Quest of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “Down scope!”

  The motor whirred and the periscope slid down into its well. “Chief Payne?”

  “Blade count constant, no change in course, sir,” the sonarman answered.

  “Very well.” Moving back to the sonar consoles, Veal held an earphone to his ear and studied the visual display. The screws were fading fast in the direction of Vladivostok. Grunting with satisfaction, he moved back to his station behind the scopes. “Rerun it, Mister Barr.”

  In a moment, the two destroyers filled the monitor’s screen. Gearings, Captain,” Barr said. “Old-fashioned depth charges, K-guns, torpedo tubes and Libyan colors, too. Must be the ‘cans’ Trepang sighted.”

  “We don’t know what they have in those torpedo tubes,” Veal said almost to himself.

  “Supposedly old-fashioned fish with contact fuses,” Barr said.

  Veal smiled sardonically. “If you can trust Russians and Libyans.”

  Larry Martin spoke. “Like believing your mother-in-law, Captain.”

  A ripple of laughter relieved the tension in the congested room. Barr turned from the monitor, “Would you like a report to CONSUBPAC, sir?”

  Veal pondered for a moment. “No, maintain radio silence. We’ll save our transmission for their sortie — probably tomorrow.” He looked around the compartment. “A five-dollar pool?”

  “Fourteen hundred hours,” Martin said, immediately.

  “Thirteen-ten,” Payne offered.

  Barr said, “Fourteen-thirty” An excited babble filled the compartment.

  Veal held up his hands. “Give your five dollars and time in your own handwriting to Quartermaster Ashworth. All times are local. The bets are on the moment the lead ship passes the sea buoy. I won’t raise the radar mast, so it’s up to sonar as read by Chief Payne. The sea buoy bears three-five-eight, range eight miles. Must be the four-ship convoy and Mister Barr will verify. Anyway, we’ll record on an audio cassette and you can check for yourselves.”

  Men nodded and murmured and pencils and paper appeared at every station.

  Barr turned his head, counting. “Twenty-two guys — one-hundred-ten dollars.”

  “Yeah, man, I can use it,” Martin said. “I’ve got plans for a big liberty in Vladivostok with a Mongol horde.”

  “You mispronounced it,” Barr said. Laughter.

  Veal removed a pad and pencil from the pocket of his tan shirt. He pinched his nostrils meditatively. “The captain takes thirteen-fifty,” he said, scribbling.

  “The captain takes thirteen-fifty,” Larry Martin repeated, writing on his own slip of paper. “I can beat that, Captain. As the poet said, ‘Time devours all things, especially a sucker’s money’.”

  A low wave of laughter swept through the room.

  “The Ohio should have sighted those Arab destroyers yesterday,” Admiral Fujita said, gripping the wind screen.

  “Yes, sir,” Brent Ross said, lowering his binoculars and staring at the mist-shrouded Uraga Straits.

  “According to my calculations, the DDs should have stood in Vladivostok by 1300 hours.” The old man gripped his glasses chest high. “But no transmission?”

  “No, sir. Commander Veal must be waiting for their sortie before he risks a transmission.”

  Raising his glasses, Fujita nodded. “Time, Mister Ross?

  Brent glanced at his watch. “Thirteen hundred hours, sir.”

  The old man focused his binoculars impatiently. “They could be making their sortie now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The talker, Seaman Naoyuki, spoke. “A lookout reports Point Nojima Zaki abeam to port, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  Brent raised his glasses, focused through the mist on a tree-covered point of land. “Point Nojima Zaki bearing two-seven-three, sir.”

  “I have it.” Fujita turned to Seaman Naoyuki, “Tell radar I want tangents on Nojima Zaki, O Shima and Iro Saki.”

  Naoyuki spoke into his headpiece, listened for a moment and said. “Two-six-zero on Nojima Zaki, zero-one-zero on O Shima and zero-five-zero on Iro Saki relative, sir.”

  “Very well.” Fujita glanced at the navigator, Commander Nobomitsu Atsumi, who stood at his piloting station, a small covered chart table bolted to the windscreen. “Cut it in, Commander.”

  There was a clatter of parallel rules, the flash of a straight edge and the quick slashing movement of a pencil. “We are in the center of the channel, sir. Suggest course one-six-five,” Atsumi said, staring at the chart.

  “Very well.” Fujita glanced at the chart and then spoke to the talker. “Signal bridge — make the hoists, standard screening formation, course one-six-five, speed sixteen.”

  Within seconds, pennants and flags whipped and snapped from their halyards overhead.

  Brent studied the escorts who were already deploying in standard formation: Fite, with a huge number one painted on his bows and stern, on the point a thousand yards ahead, two, four and six six hundred yards off the port bow, beam, and quarter, three, five, and seven patrolling the same stations to starboard. Brent shuddered as he watched the narrow-beamed ships, top heavy with antennas, directors and AA guns, roll and pitch, sometimes obscured by slate gray swells, crashing through the seas and shedding streaming water from their scuppers and over their bulwarks in sheets. Brent saw bunting flying from seven halyards. “All answer, sir.”

  “Very well.” Fujita took four steps to the bank of voice tubes. “Execute to follow, course one-six-five, speed sixteen.” A voice in the pilot house repeated the command. Fujita glanced up at the signals, then shouted “Execute!” twice; once at Naoyuki and then down the voice tube. Yonaga’s hoists came whipping down and the hoists of all of the escorts followed. The entire formation began to turn as one and Brent felt the ship heel slightly and her heartbeat accelerate in the steel grating under his feet.

  “Course one-six-five, speed sixteen, ninety-eight revolutions,” came from the voice tube.

  “Very well.”

  Despite cold, misty weather and poor visibility, they had castoff from dock B-2 precisely at 0800, astern of Fite’s seven sleek gray terriers. The steaming had been slow in the heavy traffic of Tokyo Bay. And then there had been the two Red Army speedboats that had harassed them all the way through the Uraga Straits by racing at their bows and veering off at the last moment. Angrily, Admiral Fujita had shouted at the helmsman, “Ram them, if you can!” But the elusive boats, filled with cursing and screaming protesters waving signs, always managed to escape the behemoth’s bows. Finally, with the swells of the open sea taking the carrier on the starboard bow, and after an hour of racing and dodging, the speedboats broke off and headed back into the sanctuary of Tokyo Bay.

  Strangely, Brent felt a rush of pleasure as Yonaga met the swell, rising beneath him slowly like the breath of a tired man. Deeply, he drank clean air, felt cool salt spray on his skin and marveled — as all men who go to sea — at the unending liquid stretching to the horizon. He felt like an ant lost in its vastness.

  He twisted restlessly. Mayumi was back. Smiling. Black eyes burning through his very soul, inflaming every fiber. He nudged the windscreen with a toe. With-liberty cancelled, he should have phoned her while they had their umbilicals at B-2. But she had been so angry. So filled with grief and resentment, he had been unable to bring himself to make the call. She needed time. That was obvious. And she had made no effort to contact him. He had waited anxiously after the last mail drop just prior to sailing. Nothing. Nothing at all. He remembered what his father had said after his mother’s death. “I’ve lost my arms — my legs.” Now, Brent understood.

  A huge sea from the south caught Yonaga on the starboard bow, lifting her 82,000 tons, the impact of thousands of tons of water against her steel hull making a sound like a great temple drum resounding deep in her vitals. Gripping the windscreen, Brent remembered his duties. “The best eyes on the ship. Better than radar,” Fujita had said many times. Brent glassed the horizon. The freshening wind had brought a ligh
t chop, occasional gusts whipping white spray from wave-tops like bridal lace. The mist had been blown away and, overhead in a patch of clear blue sky, a cloud of frustrated gulls shrieked and fussed angrily, looking for the garbage that inevitably followed a ship at sea. But not a warship. Not the disciplined Yonaga.

  The sea has many faces. It can be a place of terror, horror, death and unparalleled beauty. In the past year, Brent had found it all. But today the gods were painting in bold strokes with their finest brushes. To the north, there was a breathtaking build-up of thunder-heads, great battlements and turrets rising thirty thousand feet in the sky, the early afternoon sun inflaming their fluffy tops with virulent reds and purples while close to the sea the clouds eddied in plump diaphanous whorls, painted in hues of blue and gray. Beneath them, thick line squalls poured rain into the sea like pearl dust. To the east and south there were no thunderheads, the sky blue except for occasional, fast moving caravans of high clouds. This was where Fujita had pointed Yonaga's bows. This was where the carrier would take aboard her air groups.

  Yoshi Matsuhara would be back. The man seemed dead already. He had been dull and unreceptive since Kimio’s death. Grief and guilt had built a wall — an impenetrable barrier. He was seeking death and Brent knew he would find ample opportunity to satisfy his quest. A quest. Always the quest. The samurai pursued his fate inexorably — his White Whale, even if it destroyed him. Indeed, sometimes, he laughed into its jaws. Bushido laid out an unswerving, unalterable path. They all seemed to be hurtling down it.

  Brent heard a step behind him. Mark Allen spoke, “A little windy for receiving aircraft, Admiral.” Leaning against the windscreen, the old American flag officer raised his glasses.

  Fujita nodded. “Force five on the Beaufort scale. It will test the mettle of our flyers.”

  “Nineteen to twenty-four knots, Admiral. We could send them back. Lay to and take them aboard when the wind dies. I would suggest tomorrow morning. The forecast is for declining winds.”

  Fujita shook his head. “No, Admiral. We may have a long patrol in the East China Sea before the Libyan convoy sorties from Vladivostok.” He tugged on the single whisker dangling from his chin. “Nothing from your friend Veal — the Ohio?”

  “No, sir.”

  “They do not like to use their radios?”

  “Of course not, sir. They could be pinpointed by direction finders.”

  Fujita tapped the windscreen. “Let us hope they sortie soon. At sixteen knots we can take our station southeast of the Korean Straits and maintain our patrol for twenty days — no more.”

  Brent turned in surprise. “Our tankers, sir?” Fujita’s voice was filled with bitterness. “Since our Indonesian friends moved to Khadafy’s camp, they refuse to sell us oil. I was just informed that both of our tankers are loading at San Pedro. We cannot be refueled at sea on this operation.”

  Brent punched the windscreen. “Damn, Ohio,” he said to himself, “spot something.” Silently, the young ensign returned to his binoculars and, as the afternoon wore on the hills and mountains sank and faded behind them, the infinite wasteland of the sea gradually capturing every horizon. The great thunderhead to the northeast sank, too, but refused to weaken. Indeed, it took on an ominous black aspect, rumbling and flashing with internal lightning, as if angry gods were hurling thunderbolts at each other. But the wind slackened, and the further Yonaga steamed to the southeast, the calmer the sea became. Suddenly, a rumble far to the west turned the lieutenant’s head.

  Seaman Naoyuki spoke to Admiral Fujita, “Admiral, radio room reports transmission from Edo. He has us in sight — request permission to land air groups.”

  After staring at the far horizon, where the blue sky was filling with scores of black crosses, Fujita glanced at the ensign whipping at the gaff. His orders were quick: “Radio room transmit to Edo, permission granted. My course will be zero-four-zero, speed twenty. Commence landing operations when I two-block pennant one.” Speedily, orders were shouted, hoists raised and lowered and by the time the synchronized battle group had turned into the wind, with a lifeguard destroyer trailing, the rumble had become thunder and the air groups began to circle overhead in counterclockwise orbits.

  “Jesus,” Brent said under his breath. “Over a hundred-fifty of them. Like a cloud of locusts.”

  “It’ll be tough taking all of them aboard,” Mark Allen said, shading his eyes with a hand.

  “I have the finest handlers on earth, Admiral Allen,” Fujita said.

  “They can’t prevent accidents, sir,” Allen noted.

  “Accidents will be pushed over the side, Admiral,” Fujita said matter-of-factly.

  “Of course, sir.”

  The entire bridge force turned their glasses upward. As usual, the bombers were lowest while high overhead the graceful Zeros circled protectively. Bombers and fighters were formed up in traditional Japanese formations: sections of three; squadrons of three threes (9) and groups of three threes of three (27.) In memory of the First Air Fleet — Koku Kantai, which no longer existed, every aircraft was painted with a green stripe just in back of the cockpit. Further aft, a blue stripe represented carrier Yonaga while three-digit numbers on vertical stabilizers identified aircraft and missions. Leaning far back, Brent could see Yoshi Matsuhara's distinct fighter with its red cowl and green hood sweeping in a vast circle over the scores of aircraft below. “Edo, you're back,” he said to himself happily.

  The talker spoke to Admiral Fujita, “Air operations officer reports, ready to receive aircraft, sir.”

  “Very well,” Fujita said. “Two block pennant one.”

  Immediately, the first bomber, a Nakajima B5N torpedo bomber with its wheels and flaps down, made its approach. As it closed, its speed slowed and it became a lumbering mass of metal and Plexiglas, dropping fast, hook extended. The yellow-clad landing officer crossed his fan-like wands and dropped them below his knees. Instantly, the pilot cut his throttle and the big plane sank heavily, hook catching the first wire. Cheering, handlers rushed from their catwalks, disengaged the hook and pushed the big plane forward over the flattened barrier to the forward elevator.

  “Sixty-five seconds,” Mark Allen said, staring at his watch.

  “Too slow!” Fujita shouted at the talker. “Faster! Faster!”

  Naoyuki spoke into his headpiece.

  The next Nakajima was handled in fifty-five seconds. “Better. Better,” both admirals said to each other.

  In quick succession the remaining 52 B5Ns landed — the last, with a garishly painted yellow cowl, was piloted by Torpedo Bomber Commander, Commander Tashiro Okuma. Within minutes, the exhilarated bomber commander in full flight kit was on the bridge, crowding between Brent and Admiral Fujita as the third Aichi D3A dive bomber caught the second wire.

  Mark Allen spoke to Admiral Fujita, “We must still take aboard fifty-four D-three-As and fifty-seven Zeros.”

  Glancing at his watch, Fujita nodded.

  The burly Okuma drew himself up. “The finest aviators in the world, Admiral Allen. We fly with the precision of fine watches.”

  Mark Allen waved at a sinking bomber which was far too high for a safe landing. “That watch broke a mainspring. He’s waving him off.” He stabbed a finger at the frantically waving landing officer.

  In a panic, the pilot jammed the throttle to the fire wall but the Sakae backfired, flame and a huge cloud of black smoke exploding from its exhaust to be ripped immediately by the wind. In horror, Brent watched as the big plane dipped a wing, caught the third wire then plunged sharply, hitting the deck with a crash, bouncing high into the air, shedding part of one wing, twisting, slaking aluminum, broken arresting wire humming to port and starboard like great whips, finally, cartwheeling and losing its other wing and part of its tail and came to rest just short of a gun gallery where terrified gunners stampeded. Two fell over the side. “Good Lord,” Allen gasped.

  A puff of smoke and the horror of flames raced over spreading pools of gasoline. Asbestos-clad f
ire crews were on the wreck in seconds and the burning, screaming pilot and gunner, whose head was nearly decapitated, were pulled from the wreck. Doused with foam, the blackened, writhing pilot was rushed to the sick bay while the gunner’s smoking body lay on the deck. Within three minutes the fire was out and debris cleared from the deck.

  “He rests in the Yasakuni Shrine,” Fujita muttered gravely. Then to Naoyuki, “Put the gunner’s body back in the aircraft and let it be his coffin. Push it over the side.”

  While the wrecked aircraft with the dead gunner in the shattered cockpit was pushed into the sea, landing operations were resumed. Finally, with all the ship’s aircraft aboard except the air group commander’s, all eyes were on Matsuhara’s Zero as it made its approach. Brent felt the cold hand of anxiety grip his stomach as the beautiful fighter closed on the stern, losing altitude rapidly. Was this the moment? Would his friend find his death here and now? It would be so easy. A slight miscalculation could slam a man into the steel edge of the flight deck at a hundred-twenty knots. But the graceful Mitsubishi sailed in under perfect control like a planing gull, caught the first wire and sagged in a flawless three-point landing. Brent sighed audibly. Okuma snickered in his face.

  Fujita spoke to the talker, “Secure from landing operations and tell the damage control officer I want a casualty report.” To the navigator, “A course?”

  Atsumi glanced at his chart. “I would suggest course two-three-three, sir.”

  “Very well.” The old admiral turned back to Nao-yuki, “To the signal bridge, make the hoists, course two-three-three, speed sixteen, standard screening formation. Execute to follow.” He shouted the same order down the voice tube, adding “Set the sea watch — condition two.”

  Within minutes, the battle group had changed course and speed. Brent was stowing his binoculars in a canvas bag attached to the windscreen when a messenger from the radio shack handed Admiral Fujita a message. The old man’s face clouded as he read. He spoke with a voice filled with rage, “The Arabs have murdered everyone on the DC-6 that took Rosencrance to Sergeyeoka. They poured gasoline on it and set it on fire. Thirty-one people burned to death.”