Kirov II: Cauldron of Fire

The Admiral looked at him from beneath his heavy brows, then slurped another spoonful of his soup. He realized that the young captain was asking him to shoulder the burden of this next kill, to give him the order so that he would not have to pull the trigger himself, but he considered it best to leave this matter alone, and said as much.

“You are presently acting Captain of this ship, Mister Fedorov. The decision is yours. Protect the ship, that is all I ask, and also, I think when you are done with this submarine business it would be wise to recover all the sonobuoys before we depart this area. Leave nothing in the water that might be found and raise a lot of questions, yes?”

“Very Good, Sir… Will you be returning to duty soon?”

“Ask Zolkin here,” Volsky inclined his head to his friend.

“Ask Zolkin, ask Zolkin. Everyone is always asking the doctor for advice. Well in this case, I think the Admiral is recovering nicely and should be back on his feet in little time. You may go chase your submarine, Mister Fedorov, but don’t get too close. A few less explosions would help the Admiral sleep a bit better.”

“Don’t worry about me, Fedorov,” said Volsky. “I’ll be fine.”

Fedorov left the sick bay, encouraged by the thought that the Admiral might soon recover to take the burden of command from him. He headed for the bridge, thinking what to do about this submarine. They had lost four men. He knew that the U-boat was still out there, and probably intent on stalking them further if they lingered here, yet he believed he knew what to do about it now. Moments later he stepped onto the bridge resumed command from Rodenko, sending him below for some rest.

Karpov had already gone below a few hours earlier, and would relieve him at dawn. Now he was ready to consider the matter of this submarine. The KA-40 was still up, though low on fuel, but he decided to follow his hunch and have a closer look at Fornells Bay. He had Nikolin radio the helo and ordered the pilot to overfly the inlet and use infrared cameras and sensors to have a look. Sure enough, when the telemetry was fed back to the ship he could see the knife like presence of a submerged submarine hovering in the shallow waters of the bay, very near the entrance. It was probably trying to sneak out at this very moment, he thought!

Returning to his navigation station he called up the reference to U-73 once more and clicked on the link to the boat’s captain, Helmut Rosenbaum. There was Germany’s newest recipient of the Knight’s cross for the sinking of HMS Eagle, he thought. So there you are, you crafty little bandit. He looked at the first photo of Rosenbaum, smiling amiably beneath his captain’s hat, a younger man in a better day. There was another photo of him arriving back at La Spezia after this very same patrol, a bouquet of flowers before him and his head turned left to the camera with a gritty smile, his beard unshaven and a jaunty look of pride in his eyes. He read the final notation on the man’s fate:

“He left U-73 in October 1942 and became the commander of the 30th flotilla, which fought in the Black Sea. Helmut Rosenbaum was killed in an air crash on 10 May 1944.”

As Fedorov stared at the photo he felt a strange connection to the man, and an eerie sensation in knowing his future like this. It was a heady, almost God-like feeling, and something that no man should ever have in his grasp, he thought.

“KA-40 reports it can put a weapon on the target at any time sir,” said Nikolin, looking at Fedorov.

Roused from his muse, Fedorov looked at him for a moment and blinked. He could order the U-Boat destroyed in a heartbeat, snuffing out the lives of every man aboard as easily as he might blow out a match. In that event he suddenly realized the photo he was looking at would never even be taken!

Something in him revolted at that that. It was no longer a cold calculation of war or survival in the balance. Kirov was well off shore and safe from any harm this U-Boat might still wish upon them. It was his intention to sail west as soon as the helo was recovered, and even running at only twenty knots the ship would quickly leave Rosenbaum and his intrepid U-73 behind. He looked again at the photo, saw the pride in the man’s eyes as he accepted his laurels, and then he made up his mind. Rosenbaum would die in that plane crash on 10 May, 1944. The man was living out the last brief years of his life, and Fedorov would give them to him, come what may.

He remembered what Doctor Zolkin had said just a few minutes earlier, and he knew he had chosen correctly: “…choosing life is better than death, even if it means you do not win the day or avenge a fallen foe.”

“Mister Nikolin,” he said. “Order the KA-40 to secure all weapons and return to the ship immediately. They are to recover all sonobuoys as well. Leave nothing in the water, is that clear? We are heading west at once.”

Nikolin raised an eyebrow. “Very well, sir,” he said, and he passed the orders on. When Karpov returned to the bridge an hour later Kirov had sailed and was off the western edge of Menorca. Heading into the channel between that island and the largest landform in the Balearic chain, Majorca. He gave a heading of 270 degrees due west, intending to move north of that larger island and then down through the wider channel to its west. There would be plenty of sea room there and the ship could stay well off shore and safe from prying eyes. He would use that channel to head due south before plotting his course for the Alboran Sea, the last great bottleneck that would lead them to the cork—Gibraltar.

Fedorov communicated his intentions to Karpov and made ready to leave the bridge. “I stand relieved, Mister Karpov.”

“Aye, sir. Rest well.”

Once alone Karpov inquired about the submarine with Tasarov just as he was about to hand over his shift to Velichko. “Any sign of that devil?”

“We spotted it in that inlet a little over an hour ago. The Captain had the KA-40 right on top of it, but he did not fire, and ordered the helo back to the ship.”

Karpov’s face registered real surprise. He started to say something, then stopped himself, thinking. Fedorov had the U-boat in his crosshairs and let the damn thing live! He never said a word to me about it when I came up to relieve him. He had half a mind to refuel the helicopter and send it back out to avenge its dastardly attack on his ship, and avenge the lives of the men that had died, but another voice spoke to him from within. “He who seeks vengeance must dig two graves: one for his enemy and one for himself.” It was his headstrong obsession with righting perceived wrongs that had cause this trouble for them in the first place. He would let Fedorov’s decision stand.

“Very well,” he said at length, tapping Tasarov on the shoulder. “Get some sleep and wash the wax from those ears, Tasarov. We’ll need you back in your chair when we sail for Gibraltar.”

He let the matter go and turned to the helmsman: “Steady on two seven zero.”

~ ~ ~

U-73 slipped quietly through the narrow mouth of the bay and out into the wide sea beyond that rocky shore. Rosenbaum immediately raised his periscope for a look in case his enemy was still nearby. He saw no ship, but spied a strange craft in the air, heading northwest, its running lights winking as it went.

A strange feeling came over him, and an involuntary shudder shook his frame as he watched the aircraft vanish in the grey dawn. It was as if the hand of death had been poised above his head, and stayed itself. He felt strangely alive, a vibrant sense of the moment keening up his senses as he scanned the horizon. It was empty, and the sun was casting its first golden rays on the rocky crest of Cape Caballeria off to the northwest. He knew he could never catch up  with that British ship again, and something told him that it would not be wise to try. So he decided to take his boat quietly out to sea and then turn northeast for La Spezia. He would not get his number seven kill on this patrol, and he would have to put aside the attack he had planned to avenge the loss of U-563 and Klaus Bargsten. Enough was enough, he thought.

He smiled, lowering his periscope and thinking of home. His patrol was over. He would go back to La Spezia and collect his medal, and then off to a new assignment in the Black Sea—commander of a new flotilla of six Type II boats!

Life was good.