Three Kings

“Wherever we find this ship under threat, Mister Fedorov. We obviously cannot maneuver while we’re in this narrow channel, and I will take no chances that one of those planes gets through the British air defenses, in spite of the display a missile firing will make here. Radar will call out the range interval at twenty kilometers.”

That mark was just minutes away, for the contact was a squadron of Italian SM-79 bombers that had been based on the island ofLeros, a little over 500 miles away. The Italians had indeed, gotten word the fleet flagship was arriving, and they thought they would make it a nice fat target. With over 1500 miles range, the planes were attempting to sneak in and make a raid on the canal, possibly warned of this ship’s arrival by prying eyes still lingering in Somalia when the formation entered the Red Sea. It was to be a well timed surprise attack and, in spite of the early warning given by Kirov, the British were slow to respond.

Eventually they heard the distant drone of air raid sirens, and a restless murmur stirred the crowds lining the shore, eyes now searching the skies above for any signs of enemy planes. Three Hurricanes scrambled from the nearby airfield atIsmalia, and climbed into the clear blue skies, heading north. The officers on the bridge of Kirov noted their progress, and had Nikolin relay the exact coordinates of the enemy bomber formation to Admiral Tovey, who in turn passed it in to the R.A.F. Air Defense Officer for the Canal Zone. It was a most unusual message, as the thought that one could even have information that precise was most unusual, but the British radio officers sent it out to the fighters anyway.

There ensued a brief battle, wherein two of the SM-79s were downed by the fighters, and four others damaged enough to force them to turn back, but the remaining planes continued to press on with uncharacteristic determination. These were the same plane type that Kirov had faced when it found itself cruising in the Tyrrhenian Sea, the Sparrowhawk, an outstanding medium bomber used by Italy throughout the war.

Inside twenty kilometers Volsky pursed his lips, waiting to see if the fighters could turn the enemy planes back, but it appeared that at least nine were going to get through.

“Three fighters seems a fairly thin fighter defense here,” he said to Fedorov. “Mister Samsonov, sound air alert one. Target the enemy formation and fire at ten kilometers.”

“Aye sir, locked on targets.”

The warning claxon for air alert sent the crews in their dress whites in motion, as the missiles would come from the long forward deck where many had assembled. They cleared the area in little time, many now donning bright orange life preservers and blue helmets. Fire parties assembled in the unlikely event the ship might be hit, and a minute later, Samsonov was ready.

The thronging crowds had already begun to dissipate, but now the Lieutenant and Sergeant, and many others who had been shaking their heads at the Russian ship, were stunned to see what looked like an explosion on the forward deck, but it was only the launch and ignition of the first missile. It roared up, a brilliant white streak in the sky that arced up, adjusted heading, and then bored in relentlessly in on the enemy bomber formation.

“What in God’s name?” The Lieutenant looked at the Sergeant.

“A bloody rocket of sorts, sir.”

“Quite so…”

Then there came the bright flash and sound of a distant explosion, and the second and third missiles fired. The astonished reaction of the crowds brought a smile to Volsky’s face.

“I realize we have let the cat out of the bag in this defensive fire, but it could not be helped. Stand ready on close in defense systems in the event any of those planes persist.”

Only two did, for three had been destroyed outright by the Klinok missiles, and three others damaged by shrapnel, turning away in shock and dismay. Had it been an S-400 salvo the damage would have been even more severe, but there were only 25 of those missiles left in Kirov’s magazines, and Volsky did not want to use them unless absolutely necessary.

Of the nine planes that got through the Hurricane defense, only two were bold enough to press their attack home. One dropped its bombs early in a badly aimed attack that served honor but posed no threat to the ships. The plane then banked swiftly away as its bombs missed the target and fell in the desert east of the canal. The pilot wanted nothing more to do with this attack. The last was more determined, and Admiral Volsky ordered the AR-602 system to swat it from the sky three kilometers out with a flash of lethal 30mm fire.