“Who the hell is shooting at us?” he bawled, thinking one of the destroyers had come on the scene and misidentified his ship as the enemy. But there were no reports of any ships sighted on any quarter. They seemed completely alone on the sea, and the skies above were clear as well. It was as if the shells were dropping from heaven.
“Watchmen, any contacts?”
“Sir, weather deck. My watch is clear—”
“Belay that! Main mast reports ship sighted, bearing 340!”
Wellborn couldn’t see anything, and the next rounds came in with a dull thud and jarring explosion. The ship had been hit by a small caliber round. A twin Bofors mount was ablaze on the port side, and more rounds were falling astride the long raked bow.
“Navigator, range to horizon—quick! Helm. Starboard ten.”
The Captain saw an explosion forward again, right on the number one turret. The smoke cleared and he took heart. They had 500mm of armor there, all of 19.7 inches. The turret shrugged off the small caliber rounds like nothing had happened. There passed a tense moment, with Wellborn half looking over his shoulder as he waited on his navigator.
“Sir I calculate horizon from main mast at 19.5 miles.”
It was not possible, the Captain thought. He could still see nothing on the horizon, but the top of Iowa’s main mast was 150 feet above the water. Add that to the height of any distant contact and you could peg the range to horizon.
“Give it to me in yards, damn it!”
“Sir, aye, sir. Range to horizon…three, four, three, two, zero.”
The Captain was close by the view ports now, binoculars up, and focused intently on the far horizon, then he thought he saw a slight blemish on the clean edge of the sea.
“Gunnery officer. All batteries to bear on target at three-five-zero degrees. Make your range 33,000 yards and commence firing.”
Another explosion told him they had been hit yet again by a small caliber round. He knew he had this one brief moment. The fleeting moment of first contact where a general calculation of the range to horizon would give him the range. He knew optical sighting crews were working the problem now as well, but the Big Stick would get something in the air while they were still calculating. That ship could turn away at any minute and they would lose both bearing and range.
Then the big guns blasted away, the deafening sound ripping the air with fire and concussion so great that it flattened the waves out a hundred yards from the ship and literally sheared away the rising water splash of two more enemy rounds. White smoke rolled out behind the fire as Wellborn looked north, squinting to see if he could still see the enemy contact. Those were naval guns, he thought, smiling inwardly. They had come to rely so much on radar that it was going to be one hell of a crash refresher course for the optical sighting crews. Get it right, boys, he thought. Get it right.
* * *
Karpov grinned as he watched the overhead HD screen receive the long range camera feed from the KA-226. He could see his deck guns straddle the distant ship, then quickly score a hit.
“They’re probably wondering what hit them,” he said to Rodenko. “Just a little slap in the face for their insolence before I ram a couple more missiles down their smoke stacks, eh?”
But where were the raging fires he expected to see? He knew all three missiles from his initial salvo had hit the target. Why wasn’t this ship burning like Yamato? Then his eye caught a bright flash, and he looked to see the distant ship seemed to explode—but it did not explode. He was seeing Iowa’s massive main batteries firing in return.
“Rodenko! What’s the range?”
“33,200 meters, sir.”
“Have we slipped over the horizon?” The Captain was reaching for his binoculars—yes, he could see the bright flash on the edge of the sea.
“Helm port fifteen! Signal all units to match our new heading.”
“Sir, port fifteen and my rudder is four-zero degrees.”
He watched the ship turn smartly, heard Nikolin relaying the turn order to both Yeltzin and Ryakhin. The Orlan followed his lead at once, but Admiral Golovko off his starboard side was still on the old heading when they heard the scream and whoosh of heavy rounds coming in. The enormous geysers fell well short of Kirov, but between Orlan and the frigate—three, then three more, then—
There was a flash and explosion and Karpov’s eyes widened in shock when he saw what had happened. He raised his binoculars to the angry knot of smoke and fire ahead, then they heard the sound of loud secondary explosions going off, a massive detonation that sent jets of flame and debris shoot up from the rolling red-black fireball where Admiral Golovko had once been.
“My God…”
Rodenko was looking at the overhead screen, as were most of the bridge crew now. The frigate had been blown in two sections, its sharp bow now wildly tilted upwards through the billowing smoke, then falling rapidly to the sea. The center of the ship was gone and the aft quarter was capsized and already sinking. They saw men leap from the gunwale, then a wall of flames immolated them and the entire scene was wreathed in smoke and flame. Seconds later they heard more muted explosions, felt the jolting concussion, and Karpov knew that the ship was continuing to explode beneath the sea as it sank. Admiral Golovko was gone, and 200 men were scuppered into the sea with her, the lines of life and fate ending for them in that brief, wild moment of explosive violence.
Karpov slowly lowered his field glasses. All it will take is one hit from a gun of that size…Fedorov’s voice echoed its warning in his mind. It was nothing more than happenstance, he knew on one level. They slipped over the horizon ever so briefly, and the battleship must have spotted Kirov’s tall main mast and superstructure. There is no way they would have seen the frigate at this range. They fired blindly, just shooting down the line of our bearing and aiming for the horizon. They were firing at us, and they missed… Then all these thoughts were swept away by a hot anger.
“Sons of bitches,” he hissed.
Rodenko was watching the Captain closely, the shock and concern evident in his eyes.
“Sons of bitches! Samsonov! Moskit-IIs, salvo of three. Key on that contact and fire.”
“Sir, aye! Salvo firing on target.”
In that one brief instant the battle had taken a dramatic turn. Karpov had thought he would face down and intimidate the entire US Pacific Fleet. He thought he would show them what real power was when he fired one precious tactical warhead to frighten these little men—but these were not little men. They had just come through four long years of violent struggle at sea in the greatest naval war in human history. In all that time they had lost one battleship, the Mississippi sunk by Karpov himself in another fit of rage, along with the two carriers he had killed, swatting the Wasp at both ends of the long, terrible war. Then the Japanese had sunk ten carriers, eight cruisers, ninety destroyers, and still they fought on. He remembered Fedorov talking about the war. On any given weekend they would lose more men than the entire ten year American war in Iraq. US Marines would claw their way ashore on isolated rocks in the sea and blast the stalwart enemy from cliff and cave in a grueling campaign of utter attrition. Thousands would die for tiny islands, and still they came.
Now here they come for us, he thought grimly. Now we feel the hard hand of war at our throat. Halsey is out there somewhere, gritty, determined, leading his battleships forward in this hot pursuit, and we have yet to even face their air wing!
The missiles were firing, a swift lancing return, measure for measure, an eye for an eye. He was going to sink this ship, and kill every last man aboard in reprisal. And after he was done with that he would burn the rest of the American fleet in the raging fire of his anger.
Chapter 35
They saw the explosion, the bridge crew jubilant when it rippled up and bloomed on the horizon. The Big Stick had just struck their enemy a hard blow. Then they saw the same telltale streak of a rocket bearing down on them, and this time the ship opened up with every AA gun on the port side.
The sky was pot marked with white puffs of exploding rounds, everything from the rapid firing 20mm cannons up to the quick firing five inch guns, but the missiles were simply too fast to be aimed at. It would be sheer luck if anything scored a hit.
The first missile stuck the number one battery, streaking in at sea level before it suddenly popped up and then nosed down onto the ship. It blasted through the outer bomb deck, a thinner barrier that was designed to trigger falling bombs and detonate them in the space between that outer deck and the heavier armor deck below. Beyond that there was a third splinter deck, and so the missile had to penetrate all of 7.5 inches of steel to get at the vital innards of the ship.
It struck at an angle and blasted through all three protective decks, then hit something far more substantial, the barbette of gun turret number one, which was 17.3 inches of steel at its thickest point. The searing wash of flame engulfed the turret in anger, but it was not breached. Fifteen men inside had been felled by the concussion, but relief crews were coming up from below to rescue the wounded, remove the dead, and fight on.
They had to flood the number one magazine for that gun, but there were three more still high and dry, and plenty of powder bags stretched out on the racks four decks below the gun itself. The huge shells were still rotating into the lifts on the projectile handling floor, and hoisted up into the rammers. Like an enormous clock, the turret skipped a beat or two as the crews recovered from the shock and replacements were sent in, then the workings of the turret continued, and the guns struck twelve with another thunderous roar.
Two more missiles came at them. One popped up and then plunged down on the deck just behind the aft main battery. If the big guns had not been rotated away they would have been struck there, but as it was the missile penetrated the deck and bored into the galley and crew’s mess section on the second deck. The Hot Parker Rolls were going to be a little overdone if they were ever served there again.
The third missile struck amidships, blasting into the superstructure where a special cabin had been set up for FDR when the Iowa transported the President to the Tehran Conference earlier in the war. The explosion damaged a twin 5 inch gun battery, and sent a hail of fiery shrapnel up toward the battle bridge. The armored conning tower where Wellborn captained the ship was protected by thick 17.5 inch armor, and it shrugged off the punch with no significant damage. The fire soon spread from FDRs cabin to the officer’s Wardroom, but crews were rushing to the scene to put the flames down.
Iowa had taken six hard hits, but for all the smoke, fire and concussion, she was not seriously hurt. The primary virtue of a battleship, her ability to take punishment and remain in the fight, was now paramount. With each passing minute the range was decreasing, her crews working the optics, he guns plotting a solution to lob more massive shells at the enemy.
The Russians had turned, skirting the far horizon out of visual range, but Wellborn knew they would see them again soon. If they wanted to break out into the deep blue they would have to continue an easterly heading. He estimated they had probably made a ten or fifteen point turn, and he was correct.
“Gunnery Officer! Adjust your fire five degrees to starboard and set your range steady at 34,000 yards. Aim for that column of smoke.”
He knew they had just scored a lucky hit, and didn’t think they would get another any time soon, but they would keep a rain of hot steel heading the enemy’s way nonetheless.
“Sir, we have visual sighting on our air wing. Aircraft off the port rear quarter!”
The Captain looked to see the skies slowly darkening with tiny specks. They were not in any discernable formation. Some were low on the water, others at altitude, and scattered all over the sky. They had been riding Iowa’s radio direction signal to arrive unerringly at the scene of the battle just as things were heating up. And then he gaped at the sky to the north, seeing it scored by a series of lighting fast contrails that raced out at impossible speeds. The enemy was firing rockets at the incoming planes—rockets with eyes so good that they swerved and struck dead on when they hit, and soon the sky above the ship was blooming with hot fireballs and angry black fists of smoke.
“Radio signal, Captain. It’s Admiral Halsey!”
Wellborn took the handset and toggled the overhead speaker. “Welcome Admiral, take off the gloves and get busy. The enemy is just beyond that column of smoke on your horizon. We put sixteen inches of steel on them with our third salvo.”
“Good job, Chuck. Give ‘em hell. We’ve just seen your main mast on the horizon so we’re about thirty minutes out, but on a good intercept angle. We’ve got your back! Mighty Mo is coming at 33 knots and Sprague is swinging up behind them with Whisky. Together the three of us are going to pound these guys to rubble.”
The Bull was charging to the scene aboard battleship Missouri, mad as hell when he saw the enemy rockets firing at the planes overhead. The entire scene was now becoming another wild display of controlled chaos at sea. The big ships surged forward, sharp bows frothing the waves, huge guns firing amid the drone of hundreds of aircraft coming in above them.
“Order the flack gunners to cease fire,” Wellborn shouted over the noise. “We can’t hit those damn rockets and we might take down our own boys up there.”
He watched as the first planes passed his position, making for the distant column of black smoke on the horizon as the enemy rockets clawed into the sky to look for them. Get the bastards, he urged the flyboys on. But look out for my big guns.
The Big Stick fired again.
* * *
Karpov watched Orlan firing, the missiles accelerating to the incredible speed of Mach 15, five times faster than a bullet fired from a good rifle. The planes in the sky were like slow flying target drones to them, and Orlan’s amazing fire control computers were sending them out with pinpoint accuracy, one missile, one kill. Three, then five, then nine angels fell in the wild sky, yet on they came, blue Hellcats, and Helldivers, well named, for it seemed they were plunging over the edge of perdition as the missiles exploded, taking one plane after another.
“Stand ready on Klinok system,” he ordered. “We’ll add our fire to that of Orlan soon.”
The cold weight of Admiral Golovko’s tragic loss was now settling into his stomach like a heavy stone. They lost their best ASW ship, two hundred men, and all the weapons remaining that now had to be wiped from his mental inventory. He had assigned a place for each of the eight remaining P-900s on the frigate, but now they would never be fired. And her special warhead was gone as well, an even bigger loss, he thought. The ship’s helicopters could be recovered easily enough, but that was another matter that he put far from his mind.
The crew also seemed different now. Each time they saw the crack of fire light up the horizon, then heard the deep rolling thunder of the American battleship firing, there was a long minute of tense anxiety on the bridge. Karpov saw one crewman looking up at the ceiling of the citadel, as if he thought a 16 inch shell might come blasting through the armored roof at any moment like Hayashi’s plane hit the aft citadel when they fought the Japanese. It was not the battleship he was worried about now, but the flights of aircraft massing above it.
The American planes had cut the range in half in the last ten minutes and were now inside thirty kilometers, ripe fruit for the flotilla’s potent missile defenses. Orlan led the way with her superb 9M96E missiles, designed for direct “hit to kill” impact. Their high speed maneuverability was attributed to canards and thrusters, which allowed them to achieve extremely high G turns with precision throughout the engagement envelope. In effect, it was a highly maneuverable shaped charge that would strike and detonate with a tight fragmentation pattern that was ripping the American planes to pieces, one by one.
Yet each missile fired was one less available in the magazines. Orlan started the battle with 180 SAMs, and she had already fired 46 missiles, each and every one finding a target, though three had homed on planes that had already been hit.
Rodenko report
ed that the SAM defense was exacting a terrible toll, but the Americans were still pressing doggedly forward. “This group must be off Halsey’s carriers,” he said to the Captain, pointing at the tactical board. “That second group there at the fifty kilometer mark must be coming from the Sprague group.”
“How many?”
“Signal tally has about 160 discrete contacts there, sir. The Halsey group we’re engaging now is much bigger, well over 250 aircraft. Orlan started with 152 SAMS after fending off Ziggy Sprague’s first attack, and we have 100 missiles in the Klinok system. Even if we score hits with every missile that will still leave over150 aircraft that will get through the SAM envelope for our close in systems to contend with. The Halsey air group must have vectored in on a signal from that battleship.” He pointed at the tactical board where the symbol for the Iowa was drawn by the computer.
Karpov had a distant look in his eyes now, lips tight, the tension evident on his jaw line. “I cannot allow over a hundred aircraft to get that close,” he said with a low and dangerous tone of voice.
The Captain turned and walked away, Rodenko looking after him, concerned. He saw Karpov leaning over Samsonov’s combat station, his hand reaching into his service jacket. Then he heard the order.
“Mister Samsonov, Activate P-900 system—Number ten missile.”
“Sir, aye, number ten missile… Sir, that weapon is mounted with a special warhead.” The big CIC Chief looked at the Captain for confirmation.
“Correct, Samsonov. Ready the missile for firing on our primary target.” Karpov had produced his missile key and was now leaning over the launch station, staring at the clear fiberglass key hole covers. There were two, side by side, but he had long ago ordered Martinov to reset the system to fire on insertion of a single command level key. This time there would be no countervailing order from Volsky. This time his word was final. And this time Sergeant Troyak would not appear at the eleventh hour and snatch away his key.
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