Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “I don’t think I’m premature, Admiral. They’re just not reacting the way a normal crew would, and you know it. My God, an American crew wouldn’t be stripping their weapons. They’d be lining the rails, screaming at the spectators, drinking, jumping overboard. But these men aren’t human. Every station is manned. They’re like… ah—”

  “Like robots, Brent.”

  “Yes! That’s right.”

  “But Brent. What’s normal?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said an American crew would be jumping overboard.”

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  “But this is a crew of samurai, Brent. They don’t fit our parameters.” Allen tapped his chin with a single finger. “Brent, don’t get so lost in Yonaga you forget our primary responsibility here – debriefing. The way I see it, we have over fifty pilots and over two hundred line officers to interview and we have a team of forty-two enlisted men coming aboard tomorrow with radios, typewriters – everything for debriefing and communications with NIS, Washington.”

  “I’m surprised Fujita approved,” the ensign said dourly.

  “He wants the radios.”

  “He belongs to no one, Admiral.”

  “He’s Japanese. No loyalty is stronger.”

  “But this is an imperial carrier without an imperial navy. And, if I remember my history, this ship violates their nineteen-forty-seven constitution.”

  “You do know your history,” Allen said, pleased. “And in particular, Yonaga violates Article Nine of the constitution.”

  “Article Nine? How in the world would you know that?”

  The older man laughed softly. “I wrote it.” He tapped his temple, stared at the overhead. “I don’t know if this is correct, verbatim, but it reads like this: ‘Aspiring sincerely to an international peace based on justice and order, the Japanese people forever renounce war as a sovereign right of the nation and the threat and use of force as a means of settling intema-tional disputes.”

  “Very good, Admiral,” the young ensign said, chuckling.

  “Oh, but there’s more. The next paragraph was my best writing – a real kicker.” He moved his eyes to the speaker and then to the emperor’s picture. “‘In order to accomplish the aim of the preceding paragraph, land, sea, and air forces, as well as other war potential, will never be maintained. The right of belligerency of the state will not be recognized’.” He turned to Ross. “May not be word for word, but that’s the essence.”

  “But Admiral,” the young man said thoughtfully. “Aren’t the ships of the Maritime Self Defense Force in violation of Article Nine.”

  “No. Technically not. They have a few frigates, destroyers and auxiliaries. All defensive units.”

  “But a carrier is offensive. Right?”

  “Correct, Brent. The only function of a carrier is to attack.”

  “Then Yonaga could never function as an arm of the Self Defense Force.”

  “True. But keep this in mind, Brent.” The older man fixed the brown eyes of the ensign with the clear gray-green of his own. “Yonaga is crewed by samurai pledged to their emperor. The bond is an umbilical that can only be severed by death.”

  The ensign tapped a palm with a fist, slowly and deliberately. “Admiral, the Japanese government has been slow on this – must find Yonaga an embarrassment.”

  “More than that. An albatross that brings back a past they prefer to leave buried.”

  “Jesus. You can’t ignore this!” The ensign gesticulated. “Eighty-four thousand tons of this.”

  “Ha! You’re right. Captain Aogi told me we can expect twenty-eight translators to board tomorrow along with more medical personnel. They’ll work closely with our team.”

  “The people love her, Admiral.”

  “Yes. She symbolizes the high point of power – empire.”

  “More than that, Admiral.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She represents Pearl Harbor smashed twice.” Mark Allen grimaced. “We must be clinical – analytical in evaluating these people, Brent. We can’t examine them with western criteria. This is another universe. A microcosm of a society frozen in feudalism. A society that exhalts the warrior – the samurai and his code of bushido.”

  “I studied the samurai and bushido in the academy. I know they’re dedicated – determined.”

  Mark Allen nodded. “As you have seen,” he waved a hand, “those words are too weak.” He hunched forward, hands on knees. “I fought them from forty-one to forty-five, researched them from forty-five to forty-nine using their own records and then wrote their history with Samuel E. Morison in the early fifties.”

  “You’re known as an expert on Japanese history, Admiral.”

  “Thank you, Brent. But more than that, did you know my father was a naval attache to the American ambassador to Japan from nineteen-twenty-five to nineteen-thirty-six? I attended school in Japan – actually graduated from secondary school in Tokyo?”

  Brent shook his head. “Like a native, Admiral?”

  Smiling, the older man fingered white hair from his forehead, pushed it back. “I know them, Brent, and nothing they do can surprise me. The samurai is not merely a medieval knight in Oriental clothing. No, indeed, their history goes back a thousand years, is all wrapped up in their religion. You’ve heard of karma?”

  “Yes, Admiral. They got it from Buddhism. The belief that one’s actions in this life determine one’s fate in the next.”

  Mark Allen smiled. “Right. But more than that, if one of these men,” he circled a hand, “can die well enough, he can improve his karma to the ultimate and attain nirvana.”

  “Paradise?”

  “Oh, much better than that.” Allen chuckled, warming to his subject. “Nirvana is a place where there is no life, no death, future or past – just a limitless now of exquisite peace.”

  “At the Yasakuni Shrine.”

  “Right. It’s in Tokyo. Heroes’ souls dwell there.”

  “Wallowing in nirvana, Admiral.”

  Mark chuckled. “And don’t forget Shinto.”

  “Yes, Admiral. Fujita told us the emperor is a direct descendant of the sun goddess, Amaterasu.”

  The admiral laughed. “He even gave us his number: one hundred twenty-fourth in line, Brent.”

  “And, of course, dying for the emperor gives one a ticket to the Yasakuni Shrine.”

  Allen smiled at the ensign’s improving spirits. “You did your homework at the academy.”

  “I always got ‘A’s’ in history, sir.”

  “You’ve heard of kokutai?”

  “Ah… essence—” the young ensign stumbled. Then shrugged.

  “You’re on the right track. It’s the concept that the national essence is embodied in the emperor – that the emperor personifies the samurai spirit as well.”

  Ross tapped his knee. “Fujita must hold the Maritime Self Defense Force in contempt.”

  “I believe it. It would make sense. The samurai cannot tolerate the word ‘defense.’ He always attacks.”

  “Attack what and for whom, Admiral. There is no imperial navy and Yonaga is unconstitutional.”

  “Right, Brent.”

  “Then Fujita will only answer to the emperor.”

  “That’s my conclusion, Brent.”

  The two men stared at each other silently.

  *

  The next day was hectic for Brent Ross and Mark Allen. Craig Bell, who had been summoned by the American ambassador, was spared the turmoil. Early in the morning, forty-two Americans with typewriters, word processors and tape recorders came aboard. In addition, twenty communication personnel arrived with radios. Within hours, the old receivers and transmitters had been stripped from the radio rooms and replaced with compact transistorized sets. Adapting quickly, Yonaga's personnel manned the new equipment side by side with the Americans, and a communications link between the Japanese government and U.S. Naval Intelligence in Washington was established.

&nb
sp; The Japanese government honored its commitment when, at noon, twenty translators boarded the carrier. Within an hour, rows of wooden debriefing cubicles began to take shape on the port side of the hangar deck opposite the ship’s combined Buddhist temple and Shinto shrine – a large enclosure of unpainted wood complete with a red torii over its single entrance and two imperial chrysanthemums painted on its sides.

  Standing next to Mark Allen, forward on the hangar deck, Brent Ross was stunned by the size of the compartment. A steel platform that appeared to be at least a thousand feet long and over two hundred feet wide, it had a high overhead from which dozens of floodlights dangled. And perhaps sixty planes were lined up in rows with green-clad mechanics swarming over them. Far to the stem, engines on testing blocks roared to life sporadically, bellowed for a few moments under the watchful eyes of crewmen, and then fell silent. There was the continuous sound of metal on metal as tools were used and sometimes dropped, clanging on the deck. And adding to the cacophony, the shrill shouts of crewmen.

  “How are we to debrief in this madhouse?” the ensign asked, waving a hand at the cubicles.

  “It’ll be tough, but we have no choice.” Allen gestured toward the stern. “At least the testing blocks are aft.”

  The younger man nodded. “I think we can manage.” He sniffed as a cloud of exhaust blew by. “They stink, too.”

  “It’s perfume to them,” Allen said, a hard set to his jaw. “We need to meet with the admiral.”

  At that moment, a rating approached, stopping in front of the admiral. Observing the Japanese tradition of not saluting below decks, the man bowed and then handed a slip of paper to the senior officer.

  “Return to your duties,” the admiral said. The man bowed and left.

  “They all understand English,” Allen mused, gazing at the message. And then to his young companion, “Our old friend must have ESP.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Fujita wants to see us immediately.”

  *

  Winded by his climb from the hangar deck, Brent Ross followed the heavy-breathing Admiral Mark Allen through the chart house and into Admiral Hiroshi Fujita’s cabin. Seated behind his desk with the poise of a jade Buddha, the old sailor was flanked by his executive officer, Captain Masao Kawamoto, on his left and secretary, Lieutenant Kenji Hironaka, on his right. Fujita nodded at two chairs facing his desk, obviously arranged for the visitors. And just as obvious, Captain Bruce Stafford and Captain Takahashi Aogi had not been invited. The Americans seated themselves.

  “I must apologize for your quarters, Admiral,” Fujita began.

  “I find them satisfactory, thank you, Admiral.”

  “My executive officer,” the old Japanese nodded to Kawamoto, “informs me you were inadvertently assigned to a cabin with Ensign Ross.” Ross straightened. “No offense to you, Ensign, but Admiral Allen’s rank justifies a private cabin and we do have empty cabins.” The Japanese exchanged a grim look. “Most of my staff, including Goro Ogawa, the captain of this ship, died many years ago. In fact, the ashes of over three hundred of my men are down below in The Shrine of Infinite Salvation.’”

  “We saw your shrine, Sir,” Brent offered.

  The old man tapped a stack of paper with a single finger. “We have word that several more American junior officers are awaiting my permission to come aboard. Imperial navy protocol would dictate your acceptance of separate quarters befitting your rank, Admiral. We will assign a junior officer to Ensign Ross’ cabin.”

  “Very well, Admiral,” Allen said, ignoring the reference to the nonexistent imperial navy. Then he continued as if he were humoring a madman. “With your permission, I’ll move when the junior officers come aboard.” Allen gestured to Ross. “We work together… need to confer.”

  “Admiral, where is your staff?” Fujita asked. And then, not waiting for an answer, “Surely, an admiral in the United States Navy would have more than a single aide?”

  “I’m not a flag officer, Admiral. Actually, I am an aide to ‘Comthirteen’.” The Japanese looked at each other blankly. “Sorry – the Commandant of the Thirteenth Naval District.”

  “Thirteenth Naval District?”

  “Washington, Oregon, Idaho and Montana.”

  “But you have a staff?”

  “True, Admiral Fujita, but what staff I have is back in Seattle. And I am on emergency assignment to Naval Intelligence because of my fluency in Japanese and experience in Japanese history.”

  The old Japanese chuckled. “We all speak English.”

  “Yes, I know,” Allen said. “The Japanese Navy was modeled after the British Navy. At the turn of the century, your commands to engines and helm were in English. In fact, your first four battleships were built by the English – key officers trained by the British. Those ships won the Battle of Tsushima for you.”

  Brent was shocked by Mark Allen’s depth of knowledge. The Japanese exchanged an awed look.

  “You are a fine historian, Admiral,” Fujita conceded. Then the old man threw his head back, seemed to grow in his chair. “I was at Tsushima; a young ensign on Admiral Heihachiro Togo’s flagship Mikasa with Asaki, Shikishima and Fuji in our wake when we annihilated the Russians. True, the English built them. But remember bushido and the samurai spirit. Those battleships were just scrap iron without the Yamato damashii of their crews. Samurai did it – samurai defeated the Russians.” The Americans remained silent while Hironaka croaked a “Banzai.” Fujita gestured, indicating he was not yet through. The old eyes studied his American counterpart. “Of course we know English. True, many of our officers were trained in England and America, too. English was the language of the fleet when I was young.” Abruptly, he sank back, waving a hand impatiently. “But enough of reminiscences. Yonaga needs radar. I want you to requisition the latest in radar equipment from your navy."

  Both Americans came erect rigidly as if their spines were suddenly turned to steel. “You can’t—”

  “Please, Admiral Allen. Do not tell me what I can or cannot do.”

  Allen’s voice was hard. “I’m sorry, Admiral, but you can’t just requisition equipment for Yonaga from the United States Navy."

  “As captain of this carrier, I will supply and maintain this vessel in any manner I choose.”

  Ross, Hironaka and Kawamoto stared silendy. The two admirals continued as if they were alone. Allen leaned forward. “If you wish this equipment, you should request it from the Maritime Self Defense Force. Their barges are alongside now unloading food.”

  The old man shook his head. “‘Self Defense Force’ – those words are disgusting." Kawamoto shouted a single “Banzai.” Hironaka croaked one of his own. Fujita glared at both. They sagged silendy, staring at the Americans. “And you were behind us in most things, but perhaps, slightly ahead with your radar.” He hunched forward, both hands flat on the highly polished oak desk. “I repeat, I want both sea and air search radar – your latest equipment”

  Mark Allen’s eyes widened, a scarlet hue crept from his neck, coloring his face. “Perhaps, you’d like a dozen atomic bombs, too.”

  A ball of bony tendrils struck the desk. “Enough!

  “No, Admiral. Not enough. And what makes you think you can dictate to the United States Government? There is still a small matter of Pearl Harbor.”

  “This!” the old Oriental shouted, holding a single sheet of paper up triumphantly.

  “What do you mean?” Allen asked suspiciously.

  There was victory in Fujita’s voice. “The Chinese satellite system. Not a jet can fly, not a rocket can be fired. Your communications satellites are destroyed.” And then slowly as if each word were a gem to be polished by his lips, “Yonaga is the most powerful war machine in the world.”

  This time Fujita made no attempt to silence the “Banzais” that exploded from Hironaka and Kawamoto.

  Mark Allen shouted, “Please! Please!” The old men fell silent. “Admiral,” he continued, “You cannot feel loyalty to the Maritime S
elf Defense Force?”

  “Of course not. The concept is degrading.”

  “Can you feel loyalty to Japan?”

  “To my Japan which apparendy no longer exists.”

  “Your emperor exists.”

  “Yes. That is our only loyalty.” Then lifting his eyes to the overhead, the old mariner seemed to be far away as he spoke with new softness, “If I go to sea I shall return a corpse awash. For the sake of the emperor, I shall not die peacefully at home.” More “banzais.” Slowly, Fujita’s eyes returned to the American admiral. Mark Allen spoke. “‘The Naval Lament.”

  “Very good, Admiral. You have an unusual knowledge of Nippon.”

  Allen shrugged off the compliment. “Has the emperor ordered you to modernize Yonaga?”

  The old Japanese eyed the American quizzically. “You are clever, Admiral Allen. That is a rhetorical question. You know he has not.”

  “He has not ordered you to do anything.”

  “True. But as commanding officer of this vessel, I am obliged to keep her at maximum strength. I feel the mikado may call on us.” There was a long silence. Then the scabrous face was creased by a sly smile. “Admiral, you wish to debrief us – write our history?”

  “Correct”

  “Let us put it this way – you can remain but only if you request the equipment.”

  “No requisitions,” Allen said.

  “That is correct. Just a request.”

  “Requests are easily refused, Admiral Fujita.”

  “I will accept that risk. Agreed?”

  “Agreed, Admiral Fujita.” The two men exchanged a long look.

  Brent Ross stirred to life. “Yesterday, when we came aboard, you must have known the war was over, and that Japan had lost.”

  The old man stared into the ensign’s clear blue eyes. “No, that conclusion was inconceivable. I thought you were prisoners of war.”

  Brent Ross started. He controlled an urge to laugh by squirming and breathing heavily. Turning his lips in, he spoke, “Now you are convinced, Admiral.”

  The old man nodded. Sagging, he dropped his hands to his lap. “There is something of grave importance to be discussed.” The Americans leaned forward. “There may be attempts at retaliation against the crew of Yonaga by your country.”