Pacific Storm

Chapter 10

Captain Sanji Iwabuchi was growing impatient, and impatience in a man of his disposition became a real vice in short order. Kiyota’s cruisers had been badly overmatched. The loss of Haguro stung him like a whip lash on his face, and he was quick to pass the pain along to any man near him.

“A shameful display,” he said to his executive officer, Koro Ono. “Our forces were scattered. We had no chi in the attack. This ghost dancer appears from thin air, neh? What ship is this, Ono? Surely not an American battleship cruising alone in these waters.”

“It must be British, sir. They are trying to reinforce the Australians. It could have come out of the Indian Ocean while we were assembling for this operation north of Timor Island, and before our submarine picket lines were deployed. It might even have reached Darwin and is only now sent fleeing from its hole to avoid being sunk by Admiral Hara’s planes.”

“Yes, and we are supposed to be shelling that place at this very moment!” Iwabuchi’s dour face clearly indicated his displeasure.

“Kiyota has a good name for this one,” said Ono. “Mizuchi—the ancient sea dragon. He says it took the bow off Haguro with just one bite, and engaged them at well over 30,000 yards with secondary batteries.”

“That is nonsense!” Iwabuchi fumed. “We will see how this ship fights soon enough. In the meantime, what about Hara’s carriers? It would be best if we could coordinate a strike with this engagement. Signal him at once.”

Ono bowed, and was off to the radio room to send a coded message. When he returned his face was set, lips tight, and he saluted before he spoke. “Sir, Admiral Hara reports that his task force is now experiencing force 7 winds with worsening conditions and severe thunder storms. He has elected not to launch another strike wave under those conditions.”

Iwabuchi just looked at him, his jaw tightening, eyes narrowed and threatening. He had been known to kill the messenger on more than one occasion, but he composed himself, staring ahead at the relatively calm seas in front of them.

“Ship ahead! Thirty degrees south.” The call came down from the high pagoda mast. Three bridge officers raised binoculars, and one man was already working out an estimated range.

“About 30,000 yards,” he said and the Captain grunted.

“Sir,” Ono continued. “Admiral Hara suggests we shadow this ship and keep contact throughout the night. Our bombardment mission to Darwin is canceled and we are herewith detached to pursue this vessel.”

“Detached? What about the invasion?”

“Sir, Admiral Hara still has Tone and five destroyers. And he has Mutsu and Nagato with the second wave troops coming out of Amboina and Kendari as well.”

“Yes, I hear he haggled with Yamamoto for them, and was even trying to get his hands on Musashi!”

“The plan has changed, Captain,” Ono continued. “The first wave troops out of Kupang are also experiencing high seas. They will be delayed enough by this weather to make a rendezvous with the second wave troops more feasible. Hara now plans to land both waves at once, and use the ships he has for cover. We are detached to pursue this British battleship, but the Admiral plans to operate his carriers well east of Darwin tomorrow morning, where he can support both the landings there and our action in the Arafura Sea.”

“Then we are to chase this Mizuchi and hold on to his tail,” said Iwabuchi. “So be it.” He looked darkly at the bridge crew. “Range to target?”

“Sir, we estimate 28,000 yards, but they are turning to Starboard now, running just north of that cape. The range is opening. They appear to be very fast.”

Iwabuchi raised his field glasses, eyes puckered, and finally saw the distant enemy ship himself. Hara was probably correct not to launch now, he thought. It would be another hour before the planes got here, and then he would be faced with a recovery operation in high seas and gale force winds. All the better for me, he realized.

“So this ship is fast,” he said. “Then it is not one of their old fat battleships. It must be a battlecruiser—most likely the Renown. Or perhaps even one of their newest ships.”

“We still have Nachi and Myoko, sir,” said Ono. “They have taken five or six light caliber hits each, but only one gun has been put out of action on Myoko, and there is no flooding or damage to the engines on either ship. We have the speed to keep this ship in sight, sir, and we can run all night before the wind.”

Iwabuchi liked the sound of that, and allowed himself a taut smile. “Gunnery officer!” Commander Kimitake Koshino was quickly at his side, bowing respectfully. “Fire at that ship. Both forward batteries. We will let them know we are coming.”

The first salvo came in short by over 1000 meters, and well off their port quarter, but Volsky noted how tight the splash pattern was, and the odd blue color of the water when the shells landed.

“That was typical of Japanese naval gunnery,” said Fedorov. “Their salvos will space no more than a hundred yards at times. It made for a lot of near misses, and fewer hits, but when they did find the target they could often score multiple hits at one time with a shell fall pattern that tight. That blue you see in the water splashes is dye, sir. The Kongo class battleships each used a different color dye so their spotters could distinguish which water splashes were from their own guns, Kongo used red dye, Hiei black, and Kirishima used blue dye.”

“Then they are not radar controlled?”

“No sir, but the Japanese had superb optics, and were excellent night fighters as well. They can put rounds on a target at long range, though there are no recorded hits in history beyond 26,000 yards or so. That said, I suggest we maneuver a bit to make it just a little more difficult for them to find the range.”

“What is the caliber of the guns?”

“14 inches, sir. Most likely Type 91 armor piercing rounds.”

“Not something we wish to experience firsthand,” said Volsky. “I have no desire to be painted blue and smashed by a 14 inch wide hunk of steel! We are making thirty-two knots?”

“Yes, sir. But Byko is complaining. That bomb hit we took aft was very near some of the hull damage we sustained in the Med.”

“Yes we have had our backside kicked more than once: the misfired Klinok, the helicopter incident, and those near misses the British sent our way. Now a bomb hit there. What does Byko say about it?”

“The hull is breeched sir, but well above the water line. We were spared serious damage due to the angle of the bomb, slightly off vertical, and it nearly missed us. It struck very near the outer gunwale before it penetrated two decks and blew out a three meter hole in the hull from the inside. It was also aft of our armor belt, sir. Most of the explosion was directed outward, away from the ship. He is doing his best to seal off the area and reinforce that sector with some metal work now. But remember the engines, sir. We had a vibration on the right turbine in the Med and there was some flooding there earlier. Byko says he has it well in hand, but it will remain a weak point to watch closely, particularly if we are running at full battle speed like this.”

“An Achilles heel…” Volsky folded his arms. “Very well, Mister Fedorov. You may maneuver the ship.”

“Excuse me, sir,” said Karpov. “Shall I return fire with the aft deck gun?”

Volsky looked at him, blinking. “No. I think we will remain silent. He is just shaking his fist at us, Mister Karpov. Hitting him with a 152 millimeter round or two is only likely to enrage the man, and steel his determination. Are we opening the range, Rodenko?”

“Yes, sir. Over 30,000 yards now with our turn east.”

There was no further fire from the pursuing ships, but Rodenko noted that two smaller signal returns were moving slightly ahead of the battleship now, and creeping up on them.

“Those must be the cruisers we fought off earlier,” said Fedorov.

“I make the speed at 34 knots at the moment,” said Rodenko.

Fedorov did a quick mental calculation. “With a two knot speed advantage they will only gain 3,700 meters on us per hour. That would put them at the maximum range of their guns an hour from now. The sun is behind that storm front, and we are losing light rapidly. Given that they must sight us optically, they probably won’t fire until they get closer. I think we have two hours before we should be worried about them.”

Volsky was satisfied. “Then unless that battleship persists in lobbing shells at us, we will rely on our speed for the moment. I am going below to speak with Dr. Zolkin about the casualties. Mister Karpov, if that battleship puts rounds close enough to pose a threat, slap his face. Use one MOS-III, not the deck guns, and hit his superstructure. He has fired and thrown down his gauntlet. I have heard his complaint, and I have not answered, but I will not be goaded indefinitely.”

“Very good, sir.”

Mizuchi slipped away, slowly sliding beneath the far horizon insofar as the battleship was concerned, though Kirishima was still pressing hard at 30 knots. Iwabuchi ordered the two cruisers to use their superior speed and advance close enough to keep the ship in visual range, but not so close as to provoke another engagement. The lesson learned earlier had been a hard one. To attempt to close on this sea dragon now would mean a slow, plodding gain, possibly under fire for hours before they could come into effective range.

The Captain was ill tempered, pacing the bridge at times, short with the men and in a very sour mood. When it became clear that they could do little more now, he finally relented and turned the bridge over to his executive officer Ono, going below for food and rest.

When the surly Captain had gone, Ono breathed a bit easier. He turned to Lt. Commander Ikeda, in charge of the ship’s secondary batteries with a knowing look. “It appears we have a situation here,” he said discretely.

Ikeda raised an eyebrow. “With the mood the Captain is in this could become something much more,” he said in a low voice. “Vendetta would be a better word. Iwabuchi will not take the loss of Haguro lightly. In fact I think he will take it very personally.”

“This enemy ship is fast! It has already slipped over the horizon.”

“The cruisers will keep hold of her, and we will get a seaplane up at first light again.”

“What do you make of this, Ikeda?”

“Something slipped in the planning, what else? The British had a ship at Darwin, and it is running for friendly ports on their east coast.”

“Most likely,” said Ono. “I believe there is a new squadron assigned to our airfield at Port Moresby, a group of G3M Rikko bombers. Perhaps we should notify them that this ship appears to be heading for the Torres Strait.”

“They won’t be able to hit a ship with this speed. That’s work for a carrier.”

“Initial reports were that a hit was scored when the ship was first spotted, but we have heard nothing since.”

“It will take a more concentrated strike by Hara’s carriers tomorrow,” Ikeda agreed. “Hara will get the job done. Either that or he can slow this one down enough for us to catch him.”

“Yes, old King Kong is coming east right behind us. But something tells me that this enemy ship is going to cause real trouble. It may be running now, but did you hear the report from Kiyota? He says they were taking small caliber hits at 30,000 yards!”

“He must have been mistaken,” Ikeda said politely. “I know secondary batteries and they can’t range much beyond 15,000 to 20,000 yards.”

“Yet I saw the damage when Nachi and Myoko joined us,” said Ono. “Those were not large caliber hits. They would have crushed those ships if they were from 14 inch guns like our main batteries.”

“They must have misjudged the range.”

“I’m not so sure, Ikeda. Captain Kiyota aboard Nachi is a skilled sea captain. He was working to get into torpedo range and we both know he could have fired with his Type 93s if he was inside typical secondary gun range. This ship could be something we’ve never seen—a new ship, with all new guns.”

“What was Kiyota talking about with this nonsense about Raiju? He said Haguro was hit by something new, fast as lightning, and with deadly accuracy and power.”

“It was most likely a large caliber shell from their main batteries,” said Ono. “What else could do such damage? The ship’s bow was practically ripped apart with that hit. A lucky shot, neh? Kiyota’s cruisers are good in a hunt, but no match for an enemy battleship. We were wise to order him to break off and rejoin us.”

“Yes, and I fear Iwabuchi will not rest until he brings this ship to battle.”

“Agreed,” Ono shrugged. “Get some rest, Lieutenant. Something tells me we’re going to be very busy the next few days, that is if these old engines can keep us in the hunt. It’s going to be a long night.”

Chapter 11

All that night Hara’s Kido Butai carrier force ran east, skirting the northern coast of Melville Island where Charlie One and Strangler had seen the action involving Kirov. But by now the two Aborigine scouts were far to the south, well away from the thickening squads of Japanese naval infantry from the Kure 26th SNLF that were now landing on the island in force.

In the pre-dawn hours of August 26, 1942 the planned invasion of Port Darwin was well underway. The heavy Bombardment Group centered on the two big battleships Admiral Hara had wrangled away from Yamamoto were now pounding the coastal shore batteries and inland positions where remnants of a small Australian defense force that had been evacuated from Port Moresby now held forth. Mutsu and Nagato fired salvo after salvo, their big 16 inch guns blasting the shore and sending huge columns of smoke into the grey dawn. Closer in, the light cruiser Tama and destroyers Onami, Kiyonami, and Okinami used their smaller guns to good effect as well.

Just before sunrise, the transport fleet began to disembark wave after wave of troops from the 21st Infantry Regiment, the Shimada Regiment from Yamashita’s 5th Division, the very same tigers that had so baffled the British forces defending in Malaya. It was all he would need. The Darwin garrison was no more than battalion strength, and would be overcome by persistent Japanese attacks within a few days.

Hara was so pleased with the work done by his battleship bombardment force, that he canceled a planned second air strike on Darwin and thought instead of his pursuit force further east. He turned to E-I flight leader Masafumi Arima aboard Shokaku where he set his flag, and asked for an update.

“Where is Iwabuchi and the pursuit force?”

“Sir? About 250 miles northeast of our position. The cruisers managed to shadow this enemy ship all night, but Kirishima slowly fell behind, even running at her very best speed, sir. The British have edged away, but Captain Kiyota aboard Nachi now reports Iwabuchi is just over twenty miles behind in the chase.”

“Amazing,” said Hara. “For that old battleship to stay so close at high speed like that is quite a feat. We must now think about slowing this British ship down, even if we have to disappoint Iwabuchi by sinking it. Prepare a major air strike this time. Sakamoto should have never sent only 9 planes with incendiaries yesterday, and I was equally remiss by sending only twelve torpedo bombers off Zuiho.”

That had been the one thing to darken Hara’s mood the previous day, for no report was ever received back from Matsua’s B5N2s. They waited well into the night, with Zuiho bravely running ahead of the storm to make for a safer recovery operation, but not a single plane returned. Now they were all presumed lost, the whole of Zuiho’s strike element. All she had left was Hidaka’s twelve A6M2 fighters and Hayashi with his sole surviving dive bomber, the hapless leader of that first ill-fated strike on this enemy ship. Hara had been taught a strong lesson. He would not repeat the mistake. This time he would use his more experienced pilots off the two fleet carriers, with the correct ordinance, and this time he would strike in force.

“Twenty planes gone,” he muttered. “At least we managed to fish half the pilots out of the sea. The Navy can give us more planes easily enough, but finding skilled men to fly them is another matter. Well, Captain, spot a good mixed strike wave this time. Use our squadrons as well as anything you need from Zuikaku. I want to avenge the men and planes we so foolishly lost yesterday. Let us attack this ship properly today, and put it on the bottom of the Arafura Sea.”

“Aye, sir! Seaplanes from Iwabuchi’s ship and the cruisers will have a good fix on the target. Who should I task to lead this attack, sir?”

“Sakamoto, who else? Let him use all of Ema’s dive bombers, and Yamaguchi’s as well. Assign Ichihara from our torpedo bombers, and Subota from Zuikaku—9 planes each. I do not think we will need many escort fighters, but send one squadron. Use Zuiho’s planes for top cover escort. We’ll keep our fighters for Combat Air Patrol over the fleet. I want a good coordinated strike.” He held up a finger, admonishing.

“Very good, sir. Sakamoto will handle the matter this time.”

“Oh yes,” Hara put in one last note. “Hayashi is still on Zuiho. Tell him he can join the attack as well, if his plane can still fly. It will do him some good. He’s most likely brooding at the edge of seppuku by now. Let’s give him the honor of riding in the van—one more chance to set things right, neh? Who knows, he might even get us another hit!”

Hayashi was indeed in a dark and somber mood. He sat in the flight briefing room aboard Zuiho, alone, staring at the empty chairs. His last goodbye to his old friend Matsua was indeed final, and now he was responsible not only for the death of his own men, but for the lives of Matsua’s men as well. The shame was too much to bear. He sat with his hands on his head, a miserable and forsaken man, on a forsaken ship.

What good was a carrier with no planes, no fire to breathe at the enemy? The ship had once been a sub-tender, and in his mind she was good for little else now that her only strike squadron was gone. It was all his fault, he knew. If he had completed his mission as first assigned then all these men and planes would still be here, and tonight he might drink with Matsua, as in old times, better times before the war.

Above he could hear sounds of activity as flight service crews seemed to be readying the last twelve fighters aboard for some action. Then a mechanic from the flight deck came rushing into the room his face red with excitement.

“Lieutenant Hayashi? There you are. Your plane is ready, sir!”

Hayashi did not move, then slowly turned, his eyes dark and sullen. “What are you talking about?”

“Your D3, sir. I’ve been working on it all night! I replaced the struts that were damaged from spare parts, and patched up both wings, sir. There is still a dent in the forward prop blade, but I have hammered it as smooth as I could. The engine will run a little rough, but I replaced all the oil and hydraulic fluid, and two damaged lines. They have already mounted your bomb, sir. The plane is on the elevator now!”

“Bomb?”

“Haven’t you heard, Lieutenant? You have been ordered to take off with Lieutenant Commander Hidaka’s fighters and lead in Sakamoto’s strike wave.”

At this Hayashi was suddenly focused. “Ordered to take off? By who?”

“We just got a signal from Shokaku, sir. You should come up on deck! They have spotted a big strike to go and kill this British ship that took down our brothers. Zuikaku’s planes are mustering on deck as well. You are the only strike plane left aboard Zuiho, and the Lucky Phoenix will fly with you today, Lieutenant. I was sent to find you. Takeoff in ten minutes, sir.”

Hayashi swallowed hard, surprised and honored to hear this news. His mood lifted considerably and he stood up, sniffing the sweet warm air and standing taller. The mechanic smiled. “I’ll see you on deck, sir!”

Hayashi nodded, looking around him now for his gloves and not finding them. No matter. If his plane would fly, then he would fly as well. Those orders could have only come from one man, he knew, Admiral Hara himself. He started for the door, then stopped, turning once more to look at the rows of empty chairs. Then he bowed silently, saluted, and rushed for the flight deck, listening to the drone of engines as the first fighters began to take off.

By the time he reached the upper deck he could see that his plane was already spotted and ready, with a subsection of three A6M2s, right behind it. A young fighter pilot came to greet him with a bow. “Lieutenant Hayashi? I am Yoshimi Minami, shotai leader assigned to you as escort. I have the honor to fly with you in the vanguard, sir.” He smiled, eyes bright with youth and fire beneath his flight bonnet. Then he gestured, pointing the way.

Hayashi nodded and then strode boldly across the white striped flight deck to mount his plane. The engine was already started and a mechanic jumped down, saluting as Hayashi climbed.

“I’m sorry sir,” the man shouted. “But we have no radio man to send with you.”

“Not necessary,” said Hayashi, and everyone who heard him knew why. Hayashi had been given a rare and special honor. He would be privileged to relive the past, and this time he was determined to acquit himself and redeem not only his own soiled honor, but that of all the men of his own squadron who had died, and those of Matsua’s squadron as well.

The flight deck leader stepped quickly to the front of his waiting plane and bowed. He made the signal that would only be given to the hikotaicho, strike leader, and Hayashi swelled with newfound pride.

Hayashi saluted crisply and slid the canopy shut tight, strapping himself quickly into this seat and breathing deeply. His left arm still pained him where a shell had grazed him before it killed his radio man in a the rear compartment. This time he would fly alone—just one wounded man in one wounded plane—the last and only strike plane aboard Zuiho that day.

The chocks were removed and the flag man waved him forward. As he began to rev up his engine tears glazed his eyes, as he knew in his heart of hearts that he would never return.

Sayonara, he thought to all he loved back home—to mother, father, elder sister, and all he had ever known. Sayonara, Matsua, and to all my brothers waiting for their chance at another life. I now have mine, and I will spend it gladly to avenge your deaths, and strike this demon like a Thunder God.

Today I am Jinrai Butai!

The sky above was filling up with droning formations of dive bombers and torpedo planes. They were mostly circling high above the three carriers, but one group flew low, a squadron of 9 torpedo bombers roaring over the long flat deck of Zuiho just before Hayashi took off. The last of them tipped its wings back and forth, and Hayashi knew it was Lt. Subota off his mother ship Zuikaku. Then he heard Reijiro Otuka’s gritty voice over his short range headset. He was radio man aboard Subota’s plane.

“Come on up, Hayashi. Everyone is waiting for you!”

Hayashi gunned his engine and his plane hurtled down the long flight deck and labored into the sky. Behind him the last three fighters of Zuiho’s escort followed in his wake, soon climbing with him and taking up positions to either side, with one behind and above, a princely escort of three A6M2 Rei-sen fighters. Then he heard another voice in his headset as he reached altitude, joined by nine more fighters off Zuiho.

“Lieutenant Hayashi!” It was Sakamoto, the strike commander and veteran of so many successful battles. “Steer 67 degrees northeast. You may lead us in!”

Hayashi reached up to engage his microphone and spoke proudly. “It will be my honor, sir!” He opened his throttle and maneuvered his plane to the van. Behind him were wide formations of D3As, nine led by Sakamoto and nine more under Lt. Commander Ema. Just behind them there were eighteen more dive bombers led by Yamaguchi off the carrier Shokaku. The wave would finish up with nine B5N2 torpedo bombers under Subota, and another nine led by Ichihara from Shokaku. There were all of fifty-four strike planes behind him now, this time all the dive bombers properly armed with armor piercing bombs, the B5Ns prominently carrying their long Koku Gyorai ‘Thunderfish,’ the type 91 torpedoes. He was plane number 55, the chosen swallow in the lead, with an escort of all twelve of Hidaka’s fighters off Zuiho, their white wings bright in the sun.

He breathed in deeply. It was a glorious morning, and a glorious way to die. He would join his brothers soon.

They saw the planes on radar at a few minutes before 06:00 hours at a range of 225 miles, Rodenko shouting out the contact in a clear voice. Battle stations sounded and men rushed to take up seats at the lightning fast computer stations, the milky green screens winking out data, lights flashing system readiness. Karpov was holding down the watch that morning, and Fedorov and Admiral Volsky were soon to the bridge, the latter somewhat winded, but finally awake after the long climb up to the citadel.

“Admiral on the Bridge!”

“As you were, gentlemen,” Volsky huffed, walking straight to Rodenko’s radar station for a look at the reading.

“A large contact sir. I’m reading over sixty discrete units, about 200 miles out now. They will be nearly an hour closing the range at their current speed.”

“Sixty planes? Someone wants to ruin our pleasure cruise for sure this time. Samsonov, what is our SAM inventory?”

“Thirty-five S-300s and thirty–seven Klinoks, sir.”

“Seventy-two missiles,” Volsky shook his head. “And after that we become a sitting duck, as the Americans might say, at least insofar as air strikes are concerned. Opinions?” His eyes moved from Karpov to Fedorov.

“This is probably the heart of the remaining strike aircraft off the two fleet carriers,” said Fedorov. “It will be a mixed strike composed of both dive bombers and torpedo bombers—only this time I think they will coordinate the strike to hit us with everything they have at one time.”

“We could have hit those carriers with a Moskit-II early this morning while they were arming and fueling. Was it so hard to assume they would mount this strike?” Karpov had a dejected look on his face. “We have been too reluctant to do what is necessary here, and now we pay the price. For that matter, we should have pounded those cruisers last night as well, then shaken them off and used a few SAMs to shoot down their seaplanes. Then we could have broken away and they would not know where we are.”

“But they know where we are headed,” said Fedorov. “The Torres Strait is the only channel east we can use, and we will have to slow to 10 knots there. It will undoubtedly be watched by planes out of Port Moresby as well. So it is just a matter of time before their search assets locate us. We can’t expend vital missile inventory shooting down seaplanes, not with combat strikes like this one heading our way.”

“Then we will have to break that formation up at range,” said Karpov. “Just as we did with those strike waves off the British carriers.”

“You recommend we engage at once with the S-300s?” Volsky raised a heavy eyebrow.

“I do, sir. We can start with one missile canister at 125 miles, a second barrage at 100 miles if necessary.” Each canister would house up to eight missiles, so Karpov was proposing they expend just under half their remaining S-300s in the initial attacks.

“It will be necessary,” said Fedorov. “We’ll shock them, and definitely hurt them, but they will not break off and run. They’ll press in the attack with every last plane.”

“I assume as much having seen the first two strikes,” said Karpov. “We can expend half our S-300’s and see what remains of their strike assets. Then at 40 miles out we can hit them with the Klinok system if their numbers remain high. Any that get through that will be grist for our Gatling guns, just as before.”

“A sound plan,” said Volsky. “Half our S-300s and then probably half our Klinok missiles as well. That means we can only play this game one more time! What else will those carriers have left, Fedorov?”

“This will be the heart of their strike planes, sir. Those two carriers could hold seventy-two planes each. We’ve already killed twenty of a possible 144. That leaves 124 planes, with fifty-four of them most likely being A6M2 fighters. That would leave seventy strike planes, and Rodenko says he has nearly that many contacts. They may have some fighters or torpedo planes in reserve, but not more than a dozen.”

“What about the third carrier?” Karpov asked.

“A light escort carrier,” said Fedorov. “They usually carried two groups, half fighter and the other half strike planes of one sort or another. No more than twenty-four planes in all. These may be their reserve.”

Volsky shook his head, remembering that first British plane he ordered shot down with an S-300. Then the ship’s silos and magazines had been full, glutted with reloads for the planned live fire exercises. Now every missile he fired brought them one step closer to a condition where even these old propeller planes, obsolete seventy years before Kirov had ever been built, could pose a real threat. One had already blackened the aft deck and put a hole in the hull above the waterline. Kirov already bore an unsightly scar from a war that would just not let them be. He sighed.

“We talked our way out of some real trouble a few weeks ago at Gibraltar,” he said. “Something tells me these men will not be so accommodating as Admiral Tovey, even if we did have someone aboard who could speak Japanese.”

“No, sir,” said Karpov. “I’m afraid we will have to let our missiles do the talking here.”

“It seems so. And what you have said about taking a more proactive stance in these matters has not gone unheard, Captain. You may be right, Karpov. We are measured against a foe here that will be implacable. The Americans had to burn and blast their way from one desolate island to the next in this war, and it ended with Hiroshima and Nagasaki. If we do manage to evade the Japanese, let us not also forget the Americans. They will have a considerable score to settle with us too if they ever realize we are the same foe they faced in the Atlantic. Very well, gentlemen. Man your stations. Mister, Fedorov, you will maneuver the ship in this action.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Mister Karpov, you will make the tactical weapons deployments… Fight your battle.”

Chapter 12

The Missiles rose into the violet of the early morning with sudden fury, the sound of their rocket engines shaking the air when the main engines ignited. The current model of the S-300 system aboard Kirov was a vastly updated variant of the older S-300P missile, a rotating canister of eight missiles mounted in an underdeck vertical silo. They ranged out to 150 miles, and would streak out at a blistering speed exceeding Mach 6.0 to deliver a large 150kg warhead if the missile got anywhere near the target, and sending a hail of withering shrapnel in all directions. They would have little or no difficulty finding targets in a massed formation such as the one headed Kirov’s way now. They were so accurate that they could even be used against short range ballistic missiles if necessary, but the relatively slow planes in their long formation lines would make perfect targets.

One after another they fired and went on their scorching way, and for the flights of planes that saw them coming it was a nightmare the like of which they had never seen—save one.

Hayashi saw the evil contrails climbing up for them at a hideous rate of speed and the awful memory of the death of his squadron returned. The pulse of fear hit his gut, but he steadied himself. The Dragon has fired, he thought. Last time we were right on top of this demon, and these rockets tore my formation to pieces, then came the flak guns, so lethal that he was amazed his single plane had managed to survive intact. This time it will be even worse, he knew. Our planes are just waiting to be struck, all lined up like birds on a fence! In a flash he knew what he had to do, clutching the microphone at his throat he shouted out his warning.

“This is Hayashi! All squadrons—disperse, disperse, disperse! We will regroup at 12,000 feet!” And he immediately put his plane into a steep dive. The three fighters escorting him were surprised by the sudden maneuver, but they soon recovered, tipped their wings and dove with him. Above and behind, other squadrons close enough to hear Hayashi’s plaintive warning reacted in different ways. Some kept stubbornly on wondering if Hayashi had lost his nerve after all, and waiting for further orders from strike leader Sakamoto. Then they saw the missiles clawing up through the clear blue sky and their eyes widened with surprise.

Yamaguchi’s D3A2 squadrons off Shokaku were the first to be hit. Three S-300s ignited right across their flight path and the whole of 1st squadron’s nine planes flew directly into the hail of metal shrapnel. Of the nine Vals, five were hit, three so badly that they tailspinned down out of control, the remaining two were badly shaken and one was afire. 2nd Squadron was above and a thousand meters behind, and when they saw what happened to their brothers, and spied three more missiles heading their way, Hayashi’s warning made immediate sense.

“Follow me!” One man shouted as he put his plane into a steep dive. The missiles veered to a new intercept course that took them right through the remainder of 1st squadron, where two found planes and ignited in great fireballs blazoning in the clear blue sky.

Several thousand feet below, the torpedo bombers all got the word and began to disperse in groups of three, their shotai leaders taking them down well below the 12,000 foot elevation Hayashi had called for. One group was sought, and hit, by the last two S-300s, and all three planes were destroyed, cut to pieces by the intense shrapnel in the exploding missiles.

Yet the tally at the end of that first salvo from Kirov was disheartening. For eight missiles they had destroyed eight planes and damaged two others, one so badly that it had to turn for home, a bad fuel leak making its prospects for a safe landing now very unlikely. Instead it would look for the pursuit force and ditch in the sea near Kirishima, and its valuable pilot would live to fight another day.

Minutes later they saw more white contrails arcing up into the sky, and the pilots braced for another round, their engine throttles now open full as they bravely charged, yet not a single man had even sighted the ship they were supposed to be targeting!

Three of the escorting A6M2 Zeros bravely raced towards the oncoming missiles, their machine guns firing in a vain effort to engage the sky demons. But the missiles were simply too fast, faster even than the machine gun rounds that sought them out, and the fighters had no chance in the world to ever shoot them down. Yet what they did have was a chance to sacrifice themselves so that some of their brothers in the strike planes could push on to the attack. Three of the eight missiles found Zeros, blowing them to pieces, while the five remaining missiles pushed into isolated groups of two and three planes, their contrails twisting like vapor rope as they maneuvered, vectored in on targets, and blew them from the sky.

Three dive bombers died, along with two more torpedo bombers. A third Kate had its wings so riddled with shrapnel that it lost too much lift and fuel, and had to jettison the heavy torpedo it was carrying. It was effectively out of the battle, and the count was now eighteen planes lost for sixteen missiles. This left twenty eight Vals and twelve Kates still aloft and inbound as the strike wave crossed through the ninety mile mark. Nine more fighters remained as well, a total of forty-nine planes still headed Kirov’s way.

Aboard Kirov Karpov watched the results on radar, with Rodenko reading out these same numbers to tally the score. It was most disheartening.

“They seemed to react very quickly,” said Rodenko. “Look how they dispersed in all directions, not like the first two groups, which held formation the whole way in.”

“It seems they learn fast,” said Karpov. “Just like the British. How long before they come in range of the Klinok System?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Very well. Secure the S-300 system, Samsonov. We will shift the defense to our intermediate range systems now. I want to retain some long range defensive umbrella, and our S-300 missile inventory has reduced to just nineteen missiles. This is not the way to adequately repel an attack of this scale, but given our missile inventory, it is all we can do at the moment.”

Kirov’s systems were fully capable of defeating a force the size of Admiral Hara’s strike wave, though in modern combat the application of firepower in the defense would be much greater. If these had been sixty American strike planes off one of their nuclear carriers, the ship would have fired with everything they had. In modern combat it was always a do or die proposition, and the careful, measured application of defensive firepower was likely to only produce one result—a sunk ship. The tension mounted as they waited, watching the slow advance of the enemy on radar.

“They seem to be reforming at 12,000 feet,” said Rodenko.

“When will they spot us?” asked Karpov?

“At that height? The horizon is all of 130 miles away for them. They can see where our missiles contrails are leading now, and soon we’ll be big enough to pick out with an unaided eye on the sea.”

“One disadvantage of our missiles, eh?” said Karpov. “They lead the enemy right to our doorstep.” He stood up, looking at the ship’s chronometer. “With your permission, Admiral, I will begin the next engagement in ten minutes with the Klinok system.”

Volsky nodded. “Carry on, Captain.”

The Klinok missiles could strike targets at almost 20,000 feet, and the strike wave was right in the middle of this range envelope, moving inside forty miles. Sometimes called the Kinzhal as it was a variant of the older 3K95 missile system. The Klinok, or ‘Blade,’ had once been an export version of the weapon, but this latest variant was given that name when installed on the newly remodeled Kirov. A cold launch system, the missiles were ejected via gas catapult before their engines fired, and then sent on their way and controlled by two radars, one for long range acquisition and the second for target prosecution.

Each underdeck canister in the system held eight missiles, though the radars had been designed to prosecute no more than four simultaneous targets per canister. Klinok was, therefore, designed to double team each contact, allowing for two missiles to vector in on the target to assure its destruction. But given the circumstances, Kirov did not have the luxury of expending its vital munitions in such an extravagant manner.

“Ready, Samsonov? These will be single fire scenarios. No barrage. I want each missile to track and acquire before we fire the next, clear?”

“Aye, sir. Switching to single fire mode and all systems report ready.”

“Hold fire until they are inside twenty kilometers.”

“The radars were acquiring targets well beyond that, but the missiles would be much more effective inside that shorter range envelope.

Samsonov began to key missiles to targets with quick taps of his light pen on the screen. This was modern combat. He was not hunched in the pilot seat like his enemy, listening to the roar of his plane’s engines as they surged ahead through the wild missile fires, their hands and feet tight on the yoke and throttle, faces set and grim. Instead he sat in an air conditioned room, tapping glass to glass on a computer controlled data screen, quietly completing all his missile assignments.

Karpov turned and nodded in his direction.

“You may begin.”

When the next round of missiles came they seemed sleeker, more deliberate, their contrails fine lines in the sky as they reached for the planes. First one came, and it sought out a D3A Val. The pilot spun away, tipping over and trying put his plane into an evasive dive, but the missile would not be fooled. It maneuvered in a tight turn and struck the plane full on, obliterating it in a bright orange and black explosion.

Another and another came up for them, a slow, deliberate procession of contrails in the sky. Hayashi heard a shout of ‘bonzai’ in his ear and saw three A6M2 Rei-sen fighters veer off to head for the missiles, as if they might dogfight them. Their powerful engines and superior speed sent them surging ahead of the main body of strike planes, where they quickly gained the attention of the lead missile. The computer brains in the missiles adapted, re-acquired, and targeted the Zeros. All three planes died spectacular deaths, one by one, and then three more vapor thin contrails arced up at them as the deadly game continued.

Kirov traded eighteen missiles for planes in the attack. Every missile fired found a plane, but the inventory also fell to a dangerous low of only nineteen missiles remaining. Eight Vals, four Kates and six brave Zeros died, leaving only the three that had been assigned to Hayashi as his personal escort. Before it was over Hoashi, and Ichihara were dead, both squadron leaders off Shokaku, but all the other buntaicho leaders survived. The strike wave had been largely destroyed. Only twenty-eight strike planes and three fighters remained, and the Japanese would have had a much more satisfactory result by simply bailing out to save their pilots once they crossed into the lethal target envelope of the missiles, but that factor was simply not in the equation for them. They pressed on, thirty one planes now able to see and target their enemy for the first time.

They were ten miles out and coming fast, and Hayashi heard Sakamoto shouting orders to his widely dispersed shotai. The dive bombers would come down from their present altitude, though Sakamoto was taking his section up to 15,000 feet to overview the attack. The last eight torpedo bombers were taking an everyman for himself strategy, and diving to lower altitudes to approach from all compass headings.

Hayashi and his three fighter escorts were somewhere in the midst of it all now, and he signaled to those planes nearest to him. “Stay with me. We’ll all go in together, brothers, Jinrai Butai!”

There was an agonizing wait as the planes drew ever closer to the dark ship below them, then Sakamoto gave the order and the Aichi D3As tilted their noses into the gleaming sun and started to dive with shouts and curses and exclamations of bonzai! The attack was finally pressing home, with fewer than half as many planes that took off from the carriers.

Karpov immediately engaged the same system he had used earlier to repulse the first surprise dive bomber strike—the deadly Kashtans. The missile element of the system sent up sixteen rockets in two barrages of eight. Traveling at nearly 3000 feet per second, they were quick to the targets just after the planes began their dives.

The first planes were hit, some by two missiles at once, and sent spinning wildly out of control. One had a wing sheared off, which in turn was struck by another missile and incinerated. In all the sixteen rockets claimed another twelve Vals, leaving only eight intrepid planes who got close enough to try and drop their bombs. Of these the lethal Gatling Guns rattled out death and destruction for three. Five bombs were actually released, two were from Squadron Leaders Ema and Sakamoto, and they straddled Kirov with two near misses that shook the ship very hard and sent steel fragments into systems along the lower port side weather deck. The other three bombs fell wide off the mark, while the AR-710 main Gatling gun systems were quickly engaging the eight torpedo bombers with sharp, deadly bursts of riveting fire. Of these, six were knocked down on approach, and only two got close enough to release their torpedoes, which ran wide of the mark, being poorly aimed in the frantic energy of the battle.

Then Hayashi and his three Zeros came screaming in, and the Kashtans rotated their long black barrels to train on the targets. The horrid whir and sharp rattle of the guns split the air and the whine of the oncoming planes seemed a terrible agony. Two of the three Zeros were struck and on fire, their engines riddled with 30mm shells, power lost and sent into steep unrecoverable dives. But Hayashi kept on, he was very close now and should have quickly released his bomb, but his face was set in a deadly mask and he opened the throttle full out, forsaking his dive brakes. Then he felt his lumbering plane hit first on one wing, then another, astonished to see segments of both wings sheared right off. The stick jolted in his hands but he was no longer concerned to aim or deliver his bomb. Instead he struggled with all his might to keep the plane aimed at the enemy ship, and then the last of the Thunder Gods, the brave Jinrai Butai, the last plane off Zuiho, rode his flaming D3A right into the heart of the ship.

Lt. Ema had managed to evade the awful close in Gatling fire, only because his plane had not yet been targeted, and he was skimming low on the water, craning his neck over his right shoulder when he saw Hayashi’s brave dive. There was a massive explosion, just aft of the second tower where the Fregat 3D radar system rotated fitfully to trace the battle out in milky green screens on the main bridge. Smoke and fire broiled up from the heart of the ship.

“Bonzai, Hayashi!” he yelled “Bonzai!”

The first to find and hit Kirov was now the last, and Hayashi had scored one more vindicating blow in trade for the lives and planes of Hara’s entire strike wing.

The battle was over.