Kirov II: Cauldron of Fire

He shook his head, feeling that the history had played a cruel trick on him—but then again, he realized the very presence of Kirov, here and now, was a bald offense to this moment in time. They had already seen the catastrophic consequences of their actions on the future, the dark charred ruins of coastal cities still haunting them all. He realized now that the history of this period was also beginning to warp into a new shape. These battleships should not be here. For reasons he could not fathom, decisions had been made to move them to La Spezia three months early—three months…

In a flash he realized that the course of events must have changed by the early entry of the Americans in the war! Kirov had tempted fate and created an incident equal to the Pearl Harbor attack with that desperate engagement in the cold North Atlantic. The effects of that incident had apparently rippled through time, subtly altering the course of events. Much of the history was still running true, even down to things like specific attacks on individual ships, such as the loss of HMS Eagle. Far to the south the machinations of war were still grinding along in the attacks on Operation Pedestal. But Kirov’s presence had caused a violent and increasingly escalating reaction by Regia Marina.

He shrugged, his hopes for a speedy transit here fading with each second. The safe waters he thought to find as they exited the strait were guarded by these two formidable ships, and now they were in a fight for their lives.

“Samsonov, activate Moskit-II system and spin up a full battery.” Karpov turned to the young ex-navigator. “Shall I engage?”

There was no other way, thought Fedorov. Their only other course was either surrender or possible death. They were nearly through the channel, but still making only five knots. The range had fallen to 23 kilometers in just these few minutes and already he could hear the distant rumble of thunder as the big Italian ships fired their second salvo. They were obviously receiving position reports on his ship from observers on shore. The incoming roar of the shells was much louder, though the shots still fell in a widely dispersed pattern.

In one last agonizing minute Fedorov let his precious history go, let fate and responsibility for generations yet to come slip from his weary shoulders. Instead he embraced the most basic instinct for self preservation. Survival!

“Helm, ahead two thirds!” They were sitting ducks in the channel and he had to put on speed at once, in spite of the threat from the minefields. “Mister Karpov,” he said, a deflated look on his face. “Engage at once!”

“Samsonov—fire!” Karpov ordered, and with a flick of a switch the missile launch warning sounded. The forward deck hatches sprung open and up leapt the sea sharks, sleek, deadly missiles, their gas jets precisely declining their sharp tips in the gleaming sun and the roar of their engines answering the distant boom of thunder ahead.

~ ~ ~

Aboard battleship Veneto Admiral Iachino squinted at the distant contact through his field glasses, a smile edging his lips. Regia Marina had been correct after all. Word that a fast British battlecruiser was at large in the Tyrrhenian Sea had set the telephone wires ablaze for the last twenty-four hours, particularly after Da Zara’s ill fated sortie from Cagliari. Admiral Bergamini had pleaded with him to send out stronger forces, and join the 7th Cruiser Squadron in the hunt for this ship. Fuel was low, but the target invitingly close, and the northern squadron had been recently reinforced by the transfer of Veneto and Littorio from Taranto. Iachino decided on one more sortie. He had faced the British three times in the war, giving as good as he got from them, though many whispered that he had made mistakes at Cape Matapan that cost Regia Marina a much needed victory.

This time, he thought, the British have made a mistake. Da Zara’s small force had been pummeled by the enemy, but now he sailed with his flag aboard Vittorio Veneto, one of Italy’s newest ships, and her sister ship Littorio followed in his wake. If this was a British battlecruiser the odds looked very good for him now. He had been receiving radio reports of the enemy’s position and speed for some time while his battleships worked their way down the western coast of Corsica, hidden by the prominent massif of Capo de Feno.

Reports soon came to him that the British ship had engaged shore batteries near La Maddalena and was now attempting to run the Bonifacio Strait. They had been firing an odd weapon system, churning up the waters around the ship to try and force a passage through the well laid minefields there. Rounding the cape with his battle force he was pleased to finally catch a glimpse of the ship’s high main mast gleaming in the morning sun on the far horizon. He gave the order to increase speed to twenty-five knots and come right fifteen degrees so he could bring all his turrets to bear in an attempt to cross the enemy’s T as it emerged from the strait. It was a sound maneuver, as the British ship was now committed to a westerly heading where it would have to run true for some time. If the enemy adjusted their course southwest to run parallel to his own, the ship would be forced into the Gulf of Asinara where the restricted waters near Capo del Falcone would again prove a major obstacle.

No, he thought. They will have to run due west and try to get up around Punta Caprara, the northernmost cape of the island of Asinara. If he aimed his own task force for that very same island, he would cut them off and cross the enemy’s T. Already his opening salvo had announced his presence and thrown down the challenge to this upstart British intruder. And when I finish with you, he thought as he watched the ship take shape and form on the horizon, then perhaps I will run down and rain hell on this convoy to the south as well.

His first salvos were widely dispersed and well off the mark, which did not surprise him. Though his 15 inch guns were among the best in the world, they suffered from the same technical problem that often degraded the accuracy of the Italian cruisers—a lack of uniform consistency on the propellant charge bags. If he hit the enemy, he knew he could hurt her, as his guns could penetrate 450mm of armor at this range, and he doubted this ship was so well protected, particularly if this was a battlecruiser with its much lighter armor.

His second salvo was up and booming toward the enemy. Moments later he clenched his fist with excitement, seeing a bright flash and billowing smoke emanate from the foredeck of the British ship. Had they scored a hit there, or was this the first reply from their forward turrets?

His answer was not long in coming. Something rose up from the ship, a sleek barb that danced in the air for a moment, which led him to believe, in that fraction of a second, that he had struck a forward battery and smashed one of their guns. Then, to his utter amazement, the sleek fragment he took for a gun barrel surged into the sky with a fiery jet of flame! It moved with astounding speed! He saw another and another leaping up from the distant silhouette and streaking into the sky. A thin white contrail marked their deadly arc toward his ships and then he braced himself as the first came diving in with an awful roar and struck Vittorio Veneto amidships, some fifty feet behind the bridge, exploding with a violent fireball and immediately destroying three AA guns before penetrating at the base of the forward stack.

The second missile came in just shy of the bridge itself, yet low on the main deck where it blasted into the secondary 6 inch gun battery there with a thundering concussion and broiling fire. Fueled to fire at much longer ranges, the full load of missile fuel ignited massive fires at both locations,

Iachino was sent careening back against the binnacle, his field glasses flung madly on the deck as he struggled to stay on his feet. He was stunned by the suddenness of the attack and amazed by what he had seen. His eye fell on the navigation compass at the top of the binnacle and he was surprised to see the needle spinning about in wild circles. Now searing flame and coal black smoke erupted to completely obscure his view. What was this, a new British naval rocket of some type? He knew that the Germans and even Regia Aeronautica had been experimenting with radio controlled bombs, but these were to be delivered by aircraft. What was this? He had no time to think, as his ship was on fire and now he looked to see that Littorio had also been struck amidships, almost in the very same location as his own ship!

His main guns had not been damaged, and the ship still seemed to be making way well enough, but a call from below decks painted a grim picture. The fire was extensive, the number one stack fully involved and now partially collapsed and tilting to one side. The warhead from this new weapon had apparently penetrated his relatively thin deck armor and bored deep into the ship sending a hideous hail of molten shrapnel in all directions. Yet all this damage was above his water line, and his ship remained seaworthy.

Veneto’s third salvo fell closer in on the enemy ship, sending tall geysers of sea spray up into the crisp morning air. Close would not be nearly good enough, he realized. The enemy had also fired three times with far more deadly results. He squinted through the smoke, a red anger burning at the back of his neck as he caught sight of his adversary once more and saw the foredeck of the enemy ship erupt again with fire.