Quest of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  Moving her hands gracefully like two serpents in a mating ritual and swaying her magnificent hips in a maddening elliptical motion, she turned and gyrated slowly around the room. Her smoldering eyes moved slowly over the men but lingered on Yoshi who stared back, mesmerized by her sexuality — a palpable force that permeated the room and infected everyone. As he watched, Yoshi’s sakazuki was never more than a few inches from his parched lips.

  Brent glanced at Mayumi. Her eyes were on his, catching him in full stare and holding them like a vice — a forceful, hot grip that penetrated and warmed deeper than the sake. There was promise there and, perhaps, a warning. Only one thought commanded his mind: this flower just coming into bloom could not slip through his fingers. He must see her again.

  Kimio’s voice broke through. She began to sing an old love song. “When I awoke, the pillow was cold with tears. What has happened to my love? When he is gone, I cannot hear the songs of birds, and the blue of the sky fades, the sea is slate…” Finally, the sad song came to an end. Then gay lyrics about yakyu (baseball) and a riotous ride in a Japanese commuter train. Finally, with a deep bow, it was over. The men clapped furiously, the women disappeared behind the shoji and then reappeared and sat at the table.

  “Thank you, Kimio-san,” Yoshi said. “That was lovely.”

  “I’m happy you were entertained by my poor efforts,” Kimio said in the usual self-deprecatory fashion of the Japanese hostess.

  “You were great — both of you,” Brent said, turning to Mayumi. And then self-consciously, “Mayumi, may I see you again? Dinner, a museum, the Kabuki?”

  “I would be honored, Lieutenant,” she said, eyes bright, cheeks flushed. “I live in Tokyo — I have a small apartment near the University.”

  “May I phone you?”

  “Of course.”

  Smiling, Kimio pushed a pencil and paper across the table.

  Driving back to Dock B-2, Yoshi Matsuhara — stomach filled with gourmet food and two or three sakazukis too many — leaned back and nodded off, his breath slow and heavy. Brent kept his eyes on the road but his mind was elsewhere, probing the curious circumstances that had brought him here, to Japan, to serve on Yonaga.

  A typical “Navy child”, he was born in the Naval hospital in San Diego. His father, Ted “Trigger” Ross, was at sea, serving as the executive officer on carrier, Philippine Sea. Then shore duty as an attache took the family to Germany, Spain, Turkey, Japan, and Bahrain. Always, Ted, and Brent’s mother, Kathleen, insisted the boy attend public schools where he could learn about the people and master the languages. And where he also learned to fight. Always the foreigner, the young Ross was forced to prove himself with his fists. Very early, he discovered he had his father’s infamous “trigger-like” temper. In fact, as a student in Germany, he was pulled from a bully who had taunted him with “Yankee arschloch” until white hot flames consumed reason, triggering an atavistic urge to not only attack, but obliterate. Brent was pulled from the boy by three made teachers only after he had not only blackened both his eyes, but had broken the German’s nose as well.

  There was never any question as to what career he would pursue. The Navy. There were no other possibilities in the Ross family. Brent was a bright student and a gifted athlete. Always the biggest boy in his class, by the time he was sixteen he was six feet tall and weighed nearly two hundred pounds and could run forty yards in 4.65 seconds. Coaches salivated. At first, in overseas billets, it was soccer and rugby. Then, tragically, his mother’s cancer intervened and Ted requested and received shore duty at the Norfolk Naval Station where Kathleen was confined in the naval hospital. While his mother withered and his father alternately withdrew into sullen reticence or raged against doctors and the fates, Brent vented himself on the football field for the local high school, playing tight end, fullback and sometimes linebacker with equal ferocity.

  By the time Brent entered his senior year, Ted had resigned his commission and brought Kathleen home where he tended her around the clock. Now a round of civilian doctors began and Kathleen was subjected to more radiation, chemotherapy, and megadoses of vitamins. Still, the dying continued. Finally, Ted Ross dismissed the doctors, calling them “Nothing but fakes and greedy cheats.”

  Brent’s senior year was his best. A consensus High School All-American, he was approached by a dozen major colleges and all three academies. In March of 1978, Brent signed his letter of intent with the Naval Academy. One month later, his mother died.

  Incapable of accepting defeat, Ted Ross remained isolated for months, drinking and brooding over an implacable fate that he could not fight, could not even slow. Desperate with worry, Brent delayed enrollment at Annapolis. Months were spent listening to his father rail against doctors, nurses, and medical technicians. Finally, six months after Kathleen’s death, Ted Ross suddenly seemed purged, talked out to the point of exhaustion and he began to muse about returning to the sea. Encouraged by his son, he signed on as first mate of the steamer, Enrose.

  By the time Brent graduated from Annapolis — third in his class and a two-time All-American middle linebacker — Ted Ross had his captain’s papers and was given command of the old steamer, Sparta which plied between Seattle, Fairbanks, and Teller hauling oil drilling equipment and supplies. With a major in mathematics, it was natural for Brent to be assigned to Naval Intelligence Service (NIS). However, because of his unusual talent for leadership and hand-to-hand combat, he was sent with a dozen other new ensigns to the marine base at Camp Pendleton in California for top secret special forces’ training, learning infantry fighting in all kinds of terrain. Special emphasis was given to weapons; rifles, machine guns, mortars, wire guided anti-tank rockets and field communications systems.

  Brent’s first assignment was to the NIS office in Seattle, Washington. Here he served under Commander Craig Bell and Cryptographer Lieutenant Pamela Ward. Bell taught the young ensign the intricacies of computer coding and decoding while Pamela, a sensual woman in her mid-thirties, took the young man to the warm confines of her apartment and taught him about the intimate techniques and rewards of a fully realized relationship.

  It was in Brent’s fourth month at NIS in Seattle that his father’s ship, Sparta, vanished in the Bering Sea. Then in quick succession the Coast Guard HH-52, Sikorski Sea Guard rescue copter disappeared, the Russian Tupoloev 16 LRA out of Valdivostok plunged from NORAD screens and the Russian whaler met its cataclysmic end. The geography of the disasters pointed in a straight line south — to Brent an arrow racing to the heart of the Hawaiian Islands. The ensign suspected Japanese holdouts; submarines, a hidden land base in the Aleutians, perhaps, but never a carrier which, of course, would have been utterly absurd. But his warnings were met with laughter, derision. Then, tragically, Yonaga’s devastating attack on Pearl Harbor delivered forty-two years late proved him right.

  Three weeks later he and Commander Craig Bell boarded the great old maverick carrier in Tokyo Bay and met a sober Admiral Fujita and his solemn crew. Both captain and crew had been finally convinced by representatives of the Japanese government that the war was long over. It was only then he discovered his father had been taken prisoner, and devastated by the carnage inflicted by Yonaga, had killed himself.

  The same day Yonaga anchored, the Chinese orbited their laser system, neutralizing all jets, rockets and destroying every spy and communications satellite. The lasers were followed by the trivial incident which enraged the madman, Moammar Khadafy, and led to the war with the Arabs: Yoshi Matsuhara’s warning burst, disabling an engine of a Libyan DC-3 which had entered Yonaga's airspace.

  An expert with languages and codes, Brent found himself assigned on liaison to Admiral Fujita’s staff. Open warfare with the Arabs followed after the cruise ship Mayeda Maru, with over a thousand crew and passengers aboard, was seized by Khadafy and held for ransom. There was the campaign in the Mediterranean and the attacks on Libya followed by the costly battles in the South China Seas and Malacca Straits. He met Sarah Aranson a
nd Kathryn Suzuki and enjoyed passionate idylls with both. He killed the treacherous Kathryn and drove Sarah away with his fierce loyalty to Admiral Fujita. Now the young officer was preparing for new battles; perhaps he would die in the Korean Straits. Fujita was planning an interception. Everyone knew the two Libyan freighters, Mabruk and Al Hamra and their two destroyer escorts, would be easy kills for Yonaga’s battle group. Nevertheless, the young American was restless. It was too easy. Not typical of Khadafy’s sly planning — his Arab penchant for the unexpected, the well laid trap. Something was brewing. Brent Ross was sure of this. “But what? What?” he asked himself as he turned off the main road and headed for the parking area outside the naval repair facility.

  “Wake up, Yoshi!” he shouted as he pulled into a parking slot. “Time to go to work, Commander.” He took the flyer by the arm and squeezed gently.

  The Japanese shook his head and his eyes fluttered open. “The staff meeting — is it time?”

  Brent chuckled. “No. Sorry to disappoint you. The staff meeting’s tomorrow. You can resume your dream of Kimio in your sack in a couple minutes.”

  They both laughed as they opened the doors of the small sedan and stepped to the pavement.

  Chapter Five

  The meeting was convened early the next morning in Flag Plot. In addition to the staff, an American CIA man, Jason King, had taken a place at the end of the table opposite Brent Ross and Yoshi Matsuhara. Middle-aged and portly, King’s flaccid skin was an unhealthy white, hanging from his puffy cheeks like vanilla pudding. His forehead was broad with deep lines slashed horizontally as if they had been put there by the point of a knife and above it a thinning cap of dark hair shot through with silver threads glistened under the harsh light. Brent could not take his eyes from the man’s nose; large, flat and bent as if it had met too many fists, it gave a simian aspect to his features. Fearfully, the man’s narrow blue eyes flicked restlessly around the room like a dread-filled animal searching the jungle for predators in ambush.

  Next to King sat a commander wearing the uniform of the Self-Defense Force. Quite old for an active officer, Commander Yu taka Nakano was a little man with a spine bent like a battered willow and a haggard face riven by deep lines arched downward into a permanent scowl. Watery and black, his eyes never left the sheath of documents under his bent arthritic fingers.

  After introducing the two newcomers, Fujita asked Jason King for his report. Standing and removing a bundle of documents from a leather valise, King spoke in a husky voice that betrayed anxiety in a slight quiver and a shortness of breath. “Gentlemen,” he began, “I am the replacement for Frank Dempster who lost his life gallantly in Yonaga fighting for freedom.”

  Despite memories of Dempster’s hideous death when a piece of shrapnel had neatly removed the top of the CIA man’s head with the precision of a scalpel, splattering most of the bridge force with brains and gore, Brent had to suppress a snicker. Dempster had been drunk that day. Brent was sure of it. In an alcoholic stupor, the CIA man had stared stupidly down at the flight deck instead of taking cover behind the splinter shield when a 1,000-pound bomb struck the deck squarely amidships. His death had been useless and futile, not gallant.

  Moving his eyes to Admiral Fujita, Jason King continued, “I have some information for you concerning Khadafy’s latest moves against Japan. First, he has convinced the Indonesians to join the oil embargo against Japan.”

  There was a roar of anger. “Spineless mamushis!” Fujita shouted angrily. “We lost hundreds of samurai and Americans fighting for them when they would not fight for themselves.”

  “They still won’t fight for themselves, Admiral,” King said. “Don’t forget, Indonesia is a member of OPEC and they’ve pledged no more oil will be exported to Japan as of 2400 hours tonight.”

  “The Persian Gulf?” Okuma shouted.

  The CIA man shrugged. “Also hopeless. Since we — the U.S. — had to pull out of the gulf after the Chinese orbited their lasers, Iraq and Iran have been sinking tankers at will and, anyway, Kuwait, Bahrain, Oman, and the United Arab Emirates have all knuckled down to Khadafy’s jihad. They haven’t joined Libya, Iraq, Lebanon, Jordon, and Syria in the ‘holy’ war against Israel and Japan but they won’t sell any more oil to you.” The CIA man shrugged through the angry rumble. “They can’t export it, anyway — not with constant attacks from Iraq and Iran.”

  “Egypt and Saudi Arabia?” Daizo Saiki shouted. “Trying to be moderate — but they’re surrounded by Khadafy’s vassals. Both governments are very unstable with hotheads rioting and trying to force cooperation with Khadafy.” He looked around at the sober faces. “And in our opinion, they’ll succeed.”

  Fujita said, “Mister King, you are aware that Japan has only one-hundred-twenty active oil wells at Niigata and Ennai. You realize these wells produce, perhaps, sixty barrels of oil a day. Japan uses three-and-half-million barrels a day. Our shortfall will be over ninety-nine percent.”

  The CIA man’s sigh filled the room. “I know, sir.” He drummed the table with white knuckles, examined another document. “Admiral, you know the U.S. is on strict rationing.” All the officers nodded. “But we are exploring — boosting production. We will export two-and-a-half-million barrels a day to you in spite of the sacrifices we’ll be forced to make.”

  Fujita’s voice was acid with sarcasm, “Sacrifices! I am distressed at your sacrifices. I sacrificed three destroyers, fifty-three aircraft and three-hundred-ten good men in the Mediterranean.” King’s eyes widened and his face reddened. Fujita raced on, “Two hundred fifteen more of my men sacrificed their lives in the South China Sea.”

  He waved at Captain John “Slugger” Fite. “I sacrificed half of my escorts — most of my air groups.”

  Squinting, King pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “I know, sir. I’m not proud of my country at this moment. But you must realize most of our arsenal is useless.”

  “We need more ships — more of everything.” Fujita gestured at Commander Yutaka Nakano, “The frigates and destroyers of the Self-Defense Force cannot fire their missiles — are practically useless.”

  “Sir!” Nakano said, suddenly prodded to life by the affront. “We would serve with you if only with bows and arrows.”

  A quick smile broke through Fujita’s wrinkles. “You would only be targets.” He turned back to King. “We need firepower — machine guns and quick firing cannons.” He gestured at Fite. “The Fletcher with its five-inch, thirty-eights is the best of its type in the world.”

  “I discovered that in the Solomons,” Commander Mitake Arai said suddenly, exchanging a glance with Rear Admiral Mark Allen.

  Jason King opened a new dossier; selected a single document. “We’ve bought three more Fletchers from Chile and the Philippines. We’ve equipped the DD’s with SPS-10 surface search radar, the SPS-40 air search radar and the SQS-23 sonar.”

  Fujita looked stunned. “Is that all? We need big guns! Aircraft carriers!” He stabbed a finger at Captain Fite, “Twice, Captain Fite has sacrificed his command in torpedo runs on cruisers.”

  Leaning on his hands, the CIA man bent over his notes. “I’m sorry, sir. We —” he paused like a man who suddenly comes to the edge of an unexpected cliff and stares down into a bottomless abyss, “there are reports — reports that Khadafy has been building up his surface fleet.”

  “What? Not carriers?”

  “Yes, Admiral. Two. Plus two cruisers, and, maybe, a dozen DD’s, and a couple transports. Keep in mind, there are over two hundred World War II ships still in commission all over the world.” He glanced at his documents. “We know he’s bought the carrier Vigrant from India. She’s the former British Hercules of the Majestic class.”

  Fujita squirmed uneasily. “Specifications!”

  “Yes, sir. Displacement, twenty one thousand tons; length, seven hundred feet; beam, one hundred twenty-eight; aircraft, forty-four.” King looked directly at the admiral. “We’re not sure of speed. She’s been re-engine
d with new General Electric single reduction geared turbines — been upgraded from fifty-thousand shaft horsepower to a rumored seventy-thousand which we compute would produce a flank speed of, maybe, thirty-knots fully loaded and a range of about ten-thousand miles at sixteen knots.”

  “Sacred Buddha! Armament? Radar?”

  “Our operatives only report numerous AA machine guns and dual-purpose 76-millimeter guns.” He tapped the desk with a single finger. “We know she was refitted in 1982 with Signal LW-05 air search radar, surface search ZW-06, tactical ZW 10-11, and her carrier control approach is Type 963.” He looked up, “State of the art, sir.”

  Fujita’s jaw took a grim set. “Thanks to our British friends, she should be a formidable opponent.” He hunched forward. “You said two carriers.”

  “Yes, sir.” Another document, another quick glance. “A new one, not World War II, Admiral. The Spanish Principe de Asturias commissioned just a year ago. She was a VSTOL —” he saw startled looks on several of the old faces. “Sorry, gentlemen, Vertical or short take-off and landing — helicopters and harriers. She’s been converted to fixed wing operations, flight deck lengthened to seven-hundred feet. We figure she can operate over fifty aircraft. Displacement, twenty one thousand tons; speed, thirty-two knots, range, seven thousand five hundred miles at twenty knots. She has SPS 55 surface search radar, the SPY-1A three-dimensional air search and fire control system, and for air control the SPN 35 A Tacan.”

  Fujita startled everyone. “Those are American systems.”

  King hunched over his notes like a man struck in the solar plexus by a bat. “Yes,” he muttered. “The whole concept is American — the ship is a United States Navy Sea Control design.” He fixed his eyes on his notes. “In fact, we lent the Spanish $150 million for her construction.”