Kirov II: Cauldron of Fire

“Sorry, Captain,” he said sarcastically. “I didn’t see you there. It’s these bandages,” he said, holding up his hands. “Can’t seem to hold on to anything, eh?” Orlov forced a strained smile that was more of a sneer, and Karpov waved him away, his eyes darkly on the far table where he could hear the muted, well restrained laughter of the junior Lieutenants. He could feel the heat on the back of his neck, and knew that Orlov had deliberately tried to humiliate and provoke him in front of the other men. He doused the stain on his jacket with a table linen, as Orlov left, sullen and angry. Had it been any other man, he thought bitterly…

The junior officers finished, one by one, and a few were even bold enough now to drift Karpov’s way as they left, some holding cups of coffee as well, though not one dared to do anything more. If they had, Karpov would have shouted them deaf, but as it was the scene had clearly demonstrated to them that Karpov was not man enough to stand up to Orlov, and not even his rank and authority as acting Starpom was enough to protect him now.

When they had all left, Karpov finished his stew, tired, angry, humiliated and wanting sleep. He stood up and saw where Orlov had set his stained coffee cup down on his table, right on its side, deliberately spilling the last remnant onto the table linen near his plate, and he swiped it angrily off the table, sending the cup clattering across the deck. His shoulders hunched, head low, he went through the door, immediately sensing a looming presence in the empty hall. It was Orlov.

“Oh, Captain,” he said. “I just came back to say excuse me,” he grinned balefully. “Did I soil your Captain’s jacket?”

“Yob tvou mat’ Orlov!” the Captain exclaimed, telling the big man what he thought he should do with his mother. “You want to act tough in front of the men, but when things came to a head how tough were you on the bridge?”

It was the first time the two men had ever spoken of their failed attempt to take command of the ship from Volsky, and the words tumbled out, with pent up anger on both sides.

“Fuck you,” Karpov. “You duped me! You played me for an idiot with all your reasons and arguments, and I was stupid enough to go along, that was all.”

“Come on, Orlov, just say you lost your nerve, and your backbone along with it. You like to push the men around, but not the Marines—not someone who can set you back on your heels if you get out of line.”

Orlov lunged at him, seizing Karpov by the jacket in spite of the obvious pain with his hands, pulling the smaller man close to his face. He was easily fifty pounds heavier and a good head taller than Karpov, and he used his strength to dominate him. “Right, Karpov. What was all that bullshit when it came down to firing the missile, eh? You give your orders then stand there looking at me to give the last word! You dumped the whole pile of shit in my lap, because you wanted to set me up to take the fall if it all came apart. Yes?”

“Get your filthy hands off me!” The Captain’s face was red with anger.

“Oh? What are you going to do now, Captain? No one is here. Where’s Troyak, eh? Are you going to go whine to Volsky, or slink back to the bridge and tell Fedorov? Piz-da!”

The Captain tried to break loose, pushing hard, and then Orlov loosed one hand and buried a fist into Karpov’s gut, doubling him over with the blow, though he grimaced with the pain to his own bandaged hand. Orlov pushed hard, shoving the Captain off his feet, and standing over him with a satisfied grin on his face.

“Na kaleni, suka,” he hissed at him. “Go tell Fedorov, and just be glad I didn’t put a knife in your belly instead.” He turned and tromped off, his heavy soled boots clomping hard on the deck as he went.

~ ~ ~

The night deepened and the men aboard Kirov rotated in shifts, some snatching a few hours of fitful sleep while others manned battle stations. Still others started their shift in the mess hall, lining up for bowls of warm milk, cheese sandwiches, kasha and hot tea. Fedorov had decided to stand down from full alert, thinking his situational awareness was still solid enough in spite of the aberration he had discovered with the early sailing of the Italian 7th Cruiser Division. He had expected Da Zara’s 3rd Division would be handled easily enough, but the other contacts still bearing on their heading were still some cause for concern. The Italian cruisers were fast, with each group capable of thirty knots, and so Kirov continued to sail north just shy of her best speed.

The ruse he had planned involved a fake distress call, sent out by Nikolin in Morse code with the intention of fooling the Italian Navy. Once decoded the message would read: “Force K — Critical gun damage in engagement 23:45 hours — Aborting mission under Case B.” And to be certain it would be decoded he had dug up an old reference book he had on Royal Navy codes and deliberately used a version that he knew the Italians would be able to decipher. His intention was to convince Regia Marina that his ship now presented no immediate threat to their home bases or airfields, hoping they might call off the pursuit and simply return their ships to friendly ports, as they had decided historically during Operation Pedestal. In that campaign the Italian Navy had aborted its operations when the Germans refused to provide air cover over the Sicilian Narrows. Fedorov hoped that he could count on them to stand down here as well—but he was wrong.

~ ~ ~

Regia Marina had a bone to pick now. The fiery admiral Da Zara had escaped southeast to Cagliari with his battered task force, livid with anger that he did not get more air support during his sortie, and convinced that this was no mere British cruiser at large in the Tyrrhenian Sea, but a fast battlecruiser. He concluded that this ship must have slipped through north of the Skerki Bank before the submarine picket lines had been established a day earlier, and while most air recon missions had been focused much farther west. It obviously intended to disrupt Italian surface fleet operations aimed at attacking the convoy—and that it had accomplished well enough.

The arrogance of the British, he thought. They think to sail unchallenged into our home waters? On a secure phone line to Admiral Bergamini at La Spezia he was furious, demanding that the navy could not allow such an incursion into the Tyrrhenian Sea to go unpunished. What he heard in return gave him heart.

Bergamini claimed to have known about this ship for some time, since the submarine Bronzo had sighted it, on fire aft, a little before sunset on the previous day. “Why do you think your Division was sent out in the first place?” he said in a thin, distant voice over the phone. “The Germans must have caught it during their ferry operations from Sicily to reinforce the air Squadrons at Cagliari. Furthermore, we have a new wire intercept concerning gun damage on this ship, and we believe it is now attempting to run for the Bonifacio Strait.”

He praised Da Zara, assuming it was his timely action that had inflicted this further damage on the enemy, and he told him that the ships of 7th Cruiser division were still in the hunt, chasing the impudent raider north at high speed even as they spoke.

“And there is more,” he said quietly. “We have a surprise or two prepared for this uninvited dinner guest. I cannot say more, Da Zara, but you will soon see that Regia Marina has more fight left in it than you may believe. I will encode details through normal channels. In the meantime. If any of your ships remain seaworthy, get them ready for action!”

“Seaworthy?” Da Zara said sharply. “Yes, they will float I suppose. But ready for action? I think not. It will take weeks, probably months to repair the damage we sustained.”

“Then do not worry. We will handle the matter from La Spezia.”

~ ~ ~

It was that very night, that Admiral Tovey had been awakened with that jarring coded message and sent on his way to a meeting with the Admiralty on the morning of August 12, just as Kirov was approaching the Strait of Bonifacio. Now he sat in the meeting with Admiral Pound and the other Sea Lords, and this curious Professor from Bletchley Park. In spite of Admiral Pound’s reaction, Tovey could see more in those photographs than he wished, and it turned his stomach as well.

“The same ship?” Pound flailed at Turing. “May I remind you, Professor, that the final engagement with this raider occurred on the 8th of August, a full year ago. I’ll admit that we’ve had our suspicions about the American story that this ship was sunk by their destroyer squadron, but for it to have survived for an entire year on its own in the Atlantic, and to have entered the Mediterranean undetected by our forces is absolute rubbish.”

Tovey spoke up, wishing to clarify the situation. “Professor Turing,” he began in a more civil tone. “The Admiral’s point is well taken. Surely you don’t suspect this is, in fact, the very same vessel we engaged a year ago.