Pacific Storm

Chapter 19

Kirov moved slowly south into the gathering darkness, the sun blazoning gold behind her, and the threat of distant storm clouds fisting up over the shadowy green folds of Papua New Guinea to the north. They moved south for an hour, then slowed to five knots so Byko could get divers in the water with acetylene torches and hull sealing plates.

This was a new innovation the Russians had developed in 2018, designed specifically for waterborne ship hulls. It was a series of panels that could be placed on the exterior hull to cover a gash or hole. They had elastic sealing edges to eliminate caulking and pre-drilled joining holes with rivets that could be mounted at specific points along the existing hull and then secured by durable welds. The panels were four feet by eight feet, and the wound in Kirov’s hull required three to create a patch that was eight feet high by twelve feet wide. Once in place Byko could then activate pumps to void the flooded compartments of seawater, and then men could get inside that area to further reinforce the breach from within. That work would take considerably longer, but at least the ship could get underway with the exterior patch in place.

It took the divers over an hour to cut away jagged metal with underwater torches and prepare the area for the seal, and then another ninety minutes before the panels were in place. They had the KA-40 up behind the ship watching for signs of further activity from the Torres Straits, but the obvious presence of mines in the channels there had forced the Japanese to wait for destroyers to come up from Hara’s carrier force to sweep the area before capital ships could be risked again in the restricted waters. The lesson of Kirishima’s fate was evident for all to see, though Iwabuchi steamed aboard the cruiser Tone, angry at the delay. There were also a thousand men aboard Kirishima, in no danger of sinking further, but marooned on a derelict ship that would be an easy target for allied B-17s out of Cairns or Townsville. Hara’s A6M2 fighters were up at dusk over the stranded battleship, until darkness lessened the threat.

In the meantime, the crew of Kirov used the time feverishly to complete hull repairs and make the ship seaworthy for higher speeds. They were making the last of the welds on the hull patch when Rodenko reported he had something more than storm clouds on his radar at 21:20 hours, a signal out of the east that appeared to be a small formation of planes.

“Those will have to be out of Port Moresby,” said Fedorov. “Most likely Japanese bombers, or perhaps seaplanes out on a search pattern.”

They were, indeed, a squadron of G3M2 twin engine “Nell” bombers that had been sent to look for the enemy ship near dusk and mark its position. There were twelve in all, and they were flying a widely spaced search fan out of Port Moresby to the west, grouped in four shotai of three planes each. Only one of the three had been mounted with torpedoes, however, so the threat was not as great as it first appeared on radar.

Third shotai was lucky, or unlucky enough to be on a search vector that took them directly toward Kirov, and Fedorov could see that the other planes were on headings intended to cover areas north and south of their position. They considered whether or not to engage at long range, but realized that would simply reveal their position. So they waited, hoping that the enemy planes might not find them, but they were soon disappointed. Three planes began to descend in altitude, obviously getting down to make a possible torpedo run, and Karpov, with a free hand insofar as tactical defense of the ship was concerned, decided it would be best take them out with missiles from the Klinok system. The aft silos were void now but they still had nineteen missiles in the forward deck silos. He used three, downing all three planes at a range of ten miles.

When Number 3 shotai failed to report or return, the Japanese knew they had an approximate location for the enemy ship they had come to call Mizuchi. Yet the commander on the ground at Port Moresby was unwilling to commit more of his precious bombers to a naval strike. His squadrons had not been fully trained for anti-ship operations, and his primary task was to answer the daily bombing raids being sent his way from Cairns, and to soften up the last enemy outpost in New Guinea at Milne Bay. For this reason, he reported the probable location of the enemy ship to Admiral Hara, and let the matter go.

Darkness and rain were welcome friends that night as Kirov completed her hull repairs and eventually got on her way sometime after 21:40 hours. It was slow going at first, ten knots to test the integrity of the hull patch. When it held satisfactorily, Fedorov ordered twenty knots, and then went below to find the Admiral and make a full report. Karpov turned the bridge over to Rodenko as the ship moved slowly south through a warm light rain, into the deep blue Coral Sea.

At that time Hara’s carriers had reached the western approaches to the Torres Straits, and his destroyers were busy sweeping a channel for their passage. With the main Prince of Wales Channel closed by the imposing hulk of Kirishima, an alternate route was sought that night. The Dayman and Simpson Channels to the north were too shallow for the 8.8 meter draft of the carriers so it was decided to risk going south of the large Prince of Wales Island and into Endeavour Strait near Cape York. The Japanese had good charts of the region, and the depth of Endeavor Strait was typically between ten and thirteen meters, enough water to slip the carriers through, though they would come under the watchful eyes of a small Australia Command Outpost on Horn Island.

There Lt. Commander Fenton’s Horn Island Detachment was surveying sites for a possible airfield, guarded by a small militia battalion under Lt. Commander Davies. They got a good look at a small procession of Japanese ships, five destroyers, the heavy cruiser Tone, light carrier Zuiho and then the sleek new fleet carriers Zuikaku and Shokaku. The two other cruisers Nachi and Myoko were able to find passage north of Kirishima’s position, their shallower draft of 6.3 meters enabling them to navigate the waters there better. Far behind, the large battleships Mutsu and Nagato would follow the carriers in time, with another fist full of destroyers.

The men on Horn Island would get a more than a few rounds that night as the price for their front row seat to the parade. They hunkered down in slit trenches with field glasses trained on the glassy sea, sweating it out in the mud and rain as the Japanese fleet moved slowly through the strait. Something big was obviously up if all these ships were moving east, and they made a full report by wireless to coastwatchers on the York Peninsula. Australia Command was soon informed that the Japanese seemed to be moving heaven and earth to get after a mysterious ship that was still at large in the Coral Sea—a ship that had managed to sink heavy cruiser Haguro, leave the battleship Kirishima a burning wreck in the channel, and beat off every air strike the Japanese threw at it.

Things were getting very interesting at FRUMEL Headquarters in the Monterey Apartments of Melbourne. Osborne and Novak worked the whole afternoon, taking phone calls from British liaison officers out of Perth that seemed to muddy the water more than anything else. In the meantime, decrypts of Japanese naval signals indicated that the enemy seemed to be extremely concerned about this mysterious ship they had come to call Mizuchi. Osborne and Novak were equally concerned, as there seemed to be no way to explain the ship’s presence, until a strange signal was received from the British near dusk on the 26th of August.

It seems someone had sent a message all the way from Bletchley Park. It hopped into Gibraltar, went out as coded signal to Alexandria where it was relayed to Colombo on Ceylon. From there it was sent to Perth, and then phoned in to Melbourne. The shock was that the British stated their belief that the ship now being scrutinized by FRUMEL analysts had been the same one escorted to the Island of St. Helena, arriving there three days earlier and then simply vanishing.

“Vanishing?” Novak looked at Osborne, clearly astounded. “They used that exact word?”

“They did.”

“The British actually think this is the raider they were after in the Med? My, God, Man. It’s thousands of miles away!”

“7,800 nautical miles, to be more exact,” said Osborne.

“In 24 hours? The damn ship was spotted by our coastwatchers on the 24th. The British have had a little too much brandy, Ozzie. This is nonsense.”

“It came right from Bletchley Park. Hut Four.”

That was enough to give Novak pause, but he was still shaking his head. “Look, you and I both know—”

“Some very big names have signed off on this message, Admiral John Tovey for one. Alan Turing for another.”

“Turing? Well they’ve got it wrong. It won’t be the first time. They kept insisting the Japanese were going to hit us at Pearl, but what came of all that? Nothing.”

“No, but they damn well hit us at Manila, didn’t they, and they’ve been hitting us ever since.”

“That’s another matter,” Novak was adamant. “No ship can move nearly 8000 miles in a single day. I don’t suppose this message cares to explain that little detail, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t. But they have their own name for this ship, this sea dragon the Japanese have been after the last three days. They call it Geronimo.”

“Well they can call it whatever they like, it can’t be the ship they escorted to St. Helena, and they’re fools if they think it is.”

Osborne, took a long puff from his pipe, exhaling slowly, and looking at Novak with a serious expression on his face now. “I may be going out on a limb here,” he began. “Ever hear that code name before, Novak?”

“Geronimo? Can’t say as I have.”

“Well I’ve heard it, and it doesn’t surprise me that neither you or anybody else knows about it.”

“What’s so special about you, Mr. Wizard? Where did you get wind of it?”

“That would be telling,” said Osborne evasively. “Let’s just say that the British have held this one close to their chest for at least a year. You know about that incident in the North Atlantic last August, eh?”

“Of course. I knew men on the Mississippi. Nazis made a big mistake setting their U-boat fleet loose on that ship. What did it get them?”

“It wasn’t a U-boat attack,” Osborne said slowly, an edge of caution in his voice.

Now Novak looked over his shoulder at the man, suddenly quiet. Then he turned and pulled out a chair, sitting down and leaning heavily on his elbows, one hand in his dark wavy hair. “Suppose you tell me what really happened then,” he suggested.

“Can’t say as I have all the dope myself,” said Osborne. “But I do know it was no U-boat attack. There was a raider at sea, and the British sortied damn near the whole Home Fleet to go after it. Seems this ship was using some rather formidable weapons—rockets used against both ships and planes.”

“Rockets? Well the Russians have been using them for years. What’s so new about that?”

“The accuracy,” said Osborne slowly. “The impact. These were not like the Russian RS-82 and RS-132s. Not like the British 3 inch rockets, or even our own Forward Firing Aerial Rocket project for ASW work. They were something much bigger, deadly accurate, enough to take out an incoming strike wave of planes miles before it ever got anywhere near the firing ship.”

“I see…” Novak was now very interested.

“Yes, and they had bigger stuff as well. Anti-ship rockets, incredible range, pinpoint accuracy. They walloped the British something fierce. Put a couple of their carriers in dry dock and sunk the Repulse.”

Novak’s eyes widened. “You mean to say Repulse was sunk by this raider? There was no U-Boat attack there either?”

“No U-boat attack. It was this ship they started calling Geronimo, the one the US claimed as a trophy after Mississippi went down. You read the reports—Desron 7 was supposed to have taken the bastard down, though not a single ship survived that attack, right?”

“That’ s the way the official report reads.”

“Well the official report is bullshit,” Osborne tapped his pipe in the ashtray, picking at some loose tobacco as he did so. “The whole Desron 7 thing was nothing more than a cover story. Now you keep this quiet, Novak,” he lowered his voice, a warning evident in his eyes behind his dark rimmed spectacles, “but I can tell you this much. Five destroyers showed up at Halifax twelve days after they supposedly disappeared during this incident with the raider. You want to know their names? Plunkett, Hughes, Madison, Gleaves and Lansdale—Desron 7, or at least the last five destroyers from that group. They told quite a story too. Said they returned to Argentia Bay and there was nobody there—no ships in the harbor, no airbase, absolutely nothing. They claimed they searched the whole area, even put men ashore, but that the whole place was abandoned, flattened.”

“But the Atlantic Charter conference was going on at that time. That’s ridiculous!”

“Yes, it certainly is, but this is what the skipper off Plunkett claimed, a fellow named Kauffman. They interviewed every man on every goddamned ship and they all corroborate what this Captain Kaufman says. The men say those destroyers pulled up anchor and headed south for Halifax, and they just come waltzing into the harbor some days later. Hard to believe, but that’s what really happened to Desron 7. The Navy got hold of those ships, painted over their hull numbers, renamed every last one and scattered them to harbors all over the Pacific Coast.”

“Are you serious? How did you get this information?”

“I never did get it. You never heard about it either, Novak. Use your head. This stuff is buried as deep as they could dig the hole, but I have a few contacts here and there that I can’t mention, and I got the scuttlebutt from them. Either it’s all a crock of shit, or something really strange went down in the Atlantic last year.”

“Then if Desron 7 didn’t get this raider, this Geronimo the British are talking about, what happened to it?”

“It just vanished…” Osborne let that dangle for a moment. “And that’s what they say right here in this message, Novak: Contact lost, 23-AUG-42, no sightings. Confidence high this is Geronimo. Details to follow.”

Novak leaned back in his chair, clearly nonplussed.

“Well I’ll be a monkey’s ass,” he said slowly.

Osborne lit his pipe again.

Chapter 20

Fedorov found Admiral Volsky in the reactor room, leaning over a table with Dobrynin. The floor was still wet with an eighth inch of seawater, and men were working mops in one area of the compartment. Two bulkheads away they could hear the sound of the pumps running, and the clatter of tools on hard metal. It had been very close, he thought. If the reactor room had been flooded…. He didn’t want to think about it further.

“Mister Fedorov,” said Volsky. “Just the man I wanted to see! Come have a look at these printouts.”

“These are charts of the reactor performance data the Admiral asked me to produce,” said Dobrynin.

“Is there something wrong with the core?” That was always a great hidden danger on any nuclear powered ship.

“No, don’t worry about it,” said Dobrynin. “The core was never threatened. Just a little leakage from the outer hull breach, a little seawater is all that made it in here. The men will have it mopped up in no time.”

“But have a look, Fedorov. Notice the line of that chart.”

Fedorov leaned over, staring at the chart, a bit like a seismograph reading it seemed to him, and he noted a series a vertical lines pointed out by Dobrynin with a heavy thumb.

“Each line is one day, marking the end of a normal twenty-four hour period. This red line is the total power output, so you can see where it increases when we were running the ship at high speed. This violet line however, those are flux levels in the core.”

“Do you notice anything?” Volsky asked, eager to see if Fedorov saw what the other two men had been discussing.

“Well it looks like the line spikes every so often.”

“That’s what I saw,” said Volsky. “Dobrynin here tells me its normal, however.”

“It’s just a routine maintenance operation,” the engineer explained. “We’re running a 24-rod reactor core here. Twenty-four control rods, but we have to inspect them at regular intervals. So what we do is pull one rod into this containment structure,” he gestured to a point high up above the main equipment in the room. “We can look the rod over for decay with inspection equipment, even on a microscopic level if need be. While we do this we have to insert a spare rod that descends from that metal tube there,” he pointed again. “That’s rod twenty-five. It gets a dip into the core every so often when we pull one of the other rods for this inspection routine.”

“Then you are saying you get reactor core flux events whenever you do this procedure?”

“Correct,” said Dobrynin, “but not immediately; not during the procedure itself, but just a little while after, sometimes a few hours, sometimes a full day. I suppose that’s why I never connected the two events.”

“I see,” said Fedorov. Then something occurred to him, and his next question was obvious. “Chief…How often do you perform this maintenance routine?”

Admiral Volsky smiled, folding his arms over his broad chest with a wink at Fedorov. “Go on Dobrynin,” he said. “Tell him.”

“Well every twelve days, sir. We pull a rod every twelve days, but I never associated the flux event with the procedure until—”

“Until I had him run these performance charts,” said Volsky.

Fedorov’s eyes widened, a quiet light there now. “Every twelve days? The interval, Admiral! This could explain a great many things!”

“Indeed it might,” said Volsky. “It could be that the answer to this entire mystery has been right under our noses the whole time. We thought the explosion on Orel set off this crazy chain reaction, this time displacement we’ve been trapped in.”

“Perhaps it did,” Fedorov suggested, “but my hunch about the interval is certainly telling.”

“What’s this talk about an interval?” asked Dobrynin.

“I’ve been tracking the dates closely,” said Fedorov. “Every twelve days there has been a time displacement. We either move forward, or back again. Let me see the dates of these maintenance checks…”

He leaned over the chart, his head nodding with the excitement of discovery. “Yes! Look Admiral. There was a rod just before our live fire exercises were scheduled. Then look here, another procedure the day before we vanished near Argentia Bay. Dobrynin… when was the last procedure run?”

Dobrynin squinted. “Why, three days ago. I pulled the number eight rod, stuck in number twenty-five and—”

“And here we are,” said Admiral Volsky, “shooting missiles at Japanese planes and ships!”

“Then this is even more evidence that the cause of these displacements is not some external event,” said Fedorov. “It could be right here, right in our own reactor. We could be causing it just by running this maintenance procedure.”

“Which means…” Volsky’s eyes were bright under his heavy gray brows. “It’s just as Doctor Zolkin suggested. He told us to go tell Dobrynin to fiddle with his reactor and send us home. He was speaking in jest, but now we find that this may end up being the truth after all.”

“What do you suggest we do, Fedorov? Should we test it?

“You mean complete the maintenance procedure and see what happens?”

“Of course! Dobrynin, is there any reason why you could not run this procedure now?”

“Now, sir? Well, nothing in principle, except I think we should wait for the men to clear the last of this seawater. The rods are just absorbing neutrons produced by the fission in the core. They just moderate the temperature of the reaction and control the flux.”

“Why would this maintenance procedure cause these neutron flux events you’ve recorded? They were very unusual, yes? Not normal?”

“I’m not exactly sure. If there was an air leak in the inspection module and the zirconium alloy coating the rods came into contact with air we could get oxidation there that would produce hydrogen. But the monitors have not detected any unusual hydrogen levels. I could also check the cooling water for contaminants. It must remain very pure, no ions, no chlorides.”

“Run some diagnostics, Dobrynin, and if possible, try to complete a normal maintenance procedure as soon as possible. Be sure to inform the bridge when you do so.”

“Very good, sir.”

“This is going to be interesting,” said Fedorov. “How long will this procedure take, Chief?”

“I should have everything ready to go in an hour. After that, the rod inspection normally takes two hours.”

“Then do it exactly as you would any other time,” said Volsky. “I want it perfectly routine. No rush. Just let us know when you complete it. Come now, Fedorov, let us get to the bridge. What were those three missiles I heard a while back?”

“Japanese planes out of Port Moresby. They were flying a typical search pattern and one group got a little too curious. Karpov took them down.”

“It sounded like the Klinok system. I thought as much. Well, Fedorov, now that we’ve got the repairs well in hand what next? We are in the Coral Sea, where should we steer?”

“We’ll want to stay well away from the Solomons. They would be east of our present position. I suspect there will be fighting there, whether the history has changed or not. Some places just have strategic magnetism about them, and the Southern Solomons is one of them insofar as this campaign is concerned.”

“Should we try to go north?”

“I wouldn’t advise it, sir. That’s all Japanese territory, and New Britain Island, the Bismarck barrier, will force us into restricted channels within range of Japanese air bases at Lae and Rabaul. The Bismarck Sea north of that Island is a Japanese lake at the moment. No, I think we must go south.”

“What about the Americans. Should they discover us they may be as dogged as the Japanese, particularly if they should manage to put two and two together and realize we are the ship responsible for that attack in the North Atlantic.”

“That would be quite a stretch, sir. I suggest we stay on a heading of 135 degrees southeast. That should keep us in the Coral Sea for a good long while, but well off the Australian Coast. There will not be much threat from the Australians. They had very little air or naval power to speak of at this point. New Caledonia is another matter. There’s a big American buildup underway at Noumea. We should keep well away from that place, and this course will give us a 400 mile buffer. We’ll eventually approach New Zealand on that heading, but we can turn on 90 degrees due east well before that and head into the South Pacific. That will take us down below the fireworks in the Solomons, and who knows, sir, we might even find your island girls out there somewhere. Tonga is 400 miles southeast of Fiji, then there is Niue, the Cook Islands, French Polynesia, Tahiti, Bora Bora, even Pitcairn Island. That’s the most isolated place I can think of on earth. The mutineers from the old ship Bounty settled there, but it’s virtually deserted.”

“Let’s have a look at French Polynesia first,” said Volsky. “That is assuming we can slip away from these Japanese without any more dive bombers coming through the roof.”

“We should know more near dawn, sir. With Kirishima down they may lose their ardor for the chase. They already know their cruisers are no match for us, and I’m guessing that their other carrier divisions are much further east, near the Solomons. Nikolin says radio traffic is really heavy.”

“French Polynesia sounds much better to me,” said Volsky. “But Fedorov, if Dobrynin completes his maintenance, we could see changes in a matter of hours, assuming our little theory here proves to be true.”

“Possibly, sir.”

“And supposing we do move again, start shifting. It was very subtle last time. How will we know?”

“I think we’ll get enough clues—the radio traffic would suddenly disappear, we can look for changes in known weather patterns, even time of day. Remember when we shifted into the Med we went from night to day in just a few minutes time.”

The Admiral sighed. “Well now we get to choose which nightmare we end up living in, I suppose. If it was Dobrynin’s maintenance routine causing us to move, we can control that, yes? We can choose to stay put. The only thing is this: will the world still be empty if we shift again? Will we still be sailing from one dark radiation blighted shore to another?”

“Well, sir, we can’t really know. We’re changing the history each time we appear. We have no way to predict what we will find if we do displace forward in time again. But even if we do, I tend to think French Polynesia will not be on anyone’s target list.”

“I would hope not,” said Volsky sadly.

Fedorov completed his report as they walked, and then, seeing the Admiral was looking very tired, he suggested sleep. “Sir, it’s just after midnight. I can see to the last of the damage control work with Chief Byko. Why not get some rest.”

“I was considering that. In fact I think I will do so. Thank you, Mister Fedorov. But wake me if Dobrynin reports anything unusual.”

“He said it could be hours after the procedure before he might notice anything, sir, even a full day.”

“In that case I will sleep well, but don’t hesitate to wake me. And if you can get some rest yourself, that would also be good.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The night folded quietly about the ship, the seas rising a bit with the rain, though the storm was not severe. A little after 02:00 hours Fedorov was awakened by the deep drone of planes, high up, and called up to the bridge to find out what it was. Rodenko reported that there was a small flight of six planes coming up from the south, at high altitude, and on a heading that would take them to Port Moresby.

“Those will be American B-17 bombers, Rodenko. They probably took off from Cairns or Cooktown a few hours ago for a run up to Port Moresby. It obviously isn’t a serious raid, just harassment. I would not think they pose much of a threat. In fact, I don’t think they even know we are here.”

“We’ve been running dark all night,” said Rodenko.

“Then leave them alone. Take your next rest leave, and I’ll be back on the bridge soon. You can turn your station over to Kalinichev.”

Rodenko took the friendly advice and was glad that he did. It was to be the last chance for a little peace and quiet the ship would have for some time.

Events to the east were broiling up into a major air/sea battle, and far off in the Solomons, another Admiral was taking undo interest in these reports coming from Hara’s group. The name Mizuchi was discussed, and decisions were made—decisions that would pose the greatest challenge ever faced by the beleaguered Russian battlecruiser and its weary crew.

Chapter 21

The reports coming in from the Western operation were very strange. Staff spent hours sending coded messages trying to sort them all out before they brought them to Admiral Yamamoto, and now it was time to brief him in full. Yet Yamamoto had already learned the worst about the incident, and the name Mizuchi was uppermost in his mind as he gazed at the plotting table before the circle of men. The starched white uniforms were immaculate, the gold braided caps and cuff bands representing decades of seasoned naval experience, all gathered here on the eve of a decisive engagement.

Chief of Operations Captain Kimetake Kuroshima and late arrivals fresh off the cruiser Nagara had just entered the room: the Chief of Staff of the First Air Fleet, Rear Admiral Ryunosuke Kusaka and staff officers, Captain Tamotsu Oishi with Commander Minoru Genda. A raft of junior officers followed in their wake.

“The plan, like all plans before it, has been altered due to action by the enemy,” said Yamamoto beginning the meeting. “Tonight we decide whether or not we can adequately cover a counter operation aimed at Guadalcanal. Kuroshima has worked out the details.” The Admiral looked at his God of Operations, obviously intending him to take the floor.

“The enemy attack at Guadalcanal was not unexpected, but the timing achieved the element of surprise in light of our present operations,” said Kuroshima. “It has been necessary to maneuver both arms of our planned Operation FS to an earlier closing point now aimed at Guadalcanal. The difficulty is that our invasion elements are now widely dispersed. Our bombardment group, with three battleships and supporting units, is presently with the first wave troops of the 3rd Division poised off New Georgia and ready to strike south to support our counter invasion at Guadalcanal. But second wave troops are still well out into the Coral Sea, and moving northeast. The need to mass both carrier divisions will leave these troops exposed. The two carrier strike groups assigned to this operation are now converging on Guadalcanal, leaving only an escort of five destroyers with the second wave convoy.” He gestured to a table map where small wooden models indicated the positions of principle task forces involved in the operation. “We expect a battle with the American carriers somewhere near Guadalcanal within twenty-four hours.”

“It is my belief that the Americans will be northeast of the Solomons,” said Genda, one of the Fleet’s most experienced air planning officers.

“The General Staff concurs,” said Kuroshima. “Yet our worry is that the two arms of our carrier forces might be engaged separately by the combined American force, and defeated in detail. It is therefore necessary to closely coordinate our air strikes, so that both our carrier divisions function as a combined unit. This will require close coordination with all air staff officers, who will report to Genda in eight hours to finalize our strike once we have pinpointed the enemy’s location.”

“With four fleet carriers we should outnumber the enemy,” said Yamamoto.

“Correct, sir, but the aircraft ratio will not be great. The American carriers can support over eighty aircraft each. If there are three carriers present that will give them at least 240 planes against the 280 aircraft our four fleet carriers can bring to the battle.”

“Yet our experience and skill further multiplies our numbers,” said Air Fleet Chief Kusaka.

Genda spoke again. “It will be very simple,” he said. “Whoever strikes first will prevail. We are already initiating an aggressive search to locate their main body.”

“What about Hara’s group?” asked Yamamoto, and the question prompted an uncomfortable silence around the table.

Kuroshima was the bringer of bad news. “Sir, Admiral Hara’s carriers are still attempting to transit the Torres Strait at this time. It seems the operation against the British battlecruiser has become more complicated than expected.”

“Complicated?” There was a flash of anger in Yamamoto’s eyes. “Yes, I call the loss of over seventy percent of Hara’s strike aircraft a complication indeed. Zuikaku and Shokaku are now little more than cruise ships on a sightseeing voyage. Now we have further news. Hara informs me that the battleship Kirishima has run aground in the Torres Strait, though I suspect there is more to the story than we have been told.”

Kuroshima knew the worst, that the battleship had been hit multiple times by some lethal new rocketry, and that her guts had been ripped apart by a massive explosion as she attempted to follow the enemy ship through the narrow waters of the Torres Strait. Now she wallowed like a beached whale, waiting to die on the coral shoals and reefs north of Cape York. But he said nothing of this to Yamamoto. The Admiral’s anger was well justified, and he did not wish to bring shame into the equation as well. Yamamoto continued.

“This enemy ship has moved into the Coral Sea and is now headed southeast. It is said to be using some very unusual weapons, naval rockets, and with these it savaged Hara’s strike wing, kept Iwabuchi’s covering force at bay, and has outrun them all to now threaten the troop convoy out of Rabaul… Kuroshima?” It was clear that Yamamoto now wanted an explanation, and the recommendation of his Chief of Operations.

“Another unpleasant surprise, sir. We have not been able to determine what this ship could be, or how it came to be involved with the Darwin operation in the first place.”

“That is of no concern now,” said Yamamoto. “The ship is in the Coral Sea. What should we do about it?”

“Sir, we have already detached Captain Furuichi and the Light Carrier Ryuho to reinforce Hara’s 5th Carrier Division.”

Yamamoto smiled, shaking his head. “Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds? A light carrier sent to reinforce the entire 5th Fleet Carrier Division? That will put four carriers in the Coral Sea and they won’t be able to muster fifty strike planes between them! Plenty of fighters, yes, but what good are they against naval targets? Hara is of the opinion that this ship must be engaged by heavier units, and I have come round to that opinion as well. He was hoping Iwabuchi would catch it before it passed through the Torres Strait. But apparently that will not happen now. Furthermore, we also lost a submarine, Ro–33, another victim of this unexpected enemy ship.”

Clearly the Admiral had already been briefed, thought Kuroshima, the heat rising on the back of his neck “But Hara reports they have hit this ship,” he put in, trying to salvage the situation.

“Yes,” said Yamamoto, “and it has hit them as well. We have lost the cruiser Haguro, seventy percent of Hara’s strike planes, a submarine, and now a battleship is sitting on a reef in the Torres Strait like a big fat goose waiting for American B-17’s to pay a visit! This is disgraceful.”

All the officers lowered their heads, but Kiroshima spoke again, a new plan in mind. “Sir,” he said. “Given that most of the second wave transports are still in the Coral Sea, and considering the fact that we appear to have no capital ships in Hara’s task force capable of engaging this enemy ship on even terms, I suggest this is a job where armor and guns may do what Hara’s planes have failed to accomplish.

One way to move things along was to agree with your commanding officer, he reasoned. “Perhaps we should detached one or two battleships and send them west to cover the transports and intercept this British ship, whatever it may be. We could send Hiei, sir. She can make 30 knots. Fuso is too slow.”

Yamamoto thought for a moment. “What about this ship? We have the necessary speed, and we certainly have the guns. Hara’s report indicated they had difficulty closing the range against this enemy ship. The fourteen inch guns on Kirishima proved inadequate to the task. Our guns can fire at much greater range, and with better accuracy.”

“But sir, this is Combined Fleet Headquarters. This ship is irreplaceable.”

“Oh? It has already been replaced, Kuroshima. Combined Fleet Headquarters has been moved to Musashi at Truk, as you know all too well.”

“But sir, this ship is a symbol of Japan’s prestige and power. It cannot be risked in battle.”

“Listen to yourself! Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds? We render this ship powerless in one stroke with that mindset. I took this ship to sea with the intention of using her. Yes, I have heard what she has been called, gentlemen, but I will tell you now that this is no longer Hotel Yamato. This is a fighting ship and I believe we have exactly that in front of us now, a naval surface action. That appears to be the only solution to this British interloper. It is time the Imperial Japanese Navy taught the British a lesson once and for all.”

It was clear that Kuroshima was uncomfortable with the notion of his commanding officer sailing into the danger of major surface engagement, but he was in no position to contradict Yamamoto under the present circumstances. He expressed his concerns, and now proffered a brief bow acceding to the Admiral’s wishes.

“In that event, sir, I would suggest an escort of several cruisers and at least three destroyers, all with the speed to form a scouting force and screen for Yamato. And perhaps we should send Hiei as well.”

“That will leave only Fuso to support the planned landing on Guadalcanal. No. If this ship cannot engage and sink a British battlecruiser then we had no business building it. Yamato will be sufficient, but yes, we will detach cruisers Yura, Nagara and Jintsu, along with three destroyers. It will be my intention to move west at once, and I wish to be well south of Milne Bay by dawn.”

“That will mean running at high speed all night, sir.”

“Yes, it will. See that the orders are given. Now…Where will Hara and Furuichi be at dawn tomorrow?”

Kuroshima shifted, then set his mind to the plotting table, extending a wand and gently pushing two carrier models as he spoke.

“Sir, assuming Hara has no problem transiting the Strait, he should be north of Cooktown and 170 miles west of the enemy. Approximately here. As for the Ryuho group, it will be about 175 miles southeast, approaching the enemy’s present course head on. Both carrier forces will be within easy strike range.”

“And where do you anticipate we could be at that time?”

“About here, sir. A hundred and fifty miles due east of where we expect the enemy given their present course and speed.”

“A little too far for even our guns.” Yamamoto smiled.

Genda spoke up now. “Sir, Hara should coordinate an air strike at dawn.”

“And lose the remainder of his aircraft?”

“That may not happen this time,” Genda suggested. “That ship was hit before and it can be hit again. Hara must buy us the time we need to close and engage with Yamato.”

“My thinking exactly,” said Yamamoto. “And once we have dealt with this ship we will be in a perfect position to cover and support the second wave troops in the Coral Sea. Do I hear any objection?”

No man at the table spoke further.

The rain slowly abated as Kirov slipped southeast, resolving to a fine humid mist in time, and drifting patches of fog hugging the quieting seas. The principle officers took advantage of the calm for much needed sleep, all except Nikolin, who had spent the night dozing at his radio station, in and out of sleep as he monitored the increasing radio traffic. He could not decipher some of the code words used, but it was clear to him that ships and planes were talking to one another, calling to one another in the night, and he imagined men up in search planes now, their eyes darkly scanning the grey horizon, looking for enemy ships, perhaps looking for Kirov as well, with bad intent.

A little before three in the morning he got a message from engineering. Dobrynin was reporting his maintenance procedure was completed without complications.

“Very well,” he said. “I will inform the senior officers at the next shift.” Then he forgot about the matter, settling into his chair again and quietly dozing off.

Two hours later a bleary eyed Karpov came slouching onto the bridge, and a watchman saluted.

“Captain on the bridge,” he said, sticking to protocols.

“As you were,” said Karpov, then he yawned heavily, moving slowly to Kalinichev. “Anything to report?”

“Without the Fregat system our range is limited,” said Kalinichev. “But I did get a return on a surface contact with our Top Mast radar at 02:00 hours, sir. I keyed its position, course and speed, and the predictive plot algorithm would have it here, sir, a little beyond the range of that antenna now.”

Moments later Fedorov appeared, and yet another captain was announced on the bridge. He joined Karpov, near the radar station as other senior officers were slowly appearing to relieve the night shift. Rodenko was back, and Tasarov shuffled in to take up his post at sonar. The burly Samsonov was an early riser. He had just come from the mess hall and a good breakfast, and now was well settled into his station at the CIC.

“That predictive plot will probably be the carrier group that attacked us earlier,” said Fedorov.

“We could go have a look with the KA-40. It proved invaluable yesterday. It may be wise to get an Oko panel up and have a look around this morning.”

“I agree,” said Fedorov. “See to it, will you Captain?”

“Sir,” Karpov tapped off a three finger salute and went to rustle Nikolin from his daydreaming and have him send the order down to the helo bay. Nikolin blinked, chasing the sleep from his eyes, and then remembered the message from Dobrynin.

“I’m to tell you that Chief Dobrynin has completed his maintenance operation, sir,” he said.

“Yes, yes,” Karpov waved a hand. “Good enough. Just get that order out for the KA-40, Mister Nikolin.”

Twenty minutes later the Helo was up, its twin rotors beating fitfully as it increased power with a roar and gained elevation. With every foot it rose, the range of its radar increased in a slowly expanding arc. At 05:10 hours it was high up over the ship, its Oko panel deployed and beginning to feed telemetry to Rodenko’s station.

Rodenko settled in, his eyes focusing on the screen as he toggled switches to receive the data stream. What he saw was most disheartening.

“Con, Radar. Multiple airborne contacts inbound in two groups. Large signal returns east-northeast at 150 miles and closing at 200kph. A second group southeast, range 170 and closing. Recommend Air Alert One.”

Karpov shrugged, looking at Fedorov. “Sleep time is over,” he said. “It looks like we have uninvited guests for breakfast. Air Alert One. Sound battle stations.”

The long night was over. The sound of the alarm was a shrill warning that cut through the warm dawn and sent a chill down Fedorov’s spine in spite of the apparent calm on the seas around them. He looked out the forward view panes, noting the vermillion sky lightening to the east, and suddenly the day had a grim and sallow tinge to it with the realization that men were going to fight and die here soon. How many planes this time? How many men? They had thirty-five SAMs left in the dark silos beneath the forward deck.