“Yes I caught that rumor too,” said Novak. “It had to be something out of Toulon. A French ship, more than likely.”
No, thought Osborne. It wasn’t a French ship, though he kept that to himself for the moment, not sure of what Novak may have known. There was much more to that incident than they first thought. Yes, official word was that a disaffected French battlecruiser had made a run out of Toulon as Novak suspected, and it eventually surrendered to the British at Gibraltar for internment at St. Helena. But Osborne had heard a few other things about it, that Bletchley Park had been very wrapped up in the matter…that the British Admiralty was throwing a thick, black overcoat over the whole incident…that someone was supposedly en route to FRUMEL HQ at that very moment to brief them on the matter. The Brits were apparently willing to share a few secrets with their friends after all.
“
“Yes, and mad as hell about it from the sound of the radio traffic.” Novak scratched his head. “I decrypted some traffic this morning in that batch we sent over to Halsey. The operation against Guadalcanal must have caught Yamamoto flat footed. They’ve had to improvise on their planned attack against Espiritu Santo.”
“You mean they’ve re-targeted the whole thing at Vandegrift’s 1st Marines on Guadalcanal.”
“Exactly. But I caught one odd order in the mix—a small detachment, light carrier and a few cruisers and destroyers. They sent it north from their Western task force.”
“North? What for?”
“Take a look at that photo again, Ozzie. North to the Torres Strait, eh? They want a bite of this sea dragon too. ”
“I’ll be damned,” Osborne breathed.
Then the phone rang and the lives of Novak and Osborne were about to get much more interesting that morning. Mystery was not half a word for it.
The Torres Strait was a very hazardous body of water, and shipwrecks littered the seafloor there as silent testimony to the dangers hidden beneath the aquamarine sea. In centuries past, the local natives on the islands in the strait had a nasty habit of massacring stranded sailors, so the place had a dark and well justified reputation as being perilous. It was, in fact, one of the most dangerous stretches of water in the world. With strong tidal currents and a five-meter tidal range on the eastern side, navigation was a slow, careful affair, and Fedorov knew he would soon have to reduce to ten knots or less.
“These waters are very shallow,” said Fedorov. “No more than thirteen meters and our draft is just over nine meters. Ahead one third and I want sonar active for the next hour Mister Tasarov, lookouts to port and starboard, please. There are no pilotage channels designated here for us, as in our day.”
“Aye, sir,” said Tasarov. “Going to active sonar now.”
“I’m taking us through the Prince of Wales Channel, just north of Hammond Island. It’s only 800 meters wide at its narrowest point. And has strong tidal surges. I’ve spent the last half hour working out our tidal window for a draught of nine meters, and we won’t have much water beneath us when we transit.”
“My radar propagation is also being affected by this sea mist,” said Rodenko. “But I’ll still have decent returns on any aircraft.”
They knew this would be a perfect place for enemy aircraft to make a strike, but thankfully, the scope seemed clear of air contact for the moment. They navigated the narrow channel without incident at ten knots, then Fedorov steered the ship for the North East Channel towards Bramble Cay to enter the Coral Sea through Bligh Entrance. The passage was slow going, past many hidden shoals and submerged reefs and rocky outcrops, and the time ticked away.
Soon they could clearly see the pursuing enemy ships on HD video fed by the aft Tin Man, and when the range had closed to under 28,000 meters again, they heard a distant boom of thunder and then the whine of incoming shells.
“Damn annoying,” said Karpov when the first two rounds fell off their aft quarter, short by at least a thousand meters.
“We’ll have to maintain this slow speed for some time yet,” said Fedorov. They were approaching Burke Islets, with the Warrior Reefs off their port side. “Once we get past York Island ahead I can probably increase to fifteen knots up to Bligh Entrance.”
A second salvo of two rounds came in, this time corrected nicely, and 500 meters closer. The blue dye was evident now in the tall waterspouts.
“This is getting dangerous,” said Karpov. “Mister Samsonov, ready on the P-900 system.” He looked at Fedorov. “With your permission, sir.”
“Granted,” said Fedorov. The sight of those tall geysers was enough for him to realize that they had to hit this enemy battleship harder.
“Very well,” Karpov stood taller, his arms locked behind his back, eyes on the overhead HD video. “Two missiles, Mister Samsonov, and I want them on the superstructure, please. Use your laser rangefinders and HD video for in-flight targeting.”
“Aye, sir. Missiles seven and six ready in silos and firing at five second intervals.”
“Fire.”
The sound of the warning claxon was loud on the forward deck, and Karpov turned to watch the hatch flip open. The missile ejected, declining and igniting its engine flawlessly. Seconds later it was followed by the second missile. They had put one 450kg warhead on the target earlier with a Moskit-II; this time Karpov would hit them with two 400kg warheads on the cruise missiles. Samsonov was now using an HD video display, and designating his target with a light pen on the image itself. In effect, he was using his own eyes to fly the missile to the point he wanted, the tall pagoda main mast of the ship making for an inviting target.
They saw the enemy fire a third time just before the first cruise missile hit home, striking low on the pagoda with a distant roar. Seconds later the second missile hit higher, right into the heart of the tower, and the ship was soon masked in flame and smoke.
Executive officer Koro Ono saw the missiles first, gaping at their fiery tails and thin vapor trails. “Enemy fire!” he shouted, and Captain Iwabuchi instinctively braced himself near the binnacle. The slower approach of the P-900s was spellbinding, and then they began a wild evasive dance, low over the sea, and every man on the bridge stared out the forward viewports, one junior officer shirking just as the first missile came driving in at the base of the tower. There was a shuddering explosion, two men thrown from their feet, then the second missile struck even higher on the tower, just below the bridge itself.
Ono was thrown back as the windows shattered and a violent spray of broken glass and shrapnel flew in. Iwabuchi clutched the binnacle, managing to stay on his feet, but three other men were down, and Tokono Horishi, Ikeda’s second officer for the light gunnery detail, was also wounded.
Ono lay stunned on the deck as black smoke billowed in through the broken windows. The men were coughing, shielding their eyes, and groping for bulkheads to steady themselves. Through it all Iwabuchi stood stalwart, a light of fire and anger in his eyes, a streak of blood on his cheek where glass had cut him. He screamed out the order to fire, but the forward guns did not answer. The first round had struck the number two turret, and it was put out of action, the concussion enough to stun the men inside, their ears bleeding from the shock. Even for a slow missile, the P-900 packed a hard wallop. Designated the P-900 Kalibr-NK missile by the Russians, it was called the SS-N-27 “Sizzler” by NATO when it was first introduced in 2012. It weighed over 1700 kilograms, adding a strong kinetic attack in addition to the 400kg explosive warhead.
