Kirov III: Pacific Storm k-3

by John A. Schettler

  “Oh yes,” Hara put in one last note. “Hayashi is still on Zuiho. Tell him he can join the attack as well, if his plane can still fly. It will do him some good. He’s most likely brooding at the edge of seppuku by now. Let’s give him the honor of riding in the van—one more chance to set things right, neh? Who knows, he might even get us another hit!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Hayashi was indeed in a dark and somber mood. He sat in the flight briefing room aboard Zuiho, alone, staring at the empty chairs. His last goodbye to his old friend Matsua was indeed final, and now he was responsible not only for the death of his own men, but for the lives of Matsua’s men as well. The shame was too much to bear. He sat with his hands on his head, a miserable and forsaken man, on a forsaken ship.

  What good was a carrier with no planes, no fire to breathe at the enemy? The ship had once been a sub-tender, and in his mind she was good for little else now that her only strike squadron was gone. It was all his fault, he knew. If he had completed his mission as first assigned then all these men and planes would still be here, and tonight he might drink with Matsua, as in old times, better times before the war.

  Above he could hear sounds of activity as flight service crews seemed to be readying the last twelve fighters aboard for some action. Then a mechanic from the flight deck came rushing into the room his face red with excitement.

  “Lieutenant Hayashi? There you are. Your plane is ready, sir!”

  Hayashi did not move, then slowly turned, his eyes dark and sullen. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your D3, sir. I’ve been working on it all night! I replaced the struts that were damaged from spare parts, and patched up both wings, sir. There is still a dent in the forward prop blade, but I have hammered it as smooth as I could. The engine will run a little rough, but I replaced all the oil and hydraulic fluid, and two damaged lines. They have already mounted your bomb, sir. The plane is on the elevator now!”

  “Bomb?”

  “Haven’t you heard, Lieutenant? You have been ordered to take off with Lieutenant Commander Hidaka’s fighters and lead in Sakamoto’s strike wave.”

  At this Hayashi was suddenly focused. “Ordered to take off? By who?”

  “We just got a signal from Shokaku, sir. You should come up on deck! They have spotted a big strike to go and kill this British ship that took down our brothers. Zuikaku’s planes are mustering on deck as well. You are the only strike plane left aboard Zuiho, and the Lucky Phoenix will fly with you today, Lieutenant. I was sent to find you. Takeoff in ten minutes, sir.”

  Hayashi swallowed hard, surprised and honored to hear this news. His mood lifted considerably and he stood up, sniffing the sweet warm air and standing taller. The mechanic smiled. “I’ll see you on deck, sir!”

  Hayashi nodded, looking around him now for his gloves and not finding them. No matter. If his plane would fly, then he would fly as well. Those orders could have only come from one man, he knew, Admiral Hara himself. He started for the door, then stopped, turning once more to look at the rows of empty chairs. Then he bowed silently, saluted, and rushed for the flight deck, listening to the drone of engines as the first fighters began to take off.

  By the time he reached the upper deck he could see that his plane was already spotted and ready, with a subsection of three A6M2s, right behind it. A young fighter pilot came to greet him with a bow. “Lieutenant Hayashi? I am Yoshimi Minami, shotai leader assigned to you as escort. I have the honor to fly with you in the vanguard, sir.” He smiled, eyes bright with youth and fire beneath his flight bonnet. Then he gestured, pointing the way.

  Hayashi nodded and then strode boldly across the white striped flight deck to mount his plane. The engine was already started and a mechanic jumped down, saluting as Hayashi climbed.

  “I’m sorry sir,” the man shouted. “But we have no radio man to send with you.”

  “Not necessary,” said Hayashi, and everyone who heard him knew why. Hayashi had been given a rare and special honor. He would be privileged to relive the past, and this time he was determined to acquit himself and redeem not only his own soiled honor, but that of all the men of his own squadron who had died, and those of Matsua’s squadron as well.

  The flight deck leader stepped quickly to the front of his waiting plane and bowed. He made the signal that would only be given to the hikotaicho, strike leader, and Hayashi swelled with newfound pride.

  Hayashi saluted crisply and slid the canopy shut tight, strapping himself quickly into this seat and breathing deeply. His left arm still pained him where a shell had grazed him before it killed his radio man in a the rear compartment. This time he would fly alone—just one wounded man in one wounded plane—the last and only strike plane aboard Zuiho that day.

  The chocks were removed and the flag man waved him forward. As he began to rev up his engine tears glazed his eyes, as he knew in his heart of hearts that he would never return.

  Sayonara, he thought to all he loved back home—to mother, father, elder sister, and all he had ever known. Sayonara, Matsua, and to all my brothers waiting for their chance at another life. I now have mine, and I will spend it gladly to avenge your deaths, and strike this demon like a Thunder God.

  Today I am Jinrai Butai!

  The sky above was filling up with droning formations of dive bombers and torpedo planes. They were mostly circling high above the three carriers, but one group flew low, a squadron of 9 torpedo bombers roaring over the long flat deck of Zuiho just before Hayashi took off. The last of them tipped its wings back and forth, and Hayashi knew it was Lt. Subota off his mother ship Zuikaku. Then he heard Reijiro Otuka’s gritty voice over his short range headset. He was radio man aboard Subota’s plane.

  “Come on up, Hayashi. Everyone is waiting for you!”

  Hayashi gunned his engine and his plane hurtled down the long flight deck and labored into the sky. Behind him the last three fighters of Zuiho’s escort followed in his wake, soon climbing with him and taking up positions to either side, with one behind and above, a princely escort of three A6M2 Rei-sen fighters. Then he heard another voice in his headset as he reached altitude, joined by nine more fighters off Zuiho.

  “Lieutenant Hayashi!” It was Sakamoto, the strike commander and veteran of so many successful battles. “Steer 67 degrees northeast. You may lead us in!”

  Hayashi reached up to engage his microphone and spoke proudly. “It will be my honor, sir!” He opened his throttle and maneuvered his plane to the van. Behind him were wide formations of D3As, nine led by Sakamoto and nine more under Lt. Commander Ema. Just behind them there were eighteen more dive bombers led by Yamaguchi off the carrier Shokaku. The wave would finish up with nine B5N2 torpedo bombers under Subota, and another nine led by Ichihara from Shokaku. There were all of fifty-four strike planes behind him now, this time all the dive bombers properly armed with armor piercing bombs, the B5Ns prominently carrying their long Koku Gyorai ‘Thunderfish,’ the type 91 torpedoes. He was plane number 55, the chosen swallow in the lead, with an escort of all twelve of Hidaka’s fighters off Zuiho, their white wings bright in the sun.

  He breathed in deeply. It was a glorious morning, and a glorious way to die. He would join his brothers soon.

  ~ ~ ~

  They saw the planes on radar at a few minutes before 06:00 hours at a range of 225 miles, Rodenko shouting out the contact in a clear voice. Battle stations sounded and men rushed to take up seats at the lightning fast computer stations, the milky green screens winking out data, lights flashing system readiness. Karpov was holding down the watch that morning, and Fedorov and Admiral Volsky were soon to the bridge, the latter somewhat winded, but finally awake after the long climb up to the citadel.

  “Admiral on the Bridge!”

  “As you were, gentlemen,” Volsky huffed, walking straight to Rodenko’s radar station for a look at the reading.

  “A large contact sir. I’m reading over sixty discrete units, about 200 miles out now. They will be nearly an hour closin
g the range at their current speed.”

  “Sixty planes? Someone wants to ruin our pleasure cruise for sure this time. Samsonov, what is our SAM inventory?”

  “Thirty-five S-300s and thirty–seven Klinoks, sir.”

  “Seventy-two missiles,” Volsky shook his head. “And after that we become a sitting duck, as the Americans might say, at least insofar as air strikes are concerned. Opinions?” His eyes moved from Karpov to Fedorov.

  “This is probably the heart of the remaining strike aircraft off the two fleet carriers,” said Fedorov. “It will be a mixed strike composed of both dive bombers and torpedo bombers—only this time I think they will coordinate the strike to hit us with everything they have at one time.”

  “We could have hit those carriers with a Moskit-II early this morning while they were arming and fueling. Was it so hard to assume they would mount this strike?” Karpov had a dejected look on his face. “We have been too reluctant to do what is necessary here, and now we pay the price. For that matter, we should have pounded those cruisers last night as well, then shaken them off and used a few SAMs to shoot down their seaplanes. Then we could have broken away and they would not know where we are.”

  “But they know where we are headed,” said Fedorov. “The Torres Strait is the only channel east we can use, and we will have to slow to 10 knots there. It will undoubtedly be watched by planes out of Port Moresby as well. So it is just a matter of time before their search assets locate us. We can’t expend vital missile inventory shooting down seaplanes, not with combat strikes like this one heading our way.”

  “Then we will have to break that formation up at range,” said Karpov. “Just as we did with those strike waves off the British carriers.”

  “You recommend we engage at once with the S-300s?” Volsky raised a heavy eyebrow.

  “I do, sir. We can start with one missile canister at 125 miles, a second barrage at 100 miles if necessary.” Each canister would house up to eight missiles, so Karpov was proposing they expend just under half their remaining S-300s in the initial attacks.

  “It will be necessary,” said Fedorov. “We’ll shock them, and definitely hurt them, but they will not break off and run. They’ll press in the attack with every last plane.”

  “I assume as much having seen the first two strikes,” said Karpov. “We can expend half our S-300’s and see what remains of their strike assets. Then at 40 miles out we can hit them with the Klinok system if their numbers remain high. Any that get through that will be grist for our Gatling guns, just as before.”

  “A sound plan,” said Volsky. “Half our S-300s and then probably half our Klinok missiles as well. That means we can only play this game one more time! What else will those carriers have left, Fedorov?”

  “This will be the heart of their strike planes, sir. Those two carriers could hold seventy-two planes each. We’ve already killed twenty of a possible 144. That leaves 124 planes, with fifty-four of them most likely being A6M2 fighters. That would leave seventy strike planes, and Rodenko says he has nearly that many contacts. They may have some fighters or torpedo planes in reserve, but not more than a dozen.”

  “What about the third carrier?” Karpov asked.

  “A light escort carrier,” said Fedorov. “They usually carried two groups, half fighter and the other half strike planes of one sort or another. No more than twenty-four planes in all. These may be their reserve.”

  Volsky shook his head, remembering that first British plane he ordered shot down with an S-300. Then the ship’s silos and magazines had been full, glutted with reloads for the planned live fire exercises. Now every missile he fired brought them one step closer to a condition where even these old propeller planes, obsolete seventy years before Kirov had ever been built, could pose a real threat. One had already blackened the aft deck and put a hole in the hull above the waterline. Kirov already bore an unsightly scar from a war that would just not let them be. He sighed.

  “We talked our way out of some real trouble a few weeks ago at Gibraltar,” he said. “Something tells me these men will not be so accommodating as Admiral Tovey, even if we did have someone aboard who could speak Japanese.”

  “No, sir,” said Karpov. “I’m afraid we will have to let our missiles do the talking here.”

  “It seems so. And what you have said about taking a more proactive stance in these matters has not gone unheard, Captain. You may be right, Karpov. We are measured against a foe here that will be implacable. The Americans had to burn and blast their way from one desolate island to the next in this war, and it ended with Hiroshima and Nagasaki. If we do manage to evade the Japanese, let us not also forget the Americans. They will have a considerable score to settle with us too if they ever realize we are the same foe they faced in the Atlantic. Very well, gentlemen. Man your stations. Mister, Fedorov, you will maneuver the ship in this action.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Mister Karpov, you will make the tactical weapons deployments… Fight your battle.”

  Chapter 12

  The Missiles rose into the violet of the early morning with sudden fury, the sound of their rocket engines shaking the air when the main engines ignited. The current model of the S-300 system aboard Kirov was a vastly updated variant of the older S-300P missile, a rotating canister of eight missiles mounted in an underdeck vertical silo. They ranged out to 150 miles, and would streak out at a blistering speed exceeding Mach 6.0 to deliver a large 150kg warhead if the missile got anywhere near the target, and sending a hail of withering shrapnel in all directions. They would have little or no difficulty finding targets in a massed formation such as the one headed Kirov’s way now. They were so accurate that they could even be used against short range ballistic missiles if necessary, but the relatively slow planes in their long formation lines would make perfect targets.

  One after another they fired and went on their scorching way, and for the flights of planes that saw them coming it was a nightmare the like of which they had never seen—save one.

  ~ ~ ~

  Hayashi saw the evil contrails climbing up for them at a hideous rate of speed and the awful memory of the death of his squadron returned. The pulse of fear hit his gut, but he steadied himself. The Dragon has fired, he thought. Last time we were right on top of this demon, and these rockets tore my formation to pieces, then came the flak guns, so lethal that he was amazed his single plane had managed to survive intact. This time it will be even worse, he knew. Our planes are just waiting to be struck, all lined up like birds on a fence! In a flash he knew what he had to do, clutching the microphone at his throat he shouted out his warning.

  “This is Hayashi! All squadrons—disperse, disperse, disperse! We will regroup at 12,000 feet!” And he immediately put his plane into a steep dive. The three fighters escorting him were surprised by the sudden maneuver, but they soon recovered, tipped their wings and dove with him. Above and behind, other squadrons close enough to hear Hayashi’s plaintive warning reacted in different ways. Some kept stubbornly on wondering if Hayashi had lost his nerve after all, and waiting for further orders from strike leader Sakamoto. Then they saw the missiles clawing up through the clear blue sky and their eyes widened with surprise.

  Yamaguchi’s D3A2 squadrons off Shokaku were the first to be hit. Three S-300s ignited right across their flight path and the whole of 1st squadron’s nine planes flew directly into the hail of metal shrapnel. Of the nine Vals, five were hit, three so badly that they tailspinned down out of control, the remaining two were badly shaken and one was afire. 2nd Squadron was above and a thousand meters behind, and when they saw what happened to their brothers, and spied three more missiles heading their way, Hayashi’s warning made immediate sense.

  “Follow me!” One man shouted as he put his plane into a steep dive. The missiles veered to a new intercept course that took them right through the remainder of 1st squadron, where two found planes and ignited in great fireballs blazoning in the clear blue sky.

  Sever
al thousand feet below, the torpedo bombers all got the word and began to disperse in groups of three, their shotai leaders taking them down well below the 12,000 foot elevation Hayashi had called for. One group was sought, and hit, by the last two S-300s, and all three planes were destroyed, cut to pieces by the intense shrapnel in the exploding missiles.

  Yet the tally at the end of that first salvo from Kirov was disheartening. For eight missiles they had destroyed eight planes and damaged two others, one so badly that it had to turn for home, a bad fuel leak making its prospects for a safe landing now very unlikely. Instead it would look for the pursuit force and ditch in the sea near Kirishima, and its valuable pilot would live to fight another day.

  Minutes later they saw more white contrails arcing up into the sky, and the pilots braced for another round, their engine throttles now open full as they bravely charged, yet not a single man had even sighted the ship they were supposed to be targeting!

  Three of the escorting A6M2 Zeros bravely raced towards the oncoming missiles, their machine guns firing in a vain effort to engage the sky demons. But the missiles were simply too fast, faster even than the machine gun rounds that sought them out, and the fighters had no chance in the world to ever shoot them down. Yet what they did have was a chance to sacrifice themselves so that some of their brothers in the strike planes could push on to the attack. Three of the eight missiles found Zeros, blowing them to pieces, while the five remaining missiles pushed into isolated groups of two and three planes, their contrails twisting like vapor rope as they maneuvered, vectored in on targets, and blew them from the sky.

  Three dive bombers died, along with two more torpedo bombers. A third Kate had its wings so riddled with shrapnel that it lost too much lift and fuel, and had to jettison the heavy torpedo it was carrying. It was effectively out of the battle, and the count was now eighteen planes lost for sixteen missiles. This left twenty eight Vals and twelve Kates still aloft and inbound as the strike wave crossed through the ninety mile mark. Nine more fighters remained as well, a total of forty-nine planes still headed Kirov’s way.