Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  Fujita spoke harshly. “We cannot interfere!”

  Shimizu made a mistake. Conditioned for decades to react to the admiral’s voice, he turned, glanced. In one quick motion, Trigger pulled the box from the shelf, ripped the top off with his left hand and then hurled it from his right shoulder like a shot-putter. The box caught Shimizu in the face, bones, teeth, and ashes flying.

  Eyes filled with ashes, the commander leaped backwards, waving his blade wildly. With a shout, Ross followed, kicking his opponent in the stomach.

  Shimizu doubled over. Ross locked his fists, brought them down together on the back of the commander’s neck. The Japanese fell face-down on the deck like a felled pine. The knife clattered loose.

  Slowly, Ross picked up his dagger and then dropped to his knees next to Shimizu. He heard shuffling. Looked up, Still silent, the ranks of officers moved forward a few steps, stopped, each man grim, staring. He rolled his enemy over. Brushed the ashes from his eyes. Shouted, “Wake up, insect!”

  Shimizu groaned. Opened his dull eyes. Ross raised the knife. “Can you see it?”

  Shimizu shook his head. Then his eyes brightened and he raised his head. “Use it, barbarian.”

  For a long moment, Ross stared, eyes locked with Shimizu’s. “Go ahead, Yankee. Use it. You must.”

  “You’ve earned your death at the hands of an enemy. Right, samurai?”

  “Yes!” The tone was eager.

  “You’re ready for it. Even told me about your father and grandfather at the briefing. You’ve got it made at the Yasakuni Shrine — haven’t you!”

  “Hurry!”

  Ross rose. Threw the wakizashi across the deck. And then he spat, “I wouldn’t dirty my hands.” Whirling quickly, he walked toward the exit.

  Shimizu screamed. “Yankee!” Ross stopped. Turned. Shimizu was on his feet, gripping a wakizashi. All sounds faded: the engines, the blowers, even his own breathing. Unsteadily, the Japanese mounted the platform, fell to his knees. “Dog, you cannot deprive me of my birthright.”

  The commander grasped the dagger with both hands. Grimaced. Plunged the blade into his abdomen.

  Ross watched fascinated as blood spurted, entrails poured. Then the glazed eyes and the plunge forward, sliding in his own gore.

  Sighing, Ross turned to the admiral with thoughts of the unbelievable set of events that had brought him to this place, this moment, and the same outcome, twice. Did insanity compound? He looked at the old man. “The paths of glory, Admiral.”

  Turning quickly, he walked to his guards. As the guards stepped to his side, he heard a brittle yet soft voice behind him. “Lead but to the grave.”

  FOURTEEN

  8 December 1983

  “She’s reduced speed to twenty knots,” Brent Ross said to Commander Bell.

  Bell leaned back in his chair, eyes on the ceiling. “Six, seven days to Japan.” He brought his eyes to Brent. “Any news from the White House?” The ensign shook his head. “Negative. Still the same. No hostile action will be taken against the carrier.”

  “Good! Good! If Yonaga holds this speed and course, you, Admiral Allen and I will meet your father and board the seventh carrier in Tokyo Bay by next Wednesday.” The commander leaned forward. “Her radios?”

  “Still dead, Commander. CNO’s ordered all American ships to evacuate Tokyo Bay and to stand clear of the north Pacific shipping lanes.” Bell grimaced. Studied a finger as he tapped the desk. “You heard about Captain Avery?”

  Brent spoke in a flat, unemotional tone. “Yes. A forty-five in the head.”

  There was a crypt-like silence. The commander took a deep breath, looked up. “Some good news — the Coast Guardsman — Jones … ”

  “Ensign Tyronne Jones.”

  “Right, Brent. He’s okay.”

  Brent nodded. “That is good news.”

  An enlisted man entered, handed the commander a message, and left. Bell scanned the document, muttered, “Jesus” to himself.

  “What is it, Commander?”

  Bell’s voice was grave. “Pearl! Pearl — ghastly.” Ross waited silently.

  “Tarawa’s a complete loss — hit by four aircraft making kamikaze dives.”

  “Were her marines aboard?”

  “No, thank God. These figures are approximate, but she has over 230 dead and missing, 300 wounded.”

  “My God — my God.”

  The commander continued. “New Jersey took at least eight torpedoes, three bombs, and one kamikaze. She’s on the bottom on an even keel. Good damage control. She can be raised.”

  “Casualties, Commander?”

  Craig sighed. “Over 150 dead and missing, 200 wounded.” He read on, quickly. “Wheeler lost eight transports, twelve helicopters, forty-three known dead, four missing, seventy-four wounded. Hickam — six transports, fourteen helicopters, eight F-Sixteens, four in the air and four on the ground. They’re still counting casualties there and at Kaneohe and Barber’s Point.”

  Brent leaned on a chair, shook his head. “Why? Why?”

  Bell’s eyes moved slowly around the room, finally focusing on the ceiling. “We’ll answer that a week from now.”

  FIFTEEN

  14 December 1983

  Fully dressed with bunting whipping in the wind, Yonaga swung slowly about her anchor chain in Tokyo Bay. Because of the vessel’s long isolation in a virtually germ-free environment, the seventh carrier was placed in rigorous quarantine. Her welcome had been tumultuous. Hundreds of boats filled with Japanese screaming “Banzai” and waving old Japanese battle ensigns circled the great, gray hulk. Only alert — sometimes violent — Self Defense Force patrols prevented the crowd from boarding.

  Ensign Brent Ross, Cmdr. Craig Bell, and Rear Adm. Mark Allen arrived in Tokyo on eleven December. Cleared by Japanese doctors, they accompanied the first party to board: seven Japanese officers headed by World War II veteran and hero, Adm. Torashiro Katsube.

  Boarding the carrier and following the admiral and his party up a ladder to the flight deck, Brent gazed in wonder. He had found another world. Scores of old men in dress blues, swords at their sides, stood at rigid attention in ranks, backs to the island. Also dressed in blue and standing rigidly, hundreds of enlisted men lined the cat-walks, surrounded scores of guns, and stood like companies of infantry on the flight deck. And pilots and aircrews in full flight kit stood in stiff lines before a score of antique aircraft, tied down from amidships aft. Brent searched the ranks quickly, but his father’s face was not there.

  Then the ensign, Craig Bell, and Mark Allen followed Admiral Katsube’s party across the deck to the island where a group of bent, withered, officers waited. Salutes and bows were exchanged.

  A mummy-like man spoke to Admiral Katsube in rapid Japanese. Ross nudged Mark Allen. “What did he say?”

  Mark Allen whispered into the young man’s ear. “They introduced themselves. He’s Admiral Hiroshi Fujita and that man to his left is his executive officer, Commander Kawamoto.” Mark Allen took a deep breath. “Admiral Fujita wanted to know if they were prisoners.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Admiral. Ask him about his prisoner.” The voice was loud. Heads turned.

  Allen turned to Fujita and spoke in Japanese.

  Fujita moved his narrow, watery eyes to Brent.

  “Oh, so you are the captain’s son,” the Japanese admiral said in perfect English, voice filled with respect. “We captured him after engaging Sparta.” The old eyes misted. The voice was soft. “A fine warrior. He has been treated honorably.”

  “Thank God,” Ross said, feeling a great weight vanish.

  Allen’s hand closed on the ensign’s arm. Mark spoke uneasily, “What do you mean, ‘honorably’?”

  The admiral’s eyes moved upward. Found the sky. “He was brave. I treated him with the greatest honor — like a samurai.”

  “No!”

  “Yes! I beheaded him this morning.”

  THE SECOND VOYAGE OF THE SEVENTH CARRIER

  Table of C
ontents

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter I

  Throttled back and descending from a cloudless sky, the Douglas DC 10 carrying 240 passengers and a crew of thirteen circled Tokyo Bay slowly. At its controls Captain Ernest Swanson, forty, with broad shoulders and thinning brown hair, reached for his microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a crater deep voice, “this is your captain speaking. Tokyo Approach Control has given us clearance to circle the bay for three minutes at five thousand feet before returning to our holding pattern. This will give you an opportunity to view the Imperial Japanese carrier, Yonaga.” An excited murmur swept the passenger cabin. Swanson glanced to his right at his co-pilot, First Officer William LeDuc. “Bill, set the auto pilot on fifteen degrees of left bank.”

  “Roger, Captain,” LeDuc said, turning a knob. “Fifteen degrees of left bank, and we’re on control wheel steering.”

  Nodding, the pilot glanced out his side panel. “Good, that should give us a clear view of the carrier.” He moved his eyes to a pad resting on the console between the copilot and himself. Clearing his throat, he brought the microphone to his mouth. “We have copied the latest news reports from Tokyo. But before I give you the latest on Yonaga, which just made port this morning, I have word of another event which is so surprising I feel I should inform you. Early this morning, China launched twenty-three satellites – three are in geosynchronous orbit, while twenty are in low elliptical orbits. Beijing has not released any information concerning these satellites – only ‘In the interests of world peace’ and ‘An official announcement will follow’, have come from the official Chinese news agency.”

  Captain Swanson cleared his voice with a cough. “And now the Yonaga.” His voice rose an octave. “As you know, Yonaga is a relic of World War Two.” He glanced down at the bay at the great rectangular flight deck. “A relic that lay frozen in the Arctic for forty-two years.” A tightness forced the voice higher. “It broke out late last year. It broke out and – and attacked Pearl Harbor, destroyed the carrier Peleliu, and put the New Jersey on the bottom.” He switched off the microphone, cursed, swiped at beads of perspiration on his forehead with the back of a hand. He pressed on, “Killed six hundred twenty-seven Americans – with antique aircraft, old gasoline, sixty-year old pilots and no radar.” He punched the glare shield. And then almost to himself, “It was the impossible, couldn’t happen; but it did happen.” The voice trembled up another octave, “And there it is beneath us – over a thousand feet long and with dozens of aircraft tied down on parade. Notice the bunting – the circling yachts full of delirious people. They’re celebrating… yes, they are—” Eyes narrow, mouth a slash, he switched off the microphone and turned to LeDuc. “I wish this were a B 52 with a full load of ‘nukes’. I’d like to put ten megatons down her stack.”

  LeDuc’s lips were thin. “And a couple more on Tokyo. They murdered our guys and… they’re happy… happy as hell.”

  *

  Ensign Brent Ross was not happy. Young, over six feet tall, husky, blond with blue eyes and finely chiseled features, he stood high on the flag bridge of the carrier Yonaga. And what a carrier. Longer than three football fields, with a beam of at least 200 feet, Ross estimated her flight deck in acres, almost five. By craning his neck, he was able to see the ship’s foretop and the barrels of at least a half dozen antiaircraft guns mounted on exposed platforms. Further aft he found the ship’s single funnel – tilted outboard in typical Japanese fashion – supporting searchlight platforms and hung with life rafts. Moving his eyes to the stem, he viewed a deck lined with dozens of triple mounted 25 millimeter antiaircraft guns and perhaps a score of five inch dual purpose cannons all pointed skyward, where a single DC 10 circled lazily. Everywhere, incongruously youthful crewmen swarmed over weapons; oiling, cleaning. Strangely, some wore helmets.

  Tied down in neat rows from amidships aft were, perhaps, fifty antique aircraft: graceful Mitsubishi A6M2 Zero fighters sparkling with white fuselages and black cowls, Aichi D3A Val dive bombers with ludicrous fixed landing gear and dull, mottled green paint, and Nakajima B5N Kate torpedo bombers with long, three man cockpits and painted to match the dive bombers. All aircraft wore a single blue carrier stripe on the back of their canopies and were emblazoned with rising suns on the wings and fuselages. Ailerons and flaps moved jerkily on a score of them as crew chiefs checked controls. Forward, the island structure stepped down from one multiple antiaircraft mount to another, ending with a gun tub mounted on the flight deck itself. Two of the mounts were manned, crews staring skyward.

  And there were hoots, whistles and screams from hundreds of yachts flying the old imperial battle ensign and filled with boisterous, ecstatic Japanese.

  Bitterly, Ross turned to the only other man on the platform, “They’re celebrating, Commander Bell. Pearl’s a wreck – hundreds dead – my father captured and then murdered.”

  Commander Craig Bell, short, slight and bald with pinched cheeks and owlish eyes magnified by glasses like botde ends, looked up at the young ensign. “Easy, Brent. We’re all bitter. Some of the media are calling for vengeance – blood.” He tapped the windscreen with a small white fist. And then as if trying to convince himself, “It’s impossible – couldn’t happen.” He waved the fist, looked around. “This is a nightmare—”

  The young ensign interrupted in a high, tense voice, “My father’s corpse is real! Beheaded, cremated and poured into one of those stupid white boxes like trash.”

  “Easy, Brent.” Bell’s hand found Brent’s shoulder.

  The ensign shrugged it off. “And that ancient Admiral Fujita was responsible for all of it – destroyed Pearl over forty-two years late!”

  “He was following orders.”

  The laugh was hollow, bitter. “Oh, yes. Orders. We the military and our sacred orders.” His eyes were slits. “Murder is no longer murder, is it Commander – not when we have our orders” He stabbed a finger at a five inch gun crew and then waved at the aircraft. “And look at them – they’re ready for more killing.”

  “Brent! For Christ’s sake. Pull yourself together. In ten minutes we’re going to attend the first official meeting with Fujita, his staff, Admiral Mark Allen and that Japanese captain, Takahashi Aogi. You know we’re the only representatives of Naval Intelligence and I need your fluency in Japanese. I offered to relieve you this morning – right after we came aboard and found out… ah… your father. You insisted… no… demanded to remain on this debriefing assignment.” Bell’s voice took on new authority. “Now get your stuff together or I’ll send you back to Washington to work on that new Chinese satellite system.”

  Taking a deep breath, the young man fixed the bottle ends with wide, clear blue eyes. “I’ll not disgrace you or Naval Intelligence, Commander. I give you my word. Under no circumstances will I allow myself to be goaded to violence.”

  “Your word as an officer?”

  “Not only as an officer, but as the son of Captain Theodore Ross.” The two men shook hands silently.

  Suddenly, there was a strange, penetrating flash of light, brilliant, competing with the sun, filling the sky for a millisecond. Bell began to speak. “What the hell—” But he was stopped by a sudden absence of sound overhead. The jet’s engines had stopped abruptly; too abrupdy. Both men stared skyward.

  *

  “All three engines are overheating, Captain,” the third man in the DC 10
’s cockpit, Flight Engineer Dudley Brooks shouted. Captain Ernest Swanson cursed. It had happened immediately after that strange flash of light. Now, the cockpit was filled with the shrill clang of the fire warning bell. To Swanson’s horror, his controls and panels glared with red lights: three on the engine fire shut-off handles, three on the fuel shut-off levers, and three more on the glare shield. All three engines!

  “Impossible! Impossible!” the pilot spat, striking a switch, silencing the bell.

  “Should we shut ’em all down, Captain?” Brooks shouted.

  To Swanson, the odds against the loss of all three engines was so great, he had never taken the possibility seriously. Even in simulators, he had chuckled to himself skeptically. There must be something wrong with the instruments.

  “Not yet, Brooks,” he shouted out of the side of his mouth.

  A phone on the console buzzed. Putting the phone to his ear, LeDuc turned to Swanson, his face the color of paste. His words were a death knell, “It’s the chief flight attendant. ‘One’ and ‘three’ are burning.”

  The pilot reacted instantly. “Shut down ‘one’ and ‘three’. Discharge the fire extinguishers.” Grasping the yoke and planting his feet on the rudder pedals, he felt the autopilot automatically release. His co-pilot’s hands flew first to the center console to pull two levers back, then to snap off a pair of fuel shut-off controls, and finally overhead to trip the fire shut-down controls.

  “Extinguishers on!”

  Swanson felt his spirits revive, knowing the engines were smothered in Freon and isolated from the aircraft’s fuel and hydraulics systems.

  “What about ‘two?’” the co-pilot asked tightly.

  “Not yet, LeDuc.”

  “Well lose our hydraulics, Captain!”

  “Drop the air driven generator,” Swanson shouted. “Switch to hydraulics!”

  The co-pilot’s hands moved in a blur. “ADG on.”

  Brooks broke in, “Captain, we have red flags on both sides. ‘Two’ is burning. We’ll lose our vertical stabilizer.”