B004V9FYIY EBOK

by Unknown

  The second missile did the same, actually approaching within three feet of the incoming Styx before going off. The fireball lit up the night sky fourteen miles away. A third missile was right behind this one and it flew through the debris toward the ship. A third missile was launched but went off slightly behind the missile, peppering the tail but doing no real damage.

  The two 5-inch 54 cal. guns were already trained toward the target. At a range of nine miles the guns began shooting their variable timing or VT rounds at the missile. Firing at one round every seven seconds the crews rapidly refilled the revolving feeders in the magazines to make sure the guns didn’t lack for bullets. Round after round flew from the guns as the computers below calculated the aiming point to ensure the rounds hit their targets. The range dropped from nine miles to six, then three. The Super RBOC (Chaff) launchers fired aboard the ship sending an enormous chaff cloud into the air to confuse the missile. Suddenly the Styx exploded just 4,000 yards from the side of the ship.

  In Combat the men were tracking each target and determining which ships were targeted. “Target track 21.”

  “Birds affirm, track 21.”

  “Birds free, track 21.”

  “Birds away track 21.”

  The latest missile left the rail and was quickly replaced by another. By now, the guns had been reassigned.

  A few seconds later the fire control systems confirmed a hit on the target. “Track 21 destroyed. No other assignments.”

  The men looked at the screen. There were no additional missiles to shoot at; but listening to communications they could tell at least one of the destroyers in the task group had been hit. The Captain looked at SWC. Both men were sweating profusely, not from physical exertion, but from the sheer intensity of the attacks. “That was fun,” he said.

  “No shit. I thought that one was going to get us,” said SWC. The men in the room were breathing again. After checking one last time, SWC sat back in his seat. “And they said these ships were out of date,” he said with a smile.

  “Not too shabby. Let’s keep the missile on the rail just in case,” he said. Another 10 hours of night still remained to get through.

  Sea of Japan

  On the east coast of Korea, the East Sea Fleet sortied out of T'oejo-dong and several other ports as the ships made their way south. Led by the North Korean Navy’s Soho and Najin class frigates, the force moved toward the Pusan area at a speed of fifteen knots. Unlike the Yellow Sea Fleet commander, the admiral in command of the East Sea Fleet held his ships in strict emission control. No radars, no sonars, only lookouts to provide a warning of nearby ships. The ships were formed into four columns almost forming a box. The frigates and a corvette led each column. The rest of the ships were patrol boats of various types, similar to the ones on the west coast.

  Alerted to fleet activity, Captain Christopher Hustvedt launched the North Carolina’s RPV at dusk. The forward looking infrared or FLIR camera onboard picked up the heat blooms of the engineering spaces on the North Korean ships at a distance of thirty miles. As the senior captain, he ordered the Wisconsin and New Jersey to follow North Carolina, then deployed the destroyers in a line ahead and astern of the three ships. As the North Koreans steamed fat dumb and happy down the coast, three battleships and ten destroyers were steaming back and forth across their path.

  Hustvedt was a student of history. He knew that no one would ever have the chance to do what he was about to do again. Like Rear Admiral Jesse Oldendorf, he found himself and his force in a once-in-a-lifetime chance to do something as old as naval warfare itself. Called crossing the “T,” his ships were preparing to engage the enemy with full broadsides while they could only respond with about half their guns. Making the situation even more ironic, two of the destroyers forming the line of battle were Japanese.

  Oldendorf had crossed his “T” in 1944 during the Battle of Surigao Strait in the Philippines. During the battle, old American battleships, cruisers, and destroyers took on Vice Admiral Nishimura’s two battleships, one cruiser, and four destroyers in the middle of the night. The result was the sinking of all but one destroyer.

  Slowly but surely the North Korean force steamed onward. Clouds moved in over the hills of the Korean peninsula casting a dark shadow across the waves. Occasionally lightning could be seen in the clouds. A storm was brewing over the mainland.

  Admiral To’san was surprised the force had made it so far. Obviously the political officers were correct. The Americans gave all they had the previous night. Nothing was really stopping them from doing what they called an “end run” against the allied forces around Pusan. Stealth was their ally. If they could make their way another fifty miles or so, they had a good chance of making their attack and returning to port in safety.

  The drone of the ship’s engines purred in the night air. Standing on the bridge wing, he looked aft into the darkness. The cool night air blew past him as the ship made its way. The stars were almost all obscured now. He couldn’t even see the ships next to them except for a vague outline. All around him the crew members were doing their jobs as trained. He could actually see the red glow of the compass light reflecting off the helmsman’s face as he steered the ship. It was so peaceful. It was as if there was no war at all. The admiral was staring into the pilot house when he noticed the helmsman’s face lighten slightly a couple of times.

  “What was that?” the Admiral asked turning to gaze ahead of the ship.

  The lookout had been facing the stern when the lights flashed. “I am not seeing anything, Admiral,” he said.

  “It came from forward,” the Admiral said. More lightning appeared over the mainland.

  The young man turned and stared forward. After a few seconds he said, “I don’t see anything.”

  The Admiral nodded. “It must be the storm. Keep a sharp watch,” he said. The Admiral entered the bridge and took a look at the navigation chart.

  The splashes of 16-inch rounds bracketed the ship. More rounds landed all along the line of ships. Flashes came both from the land and the sea. He turned and looked at the chart again. They were too far away from land to be shelled. Where had it come from, he wondered.

  Now the flashes were coming in an irregular pattern across a line in front of the fleet. The shell splashes were getting closer. The explosions were splashing seawater all over the ship. In some cases, the metal skin of the ship began cupping inward from the concussions, splitting the seams and letting the spaces flood. Each round sent the ship reeling from one side to another, jerking violently from the blasts. The Captain of the ship came running up from engineering. The fear on his face was plain for all to see. “What is happening?” he screamed.

  A 16-inch round passed through the forward gun mount and almost through the ship before it exploded. The bridge and the forward third of the ship were blown apart, separating from the rest of the ship. The remainder, still being pushed ahead by the engines, pressed the mangled and torn forward sections deep into the ocean. The interior bulkheads were never designed for anything like this, and the fragile walls were ripped aside. The ship’s engines actually drove the filling hull beneath the waves before the next ship in line overtook them.

  The captains of the other ships turned on their radars and were surprised to see nothing within range of their guns. They maneuvered violently, some actually running into each other as they tried to avoid the onslaught. But the shells continued to fall. One by one, the ships and boats were hit.

  Eventually flashes were appearing down three sides of the formation. Three of the small Taechong Class patrol boats broke off from the center of the Korean formation and began speeding toward the flashes on the side of the formation. Pushing their engines to maximum revolutions, the patrol boats weaved back and forth at over thirty knots as they pressed ever closer to new blips on their radar screens. They didn’t know what they were approaching; they just knew it was the enemy. On deck the men readied the boat’s 85mm (3.3”) and 57mm (2.2”) guns for action.

/>   Aboard USS Rooks Commander Dandridge saw the approach of the boats. He turned to his Operations Officer in the CIC. “Signal USS Fox and Badger to engage these boats with us.”

  Within two minutes the 5-inch shells from nine guns began falling around the patrol boats. The gun crews on the destroyers worked frantically to load and fire the guns while the fire control systems kept them on target. As the patrol boats got closer, the accuracy increased. The guns began making hits after only a minute of firing. The patrol boat on the left hand side suddenly had a flash and began dropping out of the North Korean line. A second round hit the same boat and a fire erupted on the boat’s deck. The right hand boat was next when one of USS Badger’s rounds exploded in a magazine. The fireball illuminated the final patrol boat making its way ever closer to the formation.

  The patrol boat’s 85mm gun opened up adding its own destruction to the carnage surrounding them. Firing rapidly the gun maintained its fire despite the radical maneuvers to avoid being hit by the Americans. USS Rooks suddenly shuddered from a hit on its port side aft. The 85mm round hit the small hangar on the aft superstructure, causing no real damage, but enraging the ship’s gunners. The firing rate increased on Rooks’ guns. Suddenly the remaining patrol boat seemed to lift from the water as two of Rooks’ 5-inch rounds exploded within her. The main deck both forward and aft peeled back from the hull and flames erupted from the stricken vessel. The Rooks continued to fire for a few seconds after that, sending another round into the vessel, completing the destruction. Within a minute the fires of the patrol boat were extinguished as she sank beneath the surface. Rooks and her sister ships returned their attention to the remaining vessels.

  For the North Korean fleet, the shells kept raining down. No matter where the small fleet turned, the shells fell. Even when the rest of the fleet turned on flank speed and headed back north, the shells followed. By the time they had reached the port of Wonsan, only ten very small patrol boats were still afloat.

  USS North Carolina

  Hustvedt ordered a cease fire and a turn to the south. They had maneuvered back and forth across the fleet until there was nothing but a mass of confusion. Then he sent his destroyers down each side to confine the ships into a restricted killing ground. The ships had maintained the fire for nearly an hour, chasing the remnants along the coast until nearing Wonsan.

  Looking around his bridge he smiled at his crewmembers. Hustvedt spent most of the night in the Strike Center watching the progress and maneuvering his ships. Now all was quiet. The guns were secured and the ships steaming away from danger. A sudden feeling of exhaustion was overcoming him. He came to the bridge to fill his lungs with the cool night air. Inside the ship it smelled of paint and age. She seemed to have smells of her own, as if her body had matured and exerted itself. It wasn’t a bad smell, but a subtle one – almost alive and very pleasant.

  The men were doing their jobs. They smiled at him as he passed them to climb into his chair on the bridge. He sat back and took another deep breath.

  “Would you like some coffee, Captain?” asked the OOD.

  “Sounds good. Can someone bring some up?”

  “My pleasure, Captain.” The young man turned and called the Messenger of the Watch who scampered away to get a hot cup.

  Hustvedt looked out the windows down on the guns below. The clouds had parted as the front passed over and the stars were now filling the sky. He could see men on the main deck checking fittings and skylarking. The ship gently rolled from side to side in the swells. Letting his mind wander, he could imagine what it was like the last time the North Carolina had steamed the seas. A much bigger war was on then, but he imagined the men acted much the same as the men on the deck now – finishing a job or simply having time to relax. There they all were, eating, sleeping, and working on a floating piece of steel. They were the ship’s arms and legs. They were the collaborative brain that took her new places and fought an enemy with her when necessary. They brought the great ship to life while she provided them with a warm home. And he was the one privileged to control this massive organism. As he thought about it, Hustvedt realized he was the happiest he had been in his entire life. This was where he should be – on this ship and with this crew. In many ways he wished he could sail her forever.

  The young messenger appeared at his elbow. “Your coffee, Captain. Would you like some cream or sugar?”

  “Yes, please, some cream and one teaspoon.” He told the boy. In less than a minute he was holding the steaming mug in his hand. He took a sip and savored the bitterness as it slid across his tongue. “Perfect,” he said to the young sailor. “Thanks.”

  “No problem, Captain,” the young man beamed.

  Hustvedt could almost see the smile on his face as he turned away. It almost surprised him that the men onboard had come together so quickly. He found himself wondering what it was that drew them into such a well-knit team. The conditions onboard were far from perfect. The ship was more than 70 years old. The bunks were still the old canvas racks or steel wires stretched across metal tubes. In some places the racks were five deep. Electric fans provided the only means of cooling below decks. The ventilators simply drew in clean air and spread it around. The heat from the engines and boilers kept the ship warm. During the day the sun beat down on the metal skin of the ship making it almost like an oven if the portholes were closed. But after the first couple of weeks, the crew didn’t seem to mind the heat. On these ships almost nothing was automatic. A lot of the work onboard was manual. It required a lot of people to do things that on a more modern ship would be done by a machine.

  One good thing for the crew was their supply officer. He insisted that the men be fed only the best food and plenty of it. He personally selected the Chief Mess Specialist to be the ship’s cook. The Senior Chief once prepared meals in the Pentagon for the guys in the “E Ring.” From almost the start, the meals had been superb. Despite the worry that people might grow fat and not meet the Navy’s physical requirements, the work onboard kept the men slim and muscular.

  He also made sure the “geedunk” was well stocked and operating. The refreshment stand was located at the rear of the mess decks. The supply officer repaired the old soda fountain and the guys got a kick out of watching the operators hand mix a soda or some other soft drink. Even the ice cream machine was kept operational so that a root beer float was a standard item. It was all advertised as a part of being in the “real Navy” and the crew ate it up, literally.

  Before leaving Norfolk a couple of crewmen got in a fight at a club when they firmly told some sailors on one of the inoperative frigates they weren’t real sailors. During the Captain’s Mast he almost wanted to reward the men but had to set an example. From what he was hearing, it was almost the same on each of the old battleships. Something about these ships was alluring to the average sailor. Maybe it was just a “guy” thing.

  Finishing his coffee, Hustvedt glanced at his watch. It was nearly midnight. The new watchstanders were making their way up to the bridge. He got out of his chair and walked over to the OOD. “I think I’ll turn in. We’ve had a busy night. Give me a call if you run up on anything,” he said.

  “Aye, sir. Good night, Captain.”

  Hustvedt handed the coffee mug to the messenger as he walked out the bridge wing door. He made his way to a small room behind the bridge. He turned on the light and got undressed. Before sliding between the sheets he turned out the light and opened the porthole. The fan at the foot of his bed helped draw in the cool night air. The rocking of the ship was almost like being rocked in a baby’s bed. Within minutes, he was fast asleep.

  Washington, D.C.

  President Steve O’Bannon was thanking his stars again. After only 48 hours the forces in Korea had retaken nearly half of South Korea and devastated most of the North’s military machine. General Black was almost gleeful as he recounted how far and how fast General Richardson had moved with the First Marine Division. Admiral Johnson just finished his rushed brief on th
e naval actions on the east and west coasts. Both men had promised more surprises on the third day.

  “Damn! I wish I had been there” exclaimed Butler as he briefed the President over a working lunch. “He crossed the “T.”

  O’Bannon almost laughed. He wasn’t quite sure what had his Chief of Staff so excited but knew it must be earth shattering for a Navy guy. He got a kick out of seeing Butler excited. “I’m not sure about how, but that guy Hustvedt sure did a bang up job. From what I was told, he’s responsible for sinking over half of their fleet. The missile battle on the other side was just as exciting,” he said through a sip of iced tea.

  “Exciting isn’t the word, boss. Missile engagements are hairy as hell. It’s a good thing they use such antiquated equipment. The newer stuff might have been different. But for a surface sailor, what Hustvedt did was what we have wet dreams about. Crossing the ‘T’ is a tactic as old as ships and the sea. To do it successfully has almost always worked and Hustvedt used it to maximum advantage. He will be cited in the history books for over 100 years. That one victory made it worth all the work and expense of bringing the battleships back. From now on, we won’t have to worry about their navy.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. I see Roger took out one of their main supply depots. I bet he’s having a ball out there,” O’Bannon said. “Do you wish you were there?”

  Butler snorted and sat back in his seat. “Yeah, in some ways, but I’ve kind of gotten used to this job. I always thought being around you politicos would be the biggest bore, but working with you has been fun. Now that I’ve seen how things really work and learned my way around a little it’s not as boring as I thought,” he said with a sly look.