by Peter Albano
At the far end of the table, flanking Admiral Fujita, were two more new faces — both old and both belonging to full commanders. To Fujita’s right was Commander Hakuseki Katsube, Ship’s Scribe and Personnel Officer, replacing Commander Kenji Hironaka. Agreeing with Admiral Fujita’s contempt for recorders as “junk and toys,” the old bald-headed man slouched in his chair holding a pad and pencil, back bent by age like an ancient pine battered by perennial winds. Face as wrinkled as a sun-dried raisin, his lids drooped away from his watery eyeballs so that the inner flesh showed pink like freshly sliced sushi.
To Fujita’s left sat Commander Mitake Arai who replaced Captain Masao Kawamoto as Executive and Damage Control Officer. A tall slender man in his mid-sixties, Arai had alert intelligent eyes that glowed from a face lined and roughened like a venerable oak. He was a complete professional. A World War II veteran, he had distinguished himself commanding the destroyer Rikokaze in the battle of Tassafaronga. Here, on the night of November 30, 1942 while leading a division of six destroyers on a supply run to Guadalcanal, he daringly engaged heavy cruisers Pensacola, New Orleans, Minneapolis and Northhampton and their escort of five destroyers. From the incredible range of twenty kilometers, he put two Type 93, Long Lance torpedoes into the Northhampton. Ripped by the two thousand-pound warheads of the magnificent weapon, the American cruiser rolled over and sank. Rikokaze survived battles off the Truk lagoon, Bougainville, Rabaul and the massacres in the Philippine Sea and Leyte Gulf that saw the end of the Imperial Navy. On April 7, 1945, Rikokaze's turn came 85 miles west of Kyushu. Escorting the doomed battleship Yamato, the destroyer was sent to the bottom by hundreds of American carrier planes that returned again and again to strafe survivors off her red-leaded bottom when she rolled over. Only Commander Arai and ten others were picked up by fishing boats.
After the war, Arai spent twenty-seven years in the Self Defense Force as a personnel officer before retiring. He volunteered immediately for Yonaga and although he knew very little about carriers and carrier warfare, Fujita accepted him just as quickly. Every night Commander Arai studied ships, aircraft and weapons manuals until he fell asleep over his desk.
“Damage report?” Fujita said, the hard timbre of his voice jarring Brent Ross out of his thoughts.
Coming to his feet quickly and clutching a sheath of documents, Commander Arai spoke in deep, firm tones. “The after gun director was knocked off of its mounts and into the sea …”
“I know this — all of Japan knows this, Commander,” Fujita interrupted irritably.
“I know, sir. But please permit me to give my report in its entirety.” The old admiral nodded his assent. Glancing at a pad, Arai continued, “Two twenty-five millimeter triple mounts lost with their crews.”
“They died like samurai,” Commander Hakuseki Katsube blurted, spraying his pad with spittle. “Truly, their spirits dwell in the Yasakuni Shrine.”
“Without a doubt,” Fujita said impatiently. Then he gestured to Arai to go on.
“Aft air search and surface search radar antennas carried away. Two lookout platforms destroyed and severe scorching of the flight deck just aft of the island and forward of the aft elevator. Thirty-three dead and twenty-four wounded. Most of the wounded suffer from burns.”
“Is there any buckling or warp in the flight deck?”
“No, Admiral.”
“Boilers?”
Because the Chief Engineer, Lieutenant Tatsuya Yoshida, had been excused to work in the boiler rooms, the question was directed at the Executive Officer. “Lieutenant Yoshida reports descaling will be completed by 1800 today and all sixteen boilers will be on line by 2000.”
“Fuel?”
“We are topping off now, sir,”
“Gunnery?” Fujita said, moving his eyes to Nobomitsu Atsumi.
Commander Nobomitsu Atsumi rose as Arai returned to his chair. “The repair officer said that he will need a minimum of six weeks to replace the director and the two destroyed mounts, Admiral.”
“Sacred Buddha,” Fujita hissed.
“We are replenishing our magazines. They will be fully loaded by 2000 hours, sir.”
“Air groups?” the admiral asked, addressing Commander Matsuhara.
Yoshi came to his feet, obviously tired and upset. “Our fighter and bomber squadrons are continuing training out of Tokyo International and Tsuchiura.” His voice deepened, “We lost three good fighter pilots yesterday, Admiral — good samurai who might be alive today if we had more powerful engines. Those MEs were faster than any fighters I fought in the Mediterranean and South China Sea. There is a new Daimler Benz engine…”
Daizo Saiki, with a jeweled pince-nez balanced precariously on his flat nose, spoke from his chair, “My crews care nothing for engines, planes…As the Hagakure teaches, we will attack with our bare hands, our teeth…”
“Banzai! Banzai!” Okuma and Katsube shouted; Okuma rising to his full six feet, Katsube drooling on the table.
Fujita commanded silence and sent Okuma back to his chair with raised hands. “The new Nakajima Sakae with seventeen-hundred horsepower engine is now in production.”
“I know, sir,” Yoshi said. “But delivery, Admiral?”
Fujita glanced, again, at the executive officer. Commander Arai spoke to Matsuhara, “The first twenty engines will arrive the day after tomorrow.”
“Your A6M2s cannot take the stress,” Okuma said.
“Right, I agree,” Daizo Saiki joined in, nibbling on the frame of his pince-nez.
Yoshi’s eyes flashed angrily. “Mitsubishi engineers have already given me reinforcing schemes for wing roots, engine mounts and arresting hooks and they assure me the central wing spar is sturdy enough.” His fingers drummed on the table. He addressed the burly bomber commander like a teacher talking to a young child, “And do not forget, Commander, in Nineteen-forty-four the A6M8 mounted the fourteen-hundred-forty horsepower Kinsei Sixty-Two engine. It even carried armor plate and had self-sealing tanks and did not fall apart in combat.” A chuckle swept the room.
Okuma was not finished. He said to Fujita, “Admiral, I suggest the new engines be mounted in my torpedo bombers. The construction of the Nakajima B-Five-N is already sturdy enough to accept the engine without modification.”
“I thought you would attack with your teeth, your bare hands,” Matsuhara said sarcastically. And then harshly, “Are you an engineer?”
“No, but I consulted with…”
“I do not care who you consulted…”
“Enough!” Fujita roared, striking the table with a tiny fist. “The bombers must depend on the fighters for their survival. We will equip the fighters first.” Okuma sank back sullenly, Daizo Saiki grimaced, but said nothing.
Fujita continued with Yoshi Matsuhara, “Yesterday, you shot down the American renegade, Captain Kenneth Rosencrance.”
“Yes, sir. He parachuted into the bay. He has been moved from the sick bay to the brig with the other two prisoners.”
“His plane crashed in downtown Tokyo.”
“I am afraid that is true, Admiral. ‘Killer’ Friessner shot down my wingman and both planes crashed in the Ginza.”
“Why did you not come to Lieutenant Taku Ishikawa’s aid when the black Messerschmitt tried to shoot him in his parachute harness?” Tashiro Okuma asked.
“Do you dare challenge me?”
“Yes!”
Brent watched the exchange, fascinated. Although the old admiral encouraged open exchanges in his staff meetings regardless of rank, Brent was not prepared for the rancor that filled the room like venom. And again, he saw Fujita suddenly withdraw, become the observer of conflict — a witness to other men in friction and stress. Somehow, in the twisted code of bushido and, perhaps, after decades of isolation, denied women, and the passion of release, the old Japanese found a vicarious consummation when other men exposed malevolence for each other: in this case, hatred.
Okuma was not yet finished. He pushed on into dangerous ground. “You were no
t out of ammunition. I counted twenty-two rounds of twenty millimeter, and eighty-four rounds of seven-point-sevens in your tanks.”
Yoshi Matsuhara rocked on his feet slowly, a flush creeping upward from his collar over his cheeks to his forehead like a flow of lava. His eyes bulged, sweat beaded on his forehead and his breath came in short gasps. “How dare you spy on me — pry into my aircraft. Someday, just you and I,” he said, breathlessly, “we will settle this thing in the Shrine of Infinite…”
“Yes,” came from the door, shrilly. Every man turned, stared in disbelief at Lieutenant Taku Ishikawa who stood leaning against the doorjamb, left leg bandaged from foot to thigh, head wrapped in white cloth. “Yes! Why did you not come to my aid? Ronin! Ronin!”
Brent glanced at Admiral Fujita. But the ancient sailor remained mute. For the first time in the three months that the American had known Tashiro Okuma, the lieutenant was smiling.
“Taku,” Yoshi said, agony in his voice. “My port wing flaps were shot away — I could not control my machine.”
“You landed at Tokyo International?”
“True. But I…”
“You should have tried to ram. Anything. A good samurai would have. No, you have not forgotten China, Tsiichiura…”
“I will not take that, Taku. Soon you will be well enough…”
Taku Ishikawa reeled, put his hand to his head. A guard stepped through the door.
“Enough!” Fujita snapped, finally tiring of the game. “Return to the sick bay, Lieutenant Ishikawa.” He gestured to the seaman guard. “Assist the Lieutenant, Seaman Katari.” Katari took Ishikawa by the arm and led him down the companionway.
For a long moment the old admiral’s eyes shifted from Tashiro Okurna to Yoshi Matsuhara and back, measuring the adversaries. Brent adjusted his bulk uneasily in his cramped chair as silence poured into the room like a viscous fluid, coating everyone and everything. Finally, Fujita spoke, “I command you both to lay aside your hostility. Remember, before we kill each other, we have a few Arabs and mercenaries to deal with. Then, when that is finished…” He shrugged and turned both hands palms up. Slowly, his eyes traveled over the expectant faces. “Where were those Douglases based? Russian Siberia? They would have the range. But the Messerschmitts? They would not have the range. Could not fly that far.”
“With your permission, sir,” Colonel Irving Bernstein said, coming to his feet. He waved a document, “I just decoded a dispatch from Israeli Intelligence. One of our P-5 Is shot down a Libyan ME over Ben Gurion Airport and the plane was equipped with refueling gear. As you know, the One-Oh-Nine was designed for European distances — had a range of only six hundred sixty kilometers.” He glanced at Brent, “Four hundred ten miles and when Hosni Mubarak kicked the Libyans out of Egypt, they modified their fighters, equipping them with refueling receptacles just aft of the engine and in front of the fire wall. The squadron that attacked Ben Gurion had to fly a minimum of fifteen hundred miles round trip. We know, now, they skirted Egypt to the north and tanker planes refueled them over the Med.” And then he added bitterly, “They took us by surprise — did a tremendous amount of damage.”
Fujita nodded, understanding, and with a wave indicated he was finished with Bernstein. “Admiral Allen,” he said, turning to the senior American. “I would like your opinion — ah, your input, as you Americans like to say.”
Mark Allen stood slowly. His tired face had a dozen new lines Brent had never seen before. “Admiral,” he said, watery eyes fixed on the old Japanese, “the two planes that fell on the Ginza — ah, Commander Matsuhara’s young wingman, Ensign Inazo Nitobe exploded at the corner of Sotobori Dori and Harumi Dori and burned out the first three floors of the Sony Building and Rosencrance’s ME crashed into the Shin Maru Building across the Hibiya Dori from the Imperial Palace — terrible casualties, sir, terrible.”
Brent saw Fujita’s unflappable demeanor crack for the first time. “Not the Imperial Palace.” He struck the desk with a clenched fist. “Never. Never.”
“I have new figures.” Allen held up a document. “The block of stores across the street from the Sony Building was burned out and at latest count, one hundred eighty-seven civilians were killed and over four hundred injured.” A startled rumble swept the room.
“In the name of the Blessed One,” Fujita exclaimed. “That many?”
“I’m afraid so, sir. And NIS reports there will be strong attacks against us, against what the media will call ‘war mongering old sailors’.”
“Those electric boxes with pictures they all sit before and turn into sliced sushi,” Fujita retorted angrily. “The modern Japanese cannot think…”
Okuma interrupted the admiral with a shouted, “Banzai!”
Fujita waved him to silence, angrily, continuing, “… cannot think, has never read the Hagakure, cares nothing about his Sacred Emperor, cares nothing about the sacrifices of his samurai and is happy as long as the box tells him he is happy and he has enough fuel to drive his Honda.” He lapsed into a grim silence, clasped his hands together as a single weapon and thumped them on the desk. “We have spoiled the blood of hundreds of brave men for their oil.”
“The Emperor is behind us, sir,” Okuma said. “We need no more.”
Fujita’s face softened. “Well said, Commander.” And then to Mark Allen, “Please continue, Admiral Allen. Your NIS has some information about Arab bases? Where the Douglases came from? The CIA reports Khadafy negotiated — leased a fifty-square kilometer parcel from the Russians here.” He moved to a bulkhead mounted chart and stabbed it with a finger.
“As we suspected, at Sergeyeoka, Admiral, about seventy miles north of Vladivostok. Easy range for the bombers and we feel the fighters were refueled over the Sea of Japan, here.” He moved his finger to a point west of Honshu and pondered the map for a moment. “They must have entered Japanese airspace here, at Niigata, less than two hundred miles from Tokyo.”
“You said leased, Admiral Allen.”
“Yes, sir. It’s an old idea first used by President Franklin Roosevelt early in World War II — ah, I mean early in the Greater East Asia War — to help the Allies against the Axis without direct intervention.” Allen reddened at his gaffe, realizing the older men in the room had been bitter enemies during the recent unpleasantness.
Fujita leaned forward. “Our air groups will cancel their lease.”
“Not necessary, sir. The American representative to the United Nations has filed a formal complaint.”
“Your United Nations, a bunch of women,” Fujita scoffed.
Perhaps, Admiral,” Allen continued evenly. “But we have threatened to lease our bases in Turkey, Greece and Spain to the Japanese and Israelis.”
“To that they will listen,” the old Japanese acknowledged.
“The Arabs are flying their pilots home and have already begun to load their equipment on two freighters at Vladivostok.”
“They fly the Libyan flag?”
Yes, sir. I have the data here.” He waved another document. “The twenty-four-thousand-ton Mabruk and the eighteen-thousand-ton Al Hamra.
The old man’s eyes narrowed and the set of his jaw took on a hard aspect. Brent knew Fujita’s mind as well as any man could. He saw death on that face. Fujita spoke slowly, “Escorts?”
“None in the harbor, sir.”
“How can you be sure?”
Mark Allen looked around the room uneasily. He spoke to the group, “This is top secret.” He cleared his throat. “The United States Navy keeps a SSBN ‘boomer’, sorry, an Ohio class, nuclear powered, missile sub on permanent station off Vladivostock. Of course, she has no missiles, but new monitoring devices allow her to maintain an accurate surveillance on shipping in the harbor.”
“Then the Pentagon decoded and relayed the information to you?”
“No, Admiral. We have that capability on board.” He gestured at Brent. “Lieutenant Ross has done the decoding.”
Startled, Brent looked up. “You mean that new encr
yption box — that’s what it’s for? But it produced another cipher.”
“Of course, Brent. My personal computer is programmed for final decoding.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“I want to know when those ships sortie.” The old admiral clasped his tiny hands and leaned on his elbows. “If possible, a day in advance.”
“We will get the sub’s signal when they exit, but no advanced warning. I can tell you this, Admiral, an ordinary crew would take about six days to load. Give the Arabs ten.” Laughter eased the tension in the room.
“Admiral,” Bernstein said suddenly. “May I speak?” Fujita gave an affirmative nod. “About those escorts — I had a report yesterday that had no bearing until now, and, perhaps, it is significant. At dawn yesterday, a reconnaissance aircraft spotted two Libyan Gearing Class Destroyers sortie from the Gulf of Suez at high speed.”
“How high?”
“An estimated twenty knots.”
The old man stood slowly, moved to the chart. After gazing for a long moment, he spoke softly, almost to himself, “With fueling, thirty-five to forty days.” He fingered the single white hair dangling from his chin. “Perfect. Perfect, we will be repaired and ready — if those Gearings are the escort.” He turned to the staff. “If not, and the freighters sortie unescorted, we can intercept them here.” He struck the chart angrily, tiny finger lodged on the East China Sea. “But, with enough warning, I prefer to intercept them here.” He moved the finger up two parallels to the Korean Straits, “Here where we destroyed the Russian Fleet in Nineteen-hundred-five.”
“Banzai! Banzai!” filled the room and Brent found himself standing, waving a fist and shouting with the rest. Only John Fite, Mark Allen and Irving Bernstein remained seated while the old Scribe, Commander Hakuseki Katsube, staggered from his chair and collapsed across the table, shouting into his pad.
