attempt to further spoof the enemy radar. In effect, they were hoping to decoy the German rockets, allowing the torpedo bombers to skim in low and get some hits. Only their agility might allow then to pull that off without severe losses if the rockets were as accurate as they were the first time.
It was a remarkable plan considering all the unknowns in the situation, but was typical of the elasticity, flexibility, and determination of the Royal Navy. Force P had a bone to pick with this phantom German raider, and they intended to get even. The flight deck crews flagged off the last of the fighters and watched as the torpedo planes all dropped low heading away to the southwest, skimming over the crests of the fitful sea. Meanwhile the fighters climbed high and were soon lost in the gray cloud cover, the faces of the pilots set and grim, knowing they could now be flying their last mission.
Aboard Kirov, Admiral Volsky was sleeping in his cabin, getting some well-deserved rest while Captain Karpov stood the watch on the bridge. Rodenko, too, had been relieved by a junior officer, Fedorov had retired for the night, and Orlov was down in the wardroom kibitzing with the Junior officers. Samsonov was still at his post, and would be for another two hours before he was scheduled for relief. Tasarov was gone, as the threat from submarines did not require his particular attention with the ship running at thirty knots. A relief officer manned his post.
First Lieutenant Yazov was leading Rodenko's station with a number of junior starshini at the eight workstations there when he noted something unusual on his screen. “Con, radar contact, airborne, altitude 10,000 feet, speed 240 KPH, now bearing on our position-multiple contacts, sir. I have fifteen separate targets, and they are dispersing.”
Karpov had been dozing quietly in the in the command seat, but was suddenly awake. He leapt off the chair and went to look at the scope himself, hovering over Yazov for a few minutes until he determined that this must be another inbound enemy strike wave. They're trying to slip one in on us, he thought.
“Mister Samsonov, activate air defense systems at once.”
“S-300s, sir?”
Karpov thought for a moment, his mind racing, and he was interrupted once more by the young lieutenant Yazov who now spotted several groups of additional inbound aircraft, flying low and slow, and dispersing in a wide arc as they approached Kirov's position. The Captain had to think quickly.
“Give me the Klinok ADF system.” He was referring to the NATO coded SA-N-92 Gauntlet missile system for air defense firefights. With its electron guided integrated beam radar, each missile was a fire and forget weapon that could acquire and track targets independently. The system was also a multichannel missile defense, capable of tracking several targets simultaneously at all altitudes and speeds, and if one target was destroyed, the missiles had the ability to redirect themselves at the next available target. It's launch and reload intervals were quick enough to respond to any situation, and it had a high immunity to jamming and other electronic countermeasures. The only liability was a shorter range out to about forty-five kilometers at normal altitudes. And of course its overall effectiveness would be limited by its ammunition inventory, in this case 128 missiles in all.
“Sound general quarters, sir?” said Samsonov.
“Not yet,” Karpov smiled. “They'll wake up soon enough. Monitor those contacts closely, Yazov. Notify me at fifty kilometer intervals.”
“Sir, inbound contacts at one-zero-zero, and closing.”
“Shouldn't we notify the Admiral?” said Samsonov, a look of concern on his thick features.
Karpov put a hand on his shoulder pointing at his combat systems. “Keep your nose here, Samsonov. No need to bother Volsky. Let him sleep. You and I will swat this air strike down as easily as we did the last one. It will be over before the Admiral can get his britches on. We will fire in salvos of eight missiles each. Configure your system accordingly. Mister Yazov will feed you your initial targeting data.”
They waited until Yazov reported the leading contacts at fifty kilometers, and Karpov gave Samsonov his orders. “Sound general quarters, and then fire your first salvo immediately, Samsonov.”
“Aye, sir”
The quiet of the ship was broken by the jangling alarm and the sharp, tearing sound of the missile defense battery firing. The Gauntlet system was deployed on the aft deck, just forward of the helicopter landing pad, with four missile bays on either side of the ship. A vertical launch system like the S-300s, the missiles were ejected by catapult before igniting their engines to rapidly climb before leveling off to engage their active radars. By the time Samsonov fired the incoming British pilots and planes were forty kilometers out and ready to run the gauntlet. The next twenty minutes would be the most harrowing moments of their lives.
A couple of Fulmars from 809 Squadron were out in front, and Lieutenant Miller was the first to see the bright flashing lights racing up through the pre-dawn sky. “Look there, Les,” he thumbed as he called out the sighting to his tactical officer, Leslie Barrow. “The Germans have wind of us!”
“See any planes?” Barrow was craning his neck to look for German spotter planes or Me-109s, but saw nothing. By the time he turned his gaze again on the oncoming rockets they were perilously close, bearing in as if they had some magnetic attraction to his plane.
“Oh! Lookout now-” It was the last thing Miller said before a missile exploded very near his plane, its small 15 kilo warhead just enough to deliver a deadly shower of razor sharp shrapnel which tore his wing apart. Another Fulmar was suddenly “lit up” and the remaining planes quickly tipped their wings over and sped off into steep dives in the hopes of evading the rockets. For one pilot, the maneuver worked when the missile targeting his plane was unable to respond quick enough and make the turn to catch him. It simply moved on to another target. For another, transfixed by the oncoming rocket, his only thought was to fire his forward machine guns all out and, amazingly, he scored a hit, knocking the missile down before it could kill him. Another fell into a steep dive, aghast to see a second group of rockets streaking by below his plane, like a school of angry sharks smelling blood in the water as they vectored in on other targets.
Karpov had selected the perfect reprisal for a widely dispersed air attack like this. To the missile system, the high altitude fighters seemed like the primary incoming strike planes, and the low, slow Albacore torpedo bombers were much like sea skimming cruise missiles they might have launched. The missiles could handle either target type with ease. Some lanced up to strike the fighters, others sliced through the darkness until they were on top of the Albacores, then fell upon them, knocking down one plane after another.
827 Squadron off Victorious got hit particularly hard. Bond’s plane was blown apart, the debris vanishing into a swelling wave with a smoky hiss. McKendrick took it in the rightmost wing and went cart wheeling into the angry sea. Turnbull swooped low, banking suddenly to avoid a great wave and managed to fool the first rocket bearing down on him, yet another behind it found his plane and blew off his tail and half the rear fuselage. The shark-like missiles were having a feeding frenzy, and Olsen gaped in amazement, seeing one rocket maneuver sharply in a tight turn to leap after another hapless, lumbering Albacore. Greenslade went down next, then Miles. Only Olsen remained, shaken and stunned by what he had seen when the last of the rockets had finally flashed by. Five of the ten planes in 827 Squadron were gone within minutes. Three others would also die before they ever set eyes on their target.
It was much the same with 817 Squadron off the Furious. Squadron leader Sanderson had his nine Albacores in three groups of three planes each when the rockets came for them. Lee’s plane was an instant fireball, and Gorrie and Train went the same way. The other two flights split up and were frantically skipping over the crests of the waves, so low now that the spay and foam of the sea obscured one pilot’s vision and he plowed right into an oncoming wave. Two planes escaped. Sanderson died when a rocket actually struck a wave and exploded right in front of him, sending a rain of hot shrapnel rattling against his plane, shattering his wind screen and killing him instantly. Another had his top wing blown clean off by the high splinter penetration shrapnel of the missile warhead. He pulled hard on the stick in the hopes of avoiding the sea only to have a second rocket detonate itself right in front of the exposed belly of his plane and sheer it apart as though it had been struck with a thousand whirling razors.
The action could be seen three miles away by the frightened pilots of 812 Squadron. This was the only section of the attack that had not yet been targeted, for 812 was flying in nine of the older Swordfish torpedo bombers. The ‘old Stringbags’ seemed lost in the clutter of the wave tops, their canvass fuselage and wings wet with sea spray, but much more difficult to detect. Yet they watched, horror stricken, as the sky was lit up with the fiery trails of the rockets, their long white contrails just beginning to catch the light of dawn. The pilots all split up, banking and veering through the waves.
