by Peter Albano
“You want me to leave Yonaga?”
“Yes. Return to NIS Washington — widen your experience. Think of your career.”
“The action is here, Admiral. With Yonaga. She is the only force capable of stopping the Arabs and you know it.”
“I appreciate your altruism, Brent, but you must think of yourself, too.”
“I am. I belong here.”
The old man took a large swallow. Brent drained his drink, enjoying the spreading warmth. The iron began to drain from his veins and the room moved slightly. He recharged both their glasses. Mark Allen continued, “Matsuhara — the rest of them have too much influence on you. You’ve changed, Brent. How could you, a clean, rational American, an All-American fullback, a boy raised in the American tradition behead a man — two men?” Grimly, Mark set his jaw, stared deep into Brent’s eyes. He waved a hand in an encompassing gesture. “It’s those men — the samurai, Fujita, Matsuhara, Okuma, Arai — the lot. They’ve made you one of them. This is dangerous, Brent.” He waved a hand at the overhead. “You’ll never fit in back home and you don’t really fit here. Think of it. This can destroy you.”
“My decision, sir?”
The older man’s jaw hardened and deep lines fissured the wide forehead. “I can’t force it. I would if I could, but Admiral Fujita has too much influence in the Pentagon — in the Cabinet, and, I hear, in the Oval Office.” He slammed a fist down hard on the table. “It must be your decision, Brent, but for God’s sake use that big brain of yours.”
Brent tossed off his drink with one motion. “I’ve made it, sir. I’ll remain, Admiral.”
“Have it your way.” Angrily, Mark Allen stood, emptied his glass, and left.
Chapter III
“Flag plot” was the largest room in flag country. Located between the flag bridge and the admiral’s quarters, it was furnished with a long oak table, a dozen chairs, bulkhead-mounted charts, two blowers, a speaker, phones mounted on a table manned by a rating, and the usual picture of young Emperor Hirohito astride a white horse. The room was brilliantly lighted by a dozen light bulbs shining from wire-shielded fixtures nested in the inevitable maze of conduits and cables cluttering the overhead.
The staff meeting had been called for the middle of the morning. Although Brent’s burns had healed quickly, a few itching scabs remained and the flesh was scarred and discolored like a burgundy-colored birthmark from his ankle to his groin. Seating himself at his place near the far end of the table, Brent Ross almost groaned. His headache had returned, a dull, merciless pulsing behind both eyes that told him he had not completely recovered from his concussion. But he would not report to Eiichi Horikoshi, did not mention it to anyone — not even Yoshi Matsuhara.
Yoshi was already there, seated next to him, thumbing through a sheaf of reports. Across the table, Admiral Mark Allen sat, apparently lost in his own documents. At the far end of the table, Admiral Fujita was busily engaged in a conversation with his executive officer, Commander Mitake Arai.
Tall and ramrod straight, Arai was in his mid-sixties and a survivor of destroyer service in World War II. He had been the captain of destroyer Rikokaze. By a freak of the fortune like a macabre joke, he had fought against two of the officers seated at the table: Admiral Mark Allen and escort commander Captain John Fite, the big, burly bear of a man who had commanded destroyer Bradfield in the fighting in the Solomons. Fite had engaged Arai’s ship, Rikokaze, the night Arai destroyed cruiser Northhampton with two of the Imperial Navy’s magnificent Type 93 torpedoes, the Long Lance. Arai had fought against Mark Allen when Yamato sortied to meet her death and Allen’s air groups sent Rikokaze to the bottom with the battleship. Most of Arai’s crew had died.
At first the fires of hostility had flickered amongst the old warriors. But now, with a common enemy and the sharing of mortal dangers, old animosities had been put aside and replaced by the close-knit harmony found in the fraternity of war. But Brent knew it was not completely gone — suspected the old warriors could never forget. It was there in the quick looks, the inflection, and in the extreme politeness that bordered on the frigid. It could explode again. Brent was sure of it.
On the other side of the admiral sat the ancient scribe, Commander Hakuseki Katsube. An antique of a man, the tiny scribe was withered and wrinkled as though too many decades of sun, salt spray, and wind had evaporated every trace of moisture from his flesh, leaving his skin tanned to the consistency of old leather dipped in tannic acid. His back was permanently bent as if he wore a heavy weight around his neck and he had a disconcerting habit of giggling to himself and sometimes drooling into his work. Both he and Admiral Fujita rejected modern recording devices and the old man hunched over a pad and brush.
Next to Admiral Mark Allen sat the new dive-bomber commander, Commander Kazuoshi Muira. Muira was the replacement for Lieutenant Daizo Saiki who, when accused of cowardice, had blown his brains out in that very room only six months before. Sixty years old but looking much older, Kazuoshi Muira had a flaccid build and flat, expressionless face that looked as though his countenance had been run over by a heavy roller. However, his stomach had escaped the roller and hung over his belt in layers. An Eta Jima graduate and thorough professional, he had seen action in WW II as the pilot of an Aichi D3A in the Solomons and had put a bomb into carrier Hornet at Santa Cruz. In 1944, he was wounded in the Battle of the Philippine Sea when he was one of the turkeys shot down in the Marianas Turkey Shoot. He volunteered for kamikaze duty, but his injuries kept him out of action until the end of the war. A close friend of Minoru Genda, who headed the Self Defense Force, he was given a commission in the Self Defense Force where he spent twenty-two years before retiring. He was a highly skilled and respected pilot. Brent was wary of the baleful looks Muira directed at him and Admiral Mark Allen, as if the old fire still smoldered. Uneasily, Brent realized the old pilot still remembered the turkey shoot.
Next to Muira sat the new torpedo-bomber commander, Commander Shusaku Endo who, similar to Muira, was attending his first full-staff briefing. Descended from the famous samurai Endo family, Shusaku proudly traced his lineage back to the Heian period and the establishment of the Tokugawa shogunate in Kyoto by Iyeyasu Tokugawa in 1600. A fearless warrior for Iyeyasu Tokugawa, Tonishio Endo was honored with the title of fudai daimyo (hereditary lord) and was bequeathed vast estates with thousands of vassals. It was in 1610 in one of the many wars against the Maeda at Kanazawa (the daimyo in the island of Shikoku) that Tonishio distinguished himself by committing seppuku after a bitter defeat. His disembowelment was done before Shogun Iyeyasu Tokugawa on the day of the o-bon (Festival of the Dead) on the steps of the palace in the new capital at Edo. There were thousands of witnesses. The magnificent gesture was still spoken of amongst the highborn.
In 1873, with the Meiji restoration, the Endos fell on hard times with all of the other disenfranchised samurai families. But they managed to hold on to some of their property near Kyoto and curry favor at court. In 1903, the family’s fortune and future was assured when Emperor Meiji conferred the title of “Marquis” on Shusaku’s great-grandfather and sent him as his personal representative to the coronation of Rahma VI of Siam. Brent Ross was convinced that Tonishio Endo’s seppuku of so long ago had influenced Admiral Fujita into accepting Shusaku Endo as his bomber commander. There were rumors that Emperor Hirohito had interceded in Endo’s favor.
Looking at the bomber commander, Brent was impressed by Shusaku’s size. He was large for a Japanese at an even six feet and, perhaps, two hundred pounds. With glistening black hair, alert eyes, and clear skin, his age was deceptive, as was true with most Japanese. He appeared to be about thirty-five, but lines like deep commas trailing cruelly downward from the corners of his eyes and mouth spoke of at least four decades. His shoulders were broad, chest thick, and he carried himself like a trained athlete. There was latent malevolence in his eyes, and whenever he looked at Brent, the American saw a challenge flash. He did not trust this man. He expected trouble.
The CIA man, Jason King, had been relieved and his chair was empty. The new CIA man, Dale McIntyre, had not yet arrived. According to Admiral Allen, McIntyre had been scheduled to arrive at Tokyo International Airport just two hours earlier. In addition to the hand-carried encryption box destined for Brent, the CIA man would deliver the latest reports of Arab naval and air activities and expected terrorist strikes. Everyone was anxious to see McIntyre enter the conference. Staring at the empty chair next to him, Brent fretted restlessly and palmed his head with spread fingers. His head still ached and he suppressed a groan.
Dressed in desert combat fatigues, Colonel Irving Bernstein of Israeli Intelligence sat across from the empty chair. Elderly, with white hair, a neatly trained mustache, and pointed beard, Bernstein was the only man in the room with hair on his face. His slight build showed wiry strength and his most notable feature was six blue tattooed numbers on his right forearm. “Auschwitz, class of forty-five,” he would say blankly to anyone foolish enough to inquire. Bernstein had been on board on liaison since Yonaga’s voyage to the Mediterranean and her attack on Arab forces in North Africa over two years earlier.
Fujita stared down the table at McIntyre’s empty chair with irritation. Restlessly, he tapped the table and the conversation came to an abrupt halt. The old sailor nodded at Matsuhara. Yoshi stood, glanced at his reports. He said, “All air groups are up to full strength. All Zero-sens are equipped with the new Sakae two-thousand-horsepower engine. We can put fifty-four fighters in the air.” He looked up, set his jaw in a hard line. “But thirty-four of my pilots are new — need training.”
“But you have been training continuously at Tokyo International and Tsuchiura,” Fujita noted.
“True, Admiral,” Matsuhara answered. “But most of my new men were raised on jets — have not fully found a feel for a propeller-driven fighter — the huge torque of the new engines can kill.”
Commander Shusaku Endo said to Yoshi Matsuhara, “Perhaps, if you did not lose so many of your wingmen, we would not need so many replacements, Commander.” The insult brought a deadly silence into the room. All eyes turned to Yoshi. Brent was sure he saw a look of delight on Admiral Fujita’s face.
His eyes locking with his tormentor’s like those of two great bull buffaloes, Yoshi spoke slowly, a slight tremor betraying the depth of his anger. “No one grieves my losses more than I. You foul the memories of good men with your pedestrian remark.”
“If my memory serves me, six good men,” Endo countered, the broad face as expressionless as sheet metal.
Brent knew that Endo, like many of the new pilots, felt Yoshi Matsuhara was too old for the responsibility of Air Group Commander. He had probably been influenced by the man he replaced, Commander Tashiro Okuma, who had returned to the Self Defense Force. Okuma hated and envied Yoshi Matsuhara, and the two men had almost come to blows on several occasions. Brent was sure that only the Korean operation that forced cooperation had prevented bloodshed, perhaps, a fight to the death in the ship’s combined Shinto shrine and Buddhist temple — the Shrine of Infinite Salvation — where Fujita insisted blood feuds be settled.
“If you have any criticisms of my conduct in the air or in my ready room, I will be happy to entertain you privately in the Shrine of…”
“Enough!” Fujita shouted. “This can be settled after we entertain Colonel Kadafi’s murderers in the western Pacific.”
Yoshi spoke with unusual candor. “You cannot deny a samurai…”
The admiral unwound slowly, drawing himself up to his full four-feet eleven-inch height. He spoke and his voice was suddenly deep and resonant as if he were speaking in a great cavern. To Brent, the little man was suddenly seven feet tall. “Commander,” he said. “You do not tell me what I can and cannot deny — what I can do and cannot do.”
Yoshi bristled. “That is not my intent.” He waved at Endo. “He insulted me — my men.”
“Not your men!” Endo shouted.
“Quiet! Both of you. Save your anger for the Arabs,” Fujita commanded. “I will decide how, when, and where to resolve this.” He glared at both of the pilots and then spoke to Yoshi. “The CAP?”
Yoshi sighed, collected his thoughts, and said, “As before, Admiral — six Zero-sens out of Tokyo International and six more ready fighters on the apron.” He knuckled the table. “No one is permitted to violate Yonaga’s airspace.”
“Good,” the admiral said. He turned to Shusaku Endo and asked for the torpedo-bomber leader’s report.
Endo reported fifty-four aircraft combat ready while twelve more were in the process of overhaul. Three had been so badly damaged over Korea they were good for nothing more than being pirated for spare parts. Eyeing Yoshi Matsuhara, he closed. “We are terribly underpowered with our old nine-hundred-fifty-horsepower Sakaes. These engines are fifty years old. We need the new Sakae two-thousand horsepower engines, but the fighter squadrons have all of them.”
“My decision, Commander,” Fujita said. “You will be issued the new engines as soon as they come on board.” He dismissed Endo with a wave and nodded at Commander Kazuoshi Muira.
The fat dive bomber commander rose and spoke in a reedy, petulant voice that squeaked like the falsetto of an effeminate rock singer. He reported forty-nine Aichi D3As operational, eight in repair and four damaged beyond repair. He closed with a plea for new engines.
Then, in quick succession, the chief engineer — the clever, redoubtable Lieutenant Ihtsuya Yoshida — gave his report, followed by the gunnery officer, Commander Nobomitsu Atsumi. Yoshida assured the admiral the four main engines were in perfect working order and all sixteen Kampon boilers, except three and six which were down for descaling, were on line. However, Auxiliary Engine Two had burned out a generator armature and a new one had to be hand wound. The engine would be down for at least four more days. The fuel tanks were topped off and eight boilers maintained a constant pressure of three hundred pounds. The ship could put to sea in a moment’s notice.
The gunnery officer took the floor. Slender and of average height, Gunnery Officer Commander Atsumi was a wiry man whose lean frame promised great reserves of strength and endurance. Although he was over sixty years old, he was another “plank owner” who showed an amazing contempt for the ravages of time with a shock of lacquered black hair, unlined skin, and sharp black eyes under beetling brows. In strong, professional intonations he reported all batteries ready for action with new barrels installed in all 25-millimeter machine guns. A half-dozen 127-millimeter guns of the main battery needed barrel replacements, but they would not be available for two months. Nakajima was rolling them in its plant in Kyoto. AU magazines were fully loaded. He paused in his report and stared at Admiral Mark Allen before asking, “When will we get our new computerized fire control for our main battery? You promised to requisition one.”
Fujita nodded at Mark Allen. Allen, Bernstein, and the still-absent Dale McIntyre represented the ship’s intelligence effort and their reports were the most eagerly awaited. Mark Allen stood. “I ordered the new SPY-One-A three dimensional fire-control system.”
Atsumi surprised Brent with his knowledge. “Phased-array radar. It can send out multiple pulses capable of simultaneous tracking of hundreds of targets. The heart of the Aegis system.”
“We need it,” Endo and Muira chorused.
“Well, we can’t have it,” Allen retorted. He waved a document. “I received this rejection just before the meeting.”
“Why?” There was anguish in Atsumi’s voice.
Allen swallowed hard. “Glasnost.”
“Glasnost!” Fujita and Atsumi chorused. And then Fujita spoke. “Another word for détente. And it did not work, either.”
“True. But you must understand, the two major powers are working hard at rapprochement — hold continuous meetings at Geneva.”
“Still trading off,” Fujita said derisively.
“Yes, Admiral Fujita,” Allen acknowledged.
“We are denied the new gui
ded Mark Forty Eight acoustic torpedo and the Russians refuse to deliver the Five-Three-Three guided torpedo to the Arabs,” Fujita said.
Atsumi spoke to Mark Allen. “My one-hundred-twenty-seven-millimeter guns are wearing out and I am denied the new fully automatic Mark Forty-Five, five-inch, fifty-caliber gun because we are assured the Arabs will not be given the new Russian automatic seventy-six-millimeter gun. Right, Admiral Allen?”
“The Russians are as dishonest as Arabs,” Fujita said before Allen could answer. “Lying and cheating are endemic with them. I know… I started fighting them over eighty years ago.”
Allen tightened his jaw, but remained silent.
“And we do not have radar fire control for our escorts.” Fujita waved at Captain Fite who nodded back.
“You must understand the position of the United States,” Mark Allen finally said. Then with irritation rising in his voice. “I have told you before, the US and Russia have agreed to not supply any nation with the most modern weapons. Both nations are trying to cool the fires of war.”
“Cool the fires of war?” The Japanese rocked in their chairs with laughter.
“Yes! Yes!” Mark Allen shouted over the din. Fujita waved his hands in a suppressive gesture and the noise ended as if it had been cut with a sword. Red-faced, Mark Allen continued, “The US and Russia cannot afford to give their latest weapons — their secrets away. We must continue to use our original armament.” His eyes flashed at Fujita. “Those torpedoes that hit us south of Pearl Harbor were not wire-guided — were not homers.”
Fujita acknowledged the truth of the statement with a grudging nod.
Mark Allen turned to Escort Commander John Fite and pursued his point. “You have never encountered enemy fire-control radar, John.”
The burly captain nodded his shaggy head. His voice rumbled like a heavy train on a bridge. “True, Admiral. If we had, my entire squadron would have been sunk twice over on our torpedo runs.” He shrugged, tapped the oak with a huge fist. “What is a smoke screen to radar?” The rhetorical question died unanswered in the silence.
