Kirov Saga: Altered States (Kirov Series)

by John Schettler

  The triple turret slowly rotated, three barrels elevating, wet with sea spray. Then they fired, the bright flash followed by a deafening roar, and heavy black smoke rolled out to port. It had begun.

  Hoffmann watched the long fall of the shells, waiting for the geysers to mark the shot. He saw them plunge into the sea thirty seconds later, tall and white.

  “Range?” He called in to Schubert, his gunnery officer.

  “19,500 and closing. Those warning shots were short, but we’ll have the range soon enough.”

  The Kapitan waited, observing the distant ship closely. They had not returned fire, but yet they were not running, still cruising sedately along as if they had no care in the world. Then he saw what looked like an explosion on the forward deck, and for the barest instant he thought one of the rounds had been under charged and was coming in late, hitting the ship square on the foredeck.

  He could even see what looked to be a fragment of the deck thrown up into the air, then it exploded again, or so he believed until he saw something come hurtling toward them, soaring up and then diving for the sea.

  The MOS-III was the fastest missile in the Russian inventory, Zvezdnyy ogon', the Starfire. It had a range of 160 kilometers, and could cross that distance at 1.7 kilometers per second after a ten second acceleration burn, five times the speed of sound. To Hoffmann as he watched it seemed as though the thin white stream stretching out behind the object was a javelin shaft of lightning.

  The bright fire of its engine cast an evil glow on the sea as it raced in, right for Gneisenau, low over the wave tops. Then at the last it leapt like a flying fish in a programmed popup maneuver and smashed into the heart of the ship, right above the gunwales. There was a violent explosion as the missile delivered its 300 kilogram warhead, the same size as the UGST torpedo that had broken the back of Altmark earlier. The roar of the missile’s engines still followed, finally catching up just after it thundered against the ship.

  Hoffmann gaped at the scene, seeing Gneisenau roll with the heavy punch, the broiling smoke and fire amidships burning fiercely hot from the excess fuel left in the missile. A secondary anti-aircraft battery was completely immolated. The missile had struck very near the funnel, just above the number four boiler room. The lifeboat there was completely devoured, and the blow had penetrated deeply into the ship, gutting mess halls, quarters, repair shops , storage areas and very nearly blasting its way out the starboard side of the superstructure. Everything in its fiery path was destroyed. The smoke towered up, heavy and black, three times the height of the ship.

  “Mein Gott!” Hoffmann was stunned by the sudden lethal violence returned by the distant intruder. This was a battleship, most certainly, but what in the world had it fired at them? Rockets! He knew that Germany was hard at work on them even now, but apparently the British were too! One shot, one hit, and look at the fire on Gneisenau!

  “Huber! Give them both turrets and then hard to starboard and ahead full. We have the devil to pay!”

  It was his transgression, he thought, but Gneisenau paid the price so far. Scharnhorst fired, guns belching retribution, and then the ship wheeled hard right, churning up the sea with the violence of the turn.

  Curiosity killed the cat. The Kapitan was heading for the armored citadel, his face drawn and set. The smoke from the fire on Gneisenau was lying heavy on the sea, the black smoky blood of a stricken steel ship. They had managed to see his turn, and now turned with him, but not before they let off a salvo from their aft turret.

  The two ships were now racing away from the enemy, and quickly opening the range. Gneisenau’s speed was slightly off, which meant the fires amidships may have gotten to one of the boiler rooms. Hoffmann wanted no part of this mysterious British battleship. His only consolation was that the enemy seemed to have no speed. It could not follow and slowly receded, disappearing over the horizon.

  If we hadn’t slowed to recover that Arado we would have been in the van and it would be my ship burning now, he thought grimly, my men charred in that fire. One thought seared his mind now, the dark smoke clouding his soul: this was something altogether unexpected. What was it? Why did we hear nothing of British naval rocket weapons? How many ships carried them? Were they all so accurate, so terribly fast?

  “Come about and swing north as soon as we get over the horizon and out of sight. There is more here than we can chew right on now. With Gneisenau burning it’s no good heading south into the Atlantic to look for another tanker. The British will see us twenty miles away. We will have to find Nordmark instead. So as long as we have speed we must use it now to get north to find fuel. Notify Lindemann.”

  Now he knew what had devoured Altmark in one swift blow as the survivors had told the story.

  This will change everything…

  Chapter 29

  Denmark Strait ~ 17 June, 22:00 hours

  The Fairey III spotter-reconnaissance plane had been flying for some time on a southwesterly course, seeing nothing. Then the rear .303 Lewis gun operator noted a column of smoke on the far horizon behind them, fisting up into the sky like a black thunderhead. For a moment he thought it was only weather, but then he remembered the evening forecast, clear with good visibility west all the way to Greenland.

  “Something at five o’clock,” he reported, and the pilot craned his neck to see enough there to prompt him to bank right.

  “That’s trouble,” he said. “Something burning, but it’s well off to the west. Probably a steamer that ran afoul of a Jerry U-boat. Signal Hood and ask if they want us to have a look.”

  Holland was curious that day, so he vectored the plane off its intended search pattern, and had it work its way northwest to see what it could find. As they approached, it became evident that a ship was burning in the distance, and a second contact was spotted nearby.

  “Have a look there at three o’clock, sir, another ship!”

  “Can’t say I like the looks of that one. Could that be the Bismarck? Get off the sighting report and we’d better head home. The fog is rolling in and we won’t see a thing in ten minutes.”

  Holland soon had the puzzle to solve. Three ships, two heading north at high speed, one burning and trailing heavy smoke, and a third ship about twenty kilometers to the west. All three looked to be fighting ships. Could one be the cruiser Fleet Air Arm had spotted earlier? The first two ships were undoubtedly the Twins. The third could have been Hipper. He decided as such, and then, realizing he was now heading in the wrong direction, he quickly came about and assumed a course to the northwest. Home Fleet was informed of the development at once.

  * * *

  Even while Holland had been laboring north through the storm the previous day, Tovey had acted decisively, withdrawing the whole of his force and swinging back along the rocky coast of Iceland. There he lingered for some time, waiting for the new carrier Illustrious to arrive with the heavy cruiser Devonshire and three more destroyers.

  By the time Kirov had put its missile into Gneisenau and sent the Twins off north, Tovey’s Home Fleet was consolidated off the cape near Vir south of the Katla Volcano and ready to continue west at high speed to effect the link-up with Admiral Holland.

  The Admiralty had not been entirely happy with Tovey’s decision to withdraw, and the Prime Minister seemed to be exerting considerable pressure on the situation in the form of his eloquent displeasure. The fact that the newly appointed commander of the Home Fleet was sending them home HMS Renown with considerable damage from two 500 lb bombs did not go unnoticed. A message was sent expressing some obvious discontent over the incident, particularly on the part of First Sea Lord Dudley Pound.

  ‘We have sent you to find and sink German ships,’ came the cable, ‘not to send our own home for the repair yards. The Prime Minister is of the opinion that you have shirked your duty to vigorously pursue and engage the enemy.’

  Tovey read the message with some dismay, and a rising anger. He knew enough about the musty halls of the Admiralty to know that Their Lor
dships were now in some heated discussion as to his eventual fate. Yet for the moment the timely dispatch of HMS Illustrious with much need air support and another heavy cruiser gave him hope that someone there was still pulling for him. He did not know who, but suspected that it might be Third Sea Lord Admiral Bruce Fraser. The two men had seen eye to eye before concerning fleet dispositions in the Med and there was much mutual respect between them. Tovey had great faith in the man.

  Yet the Admiral was ill tempered that day, and when young Lieutenant Commander Wells came in with a dispatch he was hastily dismissed.

  “Not now, Mister Wells!”

  Tall and stocky of frame, Tovey was an imposing figure in his wrath, and his temper was legendary. It was said his anger could melt a candle ay thirty paces when he really let it fly, and his displeasure had cowed and skewered more than one blundering officer in the past. Yet he was a fair man, aware of his own intemperate moods at times, and one to quickly set right any wrong unjustly delivered. He composed himself, looked up at Wells, seeing the man wilt a bit under his gaze, and spoke again.

  “There you stand only recently mentioned in dispatches for gallantry, Wells, and here I sit under suspicion of being a shirker and slacker at the helm. Don’t you mind my bluster one bit. I tend to blow off steam on occasion, and sometimes I deliver a broadside at an undeserving soul simply because he comes within range. Now then… what have you for me ?” He eyed the dispatch in Wells’ hands.

  “Pardon the interruption, sir. Mister Villers sends that Scharnhorst and Gneisenau have turned north and appear to be withdrawing.”

  “Withdrawing? Well that is news. Don’t you ever belay it in the face of my bad manners again, young man. Here, let me have a look.”

  Tovey took the dispatch with interest now, more than surprised with what he saw there. “Apparent damage? Is Holland saying there’s been an engagement?” He got up from his desk and went to the situation map, waving Wells to his side.

  “Here, Mister Wells. Kindly update the board for me with these new positions, if you please.”

  “Sir…” Wells took back the dispatch, eying the coordinates and trying to remember his map work. The last thing he could do here would be to misplace a marker and set the whole damn strategy off on the wrong foot. He was justifiably nervous, but forced himself to think. Find a base latitude, my man, he thought. Then tick off the boxes and find your square on the grid. It’s right there in front of your nose, just read the coordinates, you dolt.

  He reached for the wooden marker representing the Twins, the naval ensign of the Kriegsmarine displayed prominently on the attached flag. “I would place them about here, sir, given the time elapsed since this sighting and their last reported heading and speed. I’ve placed a spot on the actual sighting coordinate here. Then we have Manchester withdrawing on Reykjavik here, and Admiral Holland with Hood and Repulse has turned and is presently about…here, perhaps 150 miles southwest of the Twins. He is at reduced speed to effect a rendezvous with us at your discretion, sir. As for Birmingham, we’ve heard nothing, Admiral, not since Manchester left her.” He picked up one last marker, uncertain about what he could say about it.

  “From the look of these postings,” said Tovey, “Holland never got anywhere near the Twins. Yet that report states one of the ships appeared damaged and was still on fire.”

  “Mister Villers has spoken with the pilot off Repulse, sir, and the man claims the smoke was visible for fifty miles. It’s how they first spotted them, then low fog and haze obscured the scene and forced them to turn and end the search.”

  “I wonder if they had a run in with Birmingham? It would do me well to learn she took a good bite out of one of those ships. Then again, her silence is most disconcerting. Well… you haven’t finished. What’s that in your hand?”

  Wells reflexively looked at the green marker, usually used to indicate a neutral ship. “This was the marker that was set for the Russian contact, sir. Yet from that dispatch I’m not exactly sure how to color it now. Mister Villers indicated the pilot off Repulse seemed convinced he was looking at a very large warship. The dispatch is suggesting Admiral Hipper.”

  “Indeed…Set the marker, Mister Wells. You can leave it green for the moment until we sort things out. We’ll be hell bent for leather the next nine hours getting west and up into the Denmark Strait. I was set to have a close look at that ship earlier, if it is that Russian cruiser, and to be honest I’m surprised it remains in the vicinity at all. When we do get there I intend to solve this little mystery if the situation permits.”

  Wells waited, still just a tad discomfited in the Admiral’s presence, then ventured a remark. “A bad throw for Renown, sir.”

  “It certainly was. Jerry slipped one in on us and played a good face card, Mister Wells. Graf Zeppelin has changed the game a bit here, which is why I have been forced to draw a new card with Illustrious. But you know what the old farmer said: who knows what is good or bad.”

  “Sir?”

  “Just an old tale I heard once, Wells. A farmer had a good plow horse to get in his crop, but just before the harvest it bolted in a storm and ran off on him. The neighbor commiserated with him, of course, and lamented that he and his son would not get much of their crop in without that horse. The farmer, stoic old chap that he was, simply said ‘who knows what is good or bad.’ Then, three days on, lo and behold if the old mare doesn’t return with a lusty wild stallion on her tail. This changed everything, at least in the neighbor’s mind, and he rushed over to laud the farmer for his good fortune. Now, with two horses, he told him, you will get the harvest in before anyone else!”

  Wells had heard the story, and though he thought he might be stealing the Admiral’s thunder he chanced a response. “But who knows what is good or bad, sir?”

  “Exactly. One never does know, does he? Sure enough the Farmer’s son broke his leg the next day trying to tame that horse, and the neighbor was quick to point out that without his son there to help him…Well, you can see where this is going, eh, Wells?”

  “I do, sir.”

  Tovey smiled. “So we’ve lost a horse in Renown, and it looks like the dog went with it now that Brimingham is missing, but who knows what is good or bad? It’s simply the situation now and we’ll deal with it as best we can. In the meantime, tomorrow morning things will start getting very dicey again. You may want to see about a good night’s rest, though there won’t be much of the night in these latitudes.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “Good enough. Dismissed, Mister Wells. My regards to the Flag Lieutenant, and you may inform Captain Bennett that with Illustrious in hand now we’ll be on our way. Destroyers are to make for Reykjavik for refueling. The rest of us go without.”

  * * *

  When the Twins received the hard shock Admiral Volsky had sent their way on the tip of a MOS-III missile, Kirov turned east into the void between the Germans and the British force that had been stalking them. They noted the approach of the British seaplane, saying and doing nothing in the fading light of June 17. The plane seemed to take a distant look at them, then turned away.

  Rodenko watched the Germans withdrawing on radar and, soon after, he saw the British relent with their southerly pursuit course and turn about as well. Now both groups were heading northeast at about 24 knots each, but separated by about 100 miles of ocean and with the British well to the south. He passed a brief moment realizing that from their present position Kirov could engage and easily destroy either one of these groups, remaining unseen and well beyond the range of any reprisal. Such was the power at their disposal, even crippled and hobbled as the ship presently was.

  If Karpov were here he had little doubt that he would have attacked all these ships by now. Admiral Volsky has been threading a needle here with his measured response to the situation. Yet if we continue on to the northeast something tells me we may run into a good deal more trouble than we expect. The decrypt from Fedorov’s Enigma program was somewhat ominous. What if the Germa
ns have another strong battlegroup heading this way?

  He held the first night watch thinking on all that had happened to them, how Karpov had tried to take the ship and failed, and then how it had been given to him in trust, only to be lost again when he lost the trust of the men who served under him. He thought of all the harm they had done, all the lives they had taken, the brazen way they would sail into any situation confident in their ability to prevail.

  But what were they sailing into now? What had really happened with that new control rod? Were they trapped here if Chief Dobrynin could not discover how to make it work again? And what about Fedorov’s fear that they were now a candle burning low, and that time would be faced with an insoluble problem a year on when Kirov was supposed to arrive, like a patron at a theater finding someone else in his seat—himself!

  It was all too much for him to contemplate. There was only one thing to do in the situation now, and that was to keep faith with the men and protect the ship as best he could. It was clear, however that the Admiral had made a choice in this broken version of the events now underway. Fedorov seemed troubled about it in the beginning, but something had happened to him, he seemed to be looking at the situation with new eyes now, imbued with some newfound energy that was aimed at building something new, and no longer struggling to protect the sandcastle world from the inevitable sea. Yet he still exercised caution, a reasoned moderation. He did not want to engage those German ships, which is why he suggested that tanker was a better plan.

  One way or another, men went into the sea, and it was strange what he said—that they were all fated to die; that none would live to see 1943 but one. Is that man still alive out there somewhere? Did he make it off the ship this time? And were any of us any different? We are all fated to die.

  All these thoughts ran through his mind as he looked out the forward viewport. It would not be dark long. The sun had barely dipped beneath the horizon in this high northern latitude, leaving a pale gray wash over the sea, streaked by the glimmering reflection of the moon, fat and near full. Kirov was the darkest thing in the sea, a ghostly shadow adrift on the swells. It was the land of the midnight sun up here, and daybreak would come just a few minutes after the witching hour, very close now. There was no real darkness here, no place to hide and rest in the quiet, only this vast open liquid palette of grey, the ghostly specter of the moon, and a longing for sleep.