Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  And the women. How he missed them. There were absolutely none on his three previous stations. Here, at Nome, there were a few white whores inevitably laden with every venereal disease known to medical science. And the Eskimo women were untouchable. It was said most of them never bathed in an entire lifetime; some even washed their hair in urine. There were jokes about wearing a gas mask when downwind from one and cutting one’s nose off before sex and genitals afterwards.

  The aging ensign sighed, forcing his eyes to focus on the lean, young face of Fred Quinn, whose drooping posture conceded the modicum of respect due the most senior of junior officers. “Zeros, zeros, zeros,” Sampson repeated, dully.

  “Yes, sir. That’s what the man said.”

  Marlon straightened, explored an ear with a finger-tip. “How well do you know him? Is he reliable?”

  “We’re old friends, Mister Sampson. He’s very reliable. His name’s Lars Gunderson. He’s an old seal hunter who lives near Savoonga on Saint Lawrence Island. We talk a lot.” And then hastily, “When I’m off duty.”

  “A real pro, Quinn?”

  “A bitchin’ swing to his key, sir. A real pro.” Absent-mindedly, the ensign scratched his crotch, narrowed his eyes. “But ‘zero, zero, zero’ is a bearing or course — true north. Your friend Gunderson said ‘zeros,’ plural!”

  “That’s right. ‘Zeros’!”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Must be a gag. What do you think?”

  “Possible. But Lars sounded worried. He said the guy was in a panic — lots of static and a weak signal, though.”

  “Point of origination could be anywhere.”

  “Right. Fluky conditions up here.”

  “No chance to pinpoint this one without other intercepts. Check with the Coast Guard.”

  “I already did, Mister Sampson. Everything’s cool.”

  “Must be a gag. Some amateur who doesn’t know his dick from the North Pole.” The ensign chuckled at his clever metaphor. And then as an afterthought directed more to straightening Quinn’s posture than honoring the strange distress call, Marlon barked, “Quinn!”

  “Sir?”

  “Inform the men on watch to stay alert for further transmissions.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And relay this to Naval Intelligence.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the radioman said, straightening.

  Marlon Sampson smiled.

  *

  Short, slight and bald, with pinched cheeks and owlish eyes magnified by thick, round lenses, Cmdr. Craig Bell had the face of an aging lemur. Seated at his desk in Seattle’s Naval Intelligence headquarters, he concentrated on a single document, brow furrowed, pursed lips hollowing his sunken cheeks even more. “I don’t understand. This is a matter for the Coast Guard, Ensign,” he said, looking across his desk at the six-foot-four, 220-pound bulk of Ensign Brent Ross, a blond giant with blue eyes and finely-chiseled features, standing rigidly, shoulders back, appearing uncomfortable in a uniform that was too new and too tight. The young man nodded silently as Bell continued, “Sampson originated this.” He waved a sheet of paper. “I’ve known him for years. He’s a dingaling.” He glanced at the message. “Time of transmission, an hour ago — 1100 hours. But, ‘Zeros, zeros, zeros’ doesn’t make sense. That’s no way to give a course or bearing. What’s your opinion, Miss Ward,” he said, turning to the third occupant of the room, Lt. Pamela Ward, a slender, auburn-haired woman of perhaps thirty. Seated in one of the room’s two plump, vinyl chairs, she personified the professional female naval officer: hair pulled severely into a bun, blue uniform perfectly tailored. Her widely spaced green eyes, high cheekbones and firm chin gave the woman an interesting, but not beautiful face. But Brent found little interest in her face. Instead, he was intrigued by the way her expensive uniform molded to her full formed body. And her legs, crossed provocatively with slender ankles glistening like marble in nylon sheaths.

  The ensign had seen her many times, hunched over her desk in the cryptography section she headed or having lunch with senior officers. He had even saluted her when they passed on the walks that fronted the building. But they had never spoken.

  “I agree,” Pamela answered, glancing at a pad in her lap. “It’s not a course, bearing or any Russkie signal I know about. Of course, I’m accustomed to their usual groups of five CW’d over their Fox channel, not voice radio.”

  “I know. I know, voice radio just doesn’t figure,” the commander mused. “But Sampson addressed it to us. Can you come up with anything?”

  The woman looked up from the pad. “There are some real problems in handling something like this.” She tapped the pad. “There are nine words, ten counting the contraction, ‘we’re.’ There are two repetitions of three. Fifteen different letters were used; but, ten letters were repeated, too. I could group the fifteen letters in random fives, punch out the programs within the parameters of known codes and ciphers, and throw the switch. I could also take the groups and check for chain addition or multiply today’s base key number to the usual ten places and then carry that to the third power. We may be lucky and find some textual patterns. But any way you look at it, the number of combinations and permutations is, of course, exponential.”

  “Of course,” the commander agreed.

  She gestured to a console and cathode ray tube in a comer behind Bell’s desk. “Our CBC Sixteens aren’t smart enough. I’d need to interface the Fourteen-Hundred, Commander.”

  Diodes, transistors, and microchips, ran through Brent’s mind. A walking computer. And then under his breath, “What a waste.”

  “What did you say, Brent?”

  “Ah — nothing, Commander.”

  And then turning to the lieutenant, Bell continued with a wave of the hand, “No. I just wanted your opinion. No sense tying up the Fourteen Hundred for this. CNO’s complained about our over-accessing now. I don’t want the Pentagon on our butts. This is a new office,” he waved a hand. “Comthirteen has given us fine quarters here at Terminal Ninety-One. No. Sounds like a prank and, anyway, it’s not even a matter for Naval Intelligence. I don’t understand why Sampson addressed this to us. He must’ve cracked up there. Too long without any — ah, ah, affection.” He shrugged his shoulders.

  Pamela smiled for the first time. “Since this is the first message of its kind, I’ll alert our radiomen, intelligence specialists, and cryptologic technicians. If the Russkies are up to something new, we should pick up textual patterns with repetitions — even with our CBC Sixteens.”

  “Very well, good idea,” Bell said.

  “Sir,” Brent said with sudden tension. Bell’s magnified eyes focused on the ensign while Pamela Ward turned to Brent as if acknowledging his existence for the first time. There was an amused twist to her lips that irritated Brent. Women usually eyed him with a level of arousal that spanned desire from lust to curiosity. But this one was different. Her eyes seemed to hold indifference. She could have been inspecting a pound of hamburger. He cleared his throat and said, “I have a suggestion which may seem off the wall.”

  “Off the wall, Mister Ross?” Craig said, hunching forward. Pamela leaned back, hands relaxed on her pad. Her face held the expression of an observer, interested but not involved.

  “I mean far-fetched, even absurd,” the ensign continued. “But, please, sir, I have a gut feeling about this.”

  The great eyes studied the young man with curiosity. “Out with it, Ensign.”

  “It has to do with my father.”

  “You know I’m acquainted with him. He’s a legend.” Respect crept into the older man’s voice. “But how does Trigger Ross figure in this?” “Trigger Ross is your father?” Pamela said, eyeing Brent with new interest.

  “Yes,” the ensign answered, glancing at the woman. And then he returned to Bell. “Well, sir.

  My father has told me a lot about the war and aircraft.”

  “Yes, Ensign,” Bell said, curiosity narrowing the great eyes, pinching his forehead. “But what does
World War II have to do with this?” He waved the message. The cryptographer was erect, staring at the young man.

  The ensign rushed on. “‘Zeros, zeros, zeros.’ Isn’t it possible it wasn’t a bearing?”

  ‘‘What do you mean?”

  ‘‘Identification, sir.”

  “Aircraft, Ensign?”

  “It’s only a possibility, sir — a remote possibility. Don’t forget, they signaled, ‘ … under attack.’”

  The commander rocked backwards, shaking with laughter while Pamela Ward stared with narrowed eyes. Ross’ lips tightened to a slash, face reddening. “Remote! Jesus Q. Christ — how’s about impossible.” And then quietly, as if convincing himself, “Under attack by Jap Zeros! You can’t be serious? Some drunken psycho sends a nonsense message slurring his ‘zero,’ it’s relayed by some horny outcast, and you come up with World War II fighters.” And then to the ceiling, “Oh, no!”

  “But, sir, it’s not impossible. There have been holdouts,” the young officer said, voice rising.

  “I know, I know. But for Christ’s sake, man, you’re talking aircraft. Zeros! It’s been less than five hours since the Mayday, and more than three decades since the war, Mister Ross. Can’t you come up with something more, ah, ah, rational?”

  “Please, listen, sir.” The young man’s earnestness cut Bell’s laughter short. Then the commander rested his elbows on the desk, cradled his face in his hands, staring at Ross. The ensign leaned forward, blue eyes flashing. “My father fought them for years,” he said, words forming deep in his throat. “‘Zeros, Zeros, Zeros. We’re under attack,’ could be a Flash Red signal from World War II.”

  “You really believe it’s possible!” the commander sputtered. “Do you know what you’re saying? I can’t believe this. The Jap fighter. An air raid?” He turned to Pamela Ward who returned his glance with a noncommittal stare.

  “The Mitsubishi A6M2,” the young man persisted.

  “I know! I know, Ensign. I’ve studied history. I graduated from the academy, too.” He drummed his fingers on the desk, staring at the young man. “Mister Ross … ”

  “Sir?”

  “You were correct.”

  “Correct, sir?”

  “Yes. Your suggestion was absurd — no, ludicrous. I respect your father; but, perhaps he’s told you too many war stories.” The fingers continued drumming. “You’re a fine aide; your future holds great promise. I’ll make a deal with you.”

  “A deal?”

  “Yes. If you never mention your fighters again, I’ll forget this conversation.”

  Silence. Both Pamela Ward and Craig Bell stared at Brent. “Forget the possibility of Japanese remnants?” the young ensign asked as if speaking to himself. He knew the small man across the desk held his career in his hands, but Ross sensed something terribly menacing in this strange transmission. And there was something else; he had never backed down from another man in his entire life. “I’ll not mention it to you, Commander. However, it will not be erased from my mind. I will pursue it on my own time.”

  Bell’s face broke into a tension breaking smile. “Good enough, Mister Ross.” And then with a nod, “You may return to your duties.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the ensign said, saluting. Then he turned on his heel and moved to the door. Pamela eyed the ensign’s powerful physique as he closed the door behind him.

  “Do you think I was too hard on him, Lieutenant?” the commander asked.

  The cryptographer pursed her lips before answering. “He’s young — has an imagination.”

  “He’s only been out of the academy for six months. He’ll learn soon enough that the first requisite of the intelligence officer is cynicism.”

  “Especially when you’re dealing with the Russkies, sir.”

  The commander chuckled. “Especially.”

  The cryptographer rose quickly, saying, “With your permission, I’ll return to my section.” The commander nodded.

  *

  When Pamela Ward exited Commander Bell’s office, she entered a large anteroom where six yeomen were on duty; four hunching over typewriters while two sat erect, staring at the cycloptic eyes of word processors. There was no conversation in the room, only the hum and clatter of machinery. At the far end, Brent Ross leaned against a wall next to a scuttlebutt, water cup in hand, staring at the opposite wall.

  Pamela approached slowly, stopped at the scuttlebutt, filled a cup, and then without condescension said, “If you wish, Ensign, I can program the message — check for ciphers and codes. But I’d have to do it during slack time. It would take awhile.” The tone was cordial.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Brent said, straightening. He wondered about a computer with feelings. “That’s kind of you. But if I’m right, computers wouldn’t be necessary.”

  “True.”

  “You think I’m nuts.”

  Pamela smiled. “No. The Japanese have proven themselves as holdouts. They’re capable of strange things. But the Bering Sea … aircraft. That’s stretching things a bit, Ensign. You must admit that.”

  “Of course you’re right, Lieutenant. Maybe it’s because my father’s up there. He’s captain of an old tramp, hauling supplies to a bunch of wildcatters up near Teller, Alaska.”

  “I didn’t know,” Pamela said, glancing about quickly. And then, turning back to Brent, “It’s noisy in here. Let’s find a quieter place.”

  Brent beamed like a man who had discovered gold in his back yard. “Lunch, Lieutenant?” There was suppressed excitement in his voice.

  “It’s Pam and yes.” A new warmth melted indifference.

  “I’m Brent.”

  “I know.”

  “There’s a great place down near the waterfront: Bill’s Gills and Swill. It’s just off Nickerson with a great view of the Lake Washington ship canal.”

  “Gills and Swill?” she chuckled. “That’s a new one.”

  “And Lieu … I mean Pam,” he said, brightening. “I’m not in distress. This is not a Mayday.”

  She laughed. “I know, Brent. This is strictly a pleasure cruise.”

  The computer has a heart, Brent exulted as he opened the door.

  *

  Bill’s Gills and Swill was an old storefront just a few yards from the busy canal. Cleverly decorated with nets, buoys, lanterns, brass binnacles, and a clipper’s giant, solid oak helm, the tiny restaurant even boasted a teakwood floor made from deck planking salvaged from the USS Northampton.

  “Charming,” Pamela said, looking up from her menu, studying the nautical gear cluttering the crowded room. Seated in a dim comer facing Brent Ross, she not only had a view of the cafe’s dining room and its crowded tables, but she could also see sailboats and other small vessels navigate the channel just a few feet away.

  “I’m glad you like it,” he said. “Wait ’til you taste the food.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I like their bouillabaisse. It’s their pride.”

  “Sounds great,” she said, glancing at her watch. “I’m due back at 1400 hours. You?” “The same. But we still have an hour — plenty of time. You can’t hurry food like this. It must be savored.” He put his fingers to pursed lips and then gestured to a waitress. He added, “They’re known for their mai tais.”

  She smiled. “I would like one. But only one, Brent.”

  “I understand,” he said. “I have the watch this afternoon, too.”

  The orders were given, menus were removed and two tall drinks were served with miraculous speed. “I’ve never had one of these,” she said raising her tall glass to eye level and looking over the drink.

  Brent Ross studied the woman as if he were seeing her for the first time. He had never seen such eyes. Deep green, they sparkled like emeralds reflecting sunlight. Although she had a lithe, sinuous body, now he was struck by her remarkable face — a face that was far more alluring than her legs and hips and breasts. He knew a purist would see little beauty there: the narrow nose, cheekbones
too prominent, forehead not wide enough. But her chin was sculpted, lips full, flawless skin glowing with good health. And her years, perhaps thirty, were an asset — crinkling the comers of her eyes, enhancing her mouth with a few softly etched lines. Experience and character shone from her face, giving her permanence of beauty Brent’s college-age girlfriends could never have. But her greatest appeal came from an inborn grace that turned even the most common act into a piece of theatre; the way she had held her menu and now toyed with her glass. “Ah, yes,” he said, quickly, raising his glass, feeling his pulse gain sudden strength in his throat and temples. “Here’s to Naval Intelligence. May it always be that.”

  “Be what?”

  “Intelligent.”

  She chuckled. “Still thinking about that message.”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Because of your father?”

  “He’s up there. But I’m not suggesting his ship’s in trouble. That signal could have originated on the other side of the world. Arctic conditions are so fluky. Sometimes, even AM broadcasts bounce thousands of miles.”

  “I know,” she said thoughtfully. And then quickly, “Your father’s interesting. Didn’t he escape from a POW camp and make a long odyssey to Australia?”

  “Right,” he said, beaming. “He was captured in the Solomons and sent to Mindanao early in ’43. He escaped in a few months and actually made his way back to Australia in an open boat.”

  “Incredible.”

  “Yes,” he said. “He learned Japanese while a prisoner. He even sings Japanese songs.” He chuckled.

  “Why do they call him Trigger?”

  Brent grinned. “My father has a violent, hair-trigger temper.”

  “Oh.”

  “There’s more to it than that. Father was commissioned after he escaped. His first duty was on the Big E.”

  “Big E?”

  “Sorry. The carrier Enterprise. He was a gunner. Well, the story goes, he’d shout, ‘Full trigger,’ whenever firing at attacking planes.”

  The cryptographer nodded. “And the rest of your family?”

  “There was just Mother and she died ten years ago. Dad had just retired from the Navy. He became very lonely and went back to sea with the merchant marine.” He sipped his drink. And then with obvious pride, “He started the war as a gunner’s mate and wound up on Nimitz’s staff as an interpreter and intelligence officer.”