Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “One of us,” Bernstein nodded to Aranson, “will escort you back to Yonaga.” Brent nodded. Bernstein pulled at his beard thoughtfully. “Ensign, I asked for a member of Admiral Fujita’s staff.”

  “And he sent me.”

  “Yes. He must place great trust in you.”

  Brent was rocked by the words. He felt both complimented and irritated. Yonaga had attacked Pearl Harbor, killed his father and, yet, he sat calmly in the Israeli Embassy, representing her commanding officer. He remembered his conversation with Admiral Allen. The remarks about the samurai sword and hachimachi headband.

  “I,” he groped for words, “do not consider myself a member of Admiral Fujita’s staff. I have been ordered here by my commanding officer, Admiral Mark Allen.” He moved his eyes over the impassive faces of the two officers. “However, it is true I have been assigned to Yonaga by NIS and, of course, am subject to the orders of her commanding officer.”

  Sarah Aranson broke her silence. “This is a strange world, indeed. Yonaga functions almost as a sovereign state.”

  Brent sighed. “Yes. But Admiral Fujita does answer to the emperor.”

  “Only the emperor,” Aranson said. “The Diet has no influence.”

  “Bleating sheep, to him.”

  “Yet Yonaga is maintained as a monument.”

  Brent moved his eyes to Bernstein. “Is this all, Colonel?” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost sixteen hundred.”

  The Israelis exchanged a quick glance. “You are aware of the imminent dangers to Israel – the jihad, Mubarak’s permission for Libyan troops to cross Egypt’s borders?”

  Brent felt a surge of irritation. “I know we’ve been isolated, but I told you we were briefed, Colonel. Fujita has pledged aid but, in my opinion, his primary concern is the Japanese cruise ship and the hostages. I would expect him to commit Yonaga to their rescue first.”

  “Of course, of course,” Bernstein said. Brent detected a note of disappointment.

  “Is that it?” the American said, beginning to rise.

  “No,” the colonel said sharply.

  Brent sat back. “Well, what?”

  “Mikasa!”

  Brent shook his head. “Did you say Mikasa?”

  “Yes. Mikasa.”

  Brent’s eyes moved from one officer to the other; found intent, serious faces. “She’s an antique,” he blurted. “My God, why don’t you go after the USS Constitution, too.”

  “Mikasa has four modern twelve-inch guns. If you ever look at a map of Israel, you’ll find she crowds the sea.” Rising, Bernstein walked to the wall, pointed to a map of Israel. “In the north, where she borders Lebanon, Syria and Jordan, she is thirty miles wide. At her waist, where she borders the Sinai and Jordan, about forty.” He tapped the map. “Do you know what that means?” Not waiting for an answer, he rushed on, “Twelve-inch guns would be devastating. She could function as a monitor – be a deterrent.” He returned to his chair.

  “But there are other more modern ships.”

  “No, Ensign. The Americans have several museum battleships, but Miller and Dempster already informed you of the official American position.”

  “Ammunition?”

  “We found all we need near Philadelphia.”

  “Philadelphia?”

  “Yes. An old naval ammunition dump containing thousands of twelve-inch shells for the Alaska and Guam.”

  “The old battle cruisers.”

  “Yes. The CIA has already made the purchase. The shells were designated as scrap. And, remember, Israeli industry is resourceful. We’re tooling up. Soon we will produce our own twelve inch shells… by hand. It will be slow, but Israel has the capability—”

  He was interrupted by the phone. Brent and Sarah Aranson remained silent as the older man conversed quickly in Yiddish. After cradling the phone, the colonel turned back to Brent. “Sorry. The Ambassador needs me.” And then to the woman, “Please answer any questions and,” he gestured, “escort Mister Ross back to his… ah, I mean, back to Yonaga.”

  After rising quickly, he grasped Brent’s hand firmly. “Shalom aleichem, American. Shalom aleichem.”

  “Luck to you, too, sir,” Brent said, smiling. In a moment, Bernstein was gone. Seating himself, Brent turned to the woman. “How do I fit into your plans for Mikasa?”

  Slowly, Sarah leaned back, crossed her legs. Brent suddenly wished she had worn a skirt. “Admiral Fujita is very influential – has the emperor’s ear.”

  “True. And you want him to intercede.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what do you expect of me, Captain?”

  “We understand you’re very influential with the admiral.”

  Brent was jarred by the statement. There it was again. They must consider him staff. Certainly, they felt he had great influence on board Yonaga. “I know him but can’t persuade him. No one can.”

  “Will you ask him to consider making the request?”

  “Perhaps.” Brent gripped his armrests. “Captain, I should return and I skipped lunch—”

  “I know a fine restaurant. We could dine on the way back to Yonaga and finish this discussion.” She smiled for the first time.

  “Fine. Fine,” Brent said, coming to his feet, smiling like a thirsty man who had just discovered an oasis.

  *

  “It’s a kabayaki-ya,” Sarah said, wheeling the small Toyota through Tokyo’s traffic. “They specialize in roast eels on rice, swimming in soy sauce and exquisite nori… no… tempura.”

  “Nori what?”

  Sarah laughed. “Seaweed. Fried seaweed.”

  “Ugh,” Brent groaned. “I can’t wait.”

  Laughing, Sarah dodged traffic, shifting gears, working the clutch. Watching the woman shift, Brent wished, again, that she had worn a skirt.

  “There it is,” she said, waving, pulling the small car to the curb.

  Exiting the car, Brent stood in front of a low, rambling wood structure surrounded by a wooden fence. High above the entrance hung two paper and bamboo lamps covered with ideograms brushed in faultless calligraphy. Although Brent had always had trouble with the intricate, alphabetless language, he was able to read the restaurant’s name. He felt new confidence as he followed Sarah Aranson into the restaurant. He smiled, watching the sway of her trim hips. Now, he was suddenly happy she had not worn a skirt.

  *

  Entering the restaurant with the American following, Captain Sarah Aranson was content. The young ensign had great influence with the Japanese admiral and could be very useful. Israel needed Mikasa, old warplanes and ships. But more than anything else, Israel needed Yonaga. Just her presence in the Mediterranean would distract the Arabs, relieve the pressures. But they needed Yonaga’s planes – the aerial support of Fujita’s veterans. But that would be Bernstein’s job and, perhaps, with the aid of Miller and Dempster – Brent Ross, too, if he could be maneuvered – Admiral Fujita would come to their aid. After all, Kadafi and his Arab allies were a common enemy.

  “Jochu-san. Jochu-san,” she called to an exquisite Japanese woman with glistening black hair, wearing a colorful kimono.

  Smiling, the polished jewel of a woman bowed. Then, in perfect English, “This way, please.”

  Slowly – the waitress’s tight kimono forced very short steps – the trio wound its way through a small garden shrewdly contrived with such casual naturalness one could become lost among the shrubs and dwarf pines. As they passed the first of six little wooden huts, Sarah felt her back crawl as if inquisitive eyes were searching.

  The American: he was big, handsome; had an animal-like appeal. She sighed, looking down at the flow of her legs under the khaki. She was proud of her long slender limbs. Suddenly, she wished she had worn a skirt.

  Following the waitress’s gesture, Sarah removed her shoes and stepped onto the tatami mats covering the floor of the third hut. “There,” Sarah said, gesturing to a cushion. “That zabutan is yours. The seat of honor.”

  “Seat of ho
nor,” Brent said, bending his long legs and seating himself at the tortuously low table.

  “Yes,” Sarah said, sinking on a zabutan opposite him. “You’re seated in front of the tokonoma.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Brent said, turning his head to a small alcove sheltering a beautiful old vase containing carefully arranged flowers.

  “You haven’t had much experience in Japan, Mister Ross?”

  “It’s Brent.”

  The woman smiled. “And I’m Sarah.”

  “No, Sarah. I went aboard Yonaga the same day I arrived in Tokyo.”

  Before Sarah could respond, the waitress placed two cups on the table. “Sake,” the Israeli said, raising her glass. “Hot sake.”

  The American touched his cup to the woman’s. “To a satisfying liaison,” he said, staring over the top of his cup.

  Unable to tear her eyes from the deep blue of the American’s, Sarah sipped her sake, felt its heat. But then she cleared her throat, tabled the rice wine and looked around casually. “I’ve only been stationed here a few months, but I’ve learned a little about Japanese traditions.” She gestured. “The guest of honor always sits with his back to the tokonoma so that it frames him.”

  “I must look irresistible”

  Laughing, she swept a hand around the room. “Look around you – wood, paper, straw. No paint and no metal. All is blended into a harmonious whole; a natural gestalt that is pleasing to the senses.”

  Smiling, the American continued sipping. “Do I order?”

  “No. She’ll bring us the specialty.”

  He put his cup down, looked at the woman thoughtfully. “Sarah, how did you get involved with Israeli Intelligence?”

  Gulping her sake, the Israeli winced as the fiery liquid burned a path. “I’m an Israeli. We all serve.”

  “It seems unusual.”

  “Not in my country.”

  “You were born there?”

  “In a kibbutz.”

  “A collective farm.”

  “Yes. Near the Syrian border”

  The American drank. “There has been much warfare.”

  “Ha! Continuous. We were under their guns emplaced on the Golan Heights.”

  “Your family?”

  “My father was killed in the ‘Six Day War.’” She brought the cup to her lips. Sipped.

  “Sorry. Your mother?”

  “She lives in Tel Aviv. I’m an only child.”

  He stirred uneasily. She smiled, knowing what was coming. “Ah,” he said, averting his eyes. “You married, engaged, or anything?”

  She took another drink, felt the fumes begin to rise, numb her brain pleasantly.

  “No. I was engaged to a pilot, Ari Weitzman, but that ended over the Bekaa Valley on the business end of a SAM missile.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Death is a way of life in my country.” With a quick toss of the head, she emptied her cup, remaining silent while the waitress refilled the cups and left. Sarah held it up. “You know, the Japanese do most of their serious drinking before eating. One can get awfully drunk on an empty stomach.” She drank again.

  He nodded. Sipped. “Dynamite – sneaks up on you like martinis.”

  She continued, tongue loosened by the wine. “I have no aunts, uncles or cousins and never knew grandparents.”

  He raised an eyebrow, but his expression told her he knew the answer. “My parents were survivors of the Warsaw ghetto. All of my relatives were murdered… in the ovens of Treblinka, Buchenwald and Auschwitz.”

  “Christ.” He took another drink.

  She followed his example, drained her glass. There was a flash of color, a padding of small feet, and their glasses were full again. Sarah raised her cup. The eyes were wide, glistening, lips tight, tone matter-of-fact like a stockbroker quoting prices. “Four grandparents, five uncles, five aunts, eleven cousins marched to the chambers for their doses of Zyklon B and the glory of the Third Reich.”

  “Jesus Christ, Sarah, I’m—”

  She bored on, voice husky. “There are twelve million of us – that’s all; in the whole goddamned world. And half live in your country – four million Jews in Israel. And over a hundred million Arabs want to complete endlosung – the ‘final solution.’ And you wonder why we’re anxious – why we are crazy with worry. Why we beg for help. Would sell our bodies, our souls—”

  “No, Sarah. That isn’t true. I’m an officer. Obey my orders just as you obey yours.”

  She took another drink, sighed and felt her tensions begin to melt. Wondered about the American. She knew she had offended him. “Would you like to hear about my education?” Her tongue felt thick.

  “Of course,” he said, obviously relieved with the change in subject.

  “I graduated from Columbia – majored in mathematics.”

  “What a coincidence,” he said, smiling. “I spent a lot of time in New York. My father was a navy man.”

  “You traveled?”

  “Yes. He had duty in England, France, Turkey, Japan and Germany. I always attended public schools because my father insisted that I learn the languages.”

  “Good idea.” She leaned forward. “There was a navy captain on board Yonaga. Ted—”

  “Ted ‘Trigger’ Ross. He was my father.”

  Sarah swallowed more wine. “He was killed and you—”

  “Yes. I’m assigned to Yonaga. I’ve been given permission to investigate. Bring justice to my father’s name.”

  “Incredible.”

  “I’ve promised to wait – wait until this thing in the Middle East is settled.”

  “You can restrain yourself?”

  “Yes. I’ve given my word on my father’s memory.”

  The table moved. Shaking her head, she placed a hand on it. Pressed down. “Incredible!”

  “Perhaps, but I’ve been able to function and will continue to function.”

  “Get that computer, Brent,” she said, suddenly, not quite managing a professional voice. “You need it.”

  “I know, Sarah. I think I can talk Admiral Fujita into it.”

  “I hear he’s obstinate.”

  “Yes. But this is to improve Yonaga’s chances – provide us with intelligence.’’

  “Better than you can ever dream. We have agents in every Arab capital and in most of their governments.” She stopped abruptly, knowing she had talked too much.

  “In Libya?”

  She looked at her wine. “I’ve had too much of this.” Suddenly, she smiled – the sly, flirtatious smile of the interested woman. “And you,” she continued, changing the subject with his words. “Are you married, engaged or anything?”

  Although it was obvious Brent was aware of the tactful change in subject, he shifted quickly to the new topic. “Yes.”

  “Yes?” she said, not trying to conceal her disappointment.

  “Yes. I’m married to the United States Navy, the most demanding mistress a man can have.”

  Her laugh was light and bubbly like flowing champagne. And then her voice – the voice of a young girl, “You’re funny, Brent.”

  She reached across the table, found his hand. Then caught her breath as his fingers moved up and down her arm, leaving burning trails. It had been so long – so long since the Bekaa Valley. They stared at each other silently.

  “Brent.”

  “Yes.”

  Strange. The voice and the man seemed to be in different places and the room was a carousel. She squinted, leaned over the table. Reached for the cup. Changed her mind. “Do you want to make love to me?”

  “Yes. I’d like to take you to bed.”

  “But not for Yonaga.”

  “No. Only for me.”

  “Maybe I can’t separate the two.”

  “I know, Sarah. You were planning to take me to bed for Yonaga. Make love to me, but seduce Fujita.”

  She stared at him like a defendant measuring a prosecutor. “I’ve drunk too much.” She pulled her hand away
.

  “You and Bernstein had it planned – the refusal to come aboard – the phone call.”

  She found refuge in her cup. “Yes!”

  “And Lefkowitz – killed, a lie, too.”

  “No!” The voice was anguished. “He’s dead!” Suddenly the voice shed pain, sarcasm creeping in. “Cut into small pieces – all real.”

  It was Brent’s turn to drink deeply. “I’m sorry about that, but how can you expect me to answer questions about love?”

  “I don’t. There isn’t any,” she said matter-of-factly. “The most precious commodity is hate.”

  Pushing on the zabutan, he leaned forward, speaking with new softness. “You had it with Ari.”

  She stared at him wide-eyed. “Yes. But a Russian missile killed it.”

  “Killed your fiance, not your love.”

  “It died with him. Warheads don’t know the difference. They’re completely democratic.”

  “You can find it with someone else.”

  “In this world?”

  “It’s the only one we have.”

  She shook her head. Toyed with her cup. “Bed isn’t the right place, Brent.”

  “I know – I know.” Reaching across the table, he reclaimed her hand. Sighing, she leaned toward him, lost herself in his eyes.

  The mood was broken by the waitress. Quickly, the eels, sliced and layered on white rice nestled in two black lacquer boxes, were placed before them. The little girl returned and Sarah laughed with delight as she unwrapped her wooden chopsticks. Brent sat erect, staring at his food, then reached for his chopsticks slowly.

  “I’m sober. I’m sober, Brent,” she said, wheeling the Toyota through the early evening traffic.

  He nodded. “Maybe a driver needs a few drinks to compete with Tokyo’s mad drivers.”

  She laughed. “Yes. And slick streets help. It must have rained hard while we were in the restaurant.” She tapped the steering wheel thoughtfully. “But traffic will thin near the docks. It’s a run-down neighborhood with few residents.”

  He tapped his cramped, bent knees thoughtfully. “When will I see you again?”

  “I leave for Israel tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow – so soon!”

  “Yes. By fast steamer. Air transport is in chaos/”

  “I won’t see you again, Sarah.”