Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  The meeting had convened at 1300 hours immediately after Allen, Stafford and Bell returned from Tokyo and their meeting with the American ambassador.

  Waiting for the meeting, Brent had spent an eventful morning. Obviously searching, he had watched two Self Defense Force patrol boats cross and recross Zilah’s grave while keeping well clear of Yonaga which rode quiedy at anchor. Dozens of yachts crowded in a great semi-circle to the west of the scene of the sinking, attracted by the evening’s pyrotechnics.

  Brent knew Yonaga had taken prisoners. Instead of returning directly to his cabin the previous evening, he had made his way to the quarter deck, a space on the second deck at the top of the accommodation ladder, and watched as three soaked, oil-blackened figures were dragged on board. Immediately, under heavy guard, they were carried to the sick bay.

  All morning long the radio had blared with reports of the sinking. Brent tried to see Admiral Fujita but was refused entry to the admiral’s cabin. In fact, not one member of the admiral’s staff was available, all closeted with Fujita for the entire morning.

  Chafing with frustration, Brent had wandered into the fully-manned bridge unchallenged, his curiosity taking him into the wheelhouse where he found a large circular room with a single elevator in the center. Walking forward, he had passed two huge pairs of tripod-mounted binoculars, a magnetic compass and a battery of monitors giving readings on engine speed, propeller revolutions and gyro heading. Ratings, standing by the equipment, eyed him curiously but remained silent. Looking above the bullet-proof windows, he found the VHF radiophones and TBS (“talk between ships”) mounted above a chart table and safe which he assumed contained long dead code books.

  “Those windows are never closed in action, Ensign,” a strange voice said, directly behind him. Turning quickly, Brent faced a tall, angular man for a Japanese with black hair, impassive features and deep lines on either side of his mouth and eyes hinting at advanced years. And the lines added character like old and weathered driftwood that had been found by an artist and shaped into the likeness of a man.

  “Never closed?” Brent answered.

  “Yes. Officers cannot expect safety when our deck crews,” the Japanese waved, “and gunners are exposed on the open decks.”

  This had been Brent’s introduction to Lieutenant Commander Nobomitsu Atsumi, gunnery officer and first assistant to Commander Kawamoto. Friendly and proud, Atsumi had shown the young American a large room in the aft part of the bridge where “Combat Information” was located. Pointing to a large table, much like a billiard table with a huge “compass rose” covering the surface, the lieutenant commander explained how Yonaga was always the center of the rose while friendly and unfriendly aircraft and ships, designated by markers, were placed on the rose and moved by hand much like pawns in a chess match, giving officers a continuous view of combat situations. Then, gesturing to the bulkheads, “Phones connected to the flight deck, range finders, engine rooms, bridge, and all lookout stations.”

  But Brent had been fascinated by the compass rose. “Pawns, you said, Commander Atsumi.”

  “Yes. Like a chess game.”

  “Of course,” Brent had mused. “That’s war —–a chess game/”

  Both men had remained silent until the P.A. system had suddenly come to life, calling the young American to Flag Plot where he now sat staring at his companions.

  Mark Allen broke the silence. “Senseless! Barbaric! Savage! Admiral Fujita,” he said. “The world’s press – till the media are using those words to describe your destruction of Zilah.”

  “We are barbarians,” Fugimoto giggled to no one in particular, eyes circling loosely.

  Admiral Fujita stared silently the length of the table at his American counterpart, his face a tight mask.

  Brent felt an emptiness in his stomach, heat on his cheeks. “They’re liars, Admiral Allen,” he said huskily. “Yonaga was attacked by a floating bomb. I was on the bridge.” And then sardonically, “None of the media was there”

  “I know, I know,” Allen acknowledged.

  Fujita broke his silence. “Do you mean the media of your country and my country, too?”

  Mark Allen hunched forward. “Even the Japanese media is critical. You must understand, Admiral Fujita, there are strong pacifist groups at work in Japan. They abhor all violence.”

  “Even against these vermin who hold our diplomats hostage? Are all Japanese women? What has happened to Yamoto damashii? And we were defending ourselves.”

  “True, but you can’t expect the truth from the Eastern Bloc.”

  “You mean the Russians and their lackeys?”

  “Of course, Admiral. The Russians support the Arabs and they all hate the United States, Japan and any other American ally.”

  Looking up from his pad, Hironaka exchanged a long look with Commander Matsuhara. Then Matsuhara spoke as if involved in a personal conversation. “We are allies now. Hironaka-san.” Both men chuckled.

  Stafford came to life, eyes blazing. “I’ve never gone to bed with a whore before!”

  Matsuhara, Kawamoto, Hironaka and even Aogi came to their feet.

  “Enough,” Fujita shouted, half out of his chair. “Sit down! All of you!”

  Glaring, the officers returned to their seats. Again, Brent found himself wondering about the old man’s power. Every man in the room seemed weak in comparison to the commanding presence at the end of the table – a presence so dominant the strongest wills seemed to bend like saplings in a gale.

  “We have problems to solve,” Fujita said with a voice hard enough to pierce steel. “I will tolerate no further outbursts from any of you –Japanese or American.”

  “Yes,” Allen seconded. “If any of you,” he nodded at Stafford, “cannot maintain self-control, please leave now.” Matsuhara and Stafford glared at each other, but remained silent.

  “My apologies,” Matsuhara finally grunted at the table. “I would like to remain.”

  “Mine, too,” Stafford hissed coldly. “I prefer to remain.” But his eyes still flared.

  “Very well,” Fujita said. He moved his eyes back to Mark Allen, resuming the expected dialogue of the senior officers. “How can the media explain the violent explosion of the Libyan?”

  “Fertilizer.”

  “Fertilizer! That kind of fertilizer only grows corpses.”

  “Perhaps. But the Libyan government claims the forward hold on Zilah was loaded with a thousand tons of fertilizer.”

  “But fertilizer is nitrate based.”

  “True, Admiral Fujita.”

  “And so is gunpowder. They were trying to ram Yonaga with a thousand-ton bomb, Admiral Allen.” The old sailor stretched both hands flat on the desk. “Where did they get their nitrates?”

  “It was off-loaded from a Russian freighter that picked it up in Chile.”

  “Off-loaded in Tokyo Harbor?”

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  “That is highly unusual.”

  “Yes, Admiral. I talked to two CIA men at the American Embassy. They feel the KGB was behind the whole thing.”

  The admiral threw up his hands in mock surrender. “CIA? KGB?”

  “Sorry,” Mark Allen said. And then turning to Craig Bell, “This one’s for you.”

  The bottle ends focused on Fujita. “The CIA is our ‘Central Intelligence Agency’ while the KGB is the Russian Secret Police. In Russian, ‘Komitet Gosudarst-vennoi Bezopasnoti’.”

  “All spies.”

  “The Russians are spies; the Americans gather intelligence,” Bell replied.

  “Of course. No one wants to be called ‘spy.’” Fujita leaned toward Mark Allen and reopened the dialogue. “Your United Nations is in turmoil. I heard the broadcasts.”

  “I saw it on television.”

  “Where?”

  “In Yonaga’s wardroom, Admiral Fujita.”

  The old Japanese chuckled. “You will not see anymore broadcasts, Admiral Allen. That set is on the bottom of Tokyo Bay. That is whe
re all television belongs – twenty fathoms deep.”

  “I can’t disagree.”

  “Your United Nations has a membership of all the world’s nations.”

  “Most of them.”

  “They try to solve the world’s problems.”

  “You’re very perceptive, Admiral Fujita.”

  “How many divisions does it have?”

  “Divisions? None!”

  “How many carriers?”

  “Why, none, Admiral. But a few peace-keeping troops are contributed by—”

  “Then it will not work,” Fujita said flatly. The old man tapped the desk with his knuckles. “You said your spies… ah, I mean CIA—”

  “Yes, Admiral,” Allen said hastily. “Wayne Miller and Frank Dempster.”

  “You said your CIA men claim the Russians – their KGB – was behind the attack on Yonaga.”

  “Yes. Both Miller and Dempster are convinced of this.”

  “And you, Admiral?”

  The senior American looked from Brent Ross to Craig Bell, avoiding the glowering Stafford, before moving to Admiral Fujita. “There is no doubt in my mind. Yes – the KGB.” Bell and Ross nodded agreement.

  “Why?”

  “Because the Arabs have been fighting Israel for decades and—”

  “The new Jewish state?”

  “Yes. And Russia backs the Arabs.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the United States is a strong ally of Israel.”

  “And automatically the Russians must oppose Israel,” Fujita offered. “But there must be more to it than that.”

  “Russia is traditionally anti-Semitic.”

  “Yes, I know. But do you think they are as bad as the Germans, Admiral Allen?”

  The American senior officer pondered for a moment. “Historically, in my opinion, yes. Their past is filled with oppression, murder, pogroms.”

  “There must be economic factors,” Fujita said. “Oil. Is that not true?”

  “I thought you were isolated for forty years.”

  “I am not deaf,” the old Japanese said. And then gesturing to Commander Fugimoto, “We had our receivers. After a few years, our power tubes began to break down, but we were able to copy some news.”

  Mark Allen nodded. “Russia is the biggest producer of oil in the world. All of Western Europe is becoming dependent on her for not only oil but natural gas as well. You’ve heard of OPEC?”

  “An oil cartel.”

  “Yes. It includes all the oil-producing Arab countries.”

  “So Russia and her Arab friends can use oil to blackmail the United States and her allies.”

  “It happened in the seventies when OPEC embargoed oil to the United States because of American support of Israel in a war against the Egyptians and Syrians. They called it the ‘Yom Kippur War.’” Fujita’s eyes moved to the overhead, narrowed thoughtfully. “There must be a hundred million Arabs.”

  “More than a hundred million.”

  “How many Israelis?”

  “Four million.”

  “The Arabs surround Israel.”

  “Yes, Admiral Fujita.”

  “Yet, the Arabs cannot crush this little band of Jews?”

  “They can fight.”

  “Jews have changed.”

  “Yes. They were well taught by the ‘holocaust.’”

  “The Germans killed millions.”

  “Six million.”

  “They walked like sheep to gas chambers, Admiral Allen.”

  “True. Now, they have reacted to their history. Turn like tigers to their attackers.”

  “You use a good simile, Admiral Allen. The Japanese revere the prowess of tora – tiger. He wanders far, makes his kills, but always returns to keep his territory inviolate.”

  “The Jews have wandered far, Admiral Fujita; have learned to make their kills and keep Israel inviolate.”

  “But these Chinese beams have upset the balance.”

  “Yes, Admiral Fujita. The Israeli Air Force is grounded. Always, the Israeli Air Force led the fight against the Arabs – cleared the skies.”

  “Now, the Arab armies are massing for a jihad?”

  “That’s right, Admiral. A holy war against Israel.”

  Brent Ross came to life. “Admiral Fujita, keep in mind Israel and the Arab states have been at war since nineteen forty-seven. Only Israeli fighting power and Arab disunity have saved Israel.”

  The old Japanese moved his eyes to the young American. “But a jihad will unite the Arabs.”

  “Yes,” Admiral Allen said. “Historically, they have only united in the name of Islam.”

  “Otherwise, they kill each other and run,” Fujita noted. He hunched forward, knuckles pressed to the desk. “And Kadafi sees himself as their leader.”

  “Yes.”

  “And now Yonaga is the most powerful military force on earth.”

  “Correct.”

  “And Japan is an ally of the United States; therefore, Yonaga must be removed.”

  “By any means, Admiral.”

  “And the Russians will help their Arab friends in any way.”

  “Not just that, Admiral. Russian foreign policy has been traditionally built on paranoia. They must certainly look upon Yonaga as a threat.”

  “We are on their assassination list, Admiral Allen?”

  “At the top.”

  “Let them come. I have fought them before and beaten them.”

  Craig Bell broke his silence. “The two CIA men, Wayne Miller and Frank Dempster, would like to come aboard. You will receive a written request by courier this afternoon.”

  “I dislike spies.”

  “They have much useful information,” Bell said. “They have some of the finest information-gathering equipment and personnel on earth. They have reports on the massing of naval and air power.”

  The old Japanese moved his eyes to Mark Allen but spoke to Craig Bell. “Can they provide Yonaga with radar?”

  “Admiral,” Allen sputtered. “I requested—”

  “I know,” Fujita said, interrupting. “But I have seen none.” He turned back to Bell. “Can your CIA provide Yonaga with radar?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “‘Perhaps’ is not good enough.”

  “They have power,” Bell said, anxiously.

  Fujita came erect. “Tell them to get me radar – the best – the latest. And then they can come on board.”

  Craig Bell nodded. “I understand, Admiral.”

  “Blackmail!” Stafford shouted, coming to his feet. “Why should we kiss this Jap’s yellow ass?”

  A stunned silence filled the room, every eye was on Fujita. The old man rose slowly with the weight of a hundred years bending his shoulders. Cold and bleak as the North Pacific, his eyes held Stafford’s unwaveringly.

  “You have thirty minutes to leave this vessel. If you are not gone in that time, I will have you thrown over the side in two separate pieces.” He nodded to Matsuhara, pointed to the door.

  Rising quickly, the flyer opened the door and gestured. Instantly, two burly green-clad seaman guards, with helmets and side arms hanging from their duty belts, entered. Fujita pointed at Stafford. “Escort this officer to the accommodation ladder. He must be off this vessel within thirty minutes.”

  “My God,” Allen said, staring at Stafford. “That was unconscionable, Bruce.”

  Obviously, Stafford knew he had leaped over the bounds of propriety, smashed protocol, perhaps ruined his career with a single sentence. And just as obviously in the heat of the moment, he did not care. “I’m happy to leave. I fought you for four years. I’ll be damned if I’ll turn my back on that – forget just because it’s convenient to forget.”

  Exchanging a quick glance with Mark Allen, Brent stirred uneasily. Hate! Enduring hate. Mark Allen had admitted it but controlled it. Matsuhara boiled in it but waited patiently. But Stafford was out of control. Could not function. In a moment, he was gone.

  Sinking slow
ly into his chair, Fujita’s eyes moved to Brent. “Sometimes, we cannot deal with the present if we cannot put aside the past.” His tired eyes moved over the other expectant faces. “Is there anyone else who finds present company intolerable?” The men eyed each other silently.

  Finally, Captain Takahashi Aogi spoke. “I have been informed by our government that Yonaga has been declared a national monument.”

  “You mean we are a public park?”

  The jest brought a tension-relieving chuckle to the room. “In a sense – yes. Like Mikasa, it will allow funds to be allocate for the maintenance of this vessel, Admiral,” Aogi explained. “In fact, within a week, Yonaga will have two-weeks availability in the graving dock at Yokosuka.”

  Fujita nodded approval, began to speak but was interrupted by a hard knock. He gestured to Brent. Quickly, Brent opened the door and Radioman Kojaku entered and handed the admiral a message. He was dismissed with a wave.

  After studying the document, the old man looked up into the expectant faces. His voice was grave. “This Kadafi defies sanity.”

  “What is it?” Mark Allen asked, anxiously.

  “He has captured a Japanese cruise ship off Crete, the Mayeda Maru. She has over a thousand passengers and a crew of six hundred. They have taken her to Tripoli. He demands five billion American dollars in ransom and an apology from—” he swallowed hard and then spat the words like rotten fruit, “—‘those little yellow monkeys in Yonaga.’”

  “I can’t believe it,” Mark Allen said.

  Fujita raised a palm. “There is more.” He glanced at the document and then turned his eyes to Mark Allen. “Japan has four weeks to comply.”

  “And then?”

  “He will begin executing hostages. He has already garroted the Japanese Ambassador.”

  “Good Lord!”

  The little Japanese drew himself up, appeared tall in his chair. “The emperor is upset.”

  “Of course.”

  Fujita’s voice was suddenly warm, filled with pride. “He has sent for me. I will have an audience at zero-eight-hundred hours tomorrow morning.” He moved his eyes to Craig Bell. “Commander, contact your CIA men now. I want that radar.”