Kirov III: Pacific Storm

“Why… Yes,” said the Captain. “Yes we do! The Vodopad system has UGST-2 torpedoes.” The weapon was a highly adaptable modular system, allowing for different propulsion and warhead options, hence the “U” for its universal capabilities. The ship carried tubes on either side, the ports opening on the hull itself.

“What’s their range?” asked Fedorov.

“Over 35,000 meters,” said Karpov with a smile.

The ‘Vodopad’ or ‘Waterfall’ system was an apt description for the way the torpedoes would eject from the side of the ship, a waterfall of steam and gas in their wake, rolling down off the side of the hull. The torpedoes were capable of using nuclear warheads, though Kirov had none of these in inventory on this mission. After ejecting it would dip into the sea, propelled several hundred feet out before the tail fins and control elements would flip out and the pumpjet propulsor engine would activate. It was one of the first torpedoes to use an onboard digital computer and had wire guided control options, as well as a dual channel homing and detonation for either acoustic or electromagnetic operation. It also had integrated sonar that could detect ship wakes and follow them to the target. In effect, it was the Long Lance on steroids, and with all these redundant control systems, it was not going to miss a ship the size of Yamato, no matter what their captain did to try and avoid it.

Perhaps it was his distaste for submarines and torpedoes that had prevented Karpov from selecting the weapon earlier, his mind on the missiles, and pleased with the results he had been getting with them. Yet Yamato was as hardened a target as the ship would ever fire upon, and even now they saw her fourth salvo blast at them in the distance, as if to shout back that they were hit, but not hurt, and their guns were still seeking them in the night. These rounds would fall much closer, the Type 92 Shagekiban fire control ‘computer’ slowly walking the big shells to a point where they were now of some concern. The range had fallen to just under 22,000 meters.

“Ready on Vodopad system, Samsonov. Starboard side tubes.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Two torpedoes please, and you may fire when ready.”

Karpov was being stingy. His impulse was to fire the entire battery in a spread of five torpedoes and end this battle there and then. But the empty SAM silos and the rapidly diminishing missile SSM inventory was moderating his choices. He wanted to hold on to as much combat capability as he could. The torpedoes swished into the water and went streaking away, their wakeless propulsion system making them stealthy on top of the already lethal nature of the weapon.

“That may not be enough,” said Fedorov. “Yamato took seven American torpedoes before she sank, and that took an hour and a half.”

“Very well,” said Karpov. “One more for Mister Fedorov.” He looked at Samsonov with a smile, convinced they now had the battle well in hand. There would be no way the enemy ship could evade those torpedoes. They were carrying a 425kg warhead, and they were going to hurt anything they struck, and badly.

Then something happened that no one had counted on, except perhaps Lieutenant Commander Hayashi when he bravely dove his crippled Val dive bomber into Kirov’s aft battle bridge. That strike had occurred right above the Vodopad system, and only the second barrier of the citadel floor there, 200mm thick, had prevented it from going deeper to ignite the torpedo magazines. But there had been a fire, a very serious one, and not all the damage had been discovered and repaired in the brief time since the plane had flamed into the ship. Control cabling for the number three UGST torpedo had been burned, its wiring exposed, and when the fire order was given the tube itself also had a slight warp from concussion when the ship had been shaken with Hayashi’s hit.

The intrepid Japanese pilot who had first put a 250kg bomb on the aft quarter of the ship before riding his plane to death with a second hit was now reaching out from the grave to strike at his enemy once more.

Chapter 32

The number three torpedo failed to eject, jutting like a broken finger from the side of the ship, jammed in its own firing tube, yet its firing cycle was still active. The preliminary propulsion jet was trying to engage, and yet the system fed a fault signal to the unit’s computer brain, and internal backup systems were ordered to kick in after a five second delay.

“Misfire on the number three torpedo!” Samsonov shouted, his voice loud and deep.

“Abort!” Karpov’s order was obvious, but Samsonov had already thumbed the abort switch. The torpedo’s propulsion system shut down and its engine was stilled, yet now there was no way they were going to use the remaining tubes on that side of the ship until crews could get in and clear the misfire and check for further damage. That was not going to happen in this engagement, but at least Kirov had two torpedoes out and running true, two long sleek Moray eels in the water driving on at 40 knots, a little over twenty meters per second. Even at that speed their time on target was over seventeen minutes away. In that time Yamato was likely to get in many more of her main gun salvos, and now the range was falling to 21,000 meters. Ninety seconds later the big battleship fired again, the rounds falling no more than 800 meters off Kirov’s stern, leading her now.

“What I wouldn’t give for a few more SAMs” said Karpov. “Those seaplanes are feeding back shell fall corrections to that ship. Nikolin, can we jam all normal radio frequencies they might be using?”

“I’m sure we can, sir.”

“Then do it! Wide area jam. Ready on Moskit-II system again, Samsonov. Two more missiles please, the same as before. We can’t wait for those torpedoes.” Karpov looked at his watch, then gave the order to fire. Two more Sunburns ejected and roared away at five second intervals, one sea skimmer and the last of those reprogrammed for plunging descent. Kirov’s missile count now slipped to eleven.

~ ~ ~

Yamamoto had felt his proud ship taking one blow after another, yet she fought on. The bridge crew was intense at their stations, the gunnery officer shouting out encouragement through the voice tubes to the men below. The ship’s commander stood tall by the binnacle, bracing himself each time the bugle call gave the five second warning before firing. The spotters were eagerly watching through binoculars and longer range optics, looking for the huge white water splashes glistening up in the moonlight.

When the two brave night fighters out of Rabaul had come streaking in, the men on the bridge cheered, then saw them blown to pieces by the demon ship they were stalking. Now the Admiral stood by Kuroshima, in awe as he watched the dark horizon light up again, first hoping his guns had struck home, then realizing that more rockets had been fired at his ship. What was this enemy? If the British could build such weapons then he knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that the war was lost for certain. There was no defense against them, no answer but to doggedly close the range and endure one punishing blow after another, his ship on fire, men dying, thick smoke choking the open topped gun stations amidships.

Here they came again, one rocket blazing in just above the surface of the water while a second climbed high up into the sky to fall like thunder and lightning on his intrepid ship and crew—and they never missed. Surely they must be piloted as Kuroshima suggested, but now his hands were as white as his gloves on the nearest hand rail, body stiff as he braced himself for yet another series of hits. How much more could the ship take? Kuroshima’s words haunted him as the missiles came in. This ship was more than it seemed. It was Japan’s very best, the pinnacle of their naval engineering. Every man in the navy coveted a posting to Yamato, and not simply because of the relatively plush living conditions and better food. It was the flagship of the Imperial Japanese Navy. If he were to lose it here… All this passed through his mind in the barest instant, and then the thunder came.

The first missile struck just above the weather deck, slamming right into the heavy barbette of the forward main gun turret with a brilliant explosion that shattered two windows on the bridge and sent one junior officer careening against a bulkhead. The barbette withstood the blow, but the damage was sufficient to impede its easy rotation until crews could fight the fire and clear debris. In the meantime, the gun could not properly train on the target, and relief crews rushed inside to replace wounded men and re-man their positions. Five seconds later the second missile plunged down on the ship about 300 feet forward of that position, on the broad and relatively empty