John Schettler - Kirov

The planes were now about seventy-five miles from Kirov, their crews straining their necks this way that, eyes scanning the gray sea ahead, thinking to see an enemy ship blazing away at them with its antiaircraft guns. Yet the seas were dark and empty, and the pilots were frantically steering their planes into any covering clouds they could get to, unaware of the fact that this made no difference to their fate whatsoever. Kirov was seeing them with other eyes, it's radars penetrating even the thickest cloud cover to clearly pinpoint their positions on Rodenko's screens.

“Have the contacts changed heading?” asked the Admiral.

“We've shaken them up, sir,” said Rodenko, “but they are still inbound.”

“One more missile, Mister Samsonov,” said the Admiral.”You may finish off that last tube now.”

Samsonov fired, and the last S-300 rocketed away toward the unseen enemy. Minutes later it exploded taking down yet another plane, and the Admiral was pleased to learn this last missile had had the effect desired. Nikolin turned to him, his eyes bright with a smile.

“I believe they're breaking off, sir,” he said. “I can hear them!”

“Confirmed,” said Rodenko. “They are turning. The contact is moving away from the ship now, outbound on a heading of zero-nine-five. They are still within range, sir.”

“That will be all, Mister Samsonov,” said the Admiral. “Secure the S-300 system and await further orders.”

“Finish them off, Admiral,” said Karpov. “Destroy them now, or they may be back to bother us again.”

Volsky looked at him. “Perhaps, but they will be some time trying to discover exactly what has happened to them just now. I do not think they will bother us again today. Helm, increase speed to thirty knots.”

“Speed thirty knots,” the helmsman replied, and Kirov ’ s powerful engines increased rotations and churned the seas with a frothing white wake. As she did so one of the escorting Fulmars had a good look at her with its Type 279 Radar, and tapped out a fix on her position, course and speed.

What in god’s name was out there, thought Wake-Walker? His 828 Squadron had been cut to pieces. It was worse than that. Of the nine planes in that squadron, only one was left. Three more Albacore in his 827 Squadron had also been destroyed. His first thought was that the strike group had lumbered right over the contact without even seeing it, and had been cut to pieces by lethal and accurate antiaircraft fire. But when the report came in from one of the escorting Fulmars that they still had a reading on the target at a range of seventy-five miles, his mind spun off into confusion.

His strike group was badly shaken, clearly demoralized, broken up, and turning for home. It was apparent that they had no idea what they had encountered. Not one had reported seeing any ship, or any enemy aircraft. Several claimed they saw something streaking in at their planes from below until the whole formation was torn apart by one explosion after another. It was as if the Germans had them bore sighted all along, and were picking them off with some lethal new gun system. Yet not even the fearful eighty-eight millimeter dual-purpose gun could fire seventy-five miles!

What was happening? What in the name of heaven was he stalking now on the gray Arctic seas? As soon as he had recovered the strike wave he went down to the flight deck himself to get first-hand reports from the pilots. The men were still shaken, and he sent them off to the briefing room where he later learned that they had seen nothing whatsoever, nothing except the strange sets of white contrails clawing through the sky. It was as if a great dark Panther had reached out with its paw and gored them, swiping his planes out of the air. His aircraft hangers would be twelve planes short now, and there were a lot of empty chairs in the briefing room. He heard the men trying to explain, yet unable to sort it all out.

“We saw them streaks in the sky, sir,” one said. “Then it was as if we flew right into a storm of steel. Explosions and shrapnel everywhere. The formation was nice and tight, sir, and most of the lads up front were gone in seconds. Blew the hell out of the lead planes, it did. I saw two had their wings cracked right off and bang away they went down into the sea. After that we was all diving for cloud cover and looking for the ship. But there was no ship, sir! I was damn near down on the deck after our dive, and there was nothing I could see in any direction. Maybe it was a submarine, I thought. Could the Germans have some type of new U-boat with flak guns mounted up top, sir?”

“And no sign of enemy aircraft?” the Admiral asked his weary, frightened men.

“No sir,” said Stewart-Moore, the 827 Squadron leader. “No sign of enemy aircraft at all. What could they possibly have out that far anyway, sir? We were well beyond the range of German fighters from Norway, and there’s no Me-109 I ever heard of that could chop us up like that in one pass-not ten of them.”

“Could the Germans be using a rocket, sir?” Captain Bovell knew something of the new rockets being used now in artillery divisions of many armies.

“That’s it!” said Langmore, the leader and odd man out surviving the blast that had devastated his 828 Squadron. “Rockets! They looked for all the world like incoming rockets, but they moved like lightning. Came right in on us as if the damn things had eyes. I was well up above the main body when they hit. Just lucky I suppose, or I’d be in the drink along with all the others. It was horrible, sir.”

The Germans must have some awful new weapon, thought Wake-Walker. Bovell was right. There was no question that it wasn’t a plane, and there were no German flak subs that he had ever heard of. Only a rocket made sense as he pieced together the descriptions from the others. Yet they were still seventy five miles from the contact Grenfell’s Fulmar spotted on radar as the planes turned for home. Seventy five miles? What rocket could travel that distance, and strike with such precision? Could the Germans be experimenting with rocket systems aboard one of their cruisers? He resolved to get word off to the Admiralty as soon as possible.

When this intelligence did come in, it created quite a stir. The Admiralty passed it on to Bletchley Park, and asked them to see if they could ferret out anything more on the matter. Then they set their minds to working on exactly what this new weapon could be. Too many cuff stripes around the same question at a table often created what Tovey like to call an “Admiral’s Stew.” When he finally got word of the fate of 828 Squadron off Victorious, he couldn't imagine what the Germans might be up to.

Home Fleet was a day out of Scapa Flow, steaming west and ready to make their turn northwest to come up on the southern outflow of the Denmark Strait into the Atlantic. It was here that Admiral Holland had stood his fateful watch with Hood and Prince of Wales when Bismarck ran through. And it was here that Tovey would take up his patrol as well.

“Bletchley Park says they think the only ship the Germans might have operational at this time would be the Admiral Scheer,” he said to Brind. “Eleven inch guns? That I can deal with. Rockets with the range and accuracy of this nature? Clearly impossible.”

“Somewhat bewildering,” said Brind. “But consider, sir, most of the German fleet is laid up for refit or repair right now. Suppose they're all getting fitted out with this new weapon system?”

“My god, Brind. We would've heard something about it. Yes, we've known the Germans have had an interest in rocketry for years. If these reports are accurate, and this German ship was able to swat down Wake-Walker’s Albacores at a range of seventy-five miles, then this speaks of a highly sophisticated detection system as well. Think of it! The ship would need to spot the incoming squadrons well before they fired. They would have to track them with absolute precision to be able to hit anything at that range. Why, it would be like a sharp shooter knocking a man's hat off at a range of ten miles! How the world could they make advances of this nature without us knowing about it?”