by Peter Albano
Sighing, the tall blond ensign turned, running his eyes over the ship’s flight deck. And what a deck: Longer than three football fields, the massive steel rectangle was punctured by two elevators; one fore and one aft. The young American gripped the windscreen as the ship defeated another comber, the impact sending vibrations through every frame and plate, blue water and spray flying. Feeling the exhilaration that came with this endless war, Brent smiled and leaned into the wind, filling his lungs and reveling in life as only a man at sea can when clean air fills his lungs and cold spray stings his cheeks like thrown gravel.
By craning his neck, Brent could see the ship’s foretop and the barrels of a dozen anti-aircraft guns in exposed mounts. Farther aft, he found a ship’s single funnel — tilted outboard in Japanese style — supporting searchlight platforms and hung with life rafts. Gun galleries surrounded the flight deck, over 200 25 millimeter and five inch dual-purpose guns pointed skyward like thickets of young saplings.
On the flight deck, a half-dozen ready Zeros squatted like angry grounded hawks, tied down in rows of three from amidships aft. Once every hour the Sakaes popped and gasped to life as crew chiefs warmed oil and cylinder heads. And half the ship’s guns were ready, too, steel-helmeted pointers and trainers staring at the sky from their steel bicycle seats while loaders lounged against gun tubs and ready boxes.
Brent felt a presence behind him before he heard the voice — a voice that rustled like dry leaves, yet commanded with the cutting edge of a sword. “Be alert — Kadafi has the long memory of a lunatic,” the voice rasped.
Turning, the ensign’s eyes found a spectral, almost macabre figure standing close behind. Not more than five feet tall with a leathery face riven and seamed by a hundred years, Adm. Hiroshi Fujita stood erect despite the ship’s motions. He was helmeted and dressed in number two green battle fatigues, matching the dress of every man on the bridge. Binoculars hung at his waist. Looking down, Brent was struck by the eyes — eyes that defied time, alert and glowing with intelligence.
Close behind the admiral, the ancient executive officer, Capt. Masso Kawamoto, rocked with the ship on spindly legs. Bent and skeletal, the captain wore every one of his ninety years on his scabrous face and in his dim eyes.
Two seamen lookouts turned from their huge binoculars, which were so enormous they were mounted on steel stanchions bolted to the deck. Speaking angrily, Fujita turned to the seamen. “Back to your watch! The Cape Verde Islands are there.” He waved a tiny hand. “Easy range. Do not break your vigilance for anyone — not even Amaterasu.”
The men whirled back to their glasses so quickly that one sailor’s helmet spun from his head and clattered on the steel deck like a dropped pot. In one motion, the terrorized rating scooped up the helmet and returned to his glasses.
Grunting and raising his glasses, the old admiral leaned on the windscreen between Brent Ross and the talker who stood rigidly, huge helmet covering his earphones, mouthpiece close to his lips, and eyes locked on Fujita.
Captain Kawamoto staggered to the windscreen where he supported his bent frame with gnarled hands, leaning like a twisted, windblown pine.
Without turning or lowering his glasses, the old admiral spoke. “You have the youngest and best eyes on the ship, Ensign Ross.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Lowering his glasses, Fujita inclined his head toward the big American. “Tell me, Mr. Ross. If you were commanding this vessel, where would you expect your enemy to lurk?”
“Submarines, admiral?”
The old sailor shook his head. “For this discussion, we will leave submarines to Captain Fite.”
The ensign nodded understanding. “The African coast. Dakar is at extreme range, admiral, but it is Arab. Bombers might make it, but without fighter cover.” He gestured overhead. “Our CAP would cut them to pieces.”
“The Cape Verde Islands, ensign?”
“They’re Portuguese, admiral.”
“Do you think that matters in today’s world, ensign?”
Brent scratched his chin. “Not really,” he agreed, sensing a deep concern masked by the game. Brent had enjoyed the euphoria that followed the carrier’s smashing victories over the Arabs. But euphoria could be followed by complacency, and complacency might lead to carelessness and disaster.
The admiral’s had swept the semicircle of the eastern horizon. “Then where, ensign? From which quadrant would they come?”
“Not out of that clear sky, sir. Our radar would pick them up at two hundred and fifty miles — ah, I mean four hundred kilometers.”
The old man nodded agreement. “The storm?”
“Treacherous…dangerous. There are drafts there.” He inclined his head at the horizon. “That can tear the wings off a Heinkel,” he added.
“But, indeed, cover,” the admiral said. “An unexpected place. And radar is receiving returns from those squalls.” He pointed to the gray masses, slanting in solid curtains under the towering clouds. Then, turning to one of the lookouts, he said, “Seaman Koshiro, maintain a watch on the storm. Report anything — even a seagull.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The admiral turned to the talker. “Radar, keep a close watch on the storm. We may have a raid from that quarter — close on the water.”
“To escape turbulence and our radar search, admiral?”
“Of course, ensign.”
Almost as if the admiral’s words had been a prophecy, the talker shouted, “Radar reports many blips bearing one-four-zero moving in the storm, admiral. May not be squalls.”
Hurrying to the forward end of the platform where a voice tube led to the armored command center in the pilot house and followed by the talker who plugged into a new receptacle, Fujita glanced at the battle ensign whipping at the gaff. He shouted into the voice tube, “Left full rudder, steady up on one-two-zero, speed twenty-four.” He commanded the talker with the speed and precision of a machine gun: “Sound the general alarm. Ready pilots, man your planes. To the signal bridge, make the hoist course one-two-zero, speed twenty-four, two block pennant one. To the radio room, inform CAP and escorts of possible raid bearing one-four-zero. CAP intercept. Set Condition Zed. Adm. Mark Allen to the bridge.”
Honking like frightened geese, Klaxons blared to life throughout the ship. Immediately, a half-dozen Sakaes roared to life. There were the shouts of officers, the shrill twitter of boatswains’ pipes, the thump of boots on decks and ladders, the clang of steel on brass as breeches received five-inch shells, and the excited shouts of gun-layers as weapons were cranked skyward. Adding to the cacophony was the hollow sound of hundreds of steel doors slamming shut deep in the bowels of the ship as watertight compartments were “dogged down.” Then, far below in the heart of the ship, an electrician’s mate threw a switch, and the high-pitched whine of hundreds of blowers dropped octaves and faded as Yonaga’s ventilation system was shut down. The great carrier was holding her breath.
*
When the alarm was sounded, Commander Matsuhara had just led his “three” in a swing far to the east of the carrier. After the command, “Edo leader, this is Iceman. Radar reports many aircraft bearing one-four-zero. Closing at a high speed out of the storm. Intercept,” had crackled in his earphones, he had shouted his acknowledgment into his microphone. Then, disdaining the radio, he had stabbed a finger upward and waggled his wings. Instantly, Takamura and Kojima reflected the command. With hurried, yet precise movements, the commander jammed the throttle to the panel, kicked right rudder and pulled the column back while thumbing the ring of the gun button from Safe to Fire. Under full military power, the Sakae roared like thunder before a typhoon, rocketing the fighter upward until Yoshi hung on his propeller, and the horizon dropping out of the world, replaced by blue sky which filled the windshield. Grimacing, he saw the white needle zoom across the tachometer, dangerously crowding the red line. But Yonaga was in danger. Nothing else mattered, not his engine, not his flight, not his life.
After watchin
g the altimeter needle wind to 6,000 meters, he leveled off, glimpsing the horizon climb back under his cowl. Gently, he banked the aircraft until settling on a compass heading of one-four-zero — a heading that pointed the A6M2 at the growing storm on the southeast horizon.
The storm. Those crazy Arabs must be closing through the killer drafts of the thunderhead. Probably Sabbah — insane assassins. Would Kadafi never learn? Yonaga’s airgroups had destroyed most of the mad dictator’s aircraft at Al Kararim, Misratah, and Tripoli. Yet radar reported aircraft closing. He stared at the swirling ashen mass of the thunderhead that soared ominously like a great Fuji-san, and his mind raced on. If radar was not playing tricks, where did the enemy come from? Dakar was 1,300 kilometers to the east. But Portugal’s Cape Verde Islands were less than 300 kilometers on the same bearing. Easy range for the enemy’s bombers and fighters, too. Had the Portuguese capitulated to the Arabs? He shrugged. It made no difference. If an enemy was there, he would kill him. A familiar tingling warmed his groin. His lips pulled back, baring perfect white teeth. Better than a woman, he thought. He hunched over the stick. Within seconds he detected a glint low in the storm where there should not have been any. More reflections as airfoils and perspex caught the sun. Squinting through his goggles, he finally saw a strange collection of Libyan aircraft charging out of the storm low on the water; four Heinkel-111 medium bombers, three Douglas DC-3s, a pair of twin-engined civilian aircraft Brent Ross called Cessna, three North American AT-6s and most remarkable, a venerable Junkers-(JU)52 trimotor transport. The trimotor was the only plane without Arab markings. Instead, a Swissair was emblazoned on its fuselage and wings in bold letters. Escorting were twelve Messerschmitt 109s and a single ME 110, all flying slightly ahead and above the bomber swarm.
“Stupid!” Yoshi snorted, staring ahead and down, running the tip of his tongue over his suddenly parched lips. “What a waste of fighters. They should be up there,” he shouted into the slipstream, glancing skyward.
Ignoring his radio, he waggled his wings and punched a balled fist upward three times, releasing his wingmen to individual combat.
A hard pull on the stick and kick to left rudder brought the nose of the fighter back and dropped the horizon like an express elevator. Then, he rolled into a dive, overboosted Sakae, shrieking, his blood pulsing with the engine, throbbing in his temples and bringing a tremor to his hands.
In the corner of his eye he could see Yonaga headed into the wind and launching fighters. Late! Late! he thought, knowing first contact was his and the survival of the carrier rode with his Orlikons.
Pushing the stick forward, he steepened the dive, sending the white needle spinning around the speed indicator and passing 350, then 400, to finally crowd the slower red danger line. He felt a flutter. Then shaking that sent dust flying. His wings were vibrating. Now the whole airframe shook like a Kyushu earthquake. He cursed. Clutched the control column until his hands ached. Felt his arms tingle with the vibrations as he watched the altimeter unwind backward, needle spinning crazily like a watch with a broken spring.
“Get the bombers! Get the bombers!” he growled, pounding the instrument panel with a gloved hand.
But the Messerschmitts were climbing on a collision course with the Mitsubishis. A little right rudder brought the leader, the ME-110, into the first ring of the bouncing range finder.
A thousand meters! Too far! But the enemy was winking at him, and white smoking firebrands fell off beneath him. Yoshi snorted. Too far! But at the combined closing speed of perhaps 800 knots, a thousand meters was only a blink. Quickly, the enemy filled two rings of his range finder. He punched the red button. The commander hunched his shoulders and grimaced, baring white teeth as he felt his two 20 millimeter Orlikons and pair of 7-point 7 millimeter machine guns stutter and bark to life, new jolts jarring and slowing the fighter. A two-second burst. That was all, leaving him with fourteen seconds of firepower.
They were hub to hub. Was the enemy Sabbah intent on his own kamikaze mission? With a shout to Amaterasu, Matsuhara pulled back hard on the stick and felt the little fighter buffet like a leaf in a monsoon. As the enemy flashed beneath him, coolant spattered his windshield and he caught a whiff of smoke.
Feeling a familiar warmth spread through his groin, he pushed the stick forward, resuming the dive. A glance in his rearview mirrors told him Takamura and Kojima were both trailing abreast his elevators and the ME-110 was turning toward the sea, leaving a trail of smoke from its port engine, while a 109, minus a wing, tumbled crazily to its grave.
Now he concentrated on the bomber swarm which spread beneath him like a gourmet meal. The bombers were in the usual Arab “box” of four rows of three with trailing rows stepped up at hundred-meter intervals. In this way the enemy hoped to cover each other with defensive fire much like the overlapping fields of fire provided by well-spotted pillboxes. But an old bomber was not a pillbox.
Pulling back gently on the stick, Yoshi brought a Heinkel-111 — the left-hand bomber of the leading three — into his gunsight. There were flashes, and hundreds of tracers looped toward him. But suddenly the ancient JU-52 slanted across the formation and into his rings. He thumbed the red button, squirting three short bursts.
At 200 meters, even the shaking Zero could not miss the lumbering giant. Cannon shells smashed into the JU’s back, bursting in brilliant flashes and sending chunks of aluminum slaking into the slipstream. A little right rudder sent the hammer blows marching up the fuselage, ripping off more aluminum, finally exploding the windshield and sending a cloud of shattered perspex flying like sparkling confetti. He pushed the stick forward.
Plummeting past the staggering JU, Yoshi caught a glimpse of white as a dozen Zeros streamed up from Yonaga. Screaming, “Banzai!” and bracing his feet, he pulled back on the column with all his strength. Six gs. At least six gs. He felt the blood drain from his brain, and the horizon began to spin. The Mitsubishi bounced like a gull in a typhoon, groaning its objections, threatening to shed its wings. His head became a boulder, bending his back and pressing him down into his parachute pack while leaden arms bent elbows despite his efforts to straighten them.
Mercifully, he felt the little fighter’s dive flatten, and finally the horizon was above his cowl and then below it as he began to climb. His wingmen trailed in line at a stern with perhaps a dozen more Zeros climbing hard on their rudders. He shook his head clear.
But at least ten ME-109s were diving, some through their own bombers. One with a checkered nose zigzagged into his range finder. Again, the enemy fired at long range. Half rolling on his back, Yoshi held fire until his target filled two rings of his gunsight. Then he squeezed the button. But the enemy lost his nerve, pulled back hard on his stick, giving the Japanese his belly. Yoshi exulted as his Orlikons’ shells smashed into the Arab’s air-scoop, blasting it like a piece of trash into the slipstream. Spraying glycol and belching orange flame like a blowtorch, the 109 tumbled toward the sea.
A Zero out of control and burning pulled up sharply out of the melee, clawing for the sky like a wounded bird fleeing death. In a millisecond it vanished into a great rolling ball of flame, smoking wreckage raining through the battle like burning tentacles.
Cursing, Yoshi worked his controls until his gun-sight ringed the fat fuselage of a DC-3. There was a great orange flash at the waist of the transport, and hundreds of tracers glowed past him. Gunship! Gatlings! Leading the transport for a full deflection shot, he punched the button for a long burst. Saw his shells smash the Gatling then march the length of the fuselage, finally shattering the Douglas’ tail. Lazily, the stricken transport rolled and then streaked for the sea, engines at full throttle.
“Banzai!”
Throwing quick glances from side to side, he caught glimpses of two other flaming bombers plunging toward the sea. Takamura and Kojima had scored!
“Banzai!”
Leveling off above the bomber swarm, Yoshi searched for fighters. Finally he caught sight of four 109s low on the wate
r, streaking eastward for the cover of the storm with a swarm of Zeros in pursuit. But a half-dozen bombers survived, bored in toward Yonaga, which flashed with AA fire. Despite the ugly brown smears of exploding 127 millimeter shells erupting around them like a virulent pox, the bombers bore on, quickly approaching the 50° bomb release angle.
Yoshi grabbed the microphone, “This is Edo Leader! Engage the bombers! The bombers! Follow my lead!” He pushed the stick forward. More orange flashers and tracers streamed past. He felt the fighter vibrate, and a pneumatic drill suddenly drummed wildly on his wings, scattering bits of aluminum. He brought a Cessna into his range finder, punched the button and heard the hiss of compressed air. Out of ammunition! Cursing, he punched the instrument panel.
*
When Commander Yoshi Matsuhara made his attack, Brent Ross was staring skyward through his glasses, counting aircraft and bracing himself as the great carrier swung to her new course. “A dozen bombers, Admiral Fujita,” he said in a carefully modulated voice that masked gnawing flutterings in his suddenly empty stomach. “And a full staffel of fighters.”
“Types?”
“ME-one-oh-nines and maybe a single one-ten. The bombers are a mixed bag — HE-one-elevens, DC Threes and maybe a couple Cessnas.”
“Very well!” The old man leaned over the windscreen where the dozen ready Zeros gunned their engines and strained at their tie-downs like hungry hawks scenting blood.
“Steady on one-two-zero, speed twenty-four, one-hundred-twenty-eight revolutions, sir,” came from the voice tube.
“Launch! Launch!”
