“We’ll go in top down,” said Karpov with a smile.
“Then you’re looking at 230mm deck armor, and 250 to 650 on the main gun turrets. The Americans put a 230kg bomb on one, and it didn’t even penetrate the turret roof. That’s as big as any warhead we’ll throw at that ship.”
“Yet we’ll shake up the command network,” Karpov came back. “We might even hit the bridge.”
“500mm on the conning tower,” said Fedorov. “Oh, they’ll know they’ve been hit, but you would have to put ten missiles on that ship if you want to take it off the roster. It took the Americans 17 direct bomb hits, some 1000 pounds, and then 18 torpedo hits before that ship sank.”
“We don’t need to do that,” said Karpov. “They don’t use it for combat operations anyway. Am I correct in that?”
“True.”
“Then all I want to do is shock them. It serves the purpose of a gaudy armored tower, nothing more. I simply want to knock heavily at the gate and show them how vulnerable they are.”
“That would be like insulting a man instead of really hitting him. You might do better to target these…” Fedorov pointed to one of the still images captured by the recon photos. “Those have to be tankers. Remember the fascination the Japanese had with battleships at Pearl Harbor. They overlooked the oil tank farm, though they did a little better on that score this time through. Hit those tankers and you do some harm.”
“Musashi is a political target,” said Karpov. “We’ll also put a missile on this aircraft carrier, and now that you mention it, the tankers do seem like a good choice as well. I want to let them know that they are completely powerless to stop me. In fact, it’s a shame that there aren’t more aircraft carriers here.”
“Yes,” said Fedorov glibly. “That was what the Japanese said on December 7th.”
An hour before dawn, Kirov had crept to within the 120-kilometer range mark of Truk. Fedorov had been correct. Their approach from the northwest was unseen, as most search assets had been assigned patrol arcs to the east and southeast, towards areas known to be frequented by American carriers. Aboard Musashi, Rear Admiral Kaoru Arima was at his station on the bridge early that morning, though it would be just one more day where he would sit and review reports, conduct station inspections, and dream about the day he might take his ship out onto the open sea again, and actually face the enemy in battle.
He had served on the Kongo as a Lieutenant, and held positions as a gunnery instructor and Naval College Staff officer before receiving his first command on the cruiser Kumano. In October of 1940 they gave him the battleship Hiei, but just before the war broke out with the United States, he moved to the Musashi as its XO in September of 1941. When he was made Captain of that ship nearly a year later, he swelled with pride, even though he realized it would be an administrative post, idling in the anchorage of Truk Lagoon, staring endlessly out at the islands clustered about the ship, never doing anything of consequence.
Just a few months ago, in November of 1942, the do-nothing Captain was promoted to a do-nothing Rear Admiral, but at least the journey here to Truk had been somewhat exciting. The ship had conducted AA gunnery trials, and even completed exercises involving those massive main gun turrets, each one weighing more than a typical Japanese destroyer.
He was staring at them that morning, the sun not yet up, and just the faintest hint of pre-dawn glow in the sky. They had tested those massive guns in conjunction with their new radar set, but Arima found the results unsatisfactory. A pity that they will probably never fire another round in this war, he thought. There they sit, all that steel, silent castles on my foredeck, each one armed with the largest naval guns ever designed.
Things could be worse, he thought. The ship could be back in home waters at Hashirajima, watching all the cruisers and destroyers come and go, and longing for the sea. It was only Yamamoto’s decision to make Yamato a real fighting ship that allowed Musashi to venture this far from home waters. She was a shadow of her older brother, taking on the duty Yamato once had, serving as the floating headquarters of the fleet. I should be proud, he thought, and indeed, I certainly am. This ship is now the official flagship of his majesty, Emperor Hirohito, and his aspect is ever watching me in my stateroom where all the other Admirals and staff officers come and go.
As he was thinking all this, in walked the tall stalwart figure of Captain Keizo Komura, the former commander of the ill-fated cruiser Chikuma. Most of the other senior staff officers were either still sleeping, or busy with breakfast in the officer’s mess, but Komura was always up early like this, often seen pacing the long forward deck of the ship, restless and ill at ease.
He has good reason to feel so glum, thought Arima. His ship was one of the first to be given the honor of attacking the shadowy enemy raider in the north, Mizuchi. He had sortied with the battleship Mutsu and a pack of destroyers to sail up the western shore of Kamchatka and destroy the enemy landing sites, but he never got there. Both Mutsu and Chikuma were attacked by a terrible new weapon, the breath of the fire sea demon, Mizuchi.
He had asked Komura about it once, but them man just stared at him with that sallow face and dark narrowed eyes, and so he never mentioned the incident to him again. Now Komura stalked about the ship in the early hours, as if he were a prisoner here. Perhaps he was. He had lost his ship, failed in his mission, and had been summarily consigned to this post, ostensibly as a promotion, though everyone knew that he would probably never be given another combat command again, and now he had to endure the additional insult when the decision was made to suspend repair operations on Chikuma, and scrap the ship to provide steel for other carrier conversion projects. He would forever be known as the last Captain of the heavy cruiser Chikuma, consumed by fire and flame in the cold waters of the north.
Now it was Arima’s turn to learn what Komura already carried in his gut. Something was burning in the purple sky off his starboard bow, rising up and up, like a shooting star returning to the heavens from whence it came. And then it began to fall again.
Chapter 27
Komura saw it too, his eyes riveted to the scene, widening with the horror of the memories he guarded silently within. Admiral Arima looked at him, seeing the distant glow in the sky reflected from his dark eyes, then stared at it again. What was it, a plane on fire? None of the seaplanes were scheduled to depart before 06:00 hours that morning. Could it be an enemy plane? Nothing had been reported the previous day, though now he realized the waters north and east of the lagoon had not been searched for three days now.
Then he remembered that report he had received, that of a lone ship probing about the edge of the Marshalls like a restless shark. The Shadow Tleet had actually been dispatched to look for it off Tarawa, but found nothing. These thoughts passed in an instant in his mind, his eyes still moving back and forth from Captain Komura to that bright object in the sky, descending, descending, glowing more fiercely as it approached. Then the taut still figure of Komura was suddenly animated. He whirled about, eyes wide.
“Battle stations!” He shouted. “Mizuchi!”
Shocked by that word, Arima was on his feet. “What are you saying?” he said, but Komura was pointing with a stiff arm.