Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  VOYAGES OF THE SEVENTH CARRIER

  Peter Albano

  © Peter Albano 2019

  Peter Albano has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  THE SEVENTH CARRIER

  THE SECOND VOYAGE OF THE SEVENTH CARRIER

  RETURN OF THE SEVENTH CARRIER

  THE SEVENTH CARRIER

  For Mary Annis, Carla, Lisa, Vincent, and Laura, who were captives of the seventh carrier.

  Table of Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PREFACE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The technical accuracy of this work would have been impossible without the expertise of professionals. Lt. J.G. Art Gotisar, USCG, introduced the author to the mysteries of the Sikorski “Seaguard.” Capt. Donald B. Hanley II, USMC, explained the vicious bird called “Cobra.” Cmdr. William D. Wilkerson, USNR, and Lt. Dennis D. Silver, USNR, answered questions about anything with a fixed wing and flyable.

  Special thanks to Capt. Donald W. Brandmeyer who provided inestimable aid in all matters nautical.

  PREFACE

  Fanatic and ferocious, Japanese resistance during World War II astonished the Allies. What motivated doomed (banzai) infantry charges, flaming dives by Kamikaze pilots, mass suicides by trapped soldiers, the unprecedented holdout of Sgt. Shoichi Yokoi for twenty-seven years on Guam, and the thirty year battle waged by Lt. Hiroo Onoda on Lubang. Obviously, these men were driven by forces incomprehensible to the Western mind.

  What were the forces commanding these men? Rooted in Buddhism and Shintoism, traditional Japanese ethics stressed bushido — the way of the samurai. Supreme in the ethos of this warrior class was the necessity to serve Emperor Hirohito with unthinking zeal. Only in this manner could they sustain their karmas, the Buddhist concept that one’s actions determine one’s fate in the next life.

  Ideally, the samurai led lives of stern self-discipline and austerity, following orders until relieved by the person issuing the original command or by death either at the hands of the enemy or by seppuku — ceremonial suicide by disembowelment. Viewed by the Oriental, the resistance of Shoichi Yokoi and Hiroo Onodo reflected the norm of Japanese mentality and, indeed, represented the expected, not the exception. Consequently, persistent rumors of individuals and bands of Japanese troops still lurking in remote regions of the southern and western Pacific are not surprising.

  Are these holdouts still dangerous? Lieutenant Onoda maintained his uniform and weapons, executing his orders to conduct guerrilla warfare and observe American shipping until relieved by the man who issued his original orders, Maj. Yoshimi Taniguchi. Thus, Onoda and his companions — the last, Kinshichi Kozuka, killed in 1972 by Philippine police — waged warfare decades after Japan’s surrender, never believing Nippon could be defeated.

  Is it possible that a major Japanese unit exists today, preparing to strike as ordered, forty-one years after six carriers savaged Pearl Harbor?

  Herein lies this story — the story of The Seventh Carrier.

  *

  “By bushido is meant perceiving when to die. If there is a choice, it is always preferable to die quickly. There is nothing else worth recording.” — Haga kure (Under the Leaves), the classic manual of samurai conduct.

  ONE

  1 December 1983

  December’s northeasterlies usually sweep the Bering Sea with whitecapped swells, charging to the southwest endlessly like waves of skirmishers before an advancing army. However, on December 1, 1983, one hundred miles south of Saint Lawrence Island, the weather was unusually calm, wind stiff but gentle, swell reduced to a small chop, sky mackereled solid with the perennial Arctic overcast, coloring both clouds and sea with the pallor of a day-old corpse.

  Loaded with oil drilling equipment, decks stacked with barrels of lubricants, the old steamer, Sparta, plodded wearily northward bound for Teller, Alaska. Crashing through the chop, she rose unsteadily from each impact, shaking off gray water like an aged hound shedding rain, bursts of spray enveloping her bow, light mist swirling about her superstructure.

  White haired and nearing retirement age, yet still erect with an athlete’s physique, Capt. Ted “Trigger” Ross stood in the ship’s wheelhouse, high on the bridge, eyes to binoculars, lazily scanning the horizon. Suddenly, Ross jolted upright as if shocked by electricity, leaning into his binoculars, studying the dark horizon.

  “Impossible! Can’t be. Can’t be,” he muttered to the other two young occupants of the wheelhouse; Seaman Todd Edmundson at the helm and Engineer Mark Jurovic manning the engine room telegraph. Despite the bitter cold, Trigger bolted to the port wing of the bridge, slamming the door behind him, shouting, “The first — Mister Whitener to the bridge — on the double.”

  Puzzled, Jurovic pulled a microphone from its cradle and in a moment the ship’s public address system echoed with, “Mister Whitener — Mister Whitener to the bridge — on the double.” Then turning to Edmundson, the young engineer whispered, “The old man must be gettin’ senile. There’s nothin’ out there.”

  His companion grinned, “There never is. Not up here.”

  In less than a minute, first mate and navigator, Hugh Whitener, young, blond and slender, dashed from the chart house and joined his captain. “Over there.” The captain stabbed a finger at the western horizon. “Aircraft — two, maybe three — low.”

  “Aircraft?” the young officer repeated incredulously. “Out here?”

  “Yes! They’re white and — and — ” The captain choked, appearing to strangle on his own words. Quickly, he raised an arm, voice unnaturally high pitched. “There! There they are. See ’em?”

  “Yes, Captain. You’re right. Two. No, three monoplanes, maybe three, four miles — low — curving this way — they’re in a V.”

  “Right! But impossible! Impossible,” the older man shrieked.

  “Impossible, sir?” the young officer said, surprised by his captain’s near hysteria. “The weather isn’t that bad. Actually, the weather’s good for this part of … ”

  “No! No! It’s not that, Hugh. Can’t you see? Can’t you see? White fuselages, black cowls, meat balls — they’re Zeros, Jap Zeros.”

  The younger man, eyes wide, mouth agape, turned to his captain, forgotten binoculars dangling at his waist, staring as if he were examining a madman. “Zeros? World War II Zeros in the Bering Sea? December, 1983?”

  “Well look at ’em, goddamnit, look at ’em. They’ll be over us, mast high in thirty seconds. They’re Zeros. Zeros — I don’t give a damn what year this is! I fought the bastards for four years.” Whitener returned to his binoculars, focusing on the aircraft which loomed large, closing fast. “A movie. That’s it — a movie.”

  Both men studied the approaching aircraft as they formed a wingtip-to-wingtip line and charged the Sparta's starboard side like three black-tipped arrows. In seconds, the growing roar of radial engines drowned the sounds of the ship’s engines and wind sighing about the superstructure and rigging. Suddenly, there was a low growling sound in Ross’ throat. “Movie, shit!” he shouted in disbelief. “They’re making a strafing run.”

  “Oh, no, sir. There must be an explanation, sir … ” Whitener never finished his sentence. He and Ross could onl
y stare in horror as first the center plane and then his wingmen opened fire, cowls winking with machine gun fire, flame leaping from wing-mounted cannons.

  Exploding shells sent bridge-high splashes leaping from the sea while the frightening sound of steel hitting steel clattered all around them. “Hit the deck! Hit the deck! That’s thirty caliber and twenty millimeter,” Ross shouted hoarsely, grasping his first mate by the shoulder while dropping to his knees and pulling a microphone from the bulwark. As the two men crouched behind the wind screen, the roar of engines became deafening and a cacophony of new sounds — sounds of ricocheting bullets, exploding shells, and the screams of wounded filled them with terror.

  “Radio shack,” the captain bellowed into the microphone. “Radio shack! All emergency frequencies. Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! Zeros! Zeros! Zeros! We’re under attack. Approximately one hundred miles south of Saint Lawrence Island. Did you get that?” Suddenly the roar of engines dropped several octaves as the trio passed overhead, fiery exhausts barking.

  “Captain, they hit my antenna,” answered a frightened, tinny voice from a small bulwark-mounted speaker.

  “I don’t give a shit. You’ll still have a signal. Transmit and keep transmitting until I change your orders. Understand?”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Rising quickly, Ross stood next to Whitener who, with binoculars locked on the horizon, said in a quivering voice, “They’re turning.”

  Ross felt a long dormant horror twist his stomach, dry his mouth. It all came back now — the wonder about men who could point weapons at him, pull triggers and send steel to rip his flesh, spilling his blood and intestines across the deck — neither knowing him nor caring. And then it was August 24, 1942 in the Eastern Solomons — just before he was captured. He was a fifty-caliber machine gunner on the carrier Enterprise, firing at plummeting Vals; mottled olive and green crosses with ludicrous fixed landing gear. Then the great ship took her first hit of the war — a thousand-pounder in the elevator. The whipsawing roar sent steel plates and fragments of dozens of bodies arcing in every direction. Flung to the deck, he was covered with wreckage and bits of bodies. And the thoughts that race through the minds of all men when they first come under fire echoed through his: What have I done to them? Why me? Why me?

  He shook his head, clearing his mind, returning to this day’s madness. He knew they had no chance. But he turned to Whitener, saying in a carefully modulated voice, “They’re coming about for another pass. That twenty-millimeter stuff can hole this old tub — put us down. Go below. I’ll order the Emergency Squad to the mess hall. Pick ’em up there and I’ll con from here!’’

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” the young man said. Then he bounded down a ladder and was gone.

  Ross pulled the microphone from its cradle, shouting, “All hands clear the weatherdecks. Get below. Get below. Emergency Squad report to Mister Whitener in the mess hall.” Quickly, he returned the instrument to its cradle and secured the door to the bridge in an open position. Then, in a firm, strong voice, he commanded, “Jurovic! All ahead flank! Edmundson — they’ll probably attack in a three. If they attack from the beam, turn into their fire. I don’t want to give ’em our beam. They can hole us at the waterline. Understand?” The two young men eyed him vacantly. “Understand?” Trigger repeated.

  The crewmen nodded, their mumbled responses lost in the increasing roar of straining radial engines. “My God,” Trigger screamed. “They’re astern of us. Here they come. Hit the deck!” All three dropped to the deck, hunched into fetal positions.

  The planes, in a column, slashed in, opening fire at about one hundred yards and concentrating fire just astern of the bridge where the radio shack jutted up from the boat deck. Streams of shells, glowing like swarms of maddened fireflies, sleeted into the superstructure. Again, the horrifying sounds of exploding shells, clattering fragments, and whining ricochets. And, again, the drop in pitch, the barking of exhausts as the planes passed overhead, curving but not climbing.

  “On your feet! On your feet,” the captain shouted. Slowly, the helmsman and engineer returned to their stations. Trigger pointed at the planes. “They’re turning to the left. Left full rudder and keep an eye on them, Edmundson. If I’m hit, steady up into their line of fire and hit the deck.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” was the grim response. And then Edmundson said, “Captain — the radio?”

  “I’ve already ordered a Mayday. Ryan is transmitting now.”

  But the captain was wrong. On the second pass, while the radioman was screaming into his microphone, “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! Zeros, Zeros, Zeros — we’re under attack,” streams of cannon shells, fired with uncanny accuracy, demolished the radio shack and blew Ryan to fragments.

  “Oh, God. God,” Jurovic cried. “Here they come! Here they come! We don’t have a chance.”

  “Down! Down,” Trigger screamed, falling to the deck with Edmundson.

  But Jurovic remained standing, shoulders slumped, gripping the engine room telegraph, sobbing, staring at the approaching aircraft. Then he began to scream, “Why? Why? Why me? Why me?”

  Hopelessly slow, the Sparta had barely begun her turn when the Zeros slashed in on her port side, three abreast, trailing brown smoke from flaming cannons and machine guns. A flurry of explosions hammered Ross’ ears like white-hot pokers pushing into his brain, splattering him with a strange rain — soft and wet, yet solid with bits and pieces of sharp hail.

  Then the planes were gone and the screaming began. It was Edmundson. “Mark! Mark!”

  White smoke brought tears to Trigger’s eyes while the acrid stench of cordite seared his nose. Rising slowly, he braced himself on the door, staring into the wheelhouse — a wheelhouse with no port side, with every window smashed and with radio, radar and loran equipment blown from the bulkheads and intermingling on the deck in a jumble of smashed components. Shards of glass were everywhere. Edmundson, bleeding from the forehead and neck, was standing at the wheel, wide eyed, staring at Jurovic and continuing to scream, “Mark! Mark!”

  But the engineer would never answer. He had no head. Strangely, he was still erect, hands on controls, blood spurting from jugulars. Ross stared at the brains and blood staining his uniform. This can’t be happening, a voice screamed through the burning in his brain. He shook his head. “Shut up! Shut up, Todd,” he shouted, clasping his hands to his ears. He actually felt relief when what had been Mark Jurovic finally slumped to the deck like a deflating balloon.

  A new odor brought Trigger to alertness and sent him to the wing of the bridge, staring aft. The entire waist of the ship was aflame, black smoke roiling from shattered barrels of lubricants. Exploding barrels shot skyward like giant Roman candles while flaming liquids sloshed from gunwale to gunwale, pouring through holes blasted in the deck. And the ship, slowing and listing. Sparta was dying.

  To Capt. Ted “Trigger” Ross, the next few minutes seemed an eternity of explosions and flames as the tired old ship died quickly. His command to abandon ship was repeated by crewmen who rushed to the one surviving lifeboat and a pair of rafts.

  But the Zeros were not finished. Again and again they returned, like vultures to carrion. Men were shot from the sloping deck; others slipped, tumbling into thirty degree water.

  As the Sparta slipped beneath the waves, only a single boat containing the captain, Todd Edmundson and a half dozen men broke free from its falls. But in a single pass, the boat was blasted and every man killed except Ross and Edmundson, who remained afloat supported by two flotation tanks and a riddled piece by hull. Blood streaming from head wounds, Edmundson was unconscious while Ross, soaked by freezing water and whipped by a wind with a minus-sixty-degree chill factor, shook like a man with palsy. Draping his body over Edmundson, he awaited death, head swimming with the inevitable lethargy of slowing circulation.

  As Trigger slipped from consciousness, he saw a great, dark island-like mass loom on the horizon, moving toward him. I’m dying and hallucinating, he told himself. Hall
ucinating. And then with his last strength he whispered, “Brent — Brent — I love you, I love you … ”

  *

  “You’re sure that ham operator said he copied a distress call, reading, ‘Zeros, zeros, zeros’ — plural, ‘zeros,’ Quinn?’’ asked Ensign Marlon Sampson, duty officer in the radio room of Nome’s combined radar, radio and loran station. The ensign made no attempt to conceal the boredom in his voice. In fact, instead of focusing on the tall, young radioman, Fred Quinn, who slouched facing his desk, his eyes were on the window of his second-story office — a window which gave Sampson a view of what he considered the most appalling landscape on Earth. Without showing a detectable reaction, his eyes wandered first to the tiny harbor, crowded with fishing boats, then to the town itself. And what a town. He had never seen such a motley collection of structures: slatternly frame buildings and pillbox-shaped sod houses, each with ludicrous, whalebone-framed doorways and clotheslines of fish, drying and stinking in the meager sunlight. And the land was flat, frozen and, when not covered with snow, gray. It seemed everything was either gray or white, even the sea, sky and clouds.

  At forty-one, Sampson was balding, putting on weight, and shackled with the dubious distinction of being the oldest, living ensign in the United States Navy. Who screwed me, he asked himself a thousand times. He suspected Adm. William R. Burke — “Old Bottle Ass” to junior officers — may have discovered Sampson’s affair with his young wife down at the Long Beach Naval Station back in ’67.

  It was just after his second bedding of the insatiable twenty-four-year-old blonde that he was suddenly transferred to that Godforsaken outpost in the Indian Ocean, Diego Garcia. Then it was Kwajalein, followed by Johnston — a bare spit of man-made coral hell that he considered the rectum of the universe, until he saw Nome.