labor of the British at their gun directors and FCBs, Kirov’s systems were lighting fast computers integrated with their 3D radar. Seconds later they saw the forward 152mm battery rotate, its twin gun barrels elevate slightly, and then a crack, crack, crack, as the guns fired, both barrels recoiling in perfect unison with every salvo. One of the two aft batteries joined the fray as Samsonov targeted each of the two advancing destroyers with one battery.
Then the forward deck hatches flipped open and up leapt the Sunburns. They would fire at three second intervals at a range of 28,000 meters. In a matter of six seconds they would accelerate rapidly to mach three, over 3500 kilometers per hour or about 1000 meters per second. They would strike their targets in just twenty-eight seconds! By comparison the muzzle velocity of the British 16 inch guns was 766 meters per second. The missiles were actually faster, designed to defeat the lighting reflexes of American Aegis class cruisers, and they were a hundred times more accurate than Nelson’s guns. They were going to hit whatever they were aimed at, almost without fail, and they were going to hit hard.
While the British heavyweights swung their heavy arms, sending metal haymakers Kirov’s way in wide arcs, it was as if the Russian ship calmly reached out one hand to steady their foe’s chin, then rammed a strong right hand right to the face with thunderous speed. And the only way they were going to knock these ships out was by a head shot. Their armor was simply too thick to give them body shots. Karpov was again targeting the ship to be hit well above the water line, hoping to strike the superstructure. The Moskit-IIs each carried a 450KG semi-armor penetrating warhead, and tons of fuel for their propulsion system which would ignite when they exploded. The whole missile weighed over four tons. They were basically a hypersonic armor piercing fire bomb, and fire had been the nemesis of ships at sea for centuries.
Syfret had ordered Nelson and Rodney to give their enemy hell, and seconds later it came rebounding back at them with a fury. The missiles flashed in on the battleships and blasted into the center of the ships with terrific force. They exploded in huge massive fireballs of broiling heat and molten shrapnel, almost as if two miniature suns had ignited their angry fire at the heart of each vessel. One warhead smashed into the armor plating at the base of Nelson’s citadel but was frustrated by twelve inches of hardened armor there. Seconds later the second hammered against C turret again, this time immolating the guns with its terrible impact and fire. The armor withstood the impact, but not the men inside, who were killed almost instantly by the terrible concussive force generated by the velocity of the missile.
A column of torrid fire and smoke mushroomed up from the ship, and this time Admiral Syfret was thrown from his feet, his head striking the bulkhead and knocking him unconscious. For her part, Rodney suffered equal harm, struck slightly aft of the main conning tower where the range finders, gun directors and FCB controllers were feverishly working up their next salvo. They had fired just as the first missile came in, however, and the second Moskit was caught in the tremendous blast of six huge guns, adding its exploding fury to their tumult and shock, which rocked the ship violently. Pipes burst all over the ship. Chairs went flying in the mess halls, hand rails quavered, equipment was shaken loose from its bolted moorings and, aft of the citadel where the armor was thinner, the warhead came on through the outer bulkheads and blasted into the metal chambers beyond.
Had these been modern ships, those hits would have utterly destroyed both targets. But here, though rocked and damaged, burning fiercely and shaken almost senseless, neither Nelson nor Rodney had been dealt a fatal blow. Men scrambled up from below, some aghast to see the hard pine wood main deck planks contorted and bent by the concussion of their own guns alone. Dazed and tired, they reacted by reflex, fetching fire hoses, grabbing crowbars to move loosened shards of mangled steel, and then set about fighting the terrible fires. Some tried to get to the back hatch on Nelson’s stricken C turret but were amazed to find the hatch wheel was melting when they fought their way to the scene with fire hoses!
From Kirov’s perspective the scale and violence of the explosions seemed decisive. Karpov folded his arms, satisfied that he had smashed their enemy, and that the ship would now be free to sail on, but he was wrong. He was looking at Fedorov, a smile on his face when he caught the young Captain’s eye, and just as he was about to crow they heard yet another explosive salvo fire in the distance. Karpov thought it was a secondary explosion from his missile strike at first, until they heard the dreadful wail of the shells overhead, mostly long this time, though one fell short, no more than a thousand meters off their starboard bow.
“Con — Air radar contact. Multiple readings at one-eight-zero degrees. Range forty kilometers and closing on our position at 200kph. Altitude 15,000.” Rodenko has spotted the squadrons of Albacore II torpedo bombers off the British carriers. There were nine each from 827 and 831 Squadrons off Indomitable, and another twelve with the whole of 832 Squadron off Victorious. A flight of six Sea Harriers from 800 Squadron escorted them in, some thirty-six planes in all.
“Those will be torpedo bombers,” said Fedorov. “They are biplanes like the ones we faced earlier. Helm, come hard left twenty degrees.”
“Aye, sir. Coming left full rudder on a heading of two-six-zero.”
“I can see the carrier task force on radar,” said Rodenko, looking at Karpov.
“Let’s discourage any further air strikes. Give me one Moskit-II, Mister Samsonov. Put it in the center of that task force.” He knew there were three carriers south of him, but did not want to commit three missiles. Perhaps if he lit a fire on one carrier the others might relent, or scramble to recover her aircraft, which would disrupt further offensive operations. It was thinking that failed to consider the measure and mettle of his opponent, but he soon turned his attention to the Klinok SAM system, ordering both forward and aft silos activated to deal with the incoming tide of planes. The 152mm batteries stopped firing, and he clutched his field glasses, seeing the two smaller British destroyers that had been rushing at them both burning and nearly swamped. Ashanti was listing to port, and Tartar was a burning wreck. But he was soon surprised to see four more ships on his port side. The British had released the hounds.
They want to make a coordinated air/sea torpedo attack, he knew at once. Four destroyers and thirty six planes! He rushed to Samsonov, noting the inventory readouts on his missile panel. The missile he had ordered against the carriers fired and surged away to the south, and the readout on his Moskit-II inventory now reduced to nine missiles available. He also had eight more of the slower P-900 cruise missiles and nine more MOS-III Starfire missiles, blistering fast, yet with slightly smaller warheads. Kirov had just twenty-six ship killers left. He had put three missiles into each of the British battleships and still he saw their guns booming in the distance, the range still agonizingly close for a ship accustomed to firing at adversaries up to a hundred kilometers or more away.
“Fedorov! What is the range of the torpedoes on these ships and planes?”
“A maximum range of about 11,000 meters, but they will probably try to fire much closer. Remember the torpedoes will not track us. They run true as aimed. The destroyers may fire at long range just to harass us, but I don’t think the planes will fire much beyond three or four thousand meters.”
That was welcome news to Karpov. His Klinok’s would deal fiery hell to this air strike, and now he ordered all three 152mm batteries to engage the destroyers.
Some 15,000 meters to the south, on came the British hound dogs. Lookout was leading the way, Lightning just a five hundred meters off her starboard quarter. Behind them came Intrepid and Matchless. As Karpov stared at them he had bad memories of those final hectic moments on the bridge when the American Desron 7 had come charging in while he struggled to fire that devastating MOS-III missile with its powerful nuclear warhead. With a flash he remembered how he had ordered Martinov to also mount a warhead on the number ten cruise missile as well! Was it still there, he wondered, or had the missile crews replaced it with a conventional warhead? That did not matter. He had no missile key around his neck, and he was not the same man now. Those frantic memories seemed to come to him from another life, but the heat of battle was on him, and his adrenaline rushed. They had been engaged for over thirty minutes now, much more time than he thought it would take to stop the British battle force. He had wanted this fight, and the British were giving it to him.
“Aircraft descending rapidly,” said Rodenko. “They are dropping down low and dispersing on a wide front.”
The crack of Kirov’s deck guns shuddered in the air, a sharp head-pounding staccato. Fedorov again maneuvered the ship, even as the distant battleships blasted yet another salvo. How could
