by Peter Albano
“But,” the sergeant warned in a tremulous voice, “a full investigation will be made and a report made to your commanding officer. You understand the Arab is gravely injured — has no face.”
“No face! No face,” the commander said thoughtfully, looking at Brent Ross. And then he said, looking back to the sergeant, “Admiral Fujita will be happy to study your report and cooperate fully in any further investigations.” Matsuhara secured his holster.
“Of course, commander. I know Admiral Fujita must be an honorable man.”
“A very honorable man, sergeant.”
Now after a bad night’s sleep that lasted until ten hundred hours and a change back into his number two green battle dress. Brent stood in front of Admiral Fujita’s desk. Commander Matsuhara, Col. Irving Bernstein, and Adm. Mark Allen were seated. Brent felt as if he were on trial.
Admiral Fujita, the commanding officer of the greatest warship on earth, spoke. “Another fight, Ensign Ross?”
“I defended myself.”
“You were careless?”
“Perhaps with the woman, admiral, but not the assassin.”
“He was Sabbah?”
“Yes. He made a knife attack. Attempted to kill from behind.”
Brent tried to read the old man’s face. But the flat, implacable visage defied analysis. He knew there had been embarrassment over Konoye’s incident on the Arizona Memorial. And now a member of the staff had been arrested and, perhaps, released by force; at least with Matsuhara’s thinly veiled intimidation. But samurai exalted the good fight, hated Sabbah and wallowed in vengeance.
Matsuhara interrupted, quoting a passage from the samurai’s bible, the Haga Kure: “When confronted by an enemy be first to attack and if you are killed, die facing the enemy.”
The words brought the Mediterranean back, and Brent remembered Fujita’s use of them before sending him into battle.
The old Japanese appeared unmoved by the words. “I understand he has no face,” he said. “The woman — were you with her?”
Brent felt his throat tighten. “Yes, sir.”
Admiral Allen interrupted, stretching the truth slightly. “I ordered the ensign to drive Kathryn Suzuki to her aunt’s home, admiral.”
“I know.”
“Admiral, the woman was Sabbah,” Brent said anxiously.
“I know that, too, ensign. We spent the morning investigating her.”
“The Junkers were armed,” Brent went on. “They were trying to sneak in with their civilian markings. They probably did run into the raid by accident.” Everyone nodded. “She lied about everything, admiral.”
Fujita spoke. “She was safe in her lies as long as we were on the high seas. She knew we were on radio silence and would not reveal the presence of prisoners or survivors in any event. No, she was clever and she knew how to handle men.” There was an awkward silence.
“She phoned,” Brent continued. “Contacted her assassin friend, Mano Said Hijarah. But her aunt, Ichikio Kume, doesn’t exist.”
“Not true, Brent,” Bernstein objected. “I interviewed her this morning.”
“I’ll be damned. There is an aunt? She told the truth?”
The Israeli chuckled. “Not quite. There is an Aunt Kume who lives in Mililani, not Laie, and the condo does belong to the family.” Brent felt heat fan his cheeks. “But Ichikio Kume hates Kathryn. Says her real name is Fukiko Hino. She was kicked out of USC in ’74 for revolutionary activities — she only threw a bomb into a synagogue — went to France where she met ‘Carlos the Jackal’ — Ilich Ramirez Sanchez, the Al Capone of terrorists. She lived with him for years, helped gun down three policemen and an informer named Michel Morikarbal in Paris. Then they fled to Kadafi’s bosom when things got hot and disappeared for a couple of years except for one brief incident when a woman answering Hino’s description threw a grenade at Anwar Sadat’s limousine.”
“Jesus,” Brent mumbled, “she’s a lot older than she looks.”
“Thirty-four. And as far as Israeli Intelligence knows, and we do have an extensive file on Fukiko Hino, she spent several years in Libya living with a variety of Marxists, dissidents, and terrorists, and training at Al Hamra where she became an expert with the Kalashnikov, Makarov, RPG-Seven bazooka, SAM-Seven, and plastiques. Then in 1980, she took part in the Demetrios incident —”
Brent interrupted with a confused stare. “Demetrios?”
“Sorry, ensign. A bunch of fedayeen loaded the Greek steamer Demetrios with dynamite and rockets, pointed her at the beach at Eilat on Rosh Hashanah when they knew it would be jammed with Israelis celebrating the new year, set the automatic pilot and went over the side. Fortunately, it was intercepted by the Israeli navy.”
“She did that?” Brent mumbled in disbelief.
“She was second in command to her new lover, Muhammed Abu Kassem. We call him Nader.”
“Then what?” Brent mumbled numbly.
“We have reports that over the past five years she has been seen as an instructor in Cuba, El Salvador, Chile, Lebanon, Greece. She also helped plan the attack on the marine barracks at the Beirut Airport.”
Fujita interrupted. “Thank you, Colonel Bernstein.” His eyes focused on Brent Ross. “She was clever — she fooled us all, ensign. And a wise man learns when in the classroom; does not go home with an empty head.”
Matsuhara spoke to Brent. “You got some revenge for us back there in the parking lot. And we will remember Kathryn Suzuki — Hino, or whoever she was.”
“True,” Fujita agreed. And then, face grim, Adm. Hiroshi Fujita, samurai, spoke. The words brought a sigh of relief to Brent. “We Japanese exalt vengeance — the vengeance of the forty-seven ronin. We must remember one cannot demand that hate last forever. How can one answer for the moment when life is nothing but a succession of moments? No, only duty to the mikado can prevail immune to the onslaught of time — clean, pristine, and eternal. Let us put this unfortunate incident behind us and look to the future — a future dark with the clouds of new dangers.” The black eyes flashed to the pilot. “But Yoshi-san, if the opportunity presents itself…” The two Japanese smiled at each other.
Brent sighed, feeling a great weight of anxiety lifted from his shoulders. There was a knock at the door, and the admiral nodded at the ensign. Opening the door, Brent ushered in Capt. Wilfred Rhoads, followed by a yeoman carrying a large briefcase. “I’m sorry to interrupt. It’s a financial matter,” the dock master said, eyes moving around the room.
Fujita spoke. “These are members of my staff. We may discuss any matter you wish. Please be seated.”
Seating himself, the captain removed a large bundle of documents from the briefcase. “The bill for repairs, dock use, ammunition, and fuel comes to twenty-two million, four hundred and fifty-six thousand, two hundred thirty-four dollars and twenty-one cents. And I understand we will be expected to fuel seven more escorts. Our PBYs have picked them up.”
Mark Allen, with an elfin twinkle in his eyes, asked softly, “What’s the twenty-one cents for, captain?”
“It’s just part of the bill, admiral,” Rhoads retorted heatedly.
“You’ll be paid,” Admiral Fujita said. “Just forward your bill to the National Parks Department, Tokyo.”
“Not the Self-Defense Force?”
“No, captain. Yonaga violates Article Nine of Japan’s constitution. We were declared a national monument,” Fujita explained. “Yonaga is in the Register of National Parks. Send them the bill.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. I’ll be damned.” And then, tapping the briefcase, he said, “I brought itemized printouts for your inspection.”
“Very well. I will have my executive officer study them. You may return to your duties, captain.”
“And admiral,” Rhoads said, rising. “Those escorts should be here tomorrow.”
“I know. That would be in accordance with my orders.”
Chapter Eleven
The next day, the plates had been welded, dock floode
d, and Yonaga eased back to her moorings south of Ford Island, while from deep in the bowels of the ship the sounds of hammers and pneumatic tools could be heard as Commander Fukioka’s crews shored damaged bulkheads and replaced reinforcing beams. Engine room three was secure.
“We can make flank speed again,” Fujita had muttered from the bridge as he watched the ship’s lines secured. At that moment, the first of seven sleek, gray-clad Fletchers rounded Hospital Point and made for the pier at the naval shipyard just south of Yonaga’s berth.
“Signal bridge,” Fujita said to the talker. “Make the hoist. Escort captains report aboard flagship.” He left the bridge.
*
Flag Plot was so crowded Brent Ross and Yoshi Matsuhara were forced to stand. From his position at the end of the table opposite Admiral Fujita, Capt. John Fite sat. A huge bearlike man with a shock of white hair over dark brows, he had close-set blue eyes that glowed with good humor, yet held a promise of steely resolve if provoked. Brent liked the man. He had shown courage in the fight with the Brooklyn and had even entered Tripoli Harbor at great risk in the fruitless attempt to save the hostages. He recognized Wright, Lucy, and Kozloff. But faces were missing, too: Ogren and Warner who died hideously with their crews, charging the Brooklyn on their gallant torpedo runs. And Jackson was gone, blown to bits when a broadside exploded his magazines.
Fujita opened the meeting. “Please introduce your new captains, Captain Fite.”
Coming to his feet, the escort commander spoke in a deep, sonorous voice. “I handpicked each one,” he said proudly. “They are all Annapolis graduates and experienced destroyer skippers.” Then as Fite introduced them — Haber, White, Marshall, Fortino, Thompson, Philbin, Gilliland — each stood as their commander gave a brief biography. They had much in common: they all wore three stripes, had fought in three wars, and had personal reasons for fighting the Arabs. For most, it was the humiliation of seeing America placating sneering dictators; for others, it was hatred for Kadafi and terrorists. In fact, Gilliland’s wife had been murdered in the hijacking of a TWA DC-10. All refused pay and all wore at least five decades on their faces. Nevertheless, there was strength and resolution in the eyes and the set of the jaws. These were fighters, Brent thought. Like Ogren and Warner.
Fujita spoke. “You are taking on fuel and provisions, Captain Fite?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Condition of your command?”
“Each vessel is armed with five, five inch, thirty-eight main batteries, twenty millimeter and forty millimeter secondaries in their original configurations.”
“Torpedoes?”
“Mark Fourteens.”
Fujita tapped the table. Turned to Admiral Allen. “Our Mark-forty-eights?” The destroyer captains muttered excitedly.
“I’ve been told they’ll be waiting at Yokosuka, sir,” Allen said.
“Great! Now we’ll have a real fish,” Fite said.
“You know we were hit by the Russian five-three-three,” Fujita said, restoring his dialogue with Fite.
“Yes, sir.”
“From a Whiskey!”
“We know that too, sir. It’s a vicious fish, and even an Arab can wire-guide it.”
“We can defeat it with a new cruising formation.” Hunching forward, the old admiral described an array of escorts divided into outer and inner screens. The outer screen would be led by the escort commander who would patrol 15 kilometers ahead of the carrier’s bows. Then 3 more to port and 3 to starboard, 5 kilometers from the flagship and 3 kilometers between ships so that not only Yonaga’s bows and beams would be protected, but her stern as well. And the remaining five Fletchers would steam in the usual formation: one leading — ahead of Yonaga and astern of Fite — and the remaining four patrolling in pairs 500 meters from the carrier’s sides. “And,” Fujita concluded, “my executive officer will give you printouts of this formation.” Captain Kawamota staggered to his feet and distributed the perforated sheets.
Eyes still fixed on Captain Fite, Fujita continued. “Number your ships from one to twelve and paint the number on your bows. You will remain number one, captain.” Fite nodded. “Divide your command into divisions One, Two, Three, and Four.”
“For torpedo attacks, sir?”
“Yes. And for command flexibility. Choose your own division leaders and inform me of your choices by sixteen hundred hours.”
“Yes, sir.”
“In the event of sonar contact, fire your main battery and fire a single red flare.” Twelve heads nodded as one. “There will be strict radio silence unless the enemy is in sight. Then use bridge to bridge and FM ten. All communications will be by flashing light or flag hoist.” Again the nods. The admiral’s eyes roamed the expectant faces. “Your crews — you are satisfied with your crews?”
“Fine crew,” Marshall volunteered. “American and Japanese.”
“I’ve never seen such dedication and determination, sir,” Gilliland added.
A rare smile stirred the wrinkles at the corners of Fujita’s eyes and mouth into new patterns. “Good! Good! The tasks ahead will call for brave men, indeed.” His eyes moved back to Fite. “We sortie tomorrow morning at ten hundred hours. My executive officer will give each of you a packet explaining codes, hoists — which will be standard international signals — our fighter frequency and calls, CAP, and search patterns.” His eyes moved back to the new faces. “Questions?”
“ETA Tokyo, sir?” White said.
“Sometimes it is best that certain things remain in one man’s head.” There was a rumble of laughter. White nodded, smiling. Fujita looked at Brent and gestured to the door. Brent turned the knob and two attendants entered, each carrying trays, bottles, and cups. Soon each officer clutched a white cup filled with sake. Slowly, the old admiral stood. Then with a scraping of chairs, every man followed, holding his cup chest high.
Fujita smiled at John Fite. “Do you remember the toast we made before we pulled the tiger’s teeth in his own jungle, captain?”
“Indeed, sir,” Fite said, smiling back. “Here’s to good hunting!”
“Hear! Hear!” sprinkled with “Banzai!” roared back. The cups were drained and quickly refilled.
“And in the Japanese tradition,” Fujita said, setting his cup down. Every Japanese mirrored his movement and then clapped twice. Turning to the paulownia shrine, Fujita spoke reverently yet quickly like a chanting priest: “Oh, Izanagi and Izanami, whose love gave birth to our islands, earth, sea, mountains, woods, nature herself — the god of fire, the moon god, the sun goddess, Amaterasu, who ascended to the supreme place amongst all gods on the Plain of High Heaven, join with us and your descendant, Emperor Hirohito, in showing us the way to lay waste our enemy and remove the shadows of fear from the face of our nation.”
Silently, the cups were drained.
Chapter Twelve
After clearing Pearl Harbor, the task force steamed due west at 24 knots. By noon, Oahu had faded astern and the vast blue wasteland of the Pacific stretched endlessly to every horizon. Although the repairs had been made hastily, there were no leaks, and the great warship drew her normal thirty-two foot draft as she bit through the mounting rollers that greeted her west of the land mass of the Hawaiian chain.
The sea watch had been set, and Brent was off duty; still he remained on the bridge standing next to Admiral Fujita long after the Special Sea Detail had been secured. A sense of exhilaration filled the ship. Yonaga was well, answered the helm with her usual quick obedience. And the throb of engines was strong like the heartbeat of a young athlete. High above, the CAP was at work again, circling the widely spread task force — Mark Allen had said Fujita’s deployment over hundreds of square miles of ocean was like that of a modern battle group. The anti-submarine patrol had increased to eight bombers, all low on the water, new depth bombs armed with the most modern sonar homing and acoustic fuses visible under their wings and fuselages.
Two familiar faces were missing: Frank Dempster, who departed the day
they entered Pearl Harbor, ostensibly for CIA headquarters, but Brent was convinced the man found the nearest bar first; and Kathryn Suzuki. Brent was grateful that not one man had mentioned the woman since the meeting in the admiral’s cabin. He knew he should hate her, but found difficulty focusing that emotion on her. Perhaps once you’ve been to bed with a woman, feasted on her passion and spent your longings within her body, hatred for her became an impossibility, yet he knew if he ever saw her again he would kill her. He shuddered, thinking of the coldly diabolical act that he would perform without the help of hate, rage, and all of the other emotions nature so conveniently provides a man in danger, making violence not only easier but sometimes mandatory. He would kill her because she had tried to destroy Yonaga. He would kill her because she warred against his country. He would kill her because she had led him into a trap — a trap he should have sensed, but did not because his desire for her blinded him to warning signals that should have been obvious to a schoolboy. He had been a fool.
Fujita’s voice shocked him. “The deep sea can be fathomed, but who knows the motives of men and women,” the old sailor said, staring through his binoculars over Yonaga’s bow.
Brent was stunned. The old man seemed to climb inside his mind. “I would kill Kathryn Suzuki, if that’s what you mean, admiral.”
“Yes, ensign. We would all welcome that opportunity, indeed.” Dropping his glasses, he looked up at Brent, mind flying to another topic with an abruptness that never failed to startle Brent. “Your navy has been lying about Arizona.” Brent’s inquisitive stare encouraged the old man. “You know I have done a little reading about the Greater East Asia War.”
A little reading. The phrase brought a smile to Brent’s lips. The admiral’s library — the cabin of a long dead flag officer next to his own — was crammed with histories written by historians and combatants of all nations. It was so congested, younger members of the crew claimed it was easier to fight your way on board a Japanese railroad car than to shoulder your way into the admiral’s library. Whenever free of the bridge and his frequent meetings, the old man pored over the books; sometimes smiling, sometimes pouting, and sometimes a tear would find its way down a ridged and creased cheek. He missed nothing and retained details like a computer.
