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  Karpov turned to Rodenko, who was keeping one eye on the Plexiglas situation plot adjacent to the radar systems. “How far away is the main body?”

  “About 250 kilometers southwest of our position, sir. Speed thirty knots, heading due north at 360 degrees.”

  “Fools rush in. Very well, let’s send them a message that should give them something to think about. How soon before we have them in SSM range?”

  “You’re moving to a surface action, sir?”

  “A preemptive action, Rodenko. If we give them a hard shove on the shoulder now, it could spare us a much more involved battle later. If I can get them to back off here, all the better. At the moment they may be under the illusion that we are nothing more than a small surface flotilla—Soviet ships, or even Japanese. I want them to know we can hit them at range, strike them like an aircraft carrier. It should give them something to think about, and perhaps it will take the starch out of their collars down there and we can talk sense.”

  Rodenko nodded his agreement, though he still wondered what the Captain had in mind for that conversation. What was he thinking to say to the Americans now? Yet this was not the time or place for that discussion, so he considered their surface action missile loads. They had left Vladivostok with a standard load of ten P-900 Sizzlers, ten MOS-III Starfires, and twenty Moskit-IIs. Four P-900s were expended earlier against American patrols in the Kuriles.

  “Sir, we can fire the P-900s now, but we have only six remaining for that system. The Moskit-II system should be in range momentarily. At our present speed due south, the range is diminishing by about 100 kilometers per hour. We can fire in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Very well. Mister, Samsonov. Ready a half salvo on the P-900 system—four missiles please. Target the core of the enemy fleet. Set ship target profile preference to aircraft carrier. On my command fire at thirty second intervals.”

  “Ready on P-900 system, sir.” The deadly missiles could be programmed to seek out a specific target profile, analyzing a ship’s silhouette to determine the target type. They could also fly evasive low level approach runs to avoid screening targets to get to their primary, an evolution that made them particularly effective.

  “Are these missiles reprogrammed for plunging fire?”

  “I’m sorry sir, they are all in standard configuration. We have had no time to reprogram the overall attack profile.”

  “Nor did we have any reason to in 2021,” said Karpov. “No matter, the sea skimming approach should do. There are four aircraft carriers down there, and my guess is that they will have more planes than we have seen thus far. I want to make their lives a little more difficult and discourage any further launches. Sorry if we have to spoil their lunch.”

  Karpov was jaunty, pacing back and forth in front of the citadel view screens, the ocean beyond clear and calm. The sound of the SAM defense batteries was loud in the air, and their white tails scored the sky as they sped away, but as yet not one of the distant American planes they were seeking had come within visual range. It was Beyond Visual Range naval combat, and they could not see the carnage they were inflicting some thirty kilometers away now, only the green blips on the radar turning red when a missile hit its target.

  Yet Rodenko was at least encouraged by the fact that Karpov was fighting the engagement in a measured way. He could have sent a withering saturation barrage at the American ships, and inflicted tremendous damage. By using only four missiles he would give them a stiff, painful jab in the face, and still preserve the ship’s vital missile inventory.

  Even as he thought that, Rodenko realized those missiles would more than likely run out again, and perhaps sooner than they thought. And without our missiles, he thought, we are nothing more than a fast cruiser, and not a particularly well armored one either. Karpov was taking things slowly here, and at least they were not alone this time. They still had Orlan and Admiral Golovko, but what else did the Americans have down there, and were they prepared to use it? Would they negotiate with Karpov after an engagement like this; after losing planes and men, or even a carrier when Samsonov lets loose that salvo?

  * * *

  Orlan was particularly effective with its lethal missiles traveling so fast at Mach 15 that the pilots had no time to even react once they caught sight of the approaching contrails. It was hideous, and in Higman’s flight they were two planes light already, with Nuall and Hallard both dead and gone into the sea. But Higgy Higman was still there in Round Trip Ticket, bravely pressing his Helldiver forward. He thought he saw something on the distant horizon now—yes, there was a ship, then another, and those damn rocket trails pointed out the way.

  “Ships at eleven-o-clock!” he shouted. “Pickett? You still up front?”

  “Yeah, I see ‘em. Going in now!” Pickett was there, bravely leading the charge, and it was already one for the record books. Of the 54 planes off Ticonderoga, only 22 remained. There were seven Helldivers, five Avengers and the rest were fighters. The squadrons off Wasp had also been ravaged by the deadly precision rockets that had claimed one plane after another in a hellish nightmare in the skies. But the American pressed on.

  Higman grimaced and shirked when he saw Stevens plane hit above him. It was a near miss, but a small fragment of shrapnel struck his windshield on the right side and he could see the glass spider out in a crack. He pulled the stick and threw his helldiver over to get ready to dive. Then he heard something he had never once heard before in battle. It sounded like Iron Mike Mulligan was throwing in the towel!

  “All units; all flights, this is Mulligan. We have orders to abort. I repeat, break off and do a 360. They want us out of here on the double.”

  Hot damn, thought Higman. I’ve got the bastards right in front of me and lost two good men getting here, and now they want us to bug out and fly home? What kind of stew was Mulligan serving up today? The same thing had happened over Tokyo a few days ago. Maybe the brass had negotiated a settlement to this conflict, but it sure didn’t look like it from his point of view.

  “What’s up, Big Mike? Why we turning tail?”

  “Orders from Flag! Pull on it and get out of there, before one of those rockets lights your ass on fire!”

  Higman shook his head, distressed, angry, but knowing he couldn’t take the fight to the enemy alone. It would be all he could do to get what was left of his squadron back to Ticonderoga, and there would be a lot of empty chairs at the flight debriefing this afternoon. Hell! They must have lost thirty planes in ten minutes. He had never seen anything like it. At the “Great Marianas Turkey Shoot” they had taken down over 500 Japanese planes while losing only 23 on the first day. By that stage in the war the fine edge of pilot training, tactics, and the new planes the US deployed was enough to make for a decisive and overwhelming victory in the most lopsided aerial duel in history. It had been a long time since the US took a licking in the skies over the Pacific.

  There was something not right about this, thought Higman. It just isn’t right. Those aren’t planes we’re fighting out there. They aren’t men. We’re up against some kind of slick new rocket system, and it’s eating us alive. Who knows how many we lost today? Whatever the Russians had up there on the horizon, it was a real game changer. We’re going to have to hit them with every goddamned thing we have to get through a defense like that… Everything we have.

  Chapter 8

  Back on Ticonderoga that was the new consensus too, though Ziggy Sprague wasn’t happy about it one bit. He wanted to press on up north and settle the score, but word came in from Halsey on the Missouri—pull the boys out.

  Apparently some starchy British Admiral had chewed on his ear and convinced him the Russians might have more up north than we bargained for, he thought. Well how in God’s name would they ever know that unless we get up there after them? The fleet had nothing on surface radar returns, but the two radar pickets were still in tight on this Russian task force, though they reported it was difficult to track them. The ships came and went on the rad
ar screens.

  He could not know that the architecture on the two newer ships, Orlan and Admiral Golovko, incorporated reduced radar cross section features, odd angles and special reflective tiling and paint that made the ships very slippery when even modern radars tried to finger them. Sprague’s two radar pickets would get a contact on Kirov, see other ships nearby, and then they would vanish again.

  Yet orders were orders. Halsey wanted to coordinate with the British and was also moving up his own task force. The Russians were playing hardball, and it looked like the Bull wanted to double up on them to make sure they got the message. That was the only way Sprague could figure it…until the missiles came in.

  They had nothing on radar. Then one man thought he saw something. The P-900s were just too fast to track on their terminal run at Mach 2.5, over 3000 kph. The US antenna swept the horizon once every ten seconds. If an operator managed to get a lucky return blip on the missile, by the time the system swept around for another look the Sizzlers would have traveled eight and a half kilometers. Instead of a steady inward approach like the aircraft they were used to tracking, the blip would seem to hop across the screen sweep after sweep, covering over 50 kilometers range in a single minute! By the time the radar operator interpreted this as a threat instead of a glitch, it was too late. Even as he turned his head to report the anomaly, something came at the fleet, low and fast, and it found the Wasp about a thousand yards off the starboard side of Ticonderoga.

  The ship just blew up in an angry orange fireball forward of the island, and all Sprague could think of when he saw it was that some rogue Japanese submarine had slipped inside his destroyer screen and put a torpedo into the carrier. A minute later the second Sunburn came in, and this time Sprague had his field glasses up and saw something blur in on Bataan. That ship was hit amidships, and a huge column of smoke billowed up to mark the kill. He looked up, thinking he might see Kamikazes diving on the task group, but he could only see his fighter reserve on combat air patrol over the carriers. What was going on here?

  Wasp was hit again. He literally saw a Hellcat blown apart on the forward flight deck and a segment of the wing spin up through a red-black fist of fire and smoke.

  “Signal Wasp!” He shouted. “How bad is it over there?”

  The fourth Sizzler executed a late stage popup maneuver and struck the island flush, and the explosion was terrific. Wasp seemed to list from the shock alone, then slowly righted herself and continued wobbling forward through smoke and fire.

  When the first missile hit, it struck right beneath the forward 5 inch gun battery and smashed on through the armor plating. The missile delivered a 400 kilogram warhead, and the additional kinetic impact was severe. Thankfully most of the missile’s fuel had been expended, but the shock and fire were immediate.

  Seaman Ernest Bird had been on a ladder right near the impact site just a minute before the missile hit home. In that time he had casually climbed up to the flight deck, and strolled over to chat with Gunner’s Mate Ralph Cella. They called Ernie the “Lucky Bird” because fate had spared him a gruesome end earlier that year when his relief had been late, keeping him at his post instead of seeing him off to the mess hall that day. A thousand pound bomb came flaming in through the deck that morning, and uninvited guest for breakfast. Ernie’s luck was still good, but he was still close enough to the forward battery to be knocked on his ass by the concussion and shock when the missile hit.

  The battery was soon embroiled in a raging fire, with hot jets of flame piercing through holes in the deck around the gun mount. Seaman Bird struggled to his feet and ran to do his job—fire control. He was going to be a very busy man that day.

  When the second missile hit Chuck Malkasian had made it down to his post in the engine room. He was water tender on the boilers that morning, but soon had more water on his hands than he would ever need. A four inch thick steel bulkhead blew apart and the ocean came raging in.

  “Close all water tight doors!” It was Chief Warrant Officer Woody Morrow. The ‘Wood Man’ was standing tall at his post, his deep voice clear even over the roaring rush of seawater. Crewmen rushed to the doors, struggling to get them shut against the force of the inrushing water from the adjacent compartment, their knuckles white on the iron securing wheels.

  “Hey Wood Man!” Malkasian yelled back. “How the hell we gonna’ get out of here if we shut this last hatch?”

  “Can it, Malkasian. Take the ladder up behind the boilers.”

  “Well it’s hot as hell back there, Chief!”

  Malkasian didn’t have to explain any further. The boiler exploded and he was knocked to the deck. He saw boiler man Red Riley thrown against a bulkhead by the explosion and killed instantly, his broken body lifeless on the deck as the water surged in. Chief Morrow was dazed but the rest of the crew in the compartment were all alive. Malkasian struggled up on his knees grabbed the Chief by his collar and began dragging him towards the safety of the still open hatch.

  “Come on! Come On, Everybody out! There’s nothing we can do here. Get through and seal this last hatch!”

  They made it through, tired, wet and shaking with shock and adrenaline. Malkasian was leaning forward, hands on his knees, amazed by what he had seen.

  “I ain’t no water tender down here no more,” he said, breathing hard, then looked over his shoulder as a seaman came down a ladder.

  “Up on deck!” the man shouted. It was Gunner’s Mate 3rd Class Alfred J. Lewis. “Hey Malkasian, grab a fire hose.”

  “What are you doing here, Lewis. They hit the forward flight deck too. Your plank is out there.”

  “The forward flight deck?” Lewis put his hands on his hips, the light of anger in his eyes now. My goddamned plank is on that deck!” Lewis was off at a run for the nearest ladder up. He was supposed to be on his gun at 09:00 hours, but his gun was blown to hell now. Nobody was going to burn up his plank while he was still alive on this ship. Nobody!

  He was up on deck and stunned by what he saw. The main island was hit square in the middle, and ragged metal shards gaped from the wound while damage control teams sent arcs of water into the fiery breach. Forward of that, the 5 inch battery was completely enveloped in fire and smoke, and he knew no one in there was getting out alive. The flight deck was tilted at least ten degrees off the horizontal, and the ship was listing. The main elevator was blocked by damage and fire, and out on the forward flight deck he saw what he had came to prevent, a fire raging, and very near the place where he imagined his cherished plank resided!

  Lord almighty! We took three bad hits! He hadn’t seen anything like this since that bomb that almost killed Lucky Bird Ernie, and he was off at a run to help manhandle a fire hose forward to fight the fire.

  “Let’s move it!” he shouted. “That’s my plank out there!”

  The damage control team fought its way forward behind two fire hoses, slowly getting good streams of water on the fires. Twenty minutes later they had doused the fire well, but it was still smoking badly, and in that time the ship had listed another five degrees.

  “Hey, where you going, Lewis?” It was Merle Hart from the plumbing shop.

  “I’m going up there to get my goddamned plank,” said Lewis. “Can’t you see this list? Why aren’t you down below with a wrench plugging leaks, Merle? This isn’t looking good here. Another five degrees and we could tip right over. Look how they’re trying to secure those planes!” He pointed at a crew of five airmen who were desperately trying to stabilize three Corsairs on the aft flight deck.

  Lewis had taken up a crow bar in his strong right arm and went forward through the blowing smoke, his feet unsteady on the wet, tilted deck. He managed to keep his footing until he worked his way very near the torn metal gridding near the fire they had been fighting. There, beneath a segment of overlaid metal grills, he saw the original wooden flight deck.

  This place is as good as any other, he thought, and he knelt down to wedge his crowbar into the deck where a wood plank seemed
nice and loose. He was going to get his plank, one way or another. Then he was going to go back to his bunk and get the certificate of ownership too!

  As for CV-18, her proud career would soon be over. The damage below decks when the boiler exploded had compromised two more bulkheads, and they collapsed under the searing heat of the fires. The Captain, Wendel G. “Windy” Switzer, had seen enough to realize the ship was down for the count. He gave the order to flood all magazines and to try counter-flooding to correct the list but the fire in the main island had now merged with the inferno below the forward 5 inch battery, and those magazines could not be flooded. They exploded not long after Lewis had retreated below decks with his plank, and the damage to the port side of the ship was now fatal.

  CV Wasp was going to sink again, and Captain Vladimir Karpov now had the dubious distinction of sinking the same carrier, at least by name, twice. She would not be present years later when the Gemini capsules returned to earth, and another US carrier would have to pluck Stafford, Lovell and other intrepid Gemini Astronauts from the sea. The Union Minerals and Alloys Corp. of New York City, would have to buy some other ship in 1973 when the venerable lady was decommissioned and sold for scrap. There would never be another ship in the US Navy by that name again—it was officially retired.

  The sinking of the Wasp put a set of strange bookends on the war, with CV-7 sunk just before it began to herald its terrible onset, and CV-18 sunk just after it ended, warning of a new conflict in the making at that very moment. Just what that conflict might entail, no man knew at that moment. In fact, all history was waiting for the outcome of the battle now engaged, for it would all be re-written from this moment forward. None of this had ever happened in the timeline that had brought Kirov through the war and safely into Vladivostok in the year 2021. This was all new.