Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

“As a prisoner-of-war, you certainly would have had access to information not available to combatants.” The Japanese nodded.

  “Access to information on ordnance used at Pearl Harbor?”

  “Why not, Captain? We never occupied Hawaii. The carriers Soryu, Hiryu, Shokaku, Zuikaku, Kaga, and Akagi carried out their attack and withdrew. A few Japanese aircraft were lost … ”

  “Twenty-nine,” Ross spat with frustration.

  “I would imagine there were duds,” Fujita continued. “No, Captain. Your knowledge of our bombs and torpedoes is not hard to explain.”

  Trigger’s breath was short, a great, cold hand clamping down on his lungs. Then he brightened with a new thought. “Emperor Hirohito’s surrender radio message … ”

  Laughter. “We recorded it,” Fujita said. Kawamoto pushed himself to his feet, began to recite in a singsong voice, “The enemy has begun to employ a new and most cruel bomb. Should we continue to fight, it would not only result in ultimate collapse and obliteration of the Japanese nation, but also it would lead to the total extinction of human civilization … ”

  Laughter halted the lieutenant commander. Convulsing, he fell into his chair, unable to continue.

  “Wait! Wait, please. You don’t even believe your own emperor. You only believe what you want to believe.”

  “No. We believe the truth,” the admiral said. “What’s the truth?”

  “What we believe.”

  Ross felt like a man trapped on an insane carousel. “Then Emperor Hirohito lied.”

  Silence. Five pairs of narrow, brown eyes found the American. “The emperor is sacred — a descendent of the sun goddess, Amaterasu — one-hundred-twenty-fourth in an unbroken line. You have heard of kokutai, Yankee,” Fujita said coldly.

  “The concept that national essence is embodied in the emperor,” Ross said, instantly. The Japanese exchanged glances.

  “Well done,” Fujita acknowledged, grudgingly. “Well, Yankee, since you seem to know so much about Japan, is it conceivable that a man who is not only head of our state, but the physical embodiment of our national essence and the samurai spirit personified as well, would surrender; would even allow his voice to be transmitted on radio waves?” The admiral leaned forward. “No, Captain. The broadcast was a fake.”

  Silence. Ross threw up his hands. “The atomic bomb.”

  “Lies,” Hirata said, suddenly. “Another trick — a trick designed to lead Japanese units into surrender.” The officers nodded. “And, Captain,” Hirata sneered, “Emperor Hirohito is still on his throne — is he not?”

  “Well, yes, but … ”

  “But what, Captain? If Japan had been defeated, obviously the Son of Heaven would have been executed.”

  “We’re not samurai savages, mighty warrior,” Ross said, voice cutting like a blade.

  “Swine!” Hirata screamed, coming to his feet, slapping the American and reaching for his sword. Trigger leaped to his feet, but before he could retaliate, his arms were pinned to his sides by the guards. Roughly, he was pushed into his chair. Held.

  “Enough!” the admiral shouted. “Hirata, Kawamoto return to your duties.” And then to the secretary, “Hironaka — out.” The officers bowed and left. Turning to the communications men, Fujita continued, “Sato, Toyofuku — out. I’ll use this.” He patted a phone on his desk. Rising instantly, the enlisted men saluted, bowed, and followed the departing officers. Fujita turned to Ross, still held by the pair of guards. “It seems you force me to remind you of your word of honor almost hourly.”

  “He provoked me, Admired.”

  “I will give you your parole again, if you will honor it.”

  “One amendment.” The admiral nodded. Ross groped for a moment, searching for phraseology that would be logical to a samurai. “I accept nothing from Commander Hirata that is degrading or demeaning to my rank.”

  The parchment cracked with new lines. The admiral was smiling. “I will concede this. But I would point out, the commander is armed and can regain face only by killing you.”

  “Respectfully, that problem is mine.”

  “Very well, Captain.” Then to the guards, “You are released from duty. Leave.” In a moment, the pair was alone.

  “Captain,” Fujita said, “you have an astonishing knowledge of Japan — remarkable intelligence, for an American.”

  Ross snorted at the double-edged remark, not knowing whether he had been complimented or insulted. “We’ve been discussing history, Admiral. There’s nothing esoteric about recorded facts.” “You have your concept of history, we have ours,” the old man said, resignedly. “But I am sure you have reached conclusions concerning Yonaga’s whereabouts the past forty-two years.”

  So, it had been over forty-two years and the old man wanted to talk about it. In fact, every Japanese he had met appeared eager to converse. When he saw them clinging to his every word, he knew they had become sick of listening to each other. And now, using the prerogative of rank, the admiral had claimed a stranger for himself — even if the stranger was an American. Ross felt a stirring of excitement as he responded, “Admiral, it doesn’t require the occult to guess you’ve been based, trapped, or just been hiding somewhere in the Arctic.”

  “Not hiding, Captain,” the old man said, a new, cordial tone in his voice.

  As a commander, Ross understood the man’s sudden change. In front of subordinates, the facade of restrained power and steel-hard efficiency must be maintained. He had done the same for Todd Edmundson. But now the admiral felt release, a freedom to speak, to free thoughts which crowded his mind never to find expression before his staff. This would be weakness, unbefitting command. This Ross knew too well.

  The old man continued. “Not your usual accuracy, Captain.” Ross raised an eyebrow. “The Chukchi Peninsula. Just south of the Arctic Circle.”

  “Forty-two years,” Trigger said as if repeating the words could make them more believable. Strangely, his anger, repugnance for the man who had ordered the massacre of his crew, who had killed the helpless Coast Guardsmen, was completely subordinate to his curiosity. He was at last able to put emotions aside. He sensed the floodgates were opening.

  “You have heard of the Yamatos, Captain?”

  “Yes, Admiral. They were the biggest hulls of World War II. Two became the super-battleships Yamato and Musashi while the third became carrier Shinana.”

  “Very good,” Fujita said with the tone of an approving schoolmaster. “Two sixty-two-thousand-ton battleships with nine eighteen-point-two-inch guns. Shinana was a seventy-two-thousand-ton carrier.”

  “I know, Admiral. A total of three hulls.”

  “No. Incorrect. Four hulls. Yonaga is the fourth.”

  It was Trigger’s turn to show surprise. “Oh. So that’s it.” He tapped his chin. “But the Chukchi Peninsula?”

  “In good time, Captain.”

  Ross demurred. “This hull appears bigger than Yamato.”

  “True. She was lengthened from 872 feet to 1,050 feet. Her flight deck was widened to 180 feet. Yonaga has sixteen Kanpon boilers instead of twelve; six geared turbines. She generates two hundred thousand horsepower, over fifty thousand more than her sisters.”

  “She should do thirty knots.”

  “Thirty-two.” The admiral tapped his desk. “We operate 120 aircraft, Captain.” There was pride in his voice.

  “The Chukchi Peninsula, Admiral. Why?”

  The old man nodded. “You were right about Kido Butai — the Pearl Harbor strike force. You see, seven carriers — Kaga, Akaga, Soryu, Hiryu, Zuikaku, Shokaku, and Yonaga — were assigned to the attack. But Yonaga’s great size was a liability.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The admiral raised a hand. “The other six carriers could stage at Hitokappu Bay in the Kurile Islands with an excellent chance of escaping detection. But Yonaga — ” the hand made a circle — “is so gigantic. It was feared foreign spies — all embassies are filled with them — would spot her, report her movem
ents. After her commissioning on eleven November, 1940, we actually hid her under camouflage netting in a remote anchorage near Kitsuki.”

  “That’s on Kyushu.”

  “Right. Her construction was secret and her existence was kept secret.”

  Ross snorted. “You were good at keeping secrets. The existence of the whole class was unknown. Not even a rumor — like the Zero fighter and Long Lance torpedo. Oh, yes — ” bitterness crept in — “you kept your secrets.”

  The old man smirked. “Then you concede we are not just a nation of shortsighted, bowlegged, bucktoothed copycats, unable to conceive an original idea.” The old man leaned forward. “The Chukchi Peninsula is one of the most remote regions on Earth.”

  “I know.”

  “Yonaga was sent there in August of 1941 to await the signal to attack Pearl Harbor, ‘Climb Mount Niitaka.’”

  “But Yonaga couldn’t just anchor in a cove — even on the Chukchi Peninsula.”

  “She did not, Captain. Have you ever heard of the Army’s Unit Seven-Three-One?”

  “Another well-kept secret — only in the past few years.” Trigger’s face flushed. “Murderers! A special action unit that conducted lethal experiments on prisoners of war in Manchurian camps. All the officers are dead — seppuku, so I heard, except for one who got a whiff of some of his own poison. I hear he’s in an asylum, a mumbling lunatic.”

  “Captain, please save your moralizing.” The tone was harsh. “Do you wish to hear more of Yonaga?”

  “Yes, Admiral. I’ll be careful to avoid emotion.”

  The admiral’s voice softened. “Moral judgments aside, you were generally correct about Unit Seven-Three-One. They were also conducting experiments with balloon-carried bacteriological warfare weapons. These balloons were to be launched from Japan and carried across the northern Pacific.”

  “This was done in 1945 with explosives. One of your bombs killed some children.”

  “Perhaps. But the important thing here is the unreliability of the winds. It was feared balloons might be blown back on the home islands by a sudden shift — infect our population.” The old man leaned back, catching his breath. His face showed fatigue, but he continued. ‘‘A safe base was needed. Using submarines, Seven-Three-One’s Colonel Akira Sano scouted eastward through the Aleutians and even north into the Bering Sea. Here, on the south coast of the Chukchi Peninsula, sixty-five hundred kilometers from Japan, he discovered the ideal base — a gigantic cove sheltered by overhanging glacial formations. Wind currents were perfect. A prevailing wind would carry the balloons southwest to a point just south of the Aleutians. Here the westerlies — we are running before them at this moment — would pick them up and carry them across the north Pacific, exposing the entire west coast of America to attack.” The old man labored for breath, slumped forward. Ross began to rise. But suddenly the admiral was upright, extended palms halting the American. “A thought occurred to me.”

  “What, Admiral?”

  “I am an old man. You could attack me easily.”

  “I gave my word of honor.”

  “Sometimes it seems to be flexible, but I am confident that you will honor it.” He cleared his throat, showing new vitality. “Back to Sano-wan.”

  “Sano-wan?”

  “Yes. We gave the cove the colonel’s name: Sano-wan.” The old man moved a bent index finger back and forth on the highly polished oak of the desk top. “And now, you are wondering about two things — one, why forty-two years; and two, where did we get the fuel.”

  “More than two, Admiral. But those two will do for starters.”

  “Forty-two years was an accident.”

  “An accident?”

  “Yes. In September of 1941, Yonaga and submarine L-Twenty-Four were in the cove together. On eight September, Colonel Sano was leaving on the L-Twenty-Four when an earthquake struck. The glacier slipped, covering the entrance with almost a kilometer of ice. L-Twenty-Four was crushed. All hands were lost and Yonaga hopelessly trapped.”

  Again a long pause while the ancient sailor breathed deeply. In spite of himself, Trigger asked with genuine concern, “You all right, Admiral?”

  “Yes. Yes. Thank you, Captain. The fuel.” Fujita smiled. “Captain, have you ever heard of the Pacific Ring of Fire?”

  “Yes. It’s a string of volcanoes around the Pacific basin.”

  “More precisely, more than six hundred volcanoes, stretching from New Zealand through Japan, the Kuriles, Komandorskis, Aleutians, Kamchatka, Siberia and all the way to Alaska. Sano-wan had a steam vent, Captain. It was capped. We used it all these years as a limitless source of power.”

  “Possible.”

  “Possible? Ha! We are here.”

  “Gasoline, oil — stored after all these years.” “We sealed our tanks. Oil does not deteriorate.”

  “But gasoline, Admiral. It’s volatile, evaporates.”

  “We sealed our gasoline tanks, too.”

  “Then you had condensation — water.”

  “True, Captain. But gasoline is lighter than water. Water sinks to the bottom of the tanks. Gasoline, as oil, can be stored indefinitely.”

  “But the extreme cold — the oil in your aircraft must be as thick as molasses.”

  “We are creatures of the cold, Captain. Long ago, we learned to mix a little gasoline with our oil. Works perfectly.”

  “You’ve run your engines?”

  “Of course. Ship and aircraft once a year.” Suddenly, the great ship began to tremble as a deep rumble and piercing whine filled the compartment with a cacophony of thunder and banshee shrieks. Growing quickly, the noise assaulted the men’s ears with decibels far exceeding human tolerance. Both men clapped hands to ears, opened mouths. A cannon fired in the cabin, penetrating Trigger’s ears with hot pokers, causing a shout of pain. Fujita rocked, moaning. A rivet popped from a bulkhead, ricocheted from the overhead, clattered to the deck. The phones flew from their cradles, pen and ink leaped from the desk followed by a notebook. Then the sound faded as fast as it had come. “Sacred Buddha,” the admiral shouted.

  “We’ve been torpedoed.”

  “No, Admiral. You’ve been buzzed.”

  “Buzzed?”

  “Yes. A jet — American or Russian — just ran your keel very close to the speed of sound. Now will you believe you’ve been detected, perhaps by a dozen radars? You can’t go ahead with this madness.”

  “Out there,” Fujita ordered, pointing to the door to the flight bridge, complaisance gone. And then he raised the phone and screamed a stream of orders.

  The klaxons sounded.

  *

  “Tupolev Sixteen,” Ross said, eyes to binoculars, catching a glimpse of a twin engined aircraft through the mist. Fujita, Hirata, and Kawamoto strained at their binoculars. “He’ll circle you slowly. At this moment, his radio operator is sending a detailed description of this vessel. Russian submarines and surface ships will track your every move. Missiles have already been programmed to destroy you. Do you understand, Admiral? You have been detected. You have no chance.”

  Dropping his binoculars, the old man turned to Ross, eyes glinting shrewdly. “But he will not inform the Americans, will he, Captain?”

  “You can’t count on that.”

  The old sailor chuckled. “Of course I can. The Russians are suspicious of everyone — everything. I fought them in 1905. They keep their secrets even when it would profit them not to.” The other officers nodded. Then the admiral turned to the talker, shouted an order.

  “You can’t intercept him, Admiral, You might as well leave your Zeros in the hangar deck.” The old man gestured, first to the bow and then to the stern. Eight five-inch guns were suddenly cranked skyward. Ross cursed, realizing he had been mistaken, aware, now, that the Japanese had some dual purpose cannon. “Admiral,” he said, “you can’t hit him with those things. You can’t cut your fuses short enough. You won’t get a burst within five hundred yards of him. You’ll be throwing rocks at a hummingbird.
”

  “You are helpful, Captain. I am aware of the gunnery problem.” And then with a raised eyebrow, “Why are you helping us?”

  Ross was shocked. The old man was right. He was volunteering his help. “I don’t like Russians, Admiral.”

  “He is armed?”

  “Two or three twin mount machine guns.”

  “Bombs?”

  “Probably not. I would guess he’s on a reconnaissance mission.”

  “Will he come closer?”

  “No telling. Some of those Russian pilots get Asiatic.”

  “Asiatic?” The Japanese looked at each other. “Can act crazy,” the American said, harshly, gazing at Hirata.

  Hirata muttered, palming his sword hilt. Fujita spoke, eyes to binoculars, “We will have to wait.

  Maybe our returning patrol can intercept — if he remains at a low altitude. They will shoot down any aircraft that has us under observation.”

  Ross snorted. “Not this one. This time you’re dealing with armed professionals, not helpless civilians and Coast Guardsmen.”

  Repeatedly, the plane circled, glimpsed only fleetingly through the mist. Then Trigger noticed the range was shortening, altitude lessening. “He wants a better look. He’s coming closer, Admiral.”

  “He’s not close enough for our twenty-five millimeter.”

  “I don’t like Russians, Admiral. But engaging him would be foolish. You’ll never bring him down and you’d be assuring the destruction of your command.”

  The ancient sailor dropped his binoculars, turned to the American. “On and off, we have been fighting them for most of this century, Captain. I’ll now command you to observe bridge silence, or return to your compartment. I will not tolerate a repetition of the histrionics you displayed when we engaged the autogiro.”

  Ross bit his lip. “Aye, aye, Admiral. But I refuse to assist you any further.”

  “Very well. It is up to Ivan, anyway.” Fujita waved toward the sounds of the aircraft. “Maybe he will come close enough — to try to taunt us with a slow approach.” And then softly, “Come on, Ivan. Come on. Get a better look.”

  Almost as if responding to the admiral’s entreaty, the great aircraft banked, dropped down wave high, and headed for the carrier’s bow at a slow speed. Fujita screamed at the talker who shouted into his mouthpiece. Over two hundred muzzles leaned toward the bow like a forest struck by the wind. Then a lookout shouted, pointing toward the stern. Two Zeros were boring in, propellers glistening circles, flying so low they actually kicked up spray. A third Zero was on the horizon.