by Peter Albano
“He has brain damage,” Mason Avery said. “I’ve heard of him.”
Mark Allen continued, “He is a Colonel Daisuke Muira, and he is confined in the sanitarium at Kawaguchi. He’s almost incoherent — keeps repeating … ” He focused his eyes on the paper. “This is what he repeats, ‘The ice, the ice, the seventh will come from the ice.’”
“The seventh what?” Avery asked. “Division, regiment … ”
Mark Allen shrugged, stood and walked to the chart of the north Pacific, saying, “That’s what’s so maddening. They were active in Manchuria and the Aleutians.” He glanced at Mason Avery. “That’s why I threw it out to you.”
“Well, take it back,” Avery said sarcastically, “it’s not worth anything.”
“Do you want to accomplish something or not?” Mark Allen retorted hotly.
“Please, gentlemen. We need an analysis — a course of action,” Bell said, cursing his own stupidity — the stupidity of bringing these two old men together. He knew they disliked each other. But they were the acknowledged experts — experts who knew not only the most about Japanese World War II weapons and tactics, but also had intimate knowledge of the Nipponese mind. The admiral had even married one. He should have remembered that woman before arranging the meeting.
Mark Allen stood before the chart, pointer in hand. “I’ll give you an analysis,” he said, eyeing Avery. “You can take it or leave it.” Mason Avery snorted but remained silent. Mark spoke to the commander, “Craig, was the Zero a float plane?”
“No. It had landing gear.”
“Carrier hook?”
“Yes.”
“Folding wingtips?”
Bell glanced down at a sheet. “Yes.”
“Carrier markings?”
“No, Admiral. No stripes or squadron numbers. She was clean. But we’re checking out engine’s and weapons’ serial numbers.” He turned up his palms in a gesture of futility. “But it will take time.” He turned to Brent. “This is late — terribly late, but I owe you an apology, Brent. You were right.” Brent nodded. Allen stared at Bell inscrutably. Looking up at Mark Allen, Bell continued. “I would guess a strip — possibly a sub is involved, too.”
“Possibly,” Allen said. “I know you’re thinking even land-based aircraft could be carrier-fitted with a hook and folding wingtips. But let’s examine the four incidents and see if we can find a unifying principle — one source accountable for all four losses.” He raised the pointer, stabbed at the chart four times. “Sparta sunk here, helicopter downed here, LRA downed here, and whaler sunk.” He stepped back. Raised the pointer again, tapped the Aleutians. “Zero found here.” He sighed. “One aircraft couldn’t do all that — fly those distances.” He scratched his head. “We need a whole squadron.”
“Squadron,” Avery said. “No way — no way. They could never remain undetected.”
Bell said, “Maybe, three aircraft and a sub — like Brent suggested.”
Mark Allen shook his head. Looked at Brent Ross. “Remember that suggestion that seemed so absurd.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Bell and Avery exchanged glances. Allen tapped the palm of his hand with the pointer. A silence so heavy the men seemed to bend under its weight, filled the room. The admiral stared at the door, broke the silence. “The distances are so vast, the destruction so complete and devastating. There’s only one vessel with enough speed and hitting power.” He shook his head. “I believe you’ve all been thinking it — and now I’ll say it. A carrier!”
“I’m not thinking it,” Avery said, scornfully. “But let’s assume this fantasy’s fact. Then when did it make its sortie from Japan? And why to the Bering Sea?”
“When? Before the outbreak of the war,” Allen said sharply. “After seven December our Cats would have spotted them. It would have been conceivable a carrier sneaked north into the Bering Sea. If discovered, they were on maneuvers. They made it and were probably trapped in a secret anchorage.” The admiral tapped the pointer on the floor. “Why the Bering Sea?” He raised the pointer, leveling it at Avery. “Possible dispersion of forces — the Japanese mania for secrecy. Perhaps a new type vessel. You know they were unsurpassed at keeping secrets. All of you studied the Long Lance Torpedo — how it hopelessly outclassed our Mark Fourteen. And you know what the Zero did to our P-Thirty-Nines, P-Forties, and Buffalos. And don’t forget the Yamatos — outgunning and outclassing our best BBs in every way. And why?” His voice rose. “Why 130 naval pilots assigned to Unit Seven-Three-One — an Army unit? 130 pilots — enough to man the air groups of a very large carrier. And the secrecy! They knew how to keep their secrets. It took us over thirty years to dig up the truth about Seven-Three-One.” He raised the pointer, stabbing at his companions with each word. “Now, I submit, we are faced with evidence that forces us to accept the possibility that a Japanese holdout carrier from World War II is loose in the Pacific.”
“I can’t believe this,” Avery said, incredulously. “A grown, mature man.”
“What do you believe?”
“Not fairy tales. We sank their carriers. Even the six that attacked Pearl … ”
“What did you say?” Brent interrupted.
Avery’s face was scarlet. “Don’t interrupt me.” The ensign ignored the captain, turned to the admiral. “Six carriers attacked Pearl Harbor,” he said, pronouncing each word as if he were polishing gems with his lips. “The seventh will come from the ice.”
Silence. Avery glared at the ensign. Bell sat numbly. Then the commander came erect, spoke slowly, “Admiral, I sought your opinion and appreciate it. But any report to CNO will be originated with me.” His eyes found the dossier. “Can we say unequivocally that a Japanese World War II carrier is loose in the Pacific? A fighting machine as complex as a carrier.” He threw up his hands. “Thousands of men, dozens of aircraft, over forty years of wear and tear on everything — including the crew. They’d be old men.”
Mark said, “Of course, it can’t be definite. And I realize this is the business of Naval Intelligence, not Comthirteen. But the evidence points to a carrier.” He turned back to the chart, ran the tip of the pointer down, stopping on the Hawaiian Islands. “My guess is they’re — the seventh carrier is headed for Pearl.” He turned back to Bell. “I would also suggest that we have less than sixteen hours. Tomorrow is seven December.”
“Nonsense!” Avery shouted, coming to his feet. “I know Japs, too, Mark. I won’t be part of this. My God, you’re assuming all this — ” he waved a hand — “was done by carrier aircraft. Jesus Christ, you’re talking about a carrier — a carrier. We invaded islands in the Palaus smaller than carriers. Hide a carrier for over forty years?” His face glistened, eyes bored into Mark Allen’s. “Craig’s already said it. Her aircraft couldn’t fly, her engines wouldn’t run, she’d have been out of fuel decades ago, her rigging would be rotten, her crew would be ancient … ” He slapped his forehead. The officers stared at the captain; Allen tight-lipped, Bell confused, and Ross dismayed.
“How do you explain Sparta?” the admiral asked curtly.
“Explain,” Avery bellowed. “Not by inventing fairy tales.” His eyes never wavered from the admiral. “1 can’t explain the sinking of Sparta — but neither can you, without a phantom carrier strike. Russians, madmen, terrorists — who knows?” He took several deep breaths, clenching and unclenching his fists. “On the basis of circumstantial evidence only, you’re taking four isolated incidents and adding them up to a carrier.”
Mark Allen said, “Then Mason, what do you suggest?”
“A sleeper,” the captain answered. “Yes! Another Onoda — a hidden strip in the Aleutians — Aoshima was a single pilot — perhaps, the last survivor of his unit, as Onoda was, with a buried warehouse of supplies. It’s feasible.” The voice was firm. “Christ, he could have been anywhere, even on Kiska or Attu. “That must be it.” He turned to Bell. “Search for a strip — yes, that’s it. A strip.” He sank slowly into his chair.
&n
bsp; Brent Ross rose slowly, confused by the angry exchange and troubled by a new thought. He spoke slowly. “I spoke to Ensign Tyronne Jones — the only survivor of the Coast Guard helicopter.” He gestured at the chart.
“Spoke?” Avery said.
“Well, I listened, Captain.” He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and read, “‘Solly, a fuckin’ island. Flowers, flowers, Solly. Huge flowers. Pull up! Pull up!” Brent looked up, slipping the paper in his pocket. “Then he cried and called his pilot’s name.” For a long moment there was silence in the room. Then the young ensign spoke softly to the wall, “What was the Imperial flower?”
“Now, wait a minute … ” Avery said.
“The chrysanthemum,” Mark Allen said, raising a hand to Mason Avery. “It was on the bow of every Imperial warship.”
“You mean you think Jones actually spotted a chrysanthemum on the bow of your ghost carrier?” Avery asked. “How long is this nonsense going to continue?”
“Respectfully, Captain,” Brent said pointing at the chart. “Look at those marks. A line, pointing south.” He took a deep breath. “I agree.” He nodded to Mark Allen. “A carrier headed south-headed for Pearl Harbor.”
“Enough of this bullshit,” Avery spat.
Brent turned to Mason, fists balled, anger straightening his lips to a slash. “I won’t take that.”
“Brent,” Mark said, alarmed, “please — let me.” He raised his hands, palms up. “We can’t fight and accomplish anything.” Glowering, the ensign sank slowly into his seat. Mason Avery was a ramrod, conceding nothing. The admiral continued. “Mason, Craig needs advice and in my opinion, as an advisor, he should inform Washington of possible danger to Pearl Harbor, Dutch Harbor, Midway … ”
“You forgot Manila, Auckland, Borneo, Cucamunga, and Timbuktu,” the captain interrupted, eyeing Brent from the corners of his eyes, voice heavy with derision. “Maybe they’ll sneak into San Francisco Bay and dive bomb the bridge.” He chuckled at his wit. And then grimly to Bell, “Go ahead, send your message, but I’ll have nothing to do with it. Ruin your career, not mine.”
Craig Bell rose slowly, biting his lip, jaw slack, dull eyes focused on his desk. “Ah — thank you, gentlemen. You’ve been of great help.” And then turning to Mason, “I’ll suggest the existence of holdouts in the Aleutians, perhaps posing a threat.”
Smiling triumphantly, Mason Avery turned silently to Mark Allen. Ross and Allen stared at each other in consternation.
ELEVEN
7 December 1983
Seated in the rear of the briefing room and flanked by his guards, Ted “Trigger” Ross felt defeat gnawing like a cancer eating at his stomach. As he glanced around the room jammed with fighter pilots dressed in brown, heavy-lined flight suits, kapok life jackets, boots, fur-lined helmets with earflaps up and circled by hachimaki head-bands, rising sun patches on the left shoulder, and ranking patch on the right, he felt a mixture of anger and hopelessness, wonder and despair. They were almost at launch point. There was electricity in the air; excited voices filled the compartment. He stared at the front of the room where an empty dais stood before a huge chart of Oahu. Why had he been commanded by Shimizu to attend? Another logical block in the insane structure of the samurai mind, he told himself. A witness again? A living diary?
Suddenly, every man was on his feet as Cmdr. Masao Shimizu, in full flight kit and followed by a yeoman, strode down the room’s single aisle, sword jiggling at his side. Mounting the dais, he turned, gripping his sword hilt with one hand while gesturing, palm down, with the other. The pilots seated themselves, the officers’ sword points clattering on the deck. Each man held a pencil, poised over a briefing pad strapped to his knee.
Trigger hunched forward as Shimizu spoke. “Our latest weather intelligence is from radio station KIKI which will, of course, provide us with a radio beacon for our RDFs on our flight in.” There was a chuckle. Shimizu waved off the simpering. “Visibility unlimited, winds gentle and from the east.” The men wrote furiously. “I discussed your missions with your commanders several times. Top cover at Kaneohe will be commanded by Lieutenant Teijino Tsuji, at Ewa by Lieutenant Masanobu Toyoda, at Wheeler by Ensign Tomeo Kojioka, and at Hickam by Lieutenant Yosuke Imamura.” His eyes moved about the room. “You instructed your men at yesterday’s briefing?”
Four men leaped to their feet, shouting, “Yes, sir.”
Shimizu nodded. The men returned to their seats. The commander continued. “You have attacked this problem on film countless times, and we have reviewed it for decades. Now, this is the last briefing.” Cheers. Shimizu raised his hands. Silence. “Launch time is 0600, speed of advance, 140 knots; in-course one-eight-zero true but watch me for corrections as I read KIKI’s signal.” There were nods. “Estimated time of arrival, 0800. Radio silence, of course, until we engage the enemy. Then break silence only after my first transmission.”
Shimizu, face expressionless like a marble temple lion, eyed his men as they checked their notes, moved to the American, glinted triumphantly, and then moved away. He continued. “And now a few more things you know, but bear repeating — if you are to survive. You have exactly 810 liters of fuel. Some of you flew with me in China and made that eight hundred kilometer mission from Hankow to Pongiang. We had no fuel problems on that one and will have none today if the gods are with us and we use our heads. If the wind holds during the run-in with the bombers, we can maintain cover on a lean mixture with propeller revolutions held to no more than two thousand rpms. This means our fuel consumption will be under one hundred liters an hour. You know that once we engage and go to full military power, we will double consumption.”
Trigger’s eyes moved around the room. He could smell gasoline. When he entered the briefing room, he had a view of the hangar deck. It was jammed with armed and fueled aircraft each painted with a single blue stripe just back of the cockpit. Numbers were on the vertical stabilizers. In addition, each aircraft had a large chrysanthemum just below the cockpit. But the guards were alert, actually held his arms until they left the gallery and entered the briefing room.
Shimizu unsnapped his sword, gripped it with both hands, and leaned on it. “Let me remind you of your responsibility once more. Protection!” He raised the sword, then struck the deck with the point of the scabbard. “We have the most important assignment. We will guarantee that our Aichis and Nakajimas deliver their ordnance on target.”
Again, the point punctuated the oratory. “When we arrive at our targets and radio silence is broken, orbit at three thousand meters and stay with your wingmen.” He straightened, stood rigidly erect. “You know your duty to the emperor. You have studied the Haga kure — have waited forty-two years for this supreme moment.” The eyes found the overhead, the voice rose. “When the enemy offers battle, kill him with your guns until you have fired your last round and then ram. I expect you to die as samurai.”
The room was filled with shouts of “Banzai”, and the men began to rise. The commander held his hands high, motioning for silence. Ross choked back nausea.
“If the gods favor us and we survive, do not forget your out course is one-three-five. We will not vector the Yankees to Yonaga. The carrier will be opening the range on course three-five-zero, SOA sixteen knots. We will return at 115 knots, one hundred-meters, eighteen hundred rpms with our air control valves to their leanest mixture. You know we will be in danger of losing engine power and stalling, so widen your threes. But fuel consumption should be under ninety liters an hour. We will have our best chance.”
He turned suddenly; using his sword as a pointer, he stabbed at the chart. “You will strafe Kaneohe, Wheeler, Hickam, Ewa only if the sky is empty of enemy fighters. Not one strafing run if there is a single enemy fighter in the air. Listen to your commanders. Twenty-three of you will follow me and maintain cover over Pearl Harbor, itself. After we have cleared the skies, we will strafe. But listen to my commands — follow my lead.” Twenty-three heads nodded.
“And be alert
for the unexpected — new weapons. As you know, we have copied millions of words of American broadcasts over these years. Most of their news is lies.” The men chuckled. “But Admiral Fujita believes we will face a new weapon. It is a rocket they call Sidewinder.” Every man hunched over his pad, wrote furiously. Ross sat in wonder. “We expect it to be launched at us from their fighters. It seeks heat. When the American fighters appear, each of you is to fire a flare. The Sidewinder should seek the flares, not our Sakaes.” He paused, watched his men write. His eyes found Ted Ross. A slight smile fleeted across the hard face. Ross bit his lip.
The commander continued. “All of you saw the Russian aircraft — a high speed jet. It is reasonable to expect the Americans to have similar equipment. Such monsters are faster than our Zeros, but, I am sure, not as maneuverable. Attempt head-on interceptions. Their superior speed is of no advantage when attacked head-on.”
Suddenly, there was a soft hissing sound like a cobra leaping from its lair as the commander pulled his sword from its scabbard. Then with the sword point following his gleaming eyes from man to man, he continued grimly, “I will personally shoot down any glory hunting ronin who breaks discipline.”
Slowly, Shimizu returned the sword to its scabbard, placed it point-down on the deck before him, wrapped both hands around the hilt, and leaned toward his men. For a long moment, the only sound was that of whining blowers and thumping ship’s engines. “And now for something I have not said before. When you open fire, remember those white devils are strangling our islands. Remember, we are fighting for our empire’s survival and remember — it has been forty-two years … ”
“Banzai! Banzai!” every pilot shouted, rising and waving clenched fists at the American.
“You’ll die! Die!” Trigger screamed back, waving a fist. He felt the guards’ hands on his arms.
A new presence brought silence to the room. Commander Kawamoto, his splendid blue uniform contrasting sharply with the aviators’ drab flying suits, entered quietly and walked up the crowded room’s single aisle. He was followed by two mess attendants carrying large, closed aluminum battle-ration containers.
