by Peter Albano
Despite the noise, Mark Allen made his voice heard, “But the secrecy,” he stabbed a finger over his head and silence returned, “this enormous ship hidden for over four decades. The records we found were only fragments. Most were destroyed by Unit Seven-Three-One.”
Captain Bruce Stafford stirred; grimaced. “Unit Seven-Three-One? You mean that ‘SS’ outfit?”
Allen’s lips tightened. “Right! They conducted medical experiments on prisoners in their Manchurian camps – were looking for bases to launch balloon carried bacteriological weapons against the U.S.”
“Barbaric,” Stafford spat.
“As barbaric as your atomic bombs, Captain?” Fujita asked, eyes smoldering coals.
Silence. Brent Ross stared at the admiral, hostility retreating, pushed aside by curiosity and glimmering respect.
“Please,” Mark Allen said to the red-faced captain, “We are here to debrief. Instead, we keep opening old wounds and you know that won’t help.” Glaring, Stafford nodded.
The American admiral turned to Fujita, “Please continue, sir.”
Brent Ross was not surprised by the deference in Mark Allen’s voice. Admiral Fujita’s presence seemed to fill the room, command respect. Every man felt it. The ancient officer stirred with new energy. “I will assume you know nothing of Yonaga – start at the beginning.”
All eyes were riveted on the admiral as the incredible tale unfolded. There were seven carriers – Kaga, Akaga, Soryu, Hiryu, Zuikaku, Shokaku and Yonaga – in Kido Butai, the Pearl Harbor Strike Force. Six of the carriers, all but Yonaga, could stage at Hitokappu Bay in the Kurile Islands with an excellent chance of escaping detection. But Yonaga was so gigantic it was feared foreign spies – all embassies are filled with them – would discover her. To insure secrecy, an unprecedented action was taken: Yonaga was actually commissioned into the Army’s Unit Seven-Three-One, and all admiralty records of her were destroyed. She became a ghost ship – a ship of whispers, rumors and innuendo.
Early in November of 1940, she was hidden under camouflage netting in a remote anchorage near Kitsuki on the island of Kyushu. From the sea, she looked like a small mountain. In June of 1941, Seven-Three-One decided to move her to a secret base – a gigantic cove on Siberia’s Chukchi Peninsula called Sano-wan, which was sheltered by overhanging glacial formations. Built by Unit Seven-Three-One as a site from which balloons could be launched against the United States, Sano-wan was in the far northern tip of the Bering Sea only about two hundred and twenty miles from Alaska. Here there were prevailing winds which would carry balloons southwest over the Aleutians. Beginning at about latitude fifty degrees north, the westerlies would pick them up and carry them across the north Pacific, exposing the entire west coast of America to attack.
Sano-wan was the ideal base. Isolated and lying on the Pacific “Ring of Fire,” the cove had a steam vent which provided unlimited power. But tragedy struck on 8 September, 1941 when 2m earthquaike caused the glacier to slide, covering the cove’s entrance with over a kilometer of ice. Yonaga was hopelessly trapped. But the carrier was manned by a picked crew of samurai. They would never give up, taste defeat, or surrender to anything. It cost lives, but two tunnels were dug through the ice and fishing parties sent out.
The Bering Sea is one of the world’s great fisheries. Halibut, salmon, herring, cod, flounder, pollack, seals, sea otters and even small whales were taken. Seaweed was cultivated in the cove. All crewmen entered into a strenuous regimen of daily exercise including running and weight-lifting. Practicing constantly, aircrews maintained flying skills by using filmed problems in simulators similar to the American Link Trainer. Aircraft and the ship’s main engines were run annually. For forty-two years the great carrier remained locked in by ice. And then, Fujita concluded, late in 1983 the glacier melted away, slipped into the sea and Yonaga was free.
The room was very still with just the gentle murmur of the fans and a faint throb of the ship’s generators. Captain Takahashi Aogi broke the silence. “There were rumors of a giant carrier. Then Shinana was launched. We thought it was Shinana.”
Fujita nodded. “There is more to the story, Captain.” Fujita spread his hands on the polished oak. “Sano-wan was named after the man who discovered and developed the base, Colonel Akira Sano. He and his staff and most of the technicians who capped the steam vent and developed the base were on the submarine L 24 leaving the cove when the glacier slipped, crushing the boat. There were no survivors.”
Fascinated, Captain Stafford broke from his pique. “But there were others – records.”
The old man leaned back, obviously tiring. Mark Allen spoke. “I can speak to that. Unit Seven-Three-One was a top-secret outfit. In fact, we have uncovered information about their medical experiments on prisoners in Manchuria only recendy. By the end of the war, most records had been destroyed by air raids or Seven-Three-One’s officers.”
Stafford persisted. “But there must have been survivors – officers who could be interviewed. Surely—”
Impatiently, the American admiral broke in. “No! All the officers committed seppuku except one, Colonel Daisuke Muira, who got a whiff of his own gas and became a mumbling idiot. He’s still confined in a sanitarium at Kawaguchi.”
Again, the ship’s sounds filled the room as the men fell silent. Brent Ross shifted his weight, moved by another troublesome thought.
“Oil is a fossil fuel not far from its natural state when pumped into your bunkers.”
The old man turned his head, studied the ensign quiescently. “I assume you sealed your tanks, Admiral.”
“Correct, Ensign. Oil can be stored indefinitely.”
“But gasoline – especially high-test aviation fuel – is highly refined – volatile. It would be difficult to store.”
“You are perceptive, Ensign Ross. But gasoline can be stored. We sealed those tanks, too.”
“Then you had condensation.”
“Yes. But water is heavier than gasoline. Sinks to the bottom of the tanks.”
Ross stirred uneasily. “But not one hundred percent of the water would settle.”
The voice was grim. “Unfortunately, you are correct. We had casualties.”
Mark Allen interrupted with another disturbing topic. “You had your radios – could communicate.”
“Not true. All vessels in Kido Butai were ordered to radio silence – had their crystals removed.”
“But you could receive”
“Yes! The signal to attack Pearl Harbor, ‘Climb Mount Niitaka’ was transmitted on 2 December, 1941.” The American admiral persisted. “But your receivers worked – you could copy news. You knew the war was over.”
“We could not believe these reports. Surrender to a samurai is inconceivable. In fact, the concept is unknown in the imperial forces. We believed the radio reports false; tricks designed to lure Japanese units into surrender.”
Brent Ross clutched his armrests, shook his head. He had heard of Japanese holdouts and their refusal to believe in Japanese surrender: Shoichi Yokoi’s twenty-seven years on Guam; Hiroo Onoda’s thirty years on Lubang. But a carrier locked in forty-two years of frozen isolation, breaking out as a viable fighting unit, sinking ships, killing his father, challenged credulity, even sanity. This must be a Kafkaesque nightmare.
But the voice droned on and the tale unraveled relendessly. Yonaga left Sano-wan on 1 December, bows pointed south toward Pearl Harbor, every man determined to carry out the orders of 7 December 1941. Moving slowly and keeping her practicing air groups below one hundred meters, the great carrier avoided suspicion and possible radar detection. But despite precautions, the steamer Sparta, a U.S. Coast Guard helicopter, a Russian reconnaissance aircraft and a Russian whaler were encountered and destroyed.
And Yonaga honored her orders, fulfilled her destiny when, on 7 December 1983, she attacked Pearl Harbor, destroying the carrier Peliliu and sinking the battleship New Jersey. Then the return to Japan and anchoring in Tokyo Bay that morning, just six hours
before. The voice stopped, the bony fingers beat a tattoo on the hollow chest. Sighing, the old man slipped into contentment and stared at the overhead as if he were alone, enjoying a reverie.
Obviously piqued, Stafford broke in with a voice strident enough to fill a hangar deck. “You know, of course, you have committed murder.”
Stopping their game, the fingers found the desk, clenched in balls. The ancient Japanese came erect. “When is war murder and when is war not murder, Captain?”
All eyes were on Captain Stafford and Admiral Fujita as the trenchant exchange filled the room. “When there is no war, killing is murder, Admiral.”
“Otherwise, killing is glorious.”
Silence. The American captain shifted his weight. “At Nuremberg and in Manila and Tokyo, Allied judges tried war criminals and hundreds were justly executed for war crimes”
The frosty eyes were chips of black marble. The voice cracked like breaking ice. “Justly executed! Then the radio was accurate. Your International Military Tribunal For the Far East tried and executed Generals Hideki Tojo, Masaharu Homma and Tomoyuki Yamashita. You were the victors and you executed the vanquished with laws you actually wrote after the war – ex post facto. Genghis Khan, Kublai Khan, the lokugawa shoguns and Attila the Hun did the same.”
“Your precious generals were murdering monsters – killed helpless people – men, women and children – thousands of Filipinos. It was justice.”
“Justice! Justice! Justice is a spoil of war. So we were murdering monsters! And what were you doing at Hiroshima, improving humanity?”
“The bombing of Hiroshima was an act of war carried out during a war to conclude a war, Admiral Fujita.”
“Savage and barbaric, Captain.”
Stafford pounded an armrest. “In the final analysis, isn’t all war savage and barbaric?”
“Nonsense,” Fujita retorted sharply. “You western military men are such hypocrites.” Stafford came erect, face scarlet. “You profess hatred for warfare, yet you are the most militaristic mass murderers in the history of this planet.”
Eyes bulging, Stafford shot out of his seat. Alarmed, Admiral Mark Allen rose, voice cutting with authority. “Captain, sit down. This situation demands cool heads. Remember, the admiral lost his family.” Stafford sank sullenly like a deflating balloon. Allen found his chair.
Obviously rankled, Fujita turned to Mark Allen, ignoring Stafford and continued, “The concept of man to man combat is noble. It brings out the ultimate in a man – tests his courage, loyalty, determination. But these bombs test nothing.”
“Test nothing?” Mark Allen said fascinated, accepting the challenge.
“Yes. There was a sage maxim in western nations, ‘war is an extension of diplomacy’.”
“Yes.”
“But no more – your bombs and rockets changed that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Now when diplomacy fails, some clerk will push a button and nations will annihilate each other in frustration. War is no longer an option. No, the extension is gone. Now it is peace or obliteration. And the stuff of war is gone. No more maneuvering armies, daring torpedo runs, surprise envelopments. The bombs have murdered strategy, tactics. Where is the excitement? The passion? Exhilaration? And yes, the agony? Now there is no challenge to manhood, only science is challenged.”
Brent was stunned by the old man’s insights and his ability to verbalize thoughts that had gnawed at him for years. And he had been in deep freeze for four decades. Unbelievable!
Mark Allen continued. “What would you suggest?”
“Throw out your scientists, their atomic bombs, their rockets. Leave warfare to the warriors.”
Tapping his chin with a single finger, Allen studied Fujita. He sighed. Then his eyes moved to Bell and Ross. “Gentlemen, we’d better return to our debriefing. Stay on—”
He was interrupted by persistent, anxious knock at the door. He looked at the admiral. Fujita nodded at Brent Ross. Rising quickly, the junior officer crossed the cabin and opened the room’s only door. Nervously, a Japanese sailer stood at attention, clutching a sheet of paper.
Although the admiral’s words came as a barrage, Brent understood most of the diatribe. “What is so important you dare to interrupt this meeting?”
The enlisted man bowed. “Commander Fujimoto said ‘This is for your eyes,’ Admiral.”
Fujita nodded, the sailer entered, bowed again, handed the sheet of paper to the admiral and exited. Placing a pair of tiny, old-fashioned steel rimmed glasses on his nose, the old man scanned the document and then smiled enigmatically. After removing the glasses, he looked from one American to another. He stared at Bell. “Did not one of your jets come down in the bay just before this meeting?”
Bell answered. “Yes. But it appeared to be a safe landing. The aircraft was being evacuated when we entered this cabin.”
The old man studied the document. “It was not the only one.”
“You mean another went in?” Bell said.
“And another, and another, and another.”
“I don’t understand, Admiral.”
Fujita held up the message. “Apparently, jets all over the world are crashing… engines burning. There are many casualties.”
Allen, Bell, Stafford and Ross rose as one. “Can’t be! Can’t be!” There was a rush for the door.
“The radio room is on this deck, aft,” the old admiral shouted.
As Brent Ross exited, he heard giggling behind him.
*
When Admiral Mark Allen, Captain Bruce Stafford, Commander Craig Bell and Ensign Brent Ross burst into Yonaga’s radio room, they found a bent old officer standing in the middle of the room shouting at a dozen men tuning old fashioned tube sets and pounding typewriters furiously. Turning to the Americans, the old man’s visage was startling: red-rimmed eyes, hooked nose and flesh lined and fissured like old leather. Strangely unjapanese, the face glowed with malevolence like an ancient corpse possessed by a demon. The apparition spoke in perfect English. “I am Commander Mineichi Fujimoto, Yonaga’s communication’s officer.”
Mark Allen spoke. “The reports – crashing jets—”
Slivers of lips twisted. “Yes it is true. All over the world, hundreds of planes have crashed in flames. Many hundreds, perhaps thousands, have died”
“How – what could cause this?”
“Those inscrutable Chinese,” the old man cackled. He stabbed a finger skyward. Typewriters stopped. A dozen heads turned. “Something strange, wondrous. Dispatches from all over the world report downed jets. Not one can fly.” The eyes gleamed as if back-lighted by red lights. “Where are your jets now, Yankees?”
As the Americans exited, they were followed by maniacal laughter.
Chapter III
“They hate us. They’ve been laughing at us, Admiral,” Brent Ross said, sagging on his bunk.
“What do you expect. They’re samurai, isolated for over forty years. That’s a long time to nurture hate. You can’t turn it off with a spigot,” Mark Allen said, sitting on the bunk opposite.
Both men fell silent. Allen stirred himself, circled a finger at the small room’s Spartan interior: two bunks, desk with pad and pencils, three chairs, table, overhead cluttered with the usual pipes and cables, a single exposed light bulb, speaker, a chart of the Hawaiian Islands on one bulkhead and the expected equestrian picture of the emperor on another.
“Flag country. Captain’s sea cabin,” the admiral observed. “Fujita on one side and Flag Plot on the other; Aogi, Bell and Stafford aft. But it’s home to us now.”
Brent Ross seemed not to hear. “And that Chinese satellite system,” he mumbled. “Nothing can fly.”
“Not true, Brent.”
“Not true?”
“Yes. Without a doubt, they’ve orbited some kind of particle beam weapons system, Brent.”
“Some ‘Star Wars’ concept, Admiral,” Brent offered. “Right, and I would guess the beams home-in on heat, infr
ared or a combination of emissions.”
“What about reciprocating engines?”
“Probably not hot enough. And I would guess the Japs already suspect this.”
“You mean – you mean Yonaga is still a viable weapon? A threat?”
“I guess. Call it intuition, but the—” The admiral was interrupted by the roar of an engine coughing to life on the hangar deck. Then another and another.
“Jesus, they’re finding out for themselves,” the younger man said as the explosions of cold cylinder heads reluctandy warming to life boomed through the ship.
Quickly, the staccato barks of individual cylinders blended into a blasting chorus as throtdes were opened on a half dozen engines. Then, throttled back, the engines rumbled evenly at idle with a precision typical only of well-oiled and superbly maintained machines. But a new sound came through the vent – cheering. Hundreds of voices cheering. And the cheering persisted until the engines stopped. Then the usual ship noises again; the hum of blowers, the rumble of auxiliary engines.
Brent looked up at the admiral. “They have their proof, Admiral.” The older man nodded. Elbows on knees, Brent made a steeple of his finger tips and stared owlishly over them. “We aren’t crazy, Admiral? This is a World War Two Jap carrier and we—”
“Brent,” Allen interrupted. “Pull yourself together. We have work to do.”
The young man took a deep breath. “Sorry, Admiral. But they’re happy – they’re killers – they think, and I can’t help but agree, Yonaga may still be one of the world’s great military machines. My God, Admiral, they’re still ready to fight. They should be crazy to see their families. But, instead, I believe they’re crazy to kill. Those engines – they know their antiques can fly. They even have ready guns. I saw the gun crews in battle dress. And crew chiefs were checking out the aircraft. I’ll bet they put up a combat air patrol by tomorrow.”
“I saw the ready guns – four twenty-five millimeter mounts. But I don’t think they’ll put up a CAP, Brent. Lord, Brent, we’ve only been on board for ten hours. Don’t rush to conclusions prematurely.”
