From Kirov’s perspective the scale and violence of the explosions seemed decisive. Karpov folded his arms, satisfied that he had smashed their enemy, and that the ship would now be free to sail on, but he was wrong. He was looking at Fedorov, a smile on his face when he caught the young Captain’s eye, and just as he was about to crow they heard yet another explosive salvo fire in the distance. Karpov thought it was a secondary explosion from his missile strike at first, until they heard the dreadful wail of the shells overhead, mostly long this time, though one fell short, no more than a thousand meters off their starboard bow.
“Con – Air radar contact. Multiple readings at one-eight-zero degrees. Range forty kilometers and closing on our position at 200kph. Altitude 15,000.” Rodenko has spotted the squadrons of Albacore II torpedo bombers off the British carriers. There were nine each from 827 and 831 Squadrons off Indomitable, and another twelve with the whole of 832 Squadron off Victorious. A flight of six Sea Harriers from 800 Squadron escorted them in, some thirty-six planes in all.
“Those will be torpedo bombers,” said Fedorov. “They are biplanes like the ones we faced earlier. Helm, come hard left twenty degrees.”
“Aye, sir. Coming left full rudder on a heading of two-six-zero.”
“I can see the carrier task force on radar,” said Rodenko, looking at Karpov.
“Let’s discourage any further air strikes. Give me one Moskit-II, Mister Samsonov. Put it in the center of that task force.” He knew there were three carriers south of him, but did not want to commit three missiles. Perhaps if he lit a fire on one carrier the others might relent, or scramble to recover her aircraft, which would disrupt further offensive operations. It was thinking that failed to consider the measure and mettle of his opponent, but he soon turned his attention to the Klinok SAM system, ordering both forward and aft silos activated to deal with the incoming tide of planes. The 152mm batteries stopped firing, and he clutched his field glasses, seeing the two smaller British destroyers that had been rushing at them both burning and nearly swamped. Ashanti was listing to port, and Tartar was a burning wreck. But he was soon surprised to see four more ships on his port side. The British had released the hounds.
They want to make a coordinated air/sea torpedo attack, he knew at once. Four destroyers and thirty six planes! He rushed to Samsonov, noting the inventory readouts on his missile panel. The missile he had ordered against the carriers fired and surged away to the south, and the readout on his Moskit-II inventory now reduced to nine missiles available. He also had eight more of the slower P-900 cruise missiles and nine more MOS-III Starfire missiles, blistering fast, yet with slightly smaller warheads. Kirov had just twenty-six ship killers left. He had put three missiles into each of the British battleships and still he saw their guns booming in the distance, the range still agonizingly close for a ship accustomed to firing at adversaries up to a hundred kilometers or more away.
“Fedorov! What is the range of the torpedoes on these ships and planes?”
“A maximum range of about 11,000 meters, but they will probably try to fire much closer. Remember the torpedoes will not track us. They run true as aimed. The destroyers may fire at long range just to harass us, but I don’t think the planes will fire much beyond three or four thousand meters.”
That was welcome news to Karpov. His Klinok’s would deal fiery hell to this air strike, and now he ordered all three 152mm batteries to engage the destroyers.
Some 15,000 meters to the south, on came the British hound dogs. Lookout was leading the way, Lightning just a five hundred meters off her starboard quarter. Behind them came Intrepid and Matchless. As Karpov stared at them he had bad memories of those final hectic moments on the bridge when the American Desron 7 had come charging in while he struggled to fire that devastating MOS-III missile with its powerful nuclear warhead. With a flash he remembered how he had ordered Martinov to also mount a warhead on the number ten cruise missile as well! Was it still there, he wondered, or had the missile crews replaced it with a conventional warhead? That did not matter. He had no missile key around his neck, and he was not the same man now. Those frantic memories seemed to come to him from another life, but the heat of battle was on him, and his adrenaline rushed. They had been engaged for over thirty minutes now, much more time than he thought it would take to stop the British battle force. He had wanted this fight, and the British were giving it to him.
“Aircraft descending rapidly,” said Rodenko. “They are dropping down low and dispersing on a wide front.”
The crack of Kirov’s deck guns shuddered in the air, a sharp head-pounding staccato. Fedorov again maneuvered the ship, even as the distant battleships blasted yet another salvo. How could they have weathered those missile hits? The heavy rounds came wailing in, much closer, and then one fell terribly close off Kirov’s port side, exploding in a violent upheaval of seawater and shaking the ship so hard that he could feel it roll from the force. The concussion was enough to buckle the hull slightly, but it did not break. Yet splinters of metal had showered that side of the ship near the impact, and there were many men down, blood staining their bright yellow life preservers where they manned their posts.
“Come right, twenty degrees hard!” shouted Fedorov, still maneuvering the ship in fast evasive turns. Nelson had found the range on them at long last, but Rodney’s salvo fell well off their port side. That was close he thought. That was oh, so very close. Then he heard Karpov shout the orders to engage the incoming air strike, and Kirov’s decks were soon awash with fuming white smoke as one missile after another popped up from the decks, like wet barracudas, and then went streaking off to the south. This time there were no misfires.
Chapter 30
The four destroyers raced forward, their sharp bows cutting smartly through the calm seas, their commander’s eyes riveted on the distant silhouette of the enemy ship ahead. Lookout made the grievous mistake of trying to illuminate their adversary with its searchlights, and was soon given the primary attention of Kirov’s deck guns. The armor piercing rounds piled into the ship and riddled her with five successive hits and one near miss. She was burning forward and aft, with two of her four 4.7 inch guns now blazing wrecks.
As the other ships fanned out to set up for their torpedo runs their crews could hear the distant drone of the Albacore IIs, right on cue. Then they saw the alarming missile fire from Kirov, gaping at the wild rush of black darts in the sky, driven by fire and steam. The missiles rose and veered in swift jerking motions, like a school of angry fish seeking prey. And they found the lumbering Albacores with little difficulty, blasting one after another from the sky as they descended to make their torpedo runs.
Aboard the destroyer Intrepid, Lieutenant Commander Colin Douglas Maud stood squarely on the bridge, his stout frame and thick black beard making him look for all the world like an old pirate captain of old. All he needed was an eye patch and scarf, but instead he wore a woolen black beret instead of his hat, one hand grasping a long blackthorn walking stick which he tapped on the deck as they made their torpedo run, almost as if to urge his ship on just a little faster.
He had joined the Royal Navy in 1921, with two years on the old Iron Duke before eventually coming to serve with the destroyers. He had killed two U-boats earlier in the war, and was out with several other destroyers in the hunt for the Bismarck, over a year ago. It was his ship, Icarus, that had first come upon the flotsam of HMS Hood’s tragic sinking, ropes rigged on her sides and ready to pull men out of the water, but they found only three souls alive that day.
He had also been out with Tovey’s fleet a year ago, screening Home Fleet as it closed on another fast German raider in the North Atlantic. His was one of two ships that suffered badly when the enemy used rockets to strike the fleet at long range, and Maud’s luck ran out when his destroyer, Icarus, was struck amidships and sunk. Thankfully, he was pulled out of the water and saved, but lost many shipmates, and his beloved bulldog Winnie as well. The loss of his ship was a shock that
took some time to get over, but he recovered, steeled himself, and immediately asked Home Fleet for another destroyer. They gave him the Intrepid.
The Malta convoys had been his lot of late, but this was something different, and he growled out commands to the bridge crews, full of pluck and vigor as the ships sped forward. He had seen the rockets that struck the battleships, his mind frozen with the memory of those awful moments in the North Atlantic, the terrible explosion and fire, the bone chilling cold when he went into the sea. Yet this was what a destroyer leader lived for, he thought, not the slogging drudgery of escort duty, nor even the prowling measured hunt for enemy U-boats. It was the mad dash he loved most, even if it meant he might rush again into fire and death. That was the thing that gave its name to these ships—Lighting, Intrepid, and as he urged his men on his heart also burned with the thought that he was now bringing vengeance to the ship that had taken Icarus from him. He would get in close and fire his torpedoes at the monster, or he would die trying.
“Come on, lads,” he shouted at the torpedomen as they worked to get the tubes ready on both sides of his ship. “Get yer backs into it!” He was well lined up on the enemy ship, some 9000 yards out and cruising at his top speed. By god, this ship was fast! It was running over thirty knots and his 36 knot destroyer was laboring to close the range. He would have to come left to lead the ship by a good measure if he was to have any chance of hitting it, and that would make his ship a fine target when he turned.
Above them the black night was being ripped open with blazing fireballs and the hideous streaks of the enemy rockets. As he stared at the enemy ship it seem a seething medusa, with each missile contrail a winding, hissing snake with venomous death in its fangs. Lookout was swamped and on fire, falling off to their stern, Lightning was battered by enemy gunfire, straddled and hit amidships, where one of her torpedoes exploded, breaking the ship near in two, yet Intrepid plowed on. And when the enemy guns began to range on him, the first round blackening the forecastle off the starboard side, he bellowed out the order to fire. He would bloody well get his torpedoes in the water, come what may.
The other three destroyers had been pounded into submission by the incredible rate of deadly accurate fire from the enemy deck guns. They were turning away, some making smoke, others burning so badly that that would have been a needless afterthought. It was Intrepid that still carried the charge forward the only ship that got her fish into the sea.
Captain Maud watched the torpedoes go, looking to see a subflight of three Albacores come right up the wakes of the destroyers, roaring in over the wave tops on his starboard side as they veered to attack. He raised his blackthorn and shook it at his comrades with a hearty cheer. “Go on and get the bastard,” he shouted. “Get your bloody teeth in ‘em, boys!”
It was Tom Wales of 827 Squadron and two of his mates. They had put their planes right on the deck, just feet above the water and came roaring down the wakes of the four destroyers, shielded by the ships until they came under that deadly shell fire.
“Stay down real low, and find any cover you can…” That was what Parsons had told him outside the briefing room.
As Kirov’s shells found their marks on the destroyers, several Klinoks did not see the three Albacores running up behind the destroyers, and they selected other targets at higher elevation. The planes veered at the last minute, emerging from behind the ships and roared on past, like flying fish that had come up from under the sea, their fuselages and wings wet with spray. It was the most daring thing Maud had ever seen, and he continued to wave his blackthorn walking stick high overhead, his deep voice urging the planes on. Then he saw a burst of fire from the dark enemy ahead, and heard a grinding rattle.
Samsonov had seen the planes at the last minute, so close now on his targeting radar, and he immediately activated the ship’s close in defense Gatling guns. There were three guns on each side of the ship, with six rotating barrels and sinister looking housings that looked like looked like soldier’s helmets. The barrels whirled and bright fire burst from the guns, sending a hail of steel toward the oncoming planes. Two were hit, riddled with shells and careening wildly, end over end, as they hit the water, but Tommy Wales pulled hard on his torpedo release and he got his fish in the water. Immediately veering behind the burning mass of Lightning just ahead on his left, he was shielded from the withering fire of the Gatling gun that had targeted his plane.
He would be the only man that would return from 827 squadron that night. The rest had all been taken by the SAMs. Three of nine men survived in 831 Squadron. They had pulled their levers early and then dove for the deck, but their fish were not well aimed and they went wildly astray. 832 Squadron off Victorious lost eight of her twelve planes, and only because Kirov’s missiles had broken up the squadron as it descended and scattered it so badly that the remaining four pilots bugged out. They had never seen anything like the terrible fireworks this ship had flung at them, and they hoped they never would again. They had flown bravely threw enemy flak, dodging the mindless rounds as they puffed and exploded in the sky around them. But these things came at you as if they knew your name. They were death in a steel cased shell with wings on it, and frightening beyond belief.
“Torpedoes in the water!” shouted Tasarov on sonar. His system immediately went to active rapid pulse detection mode, beeping in ever shortening intervals to indicate the closing range of the oncoming threat. “I have three contacts.”
“Come right, thirty degrees hard!” shouted Fedorov.
The ship heeled over with the high speed turn, but Karpov could see that they would easily avoid the barbs Intrepid had hurled at them on this course, yet that turn would put them dangerously close to the last torpedo, the fish that had fallen from Tom Wales Albacore II.
“Shkval!” said Karpov reflexively.
The fast rocket torpedo was fired, acquiring a target in seconds and racing with impossible speed to destroy it. Karpov looked back out the port view panes and saw the explosive dome of seawater slowly subside, and the threatening streaks of two more torpedoes leaving cold white wakes behind them. Then the scene grew quiet again, and there was only Kirov’s churning wake, and the distant glow of fire on the heavy British ships. Tasarov signaled that all was well.
The ship had turned on a heading of 292 degrees northwest now, still running at full battle speed. They had raced past the Almeria bay in the last forty minutes, coming around past another flat headland that jutted south into the Alboran Sea. Ahead Fedorov could see the wrinkled shadowy highlands rising from a rocky coastline and climbing steeply to heights up over 1800 meters. The ship was heading straight for them on this course, in spite of the danger posed by submarines that might be lurking near the coast. It was the only sea room they would find off their starboard quarter for a while, and he knew he would soon have to come left again to get round Cabo Sacratif looming in the distance. Yet they had finally pulled well ahead of the British battleships, and the range was now increasing with each passing minute.
They saw one last bright orange belch of fire from their pursuers, and then the British Guns fell silent. Nelson was still burning badly, with her smoke so thick that the entire conning tower was engulfed in the black plume and the ship had to turn to get the prevailing wind off angle so the weary bridge crew could get air and function. Rodney had hurled one last vengeful salvo at them, and now the rounds came soaring in from her A turret and fell in a tight spread so close to the aft section of the ship that they could feel their rump jostled by the near impact. She would not find the range again.
The British ships knew that the sea devil they had been chasing would now escape them. Kirov was opening her lead steadily, and there was no way they could possibly catch up. The intercept course they had wisely chosen allowed them only this brief window for engagement. So now they turned thirty points to port, the command of the battle squadron falling to Admiral Fraser on Rodney. Syfret had been hustled off the bridge of Nelson, alive but still unconscious below deck
s. Fraser also got word from Admiral St. Lyster that Indomitable had been hit by one of these rockets, and took some heavy damage below the fight deck amidships. They couldn’t stand to lose any more carriers. Eagle was enough, so he wisely decided to turn his battered ships southward to cover the carrier force. Most of the destroyers were fairly well beaten up, except for Intrepid, who came out remarkably unscathed, though she had gotten in closer to this devil than any other ship.
Slowly the rumble of guns and roar of the missiles subsided, and the night once again settled heavily over the scene. The ‘Battle of Almeria Bay’ had been fought for well over an hour and was now concluded. Though Rodney and Nelson had clearly taken the harder blows, they would say that they were not the first to turn from the heat of battle, and that their enemy had fled into the night, breaking off with her superior speed to escape the grasp of their 16 inch guns. It was an old story for the Nelson class battleships. Scharnhorst and Gneisenau had escaped them in the past, and they were not fast enough to chase either Bismarck or Tirpitz until the former was stopped by planes off the Ark Royal so Rodney could catch up. Their day had come and gone, and they survived to be eventually folded into laborious convoy escort duty later in the war, still a stalwart threat, but well past their hour of glory.
When the destroyer attack failed and the air strike suffered such grievous losses, Fraser knew his men had suffered enough for one night. They had all done their best, and a good many DSOs would be awarded for this action—but too many of them posthumously. As destroyer Intrepid led the remnant of the flotilla south, he gave the order to turn and effect a rendezvous with the carriers. Then he tramped listlessly into the wireless room to get a message off to Tovey. It was just three short words, and they would carry the whole of what his men and ships had striven for and failed to win in the end.
Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) Page 29