Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “These are navy waters, admiral,” Mark Allen said. “You won’t have the undisciplined flotilla of private boats crowding you the way they did last December in Tokyo Bay.”

  The old man nodded gratefully. He turned to Kawamoto, saying, “Put divers over the side. I want the exact dimensions of the holes before we go into dry dock.” To Mark Allen: “I want you and Ensign Ross to be my liaison. We’ll put a whaleboat over, and you can personally take our requirements to the dock master.”

  “Sir,” the talker said suddenly. “Communications reports a signal…” He stumbled through unfamiliar ground: “N-a-v-c-o-m-s-t-a-p-a-c…”

  “What in the name of the gods…”

  “Naval Communications Area Master Station Pacific,” Mark Allen explained.

  “Thank you,” Fujita said. He returned to the talker. “The rest of the message, Seaman Naoyuki.”

  “A repair officer is enroute to Yonaga now, admiral.”

  “Very well!” A dozen pair of glasses swung toward the vast repair facilities. Slashing through the broad waters, bow pointed toward Yonaga, was an admiral’s barge, elegant with polished brass, gleaming paint, and a blue pennant with two white stars fluttering proudly.

  Fujita turned to Kawamoto. “Prepare an admiral’s side party and assemble the staff in Flag Plot! Summon Commander Fukioka. There will be no liberty, and the ship will remain at condition two of readiness.” And then as an afterthought, he added, “Tell the woman to prepare to disembark as soon as we are on our blocks.”

  Dropping his binoculars into a canvas bag attached to the windscreen, Brent felt a hollow emptiness. As he turned for the door, he avoided the eyes of the other men.

  *

  Rear Adm. Taylor Archer was an elderly man and one of the fattest human beings Brent Ross had ever seen. When he entered Flag Plot, he towered over every man in the room except Brent, feet wide apart, moving in short jerky steps, body braced in the posture of a heavily pregnant woman to counterbalance his monstrous gut. His aide, a middle-aged captain named Wilfred Rhoads, actually helped the admiral into his chair, and Brent was surprised when the man was able to sit unattended in a single seat. Seated across from him, Brent stared at a pasty white face of vanilla pudding with chins hanging down to his chest like ripples of the sea. His mouth was a purple gash, loose, perpetually open as he labored for breath. “My aide,” he said in a raspy voice, waving airily to the captain, “Capt. Wilfred Rhoads who is a naval architect and is in charge of Graving Dock Three where you will be repaired.”

  “You are not in charge of the dock, admiral?”

  “Not an admiral, sir. I’m here to represent CINCPACFLT — I am second in command,” Archer retorted haughtily.

  Fujita moved his eyes to Mark Allen. He spoke slowly, like a young scholar attempting a difficult word at a spelling bee. “Commander in chief, Pacific Fleet.”

  Smiling, Mark Allen nodded. Bernstein, Hironaka, and Kawamoto grinned at each other. Matsuhara stared, confused by the barely submerged humor while Commander Fukioka sat quietly, pouring over blueprints and reports.

  Unaware of the subtlety in the exchange, the rear admiral moved his eyes to Mark Allen. “We’ve met, admiral.”

  “We graduated from Annapolis together.”

  “Why, of course — Mark Allen. You were captain of the football team. The school hero.” The timbre of the voice was derisive.

  “That’s right. You were team manager. I remember throwing you my dirty jockstraps.”

  Archer sputtered. Brent clapped a hand over his mouth while Bernstein giggled. The Japanese stared at each other, certain of an insult but unable to fathom American jests.

  The pudding turned from vanilla to grape and Archer spat, “I didn’t come here —”

  “Please, gentlemen,” Fujita interrupted. “We are here to serve the fate of Yonaga, Japan and, perhaps, much more than that.”

  Sighing, the fat man moved his beady eyes from Allen. “Your damage report — you refused to put it on our harbor circuit,” he said.

  “Of course. Yonaga’s condition is not to be broadcast to the world.” He nodded at Commander Fukioka. “My damage control officer.”

  “May I record this, admiral?” Captain Rhoads asked, placing a small tape recorder on the table next to a notepad. Fujita nodded his assent.

  Standing, Commander Fukioka described Yonaga’s damage in funereal tones. “And we have lost twenty-three known dead and forty-four wounded,” he concluded. Then, moving moist eyes to Fujita, he said, “We must still open twelve flooded compartments — there will be more. Our muster shows sixty-three missing.”

  “Sacred Buddha,” the old Japanese said. And then reverently, as if the room were a temple and he stood alone in the nave, he said, “They died with Yamato damashii and surely dwell in Yasakuni Shrine.” A long oppressive silence gripped the room.

  Rhoads broke the silence. “We have one inch plates ready. As soon as you’re high and dry, we can begin welding.”

  “Time?”

  “We need the exact dimensions of the holes.”

  Fujita gestured to Fukioka. The damage control officer spoke. “Our divers are over the side now. But I only have two — the other two were killed when we flooded the auxiliary five inch magazine.”

  Fujita pounded the table. “Can you send us some divers, Admiral Archer?”

  A smirk rippled through the chins. “We have a dozen divers, but they are all working on New Jersey and Tarawa. We must raise her; she blocks the channel south of the sub base.”

  “Tarawa?” The Japanese looked at each other.

  “You should remember,” Archer said with acid sarcasm. “You sank her.”

  Matsuhara spoke for the first time. “Admiral two of my flyers are qualified divers: Lt. Nobutake Konoye and NAPfc., Kiichii Mochazuki.”

  “Good. Put them over the side.” He waved at the door. Matsuhara left. He turned to Archer and Rhoads. “We will relay our reports to you by couriers in whale boats.”

  “You could use flashing lights,” Archer said.

  “No! It is visible for miles. They could read it in Honolulu. And we need fuel, ammunition, stores…” He nodded to Kawamoto who handed a bundle of documents to Archer. “Our requisitions,” Fujita said.

  Scanning the requisitions, Archer muttered, “Jesus — you’re getting ready for World War Three!”

  “We’ve been fighting it for six months,” Allen said bluntly.

  “Very well,” the fat American said. “We’ll fill these at the dock.” The Japanese grinned and looked at each other. Archer continued. “I would not suggest liberty for your crew or the crews of your escorts, Admiral Fujita. There are members of the crews of the New Jersey ashore, survivors of the Tarawa, an American Legion convention —”

  “Admiral Archer,” Fujita interrupted impatiently. “There will be no liberty and…” He waved at the Americans and Bernstein. “When I send parties ashore, these members of my staff will represent Yonaga. However, I reserve the right to protect them from Sabbah killers or any other menace with armed seaman guards.”

  “I have assigned a member of my staff, Lt. Loren Kaiser, to act as liaison with you and to provide transportation, guards, and protection for any of your personnel ashore. And please keep in mind, admiral, we have our SPs. I’ll even send you a detail. They’ll surround the graving dock, anyway. And there’ll be marines.”

  “No! Your men are welcome at the dock, but ashore we will protect ourselves.”

  “But what business do you have ashore? I don’t understand.”

  “You do not need to understand. These matters do not concern you, Admiral Archer.”

  “Whatever happens in this harbor concerns me.”

  “Not when you deal with me.” A silence like a cold Arctic wind chilled everyone.

  The lips compressed into a thin line, eyes cooled to the hardness of pale sapphires, and the voice quavered, “With your permission, Captain Rhoads and I will return to our duties.” He began to push on his
armrests in an attempt to rise.

  But Fujita waved, indicating he was not yet finished. “You will maintain a CAP?”

  “Six fighters from Hickam continuously over the harbor,” he replied, sinking back into his chair reluctantly.

  “Long range patrols?”

  “PBYs and mariners.” And then the rear admiral leaned forward. “Some of your guns are manned!”

  “Condition Two — one half the ship’s armament.”

  “It’s not necessary. We are prepared.”

  “We know how alert you are, Admiral Archer.”

  The fat man’s face twisted and contorted like a sheet of red-hot metal struck by a hammer. The livid lips managed, “With your permission…”

  “You are dismissed!”

  After the rear admiral waddled through the door, followed by Captain Rhoads and the amused stare of the staff, Fujita spoke to Bernstein, Allen, and Ross. “We need new codes, encryption boxes. The Arabs seem to know too much about us.”

  “If you approve, I’ll call the Israeli legation,” Bernstein said. “They should have new software we can use, but not an encryption box. The box ordered for us is waiting for us in Tokyo.”

  Mark Allen nodded. “And we can stop in at NIS. They should have some new programs we can use and possibly a new box.”

  “Very well. Tomorrow after we are secure in the graving dock, take a detail of seaman guards and go ashore.” And then quietly, he added, “Admiral Allen and Ensign Ross, please remain and the rest of you are dismissed.” However, struck by an afterthought as the officers filed out, he added, “Take the woman with you, Colonel Bernstein.”

  “Yes, sir,” came the voice from the door.

  At the moment the door closed behind the departing officers, the riot broke out on the Arizona Memorial.

  *

  Lt. Nobutake Konoye felt responsible for the unfortunate events that took place on the memorial that afternoon. He had been checking his diving gear with NAP Kiichii Mochazuki on the starboard boat deck: 90 kilogram rubber suit, leather weight belt, threaded neck ring, helmet, air hose, and telephone line. He had just discovered the helmet’s exhaust valve was stuck in the closed position when the call came from the repair party alongside on the diving platform, floats, and a single whaleboat. “Buoys away — they’re drifting!”

  Glancing down, Konoye saw a half-dozen red marker buoys attached together with a line drifting past the starboard beam, moving down on the Arizona Memorial. Cursing the inept seamanship that would allow the buoys to break loose and followed by Mochazuki, he had scampered down a Jacob’s ladder and landed on a rolling thwart of the whaleboat moored alongside the torpedo holes. Despite the fact he had just been assigned to the detail, he was senior officer and responsible. There were four men in the boat besides Mochazuki and himself: the coxswain, Boatswain’s Mate First Class, Shimei Futabatei, who was an original member of Yonaga’s crew and terribly eroded by time, leaving only wrinkle-riven flesh and stringy sinew and brittle bones; Engineman First Class, Kansuke Naka, who was also a ‘plank owner’ and as decrepit as Futabatei. The other two men, Seaman First Class, Soseki Natsumi and Seaman Doppo Kunikida had come aboard in Tokyo Bay five months before and were both young, strong men with fine Yamato damashii.

  “Cast off! Cast off,” Konoye had shouted, moving to the bow where he released the bow painter himself while pointing at the errant buoys, which were drifting toward the memorial’s landing. “This is a disgrace to Yonaga’s seamanship!”

  With the stern line cast off and a clang of the coxswain’s bell, the engine roared, and the long gray whaleboat charged toward the Arizona.

  Standing in the bow and slashing past Yonaga’s side, which looked like a steel Fuji-san, Konoye had a clear view of the buoys, which had become entangled in the pilings supporting the landing.

  Within a minute they had cleared Yonaga’s bow, and Arizona’s rusty hull began to unroll beneath their keel. Only a single rusty barbette off their starboard bow and a half-dozen pipes projected above the surface.

  He first became alarmed when he noticed they were headed for the center of the memorial where a bridgelike structure sagged, the American flag flew, and perhaps a dozen people stared at them through seven large openings in the white concrete. “Come right! Come right! The landing,” he had shouted, gesturing and turning to the coxswain. Futabatei’s shout was drowned by the engine as he brought the rudder over hard, swinging the bow sharply.

  “No! No! The barbette! Are you blind, you old fool!”

  There was a furious clanging of the bell and the rudder was put hard aport, but Futabatei’s frantic efforts came too late. The sharp, rusty edge of the barbette caught them on the port side, just below the waterline. There was a crash, a ripping of wood, and a shock that staggered Konoye, and suddenly his feet were wet as water poured into a long gash that ran half the length of their port side. Immediately, the engine was flooded and the boat began to settle.

  “I’ll heave you a line,” an American rating shouted from the landing, whirling a “monkey’s fist” over his head. Two others clutched life rings.

  “Our flotation tanks will keep us afloat,” Konoye shouted. “Just pull us in.”

  Within a few minutes, the half-submerged boat was tied up to the dock and the six Japanese scampered out.

  Staring at Yonaga’s bow, which loomed like a steel cliff over the memorial, Konoye was convinced no one had noticed the accident. Furiously, he waved his arms in the fashion of a man using international Morse. But there was no response from the bridge, flight deck, or anywhere else. And when they did notice his predicament, it would take time to man and lower another boat. Then he noticed two things: Coxswain Futabatei and Engineman Naka had disappeared, and the white ferryboat loaded with tourists was bearing down on the memorial.

  After thanking the two American ratings and making certain the lines to the whaleboat were secure, he shouted, “Follow me,” and entered the memorial with NAP Mochazuki, Seaman Notsumi, and Seaman Kunikada on his heels.

  They entered a long, white, tomblike structure that sat squarely over the wreck. He heard excited voices and found the two old men standing at the far end before a huge marble plaque inscribed with over a thousand names. Hurrying the length of the gallery, the four men passed a few American tourists, who stared curiously and silently. They stopped before the plaque, which stretched from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. Near the bottom and centered in large letters, Konoye read, “To the memory of the gallant men here entombed and their shipmates who gave their lives in action on December 7, 1941 on the U.S.S. Arizona.”

  Konoye felt no compassion. Staring at column after column of names, he thought of Tokyo, the fire raid, his incinerated family, the cenotaph at ground zero in Hiroshima with its tens of thousands, the sunken ships entombing the bones of dozens of his friends. No! He would not shed a tear here.

  “Banzai Akagi Banzai Kaga”” Futabatei screamed suddenly, waving a fist at the names.

  And Naka joined in, honoring the carriers in the Pearl Harbor attack, “Banzai Shokaku! Banzai Zuikaku…”

  “What the fuck’s going on?” roared someone behind them.

  Whirling, Konoye found a crowd of tourists led by eight beefy men in late middle age and wearing ridiculous peaked caps emblazoned with “Post 109,” closing in.

  “What the fuck are you Nips doing here?” said a tall pasty-white man through thick red lips, with a huge stomach that hung over his belt. Adjusting his cap and leaning forward, he pushed the leering visage of a Hindu temple devil into Konoye’s face.

  The lieutenant spat back at the devil. “We are not Nips — we are on the emperor’s business.” He heard the familiar chugging sound of a whaleboat’s engine approaching. “And we are leaving.”

  “The fuck you are.” The eight men crowded close. “On the emperor’s business, huh,” the fat man growled. “We’re legionnaires! We know about the emperor’s business. Weren’t you on the emperor’s business when you murdered t
hose men?” He waved at the names.

  The lieutenant felt a surge of atavistic fury like a madness possess him — the same mindless rage that overwhelmed him when he faced Brent Ross on the hangar deck: no fear, no doubts, not even conscious thought. He opened his mouth, but someone else seemed to speak. “And whose business were you on when you destroyed Tokyo, Yokahama, Kobe, Hiroshima, Nagasaki…”

  “They kicked Kadafi’s ass, leave ’em alone,” someone in the rear shouted.

  “That don’t mean shit!” the tall legionnaire groused over his shoulder. “They did that for Japan, not for us.” He stabbed a finger at the names. “They murdered those boys!”

  “And those are the fuckers who sank the New Jersey and Tarawa,” another shrill voice shrieked.

  “Banzai Hiryu! Banzai Soryu!” Naka and Futabatei shouted defiantly.

  “Those are the carriers that did this,” one of the legionnaires cried. “Get ’em!”

  There were screams from the onlookers and the big man swung. But Konoye ducked easily and brought a fist up from the floor, burying it up to the wrist in the great, soft stomach that yielded like gelatin. The man’s breath exploded in his ear.

  “Fuckin’ Jap!” Hard knuckles caught the Japanese officer on the side of his head, and he felt his teeth clash together in his skull, lacerating his tongue and bringing an instant salty taste to his mouth. The blow spun him, and he continued to pivot, bringing up his right foot and catching the fat man in the throat with a kick intended to kill. But his heel caught the man to one side, only partially impacting the windpipe. Clawing his throat and gasping like the victim of an executioner’s garrote, the big man sank to the floor like a deflating balloon.

  Now all the Japanese and the remaining legionnaires were locked in wild, screaming combat. Conditioned by years of physical training, even the old Futabatei and Naka were too wiry and quick for their heavier, out-of-condition opponents. With a shout, Naka ran, leaped and caught a retreating American with both feet chest high, knocking him through an opening and into the harbor.