“Birds affirm track 03.”
“Birds free track 03.”
The firing key was pressed and the missile roared off the rail. “Birds away track 03.”
“Target track 07.”
“Roger track 07. Birds affirm, track 07.”
“Birds free track 07.”
“Birds away track 07.”
The two missiles were streaking towards their designated targets. The Standard MR1 was a very reliable missile. It took only fifteen seconds to reach the target. Riding the beam of the SPG 51 radars, it sensed the proximity of the incoming Styx and triggered the warhead. The resulting explosion clipped the left wing off the missile, sending it plummeting into the sea.
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.
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 Wisconcin 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.