1943 (Kirov Series Book 27) Read online

  Fedorov sighed. He had tried to get Karpov to see things in another light, and he may have communicated something. Yet he could never quite be sure of that. Karpov was Karpov, a convoluted maze of a man, now redoubled back on himself with that doppelganger ‘brother’ of his out there. He had little doubt that the other version of this man was growing, slowly blooming into the same dark black rose that the Siberian had become.

  “As to the threat of enemy reprisals,” said Karpov, “as I said, we will hit their airfield first… I think a pair of P-900s should do the job, with high fragmentation warheads. Then we deal with the warships. There weren’t many reported, but this big battleship must certainly be targeted.”

  “Musashi,” said Fedorov. “Remember, we’re talking about 400mm side armor on that ship. Even a Moskit-II will break on it like a bottle of champagne.”

  “We’ll go in top down,” said Karpov with a smile.

  “Then you’re looking at 230mm deck armor, and 250 to 650 on the main gun turrets. The Americans put a 230kg bomb on one, and it didn’t even penetrate the turret roof. That’s as big as any warhead we’ll throw at that ship.”

  “Yet we’ll shake up the command network,” Karpov came back. “We might even hit the bridge.”

  “500mm on the conning tower,” said Fedorov. “Oh, they’ll know they’ve been hit, but you would have to put ten missiles on that ship if you want to take it off the roster. It took the Americans 17 direct bomb hits, some 1000 pounds, and then 18 torpedo hits before that ship sank.”

  “We don’t need to do that,” said Karpov. “They don’t use it for combat operations anyway. Am I correct in that?”

  “True.”

  “Then all I want to do is shock them. It serves the purpose of a gaudy armored tower, nothing more. I simply want to knock heavily at the gate and show them how vulnerable they are.”

  “That would be like insulting a man instead of really hitting him. You might do better to target these…” Fedorov pointed to one of the still images captured by the recon photos. “Those have to be tankers. Remember the fascination the Japanese had with battleships at Pearl Harbor. They overlooked the oil tank farm, though they did a little better on that score this time through. Hit those tankers and you do some harm.”

  “Musashi is a political target,” said Karpov. “We’ll also put a missile on this aircraft carrier, and now that you mention it, the tankers do seem like a good choice as well. I want to let them know that they are completely powerless to stop me. In fact, it’s a shame that there aren’t more aircraft carriers here.”

  “Yes,” said Fedorov glibly. “That was what the Japanese said on December 7th.”

  An hour before dawn, Kirov had crept to within the 120-kilometer range mark of Truk. Fedorov had been correct. Their approach from the northwest was unseen, as most search assets had been assigned patrol arcs to the east and southeast, towards areas known to be frequented by American carriers. Aboard Musashi, Rear Admiral Kaoru Arima was at his station on the bridge early that morning, though it would be just one more day where he would sit and review reports, conduct station inspections, and dream about the day he might take his ship out onto the open sea again, and actually face the enemy in battle.

  He had served on the Kongo as a Lieutenant, and held positions as a gunnery instructor and Naval College Staff officer before receiving his first command on the cruiser Kumano. In October of 1940 they gave him the battleship Hiei, but just before the war broke out with the United States, he moved to the Musashi as its XO in September of 1941. When he was made Captain of that ship nearly a year later, he swelled with pride, even though he realized it would be an administrative post, idling in the anchorage of Truk Lagoon, staring endlessly out at the islands clustered about the ship, never doing anything of consequence.

  Just a few months ago, in November of 1942, the do-nothing Captain was promoted to a do-nothing Rear Admiral, but at least the journey here to Truk had been somewhat exciting. The ship had conducted AA gunnery trials, and even completed exercises involving those massive main gun turrets, each one weighing more than a typical Japanese destroyer.

  He was staring at them that morning, the sun not yet up, and just the faintest hint of pre-dawn glow in the sky. They had tested those massive guns in conjunction with their new radar set, but Arima found the results unsatisfactory. A pity that they will probably never fire another round in this war, he thought. There they sit, all that steel, silent castles on my foredeck, each one armed with the largest naval guns ever designed.

  Things could be worse, he thought. The ship could be back in home waters at Hashirajima, watching all the cruisers and destroyers come and go, and longing for the sea. It was only Yamamoto’s decision to make Yamato a real fighting ship that allowed Musashi to venture this far from home waters. She was a shadow of her older brother, taking on the duty Yamato once had, serving as the floating headquarters of the fleet. I should be proud, he thought, and indeed, I certainly am. This ship is now the official flagship of his majesty, Emperor Hirohito, and his aspect is ever watching me in my stateroom where all the other Admirals and staff officers come and go.

  As he was thinking all this, in walked the tall stalwart figure of Captain Keizo Komura, the former commander of the ill-fated cruiser Chikuma. Most of the other senior staff officers were either still sleeping, or busy with breakfast in the officer’s mess, but Komura was always up early like this, often seen pacing the long forward deck of the ship, restless and ill at ease.

  He has good reason to feel so glum, thought Arima. His ship was one of the first to be given the honor of attacking the shadowy enemy raider in the north, Mizuchi. He had sortied with the battleship Mutsu and a pack of destroyers to sail up the western shore of Kamchatka and destroy the enemy landing sites, but he never got there. Both Mutsu and Chikuma were attacked by a terrible new weapon, the breath of the fire sea demon, Mizuchi.

  He had asked Komura about it once, but them man just stared at him with that sallow face and dark narrowed eyes, and so he never mentioned the incident to him again. Now Komura stalked about the ship in the early hours, as if he were a prisoner here. Perhaps he was. He had lost his ship, failed in his mission, and had been summarily consigned to this post, ostensibly as a promotion, though everyone knew that he would probably never be given another combat command again, and now he had to endure the additional insult when the decision was made to suspend repair operations on Chikuma, and scrap the ship to provide steel for other carrier conversion projects. He would forever be known as the last Captain of the heavy cruiser Chikuma, consumed by fire and flame in the cold waters of the north.

  Now it was Arima’s turn to learn what Komura already carried in his gut. Something was burning in the purple sky off his starboard bow, rising up and up, like a shooting star returning to the heavens from whence it came. And then it began to fall again.

  Chapter 27

  Komura saw it too, his eyes riveted to the scene, widening with the horror of the memories he guarded silently within. Admiral Arima looked at him, seeing the distant glow in the sky reflected from his dark eyes, then stared at it again. What was it, a plane on fire? None of the seaplanes were scheduled to depart before 06:00 hours that morning. Could it be an enemy plane? Nothing had been reported the previous day, though now he realized the waters north and east of the lagoon had not been searched for three days now.

  Then he remembered that report he had received, that of a lone ship probing about the edge of the Marshalls like a restless shark. The Shadow Tleet had actually been dispatched to look for it off Tarawa, but found nothing. These thoughts passed in an instant in his mind, his eyes still moving back and forth from Captain Komura to that bright object in the sky, descending, descending, glowing more fiercely as it approached. Then the taut still figure of Komura was suddenly animated. He whirled about, eyes wide.

  “Battle stations!” He shouted. “Mizuchi!”

  Shocked by that word, Arima was on his feet. “What are you saying?
” he said, but Komura was pointing with a stiff arm.

  “Mizuchi!” The nightmare he had endured and carried so silently within for all these months was there again, just as he had seen it before, the star in the sky that fell to the sea, the fiery silent death that would only be heard after it had already struck his ship, for the thing in the sky was now traveling far faster than the roar of its own engines.

  Before Arima could say or do another thing, he saw it flash right over the tiny rise of Folo island, streaking right in towards the airstrip on Weno, and still his mind tried to tell him it was a fiery plane attempting a desperate landing there. Then it exploded, the fireball a great sphere right over the airfield, illuminating the squat shapes of the bombers lined up in a tight parking area. Secondary explosions bloomed up from the field, and Arima now realized those were the planes exploding, their wings scored by thousands of metal fragments, bursting aflame as the gasoline ignited.

  “Mizuchi!” said Koumura again, and now there were more lights in the sky, the violet dawn faintly illuminating their ghostly passage.

  “Battle stations!” Arima shouted at a watchstander and soon the bells were ringing all over the ship. The sound of crewmen rushing to their gun stations was heavy on the decks, and the main hatch to the bridge opened. There stood Admiral Matome Ugaki, frowning, the light from the fires over the airfield reflecting from his bald round head.

  “What is happening?” he said sternly.

  “We are under attack,” said Arima. “Captain Kumano believes it is the Siberian raider—look, naval rockets!”

  “Mizuchi,” said Kumano, all that he had been able to speak since he first laid eyes on the light in the sky. Ugaki turned and looked, seeing the thin trails in the sky. Then a second explosion erupted right over the airfield. Men were running. He saw the AA guns turning, training up to face the lights in the sky, and only now could they hear the roar of the engine that brought those first two missiles to this place. How could this be?

  The first guns began to fire from Musashi, triple 25mm Type 93 AA guns sending hot tracers into the sky at another fast moving rocket, this one low over the sea, its fierce light illuminating the still waters of the lagoon as it raced, smashing right into the carrier Zuiho.

  Ugaki stared in horror as the terrible orange and yellow fire erupted from the ship. It had come in right on the water, right against the thin side armor of the carrier. He saw great pieces of the flight deck thrown up into the air and now a heavy black smoke poured out of the gaping wound, like the wrathful eruption of a volcano.

  There was a moment of silence, even the AA guns stilled as all the men stared in awe at the scene. Then they saw two more lights in the sky, the amber dawn scored by their smoky tails, now glowing yellow as they came. Up they went and down they fell, and all Ugaki could think of was the secret Cherry Blossom project the navy was busy with, for surely these rockets must be piloted, and he now tried to comprehend the steely resolve of the men who were flying them, so terribly fast, riders of doom, thunder gods.

  The guns were firing again, but in utter futility, and all through the anchorage tracers were streaking up into the sky from every ship, and some even directed search light upwards, their thin fingers probing the dawn like the reaching hand of a blind man. In came the first, low over the lagoon as before, only this time it would find one of the service fleet ships anchored close by the headlands of Weno island where it had been taking on fuel the previous day for delivery to Tulagi. The explosion and fire that erupted there was awesome, and now he knew that the rocket had struck the tanker full on. Kyokuku Maru was now a raging inferno, the fire and heat heralding the rising sun.

  Then the last rocket fell from the sky, coming in low over the sea, as all the others had, only this time Ugaki could see that it was aimed right at Musashi. A second later it seemed to leap up, as if the pilot had frantically pulled back on his control stick to avoid crashing into the ship, but that was not the case. It was only the pre-programmed popup maneuver at the end of the terminal run of that Moskit-II, the last to be fired in Karpov’s attack.

  The Siberian had hit all the key targets he discussed with Fedorov, two P-900s over the airfield exploding right over the parked aircraft and raking them with hot shrapnel and the concussive wave of shock and fire. Half the bombers were on fire now, the explosions from their fuel tanks still erupting when the ships were hit.

  Zuiho had been next, a single Moskit-II lancing into her sides, smashing into the hangar deck and exploding with consuming fire. The hit had come in right amidships, between the two elevators fore and aft, and that ship would be put completely out of action again, with flames and heavy smoke. Then the tanker had been hit, the fires there so high and hot that they now illuminated the entire northeast end of the airfield. Karpov wanted the officers and staff of Combined Fleet to have a very good look at what he was doing, a nice little drama as he timed his attack, missile by missile.

  Then the final blow struck Musashi, the missile hitting the ship right at the base of the conning tower with an impact so heavy that Ugaki was knocked off his feet. Arima reeled in the Captain’s chair, Komura barely kept his balance as he lunged for a nearby hand rail. The blast billowed up, the shock shattering one of the viewport windows, the smell of gasoline heavy with the fire that now rose along the high steel tower. Then the heavy smoke rolled up.

  The tower walls had not been compromised, just as Fedorov had warned. Their 500mm steel was more than enough to stop that missile, but the fires would blacken them, and the smoke envelop them, obscuring all view of the lagoon in minutes. Alarms were ringing all over the ship, men were running to the scene, dragging the long fire hoses. Two watchstanders were helping Admiral Ugaki to his feet, and Arima saw a thin trail of blood from a bruise on his forehead.

  He looked at Komura with new eyes now, looked with understanding that could only come with the heat and shock and fire of that missile. This was what had happened to his ship, only the cruiser had been hit much worse. Even though he did not yet know the extent of the damage, he knew that this single hit would not send Musashi to the scrap yards. But how many more rockets would come.

  Now he felt the same feeling that must have yawned within Komura when his ship was attacked, a feeling of complete helplessness. The firing from the AA guns sputtered out, and he walked to the only clear viewports to try and see what was happening below. Komura was there, and the two men glanced at one another, saying nothing.

  * * *

  “Cease Fire,” said Karpov, arms folded as he stood over Grilikov, who was standing in for Samsonov on this watch, elated to be in charge of his first real combat operation. He had fired the two P-900s, and three Moskit-II missiles, marveling at how the single push of his finger on a small panel switch could send such terrible power out into the world.

  “Well done, Mister Grilikov. You will make a fine combat officer at that station.”

  Grilikov beamed at Karpov, very content with himself. He had been very nervous before it all began, afraid the Admiral would ask him to do something that Samsonov had not yet explained to him, but it was all so very simple in the end. The target would appear on his screen, a thing he still was utterly fascinated with, the glowing panel a complete mystery to him. But all he had to do was touch it, and then select the switches as Samsonov had shown him. Death and destruction would follow in short order.

  “I think that will be sufficient,” Karpov said to Fedorov. “In fact, I do not think we will even need to send up the KA-226 for battle damage assessment. Mister Nikolin…”

  “Sir?’

  “I want you to closely monitor Japanese fleet radio traffic for the next two hours. Record everything and send it down for translation. I think we’ll be able to ascertain the impact of this strike easily enough from that transcript. I want it on my stateroom desk by 20:00 hours this evening. Now then… What do you think of this little demonstration, Mister Fedorov? We’ve shot our arrows into the eye of the storm. Was it worth the five missile
s we expended?”

  “You won’t need that transcript to know what happened,” said Fedorov. “I’d bet the P-900s probably took out fifteen or twenty bombers, and shut down that main airstrip, but only for a few hours. They’ll be operational shortly after dawn and have everything they can fly up looking for us.”

  Karpov wasn’t concerned about that. He had already come about, and was heading northeast at 28 knots, with the ship at air alert two. He had determined that he would save his S-400s if any enemy planes found the ship, and just use the much more plentiful Klinoks to shoot them down.

  “As for the ships,” said Fedorov, “The tanker you hit will be a total loss, and there will be severe fires at the mooring site. That was the most severe blow. You probably consumed ten to twelve thousand tons of fuel with that hit, in addition to taking out a very valuable fleet support asset. The other tanker was out in the main anchorage.”

  “We’ll leave it there,” said Karpov. “I won’t waste a missile on an empty ship, but if I catch one at sea I’ll certainly sink such a ship.”

  “The carrier is mission killed, which is to say I don’t think we’ll see any of its strike planes launched, to get after us. We’ll know more about that damage from Nikolin’s intercepts. As for Musashi, you’ve already heard me out on that score. You shook them up, and it was rather dramatic to put the last shot on that ship.”

  “Oh, that wasn’t the last shot,” said Karpov. “And I’m sure this won’t seem anywhere as traumatic as the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, but I made my point. I just taught them something here—that I can go anywhere I please, even into the heart of their fleet web here to strike its very center. I intend to fire my next shot off in a signal to that headquarters, acknowledging that it was my ship that inflicted this damage and repeating my demands concerning Vladivostok.”