by Peter Albano
The final check. Pushing the throttle forward, Matsuhara watched the rpms climb to 4,000, manifold pressure to 85 centimeters of mercury. The plane was ready, trembling eagerly for the sky like a virgin awaiting her first lover.
Gripping the stick tightly, he saluted the director and nodded to the two men at the chocks who crouched under the wings, staring up. With a jerk, the chocks were pulled and the last four handlers raced to their catwalks. Now the universe was the deck, centerline, steam vent and yellow-clad flight director. A flag dropped, pointed to the bow. Pushing the throttle to the fire wall, Yoshi saw the tachometer needle zoom toward 5,000 and manifold pressure climb to the red line. He released the brake.
Joyously, the little fighter leaped forward, pressing the pilot back into his seat, stomach aching with sudden emptiness. Within a hundred meters, his speed indicator raced passed a hundred knots. Pulling back on the stick, he felt the Mitsubishi leap into the sky, a grounded hawk returning to its natural habitat. Yoshi pulled up on a lever, felt the wheels retract, lock into their wells. Gently, the commander moved his stick, pressured the left rudder pedal, banking into a counterclockwise orbit.
After closing and locking his canopy, he glanced down, saw Takamura already airborne while Kojima streaked down the deck. In less than two minutes, the three fighters began circling Yonaga in perfect formation; Matsuhara in the lead, flanked by his wingmen. They were the point of an arrow banking and climbing into an indigo sky dappled with fleecy clouds – clouds that fled like sheep before the breath of the wind.
Quickly, Matsuhara settled into the tireless ritual of the fighter pilot: the constant turning of the head that preempted surprise and kept a man alive. Immediately, he saw a twin-engined aircraft climbing slowly from Tokyo Airport. However, the plane turned north and soon vanished. Only the Zeros occupied the sky. Leveling off at 2,000 meters, he looked down. A few boats at a safe distance from the carrier. The usual dull patrol. Eying the rings of his range finder, his mind leafed back through his book of memories to that glorious day over Pearl Harbor when Yonaga caught the Yankees completely unprepared, vindicating Kameto Kuroshima’s Plan Z for the second time in forty-two years. Yes! That was the supreme moment. With his family roasted, these would be his fondest memories.
*
Seventh December 1983 had been a beautiful morning over Pearl Harbor. Only a few clouds speckled an otherwise brilliant blue sky. To the north, the morning sun had heightened the green of the cane fields stretching up the slopes above Aiea, blending into the blue-green of the Koolau Mountains where a few clouds paused and clung to Mount Tanalus and Mount Olympus like lacy nightcaps.
Looking down, Yoshi Matsuhara had seen nothing of the beauty. Instead, he saw Hickam, Ewa and Wheeler fields where American planes were lined up like rows of bent crosses. And there was a carrier docked in Southeast Loch and a battleship anchored just south of Ford Island.
Flying as Commander Jiro Hamamatsu’s left-hand wingman, Yoshi had exulted when Commander Masao Shimizu’s, “tora, tora, tora,” – the signal for complete surprise – rang in his earphones. Then, circling at 4,000 meters as top cover with twenty other Zeros, he had stared in awe as Hickam, Ewa and Wheeler were smashed by Lieutenant Araki’s dive bombers and strafed by Zeros. And the carrier was an easy target for dive bombers. In less than two minutes, plummeting Aichis turned the great vessel into Fuji-san.
But the battleship had been a formidable adversary. He remembered how Lieutenant Toyofuku’s Nakajima B5N2s had lined up on Southeast Loch and swooped low like hawks for the kill, dropping their torpedos equipped with special fins for shallow running from a mere thirty meters. But, then, the Americans began firing a fast new weapon that knocked Nakajimas from the sky like a man swats flies. And the autogiros appeared, taking the bomber stream on its flank, slaughtering. At that same moment, four American jet fighters streaked to the attack from high in the sky.
In this most critical moment, Commander Shimizu had acted decisively, calling on his most experienced pilot, Lieutenant Ryuji Shigemitsu. Leading eight Zeros, Lieutenant Shigemitsu clawed for altitude, making a head-on interception of the jets which fired rockets and a new rapid-fire cannon. Smiling, Yoshi remembered how cubic kilometers of sky exploded with lightning and thunder when the flights met. Burning, cartwheeling wreckage. Chunks of smoking aluminum, plunging engines, bodies still strapped in their seats. Not a single aircraft survived the interception. Shigemitsu and all of his men perished but so did the Americans. There were “Banzais” in his earphones.
Shimizu had dealt with the autogiros himself. Matsuhara could still feel the exhilaration of that attack. Following Matsuhara’s “three” and covering Hamamatsu’s port wing, he had plunged downward, engine shrieking in overboost, speed indicator crowding the red line at four hundred knots. And the slow autogiros turned toward them, not giving them the bulls’ eyes of their rotors. At the same time, the Yankees opened fire with a fearful weapon: rapid fire cannons that bathed the noses of their aircraft with brilliant orange flames. Thousands of tracers stormed toward him, appearing to accelerate as they streaked by like mad fireflies.
Fondly, he remembered bringing the enemy on the right to the center of his range finder, and pressing the red button. The airframe bucked as the cannons roared to life. He remembered grimacing and baring his teeth as he saw his tracers hit the enemy in little winks of light. Rotor shattered, the autogiro dropped as if an alchemist had suddenly turned it to lead, exploding as it hit the ground.
But the American fire was deadly. A Zero to his left became a churning, swirling maelstrom of burning fragments. Two other Zeros exploded. Then, the surviving aircraft passed each other in a wink. He remembered the lightheadedness of “six gs” as he pulled back hard on his stick, kicked the rudder pedal and half rolled, reversing direction, following Hamamatsu. And there was a surprise for his spinning brain, too. Actually turning inside the Zeros, two autogiros dove on him, firing, while a third, obviously disabled, settled slowly to the ground. Yoshi fired, saw his tracers smash into an enemy’s engines. Smoking, the American dropped off suddenly, descending like a parachutist, rotor apparently softening its fall. But Hamamatsu’s A6M2 was hit, flipped over on its back and dove at full power, exploding on Ford Island with ineffable violence. Only he and Commander Shimizu were left. Both fired. The last autogiro exploded, sending burning fragments raining into Pearl Harbor.
Then, trailing Shimizu and climbing back to patrol altitude, Yoshi had looked around. Not a single enemy fighter remained. And the battleship took more hits. Began to sink surrounded by its own burning fuel oil, smoke blending with the black shroud of the immolated carrier. He recalled pulling the microphone to his lips, and shouting “Banzai” over and over. And the salute came back into his earphones, “Banzai, banzai,” from scores of joyous voices.
Then he relaxed, settled back in his seat contentedly, knowing Plan Z had been vindicated for the second time.
*
A movement where there should have been none shocked him from his reverie and back to the present.
He squinted, looking down and to the west, banking to the right to drop his starboard wing below his line of vision. A twin-engined aircraft was taking off from Tokyo Airport, headed north and climbing over the bay.
“Edo One… Edo One” crackled from his earphones. “This is Iceman. Aircraft bearing two-four-zero true, altitude. two hundred meters, course zero-one-zero true, climbing.”
“We have him,” Yoshi answered.
“Very well.”
Replacing the microphone, Matsuhara pressured his rudder pedal and moved the control column, not deviating from the patrol. But he kept the strange aircraft under constant observation. Suddenly, it banked toward Yonaga. Instandy, the flight leader waggled his wings, ignoring the radio, which all samurai considered as useless as parachutes. Then, glancing from side to side, Matsuhara saw his wingmen repeat the signal.
“Edo One, Edo One, this is Iceman. Intercept intruding aircraft.” The CAP comm
ander acknowledged.
Now, the strange aircraft was over the bay, headed for Yonaga and laboring for altitude. An American DC-3; slow, lumbering but capable of carrying large loads.
Instinctively, the commander punched his throttle to overboost, kicked right rudder and jammed the control column to the right and then forward. Twisting through a half roll, the Zero dropped its nose and plunged downward, Sakae shrieking like thunder before a typhoon. Working his controls gently, the CAP commander brought his cowl to a point ahead of the intruder, vectoring for a high head-on pass.
Yoshi preferred to attack from the enemy’s tail, but the transport was very close to the fifty degree bomb release angle. There was no time. Suddenly, ugly black puffs smeared the sky between the plunging CAP and the transport. Yonaga was winking at him, firing her 127 millimeter guns. Every round was high. Yoshi punched the instrument panel.
“They are protecting the enemy!” he shouted into the slipstream. “Stupid gunners.”
He hunched forward. Cursed. Ignored the black puffs. Pushing the stick gendy, the dive became steeper, and steeper still. Gravity was combining with the power of the Sakae to chase the white needle around the speed indicator – 300, 350, 400. Finally, the white needle caught the slower red danger line. Four hundred ten knots. No more. The airframe was in jeopardy. There was a fluttering. His wings; vibrating. Now the control column was shaking. He clutched it tighter. But could not hold it steady. And the altimeter unwound, needle spinning counterclockwise so fast it looked like a wristwatch with a broken mainspring, black needle spinning, reeling off hectometers like seconds.
The Douglas was almost in range, never wavering from its course. The pilot was either stupid, blind or frozen by panic. He concentrated on the target, never glancing to his sides where he knew Takamoto and Kojima clung to his wing tips. A slight pressure on the stick and the transport zig-zagged its way into the bouncing reticle of his range finder. Suddenly, his stomach churned, his lips became desert sand.
He squeezed the red button. The airframe bucked and vibrated as cannons and machine guns stuttered to life, leaving brown streamers of smoke. He saw small flashes on the target’s port wing before he hurtled past. He braced his feet and pulled back hard on the control column with both hands, using every ounce of strength. Knowing he would take at least 6gs, he clenched his teeth, held his breath. A visceral stab of pain, legs and arms suddenly weighted with lead. And his head was a boulder, crushing his body into the seat, bending his spine. Dizziness and clouded vision told him blood was draining from his brain. Now the airframe was bouncing and shaking, wings fluttering, pounding him up and down in his seat.
Gratefully, he felt the plane “bottoming out” of its dive and the cowl began to rise slightly. Shaking his head, he cleared his vision. Then, the vibrations were gone as he pulled the nose even higher, slowing. Releasing his breath explosively, he looked from side to side. Takamoto and Kojima were still there, holding formation like they were attached to him by cables.
He cursed. Punched the instrument panel. He had missed the cockpit. A Zero diving at 410 knots was a terrible gun platform. But his shooting should have been better. Now, climbing, he would catch her in the belly, give her one long burst and rip her open and spill her guts like a pregnant woman.
But the transport was gone. He shook his head, blinked his eyes, searching quickly from right to left. Then he found her, low and curving in a panic dive southwest toward Yokosuka, smoking. Before he could kick his rudder pedal, the radio came to life. “Edo One – this is Iceman. Disengage and return to your patrol. I repeat, disengage and return to your patrol.”
Matsuhara spat an epithet. Brought the microphone to his mouth. “This is Edo One, complying. Out!” An acknowledgment came through his earphones.
In a few moments, the CAP resumed its patrol, its seething commander cursing the lost kill.
Chapter V
“That Douglas DC-3 – yesterday was owned by the Libyan government,” Commander Craig Bell said, seated at the head of the oak conference table in flag plot, facing Admiral Mark Allen, Captain Bruce Stafford, Captain Takahashi Aogi and Ensign Brent Ross.
Stafford spoke. “Fujita’s insane.”
Aogi stirred but remained mute.
“He’s taking prudent precautionary measures as any commander should,” Mark Allen said, surprising Brent with the sudden defense of Fujita. And for some puzzling reason, Brent Ross felt a compulsion to defend the old sailor, too, but remained silent.
“The old guy’s antagonized Colonel Moammar Kadafi,” Stafford retorted.
“Kadafi’s the world’s most prominent lunatic,” Allen said. And then turning to Craig Bell, “You were ashore – what did you find out about that plane?”
Leaning forward, Bell’s eyes appeared as big as cue balls behind the bottle-end glasses. “As I said, it was Libyan. The Libyan ambassador had leased it the day before.” The cue balls made a circuit of the table. “I borrowed a car from the ambassador and drove out to the airport. The co-pilot had twenty millimeter fragments in his neck, and the port engine had almost been blown from the wing. They're lucky they made it back.”
“Was the crew Libyan?” Allen asked.
“Yes.”
Brent stirred. “What in the world was a Libyan DC-3 doing over Tokyo Bay, trying to fly over Yonaga?”
“The Libyan government leased it from JAL. It was on a test flight. Apparently, all governments are on a mad scramble to corner as many old planes as possible.”
“Kadafi will flip,” Ross said.
Bell smiled. “He already has. He's screaming about ‘American lackeys,’ ‘pirates.’ Promises revenge.”
“I’ll bet Fujita’s scared to death,” Allen offered. He turned to Captain Takahashi Aogi. “What’s the latest on the status of Yonaga with the Japanese government?” Aogi hunched forward. “We have been working on that problem since… since—” His face flushed. “Since Yonaga appeared last December.” The brown eyes sought the table. “Yonaga violates the constitution.”
“Article Nine,” Mark Allen offered.
The brown eyes broke from the oak and found the admiral. “Correct. Do you know, Admiral, the Diet has been debating the status of Yonaga?”
“No.”
“According to my latest information, Yonaga will be declared a national monument.”
Brent Ross slapped his head. “You mean like ‘Old Ironsides’?”
“Perhaps more like ‘Old Alcatraz,'” Stafford said. No one laughed. He turned to the Japanese captain. “Why a national monument?”
“Because of fiscal considerations, she can be maintained as Mikasa is.” He waved a hand to the south.
The Americans looked at each other. Brent Ross spoke. “Mikasa? She’s a battleship. Admiral Fujita said he was on her at Tsushima.”
“I did not know,” Aogi said. “But she was Admiral Togo’s flagship when we destroyed the Russian fleet in nineteen hundred five.” He seemed to grow in his chair, eyes moving from one American to another. “Mikasa is moored at Yokosuka. If you know where to look, you can see her with your glasses.”
“Now you will immortalize Yonaga for murdering Americans,” Stafford spat. “The U.S. will love that!”
Aogi rubbed the desk with a clenched fist. “I understand the B-twenty-nine – the Enola Gay – that dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima has been preserved in a museum.”
Face scarlet, Stafford slammed an open palm on the desk. “Enough of that shit!”
Mark Allen came to his feet. “Belay that, Captain! We have work to do!” Breathing deeply, Stafford sagged back. Aogi’s face was as blank as the desk top. Allen found his chair, turned back to Aogi. “How are the medical exams coming?”
“We have examined three hundred fifty-seven enlisted men and no officers.”
“No officers?”
“Correct. And something strange happened when the ship went to Status Two – not a single man has reported since.”
“Have you discussed
this with Admiral Fujita?”
“Yes. And your debriefing Admiral?”
“Not one officer, either, Captain.” Allen turned to Ross, “Our enlisted personnel have been interviewing. How many have they done, Ensign?”
“Prior to Status Two, three hundred eight,” Ross answered. “And they did appear anxious for shore leave.”
Aogi nodded. “The officers do not show anxiety.” He swept a finger through a quadrant. “Out there, thousands of relatives and friends are mad to come aboard.” Brent Ross spoke. “The Maritime Self-Defense Force patrol has forced them back. Most of them are on the beach.”
“Yes,” Aogi answered. “The government felt it was a prudent act, especially after Yonaga went to Status Two. And we cannot let that mob on board. This crew has existed in a near germ-free environment for over four decades. They are highly susceptible to these new viruses which are products of scores, perhaps hundreds of mutations since Yonaga vanished.”
“You’re innoculating them?”
“Yes. And they are reacting violently – fevers, vomiting.”
“The men,” Allen said. The men you’ve examined. Generally, how was their physical condition?”
Aogi’s finger tips skirmished with the desk top and then dueled with each other. “You have heard of Sergeant Shoichi Yokoi and Lieutenant Hiroo Onoda?”
“Yes,” Allen said. “Yokoi held out on Guam for twenty-seven years and Onoda held out on Lubang for thirty years. Onoda came out in nineteen seventy-five.”
The fingers stopped their war. “Do you know both men were amazingly youthful?”
Allen spoke. “Yes, I met Onoda.”
“Oh,” Aogi said, obviously surprised.
“Yes. I interviewed him. His hair was black, skin unlined and his body was slender, wiry and muscular.”
“You are describing most of the men we interviewed,” Aogi said. The finger tips met, forming a steeple. “It is almost as if this crew has defied time.”
Brent Ross leaned toward the Japanese captain. “Admiral Fujita must be close to a hundred.”
