Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  With the vaporous shroud swirling angrily about its rotor, the Watson Geological Survey Service helicopter skimmed low over, Tagatu enroute from Attu to Kiska. Seated at the controls, pilot Dick “Blade” Rivers, a whipcord of a man, turned to his portly passenger, Martin Watson, saying into his microphone, “Not much of a trip, eh, Marty?”

  “No,” the heavy-set geologist answered, disconsolately. “I’m afraid our crew is wasting time, twelve thousand dollars a day’s worth.” And then, suddenly, “Christ! Look there! On that island.” He stabbed a finger downward.

  Rivers instantly banked the helicopter, spiraling downward, eyes widening as the aircraft descended on the island where the wreck of a white monoplane glared from the tiny plateau.

  Blade reached for the switch to his radio.

  *

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Captain?” Todd Edmundson asked, seated on his bunk, staring at Ted “Trigger” Ross.

  “I’m okay,” Trigger said, sitting erect on his mattress, examining his uniform.

  “They got it nice and clean, Captain.” And then softly, “That was ghastly — you and Hirata.”

  “The son of a bitch had guts,” Trigger said grudgingly.

  “The way he died.”

  Trigger stared at his young companion. “I didn’t enjoy myself, Todd.”

  “I know, Captain,” the young man said, huskily.

  “Todd, he was trying to kill me and now he’s dead. It makes no difference how he got that way. He’s dead.”

  “Captain, you’re beginning to sound like them.”

  “Bullshit, Todd. Be practical. We’re prisoners in their world. We can’t fight them on our terms, only theirs.”

  “They’re beginning to like you.”

  “Like me?”

  “Yes. Didn’t you notice? After you — ah, you and Hirata, when you left. Some of them bowed; others came to attention.”

  “Bowed! Attention!” Trigger laughed, a wild, frightening sound.

  “Captain,” Todd shouted, alarmed.

  Slowly, Trigger controlled himself. “I’m all right.” And then, steadily, “No. I didn’t notice. But it makes sense.”

  “Sense?”

  “Of course. I defeated one of them. They still hate me, but according to bushido, I’m now a little better than a dog.” Suddenly, Trigger cocked an ear. “Engines!”

  “More murder,” Todd said through tight lips.

  “Probably training missions. After all these years, they need them. Their equipment is old and so are they.”

  “They’re getting ready for Pearl, Captain.” The young man punched his mattress. “I don’t understand — after all this time. These murderers are still running loose. The Russians should have, must have transmitted something before they were slaughtered.”

  “Right, Todd. I’m sure they were transmitting. After all, as inefficient as they are, they’re still pros.”

  “But nothing happened.”

  Trigger’s voice was grim. “Look at it this way, what did the plane see? What did it transmit?”

  “A carrier — a huge carrier operating aircraft.”

  “Right. No escorts. Just a lone carrier.”

  “No threat.”

  “Absolutely. No battle group, Todd. And then what happened?”

  “The plane vanished.”

  “Right. If you were a Russian officer evaluating this situation, what would you conclude?”

  The young man slumped. “An accident. The TU went in — Christ.”

  “That’s right, Todd. They would assume the TU buzzed a carrier, got too low, and went in. It’s happened before.”

  “But the AA — if the Russians transmitted ‘Under attack.’”

  “But you know they didn’t. The Russians would have sent squadrons to hunt us down.” Trigger tapped his chin gently. “They never had time. Probably not even for a Mayday. They were destroyed in less than a minute.”

  Suddenly, the seaman brightened. “Missiles. I’ll bet the Russkies have us targeted.”

  “Possible. I thought we might be … at first.” “You changed your mind.”

  The older man shrugged. “I don’t know much about it, Todd, but I have a feeling the TU didn’t transmit long enough.”

  “Long enough?”

  “Yes. My understanding is the aircraft serves as a link between shore stations and the satellite — if one is available. I figure the Tupolev only transmitted four or five minutes. I doubt if that was enough time to lock the satellite or satellite system on.”

  “Well, tell the admiral he’s going to be vaporized, anyway.”

  “I already did. I don’t really think he cares.”

  “Of course.” The boy’s feverish eyes searched his feet. Then he looked up, desperation in his voice. “But Sparta, the chopper, and the Tupolev. Someone, somewhere must be able to detect a pattern — put two and two together.”

  “And add up to a World War II Jap carrier, Todd?”

  “Then, you mean, you think they’ll succeed?”

  “No. But time is getting short and I think we’ll have to make a try at stopping them.”

  The young man sighed. “We know very little about this ship — no, this place. It’s more like a city than anything else.”

  “True, Todd.” Trigger moved to the desk, noting, “I’m glad they left us this pad.” Edmundson rose, moved to his captain’s side. Trigger began to draw. “If we’re going to attack the town, we’ll need a road map.”

  “How can you know enough about Yonaga to draw her?”

  “I’ve had a good look at her from the flag bridge and besides, all World War II carriers were similar, Todd.” As he drew, he spoke. “We’re up here in flag country.” Edmundson nodded. The pencil moved quickly. “There isn’t much above us: range finder, some AA, navigation bridge. Here’s the flight deck, I suspect it’s armored, and below it, the hangar deck.” He stopped. Opened a drawer, then another. “Ah, good. Here’s one.” He pulled a ruler from a drawer, placed it on the pad, drew long lines. Then he drew a short line parallel and between the hangar deck and flight deck, “This is the gallery deck.”

  “They held us there the first day, Captain.”

  “Right. It’s usually about as long as the island. They should have squadron-ready rooms there. It’s the best place.” He moved the pencil downward and then horizontally. “And, of course, this is the hangar deck.” Todd nodded. “The hangar deck is actually, from a structural standpoint, the main deck of all carriers.”

  “You said they were vulnerable there, Captain.”

  “Very vulnerable, Todd.”

  “But we’ve got to get loose.”

  Ross sighed. “True. But let’s complete the road map.” The pencil moved downward. More horizontal lines. “Second, third, fourth decks.”

  “You must be to the keel.”

  “Not yet. I’ll bet my life you’ll find crew’s quarters, aviation stores, shops, and officers’ staterooms on these decks.” More horizontal lines. “I would guess, at least two lower decks. Here are the vital organs.” He began sketching cylinders. “Sixteen boilers, turbines, generators.”

  “The fuel, Captain. The fuel.”

  “Here, in these tanks — all along the hull, oil and gasoline — maybe four hundred thousand gallons of gasoline.”

  “But that’s dose to the keel. We can’t even get to the hangar deck.” The young man pounded the desk. “Where’s the ammo?” Eagerly, Todd watched Trigger sketch some square compartments, “Just above the engine rooms, Captain.”

  “Right. Oh, I forgot something.” The pencil and ruler moved vertically. “She has three elevators, one forward, one amidships, and another aft.”

  “Then, the ammo comes up the elevators.”

  “No. Not necessarily. She must have small ammunition hoists.”

  “To the hangar deck.”

  “Flight deck, too, Todd.”

  “Then, if we could get loose, hit a bomb or torpedo with a hammer … ”<
br />
  “Like hitting a rock, Todd.”

  “A rock?”

  “Yes. No ordnance is armed until dropped or fired.” He pointed a finger downward. “The weakness is here.”

  “You’ve said it before, Captain. The hangar deck.”

  “Yes. But in particular, the Zero.”

  “The Zero?”

  “Yes. It was, without a doubt, the best fighter of ’42 and’43. It was so light and maneuverable, no Allied fighter could turn with it.”

  “That doesn’t sound weak, Captain.”

  “Todd, in military hardware, there are always tradeoffs.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I mean, to get maneuverability, the Japs gave up protection. There is neither armor in the Zero nor self-sealing tanks.”

  “Then they blow up.”

  “One burst, back of the cockpit, and they go off like a cherry bomb.”

  “They’re packed in the hangar deck. But they wouldn’t be fueled.”

  “Just before a mission. Not only are they fueled, but don’t forget, the Vals and Kates will be armed with bombs and torpedoes. That is the critical moment for carriers — cost Japan the war.”

  “The war?”

  “Right. At Midway, the Jap first strike returned to their carriers. They were refueled and rearmed, jamming the decks. They were sitting ducks when our dive bombers arrived. Cost them four carriers, their best aircrews, and, eventually, the war.” “We don’t have a dive bomber.” There was defeat in the voice.

  “We have our brains and guts, Todd.”

  The young seaman came erect. There was a strange glint in his eyes. “Maybe we’re dead — like you said at first.”

  “I was half out of my mind.”

  The voice was high and tense. “Maybe you’re right. This is hell. Evil everywhere. Fujita is evil incarnate. He’s the devil.”

  Trigger grasped the young man by the shoulders. Shook him. “Todd! For Christ’s sake!”

  “Yes! Yes! For Christ’s sake. We’ve got to stop the devil and all his demons.”

  The door flew open. Lt. Comdr. Masao Kawamoto stepped in. “Captain,” he said in a voice free of the usual contempt, “you are wanted on the flag bridge.”

  “Lucifer calls, Captain,” Todd screeched. “Don’t keep him waiting.”

  Trigger turned to the lieutenant commander. “My seaman, he isn’t well.”

  Edmundson twisted away, leaped over a bunk, screaming, “Demons! Demons!” He lurched toward Kawamoto, hands extended.

  “No, Todd!” Trigger shouted, reaching for the young man but missing.

  Kawamoto leaped to the side as two guards rushed in, meeting the charging American head-on. There was the thud of bodies meeting bodies and the screaming American was hurled to his bunk.

  “No!” Trigger shouted, enraged, charging. But he, too, was pinned to his bunk by two more guards and, in seconds, the compartment was jammed with Japanese shouting over Edmundson’s shrieks.

  Trigger heard Kawamoto bellow commands. Quickly, the noise subsided, all eyes turned to the young American who moaned and frothed while a petty officer tied him to his bunk.

  “Please, Commander, release me,” Trigger said. “It’s over.”

  Kawamoto waved a hand. Trigger was released, came to his feet. “He needs a sedative, Commander.”

  “You know we have been in isolation for over forty years, Captain. Most of our medical stores have been exhausted.” And then, gesturing to the door, “The admiral may order it.”

  As Trigger moved to the door, he turned. Wild eyes glared back. As he left, he heard an undulating wail, more animal than human.

  *

  When Trigger Ross — flanked by his guards — entered the admiral’s cabin, he found the old man alone, seated, as usual, behind his desk. Trigger’s bow was returned by a nod, the guards dismissed by the flick of the fingers. Stiffly, the old man gestured to a chair.

  As Ross seated himself, he felt a mixture of emotions. He had killed Cmdr. Satoru Hirata, an Imperial officer. He had expected more hatred, brutality; perhaps, retribution in kind. But samurai were strange people, indeed. Instead of revenge, he had found a subtle change in the Japanese. Edmundson had been right. The hostility was still in his captors’ eyes, but now it was tempered by respect. He had killed a samurai, defying overwhelming odds. And he had been considered inferior to his opponent. He knew ancient customs dictated a warrior seek out and fight men of equal rank. He was a barbarian, an unclean meat eater with round eyes. He should have been an easy kill. And he was sure the way he had killed had impressed — vengeful, merciless, with undisguised pleasure. The Japanese exalted this; vengeance was a particularly precious experience to the samurai.

  When Admiral Fujita spoke, it was obvious he had similar thoughts. “Do you know the story of ‘The Forty-Seven Ronin,’ Captain?”

  Ross stared at the old sailor, eyes wide. He had expected Hirata, Russians, radar, anything but a fable. He remembered the tale vaguely. “An ancient myth about vengeance, Admiral.” Ross was unable to conceal his surprise. And he was puzzled by his own emotions. At this moment, he felt no hatred, not even anger. Curiosity was back. There was an arcane aura surrounding the old man that did more than intimidate; it seemed to possess. In fact, reality was the first casualty to this eerie force that transcended reason: so powerful it made the bonds of discipline seem as amorphous as spilled cream; so powerful there seemed to be a presence from another time, another place, commanding respect from him and servile obeisance from the others.

  And the old man was a bridge — a bridge to another age, part of which was Ted Ross’ own youth; a time of power savored by all men, especially men on the threshold of old age. Ross was no different. He rushed to cross that bridge, suspending hatred and fear, even reality. Yet, when Trigger found himself out of this room, free of the old mariner, the hatred surged. Then he could kill, could destroy Yonaga — if given the chance. But he could never strike a blow in this cabin. And the admiral seemed to know, read his mind. What other explanation could there be for the absence of guards, communications men? He knew the admiral was hungry for conversation. But the appetite for conversation was not enough. No! Fujita had no fear of Capt. Ted Ross; the American suspected nothing frightened the old man.

  Fujita continued. “It is not a myth — it is fact.”

  “Please, Admiral,” Ross interrupted, mind suddenly clear, “my man, Seaman Todd Edmundson, is ill.”

  “I know.” The admiral patted his phone, impatiently. “One of our doctors is examining him now.”

  “A sedative. He is, ah — temporarily deranged.”

  The admiral sank back. “Captain. We are unable to administer sedatives at our own sick call. We are conserving what medications we have for combat casualties. For now, Seaman Edmundson will remain confined to his quarters and lashed to his bunk, if necessary. I would do the same to my own.” There was sincerity in the voice, a hint of concern.

  Ross bit his lip. “Then I request that I be returned to him as soon as possible.”

  “We are not savages, Captain. I have ordered a medical orderly assigned to him. If his condition worsens, he will be moved to sick bay. The care he is receiving now is superior to any of your ministrations.”

  Ross made a gesture of impatience. “I’m his captain. I insist that I be allowed to visit my crewman if he is removed to sick bay.”

  “Of course. If we find that action necessary and you are properly guarded.” The parchment cracked with a grin. “You will, of course, be guarded. I know you are a man of honor and as such you are obligated to attempt to escape — to attack your captors.” The old man ran a bent, root-like finger over the desk. “We both know carriers are the most vulnerable, volatile warships afloat.”

  Ross felt cold fingers move up his neck. The old man missed nothing. “I would destroy you if I could, Admiral,” Ross said matter-of-factly.

  Again the smile and a nod. “Spoken like a samurai.” Fujita hunched forward, bot
h hands palms down on the desk. “Now, ‘The Forty-Seven Ronin.’” Ross sank back with resignation. “Do you know what a ronin is, Captain?”

  “Masterless samurai, Admiral.”

  “Yes. And a shogun, Captain?”

  “A warrior-ruler. Shoguns ruled Japan, theoretically subordinate to the emperor, up until the nineteenth century.”

  “Fairly accurate, Captain. But not ‘theoretically subordinate’ to the emperor, but in fact inferior because everyone is diminished by the mikado. Shoguns ruled by the grace of the emperor.”

  “Your history versus mine, Admiral.”

  Fujita rushed on. “The story begins in 1701, during the Tokugawa shogunate. An honorable samurai, Lord Asano of the western domain of Ako, was a guest of the Imperial court of Edo, now Tokyo. There, in the palace, a scoundrel named Kira insulted Lord Asano. Lord Asano attacked Kira with his sword, wounding him in the shoulder before the two were separated by court attendants.” The hands slid from the desk, the old man leaned back. Although he appeared to be tiring, there was fire in his eyes. “Do you know what the penalty was for drawing a sword in the palace?”

  “I’m sure it was death,” Ross said casually. “It seems to be your most popular penalty.”

  “Please, Captain. I warned you about your sarcasm.”

  Trigger clenched his teeth. Spoke harshly, almost as if chastising himself. “Sorry. Please continue, Admiral.”

  “Lord Asano committed seppuku immediately and his estates were confiscated. Kira survived and prospered.” The old man took several deep breaths. “Now, you must remember, when a man’s estates were confiscated, his samurai automatically became ronin.” Ross nodded. “Forty-seven of these warriors went to great lengths to give the appearance of vagabonds — I would guess, tramps to you.” Again, a nod of understanding. “For more than a year, the forty-seven lived debauched lives — lives of drunkenness and dissipation in brothels and wine houses all the while awaiting their opportunity to strike.”