John Schettler - Kirov

“Mister Samsonov, disable that ship with the forward cannon. Six rounds, no more. I want to give their captain second thoughts about his mad little rush. He should know we are prepared to defend ourselves. Fire!”

Kirov 's forward turrets were fully automated. No crew fed shells to the breech of the guns, and the 100mm cannon at the nose of the ship could fire all of eighty rounds per minute if put on full automatic, though that was rarely attempted. Samsonov engaged the target with two short three round bursts, and seconds later the forward section of the destroyer was awash with sea spray from three near misses. The second burst struck the ship, one exploding on the lightly armored forward gun turret, others blasting into the deck and prow.

“A hit!” said Karpov, obviously relieved.

Samsonov looked over his shoulder. “I have a laser lock now, sir, the next salvo will all be on target.”

“Just a moment, Mister Samsonov,” the Admiral held up his hand, waiting.

Captain Hodges on HMS Anthony had found out all he needed to know about the vessel looming on his forward arc. He fired a warning shot across the bow of the oncoming ship, heard its surprising order for him to turn about, and then it had returned fire with a lethal reprisal. His ship was struck by a small caliber weapon from the looks of the damage, but his forward battery was out of action now, a small fire burning there. He might have pressed on, but what he saw in his field glasses convinced him he was putting his ship at grave risk.

“Hard about!” He shouted. “All ahead full! Make smoke! There’s no way we can tangle with the likes of that.”

He could clearly see that the ship was easily three times his size, a massive, threatening shadow on the seas ahead. Good god, he thought, it must be the Tirpitz. Admiralty had it all wrong, and the Germans have slipped another battleship out to sea to raise hell again. He clearly remembered that gray morning on 23 May when his ship steamed as part of the destroyer escort for Hood and Prince of Wales as they sortied out to look for the Bismarck. A day later, Anthony had been detached to Iceland to refuel, and it was there that she got the news that the mighty Hood had been sunk, blown up, all hands but three scuppered into the sea. Admiral Holland had gone down with her, and the shock resonated throughout the whole of the Royal Navy.

The next day he had sortied out again to join the Prince of Wales, aghast to see Britain's newest battleship bruised and wounded as well. Lord almighty, he thought, not another one. It's Tirpitz! He gave a brusque order to his radioman at once. “Signal Adventure, put it in the clear, large German raider now bearing on our position. Possibly Tirpitz or Hipper class cruiser.”

When Captain Grace got the message aboard Adventure he could scarcely believe what he was hearing. There have been no mention of the dread German battleship in any briefing he had attended prior to this mission. The Royal Navy had been preoccupied with clearing possible convoy routes from Iceland up to the Kola Peninsula, and this mission was just another sweep up north to take a poke at the Germans and deliver a few mines.

Tirpitz was supposed to be sleeping comfortably at Kiel, laid up for repairs. If she was out to sea, then the entire complexion of the campaign would change in a heartbeat. He knew the Royal Navy would stop at nothing until the German ship was put into a watery grave with her sister ship Bismarck. And here he was, standing on the front line of that possible action, first to see her and sound the alarm. He didn't have the guns to contest her, the radar to shadow her, nor the speed, and considering that, he had no intention whatsoever of attempting to do so. His only thought now was of saving his small task force from certain destruction. With all these mines aboard, he was a floating ammo dump, and if the enemy ship gave chase he could not outrun her.

“Damn the shore party,” he said. “Haul that anchor up now and go full ahead! Come round to course zero-six-five and signal Anthony to withdraw and match that heading. We are outgunned here, and I'll be damned if we’re going into the sea like Holland and Hood.” He crossed his fingers and whispered a silent prayer. If it was Tirpitz, she could make thirty knots. She could run him down and blow him to hell in a heartbeat.

To his radioman he said: “Code a message to Admiral Wake-Walker on Victorious. Sighted a large enemy surface ship, presumed Tirpitz, or Hipper class cruiser. Withdrawing to join main body at once.”

“That put the fear of the devil into them,” said Karpov, smiling. “He saw the oncoming ship suddenly lurch about, making smoke, clearly wanting no further part of the engagement with Kirov.

Discretion was the better part of valor, thought Admiral Volsky, at least this time. “Mister Fedorov, do you have a clear identification on the other ship?” he said into the intercom.

“The smoke is obscuring the action now, sir, but I have good video footage and we can enhance it with the computer.”

“Mister Karpov-is that a type 42 or 45 British destroyer?”

Karpov just looked at him.

“Very well, helmsman, come about on the port quarter, new heading of two-four-five.”

“Coming about to two-four-five, sir.”

The destroyer’s aft turret also fired as it sped away, the shells landing well wide and short of the mark again, and the Admiral did not return fire this time. Another nation, in a far distant time and place, had just joined the greatest conflict the world had ever seen, he thought. It seems we’ve chosen sides after all, and the British won’t like it one bit, will they. But my god, my god, what was happening? Kirov was lost, miles and long years from everyone and everything the crew had ever called home.

And now she was at war.

Kirov sailed east where they loitered for some time to sort through the data and reach a conclusion. They were huddled around the video monitor in the officers wardroom for another closed-door meeting to review the tape, and this time there could be no possibility that NATO could have spoofed their cameras. Fedorov was zooming in and pointing out features of the ships he had observed, and flipping through pages of his copy of Jane’s Fighting Ships to show them similar images.

Captain Karpov could hardly believe his eyes, but it was clear to even him that these were the same ships, old ships that should have been busted up in the scrap yards years ago. He had a good look at the one they fired on, and it was not a Type 45 modern British destroyer, which would have been more than twice its size. At first he thought it might have been an older Type 42, but the distinctive forward radar dome was entirely missing, and when Fedorov enhanced his video he could clearly see this was an antiquated old tin-can destroyer from an earlier era. Yet it was flying the Royal Navy ensign from its top mast as it bravely charged at them. The destroyer even had the correct number on her bow, number 40 identifying the ship as HMS Anthony, and he had seen it with his own eyes. Then, as it wisely turned behind a smoke screen to run, Karpov’s mind wheeled about in its wake, amazed, astounded, yet convinced at last that he was now sailing in another world.

There is something deep in the psyche of the Russian soul that believes that fate has the power to unhinge any reality and make a shambles of the mighty. Russia had seen the long dynasties of the Tsar crumble, the upheaval of a modern revolution, the invasion and fire of war from the time of Napoleon to Hitler. Though she emerged from World War II as one of the most powerful nations on earth, the Iron Curtain crumbled and the Soviet Union fell into decline as well. There was no government, no nation, that could escape the capricious machinations of fate, or so it seemed from a Russian’s point of view. And clearly this now applied to the ship itself. Fate had brought Kirov to a new place, though it was an old time in an old world that had been little more than a sad chapter in the history books for all of these men.