Kirov (30 page)

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 skim 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.