Kirov II: Cauldron of Fire

One by one, three more rounds of this astonishing new rocket weapon burned their way toward his ships with roaring anger.

“Right full rudder!” he screamed out an evasive order, but to no avail. All three missiles were going to find their targets. There was no maneuver or trick of seamanship that could save them, no gun on his ship that could track them to shoot them down, and no hope in the long run for his gallant task force as long as Kirov’s magazines still remained full.

~ ~ ~

Karpov watched the lethal Moskit-II missiles bore in mercilessly on the big enemy ships, two salvos of three each. NATO had called them “Sunburn,” a good name for them, he thought. They were the fastest and most accurate anti-ship missiles ever developed, and there was virtually no way to defeat them once they were locked onto a target.

“That will give them something to think about,” he said to Fedorov. “The lead ship is burning badly. The next is getting more of the same. We have them programmed to hit above the waterline to avoid their heavy armor. With a full load of fuel to feed those fires they are going to have their hands full, even if we haven’t breached their hulls.”

“These ships are also vulnerable to plunging fire,” said Fedorov. Their laminated deck armor was not adequate, and its placement was questionable.”

“The range is too short for that now, but we have hurt them just the same. Look at those fires!” Karpov pointed at the thick black smoke pouring from the lead ship. “Yes! They are turning away.”

They saw the enemy task force wheel hard right, and the group of three destroyers matched the maneuver, all making smoke in a futile attempt to screen the bigger ships from further fire. Bright flashes of orange and yellow erupted from the battleships again as they both fired their big 15 inch guns in reprisal. They heard the drone of the heavy rounds coming in, and saw them plunge into the sea off the starboard bow, the geysers walking their way ominously towards the ship. A set fell very near, no more than half a kilometer off, and Fedorov held his breath as more rounds fell progressively closer.

“They’ve got our range now,” he said, the last round falling near enough to send sea spray showering over Kirov’s foredeck. They could feel something strike the ship’s hull, undoubtedly splinter damage from the very near miss.

“Left fifteen degrees rudder,” said Fedorov, “Ahead full!” They were out of the channel now, through the Bonifacio Strait, but it was still a risky maneuver to turn and put on speed. There could be hidden mines that Tasarov would not be able to detect with all the turmoil of shot and shell churning up the seas. Kirov came smartly around, and he gasped as one final shell from a late firing gun fell just where the ship might have been moments ago had they maintained their old course. This time they could feel the concussion of the heavy round as it plunged into the sea, so very close. The grating sound of something striking the hull again filled him with misgiving.

~ ~ ~

The Italians had fired that one last salvo, a defiant shake of their fist at an enemy they were clearly not prepared to face this day. Iachino elected to exercise the better part of valor—discretion. Both his battleships were on fire, but still seaworthy and without gun damage. Yet the fires were raging ever deeper into the guts of Vittorio Veneto, and he could clearly see that Littorio was in no better shape. Stunned and surprised by the powerful new weapons he had faced, he put on speed and ran north, hoping to find safe waters until the fires could be brought under control.

The billowing thick smoke was blinding, and the gunners would have a very difficult time re-sighting and ranging on the target. He might need another three or four salvos to find the mark again after his wild turn and change of course. Yet every weapon the enemy fired struck home with a vengeance. If they fired again… He did not want to think about the consequences. No, he would return to La Spezia, chastened and far less brazen than he had been when his proud ships set forth, but at least, he hoped, he would return to possibly fight again.

“Another day,” he said to the watch officer at his side.

“Another day, sir?” The man stared at him blankly. “When the British have ships that can do this?”

Iachino glared at the man, but said nothing more.

Part VI DECISIONS

“In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions

which a minute will reverse.”

~ T.S. Eliot.

Chapter 16

They all stared at Turing—Pound with annoyance, but the others with grave apprehension and some bewilderment evident on their faces. The Marine guard interrupted them yet again, another folded message decrypt in his white gloved hand. Tovey took it, noting the source first.

“Signal intelligence through our network in the Med,” he said. “Looks like one of the Twelve Apostles has come to supper.” He was referring to a secret network of American OSS and British Special Operations agents that had been scattered throughout the French North African Colonies to gather intelligence prior to the planned Operation Torch landings this coming November. There were twelve agents in all, and one had been put ashore on Sardinia to scout out military buildup there and map coastal fortifications—more grist for the mills of the war planners. Apparently he had seen or heard something more, and thought it urgent enough to risk a direct transmission through the network. The Admiral read it aloud this time:

“Major Duffing tips his hat to Little Victor and his friend off Balham Tube… It seems this one is a bit of a Chinese box—code within a code.”

“What’s all that twaddle about now?” Pound complained. “Hasn’t it been decrypted properly?”

“If I may, sir,” Turing spoke up again cautiously. “Major Duffing is the Northern Med operations section code handle indicating an enemy vessel—a capital ship, sir. The tipping of his hat will mean there has been a surface engagement with this Little Victor—‘Vittorio’ in Italian. That would be the Vittorio Veneto to be precise. The mention of a friend would indicate a sister ship of Veneto was present, most likely the Littorio, as both these ships were recently moved to La Spezia. As for Balham Tube, that is not the underground rail station in London, sir, it is code for the Strait of Bonifacio.”

Pound raised his eyebrows. “There’s been a naval engagement involving two Italian battleships off the Bonifacio Strait?”

“You have it exactly, sir,” said Turing with a smile.

“There’s one more bit,” said Tovey, reading: “Victor’s off home by any road, and not the better man.” He looked at Turing, suddenly appreciating the man in a new way.

“That would mean Vittorio Veneto, which I presume is the flagship, has broken off the engagement and is heading north for home.” Any road was a colloquial expression from northern England often used instead of the more common “anyway,” and it cleverly indicated the direction of the Italian withdrawal—north. “That would also mean that something has just engaged two of Regia Marina’s heaviest surface units and beaten them off with some significant damage. Vittorio Veneto was not the better man, gentlemen. Now then…This was clearly not one of our ships up there. What in the world could face down two Italian battleships and come off the better man for it? A ship flinging aerial rockets at our 248 Squadron, I might add.”