Kirov III: Pacific Storm k-3

by John A. Schettler

  The history of the Pacific war he knew was already shattered, barely recognizable now, and he was as much to blame as Karpov or anyone else. He remembered his conversation with the Captain earlier. Yamato was nothing more than a dead legend, a broken hulk, a great Prometheus chained to the bottom of the sea where the fish would eat its liver day by day. That was the great ship’s fate, but now it was still in its full glory, all 72,000 tons of it, driving through the quiet night, bathed in the liquid silver of the moon, her massive prow sweeping up a frothy bow wave, her crew of nearly 2800 men anxiously at their battle stations, lookouts squinting through binoculars from the high watch stations on the main mast. Compared to Kirov’s incredible situational awareness, the enemy was groping her way forward in the dark like a blind man with a cane…and three triple barreled twelve gauge shotguns.

  He decided.

  “The battle is yours, Karpov. I’ve informed Admiral Volsky as well. He is down in the reactor room with Dobrynin, but has told me we are to use our best judgment. Protect the ship.”

  “Alright, Fedorov. Let the log entry read that battlecruiser Kirov commenced surface action engagement against the battleship Yamato at 20:18 hours, on the night of August 27, 1942. Anton Fedorov commanding. Tactical officer, Vladimir Karpov.”

  A junior Lieutenant called out the confirmation: “Sir, log entry recorded.”

  “Very well.”

  Karpov clasped his arms behind his back and turned to Victor Samsonov, the gleam of battle in his eyes.

  ~ ~ ~

  Admiral Yamamoto received the news from his operations chief with much chagrin. “All three cruisers damaged? The entire squadron?”

  “Yes, sir. I have just received a coded distress signal. The screening force was hit by suicide rockets about twenty minutes ago. We have lost Jintsu, and both Nagara and Yura are heavily damaged. The destroyers from our escort screen are nearby and rendering assistance.”

  “I see…” Yamato’s eyes darkened, his brow set with concentration. “So the rumors of this ship are proved true after all. Iwabuchi was not exaggerating with his stories of flying devil fish raining fire and hell on his ships. How close are we?”

  “Sir, we are just inside our maximum gun range now, but we have no target. There is good moonlight but even our best spotters will not be able to report anything until we get much closer. They are launching more seaplanes now.”

  Yamamoto stood up, reaching for his white gloves and putting them on one after another, a slow, deliberate process that had an air of gravity about it. It was time to fight, if he could only find his enemy first. He reached slowly and took up his Admiral’s cap, squaring it on his head as he turned.

  “It’s time we were on the bridge, Kuroshima. Walk with me.”

  As two men left the briefing room Kuroshima cast a wan look at the map table, noting the tiny wooden ships that had been moved about as the chase unfolded. In one glance he took it all in, Mutsu, Nagato, Tone, and the rest of Iwabuchi’s cruisers, Hara with his carriers, and the whole of the entire remaining fleet already limping north to Rabaul and Truk. They had already lost three fleet carriers, not to mention the chaos here in the Coral Sea. His entire plan was a shambles, the Combined Fleet completely unhinged, and all because of this solitary raider, this Shadow Dancer in the night that could command the darkest kami in the seven hells and fling them against his ships, which now seemed no more useful than these same wooden toys, he thought. Our cruisers and carriers have been good for little more than sport here, and now the fate of the war and our nation and people hangs in the balance.

  What was this ship? Hachiman, the god of war? Mizuchi, the dreaded sea dragon? Susanoo, the storm god? He closed the door, his heart heavy as he followed the Admiral forward to the nearest stair well up. Before they had reached the stairs Kuroshima heard a distant low rumble, resolving to a louder roar. Then the warning bells were ringing all over the ship, and the strident calls of the men jarred him to keen alertness.

  He felt the ship move, a thudding vibration followed by the sound of an explosion. Yamamoto turned, his eyes bright with fire.

  “Hurry, Kuroshima, it has begun!”

  ~ ~ ~

  The P-900 missile had used its solid fuel propellant to quickly gain altitude before activating its ARGS-54 active homing radar seekers, sweeping the calm night with microwave energy to locate its target below. Two short, squarish stabilizing wings deployed with a metallic rasp. Then the missile settled into approach mode briefly, its air breathing engines cruising at sub-sonic speed for a time as it made its high altitude approach. Minutes later the sharp nose of the rocket pointed downward towards the glistening sea and it swooped low, leveling off just feet above the water where the low-flying supersonic terminal stage of the missile saw it accelerate in a dizzying dance of zigs and zags at nearly Mach 3. It had been designed to defeat another computer controlled SAM umbrella, but no such defense was in place.

  The men aboard Yamato watched it come with blinding speed, a wild light dancing over the sea aimed right at the heart of the ship, where it flashed against the heavy side armor with a roaring explosion. It’s 400kg warhead was enough to buckle and burn its way through twelve of sixteen inches of hardened steel armor. But it could go no further, though the ship felt as though a Thunder God had struck it with an iron hammer. Yamato rolled slightly, then easily righted herself. There was a fire, her port side blackened and scarred, but by and large she had not been seriously hurt.

  When the second missile was spotted in the sky, officers screamed out commands, their arms stiffly pointing out the target with batons. Yamato’s substantial anti-aircraft suite began to fill the night with metal and fire as few other ships of her day could. Years later it would be vastly upgraded to 150 guns to defend against her real nemesis, enemy planes, but it had nowhere near that number at this point in the war.

  The ship was built like a massive steel castle. Her huge gun turrets with three 18.1 in barrels each were mounted two forward and one aft. Her central con tower, main mast, superstructure and stack were then surrounded by what looked like several concentric circles of armored gun positions. In all there were twelve more 152mm 6.1 inch naval guns in four tripled turrets, twelve more 127mm 5 inch guns, eight 25mm triple barreled AA guns and four more 13.2mm AA machine guns. Most every gun on the port side of the ship was blasting away now, but it did them little good.

  The second missile was too fast to be targeted and killed by a concentrated stream of AA fire, and only random chance would see it possibly struck by a round as it made its dancing approach to the ship at low altitude. The fire control officers watched in awe as the low aimed gun rounds plowed into the sea—and then before they could think to redirect, the missile plowed into the ship. The second hit was slightly higher, approaching the upper weather deck but still catching the side armor, though the explosion seemed more severe. Part of the 200mm armored deck was ripped up and sent flailing against the base of the main pagoda con tower, knocking out the open top twin 127mm gun there, and leaving every man at that station dead. The rest of the blow fell on the heavy side armor, which again weathered the hit, charred and bruised, but unbroken.

  Instinctively, the ship turned its big turrets toward the source of the lights in the sky, and the long thin streaks of smoke that marked their low level approach, luminescent in the light of the rising moon. But up on the bridge the ship’s Rear Admiral Takayanagi had already taken the initiative to turn the ship, steering at an angle to those long thin ghostly trails. The turn also leaned out his profile if the enemy was seeking to spot him in the night. It would make little difference, but at least he now knew where the enemy was. He could see flaring bright light and luminous smoke on the far horizon when the demon rockets fired, and a few more degrees off his port side he noted the angry glow of fire, his own cruiser screen still burning in the distance.

  Somewhere beyond the charcoal edge of night, hiding from the moon and still wrapped in gossamer thin shadows, battlecruiser Kirov cont
emplated what next to throw at his ship. The battle had only just begun.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Two hits amidships,” a watch stander reported, pointing at the HD video being fed from the Tin Man. The cameras were set to infrared, and the silhouette of the enemy ship glowed in strange hues of white and green, as it might be viewed through night optic goggles.

  “Range closing fast now,” said Rodenko. “I’m reading 32,000 meters.” The combined speed of the two ships was now almost sixty knots as they closed, though the angle they were riding toward a distant intercept point diminished the range somewhat slower.

  “Any change in speed?” Karpov asked.

  “No, sir. The target continues at 27 knots.”

  “It will take more than a couple hits, Captain” said Fedorov. “I doubt if we seriously hurt them at this point.”

  Karpov thought for a moment. “The P-900s are not as easy to program for a plunging descent, but the Moskit-IIs can be altered. We ordered them programmed for either low level attack or plunging fire, did we not?”

  “Sir, I have three available with altered programs. The remainder were kept on the high speed sea-skimming setting for use against smaller ships.”

  Three may just do the job, thought Karpov. They’ve obviously shaken those two P-900’s off. “Switch to the Moskit-IIs. It’s time we poked some holes in their deck.”

  “Programming,” said Samsonov. Kirov had given the enemy two sharp jabs in the opening round, Now she wanted to throw a couple of real body punches.

  “Those three destroyers are still bearing on our position, sir,” Rodenko put in. “They are due south at 28,000 meters, just beyond the that crippled cruiser screen.”

  “All things in time,” said Karpov. “First we stop this battleship.”

  Karpov spoke as if the result were a foregone conclusion, but he was soon to find out that there were few certainties in life, and even fewer in war.

  Chapter 30

  Lt. Commander Yasuna Kozono was a very enterprising man. He had been trying to find a way to up-gun his new J1N1-C “Gekkou” night reconnaissance fighter for some time. Dubbed the Navy Type 2 Reconnaissance Fighter, he had a small shotai of just two planes at Rabaul, early deliveries that had not been expected until later that year. One had a spherical turret behind the pilot’s compartment with one Type 99 20mm cannon installed there, but the weapon seemed entirely too defensive in nature to him, and ill suited for taking the fight to the enemy. To use it against a bomber he would have to creep up on the target from below so the gunner could train and fire his cannon. It was most unsatisfactory, and it negated the one thing he most loved about his new night fighter, its tremendous top speed of 330 miles per hour on attack.

  What he wanted was a better cannon on the fuselage to compliment the six smaller 7.7 mm Type 97 machine guns on his wings. He was so adamant about it that he secretly set about to install the guns himself in a field-modified version of the plane, hoping Central Command would never be the wiser. He would come to call his new model the Gekkou, or Moonlight, and it was to be tested in a very special mission, rising to greet its namesake that night. He had just the perfect pilot to test his new invention as well, Lieutenant Sachio Endo, a highly skilled flyer of Tainanku T-1.

  The navy was chasing a sea dragon, and had called up to Rabaul to see if they could send any help. As the light faded they feared their ship launched seaplanes would not be able to keep watch on the enemy ship, and asked Rabaul if they had a night fighter or two to send in support. It so happened that they had exactly two, all the planes Kozono had, and he would send Endo in one, and fly the second himself, eager to convince the navy that his planes should be rolled into more significant production. Tonight he would get his chance.

  As the sun began to set he fired up his twin 14-cylinder air-cooled radial piston engines and slowly taxied down the palm fringed runway, looking over his shoulder to see Endo right behind him. The two planes roared into the sky, climbing quickly and banking towards the setting sun, heading southwest to wait for the moon. It would be a long and possibly dangerous flight, out to the limit of the plane’s operational range, though Kozono had been wise enough to request drop tanks to extend his mission slightly. They would fly down the long curved island of New Britain, then over the Solomon Sea, tipping their wings to the rising moon a little over an hour later. Soon they would come to the shadowy folds of Papua New Guinea, crossing that landform to enter the Coral Sea. It was at least 800 kilometers out, and his effective combat radius was a little over 1120. That would leave him limited time on target, and he hoped he would find this enemy ship quickly, and surprise it if he could.

  He opened the throttle a bit cruising at 300 kph. Three hours later he would find what he was looking for, strange lights on the sea, wild arcing trails in the sky, something moving at a blistering rate of speed far below them, explosions, the light and fire of a battle at sea.

  “Endo,” he called on his short range radio. “Do you see that? What is it?”

  “Must be a plane in a fast dive,” said Endo. “Let’s get down and find out for ourselves. There! At three o’clock. That’s a ship! It must be the one we are looking for. Let’s give them a little more moonlight!”

  ~ ~ ~

  “That sea plane is getting very close,” Rodenko said again as Karpov conferred with Samsonov.

  The Captain looked up, frowning. “How close?”

  Rodenko squinted at his scope. “Speed increasing to over 450kph. Bearing on our aft quarter now. Range 35,000 meters and closing.”

  Fedorov turned suddenly, his face concerned. “Over 450kph? That’s no seaplane!”

  “Sound air alert one!” Karpov was quick to react. “Move Samsonov, forget the battleship for the moment. Give me that last S-300—Now!”

  Samsonov’s hands were quick and agile on the CIC controls. “Missile ready!”

  “Fire!”

  The plane was fast, thought Fedorov, too fast to be a lumbering seaplane. It had to be a strike aircraft of some kind, but from where? It couldn’t be a Nell out of Port Moresby, not at over 450kph. It couldn’t be a Val dive bomber at that speed either. Only an A6M2 Zero could run like that…Unless…

  “This is a night fighter,” he said quickly. “Probably out of Port Moresby or Rabaul, possibly even Lae. If so, it’s a long way from home.”

  “Don’t worry, it will be in a permanent home soon,” said Karpov, the S-300 will take care of it.”

  But there were two planes. Endo had been right on Kozono’s wing, his precision flying ability on display that night as the two planes accelerated and prepared to make their strafing runs. Rodenko’s Top Mast, not truly designed for tactical scenarios, had read both planes as one.

  Endo saw something flash up from the dark shadow on the sea they were bearing on, with amazing speed. He reacted on pure reflex.

  “Kozono! Bank left, quickly! I’m going right.” And the two planes suddenly veered away from one another, just as the missile was ready to acquire. It now had to choose one of two targets, and Kozono’s luck ran out that night. The S-300 followed his plane and exploded in a bright fiery rain of shrapnel that took off his left engine and half the wing. Kozono was wounded, his hand tight on the stick as his plane began to tailspin down towards the sea.

  “Get it Endo!” he said with all the strength that was left in him, and then he knew no more.

  Endo saw him die, and his jaw tightened, he was right on target, so close that he could see small AA guns jerking up at him and taking aim. He suddenly swooped low, aimed, and fired Kozono’s two new 20mm cannons full out, the machine guns on his wings rattling out their fire as well. At that very moment he saw the ship belch flame from its own guns, like the baleful breath of a dragon, and his plane shuddered, riddled with 30mm rounds. His right engine was on fire, but he controlled his plane, banking around to try and evade. Yet computer controlled AR-710s could not be fooled by his maneuver. They fired again, and Endo and his plane were shot to pieces. He would not go
on to become one of Japan’s leading aces later in that very same model plane, and the pilots and crews of at least eight B-29s would not die at the business end of his skillful trade.

  But his own cannons had raked the back of Mizuchi, and the 20mm rounds dug deeply into the tall main mast aft section, where a series of steam vents for the rapidly spinning turbine engine vented up in a cleverly hidden stack. It was perforated, rasping out jets of hot steam, and a small fire started there, adding smoke and flame to the mix. It was not a serious wound, just a scratch really, but it would end up causing more trouble than anyone knew when the damage control teams began to respond to the scene.

  Chief Byko put his hands on his hips, shaking his head as he looked up at the steam venting sideways from a dozen holes. “Let’s get to work, boys,” he said wearily. “It’s going to be another long night.”

  It was prophetic.

  ~ ~ ~

  She bore the name of ancient Japan, Yamato, an awesome ship, 862 feet long with a 127 foot beam, nearly 72,000 tons of iron and steel, almost as much as the British battleships Rodney and Nelson combined! By comparison the American battleship Nevada that had been on Japan’s target list at Pearl Harbor displaced a measly 27,500 tons. Yamato outweighed Nevada, Oklahoma and a good heavy cruiser thrown on the scales as well, truly a super battleship, and no other nation would ever build anything in her weight class again. 23,000 tons of her weight was dedicated to armor alone. Yet when she launched in December of 1941, just in time for the hostilities planned against the United States, the Americans had no knowledge of her existence beyond veiled rumors of a ship believed to be in the range of 40-50,000 tons. The US would know little more about the ship until they eventually sank it in an enormous air attack with 400 planes, hitting her with twelve 1000 pound bombs and at least seven torpedoes years later, in March of 1945.