Three Kings (Kirov Series)

by John Schettler

  The British Terrier had decided to fence, and his first move was to lean back and away from the bold thrust of his enemy. O’Connor had heard all he wanted to know when he listened to the attack—the Ariete Division, the Trieste Motorized Division, the 5th Light Division, and behind it something even more ominous, what looked to be an even stronger German formation that was later identified as the 15th Panzer Division. There he was, all set to probe up the road towards Sirte with a single armored brigade and the tired Australian 6th infantry. Now he thanked his lucky stars that he had the foresight to insist that every loose truck he could get running, much of the equipment captured from the Italians, was given to the Aussies to motorize that division. Those trucks would save it now from almost certain destruction.

  Behind these four mobile units in the vanguard of the enemy attack, there were at least six leg infantry divisions, all Italian, but enough fodder to throw on any fire Rommel could get started if he could find and grapple with his enemy. Knowing that he was outnumbered this badly, O’Connor radioed the situation to Wavell at Alexandria, and the information came in at a most opportune time, right in the middle of a meeting that had been arranged to decide future operations in the Med. Wavell ordered O’Connor to get on a plane and fly to Alexandria, and that simple order was going to change a good many things.

  * * *

  They watched as the ship moved slowly through the canal, starkly silhouetted by the bare desert backdrop and clear blue sky. A thousand eyes were on the tall battlements and strange rounded domes, transfixed by the sleek, powerful lines, yet mystified, as so many others have been, by the lack of any heavy armament to speak of. Kirov looked like the world’s largest and most threatening destroyer, but nothing more, and many shook their heads wondering why in the world the Russians would waste so much metal and effort to build a destroyer of that size, carrying only three small twin gun turrets and an even smaller single barrel bow gun.

  Then the crowds stirred again, seeing the next ship coming through, just as big, just as threatening, yet proudly flying the flag of Great Britain, HMS Invincible.

  “Now there’s a battleship if I’ve ever seen one,” said a Lieutenant from one of the Canal Zone garrisons. “Those are guns! I reckon she’d make short work of that Russian ship, eh?”

  “That she would,” said a nearby Sergeant, “and short work of anything else that crosses her bow, sir. Just you let the Italians get word the fleet flagship is here, and watch them get to scurrying back to port.”

  “The Russian ship has a fine cut,” the Lieutenant conceded. “Sharp crew as well.”

  Admiral Volsky had turned out the ship’s personnel in dress whites, and they lined the decks in smart ranks, the men standing tall and proud, unborn souls each and every one in this day and year, phantoms from a distant time, refugees from a holocaust whose roots were fixed in the soil tilled by the iron spades of war.

  Volsky was on the bridge with Fedorov, smiling as he heard the crowds cheer the arrival of the fleet flagship. The distant strains of a military band struck out with “God Save the King,” which was suddenly interrupted on the bridge with a furtive look towards Rodenko by the young watchstander at the main radar station.

  The Starpom eased over, inclining his head to take a brief look at the screen, and immediately noting what was happening. “Mister Chernov,” he admonished quietly. “I don’t care if we are all sitting at a table dressed out in white linen and about to toast Admiral Volsky on his birthday. When you see a contact on that screen, you damn well sing out and report it.”

  Chernov swallowed hard, then did exactly that. “Con, Radar. Airborne contact at seventy kilometers, Bearing 280. Fifteen aircraft, sir. Elevation low, at 8,000 feet.”

  Volsky looked over, seeing the half smile on Rodenko’s face. “Well,” he said. “Someone seems eager to greet us here. Mister Nikolin, kindly inform Admiral Tovey that we are about to have uninvited guests.”

  “Aye sir.”

  “Mister Samsonov, Klinok system please. What is our remaining inventory?”

  “Ninety-seven missiles, sir.”

  “Very well, salvo of three, please. Track and be ready to fire on my command.”

  “Here sir?” Fedorov gave the Admiral a look.

  “Wherever we find this ship under threat, Mister Fedorov. We obviously cannot maneuver while we’re in this narrow channel, and I will take no chances that one of those planes gets through the British air defenses, in spite of the display a missile firing will make here. Radar will call out the range interval at twenty kilometers.”

  That mark was just minutes away, for the contact was a squadron of Italian SM-79 bombers that had been based on the island of Leros, a little over 500 miles away. The Italians had indeed, gotten word the fleet flagship was arriving, and they thought they would make it a nice fat target. With over 1500 miles range, the planes were attempting to sneak in and make a raid on the canal, possibly warned of this ship’s arrival by prying eyes still lingering in Somalia when the formation entered the Red Sea. It was to be a well timed surprise attack and, in spite of the early warning given by Kirov, the British were slow to respond.

  Eventually they heard the distant drone of air raid sirens, and a restless murmur stirred the crowds lining the shore, eyes now searching the skies above for any signs of enemy planes. Three Hurricanes scrambled from the nearby airfield at Ismalia, and climbed into the clear blue skies, heading north. The officers on the bridge of Kirov noted their progress, and had Nikolin relay the exact coordinates of the enemy bomber formation to Admiral Tovey, who in turn passed it in to the R.A.F. Air Defense Officer for the Canal Zone. It was a most unusual message, as the thought that one could even have information that precise was most unusual, but the British radio officers sent it out to the fighters anyway.

  There ensued a brief battle, wherein two of the SM-79s were downed by the fighters, and four others damaged enough to force them to turn back, but the remaining planes continued to press on with uncharacteristic determination. These were the same plane type that Kirov had faced when it found itself cruising in the Tyrrhenian Sea, the Sparrowhawk, an outstanding medium bomber used by Italy throughout the war.

  Inside twenty kilometers Volsky pursed his lips, waiting to see if the fighters could turn the enemy planes back, but it appeared that at least nine were going to get through.

  “Three fighters seems a fairly thin fighter defense here,” he said to Fedorov. “Mister Samsonov, sound air alert one. Target the enemy formation and fire at ten kilometers.”

  “Aye sir, locked on targets.”

  The warning claxon for air alert sent the crews in their dress whites in motion, as the missiles would come from the long forward deck where many had assembled. They cleared the area in little time, many now donning bright orange life preservers and blue helmets. Fire parties assembled in the unlikely event the ship might be hit, and a minute later, Samsonov was ready.

  The thronging crowds had already begun to dissipate, but now the Lieutenant and Sergeant, and many others who had been shaking their heads at the Russian ship, were stunned to see what looked like an explosion on the forward deck, but it was only the launch and ignition of the first missile. It roared up, a brilliant white streak in the sky that arced up, adjusted heading, and then bored in relentlessly in on the enemy bomber formation.

  “What in God’s name?” The Lieutenant looked at the Sergeant.

  “A bloody rocket of sorts, sir.”

  “Quite so…”

  Then there came the bright flash and sound of a distant explosion, and the second and third missiles fired. The astonished reaction of the crowds brought a smile to Volsky’s face.

  “I realize we have let the cat out of the bag in this defensive fire, but it could not be helped. Stand ready on close in defense systems in the event any of those planes persist.”

  Only two did, for three had been destroyed outright by the Klinok missiles, and three others damaged by shrapnel, turning away in shock and di
smay. Had it been an S-400 salvo the damage would have been even more severe, but there were only 25 of those missiles left in Kirov’s magazines, and Volsky did not want to use them unless absolutely necessary.

  Of the nine planes that got through the Hurricane defense, only two were bold enough to press their attack home. One dropped its bombs early in a badly aimed attack that served honor but posed no threat to the ships. The plane then banked swiftly away as its bombs missed the target and fell in the desert east of the canal. The pilot wanted nothing more to do with this attack. The last was more determined, and Admiral Volsky ordered the AR-602 system to swat it from the sky three kilometers out with a flash of lethal 30mm fire.

  This, too, slackened the jaw of the Lieutenant as he clearly saw the single, brief burst of rattling fire, and noted how the tracer rounds found the plane with a precision that was astounding. One burst of fire—one plane down with a shattering explosion as the central nose engine on the three engine craft was blown apart with over thirty hits. Then it was over, and the light desert breeze slowly elongated the missile trails, smudging them into the azure blue sky as if nothing had happened.

  The crews of HMS Invincible had also rushed to battle stations, but the guns barely had time to be manned and sighted before Kirov had settled the matter. The Lieutenant gave the Sergeant a wide eyed look, but was speechless.

  An hour later Kirov was back in the Mediterranean, the Cauldron of Fire where they had fought the very same navy that now welcomed and embraced them. That had been in 1942, at a time when the British were desperately trying to sustain their embattled outpost in the Central Mediterranean at Malta. Kirov had tried to skirt the edge of Operation Pedestal, but was inevitably drawn into the battle as the ship tried to race for the bottleneck of the Alboran Sea near Gibraltar.

  It was here that Volsky had been wounded just as the ship appeared in the Tyrrhenian Sea, and Fedorov had been so suddenly thrust into the position of command, the only man Volsky could trust at the time. It was here that Vladimir Karpov had tried to redeem himself while serving as Tactical Officer and Starpom under Fedorov when they were forced to fight their way out in a duel with the battleships Rodney and Nelson. And it was here that Admiral Volsky had made the surprising move to seek a parley with Admiral Tovey, the meeting that had spawned those haunting images that somehow found their way into this world, well before that time ever came in the war, even as they seemed to leave a subtle impression on Tovey himself—an unaccountable feeling of déjà vu, blooming in the strands of his memory.

  That was a mystery that had not yet been explained, and Fedorov was still thinking about it, and what it might mean. Now, however, they were soon thrust into the important meeting being convened here with the Theater Commanders, General Wavell, and Admiral Cunningham of the Easter Mediterranean Squadron.

  They reached Alexandria, with more cheers and fanfare as the ships entered the harbor, this time with a gaggle of Hurricanes up on overwatch in the event the Italians had any more surprises planned. Volsky could have told them to save their fuel, for his radars would see any planes long before they could become a threat.

  The meeting was to be held aboard HMS Invincible, at Admiral Tovey’s request, and when Admiral Volsky, Fedorov and Nikolin returned to that ship, they were escorted first to the officer’s ward room. There they found Admiral Tovey waiting to have a private chat before Wavell and Cunningham arrived.

  “Well that certainly opened a few eyes,” said Tovey.

  “It could not be avoided,” said Volsky. “Yet, the rumors of our weapons and capabilities may stand as a shield here now. I think the Italians will be more cautious should they contemplate another attack.”

  “I understand,” said Tovey. “A most convincing display. I should dearly like to have a few of those rockets at hand myself.”

  Volsky smiled. “Though we cannot give you missiles and bombs, we do have one other weapon that we are willing to freely share with you now, Admiral—information.”

  Tovey nodded. “That would be most welcome.”

  “Mister Fedorov here has a particular concern at the moment, as he believes that events are now coming to a head in North Africa. Fedorov?”

  “Yes sir. It concerns the planned reinforcement of Greece. I must tell you that in our history this was seen as a great blunder that almost cost you the loss of Egypt. The campaign in Greece is a foregone conclusion. The Germans will apply overwhelming force there and defeat any effort to save the country. Anything you send will be evacuating within 30 days, and this also radically weakens your defense here to a point where Rommel will drive all the way to El Alamein within weeks.”

  Tovey raised an eyebrow. “I’m told the Germans have already begun an offensive, but do not have any details.”

  “We must find a way to convince General Wavell that Egypt should now be your primary concern, because we fear your enemies have already heard this same advice, and from another man who knows the full outcome of this war as it was once fought—Ivan Volkov.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Tovey. “I hold some cards as well, and I have a lead that will likely convince Wavell to follow suit. The Germans led right into it by playing those two trump cards in Bismarck and Hindenburg. They slipped them into French ports, but things have changed, gentlemen, and I have a plan that I think will convince General Wavell to stand fast in the Western Desert.”

  Tovey smiled. “That said, it is a rather dangerous plan, and I am grateful that you, and that fine fighting ship of yours out there, are with us.”

  Part VII

  Sky Hunters

  " Trid toqtol il-brimba

  biex tnehhi l-ghanqbuta.”

  “You must kill the spider

  to get rid of the web.”

  ― Maltese Proverb

  Chapter 19

  The Germans were pounding Malta from the air. In the weeks while Rommel was gathering up his 5th Light Division and making the long journey south from Tripoli, smiling Albert Kesselring was quietly setting up Luftwaffe liaison officer groups on key bases in Italy and Sicily. Squadrons of Bf-109s, Ju-87 Stukas, Ju-88s and He-111s were being moved by night from airfields in Germany and France to these new fields, and setting up for action under Fliegerkorps XI. Meanwhile, the trains had quietly transported companies of tough, hardened men in grey camo fatigues, the battalions and regiments that Kurt Student had been assembling under his 7th Flieger Division. They would soon be joined by flocks of Ju-52 transports, the three engine workhorse of the Luftwaffe that was affectionately called “Tante Ju” or “Aunt Ju.”

  Aerial reconnaissance and photography had been ongoing for the last two weeks, always using Italian planes. The Germans were closely watching the airfields for any sign of fighter buildup there, and also waiting to pounce on any Royal Navy convoy that appeared to be bound for Malta from the east.

  None came.

  British air power was still rather lean in the Middle East, and now Greece was calling on her for additional support. The political necessity of supporting an ally had already forced Wavell to make some very hard decisions. He had already taken half the wind out of O’Connor’s sails when he withdrew the 4th Indian Division weeks ago and sent it to Sudan. Now divisions that had been earmarked as reinforcements for O’Connor were being rescheduled for movement to Greece.

  O’Connor had gladly accepted the 6th Australian when he lost the Indian division, and he had put it to good use, fighting all the way across Cyrenaica to the Gulf of Sirte. He was all set to continue his drive when Wavell again intimated that the now veteran 6th Australian Division may have to go to Greece, along with the newly arriving 2nd New Zealand Division, and a brigade of armor taken from the 2nd Armor Division. In return he would get the 9th Australian Division, but O’Connor had argued that to move that division from Cairo all the way out west while the 6th was making the same journey east would be a terrible waste of time and petrol. Eventually Wavell agreed and decided to send the Greeks the 9th Australian, and the necessary ship
ping was being gathered at Alexandria just when Rommel started his counteroffensive.

  Cyrenaica had been relegated to the status of a buffer zone in Wavell’s mind, though he continued to encourage O’Connor’s plans. That said, he did not believe that he could possibly reach Tripoli with German troops landing there, and told O’Connor to wait until they could sort out the Greek mess before planning any real move. Until then, he was free to probe along the southern coast of the Gulf of Sirte to determine enemy intentions, and seek the best defensive ground in that sector. Mersa Brega and El Agheila were desirable for the water available there, and an airfield. O’Connor had taken the former, and was preparing to drive on the latter when Rommel struck with his own Operation Sonnenblume.

  The instant O’Connor reported on what was happening, Wavell knew there would be no further offensive to the west for some time. “We are in no position to reinforce you,” he had said. “All you can do now is fall back. Preserve your force as much as possible, particularly the armor. Even Benghazi is to be considered expendable and held only insofar as it seems practical to cover the retreat of the garrison there.”

  O’Connor had agreed, even though it meant he would now be handing back all the hard won ground he had taken from the Italian 10th Army in his lighting dash west. And so he pulled back, moving the 6th Australian Division north through Benghazi, while he gathered up what was left of his armor and back-tracked east. Rommel ended up striking nothing, reporting to Keitel that he had been sent there to stop O’Connor, but there was nothing to stop! His counteroffensive had turned into little more than a brisk reoccupation of the ground lost by Graziani, with surprisingly little fighting.

  It was what came next that was the real bolt from the blue. The grim faced Falschirmtruppen were lining up on the airstrips near Taranto, Naples, and at Comiso and Gerbini on Sicily after a week of intense air duels and bombing over Malta.