Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  But Admiral Fujita had blamed himself personally for the deaths of the hostages, which in his samurai’s mind was a betrayal of the emperor. According to Bushido, seppuku was the traditional way to regain honor. But the Arab carriers were rumored at sea, waiting to ambush Yonaga. Grimly, Fujita declared he would never die while the depraved Libyan dictator commanded the means to destroy Yonaga. Plans for seppuku were put aside.

  Brent’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock, and two prisoners, dressed in green fatigues several sizes too small, were ushered in and pushed against a bulkhead by a pair of burly seamen guards armed with holstered 6-point 5 millimeter Rikushiki pistols.

  The prisoners were a contrasting pair. One was quite old with a bald pate that reflected the light of the overhead fixture, a square jaw covered with white stubble, and a massive neck that brought memories of the old actor Eric von Stroheim. In fact, the man’s entire demeanor — rigid posture, Prussian neck, baleful, sparking blue eyes, haughtily set jaw — was reminiscent of the German actor. With an effort, Brent suppressed a grin.

  With brown hair and watery green eyes, the younger prisoner was tall and slender, bent slightly at the shoulders and obviously frightened. He huddled against the wall, cowering as if he had just entered a cave full of dragons.

  “You,” Fujita said, nodding at the older man, “step forward!”

  Snapping his wet boots together with a dull thud, the man came to attention and saluted smartly. “Oberst Heinrich Wittenberg,” he said in a thick Teutonic accent, voice strident enough to fill the hangar deck.

  “We Japanese do not salute below decks, colonel,” Fujita said. “We consider this area below decks.” He waved idly.

  “Ja, kapitan.”

  “I hold the rank of admiral!”

  “Ja, Herr Admiral.”

  “You are German?”

  “Jawohl.”

  “English, please — if you can speak it. Every officer on this ship speaks English.”

  The German nodded.

  Fascinated, the staff stared silently like spectators at a tennis match as the admiral continued the exchange.

  “Why did you attack me?”

  “I am an officer in the Libyan airforce — a staffelfeuher. I was ordered to attack you,” Wittenberg said in a thick accent.

  “Staffel — twelve planes.”

  “Korrekt,” the colonel said, lapsing back into German. “Fighters.”

  “You flew the twin-engined Messerschmitt?”

  “Ja, admiral.” He gestured to his young companion. “The lieutenant was my gunner-radioman.”

  Fujita waved at Matsuhara airily. “Meet Commander Yoshi Matsuhara. He shot you down.”

  The two men eyed each other. Matsuhara grinned slowly. “It was a pleasure, colonel.”

  “Perhaps,” the German said slowly, “we will meet again under different circumstances.”

  “I am at your disposal,” the Japanese pilot answered in a soft voice. “But next time, I would suggest you hold your fire. At a thousand yards, you were throwing away good twenty millimeter ammunition.”

  The German stiffened like a man splashed with ice water.

  After silencing Matsuhara with a raised hand, Fujita continued. “Your base, Colonel Wittenberg?”

  “According to the Geneva Conventions, I am not required —”

  “Japan did not sign the Geneva Conventions.”

  “Savages!”

  “We had no Auschwitz,” Fujita shot back.

  Brent detected a stiffening of Bernstein’s back, but the Israeli remained silent while Fujita drummed the oak with bent fingers. The German used the respite to move his eyes over the strange tableau of officers filling the room. He stopped on Bernstein, eyes moving curiously over the Israeli’s uniform. Suddenly the blue eyes widened with astonishment.

  “Israeli! Juden!”

  “Ja, oberst,” the Israeli said, nodding. “And a member of the Auschwitz alumni association.”

  “I had nothing to do with that,” the German said quickly. “I was in the Luftwaffe.”

  “Only Adolph Hitler knew,” Bernstein said casually. “All the rest of you merely followed orders with your eyes closed and ears plugged.”

  Fujita hunched forward like an old bird, an intent, fascinated look on his face. Watching, Brent knew the old Japanese loved to sit back and watch others caught in the heat of conflict. And here was a golden opportunity. Two men representing the most hideous crime ever perpetuated on humanity. But the roles were reversing — giving added flavor.

  “Ja! You Juden blame every German ever born or who will ever be born for endlosung.”

  “Who else, oberst?”

  “Why not yourselves?”

  The two men looked at each other as if they were trying to destroy each other with the force of their stares. No one was prepared for Wittenberg’s next words. “You crowded into the chambers like sheep. Why didn’t you fight?”

  “Sweinhund!” Bernstein growled, half rising. But Mark Allen restrained him.

  Ignoring the warning on Bernstein’s face, the German pilot rushed on as if he were releasing long-festering thoughts. “There would be no Israel without Adolph Hitler. Hitler twisted world opinion in your favor, Juden. He made the state of Israel possible as a refuge for European Jews. Without him, you would still be wandering in the desert.”

  “Ja, oberst. But you reduced my tribe by six million.”

  “Enough!” Fujita snapped. He turned to a guard. “Seaman Ishimina, take this officer to the brig.” In a moment, the German colonel was pushed to the door.”

  “Erzahle ihm nichts, Guenther!” Wittenberg shouted as the door slammed behind him.

  Fujita glanced at Brent Ross. “He told him not to tell you anything, admiral,” Brent said.

  Every man in the room sensed the old Oriental’s tactics: concentrate on the young frightened gunner; the pilot could not be intimidated. Fujita’s voice cracked harshly. “Come to attention!” The young man came erect, jaw working. “Name?”

  “Lt. Guenther Mueller,” the young man said in a thin voice almost free of accent.

  “Unit?”

  “Elfter Jagerstaffel, Dritter Geschwader.”

  “English!” There was exasperation in Fujita’s voice.

  “Eleventh Fighter Squadron, Third Group, admiral.”

  “Are there so many Germans in Kadafi’s employ that you would use old German designations?”

  “Yes, admiral. Germans and Russians.”

  “Of course, Russians,” Brent heard Bernstein mutter.

  Admiral Allen spoke. “Many old Luftwaffe officers? Correct?”

  “They are the cadre, ja!”

  “Do you have many Libyan pilots?” Fujita asked.

  “A few. But they are dummkopfs, admiral.”

  Everyone chuckled.

  “Your base?”

  “We were carrier based, admiral.”

  Fujita nodded to a guard. A blow to the stomach sent the German crashing against the bulkhead, clutching his abdomen and retching.

  “Come to attention!”

  Slowly, the young gunner straightened, never taking his moist eyes from Fujita.

  “I am not a dummkopf, lieutenant. You are lying.”

  The German looked at Mark Allen and Brent Ross. “Your General Doolittle did it with medium bombers a long time ago — during the war,” he said, catching his breath.

  Brent was surprised by the man’s knowledge. Mark Allen responded, saying, “Sure. But only sixteen B-twenty-fives. An unusual aircraft with short takeoff capability. You threw over thirty aircraft at us.” Hands flat on the polished oak, he leaned over the table. “There is absolutely no way a loaded DC-three could take off from a carrier’s deck — not even Yonaga’s.”

  The young German turned slowly to Admiral Fujita. “The Cape Verde Islands.”

  “That is what we assumed, lieutenant. You could have saved yourself a lot of pain by telling the truth from the outset.” His fingers began to drum
on the desk. “What do you know of carriers?”

  The man’s face was suddenly that of a frightened, trapped animal. “The oberst will kill me…”

  Fujita moved a hand. “He will not kill anyone. You will have separate quarters and a guard.” The tiny fist impacted the table. “You were quick to lie about carriers, now tell me the truth!”

  The young man gulped. “Two,” he said softly. “I have heard of two, admiral. That’s why I made up that —”

  “Have you seen them?”

  “No.”

  “Where are they?”

  “I do not know, sir.” He looked fearfully at the guard. “I am telling the truth, admiral.”

  “Big-gunned ships?”

  “Perhaps two cruisers. Maybe more.”

  Fujita glanced at Bernstein. “Confirms our intelligence, admiral,” the Israeli said.

  Fujita turned back to Mueller. “One more question, lieutenant. Why do you fly for Kadafi?”

  The gunner dropped his eyes. “For one million dollars American,” he said in a barely perceptible voice.

  Disgust crossed the faces of every Japanese in the room. Fujita spoke. “What has happened to the quest for glory, honor? We samurai believe that if a man faces his enemy and dies striving for his objectives, he will enhance his karma, and his spirit will dwell in eternal glory.” He leaned forward. “But a mercenary fights for money. Where is the glory? Where is honor? How can a man die for the American dollar?”

  For the first time, the German seemed to relax, and a tiny smile played at the corners of his lips. “Thousands of men have found that easy to do, admiral.”

  A long, awkward silence filled the room. Bernstein’s hard voice broke the silence. “Don’t you fly against us because the Japanese are allied with Israel and you wish to kill Jews?”

  The last vestige of fear drained from the young gunner’s face as he lashed back. “Why do you Israelis feel all Germans hate you? I was born in 1960. Over half the Germans alive today had not even been born when you,” he paused, waving a hand, and continued, “were killing each other. What do I know of your hates? Of your prejudices? I learned of Zyklon B on television. What do I know of Jews, of anti-Semitism? I am a mercenary, true. I work for money, true. But money is a clean reward, uncluttered by prejudice, hatred, and foolish ideas of honor and glory.” He stopped abruptly, like a man who knew he had talked too much.

  Every man stared at Guenther Mueller, stunned by his sudden bravado. Brent expected an eruption from Fujita. Instead, the old man stared at the German with a benign, almost respectful expression. The old Japanese spoke calmly. “You are dismissed, lieutenant.” He nodded to a guard. “Take this man to his quarters and bring in the Arab.”

  In a moment, Mueller was gone, and a short, dark, wiry man with black hair and shifty eyes was pushed into the room. He had the disconcerted look of a street gang member who suddenly finds himself alone on enemy turf. With his eyes downcast, arms at his sides, the man showed apprehension, yet the straight spine and set of the jaw hinted at steely resolve, too.

  “You are an Arab,” Fujita began.

  “Yes. My name is Tam Ali Khalifa. I am — ah, I was a gunner on a Douglas.”

  Fujita continued. “You flew from the Cape Verde Islands!”

  The man raised his head, sneering. “I will not answer that. Do your best. Allah akbar!”

  Fujita nodded. Two guards swung simultaneously, one blow catching the Arab on the side of the face, the other in the stomach. Grunting explosively, Ali Khalifa stumbled against the oak table and slid to the deck, spitting blood.

  Brent half rose. “Admiral…”

  Fujita waved at the young American impatiently, and Brent felt Admiral Allen’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him back into his chair. As the admiral pressed on, the Arab was pulled to his feet. “If you ever speak to me in that tone of voice again, Tam Ali Khalifa, your spirit will be dispatched to Allah at the end of a wakizashi.” He gestured to a long knife hanging at the belt of one of the guards.

  Wiping blood from his mouth and chin with the back of his hand, the Arab moved his eyes to the knife and then back to the old Japanese. “You joined them,” he said, waving toward Bernstein, “to drive us from our land — deny us our birthright. Why? Why?”

  “I ask the questions, Ali Khalifa.”

  “Does the samurai fear the truth?”

  Brent expected more violence. But Fujita surprised him again.

  “The truth is, your mad master Moammar Kadafi killed over a thousand Japanese hostages, tried to sink Yonaga by ramming in Tokyo Bay, embargoed oil to Japan.” The old man’s eyes narrowed, and both bony hands became tight balls of roots as he hunched forward. “You are Sabbah!”

  “Yes,” was the quick, firm reply. “I serve in the spirit of Hasan ibn-al-Sabbah!”

  The mention of the ancient assassin, ibn-al-Sabbah — “the old man of the mountain” — transported Brent back to a Tokyo alley and a pair of hashish-charged madmen attacking him recklessly, ignoring pain and stopped only by death. Involuntarily, his hand found his chest where a long slash still felt tender under his fingers.

  “As surely as Allah is God and Mohammed his prophet, we will destroy you, admiral,” the man said matter-of-factly. He gestured to the Israeli captain. “And we will drive the Jews into the sea.”

  “As you did at Al Khalil,” the old sailor fired back sardonically. Then, obviously tiring of the questioning, he said, “Take this man to the brig.”

  “Death to the Jews! Allah be praised! Allah akbar!” the man shouted at Bernstein as he was dragged through the door.

  “Bring in the last prisoner.”

  No one was prepared for the last prisoner — a Japanese woman of perhaps twenty-five or thirty. Tall and curvaceous, her sculpted buttocks flowed sinuously under the tight-fitting fatigues as she walked with a firm step, head high and erect, large rounded breasts jutting against the tight shirt. Her eyes were wide and flashed like chips of black diamonds, nose straight and well-shaped, tapering to elegant nostrils, which gave her demeanor a haughtiness. And her hair was striking, falling to her shoulders in long lustrous folds, gleaming in the raw glare of the bulbs like fine lacquer.

  The old Orientals had never seen a woman like this. Shocked, they ogled her with unabashed hunger.

  Fujita spoke. “I am Admiral Fujita. What is your name?”

  “Kathryn Suzuki,” she answered in a surprisingly controlled voice. “You killed twenty-two innocent people on the Junkers, including my two best friends.” Her voice caught, but there were no tears. “You kept bad company.”

  “The Arabs forced us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Quickly she explained that the German trimotor had been leased to Swissair by the Swiss Air Force which had three of the ancient planes. Enroute to Brazil from Dakar, she had been scheduled to land at Natal and then fly to the United States on TWA and then on to Hawaii where she had relatives. But the JU had accidentally encountered the Arab bomber force and been herded along like a sheep to slaughter. “For cover,” she spat, voice breaking for the first time. “That’s all. Just cover. Stupid!” Breathing hard, she fell silent, eyes moving to the pilots.

  She waved. “These men — these men, they shot us down.”

  Matsuhara nodded.

  “How brave you are, mighty samurai,” she said softly, voice cutting with a cold edge of sarcasm. “Do dead women and children improve your karma, too?”

  Matsuhara smiled. “Next time choose your company with more discretion, madam.”

  “You are an American citizen?” Fujita asked abruptly.

  “Yes. I was born in San Bernardino. I’m a Nisei.”

  “But you travel to Hawaii?”

  “My only relatives live there. My aunt Ichikio Kume and two cousins. My parents are dead.” She shifted her weight uneasily.

  “What were you doing on the Junkers?”

  “I’m a geologist for the Federated Oil Exploration Corporation. We have offices in
Gambia, Senegal. I’m on my vacation.”

  “So you fly to Hawaii on vacation in these times — a time when open warfare has been raging in the Mediterranean and on the African continent?” Fujita asked, eyes birdlike, glittering with suspicion.

  “Why not? The world doesn’t stop turning because you mighty warriors decide to kill each other.”

  The Japanese eyed each other in shock. They had never heard a woman speak with such arrogance.

  “Madam,” the admiral retorted, “you are insolent. If you consider yourself equal to us, I will treat you as an equal. You will not find that pleasant — a Japanese should understand that.”

  “I’m not a Japanese. I told you I’m American,” she shot back, giving no ground. “This is the twentieth century, not the sixteenth. And women do have rights and are treated as equals in civilized nations.” She wheeled to Matsuhara, pointing, eyes flaming. “His bullets didn’t discriminate. He killed both men and women with equal joy.” Her lips pulled back from her teeth, eyes narrowed, nostrils flared as hatred seemed to ooze from every pore, replacing her beauty with the visage of a demon. The voice, suddenly dropped octaves, came from her chest. “You filthy, cowardly Jap shit!”

  Commander Matsuhara’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth as if to speak. But Lieutenant Konoye sprang forward, swinging a huge open hand that caught the woman squarely on the cheek, hurling her against a bulkhead with a crash and a scream of pain.

  Brent Ross reacted instinctively, propelled from his chair as if it were spring loaded. Swinging with all his strength, he caught the burly pilot in the stomach with his right fist while locking Konoye in a headlock with his other. The two men stumbled to the corner, knocked a communications man from his chair and then crashed to the deck in a welter of broken telephones, pencils, and a scattering of paper.

  “Guards! Guards!” Fujita roared.

  In a moment two guards, Mark Allen and Nobomitsu Atsumi pulled the combatants apart.

  Coming to his feet, Konoye spat, “This will not be forgotten, barbarian.”