, eyes wide as he rushed into the citadel shouting at the top of his voice. “Torpedo! Submarine off the port quarter. Tasarov, do you hear anything? Go to active sonar!”
“Aye sir!” The sharp ping of the sonar resounded a second later. Kirov’s passive systems had been shut down for the diving repair, but she could still shout at the uns
een enemy below and listen for the telltale return of the sound waves.
“Samsonov, be ready on the Shkval system and get me an immediate firing solution.”
But no solution came. Tasarov listened, and listened, and though he was one of the best sonar men in the fleet, he could hear nothing moving beneath the darkening still waters.
“We’re too close to this island,” he said. “I’m getting too many reflections from the coastal headlands. We need sea room, sir.”
Karpov’s mind raced ahead, trying to catch up with the unseen enemy. He noted the direction of the torpedo wake and resolved to immediately fire a salvo from the ship’s UDAV system down that line at once. The sub had to be somewhere between the island and the ship, probably a few hundred meters left of right of that track, and trying to slink away. He squinted at the narrow mouth of an inlet, but could see little in the dark. It seemed entirely too small a channel there and he discarded it as a potential escape route. The sub would be diving now and maneuvering out to sea as quietly as it could.
“Activate UDAV ASW system! Fire in an arc toward that island, three kilometer range. Now!”
Samsonov was flipping switches to key the manual fire, as he had no data incoming from Tasarov’s sonar. He quickly activated the UDAV-2 ASW system and fired two salvos sending a total of ten rockets out in a wide fan off the port side of the ship. They exploded with raging fury, generating a curtain of tumultuous seawater in the distance. If any submarine was lurking there, it would surely be shaken up by the sudden violence of the attack. Kirov had fired back, yet had not yet seen its foe. It was the first time they had fired without being able to precisely target their enemy, and with no real assurance of hitting or hurting him in the process. Even the frantic attempt by the young Siyanko had been directly aimed. This was no more than a random wall of fire intended to frighten their enemy and buy the ship some vital time while Karpov tried to better assess their situation and gain control of the engagement.
Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) Page 20