Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  Hughes spoke. “Both are cruise missiles and fly at subsonic speeds.”

  “Yes. Both are rocket launched and then jet propelled to their targets.”

  “Guidance, sir,” Foulger said, leaning forward.

  “The tomahawk uses an inertial system against land targets, but both missiles, when fired against floating targets, use their own data processors. We give input from our shipboard computers in CEC.”

  “CEC?” Hughes said.

  “Sorry, Ensign. Our Admiral William F. Halsey memorial suite has been converted to what we call our Combat Engagement Center — CEC. CEC houses our missile fire control electronics. Its computers are continuously accessed by our SLQ-Thirty-Two Electronics Warfare System and our SPS-Forty-Nine air search radar.”

  “But terminal guidance, sir,” Foulger said.

  “Both missiles have their own terminal systems.” The pointer tapped the table. “The DSQ-Twenty-Eight active radar system takes over at close range and homes the missiles in — even if the target takes evasive maneuvers.”

  Hughes spoke. “Jamming?”

  “The missiles have their own ECCM — ah, sorry, electronic counter measure capability. That is, the radar homing systems are frequently agile.”

  Hughes tapped the table. “Sir, we can kill up to ranges of three hundred miles with missiles and over twenty miles with our sixteen-inch guns. What about in-close defense?”

  “You’re thinking of the British experience in the Falklands, Ensign.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hughes said. “They lost ships to in-close aircraft dropping old-fashioned, dumb gravity bombs.”

  “We have twelve five-inch thirty-eights for high-flying aircraft and four Mark Fifteen Phalanx systems for close-in targets.”

  “The Phalanx is a self-contained Gatling system,” Foulger offered.

  The commander nodded. “The Phalanx was designed to destroy incoming cruise missiles. Aircraft would have no chance.” The ensigns exchanged a glance. The older man continued. “This system is completely automatic and independent of New Jerseys other electronic equipment. Phalanx’s radar is a closed-loop system that not only tracks its target but its own projectiles as well.”

  Foulger spoke. “Six barrels, twenty millimeter, sir.”

  “Right, Ensign. Six M-Six-One-A-One Gatlings that fire three thousand rounds a minute. Its own pulse Doppler radar searches and actually assigns target priority. We can handle a dozen incoming cruise missiles simultaneously.”

  “Sir,” Jeff Foulger said with new intensity, “while we are here — in Pearl Harbor — what is our status?”

  “Well, you can have liberty … ”

  “Sir, that isn’t what I mean.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The readiness status of the ship, Commander.”

  The older man eyed the ensign curiously. “Why, we’re at Condition Five. There is no reason for combat readiness here.”

  Hughes came to life. “Tomorrow is seven December 1983, not 1941, Jeff.”

  The commander laughed. “Don’t forget, Mister Foulger, Pearl’s defenses are tied into NORAD and AWAC surveillance. No one’s going to sneak in here.”

  Foulger reddened. Felt foolish. “I didn’t mean to imply the Russians might sneak in with a quick strike. It’s just being here — ” he waved a hand — “on Battleship Row, with the Arizona astern — it can give a guy a weird feeling.”

  “I know what you mean, Ensign,” Hopkins said. “There are a lot of ghosts on Battleship Row.” He fingered his chin thoughtfully. “And, of course, sneak attacks are very much in. our thinking. Sub-launched cruise missiles are a continuous threat. There’s always the chance a strike could sneak in under our radar. We must always be alert.” Then the commander grinned broadly. “If I were a young ensign, I’d be thinking about liberty.”

  “I have the 0800 quarter deck watch, tomorrow morning,” Foulger said, suddenly relaxed. He jerked a thumb at Hughes. “But this lucky devil has no duty.”

  “You have plans?” the commander asked, raising an eyebrow.

  A smirk creased Hughes’ big, square face. “Know, where I can rent a Cessna, Four-Forty-One, Commander?”

  “A Cessna?” the commander said, unable to hide his surprise.

  Jeff laughed. “He must have met a new girl — wants to give her a ride.”

  Hughes eyed Foulger through narrowed lids. “That’s right, shipmate. Jane Davis, she’s a secretary at CINCPAC and would like to view the romantic sunrise from the cockpit of a Cessna with little ol’ me.”

  The commander was intrigued. “That’s some date, Ensign. You must love to fly.”

  “My second passion, sir.”

  The commander laughed heartily. “Try the Honolulu Airport. That should be the best place.” And then seriously, “Where do you intend to fly?”

  Hughes thumped the table. “Northwest, Commander. There’s nothing out there.”

  “No view, Ensign.”

  “After the sunrise, Commander, we won’t be looking.”

  The room was filled with laughter.

  *

  A tiny old man who appeared in imminent danger of being swallowed by his old Imperial Navy greatcoat, Capt. Hirochi Nakamura had spent almost two years living in a cold, windy American Quonset hut on Attu Island. One of the few survivors of the battleship Yamato — three thousand of his shipmates had died when she was sunk by aircraft on seven April, 1945 — he had enlisted in the Self Defense Forces after the war and served until 1962, retiring at the age sixty. Now, with his wife Yumi dead of cancer and supported by the Nippon Memorial Fund, he and three other volunteers poked around in old forgotten caves looking for bones — Japanese bones of long-dead infantrymen killed by the United States Army’s Seventh Division in 1943. Over twenty-four hundred had died. Many were still missing. One was his son, Pvt. Akihiko Nakamura.

  So the search went on, poking in the caves just as hundreds of other old people, bent by grief, poked in the caves of Saipan, Leyte, Luzon, Guam and so many more. All over the Pacific in an area measured by one hundred degrees of longitude and forty degrees of latitude, the search continued. And the bones were there. But so were the grenades and old booby traps. Still, his group had uncovered the bones of seventeen men, cremated them, packed them in the usual white boxes, and sent them home. But Akihiko’s name tag was not among them. Hirochi continued his search.

  It had been late in the evening of five December that word of the white monoplane arrived. His young assistant, Toshinori Satonaka, had rushed into the Quonset, waving a radio message and shouting, “A white aircraft with Japanese markings spotted on Tagatu. A United States Navy helicopter will pick you up in the morning, Nakamura-san.”

  He remembered how shocked the Americans were when, early the next morning, they first saw him at the pad. Seated in the cockpit, the pilot, a lieutenant named Bill Morse, had turned to his young co-pilot, Ensign Fred Waller, and said out of the side of his mouth, “This old guy won’t live long enough to make it to Tagatu.”

  Overhearing the remark as he settled into a rear seat of the helicopter, Nakamura had said, “No man is too old to die, Lieutenant.” Then the pilot started the engine, halting conversation.

  The flight to Tagatu took over two hours, and the old captain had much time to think. After all these years a Japanese aircraft found? True, Tagatu was remote and desolate, but, still, a white warplane should have been spotted years ago. In fact, an A6M2 that crashed on Akutan Island during a strike on Dutch Harbor early in June of 1942 had been recovered immediately and returned to the United States as booty. Could two planes have crashed that day? Or were the Americans confused? Perhaps one of their own had crashed recently. Even a civilian plane. But there were markings, the Japanese rising sun. He wished he had a microphone and earphones. There were so many questions to ask. But he would have to bear his impatience.

  Suddenly, the helicopter began circling. Capt. Hirochi Nakamura looked down. With a jolt, he understood why he had been chosen f
or this mission. There it was, a broken white monoplane with red markings on its wings. “In the name of the gods,” the old Japanese muttered, “A Mitsubishi A-Six-M-Two.”

  Slowly the aircraft descended, circling over the wreck, finally touching down on a plateau, kicking up dust and small rocks, the flat echo of the stuttering blades rebounding from the frozen, rock hard surface. Nakamura was thankful when the roaring jet engine finally fell silent, the clack of the blades dying. Then the silence of a mausoleum descended.

  Waller and Morse exited quickly. But the old man, wheezing and dragging old pains with him, descended slowly. Finally, with both feet on the hard surface, he turned and faced the wreck. Then, limping slightly and flanked by the Americans, he began to approach the white monoplane.

  Nearing the aircraft, Waller suddenly exclaimed, “Jesus. An old Zero. My God, she’s in good shape.” And then bewildered, “She should have been spotted years ago. I don’t get it.”

  “He came in from there, wheels up,” Morse said, pointing at the southern edge of the plateau.

  Waller glanced at his pilot. “Right, Bill. He skidded across the plateau, clobbered that boulder — ” he pointed — “and flipped. Not much damage.”

  The trio began to circle the overturned aircraft, a dead thing of the sky like a stricken gull, wings rigid in death. Nakamura remained silent, studying the aircraft, wondering why there were no markings, not even squadron numbers.

  Morse pointed to the ground. “Skid marks. This is a new one. Couldn’t have been here since World War II. Someone’s making a movie. Must be a converted SNJ like the ones they used in Tora, Tora, Tora.”

  Nakamura knew the American was wrong. He came to life screeching, “No! No! She’s real! A real Zero-zen.” The Americans exchanged a glance. Morse shrugged. Waller smirked. “The pilot! The pilot,’’ the old Japanese said, quickening his faltering step.

  In a moment, the trio circled the aircraft and bent under the canopy, looking up. The Americans gasped. Hanging from his seat belt, wide-open eyes staring through goggles, the pilot was suspended above them. “Mother of God,’’ Waller said. “It can’t be.” Then, quickly, “Out of the way, Captain. We’ll get him out.”

  Fists clenched, jaw tight, Nakamura stepped back. In a moment, the Americans pulled the canopy back, released the pilot’s seat belt, and lowered him to the ground, stretching him out on his back. He was in full flight kit, helmet, goggles, gloves; even a sword was at his side.

  “He’s one of mine,” Nakamura said, choking. Gingerly, he dropped to his knees. And then, reverently, with the silent, wide-eyed Americans staring over his shoulders, he removed the corpse’s helmet and goggles. Then, slowly, with the weight of more than eight decades bending his shoulders, he straightened to attention, racked by sobs.

  “Jesus Christ,” Waller said, staring at the dead man in disbelief. “He’s a hundred years old.”

  “Banzai! Banzai!” Nakamura screamed, turning to the Americans, clenched fists at his sides, his visage the distilled essence of hatred.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Morse said, eyes shifting back and forth between the cadaver and the old captain. “This whole fuckin’ world’s gone crazy!”

  *

  Cmdr. Keith Randall muttered oaths under his breath. Why did Mark Allen pick him to interview that nut about the Aleutians, Unit Seven-Three-One in World War II? And the Sukarachu Sanitarium was in Kawaguchi. That meant driving through Tokyo. What a madhouse. Luckily, his old cab driver was insane — could cope with all the other madmen on the streets. They all drove like frustrated kamikaze pilots.

  He looked to his left, smiled as his eyes fell on the delicate profile of the young woman seated next to him. Noriko Kuwahara, his new secretary, was thirty-two years his junior at twenty-five, but ambitious with a magnificent body. He would soon discover how eager she was for advancement and a raise. He was tiring of geishas — too obvious pay for play. At least, if he balled Noriko, he could convince himself she accepted him for his attractiveness — still there, he reminded himself, despite an excess of fifty pounds, bald pate, and sagging jowls crisscrossed with competing wrinkles.

  And these Japanese were good lays. Taught by their mothers when they were still little girls, they knew all the tricks. Much more than his wife, Louise, ever dreamed about in her strait-jacketed, puritanical imagination.

  He was glad Louise and the children were back home in San Diego. They cramped his style and took his pay. That’s all they did. Twenty years in Japan — first in Naval Intelligence and now in supply — had been good duty. He had seen Louise often enough to make her pregnant five times and had great sex in between. And he liked the Japanese; he spoke their language, ate their food, and enjoyed their sex. Clean, he said to himself, always clean — even if they screwed on the floor.

  He turned to his companion and spoke, in perfect Japanese. “What’s the name of the nut we’re going to interrogate?”

  She reached into a thick, black vinyl briefcase and removed a single sheet. Then she turned, liquid black eyes, bringing a warmth to Keith Randall’s groin. “Colonel Daisuke Muira, Commander. Rear Admiral Allen is particularly interested in operations in the Aleutians and Bering Sea. We are to meet a psychiatrist on the fourth floor.” “Right. Doctor Hiroke Toda,” Randall grunted. And then to the driver, “How much further to the Sukarachu Sanitarium?”

  The driver gestured down the narrow, tree-lined road, “Only a few kilometers, sir. You can see it.”

  The commander grunted, leaned forward, eyes falling on the cornices of a vast four-story building now visible through the screening trees and shrubs. He turned to the secretary. “It’ll be a long drive back. Care to shorten it by stopping somewhere?” Again, the groin-jolting look.

  “Stop for what?” The face was blank.

  “Dinner.” He leered. “Dessert is up to you.” His hand squeezed her knee.

  “I’d rather fast,” she spat, pulling away. “Bitch,” he said under his breath, recoiling like a man who had taken hold of a live wire. And then to the driver, “Hurry it up. I don’t have all day.”

  *

  When Cmdr. Keith Randall, followed by Noriko Kuwahara, exited the elevator on the fourth floor of the sanitarium, he had cooled and curiosity had begun to replace anger. Anyway, Randall found satisfaction in knowing Noriko would be searching for a new job within a week. If the woman knew, the dismal prospect was not apparent in the inexpressive mask still covering her face.

  Glancing to his left, the commander’s eyes found the usual long, glistening, sterile hall typical of all hospitals anywhere on Earth. But on his right side, a wall with a single steel door blocked the hall. Ideograms identified the Security Ward.

  The commander pushed the button next to a speaker mounted in the wall. A green light glowed and a tinny voice said, “May I help you?”

  The commander shouted into the wall unit, “Commander Keith Randall to see Doctor Hiroka Toda.”

  “Thank you.”

  In a moment, the steel door was swung open by a burly young man, and the pair was led to an office. The room was small with a steel desk, two chairs, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves behind the desk, laden with the usual dull-looking medical books. A short bent and withered old man with a sparse white goatee and pate to match stood behind the desk, wearing a white smock and stethoscope around his neck. The old man extended his hand, “I’m Doctor Hiroke Toda.” His eyes ran quickly over the American’s blue uniform.

  “Commander Keith Randall,” the American said, shaking the tiny hand briefly. He jerked a thumb. “This is Ms. Kuwahara.”

  “Please seat yourselves.”

  As the commander seated himself, he felt uneasy. The old man’s eyes were smoky lamps, burning with latent hostility. The doctor spoke. “You are here to see ‘the ice man.’”

  “‘Ice man’?”

  “Sorry, Commander, I meant Colonel Daisuke Muira.”

  “Why ‘ice man’?”

  “You shall see for yourself, C
ommander.”

  Randall’s professionalism took over, his rebuke from Noriko pushed to the back of his mind. He would interrogate, return to his office, and send his report to Rear Adm. Mark Allen. He leaned forward. “Before we see him, a brief history please, Doctor.” And, without turning his head, “Please take notes, Ms. Kuwahara.” The tone was businesslike. The girl took a note pad from her briefcase.

  The old doctor opened a dossier, squinted through glasses as thick as bottle ends. “Colonel Muira has been here for forty years. His medical records are voluminous. I would be happy to forward a copy to your office.” And then, in a flat, hard tone, “Anything for the United States Navy.”

  Randall’s retort was hard and fast. “I didn’t start the war, Doctor. And if you’re still fighting it … ”

  “No, Commander. You misunderstood.”

  Keith Randall could be duped by young women but not by other men — especially Japanese men of his own generation. He had not misunderstood. Although the younger Japanese seemed indifferent, he still sensed lingering hatred in the older men. There would never be peace between them. He threw emotions aside and bore on, “Please, Doctor, a brief history. And please keep in mind we are interested in anything he has said. We aren’t concerned with how irrelevant his words may seem, either.”

  “I understand.” The old man fingered the dossier. “During World War II, Colonel Muira was assigned to Unit Seven-Three-One. You are familiar with their operations?”

  The steel-hard tone turned Noriko’s head, stiffened Doctor Toda. “They were a playful bunch. Did most of their work near Pingfong, China. They tied POWs to stakes and released canisters of bubonic plague and anthrax nearby. Soldiers in gas masks and protective clothing used stopwatches to measure how long it took them to die.” Noriko shifted her weight. Toda’s jaw took a hard set.

  The voice droned on with the inventory of horror. “They infected Chinese women with syphilis and then impregnated them, and after giving birth, the women and their babies were vivisected. Naked men were doused with ice water and kept out doors in thirty-below-zero weather to learn about the effects of frostbite. Blood was drained from men and replaced with the blood of horses or monkeys with the mad idea this could lead to the creation of artificial blood.”