Kirov III-Pacific Storm (Kirov Series) (30 page)

The rain
slowly abated as
Kirov
slipped
southeast, resolving to a fine humid mist in time, and drifting patches of fog
hugging the quieting seas. The principle officers took advantage of the calm
for much needed sleep, all except Nikolin, who had spent the night dozing at
his radio station, in and out of sleep as he monitored the increasing radio
traffic. He could not decipher some of the code words used, but it was clear to
him that ships and planes were talking to one another, calling to one another
in the night, and he imagined men up in search planes now, their eyes darkly
scanning the grey horizon, looking for enemy ships, perhaps looking for
Kirov
as well, with bad intent.

A little before three in the morning
he got a message from engineering. Dobrynin was reporting his maintenance
procedure was completed without complications.

“Very well,” he said. “I will inform
the senior officers at the next shift.” Then he forgot about the matter,
settling into his chair again and quietly dozing off.

Two hours later a bleary eyed Karpov
came slouching onto the bridge, and a watchman saluted.

“Captain on the bridge,” he said,
sticking to protocols.

“As you were,” said Karpov, then he
yawned heavily, moving slowly to Kalinichev. “Anything to report?”

“Without the Fregat system our range
is limited,” said Kalinichev. “But I did get a return on a surface contact with
our Top Mast radar at 02:00 hours, sir. I keyed its position, course and speed,
and the predictive plot algorithm would have it here, sir, a little beyond the
range of that antenna now.”

Moments later Fedorov appeared, and
yet another captain was announced on the bridge. He joined Karpov, near the
radar station as other senior officers were slowly appearing to relieve the
night shift. Rodenko was back, and Tasarov shuffled in to take up his post at
sonar. The burly Samsonov was an early riser. He had just come from the mess
hall and a good breakfast, and now was well settled into his station at the
CIC.

“That predictive plot will probably be
the carrier group that attacked us earlier,” said Fedorov.

“We could go have a look with the
KA-40. It proved invaluable yesterday. It may be wise to get an Oko panel up
and have a look around this morning.”

“I agree,” said Fedorov. “See to it,
will you Captain?”

“Sir,” Karpov tapped off a three
finger salute and went to rustle Nikolin from his daydreaming and have him send
the order down to the helo bay. Nikolin blinked, chasing the sleep from his
eyes, and then remembered the message from Dobrynin.

“I’m to tell you that Chief Dobrynin
has completed his maintenance operation, sir,” he said.

“Yes, yes,” Karpov waved a hand. “Good
enough. Just get that order out for the KA-40, Mister Nikolin.”

Twenty minutes later the Helo was up,
its twin rotors beating fitfully as it increased power with a roar and gained
elevation. With every foot it rose, the range of its radar increased in a
slowly expanding arc. At 05:10 hours it was high up over the ship, its Oko
panel deployed and beginning to feed telemetry to Rodenko’s station.

Rodenko settled in, his eyes focusing
on the screen as he toggled switches to receive the data stream. What he saw
was most disheartening.

“Con, Radar. Multiple airborne
contacts inbound in two groups. Large signal returns east-northeast at 150
miles and closing at 200kph. A second group southeast, range 170 and closing.
Recommend Air Alert One.”

Karpov shrugged, looking at Fedorov.
“Sleep time is over,” he said. “It looks like we have uninvited guests for
breakfast. Air Alert One. Sound battle stations.”

The long night was over. The sound of
the alarm was a shrill warning that cut through the warm dawn and sent a chill
down Fedorov’s spine in spite of the apparent calm on the seas around them. He
looked out the forward view panes, noting the vermillion sky lightening to the
east, and suddenly the day had a grim and sallow tinge to it with the
realization that men were going to fight and die here soon. How many planes
this time? How many men? They had thirty-five SAMs left in the dark silos
beneath the forward deck.

Part VIII

Shadow Dancer

“Shadow
is ever besieged, for that is its nature.

Whilst
darkness devours, and light steals.

And
so one sees shadow ever retreat

to
hidden places,

only
to return in the wake

of the war
between dark and light.”

―
Steven Erikson, House of Chains.

Chapter
22

Lieutenant
Akira Sakamoto was up on the flight
deck early, standing in the warm morning mist, breathing deeply. He watched
while the flight crews pushed the last of his D3A1s from the elevator, their
wings glistening with a light sheen of moisture. The steam rising from the
hydraulics beneath the main deck formed subtle wisps and then folded into the
mist, a shadow dancer on the thick morning airs.

Too few, he thought. So many planes
gone…. So many men. He now had more pilots aboard than aircraft. They had been
able to patch up the seven D3A1s that had survived that disastrous first strike
mission, and two
shotai
had been flown in from
the reserve at Kendari, six more planes to give him a total of just thirteen
dive bombers ready for operations that morning. All the D3A1s had been grouped
here on
Zuikaku
. There were also nine B5N2s being readied, their long
sleek torpedoes being checked even now as the first two came off the elevators.
An equal number would be making ready for operations aboard
Shokaku
,
cruising sedately off their starboard bow. That would give him eighteen torpedo
planes to add to his strike, barely a third of the wave he might normally hope
to lead against a naval target.

And this was no ordinary ship. He
still shivered with the memory of those deadly rockets arcing into the sky,
their fiery tails spitting flame as they came at his planes like piranhas,
cutting his squadrons to pieces.

The words he had spoken to his men
earlier in the briefing room returned to haunt him. “These rockets flung
against
Kirishima
could not have found the target on their own. Every
single one hit home, or so I am told. It is clear that they must be piloted,
and so we must not underestimate the bravery of our enemies. I do not have to
remind you that it was only the courage of Lieutenant Hayashi that enabled us
to find and hit this demon. He did so
twice
, his life counting for
nothing in the face of duty. Let that be a lesson to us all. It may be that we,
too, must ride our planes to a flaming end this morning.”

He remembered the look on Lieutenant
Ema’s
face, another survivor of the first wave, and spoke
one last time. “It is for those of us who have already seen this monster to lead
the way for the others.” It was clear what he meant, and Sakamoto had every
intention to follow in the wake of Hayashi that morning, to another life if
need be, and to end the sorrows of this war insofar as his small part was
concerned.

The last of EII-3 Torpedo Squadron was
up from below and being spotted behind his dive bombers for takeoff. He could
feel the carrier turning, noting the wide sweep of her foaming wake cutting
through the green seas, and he took a long, deep breath. It was time.

Sakamoto drew out a boson’s whistle
from his flight jacket and blew a high, shrill note. The rise and fall of the
flight deck leader’s voice called in return and the men were now moving quickly
to their planes. He was up and into the cockpit of his D3A1 like a shadow
fleeing from the rising sun, and soon he heard the grinding whirr of the
engine, firing sharply as the forward prop slowly rotated, then sputtered to
life. He fed it power, reassured by the heavy thrum of the engine and the whirl
of the glistening propeller. A flagman was already out in front of his plane,
slowly walking backward, the white flag in his hand catching a slight morning
breeze as the carrier faced the wind.

Seconds later he saw men dash in under
his wings and felt the chocks dragged away, he was ready to fly. The flagman
waved him forward and his engine revved to high rotation as he readied himself,
the adrenaline in his chest sending his heart beating faster.
Raijin
, God of Thunder, he prayed silently. Give me
your lightning this day.

Then the flagman waved him on with a
sharp movement rotating and kneeling, one arm extended towards the long forward
flight deck, pointing out the way. Sakamoto pushed the throttle to full and
felt his plane lurch forward in response. It rumbled down the runway with a
roar, until he felt that airy lightness as the wheels ran out of deck and his
plane growled to gain altitude. He dipped slightly, his eyes playing over the
opalescent green froth at the bow of the ship, and then he was up, climbing
into the sky through a bank of low lying clouds, the air sweet in his lungs and
a smile on his face.

It was a beautiful dawn, the last
morning of his life, and knowing that simple fact brought an elation he could
not hold within him. It glistened as a tear, wetting his cheek as he climbed.
And then he banked left to look over his shoulder to see
Ema’s
plane rising in his wake, and a third D3A1 running swiftly along
Zuikaku’s
deck for takeoff. Beyond that he could see the swan white wings of the A6M2s
off
Shokaku
rising in force to escort the strike planes in.

He would not die alone.

 *
* *

As the
planes drew ever closer, the men
aboard
Kirov
now had a good look at what they were facing. Admiral
Yamamoto’s estimate had been a little off the mark. Hara’s strike was now
composed of thirteen D3A1s, eighteen B5N2s and twenty-four A6M2 fighters in
escort, fifty-five planes in all. It was reasoned that each fighter along for
the mission would present the enemy with yet one more target. Increasing the
chances that one of the strike planes would get through.

Rodenko was able to estimate the size
of the force at fifty plus planes, already more targets than their remaining
SAMs on a one for one basis. To make matters worse, the second airborne group
coming up from the south returned another thirty-six discrete contacts. They
were now facing over ninety planes against the thirty-five SAMs they had left
in the silos.

“God help us this time,” Fedorov
whispered under his breath. He looked at Karpov, ready to hand control of the engagement
to the
able
Captain, and for a moment their eyes met,
a question in Fedorov’s, a hint of uncertainty in Karpov’s, firming to resolve.
It was the first time they had faced an attack without the calm assurance that
they could bat it aside. Had their magazines been full, all systems nominal,
that would again be the case, but now each one knew they were under real
threat, particularly if the Japanese pilots pressed home their attack with the
same intensity as before.

Karpov took a deep breath, realizing
that the eyes of the bridge crew were on him now, waiting. He stood straighter,
clasped his arms behind his back as he often did in combat, and then gave his
orders.

“Mister Samsonov,” he said calmly. “We
will engage with the S-300 system as before. Range one hundred kilometers; a
salvo of six missiles to target each group. I want your firing interval longer,
ten seconds.”

“Aye, sir, weapons locked on targets
and system ready.”

Rodenko looked over his shoulder,
nodding at Karpov to indicate the targets had crossed the range line, his eyes
big and white as he did so.

“Commence firing.”

The warning claxon, the snap of the
forward deck hatches, the first long sleek missile up from below, the wisp of its
aiming jet as it declined the sharp pointed nose before the roar of the engine
sent it lancing away from the ship in a wash of pure white vapor… The Second
Battle of the Coral Sea had begun.

One
by one the deadly S-300’s charged forth to meet the enemy,
each one accelerating so fast that they soon left the roar of their own engines
far behind, and became silent steel javelins in the bright morning sky,
reaching impossible speeds in a matter of seconds. A man firing an automatic
assault rifle would see his bullets fly off at twice the speed of sound. The
missiles were four times faster. To the enemy planes that chanced to see them
coming they would seem a blur of lightning coming up at them from some angry
sea god unseen on the ocean below. When they exploded, a tight bundle of long
steel rods would fragment into a rain of metal, out to a ten meter radius
around the point of detonation. Any plane close inside that radius would be
torn to shreds, only the heavy engine compartment surviving intact. Targets
farther out could be riddled with shrapnel, their wings damaged, fuel tanks
ruptured, canopies shattered, pilots run through with lethal wounds.