by Peter Albano
“Of course, Brent. But under it all, they’re uneasy – even fearful – don’t know what they’ll find.”
“Yes, indeed,” the younger man agreed. “Don’t know what they’ll find.”
More American officers came aboard on temporary assignment from NIS, and Captain Aogi’s staff was enlarged. Within a week, the job was completed and the entire crew had been debriefed, given physical examinations and inoculated.
Exhausted and alone – Craig Bell and Mark Allen were meeting with the American ambassador – Brent stretched on his bunk late one evening after interviewing the last officer. He reflected on the weeks that had passed since he had come aboard. He had seen Fujita demand and receive fuel and provisions from Maritime Self Defense Force’s barges; anxious liberty parties leaving and returning without a single case of desertion; and continuous circling of the CAP without one intrusion by the growing number of propeller-driven aircraft using Tokyo International Airport. Kadafi’s vitriolic broadcasts continued, laced not only with demands for apologies, but also filled with threats against his hostages if he was not given a two billion dollar ransom. And Admiral Fujita was busy conferring with a steady stream of strange officers who arrived daily for meetings with the old admiral.
Lying on his back, Brent stared at the maze of pipes hanging from the overhead, losing himself in the convoluted patterns as his exhausted brain trembled on the edge of sleep but refused to tumble over the precipice. Finally, in disgust, he threw his blanket off, pulled on his clothes and walked slowly out to the flag bridge.
Yawning and stretching as he stepped onto the long platform, he almost bumped into Admiral Fujita who was standing between a talker and a lookout. “Unable to sleep, Ensign?”
“Yes, sir. Restless – can’t seem to quiet my brain.”
“Tokyo has grown,” the old man said, waving a hand at the port side through a half circle where a solid mass of lights blanketed the western horizon. “When we left, there were lights at Tokyo, Yokohama and Yakusaka.” He stabbed a finger to the west at three widely separated points. “But now there is a solid blanket as if it was all one single, giant city.” The finger swept in an arc.
The young ensign stared at Tokyo’s lights: amber sodium vapor in the nearby harbor, the varicolored glare of neon at the Ginza, and everywhere streetlights stretching in neat rows like torch-carrying troops drawn up in ranks on the high ground behind the city. And the reflections like diamonds and topaz, twisting, stretching and contracting in the small chop of the bay, while overhead low-hanging clouds glowed eerily as if they, too, had been wired with filaments.
“Beautiful,” Brent said softly. “Beautiful.”
“It’s a matter of opinion,” Fujita said harshly.
The tone jarred Brent. “But it’s your home.”
“My home is here.” A small foot thumped on steel.
“You haven’t been ashore.”
“No.”
“Japan has made much progress, Admiral.”
“Ha!” the old man snorted. “Trains that travel over a hundred kilometers an hour filled with rude, pushing people; cars everywhere fouling our air; young people dancing to simple, primitive music – I have heard it on my own radio – reverence for the emperor gone, replaced by hedonism, and television,” he slapped his head, “an opiate – a brain killer.”
“But you haven’t been ashore.”
“My officers told me. In fact, most do not desire liberty again.”
“Not even those with families?”
“We were listed as ‘missing in action.’”
“I know.”
“Wives have remarried, parents have died, children have grown, and my men are strangers to their own – laughable relics to many.”
“But I saw the cheering crowds – the tumultuous welcome.”
“Gone. They have tired of us. And they were a minority, anyway.”
Gripping the rail, the young American stared into the lights. “You mentioned television – you have never seen it.”
“One of my officers brought a set on board for his wardroom. I watched it.” The old man shuddered. “I saw American cowboys speaking Japanese as they shot Indians. I saw a woman flying an autogiro, shooting men—”
“It’s a helicopter, and she plays the part of a police-person”
“Policeperson – person! What kind of nonsense is that?”
“The status of women has improved.”
“Ha! You mean the status of men has deteriorated. And sports – baseball, sumo wrestling, kendo, even American football. And there are American detectives everywhere, shouting in Japanese, smashing cars and shooting platoons of criminals.”
“That’s entertainment.”
“That’s brain damage. And you talk about the status of women improving?”
“Yes.”
“I saw a woman advertising a product.”
“Of course.”
“But this product is something women only speak of in hushed tones and privately.”
“Oh.”
“And she was doing it at eighty decibels – waving these – these.” The old man caught his breath. “I had the set thrown overboard.”
The young American tapped the rail thoughtfully. “Maybe you made a wise decision, Admiral.”
“Wise? Ha!”
“Ship! Standing out,” the lookout said, peering through his binoculars. “Bearing three one zero relative.” There were shouts from the foretop. Turning to the admiral, the talker spoke quickly.
“Very well.” The admiral brought up his glasses.
Reaching into a canvas bag attached to the rail, Brent brought a pair of binoculars to his eyes. He focused over the port bow, but found nothing but a confused mass of lights. He cursed his landlubber’s eyes.
“I have her,” the admiral said, staring through his glasses. “Look for her green starboard running light and masthead light, Mister Ross.”
Staring into his glasses, Brent focused more tightly, found the moving green light. “She’s seven, eight miles away – and why is she important?”
“I did not say she was important. But, she should be the Libyan.”
“The Zilah?”
“Yes.”
The young American stared through his glasses thoughtfully. “A seventy-two hundred ton freighter is no menace to an eighty-four thousand ton carrier.”
“You are not the commanding officer of this vessel, Ensign.”
Stung by the rebuke, the American dropped his glasses, stared down at the little Japanese. “I wouldn’t presume—”
“I know, Ensign. But, understand, with command comes responsibility and responsibility’s constant bedfellow is caution.”
“Of course, Admiral.”
“Your Admiral Allen said these Arabs were fanatical.”
“True. They’re going wild in the Middle East.” The young ensign raised his glasses. The green light was much closer, moving across Yonaga's bows from port to starboard.
“Like samurai?”
“Yes. Quite willing to die for a cause, especially in the name of jihad?”
“Holy war, Ensign.”
“Yes. We learned in Beirut – lost hundreds of marines and embassy personnel to suicidal car and truck bombers.”
The old man spoke thoughtfully. “Now, they mass against Israel.” He leaned into his binoculars. “She is moving fast. Perhaps sixteen knots or more.”
“That’s fast for a freighter, Admiral.”
The old man moved forward followed by the talker. “This way, Ensign.” Walking with surprising agility, the old man led Brent forward around the steel citadel of the bridge to a position on the forward end of the platform, overlooking the bow. The talker plugged into a new receptacle.
Leaning on the rail, Brent focused his glasses over the starboard bow. “I have the green light, Admiral… and a red one, too.”
“Red!” There was alarm in the voice. “Then she is turning toward us.”
“Or away.”
/>
“No! Her running lights are visible only forward, shielded and invisible abaft twenty-two and one-half degrees on both beams.”
Brent cursed his lack of sea duty, peered hard into his glasses. His assignments had been intelligence, codes and computers – not ships. He moved the focusing knobs gently, found a black mass, but no lights. “They’ve darkened ship.”
Again, shouts from the foretop and the talker turned to the admiral. “She is dark, Admiral.”
Fujita fired a burst of commands. “Sound the general alarm – stand by to illuminate – ready guns, prepare to engage vessel closing on starboard bow – anchor detail, stand by to slip anchor; engine rooms, prepare to get under way, set ‘Condition Zed.’”
Honking like a hundred giant geese, claxons blared to life throughout the ship. Immediately, there were the shouts of officers, the shrill twitter of pipes, thump of boots on decks and ladders, and the clang of steel on brass as breeches received five inch shells. Adding to the cacophony was the hollow, banging sound of hundreds of steel doors slamming shut deep in the bowels of the ship as watertight compartments were “dogged down.” And the blowers sighed to a halt leaving a strange vacuum in the background of ship’s sounds. Yonaga was holding her breath.
Brent’s stomach felt sick and empty. He turned to Fujita, shouted, “Admiral, a seventy-two hundred ton freighter is no menace to Yonaga! You can’t slaughter them because their lights went out. Maybe they had a power failure. And they are still at least four miles away.”
“Ask your dead marines in Beirut about that truck, Ensign.” He turned to the talker. “Tell the OD to slip anchor and to take evasive action. I will maintain fire control.” The rating talked into his mouthpiece. Again, to the talker, “Tell the gunnery officer to give me three star shells to starboard.” The rating complied.
Immediately, there was the bark of a seventy-five millimeter gun followed by two more. At the same time the ship began to vibrate as the main engines came to life, followed by the clanking, splashing sound of the anchor chain racing link by link into the sea.
Three pops like champagne corks high in the sky turned Brent’s face to starboard where a trio of magnesium flares began to descend slowly like chandeliers, illuminating brilliantly.
“Searchlights!”
Clicking and humming, a dozen twenty-four inch carbonarc lights glared to life along the starboard side.
“My God! It’s like a ballroom,” Brent said, staring through his glasses. Every detail of the approaching ship was clear: black prow slashing the bay and sluicing white-crested waves to port and starboard, a short forward mast, containers stacked like a giant’s toy blocks from the bow aft ending at the white bridge that jutted upward like a castle’s keep stretching from beam to beam, the mainmast atop the bridge, the single funnel abaft the superstructure and two stern-mounted derricks.
Now, the deck was vibrating as Yonaga’s four drive shafts began to turn, and the great propellers pushed her through the water.
“Under way, sir,” the talker said. “All guns manned and ready – damage control manned and read – ‘Condition Zed’ set.”
“Very well.” The old man studied the approaching vessel.
“You can avoid him, Admiral,” Brent said.
“He is changing course – he wants our stern, the screws, the rudder.”
“But you can evade him.”
The old man seemed not to hear. Turning to the talker, his voice was crisp, hard like the bark of an attacking dog. “Main battery – all guns that bear – local control – commence firing.”
For years, Brent had heard stories of World War II carriers and their enormous firepower from his father and his father’s old comrades. He had seen movies, pictures in histories. But nothing had prepared him for the assault on his senses as at least twenty five-inch guns fired simultaneously. Each weapon split the darkness with a yellow glaring tongue at least four feet long sending ghostly after-images bouncing from his retinas while a thunderclap overwhelmed his eardrums, flashing pain to his brain instead of sound. Groaning, he grabbed his ears, rocked on his heels, blinking, trying to focus, forgotten binoculars hanging at his waist. And clouds of smoke enveloped the bridge, the stench of cordite searing his nose. He heard a voice in a distant canyon. “Open the range! Open the range! Rapid fire! Rapid fire!” And the great guns responded, each firing at least twenty rounds a minute.
Grasping the rail with both hands, the young American leaned toward the freighter, squinting. He could not believe his eyes: exploding containers arced skyward; chunks of steel burst from the bridge, shot into the darkness; the funnel vanished, replaced by flame and smoke, and all along the hull flashes and columns of water leaped from the sea. Already, the Libyan seemed to be out of control, down by the head, turning, giving Yonaga’s gunners the full length of her starboard side.
But the carrier’s fire did not slacken. In fact, it seemed to increase, became frenzied with hundreds of fifty pound shells pouring into the helpless target with Vesuvian fury. Within seconds, the deck cargo had vanished, replaced by burning junk. And the bridge, too, gone with the two derricks, blown over the side.
Bodies and pieces of bodies caught in the eruptions were flung high into the air, twisting like broken mannequins. Everywhere, flames, leaping from hatches, holes blown in her side. And she was dead in the water, listing, down by the head, but strangely, not sinking.
“Enough! For Christ’s sake! Enough, Admiral.”
In the dim light, the black eyes were shining beads. He leaned toward the ensign. “No! In war, never enough.”
“This isn’t war!”
Fujita appeared not to hear. He turned to the talker. “The waterline – the waterline! Let water into her, not air. Air has never sunk a ship.” The rating shouted into his headset.
Now, the sea was churned to white fury all along the Libyan’s waterline. List increasing, she heeled hard to starboard. Then it happened. Topping a giant yellow-white pillar of flame, the entire forward part of the ship from amidships forward leaped hundreds of feet into the sky and beyond the descending flares, lighting the bay with a panorama of red flames and spark dappled smoke, great chunks of wreckage raining and pockmarking the glittering water in a radius of at least a mile.
Horrified, Brent grasped the handrail with one hand while circling Fujita’s narrow shoulders with the other. Then the concussion, an invisible fist that jarred Yonagds 84,000 tons, deafened Brent Ross, almost tearing him from the rail.
“Thank you, Ensign. Thank you,” the old man said, clutching the hand rail.
Brent shook his head, searched the sea. Only the stern of the immolated freighter was visible, single screw and rudder jutting. But the hungry shells bit into it with flaming teeth until it, too, sank beneath the surface, covered by the writhing, hissing sea. And then there was nothing – nothing but the usual grave-markers of the sea; a patch of burning fuel, crates, charred flotsam, shattered lifeboats. Mercifully, the firing stopped.
Brent turned slowly to the admiral. “How did you know?”
“You told me.”
“You mean Beirut – the marines?”
“Yes. Obviously, it is a tactic. They use it over and over. Intelligent people learn.”
The ensign’s voice was hollow. “Yes – learn. Intelligent people learn.”
“You have good eyes,” Fujita said suddenly, a hint of admiration in his voice. “In the future, in the event of similar emergencies, please report to this station. My old eyes have been fading slowly for the last half-century.”
Despite the excitement and horror of the moment, Brent felt a surge of warmth, even camaraderie. Strangely, when the Libyan charged, he felt as if he belonged on this wind-swept platform high on the bridge of the ghost carrier, standing shoulder to shoulder with the little, one hundred year old admiral. And he had been complimented, harbored a weird sense of gratitude.
But before he could speak, Fujita turned to the talker, “To the OD, return to anchorage, recove
r anchor, rescue party away. To all hands, secure from general quarters, set the Special Sea Detail, resume Readiness Status Two. Executive officer and all department heads meet with me immediately in my cabin. And—” the old man’s voice softened, “to sill hands, well done. Well done.”
And the ground swell of “Banzais” began, washed against the bridge in waves like a storm surf. Brent Ross felt an urge to shout. Caught himself. Then he smiled – a secret little smile – as he raised his glasses.
More champagne corks popped high in the sky. Now a half dozen flares held steady, illuminating like small, artificial suns. Brent studied the burning fuel, then moved his lenses over planks, crates, casks, loose timbers, fragments of lifeboats held on the surface by flotation tanks. Then he saw it. Movement. Someone was alive. Gripping a fragment of lifeboat. “Survivors, bearing zero-eight-two, range… ah, two thousand yards,” he shouted. But not a single lookout on the bridge or on the foretop had cried out – had verified.
Then the shouts came, “Swimmers!” and “Men in the water!” at the same bearing and range.
“Good,” Fujita said. “We have a small matter to settle with them.” Even in the dim light, Brent could see the hard set of the jaw, the dangerous glow of the brown eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“Japan does not subscribe to the Geneva Conventions.”
“Dead history, Admiral. Geneva doesn’t apply. And those men are humans.”
“No, Ensign. They are terrorists. We will interrogate them.”
“You’d torture them, Admiral?”
“We will use any means necessary to obtain information.” The hard eyes softened. “You and your comrades will meet with my staff and me at thirteen hundred hours tomorrow. You may secure.”
As Brent left the bridge, he wondered about a samurai’s mercy. He shuddered.
Chapter IX
Seated at the long conference table in Flag Plot on Admiral Fujita’s right hand with Commander Craig Bell, Captain Bruce Stafford, Captain Takahashi Aogi to his own right, Brent Ross’ eyes moved the length of the table from Admiral Fujita at one end, down the length of the opposite side over the intent faces of Lieutenant Kenji Hironaka, Captain Masao Kawamoto, Commander Mineichi Fujimoto and Commander Yoshi Matsuhara, finally coming to rest on Admiral Mark Allen, who faced Fujita from the far end of the table.
