by Peter Albano
“Banzai Yonaga! Banzai Yonaga!” roared back.
Chapter XVIII
“Commanders Ogren, Warner and Jackson died well, Captain Fite. They saved Yonaga.”
“They obeyed their orders – made their runs like the fine destroyer skippers they were, Admiral Fujita.”
“Survivors?”
“We picked up, maybe, thirty men. You took hits, sir?”
“Yes, Captain Fite. We had damage to our flight deck and stern elevator. But we can operate aircraft.”
“Maximum efficiency, Admiral?”
“No. But the stern elevator is nearly repaired, and damage control is repairing the flight deck.”
“You were fortunate.”
“Yes. And Captain Fite, your vessel appears undamaged.”
“I took casualties to my AA crews.”
“But your hull is undamaged.”
“True.”
“You can make maximum speed?”
“Yes, admiral. Thirty-two knots.”
“Good. I want you to steam into Tripoli Harbor and free the hostages.”
The hulking American captain fell silent. Then, slowly, his eyes moved down the long table in Flag Plot over the stunned faces of Ensign Brent Ross, Admiral Mark Allen and Colonel Irving Bernstein. Flanking the admiral, Captain Kawamoto and Lieutenant Hironaka sat quietly at the far end, blank expressions matching their commanding officer’s.
The American escort commander shook his head like a big, tired bear. “Sir… that’s a big order—”
“We sank their destroyer number ‘1.’”
“Yes, Admiral.”
“She was a Fletcher and you wear the same number.”
“Yes. And you expect me to take her place?”
“Why not, Captain. You will fly a Libyan flag.”
“Not enough!”
Fujita drummed the table. “Do you feel an attack on you by Japanese aircraft just outside the harbor would be convincing?”
“I don’t know, Sir. It sounds bizarre.”
“Of course, Captain.” And then smiling, “We would not hit you but we will give support.”
“Artillery?”
Bernstein said, “A battery of howitzers is reported in a field behind the jetty.”
Fite’s eyes narrowed. “Howitzers could tear me to pieces with plunging fire. My five inch thirty-eights are high velocity weapons. My counterfire would go right over them.”
“That battery will receive the undivided attention of my bombers,” Fujita said. “Use our fighter frequency and call in all the support you need.”
Drumming the table, the American captain turned his lips under, sighed through clenched teeth. “What about the landing force, Admiral?”
Fujita shook his head. “The element of surprise is lost. We would lose everything.”
Staring at his hands, the American pressed his knuckles together. Then stopping the game, he spoke slowly.
“I think I can get in. Two of their destroyers were badly damaged – making, maybe, eight knots – straggling. I can overtake them and hang back – make smoke like I’m damaged. Just might work.” Sighing, he palmed his seamed forehead. “But the sortie would be tough. No telling how long well be alongside the Mayeda Maru. Our true identity is bound to be discovered. And what about our strikes on Misratah and Al Kararim?”
Fujita glanced at Captain Kawamoto who stared at a report under his fingers. “One of our scouts reports complete surprise, and both fields and their aircraft destroyed.”
Shouting “Banzai,” Hironaka attempted to come to his feet, collapsed and almost fell out of his chair. Brent pushed the scribe upright with one hand.
“Our losses?” Fite asked.
“Unknown,” Kawamoto answered. “And will remain unknown until all returning aircraft are recovered.”
Fujita broke in. “Captain, you will have all of Yonaga’s bombers in support. You will have three destroyers over the horizon. They will support you with their five inch guns. We can seal off the jetty.” He pushed himself to his feet, moved to the chart. “We are here,” Fujita said, stabbing a finger. “About three hundred fifty kilometers from Tripoli. Start your run-in immediately – overtake the damaged Arabs and hang back. It should take you about twenty-four hours to make your landfall. I will recover my air groups and follow in your wake at thirty knots. We will monitor you constantly by radar and reconnaissance aircraft. Just outside the harbor, we will stage our mock attack on you. You will enter the harbor, rescue the hostages and sortie, rendezvousing with the task force here.” A finger hit the chart. “Then we will proceed to the western Mediterranean and refuel before moving to the coast of Israel.” He moved his eyes to the Israeli. “Colonel Bernstein – the tanker?”
Bernstein moved to the chart. “Here, gentlemen,” he said pointing. “Latitude thirty-eight degrees, ten minutes, north… longitude ten degrees east… two hundred kilometers southeast of Sardinia. The tanker’s on station now.” He moved his eyes to Fujita. “Tel Aviv just informed me that ‘Green One’ is compromised, Admiral.”
Fujita drummed the table. “Very well. Well send for the encryption box immediately.” He turned to Captain Fite. “Captain, return to your command and carry out your orders.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Fite said. Then he came to his feet, saluted and turned to the door.
Fujita halted him. “Captain!” Turning, the big American eyed the tiny old Japanese. “We samurai are considered reckless, casual with our lives.” Fite stared curiously. “But the Hagakure does teach, ‘Win first by preparing for victory; fight later if necessary.’”
Fite smiled. “Aye, aye, sir. I understand, sir.” In a moment, he was gone.
The phone buzzed. After speaking briefly, Kawamoto turned to the admiral. “CAP reports the first of our returning strikes approaching from the south, range one hundred kilometers.”
“Very well.”
“And all elevators are functioning and the flight deck is ready to receive them.”
Eyeing Brent Ross, Fujita moved to the chart. “We’re about twelve hundred of your miles from Tel Aviv – easy range for our D3A. I cannot spare any other members of my staff. Are you willing to risk your life? A lone bomber could be cold meat!”
Brent had been startled by Fujita’s use of the word ‘other.’ But he responded quickly, “I would be honored by the assignment, Admiral.”
Bernstein held up a piece of paper. “I have your route and landing instructions at Ben Gurion Airport. Also, I have a single IFF and a transponder.”
“IFF? Transponder?”
“Yes, Admiral. The transponder enhances radar returns – IFF means ‘Identification Friend or Foe.’ It’s a small transmitter which makes a distinguishing blip on radar. The Israelis won’t shoot down our plane in error. I brought one of each on board with our radar equipment.”
Fujita nodded. “Very good.” He turned to Kawamoto. “After our strikes return, select one of our most reliable pilots. We’ll send Ensign Ross in a Nakajima immediately after we recover our air groups.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Fujita turned back to the big American. “You will need a large flight suit. Can you handle a machine gun?”
Brent smiled. “With a little instruction, sir.”
“Good. You understand your orders?”
“I will be flown to Tel Aviv where I will pick up an encryption box.”
Bernstein spoke. "You will be picked up at Ben Gurion Airport by one of my staff, taken to our headquarters—”
“Why not hand me the box, refuel, and turn my plane around?”
“Not so simple,” Fujita injected. “We are low on fuel and as soon as we complete the Tripoli operation, you know we must head for our refueling rendezvous which, of course, will take us out of your range. However, we will steam southeast and east immediately after fueling.” Standing, he gestured at the chart. “I will pick you up here at latitude thirty-five, longitude twenty, seventy-two hours after you leave my flight deck.”
He tapped the chart.
“Exactly seventy-two hours?”
“No.” Fujita turned to Bernstein. “We can pick up his IFF?”
“Yes!”
“Good!” the Japanese admiral turned back to the ensign. “We will be on a collision course on the thirty-fifth parallel. You will take a Nakajima because it carries a three-man crew. Your third crewman will be our best navigator. He can keep you on the parallel by shooting the sun and plotting sun lines. It is a simple technique that worked for the ancient navigators. It will work for us, and we have the IFF, the transponder and our scouts. No radio communications should be necessary.”
Nodding, Brent wondered about the keen mind that attacked all problems so logically. Ballistics, logistics, tactics, navigation – nothing puzzled the man. There was a solution for every problem. How did we defeat them, he asked himself. Weight of metal. That was it. Weight of metal.
The phone buzzed. Nodding, Kawamoto spoke a few words. Cradling the phone, he addressed Fujita. “Our air groups are in sight, sir.”
“Very well,” Fujita said, moving to the door. “This meeting is closed.”
In a moment, the room was empty.
*
Despite the loss of ten Zeros, seventeen Aichis and nineteen Nakajimas, Yonaga was still capable of putting fifty-one fighters and fifty-two bombers in the air. Nineteen hours after sinking the Brooklyn and recovering her air groups, she was ninety miles north of Tripoli turning into the wind, flight deck jammed with idling aircraft. But her escorts were gone, vanishing the previous day over the southern horizon.
Standing with Admiral Fujita, Mark Allen and Colonel Bernstein on the flag bridge, Brent felt uncomfortable in his tight-fitting flight suit.
“Ready to launch, Admiral,” the talker shouted over the din.
Looking at his watch, the admiral shook his head. “Too soon – we’ll wait!” He turned to Brent Ross. “Your B5N is still in the hangar deck. We must launch this strike before you can take off. You have more than an hour to wait.” Then with narrow eyes, “You’ve been briefed on your machine gun.”
“Yes, sir. It’s a standard, belt-fed, seven-point-seven millimeter weapon. I can load it, aim it and fire it. I even fired a few rounds.”
“Good! I hope you do not need it. But if you do, do not forget your deflection. Fighters can make twice your speed.” There was a huskiness in the voice. The old man turned to Bernstein. “You have arranged for an escort?”
“Our last use of ‘Green One.’ Israeli fighters will meet the Ensign’s Nakajima three hundred kilometers north of Alexandria.” He turned to Brent. “Keep your eyes open – you will probably rendezvous with Mustangs, but you may also meet F-Forty-Sevens, F-Four-Fs, or F-Four-Us. And there’s a chance we were decoded… you could be intercepted—”
“I understand,” the ensign said.
Fujita said, “Your pilot is Lieutenant Yoshiro Takii, and your navigator is Ensign Morisada Mochitsura – two of my best, most experienced officers.”
“I met them this morning when Captain Kawamoto briefed us, Admiral.”
And, indeed, the two officers were “experienced.” The pilot, Lieutenant Takii, white haired, bent and gnarled like a weathered shrub, appeared incapable of even climbing into the Nakajima let alone flying it. And Mochitsura, the navigator, was a wild-eyed little man with skin of tanned leather and wispy gray hair who spoke in bursts, spraying spittle through a large gap in his front teeth. Seated with the pair while Kawamoto explained the mission, the young American tried to close his mind to the comic-opera appearance of his crew. Orders were orders. But the young man’s eyes kept moving to Takii and Mochitsura, staring and wondering.
The ensign’s thoughts were interrupted by the admiral’s shout, “Launch!”
Then, with the usual roar, the first Zero, Matsuhara’s, shot into the sky. Fujita turned to Brent. The voice was flat, eyes heightened by moisture. “Ensign. Report to the flight deck.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
There was a huskiness. “And Ensign, if you are killed, die facing the enemy!”
The ensign saluted and left.
Chapter XIX
With the canopy locked open and flying at five thousand feet, the rear cockpit of the Nakajima B-5-N was cold and swept by wind. Chilled and trembling with the vibrations of the Sakae engine, Brent Ross pushed his goggles up and stared down at the Mediterranean, which reflected the morning light like a cobalt mirror. Craning his neck, he could see puffy white clouds to the south and east, appearing flat and frozen in space, like artwork in a Hollywood sound stage.
Suddenly, eye to sextant, Ensign Morisada Mochitsura stood in the middle cockpit. In a moment, the tiny man had his sunsight and seated himself, scribbling on a plotting sheet. And Brent could see Lieutenant Yoshiro Takii’s helmeted head hunched forward but never resting, goggled eyes moving from left to right and back again. And Brent moved his eyes, scanning the sky and the distant clouds for specks that could spell doom to the bomber and its crew.
He had been warned at the last briefing with Takii and Mochitsura on the flight deck just before take-off.
“Do not rest your neck or you will rest in peace,” the navigator had hissed, spraying the American’s goggles.
And then as the trio approached the old green warplane, the aged pilot had waved a stiff arm. “The Nakajima B-5-N was the world’s first monoplane carrier aircraft.” And then walking around the bomber and ducking under a wing, he pointed, “Three auxiliary fuel tanks which can take us to your Tel Aviv and more.” And then indicating a single muzzle protruding from the leading edge of the wing, “My seven-point-seven machine gun. You and I should be able to chase the whole Arab air force from the sky.” Laughing, the old men had rocked, pounding each other’s shoulders. And then seriously, “If we are attacked, be calm, breathe slowly, take careful aim. Lead your targets. A disciplined gunner does not waste ammunition.”
And now, after seven hours of droning through an empty sky, they were more than half way to their destination. As the Nakajima neared a bank of thick cumulus clouds, Brent’s mind suddenly turned to Sarah Aranson. Would he see her? Certainly, Bernstein knew of the attraction and, in a sense, had helped arrange it. Yet, the Israeli had never mentioned Sarah. Apparently, the officer did not know who would meet Brent. Green One had been compromised and communications had been stopped.
A glint high and far behind their starboard elevator caught the ensign’s eye. Perhaps a dozen specks in the distance. Twelve! Bernstein had said twelve was the standard number of fighters in a German stajfel. And they were still at least an hour from their rendezvous with their Israeli escort. Brent felt a familiar emptiness, a coolness in his veins. He pulled his microphone from the instrument panel. “Aircraft at five o’clock… I mean, bearing one-five-zero, high. Maybe twelve… look like fighters.”
Instantly, Takii and Mochitsura craned their heads around, and then Brent felt the bomber’s nose drop. They would skim the waves, let the sea protect their belly while an inexperienced American ensign with a single seven-point-seven machine gun defended the B-5-N’s tail.
With numb fingers, Brent unsnapped his safety belt, stood, turned lifting the Nambu from its well, feeling the machine gun swing smoothly on the fine bearings of its scarf-style mount. Then he pulled the cocking handle, turned the red safety lever to “off” and flexed the weapon toward the approaching aircraft.
But the specks were approaching slowly, too slowly for Messerschmitts. Then Brent realized he had been wrong. There were no fighters. Instead, he counted eight AT6s, three twin-engined Cessnas and a DC-3, which trailed by at least five miles. The Arab air force must be hurt badly if this motley group was sent on interception.
But it was twelve to one and the enemy had the advantage of speed and height. Hearing a banshee shriek above the roar of the engine and a fine spray on the back of his neck, Brent turned, finding Mochitsura standing, waving a sword in one hand and pistol in the other. Muttering, “Jesus,” the American turne
d back to the enemy.
The AT6s were flying in pairs, and the two leading elements were almost in range. Horrified, he saw flame leap from one and then another. Tracers looped and snapped past. Must be thirty caliber. Breathing deeply, Brent brought the leader to the center of his big ring sight and tightened his finger on the trigger. But suddenly, the North American was gone as the Nakajima twisted violently to the left. Cursing, the American swung his weapon, bringing the trainer back into his sights. He squeezed the trigger. Felt the aircraft vibrate and saw his tracers whip into the circle of the enemies’ propeller.
The North American twisted away, but at least two more enemies were firing. But almost as if he had read his enemies’ minds, Takii whipped the bomber like a fighter, throwing off the Arabs’ aim.
And they kept coming in pairs, firing and turning away to the left and right when Brent’s tracers smoked toward them. A violent turn to the right sent Brent’s hands to the cowl, and the abandoned machine gun arced crazily. Then Brent felt Takii’s machine gun shake the air frame, and there were “Banzais” on the intercom. Looking around quickly, Brent saw an AT6 trailing smoke smash into the sea in a great plume of spray. Without thinking, the American shouted his own “Banzai” and brought his gun back to the enemy.
Four North Americans were firing. A series of blasts deafened the American. That crazy Mochitsura was firing close to his ear. Hunching down, Brent sent short bursts at the trainers. Obviously sobered by their comrade’s fate, the trainers banked away. But more Arabs closed.
Another violent turn and shouts of “Banzai” brought Brent’s eyes up and ahead. Fighters! Diving at tremendous speed out of the sun. Israelis. Confused, some of the Arabs turned toward the Israeli sections, which now clearly consisted of eight Mustangs, two Hellcats and a Thunderbolt, while other enemy planes rolled into dives and raced away, hugging the sea.
