by Peter Albano
Then leveling off at four thousand meters, the commander turned south and led his groups toward Israel.
*
Luckily, the enemy aircraft were sighted long after the Zeros had made their runs on the enemy tanks. Yoshi had never attacked tanks before. It was a strange battlefield with tanks maneuvering like ships and leaving plumes of dust and smoke in their wakes. The Israeli tanks were outnumbered and had retreated behind an escarpment only a few kilometers from the coast. And there were white panels stretched on the sand, marking Israeli lines exactly as Colonel Bernstein had described. Then the Arabs, sensing victory, charged in a long line. But flame leaped from the escarpment, and tanks began to burst and burn. Then the Japanese plummeted down, dropping hundreds of bombs and their auxiliary fuel tanks. Few hits were scored but the wall of fire turned the enemy. Then the Arab planes arrived.
“Many aircraft!” Ariga cried into Matsuhara’s earphones. “Bearing one-eight-zero, high.”
Climbing with the Sakae screaming in overboost, Yoshi marveled at the strange assortment of aircraft looming in his range finder. Perhaps sixty DC-3s, AT-6s, and some of the planes called Cessnas straggled toward them in two poorly-formed boxes. There were no fighters.
“Aircraft! Bearing one-zero-zero.” Headed for the tanks, dozens of Israeli Mustangs and Thunderbolts carrying bombs slashed downward out of a high cloud cover far to the east.
“This is Edo Leader,” Yoshi said into his microphone. “Intercept enemy aircraft. Give the Israelis cover. Watch out for gatlings. Individual combat. Banzai!”
In his first pass, the flight leader ripped a wing from an AT-6. Then, turning, he found the sky raining pieces of burning aircraft and parachutes. The number of targets had been halved on the first pass. But there was a DC-3 ahead, gatlings blossoming orange flame out of both cargo doors. Caught like a fly on a screen, the big Douglas swatted a Zero from the sky with a single burst. Calling on Amaterasu, the flight leader thumbed the red button, sending a stream of smoking twenty-millimeter shells to rip a chunk of aluminum from the transport’s starboard wing.
As Matsuhara whipped over the twin-engined Douglas, the starboard engine vomited flames and black smoke. Then the huge plane fell into its final spin.
“Banzai! Banzai!” Miraculously, the sky was suddenly empty of enemy aircraft. But the Israeli fighter-bombers continued their runs on the battlefield, banking and weaving through pyres of black smoke from burning tanks and aircraft, pressing their attacks with great accuracy. “They have had much practice,” he said to himself, banking over the battlefield and staring down. Then he saw the infantry.
Infantry. Masses of brown specks rushing toward the Israeli lines. Madness. The troops had no air cover. He looked around. The Zero owned the heavens.
He shouted into his microphone, “This is Edo Leader. Fuji Leader, maintain top cover. Edo will strafe enemy infantry. Follow my lead. Individual combat.”
Pushing the stick forward and pressuring the right rudder pedal, he brought the nose of the fighter down. He eased manifold pressure. This would be a leisurely run. A mass of brown running specks filled the range finder. Pushing the red button, the flight leader made a long, slow pass watching gleefully as his shells and bullets bowled men over like broken dolls, some dropping like sacks of rocks, while others leaped and twisted in a final defiance of death. And twenty fighters followed, smashing the charge in its tracks.
Then four giant explosions ripped the desert, hurling curtains of dirt, rock, dust, smoke and bodies skyward. Four more explosions. Artillery! Where? Yoshi turned to the sea. A squat warship with two huge turrets erupting with long tongues of flame.
“Mikasa! Mikasa banzai!”
Joyfully, he banked the Zero inland, dropping low. Now the enemy was in full retreat, infantry and armor fleeing in disorganized groups. The route Bernstein had told them would come with the first reverse.
“Banzai, Edo! Banzai!” Yoshi shouted into his microphone. And then, after glancing at his fuel gauges, “Edo reform on me. Edo reform on me. It is time to go home.”
Quickly, the Zeros assembled in their “threes” and followed their commander. But they did not claw for altitude. Instead, they dropped low, saluting a little old predreadnought that hugged the coast, firing broadsides far inland.
Chapter XXII
Steaming westward toward the Straits of Gibraltar, a great calm seemed to settle over Yonaga. Even the nine plane CAP circled leisurely, soaring in great serene circles like lazy gulls. It was over and everyone knew it.
Gathered with his staff, the Americans and the Israeli intelligence officer in Flag Plot, Admiral Fujita turned to Commander Matsuhara, “The status of our air groups?”
“We can put forty-two Zero-sens, twenty Aichis and nineteen Nakajimas in the air, Sir.”
The old admiral nodded wearily. “Many of our best samurai enhanced their karmas.”
“Yes, Admiral. All of our dead died with great Yamato damashii.”
Fujita turned to Colonel Bernstein. “After Al Khalil their jihad collapsed?”
“Yes, sir. Libyan troops are in full retreat across Egypt. They’re out of control… have sacked El Mansura and Alexandria. Egyptian troops are driving them toward the border.”
“The others – the Jordanians, Syrians are still retreating?”
“Yes, sir. Their backs were broken at Al Khalil.”
“No,” Fujita said. “They lost their war at Al Kararim, Misratah, Hadera and Tripoli when they threw away their fighters.”
Matsuhara spoke. “True. They committed infantry and armor at Al Khalil without air cover. They had no chance. It was like shooting game.”
Admiral Fujita scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Months ago, Colonel Bernstein, Wayne Miller reported that Kadafi had bought two carriers.”
Brent Ross looked at Mark Allen. There was nothing wrong with the old man’s memory.
“A rumor, sir.”
“No more reports?”
“No, Admiral. But Israeli Intelligence and the CIA have teams investigating.”
“Good.” Fujita tapped the table. “The loss of the hostages is a heavy thing,” he said suddenly with a hoarseness that surprised Brent Ross.
“Not your fault, sir,” Mark Allen said.
“I am responsible.”
“Not true, Admiral.”
“I gave my word to the emperor.”
Mark Allen’s voice came from deep in his throat. “There was nothing you could do… nothing anyone could do. You can’t blame yourself, Admiral.”
“No, Admiral Allen. It is not a matter of placing blame. I gave my word – the word of a samurai. Nothing else matters.”
“There is no dishonor, sir. We taught the monster a lesson. Drove him back into his cage, Admiral,” Mark Allen said.
Fujita smiled. “An adroit choice of words, Admiral Allen.” And then with resolve, “I and I alone hold responsibility.”
“Not seppuku, sir,” Matsuhara pleaded.
“Suicide,” Brent said aloud to himself.
The old man’s watery eyes came to Brent. “The only way for a samurai to restore his honor.”
“No! I’ll tie you to your chair, sir,” Brent said, coming to his feet.
Smiling sadly, Fujita raised a hand. “Do not start tying your knots yet, Ensign. As long as there is a possibility that two carriers are stalking Yonaga, Admiral Hiroshi Fujita will remain in command.”
Ross sank in his chair. Fujita continued, “I will apologize to the emperor personally… beg his forgiveness.” He pushed himself to his feet and faced the paulowonia shrine. Every man stood. Then, in unison, the Japanese clapped. Fujita spoke, “Sacred Amaterasu, if the enemy still waits, let us have the spirit to act as dead men because in death we become one with you.” And then to the group, “You are dismissed, Gentlemen. But Ensign Ross and Commander Matsuhara, please remain.”
In a moment, Ross and Matsuhara faced the admiral from their chairs. “You have fought well and made yourself a valued
member of my staff, Ensign Ross,” the old man said.
“Thank you, sir.”
“But there is something to settle – your father’s fate. I know you have pledged to investigate; promised to wait until our mission was complete and then find your kind of justice – your satisfaction. You are an honorable man and have earned it. Now it is time.”
“Yes, Admiral. It is time.”
The old Japanese sighed, moved his eyes to Matsuhara. The air group commander said, “You have your father’s temper, Ensign.”
“Yes. That’s been said about me many times. But why—”
“You have never tasted defeat, Ensign?”
Brent tapped his chin impatiendy. “Not really… no.”
“The taste of defeat was unknown to your father, too,” Fujita said, hunching forward.
“I don’t understand,” Brent said, eyes flashing with sudden anger. “Why this roundabout approach to a very simple matter. I would like to know who killed my father and why?”
Fujita stared at Matsuhara. Matsuhara spoke softly, “I beheaded Ted ‘Trigger’ Ross.”
“At my command,” Fujita said.
Brent stared at the air group commander. “Then you killed my father.”
“No!”
“You beheaded him. You—”
Fujita interrupted, “No, Ensign. A dead man cannot be murdered.”
“Dead man?”
“Yes. Dead man! Commander Yoshi Matsuhara did not murder your father.”
“Who did?”
“No one,” Matsuhara offered suddenly.
Ross moved his eyes to the flight leader, “No one?”
“Yes, Ensign,” the commander said. “Your father was a courageous fighter – earned many victories.”
“My father was never defeated.”
“Only once.” Matsuhara nodded at the admiral. “By him when Yonaga attacked Pearl Harbor. Your father tried to stop us and failed. He took it as a personal defeat. And he had been under pressure – had seen his ship sunk and was the only survivor.”
“You mean… you mean suicide?” Brent said incredulously, lips twisted by the bitter word.
Fujita broke in, “Yes. A most honorable way for us but a disgrace in your way of thinking. And your father was brave and in many ways thought and fought as a samurai. Perhaps, he found his end in bushido. But I knew his countrymen would look down, whisper ‘coward’ when he was the bravest man I had ever met.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“Can you believe that I, Hiroshi Fujita, samurai and admiral in the Imperial Japanese Navy would lie… could lie?”
Eyes wide and glistening the young American stared, realizing the words were true.
The old man continued, “We found him hanging. He made a noose of a twisted bedsheet. I admired your father as no other man I had ever met, so I—”
“You had him beheaded and cremated… ashes poured into a box”
The old man nodded. “Yes. That is the way of the samurai. Captain Ted ‘Trigger' Ross had earned that!”
Rising slowly, the American reached across the table. Matsuhara came to his feet, grasped the American’s hand. “It is ended, Ensign?”
“Yes, Commander. It is ended.
RETURN OF THE SEVENTH CARRIER
Table of Contents
Preface
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Acknowledgements
To the loyal members of the crew: Mary Annis, Carla, Lisa, Vincent, and Laura, who weathered every storm and survived the final battle.
Preface
Hidden by a sliding glacier in a secret anchorage in a cove on Siberia’s Chukchi Peninsula in 1941, the Imperial Japanese Navy’s largest carrier Yonaga was trapped in ice for 42 years. Manned by samurai and commanded by Admiral Hiroshi Fujita, the crew subsisted on fish and seaweed while maintaining the ship, aircraft and weapons in top fighting trim. Many crewmen died, but in 1983 the carrier broke loose and steamed south through the Bering Sea, her crew determined to carry out their orders to attack Pearl Harbor. Surprising Pearl Harbor’s defenders, Yonaga’s air groups destroyed carrier Tarawa and sank battleship New Jersey off Ford Island.
While a shocked world counted the dead, a Chinese system of laser equipped satellites malfunctioned. All over the world the skies were filled with killer beams and every jet and rocket was instantly destroyed. Only reciprocating engines were able to function. As a global scramble for World War II ships and planes ensued, Admiral Fujita and the crew of the Yonaga realized their carrier was the most formidable fighting force in the world…
Chapter One
Pressing his left rudder pedal and moving the control column slightly to the left, the combat air patrol leader, Commander Yoshi Matsuhara, dipped the port wing of his Mitsubishi A6M2, sending the lithe white Zero into a counterclockwise turn. Free of his parachute straps — samurai considered parachutes and radios cumbersome junk — he turned his head in jerky movements, honoring the timeless ritual of the fighter pilot; first to the left, then straight ahead, and then to the right, and finally high above the black cowl where the sun pulsed fiercely in a clear sky. It was here that the greatest danger lurked. “Watch out for the killer in the sun,” his old instructor had told him at Tsuchiura when he had first been accepted in pursuit school in 1938.
The commander was not concerned about his tail. Trailing and maintaining formation twenty meters off his elevators, like they were attached by invisible umbilicals, were his wingmen since China: Lt. Tetsu Takamura on his port side and naval air pilot first class, Hitoshi Kojima to starboard. They were the best; Takamura with five kills of Arab aircraft and Kojima with three. Added to his eight, his “three” had accounted for more than a staffel in the recent fighting, enhancing their karmas and assuring themselves a place for their spirits in the Yasakuni Shrine.
The glorious day matched his mood. There were mountainous cumulus clouds on the southern horizon, true, but the sky overhead was brilliant blue vault, and he could feel the heat of the sun’s rays piercing the perspex of the canopy and caressing his face with warm, friendly fingers. Below, the Atlantic was a cobalt plain marred only here and there by occasional whitecaps, which marked the mounting swell. To port, riding his dipping wing tip, he could see the great carrier Yonaga slashing the blue carpet, bow like the sharp point of a wakizashi ripping a shoji, cleaving the infinite rollers and leaving a widening white scar to the horizon. And the five American destroyers shepherded the great warship like courtiers fawning over a shogun; Capt. John Fite leading and appearing to pull the carrier with the string of his own swirling wake while two other graceful Fletchers charged to Yonaga’s port and the remaining pair to starboard.
From 2,000 meters, size was lost. In fact, Yonaga’s 300 meter flight deck was a postage stamp, flying on the wind. Even after all these years and hundreds of landings, thoughts of putting the Zero down on that heaving deck brought a hollow feeling to his stomach.
But the safety of the carrier was in his hands. He tore his eyes from his home of forty-three years, adjusted his tinted goggles and glanced at the sun. Nothing. Nothing at all.
He moved his eyes to his gauges which told him fuel was low and forty minutes of his patrol still remained. The tachometer read 2,000 rpms. A quick adjustment brought the finely pitched pro
peller down to 1,750. With a touch like a fine feather, he grasped the throttle, moving his eyes to the pressure gauge where the needle quivered at 80 centimeters of mercury — all the manifold pressure the 950 horsepower Sakae could take. After backfiring twice and vibrating its objections, the engine settled down to its usual steady roar. But Yoshi knew he could ask no more of it.
*
When he heard the Sakae backfire, Brent Ross was standing high on the flag bridge of carrier Yonaga, crowded with four lookouts, a talker, and two junior officers. Twisting his head back, the young six foot two inch, two hundred ten pound ensign brought his glasses up in a line just above the ship’s clutter of radar antennas. He caught a glint. Then rolling his thumb over the focusing knob, he brought three Zeros into focus. Soaring like gleaming seagulls taking the breeze on rigid wings, the graceful Mitsubishis brought a sigh. Matsuhara and his wingmen. Added security in a world gone mad — a world stunned by the orbiting Chinese laser system that grounded all jets and rockets. A world where terrorists and madmen led by Moammar Kadafi gathered old warplanes and ships, bullied their neighbors, and seized hostages by the shipload.
True, Yonaga had defeated the Libyan strongman; his coalition of Egypt, Jordan, Lebanon, the PLO, and Syria in their campaign against Israel. But Kadafi had carriers, destroyers, and possibly some big-gunned ships with which to press his jihad against the Japanese — a people he hated as much as he did the Israelis and Americans.
Lowering his glasses and bending his knees slightly, Brent braced himself as the great carrier challenged the mounting southeast swell like a battering ram, her prow smashing through the relentless breakers, sending white-dappled water and sheets of spray flying in lacy curtains.
It was a strange day, but here in the central Atlantic just 180 miles east of the Cape Verde Islands, there were many strange days. Overhead, the sun glared in a clear sky, painting the spray playfully with the colors of the rainbow, while to the south great buildups of cumulus clouds threatened in infinite shades of gray, flickering with lightning and cascading rain in such torrents that the horizon was obscured and the ship’s radar screens showed almost solid blips. From this brew the rollers marched in endless rows like attacking infantry.
