Quest of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “You are both on report and I will see you both court martialed,” Saiki snapped.

  “No,” a young pilot injected. “I saw it, Lieutenant. I saw you bomb the farm.”

  “And I followed you,” another said bitterly.

  “You are all wrong. This is a conspiracy,” Saiki said, face red with rage.

  His was interrupted by the speaker. “Hear this. Flight leaders report to Flag Plot immediately.”

  As Saiki stormed from the briefing room, Yoshiro Takii, Brent Ross and three pilots were on his heels.

  Saiki attempted to restrain Takii and Brent but Fujita waved them into Flag Plot. Three fuming pilots remained outside.

  The room was crowded. Commander Yoshi Matsuhara and Commander Tashiro Okuma, both in their brown flight suits, goggles outlined on their faces by oil and fumes, slouched in attitudes of fatigue. Yoshi’s face was smeared with blood from numerous cuts and the right side of his flight suit had been rent by bullets. Admiral Mark Allen, Colonel Irving Bernstein and. the rest of the staff sat with expectant expressions. Okuma came erect when he saw Saiki.

  Standing before a chart of the western Pacific, Fujita spoke. “Reconnaissance reports both Mabruk and Al Hamra sunk, the Gearings damaged and returning to Vladivostok. Also, the enemy airfield is out of operation and only a few fighters were spotted by our reconnaissance. No bombers were in the air.” Every man sighed. “Radio Pyongyang reports attacks by ‘bandit Japanese aircraft’ on an ‘international aerial sporting club’ with terrible damage inflicted on the airfield and surrounding farms. In fact,” his eyes found Saiki, “the North Koreans claim their most productive — their model collective farm — suffered complete destruction of its barn and equipment sheds. The ‘aerial sporting club’ has been closed and all foreigners ordered out of the country.”

  Everyone cheered and Saiki appeared relieved. Okuma stood. “He,” the big torpedo bomber leader pointed at Daizo Saiki, “bombed the farm because he was afraid of the AA.”

  “True,” Takii said, coming to his feet, Brent Ross at his side.

  “I bombed the largest hangar, the most dangerous target,” Saiki pleaded.

  “Not true,” Brent said.

  “Lies!” Yoshi Matsuhara shouted.

  Daizo Saiki’s eyes darted around the room like a trapped animal. The whole world was against him; even his friend, Tashiro Okuma.

  Fujita said to Daizo Saiki, “This accusation has been corroborated by at least six fighter and bomber pilots.” Brent was surprised the old admiral knew so much so soon. Nothing escaped him. Fujita continued. “Lieutenant Saiki, you have my permission to commit seppuku.”

  Gasping like the victim of an executioner’s garrote, Saiki looked around with pleading eyes but found nothing but hostile faces. Slowly, the dive bomber leader stood and moved to the door. Just as the seaman guard opened the door, Daizo whipped out his Otsu, and placed it to his temple. There was a long iron-clad silence. No one breathed.

  Fujita spoke incredible words. “Not here, Lieutenant. A work party just cleaned the deck.”

  Saiki shouted “Tenno heiko banzai,” and everyone ducked. Because the pistol was pressed to his temple, the report was muffled. Yet, in the small room, the shot was sharp and painful on the eardrums. A spray of blood, brains like strawberry custard shot across the table and Brent felt a rain of bits of bone and gore on his cheek and neck. The body thumped to the deck and the pistol clattered across the steel and bounced off the bulkhead.

  Fujita was enraged. “That was against my orders.” To a seaman guard, “Seaman Katari, drag that carrion out of here and get a work party and clean up the mess.”

  “Cremation, sir?”

  “No. Throw him over the side with the garbage. Let him dwell with the refuse, not with the heroes.” As the body was dragged from the room, Fujita’s eyes roamed over the aviators. “Of the ninety-three aircraft dispatched on the two strikes, fifty have returned. Twenty-six Zero-sens, eleven Aichis and thirteen Nakajimas.” There was a groan. “However, remember, many damaged aircraft may have landed in Japan.” Everyone nodded. The old man’s eyes wandered over the faces. “You served the Emperor well. Taught the enemy his trickery and traps were weak shams. Not one…” he struck the table with a bony fist, “not one enemy aircraft attacked Yonaga.” His hand caressed the Hagakure. “You smashed him with true Yamato damashii.”

  There were cheers and shouts of “Banzai!”

  Silence returned as a rating entered the room, saw the gore, blanched, slid through the blood and brains and approached Admiral Fujita, bowing and handing the admiral a dispatch. Fujita dismissed the man with a wave. “At last,” he said. “The American submarine Trepang has sighted the enemy force.” A puzzled look crossed his face. “But they are far south, the two carriers, two cruisers escorting two transports.” Turning to a chart, he picked up a pointer. “Here, in the South China Sea. Trepang sighted them entering the Balabac Strait between Palawan and Borneo on an easterly heading.”

  “Sir,” Mark Allen said. “Your original concept of an invasion.” He stood, pointed at the chart. “They can steam south of Mindanao and then turn north into the Philippine Sea.” He moved to the chart. “As you have already pointed out, Admiral, with the American presence pulled back to Hawaii, they can land in the Philippines, Yap, Palau, the Carolines, Marianas — even the Bonins.”

  “Yes, Admiral Allen, I know. With control of the world’s oil and a few strategic air bases, Khadafy and his terrorists could control the world.”

  “If only he could destroy Yonaga,” Brent said, contemptuously. Takii pounded the American’s back. Others shouted “Banzai.”

  “Gentlemen,” Fujita said. “It is time to return to Tokyo Bay, refuel, find replacements and await our enemy’s next move.” He stared at Mark Allen. “Does the American Navy have submarines posted here and here?” His hand swept over the western Pacific.

  “Yes, sir,” Allen answered. “Continuous patrols east of the Marianas, Palaus, Philippines, and one north of the Santa Cruz Islands.”

  “Good. Trepang and Ohio have served us well.” His eyes moved over the room. Brent saw fatigue there, but the alertness still gleamed. “The meeting is closed,” the admiral said.

  The officers filed from the room.

  Yoshi Matsuhara pulled Brent Ross away from Yoshiro Takii and led the American to his cabin. The pilot found his bunk while Brent slumped heavily at the small desk. Brent said, “Your quest was death, Yoshi-san?”

  “Yes. The way of the samurai.” He told Brent of the fight with Friessner, Taku Ishikawa’s cataclysmic death and Rosencrance’s escape. “Taku cheated me of it,” he said. “Claimed it for his own karma — his entry to the Yasakuni Shrine.” He said nothing of his other suspicions.

  “Then, obviously, the gods have plans for you here. There is much work ahead of us, Yoshi-san. Especially if the terrorists establish bases in the western Pacific.”

  The pilot nodded. “Yes. I saw Kimio, flew to her but she was snatched away.”

  “More than an omen, you have been given a mantle to carry until we have excised from this world the cancer from Libya. Japan needs you, the Emperor needs you and most of all, Yonaga needs you.”

  Yoshi squinted and looked away but Brent thought he saw agreement on the tired, bloody face. The flyer said, “You have a wound like mine.” He gestured at the torn flesh on Brent’s face.

  “Not the only wound like yours.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The American looked down at his hands. “I know how you suffered when you lost Kimio.” He looked up squarely into Matsuhara’s eyes. “Mayumi never answered my calls — my letters. It isn’t like she’s dead…”

  Yoshi looked away. “I know.”

  “How could you know?”

  “Kimio’s son, Sadamori, wrote me. You know he has graduated from college and wants to fly and serve in Yonaga. We were very close and he is a cousin to Mayumi.”

  “I know.”

  Yoshi’s eyes
moved to the overhead. He spoke slowly and softly as if he were speaking to a bereaved man, “He told me Mayumi had returned to Kobe. She will marry her cousin Denko Yunoyama next month.”

  Brent smashed the table with a closed fist. “I can’t believe it!”

  “Sorry, Brent-san, it is true.” His eyes moved over the American’s contorted face. “You know, Brent-san, we have both lost much.”

  “True. True,” Brent muttered.

  “But remember, my young friend, we both have something all men need but few can have.”

  Brent looked at his friend with a puzzled expression.

  Yoshi smiled. “We have Yonaga, my friend.”

  Brent smiled his agreement.

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