Kirov (22 page)

~
~ ~

Aboard
Kirov
at
09:30 hours
they were making their approach to the enemy contact. Rodenko
had been tracking the ships on radar from one of the KA-40s while they were
north of Jan Mayen. Once they cleared the masking bastion of the island, they
recovered the helo and took up long range radar scans from the ship. The
mysterious submarine contact had long since vanished, and Tasarov had nothing
further to report on his ASW watch. Admiral Volsky was satisfied that threat
was reduced now, and was intent on getting a closer look at these two ships.
The contact , whatever it was, did not alter its course to intercept
Kirov
when the Admiral steered west of Jan Mayen. It seemed to be heading for the
island itself, which was curious.

Perhaps
the men at that makeshift weather station had filed a report, he thought, and
the British were sending in the cavalry. It’s a pity Orlov didn’t have the
presence of mind to destroy the radio equipment on that island outpost.

He
gave the orders to come about in a long graceful turn that eventually saw his
ship approaching the southernmost tip of the island from the southwest. They
had out run the weather front on the way down and still had good visibility,
though the seas were beginning to rise. It was not long until his navigator
called down from the maintenance deck on the high mainmast of the ship where he
had set up his long-range observation gear.

“It's
still difficult to make out at this range, sir, can you get us just a little
closer?”

“As
you wish, Mister Fedorov.”

The
Admiral was cautioned by Rodenko a moment later. “Con, radar contact breaking
off and heading in our direction, speed thirty knots.”

“Someone
is just as curious about us as we are about them. Please sound action stations,
Mister Samsonov.”

“Aye,
sir.” Samsonov toggled a switch and the alarm klaxon sounded throughout the
ship sending the crew scurrying to battle stations.
Kirov
was drawing
her sword.

Moments
passed and the distant contact was small ship that grew larger on the horizon
until Fedorov called down from above, a definitive edge to his voice
. “Getting
a good look at her now, sir. You should be seeing her well on the Tin Man
cameras. Definitely two stacks, a small destroyer class vessel, possibly no more
than 1300 tons, but she looks a little angry, sir.”

“Like
an impudent little dog on a leash,” said the Admiral. “Range to contact, Mister
Rodenko?”

“18,300
meters and closing.”

The
Admiral thought quickly. In another few minutes that ship would be within its
maximum firing range with the weapons Mister Fedorov had described.
Kirov
herself was making near thirty knots, so the two ships were closing on each
other at 60 miles per hour. That gave him just one minute to decide what to do.
At that moment Karpov burst through the hatch, his face red with obvious
exertion, responding to the alarm for general quarters.

“Welcome,
Captain,” said the Admiral. “Good of you to join us. It seems we have a
visitor.” He gestured to the flat panel monitors where video feed from the Tin
Man optical systems on the forward watch decks clearly displayed the image of a
small ship. It was churning its way forward through the choppy seas, a frothing
white bow wave visible with the high speed it was making.

“Care
to have a look through your field glasses?” said Volsky.

Karpov
said nothing, striding to the forward view screens where his field glasses hung
from a peg. He threw the strap around his neck and raised the lenses up to have
a look. “That ship is getting very close,” he warned.

“Fedorov
here,”
the
navigator's voice came over the intercom again.
“I've got good imaging now,
sir. There's no question that this is a World War II type A class British
destroyer. This one was commissioned over ten years before the war. We can't
outrun her Admiral. She's capable of thirty-five knots, so you'll have to
decide what to do here, and soon.”

“What
is he saying—ten years before the war?” Karpov had an incredulous look on his
face. He peered through his field glasses, and caught a glimpse of the ship,
catching the number 40 when her bow wave diminished. It looked to be a small
corvette—certainly not a modern British destroyer.

Seconds
seemed like minutes, yet the Admiral's mind was a whirl. If he fired on the
ship, it would surely return fire, and if it persisted he would have to destroy
it to protect
Kirov
from damage, or at least put it out of action. If he
waited and the enemy struck first… Karpov looked at him, tense and irritated,
and it was clear from his expression that he wanted to engage at once. “Mister
Samsonov,” the Admiral said slowly. “Please lock our 100mm forward deck cannon
on the oncoming ship.”

“Aye,
sir,” said Samsonov. “Gun ready and radar lock established. The signal is good.”

“Helm
come about, hard to port, left thirty degrees.”

“My
helm is left thirty, sir.”

“You’re
going to turn away?” Karpov looked at him. “It’s just an old rust bucket, and
you’re going to run from the damn thing?”

“Well
I am pleased to see you agree that this is not one of our contemporaries,
Mister Karpov. An old rust bucket indeed. No, we are not running. Do you recall
we have two 152 millimeter batteries on the aft section of the ship as well? In
the event it becomes necessary I want to disable that ship quickly.”

Suddenly
there was a distant wink from the interloper, and a puff of smoke. The
destroyer had fired its forward deck guns, barking out a warning as it charged
boldly forward. Seconds later the shells landed well wide of
Kirov
, and
short by a considerable margin.

“A
proverbial shot across the bow,” said the Admiral, knowing that events now were
careening down the course that he could scarcely control. The next salvo from
this impudent destroyer might find the range at any moment, yet something
within him whispered a veiled warning, urging him to turn about and leave the
ship as it was. Even if he did so, the other ship was still churning forward
with its brave challenge.

“Mister
Nikolin. In your very best English, please warn that ship off. Order it to
cease fire and turn about, or we will engage.”

“Aye,
sir.” Nikolin began his hail, yet the other ship kept its heading, a second
round firing and landing just a bit closer to
Kirov
’s bow.

Admiral
Volsky sighed, realizing he would now be forced to take action, whether he
wished to or not. His best option would be to disable the oncoming ship, but his
heart was heavy as he gave the order to fire.

“Mister
Samsonov, disable that ship with the forward cannon. Six rounds, no more. I
want to give their captain second thoughts about his mad little rush. He should
know we are prepared to defend ourselves. Fire!”

Kirov
's forward turrets were fully
automated. No crew fed shells to the breech of the guns, and the 100mm cannon
at the nose of the ship could fire all of eighty rounds per minute if put on
full automatic, though that was rarely attempted. Samsonov engaged the target
with two short three round bursts, and seconds later the forward section of the
destroyer was awash with sea spray from three near misses. The second burst
struck the ship, one exploding on the lightly armored forward gun turret, others
blasting into the deck and prow.

“A
hit!” said Karpov, obviously relieved.

Samsonov
looked over his shoulder. “I have a laser lock now, sir, the next salvo will all
be on target.”

“Just
a moment, Mister Samsonov,” the Admiral held up his hand, waiting.

~
~ ~

Captain
Hodges
on HMS
Anthony
had found out all he needed to know about the vessel looming on his forward
arc. He fired a warning shot across the bow of the oncoming ship, heard its
surprising order for him to turn about, and then it had returned fire with a
lethal reprisal. His ship was struck by a small caliber weapon from the looks
of the damage, but his forward battery was out of action now, a small fire
burning there. He might have pressed on, but what he saw in his field glasses
convinced him he was putting his ship at grave risk.

“Hard
about!” He shouted. “All ahead full! Make smoke! There’s no way we can tangle
with the likes of that.”

He
could clearly see that the ship was easily three times his size, a massive,
threatening shadow on the seas ahead. Good god, he thought, it must be the
Tirpitz
.
Admiralty had it all wrong, and the Germans have slipped another battleship out
to sea to raise hell again. He clearly remembered that gray morning on 23 May
when his ship steamed as part of the destroyer escort for
Hood
and
Prince
of Wales
as they sortied out to look for the
Bismarck
. A day later,
Anthony
had been detached to Iceland to refuel, and it was there that she got the news
that the mighty
Hood
had been sunk, blown up, all hands but three
scuppered into the sea. Admiral Holland had gone down with her, and the shock
resonated throughout the whole of the Royal Navy.

The
next day he had sortied out again to join the
Prince of Wales
, aghast to
see Britain's newest battleship bruised and wounded as well. Lord almighty, he
thought, not another one. It's
Tirpitz!
He gave a brusque order to his
radioman at once. “Signal
Adventure
, put it in the clear, large German
raider now bearing on our position. Possibly
Tirpitz
or
Hipper
class cruiser.”

When
Captain Grace got the message aboard
Adventure
he could scarcely believe
what he was hearing. There have been no mention of the dread German battleship
in any briefing he had attended prior to this mission. The Royal Navy had been
preoccupied with clearing possible convoy routes from Iceland up to the Kola
Peninsula, and this mission was just another sweep up north to take a poke at
the Germans and deliver a few mines.

Tirpitz
was supposed to be sleeping
comfortably at Kiel, laid up for repairs. If she was out to sea, then the
entire complexion of the campaign would change in a heartbeat. He knew the
Royal Navy would stop at nothing until the German ship was put into a watery
grave with her sister ship
Bismarck
. And here he was, standing on the
front line of that possible action, first to see her and sound the alarm. He
didn't have the guns to contest her, the radar to shadow her, nor the speed, and
considering that, he had no intention whatsoever of attempting to do so. His
only thought now was of saving his small task force from certain destruction.
With all these mines aboard, he was a floating ammo dump, and if the enemy ship
gave chase he could not outrun her.

“Damn
the shore party,” he said. “Haul that anchor up now and go full ahead! Come
round to course zero-six-five and signal
Anthony
to withdraw and match
that heading. We are outgunned here, and I'll be damned if we’re going into the
sea like Holland and
Hood
.” He crossed his fingers and whispered a
silent prayer. If it was
Tirpitz
, she could make thirty knots. She could
run him down and blow him to hell in a heartbeat.

To
his radioman he said: “Code a message to Admiral Wake-Walker on
Victorious
.
Sighted a large enemy surface ship, presumed
Tirpitz
, or
Hipper
class
cruiser. Withdrawing to join main body at once.”

~
~ ~

“That
put the fear of the devil into
them,” said Karpov, smiling. “He saw the oncoming ship suddenly lurch about,
making smoke, clearly wanting no further part of the engagement with
Kirov
.

Discretion
was the better part of valor, thought Admiral Volsky, at least this time. “Mister
Fedorov, do you have a clear identification on the other ship?” he said into
the intercom.

“The
smoke is obscuring the action now, sir, but I have good video footage and we
can enhance it with the computer.”

“Mister
Karpov—is that a type 42 or 45 British destroyer?”

Karpov
just looked at him.

“Very
well, helmsman, come about on the port quarter, new heading of two-four-five.”

“Coming
about to two-four-five, sir.”

The
destroyer’s aft turret also fired as it sped away, the shells landing well wide
and short of the mark again, and the Admiral did not return fire this time. Another
nation, in a far distant time and place, had just joined the greatest conflict the
world had ever seen, he thought. It seems we’ve chosen sides after all, and the
British won’t like it one bit, will they. But my god, my god, what was
happening?
Kirov
was lost, miles and long years from everyone and
everything the crew had ever called home.

And
now she was at war.