Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  Aogi answered quickly. “Yes. Correct. He was born in eighteen eighty-four.”

  Ross pressed on. “But many more are old men. Hironaka, Kawamoto, Fujimoto and dozens of others – especially senior officers; they are very old men.”

  “True,” Aogi agreed. “Many are very old and show their age. But they are functioning, viable naval officers capable of executing their duties.”

  Bruce Stafford came to life, hostility eroded by curiosity. “Their – ah, your flight training. You began at a very young age, Captain Aogi.”

  “Cadets were enrolled in the Tsuchiura Flight School at age fifteen.”

  Stafford rolled his eyes up, then brought them back to Aogi. “Then some men may not yet be sixty years old.”

  Aogi nodded. “True. Especially the enlisted pilots – the NAPs – they appear quite young, are vigorous with quick reflexes, and still highly competent fliers.”

  “Yes. We know,” Bell said, suddenly coming to life. Bruce Stafford spoke. “This crew – especially the very old officers – isn’t anxious enough – isn’t crazy enough for liberty.” Brent Ross nodded agreement.

  “You know,” Mark Allen observed. “Often, men who’ve been imprisoned for long periods of time cannot tolerate the idea of returning to society.”

  “You find that mentality here, Admiral?” Stafford asked.

  “A combination of things. Possibly the prison mentality. Certainly, bushido and the code of the samurai. It was deeply ingrained in this entire generation. The Haga kure – the handbook of the samurai – was even used as a textbook in all Japanese schools.”

  “You know much of Japan,” Aogi said.

  “I was raised in your country.”

  Bruce Stafford interrupted. His voice was hard. “There is still the small matter of this CAP,” he stabbed a finger overhead, “and those ready guns. Fujita will fight anyone.”

  “Any threat or presumed threat will be met by force,” Aogi said. “I am convinced of that.”

  “He will answer only to the emperor,” Allen said.

  “Of course,” Aogi agreed. “He is a samurai.”

  A humming turned all heads to the speaker. Fujita’s amplified voice filled the room. “Fellow samurai. Beginning this afternoon, a week’s liberty will be granted to Section One. Only men who have been innoculated and debriefed will be allowed to leave the ship. No visitors – I repeat – no visitors will be permitted on board. Liberty Section Two will be allowed ashore only when enough men of Section One have returned to maintain Readiness Status Two. However, boilers one, four, seven and eleven will be secured immediately.” There was a pause, a cough. “It has come to my attention that not one officer has reported for a physical examination or debriefing, and that enlisted personnel have not reported for physicals since Yonaga went to Status Two. I, myself, have not. But it is time. I can understand where your loyalties are – as samurai, where they must be. That Yonaga and allegiance to the emperor surpass all things. Some of you have families left – have waited a lifetime to see them again. Consequently, I am ordering all off-duty officers to report for physical examinations and debriefing.

  “And a word about our homeland. Over the years, we have copied millions of words of broadcasts. Not all were lies. I fear when you return you will not find that Japan you knew as young men. Apparently, there has been a deterioration – a move away from loyalty to the emperor. Even his divinity has been challenged. You have all heard of the great patriot and writer Yukio Mishina. His fate represents the turn of our nation. It is true that after the Greater East Asia War – our recent enemies call it World War Two – he attempted to initiate a movement back to the basic loyalties and traditions that made Imperial Japan great. He was defeated and, in the best traditions of the samurai, committed seppuku at the Self Defense Ministry before hundreds of witnesses. He was a great patriot and servant of the emperor whom I knew personally. Fortunately, I know there are many more like him.

  “And now a word about the Chinese satellite system. All of you know a system of weapons called lasers was fired into space by the Chinese. And all of you know not a single jet aircraft can fly or rocket be fired without attracting a killer light. Most of you saw that great jet – bigger than the Russian we shot down south of the Aleutians – you saw it crash in Tokyo Bay. Now, news broadcasts and our own experiments have proved beyond any doubt reciprocating engines are the only engines that can operate. Only aircraft with gasoline engines can fly. Yonaga is the most powerful naval unit on earth.”

  There was a roar of thousands of voices screaming “Banzai.” Over and over the word was screamed, on the flight deck, hangar deck, engine rooms, in every corner of the ship, resounding from steel bulkheads, racing through ventilator shafts, doors, portholes, penetrating flag plot like a tidal wave. Then a rumble like a precursor of an earthquake filled the compartment. The Americans eyed each other while Aogi sat smiling enigmatically.

  “Feet,” he said quietly. “Thousands and thousands of feet.”

  For almost a minute, the bedlam sifted into the compartment. Then the speaker came to life again. “Samurai! Yesterday Commander Matsuhara intercepted an aircraft owned by the Libyan government. His fire damaged one engine and wounded the co-pilot. The aircraft returned safely to Tokyo Airport. However, Libya is ruled by a strange new ruler. His name is Colonel Moammar Kadafi. Our new radios have picked up some very disturbing broadcasts from Tripoli. The Japanese Ambassador has been ordered to leave Libya. Also, Japanese businessmen have had their visas canceled and ordered out of the country. Kadafi has embargoed oil to us and is trying to persuade other countries, a group called OPEC – the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries – to join him. Apparently, Japan imports most of her oil from the Middle East and not from the Netherlands, East Indies and the United States as she did in the thirties.

  “A samurai exalts vengeance, will gladly yield up his life to enjoy it – as did the forty-seven ronin. But this colonel is not rational. For this trivial incident, he rants of vengeance against Japan – especially Yonaga. You know, ‘samurai’ means be on guard. Live up to your name. And remember, the man who is not on guard invites defeat.” There was a hum and then a click.

  Mark Allen was the first to speak. “He doesn’t miss a thing.”

  “Yonaga copied broadcasts of all nations,” Aogi said. “Although they believed little of what was on the air, the entire crew studied the reports. After all, they did have time to—” He was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  Rising quickly, Brent Ross moved across the room with large steps and opened the door. There he found a rating, a small, wizened man with white hair, holding an envelope with “Admiral Mark Allen” typed across the face. After a quick bow, the little sailor handed the envelope to the ensign, bowed again, and was gone. Brent handed the envelope to the admiral and found his seat.

  Allen glanced at the envelope’s single document, rummaged through his white hair with spread fingers, and then eyed his companions.

  “It’s from the admiral. Physical examinations and debriefings will begin immediately.” There was a sound of chairs scraping on steel as every man rose. Mark Allen turned to Brent Ross. “Your first officer, Commander Yoshi Matsuhara, is in our cabin. He refuses to be interviewed in a cubicle.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The admiral grinned. “Guess who I drew?”

  “Not, not—”

  “Yes. Admiral Fujita – zero eight hundred tomorrow morning.”

  As the officers filed out of the room, Allen turned to Ross, speaking quietly, “He requests your presence.”

  “Mine? Well I’ll be damned.”

  Chapter VI

  Seated at his desk eyeing, Commander Yoshi Matsuhara who sat facing him, Ensign Brent Ross was again struck by the man’s youthful appearance: a full shock of black hair, unlined face, trim physique and alert black eyes. The ensign nodded to the third occupant of the room: a bulky young American sailor, with a yeoman’s rating badge on his sleeve,
seated before a small table with a pencil poised over a pad. Next to the pad, a Mitsubishi tape recorder whirred softly.

  “This is Yeoman First Class John Evansen. He will make a record of these proceedings. Do you object to that tape recorder, Commander?” Ross nodded at the table.

  “What is a tape recorder?” Matsuhara answered, eyes flashing suspiciously.

  “It’s a device which records sound on an ultra-thin ferric-particle tape.”

  Matsuhara stared at the strange device. “Compact,” he observed. And then surprised, “It carries a Mitsubishi label.”

  “Yes.”

  “Mitsubishi built my fighter – the best killing machine that ever climbed into the sky.” The narrow eyes focused on Brent with the intensity of lasers. “And now they are reduced to that.”

  Brent felt a stirring in his stomach. “To what?”

  “Building toys like that,” Matsuhara said, lips twisted as if the words had soured in his mouth.

  Ross chuckled humorously. “They’ve done much more damage to the United States with that little ‘toy’ than they ever did with the Zero.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean your country, now, has devastated a large part of the American economy with a flood of cars, tvs, vers, stereos.”

  Yoshi held up his hands. “A samurai knows nothing of economics or fiscal matters. But ‘tvs’ must be television. But what are ‘vers’ and ‘stereos’?”

  Brent Ross realized he had been led far astray. But the question was sincere.

  “Vers are videotape recorders which can record from television or actually play programs though a television’s tube. A ‘stereo’ is a high quality music system that plays radio, records or tapes on two separate tracks.”

  “Two speakers.”

  “Yes.” Brent drummed the desk. “With your permission, Commander, we will begin the interview.” Matsuhara settled back, black eyes once again focused on the young ensign’s face.

  “Name?”

  “Yoshi Matsuhara.” Brent saw Evansen’s pencil move.

  “Birth date?”

  “Twenty-one May, nineteen twenty-one, your calendar. Twenty-five eight-one, our calendar.”

  “Your calendar, Commander?” Evansen said suddenly in a high, youthful voice.

  “Yes. The Japanese calendar dates from our first emperor, Emperor Jimmu – six hundred sixty, B.C., Christian calendar.”

  “Thank you.”

  Brent Ross resumed. “Place of birth?”

  “Los Angeles, California.”

  Brent heard John Evansen’s pencil drop, roll across the table. He shook his head. Narrowed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Commander. You said—”

  “I said Los Angeles, California! Do not challenge my statements.”

  Brent tightened his jaw, spoke from deep in his throat. “You’re an American.”

  “I have dual citizenship as have thousands of loyal sons of Nippon who have served the emperor.” The aviator’s lips twisted with amusement.

  The American pressed on. “Education?”

  “I graduated from Fremont High School in nineteen thirty-six and enrolled in UCLA the same year.”

  Brent felt numb. “UCLA?”

  “Yes. UCLA.”

  Evansen spoke up suddenly, in a voice so high it sounded falsetto. “Please, Mister Ross… his parents… occupations—”

  Brent nodded. “Of course.”

  The commander continued. “My father was Toshio Matsuhara; my mother Kyoko Matsuhara. My father emigrated to California in nineteen twelve, before your insulting, degrading immigration laws excluded Japanese in nineteen twenty-two.”

  “You’re referring to the Exclusion Act, and it was passed in nineteen twenty-four.”

  “Don’t correct me, Ensign,” Matsuhara bristled. And then disdainfully, “I dislike being interviewed by an officer of inferior rank.”

  A spring made of heated steel began to uncoil against Brent’s ribs, forced air from his lungs. His lips curled back, showing white teeth and military courtesy went out the porthole.

  “You’ll stand corrected and you’ll continue this interview, Commander. I have a written order from this vessel’s commanding officer—”

  The Japanese interrupted with a wave that indicated he was not yet finished. He hunched forward, eyes locked with the ensign’s. “I know! I know. No lectures. I will obey my orders – as distasteful as they are.” Again, Ross was struck by the cobra-like look in the narrow, intense eyes – eyes that glistened with the distilled essence of hatred. Yet, the young American was not prepared for what followed.

  “Know this, Ensign, someday we will settle this thing.”

  “What thing?”

  The face became animated stone. “This thing between our countries.”

  “What thing between our countries?”

  “The War.”

  Brent felt a laugh well, would have allowed it to explode but the look of hatred clouding the flat face choked it in his throat. He spoke calmly. “You’re a little late. The War ended forty years ago – fifteen years before I was born.”

  “Americans and women may forget, but men never!”

  Brent heard the yeoman gasp. He felt a sick, empty feeling in his stomach, a dryness of the mouth. He was suddenly tuned to everything with unusual alertness, fists balled but relaxed. With a temper inherited from his father, he was ready to leap, to attack, vindicate the insult, push the smirk down the commander’s throat. But he had made a promise to Commander Bell on his father’s name. And it could be no excuse to his tormentor. He had to control himself. Wait. The fists relaxed. But he could not ignore the affront completely.

  He spoke softly. “Perhaps we can arrange to discuss that matter privately – at another place; another time. My orders from both Admiral Fujita and Admiral Allen are to complete this interview.”

  Matsuhara’s face twisted with amusement, but before he could speak, Evansen interrupted, voice quavering.

  “Please, gentlemen, can we continue.”

  Choking back his rage, Ross watched the Japanese nod affirmatively, continue confidently. “My father lived in southwest Los Angeles. He was a gardener – like so many, he cut your lawns and picked up your trash. But he was loyal to the emperor.” There was pride in the voice. “The emperor’s picture hung in our living room facing our Shinto shrine.”

  “Your father was doho,” Brent managed with a controlled voice, anger yielding to curiosity.

  The black eyes widened. “Very good, Ensign. That is correct.”

  “Please, gentlemen,” Evansen said. “Define ‘doho’ please.”

  Ross spoke. “Archaic now, but it literally meant compatriot and applied to all Japanese living abroad. They were considered by Japan as Japanese citizens as were—” he moved his eyes to Yoshi “—their children.”

  Matsuhara’s sarcasm was undisguised. “Four-oh, Ensign – four-oh. True, there were thousands of doho in California and Hawaii, and they were fiercely loyal to the mikado.”

  “But not all of their children; the so-called nisei revered Japan. Thousands served America with distinction.”

  “Ronin,” the commander spat. “The men – the samurai-recognized their true heritage, honored their Yamato damashii and returned to Nippon, fought for ‘the son of heaven.’”

  Again, the high-pitched voice. “Please, gentlemen. After UCLA.”

  Yoshi nodded. “I majored in electrical engineering-left UCLA in nineteen thirty-eight at the end of my sophomore year.”

  “Why?”

  “To attend Tokyo University.”

  “A prestigious school, Commander. But that was not your intent – true?”

  Matsuhara sank back. “You are perceptive, Ensign,” he conceded, grudgingly. “No, I returned to enlist and,” the hard face softened, “and to marry.”

  “You married in nineteen thirty-eight?”

  “Yes. It had been arranged by my father when I was three.”

  The Americans exchanged a gl
ance. “And where is your wife?”

  “Captain Aogi has already informed me – my wife, Sumiko, and my sons, Masahei and Hisaya, lived in Tokyo. On the night of nine March nineteen forty-five, your General Curtis E. LeMay incinerated them.”

  The Americans stirred uneasily. Brent almost blurted condolences but managed a flat, “Your parents?”

  “Dead.”

  “Brothers, sisters?”

  “None. But I have an uncle, aunt and three cousins who lived in Beppu on Kyushu. I have no knowledge of their whereabouts now or even if any of them are alive.”

  The ensign nodded. “Captain Aogi will investigate.” The ensign tapped the desk. “And, now, your naval career, please.” The tone was cordial.

  The commander sank back, returned his eyes to the overhead. “I enlisted in nineteen thirty-eight and was admitted for flight training at Tsuchiura immediately. I graduated in nineteen forty and was selected as the outstanding student pilot of the year. I was awarded the emperor’s gold bracelet.” He held up his left arm, showing a gleaming gold bracelet covered with ideograms. He looked at Brent, dropped his arm. “You know, the training was very rigorous – in fact, the navy only trained a hundred pilots a year.”

  Brent nodded. “I know. It cost you later.”

  “Cost us?”

  “I mean, later you lacked replacements – sent up amateurs. They were shot from the sky like clay pigeons.”

  “Please, gentlemen,” John Evansen injected, showing more confidence. “May we proceed?”

  Both officers nodded. Yoshi continued. “I was assigned to the Second Fighter Wing based at Changchou, China.”

  “Changchou?”

  “Yes. It is a small city about one hundred miles northwest of Shanghai.” He leaned forward, smiling. “Within a month, I had my first kill.”

  “Yes?”

  “It was on a long mission to Chungking. We took off before dawn, escorting twenty-seven Mitsubishi G4M, Type One, medium bombers.”

  “The so-called ‘Betty,’” Brent noted. And then harshly, “According to my histories, our pilots called them ‘cigarette lighters.’”