Kirov III: Pacific Storm

“Aye, sir.”

She had taken hits from two P-900s, six Moskit-II missiles, but the two torpedo hits had been the telling blows. Yamato would not sink that night, but she could no longer fight effectively, and it was only the similar gravity of the damage control situation aboard Kirov that would end this battle in a draw, though Karpov would count the victory on Kirov’s side nonetheless. It was clear to him which ship had administered the greatest punishment, and which had endured. Yet Kirov had come within a hair’s breadth of having her back broken by an 18 inch shell, and the memory of that would not soon be forgotten.

The Russian battlecruiser was also taking water, her earlier wound opening to the sea again. A torpedo was jammed in her port Vodopad number three tube, her Top Mast radars blasted away, her ventilation conduits riddled with 20mm rounds and a slowly rising heat situation in her reactor was beginning to cause Dobrynin more concern. He asked the Admiral, still at his side, if the ship could keep speed moderate, and Volsky was soon hastening to the bridge.

Both fighters seemed exhausted for the moment, and a brief interval of relative calm settled over the scene, punctuated only by the distant thunder of Yamato’s aft turret, firing in protest, yet widely off the mark. Fedorov steered a course to open the range, wanting nothing more to do with the wounded behemoth that was still growling at them on the restless seas. He hoped the battle was finally over and that they could slip away into the night to lick their wounds, but these hopes would soon be dashed.

Off to the south a man stood stiffly at the forward view ports on the bridge of the cruiser Tone, his eyes pressed tightly on his field glasses as he noted the distant amber glow on the horizon. He heard a faint rumble, like thunder, and knew that a great battle was underway ahead of him, and that ships were burning, men fighting and dying on the heartless sea. His scout planes had been unable to contact him for some time now, the airwaves garbled with a strange wash of static, but he knew he was close. Battle stations had been sounded, the crews tensely alert, and all of Tone’s four twin 8 inch gun turrets forward of the bridge were ready for the fight. Behind him came two more heavy cruisers, Nachi and Myoko.

He was Captain Sanji Iwabuchi, and he was marching boldly forward to the sound of the guns.

Chapter 33

It is hard to say what keeps a man in a fight when he knows he has already been beaten. Heavyweights had been beaten senseless by their opponents and yet still fought on, answering the bell with bloodied faces, swollen eyes, and broken ribs. In war it was much the same. Men fought on in one desperate lost battle after another, all through human history. They strove and grunted and charged their enemy under impossible circumstances, willing to die first before they would ever admit defeat.

Half way around the world the Russians and Germans would begin their grueling five month battle for Stalingrad this very week, and in a few months time, on that cruel December after the 6th Army had been encircled, the surrounding Russian troops would see something that amazed them on Christmas Eve. Every section and platoon in the surrounded German Army fired tracer rounds up into the sky, lighting up the massive perimeter in celebration, spending badly needed ammunition to also say, ‘here we are. We are still here.’

The Japanese character was easily set to this mind, and though their navy had taken a severe beating in the last twenty-four hours, it fought on. No captain or admiral at sea in that era had ever faced steeper odds or a more powerful foe in a surface engagement. Had Kirov been in her prime, unblooded by weeks of combat at sea and still with full magazines, she would have fought the battle quite differently. Yamato would have never seen her, and never once been in a position to fire those massive guns. A salvo of ten or more missiles would have found her in the night, one single, lethal barrage that would have ravaged her superstructure and caused uncontrollable fires.

This is how Karpov might have preferred to fight his battle, with the struggle for the all important first salvo uncontested, the sole prerogative of the powerful ship beneath his feet. All the long discussions in the naval forums would mean nothing when those missiles hit home. End of story. Discussion over. Yet, given their strange circumstances, and the fact that he could not know what he might be facing in days ahead, he had to throw his punches in a slow and measured way, beating down his enemy by degrees, and hoping he could use as few missiles or torpedoes as possible in the process.

That said, the skill and determination of the Japanese Navy had seen them harry and hound the battlecruiser across a thousand miles of ocean, and to within a hair’s breadth of destruction. And there would be no discussion about that either, no meeting of the minds between Yamamoto and Volsky to find another way.

Yamato had taken every punch, every hit, and yet still fought on. Karpov watched it now, his head shaking in near disbelief as the ship continued to fire in frustrated anger, though its guns could not find their target as Kirov slowly slipped away. My God, he thought. There’s something to be said for armor after all. That ship took eight missiles and two torpedoes, beaten, but not broken. I could put more torpedoes into it from my port side Vodopad tubes, but we desperately need every weapon we have now. There’s no point in continuing this madness any further.

He turned to Fedorov. “I think we can safely move out of range now. Then we’ll need to see to our own damage and determine what to do next. That cruiser will be up on us soon enough, and Rodenko saw ships behind it earlier, before we lost the Top Mast radar.”

“Very well, Captain,” Fedorov had a distant, empty look in his eyes. “We’ll steer 45 northeast until we put some sea room between us and the enemy.”

And so it ended.

Karpov turned slowly to the mishman at the log and spoke quietly, an almost solemn expression on his face.

“Let the log read that at 21:40 hours battlecruiser Kirov disengaged from her action against battleship Yamato, after achieving ten hits on the enemy and leaving a badly damaged ship in her wake. Report damage sustained by this vessel by referencing Chief Byko’s log entry for this date. Anton Fedorov Commanding; tactical executive officer, Vladimir Karpov.”

“Sir, the log entry has been recorded.”

“As you were, mishman.”

The Captain looked over at Fedorov, and saw his eyes had glassed over, a hidden pain there as he stared at the HD panel above them, watching Yamato burn on infrared. Karpov stepped to the young Captain’s side and spoke in a lowered voice .

“It will get easier,” he said quietly.

“I’m not sure I want it to,” said Fedorov, and Karpov knew what he meant, nodding.

“Admiral on the bridge!”

Volsky huffed in through the main hatch, closing it behind him as he struggled to catch his breath. He wasted no time, his eyes quickly finding Karpov and Fedorov where they stood by the navigation station.

“We’ll have to slow the ship again. Byko reports damage to the hull patch and renewed flooding near the reactors.”

Fedorov nodded, “Ahead two thirds,” he said “and steady on 45 degrees.” He seemed a bit listless and sullen now.

“So the ship is in one piece after all. My God, is that what we did to the enemy?” He pointed out the forward view ports, seeing the dark silhouette of Yamato crowned by the wild dance of flame and fire. “Well done,” he said. “Both of you. But I have more news. It’s started. Dobrynin is seeing the same odd spikes in the core flux readings. He can hear it. There was also a vibration just now as I came up the stairs. Did you feel it? I think we may be shifting… moving somewhere else.”

“That would be most welcome at the moment,” said Karpov. Then they all felt yet another odd vibration, and a palpable smell of ozone in the air. Karpov instinctively looked about him, thinking a panel may have shorted out and they might have an electrical fire, but the crew sat attentively at their stations, and no one else seemed alarmed. For a brief moment he saw the glowering hulk of Yamato seem to dim and fade