by Peter Albano
“I know,” Fujita said, waving the volume impatiently.
“Meditate all you like. But remember, you have also been taught, ‘There is a time to live, and a time to die.’ I, your commanding officer, have decided this is not your time to die.” He gestured at both men, “If you are shinigurai (crazy to die,) I am sure our Arab friends will be happy to accommodate you. Now, please find your seats, your tempers, and your silence, gentlemen.” Glaring balefully at each other, the two antagonists dropped slowly into their chairs.
The next three officers introduced were familiar to Brent. The first, Gunnery Officer Commander No-bomitsu Atsumi, was a “plank owner” (original member of the crew). He, like so many of the holdouts, had shown an astonishing disregard for time. His full head of hair was a glossy black, his face showing only a few creases that would have been a compliment to a man twenty years his junior. He stood with an erect, military bearing and gave his report. “All 25-millimeter mounts are operational, and the same is true with our 127-milli-meter guns. All magazines are full.” He moved his eyes to the executive officer, Captain Mitake Arai. “However, twenty-two of my machine-gun barrels are so worn my gunners could do better throwing rice balls at enemy planes. I have the same problem with thirteen cannon barrels. The rifling is almost gone. We could just as well be firing mortars. We will be fortunate if our shells do not seed our own decks.”
Arai and Fujita exchanged a glance. The executive officer squirmed uncomfortably before speaking to the problem. “I have the same problem the air group commander has. Nakajima and Mitsubishi are both slow in making replacements. All of the machine tools of the armaments industry were destroyed over forty years ago when General Douglas MacArthur ruled Japan.” He sighed. “It will take time.”
“How much time?” Fujita demanded.
“Another month — perhaps six weeks, sir.”
The admiral turned his thin lips under. “The Arabs may not be that generous with time.”
“I know, Admiral.”
Fujita ran a finger over the Hagakure and again quoted it directly without opening it. “If I do not know the way to defeat my enemy, I will find the way to defeat myself.”
Captain Arai flushed. “I request permission to visit the Nakajima works tomorrow.”
Fujita’s eyes were cold. “I am not giving you permission, Captain, I am giving you an order. You are to expedite delivery at Nakajima, Aichi, and Mitsubishi, and you are to leave when this meeting is concluded.”
“Aye aye, Admiral.”
The admiral turned his attention to the chief engineer, Lieutenant Tatsuya Yoshida. Another “plank owner,” Yoshida was one of the oldest members of the staff and he had aged dramatically since Brent had last seen him. In his eighth decade, he showed the years; he was bent and gray, with a stiff, shuffling walk. He spoke in a voice so high, the timbre reminded Brent of the ludicrous falsetto used by American rock singers. “Boilers four, seven, ten, and eleven are down for descaling. Evaporators one and two are down and must be repiped,” he said without glancing at any notes. “Also, a main bearing in Number Two generator has burned out.” He glanced at the executive officer. “There are no replacements available on board or on the beach, so we must machine it in our own shops. It will take us at least four days to put it back in working order.”
The boilers and evaporators that are down for repairs?” Fujita asked. “When will they be on line?”
“A week, Admiral.”
“The other boilers?”
“Three hundred pounds of steam in all of them, sir. I can give you give you seven hundred fifty. Fuel tanks are topped off. We can put to sea at a moment’s notice.” “Very well.” The admiral gestured to the second stranger in the room. “This is our new torpedo bomber commander, Lieutenant Joji Kai.” A short, roly-poly man with white hair and a beatific smile that seemed permanently frozen to his face like a mardi gras mask, Kai broke the traditional mold of the stoic, inscrutable samurai. His cherubic nose, round face, and multiple chins appeared layered with a glistening patina, as if freshly oiled. Brent chuckled to himself. If the Japanese had believed in Santa Claus, all Lieutenant Joji Kai needed to play the part was a white beard. Either he was perpetually amused by secret jokes or he was so frightened he hid behind a mask of good humor — the refuge of so many frightened, cowardly men. However, Kai was no coward.
Pushing his chair away from the table to give his ample waistline clearance, the little torpedo squadron commander stood. “Put three ‘oles in ‘is gut and a bloke could roll-a-roll-a-ball a penny a pitch, guv’nor,” Brent heard Elwyn York whisper into Colin Willard-Smith’s ear. Brent chuckled.
“Lieutenant Kai reported aboard just yesterday,” Fujita said. “He replaces Commander Shusaku Endo, who was relieved of his command two weeks ago.”
Brent remembered the bombastic Endo. He had disliked Endo the first moment he had seen him. The bad blood had been instant and deep and mutual, a fierce smouldering chemical reaction between them. A swaggering braggart, Endo had been just as belligerent and aggressive toward Admiral Allen and Brent as Iwata had just been to Matsuhara. However, his courage had been “all in his mouth,” his nerves melting while leading an attack against four enemy Gearings off the Marianas. He had dropped his torpedo at an impossibly long range and veered off. All twelve Nakajima B5Ns of the squadrons missed their targets, and four were shot down by enemy fighters. Fujita sacked him immediately. It was rumored Endo had committed seppuku. Brent doubted that the big commander could find the mettle.
“I have known Lieutenant Joji Kai’s family since I was a boy,” Fujita said, attempting to smile his tiny cracked smile at the new torpedo bomber commander. And then the expected, the common thread that wove through all of the admiral’s selections. “The Kais are a fine samurai family. Eight of Lieutenant Kai’s ancestors fought for Lord Ishinaka and Lord Tomonishi, who ruled Takaoka in the fifteenth century.” He shifted his eyes to Brent, Reginald, Elwyn, and Colin, explaining in an aside, “Japan was feudal then.” The four Westerners nodded understanding. Fujita returned to the entire staff, his voice filled with respect. “For their years of loyalty Lieutenant Kai’s ancestors were rewarded with large rice payments and tracts of good farmland. In fact, one of the lords gave one of his faithful retainers, Baron Kusuyuki Kai, a new surname — Kunitomi.” Again a glance at Brent, Reginald, Elwyn and Colin. “A rare honor in that time, indeed. Kunitomi means land of wealth” Joji Kai held his chin up and beamed proudly.
Fujita continued, “Lieutenant Kai has had a distinguished career. In 1945 when he was only sixteen he enlisted in the Special Attack Corps.” The Americans and the Englishmen jerked their eyes from Kai to each other in confusion. There was a murmur amongst the Japanese, then shouts of “Banzai!” and cries of “Tenno heika banzai!” (“Long live the Emperor!”) Even the old scribe Hakuseki Katsube looked up, wiped his chin, and croaked “Banzai” in a spray of spittle. Fujita restored order with a raised hand and moved on “After completing his training at Nobeaka, he was assigned to the Second Wing...”
“Your pardon, sir,” Brent said, interrupting. “The Special Attack Corps was a suicide outfit — the Kamikazes!”
“That is correct, Lieutenant Ross. The Divine Wind — named after the wind that destroyed the fleet of the Mongol invaders in the eleventh century.” More cries of “Banzai!” and “Tenno heika banzai!”
“Well, ah, sir, how many missions did he fly?” Brent shouted through the noise.
Again Fujita raised a tiny hand and brought it down in a sharp motion, the shouts ceasing as if chopped off by a meat ax. “Why, one — of course.” Kai nodded and beamed, face brightening as if lighted by a bulb hidden behind his forehead.
Captain Colin Willard-Smith offered, “With all respect, Admiral, Lieutenant Joji Kai bought a one-way ticket to blighty.”
Fujita nodded grimly. “Lieutenant Kai was most unfortunate. He was flying a Zero-sen with a five-hundred-kilogram bomb in an attack on the American fleet off Okinawa. He wa
s diving on an American carrier when he was hit, his controls shot away. He crashed in the surf off Naha and was knocked unconscious.”
“The bomb?”
“More bad luck. It was a dud. He was denied his bid to die for the Mikado.” Fujita raised his hands to stop the shouting before it could start. “He was pulled from the wreckage and spent the remainder of the war in an American prisoner-of-war camp.”
Kai spoke, an irritating, grating sound one might hear if he were trying to listen to the efforts of a drunken flutist. Many of his words were mangled as if he were a foreigner having trouble with a new language. “They told me I missed the carrier Bon Homme Richard by only twenty meters,” he said. His eyes moved over the older Japanese, and the line of his jaw altered. The perennial smile vanished. “As you can understand, the news was devastating.” Old heads nodded. “They had to tie my hands. Keep me in a straight-jacket.” He squared his narrow shoulders with new pride. “I tried to kill myself four times. Even bit my tongue.” More shouts of “Banzai!” Now Brent understood the mutilated diction. Apparently the man had succeeded in biting off part of his tongue; he was almost incapable of pronouncing “t.” And Brent pondered the man’s stability. Perhaps Admiral Fujita had made a mistake. Errors in judgment were rare. In fact, Endo had been the Admiral’s first poor choice. Uneasily, Brent told himself Fujita had made his second.
Kai gave his report in his ruptured diction. Everyone was impressed by how much Kai had learned about his command in only one day. “I am down to only forty-one operational Nakajima B-Five-Ns,” he sputtered. “But I have three flyable aircraft that I must use for spare parts.” He looked at Yoshi Matsuhara. “I am pleased to see all aircraft are equipped with the new Sakae Forty-Two, 2000-horsepower engine. I test flew one of my aircraft this morning and found it was capable of 260 knots fully loaded — 20 knots over designed speed.”
After Iwata’s abrasive attitude, Kai’s demeanor was a refreshing change. Yoshi spoke to the torpedo bomber leader. “All of our aircraft are equipped with the new engine. Within a month, Nakajima will have the new Sakae Forty-Three engine in mass production. It has water-methanol injection and develops 3200 horsepower.” There was an excited babble.
Fujita asked, “Can the Zero-sen take such a power plant? It was originally designed for a 950-horsepower engine.”
Yoshi shrugged. “We have reinforced our main wing spars, wing fillets, control cables and surfaces, and engine mounts. I believe it can, although the torque will be greatly increased. I will test fly the first fighter equipped with the Sakae Forty-Three myself.”
“You may leave your wings with Susano (the impetuous god of the storm clouds).”
“I know, Admiral.”
“When can I expect replacement aircraft?” Kai asked.
“Nakajima, Aichi, and Mitsubishi have promised replacements by the end of the month,” Yoshi Matsuhara said. He turned to the Englishmen. “Two more Seafires will be unloaded tomorrow. They’re at the dock now.”
“Good show,” Captain Colin Willard-Smith exulted.
Matsuhara continued, “We will continue with our training at Tokyo International Airport and Tsuchiura. About one-third of our pilots are young and green or have experience in jets only and have never flown aircraft with reciprocating engines before.” He looked at Commander Iwata and then Lieutenant Kai. “I expect to see both of you squadron commanders at Tokyo International tomorrow morning at 0800 hours. We must accelerate our training.” Both officers nodded compliance.
All heads turned as an officer entered the room. He was carrying an attaché case. To his surprise, Brent recognized Colonel Irving Bernstein of Israeli Intelligence. Dressed in his usual desert fatigues of Israeli infantry, the colonel was a small, wiry man with gray-white hair and a small, pointed beard that hyphenated his chin like a white spade. His skin was darkly tanned by years of exposure to the fierce desert sun of the Middle East. Webs of lighter lines coursed downward from his bright, intelligent eyes, carved there by age and the deep set of suffering. Although the man was slight of build, his knotted neck, breadth of shoulders, and assured walk hinted at reserves of strength and endurance. His most distinguishing feature was the six-figure blue tattoo on his right forearm. “Auschwitz, Class of ‘45,” he would tell anyone foolish enough to inquire.
He had been assigned to Yonaga on liaison since 1984, when the carrier had made her sortie into the Mediterranean to relieve the Arab pressure on Israel, and he remained on board when Yonaga had been attacked by bombers off the Cape Verde Islands and torpedoed and nearly sunk southeast of Hawaii. By this time a vital member of her intelligence staff, he was ship’s company during the ferocious, bloody battles off Indonesia, in the South China Sea and the Korean Straits. He had been detached for a special mission to the UN seven months earlier and sent to New York on the same aircraft with Brent Ross and the Japanese detachment assigned to Blackfin. After the disastrous meeting at the UN with the Arab delegation, he had been recalled to Tel Aviv for a special briefing. However, before leaving, he had visited Blackfin at her Hudson River berth and met the entire crew. He was highly respected for his incisive intelligence, strength of character, and sophisticated wit, which reminded Brent of the writer Budd Schulberg. Brent and Reginald Williams came to their feet. Both were surprised and delighted to see the Israeli. They shook hands vigorously before the colonel found his chair next to Brent.
Before Brent could ply Bernstein with questions, Admiral Fujita explained, “Colonel Bernstein reported back aboard three weeks ago. Captain Marshall Katz was recalled by Israeli Intelligence and Lieutenant Joseph Carrino by NIS when he came aboard.”
Brent was shocked. “No replacement for Carrino, sir?” The admiral shook his head. “A replacement was assigned before Carrino left. He was to report yesterday, but bad weather on the West Coast of the United States has delayed flights. He should be here any time. He is an admiral — an old comrade of Admiral Allen’s. His name is Whitehead, Rear Admiral Byron Whitehead.”
“Whitehead?” Brent repeated in surprise.
“You know him?”
“Why, yes, Admiral. He and Mark Allen were my father’s best friends. They were in the same class at the Academy and served together during World War II — ah, the Greater East Asia War and in NIS. He was on Admiral Mark Mitscher’s staff in Task Force Fifty-Eight, was in over a dozen carrier battles, holds the Navy Cross and the Purple Heart. Admiral Whitehead is an expert on intelligence and carrier warfare.” Brent carried the description no further. He found no reason to upset the superstitious Japanese with the admiral’s sobriquets, “Deep Six” and “Sinker” — names attached to Whitehead when he was sunk on Lexington, Yorktown, Hornet, Wasp, and Princeton. He had heard his father and Mark Allen joke that Whitehead had spent more time on survivor’s leave than he had at sea. It was also said that near the end of the war, dozens of officers would request transfer whenever Byron Whitehead was assigned to a ship.
“Good. Good,” Admiral Fujita said, obviously pleased by Brent’s remarks, despite the painful memories reference to the war brought to the Japanese. He tapped a dossier on the table before him. “I notice he served on a great variety of carriers, Mister Ross.”
Brent gulped, “True, sir.”
“Five were sunk.” The old Japanese exchanged smiles of pleasure.
Brent cursed himself. Nothing! The old man missed absolutely nothing. “Ah, he suffered a bit of bad luck, sir.” There was an anxious rumble of voices.
“Obviously,” Admiral Fujita said. “The sea kamis turned their backs on him on five occasions.”
“But he planned the attack that sank Yamato Brent said eagerly before thinking. He almost bit his own tongue. The Japanese were very sensitive about the destruction of Yonaga’s sister ship Yamato — the name-ship of the class. The smiles vanished, replaced by an exchange of hard looks.
Fujita found the topic unsettling. Turning a wrinkled lower lip under like a sliver of weathered driftwood, he gestured to Irving Bernstein
and moved on to a new topic. “Your report, Colonel. You have the latest on Arab carriers, troop strength, and LRAs (long range aircraft) in the Marianas?”
Everyone was worried about the bases in the Marianas. From there, LRAs could range Japan and, with luck, find Yonaga at her berth. Six Zeros of the CAP (combat air patrol) were kept in the air constantly over the carrier, while six more fighters were on ready alert at Tokyo International Airport.
Coming to his feet, Bernstein pulled some documents from his attaché case and studied them for a moment. He spoke in a low, level voice without accent, but with a surprising timbre and resonance. “I have reports from both Israeli Intelligence and the CIA.” He began with the worst possible news. “The enemy’s new carrier, the Al Kufra, was sighted yesterday by an American submarine at 1340 hours in the Indian Ocean at latitude 3 degrees, 23 minutes north, longitude 82 degrees, 20 minutes east. She was on an easterly heading and escorted by three Gearings...”
“Al Kufra? New enemy carrier?” Brent interrupted in astonishment.
Bernstein’s voice was grim. “You and Lieutenants Kai and Williams haven”t been briefed. Sorry.” His voice was heavy. “She’s an Essex.” He stared at Lieutenant Joji Kai and said, “She’s your old friend, Lieutenant Kai.”
“My old friend?”
The Israeli nodded grimly, “Yes. Al Kufra’s the old Bon Homme Richard”
Kai came to his feet, eyes wide, tongue darting over his thick lips, chins quivering. “A second chance.” He raised his eyes prayerfully, “This time, this time Amaterasu-O-Mi-Kami...”
He was interrupted by Reginald Williams, “An old Essex? The Bon Homme Richard?” Williams exclaimed. “How did the Arabs ever get their hands on her?”
Bernstein exchanged a grim look with Admiral Fujita. “Glasnost.”
“Glasnost!” Williams, Kai, and Brent Ross chorused.
“She was laid up at Bremerton and...”
Brent interrupted: “The Oriskany was there, too. And there are more of them — the Lexington, the Coral Sea. They’re used for training.”
