Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  Suddenly, the flight director’s raised hand shocked the commander back to the present. Glancing over his shoulder, he grinned, seeing all bombs in place and the deck cleared of armorers. Only the handlers remained, standing by tie-down and chocks.

  Now his concentration was on the plane director. Both flags were raised. He felt the fighter tremble as the four tie-downs were released. Without turning his head, he knew four handlers were racing for their catwalks. Only two handlers remained, hunched next to the chocks.

  The final check. Pushing the throttle forward, Shimizu watched the rpms climb to two thousand, manifold pressure to five centimeters. He smiled, gripped the stick tightly, nodded to the director.

  One flag dropped. There was a jerk and the chocks were gone. Free, the plane trembled like a virgin about to receive her first lover. Now only the director existed and that tiny run of 150 meters of flight deck. At this moment, he always longed for the spacious runways at Tsuchiura and Kasumigaura. The last flag dropped, pointed to the bow. He pushed the throttle to the fire wall, saw his manifold pressure zoom toward the red line. He released his brakes.

  Joyously, the lithe fighter leaped forward, pressing Shimizu back into his seat. His stomach was suddenly empty. Within a hundred meters, his speed indicator passed one hundred knots. Pulling back on the stick, he felt the plane lift eagerly, finally free to return to the sky like a long-grounded hawk. Gently, the commander touched his left rudder pedal, banking into a counterclockwise orbit. Looking back and leveling off at one hundred meters, he could see Suguira’s Zero already climbing behind him while Hino’s fighter was streaking down the deck. In less than four minutes, all nine fighters were airborne, circling the carrier.

  Then Shimizu headed for the target. He throttled back slightly as Suguira passed him. Glancing at the fighter off his wingtip, he raised a clenched fist and shouted, “Banzai.” The pilot looked back, raised a fist, his lips forming the same word. Suguira’s hand found his hachamaki headband, gripped it. Shimizu found his own. The pilots exchanged nods. Then, Suguira pushed his throttle forward, moved ahead.

  EIGHT

  5 December 1983

  “Blowing, bearing zero-six-zero, range five hundred,” the lookout shouted.

  Boris Sinilov raised his glasses. “Very well,” he shouted. And then staring through his binoculars he said to Georgy Volynsky, “Anything on sonar or radar?”

  “No, Captain.” And then suddenly, “A return on sonar, zero-six-zero, range five hundred meters. Nothing on radar, Captain.”

  “Very well.” Boris turned to Semyon Starinov. “Can you hold her on this heading? We’re making very little way.”

  “She’s holding, Captain,” the young helmsman answered, gripping the huge wheel.

  Studying the new sighting through his binoculars, Kuzma Nikishev said, “Can we kill him, too?” The tone was almost wistful.

  “Not until those dolts finish inflating the blue,” Boris said, gesturing to the starboard side where a seaman held the end of a harpoon with a hose attached. The shaft of the weapon was embedded in the dead monster lashed alongside. Another seaman, back to the whale, watched bulkhead-mounted gauges while the cook and three off-duty seamen leaned on the rail, staring down at the dead whale — a monster only a few meters shorter than the ship. Even on the bridge, Boris could feel vibrations of the compressor, chugging in the confines of the auxiliary engine room.

  “The whale is rising — riding higher. How much air do you pump in him?” the Zampolit asked, impatiently.

  “We inflate him completely,” Boris said casually, unable to resist the chance to plant his own harpoon.

  “Completely?”

  “Yes,” Boris said slyly, “if we pump enough air in him, we can tow him back to Gelendzhik like a barrage balloon.”

  Laughter. Every man in the bridge force turned and stared at the Zampolit.

  Kuzma reddened. And then he said, in a voice strained, almost hoarse with rage, “Captain, your humor … ”

  “Aircraft,” the lookout’s shout came through the speaker, “bearing zero-nine-zero, low on the horizon.”

  “You know it or think it?” Boris shouted, ignoring Kuzma and bringing the binoculars up slowly.

  The speaker answered. “I have him. He’s approaching very low.”

  “Radar!” Boris snapped.

  “Yes, Captain. He just came on the scope, blip bearing zero-nine-zero, range five thousand meters, closing at a high rate of speed. And, ah, ah … ”

  “And what? Speak up,” Boris said, irritably, leaning into his binoculars.

  Georgy continued, faltering, “There’s something strange — either there are a number of aircraft, or I’m getting ghosts.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m getting eight or nine targets in a row, at large intervals, all closing.”

  Kuzma, apparently forgetting his anger, stepped to the captain’s side, binoculars focused over the starboard beam. “I see him,” he shouted.

  Boris cursed the perennial mist. Then he saw it. A white monoplane, low on the water, approaching at a high speed.

  “What is he doing in the north Pacific?” Kuzma asked.

  “This is crazy,” Boris said, more to himself than to Kuzma. “An old propeller plane in the middle of the north Pacific. Impossible!”

  “More aircraft,” the lookout shouted.

  “Radar shows nine blips, all closing,” Georgy said.

  “The Americans are up to something crazy,” Boris said, staring at an approaching aircraft, now flashing through a patch of sunlight, wings, cowling, and canopy glistening. And there were more: a whole string of white aircraft extending to the misty horizon. Now he could hear the roar of old-fashioned reciprocating engines.

  “He has bombs,” Kuzma shouted.

  Silently, Boris stared at the aircraft. There were cylinders under the wings. “Americans — making a movie. That’s it,” he said.

  The men working on the whale stopped, stared at the approaching aircraft. Every man on the bridge turned, eyes to starboard. The lead plane — now only a thousand meters from the starboard beam — dropped lower, propeller kicking up a plume of sea spray.

  “He’s below our masthead,” Semyon Starinov said, tensely.

  The plane roared in, headed for the bridge.

  “Pull up, idiot,” Kuzma shouted.

  But the plane dropped lower, still headed for the superstructure. Boris dropped his binoculars. The plane was almost on them. Gripping the handrail, the captain heard the Zampolit whimper, “Please.”

  Boris was frozen by a stroboscopic flash of memory. Long ago he had seen the same thing. It had been in Manchuria on the banks of the flooding Nen River. He had tried to bury himself in the mud when his company was caught in the open and strafed by a dozen Japanese fighters. He remembered huge radial engines, glistening propellers, boring close, but never this close.

  Flame leaped from the plane’s wings and cowl. Kuzma almost knocked Boris from his feet as he stumbled across the wheelhouse, screaming, “No! In the name of God. No!”

  But God ignored the political officer. There were explosions amidships, the sounds of ricochets. Splashes higher than the bridge leaped from the sea. There were screams from the radio room.

  The roar of the engine filled the wheelhouse. Boris shouted, “No!” as the propeller churned toward him, filling his vision. Then a giant explosion blew in the port side of the wheelhouse, ripping the steel like paper, hurling Boris against the starboard bulkhead. There was sudden heat, screams, smoke, flying metal and glass.

  Boris fought the smoke for air. Shook the blackness from his eyes, but not the screaming from his ears. The back of the wheelhouse from the center line to port side had been blown in. He could see the ship’s waist, a mass of flames. He felt his arms. Unbroken. Then his legs. But he had too many. He looked down. The lower half of the helmsman lay across his body, staining him with gore. Numbly, the captain pushed the abdomen and flopping legs from him, brushed gray-red intestin
es from his jacket and trousers. He reached up. Found a sagging handrail. Pulled himself to his feet.

  Thirty years at sea had taught many grim lessons. He must jettison the whale, send a Mayday … But the radio shack was gone.

  He looked around. A slaughterhouse. Every bulkhead was splashed with blood. The wheel was gone and Semyon with it. Smashed glass in the front of the wheelhouse, ripped flesh clinging to jagged edges. And the screams. Georgy and Kuzma in a single heap on the port side. Grotesquely twisted together. Mingling blood and viscera. Kuzma stretched across the radar man, twisted strangely, reversed buttocks on his stomach, a bent leg across his chest, a foot next to his ear. He screamed through gouts of blood. “God! God!”

  Then Boris realized the plane had rammed them amidships, high on the superstructure. The effect on the small ship had been devastating. Besides the radio room, the stack was gone and the mast leaned to port, almost horizontal. Burning gasoline washed across the ship’s waist. But there was no list. The hull was undamaged.

  The captain staggered to the engine room telegraph; rang up, “Full Ahead.” The telegraph toppled to the deck. Cursing, he weaved to the small platform that served as the starboard wing of the bridge. Looked down. The cook and two seamen stood mutely, clinging to the lifeline, staring at the inferno aft.

  “Chop the whale loose,” Boris screamed. The men looked up, uncomprehending. The captain shouted, “Cut the lines!” But his voice was drowned by a new, horrifying sound: the roar of approaching aircraft. Boris looked up. His eyes widened, jaw sagged. Eight aircraft, widely spaced in a long single file, were roaring in. He raised a fist and yelled, “Swine! Swine! Why? Why?” The lead plane was very close. Flame leaped from its guns. Again splashes, explosions and ricochets. Boris stood erect. Clenched fist overhead. Then bombs parted from the wings. Engine barking, the plane flashed overhead.

  Boris Sinilov steeled himself for the thunderclap, convulsing steel. Instead, there were two dull thuds, like grenades exploding in mud. The whale leaped from the sea, disintegrating, a tower of bones, intestines, half-digested krill, ripped baleen, engulfing Kalmykovo. The cook and two seamen vanished, swallowed by slimy viscera. Smothered by cascading remains, the fire flickered out. There was a smell of burning blubber and a great red stain spread across the sea.

  Boris tore his eyes from the horror, moved to the middle of the platform, made a megaphone of his cupped hands, “Abandon ship!” he shouted, fore and aft. He stepped into the wheelhouse. Miraculously found the microphone. Pulled it to his lips, hoping the public address system still worked. “Abandon ship!”

  He reached down. Found a life jacket in a small locker. Shrugged his way through the shoulder loops. Secured the snaps. But another engine was booming off the starboard side.

  The captain moved across the wheelhouse.

  Stepped over the now still, silent remains of the Zampolit and the radar man. He slid down the port ladder to the main deck. Three bodies were on the deck in a heap. Engineers. The engine roared. Then the sounds of cannons. He flung himself to the deck. But he was safe here from cannons, shielded by the superstructure. But nothing could protect him from the bombs. Two explosions off the port beam. Two towers of water. The plane was gone. Water poured down.

  Boris came to his feet slowly. The heap of engineers came to life. The three men came to their feet. Faced their captain, terror and disbelief on their faces. “We have a chance,” Boris Sinilov said. “The interval between planes is at least a thousand meters. After the next run, we’ll unlash the dory.” The men looked numb. “The dory on the forecastle.” The men nodded slowly. “We can launch it. We only need seconds.” The men nodded with a little more animation. “They are attacking from the starboard side. Understand?” Again the nods, a few grunts. An engine roared. Cannons.

  “Down!” The four men huddled against the superstructure. Two explosions. Missed. Water, blood, and whale fragment rained. Boris came to his feet, gasping. Pulled the others to their feet, screaming, “Now!”

  They tumbled down the ladder, following Boris. The captain’s heart leaped. The dory was still lashed down, keel up, undamaged. And the rest of the helmsman was there, splattered on the boat — Semyon Starinov’s head and chest. Quickly, Boris pushed the carrion onto the deck. Again, there was the sound of an approaching aircraft. Boris reached down, pulled up hard on the quick release lever. The lashings popped loose. Already, the men surrounded the boat. “Over the port rail,” the captain screamed over the increasing roar. “Throw it — you know it’s self-righting.” In seconds, the aluminum boat splashed into the water, held close by its painter.

  There was the staccato pop of cannon. “Over the side,” Boris barked. A young engineer screamed and leaped into the air, clutching his stomach. He fell over the rail. Vanished. Boris leaped. Felt icy water close over him.

  Buoyed by his life jacket, the captain popped to the surface, immediately. To his horror, he found himself in a giant slick of whale blood and viscera. But the dory was nearby. He pushed his way through the slimy flotsam. A head popped up in his path. Another engineer. Young and blond. Like a schoolboy. Seventeen-year-old engineman Leonit Vlasov. The boy screamed. The scream became a gurgle as the head slipped beneath the slime. Boris grabbed the boy by the neck. Pulled him to the side of the dory. Both men grasped the gunwale. Another radial engine roared. “Pull yourself in,” Boris shouted.

  In a moment, Leonit was in the boat. Then Boris flopped in, breathing hard. Leonit Vlasov was gagging. Boris searched the water. No more heads. He released the painter, slipping two oars into their oarlocks, and began to pull away from the burning ship.

  Another plane was making a run. Two metallic, hollow blasts. Kalmykovo leaped from the water, her waist a volcano, spewing flame and debris. Then she settled back, wallowing crazily, keel broken. The plane flashed over.

  For the first time, Boris recognized the rising-sun insignia. Holding the oar handles to his chest, he threw his head back, roaring, “Killers! You’re late. Forty years late!”

  He looked back at his ship. Only her bow and stern were visible. Broken in half, she sank, forming a giant V. Then she vanished, great bubbles marking her grave.

  Quickly, Boris scanned the sea. Debris from Kalmykovo was everywhere: broken timbers, boxes and barrels popping to the surface. Pieces of whale floated in the massive blood slick. A huge piece of intestine — still inflated — bobbed up and down like a downed balloon. But there were no more heads. Only he and Leonit Vlasov were left.

  Now the young engineman sat up, looked around fearfully, uncomprehending. “Why? Why, Captain?”

  “I don’t know why.” And then Boris tossed his head toward Kalmykovo’s grave, “Keep looking — there may be survivors.”

  There was the familiar roar of a closing aircraft. The captain shipped his oars, looked over his shoulder. A plane was closing in low. “Get down, Leonit,” he said, slowly. But the young man sat, frozen erect, staring.

  Boris raised his fist. Shook it at the looming plane. “No! No! It’s over! Over!” But words have never stopped bullets. Skimming the water, the white aircraft charged the boat, cannon and machineguns flaming. The sea boiled around the boat, bloody splashes leaping. Boris heard Leonit scream. The young engineman jerked, lost an arm, part of his skull flew skyward. He tumbled over the side.

  A sledgehammer hit Boris Sinilov, knocking him flat. Then someone else was screaming. It was himself.

  *

  Returning to Yonaga, Cmdr. Masao Shimizu was angry. Half his pilots had missed the target with their bombs and he, the most experienced and the leader, had sunk a whale. Yes. Two direct hits on a dead whale. And he had fired perhaps a hundred rounds of twenty millimeter and a couple hundred rounds of seven-point-seven on his only pass. The sixth pilot, Yamauchi, had put her down. Seven, eight, and nine had strafed a single boat. By the time he came around for his second pass, there was nothing left to shoot at.

  But Lt. Takeo Suguira had died superbly. Thank the Gods for Suguira. If he
hadn’t rammed the ship, the enemy certainly would have transmitted a call for help. But even Suguira had been a little off when he crashed into the ship, ramming the stack instead of the radio room. But the bombs did it. The radio shack vanished; even the superstructure had almost been blown from the ship. Great Yamato damashii. Yes, it had been the lieutenant’s time to die and he did it well.

  Then he saw Yonaga, looming on the horizon. He hated to land on carriers. Yonaga was a postage stamp flying with the wind. But he was pleased to see the sky empty of planes and the deck cleared. Apparently, all training missions had landed and been struck below.

  They would land in reverse order, eighth plane first. He, the flight commander, first to take off, was last to land. Throttling back to 150 knots, he led his Zeros to within two thousand meters of the carrier and then began orbiting counterclockwise at a low altitude. Looking down, he could see plane handlers, barrier and arresting gear men boil out of their shack, tucked away at the aft end of the island. Like ants, they raced across the deck and tumbled into the catwalks lining the decks. Now, the landing signal officer, holding two yellow flags, was visible, manning his post far aft on the port side.

  Then, amidships, the fearsome wire and steel mesh barrier was cranked out of its slots in the deck. Every carrier pilot feared the barrier. The commander knew he must hook one of four tension rigged wires. To protect the ship, the tension on the individual arresting wires increased in the direction of the landing, so that a plane catching the last wire would be brought up much shorter and much more violently than if one of the first three wires were caught.