Kirov II: Cauldron of Fire

~ Geronimo

Chapter 10

Aboard Kirov Rodenko was watching his long range radar screens with some concern. A small flotilla of five contacts continued to move east from Cagliari, and with the ship now slowed to just 10 knots while the divers were working astern, this put the contact on a direct intercept course. Fedorov seemed lost in his research, trying to ferret out any information he could concerning the details of the Italian presence gathering in the Tyrrhenian Sea. He began to make notations on the Plexiglas at the Nav station, and Karpov watched him out of the corner of one eye while he received reports from Byko on the status of the damage control operation.

Apparently a sizable piece of the exploding KA-40 had been flung against the side of the ship, causing some minor buckling, though water tight integrity was not lost on the hull. Kirov had a shrapnel wound there as well, but the divers were able to seal it off, and also clear some debris that was dangerously near their starboard propulsion shaft and rudder. Two hours later Byko was pulling his men out of the water, and he called up to the bridge to report that he could certify normal cruising speed in ten minutes.

“As for the Horse Tail sonar unit,” he said. “I will have to replace the retraction motors and a few cowling plates, but that will take another eight to twelve hours.”

“Well put your grandpa on it! We’ll need that system up as soon as possible.” Karpov was referring to the ship’s chief mechanic, often called the “Grandpa” when it came to all things mechanical. He passed the information on to Fedorov.

“Good enough,” he said. “I think we will have no major concerns for the next several hours. That contact to the west out of Cagliari will continue to make a gradual approach, but if we take no overtly threatening action we may just be able to slip by. I expect visitors from the north and east as well, but not for some time. The men need rest. Can you stand a watch until midnight?”

Karpov gave him assurances, and so he went below with several members of the senior bridge crew. Dusk gave way to a clear, dark night, returned to them at last since it was so rudely stolen, and the time slipped towards midnight. Karpov was grateful that Fedorov had enough faith in him to let him stand a command watch, though the Marine guard still remained at his post as a precaution. Still, he had the bridge for the first time in a long while, and slipped into the Admiral’s chair, remembering how it felt when he was the unchallenged master of the ship, and thinking how foolish he had been, how blinded by his own ambition.

He still struggled inwardly with it all, and his mind offered up arguments and justifications as it had so many times while he languished in the brig. But here he was given a second chance by the man he had betrayed, and that came to few men in the Russian Navy, particularly those charged with mutinous conduct. In any other circumstances he realized he would still be in the brig, and facing severe disciplinary action, or even a desultory court martial and possible death sentence.

Kalinichev was at radar when he noted that the contact he had been monitoring to their west, which had been steaming at fifteen knots, had suddenly increased speed. “It looks like that have increased to twenty knots, sir,” he reported, “And they are now within 15 kilometers.”

“Still bearing on an intercept course?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Range to horizon?”

“From the top of one of those ships, sir?” Kalinichev made a hasty calculation. “I would say we are probably on their horizon now, sir, but it is very dark.”

“Shut down all running lights,” said Karpov, concerned. “Rig the bridge for black.”

“Aye, sir.”

He considered what to do as the night seemed to flow into the bridge, the phosphorescent glow of the radar and sonar screens the only illumination. He could put on speed and race north to outrun the contact. This is what Fedorov would advise, he knew. But something in his bones refused to give way to these ships, galling him. He decided, in the end, to advise Fedorov and avoid any suspicion or charge that he was again attempting to engage the ship in combat, even if that was what he might prefer. He had given his word to Volsky, a man who had little reason to grant him the grace of his present position, and so he would honor it.

Ten minutes later Fedorov returned to the bridge, still bedraggled with half-sewn sleep.

“Captain on the bridge!” a watch stander called, announcing his arrival. He took a moment, adjusting to the darkness, then found Karpov near the radar station. “I relieve you, sir,” he said politely, taking formal command of the ship again.

“I stand relieved,” Karpov repeated the forms, still fighting off his inner demons in having to relinquish command to a former navigator. Yet he stood to one side, waiting as Fedorov studied Kalinichev’s screen.

The ship’s new captain had expected the contact would occur right around midnight, and he was gratified that events seemed to be unfolding as the history was recorded, like the well oiled mechanism of a clock. He made the decision Karpov had predicted.

“Helm, maintain course and give me thirty knots.”

A bell rang and the helmsman echoed the order. They could feel the powerful surge of the ships twin turbines as the Kirov forged ahead. Fedorov went to the forward view pane, noting Karpov’s field glasses. “May I?” he asked gesturing to the binoculars.

“Of course,” Karpov nodded.

Fedorov looked off their port quarter for a few moments, but was not satisfied. “The moon is still down,” he said. “Not that there will be much of it when it arrives. It is very dark. Nikolin, please activate the port side Tin Man and scan the horizon at 315 degrees.”

The Tin Man rotated and deployed its special night optical filter, with infrared capability, moments later they were staring at an enhanced HD video of a small task force to the northwest. The ships were right on schedule, cruisers Savoia and Montecuccoli, and destroyers Oriani, Gioberte and Maestrale.

“The contact is increasing speed to twenty five knots,” said Kalinichev. “Thirty knots now, sir.”

Karpov gave Fedorov a hard look. “They would not be making that speed for a casual rendezvous,” he said. “I suggest we come to general quarters, Fedorov. I can smell trouble here.”

“Anything else on the screen?” asked Fedorov. “Use your extended range systems.”

“Sir, I have two contacts at 25 degrees northeast at a range of 62 kilometers and three contacts at 55 degrees northeast at a range of 120 kilometers.” Kalinichev adjusted his screen, using their long range over the horizon radar system to report these additional sightings. Fedorov was suddenly concerned.

The numbers and bearings of the contacts did not surprise him, but their timing did. The first would be the heavy cruiser Trieste and a destroyer escort, the Camica Nera, the latter would be light cruiser Muzio Attendolo and two more destroyers, the Aviere and Geniere. They seemed to be early and he went to his old desk at the navigation station to study his notes again while Karpov fidgeted, his eyes watching the overhead Tin Man Display.

“Something is wrong,” Fedorov muttered to himself, confirming his misgivings. “The Muzio Attendolo should not have received its orders to move this soon. Something has changed…”

Karpov overheard him, drifting in his direction. “Look to the screen Fedorov, not your history books. Something has changed? Most likely. Who knows what, eh? We lit up like a candle when that fire started earlier, and the British are obviously aware of our presence. Do not surprise yourself if the Italians have discovered us as well. All I can say is that the movement of those ships does not look friendly.” He pointed at the Tin Man Display, which was now good enough to zoom and show that forward turrets were rotating on the lead cruiser and coming to bear on their heading.

Fedorov stared at the display, his heart beating faster. The history had changed! As much as he might want to slip quietly away, Kirov’s presence was a shaft of fire and steel in the very heart of the Italian Navy’s innermost exclusion zone—the Tyrrhenian Sea. Now he realized that the early arrival of these other