As with the air strike, it was decided that Kirov would open the action, followed by Argos Fire. Then they would observe the enemy’s reaction, take battle damage assessment, and decide how to proceed.
“Well,” Volsky said to Rodenko. “I was laid up in sick bay with Doctor Zolkin when we last faced the Italian Navy. What kind of fight can we expect here, Mister Rodenko?”
“I suppose that depends on the men commanding that fleet,” came the answer. “They didn’t like our missiles, and we’ll again have the advantage of first shock. If we hit them hard enough here, we just might drive this fleet off.”
“That is my hope,” said Volsky. “We have thirty-two SSMs, correct Mister Samsonov?”
“Yes sir, nine Moskit-II, nine MOS-III, and the new missiles we received from Kazan, fourteen P-900s.”
“Then let us begin with a salvo of four P-900s. We’ll hit them and then see how they react. Can we target their capital ships?”
“Radar signal processing is fairly conclusive, sir,” said Rodenko. I can designate capital ship targets with high confidence.”
“Then I see no reason to wait any further. Fire your salvo, Samsonov. The ship will come to full battle stations.”
The man on the other side was also a familiar face in these actions, one Admiral Angelo Iachino, the very same man who had faced the wrath of Kirov off the Bonifacio Strait. When Da Zara’s cruisers had encountered a fast enemy ship in the Tyrrhenian Sea, and come off badly damaged near Calabria, Iachino was urged to sortie with his heavy battleships from La Spezia.
The history was different then. In that world the British attack on Taranto had occurred in November of 1940, and the ships Iachino had at his disposal were those last survivors of that very successful attack. Cavour, Duilio and Littorio had all been damaged in that attack, but it had never happened. Iachino inherited the command of the Main battlefleet from Admiral Campione, who was deemed too cautious in the early encounters with the Royal Navy in 1940. Those battles had been inconclusive, and Iachino was now in command of a force capable of settling the entire issue of the war at sea in the Mediterranean, or so he believed.
“Wait for the Germans, wait for the French.” He shook his head when Admiral Bergamini cautioned him in a meeting they held aboard the battleship Caio Duilio. “I will do no such thing!” We have the entire fleet here, Bergamini, six battleships. The British have only four, and we match them in cruisers and destroyers as well. I’ll have the entire matter settled before the French ever get to the Straits of Messina.”
Iachino had every reason to be confident, but it was a boast he would soon come to regret. He had no conception of what was about to happen to his fleet, and he would soon face an attack that would come completely ‘out of the blue.’ The weather was still behind him, and ahead the skies were open and clear-until the first missiles came. His watch reported something in the sky, a thin white contrail, and he reached for his field glasses, raising them with a brown gloved hand. Iachino was a man in his early 50s, yet grey haired beneath his officer’s cap. He was in the second division, his flag aboard the new battleship Littorio, a ship that had been built to counter the French Dunkerque design.
Where Dunkerque had eight 12.9-inch guns and 225mm armor, Littorio would be built with nine 15-inch guns and 350mm of armor at the belt. Ahead of his ship, in the first battleship division, Admiral Bergamini had placed Conte Cavour in the vanguard, following with his flag on Caio Duilio, and with Andrea Doria rounding out that division. Iachino followed with the newer ships, Littorio, Veneto and Roma. Now Iachino spied the contrails in the blue sky, thinking it must be high flying planes. But he soon saw that they were moving much too fast. What were they?
“Enemy planes!” he shouted, with the only explanation that would rightfully come to his mind. “Fast!”
“Look sir, they are diving!” The watchman pointed, and Iachino could already see the AA guns on the battleships well ahead of him starting to train their barrels skyward. He gave the order for battle stations, the bells sounding as the men rushed to their weapons. “Arrogant,” he said aloud, clearly seeing four contrails now. “These must be fast reconnaissance planes. They think they can get down low and sneak in on us, but don’t they ever look over their shoulder? Those contrails can be seen for fifty miles!”
Then he heard a clamor from the men, raising his field glasses again to see what they were fussing about. The planes were swooping low-so low that it seemed they would crash right into the sea! Then, to his amazement, they began a shifting maneuver, a dizzy dance as they approached his leading battleship division. Some crazy pilots were thinking to make themselves difficult targets today. What were they doing? Were these torpedo bombers to be coming in that low? They were certainly not the lumbering British Swordfish — my god! Their speed!”
