Kirov k-1

by John Schettler

  “Brace for impact!” he shouted, seizing hold of the vertical steel beam near the view screen. The torpedo ran right under the battlecruiser, and continued on without its magnetic pistol firing at all. Whether it was due to the special anti-magnetic quality of Kirov’s hull, or to the inherently faulty and unreliable performance of the British Magnetic Pistol, Kindell’s desperate attack would count for naught. Samsonov had ceased firing his Gauntlet missiles, and the only sound now was the final deep growl of the system’s 30mm Gatling gun as it tore apart the last of the Swordfish. Falkner, Walthall and Waters were dead as well, their torpedoes never finding the sea.

  The cold water roused Kindell from his stupor, and he struggled in the wreckage of the plane, seeing his gunner and mate shot through and slumped lifelessly in the rear seats. For one brief moment he caught a glimpse of Kirov before it ceased firing, saw the last four rockets roaring away with tails of fire, heard the deep snarl of the Gatling gun that had cut his plane to bits. It was not a carrier, but something vastly more threatening in design and shape. Its sleek prow sliced through the kelp green sea as it sped away, its battlements crowned with odd shaped domes and moving concave disks, gleaming with luminescent lights. It seemed, for all the world, like a great mechanized behemoth, with death and destruction as its only aim.

  “What are you?” he rasped out with his final breath. “What in bloody hell are you?”

  Chapter 18

  August 3, 1941

  Admiral Wake-Walker was listening to the strident calls of his pilots on radio as the squadrons went in. When the fighters out in front pushed on through to close to within 50 kilometers of their target, he hoped the Germans had been unable to react in time to coordinate their defense. Yet just minutes later they were engaged by the new enemy rocket AA barrage, and with deadly effect. Two, then three Fulmars were downed, the others broken up and maneuvering wildly to avoid the barrage of rocketry thrown up by the enemy. What was this new weapon? How could it range out so far from the mother ship like this? He was astounded, yet placed all his hopes on the low flying torpedo bombers, thinking they would get through for certain now that the Germans had taken the bait and fired at the overhead fighter cover instead.

  Seconds later he heard his own 827 Squadron yelling out a warning, and it was soon clear that they were fighting for their lives. They called out warnings, cursed and exclaimed, their voices laced with an emotion he could only describe as awe. And they were dying. One by one his Albacore were lit up by the enemy rockets and taken down into the icy sea. When the same frantic calls came in from 817 Squadron off the Furious, Captain Bovell, tensely at his side the whole time, could bear it no more.

  “For God’s sake, get them out of there!”

  The Admiral’s jaw was set, his emotions tightly controlled. For a moment it sounded like the 812 Squadron was breaking through to the target. He heard one pilot call out the charge with a ‘Talley ho!’ but all was chaos after that. He toggled a switch and sent an order down to the strike controller in communications. “Abort, abort! Get the men out!” Yet he was too late. Kirov’s missiles and Gatling guns were finishing off the last intrepid flyers of 812 Swordfish Squadron, and Kindell’s torpedo, the only weapon fired at the target, was already running out to sea, an errant lance gone astray until its propellant was exhausted and it slowly settled to the bottom.

  An hour later he got confirmation from the returning planes. They had again flown into a hailstorm of enemy rocketry, and of the forty-three planes he had massed for the attack only eleven returned: five Albacore and six Fulmar Fighters that had been following behind and bugged out early after that first rocket salvo. The Admiral signaled that all planes should land on his flagship, Victorious.

  When finally recovered, the survivors gathered in the briefing room with their heads low, faces drawn and strained, the shock of the battle still on them. None of the Swordfish came home, yet one of the Fulmars, miraculously spared by the enemy fire, described the gallant, wave-top charge they made at the distant enemy ship, cheering them on as they went in, yet seeing them blown to pieces, only one getting close enough to launch its torpedo. With other yellow white tracks of rockets arcing up in his direction, he turned sharply and dove, eventually running home at low altitude to escape.

  “Same as last time, sir,” said a rear seat crewman. “Before you could say ‘knife’ they were cutting us to pieces. We never got a fair crack of the whip at them, sir.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” said Wake-Walker, shaking each man’s hand. “Damn bloody business, this. Yet that was the bravest thing I think I’ve ever seen, and this was entirely my fault. You did all that could possibly be expected of you, and more.”

  An hour later he got a signal off to the Admiralty informing them that his air strike had failed, with heavy casualties. “New enemy air defense system too formidable,” he sent. “Will shadow and attempt surface engagement, if possible.”

  Admiral Tovey got the news from his Chief of Staff Brind at mid-day on the 3rd of August. He was steaming due west aboard the veteran battleship King George V, on his best course to intercept the enemy raider should they hold their present course and speed. The news that Wake-Walker and his carriers could not even close on the target was somewhat disturbing.

  “They’ve pulled a fast one on us, Brind,” he said. “This new rocket AA defense could change the war. It’s put Wake-Walker and his carriers right on their back foot. My God, thirty-one planes down in under ten minutes time! They got off one bloody torpedo, but no hits were observed. Walker says his boys were in it up to their hatbands and barely got out alive. If the Germans manage to mount these new rockets on their fighter planes do you realize what they could do to our bombers?”

  Brind nodded, his face etched with concern. “Wake-Walker’s carriers are not much good to us now, sir. He’s consolidated what was left of his Squadrons on Victorious, and is detaching Furious to sail for Scapa Flow. We’ll get her another air wing, but I can’t see that it will do us much good under these circumstances. They can serve as scouts, provide fleet air defense, lay mines, but as offensive weapons they are pretty much a liability now.”

  “Odd thing about this…” Tovey was obviously perplexed. “I’m sure it must have been bandied about at the Admiralty as well. If Jerry has this new weapon system, and can mount it on a warship like this, then why haven’t they used it anywhere else? It could be set up for airfield defense, port defense. My God, they’ve got over a thousand AA guns protecting Brest, and we send Coastal Command and RAF squadrons in there week after week against high value targets like Scharnhorst and Gneisenau with nary a whisper of these new rockets.”

  “Perhaps it’s still in the offing, sir,” Brind suggested. “This may be the first application of the technology. Graf Zeppelin may be the test run for naval systems, and we could very well see it deployed, as you point out, for land based defense as well.”

  “God help us if that turns out to be the case,” said Tovey. “It would completely neutralize Bomber Command. In the meantime, rockets or not, I’ve got ten 14 inch guns on this ship. Our task now is to bring this rogue to heel, just as we did Bismarck. Any developments?”

  “Wake-Walker is still trailing the contact, sir. Apparently the Germans loitered in the vicinity of Jan Mayen for a few days before they put on speed and ran south for the Denmark Strait. Its all of a thousand miles from their first reported position near Jan Mayen before they get down and out into the Atlantic. That delay allowed Wake-Walker to get back in the game, sir. Though given what has happened to his squadrons, I’m sure he’s had his regrets about that. At the moment, he’s got his destroyers out in front creeping up on Jerry, but if they can’t catch up soon they’ll have to make for Reykjavik to refuel. The rest of Force P is with the carriers, cruisers Suffolk, Devonshire, and one destroyer. Those ships might be able to deal with Graf Zeppelin, but they can’t catch her if she keeps on at 30 knots. So we’ll have to be ready to intercept her after she transits the Denmark St
rait. We’ve moved Vian’s group into the Faeroes Gap with two cruisers and two destroyers, designated Force K. They’ll be northeast of our position by now and keep watch there if the enemy turns in that direction. If the Germans keep on their present heading, however, then we may have something to do for your big guns in another…sixteen hours or so.”

  “Let them try that damnable Ack-Ack fireworks on my main armor belt,” said Tovey. “We’ll shrug them off and then deal with this carrier the old fashioned way.”

  “Yet we’ll have to plan for the possibility that they may have modified Stukas aboard,” said Brind.

  “Yes, strange that there was no counter strike mounted by the Germans against Wake-Walker’s carriers. He says they’ve picked up obvious airborne contacts near the surface vessel on radar, but haven’t really laid eyes on a German plane. Perhaps they only have a very few aircraft aboard for search and target spotting, insufficient to challenge our own carriers air defense fighter group. I do note that none of our strike planes spotted any enemy fighters. They seem to be relying entirely on these new rockets.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “Well, we may not have that wizard’s bag of tricks, but there’s nothing wrong with our flack guns either.” Tovey was justifiably angry. “And this business with the Prime Minister,” he said. “Can’t he be persuaded to postpone this meeting?” The Admiral had only recently learned that the “official visit” involving Prince of Wales was a transport mission leaving Scapa Flow very shortly to ferry Churchill to Newfoundland for a secret meeting with the American President Roosevelt. “Nice of them to finally give us notice!” he said, frustrated.

  “I’ve asked the War Cabinet to reconsider. But Winston won’t hear of it. He’s dead set on this meeting. Wants to make his best pitch for American entry into the war. God knows we could use the help.”

  “Well, if he can pull that off then I suppose we can get him there and back again in one piece. I can’t imagine we’ve anything to be too concerned about. Graf Zeppelin may be good at taking pot shots at our antiquated torpedo bombers, but let them try that with Prince of Wales.”

  Brind was quiet for a moment. Then he said, ”They surprised us when Hood went down, sir. Now this…”

  Tovey took his point well enough. He sighed, weary with the day already. “Yes… well given the present situation, we’ll have to tie our shoes on this one smartly, Brind. No sense mixing the Prime Minister into the brew here. Let’s make damn sure we stop this German raider straight away, and keep Prince of Wales out of this business.”

  “That we will, sir,” said Brind.

  Aboard Kirov Admiral Volsky had convened another meeting to sort out what had happened. He was angry on several counts. He had been sleeping fitfully in his cabin, his mind running over the scant information he had gleaned from Fedorov’s books concerning this Atlantic Charter. What to do about it? He could sail Kirov down and board the KA-226 to fly in and join the meeting if he wished, but what would he say there?

  He had been ruminating on the matter in his bunk, taking a few brief moments of rest, though his mind was heavy with thought. The implications of this course weighed heavily on him now. If he did attempt to join the meeting, it would soon be clear that the mysterious ship confounding the Allies was a Russian Navy vessel, yet possessing weapons and capabilities unlike any other ship in the world. How would Churchill and Roosevelt react? Would they embrace him as a potential ally, forgive the fog of war that had set them as enemies? If so, they would most certainly want to know more about his ship and its formidable new weapons, yes? They would then come to see Kirov as a possible foil against the Germans; a means of bringing the war to a sure and swift end. How could he explain his presence there? Surely they would press him for information on the new weapon systems they had observed in action.

  If he passed himself off as a contemporary, he might try and convince them that Russia possessed this awesome new technology at this very moment. They would have to believe the evidence of their own eyes, yes? But in this instance he would present himself as just another man of their era, not a superman from another world.

  What if he should he tell them the truth-that he had come from a far distant future, bemused, bewildered and lost. If he did so he could then wield the awesome power of his foreknowledge as yet another weapon. Would they believe him? Could they accept the same impossible scenario he had been forced to acknowledge? And if they did believe him, they would surely realize that his knowledge of the outcome of the war, and the history that lay ahead, was the most terrible and potent weapon of all. It would take them years to try and reverse engineer his missiles or comprehend the intricate nature of the ship’s computer systems. But the old platitude that ‘knowledge was power’ would surely prevail. How could they let him blithely lecture them and then calmly board his helicopter to fly away again with such knowledge in his head?

  Once in their grasp, he might be treated as an honored guest for a time while they tried to learn all they could from him. He would have power in that event, but what demands could he make of America and Britain-to behave themselves and treat his Mother Russia like a true brother in arms after the war? He knew in his bones that there was no way he could throw in with the Allies against Germany in this war. They would smile, and dissemble, and ask a question here and there as they tried to ferret out the secret of Kirov’s incredible technology, and the unseen pathways that lay ahead in time.

  What, would he tell the Americans, that they must not open a second front in Europe and allow the Soviet Union to race to the Rhine? It suddenly occurred to him that he could use his position to fool them if he wished. He could simply tell them that their planned invasion at D-Day would end in absolute disaster, and that they must wait and pursue a more conservative strategy in the Mediterranean instead. Would they believe this?

  If he refused to answer their probing questions, would they resort to more unpleasant methods? He could never allow the information in his head to fall into the hands of the Americans and British. What else to do then? What demands could he make of them across a negotiation table, with Mister Nikolin or Fedorov as his translator? The more he thought about the situation, the more ludicrous his position became.

  He had put Fedorov’s book aside, his gaze drawn to the portrait of his wife and son on the night stand beside his bunk. His thoughts reached for them briefly, with fond recollection that loosened an emotion within him. Then the crushing insanity of the hour returned as he realized that, in this world, in this moment, his wife had not even been born, and his son no longer existed! An odd thought came to him.

  If this was the year 1941, then his mother and father had not even met yet! They did not meet and marry until after the war, and it was some years later, in 1957, that he was born. The odd thought then became an impossible premise in his mind-assuming he lived out the next sixteen years, what would happen on the day he was to be born? Would another Leonid Volsky emerge from his mother’s womb? Would there be two of him, each holding one end of the long cord of life and fate that stretched between them?

  Yet Fedorov’s warning haunted him. They were changing things. The British fleet was now maneuvering to intercept a ship they had never encountered in 1941. Men were dying, lives extinguished in one deadly ledger of war, while other men, slated to perish in the planned raids at Kirkenes and Petsamo, may be spared that fate now as the British carriers followed him west. It was too much for him to contemplate, but behind it all the kernel of a worrisome thought was ever present in his mind. How solid and sure was the line of causality that stretched forward from this moment to the distant future he had come from? If these changes rippled forward in time, what might they alter? Could the waves of variation affect the life lines of men aboard this ship? What would happen, he thought, if his parents never met? Would he keel over and die the instant that unseen variation contaminated his own personal line of fate? Or worse, would he simply vanish?

  The sudden jarring sound of the ship’s alarm b
roke his stream of thought, and he stiffened, sitting up in his bunk. Action stations, the sound of surface-to-air missiles firing. Apparently the British were going to continue to force his hand by persisting in these attacks, but what else should he expect? They could only assume he was a hostile German ship, and now that Kirov had demonstrated some of her awesome combat capabilities, the conflict was only likely to escalate.

  Now he had Karpov, Yazov and Samsonov in the wardroom, and the Captain was justifying his actions, as the Admiral expected. Yet with every word the man spoke, all Volsky could think about were the men that died in the action the ship had just fought, and those ripples of change and variation that now emanated forward from this moment.

  “It was clearly meant as a surprise attack,” said Karpov. “I did what I determined necessary to protect the ship and crew.”

  “Yes, but how was it I did not hear a call to battle stations until just before you fired? Are you telling me you did not detect this strike until it was within 50 kilometers?” The Admiral was looking at the chief radar man on duty, Yazov.

  “Sir, I-”

  “It was my decision.” Karpov interrupted. “When I saw the nature of the threat, over forty incoming aircraft, I elected to utilize our medium range SAM system. It’s rate of fire was superior to that of the S-300s, and it also integrated with our close in defense Gatling guns.”

  “That was a proper weapons selection, but you should have sounded general quarters the instant you determined this was an attack.”

  “I am sorry, sir, but I wanted to coordinate with Samsonov on the composition of our missile barrages. As you are well aware, we must be conservative with our ammunition.”

  It was an easy lie. Karpov would not, of course, say why he had really waited those first minutes without putting the ship at battle stations. He knew the alarm would immediately rouse the Admiral, and send him huffing up to the bridge where he would likely override his decisions. He would lose control of the engagement, and he was eager to handle the matter himself. After all, he was Kirov’s Captain, even if the Fleet Admiral was aboard.