Kirov II: Cauldron of Fire

By the time they reached the bridge the danger was acute. The younger officers there had picked up a single airborne contact that seemed to be passing astern, moving on a heading away from the ship. They watched it for ten minutes before Kalinichev on radar noticed a group of several planes coming on screen from the south. They were out over the sea, bypassing the Sicilian mainland and on a heading towards Kirov. They tracked the contact nervously for another ten minutes until, at a 130 miles out, they were convinced it was a threat and sounded battle stations.

Five minutes later Fedorov and the other senior officers rushed onto the bridge, and Rodenko assumed his station, immediately cross indexing the Klinok SAM system with their main Fregat 3D Search Radars as Karpov advised. It took him five minutes to bypass some damaged circuits and establish a link, and by the time he was ready to feed fire control data the contact was 80 miles out and closing at 300 miles per hour. It would reach them in fifteen minutes.

“We can use the S-300 system at once,” he said. “It has the range to engage now.”

Fedorov considered his options, wishing he knew more about the contact, but concluding it was most likely long range fighters or torpedo bombers off Malta. Its course made it obvious that it was vectoring in on a designated target. The ship was most likely spotted by the recon aircraft that was dismissed by the junior officers as no threat. It was obvious that Kirov had been spotted again, and was now targeted for a strike mission, yet he hesitated, realizing that he was now about to intervene in the history of this battle and possibly kill these planes and crews when they might have survived and made some significant contribution to the battle, or even the war at a later time. Volsky’s last words came to him again, “Protect the ship, Mister Fedorov. Do what you must…” He could engage now with the longer range S-300s, or wait until the planes moved inside forty-five kilometers to use the medium range system. He did not have long to decide.

“We’ll wait,” he said at last. They had only forty-seven more S-300s in inventory, and twice that number of Klinok SA-N-92 missiles. “Activate our Klinok missile system, Mister Samsonov, and prepare to fire.”

“Battery keyed and ready,” said Samsonov.

The missiles were installed both forward and aft on the ship, available in batteries of eight with one missile firing every three seconds. They were deployed in vertical silos beneath the deck, and would eject by catapult and decline towards their aiming point by means of a dynamic gas jet before igniting their rocket engines.

As he waited, Fedorov realized he was now judge, jury and executioner sentencing men he could not see or ever know to death, along with everyone they might ever sire, for all generations to come. He felt a tremor in his hand as he reached to adjust the fit of his cap, and when he spoke his voice sounded thin and detached. He knew now how the Admiral must have felt when he first engaged the British, and also had a taste of Karpov’s mindset when he stood in command of the battle.

“Fire at forty-five kilometers.”

“Aye, sir.”

The minutes seemed to extend interminably and tension elevated as they waited. Rodenko continued to call out range intervals on the contact, counting down audibly for Samsonov. At forty-five kilometers Samsonov acted reflexively, dispassionately, even as he had in previous engagements, and toggled the firing switch for launch. He was going to fire off a barrage of six missiles, holding the final two in the battery as a reserve should they be needed.

A claxon droned and warning lights flashed on the aft deck. Three seconds later the first missile ejected, declined, and ignited with a roar, streaking away with a long white exhaust in its wake. The next missile was up and away in seconds, then the third ejected—when disaster struck.

The dynamic gas system had been overcharged, the valve adjusted incorrectly, and it fired too hard and too long. The missile was tipped some forty-five degrees beyond its correct angle of fire when its rocket motor kicked in. Deployed just forward of the aft helicopter landing pad, it struck one of the rotors on the KA-40 there, and was deflected downward even more, careening into the stern of the ship and exploding right above the Polinom “Horse Tail” sonar system access panels. The rocket fuel ignited and there was a billowing explosion of flame and smoke.

As the fourth missile in the barrage popped up from its deck silo it was caught by the shock wave and was sent wildly off course when the rocket engine ignited, smashing into the sea where it fumed like a wild shark in a maddened rage. The fire quickly enveloped the nose of the KA-40 helo as desperate fire crews rushed to the scene even while missile five ejected, declined, and safely fired. As the shock of the explosion rippled through the ship, Samsonov realized something was seriously wrong and aborted the sixth missile. Now the stern of the ship was enveloped in an angry fire, and it looked impossible to save the KA-40. The frantic call came into the bridge, which had no direct view of the stern given its location forward of the ship’s main mast.

“This is Engineer Byko—cease fire on the aft deck systems, we have a major fire on deck! I repeat, cease fire!”

~ ~ ~

Orlov heard the warning claxon and call to arms. He had been sulking in the ready area for the ship’s commando unit, brooding over his fate and galled by the notion that he was now a common lieutenant again. Volsky had come to him the previous day and explained what he had decided, busting him three pegs and stripping him of his rank as Captain. At the same time he asked him to redeem himself and make the best of the new assignment. It was obvious to him that he could no longer maintain his post as Chief of Operations. Now everything he had worked for, and all the bruising and sweat of his climb up the ladder of command these last five years, was gone. At least he wasn’t a ranker, he thought. It could have been worse.

Karpov, he thought. I should have never listened to that weasel. What was I thinking? He was afraid to do what he wanted on his own, and so he thought he would find a strong ally in me. Yet I was a fool to think we could take the ship—no—an idiot! Yes, Severomorsk is gone and power is now anyone’s for the taking, but the collective of the ship, the ranks of officers and crew remained intact. I knew the men would follow Volsky. What was wrong with me? And Karpov, that bastard set me up with his sly arguments and clever reasons, and I was duped like a schoolboy…If I ever get my hands on that rat again—

The warning claxon cut his reverie short and he was immediately on his feet. Men reacted by reflex, and it was Orlov’s to look about him for anyone not moving to his post and lash them with the whip of his authority. Yet now he was the one without a post. He had been escorted to Troyak’s unit under guard, and released to his supervision. These were not the same ordinary crewmen he was so accustomed to bullying and cajoling with his brawn and bad attitude. They were highly trained combat veterans—Naval Marines, and Troyak was one of the best in the fleet. In fact, it was only because Karpov had indicated Troyak was going to support him that Orlov allowed himself to fall under the Captain’s spell.

He stood there dumbly for a moment, watching men race to the weapon’s bay to fetch their rifles and helmets, yet he had not been integrated into the unit yet, and had no locker of his own. Then he heard the word fire, heard the men running on the decks above, and he instinctively rushed to a ladder to get topside. When he emerged on the aft deck he was stunned to see it embroiled in a major fire. Three men were struggling to deploy a fire hose and he turned to see five more running to the scene and immediately took charge.

“You men—follow me!” he shouted, and seeing Orlov the men responded at once, in spite of their surprise that he would even be at large after what they had heard in the rumors that passed through the ship: that Orlov had tried to take command with Karpov and was now in the brig.

The former Chief of the boat was still acting like one, whether or not he held the rank. He ran towards the KA-40 helo, seeing the fire enveloping the nose of the craft, and immediately ascertained that it could not be saved. And when the fire reached the fuel tanks behind the main cabin there would be another explosion, and even more fire and damage could result. They had to get the helo off the ship!

“Come on!” he shouted. “Unlatch the securing cables!”

He was on his knees, feverishly working to loosen the nearest cable that held the helo in place on the landing pad. Other men rushed to assist, and Orlov knew they had to be quick. Already the heat and smoke were terrible, but one man had a pair of heavy duty cable cutters and, after releasing the two cables they could reach, Orlov seized the tool, dove beneath the Helo, and strained to extend the biting jaws of the cutter to sever the last cable. Smoke nearly blinded him and the heat was awful, singeing his exposed, gloveless hands as he strained with all his might, shouting with the pain. Thankfully the tool had a hydraulic assist and the jaws clamped tight with a vicious snap. The last cable had been cut.