Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “Shut her down. Use the fire bottle,” Swanson barked. Then to the co-pilot, “Emergency power on.” LeDuc’s hands flew over switches and levers. “‘Two’ shut down and we’re on the battery, Captain.”

  Pushing the yoke forward, Ernest Swanson pressured the right rudder pedal, sighed as he felt the one hundred and sixty-five ton aircraft respond. He talked out of the side of his mouth to his copilot, “we’ll take her into the bay ‘dead stick,’ gear up. Rate of descent fifteen hundred feet per minute.” Then to the engineer, “Brooks, tell the ‘stus’ we have a quick and dirty ditching. We have less than three minutes.” He stared out the side panel, searching the bay.

  Bringing the phone to his lips, Brooks talked briefly, turned to the captain. “The chief ‘stu’ reports fires out in ‘one’ and ‘three.’”

  Keeping his eyes on the water, Swanson grunted, “Good.” Then he shouted at the co-pilot, “Mayday! We’ll go in off of… ah—” He leaned forward, finally found what he needed; some shallows free of boats, “Off Uraga Beach.”

  Nodding, LeDuc switched on the radio. “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! This is World Wide Fourteen. We have a complete loss of power… am ditching off Uraga Beach”

  The response buzzed into Swanson’s right ear. “Roger, World Wide Fourteen. Am dispatching emergency equipment.” But Swanson could hear shouts in the background. Panic.

  The pilot shook his head, concentrated on a narrow strip of beach just south of Yokosuka. He spoke without turning his head. “Bill, we don’t have time for the ditching check list.” Then to the flight engineer, “Brooks, go through as much of the list as you can by yourself.”

  “Roger, Captain. The instruments show all fires out – but no engine rotation.”

  “Damn! We’re on the battery completely.” Swanson scanned the falling airspeed indicator. Pushing the yoke forward, he pressured the left rudder pedal and the great aircraft began to circle south over Yokosuka, nose pointed toward Uraga. His voice was calm, “LeDuc, this will be a gear up ditching. Give me twenty-two degrees of flaps and call out my altitudes every five hundred feet. Below five hundred, every hundred.” Then to the flight engineer, “Brooks, depressurize the cabin.” And then to both men, “Our fuel tanks are almost empty. If she doesn’t break up, she should float.”

  For the next eighty seconds, the three men were silent except for the voice of the co-pilot calling out altitudes. Looking down at Uraga, Swanson nodded with relief. Only a few boats and the green water appeared shallow.

  “Five hundred feet.”

  “Give me full flaps and brace yourselves. Well take her in just above stall speed – one hundred ten knots.”

  The bay was a green wall, rushing up. Swanson’s knuckles were white on the yoke, mind racing in rhythm to the trip-hammer pounding his ribs. This was it. One pass. That was all he’d get. This was no simulator. This was real. And that water could smash a plane like concrete. Now the bay was a gray-green blur. A few boats, upturned faces.

  “One hundred feet.”

  “Now!” Pulling back on the yoke, Swanson felt the nose come up sluggishly. “Come on you bitch.” There was a bumping on the bottom of the plane, sledge hammers against aluminum. Now a great roaring, rushing sound; shattering thuds and vibrations. Covering his head, he leaned forward and prayed. More crashes. Straining against the seat belt, he was bent like a twig by deceleration. A radio broke loose and clattered across the deck. Broken glass showered. He felt water smashing up through a hatch spray his back.

  Suddenly, everything was quiet. Swanson looked up. They were at rest. He could feel the aircraft bob up and down – floating. He spoke in a hoarse voice, “Bill, turn off the battery.” The co-pilot threw a switch. And then unlocking his seatbelt, “Go to your stations and evacuate the aircraft.”

  “Great job… great job,” LeDuc and Brooks chorused, pounding Swanson on the back. There was a cheering in the passengers’ cabin. Swanson did not celebrate. He was wondering about the engines – three engines that quit simultaneously. Impossible!

  *

  “Unbelievable,” Brent Ross said, staring at the downed DC 10 only a few hundred yards off the port beam, surrounded by scores of small boats.

  “Perfect ‘dead stick’ landing,” Bell offered. “And in shallow water.”

  “Look! They’re coming out,” the young ensign said, pointing. The officers could see passengers pouring out of doors and sliding down chutes to the decks of small boats, crowding around the downed giant. “He’s lucky all these boats were out here, Commander.”

  There was cheering from the flight deck. Looking down, Brent could see hundreds of blue-clad crewmen lining the port side of the Yonaga, waving and cheering.

  Ross turned to Bell, “I wonder if they know it’s an American plane?”

  Bell grunted, gestured toward a door. “It’s time for the meeting, Brent.” The young American followed the commander through the doorway.

  Chapter II

  When Brent Ross entered Admiral Fujita’s cabin, he found the large room crowded with Japanese and American officers. Standing just inside the door, his eyes were drawn to the admiral, a tiny, hairless old man in old-fashioned full dress blues seated behind a polished oak desk. He had never seen a man so old. Competing lines criss-crossed a face of leather ravaged by time like the flesh of an unwrapped mummy. But gleaming through narrow slits, black eyes of polished onyx darted, missing nothing. Mounted on a bulkhead behind the admiral, Ross could see a picture of a youthful Emperor Hirohito astride a great white horse. Unmanned phones and communications equipment were bolted to another bulkhead, while opposite, two American officers and a Japanese in the uniform of a captain of the Maritime Self Defense Force were seating themselves. Brent recognized one: Admiral Mark Allen, historian, friend and expert on Japan. The other two men were strangers. Seating himself next to Commander Bell, Brent returned his gaze to the Japanese.

  A self-conscious silence descended, broken only by the whine of blowers and the rumble of auxiliary engines deep in the bowels of the ship. Like metal drawn to a magnet, all eyes were drawn to the ancient admiral who was flanked by a trio of his own officers.

  Suddenly, the voice, flat and airy, rustling like falling leaves, “I am Admiral Hiroshi Fujita, graduate of Eta Jima, class of nineteen-hundred-four, classmate of Admired of the Combined Fleet, Isoroku Yamamoto. I am the commanding officer of his Imperial Majesty’s carrier, Yonaga.” The rheumy eyes moved quickly from one man to another. “Therefore, in the American tradition of the trinity of command, I have assumed the authority, responsibility and accountability for all actions in which Yonaga has participated.” Brent felt wonder at the old man’s knowledge of American traditions.

  Gesturing, Fujita turned to his left. “Gentlemen, my executive officer, Captain Masao Kawamoto.” A small, ancient officer struggled from his chair. He leaned like a pine too long exposed to the wind, and bowed stiffly. Then he sagged back into his chair. “Captain Kawamoto will be my liaison with you and will assign you cabins here in flag country.”

  The admiral pointed a bent tendril to his right. “My flight leader, Commander Yoshi Matsuhara.”

  Brent Ross was stunned as a youthful officer arose wearing the uniform of a naval aviator. Ross could not believe his eyes. The man, who must have been at least sixty, had black hair, an unlined face and the grace and physique of a trained athlete. After bowing, Matsuhara seated himself.

  The admiral nodded to a corner where another old officer hunched over a pad and pencil. “My secretary, Lieutenant Kenji Hironaka.” The lieutenant bowed, remaining in his chair.

  The four American officers rose and stood with the lone representative of the Maritime Self Defense Force. Admiral Mark Allen stepped forward. Sixty-three years old with a full shock of white hair that fell across his forehead like a valance giving him a mussed, boyish appearance, Mark Allen had a patrician nose, alert gray-green eyes and smooth, clear skin.

  Nodding to his right to a tall, slender man of about sixty wit
h a narrow face, intensely brown eyes and a hard, uncompromising look about him, Admiral Allen said in the soft, cultured tones of a college professor, “This is Captain Bruce Stafford, special naval attache to the American ambassador and assigned just an hour ago on special liaison to Yonaga.” Stafford nodded. Allen glanced to his left, “And this is Captain Takahashi Aogi of the Maritime Self Defense Force assigned by the Japanese government and also on special liaison.”

  Slender and tall for a Japanese, Aogi appeared to be well over sixty. His wide eyes and aquiline nose gave him a very unoriental appearance. There was a look of restrained euphoria on his face. Bowing deeply, he murmured reverently as if he were addressing a deity, “Honored, Admiral – honored.” Bell and Ross exchanged a glance. There was fury in Bell’s eyes.

  “And,” Admiral Allen continued, “from Naval Intelligence, or NIS, Commander Craig Bell and his aide, Ensign Brent Ross.”

  Coming erect with eyes wide, Fujita stared at Brent, decades wiped from his face. The voice, now strong and firm: “You are Captain Ted ‘Trigger’ Ross’ son?”

  Brent felt the cold fist of fury grasp his lungs, expel his breath, force heat to his face. His every instinct was to attack – avenge his father’s murder. But civilization prevailed. “Yes – I’m his son and I claim my father’s ashes, an explanation—” Civilization eroded, “and retribution.”

  “Ensign Ross,” Admiral Allen said sharply. “Do you wish to be excused?”

  Choking the rage down, Brent caught his breath. “No, sir,” he said firmly.

  “Very well,” Allen said. And then with an edge of softness, “We’ll take care of your personal matters in due time.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  With a wave, Admiral Fujita quickly changed the subject. “Seat yourselves, gentlemen. I am pleased you excluded the press from your group. When a reporter enters, truth exits.” He glanced at the American admiral. His voice was suddenly hoarse. “Japan lost the war? Actually surrendered?”

  “Yes,” Mark Allen answered. “Nearly forty years ago”

  “But gyokusai – what happened to our spirit of gyokusai?” The admiral’s voice was tortured.

  Captain Aogi came to life, turned to the Americans. “Gyokusai is the samurai’s concept of dying to the last man, woman and child.”

  Fujita silenced the Japanese captain with an extended palm. “Then the atomic bomb exists – was used – used against us. That must be true.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you must have your continent to continent rockets.”

  “Yes.”

  “And Hiroshima was obliterated” Fujita said, turning to Captain Aogi. “My family – my wife, two sons lived in Hiroshima”

  Aogi nodded grimly. “We know, Admiral.”

  “You know? Then how are they?”

  Squirming, the captain drummed on his armrests. “They have entered the Yasakuni Shrine, sir.”

  “Dead! You are sure?”

  “We began investigating next of kin of Yonaga’s crew on eight December. Yes – I am sorry – all three names are to be found on the cenotaph at ‘Ground Zero’. They… ah… are reported as missing.”

  Fujita’s voice was a cold breeze off the Arctic snow-pack, “You mean vaporized; is that not true?”

  Aogi turned his head, said nothing. Bell and Ross exchanged a glance. Suddenly, the old admiral was no longer a heartless killer; just a tired old man sagging with grief.

  He breathed deeply. “The mikado?”

  “Emperor Hirohito is still on his throne.”

  Screaming choruses of “Tenno heiko banzai,” Kawamoto, Hironaka and Matsuhara came to their feet.

  Puzzled, Captain Stafford stared at the intelligence officers. Cupping his mouth, Brent Ross leaned toward him, shouting through the bedlam, “Long live the emperor.” The captain nodded understanding.

  Silencing the Japanese with a raised hand, Fujita spoke, triumph replacing grief, “I knew it! I knew it! The ‘Son of Heaven’ is impregnable, his throne inviolate—”

  “Admiral,” Mark Allen interrupted, “The emperor remains on his throne by the grace of the United States Government.”

  “Nonsense," Fujita snapped. “You may believe what you wish. I will believe the truth.” There were more shouts of “Banzai.” Brent Ross could not believe what he saw and heard. He felt like a man unjustly thrown into an asylum.

  “Respectfully, Admiral," Allen said in obvious frustration. “You are out of touch with reality."

  Fujita’s eyes were as black as the bottom of a grave. “You do not introduce me to reality, Admiral,” he snapped. “The reality is you are a guest of my command.” He circled a hand over his head. “The reality is this vessel, her crew, forty-two years of isolation. The reality is Pearl Harbor, the sunken ships and destroyed aircraft Yonaga left in her wake. And reality is the emperor, a direct descendant of the sun goddess Amaterasu and one hundred twenty-fourth in his line!” Suddenly, the words were clipped as if his lips were scissors, “You cannot touch him – no mortal can touch him.”

  Although Allen’s tone was conciliatory, he conceded nothing. “The United States Government has no intention of challenging Emperor Hirohito. And Admiral, we will accomplish nothing if we debate issues which are much older than we are.” He turned to Aogi, “I understand your staff has been investigating next of kin."

  Before the Japanese captain could respond, Fujita said, “Captain Aogi, I intend to give my crew liberty. They will need names, addresses.”

  “With your permission, Admiral,” the Japanese captain answered, “my staff will meet with your crew in the hangar deck this afternoon at fifteen hundred hours. We will provide each of your men with whatever information we have gathered on their families.”

  “Good, good.”

  “And Admiral, for the protection of your crew, Sir, we are at this moment bringing a medical team aboard. Each man will be examined and inoculated against viruses.”

  “Viruses?”

  Aogi nodded. “New diseases, Admiral. We are afraid your men lack immunity – would sicken – die. They have been isolated in a near germ-free environment and are aged.”

  Clenched fingers like a ball of bent roots struck the desk. “They are not old,” the admiral hissed, eyes wide, lips peeled back from a full mouth of gleaming white teeth. “We are samurai kept young by the hunger for battle – by bushido, Yamato damashii and our pledge to die for the mikado.”

  Again, Kawamoto, Hironaka and Matsuhara came to their feet, shouting “Banzai,” over and over. But again Fujita silenced them and sent them back to their chairs with a wave.

  Ross shook his head and wondered about reality. Had the weight of four decades crushed every drop of reason from these living, breathing anachronisms? Silence, while Fujita’s eyes moved over the room restlessly, finally pausing on the overhead where they seemed to find something in another place and another time. His fingers met and laced on his chest and he spoke in a voice that was suddenly soft, almost contented, changing mood as fast as a chameleon changes color.

  “You are anxious to know about Yonaga – how she survived.” The newcomers nodded. “You have heard of the Yamatos, the greatest class of warships ever built?” The men nodded. “Yonaga is a Yamato.”

  Mark Allen spoke. “Yes, we know, Admiral. Yamato and Musashi were sixty-two thousand ton battleships mounting nine eighteen-point-two inch guns each. Shinana was completed as a seventy-two thousand ton carrier.”

  “That is correct. Yonaga was the fourth of the Yamato class.”

  “But this ship,” Allen gestured, “was lengthened from eight hundred seventy-two feet to one thousand fifty, has sixteen Kanpon boilers instead of twelve and displaces eighty-four thousand tons.”

  “Very good, Admiral,” Fujita said. And then glancing at Brent, “You and your staff have done your research.”

  “Only recently, we uncovered some old Imperial Navy files in a cave near Yokkaichi,” Mark Allen replied. He pointed toward Aogi. “That’s w
here Captain Aogi’s staff found the roster of your crew. But we know little of your air groups. Capacity. What is Yonaga’s true operational strength?”

  The old man sagged with fatigue, turned to Commander Yoshi Matsuhara and deferred with a tilt of his head. Silent throughout the proceedings, the incongruously youthful flight leader leaped to his feet eagerly, black eyes flashing – flashing with latent viciousness. Balefully, he gazed at the Americans, contempt twisting his lips grotesquely over pointed teeth. He spoke with forced casualness.

  “Including disassembled aircraft, Yonaga carries one hundred and forty-eight planes and operates one hundred-twenty. We have ninety-six operational aircraft on board at this moment; thirty-four Mitsubishi A-Six-M-Two, Zero fighters; thirty-three Aichi D-Three-A dive bombers; and twenty-nine Nakajima B-Five-N torpedo bombers.”

  But staring at the admiral, Mark Allen seemed not to be listening. “You’re all right, sir?” There was genuine concern in the voice.

  The scabrous parchment face cracked with the hint of a grin. “Fine, fine.” He turned to the flight leader, “Please continue, Matsuhara-san.”

  “In the second successful attack on Pearl Harbor,” the aviator continued triumphantly, “Yonaga lost seventeen Zeros, thirteen Aichis and twenty-two Nakajimas. A cheap trade for a carrier and a battleship.” Silence poured like a viscous fluid through the compartment, coating everyone. The prideful voice droned on. “You Americans ignore history – never learn from it.” Kawamoto and Hironaka giggled. Fujita stared at the bulkhead coldly. “Fifty-two pilots entered the Yasakuni Shrine honoring their Yamato damashii.” Matsuhara smiled as he explained to the Americans. “‘Their Japanese spirit.’ But we have no shortage of pilots. Do not forget, Yonaga was frozen-in for forty-two years. We had forty-two years to train every member of our air crew as pilots. We had the simulators, the filmed problems,” bitterness crept in, “and the time.” He took a deep breath. “Some of our replacements are not as efficient as those lost, but they can fly – have Yamato damashii.” There were more shouts of “Banzai.”