Kirov II: Cauldron of Fire

the officer’s mess. And while you are at it, mending a few fences with the men would be in order as well.”

Orlov sighed, nodding his head. “Alright, Zolkin. What you say makes more sense than I have had in my head for a good long while. I’ll mind my manners, and if no one bothers me there will be no trouble. But don’t ask me to sit at Karpov’s table just yet, eh?”

“It will be easy for you to blame Karpov for what you did,” said Zolkin, “but not wise. Look to yourself, Orlov. Make your peace there first, and if you can do so, make your peace with the men. They are the ones you really let down. Now they look to you with some praise in their eyes instead of fear. That has to feel good for a change, and I hope it may open a new road for you.”

~ ~ ~

They had no time to rest on the bridge. Rodenko’s systems finally reached full range, with good, clear readings in all directions. His screen was suddenly alight with numerous contacts, on the sea and in the air. Fedorov interpreted one air contact moving from Sicily towards Sardinia as the movement of German reserve aircraft to Sardinian airfields for the major strike on the British convoy that would occur the following day. But a surface contact to their west, and closing on an apparent intercept course, was of some concern.

“I don’t think the Germans are aware of our presence yet,” he said to Karpov. “That surface contact, however, will be two light Italian cruisers—6 inch guns—and a couple of destroyers led by Admiral Da Zara. They are fast, and will be able to shadow us if they sight us. Though I am inclined to believe that they may think we are friendly at first blush. They were ordered to rendezvous with other cruiser divisions in this region, and will not expect any enemy ships this far north of the planned convoy route.”

“Good,” said Karpov. “May I suggest we run north for a time? We need waste no missiles on those ships. If they find us and seem hostile, we can just use our deck guns at superior range to drive them off.”

“I agree,” said Fedorov. “But their main force is coming from other bases, with  more cruisers and  destroyers. Two will be heavy cruisers Bolzano and Gorizia, moving up from Messina with five more destroyers to join them. They intend to rendezvous here, he pointed to a map on the clear Plexiglas of his old navigation station. “The island of Ustica. It’s too bad that they lost their nerve and were ordered to stand down, this will mean that several of these ships will be lingering in the Tyrrhenian Sea, instead of heading southwest away from us. We must be cautious, and ready for the possibility that the Germans could also spot us at any time.”

The ship was ordered on a heading just shy of true north and as they came about there was an audible groan, with some vibration. Karpov noticed it immediately, though Fedorov was frowning over his notes on Operation Pedestal.

“Did you hear that?” Karpov asked.

Fedorov looked up at him, clearly unaware of what had happened. He had been lost in the history of 1942, oblivious for the moment while he considered how their present course might best avoid further conflict.

“There was an odd sound, and some vibration when we turned,” Karpov explained. As if on cue the comm- link phone rang and Fedorov answered. It was damage chief Byko, with a little more bad news for them.

“I think we have some damage below the water line near the starboard propulsion shaft and rudder,” he said, “possibly from the explosion when they ditched the KA-40. Can you reduce power so I can put divers overboard. 10 knots would do it.”

Fedorov looked at his chronometer, calculating mentally. “Very well, Byko. We’ll slow to 10 knots. Keep me informed.” He looked at Karpov, somewhat concerned. The last thing they needed now was any loss of speed and maneuverability. If they were sighted again, by air or sea, and became the object of enemy attention, it could quickly embroil them in a fight Fedorov dearly hoped to avoid for the moment.

“Byko is a competent man,” said Karpov to give him heart. “Don’t worry, he’ll have us on our way in no time.”

~ ~ ~

Some miles to the west the day faded towards dusk, the skies ripening to amber and rose as the sun fell lower on the horizon. Aboard the battleship HMS Nelson, Vice Admiral Edward Neville Syfret stood in overall command of the entire operation, and principally of the main covering “Force Z.” Off his stern he was followed by Nelson’s sister ship, HMS Rodney, the core of real naval muscle assigned to the operation, and more than enough to give the Italian Navy second thoughts about any sortie as long as these two powerful ships were on the scene.

After an uneventful passage of the Strait of Gibraltar on the previous day, the operation began in earnest on the 11th of August, and was soon well informed that the seas and skies they were sailing into would not be friendly. The loss of HMS Eagle at mid day had been jarring, with 260 men lost in spite of an outstanding effort made to save the bulk of her crew.

It was a day of terrible setbacks and thankful consolation. Syfret grimaced at the stinging loss of the venerable old carrier, along with sixteen much needed aircraft. The sight of those Seafires sliding off the steeply listing deck as Eagle keeled over was still dark in his mind. Yet he took some comfort in the rescue of over 900 crewmen. The oiling operation for his flock of thirsty destroyers had also gone off well enough, and he had all of twenty-four of these fast escorts at hand for this segment of the run. That said, a submarine had still managed to slip through and hurt them badly, and it gave him worries about what would lie ahead. This was only the enemy’s outermost screen of undersea boats, he realized. The odds would be much worse later, when the bulk of his destroyer escorts would have to turn back with his heavier ships and carriers. Thus far they had only been bothered by a handful of enemy aircraft, shadowing the convoy from a safe distance, but this too would change as they drew nearer to the main enemy airfields on Sardinia and Sicily.

A careful and experienced man, he knew this was just the opening round of the battle ahead of them now, and the loss of the Eagle was a particularly telling blow. It was clear that the air and undersea threats would have orders to strike at his all important carriers as a priority. This was the first time the Royal Navy had ever operated with five at once, though that distinction was tragically short-lived now with the loss of Eagle.

Born in Cape Town South Africa in 1889, Syfret’s career saw him hopping from battleship Rodney, to command of a cruiser squadron and now a post at Gibraltar’s Force H. He had seen the fire and steel required to push through to Malta on previous convoys, and had no doubts about the difficulties ahead of them now. He had pushed 15 of 16 merchant ships safely through to Malta earlier while commanding HMS Edinburgh, a record that had not gone unnoticed at the Admiralty.

Tonight may be our last breath of calm for a while, he thought as he removed his admiral’s cap and ran a hand through his fine wavy grey hair. Tall and trim, his face was lean and serious, his eyes harboring the wisdom of many decades at sea, in both good times and bad. It was going to get rather gritty, he thought, but grit was one element of his character that was never found wanting. He had sat at Churchill’s right hand as his secretary when the redoubtable Prime Minister had served as First Sea Lord, and was soon sent back to real active service when the war came.

Now he led two of the Royal Navy’s biggest battleships, 38,000 ton behemoths when fully loaded, with nine 16 inch guns each and a bristle of medium batteries and anti aircraft guns as well. It was just as he preferred it—to be at sea on a ship with some good brawn and armor, and the guns to sail where she pleased. There was only one segment of the run in to Malta that he would have to forsake this time out—the Sicilian Narrows—infested with U- boats and peppered with mines, the two ponderous battleships would not have the sea room they needed to sail on through the narrow gap in the Skerki Bank, a jagged series of limestone reefs at the mouth of those narrows. They would cover the convoy as far as the bank, and then turn back while lighter and more maneuverable cruisers under Vice Admiral Burrough took on the duty of final escort to Malta with Force X.

It was already time to deploy the paravanes, and he was watching the crews rigging the lines to the bow, his gaze reaching down Nelson’s broad gun laden foredeck to the tip of the ship. Two paravanes would be deployed on each side of all the larger ships as night gathered its shadows before them. These were a kind of underwater glider, the general shape and appearance of a winged torpedo, yet shorter, and with stubby foils and a tail designed to maneuver it in the water. They would be towed by a heavy cable rigged to the ship’s bow, and the wings would serve to keep the paravane well away from the hull as it trailed out to the side of the big ship. Their intent was to ensnare the anchoring cables of hidden mines, and by so doing it would break those lines and send the mines bobbing up to the surface where they could be spotted and detonated by machine