Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  *

  The old man’s head sagged and the tip of his chin dropped almost to his chest. The narrow eyes were closed and the breathing was slow and deep. Hirosho Fujita slept for the first time in twenty-seven hours.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next day as junior officer of the watch, Brent Ross stood his duty at the position designated by the admiral, midway between the main gate and the foot of the accommodation ladder. Crossing the accommodation ladder, he had been halted by Bernstein’s excited voice. “Brent! Brent!” the Israeli called from the quarterdeck. “Sarah Aranson’s at the embassy. She brought the encryption box from Tel Aviv.”

  “Great! Great!” Brent enthused, smiling broadly.

  “We’ll see her tomorrow,” Bernstein said. “We’ll pick up the box together — admiral’s orders.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Brent said with mock servility. “I always obey orders.” Both men laughed. Brent crossed the ladder with a new spring in his step and a glint in his eyes. “Sarah, Sarah. I’ll see Sarah tomorrow,” he sang to himself.

  Then he was overwhelmed by the noise — the usual cacophony of shouts, bangs, and riveting pneumatic tools. Gawking silently, several groups of workmen and Maritime Defense Force guards stood on the dock and stared at the leviathan. Blocking up such a colossal mass seemed a violation of the laws of physics. Certainly it appeared that nothing could hold her, and the great steel behemoth should crash from the supports, crushing everything that stood in her way. And how could one man bend such a giant to his will — command her to run, to stop, to turn, to fight, and kill? Brent remembered Kathryn Suzuki’s remark. “That’s Fujita. That thing is Fujita.” Yes. She had been right.

  Walking from the foot of the ladder to the gate and guardhouse, he passed the sandbagged machine gun position manned by a single gunner wearing the badge of a water-tender. The man was struggling with a belt of ammunition, forcing it into the block of an air-cooled Type 92, 7-point 7 millimeter Nambu. The same model Brent had used to shoot down an Arab plane on his flight to Tel Aviv.

  “Not that way,” Brent said, stepping into the position and squatting down behind the tripod next to the water-tender.

  “Water-tender second class, Hidari Jingoro,” the man said, stopping his fumbling and saluting.

  “This is a two-man mount,” Brent said, answering the salute.

  “Yes, sir.” Jingoro gestured to a small building next to the gatehouse. “The gunner is Chief Gunner’s Mate Shikibu Mushimaro. He’s ill — ran to the head.” He looked at the weapon helplessly. “I have spent a lifetime in the engine room, sir. I know nothing about these aircraft weapons. The chief said I would only have to feed the belt and he would teach me.”

  “Well, Water-tender Jingoro, Chief Mushimaro taught me, and there’s not much to loading one of these,” Brent said. “Now just hold that first brass-tag holder on the belt.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, I’ll open this shutter.” Brent lifted the shutter on the side of the breech. He turned to the water-tender. “Pass the tag loader through the block.” The man followed instructions. “Watch carefully. I’ll load one.” He jerked back the crank handle on the opposite side and let the spring drive it home. “The gib at the top of the extractor has engaged the first round.”

  “I see, sir. But we are not finished,” Jingoro observed. “We need a round in the firing chamber.”

  “Very good. You’re right,” Brent said, impressed by the usual intelligence found in members of Yonaga’s crew. He gripped the crank. “Now we’ll load two,” he said, pulling hard against the handle, the feed block clattering as the first round was driven smoothly into the breech. “Now she’s loaded and cocked.” He threw a small lever to the left until it pointed at a green dot. “And, it’s on safe.”

  “I see, sir. Red to fire.”

  “Correct.”

  As Brent rose, the water-tender settled down behind the weapon. “Can you handle it?”

  “Yes, ensign.” Jingoro waved at a thin figure approaching. “And here comes Chief Mushimaro.”

  “Very well.” As Brent walked toward the gatehouse, he answered the chief’s salute and stopped the petty officer with a raised hand. “Are you well enough to stand your watch, Chief Mushimaro?”

  “Yes, sir,” the gunner’s mate answered. “Just a little upset.” He patted his stomach. “Too much rich food. None of us are accustomed to it, Ensign Ross.”

  Another exchange of salutes, and Brent continued his walk toward the gatehouse. Warehouses that had been loaded with stores and ammunition months in advance stretched to both sides. Swarms of fork lifts and electrically driven carts moved pallets laden with supplies directly up ramps into the ship’s bowels or to cradles to be winched aboard. Only a few trucks were to be seen. One, a ten-wheel ragtop with Yonaga in both English and ideograms emblazoned on doors and canvas, almost ran Brent down as the young man made for the gate.

  “Careful!” he shouted as the truck passed him headed for the gate.

  “Sorry, sir,” the driver shouted back contritely. Recognizing the huge bulk of Chief Aviation Mate Shimada behind the wheel, Brent waved back good-naturedly.

  “He went out alone?” Brent said to the petty officer of the watch as he arrived at the gate.

  “Yes, sir,” the petty officer said. “He logged out to the administrative offices.” He gestured to a tall, modern concrete building jutting up among the warehouses about a half mile to the west.

  Brent looked around quickly; besides the petty officer who was armed with an Otsu automatic just like the one on his own hip, four Ariska-armed seamen guards stood alertly behind a white wooden barrier that was raised to permit traffic in and out. In the guardhouse, two young Defense Force ratings sat by communications equipment. To the left and right a heavy, tall wire fence supported by closely placed steel posts gave added security. Satisfied, Brent turned and walked back toward the machine gun position where he could see Jingoro and Mushimaro squatting behind the weapon. The gun was pointed at his chest.

  With an empty feeling in his stomach, he moved to his right to a stack of empty pallets. Carefully, he climbed up the stack, which was about six feet high, and sat down, facing the gate, legs dangling.

  The hours passed. A rating brought him coffee and sweet rolls while the others received their tea, raw fish, and cucumbers. Often trucks passed, and Queen Yonaga continued to devour supplies as fast as the worker ants could stuff her. While yawning, Brent spotted Chief Shimada’s ragtop returning. The good old chief. He had tried to stop that terrible fight with Konoye on the hangar deck. A competent man with a sweet nature. But even from this distance, the chief looked smaller. Brent straightened. Reached for his binoculars. Cursed. Of course he did not have them. Not for this watch. Then he saw the passenger. An alarm rang in his brain.

  Leaping to the ground, he shouted at the machine gun crew, “Machine gun — the truck! The truck!”

  Chief Mushimaro shouted. “Aye, aye, sir,” and squinted through his sights, tightening his hand on the pistol grip.

  Racing toward the gate, Brent saw the truck suddenly gain speed. He pulled the Otsu from its holster, screaming, “The truck!” It disappeared behind a building.

  For a few horrifying moments, the guards seemed not to understand. Then the truck reappeared, charging the gate at at least fifty miles per hour. The passenger was on the running board holding a stubby weapon, the driver huddled low behind the windshield and the protective mass of the engine.

  There was a shot, then another and another as the guards opened fire. Then flame leaped from the running board, and there was the sound of a machine gun firing so fast the shots sounded like a ripping sheet. The guards were swept from their feet by a blizzard of slugs, Arisakas clattering on the hard asphalt.

  “Uzi! Uzi!” Brent shouted. The truck crashed through the barrier, crushing the screaming wounded, swerving and bringing half the gatehouse with it in a hail of splinters, ripped timbers, and smashed siding.


  Hurling himself to the ground, Brent turned, shouting, “Machine gun! Machine gun!” Then he squeezed off two quick rounds and saw a body tumble from the running board, and the Uzi stopped firing just as the Nambu chattered to life.

  Hundreds of slugs slammed into the radiator, shattered the windshield and blew out both front tires. Jerked to the left by a shot-out steering gear, the truck crashed into a warehouse, slid along the side, shearing off big chunks of galvanized iron, lurched toward Brent, and then came to rest, steaming radiator buried in a small mountain of bagged rice not more than ten feet from the ensign. The driver’s door flew open, and a slender figure tumbled to the asphalt.

  Slowly, Brent came to his feet, Otsu in one hand, the palm of the other turned to the Nambu. “Cease fire! Cease fire! The truck must be loaded with H. E.”

  He moved to the driver who lay on his face and moaned quietly into his own blood. Holding the Otsu on the man’s head, the young American rolled the driver over with one foot. It was not a man. It was Kathryn Suzuki.

  Blood welled from a chest wound, and a trickle ran from her mouth. “We almost did it,” she gasped. “Twelve tons — we had twelve tons for Yonaga.”

  Looking over his sights at the beautiful face now distorted with pain, Brent could hear screams coming from the crushed bodies at the gate, scattered like bloody green sacks. And there was a trail of destruction in the truck’s wake, the shattered guardhouse littering the roadway, the bodies of the two young communications men covered with splintered lumber and broken furniture. Only the petty officer was on his feet, clutching his Otsu and walking toward Brent.

  Brent felt a rage begin to swell and grow — an atavistic urge feeding on the hot blood of combat.

  “Brent…” Kathryn was stopped by a cough that scattered congealing blood like small bits of chopped liver. “You were the best, Brent. I liked you, Brent. It’s too bad…”

  Brent could hear shouts behind him. Many booted feet running.

  A tear ran through the blood on the woman’s face. “Am I going to die, Brent?”

  “Isn’t that what you want?”

  “No. Not here. Not like this. Not now, Brent. I was going to jump.”

  “I’m afraid you’re dying, Kathryn.”

  The girl’s brow wrinkled with confusion. “You can’t be sure — how can you be sure?”

  “Because I’m going to pull this trigger.”

  “No!”

  He pulled the trigger. The Otsu bucked, and a small blue hole appeared between the woman’s eyes. There was the usual involuntary jerks of arms and legs, and Kathryn Suzuki lay still, eyes wide and fixed on Brent Ross. Holstering his pistol, he turned and walked away.

  *

  Rage crisscrossed Admiral Fujita’s face with a new web of lines and the sallow flesh was actually tinged with crimson. “Two seaman guards dead, two wounded, two Self-Defense Force ratings dead, twelve tons of H.E.…” Brent Ross, Mark Allen, Irving Bernstein, Captain Kawamoto, Lieutenant Hironaka, Lieutenant Commander Atsumi, and the dockmaster Lieutenant Commander Kamakura all stared silently from their chairs as the admiral’s anger washed over them like the waves of a tsunami.

  The flaming eyes moved to Brent Ross, and the ancient sailor continued, the angry timbre of his voice softened by respect, crimson cheeks fading. “And it was Brent-san who saved us. His quick thinking.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Brent answered. “Chief Mishimaro and Water-tender Jingoro stopped the truck with the Nambu.”

  “You were in command. If they had succeeded, you would be to blame. But you thought fast and fought well in the best tradition of Bushido.”

  Brent was happy with the compliment, but felt awkward in the stares of Bernstein and Allen. He managed to say, “Thank you, sir.” And then quickly, added, “I would suggest more Nambus, barriers…”

  “Sir,” Kamakura said. “I am bringing in two hundred more men, machine guns. There’s no need —”

  “No need!” Fujita shrieked incredulously. “We could have lost the ship!”

  The lieutenant commander bit his lip. “This facility is my responsibility.”

  Brent feared Fujita would suffer an apoplexy. “Enough! My staff will see to security. You repair my ship! Do you understand?”

  Red-faced, the plump little man sank back. “Very well,” he muttered through tight lips.

  Glaring at the dock master, Fujita came to his feet. Pointing at a plan of the entire Yokosuka facility taped to the table, he said, “Our own men will stop all traffic here.” The finger moved to a point a half mile from the ruined gatehouse. “We will establish eight machine gun posts here.” He ran a finger in a line outside the fence. “Eight more here.” The finger traced a line inside the fence and a few feet from the foot of the accommodation ladder. “We will park a maze of trucks here.” He indicated the road leading to the gate. He stared at Kamakura. “Not a silk worm will get through.”

  “Sir,” Captain Kawamoto said softly. “We’ve found Chief Shimada.” Brent felt cold fingers on his spine. “We found him in a warehouse with his throat cut.” There was a rumble of anger and horror.

  “Which warehouse?” Kamakura asked suddenly.

  “Number seven.”

  The man’s pudgy fist struck the desk. “Damn! We lease half our warehouses. We leased that one to an oil company. Ah, I think it was Federated Oil —”

  “Federated Oil Exploration Company?” Brent asked.

  “Yes. That was it.”

  Fujita’s eyes returned to the ensign. “That was Kathryn Suzuki’s company?”

  “Yes, admiral.”

  “She drove the truck.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you killed her.”

  Brent bared his teeth in a mirthless smile. “Much too quickly, admiral.” For a long moment the two men stared at each other.

  “Yes,” Fujita almost whispered. “She deserved something prolonged and inventive.” The old man returned to the diagram. “Then they stored their explosives in your warehouse,” he said, throwing a look as cold as thrown ice at a wincing Kamakura, “intercepted our truck, drove it in, killed our chief, loaded the truck, and made their attack.” The man nodded. “But why no explosion? The truck hit the gatehouse, bounced off a warehouse, and rammed a pile of rice bags.”

  “I can answer that,” Lieutenant Commander Atsumi said. As gunnery officer, Brent knew Atsumi had the responsibility to investigate the truck. In fact, Mushimaro, the most experienced rating in the gunnery department, had climbed into the vehicle only minutes after the truck crashed to a stop. “They had a clever arrangement, admiral. They must have anticipated impacts, crashing through barriers, and perhaps even hitting traffic bumps at high speeds. Their H.E. is a new, highly unstable plastic, and without a doubt armed contact or impact fuses would have set it off when it crashed into the gatehouse. But they had rigged a contact fuse just behind the radiator.”

  “It should have gone off!”

  “No, admiral. It was electrically activated, but the circuit was broken in the cab. The driver had to throw a switch on the dashboard to arm the bomb.”

  “Clever! Clever!”

  “Sir,” Adm. Mark Allen said suddenly in a tense, high voice. “I have been in touch with the Navy Department concerning our Mark-forty-eight torpedoes.” Everyone stared expectantly. Brent anticipated more bad news. Allen provided it. Staring down at the table, the American admiral rifled through some papers and then looked up. “There will be no Mark-forty-eights!”

  There were shouts of anger, and every Japanese officer came out of his chair.

  “Please! Please!” Mark Allen said, raising his hand. “The Arabs will not have the Russian five-three-three, either.” The Japanese returned to their chairs.

  “I do not understand,” Fujita hissed, controlling his voice with an effort.

  “Bargaining chips, sir,” the old American continued.

  “We do not fire bargaining chips from our torpedo tubes.”

  “In a sense we d
o, admiral. Both the USSR and the US are concerned about arming the world’s powers with their latest weapons. Both countries have been discussing these matters for years in talks in Geneva. From the beginning, there was an agreement to trade off their ADMG-three-zero, six-barrel, thirty millimeter AA mount for our Mark-fifteen Phalanx six-barrel, twenty millimeter AA system. And the Ruskies denied the Arabs their new seventy-six millimeter dual purpose gun as long as the US refuses to provide Yonaga and the Self-Defense Force its new Mark-forty-five, five inch, fifty-four caliber completely self-contained automatic system.”

  “And now the torpedoes?”

  “Yes, admiral. We will retain our Mark-fourteens.”

  “And the Arabs, they used the five-three-three against us.”

  “Not any more, admiral. Only two subs were armed with them, and we sank them both. The Russians refuse to supply any more five-three-threes to the Arabs.”

  “What can we expect instead?”

  Allen glanced at another sheet. “The Model sixteen which is similar to the best German World War Two fish with the same pattern running. It’s twenty-one inches in diameter and twenty-three feet long and can make up to forty-seven knots on short runs. It has a two hundred fifty kilogram warhead cast into a shaped charge.”

  “Very well,” Fujita said with surprising alacrity. “I do not like your automatic systems that duel each other unmanned while computers do the thinking instead of warriors. The best fire control is a samurai’s eye to a web sight or adjusting the prisms of a range finder. At Tsushima I personally fired twelve inch shells into Russian battleships. How much of a thrill would a computer get out of that?” No one answered the rhetorical question. He continued. “There is death and pain to be found in warfare, true. But a man’s highest honors, his greatest achievements are found on the battlefield. And death on the battlefield is the supreme glory.” His eyes moved over the silent faces. “What glory is there to die in a hospital bed with tubes stuck in every orifice?” The men squirmed. “And how do computers die? Do they expire slowly, spilling their chips and transistors on the deck? Is there an electronic nirvana they seek?” The men snickered.