by Peter Albano
Williams sagged in his chair and fingered the bandage that still wrapped his head. He looked at Brent Ross, and Brent saw something new in the black eyes. It was respect tempered for the first time by the warmth of friendship. “Sorry,” the big man muttered. And then to Fujita with resignation, “Aye aye, Admiral. We will manage.”
“Spoken like a samurai.”
The old scribe Katsube took the statement as a cue and shouted “Banzai!” through a spray of spittle.
Fujita silenced him with a wave that almost hit Katsube’s nose. At that moment, the door was opened by Young Lieutenant JG Asaichi Kubo, who self-consciously announced, “Rear Admiral Byron Whitehead is here, sir.”
“Very well. Show him in.” Every man in the room came to his feet, including Admiral Fujita, who struggled to rise by pushing on the table with both hands. Katsube did not fare as well, the old scribe lurching to the side and almost falling. Only a steadying hand and a boost from the executive officer saved him from pitching headlong onto the deck.
Carrying a small valise under his arm, Rear Admiral Byron “Deep Six” Whitehead entered. He appeared to Brent to be shorter and rounder than he last remembered. And he seemed much older, with the wrinkles and walk of a man at least seventy, although Brent knew the rear admiral was still short of his eighth decade by at least two years. Every aspect of the man was weighty. His head was big-nosed and gaunt-boned, with a heavy jaw and a broad forehead as massive as stone. He had a full shock of hair that was neatly brushed back. Silvery white, and streaked with yellow, it reminded one of cornsilk. And indeed, with his weathered complexion, creased, baggy uniform, and tie slightly askew, his Midwestern genesis clung to him like lint.
He had the physique of a man who had been a fine athlete in his youth but had become soft and flaccid with years of duty in the confined quarters of ships, soft living, and overeating. Despite a tunic that was at least a full size too large, the beginning of a paunch was visible under his tans. There was a serious, almost apprehensive gleam in the rear admiral’s gray eyes, and his attention was totally on Admiral Hiroshi Fujita. He seemed not to recognize Brent Ross when his eyes made a quick, nervous flick around the room.
The two admirals acknowledged each other and then Fujita introduced his staff, each Japanese bowing when presented. Finally, Fujita came to Brent, and Whitehead brightened and extended his hand. “Good to see you, Brent,” he said, grasping the lieutenant’s hand and speaking with a hint of a Midwestern inflection still in his voice. “Sorry about Admiral Mark Allen. He was one of the best.”
“We lost a good man, sir,” Brent said.
“Indeed we did.”
Then Whitehead congratulated Lieutenant Reginald Williams for his fine work and then, following Admiral Fujita’s gesture, moved to a chair next to the admiral. However, he did not seat himself. He looked down at Admiral Fujita and said, “I have a report, sir.”
“You may give it now.”
Whitehead drew some papers from his valise and spread them on the table. He placed a pair of old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses on his nose. “I have some information so delicate we did not dare put on the air. Anyway, ‘Blue-Alpha’ has been chewed up by Arab mainframes and won’t be replaced by ‘Gamma Yellow’ until 2400 Greenwich civil time today.” He read for a moment and then looked up. “There has been a fire reported in Kadafi’s poison gas plant at Rabta.”
There were happy, excited whispers. Whitehead continued, “It has been reported that most of the plant was destroyed and Kadafi blames Western sabotage.”
“How could you know this?” Fujita asked. “You have no spy satellites, no AWACS over North Africa.”
Whitehead smiled enigmatically. “French sources — agents that have infiltrated from Chad.”
“Are they reliable?”
The rear admiral nodded his head. “Usually.”
“Usually!” Fujita said with a challenge in his voice. “We cannot risk everything on agents who may or may not be reliable! Kadafi may be using that report as a smoke screen, hiding his true production behind it. We will take it out.”
“Take it out?”
“I will explain later, Admiral Whitehead Please continue with your report.”
The rear admiral pursed his lips and sighed. Everyone expected bad news. No one was mistaken. “Their Essex-class carrier Al Kufra was sighted off the western entrance to the Straits of Malacca this morning at 0530 hours by our nuclear sub, the USS Los Angeles. She was escorted by three Gearings. They were making for the entrance at thirty knots. They should make Tomonuto in a few days.”
Fujita said, “Then they will have two carriers, two cruisers, and six escorts in the atoll.”
“Yes, Admiral. That’s what NIS expects.” Whitehead adjusted his glasses and continued. “I’m afraid I have more bad news. The Arabs have large quantities of a new explosive. It’s called Semtex, and it is odorless and colorless. It is manufactured in Czechoslovakia by the East Bohemian Chemical Company.” He looked up and stared down the table. “It is so powerful that only seven ounces — two hundred grams — blew up a Pan American DC-6 over England last year with the loss of all eighty-
two people aboard.” And then, in a bitter aside, “Abu Nidal and his Fatah Revolutionary Council got credit for that one. Nidal was angry that English pilots were training for duty with Yonaga, so naturally he killed a planeload of innocent people — women, children. We must keep in mind, despite the open warfare the Arabs are waging against us, their terrorist networks are still very much alive and a mortal threat to strike and kill innocent people indiscriminately anywhere on earth. And Abu Nidal is their greatest threat.”
Bernstein spoke with quiet passion in his voice. Again he showed the unbelievable efficiency of Israeli Intelligence which operated on a budget that would not keep the CIA in paper clips. “Abu Nidal is a nom de guerre. We have confirmed his true name is Sabri Khalil al-Banna. He was born in Jaffa fifty-two years ago. Learned his trade with Yasser Arafat and the PLO, but broke with Arafat when he felt Arafat was going soft on Jews.” Laughter swept the room. Bernstein waited for the chuckles to subside and continued. “Nidal is a jackal, cares nothing about the innocents he kills, claims all that counts is the worldwide attention the massacres claim for his cause. He’s based in Tripoli and is Kadafi’s favorite, second only to Captain Kenneth Rosencrance.”
Brent saw Yoshi Matsuhara stiffen and mutter, “Rosencrance, Rosencrance,” as if the word was an obscenity almost too foul to mouth.
“We’ll get him, Yoshi-san,” Brent whispered. Yoshi stared blankly at the bulkhead.
Fujita said to Bernstein, “This Semtex, Colonel... how much does Kadafi have on hand?”
Bernstein returned to his notes. “We estimate Kadafi has at least a thousand tons of Semtex on hand.” There was a roar of anger and concern. Fujita raised his hands. “Can it be adapted to bombs and torpedoes?”
“Yes, sir. They’re working on that problem now.”
“But they do not have it ready yet. It is plastic and unstable,” Fujita suggested.
Whitehead nodded, took off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. “That is our understanding, Admiral Fujita.” He replaced the glasses and glanced at another document. “There is a report from our agents in both Kuwait and Bahrain that the hundred-thousand-ton tanker Jabal Nafusa is loading high-test gasoline at the Iranian port of Bushehr-it’s on the Persian Gulf. We expect her to get underway for Tomonuto and perhaps the Marianas Islands in perhaps a week.”
Fujita came to his feet and began to turn toward the chart, stopped, and questioned Whitehead. “Why send aviation fuel all the way from the Persian Gulf when they can ship it from the Balikpapan in the NEI — ah, I mean Indonesia. It’s much closer.”
Whitehead said, “Because the Arabs have installed the new Daimber Benz Valkryie engine in all of their fighters and a few of their bombers. It requires a specially refined high-test fuel that the refineries at Balikpapan cannot process.” He tapped the desk w
ith a big set of knuckles. “Remember, two years ago Arab cruisers shelled those same refineries the first time they sortied into the Celebes Sea.”
“We sank them in the South China Sea,” Fujita said.
“Banzai!” the Japanese shouted.
Fujita stepped to a chart, picked up a pointer, and spoke to Whitehead without turning his attention away from the map. “What is the SOA (speed of advance) of tanker Jabal Nafusa?”
“Twelve to thirteen knots, sir, and at least two Gearings are in port with her. We assume they will be her escorts.”
Fujita placed the tip of the pointer on the Persian Gulf and then traced a line south and east, muttering to himself while every eye was focused on the journey of the rubber tip. He stopped at Tomonuto. “If they take the shortest route, twelve thousand kilometers — about seventy-five hundred miles — at twelve; thirteen knots, about thirty days of steaming.” He whirled, face hinting at one of his rare smiles. “Good! Good, gentlemen. The gods favor us. We have at least five weeks, perhaps six.” He spoke to Whitehead, “The CIA agent, Dale McIntyre, reported three of their Gearings were in the yards in Surabaya.”
“McIntyre — Dale McIntyre,” Byron Whitehead said, eyes narrow, voice low and tense. Brent felt sudden tension tighten his muscles, and he hunched forward. Did Whitehead know Dale? Why the cryptic look on the rear admiral’s face almost as if he had been transfixed by shock? He must know her. Suddenly, it seemed obvious as Whitehead continued, “She was here — on board Yonaga?”
Fujita waved fretfully as if he were chasing an irritating fly away from his nose. “Yes. She was. But never again.” He tapped the desk as if he were driving the woman’s memory out of the room. “The destroyers at Surabaya. Their status is critical to our strategy,” he said impatiently.
The American rear admiral shuffled through his papers, selected one, examined it, and looked up. “They should be ready for sea in five weeks.”
Fujita tightened his tiny jaw in a grim line. “So, the entire force should be ready for sea in six weeks.” He tapped the desk. “How critical is the Arab logistics situation?”
Whitehead stared at his documents. “As of yesterday, they had an oiler and three depot ships anchored at Tomonuto.”
“Along with carrier Ramli al Kabir, two cruisers and three Gearings. Miss Mc... I mean the CIA... reported this, and we are aware of their presence, anyway.”
“They have plenty of fuel for a major engagement, both diesel oil and aviation gasoline,” Whitehead said.
There was an apprehensive groan. “However, we know their stores of gasoline are low and their ability to sustain their air strikes is questionable. It is absolutely essential to their operations that tanker Jabal Nafusa arrive at Tomonuto with her cargo within six weeks.”
Fujita tapped the table with the pointer. “Everything is converging. Their tactical window opens in six weeks. We must sink the tanker and” — he stabbed the pointer at Williams — “this is a job for our submarine force.”
Commander Reginald Williams straightened, and it appeared the man’s face actually brightened. He came to his feet, pointed a finger at the chart and said to the admiral, “If my boat is ready for sea in three weeks we can patrol in the Celebes Sea at the north exit of the Makassar Straits, Be waiting when she exits and pick her off like a cherry bomb.”
There were shouts of “Banzai!” and this time Brent joined in.
Fujita pondered the statement for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the chart. “Good idea, Mister Williams. However, they are not stupid. A good commander would avoid a narrow passage where a submarine attack was possible — even likely.”
“But if he’s an Arab he won’t know how to think,” Williams said,
Whitehead spoke up. “The skipper of the tanker is an American, His name is Gary Kuhn. He’s one of the best. Ex-United States Navy, and very experienced.” Williams, Brent, and Fite looked at each other. Brent felt both anger and humiliation and saw the same in Fite’s and Williams’ eyes. It seemed money in large enough amounts could buy anything, anyone. He cursed under his breath as Whitehead’s voice droned on. “Kuhn is a World War II skipper, and you can be assured he won’t give you any more opportunity than geography will allow, I would expect him to take the South China Sea route. It’s longer but safer.”
Fujita jabbed the chart and stared at Williams.
“Here, at Tomonuto. You can be on station there in four weeks. The longer South China Sea route will give you even more time. The Jabal Nafusa with her deep draft must use the southern entrance, and you can welcome her there with your Mark Forty-Eights.”
Brent said to Whitehead, “It’s heavily patrolled, Admiral. They’ll have one can anchored and listening in the entrance while another runs a “ping line” maybe a mile at sea. It’s a tough attack problem. He’ll be up against two cans at the entrance, two more escorts, and both passive and active sonar.”
“True, Mister Ross. But whoever said war was easy?” A chuckle swept the room.
Whitehead continued, “And remember, we have nuclear subs patrolling off the Persian Gulf, in the Indian Ocean, the Celebes Sea and the South China Sea. They will report any movements of Arab ships — all shipping, for that matter.” Everyone nodded.
Williams rubbed his hands together and licked his lips. “It’s going to be tough, but we’ll nail that mother... he muttered under his breath. Brent smiled and Admirai Fujita’s eyes gleamed. It was obvious the old sailor approved of Lieutenant Reginald Williams.
Commander Takuya Iwata, the commanding officer of the dive bombers, heaved his big bulk out of his chair and came to his feet. A sneer twisted the young officer’s face, and he stared balefully at Reginald Williams. “If our submarine commander feels this assignment is tough, my dive bombers can not only sink the enemy tanker, but destroy all of the enemy units at Tomonuto.” He turned to Admiral Fujita, playing the scornful, fearless samurai to the hilt just as his hero, Yukio Mishima, might have played the role. “Just launch us two hundred kilometers out, Admiral, and you,” he pointed rudely at Williams, “and you will not need the USS Blackface...”
“Blackfin!” Williams roared, leaping to his feet. Bernstein, Matsuhara, Fite, and Whitehead shouted angrily at Iwata, who ignored them imperiously.
Brent was right behind Williams, realizing Lieutenant Tadayoshi Koga’s “Blackface” faux pas must have been whispered around the ship and enjoyed by Iwata and his friends. Now it had been thrown at Williams again.
“Iwata!” Brent shouted. “That was unconscionable.” Through the corner of his eye Brent saw Admiral Fujita lean back against the bulkhead with the usual cabalistic look of an observer who was almost disinterested. Would he let this clash run its course too? This time there could be violence.
Fujita made his decision instantly, and his voice slashed through the heated exchange. “Enough!” he shouted. “All of you seat yourselves.” Grumbling, the seething rivals dropped slowly into their chairs. “I have said this before,” the old admiral said. “We must kill our enemies before we kill each other.” He glared at Iwata. “This is the second time Lieutenant Williams has been exposed to this slur. The first time was an obvious blunder. But I am not convinced you suffered a slip of the lip, Commander Iwata.” He pounded the table with two clenched fists. “Any repetition — any racial affront that comes to my attention will be dealt with harshly.” The knuckles of the two tiny fists met in front of him in a series of collisions. “I will summarily dismiss from this command any officer who offends Lieutenant Williams on the basis of race. If you are to fight and argue, find your fields of combat elsewhere — like gentlemen and samurai.”
Williams was still staring at Iwata. “Respectfully, Admiral,” he said in a hard monotone. “I feel quite capable of defending my dignity and my honor and reserve the right, when the enemy is defeated, to settle any insults to my honor on a personal, man-to-man basis.”
“Hear! Hear!” Brent Ross, Bernstein, Fite, and Whitehead agreed.
Fuj
ita said to Williams. “Your words are those of a samurai. I always honor such requests because the defense of one’s honor is a basic tenet of bushido.”
“I am at your service,” Iwata growled.
“Right now!” Williams countered, pushing on his arm rests.
“No!” Fujita said sharply. “When we have smashed the Arab jihad (holy war), and only then.” He turned to Colonel Bernstein in an obvious attempt to change the subject and allow time for the fires to cool. “Israel’s defenses have stabilized, Colonel?” He seated himself.
Understanding the admiral’s motives, the Israeli took the floor and moved quickly to a chart of the Middle East covered with a clear plastic overlay. He spoke to the staff, “Thanks to Yonaga’s intervention and the four 12-inch guns of monitor Mikasa, our front with the Arabs has been stable.” He picked up a red pen and marked the plastic overlay. “This is our David Ben-Gurion Line, a continuous three-deep line of concrete blockhouses with interlocking fields of fire. It compares with the old German Hindenburg Line of the Great War because the Arabs are still thinking in terms of those old offensive tactics.” The red felt tip pricked the chart on the Mediterranean coast at Gaza, moved east to A1 Khalil where Yonaga’s bombers had smashed an Arab tank attack four years before, north along the Jordanian frontier to the Syrian border and the Golan Heights, turning west toward the coast when the tip reddened A1 Khushniyah. Then a line south of Lebanon that finally reached the coast at Haifa. The Israeli turned to the staff, “Thanks to Kadafi’s preoccupation with Yonaga, he has committed most of his energy, ships, and aircraft to the Western Pacific. In fact, the Israeli Air Force still holds control of the air over the Ben-Gurion Line.”
