Kirov II: Cauldron of Fire

to suppress grins. Fedorov turned to him, considering what to say, and how to deal with his truculent manner when he caught a shadow at the hatch behind Orlov’s back. A man stepped through quickly, and took hold of Orlov’s jersey at the shoulders, his fists bunched tightly on the cloth as he wrenched the big man from his seat and pulled him up onto his feet. The other Marines seemed to freeze stone cold, real fear in their eyes now, and when Orlov squirmed around he saw the steely face of Sergeant Kandemir Troyak glaring at him. Troyak released him with a shove and spoke in a low, threatening voice.

“Mister Orlov, you are now standing before the Captain of this ship, and you will come to attention in his presence and act accordingly. The next time I see you sitting on your ass like that, particularly in front of these other men, I will personally see that you regret it. Now, apologize to the Captain—at once!”

It was more than Fedorov had ever heard Troyak say at any one time, and that, along with his rock-like presence and impenetrable countenance was enough settle the matter. Orlov’s neck reddened. He glared back at Troyak, but was of no mind to challenge him in this situation. He saluted, offering an apology in a low growl.

“I apologize, Captain—”

“What was that?” Troyak yelled. “None of us heard that, Mister Orlov!”

“Sir,” Orlov raised his voice, clearly unhappy. “I apologize for my disrespect.”

“Very well,” said Fedorov. “As you were, and see that the KA-40 is ready in thirty minutes.” He nodded to Troyak and moved on. He would make one more call to Dobrynin in engineering to make certain the reactors were in order, and it was not until he was well away from the scene that he allowed himself a smile.

U-73 was hovering in the still waters off Fornells Bay on the northern coast of Menorca Island and Kapitanleutnant Rosenbaum smiled as he peered through his periscope viewfinder, surprised to see a curious ship on his near horizon. Could this be the ship, he thought? What else could it be?

An hour ago one of his Funkegefreiten Telegram Operators had come to the con tower with a message from La Spezia. He was to look out for a fast British battlecruiser possibly heading his way, and last spotted on a heading of 245, cruising southwest towards the Island of Menorca, which was one of Rosenbaum’s favorite haunts. After his triumphant sinking of HMS Eagle, he had been congratulated and given permission to head home. But to celebrate, he took his boat north to an old hideaway once used by the Barbary Coast pirates, Fornells Bay. There were a few fisherman in a tiny cluster of huts that almost passed for a village there, along with the remnants of old watch towers that once served as lookouts for the pirate ships—but they would never see this pirate coming.

U-73 was creeping along at barely three Kph, its bow perfectly positioned to slip through the narrow entrance to the bay where the depth was just 18 fathoms. It was dangerous to navigate in such waters, but his boat had a draft under five meters and he could even remain submerged in that depth as he snuck into the bay, then sit quietly on the weedy bottom with over thirty meters of water above him. Tonight he would surface briefly and put men ashore for some fresh water or perhaps even a little fresh fish to celebrate the occasion.

As was his habit, Rosenbaum was taking a last look over his shoulder as the light faded, to be certain nothing threatening was at hand. When he saw the silhouette of the big ship emerge from behind the massive bulk of Sa Mola Isthmus to the east, he was shocked. There, not four or five kilometers distant, was one of the most threatening looking ships he had ever seen. It was big, fully the size of a battlecruiser, though he could only vaguely discern its guns from this range. It was creeping along at no more than five knots, he guessed, a perfect target if ever there was one! Then he noticed a smaller craft in the water near the ship as well. Probably inspecting the hull for damage, he reasoned, or putting men ashore.

Something immediately struck him about this ship, jangling loose a distant memory, and setting his adrenaline to rush. This had to be the ship his cable had warned him about, and he now found himself in a perfect position to fire his single aft torpedo in the stern of the boat. He immediately lowered his periscope, giving orders for silent running, and to the other men it seemed that the Kapitan was very much on edge. His second in command, Horst Deckert was watching him closely, noting the distant look in his eyes and just the hint of a glaze of fear.

“What is wrong, Kapitan?” he asked.

Rosenbaum looked at him apprehensively. “I think I have seen this ship before,” he said in a low voice, almost a whisper, as if the ship itself might overhear him and suddenly burst into action as he had seen it do earlier.

“A year ago,” said Rosenbaum. “In the north Atlantic. Do you remember, Deckert?”

“Ah, that ship you took to be a target vessel southwest of Iceland?”

“Yes—that’s the one!”

“The ship that killed Klaus Bargsten on U-563?”

Rosenbaum said nothing, nodding at young Hans Altmann, a watch officer who was surely listening to them out of the corner of his ear. He turned to the young man and gave an order. “See that that number five is pre- heated well.”

“Ja Kapitan,” said Altmann, and he passed the order back. For a long shot like this, they would get much better performance from a pre-heated torpedo. The boat had four tubes in the bow, and one aft in the stern, his number five tube, and there he was carrying one of the newer G7e model T2s, upgraded and designated T3 now to note that it was an improved torpedo. Heated to thirty degrees centigrade before launch, its battery would perform much better, running out to 7500 meters in trials. If he could get it to run true for four or five thousand meters he thought he stood a good chance to hit this ship. Then he planned to scoot into the bay and settled quietly on the silted floor for an hour in case this ship had a gaggle of destroyers in tow that he could not yet see.

“You’re going to try a long shot?” Deckert whispered. “Remember what happened to Bargsten! You already got a big kill with that carrier back there, Kapitan. And you’ve already got your Knight’s Cross waiting for you back home—if we can get there in one piece.”

“Don’t worry, Deckert, I have a good plan, you’ll see.”

He waited a few minutes consulting his chart for proper depth and angle on this shot while the torpedo was heated. A British battlecruiser, he thought. There were not many left, and this one did not look like anything he had ever seen before. His chart notes on HMS Renown, which sometimes operated in these waters, indicated her length at 242 meters and a draft of a little over eight meters. This ship was easily that long. If it were a cruiser, the length would be no more than 190 meters. Might this be a new ship? No matter. He would set his torpedo running depth at 8 meters and leave it at that. Word was soon passed that all was ready. He raised his periscope and took another look to be certain of the angle of his shot, leading the boat based on the running speed of the torpedo and that of the target. He had his solution.

The sun was gone now, but the gloaming light still sharply outlined the darker silhouette of the ship. All he had to do was nudge his boat gently to get the perfect angle. Gliding on battery, his boat was very quiet, and he could hear no sign of an Asdic signal indicating the enemy was suspicious of his presence. Once he had made his adjustment he clenched his jaw and gave the order.

“Feuer jetzt!”

The whoosh of the torpedo launch seemed the only sound in the boat at that moment, and he immediately lowered his periscope. “Ahead two thirds,” he whispered, wanting to get as far away from the track of his running fish as possible. There had been no need to rig it out with a Federapparat pattern running device, which was useful against convoys, but not in a situation like this. The last thing he wanted was for some enterprising seaman on deck to sight down the line of his incoming torpedo wake and get a fix on his periscope and location, so he went blind and nudged the boat ahead on battery power, content to slip behind the intervening mass of the Sa Mola Isthmus and then into Fornells Bay. Like a dangerous eel, he had taken a bite at the enemy, and now he would slink into his cave.

He looked to his man on the hydrophones, who was listening intently to the torpedo as it went. The man frowned, shaking his head. “It does not sound good, Kapitan. I think it is losing depth.”

Rosenbaum clenched his fist with frustration. They had a surface runner! Now the weapon would strike too high, where most ships in this class would have a strong torpedo bulwark for protection. Ideally he wanted the torpedo to strike much closer to its assigned depth, where the hull would curve from the vertical towards the bilge of the ship, and the armor protection could be avoided. If he had fired a magnetic head, set to explode beneath the hull, it might have been worse, he thought. At least this one has whiskers, four metal spikes in the nose that would