Orlov pushed himself back from under the helo, realizing the whole thing could explode at any moment. He staggered to his feet, rubbing his eyes and coughing.
Five men ran to help, then seven. They took hold of the chopper wherever they could and together they strained with all their might, joined by five others, to heave the aircraft off its landing pad in one mighty lurch. It scudded across the deck on its wheels, aided by a timely roll of the ship which tilted sharply over. It was this extra momentum that allowed the men to keep the helo moving until it crashed violently against the aft starboard gunwale with a hard thud, nearly lurching off the side, but perched now with one stubby wing grinding on the handrails.
Orlov had his big shoulder under the aft tail section, shouting.
Orlov was bent over, retching the smoke from his throat, his hands burned, face bleeding. He turned, a look of agonizing pain on his face, that soon gave way to an expression of relief. They had all come within seconds of losing their lives, but what in God’s name was happening? What was the ship firing at?
Melville-Jackson soon knew the answer to that question. A little over an hour ago a flight briefing aide had rushed into his squadron ready room at Takali airfield on Malta and he was informed that a Maryland of 69 Recon Squadron had re-acquired what they believed to be an Italian cruiser. It was heading northwest this time, away from the planned convoy route, but Jackson’s 248 Squadron was immediately activated with orders to fly a strike mission nonetheless. They were to intercept the contact, verify its identity and take hostile action if they deemed it an enemy ship. Word had come that elements of several Italian cruiser divisions had left their Mediterranean bases, and this ship was obviously part of that operation.
Six Beaufighters were soon aloft and heading northwest in a tight formation through the Sicilian Narrows as before. This time there were four Mark Is carrying torpedoes, and two newer Mark VI planes with the latest radar sets. Jackson was in one of these, and serving as acting flight leader.
They sped north, slowly closing the distance to the target. The plan was to split into two sub-flights and converge on the contact from two angles. Stanton would lead a group of three Mark I Beaus with torpedoes off the starboard side of the ship, and Jackson would take the last Mark I and the second Mark VI to attack the port side. The two sub-flight leaders signaled to one another, tightened their face masks and banked their planes away from one another, their mates following as planned. The flight split into two groups just as
The first two missiles were up, their integrated radars quickly acquiring the incoming planes, and both selected targets. When the flight split, they veered left to seek out, unknowingly, the group of Mark I beaus carrying torpedoes. Accelerating with their powerful rocket engines, they streaked out and lanced toward the oncoming planes. Staunton saw something odd in the sky. Blinking and leaning forward to squint through his cockpit, he first thought it to be a contrail from another plane rising to meet them. The enemy must have air cover, he reasoned.
He did not have long to wait before his mystery was solved. The first missile had acquired his sub-flight and was boring in. Seconds later he saw what looked like fireworks in the sky, and with a shuddering explosion a rocket obliterated his wingman to the right. Shocked, he hit the stick and rolled his plane, just as the second missile found and destroyed his last wing mate.
“God almighty!” he breathed as his plane dove for the cover of a low cloud bank.
Off to the east, it was only missile number five left from the initial planned barrage, and it was racing towards Melville-Jackson’s group. He suddenly heard a frantic radio call from Stanton:
Under attack? What was Stanton talking about? He immediately craned his neck, looking this way and that for sign of any enemy fighters. Two planes down? There must have been a group of long range German fighters, perhaps BF-110s if they were out this far. That was a twin engine fighter like his own Beaufighter, fast and dangerous. Then he saw it, the number five missile streaking up through a white cloud and heading straight for his flight. He passed a moment of shock and surprise, then instinct took over and he shouted into his mask radio set.
“Roll out, we’re under attack!”
His two mates reacted to the command and the sub-flight split in three, each plane angling off in an evasive maneuver. Jackson saw the awful streak turn suddenly to follow the plane on his left, and Billings was struck seconds later, his right wing blown clean off. The Beaufighter was sent cart wheeling down in flames, and Melville- Jackson gaped at the scene, his eyes quickly scanning the sky for sign of—of what? What in blazes had hit them? There was no sign of an enemy plane anywhere to be seen.
Chapter 8
Volsky heard the missiles firing, one—two—then he immediately knew that something had gone wrong. His eyes found Karpov’s when they heard the explosion and felt the ship shudder in response.
“Missile failure!” Karpov said at once, resisting the urge to leap to his feet and run to the bridge.
The Admiral nodded in agreement, his face set, still in obvious pain but now more concerned for the wellbeing of the ship. What had happened? His damage control officer Byko would get news to them in time, but he would call the bridge first, then engineering, and a call to sick bay would not be on his list at the moment. But Karpov had put his finger on it immediately. The ship had been through a great deal these last weeks. He should have used the time to finish all the system checks, particularly on the reactors, as they seemed to be strongly connected to the strange conditions that moved the ship in time. It still sounded so impossible, but here they were, firing at something bearing down on the ship again, and now they had another accident in the mix to complicate matters.
Volsky shook his head, with both regret and displeasure. “We have been far too sloppy,” he said. Then they heard the fire alarm and the commotion aft, men running, shouting, the hiss of a fire hose deploying.
“The aft missile bank,” said Karpov, listening. “It was probably a misfire, or perhaps the missile engine exploded. We will know in time. I heard two missiles get off safely. It was the third.”
The jarring sound of the alarms sent the Admiral’s head to throbbing even worse. He looked at his Captain. “Damn you, Karpov,” he breathed. “I
A much louder explosion shook the ship now, prompting them to brace themselves.
“What was that?” said Doctor Zolkin? “Have we been hit?”
“I don’t think so…” Karpov’s dark eyes seemed to scan the ceiling, as though he was straining to see through the decks above them to discover what had happened. “If I know Rodenko, they would fire at about forty-five klicks out. If these are old planes from the Second World War, then they would not close that distance so quickly. It must be related to the fire aft. Possibly one of the Helos was involved—it’s the only thing that makes sense at this point.”
“A KA-40?” Volsky raised his heavy brows.
“That or the 226 model. What did you have on the pad?”
“I was just aft for a deck walk before that first attack caught us by surprise. There was a KA-40 on the pad.
