Kirov II: Cauldron of Fire

cruisers and twelve more destroyers. The carrier Furious would be their rear guard with five more destroyers in escort. The weary crews would get little respite.

To his great surprise, Admiral Syfret soon learned that they were to prepare for a make or break defense of Gibraltar itself! He was to make immediate plans to close those straits to any and all ship traffic.

What in the world can have the Admiralty all rousted up like this, he thought? He was not one of the select few that had been briefed on the details of the engagements of a year past. Yes, rumors flew throughout the whole of the fleet of this new German raider with its wonder weapons and the terrible end it brought to the Americans there. And yes, he had seen the damage to Prince of Wales and King George V himself when they had returned to Scapa Flow, and knew that the venerable battlecruiser Repulse had not come home with them. But that was a year ago, and this enemy ship had been sunk, or so the official line had been put out. He knew nothing of the Admiralty’s continued interest and preoccupation with the incident, and nothing of the code word “Geronimo” that had set these events in motion.

So what was all this bother about? Had the plans for Operation Torch been moved up? It was the only thing he could think of that made any sense, and so he made his plans for the fleet to refuel so his destroyers would to be ready to move out again on patrol in the straits of Gibraltar as soon as they reached that location. Perhaps he should invite Admiral Fraser over from Rodney and have a little chat. Maybe he knew something more and could explain matters to him.

~ ~ ~

Even as Syfret gave that reluctant order to turn about on the afternoon of August 12, Admiral Tovey was already aboard the cruiser Norfolk and well out to sea where he would soon transfer to the flagship, King George V.

While the KA-40 was searching in vain for U-73 on the night of August 12–13, Home Fleet had been pounding it sway south at twenty-four knots. While Fedorov had his last visit with the Admiral and Doctor, Tovey’s battleships were already off the coast of Brest. There German reconnaissance planes spotted the fleet, and telephones were soon jangling as the Germans tried to surmise what this big fleet movement was all about. They had already been spooked by Operation Pedestal, with strong opinions that the British were planning an imminent amphibious operation on the coast of North Africa. These ships must be mustering for that operation, they now believed, and began to strengthen their defenses all along that coast.

Kirov lingered well north of Menorca while U-73 slipped quietly away to the northeast, heading home. At one point they saw the U-boat on their powerful surface radar sets, and Karpov had a second chance to think about killing it with a missile. He decided the boat was not worth the expense, and let Rosenbaum go. In his mind, however, there was no calculus of what may or may not happen at some future date, nor was there any musing over life and death. It was simply a matter of economics at that point. Kirov needed her anti-ship missiles for what lay ahead of them now, not what lay behind.

At noon Fedorov came off his rest shift and the two men were again together on the bridge for an hour before Karpov would take his rest. Fedorov now had one more weighty decision to make, and he decided to sound Karpov out on the matter.

“Here is the situation,” he said quietly. “Force Z is now withdrawing towards Gibraltar. If we put on speed we might be able to beat them there, but I think it would be very close, and we would have to run at thirty knots from our present location to have any chance at all. I was going to turn south and run west of Palma, but I have now plotted another route southwest aimed at Cabo de Nao, Spain, and from there we would race down the Spanish coast past Cartagena and then enter the Alboran Sea south of Almeria. On the other hand, Force Z will be well west of Oran by that time, and if we are spotted, which is likely given the air traffic in this region, they will probably be vectored in to engage us.”

“This means we fight these ships in the Alboran Sea, and not in the Straits of Gibraltar,” said Karpov.

“Correct, but we could also take a more deliberate route at normal cruising speed and in this event they would reach Gibraltar ahead of us. We could then wait in the Alboran Sea and see what Admiral Volsky decides about these negotiations we spoke of earlier. It would then be his decision as to how we proceed.”

Karpov thought for a moment. “From a military viewpoint, I would much rather fight this Force Z with good sea room, and in a situation where we can make the best use of our strengths—speed and ranged firepower. Yes, we may be spotted as we move south, but we will also see them easily enough, and I can engage at good range with our cruise missiles. Then perhaps we could have Nikolin order them to yield and if they have taken enough of a pounding, like the Italians, we could then transit the straits and leave them in our wake.”

“I understand,” said Fedorov, “but taking that course is almost certain to result in an engagement. It will not be easy to negotiate with them while we are hurling our missiles at their ships to keep them at bay. I think they will be slightly ahead of us, even if we run at top speed now.”

“Then why waste time,” said Karpov. “They may be ahead when we draw near, but from that moment our speed is decisive. We will overtake them and leave them in our wake, but to do this we need sea room if we are to stay outside the range of these sixteen inch guns you talk about all the time. Let’s get the ship moving and see if we can win this race!”

“My inclination is to wait,” said Fedorov, and he immediately saw Karpov’s frustration increase a notch.

“Alright, Fedorov… I learned where our U-boat friend was after I came on duty. Hiding in that little bay, eh? And Nikolin told me you had the KA-40 right on top of the bastard and then just ordered it back to the ship. Alright,” he held up a hand, head cocked to one side, “I let that pass. I understand why you decided to let him go. In fact, we saw the boat on radar later when it surfaced, and I could have finished it myself. I just didn’t want to waste a missile. But this—this is something entirely different. If we have a chance to outrun these British ships, then we should take it. All we have to do is put enough damage on them to slow them down. They won’t be able to touch us, and we’ll win through. What are you waiting for?”

Fedorov looked at him trying to think his way through this. “But can we really use measured force here? It will be close, Captain. If we have any further difficulties—an air strike, another submarine, a mechanical problem, we will not get past them in the Alboran Sea.”

“But we should at least try,” said Karpov, though he could see the reluctance and hesitation in Fedorov’s eyes. He pressed him further.

“What do you want to do—go to Volsky with this? How much time will that take, an hour? Two hours? And by then we will have lost our chance. You are captain of this ship now, Fedorov. I know this was the last thing you ever expected when that honor came to you, but Volsky is asleep in the sick bay and you are standing on the bridge. Now I have given you my best tactical advice, and I will follow and support any course you take here, but think carefully, Fedorov. Do you honestly think the British will negotiate with us? How much do we tell them? How many questions will they have before they are satisfied? You think they will just calmly agree to let us sail through the Straits of Gibraltar and go merrily on our way? Think, Fedorov. You know these men. You have studied them in your history books all your life. Look what they are doing this very moment to the south of us, risking half their fleet to save five merchant ships for Malta. That tells you everything you will ever need to know about them. What are they going to do when we come sailing up to Gibraltar with a white flag flying and ask them to kindly step aside? What did they do at Mers-el-Kebir? What did they do against Bismarck? Negotiate?”

Fedorov lowered his head, beset with what he knew to be the truth in the Captain’s hard words. That was one thing about Karpov—he was a grim realist. Fedorov had indeed studied this war, and the men who fought it, for many, many years. They were an entirely different breed. He remembered how he had tried to explain this to Zolkin in the sick bay when he was hoping to prevent Karpov from attacking the American fleet. And now Karpov was making the very same argument—that these men were of a different mettle, they were exceptional, that they would not hesitate or equivocate or accept anything less than complete victory. They would stand, stalwart, implacable at Gibraltar and bar the way. They would become the very things they named their ships at sea: Indomitable, Victorious, Furious. This was the British Empire. This was the Royal Navy. These were men of character, backbone and unflinching courage. They would not give way in the niceties of discussion. They were going to want to know what Kirov was, where she came from, and so very much more, and they would not be satisfied until they had their answer. Karpov was right, but now that he stood at the edge of it, he could not decide what to do.