Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “But we’re headed in the wrong direction if Pearl is the target.”

  “True, Todd. But after launch they should reverse course and come to an easterly heading. They want to run with the wind to recover aircraft.” Ross brought his fingertips together, formed a pyramid, studied it. “My guess is we’re at about longitude 175 east. Pearl is about 158 west. They could dogleg east and make their run-in on Pearl’s longitude.”

  The young man brought his hands together, fingers intertwining until his knuckles were white. “We haven’t been challenged, Captain,” he said, with an ominous note in his voice. “We’ve got to be on someone’s radar — a big hunk like this just can’t sail across the Pacific without being noticed.”

  “We went over this, Todd. No doubt AWACs, subs, merchant ships, even fishing boats could pick us up.”

  “It’s been three days.”

  “I know. But every ship on Earth isn’t tracked, Todd.”

  “Oh, God. They’ll pull it off.”

  “I don’t think so,” Trigger said with confidence despite an emptiness within. “They should be challenged. And don’t forget, if they’re lucky and make it, they’ve got to break through Pearl’s security.”

  The young man’s eyes became chips of blue ice. “If they make it, we’ll have to stop them ourselves.”

  “Yes. Give it a try.”

  “Captain, once you said a carrier is a bomb, waiting for a match.”

  “Yes.”

  “The hangar deck is the best place, isn’t it, Captain?”

  “Right. That’s where the ready bombs and gasoline are.”

  “We’ve got to hit them there.”

  “We’d die too.”

  “I don’t care, Captain. If they don’t kill us, our own guys will.”

  Trigger pondered the young man’s perceptiveness, surprised at how their thoughts had run parallel courses. But before he could answer, the door was flung open and Commander Hirata stepped in. “Come with me,” he commanded. And then to Edmundson, “The enlisted pig stays here.” Edmundson glared, but remained silent.

  “Easy, Todd,” Trigger said, coming to his feet. “They need us. I’ll be back.”

  “Hurry,” the commander snapped. “Admiral Fujita is waiting.”

  “Yes, Captain, can’t keep his eminence waiting,” Todd said sarcastically.

  “Silence, round-eyed dog,” Hirata shrieked. “I will have guards close your mouth.”

  “Todd,” Trigger said, alarmed. “This doesn’t help.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” the young man said, jaw clenched. He slumped back.

  As Trigger left, he heard the growling of an angry animal behind him.

  *

  When Trigger Ross entered the admiral’s cabin, he found Admiral Fujita, Lieutenant Commander Kawamoto, and the secretary seated. Commander Aoshima stood to one side of the admiral, flanked by two other officers. Aoshima and his companions were in full flight kit — brown flight suits, fur-lined helmets with ear flaps and goggles up, rising sun patches on the left shoulders, and rank badges on the right. White cloths were wrapped around their heads and long, curved swords hung from their belts. Ross remained standing, Hirata at his side.

  Another tall officer — also in flight gear — stood to one side of the emperor’s picture. His long, narrow face was remarkably unoriental, with an aquiline nose set between close-set, baleful eyes — eyes that flickered from a visage filled with latent viciousness. He regarded the American with obvious disdain.

  The admiral gestured to the men standing next to Aoshima. “This is Lieutenant Tadashi Kinoshita and Ensign Ryiki Mayeda. They will fly cover today under Commander Aoshima.” And then he turned to the tall officer beside the emperor’s picture. “This is Commander Masao Shimizu, today’s flight leader.”

  Reluctantly, the American bowed, first to the admiral and then to the other men, staring at Kinoshita, Mayeda, and Shimizu with disbelief. The trio had clear, unlined skin with tufts of black hair escaping their helmets. They looked youthful. Not more than forty. But Ross knew they must be sixty or more. And he wondered why he — a lowly prisoner — was present at a pre-flight briefing.

  The admiral jarred Trigger’s thoughts, answering his unspoken question. “We’re flying our second mission today, Captain. Our first was flown in that unusually fine weather against Sparta. You can be of help, ah, to your countrymen, primarily.” The compartment was filled with maniacal laughter.

  Trigger managed to shout over the bedlam, “How?”

  Fujita raised his hands. The laughter stopped. “Your knowledge of shipping, air traffic in the Aleutians.”

  “Then you’ve doubled back.”

  “Please, Captain. This vessel’s course is my responsibility.”

  Trigger’s mind ran to Dutch Harbor and a sneak attack. But Dutch Harbor had no strategic value. True, it had been bombed during World War II. But only once as a diversion before the attack on Midway. And a full strike was not being readied. He could only hear a few engines. These Japanese made no sense. “Admiral,” he managed quickly, “you can’t encounter anyone or anything that can hurt you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The cutter that launched the helicopter you destroyed should be far to the northwest — I would assume off Attu, searching.”

  “That is our conclusion.”

  “You may find fishing boats, a freighter or two, perhaps a tanker. Oil company helicopters have been active, but they fly very close to the Aleutians. All these ships and aircraft are non-combatant, Admiral. They can’t hurt you.” Again the wild laughter. Trigger clenched and unclenched his fists, felt perspiration on his forehead. “And Dutch Harbor is of no importance, at all. Not even the Coast Guard uses it.”

  “Captain, with your permission,” the admiral said, sarcastically, “we will make tactical decisions. But I will relieve your concern for Dutch Harbor. This is a training and reconnaissance mission.” And then he turned to the aviators. “Man your aircraft.” The foursome bowed and left.

  After the door closed, the admiral studied the American silently, watery, myopic eyes glinting with new interest. “Captain,” he said, his voice shedding authority, respect creeping in. “You seem to be a man of station, breeding, for an American.” There was a chuckle. “You have courage — an admirable trait in any race. In a short while, you will be honored to witness a special ceremony … ” Every man came to his feet, shouting, “Banzai!” Trigger felt like a man trapped in the isolation ward of an insane asylum. “Special ceremony,” he said under his breath. His mind streamed with thoughts of madmen — madmen with every drop of sanity crushed from them by the weight of four decades of isolation. “What do you mean, Admiral?” he shouted, halting the uproar.

  “In due time,” Fujita said, curtly dismissing the subject. “For now, you are to accompany me to the flight control bridge.” He nodded to the door.

  *

  Hands on rail, Trigger glanced quickly about, not believing the mildness of the weather. Despite the perennial Aleutian mist and patches of fog, the sea was calm, breeze gentle, filtered sun exactly where he had expected it, off the port quarter. Glancing at the sun, he knew he had guessed correctly and they were steaming westward, perhaps two hundred miles south and west of the Aleutians. The ice of the previous evening had vanished. Ten planes were poised on the flight deck in rows from amidships aft, propellers turning, Zeros in the first ranks. He counted four Zeros, three Vals, and three Kates.

  The memories came back of threes. Always threes. Three threes and a flight leader. The admiral had been truthful. Ten aircraft would only be a patrol, probably training for flight leaders. Full strikes would fly off in the usual Japanese three threes of three, or twenty-seven planes.

  He sighed, content that Dutch Harbor was safe. But then a cold shudder gripped him as he realized that Pearl Harbor was the most likely target. And they were beginning to practice. Then he noticed something peculiar about the aircraft; not one had the usual carrier markin
g — circular stripes just aft of the cockpits. Not even squadron numbers were painted on the vertical stabilizers.

  Suddenly, Admiral Fujita stabbed a thumb upward and turned to the talker, shouting over the roar of the engines. The rating nodded, mumbling into his phone. The lead Zero — tended by six plane handlers, manning tie-down and chocks — gunned its engine. The pilot turned his head to the bridge. Ross found himself staring at Cmdr. Masao Shimizu whose goggled eyes and pinched cheeks gave the impression of a praying mantis, moving to the kill.

  Then Shimizu turned his head, staring at the plane director, standing to the right and in front of the aircraft. All eyes were on the director. He gestured to the bow where a single steam vent sent a ribbon of vapor streaming aft directly down the flight deck’s center line. In seconds, the tie-downs were released and chocks pulled. With the plane free, four handlers raced to the sides of the deck and tumbled into the safety of the gun galleries. Only two handlers remained, holding the wing tips, checking the locks.

  Repeatedly, the director stabbed an arm forward. The fighter moved forward, shedding its last two handlers who joined their companions in the galleries. Ted could see Shimizu jam the throttle to the firewall. The graceful, white monoplane leaped forward, raced toward the bow, and clawed for altitude, clearing the bow by twenty feet. Engine snarling, it climbed sharply, a thing of the sky exulting in its return home.

  In minutes, four Zeros were airborne, circling the carrier protectively, but strangely — very low, not more than three hundred feet from the sea. Then in single file, the mottled green Kates lumbered down the deck, engines straining, each burdened with a torpedo. Bomb-laden Vals — painted the same dull colors — followed. As the Vals passed, Trigger suddenly came erect, studying each aircraft. There was something wrong with the bombs. Then Ross realized the projectiles slung beneath the fuselages were not aerial bombs; instead, the planes carried large-caliber artillery shells with fins.

  In minutes, accompanied by the cheers of hundreds of crewmen, the ten aircraft were airborne, circling the carrier counterclockwise. With measured precision, the aircraft formed three Vs of three and headed in a northeasterly direction, barely skimming the whitecaps. Shimizu, flying slightly higher, trailed. The cheering faded with the aircraft.

  Grudgingly, Trigger conceded that the Japanese pilots were good — as good as the Americans who had flown from the Enterprise. He looked the length of the bridge. Hirata, Kawamoto, Fujita, and two lookouts still followed the fast vanishing flight with binoculars. Scanning the flight deck, he whistled softly to himself, estimating its size not in feet, but in acres: between four and five. His eyes moved to the gun tubs, lining the flight deck. The Japanese were alert. Every gun was a ready gun, manned with pointers and trainers in their seats, loaders standing by ready boxes, and control officers, pointer sticks in hand, scanning the skies.

  Fujita shouted at the talker. Immediately, the ship turned, assuming a southeasterly course, running before the wind. Trigger heard the admiral say, “All mounts are manned and ready. We will not be surprised, Yankee.” Turning quickly, he looked down into the grim depths of the old man’s black eyes. “In there, Captain,” he said, gesturing to the door of his cabin. “There is much to be said between us.”

  Trigger winced, his mind returning to something said earlier. “The special ceremony?”

  The old man smiled enigmatically. “Not yet, Yankee.” And then, gruffly, “In there.”

  *

  “Again, let me remind you, I have your word of honor,” Fujita said from behind his desk.

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  The admiral gestured to a chair directly in front of his desk. Ross sank into the chair, flanked by Kawamoto and Hirata who pulled chairs to his sides. The secretary was still in the same chair, holding his pad and pencil. Two armed guards stood still like Buddhas, flanking the chart while a pair of enlisted men manned the communications equipment.

  Ross eyed the tired, old man across the desk — an old man scarcely more than a skeleton who seemed to be sinking into the blue shroud of his uniform. He took the initiative. “Your attack on Pearl Harbor is ill-advised, will be easily detected, and this vessel destroyed.”

  The skeleton came to life, suddenly alert, eyes sparking. Unleashing a stream of heated Japanese, the admiral assaulted Hirata and Kawamoto. Ross smiled. Although Fujita was firing words like a machine gun, the American caught enough of the diatribe to realize the two subordinates were being censured for breaking security.

  Trigger watched Hirata squirm. Chuckled. Finally, the American raised his hands. “Please, Admiral. These officers told me nothing. It wasn’t necessary.”

  “Please explain.”

  “Your ship, anti-aircraft, planes — all are of the early Forties, or even late Thirties. Even your uniforms — long blue tunics, collar patches, no shoulder straps, peaked cap with Imperial chrysanthemum matching the two that must be on your bows, boots — are all early Forties or pre-war. I’ve never seen a chrysanthemum worn on a cap before. Anyway, it was replaced by an anchor — lace trimmings appeared on the collar … ”

  “The sixteen-petalled chrysanthemum stands for the sun — the symbol for His Majesty.” Every man bowed. Punched by Hirata, Ross nodded his head. ‘‘Only the officers of Yonaga are honored to wear it on their caps. That is why you have never seen it worn on the caps of other officers.” The admiral paused, appearing to swell with pride. And then, with a touch of awe, “How do you know so much about Nippon?”

  Trigger snorted. “I was a POW — I was interrogated by Imperial officers in the inimitable Japanese fashion.” His voice was heavy with bitterness.

  “Ah, so, we have defeated you before,” Hirata gloated.

  “The first time in a defenseless transport plane, the second time was the unarmed Sparta.” The American stared at Hirata with undisguised loathing. “But your navy provided me with the ultimate satisfaction.”

  “What do you mean?” Hirata asked suspiciously.

  Trigger’s outrage over his murdered crew, the dead Coast Guardsmen, boiled over. With his mouth a slash, his voice deep and hard, he continued, staring into Hirata’s tiny, black reptilian eyes, words coming in a vitriolic burst. “I shot down one of our precious Zero-sens, myself.” The Japanese stiffened. “I was a gunner on the Enterprise in 1942. It was in the Eastern Solomons. He came at me on a strafing run at three hundred knots. I improved his karma with a hundred fifty-caliber slugs.” Ross looked from man to man, searching for anger, but found nothing. He continued. “It was easy. The fool attacked with a long, head-on pass. With zero deflection and that big radial Sakae for a bull’s eye. I couldn’t miss. He was rolling in flames when he went over. I could see him clearly — wearing one of those hachimaki headbands — wearing a belt of a thousand stitches for protection, too, no doubt. Didn’t protect him from shit, did it?” He laughed. “But he’s in the Yasakuni Shrine now with all the other heroes, isn’t he? You can thank me for holding the door open.” He looked around with forced casualness, finally returning to Hirata. “Be glad to do the same for you anytime. Glory in that, mighty samurai.”

  Hirata and Kawamoto came to their feet, hands on hilts. Ross rose, saying, “Who’s first?”

  Admiral Fujita waved. The guards leaped forward. “Sit down, all of you,” he shouted. Slowly, the three men sank in their seats. “You two,” he continued, eyes moving to Kawamoto and then to Hirata, “have forgotten one of the basic teachings of bushido — to control one’s temper, to show no emotion. You have allowed the American to make fools of you.”

  The two officers bent from the waist, mumbled apologies. “Enough,” Fujita spat, and then turned to Ross. “You are clever and courageous, Captain. I want to hear your story, but you must not deliberately anger these ronin.” The commander and lieutenant commander were jolted by the reference to outcast samurai, stiffening as if slapped. Ignoring the pair, the admiral continued, “One more insult, Captain, and I will have you removed. Understand?”

 
Although Trigger exulted in the unprecedented rebuke of two staff members in the presence of a lowly prisoner, his face was impassive — as impassive as a samurai’s. “Yes, Admiral,” he said, evenly, anger eroding, replaced by a faint hope — the hope that he could convince the admiral of the truth of Japanese capitulation, or at least plant a seed of doubt. Determined to control his temper, he continued, “Those bombs your B5N2s carried told me a lot.” The Japanese stiffened.

  “They were fourteen-inch AP naval shells, weren’t they? Fitted with fins by Commander Minoru Genda for horizontal bombing runs on anchored battleships. And the torpedoes — I’ll bet a close examination would show wooden fins, designed for shallow drops in a harbor only forty-two feet deep. That was Genda’s idea, too. And the radio silence you mentioned. I would suggest that not only are you on radio silence, but your crystals have been removed and placed in the ship’s safe to ensure it.”

  Fujita’s eyes roamed his officers and then back to the American. “How did you know all this?”

  “All vessels in Kido Butai had their crystals removed.”

  There was a shocked silence followed by a confused babble as the Japanese began shouting, interrupting each other. Ross raised his hands and the admiral followed with his. Silence. All eyes turned to the American. “Now will you believe the war is over? How else could I know so much about you, Genda, your weapons, missing crystals, and your own top secret designation for the Pearl Harbor attack force. I know because what has happened is history — common knowledge, available to anyone. The war is over.”

  “Intelligence could account for everything you have said about Commander Genda,” Kawamoto said.

  “Ha! Intelligence! I met him in 1946.I knew him well. He became a general in 1956 and commander-in-chief of the Air-Self-Defense-Force in 1959.”

  “Captain,” Fujita said, slowly, “you were a prisoner-of-war.”

  “Correct. As I already said, once shot down in a defenseless transport, the second time taken after my unarmed ship was sunk.”