Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “If you get too close, you’ll get your ass hung out,” Tyronne warned. “There’s something wrong with that carrier. She’s no type I’ve ever seen and she’s blacked out.” And then in alarm, “Hey, Sol, she’s got old monoplanes on deck. They’re getting ready to launch. I don’t like this — something’s weird. Pull up!”

  “Bullshit! She’s headed downwind. She’d have to come about to launch. I’ll cross her bow and you get her number, no sweat. And we’ll report those pricks.”

  At eighty knots, the helicopter closed the range quickly. Finally, Levine said, “Can you see her number?”

  “Ah … I don’t get it. There’s no number, but there’s a design. Yeah. That’s it. Like a huge flower.” Silence. Then Tyronne screamed, “She’s got a hundred AA guns pointed at us!”

  “That’s impossible,” Levine shouted.

  Suddenly, a stream of Roman candles erupted from the carrier and arced past the aircraft.

  “She’s opened up,” the co-pilot screamed. “Haul ass!”

  Levine stared in horror as the entire port side of the carrier exploded, leaping flames. It was like looking into a volcano, flinging molten lava. Torrents of firebrands streamed from the ship, converging on the aircraft.

  With speed born of panic, Levine opened the throttle, rammed the cyclic control hard right, jerked the collective lever upward, and kicked hard right rudder. The Sikorski raised her nose, shuddering as the attack angle of her main rotor blades opened, pulling her upward like a bird frightened by a hound. But the HH 52 had no chance. There was a roar and a blinding flash and the communication console crashed down on the lieutenant’s head. He was still conscious when the instrument panel and plexiglass dissolved in his face. Lt. J.G. Solomon Levine had time for only one, brief shriek before cannon shells tore his chest open, splattering Ensign Tyronne Jones with lungs, ribs, and blood. Other shells riddled the fuselage and shot the rear rotor away. Coast Guard Helicopter One-Four-Six-Five spiraled into the sea.

  *

  Even in his sleep, Trigger Ross wondered about the Sparta’s engines. They’re running awfully smooth for old reciprocators. As smooth as turbines, ran through his mind. As smooth as turbines. Then a familiar voice broke through, “Captain! Captain! Oh, please, Captain — don’t die like all the rest.”

  Ross opened his eyes. He was on his back, staring upward into the anguished face of Seaman Todd Edmundson whose head and neck were swathed in bandages. “Where are we, Todd?”

  “You won’t believe this, Captain.”

  “Right now I’ll believe anything.”

  “A carrier — she picked us up. I thought you were dead.”

  “Thank God,” Ross said, sitting up slowly, cramps shooting through his shoulders and back, eyes moving over the small room’s Spartan interior: two bunks, tiny closets, sink, mirror, speaker, overhead light hanging in the inevitable maze of pipes and conduits, whining blower vent, and a brass clock reading ten o’clock. And surprisingly, his uniform had been dried and pressed, four gold stripes glistening on each sleeve. “Ten hundred hours doesn’t make sense, Todd,” he said, gesturing at the clock. “How long have I been out?”

  “Over twenty-four hours, sir. This is three December. You saved me from freezing, but I thought you were a goner. You okay, Captain?”

  “I think so.”

  “Brace yourself.”

  “Brace myself?”

  “Yes, sir, we’re on a carrier, all right.”

  “Good.”

  “No, Captain — not good.”

  “Not good?”

  “She’s a Jap, sir.”

  “Impossible,” Ross said, rising. “They don’t have any.” Quickly, he moved to the room’s single door and began to pound the steel with both fists.

  A short Japanese seaman dressed in green fatigues, cap pulled low over black eyes, opened the door. Although his black hair showed no gray, his lined face hinted at advanced years. Patting a holstered pistol, he gestured toward the bunks and put a finger to his lips.

  After the door closed, the two men returned to their bunks. They stared at each other. For a long moment, only the hum of the ship’s turbines and the whine of blowers could be heard. Then the young man said, “This can’t be happening, can it, Captain?”

  “No,” Ross replied. “It can’t be … must be hallucinations. Maybe some doper slipped LSD into the chow. Maybe we’re dead — or I’m dead and you’re a fantasy and this is all part of hell.”

  Without warning, the door opened and two Japanese officers, impeccably dressed in blue uniforms, curved swords at their sides, entered. Both were small with brown eyes gleaming from faces corrugated by deep lines. One was bent like a gnarled pine while the other stood ramrod straight. Both moved stiffly.

  “Come to your feet, unwashed barbarians,” the ramrod snapped in perfect English. The Americans rose slowly, eyeing the newcomers incredulously. “I’m Commander Satoru Hirata of the Imperial Japanese Navy and this is Lieutenant Commander Masao Kawamoto.”

  “There is no Imperial Japanese Navy,” Trigger managed huskily, eyes wide, head swimming with thoughts of the insanity of this carrier, his dead crew and these little old men calling themselves Imperial officers.

  “Silence!” Kawamoto’s reedy voice cut like a lash, sharpened by the cramped acoustics. Gesturing gnome-like to the door, he ordered, “This way. Admiral Fujita wishes to speak to you.”

  When the quartet left the compartment, Ross discovered they were on the vessel’s gallery deck — a deck usually housing flag quarters, captain’s cabins, and squadron ready rooms. Typical of older carriers, this narrow platform extended the length of the ship’s island between the flight and hangar decks.

  As the two old men, now joined by a pair of burly seaman guards, urged the Americans forward, Ross looked down on the biggest hangar deck he had ever seen. Eyes widening, he saw row after row of familiar aircraft, swarming with green-clad crewmen. The cavernous compartment reverberated with excited shouts, the clatter of tools, and the rumble of steel-wheeled service carts. In the cockpit of every plane, a crewman hunched over controls, working rudders, flaps, elevators, and ailerons with jerky motions. Other figures, wielding tools and oilcans, swarmed over the engines.

  “Vals, Kates, and Zeros,” Trigger muttered, unable to believe what he saw.

  Hirata chuckled. “You have studied your aircraft recognition, Yankee. Nakajima B5N2s, Aichi D3Als, Mitsubishi A6M2s. The finest aircraft of their type on earth.”

  Suddenly, almost as if signaled, an eerie silence filled the compartment. All work halted. Hundreds of men stood silently, staring up at the group walking the gallery. Then the laughter began. At first it was gentle, like ripples on a pond, but quickly it became a storm surf, raging against the steel cliffs of the compartment. The Americans exchanged a fearful, despairing glance.

  Ross felt relief when the commander raised a hand, halting the group while gesturing to a ladder. With Hirata leading and Kawamoto and the guards following, the party climbed the ladder slowly, not stopping until they exited a hatch into the chart house which, Ross knew, should be just aft of the bridge.

  As Trigger pulled himself into the small chart house, he saw an officer hunched over a brilliantly lighted table, manipulating parallel rulers. Two enlisted men flanked him, staring over his shoulders. Slowly, the trio turned and stared silently, rulers forgotten on the table.

  Hirata grunted and pointed to a door in the rear of the room. Passing the table, Ross caught a glimpse of the chart: a Mercator’s projection of the north Pacific with a heavy, pencil line drawn midway between Attu and the Komandorskis.

  Jerkily, Hirata raised a hand, halting the group before the door. He knocked.

  Trigger Ross entered the compartment, he saw a tiny old man, in full dress blues, seated behind a steel desk. Ravaged by time, he appeared as a newly unwrapped mummy. Behind him a giant chart of the north Pacific nearly covered one bulkhead of the large compartment. Phones and communications equipment, manned by
two seated enlisted men, were bolted to another bulkhead while, opposite, four chairs were pushed against another. Above the chairs, a large picture of Emperor Hirohito astride a great, white horse was secured to the steel wall. Standing next to the desk, wearing the uniform of a naval aviator, was a tall, slender man, head wisped with white strands, eyes squinting alertly from a face wrinkled like the relief map of a ravaged countryside. Another ancient officer, pad and pencil in hand, sat next to the desk. Two armed seamen stood rigidly like bookends, flanking the chart. All eyes were on the Americans.

  Feeling hands on their backs, Trigger and Todd shuffled forward until only inches from the desk.

  “Bow, dogs,” Hirata shouted. The Americans bowed.

  “Deeper!” A fist caught Trigger in the back, exploding his breath. He heard Edmundson grunt. The Americans bowed again.

  “Now stand at attention, Ronin,” Hirata barked. “This is Admiral Hiroshi Fujita.”

  The Americans stood at attention, staring at the wraith behind the desk. Trigger’s back ached.

  Surprisingly, the mummy proved capable of speech. Again the perfect English. “Welcome, gentlemen. Welcome to His Imperial Majesty’s ship, Yonaga.”

  Ross stared down at the tiny, hairless, withered man, finally recognizing reality; he was on a Japanese carrier, crewed by ancient madmen, but, nevertheless, a functioning war machine, efficient and armed and very, very dangerous. Rage pushed aside fear. “Why did you murder my crew?”

  A grin cracked the petrified flesh. “That was a legitimate act of war, ” Fujita piped. “According to your own Armed Forces Radio, amongst numberless other acts of savagery, Admiral William F. Halsey massacred innocent Japanese fishermen.’’

  “Halsey? Fishermen?’’ Ross said.

  “I don’t get it,” Edmundson added, turning to his captain.

  “Silence!” Hirata shouted. “The admiral is addressing the senior officer.”

  “Yes,” the admiral continued sardonically. “The glorious Doolittle raid of eighteen April, 1942 — one of many supreme insults to the Son of Heaven. The carrier Hornet was sighted by fishermen six hundred miles from Japan. Halsey had them massacred. You sighted my reconnaissance. Don’t speak of murder to me, Yankee.”

  “But the Doolittle raid was over forty years ago. America won the war. My God, this is a floating asylum,” Ross said, gasping in exasperation.

  The ancient admiral stared at Ross, rheumy eyes glistening with amusement. “An American victory, indeed. That is impossible.”

  “Impossible?”

  “Yes. An American victory would mean a Japanese surrender which, of course, is impossible. Samurai never surrender. Never.”

  “Please … ” Ross interrupted.

  “Silence!” Hirata and Kawamoto shouted in unison. And then Kawamoto continued, “Can’t you see, animal, the admiral is not finished.”

  The admiral nodded to the tall aviator. “This is Commander Susumu Aoshima. His patrol sank your ship.”

  At that moment, Capt. Ted Ross honored the sobriquet, Trigger. With a guttural shout, he lunged for Aoshima. For a man of advanced years, the commander moved with astonishing agility, avoiding the bull-like charge. Trigger’s peripheral vision caught a blur of green followed by a hail of blows to his head and side. Then the impact of two burly bodies sent him crashing over a chair into a bulkhead. Stunned, he dropped to the deck. Then, strong hands grasped his arms and two seamen jerked him to his feet, pinning his arms behind him.

  “Barbarian! Filthy, dishonorable barbarian,” the admiral screamed.

  “Killer! Killer,” Ross shouted. “My men were helpless. Just targets.”

  “Silence,” the old admiral shrieked with surprising strength. “Conduct yourself as an officer or I will throw you in irons.”

  Ted Ross glared at the upturned, parchment-like face, eyes tiny, glowing coals. He knew the threat would be enforced, leaving him helpless. A cold vise gripped his stomach, his lips became desert sand. “I give you my word,” he said grudgingly. ‘‘My word.”

  “Your word of honor.”

  “My word of honor, Admiral.”

  The admiral nodded, Ross’ arms were released, and the guards returned to their posts.

  “I have a few questions to ask you, Captain. And let me remind you, Japan does not subscribe to the Geneva Convention.”

  “I know how Japan treats her prisoners.”

  The admiral’s scabrous flesh cracked into a smirk. Then with renewed seriousness he asked, “What is that status of American forces in the Aleutians?”

  “I have no knowledge of military matters. I’m a civilian. That’s classified information,” Ross answered honestly.

  “Name of your vessel — that is not classified.” The old man wheezed at his wit.

  “Sparta.”

  “Registry?”

  “American.”

  “Destination?”

  “Teller, Alaska.”

  “Cargo?”

  “Oil drilling equipment.”

  “Estimated time of arrival.”

  “Our ETA was 1000 hours this a.m.” Trigger smiled grimly. “We’re overdue.”

  “There will be many overdue vessels before Yonaga completes her mission, Captain.” Hirata’s eyes roamed the compartment, met by a low rumble of laughter, before returning to Ross. “Armament?”

  “We were unarmed.”

  The pilot interrupted with a deep, strong voice, “Lies, Admiral. I saw their tracers.”

  “Tracers!” Trigger said, sharply. “You set off my deck cargo. You saw exploding cargo, flying, burning debris, your own ricochets.” Silence. And then pointing at the pilot, Trigger continued sarcastically, “Has this man said he attacked a heavily armed ship — risked his life heroically?” Ross snorted. “The Sparta was old, slow and helpless. We were a shooting gallery.”

  Aoshima’s face was a dark mask of hatred while the admiral remained inscrutable, eyes fleeting from one man to the other. “Enough,” Fujita said, raising a bony hand. “It is unimportant.” Then he turned in his chair, glanced at the great chart, and turned back, shouting a stream of Japanese to someone behind the Americans. There was a quick acknowledgment and Ross heard a door close.

  The beady eyes returned to Trigger. “Where was your escort, Captain?”

  “Escort?”

  “Why yes. In time of war … ”

  “May I respectfully suggest something, Admiral,” Kawamoto said. The admiral nodded. “By now, the Imperial Navy has sunk most of the American fleet. Perhaps escorts are just not available.”

  “Of course, Commander. They would be saving their destroyers for convoy duty.”

  “If they have enough ships to form a convoy,” Hirata said.

  “And if they have any destroyers,” Aoshima added.

  Wild laughter filled the compartment. Kawamoto, Hirata and Aoshima reeled back and forth, slapping each other on the backs. The old admiral rocked in his chair, retching while the old secretary gasped over his pad. Even the enlisted men roared with laughter, exchanging blows to the chests and stomachs.

  “Lunatics,” Ross said under his breath. “A murderous bunch of lunatics.”

  Suddenly, a phone buzzed. Controlling his laughter with an open palm, a communications man put the instrument to his ear. His shout brought silence to the room. He and the admiral exchanged excited bursts of Japanese. Fujita finally silenced the ranting with the wave of a hand, nodded to the other communications man, and barked an order. Immediately, a switch was thrown and the ship echoed with the blare of klaxons. Within seconds, the sounds of hundreds of running feet and slamming steel doors blurred the sounds of the horns. The great ship seemed to be holding her breath as hundreds of blowers sighed to a halt.

  Trigger turned slightly and said out of the side of his mouth, ‘‘Todd, they’ve gone to GQ — set Condition Zed. They’re getting ready to fight.”

  “Good, Skipper,” was the mumbled response.

  “I hope someone deep sixes them, even i
f we go with her.”

  The admiral pointed a bent finger at Trigger. “Silence! Perhaps you will be of use, Captain,” he said grimly. “What do you know of an autogiro? What would one be doing out here?”

  “Where?”

  The admiral’s face twitched impatiently. “Eighty miles due west of Attu.”

  “I can only guess. But it’s probably the Coast Guard’s Bering Sea Patrol — and it’s a helicopter, not an autogiro.”

  Impatience hardened to anger. “Autogiro! Helicopter! And whose Coast Guard?” Fujita snapped and pointed to the door. “Out there — quick!”

  “But, Admiral, if it’s Coast Guard, they’re no threat to … ”

  Ross was pushed through the door.

  *

  When Trigger staggered through the door, the cold air took his breath like a fist to the solar plexus. Gusts of wind blew bits of ice in horizontal sheets, stinging his face like thrown gravel and tearing his vaporized breath from his lips in white ribbons. He nodded in gratitude when an enlisted man threw a foul weather jacket over his shoulders. Another rating handed him gloves and binoculars.

  Ross found himself on a narrow platform edged with a rail, covered with a canvas windscreen. Quickly, he moved to the rail followed by Admiral

  Fujita, Hirata and Kawamoto who were warmly dressed and helmeted with binoculars hanging from their necks. An enlisted man wearing the oversized helmet and chest-mounted phone of a talker plugged his instrument into a receptacle and stood next to the rail. Two other enlisted men, eyes to binoculars, searched the mist.

  Standing next to the talker and flanked by Fujita and Hirata, Ross looked over his shoulder. As he had anticipated, he found himself on the flag bridge — a platform high on the island just beneath the navigation bridge and gun director station. By craning his neck, he was able to see the ship’s foretop and the muzzles of at least a half dozen anti-aircraft guns mounted on exposed platforms and trained to the port side. Further aft he could see the ship’s single funnel — tilted outboard in the typical Japanese fashion — supporting searchlight platforms and hung with at least a dozen life rafts. High at the gaff, a giant Imperial ensign was ironed to starboard by a wind of at least thirty knots. Forward, the island structure stepped downward from one multiple anti-aircraft mount to another, ending with a gun tub mounted on the flight deck, itself.