Quest of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “I know sir. We’ve been over this before.”

  The admiral stopped, whirled, spoke in harsh tones, “But you’ve never threatened suicide.”

  “I was responsible.”

  “Americans can accept responsibility without cutting out their guts.”

  “We’re in Japan.”

  “But we’re not Japanese, Brent.”

  “We serve with men who would do this.”

  “The old bromide that reasons, ‘I did it because I was there? Or is it ‘When in Rome do as the Romans’?”

  “It’s right — here.”

  “It’s not right — anywhere.”

  “You don’t understand, Admiral.” There was anguish in the young man’s voice.

  “Try me.”

  “I led us into it. I even smelled them, knew something wasn’t quite right. Then I bent over and Kimio caught a burst intended for me.”

  “You’d feel better if you had caught the burst?”

  “I wouldn’t feel guilty.”

  “You wouldn’t feel anything.” And then sarcastically, “Obviously, the only thing to do is kill yourself.”

  “Admiral Fujita has forbidden it.”

  “He’s delayed it, Brent.”

  The young man stared at the deck and pressed his knuckles against both temples. “I will do my duty and discuss this matter further with you — if it comes to that, Admiral.”

  “I have your word?”

  “Yes.”

  “On your father’s honor.”

  Brent looked up. “Yes, sir. On my father’s honor.” He began to rise, but the admiral waved him back.

  “You killed two in self-defense.”

  “Three, sir.”

  “No, the third was an execution like Kathryn Suzuki’s.”

  Brent felt a sudden swell of resentment turn into anger. “What did you expect? Both were terrorists. Both were killers. Neeb murdered Kimio. It was just…”

  “And it was also murder.”

  The lieutenant’s voice was low and hard and came from his soul. “No. It wasn’t murder.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “It was a purging, a cleansing, a catharsis.”

  “Catharsis?”

  “Like squashing a sewer rat under your boot.”

  “And it was also the act of a samurai taking the revenge of the forty-seven ronin.” The admiral toed the foot of his bunk. Looked up suddenly. “You used dumdums.”

  “Not really, the bullets are not hollow tipped. They’re designed to tumble when they make contact.”

  “With flesh.”

  “Of course.”

  “Savage.”

  “Standard Imperial Navy issue, sir.” The young man’s anger boiled over, “Is there a humane way to kill, sir? Maybe I should have administered a painless lethal injection?”

  “You should’ve taken Neeb prisoner. That’s the whole point.”

  “And turn him over to Tokyo police? He would’ve been out in a few months and killed some more Kimios.”

  The admiral’s face reddened and the veins in his cheeks stood out. “How do you know?” he shouted.

  “You’ve become a bigger killer…”

  Hissing and clicking, the speaker interrupted Mark Allen and Admiral Fujita’s angry voice filled the cabin: “Men of Yonaga. The enemies of the Mikado have committed the supreme crime.” The voice choked off in emotion and then came back in greater strength. “Arab terrorists and their Red Army cronies have kidnapped Crown Prince Akihito.” Thousands of voices cried in anguish. Fujita continued, “The prince was praying at the Sensokji Temple when his bodyguard was shot down and then he was abducted. The abductors have contacted the Emperor and I have been summoned to the Imperial Palace. And another heinous crime has been committed at Tokyo International Airport — a Japan Airline DC-6 has been taken over at Gate Seven by a half-dozen gunmen. As yet they have made no demands. The aircraft is being held at the gate. Japanese police have it surrounded. I will convey any new information to you as soon as it is made available to me. And remember this, on my word as a samurai, these dogs will not go unpunished.” The speaker clicked off.

  “May I leave, sir?” Brent asked, rising.

  “Yes,” Mark Allen said hoarsely.

  As Brent reached for the doorknob, he was halted by the admiral’s voice. “Brent, consider the transfer to NIS, Washington. Get off this ship!”

  Brent turned slowly. “You know I have considered it, sir, and I will accept it after the terrorists are stopped — destroyed.”

  “Very well,” the old man said, resignedly. “Very well.”

  *

  Four hours later, Admiral Fujita summoned Brent Ross and Mark Allen to his cabin. When the Americans entered, they found Captain Kenneth Rosencrance and two guards standing before the admiral’s desk.

  “Well, if it isn’t my ol’ buddy — the All-American boy,” Rosencrance scoffed.

  Brent smiled. “Did you ever pull those hypodermic needles out of your ass?”

  “Up yours!” the flyer retorted, pulling away from the guards and lunging toward Brent. Quickly, the guards grabbed Rosencrance’s arms and jerked him back.

  Admiral Fujita said to the prisoner. “You know Crown Prince Akihito has been kidnapped?”

  The flyer stared down, green eyes wide. “Who the hell’s he? What does that have to do with me?”

  “Crown Prince Akihito is Emperor Hirohito’s only son. He is fifty-five years old, next in line to the throne, one-hundred twenty-fifth in an unbroken line.”

  “Well the line’s been busted, ain’t it, old man?” The flyer laughed boisterously.

  Fujita’s face clouded with rage and he tapped the table with a closed fist. “Not necessarily.” Everyone watched expectantly. He continued, “An exchange has been proposed.”

  The flyer’s eyes widened. “Exchange!”

  “Yes.” And then Fujita spoke with revulsion as if the words themselves had a rancid taste. “They want you.”

  “No!” Brent and Mark Allen said together.

  Kenneth Rosencrance laughed uproariously. Brent said bitterly, “A prince for an outhouse?”

  Fujita’s eyes moved to Brent Ross. “The kidnappers specify that Lieutenant Brent Ross is to drive Kenneth Rosencrance in a green Mitsubishi Galant sedan with Yonaga logos to the point of exchange — Gate Seven, Tokyo International Airport at Narita where the Japan Airlines DC-6 is being held by terrorists. Here, Captain Rosencrance will board the transport. No one else is to accompany the two and no Japanese fighters will be in the air. If any attempt is made to betray the exchange, the Crown Prince, Brent Ross and the twenty-eight hostages on the DC-6 will be killed.”

  Rosencrance laughed again. Fujita continued, “If any attempt is made to intercept the transport, it will be blown up.”

  The flyer’s cruel eyes moved to Brent. “I want him to be my travelin’ buddy on the DC-6.” The green eyes held Brent like chips of ice. “Come fly with me,” he sang exuberantly.

  “That was in the first demands,” Fujita shot back. “I refused.”

  “You’d play dominoes with your precious prince.” The old man’s watery black eyes moved to Brent. “Some things are beyond price.”

  “When do the fun and games begin?”

  “Tomorrow morning at zero-eight-hundred.” Rosencrance eyed Brent. “I can hardly wait.”

  Brent did not use the airport’s parking lot. Instead, he was waved through police barriers directly to the Japan Airlines area and parked at the curb. There were no passengers. The entire area had been roped off and police equipped with M16 automatic rifles were everywhere. A middle-aged, overweight police lieutenant met them at the curb. “I am Lieutenant Yamagata Aritomo,” the policeman said in a high nervous voice that was so shrill it sounded falsetto. “Follow me, please,” he said opening the passenger’s door and helping a handcuffed Kenneth Rosencrance out.

  “Get your fuckin’ hands off me, slant,” Rosencrance barked.

 
The policeman recoiled as if he had touched a high tension wire. Brent leaped from the car and jerked the flyer’s arm and pulled him erect. “Watch your mouth.”

  “You’re a big man, ol’ buddy,” the captain sneered, rising to his full height. He waved his bound hands. “Take these off and I’ll cut you down to size.”

  Brent laughed. “You tried once and your nose looks like a window shade.”

  “You beat a wounded man, you chicken shit son-of-a-bitch.”

  Brent felt a smouldering rage deep in his viscera and he knew the fuse was lit. Control yourself, he told himself. For Christ’s sake, control yourself.

  At that moment a green Mitsubishi Galant sedan identical to his own pulled up to the curb. Two men, one a squat Japanese with the physique of a sumo wrestler and the other dark and unshaven with the visage of an Arab and the hulking build of a gorilla, pulled a third man from the car — a short, middle-aged man wearing a gray business suit. The hands of the third man were cruelly bound. “Here’s your next god-emperor,” the Japanese shouted derisively.

  “Yeah. Here’s God.” the gorilla roared, pushing the prince with a hard blow to his back. Akihito staggered and almost fell.

  Whirling, Brent caught Rosencrance in the back with an open palm, delivering a blow so powerful the American’s breath exploded and he staggered against a pillar. “Anything you do to the prince will be done to my prisoner.”

  Distilled hatred burned from Rosencrance’s eyes. “I’ll get you, someday, Prince Valiant.”

  Brent pulled the flyer erect by the collar of his shirt.

  “That’s a date,” he spat. “And next time you won’t walk away.”

  “Gate Seven!” Lieutenant Aritoma announced.

  Within minutes, a strange procession wound its way through the airport: first a dozen policemen with rifles at ‘port arms’, then the crown prince with his two escorts followed by Brent and Kenneth Rosencrance and, finally, a dozen more policemen. The column halted at a ticket counter and pair of glass doors marked with a large sign that read “Gate Seven” At least a score of policemen stood guard and Brent could see a DC-6 parked a hundred feet away on the tarmac. It was surrounded by more policemen.

  Standing before the doors, Lieutenant Yamagata Aritomo waved his hands nervously and his high voice actually squeaked, “The exchange will take place here.” He pointed at the doors “Now!”

  Rosencrance turned to Brent, “Parting brings such sweet sorrow,” he said with a sneer. “Until we meet again, ol’ buddy.”

  Again Brent felt the anger rise. However, he replied in a calm voice, “I can hardly wait.”

  Rosencrance was laughing as he walked through the doors.

  When Brent returned to Yonaga, he made his report to Admiral Fujita who immediately went on the ship’s PA system and reported the release of the crown prince to a cheering crew. Then, with the admiral’s congratulations still warming his ears, the young officer left. However, fearing another encounter with Admiral Mark Allen, he avoided ‘flag country’, descending a short ladder one deck and then walked aft through the radio room to CIC. Here a dozen men sat before their computers, scopes and plotting boards. Every man turned and welcomed the American with warm smiles and greetings. Cryptographer Alan Pierson waved, Brent nodded back and moved toward the rating.

  “Congratulations, Mister Ross.” Alan gestured to the other eleven men in the room who were Japanese. “The crown prince means a lot to them — to all of us.”

  “True, Pierson,” Brent said. “But we gave up Rosencrance for him.”

  “With your permission, sir — a bucket of shit.”

  Brent laughed through his bitterness. “I agree, Alan.” And then nodding at the equipment, “Anything doing?”

  “Not much, sir.” Yawning, Pierson waved at a bank of ESM equipment, computers and a pair of encryption boxes. “Usual Fox transmissions from CINCPAC — housekeeping messages, sir.”

  At that moment a chime began to ring and a “ready” laser printer whirred and clicked to life. As the printer flew through its message, Pierson stared at a screen where a display duplicated the message with racing green-glowing alpha-numerical characters. “Z prefix, sir — top secret. Christ, sir. Two cans spotted by one of our subs. They just passed through the Korean Straits headed north.”

  Brent ripped the printout from the printer and headed for the ladder.

  It took two hours to assemble the entire staff, including Captain Fite and the CIA man, Joseph North. When Fite, the last man to enter, finally found his chair, Fujita stood, waving the message. He read it slowly:

  Z 1530 21JUL

  TOP SECRET

  FM: COMSUBPAC

  TO: COMYONAGA

  INFO: COMSELFDEFOR

  ARABFLEETOPS

  BT: USS TREPANG, SSN-674 ON STATION IN EAST CHINA SEA REPORTS TWO ARAB GEARING CLASS DESTROYERS MOVING AT HIGH SPEED THROUGH THE KOREAN STRAITS. LAST SIGHTING LONGITUDE 128 DEGREES, TEN MINUTES EAST, LATITUDE 33 DEGREES, FORTY MINUTES NORTH. COURSE 035, SPEED 30. STRONG RADAR EMISSIONS INCLUDING J-BAND, S-BAND AND FIRE CONTROL. TREPANG TAKEN UNDER FIRE BEFORE DIVING. NO DAMAGE. AR

  “Jesus,” Mark Allen said. “They fired on an American sub.”

  Lieutenant Daizo Saiki fixed his pince-nez on the bridge of his nose and scoffed, “What will you do, stop shipping Cadillacs to Khadafy?”

  Laughing, Commander Tashiro Okuma joined in. “Yes. Why not file a formal protest with the United Nations? Take them to the World Court. Scare them to death.” The torpedo bomber leader’s laughter was joined by Saiki’s.

  Mark Allen came out of his chair. “The men of Trepang risked their lives for you. Do you know how they die in those subs? If they don’t drown, the air compresses, superheats, cooks their lungs…”

  Fujita seized the issue. “We appreciate the risks taken by our friends.” He turned to Saiki and Okuma. “Any more outbursts and I will have you relieved.” The two officers blanched. “Is that clear?”

  Saiki and Okuma both mumbled acknowledgements. No one apologized.

  Fujita moved to the chart of the western Pacific. He stabbed the Korean Straits with one end of a pair of dividers and then swung an arc. He measured the gap on a scale. He talked almost to himself, “Six hundred forty miles to Vladivostok — a day’s hard steaming — fuel, replenish, turnaround time one day…” He turned to the staff, “If we are to intercept, we must get underway immediately.”

  He turned to Chief Engineer, Lieutenant Tatsuya Yoshida, “All boilers on line? You were descaling three and six.”

  “All on line sir. I can give you six-hundred-fifty pounds of pressure in all sixteen,” Tatsuya responded. “Fuel tanks are topped off.”

  Fujita turned to Lieutenant Nobomitsu Atsumi, “Gunnery?”

  “We have no aft director, sir. But all magazines are full and weapons ready.”

  In quick order, all other department heads reported ready for sea. Finally, Fujita inquired as to the readiness of the air groups.

  Standing, Yoshi Matsuhara drew all eyes. His eyes were dull, face drawn, his voice flat. “All Zero-sens are equipped with the new 700-horsepower Nakajima engine,” he said. “Some of our pilots are green but all have been training in Tokyo International and Tsuchiura.” He turned to Taku Ishikawa who stood slowly, still favoring his burned leg. “Your report, Lieutenant Ishikawa.”

  The fighter leader said, “My section leaders need more training, Admiral Fujita. We need more time.”

  “Time is a luxury we cannot afford,” Fujita snapped.

  Ishikawa bit his lip. “Of course, sir.” He knuckled the table for a moment before continuing, “With your permission, Admiral Fujita, I have a statement to make.” The admiral gave his permission with a curt nod. Taku turned to Yoshi Matsuhara. His eyes bulged and the line of his jaw hardened, “I want every man in this room to know,” he said self-consciously, “I spoke hastily to Commander Matsuhara concerning his conduct during our engagement of Johannes Friessner and Kenneth Rosencrance.” He swallowed hard,
eyes shifting nervously and Brent thought he could detect perspiration on Taku’s brow. An apology was unthinkable to a samurai, yet some kind of rapprochement was imminent. “I interviewed Captain Rosencrance. He informed me that he put a burst into Commander Matsuhara’s Zero-sen that made it almost unflyable.” He sighed audibly. “I spoke too hastily — I was wounded — had no opportunity to inspect the twenty-millimeter damage to the commander’s wing.” He turned his palms up, turned to Admiral Fujita and took his seat. There was an embarrassed silence.

  Matsuhara’s face was an expressionless mask. Everyone knew affronts were lifetime wounds to a samurai and the bad blood still flowed. Without acknowledging Taku Ishikawa’s statement or even his presence, Yoshi nodded at his dive bomber leader. Daizo Saiki stood and Brent was happy the pince-nez was not on its precarious perch. There was a confident, almost smug look on the lieutenant’s face. “My avenging eagles are ready, sir.” He smiled at Admiral Fujita. “Fifty-seven crews, one-hundred-fourteen samurai filled with Yamato Damashii.” Beaming with self-satisfaction, he sat. Brent felt his stomach turn.

  Eyes on Admiral Fujita, Commander Tashiro Okuma came to his feet. “Fifty-four B-5-N’s ready, sir. However, all aircraft are still equipped with the old 950- horsepower Sakae Eleven engine.” He glared at Commander Yoshi Matsuhara. “The fighters have them all.”

  “You dispute my orders, Commander?” Fujita barked.

  Okuma stood his ground. “No, sir. But with greater power we can inflict more punishment on our enemies.”

  “Of course,” Fujita said. “You will get the engines as soon as they become available.”

  Okuma drew himself up to his full height and squared his shoulders. He spoke again and Brent recognized words from the Hagakure, “My pilots all know it is a cleansing act to give their lives for the Mikado. All are ready to die for the cause of righteousness.” He looked at Yoshi and sneered. “They are ready for the rewards of death and all the gods of heaven will be watching.”

  There were shouts of “Banzai.” Saiki came to his feet and the old scribe, Commander Hakuseki Katsube, almost fell out of his chair with enthusiasm.