Kirov III: Pacific Storm k-3

by John A. Schettler

  Osborne was looking at the image closely now. “Good size ship,” he said in a low voice. “Not much in the way of big guns.”

  “Well this tale becomes quite a riddle, Ozzie,” said Novak. “This ship isn’t British, but apparently no one bothered to tell the Japanese that. They’ve been after the damn thing hammer and tongs ever since they spotted it. Those are Jap torpedo planes in those photos. It seems the ship ran afoul of their operation against Darwin. Coast watchers have had the show of a lifetime up there. They say the Japs hit this thing with every plane they had. One report says he counted over sixty planes attacking this ship, and there was a hell of a lot of fireworks.”

  “I see…” Osborne kept staring at the photo. “Did they sink it?”

  “They hit the damn thing, but it slipped away. So the Japs went after it with their screening force for the Darwin operation. Coastwatchers reported a surface action too. Japs have a fast battleship and several cruisers out after this ship, and it’s running for the Torres Strait, should be there tonight and into the Coral Sea if it managed to survive. Radio intercepts have picked up a name that seems to repeat every time they reference this ship, so we think it’s a convenient handle, or code word they’re using for it: Mizuchi.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Sea dragon.” Novak smiled, the reference to the submarine by that same name that had brought them all here obvious and glaring.

  “Sea dragon?” Osborne allowed himself a smile, then looked closely at the photo again. “Well it’s not a British ship.” Osborne finally realized the importance of that simple fact. “It’s certainly doesn’t belong to the U.S. Navy either, that much I can tell you from this photo alone.”

  “I followed up on that one too,” said Novak. “You’re correct. And the Dutch haven’t got anything in the area either, in fact they haven’t got anything that big at all. It’s every bit a battleship from the looks of it.”

  Osborne raised his eyebrows. Every so often the tedious routine of radio intercepts and decoding actually morphed into something really interesting. But this was more than that. It had an air of downright mystery about it, and a thrum of excitement stirred in him as he looked at the photo. Then he recalled something he had gotten wind of through channels…something about a ship that had given the British fits just days ago in the Med.

  “Say Novak…” he was reaching to recall the information. “I heard talk about a ship in the Med that raised quite a ruckus last week. It seems everyone and their mother was after it. Italians tangled with it up near Bonifacio Strait, and then it ran west for Gibraltar.”

  “Yes I caught that rumor too,” said Novak. “It had to be something out of Toulon. A French ship, more than likely.”

  No, thought Osborne. It wasn’t a French ship, though he kept that to himself for the moment, not sure of what Novak may have known. There was much more to that incident than they first thought. Yes, official word was that a disaffected French battlecruiser had made a run out of Toulon as Novak suspected, and it eventually surrendered to the British at Gibraltar for internment at St. Helena. But Osborne had heard a few other things about it, that Bletchley Park had been very wrapped up in the matter…that the British Admiralty was throwing a thick, black overcoat over the whole incident…that someone was supposedly en route to FRUMEL HQ at that very moment to brief them on the matter. The Brits were apparently willing to share a few secrets with their friends after all.

  “Mizuchi,” said Osborne. “Japs are out after a sea dragon, eh?”

  “Yes, and mad as hell about it from the sound of the radio traffic.” Novak scratched his head. “I decrypted some traffic this morning in that batch we sent over to Halsey. The operation against Guadalcanal must have caught Yamamoto flat footed. They’ve had to improvise on their planned attack against Espiritu Santo.”

  “You mean they’ve re-targeted the whole thing at Vandegrift’s 1st Marines on Guadalcanal.”

  “Exactly. But I caught one odd order in the mix—a small detachment, light carrier and a few cruisers and destroyers. They sent it north from their Western task force.”

  “North? What for?”

  “Take a look at that photo again, Ozzie. North to the Torres Strait, eh? They want a bite of this sea dragon too. ”

  “I’ll be damned,” Osborne breathed.

  Then the phone rang and the lives of Novak and Osborne were about to get much more interesting that morning. Mystery was not half a word for it.

  ~ ~ ~

  Kirov raced east for the Torres Strait, and behind her, chastened but undeterred, the enemy task force kept doggedly on their heels. The senior officers traded shifts on the bridge, each snatching an hour or two for some much needed sleep. Fedorov ran the ship at thirty-two knots for three hours, and managed to extend their lead by another twelve miles to just over twenty-seven nautical miles, or about 55,000 yards. Then, as they approached the reef infested waters of the strait, he was forced to slow the ship to twenty knots. If the enemy kept on at the twenty-eight knots they had been making, they would get into firing range again in an hour and forty-five minutes.

  The Torres Strait was a very hazardous body of water, and shipwrecks littered the seafloor there as silent testimony to the dangers hidden beneath the aquamarine sea. In centuries past, the local natives on the islands in the strait had a nasty habit of massacring stranded sailors, so the place had a dark and well justified reputation as being perilous. It was, in fact, one of the most dangerous stretches of water in the world. With strong tidal currents and a five-meter tidal range on the eastern side, navigation was a slow, careful affair, and Fedorov knew he would soon have to reduce to ten knots or less.

  “These waters are very shallow,” said Fedorov. “No more than thirteen meters and our draft is just over nine meters. Ahead one third and I want sonar active for the next hour Mister Tasarov, lookouts to port and starboard, please. There are no pilotage channels designated here for us, as in our day.”

  “Aye, sir,” said Tasarov. “Going to active sonar now.”

  “I’m taking us through the Prince of Wales Channel, just north of Hammond Island. It’s only 800 meters wide at its narrowest point. And has strong tidal surges. I’ve spent the last half hour working out our tidal window for a draught of nine meters, and we won’t have much water beneath us when we transit.”

  “My radar propagation is also being affected by this sea mist,” said Rodenko. “But I’ll still have decent returns on any aircraft.”

  They knew this would be a perfect place for enemy aircraft to make a strike, but thankfully, the scope seemed clear of air contact for the moment. They navigated the narrow channel without incident at ten knots, then Fedorov steered the ship for the North East Channel towards Bramble Cay to enter the Coral Sea through Bligh Entrance. The passage was slow going, past many hidden shoals and submerged reefs and rocky outcrops, and the time ticked away.

  Soon they could clearly see the pursuing enemy ships on HD video fed by the aft Tin Man, and when the range had closed to under 28,000 meters again, they heard a distant boom of thunder and then the whine of incoming shells.

  “Damn annoying,” said Karpov when the first two rounds fell off their aft quarter, short by at least a thousand meters.

  “We’ll have to maintain this slow speed for some time yet,” said Fedorov. They were approaching Burke Islets, with the Warrior Reefs off their port side. “Once we get past York Island ahead I can probably increase to fifteen knots up to Bligh Entrance.”

  A second salvo of two rounds came in, this time corrected nicely, and 500 meters closer. The blue dye was evident now in the tall waterspouts.

  “This is getting dangerous,” said Karpov. “Mister Samsonov, ready on the P-900 system.” He looked at Fedorov. “With your permission, sir.”

  “Granted,” said Fedorov. The sight of those tall geysers was enough for him to realize that they had to hit this enemy battleship harder.

  “Very well,” Karpov stood taller, his arms loc
ked behind his back, eyes on the overhead HD video. “Two missiles, Mister Samsonov, and I want them on the superstructure, please. Use your laser rangefinders and HD video for in-flight targeting.”

  “Aye, sir. Missiles seven and six ready in silos and firing at five second intervals.”

  “Fire.”

  The sound of the warning claxon was loud on the forward deck, and Karpov turned to watch the hatch flip open. The missile ejected, declining and igniting its engine flawlessly. Seconds later it was followed by the second missile. They had put one 450kg warhead on the target earlier with a Moskit-II; this time Karpov would hit them with two 400kg warheads on the cruise missiles. Samsonov was now using an HD video display, and designating his target with a light pen on the image itself. In effect, he was using his own eyes to fly the missile to the point he wanted, the tall pagoda main mast of the ship making for an inviting target.

  They saw the enemy fire a third time just before the first cruise missile hit home, striking low on the pagoda with a distant roar. Seconds later the second missile hit higher, right into the heart of the tower, and the ship was soon masked in flame and smoke.

  ~ ~ ~

  Executive officer Koro Ono saw the missiles first, gaping at their fiery tails and thin vapor trails. “Enemy fire!” he shouted, and Captain Iwabuchi instinctively braced himself near the binnacle. The slower approach of the P-900s was spellbinding, and then they began a wild evasive dance, low over the sea, and every man on the bridge stared out the forward viewports, one junior officer shirking just as the first missile came driving in at the base of the tower. There was a shuddering explosion, two men thrown from their feet, then the second missile struck even higher on the tower, just below the bridge itself.

  Ono was thrown back as the windows shattered and a violent spray of broken glass and shrapnel flew in. Iwabuchi clutched the binnacle, managing to stay on his feet, but three other men were down, and Tokono Horishi, Ikeda’s second officer for the light gunnery detail, was also wounded.

  Ono lay stunned on the deck as black smoke billowed in through the broken windows. The men were coughing, shielding their eyes, and groping for bulkheads to steady themselves. Through it all Iwabuchi stood stalwart, a light of fire and anger in his eyes, a streak of blood on his cheek where glass had cut him. He screamed out the order to fire, but the forward guns did not answer. The first round had struck the number two turret, and it was put out of action, the concussion enough to stun the men inside, their ears bleeding from the shock. Even for a slow missile, the P-900 packed a hard wallop. Designated the P-900 Kalibr-NK missile by the Russians, it was called the SS-N-27 “Sizzler” by NATO when it was first introduced in 2012. It weighed over 1700 kilograms, adding a strong kinetic attack in addition to the 400kg explosive warhead.

  Kirishima was shaken and hurt, with fires below the bridge and around number two turret, but she was in no danger of sinking. Enraged that he could not return fire with his forward guns, Iwabuchi gave the helm an order to turn north so he could bring his two aft turrets into action. He had not yet come to the Torres Strait itself, so there was plenty of sea room for him to maneuver. But by the time he had effected the turn, and the fire control parties had lessened the thick black smoke shrouding the ship, Mizuchi has slipped north as well, out of the narrow channel and into more open waters beyond.

  Koro Ono was back on his feet, clutching a bleeding right arm where he had been grazed with shrapnel. “Sir,” he said. “Those rockets must be piloted. It is the only way they could dance over the sea like that and then turn to hit us so accurately! The channel ahead is too narrow to fight here. We will have to slow to ten knots or less to navigate the strait. If they send more…”

  “Don’t bother me with navigation,” Iwabuchi batted the remark away. “Koshino! Are the aft batteries ready to fire? What is taking so long?”

  “The smoke has made it difficult to plot the range, sir.”

  “Fire anyway. Fire both turrets at once! Then do your spotting, you fool!”

  “Aye sir.” Koshino rushed to a voice tube and gave the order to fire, the aft turrets answering soon after with a mighty roar.

  Iwabuchi smiled when he heard the guns, and his eyes found Ono’s. “We must let them know they have not hurt us,” he said darkly. “You say the British must be piloting those demon rockets? Yes, it seems so, though I find it hard to believe. Where are Hara’s planes now? Let his pilots show the same bravery and smash this ship. This is a perfect time to strike from the air while they are at reduced speed in these restricted waters.”

  Ono blinked away the smoke, coughing. “Hara’s planes are mostly at the bottom of the sea, sir, as we may be if you do not proceed with more caution here. I remind you that we must sail these same waters if we are to continue this chase.”

  Iwabuchi turned on the man, a rage in his eyes, but he said nothing. His body language was enough.

  ~ ~ ~

  “That hurt them,” said Karpov. “Those fires will make it very difficult for their gunnery officers.”

  They watched yet another salvo, this time four shells, but it was very wide, the rounds falling well beyond the Warrior Reefs to their port side.

  “I have an idea,” said Fedorov. “Do we have any mines in the magazine, Captain?”

  Karpov’s eyes lit up at the suggestion. “We may have some MDM-7s. Good Idea, Fedorov! I must be slipping. I should have thought of it myself. Let me call down to Martinov and I will see about it.”

  The MDM-7 was a ship launched mine that could be dropped in their wake, activating two minutes later to give the ship time to avoid its own weapon. It could be rigged to explode by contact, or by acoustic trigger, which was a preferred method, and the large 1500kg warhead was a powerful explosion that could cause severe damage if it detonated anywhere near a ship. In the narrow channel, they could prove a perfect weapon against the pursuing enemy ships.

  Martinov called back minutes later. They had ten MDM-7 mines and six older MDM-3s, which were an air dropped version. “Let’s lay some eggs,” said Fedorov. “I want the KA-40 up at once, and have them lay all six MDM-3s in the Prince Of Wales Channel. We can also drop five or six MDM-7s around these islets as well.” It was a perfect defensive strategy, and it would mean they would not have to use any more missiles if the enemy ships chose this same route.

  “Once we reach the Bligh Entrance ahead we’ll be turning south to take the Outer Channel past the Portlock Reefs to Pandora Passage. We’ll drop the last of the MDM-7s there. It’s the last narrows before we get out into the Coral Sea.”

  “Pandora’s Passage,” said Karpov. “What are we sailing into there, I wonder?” The ancient warning concerning ‘Pandora’s Box’ was in his mind, the jar that contained all the evils of the world.

  “That jar was opened long ago,” said Fedorov. “Just look at this war we’ve been sailing through these last weeks. We crossed the whole of the world and still it finds us. But there was one thing left at the bottom of the jar after Pandora opened it,” he smiled at Karpov now. “Elpis, the Spirit of Hope. We will have to hold fast to that once we Get into the Coral Sea. Work out the mining operations, Mister Karpov. I’ll have to keep my eyes on these navigation charts for the next forty minutes to an hour.”

  Chapter 18

  Pandora had yet one other thing in the bottom of her jar, the Japanese Kaichu Type submarine Ro-33. She was a double hulled sub, K-5 class and she packed a dangerous sting with four forward torpedo tubes firing the deadly Type 95 torpedo, the submarine variant of the dread ‘Long Lance.’ Ro-33 was a prototype model, 960 tons, with a large planned rollout, but only two boats were ever built in the K-5 series, the Ro-33 and her sister Ro-34, though there were twenty K class boats in all, mostly designated the K-6 variant. The sub could make nearly twenty knots with her two diesel engines on the surface, and 8 knots when submerged on two 1200 horsepower electric motors. Only one of the twenty would survive the war.

  Her number was the same as the year of construction
at the Kure naval yard when she was laid down on August 8, 1933. Seven different men commanded the sub in her early pre-war years, and she was eventually designated the flagship of SubDiv 21 in May of 1941.

  To date number 33 had had little luck in the war. She had been involved in patrols supporting the Malay campaign, and in the Java Sea earlier that year. Out in the Indian Ocean she took a shot at the destroyer USS Whipple when she came up on it involved in a rescue mission for a damaged oiler Pecos, but the nimble destroyer evaded her lance. Some months later she was instrumental in scouting out the Russell and Deboyne Islands for anchorages prior to Operation MO and the successful seizure of Port Moresby.

  Lt. Commander Shigeyuki Kuriyama took over the boat after that operation and on August 6 he was out on the fourth war patrol for Ro-33 when he happened across the Australian merchant ship Mamutu off Murray Island. The shallow waters and reefs in the area prompted her to surface and start a merry chase, using her 3 inch deck gun to hunt down the hapless 300 ton motor vessel, and she immediately scored two hits, one silencing the radio room and the second killing the ship’s Master. A half hour later Mamutu was listing in the water, easy prey, with many of her 108 passengers already in the sea. Kuriyama was merciless, ordering his boat to sail past the burning ship and machine gun the survivors, killing many passengers as he went by. It was the only notch in the sub’s belt after four long patrols, and the crew was eager to put their torpedoes to better use.

  They got their chance in the early evening of August 26th, 1942 while they were hovering just off Pandora’s Passage. A coded message bearing the name Mizuchi had come in three hours earlier, and it ordered the boat to leave off its defensive patrol near Port Moresby and make haste for the Torres Strait. A big enemy ship was running the gauntlet of reefs and shoals there, and attempting to break out into the Coral Sea. Ro-33 was to assume a blocking position and wait for the beast, and she was in position well before the looming silhouette of Kirov was sighted by her commander, his eyes alight with the first opportunity to fire on an enemy warship in nearly six months.