by Peter Albano
“Daresay, that man’s a real gamecock. He’s bought it and doesn’t know it. He should be in his bunk,” Willard-Smith shouted. “But he jolly well has confidence in you, old boy — and so do I.” He clapped Brent on the shoulders and returned to his post next to the port Browning.
Brent felt a deep warmth spread as if he had just chuga-lugged four ounces of Haig & Haig. His peers respected him, admired him. And then the warmth was replaced by a shudder. Williams had actually placed all their lives in his hands. He took his station next to Hara and steadied himself with a firm grip on the windscreen.
Burt Nelson’s voice scratched in the speaker: “Bridge, Hauptmann Conrad Schachter and Feldwebel Haj Abu al Sahdi are very ill. They’ve vomited all over the mess hall. Hauptmann Schachter demands to be released and allowed to come to the bridge for some fresh air. He said something about the Geneva convention...”
Brent shouted into the speaker: “Tell Hauptmann I’ll give him some fresh air — compressed air when I blow his ass out of a torpedo tube. Tell him that’s the ‘Brent Ross convention.’” Even in the howling wind, Brent could hear the laughter in the conning tower as Nelson acknowledged the order. There were no more complaints from the prisoners.
For an hour they continued on the same heading. The watch changed and Hara was replaced by Seaman First Class Jay Overstreet. But Willard-Smith remained. The force of the wind did not increase, but it did not abate, either. With all the stars blotted out by the storm, the world was filled with a blackness broken only by the dull red glow of the compass repeater in front of Overstreet. The seas would cause the boat to pitch and yaw, however, the experienced helmsman always met each roll and inevitable yaw with opposite rudder, holding the battered submarine to her course with remarkable accuracy.
Occasionally the wind faded and Brent’s hopes rose; but every time they would be banished by a particularly brutal gust that howled in like a ravening beast, whipping the top off the sea and hurling thick white curtains of spray and saltwater into his face and flooding the bridge. Then the boat would struggle up, water streaming from her scuppers and drains, and the process would be repeated.
It could have been at 2100 hundred hours — Brent’s fatigued mind had lost track of time — that the storm provided a spectacular electrical display. Passing under the heart of the storm, a thunderhead that could have reached as high as sixty thousand feet, they were suddenly bathed by eye-searing bolts of jagged lightning followed by shattering cannonades of thunder. Here, in the great vaporous tower, racing, spinning air generated hundreds of thousands of volts of electrical energy.
Willard-Smith circled a hand overhead and then stabbed a finger straight up. “A thunderhead,” he screamed into Brent’s ear. “Could be the heart of this storm — the end of the bloody thing.”
“I hope you’re right, old boy” Brent shouted back. Captain Colin Willard-Smith was right. Within thirty minutes the wind began to diminish and another half-hour brought stars to the northern horizon. The sea began to calm, and the severe rolling and pitching was reduced.
“I say, good egg,” Brent quipped in a sudden jovial mood, “you were bloody well right.”
Willard-Smith roared with laughter. “Thanks awfully... ah,” he groped for a phrase he had heard in the enlisted men’s mess. “I mean, you’re fuckin’ A, chum.” Their laughter was interrupted by Williams’ voice in the speaker. “Bridge!”
“Bridge aye.”
“Mister Cadenbach recommends we return to our base course of three-three-zero. Do you agree?”
Brent glanced overhead. Now stars were visible in the entire northern hemisphere of the sky. “Looks good, Captain.”
“Make the request by flashing light.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The message was sent, and then both ships came left on a heading for Tokyo Bay.
Chapter Four
The next morning at dawn the radar picked up the first traces of Japan. The islands of Mikura Jiraa, Miyake Jima, Nii Shima, To Shima, and ŌShima, lying in a straight line like an arrow pointing toward home for the homesick sailor, glowed brightly on the scope. And the clear morning sky glowed as if all of nature were welcoming the Japanese members of Blackfin’s crew home. There was palpable air of expectancy, of suppressed joy in the boat. Brent could feel it.
Aircraft swept over. Another PBM followed an hour later by a great graceful PBY that snooped and stared. Then a section of three Zeros roared over the horizon wave high and circled close aboard both vessels. With their canopies back, the pilots waved and the bridge watch waved back. Both Brent and Colin Willard-Smith were bitterly disappointed that Matsuhara’s fighter was not among them.
By ten hundred hours they had left the first of the islands to port, clearly visible only six miles away. Now the radar traced Point Iro Zaki to the east and Nojima Zaki to the west and the shorelines on both sides leading to the huge harbor. Their bows were pointed directly into the center of the channel of the still unseen Tokyo Bay. By noon they made their landfall and passed the sea buoy. Entering the narrows, which the Japanese called Uraga Suido, it was all visible: the Izu Hanto Peninsula to the west, the Bōsō Hanto Peninsula to the east, the sweeping coastline of Kanagawawa to port, the rugged green beauty of the tree-covered hills of Bōsō Hanto looming closer and closer to the starboard side. DD-One continued to plod five hundred yards ahead.
Williams came to the bridge, but did not take the con himself. This he left to Brent with the comment, “You’ve steamed these waters for years. Take her in, XO.” Although the tone was cursory and the eyes still glassy, Brent thought he heard a glimmer of respect in the cold voice. Despite his antipathy for the man, Brent knew Williams was a good captain. He was courageous and intelligent and had never allowed personal feelings to interfere with the efficiency and safety of his command. Brent could not help but feel his own respect for the big man grow. He was obviously hurt, his head wrapped and that pained look still dulling his eyes. But he was much steadier on his feet.
Fite’s light began to flash, and Signalman Second Class Todd Doran began to mouth the words to the writer, Ben Hollister. Immediately, it became obvious Captain Fite was relaying a radio message. “’Com Yonaga (Commanding Officer Carrier Yonaga) to Blackfin. Proceed submarine base Yokosuka to Berth Four, Pier Three. Commanding officer and executive officer report immediately to Com Yonaga. Well done.’”
Williams said to Doran: “Tell him we have three seriously wounded and severe damage to the boat and we have Captain Colin Willard-Smith aboard and two prisoners.”
There was a clatter as the Venetian blind-like shutters were worked furiously by Doran’s right hand flipping the handle of the light. Brent smiled. Even the fastest signalmen were capable of transmitting and receiving only about fifteen words a minute. Doran was pushing the limit while Williams twitched impatiently. Finally Doran “Rogered” and turned to the captain, ignoring his writer. “He says to bring the Englishman and the two prisoners with you to Yonaga. An ambulance will be waiting at the dock. Blackfin will be dry-docked as soon as one becomes available.”
“Damn! We need a dry dock now. Tell him we will need a high-capacity pump on the dock — one large enough to handle the water in Number One Ballast Tank. If our pumps give out, Blackfin will sink. We need to be dry-docked immediately.”
More clattering of the light and then there was an uneasy pause as Fite was obviously relaying the information by radio to Yonaga. Then the light on the destroyer began to speak again. Doran’s voice: “Dry dock will be made available tomorrow. Two pumps will be waiting on the dock.”
Williams nodded and said, “Very well. Give him a ‘Wilco.’”
Doran returned to the light and then spoke to his captain, “He gave me an ‘AR’ — end transmission, sir.”
“Very well.”
Nelson’s voice from the conning tower: “We’ve crossed the hundred-fathom line, Captain.”
“Very well.” Williams turned to Brent, “We’re low in the water —
drawing nearly seventeen feet forward. Any problem?”
“Negative, sir.” He gestured at the straits, which were growing narrower. “Good water all the way in. No problem, sir.”
“Very well, XO — ah, I mean ‘Pilot’ — it’s your ball game.”
A light flashed again from the destroyer. “Proceed independently,” Doran said.
“Very well.” Brent peered through the bearing ring’s gunsight, read the repeater, and turned to Quartermaster Overstreet, “Right to zero-two-seven, all ahead one-third.”
Overstreet brought the helm over slightly, and a ringing of bells slowed the engines. “Keep her in the center of the channel, fifty yards to the left of the red buoys, Quartermaster.”
“I understand, sir.”
Brent shouted down the hatch, “Fathometer?”
“Ten fathoms under the keel, sir,” came from Seaman Tak Ishinishi, who was manning the steering and engine room controls in the conning tower.
“Let me know if she shoals less than six.”
“Less than six, sir.”
A new voice came from the conning tower. It was Chief Electrician’s Mate Momoo Kenkyusha. “Four off-duty men request permission to come up on deck, sir.”
Williams chuckled. They all knew the Japanese members of the crew were hungry for a glimpse of their homeland. Williams bent over the hatch and grabbed his head and said, “All off-duty men wishing to come on deck may come topside.” He glanced forward where the bow still rode low in the water. “But you may get your feet wet.”
Chief Kenkyusha, Yeoman Yuiji Ichioka, Seaman Tatsunori Hara, and old, tough Chief Torpedoman Masay-ori Fujiwara all raced up the ladder, bowed, and saluted the captain and hurried forward, ignoring the occasional rivulet of water that sloshed over their boots. They stood in a tight group, laughing, pointing, and pounding each other on the back. They were alive when by all rights they should have been dead, they were home when they had many times given up all hope of ever seeing their beautiful islands again. Their joy was unbounded, and Brent felt it.
They crept toward the narrowest part of the channel between Uraga Point and the Bōsō Hanto Peninsula. A few houses were visible, but most of the land was covered with lush stands of pine, firs, beech, ash, and oak. Thick foliage rioting with blooms grew in barricades between the trees. The beauty, joy of seeing solid earth again, penetrated every man’s soul and warmed his heart. Brent was filled with thoughts of this strange land that had been his home for the past six years.
Here, a man was not admired for his consistencies, but, instead, his manhood was measured by the number of contradictions he could hold and still keep his balance. The young American had learned to live with paradoxes everywhere: guests kept their hats on but removed their shoes; wine was heated; fish was eaten raw, even the fugu, which could be fatal; bathers scrubbed themselves clean before entering a bath; mourners wore white; an emperor who was the one-hundred-twenty-fourth descendant of the immortal god Amaterasu-O-Mi-Kami had just proved his immortality by dying; one was ushered into the world with Shinto rites and exited with the chants of a Buddhist priest; the most literate nation on earth was shackled with a maddening non-alphabetical language, based on two thousand Kanji characters that could have almost as many meanings as readers.
And the women came back. Here he had met Sarah Aranson, the Israeli Intelligence agent. They had burned in each other’s passion from her apartment in the Shin-juku-hu to her place in Tel Aviv. Then there was Mayumi Hachiya, young, virginal, with ethereal beauty as delicate as bridal lace and as passionate as a rutting animal in heat. He had met CIA agent Dale McIntyre on Yonaga — Dale McIntyre, who was so worried about the “big four-oh” which had loomed only a year away. “Too old for you, Brent,” she had said as she led him into her bedroom for a series of sexual adventures and acrobatics he had never believed possible in his wildest fantasies.
And then there had been the traitor and enemy agent, Kathryn Suzuki. He always thought of her as the “black widow.” After one wild sexual fling with him in Hawaii, she had tried to kill him twice — the first by leading him into an assassin’s ambush, and the second when she charged a truck loaded with plastique down on the great graving dock at Yokosuka, where a damaged Yonaga rested on her blocks. Flat on her back after a machine gun had wrecked the truck, she had stared up at Brent.
Brent would never forget the moment — the exquisite moment when the Otsu bucked in his hand and the small round, purple hole appeared precisely in the middle of Kathryn’s forehead. There was the usual jerking of limbs and twitching as brains gouted out of the huge exit wound in the back of her skull left by the seven-millimeter slug and then she was still. She had never left his mind. In an inexplicable way, he still yearned for her despite the fact her death had been earned a hundred times over and his actions had been highly praised by his shipmates, especially Admiral Fujita.
As they cleared Uraga Point, the vast expanse of Tokyo Bay became visible. The binoculars of every man on the bridge came up in unison. Yokohama, Japan’s greatest seaport, stretched in an ugly urban smear along miles of the northwestern coastline. Kawasaki could be seen further north, but the great urban sprawl of Tokyo was still invisible over the far horizon. Revolting in its contrast with the pristine blue sky above was the vast metropolis’s filthy air, which hung like an obscene brown blanket over the entire northern horizon. But in the far distance, the snow-capped pinnacle of Mount Fujiyama still poked its head defiantly through the noxious brown layers.
Shifting his glasses to the west, Brent could see the city of Yokosuka and its great naval base only five miles off their port beam. Fite had already made his turn. Sighting through the bearing repeater ring, he said to Overstreet, “Left standard rudder. Steady up on two-eight-one.”
The command was repeated, and the submarine came about slowly to her new heading. Electronics Warfare Technician Matthew Dante’s voice came up the hatch from the SPS-10. “I have a lot of clutter on the radar scope, sir. But it looks like many small craft are headed this way.”
Brent had been searching the forest of cranes, radar antennas, and upper works for the massive superstructure of Yonaga. He had just found the single great stack and bridge when Dante’s report pulled his glasses down to the bay. He saw them, dozens of gaily decorated boats plowing through the small chop toward the two vessels.
Williams turned toward Brent, beaming. “A welcoming committee, XO. They’re happy to see us.” He was obviously feeling much better and was in high spirits.
“Yes, sir. Most of them. As Admiral Fujita would say, ‘They would love anyone who would keep gas in the tanks of their Hondas.’”
“Cynical old man, isn’t he?”
“A wise old man, Captain.”
Williams rubbed his chin. “You said ‘most of them.’ What did you mean?”
Brent waved at the approaching boats. “Some could be Rengo Sekigun”
Williams, Willard-Smith, and Overstreet stared at the executive officer. But the two Japanese lookouts exchanged a knowing look.
Brent continued: “The Japanese Red Army.”
Williams nodded. “Terrorists, of course.”
“They’re quite capable of loading a boat with plastique and ramming us just as that Arab terrorist did in Lebanon when two hundred forty-one of our marines were killed in their barracks at the Beirut Airport.”
“What would you suggest, Mister Ross? Should we machine-gun the lot of them?” Every eye turned to Brent.
Brent was taken aback. An amalgam of anger and resentment creased his face with hard, down-turning lines and shadowed his eyes. It boiled from his lips, “That was uncalled for!”
“I’ll decide that, XO.” And then, with forced contriteness, “I didn’t mean to offend.”
Shaking with anger, Brent grunted acknowledgment of the weak apology and held his tongue with an effort. The apology had been so bland, it had hardly been expiatory at all. A burning cauldron churned in his stomach. In a short time he would be off th
e submarine and back on board Yonaga and rid of Williams. He must control his temper; not do something foolish — something that could end his career. Williams had almost goaded him into intemperate acts in the past. He would not be baited. He would bide his time and catch the big black alone, someday, and then settle everything between them. After all, they were of equal rank.
Willard-Smith’s voice broke through the turmoil swirling in Brent’s brain. “By Jove, our escort’s tracking the boats with his secondaries.”
Brent glassed the approaching flotilla. They were very close. In fact, some had already passed DD-One. Staring through his glasses, Williams came erect with a start. “You’re right. Fite’s tracking those boats with his twenties and forties.”
Turning his thick lower lip under, he clamped down hard on it with his perfect white teeth. His Adam’s apple worked up and down furiously. He spat into the speaker, “Battle surface! Man the fifties! Cryptologist Crog Romero, Yeoman Yuiji Ichioka, Gunner’s Mate Humphrey Bowman — to the bridge on the double! Man collision stations. Close all watertight doors and dog them except for the conning tower hatch. And I want the two Thompsons on the bridge.”
Within seconds, Brent and Crog manned the fifties with their loaders, Humphrey Bowman and Yuiji Ichioka, standing by the ready boxes. Quartermaster Sturgis replaced Overstreet at the helm, and the seaman disappeared into the conning tower. Two old-fashioned Thompson 45-caliber submachine guns were passed up through the confusion as the four Japanese who had been standing on the foredeck dropped down the hatch. Each of the cumbersome weapons had a fifty-round drum magazine. Williams kept a Thompson and handed the other to Willard-Smith. “You wind it up like this,” Williams said, turning a key on the drum. “Until you hear nine clicks. Puts spring tension on the rounds.” He flipped a small lever on the breech to “Safe” and pulled back hard on the cocking handle, driving a round into the firing chamber.
