Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “Sir,” Brent said. “It was more than the woman —”

  Konoye interrupted. “It was Tokyo, my family. I have eaten stones, drunk gall, I will not sleep on logs, admiral.”

  “Enough!” Fujita shouted, hunching forward. “You can have your revenge, your seppuku, but only when I decide the time is right. I suspect our enemies know our route. Our destination. That raid from the Cape Verde Islands should have taught you something. They know we cannot steam the Indian Ocean, the Straits of Magellan. We can expect more attacks. At this moment we could be approaching a picket line of submarines or a secret base.” He stared at the two officers facing him, but found their eyes focused on the deck like chastised schoolboys. “We must pull together or die together.” He moved his eyes, which were like gleaming black beads to Konoye. “The samurai honors old scores, true. But if either of you challenges the other, I will have you both thrown in irons.” Silence, a thing of weight and substance, filled the room. The admiral broke it. “And Ensign Ross, you must control your temper.”

  “I will, sir.”

  Fujita pushed on. “And both of you, your words as officers.” He moved his eyes to the Japanese pilot. “And as a samurai — no more fighting. Avoid each other. That is a command. When we finish with these Arabs, you can cut each other to ribbons. And remember, before this is over, we may all enter the Yasakuni Shrine together.”

  “I promise on my dead family, sir,” Konoye said, staring enigmatically at the American.

  Unflinching, Brent stared back. “And I on my dead father.”

  Although Fujita winced with a painful memory, he spoke with new calmness. “Both of you remember Emperor Hirohito has been on the throne for six decades. His is the reign of Showa.” Konoye straightened like a man prodded by a spear.

  “Enlightenment,” Brent said.

  “To be more precise,” Fujita said, clipping his words as if his lips were scissors, “Showa means enlightened peace. Both of you are to leave this cabin enlightened as to whom your true enemies are and with peace in your souls for each other. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” the officers chorused.

  Nodding, Fujita spoke with new harshness. “The woman is confined to the bridge! You are dismissed.”

  *

  “Lieutenant Konoye is insane, Admiral Allen,” Brent Ross said, securing the last button on a fresh green shirt. Brent had showered in his tiny cabin’s lavatory and gingerly combed his hair, carefully avoiding tender spots on a skull that had battered the deck in a half-dozen places. And there was a bruise on one cheek, two cuts inside his mouth where his cheeks had been punched against his teeth. His lower lip was cut, and his jaw ached when he spoke.

  “He did a good job on you,” Mark Allen said from the chair before the cabin’s minute desk.

  Wearily and slowed by sore muscles, Brent sank on the hard mat of the bunk, eyes running over the room as he unwound his huge frame carefully on his back. Formerly the cabin of a long dead senior staff officer, the tiny room was typically Spartan in the Japanese tradition: a single bunk, closet, sink, mirror, speaker, overhead light hanging in the inevitable maze of pipes and conduits, whining blower, brass clock, and the ubiquitous equestrian picture of a college-age Emperor Hirohito attached to the bulkhead over the bunk.

  “Yes, he did,” Brent said, turning his face toward the older man. “I almost killed him — had my chance with a crowbar.”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t understand, admiral. When I’m scared, hurt, angry, I seem to go insane.”

  “Not unusual, Brent. Natural instinct to survive.”

  “It’s more than that, admiral. I want to destroy — obliterate. It happened to me in Tokyo.”

  “I know. The Sabbah.” Mark Allen sighed. “There’s a streak that runs in your family.”

  “My father,” Brent said, matter-of-factly.

  “Yes. Trigger Ross, we called him. ‘Trigger’ because of his temper, you know.”

  The younger man nodded. “Yes. I know. I became quite familiar with his temper, admiral.” Both men chuckled. Then Brent described the meeting with Admiral Fujita and the admiral’s threats.

  “And he told Lieutenant Konoye he could go for his vengeance at an…ah, appropriate time.”

  “How did you know, admiral?”

  “Ha! Typically Japanese. Our friend Konoye lost face when you didn’t kill him.”

  “Matsuhara stopped me.”

  “I know.” The older man waved Brent off impatiently. “His karma was injured. But vengeance is sacred, and he can restore his karma by dying for it — can even attain nirvana.”

  “Doesn’t do a thing for a Christian, admiral.” The older man smiled.

  Sitting up, Brent swung his long legs to the side of the bunk and braced himself with his hands on the steel frame. “I’ll never forget the way Ogren, Warner, and Jackson made their torpedo runs on the cruiser.”

  “It was suicide.”

  “It was suicide, admiral, for American captains with American crews to save a Japanese carrier that had attacked Pearl Harbor. And Captain Fite’s run into Tripoli Harbor to save Japanese hostages; the most courageous thing I’d ever seen. And they were Americans, not samurai.”

  Mark Allen began drumming a fist on the desk. “And you think the Japanese don’t appreciate those sacrifices.”

  “Konoye is my case in point.”

  “He’s one, Brent. And he’s mad. Most of them appreciate American casualties —”

  Brent cut in. “When we fought aircraft, the Brooklyn, those destroyers; when it looked like they were going to deep six us, there were no arguments, no hates.”

  Mark Allen nodded understanding; the fist stopped its pounding. “There was an old saying in the infantry in World War Two: ‘The closer you come to the front, the friendlier people become.’”

  “We were close to the front.”

  “Brent, we were the front.”

  “But admiral, the Arab jihad is still trying to kill us.”

  “True. But the danger isn’t that grave. Old grudges can boil to the surface.”

  “Konoye is a stewing vat of hate.”

  “Do you wonder why?”

  The young man released his breath slowly. “No. Not really. After forty-two years of entrapment up there, his entire family incinerated.”

  “But, Brent, give him credit. He has his priorities.”

  The ensign chuckled humorlessly. “And I’m second.”

  Allen moved on. “But we found this hatred in others, too.”

  “At first.” Brent paused thoughtfully. “At first Commander Matsuhara was just as bad.”

  “True. It was obvious. He lost his family, too.”

  “The same raid on Tokyo, admiral.” Ross knuckled his forehead with a massive fist. “But he changed.”

  “When did you sense it?”

  “It started in that Tokyo alley after I decked those two Sabbah assassins. I was out of my head — going for the jugular with a broken bottle.”

  “Do you know why Matsuhara let him live?”

  Surprised by the question, Brent looked up. “Why, I suppose —”

  Allen interrupted. “You gouged the man’s eyes out, tore off his nose, cut his face to a pulp with the bottle. In fact, he had no face left at all. In the samurai’s mind, life was a far worse punishment than death. Why do you think he had the other Arab’s throat cut? I heard him discuss it with Admiral Fujita. They both thought it was a great idea.”

  Brent leaned forward. “I agree with them. Why not?” The young man straightened slowly. “Kawamoto, Hironaka, Atsumi, Takamura, Kojima, and the rest of the crew seem to accept us, admiral. In fact, they’re respectful and I like them.”

  “True, Brent. They have risen above the old hates or put them aside because of Admiral Fujita.”

  “The admiral needs us to preserve his command.”

  “It’s more than that, Brent. He’s genuinely fond of you.”

  Brent waved at the overhead. �
��I’m an asset up there. I have the best eyes on the ship.”

  “I know. But it’s still there. You’re like a grandson.”

  “Great-grandson, admiral.” For the first time, Brent laughed. He continued. “He’d sacrifice his great-grandson for Yonaga.”

  “True, Brent. He’d sacrifice himself.”

  Chapter Six

  Steaming northeasterly at 18 knots, the weather changed dramatically. Within a few days Yonaga entered the horse latitudes, cruising the Tropic of Capricorn and entering the tropics on a hot, humid, oppressive day. Confined to the bridge, Kathryn spent her usual morning hours at Brent’s side, seeking company with no one else. Aware of the attachment, Admiral Fujita ignored the woman when on the bridge, scanning the horizon with his glasses or fidgeting nervously when an escort wandered off station. Just after crossing the equator, excitement swept the bridge when word was received over the ship’s radios of the explosion of several North Sea oil pumping platforms. Then, just after crossing the equator, word was received to be alert for a PBY Catalina, flying boat. The CIA man, Frank Dempster, was enroute to Yonaga with dispatches too sensitive to be put on the air.

  It was early in the morning just after the first CAP had taken off and only thirty minutes north of the equator and six hundred miles northeast of the Marquesas Islands when Yonaga met the PBY. Peering from the bridge, Brent had watched the sun reluctantly claw its way over the horizon, inflaming the sky with virulent reds and purples. The infinite cottonfield of tossing whitecaps were brushed with pale gold, wiping the shadows of the fading night from the short steep waves.

  The talker broke bridge silence. “Radar reports an unidentified aircraft bearing three-zero-zero true, range three hundred twenty, closing at one hundred twenty knots, admiral.”

  “Very well. Fighter frequency, CAP intercept and escort.”

  Twelve pairs of glasses swung as one as if choreographed. But Brent, knowing the radio transmission was brief and that the admiral had no other option, felt sudden discomfort as he turned his focusing knob. Within minutes, the young American found three specks high to the west in the aching blue vault. Glassing the sighting, Brent found a seaplane escorted by two Zeros flying on either side and just behind and above her tail.

  “Flying boat, bearing two-eight-zero relative, elevation angle twenty degrees, range twenty-five, admiral,” Brent said.

  “Very well,” the admiral acknowledged, raising his glasses. Hironaka and Kawamoto leaned into their own binoculars while Adm. Mark Allen moved to Brent’s side. The admiral had banished Kathryn to her cabin to make room for the staff officers on the narrow platform.

  “I can’t believe it,” Mark Allen said. “A PBY. Five — operational in 1936.”

  “Interesting construction,” Fujita said. “A wing like a parasol.”

  “True,” Allen said. “Cantilevered with stabilizing floats that retract into the wingtips. Revolutionary for that time.”

  Silently the men watched as the trio of aircraft lost altitude quickly, swinging around the carrier out of range.

  “He’ll probably circle you once or twice to make sure you see his American markings.”

  “Wise, indeed,” Fujita chuckled. “That pilot knows range is far more important to our gunners than identity.”

  The Japanese laughed. The admiral turned to the talker. “Seaman Naoyuki, signal bridge is to call our escort commander on flashing light and tell him to detach escort number three to pick up a passenger from the flying boat. Also, two-block Pennant Two over Able on the outboard starboard halyard.” He drummed the rail of the windscreen. “Tell the signal bridge to try to raise the seaplane with flashing light. Order him to land off my starboard side.” He turned to Mark Allen. “One transmission on our fighter frequency might slip by enemy RDFs, Admiral Allen.”

  The old American smiled. “I’m sure there are many curious ears waiting for our signals, sir.”

  Fujita said to Allen, “Flyers are terrible signalmen.”

  “True, admiral. But even if he can’t read international Morse, he’ll look for your hoist.” He gestured at the halyard.

  Within minutes, the drone of radial engines became a roar, drowning out the clatter of signaling searchlights as the tight group of aircraft swept close to Yonaga’s port side with the entire port battery swinging from bow to stern with them. With two great Pratt and Whitney engines, graceful cantilevered wing, two step hull flaring like an airfoil, retracted tricycle landing gear, four 50 caliber machine guns — two in blisters amidships — the PBY was a magnificent, elegant aircraft. There was a flash of light from the cockpit.

  “He can read,” Fujita said wryly. Everyone laughed at the admiral’s joke. “She is a beautiful aircraft — beautiful,” he added.

  “Won the battle of Midway,” Mark Allen said, before thinking.

  “Won what?” Fujita asked sharply.

  Obviously uncomfortable with his gaffe, Allen stumbled. “Ah, she did the early reconnaissance.”

  “Picked up our ships?”

  “Yes, Admiral Fujita.”

  “Interesting,” Fujita said in a flat voice. Brent smiled to himself.

  Followed by his staff, Fujita walked around the front of the platform past the voice tube to the starboard side of the conning tower. The talker plugged into a new receptacle. Every man swung his glasses over the stern where the PBY dropped quickly toward the sea, stabilizing floats locked in the down position. The Zeros broke station and rocketed for altitude. “Soon our guest Frank Dempster will be aboard.”

  Spraying water from her hull and floats in blue sheets fringed with lacy white spray, the flying boat touched down, bouncing across the chop like a thrown rock skimming a pond. Then, quickly, slowed by the walls of water, the great aircraft came to a halt, bobbing and rolling gently in the chop like a tired migratory bird finding rest on a friendly pond. A destroyer approached her slowly.

  *

  Seated at the long oak table in Flag Plot, Brent Ross stared at Frank Dempster, who sat opposite. He had aged dramatically since their first meeting in Tokyo Bay a few months earlier. Tall, slender, fiftyish, with graying black hair, a sharp aquiline nose, cheekbones protruding through florid, veined skin, the man’s tired hazel eyes roamed the table suspiciously as if he expected to find an assassin in every chair instead of Admiral Fujita, his staff, the two Americans, and the Israeli colonel, Irving Bernstein.

  “You have made a long, dangerous journey, Mr. Dempster,” Fujita said from the head of the table. “You must have important documents.”

  “I do, sir,” he answered, his level of communication a whiskey-raddled rasp. “Information far too sensitive to be put on the air.” Obviously tired and nervous after his long flight, he became strangely philosophical, voicing thoughts gnawing at every man in the room. “It’s a strange world out there.” He gesticulated. “Without the threat of the superpowers, terrorists have gone wild like rats pouring out of an uncovered sewer. Ironically, the US and the Soviets, in their bitter antagonism, imposed a kind of world government — unstable and even dangerous, true — yet, a kind of sovereignty over maverick states — the so-called third world — like Libya. But now, all men are equal, and Kadafi with his Arab friends and unlimited wealth is more equal than most.” He sighed wearily. “He’s really flipped since you mauled him.”

  “Flipped?”

  “Sorry, admiral. Gone berserk.” He pulled a half-dozen dossiers from a briefcase, thumbed through some documents, selecting one. “First, you copied reports of the destruction of the North Sea platforms?”

  “Yes. A half…”

  “All of them, admiral. The British haven’t issued any official news releases, yet, but according to our sources, all eighteen North Sea rigs exploded this morning.”

  “Sabotage,” Lieutenant Commander Atsumi said, incredulously.

  Dempster took a deep breath, rushed on, spitting his words like a man who had bitten rotten fruit. “Kadafi’s gloating — claims the oppressed people of the world hav
e risen and the oppressed people of OPEC — I mean the Arab oil cartel — have raised the price of oil to five hundred dollars a barrel. They’re awash in money.”

  Shouts of anger swept the room. “Insane,” Fujita shouted. “Extortion!”

  “Vengeance for sure, admiral. He’s pledged revenge against Japan and Yonaga. And…” He looked up from a dossier, eyes sweeping the angry faces around him. “He knows where Yonaga is, course, speed, and destination — has sworn your destruction. I suspect Arab submarines have been tracking you. Don’t forget, he hates Japan, Israel, and America, in that order.”

  “It would be degrading not to head that list,” Fujita snapped.

  “Banzai!” Hironaka and Kawamoto shouted.

  Bernstein interrupted. “But Arab troops still attack Israel. I have the reports!” He pounded a pile of documents on the table. “Raids are launched from Syria, Lebanon, and by PLO units hiding in the Canaan Hills and the Sinai Desert.”

  “True, colonel,” Dempster concurred, “but the Libyans are back behind their own borders, and the Iranians and Iraqis are back at their favorite past time, which is killing each other.” A wave of humor swept the room. Dempster continued. “The Israelis are still hard put fighting off nuisance raids, but we — ah, I mean you broke the jihad and, anyway, as I have already said, Japan is the object of Kadafi’s attention.”

  Fujita hunched forward, eyes as cold as a tomb. “Let him come for his vengeance, but let him dig his own grave first!”

  Brent found himself shouting, “Banzai!” along with the Japanese. He stopped abruptly as Mark Allen broke into a broad grin.

  Fujita silenced the officers with a wave, and Dempster cut in. “The British claim the platforms were torpedoed by Libyan submarines.”

  “How many does he have?” the Japanese admiral asked.

  “Perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two.”

  Mark Allen spoke. “Old Russian diesels of the Whiskey class.”

  Fujita said, “This Whiskey Boat. We need all the information you have, Mr. Dempster.”

  The CIA man thumbed through a red catalogue, scanned several pages and looked up. “Length seventy-five meters.” He glanced at the Americans. “Two hundred six feet and they displace just over a thousand tons. They’re diesel electric, and their design is actually based on late German World War Two design concepts. You must understand, the Russians are reluctant to trust the Arabs with their more sophisticated equipment.”