by Peter Albano
“An honor,” Shimizu said, bowing while the men stood at rigid attention. Ross was pulled to his feet by his guards. Shrugging off their hands, the American stood, glowering.
Kawamoto returned the salute, turned to the men. “A surprise for you.” Heads turned. There was a murmur. “Before battle, samurai traditionally eat chestnuts and drink a cup of sake.” Kawamoto gestured to the containers. “You may find the chestnuts shriveled, but the sake is better than ever.” There were cheers.
Quickly, the attendants, aided by Shimizu’s yeoman, distributed a single chestnut and a cup of sake to every man except the American.
Kawamoto held his cup before him, chest high. “Admiral Fujita asked me to wish you good hunting,” he said, eyes slowly probing each expectant face. “You are Japan’s finest fighter pilots — picked for this mission. The admiral is confident that with your protection our Aichis and Nakajimas will get through.” He raised his cup. Every pilot mirrored the movement with his own cup. Ross felt a burning snake uncoiling in his chest.
The staff officer continued. “You are the cutting edge. Today you will slash the bonds that bind Nippon.” The commander’s arm was fully extended, cup held high. “Freedom!”
“Freedom,” the pilots roared back, holding their cups high. There was a deadening silence. Teeth clenched, Ross looked around, beyond disbelief, his mind poised on the brink.
Kawamoto’s voice boomed, “Tenno heika banzai!”
“Tenno heiko banzai, "thundered back.
Every cup was drained. Quickly, Kawamoto and his assistants departed.
Ross burst. His voice filled the room. “You can’t do this. It won’t work. This is insanity. You are flying to your deaths.”
Roughly, the guards pushed the American against the bulkheads, pulled back their fists.
“No!” Shimizu shouted. “Release him.” Every eye was on the American. “Your words are as worthless as seashells, Captain. Nothing is impossible to a samurai, and death is an expected — welcome — companion on any mission.”
Ross took a step forward, eyes flashing. “Why am I here? Why should I listen to this insanity? I should be with my seaman. He’s sick, too. Apparently your mental illness is contagious.”
“You have a sharp tongue, Captain. Perhaps I will trim it when I return.” His hand found his sword.
“Right now,” Ross shouted, giving no quarter. The guards stirred.
“Restrain yourself or I will have the guards do it.” The voice was harsh.
Ross fought for breath, felt his neck cords bulge. “Why am I here?” he rasped.
“I will tell you why you are here.” Shimizu said, the anger in his voice replaced by solemnity. Ross had heard of the samurai’s pre-battle harangue and had been buffeted by six days of madness, but he was still unprepared for what followed. Shimizu’s voice was solemn. “As a samurai, before battle, I am honor-bound to tell my enemy of my antecedents, weapons, and intentions whenever possible. The gods were generous when they sent you, Captain. You are not my equal, but I will honor you, anyway.”
Speechless, Ross listened while the ancient liturgy of madness rang through the compartment. “1 am Masao of the Shimizu dan, grandson of Toshihiko who distinguished himself in the service of the great Emperor Meiji by personally killing eighteen garlic-eating Korean pirates on the island of Cheju. I am the son of Shinichi, the former governor of Japan’s largest prefecture, Hokkaido. I, myself, have little personal merit except the wish to destroy the American Fleet and kill the enemies of the Son of Heaven and sell my life as dearly as possible, leaving my body to rot on the bottom of Pearl Harbor.”
Pandemonium. Every man shouted, “Banzai.” Again, fists were raised. Ted Ross reacted on instinct, not reason. Ducking under a guard’s raised arm, he broke through the door. There were angry shouts behind him. He was on the gallery. Below him the hangar deck was filled with fueled, armed, volatile aircraft. The ladder. At the end of the gallery. He raced for it. There were footsteps behind him. He cursed. A mechanic pulled himself from the ladder and faced the racing American, a puzzled look on his face.
Ross knew the guards were on his heels. He attacked the mechanic, shoulders low, catching the man rib high. The shoulder block sent the man sprawling but staggered Ross. Before he could recover, he was brought to the deck by two burly bodies.
Rolled over on his back, arms pinned, he looked up into the leering face of Cmdr. Masao Shimizu. “American devil. When I return, we shall settle this. You will not find me another Hirata.”
“I hope you live through it. I’ll take care of you myself,” Trigger rasped huskily.
Shimizu’s eyes moved to the guards. “Take him to the flag bridge. Admiral Fujita is waiting.” Ross was pulled to his feet.
*
Looking down from the flag bridge, Trigger saw a deck crowded with idling fighters and bombers. Handlers stood ready, a crew chief was in each cockpit. Hundreds of excited crewmen, holding small Japanese flags, lined the catwalks. Admiral Fujita stood beside the talker on one side of the American while Commander Kawamoto stood on the American’s other side. The two guards leaned over the rail, eyeing both the flight deck and their prisoner.
Ross felt numb. He had never tasted defeat before. It was bitter fruit, indeed. He did not know why he was on the bridge and did not care. He knew now the Kafkaesque nightmare would be played out to its bloody climax.
“They’ll all die, Admiral,” he said simply.
The retort was quick. “They will welcome it, Captain.” Fujita turned to Kawamoto. “Wind?”
“Zero-five-zero, twelve knots, sir.”
The admiral spoke to the talker. “Left standard rudder. Steady up on zero-five-zero.”
The talker repeated the command. Ross felt the great ship heel over and then in a few moments right itself.
The talker spoke to the Admiral. “Steady on zero-five-zero, sir.”
“Very well. All ahead full.”
The deck under Trigger’s feet trembled as the engines picked up their rhythm. The ship leaped forward, spray flying from her bow.
The admiral’s moist eyes found Trigger’s. “You are about to see history made for the second time, Captain.”
Still the witness. Still the diary, Ross said to himself. And then to Fujita, “It won’t work.” Fujita seemed not to hear. He turned to the talker. “Close up the Z flag.” And then to Ross, “The Z flag was the signal flown by Admiral Heihachiro Togo when we destroyed the Russian fleet at Tsushima. Nagumo had the other six carriers in Kido Butai fly it in 1941.” And then with rock-hard grimness, “And now the seventh carrier has her turn.” He turned to the talker, mumbled a command.
In a moment, “Pilots, man your planes,” echoed through the ship’s speakers.
Thousands of voices rose in wild cheers as pilots and crewmen rushed across the flight deck. Quickly, crew chiefs were replaced in the cockpits by aviators.
Now, engines were gunned as pilots checked their instruments.
Leaning over the rail, the admiral raised a single hand to the plane director. The officer stabbed a flag toward the bow. Fujita turned to the talker. “Commence launch.”
Gripping the handrail with such force his knuckles appeared as white bumps, Trigger watched as first Shimizu and then his wingmen roared from the deck accompanied by wild shouts of “Banzai.” All went well until the fifth Zero lifted from the deck. Its engine simply stopped running. The aircraft did a half roll and crashed into the sea off the starboard bow. Fujita cursed.
Ross turned. In a moment, only the tail could be seen turning in the ship’s boiling wake. Then it was gone. The remaining Mitsubishis took off without incident.
Then the Aichis began to rumble down the flight deck, each painted mottled green camouflage for low flying and carrying a bomb slung beneath its fuselage. Seven took off safely. Then the chocks were pulled from the eighth. Engine roaring, it leaped forward. Making its run from far aft, it was a green blur by the time it reached the island, nearing takeof
f speed. Then it happened. There was a flash of white directly beneath Trigger.
Leaning over the rail, Trigger screamed “No! No! Edmundson,” as a tall figure wrapped in a white sheet and holding a crucifix ran to the center of the deck; directly in the path of the bomber. Crewmen leaped from the catwalks. But too late.
Crucifix held high overhead, Edmundson rushed toward the charging bomber which had begun to lift from the deck. The pilot cut the engine just as the white figure hurtled into the propeller.
The young seaman vanished in a circular, crimson spray of blood, bits of bone and ripped intestines that splattered the forward part of the flight deck and followed the Aichi to its own grave as it crashed into the sea off the port bow.
Head down, Ross pounded the rail, moaning. Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he looked up into Fujita’s face. The old man’s voice was soft and grim. “He took one of my crews. He died well.”
There was no humor in Trigger’s convulsive laughter.
*
“But, honey, it’s on autopilot,” Ensign Michael Hughes said, pushing the twenty-year-old blonde back down on the bunk with the weight of his body.
“Mike, it doesn’t make sense — no one’s in the cockpit.”
His lips were next to hers. He could smell sour bourbon on her breath as he spoke casually like a teacher admonishing a child. “I told you, Jane. This old Cessna can fly itself. I set the FIS Seventy for one thousand feet, course three-five-zero, and speed of one-four-zero.” His full lips twisted into a leer. “Now relax and enjoy yourself.” His eyes moved over the trim body. He felt a deep warmth. “You’ve never had it until you’ve had it with the Mile High Club.”
Her head twisted, pillowed by long blonde hair, blue eyes enlarged by fright. “Take me back! Please! I’m scared.”
His black eyes were cold, voice hard. “Bullshit. We partied all night, I rented this Cessna. Don’t give me any of that crap.” He lowered his body on hers, pushed his erection against her thigh, open mouth clamping down over her lips. His hand moved down her body, felt the flat abdomen, slid over the bulging pubis, over her flank, and down her leg to the hem of her skirt.
She twisted. Made helpless sounds deep in her throat. Pushed with both hands against his chest. Then pulled a fist back. Swung it, impacting the ear.
“Bitch,” he howled, rising, holding his ear. Then he brought back a hand and lashed out, catching her face, slapping first with the palm and then with the knuckles. Three times. Four times.
“Oh! Oh — please, Mike.” Tears streamed.
“Enough of that shit.”
She convulsed with sobs, then appeared to control herself quickly. “You’re forcing me,” she screeched, watery eyes wide. “What kind of man are you?”
He pushed her down easily. Almost laughed. “No necessity for melodramatics,” he said amused. And then hoarsely. “I’ll show you what kind of man I am.” His hand found the bare flesh of her leg. Firm and warm. Moved up the inside of her thigh. Found her panties.
She sighed in resignation. Her body became as limp as soaked rags. The sobs were gone. Then he felt her tremble as he pulled the panties free, threw them on the floor. His hand caressed her flat abdomen, crept through the tight hair, seeking the hidden lips. In a moment, he found the dewy center of her. He began to explore.
She twisted, mouth open and slack, her tongue suddenly engaging his in a fiery duel. He moved to her neck. Found the pulse in the hollow of her throat. Felt hunger. Bared his teeth.
“Please — Mike. That hurts.”
He reached up to her neckline, pulled on her dress, ripping it down to the waist. Pulled off her brassiere. Threw it aside. Then his lips found her breasts. They were firm, upthrust with swollen nipples. He could feel her hands on the back of his head, fingers clawing, pulling. Again the hunger.
“You’re hurting me!”
He moved upward. Fumbled with his pants, cursing. Roughly, he pushed her legs apart. Lowered himself. He entered her quickly like an assassin stabbing his victim. He felt her twist beneath him, a butterfly impaled by a collector’s pin. She breathed spasmodically in his ear.
“Don’t hurt me!”
“Shut up!”
He began to move. At first, his thrusts were short, slow as he savored each sensation of swimming within her like a daring fish gliding through a warm, dark, jellylike sea.
Then he raised himself up, drove deep and held, staring at the rear of the plane with blank eyes and then convulsed, shouting, “Oh, God,” as a hot torrent spurted. Then he collapsed on her, groaning.
Then the engines began to make a strange noise. He raised his head. No. There were more engines. Closing fast. Still joined to the woman, he lifted himself. “What the hell?”
She looked up. Saw the confusion on his face. “What is it?” she asked, fearfully. A string of firecrackers went off.
He was looking at her face when it dissolved, came up to meet him in a bloody gout of blood, bone and teeth. “No!” The floor of the plane exploded and flamed and he felt himself lifted from her by a giant fist. And the pain in his stomach and chest. But the pain was quickly washed away by a wave of black silence.
Jane Davis and Ensign Michael Hughes were dead long before the Cessna — trailing smoke and ripped aluminum — smashed into the sea.
*
Walking to the New Jersey’s quarterdeck, Ensign Jeffrey Foulger blinked in the brilliant sunlight. As he approached the quarterdeck and his post at the head of the accommodation ladder, he enjoyed a spectacular view of Oahu on this bright, quiet morning of seven December 1983. Far to the north, the morning sun heightened the green of the cane fields, stretching up the slopes above Aiea and blending into the blue-green of the Koolau Mountains. Pushed by the northeasterly tradewinds, clouds paused and clung to Mount Tanalus and Mount Olympus ringing the peaks with their usual spectacular nightcaps.
Still feeling the effects of a poor night’s sleep — sleep disturbed in his new cabin by the continuous hum of the ship’s air conditioners and the slight vibrations of auxiliary engines — the young ensign yawned, moving his eyes from the mountains to the lethal equipment mounted on the great vessel. Protruding fore and aft like tree trunks, the sixteen-inch guns were awesome. And the five-inch guns, pointed skyward, appeared as junior partners in a corporation of death. Then he passed a Phalanx. Turning his head, he smiled at the clumsy, silo-like dome crowning the six-barrel Gatling gun and radar antenna.
Suddenly, he was shocked from his reverie as he almost walked into the man he was to relieve. “You must be Jeffrey Foulger,” a warm voice said.
Turning quickly, Foulger saw a smiling, young, chubby ensign with an automatic strapped to his waist not more than three feet away. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to knock you down,” Foulger said extending his hand. “You’re Ensign Anthony Carpi?”
“Right,” Carpi said, grasping the hand. After a brief shake, Carpi stepped back and glanced at his watch. “It’s 0745. You’re early.”
Suddenly remembering protocol, Jeffrey snapped a salute, saying, “I relieve the watch, sir.” Carpi, smiling, returned the salute. He gestured to two enlisted men standing idly at the top of the accommodation ladder. “These are my men. Your petty officer and seaman aren’t here yet, Ensign.” Foulger nodded in embarrassment, glanced at his watch. Almost as if on cue, a first-class quartermaster followed by a seaman first class appeared behind the rear turret and approached the group. “Do you know them, Mister Foulger?”
“No, Ensign. I just came aboard yesterday.” The pair of enlisted men stopped, came to attention, and saluted smartly. Carpi spoke, “Mister Foulger, this is Quartermaster First Class Donald Wilcox and Seaman First Class John Santich.” Foulger returned the salute eyeing the impassive faces of the two enlisted men: Santich, youthful, blond, his handsome face marred by an acne problem; Wilcox, the old pro, graying black hair, deeply etched lines radiating from the corners of his eyes, skin appearing as tough as tanned leather.
There was a long silence
. Suddenly, Jeffrey realized everyone was waiting for him to say something. “Ah,” he said, gathering his thoughts, “you men can be at ease.” He nodded to the accommodation ladder. “Over there.”
The men saluted, said, “Aye, aye, sir,” in unison and then joined Carpi’s two men at the head of the ladder. All four enlisted men stared at the new ensign curiously.
With a hand on the relieving officer’s shoulder, Carpi turned Foulger and moved close to the Phalanx. Handing Jeffrey a booklet, Carpi said, “Here are your standing orders. I suggest you look them over, Mister Foulger.”
“I did last night and it’s Jeff.”
“Good. And I’m Tony.” And then businesslike, “Have you stood OOD watches before?”
“Yes. Three months on a frigate — an FFG-Seven out of Norfolk.”
Carpi nodded approval. “Fine. Here are your orders of the day. The captain is ashore but will return at 0830. The executive officer, Commander Nolan Ferrell, is the duty officer. Senior Officer present afloat, Rear Admiral Hugh Fronauer, is in Tarawa — ” he pointed to the giant gray carrier a few hundred yards away — “moored at Berth B Three.”
“The shipyard?”
“Right, Southeast Loch, Jeff.” Anthony waved at the bridge. “Bridge unmanned, all radar and weapons secured, boilers and main engines secured, we’re on auxiliary engine number one. The ship is at Condition Five.” He took a breath, hurried on. “Anchor chain and draft reading just checked and okay. Damage Control Center reports all secure.”
Jeffrey gestured at the automatic. “I’m to be armed to the teeth. Usually a petty officer wears that.”
Carpi laughed. “Captain’s orders.”
“Maybe I can shoot down a cruise missile or repel boarders.”
Still laughing, Carpi unsnapped his duty belt with the holstered forty-five-caliber automatic dangling and handed it to his relief. “Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes.”
