“Con, Radar. Multiple airborne contacts inbound in two groups. Large signal returns east-northeast at 150 miles and closing at 200kph. A second group southeast, range 170 and closing. Recommend Air Alert One.”
Karpov shrugged, looking at Fedorov. “Sleep time is over,” he said. “It looks like we have uninvited guests for breakfast. Air Alert One. Sound battle stations.”
The long night was over. The sound of the alarm was a shrill warning that cut through the warm dawn and sent a chill down Fedorov’s spine in spite of the apparent calm on the seas around them. He looked out the forward view panes, noting the vermillion sky lightening to the east, and suddenly the day had a grim and sallow tinge to it with the realization that men were going to fight and die here soon. How many planes this time? How many men? They had thirty-five SAMs left in the dark silos beneath the forward deck.
Part VIII
SHADOW DANCER
“Shadow is ever besieged, for that is its nature.
Whilst darkness devours, and light steals.
And so one sees shadow ever retreat
to hidden places,
only to return in the wake
of the war between dark and light.”
― Steven Erikson, House of Chains
Chapter 22
Lieutenant Akira Sakamoto was up on the flight deck early, standing in the warm morning mist, breathing deeply. He watched while the flight crews pushed the last of his D3A1s from the elevator, their wings glistening with a light sheen of moisture. The steam rising from the hydraulics beneath the main deck formed subtle wisps and then folded into the mist, a shadow dancer on the thick morning airs.
Too few, he thought. So many planes gone…. So many men. He now had more pilots aboard than aircraft. They had been able to patch up the seven D3A1s that had survived that disastrous first strike mission, and two shotai had been flown in from the reserve at Kendari, six more planes to give him a total of just thirteen dive bombers ready for operations that morning. All the D3A1s had been grouped here on Zuikaku. There were also nine B5N2s being readied, their long sleek torpedoes being checked even now as the first two came off the elevators. An equal number would be making ready for operations aboard Shokaku, cruising sedately off their starboard bow. That would give him eighteen torpedo planes to add to his strike, barely a third of the wave he might normally hope to lead against a naval target.
And this was no ordinary ship. He still shivered with the memory of those deadly rockets arcing into the sky, their fiery tails spitting flame as they came at his planes like piranhas, cutting his squadrons to pieces.
The words he had spoken to his men earlier in the briefing room returned to haunt him. “These rockets flung against Kirishima could not have found the target on their own. Every single one hit home, or so I am told. It is clear that they must be piloted, and so we must not underestimate the bravery of our enemies. I do not have to remind you that it was only the courage of Lieutenant Hayashi that enabled us to find and hit this demon. He did so twice, his life counting for nothing in the face of duty. Let that be a lesson to us all. It may be that we, too, must ride our planes to a flaming end this morning.”
He remembered the look on Lieutenant Ema’s face, another survivor of the first wave, and spoke one last time. “It is for those of us who have already seen this monster to lead the way for the others.” It was clear what he meant, and Sakamoto had every intention to follow in the wake of Hayashi that morning, to another life if need be, and to end the sorrows of this war insofar as his small part was concerned.
The last of EII-3 Torpedo Squadron was up from below and being spotted behind his dive bombers for takeoff. He could feel the carrier turning, noting the wide sweep of her foaming wake cutting through the green seas, and he took a long, deep breath. It was time.
Sakamoto drew out a boson’s whistle from his flight jacket and blew a high, shrill note. The rise and fall of the flight deck leader’s voice called in return and the men were now moving quickly to their planes. He was up and into the cockpit of his D3A1 like a shadow fleeing from the rising sun, and soon he heard the grinding whirr of the engine, firing sharply as the forward prop slowly rotated, then sputtered to life. He fed it power, reassured by the heavy thrum of the engine and the whirl of the glistening propeller. A flagman was already out in front of his plane, slowly walking backward, the white flag in his hand catching a slight morning breeze as the carrier faced the wind.
Seconds later he saw men dash in under his wings and felt the chocks dragged away, he was ready to fly. The flagman waved him forward and his engine revved to high rotation as he readied himself, the adrenaline in his chest sending his heart beating faster. Raijin, God of Thunder, he prayed silently. Give me your lightning this day.
Then the flagman waved him on with a sharp movement rotating and kneeling, one arm extended towards the long forward flight deck, pointing out the way. Sakamoto pushed the throttle to full and felt his plane lurch forward in response. It rumbled down the runway with a roar, until he felt that airy lightness as the wheels ran out of deck and his plane growled to gain altitude. He dipped slightly, his eyes playing over the opalescent green froth at the bow of the ship, and then he was up, climbing into the sky through a bank of low lying clouds, the air sweet in his lungs and a smile on his face.
It was a beautiful dawn, the last morning of his life, and knowing that simple fact brought an elation he could not hold within him. It glistened as a tear, wetting his cheek as he climbed. And then he banked left to look over his shoulder to see Ema’s plane rising in his wake, and a third D3A1 running swiftly along Zuikaku’s deck for takeoff. Beyond that he could see the swan white wings of the A6M2s off Shokaku rising in force to escort the strike planes in.
He would not die alone.
~ ~ ~
As the planes drew ever closer, the men aboard Kirov now had a good look at what they were facing. Admiral Yamamoto’s estimate had been a little off the mark. Hara’s strike was now composed of thirteen D3A1s, eighteen B5N2s and twenty-four A6M2 fighters in escort, fifty-five planes in all. It was reasoned that each fighter along for the mission would present the enemy with yet one more target. Increasing the chances that one of the strike planes would get through.
Rodenko was able to estimate the size of the force at fifty plus planes, already more targets than their remaining SAMs on a one for one basis. To make matters worse, the second airborne group coming up from the south returned another thirty-six discrete contacts. They were now facing over ninety planes against the thirty-five SAMs they had left in the silos.
“God help us this time,” Fedorov whispered under his breath. He looked at Karpov, ready to hand control of the engagement to the able Captain, and for a moment their eyes met, a question in Fedorov’s, a hint of uncertainty in Karpov’s, firming to resolve. It was the first time they had faced an attack without the calm assurance that they could bat it aside. Had their magazines been full, all systems nominal, that would again be the case, but now each one knew they were under real threat, particularly if the Japanese pilots pressed home their attack with the same intensity as before.
Karpov took a deep breath, realizing that the eyes of the bridge crew were on him now, waiting. He stood straighter, clasped his arms behind his back as he often did in combat, and then gave his orders.
“Mister Samsonov,” he said calmly. “We will engage with the S-300 system as before. Range one hundred kilometers; a salvo of six missiles to target each group. I want your firing interval longer, ten seconds.”
“Aye, sir, weapons locked on targets and system ready.”
Rodenko looked over his shoulder, nodding at Karpov to indicate the targets had crossed the range line, his eyes big and white as he did so.
“Commence firing.”
The warning claxon, the snap of the forward deck hatches, the first long sleek missile up from below, the wisp of its aiming jet as it declined the sharp pointed nose before the roar of the engine sent it lancing away f
rom the ship in a wash of pure white vapor… The Second Battle of the Coral Sea had begun.
~ ~ ~
One by one the deadly S-300’s charged forth to meet the enemy, each one accelerating so fast that they soon left the roar of their own engines far behind, and became silent steel javelins in the bright morning sky, reaching impossible speeds in a matter of seconds. A man firing an automatic assault rifle would see his bullets fly off at twice the speed of sound. The missiles were four times faster. To the enemy planes that chanced to see them coming they would seem a blur of lightning coming up at them from some angry sea god unseen on the ocean below. When they exploded, a tight bundle of long steel rods would fragment into a rain of metal, out to a ten meter radius around the point of detonation. Any plane close inside that radius would be torn to shreds, only the heavy engine compartment surviving intact. Targets farther out could be riddled with shrapnel, their wings damaged, fuel tanks ruptured, canopies shattered, pilots run through with lethal wounds.
One missile came, then another and Sakamoto, flying at the top of his strike wave with the squadrons of Rei-sen fighters, could see two planes down from the first rocket, then another, then three more, one killed outright in a violent explosion, and the remaining two B5N2s streaming smoke, but still doggedly holding formation. He shouted an order to his fighter escorts, and the zeros tipped their wings and roared down, right into the thin smoke trails scratched into the sky by the first three rockets. They would surge ahead like a pack of sleek greyhounds, willing now to take the worst of anything more that reached for their brothers behind. Five more died when the next three rockets came, and then a surreal calm settled over the scene as Sakamoto watched the last of the five ride its own smoking tail into the sea. He craned his neck to see what remained of his formation, the brave pilots steady on as they came.
He had lost seven A6M2s in all, three B5N2 torpedo bombers and one dive bomber, eleven planes hit or lost to six enemy rockets. They were birds on a wire. He gave the order to disperse by shotai and then for each group of three planes to fly a wide pattern, well off the wingtips of their brethren.
~ ~ ~
“They are dispersing,” said Rodenko. “The main formation is breaking up. I can now read about forty-five contacts in Group One, twenty-eight in Group Two to the south.”
“One more time, Mister Samsonov, salvo of six per group. Ten second intervals.”
“Samsonov paused briefly as his light pen reached to select his missiles. “Sir,” he said, “we have only seven S-300s remaining.”
Karpov turned, “Of course… Three missile salvo to each group then, and fire when ready.”
“Firing now, sir.”
The second attack was equally deadly, but it found fewer planes. Sakamoto’s tactic had worked, and with the A6N2s well out in front now, the fighters took the brunt of the attack, their wings bright with machine gun fire that had no hope of hitting the missiles, the voices of the pilots strident and wild in Sakamoto’s head set. The wide dispersal of the strike wave meant the missile kill would fall to a one to one ratio again. Three Rei-sen fighters died in the second barrage, one for each rocket that came at them. Two others were scored by shrapnel, but still flyable.
The Southern group off the light carrier Ryuho had yet to climb the learning curve, and its planes had stolidly closed formations again after the first rockets thinned their ranks. When the second salvo of three missiles hit them, it took out six more planes, four of them brave fighter pilots that had charged into the vanguard of the attack wave and two strike planes. There were still two of six dive bombers alive and flying, and nine of twelve torpedo bombers. On they came, soon crossing the fifty kilometer range line.
~ ~ ~
Karpov’s palms were sweating, though he clasped his hands tightly together as he waited. There was now only a single S-300 missile remaining. Steady and calm, the Captain gave another firm order.
“Switch to Klinok system, enable infrared and optical guidance systems.” They had lost one of two fire control radar sets for that system when Hayashi’s plane had come thundering down on the aft battle bridge. Their forward radar could not process all the contacts they were still facing at one time. They would use it to give the missiles their initial heading and range to target, and then allow infrared and optical tracking systems to take over if necessary.
There came a slight vibration, barely perceptible, and then the comm link buzzed and Fedorov went to receive the call. It was Admiral Volsky.
“What is happening, Fedorov?”
The young Captain quickly briefed the Admiral.
“Very well, carry on as best you can. I will be in engineering with Dobrynin.”
At forty kilometers the medium range Klinok system began to fire, the last missile gauntlet to be run by the enemy before they could get in actual visual range of their target, but they had only sixteen remaining. Karpov sighed heavily and gave the order.
“Two salvos of eight,” he said. “Ten second firing intervals, as before.” They still had plenty of time before the enemy could threaten the ship with direct attack. He wanted to be sure each missile acquired a target before a second was sent on its way, to avoid any possibility that two missiles might expend themselves on a single plane. The tactic worked as planned. Eight more planes would die in each oncoming group, but five minutes after the first missile streaked away a strange silence settled over Kirov’s long forward deck, the warm morning breeze slowly driving off the last of the steamy smoke and vapor from the missile firings. The Klinoks were gone. Samsonov’s light pen still hovered over the screen, but he had no more missiles to select. Only the last S-300 remained.
“Helm,” said Karpov. “Ahead thirty. Mister Fedorov, will you take charge of maneuvering the ship?”
“I will,” said Fedorov grimly.
There was a second shudder from below decks, and this time Fedorov noticed it, worrying that the hull patch might fail at high speed. This had been the very first time the new innovation had been tested under actual combat conditions. Yet Kirov plowed ahead, her sleek bow kicking up a white wash as the prow of the ship cut through the jade green sea.
“Thirty Kilometers and closing fast now,” said Rodenko.
“Ready on Kashtan-2 system, Samsonov.”
“Aye, sir.” It was now up to Kirov’s close in defense systems.
The Ryuho Group to the south had been hit very hard. All six of the dive bombers there were gone, and only seven fighters and seven torpedo bombers remained. Sakamoto’s more experienced pilots presented a stronger threat. Only two of his dive bombers had been hit, and he had eleven left. There were still fourteen of the eighteen torpedo bombers as well. But his brave fighters still dancing ahead of the strike wave, had paid heavily. Only nine of twenty-four remained.
“I can hear them now,” said Nikolin, his brown eyes dark beneath his head set. The shouts of one pilot to another were evident, and though he did not know what they were saying, he could sense the emotion, hear the iron in their voices, and he knew they called to hearten one another, and bolster their resolve.
The Kashtan system still had thirty-two close range missiles to augment its two twin Gatling gun mounts, and then there were the four AR-710 single barreled Gatling Guns as well, and plenty of 30mm ammunition. The weapons were computer controlled, with radar, laser range finding and optical backup systems as well. The four single Gatling guns could even be fired by a human crew that could man a control harness from a nearby position on the deck. They had forty-eight planes to kill.
In they came, brave to a man, unyielding. Not one pilot ever considered peeling off and turning away. Sakamoto gathered his dive bombers into two fists of five or six planes each at the top of the formation and he saw his torpedo bombers under Lt. Subota slowly dropping down to begin their low altitude runs. Off to the south they could see what was left of Ryuho’s strike charging in on a well timed attack, both groups arriving within minutes of one another. It was time. He tipped his nose down and
yelled for his men to follow, and the D3As were soon screaming down like a flock of merciless falcons swooping on their prey.
Chapter 23
The old Kashtan system sat like a gray crab at the base of the aft secondary mast that was topped with the Fregat radar system, one on each side of the ship. Directly above it the stolid robot-like figure of the Tin Man seemed to stand a solitary watch as the enemy planes came in.
The arms of the gray crab were now heavy with four barreled missile canisters above the Gatling guns, each capable of ranging out to 10,000 meters, and Karpov wasted no time firing them. Their smaller warheads could still generate a fragmentation sphere five meters in diameter when the missile detonated, and so they posed another strong threat with a high probability of interception for approaching air targets, and a follow-on engagement of surviving targets at a close-in range with the intense gunfire generated from the long black six-barreled Gatling guns.
The old Kirov had six such systems installed, but four had been replaced with the AR-710 Gatling guns given the new ship’s substantial SAM inventory. But now, Karpov found himself wishing he had all six Kashtans back, as they proved to be a most capable close in defense system.
Half their missiles were gone in a flash, a barrage of eight from each unit. Then the heavy crab-like arms rotated skyward to retract the missile tubes vertically, and a rotating canister below decks quickly moved in the last remaining missiles. The reload was very quick, under two seconds, and soon the missiles were ready to fire again.
The head of the crab was a rapidly spinning fire control radar painting the sky with microwaves intent of finding and assigning targets. After the first barrage it noted that there were still twenty-six targets to the northeast and nine to the south. The second and final barrage of missiles fired, sixteen in all and their lean vapor trails wound out like thin threads in the sky seeking the planes with precision accuracy. Kirov did indeed seem like a great sea monster with white smoky octopus arms reaching up into the blue skies to lash at the oncoming planes. When the Kashtans had expended the last of the missiles there was a breathless hush over the scene for a moment. They looked out the forward view panes and could see all that was left of Sakamoto’s strike wave of fifty-five planes. Subota had six torpedo planes gliding swiftly over the deck, and from above came the last eight dive bombers, both Sakamoto and Ema still alive.
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