by Peter Albano
*
Tall, erect, with a shock of white hair, Rear Adm. Mark Allen gave the appearance of a college professor. His gray-green eyes were warm yet inquisitive like a scientist contemplating an unexpected discovery. He hugged Pamela and then grasped Brent’s hand. “Good to meet you,” he said. Then he turned, calling, “Keiko. They’re here.”
When the porcelain doll entered the room, Brent knew his memory had served him well. With features as delicate as bridal lace, she seemed even more lovely.
The women exchanged a hug. “Good to see you,” Keiko said, softly. Then she extended a velvet soft hand to Brent.
Mark Allen gestured to the living room, saying, “There’s an old Japanese proverb, ‘A man with no tea in him is not in tune with the universe.’”
“I’m ready for some fine tuning,” Pamela said quickly.
Laughing, the foursome entered the living room. And what a living room. At least thirty feet long and twenty feet wide, one side — the side facing the lake — had twelve feet of ceiling-high glass. Facing the windows was a plump sofa tucked behind a marble topped table. Two chairs faced the sofa while at one end of the room a massive used-brick fireplace dominated. A small table and two chairs occupied the other end of the room.
Brent and Pamela sagged into the depths of the sofa while Mark Allen sat in a chair facing his two guests. Keiko poured tea into tiny white cups, handing them to her guests. Then she sat down, holding her own cup.
Mark cleared his throat. “So you’re Trigger Ross’ son,” he said, voice soft. “I knew your father years ago — we had duty together in Japan after the war.” He narrowed his eyes. “Haven’t we met, Brent?”
“I’ve been to a couple meetings with you, and a party.”
“I remember,” Keiko said, suddenly, “at the officers’ club.”
Brent nodded, pleased to be remembered by the lovely Keiko. The admiral continued. “I hear there’s to be a service for the crew of Sparta in San Francisco. I intend to attend.”
“I’d be honored, Admiral.”
“My niece told me you had something to discuss — something about Sparta.”
Brent cleared his throat. “It’s more than Sparta, Admiral.”
“The Coast Guard helicopter and the Russian LRA.”
“Yes, Admiral. But now you’ve got to add a Russian whaler.”
“I haven’t heard of that one.”
Pamela spoke. “It came across this afternoon, Uncle Mark.”
The admiral hunched forward. “Where?”
“North Pacific — between the Aleutians and Hawaiian Islands. It vanished suddenly without a Mayday. Apparently blew up,” Brent said. And then grimly, “You know Japanese ammunition was used against Sparta.”
“Of course. And you know, Brent, we still have an ARS on the scene and we’ve increased our P-Three-C Orion patrols.”
Silence. Brent gathered himself like a man preparing to plunge into an ice-sheathed lake. “Admiral, you’ve done a lot of work with Japanese holdouts.” The admiral’s hands tightened on his arm rests; Keiko’s delicate jaw firmed.
“You’re inferring holdouts could be involved?”
Brent felt a familiar emptiness. “You find this ludicrous?”
“Not at all. I spent over twenty years investigating and debriefing holdouts from Guam, Java, Borneo, Lubang — from all over the western and southern Pacific. Anything’s possible with them. No one knows how many of them are still out there.” The older man sank back. “I see your thinking, and I’m curious, but go ahead with your tack, Brent. I’ll ask my questions later.”
The women moved their eyes from man to man, but remained silent. Brent spoke. “Thank you, Admiral. Most people don’t care to listen.”
“Bell and Avery,” the admiral said, a sudden harshness in his voice. And then nodding, “Go ahead, Brent.”
“You mentioned Lubang in the Philippines.”
“Yes.”
“Lieutenant Hiroo Onoda?”
“Correct, Brent. I know him well. The classic holdout. He came out in ’74. I debriefed him. A remarkable man.” There was respect in the voice. “Truly dedicated to his country, his emperor, his traditions.”
“He was obeying orders.”
“Of course. He was assigned to Lubang by a major named Taniguchi in March of 1944. His orders were to conduct guerrilla warfare. And, by God, he did, for thirty years.”
“Alone?” Pamela said, suddenly coming to life. “His last companion, a private named Kinshichi Kozuka, was killed in 1972. After that, he was alone — yes.”
“How did they find food?” Pamela asked.
“Lubang is agricultural — has a population of about twelve thousand farmers. The Japanese shot cows, stole bananas, rice, found papayas, mangos, pineapples. Food was plentiful.”
Keiko spoke. “The Japanese know nature, adapt to nature, Brent. We don’t fight it.” Her eyes seemed unusually bright.
Brent nodded, felt uncomfortable, but continued. “His weapons?”
Mark Allen answered. “A Model Ninety-Nine infantry rifle. In perfect order. Clean and polished with palm oil. Ammunition was carefully preserved and plentiful when he came out.”
Pamela said, “But he just couldn’t shut out the world — there must have been leaflets, attempts to make contact. He must have known the war was over.”
“Oh, yes, Pam. Leaflets were dropped and teams from Japan, including his own brother and father, hailed him by loudspeaker.”
“He didn’t hear them?” Brent asked.
“Oh, he heard them. He just wouldn’t believe them.”
“A plot?” Brent said.
The admiral nodded. “Yes. An American plot to mislead him into surrender. He even had a transistor radio he stole from the natives.”
“And disbelieved everything he heard,” Brent said.
“Everything that didn’t fit his thinking.”
“His thinking?” Pamela said.
The admiral nodded. “I mean his vows as a fighting man — his devotion to duty and orders and his conviction that Japan could not surrender.”
Pamela spoke. “Then, as do all military personnel, these holdouts adhere to orders.”
“Of course, Pam. It’s a matter of degree. To the Japanese, ah, to the samurai, obeying orders and dying well are the basic drives.”
“Then why did Onoda surrender?” Pamela asked, intrigued.
“He didn’t. Major Taniguchi returned to Lubang and finally convinced him his orders had been changed. His honor was intact.”
“He returned a hero,” Brent said.
“Yes. His welcome was tumultuous — he became a national hero.” And then the admiral continued thoughtfully, “You suspect holdouts might be responsible for the loss of Sparta?”
Brent came erect. “You know there was a Mayday.” The older man nodded while Brent repeated the message. “And you know Japanese World War II ammunition was used against Sparta.”
“We’ve discussed that and it’s not enough, Brent.” The tone was cordial. “There must be more.”
Quickly, Brent reviewed his suspicions about the Chukchi Peninsula, the existence of a secret base with a natural supply of oil, the possibility of a strip in the Aleutians and finally, the plane carrying capacity of the ST Zero-type submarine.
The admiral squinted, eyes on the ensign. “Sparta, Coast Guard helicopter, LRA, and now a whaler — in a line, pointing south.” Brent and Pamela nodded. “But there was a survivor.”
“Yes, Admiral. The co-pilot of the helicopter, Tyronne Jones. He’s in a coma,” the young man said.
“You saw him?”
“Yes. He screams about an island and huge flowers.”
Mark Allen scratched his chin. “Doesn’t make sense for those latitudes.” His eyes moved above Brent’s head, seemed to stare through the wall. “There was considerable Japanese activity in that area during the war.”
“Yes. They took Attu and Kiska,” Brent said.
“More than
that.” Mark’s eyes returned to Brent. “Ever hear of Unit Seven-Three-One?”
“Of course, Admiral. There’s been a lot in the papers lately. They were monsters, a Japanese SS. They even conducted medical experiments on Allied POWs.”
Keiko rose suddenly. “I have some chores in the kitchen,” she said softly. “Please excuse me.”
“If I’ve offended … ” Brent said, shocked by his oversight.
“No,” the tiny woman said, firmly. “What you are saying — discussing is necessary. Remember, I am a citizen of two countries — two countries both of which have linens best kept in the closet.” She smiled. “I am a Japanese wife. I have my duties.”
Brent looked to the admiral, was reassured by a smile. “My wife is correct. This conversation is necessary. There are painful memories for men of all nations after the recent unpleasantness.”
“Let me help you,” Pamela said suddenly, rising, a cup in each hand.
Keiko nodded. In a moment, the women vanished into the kitchen, carrying the tea service.
The men sank back, almost as if a weight had been removed. The admiral continued in a matter-of-fact tone, “Little is known of Unit Seven-Three-One. News has broken only in the past few years.” Brent nodded, relieved by the admiral’s tone. “We discovered they were experimenting with balloon-carried bacteriological warfare weapons. They had scouts as far north as the Aleutians — weather stations on Kiska, Attu and, we suspect, Rat Island and Agatu.”
“Weather stations?”
“Why not? The Axis had them everywhere. The Germans even had one on Greenland.”
“But why the Aleutians?”
“They were looking for the ideal launching site for their balloons. But, apparently, they gave up on the idea after the Doolittle raid in’42.”
“Afraid of reprisals.”
“Apparently, Brent.”
“Did they establish any bases?”
“Unknown. But we know they searched all the way to the Arctic. So, you see, your suspicion that a base could exist is not far-fetched to me.” Again, the eyes found the faraway place above Brent’s head. “But Brent, Hiroo Onoda on tropical Lubang is one thing, survival in the frozen hell of the Bering Sea area is quite another.”
“The Bering Sea teems with sea life and the Japanese are seafood eaters.”
“Not enough.”
“Oil seeps up, Admiral.”
The admiral shook his head. And then Brent remembered something Commander Bell had said about volcanic activity. “The Pacific Ring of Fire.” The older man stiffened. “There are hundreds of volcanoes, Admiral, stretching in an arc that encompasses the entire northern Pacific basin.”
“You are suggesting geothermal power?”
“A possibility. Induction, intuition, call it what you like. Why not? None of this makes sense, anyway.”
“Go on, Brent.” Mark scratched a temple with a single finger.
The ensign leaned forward eagerly. “Just imagine, Admiral, a bay or cove with oil or steam or both. Imagine a submarine capable of carrying aircraft — a type of ST Zero.”
“Breaking out now — crewed by a bunch of samurai? The Zeros would have to be float planes.”
“There were Zero float planes.”
“I know, Brent. I know. There would have to be a strip for land planes. No! No! That doesn’t make sense — too easy to spot.” He rose. “I have a chart in the den.” Quickly, the admiral moved to a doorway.
In a moment he returned and spread a chart of the north Pacific on the marble table. Sitting next to Brent, pencil in hand, he made a cross in the Bering Sea, and said, “Sparta.” Then a mark off Attu. “Helicopter.” Further south, another mark. “Russian long-range aircraft.” He turned to Brent, handed him the pencil.
Brent leaned over the chart, made a mark between the Aleutians and the Hawaiian Islands. “Whaler.”
Both men concentrated on the chart. The admiral spoke first. “Bell and Avery assume pirates for Sparta and coincidental accidents for the rest.”
“I don’t feel they accept pirates, either. It’s too far out. They just reject Zeros — out of hand. They want more evidence before they conclude anything.”
Allen’s voice was sharp with sarcasm. “Playing it safe.”
Brent traced a finger over the four marks from north to south. “You know, Admiral, a friend of mine, Dennis Banks, said there was a possible pattern here.” He fingered the three northern marks. “And that was before the whaler was lost.”
“It looks like it, doesn’t it. With the dates of losses, the elapsed time, and distances between the scenes of the losses, a ship certainly could be suspected.”
“Then you think a sub is a possibility?”
“Not really.”
“The whaler doesn’t fit the sub theory, does it?”
“You’ve been thinking, Brent.”
The ensign chuckled. “Talking, Admiral — to Commander Bell. We are convinced that a torpedo attack against such a shallow draft vessel would be unlikely and battle surface would be too slow.”
“Right! The Russkies would have screamed their heads off.” He tapped the marble. “A surprise strike by aircraft could do it. But, again, they couldn’t be sub launched and if there was a forgotten base in the Aleutians, why fly to the extreme range of your aircraft to sink something as innocuous as a whaler?”
Brent leaned back, turned his palms up. “Don’t know, Admiral.” He dropped his hands to his knees. “Maybe I should deep six the whole idea.”
Mark Allen shook his head, kept his eyes on the chart. “Let me be the advocate of the holdout theory.” Brent leaned forward. “We need a vessel, fast, with overwhelming striking power.”
Brent turned, gazed at the older man. “You don’t mean a carrier?”
The admiral turned slowly, faced Brent. “If we are to assume holdouts, yes, Brent. A carrier.”
Brent whistled softly, tapped the marble. “Oh Lord, even a small carrier is a large ship — a community of hundreds, thousands of men, aircraft, gasoline … ” He shook his head.
“I know the assumption is absurd, Brent.” The admiral dropped the pencil. It, rolled across the chart. “But if I’m to advocate the holdout theory, given these data — ” he nodded at the chart — “I’m forced to conclude carrier.”
“With respect to you, sir. If I suggest carrier to Commander Bell and Captain Avery, they’ll have me confined.”
The admiral laughed. “They may not receive you sympathetically.” And then, with new seriousness, he continued, “If we throw out carrier, and assume airstrip, we’d be restricted to the Aleutians, Brent.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
“Brent, I think you have something. Something strange, ominously ancient Japanese in character, could be happening up there.” He leaned forward, to study the chart. “There’s one old Japanese colonel — a survivor of Unit Seven-Three-One confined to an asylum near Tokyo.”
“Asylum?”
“Yes. He breathed some of their own poison — dissolved his brain. Most of the time he’s mute, but I hear he rambles — on occasion.” He tapped the chart. “I have a friend, a commander named Keith Randall who’s stationed in Yokosuka. He’s in supply now but spent over twenty years in Naval. Intelligence. He’s an expert on Unit Seven-Three-One — even spent some time in Manchuria with a team of investigators looking over the ruins of their old camps. I’m going to ask him to interrogate the old colonel about Seven-Three-One’s activities in the Aleutian area.” He moved a finger over the Aleutians. “He might get something. They were clever, resourceful — it’s possible.”
“When will you contact Randall, Admiral?” There was urgency in the voice. “Tomorrow?”
“No,” the older man said, rising and moving toward the den. “I’ll place a call to my office now. We’ll make it official. I’ll contact Randall immediately.”
TEN
6 December 1983
“Gentlemen, you are serving aboard the most formidable weapon
s system afloat.” Comdr. Lloyd Hopkins said, standing before a huge schematic sketch of the battleship New Jersey. Short, heavy set, with fleshy cheeks and weathered skin, the sixty-two-year-old weapons officer stared expectantly at the small conference room’s two other occupants: Ensign Jeffrey Foulger and Ensign Michael Hughes.
Seated in stainless steel and black vinyl chairs, the pair stared across a table of brilliantly polished oak that seemed transparent and deep as the sea. Hughes said, “It’s a pleasure to be here, sir. You know Ensign Foulger has had duty on a frigate, but I’ve never been to sea.”
The old commander smiled benignly, turned to Jeffrey. “Glad you have experience, Foulger. But don’t be offended when I brief you. I always assume new staff members know nothing — start from square one. It’s safer that way.”
“Of course, sir.”
“First, both of you know we’re anchored on old Battleship Row — in the exact spot occupied by the Tennessee, on seven December, 1941.”
“Just ahead of the Arizona,” Hughes said.
“Right. This was a hot spot, indeed, forty-two years ago tomorrow. The Arizona is nothing but a memorial now.” Hopkins picked up a pointer, rolled it in hands. “But forget the past, I’m here to acquaint you with your equipment — your duties.” He moved the pointer over the schematic. “887 feet long, 108-foot beam and a displacement of fifty-eight thousand tons, nine sixteen-inch guns.”
“Weren’t the Yamatos bigger?” Hughes said, suddenly.
The commander stared at Hughes. “Why, yes, but they were all destroyed years ago.”
“There were three built,” Hughes persisted.
“Correct. But they’re gone,” the commander said sharply. He returned to the drawing. “Our job is complex. This electronic age has added new dimensions to the gunnery and weapons problems afloat. Keep in mind,” he said, turning to gaze at the young ensigns, “all battleships were built to provide platforms for their main batteries.” The ensigns nodded. “But this concept has changed.”
“Cruise missiles — tomahawks and harpoons,” Foulger offered.
“You’ve been doing your homework,” Hopkins said. “Tomahawks and harpoons add to our range. We have thirty-two tomahawks fired from armored box launchers. We can attack targets at a range of almost three hundred miles with either nuclear or conventional warheads. But keep in mind, the harpoon — we have sixteen — is also a devastating anti-ship system with a range of thirty miles.”
