Quest of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “And now we will fight her,” Fujita spat rancorously. He drummed the table restlessly while a heavy silence filled the room. “The cruisers, Mister King?”

  “We know Khadafy’s bought two cruisers, one from Bangladesh and the other from Pakistan.”

  . “Pakistan! Again? They sold him the Dido we sank in the South China Sea.”

  “Yes, Admiral. When you control the world’s oil you can be very persuasive.”

  Fujita waved a tiny hand impatiently. “Specifications!”

  The CIA man glanced at his documents, “She’s the Babur; ex-British London, and she’s nineteen years newer than the Dido you sank; commissioned in Nine-teen-sixty-three. Seven thousand four hundred forty tons; length, five hundred seventy feet, main battery, six 5.25-inch Armstrong-Vickers Mark 26 rapid fire guns.” He looked up. “We aren’t sure of her secondaries, but according to reports she is being equipped with eighteen 20-millimeter Orlikons and sixteen 16- millimeter Bofors in dual and quadruple mounts.”

  “And the other cruiser, Mister King?”

  “She’s the Umar Farooz of the Bangladesh Navy — the ex-HMS Llandaff. She’s small, sir — three hundred sixty feet, thirty eight hundred tons. More in the line of a modern frigate. She was completed in 1955 and was diesel powered. But in 1976, she was re-engined with Parsons, geared turbines with a shaft horsepower of fifty-four-thousand and a top speed of thirty-four knots.”

  “Armament?”

  “Loaded, sir. Four 4.5-inch cannons in two gun houses are the main battery and twenty-four 20-millimeter and twenty-four-millimeter AA are the secondary. Range is ten-thousand at sixteen knots and she has the best radar the British can build; type 965 air search, combined warning type 993, fire control Mark 6 M I-band,” He sighed. “The best, sir. The best.”

  Captain Fite spoke up, “The DD’s?”

  “Seven Gearings and five Fletchers,” King said. “You know, there are close to a hundred of these ships in commission — still operating, still formidable. In fact, all of the Gearings have undergone FRAM.” The Japanese looked at each other in confusion.

  “Sorry,” King continued. “‘Fleet Rehabilitation and Modernization’. They were equipped with ASROC, Mark 46 antisubmarine torpedoes and SPS-10 surface search radar, the SPS-40 air search and the SQS-23 sonar.”

  Yoshi Matsuhara came to life with the question that Brent expected, “Pilots? Planes?”

  The CIA man moved his eyes to the flight commander. “Khadafy has no shortage of either,” he answered. He pulled another document from his sheath. “Our latest count shows one-hundred-fifteen JU 87’s, eighty-two Heinkel 11 l’s and one-hundred-seventy-two ME 109’s. In addition, a mixed bag of about a hundred P-5 l’s, P-47’s, Spitfires, Hurricanes, AT-6’s, DC-3’s, DC-6’s, Cessnas, and other assorted civilian aircraft. And Daimler Benz has a new nineteen-hundred horsepower engine in production. It’s the DB six-one-two inverted V-twelve liquid cooled engine which they’re installing in their 109’s. The Germans have dug up old dies, stamps, and frames out of old salt mines and built new ones. They’re building airframes in Meiningen, Blankenburg, and Ballenstedt; all in East Germany and financed by the Russians. And when you pay a million a year and bonuses, pilots aren’t hard to find.”

  “We are aware of the bonuses,” Yoshi said. “Fifty-thousand American dollars for each one of us they kill.”

  King swallowed hard. “Right. That’s how it is.”

  “We have killed a lot of them,” Yoshi said smiling. “Are their replacements mostly German?”

  “Still a lot of Germans and they still use their German designations. But now you’ll find Russians, Poles, English, Americans…” He hesitated, eyes probing the room anxiously.

  Fujita finished his sentence, “And Japanese. Is that not correct, Mister King?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir. We hear it’s the work of the Japanese Red Army.”

  Mark Allen entered the exchange. “A murderous, merciless bunch of Marxists. NIS has kept them under constant surveillance. They were responsible for the Lod Airport massacre.”

  Yoshi Matsuhara, Chief Engineer Tatsuya Yoshida and Gunnery Officer Lieutenant Commander Nobomitsu Atsumi looked at the American in confusion. Fujita thumped on the desk loudly. Allen explained, “Lod is in Israel and in Nineteen-seventy-two three members of the Japanese Red Army opened fire in the airport terminal with automatic weapons and grenades. They killed twenty-six and wounded seventy-two more. Most of the casualties were Christian pilgrims.”

  “That makes no sense at all,” Fujita noted.

  “It’s not supposed to, Admiral,” Irving Bernstein said, breaking his silence. “One Red Army terrorist survived. I questioned him for Israeli Intelligence. He claimed the dead meant nothing — only the size of the audience was important.”

  “Mamushis,” Fujita growled. Then, glancing at Bernstein and the Americans, “Snakes, gentlemen.”

  “Poisonous snakes, sir,” Allen said, regaining the conversation.

  Throwing his head back and balancing his pince-nez precariously on his flat nose, Lieutenant Daizo Saiki spoke, “Yes. I remember the Red Army. They were hunted down in the streets and house to house in the late Sixties and early Seventies. They were responsible for the massacre at the Hotel Karuizawa.”

  “Right,” Commander Tashiro Okuma said. “They held out for over a week — had machine guns. I saw it on television. The police lobbed tear gas, crashed through the roof with a steel demolition ball, sprayed them with jets of ice water. The terrorists started killing each other in an insane frenzy. Some were executed for wearing earrings, others for fornicating and childbearing. I remember fourteen were dead — tortured, mutilated, stabbed, strangled, buried alive, burned, frozen in the snow.” He glanced at the admiral. “Delightful group of youngsters.”

  No one laughed. Okuma glared at Brent Ross as if he were to blame for his embarrassment.

  Bernstein stepped in. “They’re as fanatic and loyal to Khadafy as the Sabbah. All are PFLP — sorry, I mean the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine training camp graduates. Everyone has been trained in Libyan and Russian financed camps in Aden, Lebanon and, of course, Libya.”

  Tashiro Okuma spoke to Jason King but his eyes were on Brent Ross. “The interests of the United States are at stake here, too. You have carriers! You have thirteen in commission and six magnificent Essex class carriers sit uselessly in your ‘moth balls’. You have big gunned ships — cruisers, battleships. The Russians help their friends. Why do you not help us?” His eyes pierced Brent’s with the hot force of distilled hatred. “Are you cowards? Is that it? Cowards?”

  Brent exploded from his chair. “I won’t take that,” he shouted, fists balled.

  Mark Allen was on his feet. “Enough, Brent. Sit down, Brent!” And then to the big torpedo bomber leader, “That was unconscionable, Commander Okuma.”

  Fujita’s voice rang through the room. “Yes! Indeed! That is enough. All of you be seated.”

  With Yoshi Matsuhara’s hand on his shoulder, Brent Ross reluctantly returned to his chair.

  Calmly, Mark Allen continued, “May I speak to Commander Okuma’s statement, Admiral?”

  The old admiral knuckled the oak. “Perhaps you had better.” The watery black eyes moved over the officers and there was sadness there. “We samurai have a saying,” he nodded at the Hagakure which was under his hand. “‘If I do not know the way to defeat my enemy, then I will defeat myself.’” His eyes moved to Brent Ross and then fixed Tashiro Okuma. “At this moment we serve our enemies.” He nodded at Mark Allen.

  The timbre of Allen’s voice was controlled and firm. “You new members of the staff must keep in mind we function in a world where the nuclear hegemony of the superpowers no longer exists. Before the Chinese laser system, we lived in a frightening world, true, with instant annihilation a constant threat. But third world countries were controlled.”

  “We are aware of this,” Executive Officer, Commander Mitake Arai said.

 
; “Of course,” Allen answered. “But, obviously, some of us have forgotten.” He leaned forward on his hands which were flat on the table. “Keep in mind, the U.S. can barely supply herself and her allies with oil. And with the turmoil in the Persian Gulf and warfare in the Mediterranean, the Russians are not much better off.”

  “Russia is the world’s greatest producer of oil,” Arai offered.

  “True,” Allen agreed. “But, again, like the United States, they have their allies — the nations of the Warsaw Pact to supply.” The tired eyes moved around the assemblage. “The United States is converting its thirteen active carriers to fixed wing operations and Grumman is building the new FX-100 fighter that will be powered by the new Wright Turbo-Compound, 3,500-horsepower reciprocating engine. But, at this moment, we are totally unprepared for a confrontation with the Russians. Don’t forget, the Soviets have fifty-thousand tanks. Why, they’d roll through NATO like a knife through butter. The only thing that would stop them would be the English Channel. It’s mandatory we keep them at the table — continue our disarmament talks with them at Geneva.” He dropped his eyes. “Even if these talks appear ludicrous to some of you.” He moved his eyes to Arai.

  While Fujita leaned back, eyes carefully measuring each occupant of the room, Mitake Arai spoke directly to Mark Allen as if no one else was present, “I spent over two decades in the Self-Defense Force.”

  “I know.”

  “Because of the Constitution, and especially Article Nine, the Self-Defense Force is crippled — cannot take aggressive actions even if it had the equipment. It must react, not act.”

  Mark Allen smiled. “I know about Article Nine — I wrote it.”

  Heads turned and a gasp of incredulity swept the 159 room like a fire in dry brush. Even Admiral Fujita’s eyes widened and he came erect. Mark Allen leaned back and his eyes narrowed as if he were reading a Teleprompter attached to the overhead: “‘Aspiring sincerely to an international peace based on justice and order, the Japanese people forever renounce war as a sovereign right of the nation and the threat and use of force as a means of settling international disputes.’” He moved his eyes back to the staff. “That’s it, verbatim.”

  “Now Japan is a nation of women ruled by sheep called the Diet,” the old Scribe, Commander Hakuseki Katsube muttered to himself lugubriously.

  Fujita’s face hinted at one of his rare smiles. He spoke gently to the bent ancient calligrapher, “Fortunately, not completely true, Commander. We are a public park — not subject to Article Nine. And most important,” his voice rose and he lifted his head, “the Emperor commands us. The spirit of Kokutai still lives.”

  “Banzais,” filled the room. The scribe’s weak voice managed to break through, “Yes, Admiral. Kokutai which teaches the Emperor is the essence — is Japan.!

  “And we will continue to take our orders from the Mikado despite demonstration, criticism by pacifist cowards in the papers and on television — that electric box designed for idiots.”

  Mark Allen spoke, “Admiral, may I continue?” Fujita nodded assent. The American turned to Commander Tashiro Okuma whose hard face was implacable as a stone Buddha. “All of you know the United States will provide funds, ships and intelligence through the CIA.” Jason King nodded agreement. “The contributions have been enormous and,” he glanced at Captain John Fite, “our losses have, also, been heavy.” Brent heard Okuma grunt.

  “Thank you, Admiral Allen,” Fujita said, signaling the end of the topic and impatience for a new one.

  Then, he surprised everyone with his incisive memory for detail by his next question directed at Jason King. “You mentioned two transports.”

  King arched his eyebrows. “What?” His confusion was cleared by a quick smile. “Oh, yes, sir. Khadafy appears to be assembling an amphibious landing force. We don’t have much on the transports — they’re small.” He shrugged. “Carry, maybe eight-hundred — a thousand troops each.”

  “A landing on some of Israel’s beaches, perhaps?” Fujita mused.

  Bernstein came into the discussion, “Not much chance, Admiral,” he said smiling. “They’ve tried that twice. We slaughtered them on the beaches at Ashod and Caesarea. He must have something else in mind.” King pulled another document from a dossier. “Something’s afoot, Admiral. We have reports the Fifth Special Combat Battalion and the Seventh Parachute Brigade have been put on special alert.”

  “Parachute Brigade?” Fujita said, unable to conceal his surprise. “He has parachute troops?”

  Bernstein spoke before King could answer. “They’re elite troops — trained in all aspects of warfare. Jungle, desert, amphibious, airborne.”

  “He does not have the planes to deliver them by air.”

  “True, Admiral,” King said, regaining the conversation. “We feel they are planning an amphibious operation somewhere.”

  “Somewhere,” Fujita reflected, pulling on the single white hair hanging from his chin. “That does not tell us much.”

  “We have no further information, Admiral,” King said.

  Bernstein shook his head. “Neither does Israeli intelligence, Admiral, except for the submarines.” Jason King shot the Israeli a jaundiced glance filled with surprise. Brent chuckled to himself. It was well known that Israeli Intelligence with a minuscule budget that would not keep the CIA in paper clips, often outperformed the massive agency. Now distrust and jealousy were surfacing again.

  “Submarines?” Fujita said with surprise. “We sank twelve of their Whiskeys, the British another half-dozen and the rest sank themselves because of the stupidity of their Arab crews.”

  King glared as Bernstein continued. “True, sir. We found one off Ashod with its main induction valve still open. But the Germans and Russians are giving new crews intensive training and the Soviets are providing them with a new, better boat.” He fixed King with an unflinching stare. “We have reports that Khadafy has ten new subs of the Zulu class.”

  “Zulus,” the CIA man gasped. “We have no reports…”

  “Belay the bickering,” Fujita interrupted impatiently. “What do you know about these new boats?”

  Bernstein pulled a single sheet from a folder. “According to our sources,” he gave King a quick mocking glance, “unimpeachable sources, Khadafy has ten. The Zulu is larger than the Whiskey; two-thousand tons, but like the Whiskey is based on old German World War II designs.” He glanced at his notes. “Two-hundred-ninety-five feet, ah, ninety meters long, diesel-electric propulsion, eight torpedo tubes and the entire class was built between Nineteen-fifty-two and Nineteen-fifty-five. It’s a good, reliable boat with a range of sixteen thousand miles. All are at Tripoli being refitted in the new naval yard.” He looked up. “It’s a strange kind of refitting, Admiral. They’re being stripped — fitted with bunks and deck guns. Israeli Intelligence feels they are intended as transports.”

  “One boat — how many troops?”

  “With minimum crews, perhaps, fifty, Admiral.”

  “Fifty! They would live like animals, Colonel.”

  “Admiral, they are animals,” Bernstein growled. Fujita’s fingers found the long white hair on his chin. “Five-hundred men — a battalion,” he mused. “Two transports and ten submarines, they can transport a full regiment with heavy weapons anyplace in the world.” He shot a quick glance at the intelligence officers, “Any indication as to objective?”

  “None, sir,” Jason King answered. Bernstein nodded agreement.

  Mark Allen spoke up, “We have eight Ohios on permanent station covering the world’s major shipping routes.”

  “They would never use them, Admiral,” Fujita said. “We all know that.”

  “Of course,” Allen muttered, bitterly. “We need our surveillance satellites and they’re all destroyed.”

  Slowly, Fujita pushed himself to his feet and walked to a wall chart of the Pacific Ocean which was hung beneath the Emperor’s picture. “Twelve hundred miles,” he reflected pensively. “Hundreds of islands — hun
dreds of possible airbases.” With a pointer, he struck a huge arc around Japan that encompassed the southern tip of Sakhalin, the Bonins, Iwo Jima, the Marianas, Northern Philippines, Taiwan, the Ryukyus, the west coast of China, all of Korea, and eastern Manchuria.

  “Surely, sir,” Commander Tashiro Okuma said, following the pointer. “Surely you do not expect such a bold, ah daring — foolish stroke?”

  “Expect the unexpected from the mind of a madman,” Fujita said, lowering the pointer. “He has wrapped his intentions in needles of pine and we cannot see the branch until the monsoon strikes.” He struck the chart with a tiny fist. “It will come here, in the western Pacific and we must be ready.” He raised the pointer, struck Vladivostok. “First we have something to settle with Mabruk and Al Hamra. When they sortie, we will be waiting.”

  Okuma and Saiki half-rose, shouting, “Banzai!” Katsube tried to follow, but fell across the table.

  “Sir!” Brent Ross shouted. “May I say something?”

  “Of course.”

  “It looks too easy, sir.”

  “Too easy,” Commander Okuma scoffed. “Nonsense. My B-5-N’s will slaughter them before they clear the harbor.”

  Lieutenant Daizo Saiki tapped his pince-nez on the table. “My Aichis will sink them at their docks before the Commander can launch a torpedo, Lieutenant Ross.” Both bomber commanders laughed.

  Brent was not dissuaded. “Admiral, may I?” He gestured at the chart. Fujita nodded approval and the young American accepted the pointer. Fujita took his seat. Brent traced a line through the Korean Straits into the Sea of Japan. “The Straits are a little over two-hundred miles wide at their widest and the Sea of Japan seven hundred miles. All of this area is in easy range of possible air bases in Manchuria, China and North Korea.”

  He turned to Admiral Fujita. “Admiral, before we began the Mediterranean operation, you told the staff a ship the size of Yonaga should never allow itself to be engaged in a restricted body of water. You pointed to the loss of the Barham and Ark Royal in the Med by the British during World War II.”