B00DSDUWIQ EBOK (35 page)

* * *

Karpov
grinned as he watched the overhead HD screen
receive the long range camera feed from the KA-226. He could see his deck guns
straddle the distant ship, then quickly score a hit.

“They’re
probably wondering what hit them,” he said to Rodenko. “Just a little slap in the
face for their insolence before I ram a couple more missiles down their smoke
stacks, eh?”

But
where were the raging fires he expected to see? He knew all three missiles from
his initial salvo had hit the target. Why wasn’t this ship burning like
Yamato?
Then his eye caught a bright flash, and he looked to see the distant ship seemed
to explode—but it did
not
explode. He was seeing
Iowa’s
massive
main batteries firing in return.

“Rodenko!
What’s the range?”

“33,200
meters, sir.”

“Have
we slipped over the horizon?” The Captain was reaching for his binoculars—yes, he
could see the bright flash on the edge of the sea.

“Helm
port fifteen! Signal all units to match our new heading.”

“Sir,
port fifteen and my rudder is four-zero degrees.”

He
watched the ship turn smartly, heard Nikolin relaying the turn order to both Yeltzin
and Ryakhin. The
Orlan
followed his lead at once, but
Admiral Golovko
off his starboard side was still on the old heading when they heard the scream
and whoosh of heavy rounds coming in. The enormous geysers fell well short of
Kirov
,
but between
Orlan
and the frigate—three, then three more, then—

There
was a flash and explosion and Karpov’s eyes widened in shock when he saw what had
happened. He raised his binoculars to the angry knot of smoke and fire ahead,
then they heard the sound of loud secondary explosions going off, a massive
detonation that sent jets of flame and debris shoot up from the rolling red-black
fireball where
Admiral Golovko
had once been.

“My
God…”

Rodenko
was looking at the overhead screen, as were most of the bridge crew now. The frigate
had been blown in two sections, its sharp bow now wildly tilted upwards through
the billowing smoke, then falling rapidly to the sea. The center of the ship
was gone and the aft quarter was capsized and already sinking. They saw men
leap from the gunwale, then a wall of flames immolated them and the entire scene
was wreathed in smoke and flame. Seconds later they heard more muted explosions,
felt the jolting concussion, and Karpov knew that the ship was continuing to
explode beneath the sea as it sank.
Admiral Golovko
was gone, and 200
men were scuppered into the sea with her, the lines of life and fate ending for
them in that brief, wild moment of explosive violence.

Karpov
slowly lowered his field glasses.
All it will take is one hit from a gun of that
size
…Fedorov’s voice echoed its warning in his mind. It was nothing more
than happenstance, he knew on one level. They slipped over the horizon ever so
briefly, and the battleship must have spotted
Kirov’s
tall main mast and
superstructure. There is no way they would have seen the frigate at this range.
They fired blindly, just shooting down the line of our bearing and aiming for
the horizon. They were firing at us, and they missed… Then all these thoughts
were swept away by a hot anger.

“Sons
of bitches,” he hissed.

Rodenko
was watching the Captain closely, the shock and concern evident in his eyes.

“Sons
of
bitches!
Samsonov!
Moskit-IIs,
salvo of three. Key on that contact
and fire.”

“Sir,
aye!
Salvo firing on target.”

In
that one brief instant the battle had taken a dramatic turn. Karpov had thought
he would face down and intimidate the entire US Pacific Fleet. He thought he would
show them what real power was when he fired one precious tactical warhead to
frighten these little men—but these were not little men. They had just come through
four long years of violent struggle at sea in the greatest naval war in human
history. In all that time they had lost one battleship, the
Mississippi
sunk
by Karpov himself in another fit of rage, along with the two carriers he had
killed, swatting the
Wasp
at both ends of the long, terrible war. Then the
Japanese had sunk ten carriers, eight cruisers, ninety destroyers, and still
they fought on. He remembered Fedorov talking about the war. On any given weekend
they would lose more men than the entire ten year American war in Iraq. US
Marines would claw their way ashore on isolated rocks in the sea and blast the
stalwart enemy from cliff and cave in a grueling campaign of utter attrition.
Thousands would die for tiny islands, and still they came.

Now
here they come for us, he thought grimly. Now we feel the hard hand of war at our
throat. Halsey is out there somewhere, gritty, determined, leading his battleships
forward in this hot pursuit, and we have yet to even face their air wing!

The
missiles were firing, a swift lancing return, measure for measure, an eye for an
eye. He was going to sink this ship, and kill every last man aboard in reprisal.
And after he was done with that he would burn the rest of the American fleet in
the raging fire of his anger.

Chapter 35

They
saw the explosion, the bridge
crew jubilant when it rippled up and bloomed on the horizon. The Big Stick had
just struck their enemy a hard blow. Then they saw the same telltale streak of
a rocket bearing down on them, and this time the ship opened up with every AA
gun on the port side. The sky was pot marked with white puffs of exploding
rounds, everything from the rapid firing 20mm cannons up to the quick firing
five inch guns, but the missiles were simply too fast to be aimed at. It would
be sheer luck if anything scored a hit.

The
first missile stuck the number one battery, streaking in at sea level before it
suddenly popped up and then nosed down onto the ship. It blasted through the outer
bomb deck, a thinner barrier that was designed to trigger falling bombs and
detonate them in the space between that outer deck and the heavier armor deck
below. Beyond that there was a third splinter deck, and so the missile had to
penetrate all of 7.5 inches of steel to get at the vital innards of the ship.

It
struck at an angle and blasted through all three protective decks, then hit something
far more substantial, the barbette of gun turret number one, which was 17.3
inches of steel at its thickest point. The searing wash of flame engulfed the
turret in anger, but it was not breached. Fifteen men inside had been felled by
the concussion, but relief crews were coming up from below to rescue the
wounded, remove the dead, and fight on.

They
had to flood the number one magazine for that gun, but there were three more still
high and dry, and plenty of powder bags stretched out on the racks four decks below
the gun itself. The huge shells were still rotating into the lifts on the projectile
handling floor, and hoisted up into the rammers. Like an enormous clock, the turret
skipped a beat or two as the crews recovered from the shock and replacements
were sent in, then the workings of the turret continued, and the guns struck
twelve with another thunderous roar.

Two
more missiles came at them. One popped up and then plunged down on the deck just
behind the aft main battery. If the big guns had not been rotated away they
would have been struck there, but as it was the missile penetrated the deck and
bored into the galley and crew’s mess section on the second deck. The Hot Parker
Rolls were going to be a little overdone if they were ever served there again.

The
third missile struck amidships, blasting into the superstructure where a special
cabin had been set up for FDR when the Iowa transported the President to the
Tehran Conference earlier in the war. The explosion damaged a twin 5 inch gun
battery, and sent a hail of fiery shrapnel up toward the battle bridge. The
armored conning tower where Wellborn captained the ship was protected by thick
17.5 inch armor, and it shrugged off the punch with no significant damage. The
fire soon spread from FDRs cabin to the officer’s Wardroom, but crews were
rushing to the scene to put the flames down.

Iowa
had taken six hard hits, but for all the
smoke, fire and concussion, she was not seriously hurt. The primary virtue of a
battleship, her ability to take punishment and remain in the fight, was now
paramount. With each passing minute the range was decreasing, her crews working
the optics, he guns plotting a solution to lob more massive shells at the
enemy.

The
Russians had turned, skirting the far horizon out of visual range, but Wellborn
knew they would see them again soon. If they wanted to break out into the deep blue
they would have to continue an easterly heading. He estimated they had probably
made a ten or fifteen point turn, and he was correct.

“Gunnery
Officer! Adjust your fire five degrees to starboard and set your range steady at
34,000 yards. Aim for that column of smoke.”

He
knew they had just scored a lucky hit, and didn’t think they would get another any
time soon, but they would keep a rain of hot steel heading the enemy’s way nonetheless.

“Sir,
we have visual sighting on our air wing. Aircraft off the port rear quarter!”

The
Captain looked to see the skies slowly darkening with tiny specks. They were not
in any discernable formation. Some were low on the water, others at altitude,
and scattered all over the sky. They had been riding
Iowa’s
radio
direction signal to arrive unerringly at the scene of the battle just as things
were heating up. And then he gaped at the sky to the north, seeing it scored by
a series of lighting fast contrails that raced out at impossible speeds. The
enemy was firing rockets at the incoming planes—rockets with eyes so good that
they swerved and struck dead on when they hit, and soon the sky above the ship
was blooming with hot fireballs and angry black fists of smoke.

“Radio
signal, Captain. It’s Admiral Halsey!”

Wellborn
took the handset and toggled the overhead speaker. “Welcome Admiral, take off the
gloves and get busy. The enemy is just beyond that column of smoke on your horizon.
We put sixteen inches of steel on them with our third salvo.”

“Good
job, Chuck. Give ‘em hell. We’ve just seen your main mast on the horizon so we’re
about thirty minutes out, but on a good intercept angle. We’ve got your back!
Mighty Mo is coming at 33 knots and Sprague is swinging up behind them with
Whisky. Together the three of us are going to pound these guys to rubble.”

The
Bull was charging to the scene aboard battleship
Missouri
, mad as hell
when he saw the enemy rockets firing at the planes overhead. The entire scene
was now becoming another wild display of controlled chaos at sea. The big ships
surged forward, sharp bows frothing the waves, huge guns firing amid the drone of
hundreds of aircraft coming in above them.

“Order
the flack gunners to cease fire,” Wellborn shouted over the noise. “We can’t hit
those damn rockets and we might take down our own boys up there.”

He
watched as the first planes passed his position, making for the distant column of
black smoke on the horizon as the enemy rockets clawed into the sky to look for
them. Get the bastards, he urged the flyboys on. But look out for my big guns.

The
Big Stick fired again.

* * *

Karpov
watched
Orlan
firing, the missiles accelerating
to the incredible speed of Mach 15, five times faster than a bullet fired from
a good rifle. The planes in the sky were like slow flying target drones to
them, and
Orlan’s
amazing fire control computers were sending them out
with pinpoint accuracy, one missile, one kill. Three, then five, then nine
angels fell in the wild sky, yet on they came, blue
Hellcats
, and
Helldivers
,
well named, for it seemed they were plunging over the edge of perdition as the
missiles exploded, taking one plane after another.

“Stand
ready on
Klinok
system,” he ordered. “We’ll add our fire to that of
Orlan
soon.”

The
cold weight of
Admiral Golovko’s
tragic loss was now settling into his stomach
like a heavy stone. They lost their best ASW ship, two hundred men, and all the
weapons remaining that now had to be wiped from his mental inventory. He had
assigned a place for each of the eight remaining P-900s on the frigate, but now
they would never be fired. And her special warhead was gone as well, an even
bigger loss, he thought. The ship’s helicopters could be recovered easily enough,
but that was another matter that he put far from his mind.

The
crew also seemed different now. Each time they saw the crack of fire light up the
horizon, then heard the deep rolling thunder of the American battleship firing,
there was a long minute of tense anxiety on the bridge. Karpov saw one crewman
looking up at the ceiling of the citadel, as if he thought a 16 inch shell
might come blasting through the armored roof at any moment like Hayashi’s plane
hit the aft citadel when they fought the Japanese. It was not the battleship he
was worried about now, but the flights of aircraft massing above it.

The
American planes had cut the range in half in the last ten minutes and were now inside
thirty kilometers, ripe fruit for the flotilla’s potent missile defenses.
Orlan
led the way with her superb 9M96E missiles, designed for direct “hit to kill”
impact. Their high speed maneuverability was attributed to canards and
thrusters, which allowed them to achieve extremely high G turns with precision
throughout the engagement envelope. In effect, it was a highly maneuverable shaped
charge that would strike and detonate with a tight fragmentation pattern that
was ripping the American planes to pieces, one by one.

Yet
each missile fired was one less available in the magazines.
Orlan
started
the battle with 180 SAMs, and she had already fired 46 missiles, each and every
one finding a target, though three had homed on planes that had already been
hit.

Rodenko
reported that the SAM defense was exacting a terrible toll, but the Americans were
still pressing doggedly forward. “This group must be off Halsey’s carriers,” he
said to the Captain, pointing at the tactical board. “That second group there
at the fifty kilometer mark must be coming from the Sprague group.”

“How
many?”

“Signal
tally has about 160 discrete contacts there, sir. The Halsey group we’re engaging
now is much bigger, well over 250 aircraft.
Orlan
started with 152 SAMS
after fending off Ziggy Sprague’s first attack, and we have 100 missiles in the
Klinok
system. Even if we score hits with every missile that will still
leave over150 aircraft that will get through the SAM envelope for our close in
systems to contend with. The Halsey air group must have vectored in on a signal
from that battleship.” He pointed at the tactical board where the symbol for
the
Iowa
was drawn by the computer.

Karpov
had a distant look in his eyes now, lips tight, the tension evident on his jaw line.
“I cannot allow over a hundred aircraft to get that close,” he said with a low
and dangerous tone of voice.

The
Captain turned and walked away, Rodenko looking after him, concerned. He saw Karpov
leaning over Samsonov’s combat station, his hand reaching into his service
jacket. Then he heard the order.

“Mister
Samsonov, Activate P-900 system—Number ten missile.”

“Sir,
aye, number ten missile… Sir, that weapon is mounted with a special warhead.” The
big CIC Chief looked at the Captain for confirmation.

“Correct,
Samsonov. Ready the missile for firing on our primary target.” Karpov had produced
his missile key and was now leaning over the launch station, staring at the
clear fiberglass key hole covers. There were two, side by side, but he had long
ago ordered Martinov to reset the system to fire on insertion of a single
command level key. This time there would be no countervailing order from Volsky.
This time his word was final. And this time Sergeant Troyak would not appear at
the eleventh hour and snatch away his key.

Who
knows where the Sergeant is now, he wondered? Who knows where Volsky is, alive or
dead, or Fedorov? This is all that matters.

“You’re
going to use a tactical warhead?” Rodenko was at the Captain’s side now, his voice
low and tense.

“You
can see the situation as clearly as I, Rodenko.” Karpov said quickly. “Those planes
are coming in right over that battleship and heading our way. We may get many
of them, even most of them, but how many will get through? And how many SAMs
will we be left with after that? If we expend all our missiles we’re done for.
It’s time for decisive action.”

“But
sir…”

“But
what, Rodenko? Did you think we were just playing with fire here? This is war! I’m
going to destroy that battleship, and kill everything above it out to a radius
if five kilometers. Then our SAMs will handle the remainder if they dare us.”

The
Captain flipped the fiberglass cover open, inserting his missile key. “Don’t worry
Rodenko. I’m not asking you to concur with my decision. The responsibility is
mine. It is either us or them at the moment, and I, for one, do not wish to see
this ship blown up like
Admiral Golovko.”
He turned the key firmly, and
saw the board confirm a successful arming of the warhead in the silo.

“Sir,
“ said Samsonov. “Missile active and keyed for firing. My board reads ready.”

“Just
one second Mister Samsonov, if you please. Nikolin. Signal Yeltsin on
Orlan
.
Tell them to cease firing immediately. I don’t want a hungry SAM to find our P-900.”

They
waited, the tension on the bridge ratcheting up as the seconds went by. All eyes
were on Karpov now, and then Nikolin reported. “
Orlan
responding, sir.
All weapons are secured and ready. Awaiting new orders.”

“A
good man, Yeltsin,” said Karpov. “Send the coded signal
Hellfire
. Tell them
to standby and rig for NBC. Signal all helicopters as well.
Kirov
will
come to readiness level 1A.”

An
alarm sounded, warning the ship to prepare for an NBC event and don any protective
gear as appropriate. Karpov stood up, looking from one man to the next, seeing
their eyes on him, remembering those same eyes when he had desperately stayed
Samsonov’s hand and spared the destruction of the submarine
Key West.
There
had been forgiveness in those eyes back then, and a feeling of personal
redemption, a return to sanity and heart, a whisper of hope in that one single
act.