Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “Quartermaster,” Atsumi said to a petty officer. “Bearings on Iro Zaki and Nojima Zaki.” The rating complied. After a flurry of activity with his parallel ruler and drafting machine, the navigator turned to the admiral, saying, “Suggest course three-zero-five, sir.”

  “Very well.” Fujita spoke to the talker. “Signal bridge make the hoist; course three-zero-five, speed sixteen, execute to follow.” There were shouted commands on the signal bridge, and within minutes pennants and flags snapped in the wind like whips.

  Brent swept his glasses over the escorts which had moved in closer to the flagship as land was approached. “All answer, sir.”

  “Very well,” the admiral said, moving to the voice tube. “Execute!” Then to the tube: “Come right to three-zero-five, speed eighteen.”

  The vessel heeled and the pulsations under Brent’s feet slowed. “Steady on three-zero-five, speed eighteen, ninety-six revolutions, sir.” The voice came from the tube.

  “Very well.”

  As the crew shouted and gesticulated like men returning to a long-deserted mistress, Brent stared through his glasses at this strange enigmatic land that seemed filled with paradoxes: guests removed shoes, not hats; wine was heated, fish eaten raw; bathers scrubbed themselves clean before entering a bath; mourners wore white; taxis had no door handles, but the doors sprang open on springs that could cripple the unwary; an emperor who was a man and would die was the direct descendant of an immortal god; two separate religions practiced with equal fervor — birth celebrated by Shinto rites, death by Buddhist; a language with no alphabet but more than two thousand Kanji characters, borrowed from the Chinese, with multiple meanings depending on context. And the Japanese were polite, ceremonial with their courtesy until you entered a railroad car with them — then they would casually break your arms and legs to beat you to the door. “Strange, he sighed to himself. “Strange.” And it was here he had met Sarah — Capt. Sarah Aranson, in Bernstein’s office in the Israeli Embassy. He remembered the strong yet attractive face, which showed its thirty years with softly etched lines crinkling at the corners of her wide brown eyes, glowing with intelligence. Her skin was tanned and healthy, brown hair coiffed smartly about her ears. Despite a loose-fitting blouse and slacks, Brent recalled the excitement of her full-formed body, pointed breasts, and rounded hips showing through the khaki. They had had dinner together in a private little house at the Kobayaki-ya restaurant. They drank too much. Sarah drank far too much. Talked of the holocaust. Her grandparents, aunts, uncles, all roasted for the glory of the Third Reich. Of Israel’s desperate plight with the jihad closing in on all of her borders. She spoke casually of her dead lover, Ari Weitzman, the pilot of a Mirage fighter, who, failing to elude a SAM missile, had been blown to pieces over the Bekaa Valley. And Brent had felt the attraction between them from the start — a fierce attraction that remained unconsummated until Yonaga’s attack on Kadafi and Brent’s mission to Ben Gurion Airport to pick up a new encryption box. Then, thirty-six hours with Sarah in her Tel Aviv apartment seared the hot blood from his veins and left him drained, in a state of peace he had never known before — or since. He stirred uneasily as Kathryn’s face awoke in the dark recesses. Pushing her back, he sighed and returned to Sarah. Would he ever see her again? He knew she had served all over the world and expected an assignment in Washington. But the world was such a mess. So many obstacles.

  He was shocked from his reverie by the talker’s voice. “Radar reports many targets exiting the channel.”

  “Very well.”

  Refocusing his glasses, Brent spotted a small shape tossing in the waves and bearing down on Yonaga. Then another and another loomed.

  “Many small craft,” he said, turning to the admiral. “Off both bows, sir.”

  “Sacred Buddha — and in this wind.” Shouted commands reduced the great warship’s speed to 10 knots.

  As Yonaga made her regal way into the sheltered waters of Sagami Nada and the main channel, the wind lessened, and hundreds of gaily decorated boats jammed with cheering thousands crowded close by, forcing further reductions in speed and very careful piloting.

  “Fools. They are slowing us,” Fujita growled with unconvincing pique.

  “They’re glad to see us, Allen said softly into Brent’s ear. “They’ll have gas for their Toyotas as long as Yonaga’s afloat.” Brent smiled.

  “Sir,” the talker said, “bridge to bridge reports a message from the commander, Self-Defense Forces — proceed to dry dock, Yokosuka.”

  “Very well.” The old Japanese turned to Mark Allen and Brent Ross. He was obviously in an exuberant mood. “COMSELDEFOR,” he said with satirical relish.

  The three men laughed.

  *

  That same afternoon Yonaga was carefully eased into the great graving dock at Yokosuka by four tugs that scurried about her like peasants fawning over a great daimyo. By nightfall, the dock had almost been pumped dry and the behemoth settled on her blocks, frames and plates groaning their displeasure with the unaccustomed stresses. Immediately, yard workmen began stripping the temporary plates from the torpedo holes. And Frank Dempster came aboard, carefully clutching the lifeline on the gangway as he weaved unsteadily toward the quarterdeck, and the meeting Admiral Fujita had already convened.

  *

  “They flew me in,” the CIA man said, blowing a gust of alcoholic fumes into Brent Ross’s face from his seat in Flag Plot. He drank from a cup of black coffee that Admiral Fujita had ordered for him and then ran his eyes over the staff before speaking to the admiral. “I have some news for you, sir.” He patted a dossier. Then removed a single sheet. “The Arabs have broken Alpha Two and our Zebra codes. They’ve been reading your transmissions since you left the South Atlantic.”

  Bernstein said, “We have a new encryption box waiting for us at the Israeli Embassy.”

  “And at NIS,” Mark Allen added.

  “Good,” Fujita said.

  Sighing, Dempster selected another document. “We confirmed the defeat of the British. They lost all three carriers.” There was an angry rumble. “And we have reports that an Arab battle group is, at this moment, gathering in the eastern Med. Kadafi is riding high on his victory, and he’s getting new support. He has pledged to teach ‘those maverick Indonesian dogs a lesson,’ and ‘to tame those little yellow monkeys.’” There was a roar of anger. The CIA man raised his hands. Silence. “Also, we have word that the Arabs have two big-gunned ships we thought had been bought for scrap.” He picked up a sheet. “Two of the British carriers were sunk by aircraft, but the third was shelled and sunk by two cruisers. We have identified them as the Indian cruiser Mysore, formerly the British Nigeria of the Fiji class. Ten thousand tons, nine six inch Vickers in triple mounts, eight four inch secondary guns, and forty millimeter and twenty millimeter AA. She can do thirty-two knots and has a range of forty-five hundred miles at twenty knots. The other is the Pakistani Johangir, ex-HMS Diadem of the Dido class, seven thousand five hundred sixty tons, eight five-point-two-five inch guns, fourteen forty millimeter secondary, speed thirty knots, range four thousand miles at eighteen knots.” He dropped the sheet. “We have word both vessels are manned by combined German, Russian, and Arab crews. Their shooting was fair to good. Both ships are well equipped with radar — Type two-seven-four fire control.”

  “Their aircraft?”

  “Primarily the ME BF — one-oh-nine T and the JU-eighty-seven C, as we suspected. They’re actually building the airframes in East Germany. They’re using a variety of engines — the Jumo and Damlier Benz both being built also in East Germany.”

  Matsuhara spoke suddenly. “We can beat them. The Messerschmitt is too heavy.”

  Bernstein added, “There are reports of a few Grumann F-four-Fs.”

  Matsuhara snorted, “The flying sake bottle. Target practice.”

  “Pilots?” Fujita asked.

  “German, Russian, and Arab — mostly Syrians and Libyans.”

  “Mercenaries — no
match for the Yamato damashii of our samurai,” Matsuhara added, eyes gleaming.

  “Banzai! Banzai!”

  “Mr. Dempster,” Fujita said, ignoring the shouts. “We expect the Arabs to attack, and I would expect this task force — or battle group as you like to call it — to be underway within five weeks; unless some of their heavy units received serious damage in the recent fighting.”

  “No, sir. Some bent plates from near misses on one Colossus and forty-two planes destroyed or damaged. Nothing they can’t repair and replace in Tripoli and Benghazi.”

  “Very well, Mr. Dempster. But Yonaga will be ready for sea in four weeks. We will prepare a reception for them.”

  “Banzai! Banzai!” the Japanese shouted.

  There was a knock, and a rating ushered in two Japanese officers in the dress blues of the Maritime Self-Defense Force. Brent recognized one, Capt. Takahashi Aogi, who had been the first representative of the Japanese government to board Yonaga when she first entered Tokyo Bay in December. Gray and lined, he was a tall slender man with wide un-oriental eyes. Brent remembered the look of awe in his eyes when Aogi first saw Admiral Fujita. It was still there.

  “Welcome,” he said softly. “All of Japan is grateful.”

  “And the emperor?”

  Aogi removed an envelope from an inner pocket of his tunic and handed it to the admiral, saying obsequiously, “From the emperor.”

  Quickly, Fujita tore open the envelope, placed steel-rimmed glasses on his nose and read.

  “He is pleased! Pleased,” he exulted, looking up. “I meet with him tomorrow!’

  “Banzai! Banzai!”

  Brent knew the importance of imperial approval. Holding the Self-Defense Force in contempt, disgusted with the hedonism rampant in Japan and appalled by the loss of ancient values and virtues, Fujita and Yonaga answered to no one except the emperor who, everyone knew, was a deity, descended in a direct line from the sun goddess Amaterasu-omikami.

  Aogi turned to his companion, a short, roly-poly man of about fifty with shifty, nervous eyes and a frightened look turning down the corners of his mouth. “Admiral, Lt. Comdr. Yoshiki Kamakura. He is the dock master and is in charge of repairs and of filling your requisitions.”

  Admiral Fujita fired his first question at Lieutenant Commander Kamakuro. “From my bridge I saw a fence and one gate with a small guardhouse. Two guards were lounging there smoking and talking.”

  “I can assure you, sir. Security is adequate,” the lieutenant commander pleaded in a scratchy, breathless voice.

  Fujita turned to Brent Ross. “Once, long ago, you told me of Arab attacks with car bombs on Americans in Lebanon.”

  Again the puzzling memory of an old man. Fujita had forgotten about his own prisoners, yet remembered a scrap of information casually mentioned during a bridge watch in Tokyo Bay, six months earlier. “Yes, sir,” Brent answered. “In April of 1983, a car bomb killed over sixty people at the American Embassy in West Beirut. And then, maybe, six months later, another suicide bomber destroyed the American marine barracks at the Beirut Airport. Over two hundred American marines were killed.”

  “Two hundred forty-one, to be exact,” Mark Allen added.

  “Sabbah?” Fujita asked.

  Colonel Irving Bernstein spoke. “Perhaps, admiral. Probably recruited from the Shiites.”

  “A Moslem sect,” Fujita said. “I have heard of them but I had the impression the Druze and Sunni were the most powerful.”

  “Until recently,” Bernstein responded. “Shiites are basically an impoverished, rural people. They split from the Sunni over doctrines concerning descendants of Muhammad and other basic tenets of Islam. They are ruthless, known for their brutal acts, and in the last few years have earned their reputation for suicidal attacks which, of course, can lead to eternal life in heaven. Shiites make the best recruits for Sabbah.”

  Fujita removed a richly bound volume from his desk and began to read. Shocked, Brent realized the old man was reading a description of heaven from the Koran: “‘…an oasis of paradise and silk attire, reclining therein upon couches. Naught shall they know of sun and bitter cold…its fruits shall hang down. Vessels of silver are brought round for them and goblets like flagons made of silver. There they are to drink of the cup…’” Brent moved his eyes down the table as the voice droned on. “‘…their raiment will be of green silk and gold brocade. With silver bracelets they will be adorned and the Lord will give them drink of pure beverage…’ Need I read more?” Fujita asked. “My staff has experienced their suicidal attacks.” He eyed Kamakura. “We will provide our own security.”

  “But, sir…”

  Ignoring the dock master, the admiral turned to Capt. Masao Kawamoto. “Beginning now, the officer of the deck will maintain his watch at the head of the accommodation ladder as usual. But move the junior officer of the deck to the guardroom at the gate…” He paused thoughtfully. “No, the petty officer of the watch at the gate with four seaman guards.” He fingered a single white whisker on his chin. “None of the ship’s armament can depress enough to cover the gate, so place a Nambu in a sandbag, emplacement between the gate and the foot of the accommodation ladder.” He turned to Kamakura. “Your fence is sturdy. If the Sabbah attempt an attack with a truck bomb, I would expect it to come through the gate. The Nambu would have a zero deflection shot.”

  “Sir,” the chagrined dock master implored. “We have security — twenty men. There is no need for machine guns.”

  “Enough! You have heard of the battle cruiser Amagi. She was knocked from her blocks by an earthquake in this graving dock in 1923 and lost. A truck loaded with explosives could do the same to Yonaga.” The old admiral turned to Kawamoto, gesturing to a phone. “Give the orders, captain.”

  Kawamoto put the instrument to his hear and spoke hurriedly. After cradling the phone, he spoke to the admiral. “Your orders are being carried out, sir.”

  Kamakura fidgeted with irritation. But Fujita’s next statement brought shock to his face. “Half the ship’s armament is to be manned and ready as ready guns.” Kamakura released his breath like a high-pressure boiler.

  “You have a CAP, sir.”

  Brent expected an explosion. It came. Bringing a tiny fist down on the oak, Fujita shouted. “Enough! This vessel’s security is my concern. Take care of your dock, repair Yonaga and see to it my supplies are delivered.”

  Sinking back, the dock master spoke in a subdued voice. “I did not mean to presume, sir.” He lifted a document with a trembling hand. “According to this report sent to me by your damage control officer,” he said and nodded at Commander Fukioka, “you had flooding in fire rooms eleven and thirteen, number seven auxiliary five inch magazine, compartment five-seven-one, auxiliary engine room three, the starboard thrust block room and the center motor room. Bilge fuel tanks five, seven, nine, and eleven were ripped open, and,” he said, looking up, “the bulkhead between number eleven fireroom and number three engine room has been damaged.”

  “That is correct.”

  “And I understand you expect this damage to be repaired and new plates welded over the holes in four weeks.”

  “The fate of Japan…” The admiral glanced at Bernstein. “Israel and perhaps what remains of the free world is in the balance.”

  The dock master placed open palms down hard and flat on a schematic of Yonaga taped to the table. He spoke in a hushed, barely audible voice. “You have been underway under combat conditions for three months.”

  “That is correct, commander.”

  “Then, admiral, you were not able to secure boilers for routine maintenance,” the dockmaster noted.

  “Correct.”

  “Then your boilers should be descaled, water tubes checked for deterioration and burn-through.” Fujita nodded. Kamakura pressed on: “You must have condensed seven hundred thousand gallons of water a day.”

  “Sometimes nine hundred thousand.”

  Kamakura stabbed the schematic with a single finger. “Your
evaporators should be descaled, the mineral deposits —”

  “Commander,” Fujita interrupted sharply. “I know these things. This is my ship.”

  “I know, sir. I would not challenge that.” The man’s professionalism pushed aside his trepidation. “But if you add the lack of routine maintenance to your torpedo damage, you are asking for the impossible. I need four months, not four weeks.”

  Fujita hunched forward, anger replaced by determination. “You can repair the hull? Clean the boilers and the evaporators?”

  “Yes. It’s the inboard compartments. They can’t be completely restored.”

  “The watertight integrity can be —”

  “Yes.”

  Fujita turned in his thin lips. “I need the five inch magazine, the rest of it is redundant.”

  “I can give you clean boilers, tubes, evaporators, the magazine, fuel tanks, and a hull as good as new.” Everyone sighed and there were smiles.

  “My escorts?”

  “Members of my staff are inspecting them, admiral.”

  “Mark-forty-eight torpedoes? My destroyers were to be equipped with them.”

  “I know nothing of Mark-forty-eight torpedoes, sir.”

  Fujita turned to Mark Allen. “You said we would have them waiting for us!”

  Allen swallowed hard. He glanced at Brent Ross. “According to our last transmission from NIS,” he answered. Brent nodded.

  “But they are not here?”

  “I can contact the navy department through our attaché at the embassy.”

  “Do it personally.”

  “Now?”

  “Sunday. I want the entire staff on board for the next forty-eight hours.” He turned to Bernstein. “You can pick up your new encryption box then.” The Israeli nodded. Brent watched with fascination as the nimble mind opened still another critical subject. “Captain Aogi, we lost sixty-three pilots, seventy-two aircrewmen, forty-two gunners, and eighty-three dead to the torpedoes.”