B00DSDUWIQ EBOK

by Schettler, John

  A third ship in this same class was to the left, the Chicago, and further out were the light cruisers San Diego and Flint, with no less than sixteen 5 inch guns. A destroyer from Desron 50 filled the gap between each of the larger ships, and all together Halsey was moving a line of steel north that stretched nearly a hundred kilometers long. As Iowa pulled away he saw the much smaller destroyer Gatling move up to take her place, slowly shifting east to take up her position in the gap.

  It was unlike anything Halsey would have ever ordered, this long line of widely spaced ships. A task force should be tightly grouped, with smaller ships screening the principle units and the supporting umbrellas of flack from the entire group providing the air defense. Not so here. Each ship would be on its own, within visual range of vessels to either side but at very wide intervals. Fraser’s argument for the formation had seemed ludicrous at first, until Halsey saw that mushroom cloud off his starboard bow as promised by the Russians. Now they would position their assets so that if the enemy threw another at them, they could take out no more than one or two ships in the line. It was a cold calculus, but it just might work. There were enough ships to snag the enemy in a steel dragnet, and once contact was made, the sighting ship would radio its position, course and speed to all the others, then the line would coil to that spot like a whip, and they would lash the Russians to death on the cruel seas of the north.

  So it was planned.

  Halsey’s group was only part of the line. Further west Ziggy Sprague had forsaken his post on Big T and was leading in more heavy ships on the battleship Wisconsin. He had the smaller North Carolina and South Dakota to either side, no less formidable, and a pair of light cruisers on either flank.

  My, my, thought Halsey. This whip is knotted with steel. We’re sweeping north with no less than five battleships, and once we find these bastards we’ll give the word to the carriers and send 500 planes up to join the show. Bomb or no bomb, the Russians had bitten off more than they could chew this time, and he was looking forward to sinking the big teeth of Mighty Mo into the enemy, to end this thing, once and for all.

  Hopefully the weather would cooperate and give them clear skies for good hunting. A pair of tropical storms had bedeviled the fleet the last few weeks. Tropical Storm Frances had just dissipated 150 miles due east of Tokyo, but now a second storm named Grace was making a beeline right for Tokyo Bay. Luckily the fleet’s advanced search line had already moved well north, because Halsey still had bad memories of the big storm last December that laid up a number of good ships and men in the hospital. Typhoon Cobra had sunk three destroyers, ripped the bow off a cruiser and damaged carriers and even battleships when it caught the fleet at sea.

  They were calling it “Halsey’s Typhoon” now. The weather men had reported its location to him so he could try and avoid the storm, but they were dead wrong. He ended up sailing Third Fleet right into the maw of 145mph winds. They had lost a hundred planes, and worse, 790 men in the incident, and Mother Nature had hurt the fleet in a way the Japanese were now powerless to do.

  They probably thought it was another of their “Divine Winds,” he thought. Not this time. Wind estimates on this Tropical Storm Grace were no more than 70mph and the barometer was reading only 985 at its low point. That would kick up the seas behind them, but they were already clear of the storm. He had ordered the carriers to move a little farther north as well to avoid difficulties, and hoped all would be well.

  The fleet was as strong as ever. The word had been passed that Halsey was going north, gloves off, and ready for anything. He was taking nearly sixty ships with him, and behind them there were sixty more with Admirals Spruance, Ballentine and others. The US Navy was the biggest typhoon in the sea now, and the storm was blowing north.

  * * *

  Aboard Kirov they saw it coming on the radar feeds, a long line of contacts spreading out on a wide front and heading north. Karpov studied the tactical board for some time with Rodenko, ready to transmit his battle orders to the other ships in his small flotilla. A picket line of thirty four ships was forming up, spaced at intervals of 5 to ten kilometers. The line stretched nearly 200 kilometers, with the western end sweeping off the coast of the Kuriles and extending east into the Pacific.

  “They came to this idea in the Atlantic as we approached Newfoundland,” said Karpov. “And this was the same tactic the British thought to employ in the western approaches to Gibraltar.” He could clearly recall Fedorov’s assessment of the situation in the last briefing with Admiral Volsky in the Med.

  “After what happened to the Americans Admiral Tovey will also be wary of concentrating his force in any one central task force. For this reason I believe he will not enter the Straits of Gibraltar tonight, even if he does get there first. No, sir. He will wait for us in the western approaches, and he will disperse whatever force he has in a web there, which we will have to penetrate. Then, once we commit ourselves to a breakout heading, he will make one mad dash and engage us with everything he has—all his ships and every plane they can put into the air. His dilemma is how to close the range on us as quickly as possible so the fourteen inch guns on his battleships can have a chance at getting some hits. And it would only take one hit from a shell of that caliber to decisively shift the battle in his favor.”

  Then he heard his own voice answering: “If they disperse their forces as Fedorov suggests, then we must pick one point in the line for our breakthrough, preferably at one of the extreme flanks. We will attack this point in his defense and neutralize it quickly. We do not have enough missiles left to engage all the battleships decisively at one time in this option. But we can hit one very hard, and then simply run through the gap at high speed.”

  The Admiral had his doubts about the tactic. He could still hear Volsky’s heavy voice; see his finger wagging in his mind’s eye: “What if this Admiral Tovey places his battleships close enough to one another for supporting fire? These big guns have a long range, correct Fedorov?”

  “They do sir. With good light for sighting we can expect fire from as far away as 28,000 meters, even 32,000.”

  “So even if we do saturate and neutralize one of these big ships the others may very well still have the range on us. This is not a very satisfactory situation, Karpov.”

  Not a very satisfactory situation…It was Volsky’s typical way of discarding the most direct and obvious option in battle. The Admiral had always been cautious at sea, he thought. My advice to Admiral Volsky back then was to send out the P-900s and put one on each of the big battleships with pinpoint precision. Then make the offer to parley. The enemy would see all four of their best ships hit and afire. Even if they were not wounded badly by the single missile, it would still be a strong psychological blow.

  Volsky’s conclusion echoed in his mind now as he considered that the enemy was setting up the same kind of battle they had faced at Gibraltar…

  “Well here we are at the eleventh hour, gentlemen. I have heard your analysis, and yet there is one other weapon we have not discussed that we might try using here.”

  “Sir? I thought you did not wish to consider our nuclear option.”

  “Oh, I considered it, Mister Karpov, and I have discarded it. The weapon I am thinking of now is intelligence. We have looked at two options here. The first has considerable risk. We make a run at this man, give him a shove as we go and hope to slip by him in the dark. It might work if our luck holds out. Now you suggest that we punch this man in the face first, and then threaten him with further harm if he does not stand aside. Yes, it is a strong tactic. Something our old friend Orlov might do. But I will propose another solution. Suppose we talk to this man before we punch him in the nose, eh? I think he might be more inclined to hear us.”

  “Negotiate first? Before we’ve shown him what we can do to him if he persists?”

  “Exactly. Mister Karpov, I believe he has already seen what we are capable of—weeks ago in the North Atlantic. He already knows we can hurt him before he even catches
a glimpse of us. Yes, he knows how dangerous we are. He knows we can hurt him severely, and yet here he comes. That is a different sort of bravery, is it not.”

  Negotiate first. Well I have tried that option as well, Admiral, Karpov spoke inwardly to Volsky, missing him strangely, and wishing he was here now. When Volsky was present the full weight of the decision to fight and inflict grievous harm on the enemy was not Karpov’s alone. He could advise, lay out tactics and strategy, and execute as a skilled fighting officer that he was. But the moral weight of the action rested with Volsky.

  This time the Admiral was not here. He was decades away, fighting his own war with the Americans, and Karpov wondered if he was even still alive. He sent me out as his strong knight, he thought, He gave me the Red Banner Pacific Fleet, and here is all that remains of it, still fighting the Americans.

  Negotiate first—and look where that got me. Halsey is still out there, every bit as determined as the British Admiral was, and here he comes.

  “We’re going to have a real fight on our hands, Rodenko,” he said in a low voice. “They are throwing out this skirmish line with the intent of locating us. Our jammers have fogged over their radar screens and they will need to make visual contact now.”

  “That they will, sir,” said Rodenko.

  “I expect that they will have planes up soon as well.”

  Something in Karpov’s voice seemed hollow and empty now, a weariness, a resignation. Rodenko was watching the Captain closely, seeing how his eyes shifted back and forth over the tactical board, noting one position or another, his mind engaged, calculating, yet a kind of mechanical reflex to it all. It was as if he was a machine, a computer engaged in the cold operations of war. Yet behind his eyes Rodenko knew there was also a man, and one who had suffered and endured much emotional turmoil. Karpov seemed wasted and spent now, and very tired. The adrenaline began when the fleet engaged Captain Tanner…so long ago it seemed now, but only days ago in real time. The Captain had not had much sleep, and from time to time he could perceive the odor of vodka on his breath. There is only so much a man can take.

  He wondered what he would do if something happened to Karpov. How should he carry on the fight? What if it came down to that same desperate moment that had prompted Karpov to use nuclear weapons? Would he have the guts to do the same?

  “Well I am not going to sit here and wait for the planes to show up like a bad weather front on our radar screens, Rodenko. The instant I see them forming over those carriers, I’m going to attack. If one of those ships spots us before that, I’ll blow it out of the water.”

  “Aye, sir,” Rodenko said quickly, yet he could feel and hear the edge in Karpov’s voice. Everyone on the bridge could feel it too.

  Rodenko glanced at the ship’s chronometer. It was only a matter of time before the Americans got close enough to spot them. Then the planes would come—perhaps more planes than they had missiles. There would be carnage in the skies for a wild hour…Then something would get through.

  “Sir, Captain Yeltsin on Orlan requests battle orders.”

  Karpov looked at Nikolin, a sallow expression on his face.

  “Tell him I am going to hit the Americans here,” he was still looking at the tactical board as he pointed. “On their right flank.” Tell him that we will begin the action ourselves, and assign him his targets. I have moved the KA-226 to a position to allow us to better identify what we are shooting at. I’m going to punch a hole in their line right here, and sink whatever I have to in order to do so. Signal Admiral Golovko that they should keep their helos aloft on active ASW watch. Go to active sonar. I want no surprises.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  Rodenko was watching the long range radar returns now, noting the refresh of the screen as the system updated at intervals. Then he experienced a thrum of anxiety, for he saw what looked like a definite concentration of smaller contact returns to the south. His radar man saw it as well and turned to report, but Rodenko raised a hand, silencing him. He would deliver the bad news himself.

  “Captain, I believe I have long range returns on air units forming to the south.”

  He saw Karpov’s eyes shift quickly to him from the tactical board. The Captain licked his lips, as though he were very thirsty, needing water and sustenance. His right hand strayed to his brow, and he rubbed a spot above his eyebrow. There was no clasping of his hands behind his back this time. His chin was not elevated and his eyes seemed dark and smoldering, not bright and alive as Rodenko had often seen him in combat. There was no instruction to begin a log entry to commence the action, with all the drama Rodenko remembered when they had engaged the battleship Yamato. Karpov had the look of a man who was about to fight his last great battle, confident but wary and burdened by a strange feeling of presentiment, like Napoleon at Waterloo. There was just a moment’s hesitation, and then he spoke, his voice low, yet firm.

  “Mister Samsonov. P-400s. Long range barrage in two batteries of eight. We are going to spoil their party.”

  “Aye, sir. Keying targets and ready to fire.”

  “How many will that leave us?”

  “Sixteen on the P-400s, sir.”

  “Sixteen? Oh yes… We fired half the entire inventory against the Americans in 2021. We’ll use the remainder now in 1945, and hit them before they have the slightest inkling of any danger. Perhaps we can pluck this weed out by the root this time, before it flowers.”

  A last whisper of recollection came to Karpov now. It was Volsky speaking to Doctor Zolkin just after he had laid out his plan of attack against the British.

  “I told you this man was one of the best tactical officers in the fleet, Doctor.”

  “Yes,” said Zolkin. “He has the bravery of being out of range. It’s very comfortable—but just a little a bit devious at the same time.”

  Yes, just a little bit devious, thought Karpov. What else should one expect from a Fallen Angel?

  Chapter 32

  The line swept north for two long hours, covering just over 50 nautical miles in that time. Halsey had three radar pickets out in front of the main skirmish line, but they were having fits with their radars. So the orders went out to man every weather deck and crow’s nest with eyes, and it was down to binoculars again, and the hope of a clear horizon.

  Destroyer escort Fox was out in front, making 30 knots as she raced north. The seas had been heavy behind them, driven by the gales of a budding typhoon to the south, but now the wave sets were lower, swells evening out, skies clearing ahead. Named for a gallant Marine Lieutenant, the Myles C. Fox, DD-829, was a latecomer to the war, a Gearing class boat that had been fitted out with the latest radars for picket duty. She arrived in mid-August just after hostilities had ceased.

  Commander John S. Fahy was at the helm, a bit rattled over the fact that none of his radar equipment was in working order. He had come over from USS Gillespie, DD-609, where he saw action in the Solomons and Peleliu campaigns, so he was no stranger to combat. The screens were clouded over, and he quickly deduced the enemy must be jamming them.

  “They’re close, Pem,” he said to his XO Pemberton Southard. “I can feel it. Double up on the lookouts. I can smell a good fight coming, and soon.”

  “Aye, sir.” Southard was a competent man who was just a little disappointed that the ship was late to the action in the Pacific. The Japanese had surrendered when they were off Wake Island, and he boasted it was because they knew the Myles C. Fox was coming. He didn’t quite know what to make of the rumor that they were up here looking for Russians now, and that broiling mushroom cloud northwest of their position that morning was an ominous and disheartening thing to watch. All the men on the bridge were tense and alert. They could sense trouble coming too.

  Ensign Pine was the first to make a report. “Look to starboard, sir. Lookouts report a contrail.”

  Commander Fahy had his binoculars up just in time to see it. Something descending from a bank of clouds and diving for the sea. It was coming right for the s
hip and he immediately gave the order hard left and ahead full for an evasive turn. The ship had plenty of boiler power in reserve for the sudden burst of additional speed, but the missile could not be fooled by such a rudimentary maneuver. It bored in and struck the destroyer flush on the forward deck behind the number one gun mount, setting her afire with a shuddering impact.

  Fires broke out in the passageway around number two upper handling room, in the forward officer's room, the anchor windless room, and on the number one gun mount itself. The Forward Repair Officer and half of initial repair party on the scene were killed or wounded by secondary explosions. Fahy was on the handset immediately ordering additional damage control crews forward. There they found a ruptured fire main and began to rig out new hoses from fireplugs on the main deck to fight the flames.

  The enemy was close, alright. Commander Fahy had the presence of mind to sight down the line of approach of the missile and send off a good estimate of the ship’s bearing relative to his own position. The contrail had also been sighted by a second destroyer picket, Chevalier, and together the two ships began to triangulate. Ten minutes later they thought they had a good idea where the enemy was. It wasn’t enough to sent a “ship sighted” message, but Fahy insisted the information be passed on to Halsey on the Missouri.

  It cost them seven dead and thirty-two injured, and Fox was forced to fall off the line and retire after her first salt drenched smell of gunpowder, but Halsey had what he wanted. He knew where the enemy was and he was pouring on the speed. The word went out on the wireless to all ships in the line, and soon they were altering course to intercept based on a presumption that the enemy was still headed east.