John Schettler - Kirov

Yet the Mark I system was, indeed, an analog computer of sorts, and it was capable of interacting with both optical sighting and radar returns, along with information from gyroscopes, to calculate range, speed, and reach a predictive plot solution on a potential target to control the destroyer’s 5 inch deck guns. Benson had two turrets up front, with a single gun each, and three more aft. The guns could range out about ten miles, and so they were the first to fire in anger at the enemy ship, the rudimentary Mark I giving the orders and guiding the rounds in as best it could.

Kaufman had the heat of battle on him. He signaled his destroyers to fire as soon as they had the range, and Benson, eager to be both the first to see and first to fight the enemy, opened fire at once. The charge of the tin-can destroyers had begun, eight ships abreast and closing on an ever darkening shadow the like of which they had never seen in their lives at sea, and would never see again.

Karpov breathed in deeply, as if he were taking in a new measure of strength. The choice was no longer his now, not his alone. He at least had one confederate in Orlov and what would happen next would happen eventually, he knew. This and a hundred other justifications ran through his mind. The tactical situation was perfect. He had the element of surprise. The enemy target was heavily concentrated. The weapon of choice was clearly indicated, and his math was infallible.

Samsonov interrupted him, his voice edged with urgency. “Sir, the number one contact on my screen is very close.” Rodenko had been distracted by the close proximity of the Captain and Orlov, his attention riveted to what they were saying to one another in tense, hushed voices. When he saw Orlov’s Glock pistol, his heart leapt to think what might be happening. What was the Captain doing?

A moment later a watch stander at the forward viewing panes call out in a loud voice: “Captain, we are being fired on!”

Karpov spun about, somewhat shocked, his gaze drawn out through the view ports to the gray sea, where he saw the unmistakable water plumes of shells landing some ways off, well short of the ship, yet Kirov was racing on, right into the range of the distant fire.

“Rodenko?”

“The number one surface action group, sir. American destroyers, I read eight ships, and they are fanning out in a line, range 20,000 meters and closing.”

“20,000 meters?” Karpov’s face reddened with anger. “How did they get so close? Have you been sleeping?” Then to Samsonov he said, “Return fire at once. No missiles. Use the forward deck guns and blow them out of the water.”

“Aye, sir!” There were only two gun mounts that could bear on the targets given Kirov’s present heading, her bow pointed directly at the enemy destroyers. One was the forward mounted 100mm battery, a single gun that they had first used to drive off the impudent British destroyer Anthony near Jan Mayen. Samsonov activated it, and fed in the initial targeting information. The second battery was the larger twin 152mm deck gun, with heavier rounds, nearly 6 inches in diameter, and with better range and accuracy. Both batteries began to engage, the crack, crack, crack of their rapid firing guns punctuated by the metallic clatter of the shell casings ejected from the turret. And the fire control computer that guided these rounds was not an oversized Swiss watch, but a fully integrated, state-of-the-art advanced digital computer, many orders of magnitude more powerful than the largely clunky mechanical Mark I system on the American destroyers.

Within milliseconds the computer had the range and six shells from the 152mm battery soon slammed into the Benson, pounding her with four direct hits on the foredeck and forward battery, destroying the gun there immediately. All the American destroyers replied with their two forward deck guns, outnumbering Kirov ’s batteries by sixteen guns to three. The difference was the fire control systems. While the destroyers had yet to come into effective range for a chance at accurate fire, nearly all of Kirov’s rounds were finding targets, smashing into the lightly armored tin-cans as they boldly charged the raging bull before them.

“Hit on the lead destroyer!” said Samsonov.

“Good shooting,” Karpov returned. “Put the guns on full automatic. I want those ships chopped to pieces.”

Benson was hit by two more 152mm rounds, a large explosion amidships shaking the ship when the starboard torpedo mounts went up. Soon there was a raging fire, and thick black smoke. The ship that was first to see and first to fire on Kirov, was also first to die. The fire control system on Kirov responded to a new target command sent by Samsonov, and the gun shifted smoothly, ranged on the next target, and cracked out a series of eight rounds in four tightly controlled two round salvos.

DD Mayo was hit by six of the eight rounds, the other two near misses given the narrow beam of the ship. The 100mm forward deck gun had also ranged on Kaufman’s flagship, Plunkett, and struck her with three rounds in rapid succession. Jones was next in line, swamped by another eight rounds and set ablaze by Kirov’s radar guided 152mm battery. Then all the American ships seemed to be afire, with thick black smoke coming from every one. They were deliberately making smoke, but Karpov interpreted the sight as evidence his guns were making a swift end of the brash enemy.

The Captain took up his field glasses, watched a moment longer, then snapped them down, his lips tight, eyes gleaming with a smile. His guns would do the job well enough. All the American destroyers were firing back at him, but they were still short or wide of the mark. One round was a little too close for comfort, and Karpov ordered chaff countermeasures just in case the enemy had a radar set at a wavelength their jamming might not be effectively suppressing. Satisfied that the engagement was bending toward an inevitable result, he turned to Samsonov with new orders. Now he had bigger fish to fry.

“Mister Samsonov,” he said in a loud clear voice. “Activate the MOS-III missile battery, and enable CSSC module for the number ten missile.”

Samsonov looked over his shoulder, a surprised look on his face, but when he saw Karpov fishing beneath his sea coat and drawing out his command level key, he realized the Captain was deadly serious. His was not to question, nor to reason why. He executed the order on reflex, announcing his system status in his deep baritone, “Sir, MOS-III battery now active. The number ten silo seals are broken and the missile is enabled. The coded switch set controller is in the ON position, awaiting command level key entry.”

Karpov looked at Orlov, seeing both fear and hesitation on his face, but he did not delay an instant. It was now or never. He stepped forward into the command information center and sat down at a chair to the right of Samsonov. With a quick motion of his thumb he flipped up the plastic keyhole cover, inserted his key, and turned it firmly to the right. The system went on with an audible tone and Karpov quickly punched a keypad below, entering a five digit code. There were ten squared windows to display the numerals entered, and his heart raced as he hoped that Chief Martinov had indeed carried out his orders. He finished entering the code that he had long ago committed to memory, pressed the activate button, and held his breath, waiting. If the CSSC module had been set to position one as he ordered, his code would be all that was required to activate the missile warhead. If it remained at the default number two setting, another command level key and code would be required now on the adjacent module, but much to his relief the green activation light winked on with a low beep. The warhead was active.

The Captain exhaled, steadying himself mentally before he stood up. He turned, clasping his arms behind his back. “Mister Rodenko,” he said, “are the enemy surface action groups still bearing on our position?”