“Mister Fedorov has a point,” said Volsky. “Keep an eye on this leading group, Mister Rodenko.”
“They are at the edge of our surface radar coverage now, sir. Unless we keep a KA-40 up I won't have a good fix on them at this range. But if they do close on our position, I'll see them in plenty of time. Our difference in speed is no more than five nautical miles per hour. At the rate they are gaining on us they could not pose a threat for quite some time.”
“In that case, I do not think it's necessary to keep the helicopter airborne. We must conserve aviation fuel whenever possible.”
Kirov, in its original configuration, had used a combination nuclear and steam turbine propellant system. The new ship relied entirely on its nuclear propulsion system, and the space used by the old steam driven turbines had been utilized to add reserve stocks of aviation fuel for the three helicopters. But even this was a finite supply, and the Admiral was looking far ahead in his thinking.
“In the meantime,” said Volsky, “there is another consideration we must discuss. According to Mister Fedorov's history book the Americans are now taking over garrison duty for the bases on Iceland. They have their flying boat patrol craft at two locations, and there may still be American naval units in this sector as well. I don't have to remind you that the United States has not yet entered the war, and will not do so for another four months. We must be careful, and do nothing that might prompt them to reconsider their situation.”
“Why should we worry about that?” said Karpov.
“Because at this time Roosevelt is struggling with strong anti-war sentiment within the United States,” said Fedorov. “If we are reported as a new German raider, and we make a direct attack against American ships or planes, that could quickly change the situation. An early entry of the United States in this war would serve to undo your plan, Captain. Suppose the Americans end up getting to Berlin four months early?”
“Thank you, Mister Fedorov,” Karpov said dryly. He resented a junior officer countering him, particularly in front of the Admiral. Fedorov was becoming just a bit too forward, and he decided to have a word with Orlov about him. Then Volsky continued, extending his reasoning as he now saw the situation.
“Very well… the British believe we are a German raider as Mister Fedorov suggests. What else? At this very moment they're trying to determine what ship we might be, and eventually they will narrow down the list and find the Germans have nothing whatsoever that can do the things they have been observing. They may well be wondering now what could have destroyed their aircraft so easily, and at such range. They're not stupid, and soon their intelligence system will begin to put the pieces of this puzzle together, just as we did. We had the advantage of longer range detection systems and high-powered HD video. We faced the impossible question first, and eventually realized what had happened. At some point they will do the same. But until that time, we have the considerable advantage of surprise, in more ways than one. They have not yet seen a fraction of what we are capable of doing. I want to keep them in the dark as long as possible. We have played out the Jack, but still hold the Queen, King and Ace close to our chest.”
“And let us not forget the trump cards,” said Karpov. When they see those, there may be very many other things they pause to reconsider.”
“All things in time, Mister Karpov,” said the Admiral. “All things in time. Just remember your bridge game…Never lead into a suit unless you know you can pull their high cards and win.”
~ ~ ~
Aboard Victorious, Admiral Wake-Walker could see that his destroyers could not keep up their advance for very much longer. They were simply burning up too much fuel running full out in the ever more difficult seas. But at least they were headed the right direction. The Allied bases and fuel depots of Iceland lay ahead of them at Reykjavík and Hvalsfjord where the Americans were setting up their long range PBY patrol squadrons.
His thinking on exactly what this enemy ship might be had been given a nudge in an unexpected direction when Admiral Tovey sent him a message with Brind’s idea about the German carrier Graf Zeppelin. As far as they knew that ship was still in the dockyards. In fact, naval intelligence believed the Germans had removed many of her AA guns due to a shortage in Norway, where they were now deployed. That thought struck him—what if they were installing these new rockets in their place?
When the Admiralty relayed intelligence that they had finally gotten a clear look at Kiel and found Tirpitz and two other large ships resting quietly in dry-dock, the list of possibilities grew ever narrower. Subsequent photo analysis revealed that the other two ships were indeed the Deutschland class pocket battleships Lutzow and Admiral Scheer.
It was therefore decided to send a long-range reconnaissance bomber to Gotenhaven in the Baltic, where the Germans had towed Graf Zeppelin over a year ago. Much to the surprise of Royal Navy intelligence, the ship was not there! What they did not know, however, was that the Germans had decided to move the ship to Stettin after invading Russia in Operation Barbarossa, in order to safeguard her from possible Russian air attack. Preoccupied with the hunt for the Bismarck at the time, the British failed to pick up the move. The missing carrier therefore seemed to be the only possible ship the Germans could have at sea now, yet they could not understand how they could have completed her so quickly, or why they would risk such a unique and valuable vessel for a solo mission in the Atlantic, particularly without an adequate escort.
Capable of thirty-four knots, Graf Zeppelin clearly had the speed of the unknown contact ahead, which was traveling at a consistent thirty knots. This eliminated Wake-Walker’s ideas about a merchant type raider like Atlantis, which could make no more than eighteen knots at best. And none of the Deutschland class pocket battleships could do better than twenty-eight knots. Furthermore, from time to time Grenfell’s shadowing radar equipped Fulmars had seen what looked like airborne contacts in and around the ship they had been tracking. These clues, and suspicions that the Germans had somehow developed some new defensive anti-aircraft rockets that were used in conjunction with spotter planes, led Royal Navy planners to the conclusion that it was Graf Zeppelin that was now on the loose.
That being the case, Wake-Walker was given the go-ahead for another airstrike with his remaining Albacores. The pilots were none too keen to hear this, but in a preflight briefing it was stressed that they would be making an extreme low level attack, traveling right down on the deck the whole way, and splitting off into multiple groups of four planes each instead of one massed formation as had been the case earlier. With 828 Squadron all bunched together the Germans had managed to get a bull's-eye with their new weapon system, taking out the heart of the squadron in one stunning blow.
This time the planes would fly very low, and would be widely dispersed. And to improve their chances of getting in close without being spotted, they were also going to make their approach in darkness, attacking in the early dawn. It was the most difficult assignment the aircrews had been given, especially after they had seen what had happened the last time out. But with stiff upper lips, they buckled down, mounted their aircraft and were assembled over Force P a half hour before dawn, late on August 3, 1941.
Wake-Walker was going to throw everything he had at the Germans this time. With the range closed to 125 miles, he would send nine Albacore from 817 Squadron, and another nine Swordfish from 812 Squadron off the Furious. 800 Squadron would send out all nine of its Fulmars with bombs as well, just in case the Germans had modified Me-109s aboard their suspected carrier. If they met fighter opposition they could jettison their bombs and engage—if German air cover was minimal, they could go in as makeshift dive bombers.
From his own flagship, Victorious, Walker could send only ten remaining Albacore and a half dozen Fulmar fighters. The fighters had the toughest assignment, for they were going to go in at much higher altitude in an attempt to further spoof the enemy radar. In effect, they were hoping to decoy the German rockets, allowing the torpedo bombers to s
kim in low and get some hits. Only their agility might allow then to pull that off without severe losses if the rockets were as accurate as they were the first time.
It was a remarkable plan considering all the unknowns in the situation, but was typical of the elasticity, flexibility, and determination of the Royal Navy. Force P had a bone to pick with this phantom German raider, and they intended to get even. The flight deck crews flagged off the last of the fighters and watched as the torpedo planes all dropped low heading away to the southwest, skimming over the crests of the fitful sea. Meanwhile the fighters climbed high and were soon lost in the gray cloud cover, the faces of the pilots set and grim, knowing they could now be flying their last mission.
~ ~ ~
Aboard Kirov, Admiral Volsky was sleeping in his cabin, getting some well-deserved rest while Captain Karpov stood the watch on the bridge. Rodenko, too, had been relieved by a junior officer, Fedorov had retired for the night, and Orlov was down in the wardroom kibitzing with the Junior officers. Samsonov was still at his post, and would be for another two hours before he was scheduled for relief. Tasarov was gone, as the threat from submarines did not require his particular attention with the ship running at thirty knots. A relief officer manned his post.
First Lieutenant Yazov was leading Rodenko's station with a number of junior starshini at the eight workstations there when he noted something unusual on his screen. “Con, radar contact, airborne, altitude 10,000 feet, speed 240 KPH, now bearing on our position—multiple contacts, sir. I have fifteen separate targets, and they are dispersing.”
Karpov had been dozing quietly in the in the command seat, but was suddenly awake. He leapt off the chair and went to look at the scope himself, hovering over Yazov for a few minutes until he determined that this must be another inbound enemy strike wave. They're trying to slip one in on us, he thought.
“Mister Samsonov, activate air defense systems at once.”
“S-300s, sir?”
Karpov thought for a moment, his mind racing, and he was interrupted once more by the young lieutenant Yazov who now spotted several groups of additional inbound aircraft, flying low and slow, and dispersing in a wide arc as they approached Kirov's position. The Captain had to think quickly.
“Give me the Klinok ADF system.” He was referring to the NATO coded SA-N-92 Gauntlet missile system for air defense firefights. With its electron guided integrated beam radar, each missile was a fire and forget weapon that could acquire and track targets independently. The system was also a multichannel missile defense, capable of tracking several targets simultaneously at all altitudes and speeds, and if one target was destroyed, the missiles had the ability to redirect themselves at the next available target. It's launch and reload intervals were quick enough to respond to any situation, and it had a high immunity to jamming and other electronic countermeasures. The only liability was a shorter range out to about forty-five kilometers at normal altitudes. And of course its overall effectiveness would be limited by its ammunition inventory, in this case 128 missiles in all.
“Sound general quarters, sir?” said Samsonov.
“Not yet,” Karpov smiled. “They'll wake up soon enough. Monitor those contacts closely, Yazov. Notify me at fifty kilometer intervals.”
“Sir, inbound contacts at one-zero-zero, and closing.”
“Shouldn't we notify the Admiral?” said Samsonov, a look of concern on his thick features.
Karpov put a hand on his shoulder pointing at his combat systems. “Keep your nose here, Samsonov. No need to bother Volsky. Let him sleep. You and I will swat this air strike down as easily as we did the last one. It will be over before the Admiral can get his britches on. We will fire in salvos of eight missiles each. Configure your system accordingly. Mister Yazov will feed you your initial targeting data.”
They waited until Yazov reported the leading contacts at fifty kilometers, and Karpov gave Samsonov his orders. “Sound general quarters, and then fire your first salvo immediately, Samsonov.”
“Aye, sir”
The quiet of the ship was broken by the jangling alarm and the sharp, tearing sound of the missile defense battery firing. The Gauntlet system was deployed on the aft deck, just forward of the helicopter landing pad, with four missile bays on either side of the ship. A vertical launch system like the S-300s, the missiles were ejected by catapult before igniting their engines to rapidly climb before leveling off to engage their active radars. By the time Samsonov fired the incoming British pilots and planes were forty kilometers out and ready to run the gauntlet. The next twenty minutes would be the most harrowing moments of their lives.
~ ~ ~
A couple of Fulmars from 809 Squadron were out in front, and Lieutenant Miller was the first to see the bright flashing lights racing up through the pre-dawn sky. “Look there, Les,” he thumbed as he called out the sighting to his tactical officer, Leslie Barrow. “The Germans have wind of us!”
“See any planes?” Barrow was craning his neck to look for German spotter planes or Me-109s, but saw nothing. By the time he turned his gaze again on the oncoming rockets they were perilously close, bearing in as if they had some magnetic attraction to his plane.
“Oh! Lookout now—” It was the last thing Miller said before a missile exploded very near his plane, its small 15 kilo warhead just enough to deliver a deadly shower of razor sharp shrapnel which tore his wing apart. Another Fulmar was suddenly “lit up” and the remaining planes quickly tipped their wings over and sped off into steep dives in the hopes of evading the rockets. For one pilot, the maneuver worked when the missile targeting his plane was unable to respond quick enough and make the turn to catch him. It simply moved on to another target. For another, transfixed by the oncoming rocket, his only thought was to fire his forward machine guns all out and, amazingly, he scored a hit, knocking the missile down before it could kill him. Another fell into a steep dive, aghast to see a second group of rockets streaking by below his plane, like a school of angry sharks smelling blood in the water as they vectored in on other targets.
Karpov had selected the perfect reprisal for a widely dispersed air attack like this. To the missile system, the high altitude fighters seemed like the primary incoming strike planes, and the low, slow Albacore torpedo bombers were much like sea skimming cruise missiles they might have launched. The missiles could handle either target type with ease. Some lanced up to strike the fighters, others sliced through the darkness until they were on top of the Albacores, then fell upon them, knocking down one plane after another.
827 Squadron off Victorious got hit particularly hard. Bond’s plane was blown apart, the debris vanishing into a swelling wave with a smoky hiss. McKendrick took it in the rightmost wing and went cart wheeling into the angry sea. Turnbull swooped low, banking suddenly to avoid a great wave and managed to fool the first rocket bearing down on him, yet another behind it found his plane and blew off his tail and half the rear fuselage. The shark-like missiles were having a feeding frenzy, and Olsen gaped in amazement, seeing one rocket maneuver sharply in a tight turn to leap after another hapless, lumbering Albacore. Greenslade went down next, then Miles. Only Olsen remained, shaken and stunned by what he had seen when the last of the rockets had finally flashed by. Five of the ten planes in 827 Squadron were gone within minutes. Three others would also die before they ever set eyes on their target.
It was much the same with 817 Squadron off the Furious. Squadron leader Sanderson had his nine Albacores in three groups of three planes each when the rockets came for them. Lee’s plane was an instant fireball, and Gorrie and Train went the same way. The other two flights split up and were frantically skipping over the crests of the waves, so low now that the spay and foam of the sea obscured one pilot’s vision and he plowed right into an oncoming wave. Two planes escaped. Sanderson died when a rocket actually struck a wave and exploded right in front of him, sending a rain of hot shrapnel rattling against his plane, shattering his wind screen and killing him instantly. Another
had his top wing blown clean off by the high splinter penetration shrapnel of the missile warhead. He pulled hard on the stick in the hopes of avoiding the sea only to have a second rocket detonate itself right in front of the exposed belly of his plane and sheer it apart as though it had been struck with a thousand whirling razors.
The action could be seen three miles away by the frightened pilots of 812 Squadron. This was the only section of the attack that had not yet been targeted, for 812 was flying in nine of the older Swordfish torpedo bombers. The ‘old Stringbags’ seemed lost in the clutter of the wave tops, their canvass fuselage and wings wet with sea spray, but much more difficult to detect. Yet they watched, horror stricken, as the sky was lit up with the fiery trails of the rockets, their long white contrails just beginning to catch the light of dawn. The pilots all split up, banking and veering through the waves.
Wilkenson, Baker and Cross were out in front, and soon they saw what looked like a distant shadow on the far horizon. Eager to spot the possible target, Cross pulled his Swordfish up to gain some altitude, and it was only that unwise maneuver that enabled the young Lieutenant Yazov to get a fix on the Swordfish group.
Aboard Kirov, Yazov shouted out a sudden warning. “Con, new contact, 10 kilometers out and closing! Feeding target to CIC.” He had been so busy tracking on the other contact groups that he had not seen the signal winking in and out of resolution on his screen—the old Stringbags flying low and slow, and scarcely noticed in the heat of his very first live combat trial.
Samsonov had been firing his underdeck missile modules in pairs, with four missiles each for a barrage of 8 as Karpov had directed. Yet he knew that, within minutes, this new contact would be inside the minimum acquisition range of his system, and so he quickly redirected one module at this new threat. The missiles barely had time to turn and acquire after being catapulted out of their vertical launch tubes, inclining and igniting their engines to rocket away from the ship. Only two of the four found targets. Knocking down Jones and Heath. The other planes forged on until they had closed to three kilometers range.
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