Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series)

by Schettler, John

  Orlov winced at the sight, realizing how close he had come to death. It had seen him, reached for him, and he felt the cold brush of its steely hands as it nearly grasped him. But he was not dead—he was alive! He was a great laugh, a wild roar of elation, a bellowing shout of thanks to the heavens above as he fell through the cool evening air, vanishing into a low cloud. When he broke out through a gap in the clouds he gasped at the beauty of the last fading light on the stillness of the sea, tears streaking his face, his still bandaged hands gripping the harness of his parachute, oblivious to the pain.

  He was alive, alive, alive! And in that jubilant singularity of this moment he realized that he was the only one who knew that. They would see the destruction of the helicopter and think he was dead. He was free, drifting in this sublime white mist, as if a second life had come to him. He was completely reborn—a demigod falling from the skies to a world unprepared for the power he might one day wield. Yes, he knew in that fleeting instant that he was like a god, for he had knowledge of all the days to come. Knowledge was power, and if there was one thing Orlov understood in this life, it was power.

  He drifted down and down, and then he realized that he was still well out to sea and probably headed for a long slog in the water. This wasn’t over yet. He pulled the tab on the life preserver embedded in his flight jacket and inflated it with a dry hiss. It would probably keep him afloat, but night was at hand and it would be much colder in the water. He had nothing to eat or drink, the pistol in his jacket pocket being the only other thing he had managed to hold onto in those wild moments before he leapt. Then he remembered that this parachute could be steered, and he began to work the harness, gliding it gently toward the land he could see to the west, wrapped in a purple haze of twilight.

  As he descended he could suddenly see that the ocean was not empty below him. There was a flotilla of small fishing boats on the water, their bows pointed west toward the small ports and villages that undoubtedly dotted the coastline there, and he whispered thanks, hopeful that someone would see him go into the water and come to his aid.

  That was what eventually happened, but it wasn’t until he had been pulled from the sea like a big wet fish and was sprawled out on the wooden deck of the fishing boat that he felt that thrum of hope again, and realized his old life might really be behind him. He had been in the water for an hour before the boat drew near and saw his arms waving and heard his hoarse, deep shouts in the gloaming dark.

  Now he sat, tired and drenched, his wool cap still pulled low on his forehead. He smiled and spoke to them gratefully. “Spasibo!” He said, thanking the three clueless brown eyed men staring at him. “Za druzhbu myezhdu narodami!—To friendship between nations!”

  The men did not understand a word he said, of course, and Orlov spoke no other language but his native Russian, but his manner and the look on his face communicated his gratitude, and they all nodded, smiling. The heavy set man in the middle of the three spoke back to him. “Bienvenidos a bordo!”

  The Spaniards had seen and heard the explosions in the sky, and saw the slow descent of his parachute. It was not all that unusual an event. There was a war on, though thankfully Spain had managed to stay out of it. They had seen Italian bombers flying in from their far bases to try and bomb Gibraltar in the past, and at first they presumed this was some hapless Italian pilot, but Orlov’s appearance and language set them off that assumption. Perhaps German, or Eastern European, they thought. Polish soldiers sometimes fought for the British now. In any case, he was a man in need and they helped him below to get out of his wet clothes and get some welcome food into him. When they saw his pistol they gave it a second look, but then went about their business as normal, not wanting to provoke and trouble with this big man. Perhaps he was a commando, they thought. He certainly wore a uniform, and he looked threatening as well. The heavy set man was speaking to him, though Orlov simply nodded and smiled.

  “Tenga cuidado, amigo mío. Si las autoridades descubren que eres un soldado, van a arrestar y detener a usted por la duración de la guerra. Tenga cuidado.”

  Orlov realized he was going to hear a lot of this unintelligible speech for a while, but for now the sound of another human voice was welcome, and he needed only one thing from these men—a little food, some dry clothing, and a few hours to sleep while the boat put in to shore. He was living in a new world now, and though he had nothing of value he could use for money, and little idea where he even was, he knew that he would have no trouble getting what he wanted, or where he wanted, in the long run.

  Yes, he thought. This is going to be very interesting. There would be good food, and drink, and women. He knew that no one on Kirov would ever be able to find him now. He was safe, reborn, and free to live out a whole new life, if he just kept a good head on his shoulders. If this was 1942 he might make an awful lot of money with what he knew. He’d be living in a world where Karpov and Volsky and all the others were not even born yet, and he could settle more than a few scores if he wanted. How old was Karpov, he wondered? Somewhere in his forties? He would have to wait thirty odd years before he could pay him another visit, but it would be worth it. Then again…what would that rat Karpov do when I find his grandfather and strangle the man, eh? He smiled inwardly just to think about it.

  Fedorov gave some fleeting consideration to sending out their remaining KA-40 to confirm the kill and see if Orlov might have survived, but Karpov convinced him it would be fruitless.

  “We’ll only waste more time and aviation fuel. It was bad enough that this incident cost so much as it is. Nothing could survive that barrage. All five missiles detonated on the target. He’s gone, and I say good riddance. Now we must turn our attention to what lies ahead. If we send up the KA-40 it should be to find these British ships you are worried about.”

  Fedorov hesitated. He did not want to risk losing their last helicopter, and decided to just hold to their planned course. He had little doubt that they would soon see Force Z on their long range radar, and said as much.

  “You have the bridge, Mister Karpov. I’ll inform Admiral Volsky of what occurred and then take a few hours rest. Run steady on this course for another two hours, then come right to course two-two-five southwest.”

  He went below, his heart heavy, and reluctant to be the bearer of yet more gloomy news for the Admiral. When he reached sick bay he found that Volsky was asleep in the back room, and so he left the news with Doctor Zolkin.

  “Don’t take it too hard,” said the Doctor. “Men like Orlov have a way of making their own fate, and their own misery. If it is any comfort to you, I will say you did the right thing. The Admiral gave a standing order that none of our weapons or equipment were to fall into enemy hands. You prevented that, at great cost, but it was wise to do so in any case.”

  “At first I thought Orlov might survive,” he said, and then I felt even worse for wishing him dead.”

  “I know, I know. He was no friend of yours, but your conscience still bothers you. That is only because you are a good man, Fedorov. There was another man on that helicopter, Yes? I don’t think Orlov was as kind to him. That makes nine now. Nine men dead in this business. At least I don’t have to put these last two into the sea. Remember that this was none of your doing, and look to what you must do now to keep us safe.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  He left without much sense of consolation in spite of Zolkin’s words. He still felt responsible for everything that had happened thus far, for all those nine dead men, even though he knew he was being hard on himself to do so. This was the dark shadow of command, he thought, the other side of the pride and excitement he felt that first time on the bridge. It weighed on him, every last ounce of it, and the responsibility seemed a crushing burden now, not just for the ship and crew, but for the history he had been stubbornly trying to defend. But how do you save tomorrow, he thought? Everything was once so certain; so predictable. Then those Italian battleships appeared from nowhere, and he could never feel safe
or content with all the knowledge he had stuffed in his brain again.

  As he walked to his cabin he was still harried by a strange, unaccountable feeling that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. It was more than Orlov’s betrayal and blind stupidity, and more than his death or the loss of the helicopter. It was something deeper, a great yawning uncertainty that overshadowed his every step now. It was a profound sense of misgiving and dread that he simply could not chase from his mind.

  He reached his cabin and lay down on his bunk, staring up at the ceiling and trying to see just where it was that he had made some great but unseen mistake. He needed rest, but sleep would not come to him, and as he lay there the nagging question returned to his mind again.

  What if he’s alive, he thought to himself? Oh God, spare the world from this man if you will. Find a place in heaven for him and get him there soon. For if you do not he will surely find a place for himself in hell—for himself and how many others?

  Chapter 27

  When Fedorov returned to the Bridge three hours later Karpov reported all was well, and they now had a clear surface contact to their southwest.

  “We are on course 225 now and the sea is calm. The ship is running smoothly at thirty knots and we’ve found your Force Z. You were correct. We spotted them about 150 nautical miles out. They are still well ahead of us on a heading of 255 degrees, but we’ve cut their lead and they just reduced speed to fifteen. If we increase to full battle speed that will give us another five knot edge to see if we can make up that distance.”

  “It won’t be enough,” said Fedorov, walking to his navigation board. His well trained eye took in the position, course and speed of the British task force relative to Kirov’s and he knew at once that they had lost their race. “It’s what I was afraid of,” he explained. “If we had more sea room to the starboard side I could turn another fifteen or twenty degrees and then perhaps we could outrun them. Unfortunately, that course would send us right across Cabo de Gata—Cat’s Cape here.” He pointed to the prominent land mass southeast from Almiera. We can’t sail on land and if they come any further to their starboard side, even a few points, then our situation is even worse. They just had too long a head start on us, but I can’t see why. They seem to be several hours ahead of where I expected them.”

  Again, something was wrong. Something had changed. Unless Rodney’s boiler problem was miraculously cured, they must have turned Force Z earlier. They were supposed to turn back at 18:55, but there is no way Force Z could be where it is now unless… He ran a hasty calculation.

  “Damn,” he breathed. “It’s slipped again. They must have turned west as early as 16:00 hours! This means Indomitable wasn’t exposed to that attack that put three bombs on her flight deck at 18:thirty hours, and they’ll likely have her intact.”

  Karpov shrugged. “Three carriers now?”

  “It seems so.”

  “And I could have taken out at least two of them if I had just had a free hand weeks ago. The cat you don’t feed today will scratch your leg twice as hard tomorrow. Now we fight them again.”

  Fedorov seemed unsure of himself now. Their plan had failed. They would not be able to slip past Force Z tonight, and the prospect for a battle was looming on the far horizon, drawing ever closer with each turn of Kirov’s powerful screws. He looked at the navigation plots, thinking.

  “An hour before midnight, at 23:00 hours, they will be here if they stay on their present course. I doubt if they’ll have planes up tonight, except perhaps to provide local air cover over the task force. We might be visited by some long range recon planes out of Gibraltar, but otherwise, I don’t think they’ve seen us yet.”

  “And where will we be at that hour?”

  “Here—about forty nautical miles off their starboard aft quarter.” Then he saw it—one slim chance, but they would have to plan it very well, and it would be very risky. Karpov could see the new light in his eyes, and he probed him.

  “What? Do you see another option?”

  “Look… At 23:00 hours we’ll also be about forty nautical miles due east of Cabo de Gata. Suppose we turn due west at that time and run directly for the cape. If they don’t see us then we just might slip past them. If they do see us then they would have to turn fifteen degrees to starboard—but I think we could still out run them. The only thing is this: they won’t catch us in this event, but they will spot us, and those guns range out to 36,000 meters, with an effective range of 32,000 meters for battle.”

  “We’ll be inside that?”

  “Unfortunately yes.” He looked ahead in his mind, wondering. “We’ll have no room to maneuver to starboard. We’ll be right on the damn coast, so we’ll just have to run the gauntlet.”

  “Let’s try, Fedorov. When our first salvo of missiles hits home we’ll give them a real surprise, just like the Italians. It will be a night action. We can jam any radar they may deploy. We have twice their speed, and plenty of firepower.”

  “Yes, but they have three carriers, and they’ll launch everything they have at us. Gibraltar will get in the game soon after with their air squadrons.”

  “We still have thirty-five of our S-300s and seventy-nine more on the Klinok system, and we’re going to hit anything we fire at.”

  “There may be submarines.”

  “Our sonar is now fully operational and we can use the Shkval rocket torpedoes to snuff them out like a match.”

  “And minefields in the straits…”

  “You saw what we did at Bonifacio. We can get through, Fedorov! Don’t lose your nerve now. Our only other choice is to drop anchor here and get Nikolin on the radio to Gibraltar.” He pointed to the unseen base, somewhere to the west. “Do that and I guarantee you that this Force Z will come steaming up in any case, and then we’ll have our battle right here. It will happen, sooner or later, Fedorov. But if we try to get by them we’ll at least have a chance to win through.”

  Fedorov looked at it, and looked at it, and he knew that Karpov was right. “Very well,” he said. “I suggest you get a few hours rest while you can, Captain, and a good meal. I’ll want you back on the bridge with me at 23:00 hours, and we’ll make our turn for Cabo de Gata, come what may. We’ll call the whole plan Operation Gauntlet.”

  “Aye, sir. A good name for it.”

  Karpov had his battle.

  At that very moment Admiral Tovey was also looking at his plotting board on King George V, in the chart room with his Chief of Staff, Michael Denny and the ship’s Captain Patterson. They were passing Vigo, Spain and racing south for Lisbon, though they had many hours of sailing time ahead of them.

  “As things stand,” said Tovey, “we won’t get into the western approaches to Gibraltar until 14:00 hours tomorrow.”

  “I’m astounded we moved this quickly,” said Denny. “You would think the entire war effort was riding on this sortie.”

  A younger man at forty-six, he did not sport the gray mantle that many of the senior officers had. After service on the cruiser Kenya and carrier Victorious, he had been groomed to replace Daddy Brind as Tovey’s Chief of Staff, and he brought all the sharpness and energy of his relative youth to the job. Still, Tovey was missing Brind at this moment, his grizzled wisdom and rock hard common sense was ever a touchstone for him.

  “That may not be too far off the mark, gentlemen,” said Tovey. “I hope I don’t have to remind you what happened to the American fleet last year. I’ve sent word to Fraser and told him to offer Admiral Syfret a seat at the Round Table, so he’s been briefed on this Geronimo business at long last. He’s still of the mind that this is a French ship—Strasbourg. If that’s the case then we’ll all breathe easier and all we’ve lost in this little trip is the fuel oil.”

  “Rodney and Nelson will make quick work of Strasbourg,” said Captain Patterson. “But if it isn’t a French ship?” He had seen what Geronimo could do, felt the hard impact of those rockets on his ship’s heavy armor.

  “Then it comes down to guns an
d steel, gentlemen. Nothing more; nothing less.” Tovey had a grim expression on his face. “What have we got at Gibraltar?”

  Denny spoke up, referring to a clip board where he had the latest tally from the Rock. “Hudson bombers will be up from 233 squadron at first light. Campbell’s 808 Squadron will give us strike capability with his Fulmar IIs. Hutchinson with have his Sea Harriers up with 813 Squadron, and then we’ll have a few more Beaufighters from Coastal Command and a handful of fighters in 804 Squadron on the Argus. That’s all of 48 planes. We darn near emptied the cupboard for Operation Pedestal, but Syfret still has three carriers with Force Z and they’ve got thirty-six Fighters, and another forty-two Albacore strike aircraft between them. We’re bringing in 825 Squadron with sixteen Swordfish and 802 Squadron with twelve more Sea Harriers on the Avenger. That make s a total of 154 aircraft fit for duty.”

  “That’s sounding much better,” said Tovey. “Submarines?”

  “We’ve got Talisman in Gibraltar and we’re lucky to have even that boat in position now. She was mistakenly depth charged by a Sunderland in the Bay of Biscay and is docked at Gibraltar for repairs. Traveler is heading home as well, but has no torpedoes until she replenishes. Everything else is in the central and eastern Med.”

  “Not very promising, but Talisman will have to do.” Tovey tapped his plotting pen on the map. “Gentlemen, here’s the plan. Force Z is out looking for this Geronimo and with three carriers I expect to hear from them shortly. It’s his job to bring them to heel, and that failing he’s to hang on to their coat leg and buy us some time to get Home Fleet further south. If our aircraft, this single sub, and Force Z can do the job, all the better. But if things take a turn for the worse, then we’re the goalie in this game. I’m not taking the fleet into the straits. Not enough sea room there, and we’ll be bunched up like a row of fat geese. No, gentlemen, We’ll fan out in a widely dispersed arc as I’ve drawn it here.” He gestured to the western approaches to Gibraltar.