Turning Point (Kirov Series Book 22)

by John Schettler

  “What makes you think it was a Russian ship that attacked your carriers?”

  “Because we were forewarned,” said Yamamoto. “The Siberians made impossible demands of us, and when they were ignored, Siberia declared war the moment we struck the Americans at Pearl Harbor. This Vladimir Karpov is quite headstrong, quite brash, but he has apparently made good on his threats with the unexpected attack on our garrisons in Kazantochi.”

  “Where did you say you were attacked?”

  “Kazantochi. The Siberians once called it Kamchatka, and apparently that will be its name again now, until we take it back, as we certainly will. This is also highly classified, and no one in the homeland knows a word of it, but we have lost that entire peninsula to the Siberians, and nearly lost Mutsu and Chikuma trying to stop their surprise invasion. That was my fault. We should have heeded the warnings and been more vigilant. Soon we will move with much stronger forces and settle the matter. If the Siberians do have a ship in the north, then they most likely got it from the Russians. Their use of naval rockets in the Atlantic has now been well documented.”

  That was all a lot to take in, and Yamamoto ended up stealing their thunder for a while as they considered it. At this point, neither Harada nor Fukada had any knowledge of how badly fractured the history was by 1942. They had no idea that the Soviet Union was divided, no knowledge of the Orenburg Federation, no idea that Japan had been sitting on Siberian soil for decades, and now controlled Vladivostok. Yet one thing Yamamoto had said struck Harada, and he asked about it.

  “That Russian you mentioned a moment ago—what was his name again?”

  “Vladimir Karpov, and he is Siberian, the head of the Free Siberian State in fact.”

  Harada looked at Fukada, a question evident on his face. “Pinch me again,” he said under his breath, “but wasn’t that the name of the Russian Captain who tangled with the American 7th Fleet?”

  “Yes sir—Karpov. I can show you the SITREP we received on that engagement before the Russian flotilla went missing.”

  “Very interesting….” Harada needed to think, needed time to digest this, but he could see that Ugaki was watching them closely, a look of suspicion and impatience on his face. At that moment, a junior officer came up, saluting, and leaned in to say something to the Captain.

  “How far out?” said Harada.

  “Sir, we have them inbound at 180 kilometers, and about 35 minutes out at their present speed.”

  “Very well, come to air alert one, and sound action stations.”

  Out of the blue, he thought. This whole insane scenario is exactly that. Now what in God’s name is out there?

  “Admiral, would there be any friendly aircraft inbound to Davao at the present time? I have just been informed of an airborne contact approaching from the south.”

  “From the South?” Yamamoto looked at his Chief of Staff.

  “We have a squadron at Ambon,” said Ugaki, “but it has only just arrived and has been awaiting delivery of aviation fuel.”

  The alarm sounded and new screens lit up all around them, with the radar plot and contacts clearly indicated on the map. Fukada pointed to one screen close enough for the Admirals to see, and noted the projected course line indicating the heading of the inbound contacts.

  “They must be American bombers flying from Darwin,” said Ugaki. “They struck here last week as well, which is why I advised against this meeting here. If Imamura wanted to speak with you, he should have come to Rabaul. Perhaps the Americans learned of our presence here—of Yamato’s arrival, which may have been reported by enemy coast watchers still operating from these islands. This was risky, and now we see the cost.”

  “Everything we do in this war will entail risk,” said Yamamoto quietly. “But if this Captain makes good on his boast, we should be in no danger. Yes?” He looked at Captain Harada, who realized that the challenge had been thrown to him now, and with each minute those contacts were drawing ever nearer.

  “Sir, please excuse me and First Officer Fukada for a moment while we attempt to confirm this contact information.” He waved Fukada to his side and the two men stood off, conversing quietly.

  “Unexpected visitors,” said Fukada. “Looks like we’ll have to get serious in taking a side here sooner than we thought. If those are American bombers, then you can’t let them get through.”

  “Yes, but we haven’t confirmed that. What if they are Japanese planes?”

  “You’ve already heard Ugaki on that, and if they are American bombers, they would probably be B-17s. I did some reading and found they had a squadron based at Del Monte Airfield here on Mindanao with B-17s. They evacuated to Batchelor Field near Darwin, and began bombing Japanese shipping near Davao, sometimes even landing there at Del Monte until we finally took that field.”

  Harada had a pained expression on his face, and Fukada gave him a long look. “What’s the matter?”

  “We’re about to cross a real bridge here if we engage.”

  “What else can you do Captain? If you let those planes come in, and we just sit here and do nothing, then we’ll look weak, and everything we’ve said to these men will go out the window. It’s a matter of face. Beyond that, if one of those planes gets lucky….”

  Harada nodded, taking a long breath. “Very well,” he said. The decision was his, and that was why the Captain’s stripes were on his uniform. This was what he got paid for, but the thought that he was now going to use American made radars and missiles to shoot down American bombers was still unsettling. He realized that if he engaged, the course they were on would pull them inexorably into this war as an active combatant on the side of Japan. There were still so many unanswered questions here….

  “Karpov,” he said quickly, on eye on the contact radar track. “Could that be the Russian Captain?”

  “It might be a coincidence,” said Fukada. “But what was all that about the Free Siberian State? That’s the same stuff Ensign Shiota has been hearing on the radio broadcast intercepts. She even monitored news out of Japan, and the Admiral was correct in what he said. As far as the homeland is concerned, they’re getting a much different story than the one we just heard, but there has been news about open hostilities between Siberia and Japan. I couldn’t make any sense of it, but then again, nothing that has happened in the last week has made any sense.”

  “Hiryu sunk….” Harada’s eyes darkened. “And by naval rocket attack. We know damn well the Russians of this era would have nothing in 1942 that could do that. Did you catch what Yamamoto said? He claimed there was a Russian ship in the Atlantic too, with confirmed use of rocket tech. What is this all about?”

  “I haven’t any idea,” said Fukada.

  “What if it’s that damn Russian battlecruiser?”

  “You mean Kirov?”

  “Yes, the same ship commanded by this Captain Karpov. I heard he was running his mouth for a good long while before they came to blows with the Americans. The word was that he and the American Captain Tanner had a little chat before the missiles went hot. Then that volcano erupts, and the Russians just flat out disappear. I got hold of some intel on that after it happened. The Americans slipped in a sub to look for the Russian flotilla, but there wasn’t a sign. They just flat out vanished, no wreckage of any kind, and nothing on the seabed. Frankly, nobody on the American side believed they were sunk, and so they started snooping up north for them in the Sea of Okhotsk. The Russians had a deep sea submersible operating up there. Some hotshot picked it up on a satellite.”

  “Well did they ever find the Russian flotilla?”

  “No. There was not a sign or whisper of them after that eruption. Now look at us here, about to take dinner and tea with Admiral Yamamoto…”

  “Alright,” said Fukada. “Suppose the same thing did happen to the Russians. Let’s suppose that’s Kirov up north beating up on our fleet. If they showed up here, who knows when, they certainly decided who’s side they were going to be on easily enough. They were our enemy
in 2021, and it looks like that holds true here as well. If that’s the case, then what are we going to do about it? You still want to sail off to Argentina and try to play this out being a neutral? Yamamoto just said they were getting ready to send a much stronger force up north. If that is Kirov, you know damn well what will happen next. You were just bragging about our capabilities to the Admirals. Well, we both know that Russian battlecruiser is one tough ship. This is going to get ugly, and hell, for that matter, those contacts will be on us inside thirty minutes.”

  Harada nodded gravely. “They’ve seen the dazzle here in the CIC. I was about to explain the rest when this business concerning the Russians came up and threw me off my stride. Yet I don’t see any way around it now.”

  While the Captain was away, Ugaki took the time to voice his own concerns with Yamamoto. “Who are these men?” he said emphatically. “They are certainly not in the naval intelligence network. They seemed to know nothing of what has transpired these last weeks. Then they appear here out of nowhere. Well, who sent them? Why do they insist on this meeting, and what is the real motive behind all this glitter they have shown us?”

  “This is all very strange,” said Yamamoto, “particularly this command center. Have you ever seen anything remotely like this equipment?”

  “Never, but it could all be theater. Yes, we saw them shoot down that target plane, but I find their other claims hard to believe. How could they have all these advanced radars and weapons without the navy knowing it? And that assertion that this ship was built in the shipyards of Nagasaki is certainly a lie. You and I both know that much.”

  “A real mystery here,” said Yamamoto. “And I have the persistent feeling that they are holding something back. We have not yet heard their whole story.”

  “But we have certainly heard them boast. If that radar is real, and there are airborne contacts headed this way, then they are undoubtedly American bombers. How convenient that this should happen now, while we are both here on this ship, away from Yamato. Admiral—this could be a trap!”

  Chapter 27

  Captain Harada could feel the tension in the room when he returned with Fukada. Ugaki was looking at him with dark eyed suspicion again, and he did not fail to notice the man’s hand had strayed to the hilt of the samurai sword at his waist. It was clear he still remained unconvinced, but here was a moment of truth, a well timed crises that was bringing everything to the edge of a very precipitous cliff. He knew he could not hesitate here, not show weakness, and that in coming to Davao, requesting this audience, he had cast the fate of his ship and crew to the winds of this war.

  And there could no longer be a question as to which side they were on. Lieutenant Otani’s warnings about the monsters inside many of these men were well taken, but they had come to this man, Yamamoto, knowing the caliber of his character. Were they foolish to think his power and prestige alone could set the war onto a new course that might avoid the years of bitter fighting, and the millions of deaths yet to come?

  One thing was certain—if he could not impress Yamamoto that Takami was a war winner, then this whole mission was fruitless, and they would have done better to beach the ship and burn it, as he had mused earlier when this question first came up. He could sense the urgency in Fukada, and knew his First Officer had already made his own choice, and now he was urging him to do the same. The pressure was mounting, and he also couldn’t forget that Yamato was out there, with a forward turret trained their way, effectively holding the entire ship quite literally at gunpoint to serve Admiral Ugaki’s suspicions. Yet once I engage here….

  Another long minute passed, and then he nodded to Fukada, moving back towards the Admirals where they were closely watching him, their attention sometimes pulled to the dazzling screens and displays of instrument panels lit up by rows of lights.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, a hollow feeling in his heart that he tried to mask. “If Admiral Ugaki is correct, and these are American bombers, then Takami will now defend the fleet.”

  “Mister Honjo!”

  “Sir!”

  “Designate inbound track as hostile and stand up the SM-2s. I will be on the bridge.”

  “Aye sir, designating contact as Tango 1 and hostile. Standing up Standard Missile 2 system on forward cells.”

  Now Harada looked at the two Admirals. “We are locking our targeting radars on those inbound contacts. We could conduct this engagement here, but I think you would have a much better view of things on the main bridge. First Officer Fukada will lead the way. I will be with you shortly.”

  Yamamoto stood, and the Admirals followed Fukada to the nearby hatch, with Ugaki taking a last look over his shoulder, finding the Captain as he stooped over one of the stations, his finger pointing at the strange colored display.

  Harada had passed a moment with his CIC crew, and with Hedeo Honjo. “I won’t hide the fact from you all that we think those are most likely American B-17s inbound out there, so this is a difficult situation here. We came here to try and convince these men we could matter enough in this war to set it onto another course, but here it is. We’re still trying to make up our minds on all of this, but the war has found us, and it’s twenty minutes out and heading our way. If I let those planes come in and they bomb this harbor….”

  No one said anything.

  “Well, we can’t allow that just now. They’ll have to be stopped, and I don’t think a polite radio chat would do the trick. I know I’m asking you all to make a choice here, and if any man feels this is the wrong decision, you may stand down and nothing will be said about it. It will be treated as a matter of conscience and there will be no negative consequences. You all know who that was sitting there a moment ago, but beyond that, this can also be considered a matter of self defense. Now… “I’m going to let this contact get fairly close so the Admirals can see what happens when we fire. Those planes will be lucky to hit the broad side of a barn here, but if they do, a 300 pound bomb would not make us feel very good.”

  That brought a few smiles, a small measure of humor relieving the tension. “So we’ll take them just outside 30 klicks. Very well… Carry on, and Lieutenant Honjo will handle any crew replacement necessary for this engagement. I will be on the bridge.”

  * * *

  Known as the “Shield of the Fleet,” the AN/SPY-1D radar resembled an elongated octagonal panel, 12 feet wide, and flush to the conning section of the ship. It was a ‘Phased Array’ system that had panels on every side of the ship for a constant 360 degree surveillance of the air and sea around the ship. It was keyed in to the VLS missile launchers, so if Lieutenant Honjo had an order, he could have a missile in the air ten seconds after first contact. It could perform detection, tracking, target illumination for over 100 active contacts, and could also be used in the terminal phase of missile approach to target for guidance. That help would not be needed that day.

  The SM-2 missiles being fired were not out after a stealthy 4th or 5th generation strike aircraft, or a sleek sea-skimming missile. The targets were going to be lumbering B-17s, completely unaware of what was about to happen to them. With his conscience heavy, Captain Harada decided to fire a two missile salvo first, and then see what the reaction was on the target side. Yet even as he sent the order to the CIC to fire, he knew he was likely killing fifteen or twenty men.

  Strangely, the same quick equation ran through his mind that had plagued both Volsky and Fedorov. Who were those men out there? They were here, sailing in the waters of their ancestors, but those men were also someone’s grandfather, or even great grandfather. Did any of them end up surviving this war? Who dies with them when they go down in a flaming wreck this hour? How many men or women that might have been alive in his time would never be born, and how far forward did that go in time? He realized that he was striking down multiple generations now, unseen faces, each with a long life line and personal history that could now be obliterated.

  The order was given; the shrill alarm sounded. The hatch opened on the f
orward deck and the hot yellow flame erupted, directed upwards as the missiles appeared in a wash of fire and white smoke. Up they went, out after the men and planes of the 19th Bombardment Group that morning, one of the oldest outfits in the US Air Force.

  Yet First Officer Fukada had not spent enough time in the ship’s library that day, and the five planes approaching Davao had a dual mission. They weren’t coming to bomb, but to simply photograph it. Two would make a moonlit recon run, and the other three would divert north to Del Monte, still in Allied hands as it was 200 kilometers away, on the north coast of the island. The Japanese eventually took that field, but they did not have it yet in this history, and those three planes were out to make a very special rendezvous.

  * * *

  1st Lieutenant Frank P. Bostrom was one of the men out there that day, and yes, he would have a son if he survived this mission. Someone very important had been belly-aching and throwing his weight around, and a directive went out that the best planes available to the US Army Air Force, and its most competent pilots, were to be mustered for a special mission. Unfortunately, the battered old B-17s of the 19th Bombardment Group were barely flying, but three newer planes had just been transferred in, and Bostrom had one of them.

  A man of 34 years, the 1st Lieutenant had jet black hair, but with a flash of premature grey at the temples that made him look just a little older when he was wearing his hat, and his darker hair could not be seen. He was a bit on edge that day, and for three good reasons. The first was the coffee, nearly eight full cups he had slogged down in preparation for this flight. It was going to be a long run out to Mindanao, some 1500 miles, and he needed to be fresh and alert at all times, particularly since it would be a night landing on an old, muddy field, lit by little more than a few flares.