Kirov III: Pacific Storm

likely calling out heading and speed estimates. I now have a faint reading on those other two battleships. They look to be just under 200 kilometers due west of us, and they are losing ground. I make their speed no more than 25 knots, but without the Fregat system up these are only approximate readings. There is another fast contact southwest at 36 knots and closing slowly. It has turned on a course that will take it very near the cruisers we just hit.”

“We probably put a lot of men in the water just now,” said Fedorov. “They are vectoring in assets for the rescue operation. I think we can leave it be for the moment. It’s Yamato I’m more concerned about.”

“That ship has now increased to 27 knots and is on an intercept heading, about fifty kilometers off our starboard bow.”

“You said this ship’s main guns can range out to 45,000 meters, Fedorov? Then it could fire on us any minute now.”

“Don’t worry,” Fedorov held up a hand. “They have to spot us first. Under good light conditions they might see us at twenty-eight kilometers, but not at night like this, even with the moon nearly full. We have some time yet. I’m looking up information on her radar sets now. It looks like Yamato had only one tactical surveillance radar. It operated on a wave length of 1.5 meters with an average range of twenty kilometers.”

“Then they are blind,” said Karpov. “We can hit them right now and perhaps put enough damage on that beast to give it second thoughts.”

Fedorov hesitated… battleship Yamato… Admiral Yamamoto. What was he about to do here? This ship and its Admiral had glowed in his mind for many long years of blissful study and research. He had built a model of it in his youth, admiring the sleek, powerful lines, the massive guns, the tall proud superstructure. It was his love of great ships that had seen him join the navy, and work diligently to gain his post on Russia’s very best, the new battlecruiser Kirov. In those quiet hours alone at his desk he had often imagined Yamato dueling with the American Iowa class, and contemplated how the course of the war might have been altered if Yamamoto’s plane had not been caught by those American P-38s and sent to a fiery death. And now he had to order the death of the thing he so loved, and the demise of all these fond memories, realizing in the end that this was war in its most cruel demeanor.

The history of the Pacific war he knew was already shattered, barely recognizable now, and he was as much to blame as Karpov or anyone else. He remembered his conversation with the Captain earlier. Yamato was nothing more than a dead legend, a broken hulk, a great Prometheus chained to the bottom of the sea where the fish would eat its liver day by day. That was the great ship’s fate, but now it was still in its full glory, all 72,000 tons of it, driving through the quiet night, bathed in the liquid silver of the moon, her massive prow sweeping up a frothy bow wave, her crew of nearly 2800 men anxiously at their battle stations, lookouts squinting through binoculars from the high watch stations on the main mast. Compared to Kirov’s incredible situational awareness, the enemy was groping her way forward in the dark like a blind man with a cane…and three triple barreled twelve gauge shotguns.

He decided.

“The battle is yours, Karpov. I’ve informed Admiral Volsky as well. He is down in the reactor room with Dobrynin, but has told me we are to use our best judgment. Protect the ship.”

“Alright, Fedorov. Let the log entry read that battlecruiser Kirov commenced surface action engagement against the battleship Yamato at 20:18 hours, on the night of August 27, 1942. Anton Fedorov commanding. Tactical officer, Vladimir Karpov.”

A junior Lieutenant called out the confirmation: “Sir, log entry recorded.”

“Very well.”

Karpov clasped his arms behind his back and turned to Victor Samsonov, the gleam of battle in his eyes.

~ ~ ~

Admiral Yamamoto received the news from his operations chief with much chagrin. “All three cruisers damaged? The entire squadron?”

“Yes, sir. I have just received a coded distress signal. The screening force was hit by suicide rockets about twenty minutes ago. We have lost Jintsu, and both Nagara and Yura are heavily damaged. The destroyers from our escort screen are nearby and rendering assistance.”

“I see…” Yamato’s eyes darkened, his brow set with concentration. “So the rumors of this ship are proved true after all. Iwabuchi was not exaggerating with his stories of flying devil fish raining fire and hell on his ships. How close are we?”

“Sir, we are just inside our maximum gun range now, but we have no target. There is good moonlight but even our best spotters will not be able to report anything until we get much closer. They are launching more seaplanes now.”

Yamamoto stood up, reaching for his white gloves and putting them on one after another, a slow, deliberate process that had an air of gravity about it. It was time to fight, if he could only find his enemy first. He reached slowly and took up his Admiral’s cap, squaring it on his head as he turned.

“It’s time we were on the bridge, Kuroshima. Walk with me.”

As two men left the briefing room Kuroshima cast a wan look at the map table, noting the tiny wooden ships that had been moved about as the chase unfolded. In one glance he took it all in, Mutsu, Nagato, Tone, and the rest of Iwabuchi’s cruisers, Hara with his carriers, and the whole of the entire remaining fleet already limping north to Rabaul and Truk. They had already lost three fleet carriers, not to mention the chaos here in the Coral Sea. His entire plan was a shambles, the Combined Fleet completely unhinged, and all because of this solitary raider, this Shadow Dancer in the night that could command the darkest kami in the seven hells and fling them against his ships, which now seemed no more useful than these same wooden toys, he thought. Our cruisers and carriers have been good for little more than sport here, and now the fate of the war and our nation and people hangs in the balance.

What was this ship? Hachiman, the god of war? Mizuchi, the dreaded sea dragon? Susanoo, the storm god? He closed the door, his heart heavy as he followed the Admiral forward to the nearest stair well up. Before they had reached the stairs Kuroshima heard a distant low rumble, resolving to a louder roar. Then the warning bells were ringing all over the ship, and the strident calls of the men jarred him to keen alertness.

He felt the ship move, a thudding vibration followed by the sound of an explosion. Yamamoto turned, his eyes bright with fire.

“Hurry, Kuroshima, it has begun!”

~ ~ ~

The P-900 missile had used its solid fuel propellant to quickly gain altitude before activating its ARGS-54 active homing radar seekers, sweeping the calm night with microwave energy to locate its target below. Two short, squarish stabilizing wings deployed with a metallic rasp. Then the missile settled into approach mode briefly, its air breathing engines cruising at sub-sonic speed for a time as it made its high altitude approach. Minutes later the sharp nose of the rocket pointed downward towards the glistening sea and it swooped low, leveling off just feet above the water where the low-flying supersonic terminal stage of the missile saw it accelerate in a dizzying dance of zigs and zags at nearly Mach 3. It had been designed to defeat another computer controlled SAM umbrella, but no such defense was in place.

The men aboard Yamato watched it come with blinding speed, a wild light dancing over the sea aimed right at the heart of the ship, where it flashed against the heavy side armor with a roaring explosion. It’s 400kg warhead was enough to buckle and burn its way through twelve of sixteen inches of hardened steel armor. But it could go no further, though the ship felt as though a Thunder God had struck it with an iron hammer. Yamato rolled slightly, then easily righted herself. There was a fire, her port side blackened and scarred, but by and large she had not been seriously hurt.

When the second missile was spotted in the sky, officers screamed out commands, their arms stiffly pointing out the target with batons. Yamato’s substantial anti-aircraft suite began to fill the night