Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

But Mochazuki was down and two Americans sat on him, pounding with fists like hams. Konoye leaped, landing on top of the pile. Punched. Kicked while more bodies fell on him. There were screams. Curses. The flash of camera bulbs. Howls of pain. And then Atsumi’s voice echoed down a long dark tunnel: “Stop! Stop!”

  A big American voice reverberated from the marble: “Belay that crap. I’ll throw every fuckin’ one of you in the brig!”

  Big hands grabbed Konoye and pulled him to his feet. He was pushed roughly against a wall by Lieutenant Commander Atsumi, who waved a club menacingly. Behind him, Japanese seaman guards, American SPs, military police, and the crew of the ferryboat sorted out the combatants and pushed them roughly against opposite walls.

  “A disgrace,” Atsumi muttered. “A disgrace!”

  Konoye could only stare at his feet.

  *

  Brent Ross moved to the far end of the table when the crowd of officers filed into Flag Plot. First Lieutenant Konoye and NAP Mochazuki were escorted in. Both were disheveled. Blood was caked in Mochazuki’s black hair. One eye was almost swollen shut, and his green fatigue shirt was ripped as congealed blood streaked his chest. Konoye was not nearly as beaten, showing blood on his left ear and cheek, a bruised mouth, and a scratch across his forehead. Both men stood at attention against a bulkhead next to Admiral Fujita.

  Then Rear Admiral Archer arrived, huffing, puffing and obviously distressed. “I picked it up on the Harbor emergency frequency,” he wheezed as Captain Rhoads helped him into a chair. “The crew of the ferry thought World War Three had broken out.”

  “No!” Fujita snapped. “With some, the Greater East Asia War never ended.” He threw a scathing look at Konoye.

  The flyer drew himself up. “I was fully and totally responsible, admiral,” he said through his swollen lips.

  “Ha! It’s about time somebody admitted guilt,” Archer said.

  “Sir,” Mochazuki pleaded suddenly, “may I make a report?”

  “Proceed, pilot.”

  Hesitantly, the rating described the incredible series of events that led to the encounter.

  “Well enough,” Archer said. “But who started it?”

  “That is unimportant, sir,” Konoye interjected. “I was the senior officer present. I am responsible.”

  “Remain silent,” Fujita commanded. “Continue with your report, Pilot Mochazuki.”

  “The Americans struck first! The Americans were the aggressors! We only defended ourselves!”

  “My God,” Archer exploded. “That’s what you said after Pearl Harbor. I was an ensign on —”

  Mark Allen leaped to his feet, face scarlet, fists clenched. “Christ, Taylor. You’re just like the rest. You’re still fighting the goddamned war!” He waved a hand. “These men bled in the Med fighting those Arab lunatics and saved our ass and our biggest ally from certain defeat. Doesn’t anyone know? Doesn’t anyone care? Doesn’t anyone appreciate the sacrifices? We lost sixty-three pilots, seventy-two aircrew-men, forty-two gunners, and we’re still counting the dead from those two torpedo hits.”

  Brent watched Fujita’s eyes move craftily from Allen to Archer and then back. He was convinced the old man was deriving pleasure from the exchange. Every man in the room stared intently as Archer retorted, but belligerence had given way to conciliation, “Of course we appreciate. We know your men died for us, too.” He thumped the table with beefy knuckles. “But keep in mind, you’re sitting on the bulls-eye of Yonaga’s target of last December. Of course there’s resentment — no; hatred here.”

  “You heard Pilot Mochazuki’s report. Our men were not at fault.”

  “Whose navy are you in, Mark? You keep talking in the first person, plural.”

  “He is a member of my staff,” Fujita said simply. “I am convinced he has the best understanding of carrier warfare of any man on earth.”

  “With respect, admiral. This was not carrier warfare. This was a riot.”

  Allen leaned forward, clenched fists on the table. “It was an accident, Taylor. My God, you know the American Legion. Most of them never saw combat, and they make up for it with their big mouths.”

  Archer sighed. “There’s truth in what you say. But CINCPACFLT will conduct a full inquiry.” He turned to Rhoads. “You’re getting this?”

  “Yes, sir,” the captain answered, indicating his tape recorder and pad.

  Rage vented, Mark Allen sank into his chair. “We can’t attend your hearing and you know it. According to International law, we’ve got to clear this port in less than sixty hours.”

  Fujita took over. “It is obvious my men were at fault despite the attitude of these so-called American Legionnaires.” He turned his eyes to the two flyers. “All of those involved will be heard at a Captain’s Mast over which I will preside.” He turned to the rear admiral. “But the disciplining of the crew of Yonaga is my responsibility, and you can conduct all the hearings you wish, but my men will not appear, will not accept your judgments or your punishments. These things will be done by me and at a time I deem propitious.”

  “Propitious?”

  “Yes, rear admiral. After Yonaga is repaired and after we destroy any remaining Arab threat to the mikado.”

  “You’ll do nothing!”

  “Taylor!”

  Fujita waved Allen to silence. “Are you challenging my authority, rear admiral?”

  “Ah…” Archer sputtered, backing water. “Of course not. I would just like to report to CINCPACFLT that you have taken appropriate steps…”

  “I will take appropriate steps,” Fujita said in a mocking tone.

  “Sir,” Konoye said suddenly in an unusually high-pitched voice. “Please allow me to redeem my honor. My karma has been compromised.” His baleful eyes found Brent Ross. He spat the words. “Twice now, sir.”

  “I have already told you, lieutenant. You will be given the opportunity. If the Arabs do not accommodate you, I will.” Balled, rootlike fingers struck the oak irritably. “You are dismissed — all of you!”

  *

  Brent liked the feel of the 6-point 5 millimeter Otsus pistol — “the baby Nambu,” the Japanese called the deadly little automatic — which dangled against his right hip snugly in its leather holster. And he was in navy blues again, a single braid of gold glistening on each sleeve, his hat square and comfortable. Adm. Mark Allen, who walked ahead of him on the gangway toward the graving dock’s rim, also wore his dress blues splendidly while Colonel Bernstein still wore the drab khaki of the Israeli army — but today he had a well-pressed look. Both were armed with Otsus. Behind Brent, Kathryn Suzuki took long eager steps like a convict headed for the prison’s gate on the final day of incarceration. Four seaman guards in blue jumpers, trousers with khaki leggings, and wearing flat hats emblazoned with ideograms, followed. Each carried an Arisaka Type 99, 7-point 7 millimeter short rifle slung over his shoulder and each wore a duty belt with a half-dozen ammunition boxes attached.

  Stepping from the gangway, the party stopped as one, turned and stared at the beached behemoth silently. Yonaga was awesome. Eighty-four thousand tons of steel sitting high and dry on blocks. Her battleship genesis was obvious: side layered with sloping armor plate above a bulging torpedo blister. But it was the sheer size of her that overwhelmed. Staring hundreds of feet upward to the top of her yards where parabolic antennas turned in their perpetual search, Brent had the same awed feeling he had experienced when he first saw the Grand Tetons or stood in Times Square as a child. Size. Overwhelming size. Her stack was as big as an apartment house, and her flight deck umbrellaed over everything, supported by a forest of girders he had never seen from the bridge, and the muzzles of twenty five-inch guns could be seen, pointing skyward.

  “Fujita. That’s Fujita.” Kathryn said. “That thing is Fujita.”

  Turning and walking toward the stern with two seamen leading and the other pair following, the party approached the torpedo holes. In only two hours a swarm of workmen had rigged scaffolding, and Brent’s ear
s were assailed by the sounds of metal striking metal, shrieks of high-speed drills, and the machine gun bursts of pneumatic tools. Already a crane was lowering a great sheet of steel plating toward the damage where a dozen welders stood by on the planking.

  Without command, the party stopped and stared down soberly at the two great wounds. “Jesus,” Brent said to himself. “Each hole — maybe, thirty by twenty.”

  The torpedoes had hit well below the armor belt, opening the blisters like tin cans, bending jagged, blackened plates inward to scorched interiors. And black, ugly water streaked with oil poured out of the holes like puss out of open sores, splashing on the floor of the dock and sluicing to the drains.

  “Powerful! Powerful warheads,” Bernstein said.

  “And shaped — shaped charges for better penetration,” Allen noted.

  “I’m Lieutenant Loren Kaiser,” a voice said suddenly behind the group.

  Turning, Brent found a young, squat, powerfully built young officer with chestnut hair stringing out from under his cap, a nose broadened and apparently flattened by impacts, square jaw fashioned from stone, and intense hazel eyes that glistened with latent hostility.

  “Why the artillery? We gotcha covered,” the lieutenant continued, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at two SPs close behind him with slung M-16s.

  “We were expecting you but not your impertinence,” Mark Allen shot back.

  “Sorry, admiral,” Kaiser said with forced contriteness. He gestured at the edge of the dry dock. “But we do have this area secured. There must be a platoon of marines on duty.”

  And there was, indeed, a large contingent of camouflage-clad marines clutching automatic rifles, posted at regular intervals. And a heavy machine gun had been emplaced behind sandbags at the lone gate.

  “And no suicide truck can make it through those barriers.” Kaiser said, pointing at a series of roadblocks leading to the gate.

  “If you’ll follow me, gentlemen, and…” His eyes moved to Kathryn and roamed her supple body, which was outlined provocatively by the tight-fitting green fatigues. “And madam, I’ll take you to the two jeeps we have reserved for you just outside the gate.”

  “We’ll need three,” Mark Allen said. “Colonel Bernstein requires one, Mr. Ross and I need one, and Miss Suzuki will need a ride to —”

  “To my aunt’s,” the girl injected, “at Laie.”

  “Sorry, admiral,” Kaiser said. “Sorry about the foul-up. We didn’t know you had the woman. Nobody told us.”

  “She’s a survivor. I should have told you, lieutenant.”

  Kaiser looked around hastily and pointed at a vehicle parked near a corrugated metal shed. “You can have that one, admiral. It’s a work jeep, dirty, with a tool box instead of a rear seat, but it runs.”

  “Fine! Fine! And a driver…”

  “Please, admiral, let Ensign Ross drive me,” Kathryn said. “I won’t ever see any of you again and…”

  Brent felt a catch in his throat and a surge in his pulse. But never in his wildest fantasy would he have anticipated the admiral’s reply. “Why of course,” Mark Allen said. “I can complete my duties at NIS alone.” He pointed at the shed. “But I can’t assign you a guard. There’s no rear seat in that jeep. There can be a Sabbah…”

  “I’m sure we can manage,” Kathryn assured him. “Don’t you think so, Mr. Ross?”

  “Why of course, Miss Suzuki. Of course.” Brent was surprised by the steadiness of his voice.

  Chapter Ten

  Leaving the naval base with Brent at the wheel of the small windblown vehicle, Kathryn was stunned by the massive installation. “My family lived here, Brent, and we still have a place.” She waved to the north. “But I’ve never seen this place up close.”

  “I know what you mean,” he said, shifting gears and turning the wheel sharply, entering a wide road marked Avenue D. “I came here many times as a boy with my father and once after I graduated from the academy on NIS business. And I’ve only seen a small part of it.”

  As they passed row after row of buildings, Kathryn read the neatly lettered signs secured to the fronts: Post Office, Motor Pool, Chapel, Officers’ Club. “Jesus, it’s a city,” she said.

  After stopping at the Nimitz Gate and showing his identification, Brent was waved through by a guard who explained, “We know about Miss Suzuki, sir. Lieutenant Kaiser informed us.” There was a quick exchange of salutes, and Brent pointed the small vehicle out into a wide avenue marked Nimitz Highway.

  “Pull over to the first phone booth, Brent. I’ve got to make a call.”

  “Why didn’t you call at the base? Your aunt must think you’re dead. You know Fujita kept radio silence. There’s no way —”

  “Ah,” she said, stumbling into his sentence. “This isn’t official business, and Fujita let me out of my cabin only an hour ago. He’s kept me locked up since Yonaga was hit. And you’re right, they must think I’m dead. I’ve got to phone my aunt, Ichikio Kume.”

  “I don’t even know where we’re going.”

  “North Shore. I told you.”

  “But how? I’ve never been there.” He waved. “I’ve never left the southern part.”

  “Most people don’t. But don’t worry, I’ll show you, Brent.”

  “You have the con,” he said, wheeling into a gas station.

  After two calls, Kathryn reentered the vehicle. “Okay,” she said, gesturing. “Nimitz Highway east until you reach H-One and then left.”

  “That’s north?”

  “Right!”

  “No, no, Kathryn, say, ‘that is correct,’ not ‘right’. Right is a direction.”

  “You’re not steering a carrier, ensign,” she mocked. “Right!”

  “You mean ‘correct’, Brent.” They both laughed.

  “Your aunt’s home?”

  “No, she didn’t answer.”

  “But I saw you talking,” he said, puzzled.

  Again, the girl stumbled. “Ah, yes… I phoned the manager of a condo we own at Turtle Bay…checking on a unit we have. Sometimes it’s rented. It’s available in case I can’t find my aunt.”

  Brent felt uneasy. The girl’s voice was too high and edged with tension. She was concealing something.

  “Aloha Stadium,” she said, pointing to the left at the huge bowl.

  “Aloha everything.” He chuckled.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “One of the Admiral Fujita’s jokes.”

  “You mean that old killing machine has a sense of humor?”

  “He’s not a killing machine,” Brent retorted hotly. “He’s a brilliant tactician and the finest seaman on earth.”

  “Well, that fine seaman has left a lot of corpses in his wake. And he saved a lot of Jewish asses.”

  “What’s this thing you have with Jews? The Israelis have saved our butts in the Middle East. Without them, Kadafi would control the whole area.” And then harshly, he said, “Sometimes you sound like an Arab!” Shifting down, he jerked the wheel to the left and entered H-One, a six-lane divided freeway jammed with vehicles. Cursing, pivoting his head, he shifted gears, whipping the wheel and careening into the number one lane. The horrified driver of a 1967 Chevrolet braked, squealing tires and honking furiously.

  “Easy, Brent! Don’t finish here what Matsuhara started in the South Atlantic.”

  “I guess you hate him, too.”

  “He only shot me out of the sky.” And before Brent could answer, she added, “And I’m not an Arab.”

  “All right! All right,” he said brusquely, moving to a slower lane. “What now? You’re the captain.”

  “And I don’t hate Jews. Just oppressors.”

  “Jesus! What now?” he repeated. “I told you I’ve never been out of Honolulu — Waikiki. Give me some directions!”

  She pointed ahead. “Up there in a few miles make a right onto Kamehameha Highway. We’ll pass Pearl City first.”

  He nodded silently. His anger kept him mute for several miles, wonder
ing about this strange girl and the promise of the overt sexual advances she had made so casually on Yonaga — advances that could never be consummated on the warship. Now she seemed hard. Preoccupied. Especially after the phone calls. Maybe she had a lover. Had arranged a tryst. But, abruptly, his reveries were broken as she reverted back to her soothing little-girl’s voice.

  “You begin to see the beauty of Oahu out here. Back there,” she said, jerking a thumb over her shoulder, “you’re just in another urban sprawl.”

  “Slum,” Brent said, anger cooling. And then added laconically, “The Paradise of the Pacific.”

  She laughed, and he was encouraged by her changing mood. She pointed at a beautiful stand of vegetation as the freeway passed over a creek. “Ginger, plumeria, orchids, lehu, African tulip, banyan, mango, and God knows how many more.” And then she said quickly, “Here it is — Kamehameha.” Brent turned the wheel.

  As they headed north through some of the most beautiful country Brent had ever seen, the girl’s spirits seemed to soar with the beauty. And she knew it all, reeling off names like a horticulturist: “Pride of India, kapok, camphor, hau, algaroba, avocado…”

  “Okay,” he said in surrender. “It’s beautiful. I didn’t know Oahu could be so spectacular.”

  “Wait till you see the north shore, Brent. This is just a preview.”

  “We’re entering a large, flat plain.”

  “Right, pineapple country.” She pointed to the west to a majestic humpbacked range. “The Waianae Mountains…”

  “I know, Kathryn.” He gestured to the east to more majestic, cloud-shrouded peaks. “And those are the Koolau Mountains.”

  Within minutes, the road entered a vast red plain of thousands upon thousands of acres of pineapples. “That’s a lot of mai tais,” he quipped.

  She laughed. “I’m getting hungry, Brent.”

  “Me, too.”

  “There’s a nice place in Haleiwa. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  Suddenly, they left the pineapples, passed vast stands of sugarcane, bumped over a bridge that bottlenecked the road down to two lanes. “Things are changing,” he observed.