Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  Shimizu took several deep breaths, choked back a sour taste, waiting for the final signal. Suddenly, it was there: a single green pennant flapping at Yonaga’s yardarm.

  Immediately, the last fighter broke from the pattern, throttled back, and approached Yonaga’s stem. The landing signal officer appeared as a yellow cross, arms extended, flags horizontal. Now the plane was very low, on the carrier’s center line, close to the stern. Suddenly, the flags were dropped, crossed at the landing officer’s knees.

  Throttle cut, the fighter sagged to the deck, smartly catching the first wire and pulling it like a rubber band. The fighter jerked to a halt. Two handlers leaped from the catwalk, ran to the plane, and freed the hook. Grasping the wingtips, two more handlers walked the aircraft forward over the retracted barrier to the forward elevator. Then the barrier rose again and the wire run out by the plane was retracted to its original position. Only thirty seconds had elapsed since the Zero caught the wire. Plane number seven approached.

  All went well until plane number two — Shimizu’s wingman, Naval Air Pilot First Class Susumu Hino — made his approach. He was too high. Shimizu could see the landing signal officer wave off the fighter with frantic gestures toward the bow. But the Zero’s engine died as if the ignition had been cut. Without power, it dropped like a stone, bounced from the deck. But then, suddenly, its engine burst into life. Again it came down, bounced like a soccer ball, pulling a wire with it. Handlers leaped from their catwalks.

  The wire broke, snapping like a great rubber band. Two strands of steel mesh wire hummed to port and starboard like whip ends. One strand caught a handler at the waist, severing his torso neatly from his legs. Both parts, spewing blood and intestines, catapulted into the sea.

  Unrestrained, the fighter bounced over the barrier and raced toward the bow, dragging its port wing. Hino cut his engine. Too late. The plane ground looped and cartwheeled into the AA crews manning guns on the ship’s port bow. The plane, shedding its wings, plunged over the side and vanished into the sea. Nothing was left but two ripped wings, over the port bow. First aid crews rushed to the stricken mounts.

  Shimizu cursed, struck the fire wall with a gloved fist. He had never lost a wingman and today both Suguiro and Hino had died — Hino uselessly. The commander looked down at the deck. There were three wires left, but little damage. A gun or two out of commission and probably a few dead and injured. The barrier was up and the green pennant was still two-blocked.

  He knew all eyes were on him — curious eyes, wondering if the ace from China would lose his nerve. He ground his teeth, squinted, hunched forward, and reduced power. He was very close, only a few meters from Yonaga’s stem and losing altitude fast. He could see the landing signal officer holding the flags horizontally. Then, just as he reached the carrier’s stern, the flags crossed. He held his breath, cut his throttle, felt the fighter sink.

  Suddenly, he was pulled forward by a great force. The wire. He had caught the first wire. Quickly, there was a second impact as the Mitsubishi’s wheels bounced on the deck. He slammed on the brakes.

  He looked around, carefully presenting an impassive visage. But he was rejoicing. Not perfect, but a three point landing, ran through his mind. Releasing the brakes, he felt the aircraft move as the handlers walked it forward. He sank back in his seat.

  *

  “You destroyed the target, Commander?” Fujita said, gesturing to a chair.

  Shimizu seated himself, thankful he was alone with the admiral. He spoke freely. “Yes, Admiral, Lieutenant Suguira died gloriously, crashing his Zero into the enemy. He blew the radio shack completely off the ship.” The commander adroitly avoided mentioning the fact that Suguira had actually rammed the stack and not the radio shack.

  Pleased, the old man nodded. “And the rest of the operation, how did it go?”

  There would be no more deception. “Not too well, Admiral. Our bombing accuracy was poor.”

  “Gunnery?”

  The commander pursed his lips. “Acceptable — better than our bombing.”

  “Fighter pilots are not good bombardiers, Commander. But you are right, we have lost some of our efficiency.” The old man sighed. “And we are suffering casualties to lack of practice and equipment failure. Who did we lose when you landed?”

  “NAP Susumu Hino.”

  The old man shook his head. “A good man, Masao — a good man. What a waste.” He sank back in his chair. “While you were on your mission, we lost an Aichi and a Nakajima with their crews.” There was anguish in the voice. “How, sir?”

  “Their engines just quit — for no reason. We could not reach them in time.” A bony fist thumped the desk. “One escort — if we only had one escort. We have lost six aircraft in four days.” “We still have over a hundred that can fly and the samurai to fly them, Admiral.”

  “We have the finest maintenance crews in the world, Commander. But even they cannot repulse the onslaught of time.” The old man’s face was grim. “A cable snapped today.”

  Shimizu nodded. “I saw it. We lost a handler.” “Foolishly. He was out of his catwalk too early. I have issued orders — all arresting gear personnel are to remain off the flight deck until aircraft are completely at rest.” He tapped his desk. “The gear is old, very old — has lost elasticity.”

  “How will we disengage the hooks?”

  “Back the aircraft down, they are supposed to release automatically.”

  “Dangerous, Admiral. The hooks have not been disengaging. My own, today, did not.”

  Fujita nodded. “I know. I was watching.” He leaned forward. “We will restrain the handlers. Let them leave safety only when a hook is fouled.”

  “We will lose seconds.”

  “In the event of an emergency, the order is rescinded.”

  “Of course, Admiral.” And then, softly, “Every man who dies, even in an accident, is serving the Mikado, will enter the Yasakuni Shrine.”

  The old man’s face was solemn. “Naval Air Pilot First Class Susumu Hino entered Yasakuni today because of a landing accident.” Silence. “At this moment, we can put him to better use than the gods. Let Yasakuni wait until seven December. We may all enter together.”

  “The planes are old, we are old, and our fuel is watery, Admiral.”

  The voice was harsh. “Those words are not becoming to you, Commander Shimizu.”

  Shimizu came erect, stung by the rebuke. “That was not defeatist, sir. These are facts.”

  “Facts?”

  “Yes, Admiral. I never saw a flier die the way Hino did. His engine cut out and at exactly the wrong time. He broke one wire and missed the others — cleared the barrier.” He turned his palms up. “Perhaps his eyes — depth perception … ”

  “We lost three gunners, too.”

  “I did not know, Admiral.”

  The old sailor stroked his chin. His voice was firm, determined. “If we have lost some of our skill, it is because of lack of practice, not age. True, our equipment may be old, some defective. But our men are young — kept young by the love of combat, the hunger to die as samurai, striking a blow for the emperor and freedom. Spirit like this is as timeless as the vengeance of the forty-seven ronin. Look around you at your comrades. Most have lived for over six decades. Do they look old, ready to be scuttled? No! The spirit of bushido has kept them young.”

  The commander nodded silently, lips pinched, unconvinced. The admiral continued. “I am convinced we will face weapons on seven December that we have never dreamed about. We cannot tell ourselves we are old — flying antiquated aircraft — cannot see.”

  “You know it makes no difference, Admiral. We would charge them on horseback.”

  The old man sighed through a smile. “Spoken like a samurai.” And then, grimly, “You know that in a little more than thirty-six hours, you will lead our air groups against Pearl Harbor.” Shimizu nodded eagerly. “You know Plan Z, of course?”

  “Admiral, I helped Kameto Kuroshima write it.”

&nbs
p; “I am becoming forgetful.” The old man appeared indifferent to his own oblique reference to the ravages of time. “We will change the plan, slightly.” He moved to the edge of his seat. “Instead of two strikes, we will hold nine Zeros as CAP and send everything that can clear the flight deck on one strike, not two.”

  “Good idea, Admiral. I suspect their radar is efficient and they must have jet aircraft similar to that Russian reconnaissance aircraft. I would expect them to react very quickly.”

  The old man chuckled. “Fuchida found them asleep in 1941.” And then with seriousness, “Most of their radio broadcasts are lies.”

  “Of course, Admiral.”

  “But Americans love to talk too much.” Shimizu laughed. “Even their magazines. Remember, in the Thirties, how the Admiralty subscribed to their aviation magazines?”

  “Oh, yes, Masao. They provided us with beautiful schematics of their P-Thirty-Sixes, P-Thirty-Nines, and P-Fortys.”

  “And the performance data helped us kill them in China, Admiral.”

  “Yes. They can be helpful — in fact, they have continued to be helpful.”

  “Weapons, Admiral?”

  “The Sidewinder, in particular, Commander.”

  “You believe they have such a missile?”

  The old man nodded, jaw firm. “As I have said, most of their broadcasts are lies, but I believe they have it and will use it against you from jets that are much faster than our Zeros, but not as maneuverable.”

  “They are heat seekers, Admiral. Heat seekers designed to attack the heat generated by aircraft engines.”

  “More specifically, generated by other jets, Masao. I suspect our Sakaes are not nearly as hot as jets. And our engines are definitely not as hot as flares.”

  “Flares, Admiral. Excellent idea. Burning magnesium is much hotter than our engines.” A grin spread slowly across Shimizu’s face. “According to their broadcast, they must have us in sight, too, Admiral.”

  “Yes. As soon as they appear, have your pilot begin firing flares.”

  “Admiral,” Shimizu said, eyes narrowing. “In China their Curtises tried to compensate for their slow speed by attacking head-on.”

  “Yes, Masao. If their jets are as fast as they advertise, we should make head-on interceptions.” Shimizu nodded. The old man hunched forward. “We will discuss every detail of Plan Z and what we know and suspect with the group leaders tomorrow at 1500 hours.”

  Shimizu nodded, a grin cracking the hollows of his cheeks. “Yes, Admiral.” There were lights behind the black eyes. “Our stripes — identification numbers?”

  “Tomorrow, Masao. All aircraft will be painted with carrier stripes, chrysantheumums, and squadron numbers.” The old man bent forward, hands on desk. “Masao, you remember the signal if surprise is achieved?”

  The bony face became grim. “How can I forget, Admiral. ‘Tora, tora, tora.’”

  The old man sank back, sighed contentedly.

  NINE

  5 December 1983

  “Plain language,” Pamela Ward said from her chair, facing Commander Bell’s desk. “Russian radio’s gone wild.”

  “Over that whaler?” Brent asked, leaning forward in his chair.

  “A catcher boat,” Bell said.

  “Where?” Brent asked.

  Pamela stood, walked to the chart, glanced at a note pad and raised a finger. “About here: longitude 164 degrees, 30 minutes west, latitude 44 degrees, 10 minutes north.” She returned to her chair.

  Brent said, “Damn! Midway between the Aleutians and Hawaiian Islands.” He remembered something Dennis Banks said. “A possible pattern.”

  “Pattern?” Bell snorted. “You mean your sub fished a one hundred foot catcher boat?” “Something destroyed it — the LRA, the helicopter, the Sparta.”

  Bell moved his eyes to Pamela. “What did the catcher boat transmit?”

  “Nothing, Commander. It was the factory ship, Gelendzhik, communicating with Vladivostok. The catcher blew up with such violence, its kill was blown to pieces, too.”

  “No survivors?”

  “No survivors, Commander.”

  Bell turned to Brent. “See, Brent, an accident. Nothing but an accident.”

  Brent’s stomach burned like he had swallowed a glass of acid. Bell was reflecting Captain Avery, protecting his career. Brent knew the commander would never favor an ensign’s suggestions over a captain’s. And, anyway, Brent could understand; credibility must be strained to accept Japanese holdouts as responsible for the four incidents. And he wondered, too. Bell was right about the torpedoes. A small catcher boat’s draft was too shallow for a torpedo attack. And aircraft were out; float planes could not take off in the rough north Pacific. Then the only attack had to be made with deck guns. But battle surface took time — too much time: surfacing, unlimbering the guns. The catcher boat would have transmitted. No! Its end was sudden, cataclysmic and probably accidental. But maybe not. He stared at the chart.

  Ross slowly, silently walked to the chart, Bell and Pamela staring. He picked up the dividers. Swung an arc south of the Aleutians. “Six hundred miles,” he said, almost to himself. “Within range.”

  Bell chuckled. “Brent, not an Aleutian base. Not Zeros flying south and attacking a catcher boat. Of all things — a catcher boat. What were they doing, practicing?”

  Brent knew the commander made sense and he didn’t. He shrugged, found his seat. Uneasy. There was a pattern. But how? Why? What?

  Bell spoke to Pamela. “Anything on the aircraft’s last transmission?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry, Commander. Not yet.”

  Bell nodded grimly. Turned to the ensign. “I’ve been in touch with the naval hospital. Tyronne Jones is still in a coma.”

  “Say anything more?”

  “No, Brent. Only what you reported this morning — something about an island and flowers.” Brent nodded. Bell continued. “A nurse named Smathers, Janice Smathers, phoned and suggested you return.” A slight smile played with the commander’s lips. “She suggested you might miss something if you didn’t.”

  Brent felt Pamela’s eyes on his warm cheek. “Ah, thank you, Commander. But I asked to be informed if Tyronne Jones improved — began speaking. Most of the time he’s silent. There’s no reason for me to stand by his bed.” Mercifully, Pamela’s eyes moved from the ensign, returning to Bell.

  Bell’s face was straight. “Very well, Ensign. You may return to your section. And Lieutenant, you are dismissed, too.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the officers chorused. Rising quickly, they exited, Brent with the uncomfortable feeling that Bell knew all about the intimacy between Pamela and himself. Strange, how hidden, unconscious signals always seemed to communicate this one secret. He had seen it with others couples, and now, he was convinced, it had happened to him and Pamela.

  Stopping at the scuttlebutt, he handed the cryptographer a cup of water. “My sub doesn’t look too good on this one,” he said, sipping.

  She drank. And then thoughtfully, “Brent, you’re right. Maybe it’s intuition — completely unscientific — but too much has happened up there. I have the feeling that something horrible, murderous is loose.”

  He gazed at her. Her eyes were on the wall, staring through it. “But damn, what?” he said, crushing his empty cup and throwing it into a wastebasket. “I haven’t really made sense and you know it.”

  “No! I don’t know it.” She turned her eyes to his. “Uncle Mark will see us tonight.” Brent nodded. “Lay it out for him. He’ll listen. I told you he knows more about holdouts than anyone.”

  Brent answered with new spirit. “Yes. Yes, I’ve heard about him most of my life. He’s a genius. What time?”

  “1900.”

  “Pick you up at 1830.”

  “Four-oh,” she said, smiling her most dazzling smile.

  He sighed, but kept his hands on his sides.

  *

  Although Brent had seen Rear Adm. Mark Allen at several Comthirteen meeti
ngs and was aware his father and the admiral had worked together in Japan after World War II, he had never had a conversation with the admiral. The sixty-four-year-old man was a legend. A Rhodes scholar, master of seven languages, including Japanese which he learned in Japanese schools during the Twenties and Thirties as the son of a Tokyo-based naval attaché, Allen was acknowledged as the Navy’s supreme authority on Japanese history and culture. He had served in World War II in Naval Intelligence and later as a key member of Samual B. Morison’s staff, gathering data for Morison’s monumental, fifteen volume, United States Naval Operations in World War II. And the admiral had married a Japanese, Keiko Morimoto, who Brent had glimpsed at a party — a sparkling diamond of a woman with glistening black hair, flawless amber skin, and a quick smile that flashed perfect teeth.

  Now Brent found himself cresting Seattle’s Queen Anne Hill, driving east on Howe Street, Pamela Ward at his side, contemplating the violent events of the past five days — submarines, Zeros, and wondering if the admiral would consider him foolish, too. “Do you think he’ll listen, Pam?”

  “Of course he will, Brent.” Her hand touched his. “He’s intelligent, educated, and very Japanese. He’ll listen and maybe see something we have missed. It could be something very obvious.” And then, gesturing quickly, “Turn left here on Dexter.”

  The powerful engine whined as Brent shifted down to second gear. Then there was a squeal of steel-belted tires as the squat sports car made a quick, ninety-degree change in direction.

  “Easy, Mister Ross. I don’t want to roll down into Lake Union.” Pamela gestured down at a vast expanse of water that glistened like a blue-gray mirror, stretching from the roadside to the towers of downtown Seattle.

  “Sorry,” Brent said. “I’d better get my mind off the north Pacific and on Seattle.”

  Pamela gestured to a well-kept, white colonial. “There it is.”

  Brent nodded, and eased the Datsun to the curb.