John Schettler - Kirov

From the look of it he was seeing a fairly large ship, obviously a warship, and with a dangerous looking silhouette at that. Undoubtedly this was the vessel he had been told to be on the lookout for. He wanted to get underway immediately, but to possibly buy him some time to recover his landing party he waved down an Ensign and gave an order, his voice edged with just enough disquiet to be noticeable.

“Make to Anthony,” he said. “Tell her to up anchor and steam out to that contact and see what we have. I’ll be underway as soon as possible.” He raised his field glasses again, a look of real concern on his features.

Captain John Michael Hodges received the message with some chagrin aboard the destroyer. “What’s this?” he said. “I’ve got four 4.7 inchers and a lot of gall running out against a ship with the looks of this one.” He, too, had seen the approaching vessel and did not like the look of it one bit. “I’ve a bad feeling about this.”

“Portia in Arduia,” said his Executive officer, repeating the ship’s motto, ‘brave under difficulties.’ And it was soon apparent to the Captain that he would have to be exactly that. He sounded general quarters, got up steam quickly enough, and was off to the races, heading southwest toward an ominous silhouette on the horizon.

~ ~ ~

Aboard Kirov at 09:30 hours they were making their approach to the enemy contact. Rodenko had been tracking the ships on radar from one of the KA-40s while they were north of Jan Mayen. Once they cleared the masking bastion of the island, they recovered the helo and took up long range radar scans from the ship. The mysterious submarine contact had long since vanished, and Tasarov had nothing further to report on his ASW watch. Admiral Volsky was satisfied that threat was reduced now, and was intent on getting a closer look at these two ships. The contact, whatever it was, did not alter its course to intercept Kirov when the Admiral steered west of Jan Mayen. It seemed to be heading for the island itself, which was curious.

Perhaps the men at that makeshift weather station had filed a report, he thought, and the British were sending in the cavalry. It’s a pity Orlov didn’t have the presence of mind to destroy the radio equipment on that island outpost.

He gave the orders to come about in a long graceful turn that eventually saw his ship approaching the southernmost tip of the island from the southwest. They had out run the weather front on the way down and still had good visibility, though the seas were beginning to rise. It was not long until his navigator called down from the maintenance deck on the high mainmast of the ship where he had set up his long-range observation gear.

“It's still difficult to make out at this range, sir, can you get us just a little closer?”

“As you wish, Mister Fedorov.”

The Admiral was cautioned by Rodenko a moment later. “Con, radar contact breaking off and heading in our direction, speed thirty knots.”

“Someone is just as curious about us as we are about them. Please sound action stations, Mister Samsonov.”

“Aye, sir.” Samsonov toggled a switch and the alarm klaxon sounded throughout the ship sending the crew scurrying to battle stations. Kirov was drawing her sword.

Moments passed and the distant contact was small ship that grew larger on the horizon until Fedorov called down from above, a definitive edge to his voice. “Getting a good look at her now, sir. You should be seeing her well on the Tin Man cameras. Definitely two stacks, a small destroyer class vessel, possibly no more than 1300 tons, but she looks a little angry, sir.”

“Like an impudent little dog on a leash,” said the Admiral. “Range to contact, Mister Rodenko?”

“18,300 meters and closing.”

The Admiral thought quickly. In another few minutes that ship would be within its maximum firing range with the weapons Mister Fedorov had described. Kirov herself was making near thirty knots, so the two ships were closing on each other at 60 miles per hour. That gave him just one minute to decide what to do. At that moment Karpov burst through the hatch, his face red with obvious exertion, responding to the alarm for general quarters.

“Welcome, Captain,” said the Admiral. “Good of you to join us. It seems we have a visitor.” He gestured to the flat panel monitors where video feed from the Tin Man optical systems on the forward watch decks clearly displayed the image of a small ship. It was churning its way forward through the choppy seas, a frothing white bow wave visible with the high speed it was making.

“Care to have a look through your field glasses?” said Volsky.

Karpov said nothing, striding to the forward view screens where his field glasses hung from a peg. He threw the strap around his neck and raised the lenses up to have a look. “That ship is getting very close,” he warned.

“Fedorov here,” the navigator's voice came over the intercom again. “I've got good imaging now, sir. There's no question that this is a World War II type A class British destroyer. This one was commissioned over ten years before the war. We can't outrun her Admiral. She's capable of thirty-five knots, so you'll have to decide what to do here, and soon.”

“What is he saying-ten years before the war?” Karpov had an incredulous look on his face. He peered through his field glasses, and caught a glimpse of the ship, catching the number 40 when her bow wave diminished. It looked to be a small corvette-certainly not a modern British destroyer.

Seconds seemed like minutes, yet the Admiral's mind was a whirl. If he fired on the ship, it would surely return fire, and if it persisted he would have to destroy it to protect Kirov from damage, or at least put it out of action. If he waited and the enemy struck first… Karpov looked at him, tense and irritated, and it was clear from his expression that he wanted to engage at once. “Mister Samsonov,” the Admiral said slowly. “Please lock our 100mm forward deck cannon on the oncoming ship.”

“Aye, sir,” said Samsonov. “Gun ready and radar lock established. The signal is good.”

“Helm come about, hard to port, left thirty degrees.”

“My helm is left thirty, sir.”

“You’re going to turn away?” Karpov looked at him. “It’s just an old rust bucket, and you’re going to run from the damn thing?”

“Well I am pleased to see you agree that this is not one of our contemporaries, Mister Karpov. An old rust bucket indeed. No, we are not running. Do you recall we have two 152 millimeter batteries on the aft section of the ship as well? In the event it becomes necessary I want to disable that ship quickly.”

Suddenly there was a distant wink from the interloper, and a puff of smoke. The destroyer had fired its forward deck guns, barking out a warning as it charged boldly forward. Seconds later the shells landed well wide of Kirov, and short by a considerable margin.

“A proverbial shot across the bow,” said the Admiral, knowing that events now were careening down the course that he could scarcely control. The next salvo from this impudent destroyer might find the range at any moment, yet something within him whispered a veiled warning, urging him to turn about and leave the ship as it was. Even if he did so, the other ship was still churning forward with its brave challenge.

“Mister Nikolin. In your very best English, please warn that ship off. Order it to cease fire and turn about, or we will engage.”

“Aye, sir.” Nikolin began his hail, yet the other ship kept its heading, a second round firing and landing just a bit closer to Kirov ’s bow.

Admiral Volsky sighed, realizing he would now be forced to take action, whether he wished to or not. His best option would be to disable the oncoming ship, but his heart was heavy as he gave the order to fire.