by Peter Albano
The old man sighed, “Your first test could be your seppuku, Yoshi-san.”
The aviator waved a hand upward. “Up there, Admiral. Could there be a better way, sir?”
The old man sank back, and his watery eyes wandered over the two men who were dearest to him. “No,” he conceded simply. “There is no better way.”
There was a knock and Yeoman Nakamura entered. “There is a CIA gentleman to see you, Admiral. His name is Horace Mayfield.”
“Show him in.”
Brent and Yoshi Matsuhara stood as Horace Mayfield entered. A short man, Horace Mayfield had a sunken chest and walked with slumped shoulders, as if he had been beaten across the back with a board. He was at least twice the age of Brent Ross — a man of about fifty with gray in his brown hair and once-fine features marred by years of heavy drinking. In fact, the evidence was worn like a badge for everyone to see, the little red and purple veins in his nose and cheeks standing out in vivid contrast to his pallor. “I’m Horace Mayfield, CIA,” he said in a reedy whiskey-addled voice that bordered on falsetto. Brent found the timbre grating, as if someone were scratching his fingernail across a chalkboard. After placing a briefcase on the floor, Mayfield handed his orders to the admiral, who remained seated.
The admiral introduced Yoshi and Brent. Mayfield eyed Brent from head to toe with a stare that measured. He smiled for the first time, glossy and urbane, and said, “You’re the ‘American Samurai’?”
Yoshi chuckled. “Our young friend is learning — he’s one of the best.” Brent smiled at the aviator and nodded his head. Matsuhara had said quite enough. The three men seated themselves while Fujita adjusted his glasses and glanced at the orders. “Permanent liaison,” the admiral observed.
“Correct, sir.”
The admiral turned to Yoshi Matsuhara, “You can return to your new Taifu, if you wish, Commander Matsuhara.”
“Thank you, sir. I would like to remain for a few minutes. I have some questions for Mister Mayfield.” He gestured to a corner where a table held the communications equipment. “With your permission, I will phone my crew chief, Chief Teruhiko Yoshitomi, and tell him to commence the installation of the new engine immediately.” Fujita nodded, and the aviator stepped to the corner, talked into a phone for a few short sentences, and returned.
“You have a report?” Fujita inquired.
Mayfield cleared his throat, removed some documents from his briefcase, and then told them of the Arab forces at Tomonuto, the tanker, Jabal Nafusa, loading at Bushehr in the Persian Gulf. He concluded, “Their new carrier, the converted Essex, Al Kufra, should make Tomonuto in three days or less.”
“Her air groups?”
“Over a hundred aircraft — fighters and bombers.”
“ME-109s, JU-87s, and North American AT6s. Ms. McIntyre reported thirty-six fighters, thirty-three dive bombers and thirty-two torpedo bombers.”
“That is correct, Commander Matsuhara. That is our intelligence.” The CIA man’s hazel eyes wandered over the three other men in the room. Brent noticed the eyes were bloodshot and rheumy like those of a man twenty-years older. Mayfield continued, “Your squadron of Grumman F-6-Fs will arrive within four days. The freighter carrying the fighters and their pilots left Honolulu yesterday.”
Yoshi clapped his hands together so hard the slap sounded like the report of a small pistol. “Thank you, Amaterasu,” he shouted. Everyone chuckled.
Mayfield continued. “In addition to the American pilots, we have several volunteers.” He scanned a report. “Two Frenchmen, a German, a Greek, and a Turk.” He looked up at Admiral Fujita. “Good men all who hate terrorism and will fight it anywhere, anytime.” Everyone nodded and pleasure was on every face. “Here are their names and resumes of their service records.” He handed the admiral the report. Fujita scanned the zeroxed copies. Mayfield gestured at the documents. “I know the language of Yonaga is English and these men are all highly proficient in English and experienced fighter pilots.” He shifted his eyes to Yoshi Matsuhara. “At least a hundred pilots are in training in the United States and England. But it’s a problem to find aircraft suitable for your operations. Has the Seafire been satisfactory?”
“Yes. It is an excellent fighter.” The commander rubbed his knuckles together. “I have heard of the Grumman FX-1000. Is it available? Can I test-fly one?”
The CIA man sank back with a sigh. “You know Curtis Wright has developed a new 4500-horsepower engine?” Brent heard Yoshi gasp. Fujita shook his head. Mayfield continued. “They call it the Super-Cyclone. But They’re in deep ah... deep trouble with it. Too much magnesium. It has a nasty habit of bursting into flames at high rpms. They’ve lost two test pilots.”
Fujita stared hard at Matsuhara, who squirmed and looked at Brent. Fujita said to Mayfield, “Has the program come to a halt?”
The CIA man shook his head. “Negative. Two hundred air frames are completed, and Curtis Wright figures they’ll have the problem whipped in a month or two. The navy is converting thirteen carriers to operate the new aircraft.”
“Bombers?” Matsuhara asked.
“General Dynamics, Northrop, and Douglas are all involved in building new torpedo and dive bombers. Douglas is the prime contractor, and both aircraft will carry the Douglas name. The dive bomber is called the Douglas ‘Snipe,’ while the torpedo bomber is called the Douglas ‘Shark.’ The Snipe is modeled after the old Curtis SB-2C, and the Shark after the Grumman TBF. By the end of this year we hope to have at least two carrier battle groups consisting of three carriers each and escorts at sea.”
Matsuhara came half out of his chair. “You can give us some help — take back the Mediterranean from the terrorists?”
Mayfield looked down at the deck. “That could lead to something we all wish to avoid.”
“You mean Russian intervention,” Fujita said. “A possible nuclear war.”
“I’m afraid so, Admiral,” Mayfield conceded. “We have managed to maintain a balance of terror for over forty years with our nuclear warheads.” He looked around at the skeptical faces. “You must keep in mind, the Russians are keeping apace with us with their own building program. They are building their own new air force around new models of their old Yakavlev Yak-9-U fighter and Ilyushin-2, Stormovik, and Tupolev bombers.”
“Stormovik,” Fujita said to himself. “The so-called ‘Flying Tank.’”
“That’s right, Admiral,” Mayfield said with a surprised look. “Its vital machinery was actually encased in steel plate.”
“An outstanding attack bomber-two 37-millimeter guns, three machine guns, and bombs. Would make an excellent torpedo bomber. Will the Arabs be supplied with these new aircraft?”
“No, Admiral. We have agreed to withhold our new aircraft from our allies...”
“You’re talking about us,” Brent injected.
“Correct, Mister Ross.” The voice climbed an octave higher. “And the Russians have promised to do the same with the Arabs. The new Stormovik and Yak fighters will be withheld — used only by their own air force.” He tugged at an ear. “You see, in a very strange way, glasnost is working. We have made progress at Geneva.”
Yoshi slapped his armrest. “And my boys are making progress to their graves.”
“That’s unfair,” Mayfield shot back. “We’re sending you all the help we can, short of war. And I will serve with you, take the same risks with you. I will not be ‘doing nothing.’”
“We do not need another dead CIA man. We need another carrier, escorts, better aircraft, pilots, fuel.” Matsuhara’s face twisted into a mask of sarcasm. “Otherwise, we have everything we need.”
The veins in the CIA man’s nose bulged. He waved at Brent. “You have our men, we send you our entire Alaskan oil production and we maintain a continuous surveillance for you with our nuclear subs.”
“That’s not enough.” The pilot stabbed a finger at Mayfield. “And your death in Yonaga would mean nothing, redeem nothing. Death is a constant companion here. Th
e CIA man Frank Dempster had most of his head blown off in the South China Sea, and his death served us nothing except to make a mess of the flag bridge.”
Mayfield stared hard at the air group commander. His voice dropped an octave. “Next year, if we can sneak the deal through without those idiots in Congress finding out — next year, we will send you a Midway-class carrier — the Coral Sea. She’s being retired and will be stricken from the lists.”
All three officers shouted, “Banzai!”
Mayfield stared at Brent in surprise. “It’s not a sure thing,” he added hastily.
“But you’re working on it?” Brent said.
“Yes. We intend to sell it to Taiwan for junk. We have a friendly government there. It would be easy to tow it to Japan.”
Fujita said to Mayfield. “But, unfortunately, we operate in the present, not the future or the promises of the future. My force will put to sea within five weeks. You said you will sail with us?”
“Yes, sir.” He waved at the documents on the admiral’s desk. “You have my orders.”
“I would not hold you to them, Mister Mayfield. We may all die. As Commander Matsuhara has already told you, one CIA man has already died in action on Yonaga. Mister Dempster was at my side when shrapnel from a 500-kilogram bomb took off most of his head.” The little man set his jaw. “I prefer to sail with you.” Fujita smiled. “Very well.” He turned to Brent Ross. “Lieutenant, perhaps Mister Mayfield would like a short tour of our CIC.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mayfield said.
As the three men rose and turned toward the door they were stopped by Fujita’s voice. “Yoshi-san. Be wary of your Taifu. They have great power. They can kill, Yoshi-san.”
“I know, sir.”
As the three men filed toward the door, the phone rang. Brent and Mayfield were halted by Fujita’s voice, while Yoshi Matsuhara hurried down the passageway. After a short conversation, Fujita replaced the receiver and said to Brent with an amused smile, “Captain Fite and Lieutenant Reginald Williams have been dismissed from — ah, I mean, they have discharged themselves from sick bay. Mister Williams requests that you meet him in the pilot house. He is waiting there for you now.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Brent and Mayfield left the room.
*
Lieutenant Reginald Williams was waiting eagerly for Brent just at the forward end of the passageway. His head was still bandaged, but his eyes were bright and alert. After a quick introduction to Horace Mayfield, Reginald said, “Got full clearance, Brent. Blackfin’s in Dry Dock Two with Fite’s battered can. Fite’s already over there. I wanted to see you before I left.” He extended a hand, and his grasp was firm and friendly.
“How about a short tour first, Reggie? Take less than thirty minutes-CIC, hangar deck, and if time permits, the flight deck.”
Williams pondered for a moment. “Good idea. I”d like a look at your communications equipment.”
Brent led. First the trio passed through the chart house, where a pair of quartermasters were hand correcting charts of the Marianas and the Western Carolines. The men came to attention. Then they entered the radio room — “radio shack” to the men — where old tube sets and modern transistorized receivers sat side by side on the same shelves. “At ease. As you were, men,” Brent said repeatedly as enlisted men came to their feet.
But there was applause, bows, and shouts of “Good kills! Banzai!” as Brent was recognized instantly and then the black captain of the lethal Blackfin. Brent noticed that all the looks thrown Reginald’s way were filled with respect, some with awe. Horace Mayfield looked around, drinking it all in and smiling at the warm camaraderie evident on every face.
Brent stopped in front of a bank of receivers and transmitters and spoke to a young cryptologic technician first class who was standing with his earphones pushed to the back of his head as if he expected a conversation with Brent Ross. “New encryption box installed, Hashi-moto?” Brent asked.
“Yes, Mister Ross. “Gamma Yellow” is operable as per your orders.”
“Good. Good. Return to your watch.” He clapped the technician on the shoulder, and the young Japanese pulled his earphones back over his ears and seated himself.
Following Brent, the trio entered the pilot house. It was a wide compartment with a low overhead. The woodwork was oak, the decks scrubbed teakwood. The entire room was surrounded by six-inch molded armor plate, pierced by a dozen scuttles, glistening with polished brass. The glass was five inches thick and made of layers of armored glass. Under the portholes was the huge wheel served with varnished line, the gyro-repeater, half-hooded with a polished brass cover a magnetic compass which was compared with the repeater hourly when underway, speed across the bottom indicator, speed through the water indicator, four engine rev-counters, and four engine-room telegraphs. On each side, doors led to the wings of the bridge which were swept back elegantly and covered to protect the men stationed here in the crudest weather.
Two ratings were busy polishing brass. They came to attention, and Brent waved them back to their work. “Jesus Christ,” Williams said, looking around. “It’s as big as Grauman’s Chinese.”
Brent laughed and gestured to the rear of the room to a chart table, drafting machine, parallel rules, dividers, and pencils in their usual slots beneath the table. “The navigation area. Admiral Fujita still believes in navigating in the old-fashioned way — estimated position, chronometer and sextant, elevations on stars and planets, sunlines.”
“Shades of Christopher Columbus,” Mayfield said. “No LORAN.”
Brent waved at more equipment, “Radar repeater, RDF (radio direction finder,) radios for ship-to-ship communications. He stabbed a finger at a single radio set apart from the others. “FM-10 and Channel 16.”
Mayfield nodded. “International voice radio.”
“Right.” Brent led his two companions aft through a door into the CIC — a world of dim blue-red light. It was a long narrow room, jammed with electronics equipment and plotting boards. Six men, all of whom were seated and studying scopes or typing into processors, came to their feet, and more warm greetings and congratulations were shouted. In the weird light their skin appeared gray-green, teeth yellow, lips the color of currants, and their veins stood out as dim purplish lines. Brent smiled and waved the men back to their posts. “As you were. As you were.”
Working their way toward the back of the compartment, Mayfield looked around in awe. “ECM, radar — the latest stuff. I thought you said the admiral believed in the old-fashioned methods, Mister Ross. He’s sure using antique navigation methods.”
Brent laughed. “Not when it comes to radar, counter measures, and support measures.” He waved. “The enemy has this stuff, too, remember.” He stopped in front of a large console where a young American with the scholarly look of a graduate student stood with a wide smile on his face. “Congratulations, Mister Ross,” he said warmly.
Brent introduced Electronics Technician Martin Reed to Williams and Mayfield. Reed seated himself while the visitors arranged themselves in a semicircle about the console. “ESM,” Mayfield said.
“Correct, sir,” Reed said, gesturing at rows of dimly lighted switches above the green scope and more switches and buttons on the overhead. He patted the machine as if he were fondling a mistress. “A real beauty, the best Raytheon has built. It’s the SLQ-38. Just got it and I’m checking it out now.” He looked up at Williams and Mayfield. “It has both port and starboard antenna assemblies giving us 360-degree azimuth coverage in all bands and instantaneous frequency measurement.”
“IFM,” Williams said.
“Yes, sir. This little baby can identify electronic transmissions with its own digital processor within thirty-two milliseconds. Can give us the transmitting vessel’s name, specs, and captain’s name.”
“Christ!” Mayfield muttered. “Can it tell you if he’s constipated?” Everyone laughed. The CIA man was not finished. “How can this little genie do all of that?”
“By analyzing pulse repetition, type of scan, scan period, and frequency, and then accessing its own 80K threat library, Mister Mayfield.” He tapped the scope. “We read out bearings and ranges here on our CRT.”
“I’ll be damned.”
Mayfield looked around and then said to Brent, “You have your radar in full operation in the harbor?”
Brent nodded. “There’s a lot of clutter in our surface search, true, but the admiral insists it be manned on all watches. Radar did pick up an attempt to ram us by the freighter Zilah out there in the harbor.” He pointed to a pair of green scopes. “Air search is efficient here — anywhere.” He gestured to the door. “You’ve got to see the hangar deck. The only thing bigger is the Grand Canyon.” Chuckling, the two men followed Brent.
The trio exited the elevator on the cavernous hangar deck. Banks of overhead floodlights bathed the massive area with a glare like high noon. Only a dozen dive bombers were on the deck. Mechanics were swarming over them, installing the new Sakae Forty-Two engine, testing controls, and working in the cockpits. There were shouts, the glare of a welder’s torch at the far end, gunfire-like bursts of pneumatic tools, and the sounds of steel-wheeled bowsers being pulled over the steel deck. Heads turned and there were curious stares. Williams stopped in his tracks, staring the length of the vast, 1000-foot compartment, “Jesus, man,” he said. “You could damned near stick the Coliseum in here.”
Brent gestured to galleries lining the compartment amidships, high above the deck. “Gallery deck. Pilot’s ready rooms, briefing rooms, crew chiefs’ quarters.” He pointed to rows of empty racks bolted to the bulkheads.
“Ready racks for bombs and torpedoes.” He pointed down. “They’re stored in their magazines below. When we get underway, those racks will be full.”
Mayfield stabbed a finger forward to a corner where a large plywood structure had been built. It was very plain and unpainted. Brent answered the unvoiced question, “That’s the Shrine of Infinite Salvation. It’s a combined Shinto and Hindu shrine. The cremated remains of our honored dead are kept there, if they have no families to claim them. It’s often the case with our older crewmen.” He pointed to the single doorway crowned by a gilded board. “That’s a torii, and those flowers painted on both sides are sixteen-petaled chrysanthemums that represent the emperor.”
