Kirov II: Cauldron of Fire

they have weathered those missile hits? The heavy rounds came wailing in, much closer, and then one fell terribly close off Kirov’s port side, exploding in a violent upheaval of seawater and shaking the ship so hard that he could feel it roll from the force. The concussion was enough to buckle the hull slightly, but it did not break. Yet splinters of metal had showered that side of the ship near the impact, and there were many men down, blood staining their bright yellow life preservers where they manned their posts.

“Come right, twenty degrees hard!” shouted Fedorov, still maneuvering the ship in fast evasive turns. Nelson had found the range on them at long last, but Rodney’s salvo fell well off their port side. That was close he thought. That was oh, so very close. Then he heard Karpov shout the orders to engage the incoming air strike, and Kirov’s decks were soon awash with fuming white smoke as one missile after another popped up from the decks, like wet barracudas, and then went streaking off to the south. This time there were no misfires.

Chapter 30

The four destroyers raced forward, their sharp bows cutting smartly through the calm seas, their commander’s eyes riveted on the distant silhouette of the enemy ship ahead. Lookout made the grievous mistake of trying to illuminate their adversary with its searchlights, and was soon given the primary attention of Kirov’s deck guns. The armor piercing rounds piled into the ship and riddled her with five successive hits and one near miss. She was burning forward and aft, with two of her four 4.7 inch guns now blazing wrecks.

As the other ships fanned out to set up for their torpedo runs their crews could hear the distant drone of the Albacore IIs, right on cue. Then they saw the alarming missile fire from Kirov, gaping at the wild rush of black darts in the sky, driven by fire and steam. The missiles rose and veered in swift jerking motions, like a school of angry fish seeking prey. And they found the lumbering Albacores with little difficulty, blasting one after another from the sky as they descended to make their torpedo runs.

Aboard the destroyer Intrepid, Lieutenant Commander Colin Douglas Maud stood squarely on the bridge, his stout frame and thick black beard making him look for all the world like an old pirate captain of old. All he needed was an eye patch and scarf, but instead he wore a woolen black beret instead of his hat, one hand grasping a long blackthorn walking stick which he tapped on the deck as they made their torpedo run, almost as if to urge his ship on just a little faster.

He had joined the Royal Navy in 1921, with two years on the old Iron Duke before eventually coming to serve with the destroyers. He had killed two U-boats earlier in the war, and was out with several other destroyers in the hunt for the Bismarck, over a year ago. It was his ship, Icarus, that had first come upon the flotsam of HMS Hood’s tragic sinking, ropes rigged on her sides and ready to pull men out of the water, but they found only three souls alive that day.

He had also been out with Tovey’s fleet a year ago, screening Home Fleet as it closed on another fast German raider in the North Atlantic. His was one of two ships that suffered badly when the enemy used rockets to strike the fleet at long range, and Maud’s luck ran out when his destroyer, Icarus, was struck amidships and sunk. Thankfully, he was pulled out of the water and saved, but lost many shipmates, and his beloved bulldog Winnie as well. The loss of his ship was a shock that took some time to get over, but he recovered, steeled himself, and immediately asked Home Fleet for another destroyer. They gave him the Intrepid.

The Malta convoys had been his lot of late, but this was something different, and he growled out commands to the bridge crews, full of pluck and vigor as the ships sped forward. He had seen the rockets that struck the battleships, his mind frozen with the memory of those awful moments in the North Atlantic, the terrible explosion and fire, the bone chilling cold when he went into the sea. Yet this was what a destroyer leader lived for, he thought, not the slogging drudgery of escort duty, nor even the prowling measured hunt for enemy U-boats. It was the mad dash he loved most, even if it meant he might rush again into fire and death. That was the thing that gave its name to these ships—Lighting, Intrepid, and as he urged his men on his heart also burned with the thought that he was now bringing vengeance to the ship that had taken Icarus from him. He would get in close and fire his torpedoes at the monster, or he would die trying.

“Come on, lads,” he shouted at the torpedomen as they worked to get the tubes ready on both sides of his ship. “Get yer backs into it!” He was well lined up on the enemy ship, some 9000 yards out and cruising at his top speed. By god, this ship was fast! It was running over thirty knots and his 36 knot destroyer was laboring to close the range. He would have to come left to lead the ship by a good measure if he was to have any chance of hitting it, and that would make his ship a fine target when he turned.

Above them the black night was being ripped open with blazing fireballs and the hideous streaks of the enemy rockets. As he stared at the enemy ship it seem a seething medusa, with each missile contrail a winding, hissing snake with venomous death in its fangs. Lookout was swamped and on fire, falling off to their stern, Lightning was battered by enemy gunfire, straddled and hit amidships, where one of her torpedoes exploded, breaking the ship near in two, yet Intrepid plowed on. And when the enemy guns began to range on him, the first round blackening the forecastle off the starboard side, he bellowed out the order to fire. He would bloody well get his torpedoes in the water, come what may.

The other three destroyers had been pounded into submission by the incredible rate of deadly accurate fire from the enemy deck guns. They were turning away, some making smoke, others burning so badly that that would have been a needless afterthought. It was Intrepid that still carried the charge forward the only ship that got her fish into the sea.

Captain Maud watched the torpedoes go, looking to see a subflight of three Albacores come right up the wakes of the destroyers, roaring in over the wave tops on his starboard side as they veered to attack. He raised his blackthorn and shook it at his comrades with a hearty cheer. “Go on and get the bastard,” he shouted. “Get your bloody teeth in ‘em, boys!”

It was Tom Wales of 827 Squadron and two of his mates. They had put their planes right on the deck, just feet above the water and came roaring down the wakes of the four destroyers, shielded by the ships until they came under that deadly shell fire.

“Stay down real low, and find any cover you can…” That was what Parsons had told him outside the briefing room.

As Kirov’s shells found their marks on the destroyers, several Klinoks did not see the three Albacores running up behind the destroyers, and they selected other targets at higher elevation. The planes veered at the last minute, emerging from behind the ships and roared on past, like flying fish that had come up from under the sea, their fuselages and wings wet with spray. It was the most daring thing Maud had ever seen, and he continued to wave his blackthorn walking stick high overhead, his deep voice urging the planes on. Then he saw a burst of fire from the dark enemy ahead, and heard a grinding rattle.

Samsonov had seen the planes at the last minute, so close now on his targeting radar, and he immediately activated the ship’s close in defense Gatling guns. There were three guns on each side of the ship, with six rotating barrels and sinister looking housings that looked like looked like soldier’s helmets. The barrels whirled and bright fire burst from the guns, sending a hail of steel toward the oncoming planes. Two were hit, riddled with shells and careening wildly, end over end, as they hit the water, but Tommy Wales pulled hard on his torpedo release and he got his fish in the water. Immediately veering behind the burning mass of Lightning just ahead on his left, he was shielded from the withering fire of the Gatling gun that had targeted his plane.

He would be the only man that would return from 827 squadron that night. The rest had all been taken by the SAMs. Three of nine men survived in 831 Squadron. They had pulled their levers early and then dove for the deck, but their fish were not well aimed and they went wildly astray. 832 Squadron off Victorious lost eight of her twelve planes, and only because Kirov’s missiles had broken up the squadron as it descended and scattered it so badly that the remaining four pilots bugged out. They had never seen anything like the terrible fireworks this ship had