Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  Muttering, the Japanese looked at each other. “Their functions – in your computers,” Fujita said, hunching forward.

  “Memory and logic, basically, Admiral. Memory, of course, can retain information while logic chips, or microprocessors, use the data on memory chips to control what a machine does.”

  Admiral Fujita appeared stunned. Sarah guessed the old sailor accepted the information – he had a quick, agile mind – but disbelieved a woman could provide it. She moved on. “They are everywhere, Admiral, controlling robots, assembly lines, rockets – when they flew – fire control, navigation, telephone service—”

  “Please, please, Captain,” Fujita interrupted. “We cannot decode your ‘Green One’ without a computer. Please explain.”

  He had acknowledged her rank for the first time. The Israeli felt a twinge of triumph. And every Japanese was staring at her with an intensity that transcended interest in military matters. She was a woman. That was it. They were ancient young boys yearning to indulge a hunger – a void that had commanded their lives for over four decades. Now, they were too old to fill that void but the hunger persisted. Fujita was different – his appetite was only for information and the preservation of his command.

  Feeling like a freak at a sideshow, the woman continued. “You only have a few days?”

  “We put to sea in three days.”

  The woman drew a deep breath. “The top priority in setting up a code is to hard wire an encryption box.”

  “Why? We have your discs.”

  “True. But those discs contain one code only; have no flexibility. In the encryption box, we program key generation systems, priming keys and nulls. The combinations and permutations are almost infinite.”

  “If your machines are so wondrous, another computer should be able to break your codes.”

  The woman smiled at Fujita’s quick mind. “Of course, sir. A larger computer through brute force and manned by clever operators who search for trivial incidents – a moment’s carelessness on your part – will ‘chew on’ the information, correlate transmissions with incidents or scraps of your plain text.”

  Fujita nodded. “A Rosetta Stone.”

  “Exactly, Sir.”

  “And their chances?”

  Aranson looked at Allen and then Miller. Miller and the woman spoke a duet. “One hundred percent.”

  Fujita’s eyes widened. “Then your ‘Green One’ is useless”

  “Viable for a few days,” Miller offered.

  Fujita appeared irritated by the man’s voice. Spoke to the woman. “Your encryption box can repulse penetration by the enemy?”

  Sarah felt new confidence mixed with swelling pride. These medieval men were listening to her – a mere girl in a man’s world. “Yes, Admiral. We program in the capability to change codes at the end of random time periods. Also, we program pseudocodes. We can frustrate and delay them but never stop them.”

  “The rear-guard of a retreating army,” Fujita mused. And then quickly. “When can we have the box?”

  “It’s being hard wired at our headquarters in Tel Aviv. Even if we can arrange air transport, we would need a minimum of two weeks.”

  “Impossible. We will do our best with what we have. There is no choice.”

  The woman tapped a knee. She felt hungry eyes watching. She stilled the fingers. “Access the discs until you reach the ‘Med’; then send a courier by plane to Tel Aviv. Fly it aboard, sir. Fly it aboard.”

  “It is not that simple, Captain. I am only taking Yonaga into the Mediterranean at the request of the emperor—”

  Staggering to their feet, Hironaka and Kawamoto croaked “Banzai” like old frogs.

  Fujita silenced them with a single palm turned downward. They collapsed in their chairs. He continued. “It is a restricted body of water, the worst possible place to take a ship this size.” He turned to Mark Allen.

  “The British discovered this during the recent unpleasantness.”

  Mark Allen appeared pleased at the recognition. “Yes, Admiral Fujita. They lost many ships including the battleship Barham, carrier Ark Royal—”

  “Yes. A terrible place for capital ships,” Fujita said.

  “But you’re still committed,” Sarah Aranson said.

  “Of course. But keep this in mind: a courier aircraft would just be another radar blip to our enemies, or, perhaps, a pigeon to be followed by hawks back to the nest. There will be risks.”

  “I understand,” the Israeli conceded. She studied the admiral for a long moment, wondering about the keen mind – the mind of the master tactician and strategist. She said, “Of course, Admiral. But Colonel Irving Bernstein can bring a flight plain with him, if you wish, with recognition signals.”

  “Very well. A good plan. We can adjust to circumstances.” And then to Wayne Miller, “If you go ashore at the end of this meeting, how soon can I have the necessary equipment?”

  The CIA man smiled like a convict who had found the jail unlocked. “Why, tomorrow morning, Admiral.”

  “Very well,” Fujita said. “Tomorrow morning.”

  Miller turned to Aranson. “What do you need?”

  The woman spoke eagerly. “Your CBC 16 is an excellent machine. We can interface it with our main frame and transmit synchronously at up to ninety-six hundred bits a second.” Baffled, the Japanese looked at each other.

  Miller nodded. “We’ll give you two and you’ll need a terminal multiplexer, a couple printers, modem and a double-sided diskette subsystem.” He tapped his temple. “And well back up everything.”

  “Right,” she said. “Good! Good!”

  “Operators?” Fujita asked.

  “Bernstein can handle it,” Sarah answered.

  Mark Allen spoke. “Brent Ross and I also can handle it. And at this moment, four of our enlisted men are instructing your personnel on new radar and radio equipment. All are picked men and rated cryptologic technicians. They can stand watches.”

  Pursing his thin lips, the old admiral nodded. Then, the old eyes moved to the overhead; and a troubled look added to the wrinkles. “This Chinese laser system – it is permanent?”

  Miller was the first to speak. “No one knows – not even the Chinese. But the orbits of the twenty weapons satellites are low, nine hundred thirty miles according to our radar monitors. Those orbits should begin to decay.”

  “When?”

  “Again, nobody knows for sure, but perhaps in a few years.”

  The Japanese smiled at each other. Fujita spoke. “Those sly Orientals surprised the world.”

  “Cannot be trusted,” Hironaka squeaked. The compartment was filled with laughter.

  Fujita silenced his officers, turned to Miller. “What do you know about it?”

  “The command satellites are in geosynchronous orbit at twenty-two thousand three hundred miles and—”

  “I know that,” Fujita interrupted.

  “May I say something?” Sarah asked. The men eyed the woman expectantly. She continued. “According to our information, they’ve set up a system of deuterium-fluorine chemical lasers.”

  “Chemical!” Miller spluttered. “How did you—”

  The woman smiled. “We have a reliable source.” And then earnestly, “Somehow, they whipped the problem of powering the particle accelerators by developing fusion power units.”

  The Japanese looked at each other in obvious confusion. Mark Allen said, “Nuclear power, gentlemen.”

  Sarah moved on. “We have learned they concentrate the beams by using complex optical elements focused on large parabolic mirrors. The particles are directed with pinpoint accuracy by the command network, and—” she gestured at Miller, “you know about those satellites.”

  “The entire planet is under constant surveillance,” Fujita said.

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  “You know, Captain Aranson,” Mark Allen said, thoughtfully. “I’ve had some experience with these ‘star wars’ concepts – experiments with particle beams, and I
’ve never seen a laser produce visible light. Yet, when Brent and I saw that DC-10 disabled over Tokyo Bay, we saw a blinding flash and the whole sky lighted.”

  Sarah felt a warm surge of pride. These admirals were asking her for information; were honoring her as a better-informed intelligence officer. “Yes, Admiral Allen. The system is two-tiered – targeting with visible light followed by the killer pulse.”

  “And now the superior numbers of the Chinese will tell,” Fujita noted. “Is that not true?”

  “Yes,” Miller answered, anxiously. “They have the world’s largest standing army.”

  Sarah sensed the man’s professional pride was piqued by her superior knowledge. After all, he did represent the world’s greatest intelligence gathering apparatus. And now he was taking second place to an upstart Israeli; and a woman at that.

  Matsuhara broke his silence. “But Russia has much armor.”

  Miller glanced at the woman and then the aviator. “Fifty thousand tanks. But China is catching up in armor and has had a crash program in anti-tank artillery.”

  There was a short silence. “You know, Wayne,” Mark Allen said, hunching forward, brows pinched. “These lasers shouldn’t be such a big surprise. Back in seventy-seven, I saw the Air Force knock two Sidewinders down over Kirtland Air Force Base in New Mexico with a carbon dioxide laser. It was crude, so big it had to be mounted in a cargo plane, but it worked.” He turned to the woman. “You said a deuterium-fluorine system.”

  “Yes,” she answered. Then she turned to Admiral Fujita. “You know, these beams work best in space – lose practically no power in a vacuum, and once in orbit can function for years.”

  The Japanese nodded. Sarah returned to Mark Allen. “As for the deuterium-fluorine system, we have learned the Chinese system forces heated deuterium and fluorine through nozzles into an optical chamber where dozens of mirrors are mounted. Then there’s a flash chemical reaction that gives off a light of a particular wavelength. The mirrors trap the light reflecting it back and forth, stimulating more emissions at the target frequency. All this massed energy is expelled as an intense, integrated beam that is directable.”

  Now, Miller was glaring at the woman. His high voice filled the compartment. “Nothing revolutionary, Captain,” he scoffed. “One of our contractors, PZR in Redondo Beach, California, has been experimenting with similar systems for years."

  The woman eyed the CIA man’s smirking face coldly. “Yes, but theirs is still on the ground.”

  There was a long silence during which Fujita and Allen exchanged a glance. Sarah was sure she detected amusement twisting the corners of the old man’s lips. Then, placing palms down on his desk in a gesture of finality, Fujita turned his eyes to the woman. “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “Mikasa.”

  There was an excited babble from the Japanese. “Mikasa,” Fujita said with obvious surprise.

  “Yes, Admiral," Sarah said. “Israel would like to buy Mikasa. She has four modern twelve-inch guns.”

  “I know. I fired two of them at the Russians at Tsushima. And she was re-gunned and converted to oil in nineteen eleven. But she is still over eighty years old, and antique; has old triple expansion boilers that have not been under pressure for half a century. And her guns are not modern at all. They could explode, and so could her boilers.”

  “We know all this, Admiral. We have studied her. But Israel is narrow, only twenty-eight miles at her waist and borders the ‘Med.’ In many places, twelve-inch guns could fire over the country into our enemies.”

  Bent tendrils drummed the desk. “Why ask me? You should contact the government. She is a public park like Yonaga.” The Japanese looked at each other, chuckled like an audience on cue.

  Undaunted, Sarah forged ahead bluntly. “We want you to ask the emperor to intercede – avoid bureaucracy and red tape. There is no time.” Desperation gave a sharp edge to her words.

  The old man leaned back, stared over the woman. His words thrilled her. “It would be a far more dignified way for her to spend her last years. In battle – like a samurai. Perhaps enjoy a samurai’s death and find her grave with yamato damashii. Certainly, much better than a park with children regurgitating and spilling milk and garbage on her decks.” His eyes returned to the woman. “I will make the request but, of course, can assure you of nothing.”

  Sarah smiled broadly. “Of course, Admiral.”

  “You may be forced to tow her.”

  “We know, Admiral.”

  Fujita turned to Commander Yoshi Matsuhara. “Yoshi-san. Take a truck, a dozen armed seamen and escort the captain back to the Israeli Embassy. Take two seven-point-seven millimeter Nambus. Mount one machine gun on top of the cab and the other over the tailgate. Kill any Sabbah who tries to stop you. They are hungry for vengeance.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  “And teach them, Yoshi-san.”

  “Sir?”

  “Teach them that any man who seeks revenge against Yonaga should dig his grave first.” There were shouts of “Banzai.”

  The admiral continued. “One thing more, Commander.” The black eyes glowed. “If you are not successful and do not complete this mission, do not return.”

  Wide-eyed, the Israeli stared at Mark Allen who turned to Wayne Miller. But before anyone could speak, Matsuhara’s voice filled the cabin with a matter-of-fact tone. “Why, of course, sir.” And then pridefully, “I am a samurai.”

  Fujita’s warm eyes moved over his flight leader and then to each of the other occupants of the room, finally coming to rest on the Israeli. “Before you leave, Captain, this Moammar Kadafi – your impression of him.”

  Sarah pondered for a moment. “You’ve heard of the khamsin, sir?”

  “A desert wind.”

  “Yes. It’s a hot southerly wind blowing off the Sahara. It’s laden with dust and dirt – drives men and animals to shelter.”

  Fujita smiled slyly. “But it is temporary – just short lived hot air.”

  “Of course, Admiral.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” And then to the group, “These proceedings are closed.” But before anyone could rise, the old sailor struggled to his feet, riveting his eyes on the emperor’s picture. Rising silently, everyone stood transfixed while the old man’s voice rolled through the cabin with unbelievable strength, crashed like thunder. “We will tame the wind in the arena of the storms!”

  Sarah Aranson heard echoing shouts of “Banzai” as she left the room.

  Chapter XII

  Lying in his bed, sedated and weak from the loss of blood, Brent Ross’ mind wandered freely, moving from one image to another like a beam of light illuminating objects in a dark room. And Sarah was there smiling and leading the way, turning, gesturing; but always slightly out of reach and elusive like a wisp of fog. He had known her or dreamed about her for most of yesterday – or so it seemed. And that had been a lifetime – too long for a fantasy – or was it? If she was real, he would follow her, track her to the edge of the world and beyond, claim her, feel her body against his.

  And he had met those men in the alley; fought them. The memory brought a twitch, jarred his eyes wide open for a moment. But the light was bright. He closed his eyes, retreated back into the dark room and found the alley where the men waited, knives glistening. He felt the fear of those blades. And then the fear of himself and what he had become. “Never enough! Never enough!” rang through his brain. But whose words? Fujita’s? His own? His father’s?

  He remembered his father’s temper. The uncontrollable, mindless drive to inflict punishment. He had felt it in the alley. Had become his father – or, worse, an animal. “No! No!”

  An old man in white materialized over him, checking tubes, feeling his wrist. “Sleep, Yankee. Sleep!” Brent felt a needle in his arm. He obeyed.

  *

  The voices broke the blackness and dawn crept to the edge of the world. Turning his head slowly and blinking his eye
s into focus, Brent found himself in a large white room lined with at least a score of bunks. Wide-open portholes let in brilliant sunlight and the noise and smells of the shipyard. His chest and abdomen throbbed. Sarah was real. And so were the men in the alley. And so were the knives.

  He followed the voices to two old men in white smocks walking down the room’s central aisle past the foot of his cot. Although they talked in rapid Japanese, the American caught enough words to understand that Mineichi Fujimoto, the communications officer, had vanished the previous night. Apparently disoriented, the old man had wandered off into the yards and disappeared.

  The old men stopped at the next cot, glanced at a chart, moved to the far side and then hunched over the patient. But the patient was not Japanese. Old and gaunt, he had sharp hard features that appeared hacked from driftwood by a dull ax. Wisps of long stringy blond hair mixed with gray and white escaped bandages wrapped around his head.

  “Gott in himmel,” came from the bed, rocking Brent wide awake. Then Brent noticed the armed guard standing at the head of the bed. The man was obviously a prisoner and in pain.

  One of the men in white spoke. “I am Chief Hospital Orderly Eiichi Horikoshi, and this is my assistant, Orderly Third Class Sokichi Torisu.”

  “Ja! Ja!”

  “Please,” the doctor said. “Speak English, if you can. We cannot speak German and, I assume, you cannot speak Japanese.”

  The man’s voice was low but surprisingly clear. He spoke with an accent similar to Colonel Irving Bernstein’s. “Yes! Yes. My head, my ribs; I’m in much pain, Herr Doktor.”

  The Japanese looked at each other. Eiichi Horikoshi spoke. “You should ache; you have a concussion and severe abrasions of the chest.”

  “Where am I?”

  “Yonaga’s sick bay. We brought you in this morning from our Special Care Unit. You have been unconscious for three days but should recover quickly, now.” The old man leaned close to the German. “Your name and what were you doing on Zilah?”