Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  Chapter X

  The great graving dock at Yokosuka had been designed to accommodate the Yamato class. Consequently, Yonaga’s massive bulk settled on its blocks free of the sea for the first time in forty-four years with a few meters to spare fore, aft, and on both beams. And what a spectacle she was; her size so enormous it was almost beyond comprehension. Standing on the floor of the dock, awed yard workmen and her own crewmen stared up at a bulbous bow reminiscent of modern tankers, great sweeping flanks revealing her battleship genesis with layers of armor plate sloping outward at twenty degrees, and the bulge of the anti-torpedo bulkhead beneath the armor. But it was the sheer size and weight that impressed; gave all observers a disquieting feeling of helplessness and made one wonder how a thing of such great mass and power could obey the will of one man.

  Yard workmen – no spectators were allowed – were amazed by the leviathan’s lack of sea-growth and barnacles. The Bering Sea’s arctic temperatures and continuous maintenance by divers had kept Yonagds plates virtually free of the grass-like growths that can accumulate by the ton and slow even the most powerful vessel.

  Looking down from the bridge, Brent felt the same dizzying effect a man experiences when looking down from a skyscraper. Fascinated, he stared down at hundreds of ant-like figures clinging to scaffolding, busy scraping and painting the hull. And his ears were assailed by the sounds of around-the-clock preparations: the sharp impact of metal on metal, shouts, shrieks of high-speed drills, and the machine gun bursts of pneumatic tools. And all this had begun the day before – the day after the admiral had had his audience with the emperor.

  Brent smiled as his mind’s eye focused on that day and on the ancient sailor, splendid and proud in his finest dress-blue uniform: single-breasted tunic with rank patches boasting an admiral’s three cherry-blossoms on both stand collar and laced cuffs, shoulder strap, trousers tucked into gleaming black boots, peaked cap with anchor, three gold stripes circling cap and sleeves, and in the admiral’s white-gloved left hand his sword held stiffly at the correct parade-ground angle.

  Standing on the quarterdeck, which was as cavernous as Lincoln Center, Brent had viewed the disembarking ceremonies with Admiral Mark Allen. With a shrill twitter of pipes, the side party of perhaps fifty seaman guards presented arms smartly as the tiny admiral followed by Commander Masao Kawamoto, Commander Yoshi Matsuhara, Commander Mineichi Fujimoto, Lieutenant Commander Nobomitsu Atsumi and Lieutenant Kenji Hironaka had moved to the head of the accommodation ladder. All were in dress blues and all held their swords at the rigid parade-ground angle.

  At the moment, the old admiral had saluted the OD, a voice blared through the ship’s P.A. system: “Ship’s company – man the starboard rail!” Rumbling like thunder and actually setting up a slight vibration in the great hull, thousands of booted feet had pounded decks and clattered up and down ladders and passageways. Behind him, Brent saw ranks of sailors fall in much like companies of infantry. All had come to stiff attention without audible command.

  Mark Allen had leaned to Brent, speaking softly. “They’re manning the rail on the hangar deck, flight deck, bridge, and foretop – all looking to starboard.” Brent nodded his understanding.

  Again, the amplified, metallic voice. “Ship’s company, the ‘Kamigayo.’”

  Mark Allen’s subdued voice, “Their national anthem.”

  And then thousands of voices had poured through the ship with the perfect unison that comes with decades of practice: “Corpses drifting swollen in the sea depths, corpses rotting in the mountain grass. We shall die, we shall die for the emperor. We shall never look back.”

  Turning aft, Fujita had saluted the colors smartly, and the color guard ordered arms with a single clash of weapons. Then the old man had stepped to the head of the ladder and sat in a boatswain’s chair. Quickly, he was strapped into the chair by a chief boatswain’s mate and another rating. In a moment, the old man was being lowered to his awaiting barge.

  Then the amplified voice had returned: “Three banzais for the Admiral!”

  The shouts exploded like broadsides, thundering and echoing across the bay.

  “Ship’s company, dismissed.” But for a long moment, there had been silence as not a man moved. Then cheers and a rush for the rail. And the cheers had continued as the Admiral’s barge pulled away, finally lost in the maze of shipping cluttering the bay.

  Walking silently side by side back to their quarters, Mark Allen and Brent Ross had not looked at each other.

  *

  Brent caught a glimpse of the Admiral when he returned. Exiting the elevator, the old man had passed Brent and Mark Allen in the chart house, returning their salutes smartly. And there had been euphoria on the old face, a new walk suddenly free of stiffness.

  As the old sailor disappeared into his cabin, Allen had turned to Brent, whispering, “All hell’s going to break loose.”

  Smiling, Brent had nodded.

  And then the interminable staff meetings throughout the afternoon. But Brent and Admiral Allen had not been invited. Instead, they had paced the decks endlessly, inspected the bridge over and over and cursed in frustration. But, now, the day after the admiral’s return, Brent waited high on the flag bridge, staring at the gangway.

  It was just after he saw the two American civilians come aboard that he finally heard his name called over the speaker. With a sigh, he turned toward Flag Plot.

  *

  Seated in Flag Plot next to Mark Allen, Brent Ross stared at Wayne Miller and Frank Dempster who sat quietly, flanking the admiral. Miller, a taciturn man with narrow shoulders and sparse gray hair, stared at some notes through large horn-rimmed glasses while Dempster, tall, slender with black hair, stared the length of the table, hazel eyes moving slowly over Fujita’s staff and the two Americans, almost as if the CIA man expected to find a hidden assassin.

  After the introductions, Admiral Fujita turned to Miller with the expected question. “The radar, Mister Miller?"

  “It’s coming aboard now, sir,” Miller answered in a highpitched, nearly squeaky voice.

  “The best?”

  “Yes, sir.” Miller glanced at Dempster. “SPS-49 air search and SPS-10 surface search.”

  “This is the best.”

  “The New Jersey has none better.”

  Commander Fujimoto giggled. “We sank her.” Brent expected to see the old man drool.

  Fujita broke the awkward silence. “Commander, please refrain from mentioning that topic.” The old communications officer stuck a finger in his mouth, said nothing. Fujita continued, addressing Miller directly. “You will have installation problems.”

  The CIA man raised an eyebrow. “You are perceptive, sir. We do have installation problems.” Tapping his pad, he hunched forward. “First, you have no ‘Combat Engagement Center.’”

  “We have ‘Combat Intelligence.’”

  “Not big enough, sir. We need much more room for our computers – our SLQ-32 Electronics Warfare System.”

  Fujita’s small fist pounded the desk. “We do not require computers. We only need the early warning of radar.”

  Dempster spoke suddenly in deep, sonorous tones. “But Admiral, your fire control!”

  “The best fire control is a samurai’s eye fixed to a gunsight.”

  Silence. Miller drummed the table. “We can mount both the surface search and air search on top of your main director. This way, fire control could read bearings directly from existing gear, and ranges could be verified optically – when practical.”

  The old admiral sighed, “Good. Good.”

  Miller pressed on. “We’ll put the sets and their operators in your ‘Combat Intelligence.’ I assume this is the heart of Yonaga’s fire control.”

  Fujita nodded to Lieutenant Commander Nobomitsu Atsumi. “My gunnery officer.”

  Atsumi straightened, spoke authoritatively. “The operators will be within speaking distance of our telephone exchange, deflection officer, range operator, spotting plot opera
tor and within a few feet of our flag officers and bridge.”

  “Excellent,” Miller said, nodding to Dempster. “But with six more weeks we could install a complete CEC and Yonaga—”

  “Yonaga does not have six weeks – not six days,” Fujita said.

  Heads turned, there was an excited murmur. Miller and Dempster exchanged a long glance. Dempster’s deep voice filled the room. “You have your instructions from the emperor, sir?”

  For the first time, Brent saw surprise on Admiral Fujita’s face. “You know?”

  “Yes,” Dempster answered. “Yonaga departs for the Mediterranean. But we didn’t know it would be so soon.”

  Fujita came erect, fixed his eyes high on the bulkhead. He was in another place, perhaps, alone. “His majesty needs Yonaga. Yonaga will proceed to the Mediterranean-free the hostages.”

  “Banzais” thundered through the compartment. There was back-slapping.

  Fujita’s voice quieted the uproar. His eyes were suddenly hard. “We know about the mission,” he said, tapping his chest. And then, pointing at the CIA men, “You know about the mission.” His pause filled the room with the inevitable silence. “Is there anyone in Tokyo who does not know of Yonaga’s mission?”

  A long hard stare went between Miller and Dempster.

  “Sir,” Dempster said. “The CIA is an intelligence organization – knows how to keep its secrets. I can assure you, if you can maintain security,” he waved, “there will be no leaks.”

  Fujita looked unconvinced. But Allen broke in with a question that had begun to plague Brent Ross. “Admiral… the status of my group?”

  “Captain Aogi and Commander Bell are receiving their orders, now, to return to shore. You,” the benign smile was directed at Brent Ross, “and Ensign Ross will be assigned on permanent liaison to Yonaga. The orders are being cut now.”

  The Americans looked at each other. And then, inexplicably, they were shaking hands. More shouts. Fujimoto smiled at Brent. Matsuhara glared.

  Miller pounded the table. “Admiral, Admiral, your escorts.”

  “Yes. Yes, Mister Miller. The emperor’s aide said we would receive some.”

  “I have the information here,” the gray-haired CIA man said, reaching into a briefcase. “May I?” he gestured to the table. Fujita nodded assent. Glancing at some notes, the CIA man rose. “First, gentlemen, you must understand the extent of the turmoil the world is in. Everyone is hunting for World War Two planes and ships.”

  “Third world powers have quite a few, Mr. Miller,” Mark Allen said.

  “True.” He examined a document. “Kadafi is massing a task force.”

  “Task force?” Fujita said, shocked.

  Mark Allen broke in. “We know he has a few old diesel subs, corvettes, motorboats, and a single old Russian trawler.”

  “That is all changed.”

  “Changed?”

  “Yes,” Miller said. “He’s been shopping. Now, you can count a Brooklyn class cruiser, ten Fletcher class cans, the so-called twenty-one-hundred destroyer, and – hold your hats – possibly two carriers.”

  The room was filled with excited voices. Allen quieted the uproar with his shouts. “Carriers? Carriers? And a Brooklyn – a CL with fifteen six-inch guns. And those Fletchers – five five-inch thirty-eights.” He stumbled, assembling thoughts, searching for words. “And the carriers…”

  Miller’s high voice was firm as it filled the room. “Admiral, we know he has the cruiser and the destroyers. He bought the cruiser O’Higgins from Chile and ten twenty-one-hundreds from Brazil, Argentina and Chile. They disappeared this morning in the South Atlantic, manned by mercenaries. Our informants believe they are headed for Tripoli or Benghazi for overhaul.”

  “Let them,” Fujita said, eyes cold, angry and as black as the bottom of a grave. “Kadafi thinks we are ‘yellow monkeys.’ Characters out of a Gilbert and Sullivan opera. He has much to learn. Yes, indeed. Soon he will know it is much easier to draw the sword than to sheath it.”

  More “banzais.” Mineichi Fujimoto came to his feet, shouted, waved a fist and collapsed.

  Fujita waved silence back into the room. He looked at Miller. “My escorts? Not the Self Defense Force?”

  “No, Admiral,” Miller said, smiling. “The CIA bought the destroyers and all of them will be anchored in Subic Bay within three days.”

  “Subic Bay?”

  “Yes. They can fly the Filipino flag – won’t stand out. They can rendezvous with Yonaga at a time and place determined by you.”

  “Their condition.”

  “Mint. The finest we could find. All can do thirty knots; all are still equipped with their original five inch, twenty millimeter and forty-six millimeter guns. Four even have torpedo tubes.”

  “Class?”

  “Seven Fletchers and four Sumners.”

  “Crews?”

  “Mixed. American, South American, some Japanese. But all have experienced American skippers.”

  Fujita sighed. “Mercenaries.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t want to seem ignorant,” Mark Allen said. “But I didn’t know a Brooklyn was still afloat.”

  “You’re thinking of the General Belgrano,” Miller said.

  Allen glanced at the CIA man. “Right, Mister Miller. The old USS Phoenix, CL-46. The British sub Conqueror put her down with two fish off the Falklands in Eighty-Two.”

  Frank Dempster broke in. “It’s surprising but there are over two hundred World War Two vessels still active all over the world.”

  “Naval Intelligence has never inventoried this equipment,” Allen said. “It’s never been a menace.”

  “Hold on to your seats,” Miller said, eyes back on his documents. “Argentina has a Colossus class carrier and so does Brazil. Spain has a carrier – the old CVL, USS Cabot. We have counted ninety-two Fletcher, Sumner and Gearing class destroyers scattered all over the world from Pakistan to Ecuador. We count over one hundred frigates, destroyer escorts, tugs, LSTs, transports and auxiliaries.” He held up a computer printout. “I have prepared a report for each of you.”

  Admiral Fujita spoke. “Do you have anything on the Libyan Air Force?”

  Miller tapped the desk with a single finger. “Our boy’s been busy. He’s massed over one hundred old warplanes. Forty-two Messerschmitt one-oh-nines—”

  “Forty-two!” Brent Ross blurted. “It’s hard to believe the ships, but forty-two old German fighters seems impossible”

  Wayne Miller’s laugh was dry. “I know… I know. But World War Two aircraft are scattered all over the world in museums, private collections or just forgotten in some barn, shed or corner of a field. There are at least one hundred fifty North American P-51 Mustangs flying in the US alone. And when ‘Crazy Kadafi’ began offering ten million dollars per aircraft, they began surfacing everywhere, especially in Africa where hundreds were bought immediately after the war, used, and then parked and forgotten until Kadafi showed up with his bankroll.” He looked at the printout. “Here’s the rest of it. In addition to the 109s, Libya has fourteen Junkers or the JU 87, Stuka dive bomber, twelve Supermarine Spitfires, ten Hawker Hurricanes, twenty Douglas C-47s fitted as gunships, fifteen Northrop AT 6s and perhaps twenty Heinkel 111s.”

  “But many must be rusted beyond repair,” Brent said.

  “Not really. The aluminum construction of the forties was amazingly durable and rust resistant.”

  “But the engines must be frozen with disuse,” Brent persisted.

  Miller nodded. “True. Many are but the Libyans are importing expert technicians.”

  “Experts! From where?” Allen said, suddenly.

  “Many are old Nazis – ex-Luftwaffe mechanics.”

  “Still working on the ‘final solution,’” Mark Allen observed, grimly.

  “Yes,” Miller said. “And they can become instant millionaires.”

  “Your information is amazing,” Fujita said. And then with a shrewd look, “Why? Why do you help us? If your
country is so interested – so involved, why not send your own task force?”

  The two CIA men exchanged a long reflective look. Miller spoke. “You must understand, Admiral, America occupies a very delicate position in the Middle East. We are avowed allies of Israel but, on the other hand, have good relations with moderate Arab powers – especially Egypt and Saudi Arabia. We can’t permit the destruction of Israel, but, on the other hand, will not sever ties with friendly Arab powers.”

  “And the Russians?”

  “We can’t afford a confrontation with them in the Middle East. Logistically, it would be a disaster.”

  “But the Arabs are uniting – have their jihad?”

  Miller tapped the desk. “At best, Arab unity is tenuous. We feel we can split them. Remember, above all else, they prefer killing each other.”

  “But Kadafi is different – not logical,” Fujita said. “Why seize a cruise ship, garrote an ambassador?”

  The CIA men laughed humorlessly. Miller continued. “Don’t try to assign logic to his motives, sir.”

  Dempster spoke quickly. “Do you know, Sir, he has a mad scheme for a union of Libya, Syria, Tunisia and Egypt all under his leadership, of course. He has even attacked poor Chad and Sudan. And when Mubarak refused to continue sacrificing Egyptian troops in useless wars against Israel, his steamer Ghat mined the Gulf of Suez and the Red Sea, cutting Suez Canal traffic.”

  “How can you predict what this Yakuza will do?”

  “Yakuza?”

  “Sorry, Mister Dempster. Amoral gangster,” Fujita explained.

  Miller returned to the conversation. “Kadafi does have two avowed goals, and he has been consistent with them: the destruction of Israel and the murder of all Libyan dissidents. The US and Japan are strong supporters of Israel and shelter dissidents. Automatically, both nations fall within his spectrum of hate.” He tapped the table, stared at his colleague. “Frank, you might as well tell them the latest about Egypt.”

  Dempster moved his eyes from man to man, finally stopping on Admiral Fujita. “Kadafi has permission to move troops across Egypt to the borders of Israel. Mubarak will make the announcement tomorrow.”