John Schettler - Kirov II - Cauldron of Fire

Orlovheard the warning claxon and call to arms. He had been sulking in the ready area for the ship’s commando unit, brooding over his fate and galled by the notion that he was now a common lieutenant again. Volsky had come to him the previous day and explained what he had decided, busting him three pegs and stripping him of his rank as Captain. At the same time he asked him to redeem himself and make the best of the new assignment. It was obvious to him that he could no longer maintain his post as Chief of Operations. Now everything he had worked for, and all the bruising and sweat of his climb up the ladder of command these last five years, was gone. At least he wasn’t a ranker, he thought. It could have been worse.

Karpov, he thought. I should have never listened to that weasel. What was I thinking? He was afraid to do what he wanted on his own, and so he thought he would find a strong ally in me. Yet I was a fool to think we could take the ship—no—an idiot! Yes, Severomorsk is gone and power is now anyone’s for the taking, but the collective of the ship, the ranks of officers and crew remained intact. I knew the men would follow Volsky. What was wrong with me? And Karpov, that bastard set me up with his sly arguments and clever reasons, and I was duped like a schoolboy…If I ever get my hands on that rat again—

The warning claxon cut his reverie short and he was immediately on his feet. Men reacted by reflex, and it was Orlov’s to look about him for anyone not moving to his post and lash them with the whip of his authority. Yet now he was the one without a post. He had been escorted to Troyak’s unit under guard, and released to his supervision. These were not the same ordinary crewmen he was so accustomed to bullying and cajoling with his brawn and bad attitude. They were highly trained combat veterans—Naval Marines, and Troyak was one of the best in the fleet. In fact, it was only because Karpov had indicated Troyak was going to support him that Orlov allowed himself to fall under the Captain’s spell.

He stood there dumbly for a moment, watching men race to the weapon’s bay to fetch their rifles and helmets, yet he had not been integrated into the unit yet, and had no locker of his own. Then he heard the word fire , heard the men running on the decks above, and he instinctively rushed to a ladder to get topside. When he emerged on the aft deck he was stunned to see it embroiled in a major fire. Three men were struggling to deploy a fire hose and he turned to see five more running to the scene and immediately took charge.

“You men—follow me!” he shouted, and seeing Orlov the men responded at once, in spite of their surprise that he would even be at large after what they had heard in the rumors that passed through the ship: that Orlov had tried to take command with Karpov and was now in the brig.

The former Chief of the boat was still acting like one, whether or not he held the rank. He ran towards the KA-40 helo, seeing the fire enveloping the nose of the craft, and immediately ascertained that it could not be saved. And when the fire reached the fuel tanks behind the main cabin there would be another explosion, and even more fire and damage could result. They had to get the helo off the ship!

“Come on!” he shouted. “Unlatch the securing cables!”

He was on his knees, feverishly working to loosen the nearest cable that held the helo in place on the landing pad. Other men rushed to assist, and Orlov knew they had to be quick. Already the heat and smoke were terrible, but one man had a pair of heavy duty cable cutters and, after releasing the two cables they could reach, Orlov seized the tool, dove beneath the Helo, and strained to extend the biting jaws of the cutter to sever the last cable. Smoke nearly blinded him and the heat was awful, singeing his exposed, gloveless hands as he strained with all his might, shouting with the pain. Thankfully the tool had a hydraulic assist and the jaws clamped tight with a vicious snap. The last cable had been cut.

Orlov pushed himself back from under the helo, realizing the whole thing could explode at any moment. He staggered to his feet, rubbing his eyes and coughing. “Push!” he bellowed, his voice gritty and hoarse.

Five men ran to help, then seven. They took hold of the chopper wherever they could and together they strained with all their might, joined by five others, to heave the aircraft off its landing pad in one mighty lurch. It scudded across the deck on its wheels, aided by a timely roll of the ship which tilted sharply over. It was this extra momentum that allowed the men to keep the helo moving until it crashed violently against the aft starboard gunwale with a hard thud, nearly lurching off the side, but perched now with one stubby wing grinding on the handrails.

Orlov had his big shoulder under the aft tail section, shouting. “Heave! Lift it and push for your lives! Tip it over the side!” The crewmen strained and exerted themselves mightily, slowly lifting the helicopter’s tail end with their combined muscle and increasing the angle of its precarious tilt. The main cabin was now fully afire, and flames were licking at one of the overhead engines. They managed to move the helo again with one concerted shove and it finally tipped over the gunwale and reeled down into the sea. Seconds later there was another booming explosion when the engine fuel hose was licked by fire on the way down and ignited one of the fuel tanks. They staggered back from the gunwale and Orlov felt something graze his cheek, a fragment of shrapnel from the immolated helicopter. The ship shuddered again with the explosion, and several men were thrown off their feet to the deck, but their effort had saved Kirov from even worse damage if the helo had exploded on the landing pad.

Orlov was bent over, retching the smoke from his throat, his hands burned, face bleeding. He turned, a look of agonizing pain on his face, that soon gave way to an expression of relief. They had all come within seconds of losing their lives, but what in God’s name was happening? What was the ship firing at?

Melville-Jacksonsoon knew the answer to that question. A little over an hour ago a flight briefing aide had rushed into his squadron ready room at Takali airfield on Malta and he was informed that a Maryland of 69 Recon Squadron had re-acquired what they believed to be an Italian cruiser. It was heading northwest this time, away from the planned convoy route, but Jackson’s 248 Squadron was immediately activated with orders to fly a strike mission nonetheless. They were to intercept the contact, verify its identity and take hostile action if they deemed it an enemy ship. Word had come that elements of several Italian cruiser divisions had left their Mediterranean bases, and this ship was obviously part of that operation.

Six Beaufighters were soon aloft and heading northwest in a tight formation through the Sicilian Narrows as before. This time there were four Mark Is carrying torpedoes, and two newer Mark VI planes with the latest radar sets. Jackson was in one of these, and serving as acting flight leader.

They sped north, slowly closing the distance to the target. The plan was to split into two sub-flights and converge on the contact from two angles. Stanton would lead a group of three Mark I Beaus with torpedoes off the starboard side of the ship, and Jackson would take the last Mark I and the second Mark VI to attack the port side. The two sub-flight leaders signaled to one another, tightened their face masks and banked their planes away from one another, their mates following as planned. The flight split into two groups just as Kirov began to spin up her SAM barrage and fired.