by Peter Albano
“The best fire control is still the eye of a samurai to a gunsight,” Fujita said emphatically, with a gesture of finality. Accepting the nods of approval from the Japanese, he changed direction in his usual mercurial fashion, directing his words at Colonel Irving Bernstein. “The Chinese satellite system. Is it deteriorating? What does Israeli Intelligence say of it?” Brent knew this question would ordinarily be directed at the CIA. However, with McIntyre’s chair empty, Fujita had no choice.
Coming to his feet, the Israeli leaned forward on clenched fists and stared down at the table at his notes. Moving his eyes to Muira and Endo, he spoke in a voice that rang as clear as fine-leaded crystal. “As you know, the Chinese laser system consists of twenty weapons platforms orbiting at nine hundred thirty miles, controlled by three command modules in geosynchronous orbit at twenty-two thousand three hundred miles.” He looked around the room. “Two of the weapons platforms are in trouble — their orbits are decaying.”
There was a rumble and the Japanese exchanged worried looks. Yonaga’s position as the world’s dominant force at sea depended on the laser system’s instantaneous destruction of all jets and rockets. Now it was deteriorating. The fact that the lasers had unleashed world terrorism and menaced the world’s freedom was of little concern to the samurai. Yonaga was their world, and her supremacy and survival their paramount concern. Fujita waved a hand and Bernstein continued, “Tel Aviv computes the two platforms will reenter the atmosphere in about two years.”
“This will leave a hole in their effectiveness?” Atsumi asked.
The Israeli smiled. “Not really, Commander Atsumi. The Chinese were clever — built layers of redundancy into their system.”
“Inscrutable Orientals,” Fujita said slyly, in a rare moment of humor.
Taking their cue, the Japanese officers rocked with laughter, Katsube spraying spittle and nearly falling from his chair, his pad and brush sliding to the deck.
The laughter faded as the Israeli pushed on. “The satellites’ footprints — ah, areas covered by individual stations, overlap and we suspect the entire system is programmed to adjust and compensate for losses. In other words, anticipated casualties to enemy attacks had been programmed into the command computers systems. We feel they can lose half their weapons stations and still command every square inch of the surface of the earth.”
There were sighs, expansive looks exchanged, and a palpable aura of relief filled the room. “The other machines — their orbits?” Fujita asked.
“Firm, sir.”
Fujita leaned forward, withered hands flat on the table. “The situation in the Middle East?”
Bernstein spoke without reference to his notes, his brown eyes narrowing and moving over the seated officers. “The Masada Line is holding.”
“Masade Line?” Endo asked.
“Yes,” Bernstein said. “The new name for our system of blockhouses and fortifications stretching from El ’Arish in the south in the Sinai Desert to a line running through Be’er Sheva and Jerusalem in the east and anchored in the north at Haifa, twenty-five miles south of the Lebanese border.”
Commander Muira addressed the Israeli. “Kadafi’s jihad — ah, holy war. I hear the Arab coalition is falling apart.”
“There are always those rumors. But their oil embargo against the West and Japan shows no sign of cracking,” Bernstein said, tapping the table with a single finger. “As you know, an Arab is as predictable as a typhoon at latitude zero. Thus, they have their problems. The Iraqis and Iranians have gone back to killing each other, which is their favorite pastime and Iranians aren’t Arabs, anyway, they’re Persians. But Lebanon, Syria, Jordan, Libya, the PLO, and volunteers from Egypt and Saudi Arabia have provided Kadafi with a fighting force that encircles Israel.”
“But they can’t break through, Colonel,” Mark Allen offered.
“True.” The Jew’s eyes narrowed and moistened, the crystal-clear voice suddenly low and diffused with emotion. “No one — absolutely no one can fight like a Jew with his back to the wall — the wall of the gas chamber, the wall of the crematorium. There was one holocaust, and there will never be another — not unless the executioners are prepared to die with their victims.” He punched the table with a clenched fist, cried out in an anguished voice, “No more ‘final solutions,’ no more ‘special actions.’ Never again!”
Silence, broken by only the sounds of the blower overhead and the whine of auxiliary engines, dropped like a cold curtain. Finally, Fujita broke it with uncharacteristic concern in his voice. “There are a hundred million Arabs — only four million Israelis, Colonel,” he said. “You still feel you can still hold out?”
“Yes! It makes no difference, Admiral,” Bernstein said huskily, wiping his face with a palm as if the tragedy of so long ago was a mask that he could tear from his face and discard. The gesture seemed to restore his control, his balance, and his voice was firm again as he continued, “Israel is nothing but a small enclave in the Middle East, true, but we’ve already inflicted a half-million casualties on Kadafi’s armies.” His eyes moved over every face. There was pride in his voice. “It’s a stalemate — we’ve fought them to a stalemate. The Israeli Air Force has been unbeatable and when we need her, Mikasa moves along the coast like a monitor. Nothing the Arabs have can stand up to her twelve-inch guns.”
The gunnery officer, Commander Nobomitsu Atsumi, suddenly came to life. “Those old three-hundred-five-millimeter guns only have a range of twenty kilometers.”
Bernstein smiled pridefully. “We’ve equipped her with new twelve-inch guns that can fire a new sabot charge.”
“Sabot?”
“Yes. Sabot. ‘Shoe.’ We fit a sabot charge into the breech that reduces the bore to six inches but doubles the range to over twenty miles and twenty miles will range most of the Arab positions.”
Mark Allen joined in. “The New Jersey uses sabots to reduce her sixteen-inch bores to eight-inchers — can fire an eight-inch shell fifty miles.” There was a babble and the Japanese looked at each other in wonder.
“So Kadafi attacks us,” Muira said with sudden bitterness. “Cuts off our oil.”
Bernstein nodded. “He hates you almost as much as he hates us. His speeches are filled with it.”
“Kadafi’s courage is all in his mouth,” Fujita said. He tapped the leather-bound copy of the Hagakure, which was in its customary place on the table in front of him and his words dropped like stones in a pool, the ripples spreading and bringing every man upright, “The man who sins in soul and speech shall be reborn a dog in the next life.”
Shouts of “Banzai!” filled the room. Brent found himself waving a fist and crying out with the others. Mark Allen looked at him quizzically out of the corner of his eye and smiled sardonically.
Fujita raised his eyes to a small man almost as tiny as himself, dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant of the Self Defense Force, seated not at the table but in a far corner next to one of the communications men. He was a stranger Brent had never seen before, and the young American realized the stranger must have entered quietly during the meeting and sneaked unnoticed to his place. The man rose to the admiral’s gesture as if he were a puppet attached to a string tied to Fujita’s hand. Fujita introduced the officer, gesturing. “This is Lieutenant Tadayoshi Koga of the Self Defense Force.”
Koga kept his black ferretlike eyes fixed on his notes as he spoke in soft, halting tones. “As you know, most of our vessels were caught and sunk or damaged at their moorings while Yonaga’s air groups attacked the enemy fields in North Korea.”
There were angry grumbles. “You should have joined us,” Katsube squeaked, looking up from his pad.
Koga glared at the scribe. “First you must convince the Diet to declare war.”
Brent could not contain himself. “My God, what does it take, Lieutenant?”
“An act — a legal act of the Diet,” Koga retorted hotly, showing the first glimmer of emotion besides fear. He continued, “Most of you,”
he gestured at the elderly Japanese, “have been away from Japan for over four decades. You were lucky.”
“Lucky?”
The voice thickened. “Yes. You did not see the fire raids, the obliteration of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, people starving in the streets. We had two million dead.” His eyes moved over the silent faces. “Of course there is a strong pacifist movement — a movement that disavows violence for any reason.”
“But you were attacked,” Nobomitsu Atsumi insisted. “And they have embargoed oil even from Indonesia.”
The little man sighed. “According to Article Nine of our 1947 constitution —” He hooded his lids and spoke as if he were reading, “Aspiring sincerely to an international peace based on justice and order, the…”
He was interrupted by Mark Allen’s booming voice as the admiral continued the article, “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.” Stunned, Koga stared at the American admiral. “I wrote it,” Allen explained, smiling.
The little man pulled himself together, said with surprising timbre and resonance, “It makes no difference. The document exists. And you must remember that when the Arabs attacked, none of our missiles could be fired. Our frigates were not equipped with Phalanx or any other quick-firing antiaircraft guns for in-close defense. Some of our ships were equipped with a single five-inch gun. That was all. They were target practice.”
“Some survived,” Mark Allen said suddenly.
“Of course. Two frigates and three destroyers. But, as I have said, their armament will not function.”
Atsumi said to Koga, “I still cannot understand why the Diet still refuses to act against these international terrorists.”
“You have seen the press,” Koga lashed back. “There have been peace riots.” He waved at the dockyard. “There are pickets out there right now! Why, I understand two of you were ambushed in Ueno Park by Red Army terrorists.”
Brent winced with the memory of the ambush and the killing of Yoshi Matsuhara’s fiancée, Kimio Urshazawa. Brent glanced at Yoshi. He was staring at a pad on the desk, punished by cruel memories.
Mark Allen came half out of his chair. “Your subs. You have some fine submarines — especially the Yuushio class.”
Koga drew his breath audibly. “All seven Yuushios were sunk.” There was a groan.
“All seven!” Mark Allen cried with disbelief.
“They were nested next to their tender, which was also sunk. Her magazines exploded. That is what did most of the damage.”
“But the others?” Mark Allen said. “A half-dozen others — good boats, the Uzushio class.”
Koga looked at the table. His voice was very soft, almost a whisper, “Gone.”
“Gone?”
“Scuttled and abandoned after the air raids by their cowardly crews.”
Fujita came to his feet angrily, face red and swollen with rage. “Sacred Buddha, I never thought I could live long enough to see this — Japanese rebelling, deserting.”
“It was the Rengo Sekigun (Japanese Red Army),” Koga said. “They infiltrated the crews — spread their poison.”
Fujita was unconvinced. “This could never happen to samurai. What has happened to Yamato damashii? Respect for Nippon — for the emperor?” The men looked up. Fujita brightened. “At least the emperor still has steel in his backbone.”
Everyone knew Emperor Hirohito was gravely ill and everyone knew the mortality of a god was a subject that agonized the Japanese. Brent stirred uneasily in an absence of sound disturbed only by ship noises. Finally, Fujita broke the mood by standing and stepping to a chart of the Pacific mounted on the bulkhead behind his chair. He spoke grimly to Koga. “Since Commander Matsuhara damaged a Libyan DC-3 that violated Yonaga’s airspace, that madman Kadafi has vowed to destroy us. But he has failed and it has cost him dearly.” He was interrupted by cheers and shouts of “Banzai!” He picked up a pointer and the shouts faded. He stabbed the chart. “The Arabs are repairing their Majestic here in Surabaya, three thousand kilometers.” He glanced at the Americans, “ah, nineteen hundred miles. Far out of our aerial surveillance range.” He moved the pointer to the Marianas. “And, here, in the Marianas, they are setting up bases possibly for LRA operations.” He fingered the single long white hair dangling from his chin. “An amphibious operation. That is what it will take.” He stabbed the pointer at Koga as if it were a weapon. “Amphibious craft. Can you provide us with assault craft?”
“We have four LSTs, Admiral,” Kaga said. “But we would have to find a way to transfer them to the Department of National Parks with Yonaga.”
Brent almost chuckled thinking of Yonaga’s status as a national park. The subterfuge was the only device the Diet would recognize as a screen for her maintenance. But resistance had been fierce, debates at times violent, and only the emperor’s personal intervention had turned the tide in favor of Fujita and his carrier.
Fujita’s voice filled the room. “Find a way, Lieutenant. Do you understand me? I will not have LRAs bombing Yonaga in her anchorage.”
Koga stared down with blank eyes. “I will try, Admiral Fujita.”
“No! Results, Lieutenant, or this matter will go to the Imperial Palace and you can bid your career farewell.”
Tadayoshi Koga bit his lip. “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”
Fujita turned to Bernstein. “Any new information about long-range aircraft, Colonel?”
“Yes, Admiral. Three squadrons of Constellations are training at Tripoli and an assorted bunch of converted DC-6s and DC-4s are being assembled at the same field.”
The old admiral glared at Koga and then thumped the table and turned to Mark Allen. “There is a Dallas nuclear submarine — ah, you call her a SSBN — off Vladivostok?”
“Yes, a boomer, Admiral. It’s on permanent station.”
“Indonesia?”
“None, Admiral Fujita. There is no strategic threat to the United States from Indonesia. The US Navy is hard put with shortages of every kind to just maintain stations off Archangel, the Barents Sea, Murmansk, the Baltic, Black Sea, the Med.”
Fujita struck the chart angrily. “We need reconnaissance. We cannot put to sea again just for reconnaissance. We do not have the fuel and we could be ambushed by aircraft — submarines. That is not the way to use Yonaga. We must save her for decisive actions against the enemy battle fleet. Not risk her casually. We need submarines. Just one sub —”
He was interrupted by a knock, and an armed seaman guard stepped into the room. His face was constricted with a strange amalgam of wonder and concern and he appeared to be strangely stimulated and agitated as he announced, “Lieutenant Dale McIntyre is here, Admiral.”
“Show him in — show him in,” Admiral Fujita said brusquely. Brent was sure he heard the young guard giggle as he turned to the door and ushered Dale McIntyre in. There were gasps from the officers and a grunted “Sacred Buddha” from Fujita. Dale McIntyre was a woman.
Carrying a valise and a small box, Dale McIntyre walked into the room with long, confident strides. Tall and slender, she appeared to be in her late thirties. She was wearing a tailored blue suit of fine wool that accented the narrow waist and sculpted hips of a graceful, almost coltish body, with long fine limbs and muscles toned by hard exercise. Her breasts appeared large and rounded even under the suit, skin clear and tanned from the effects of long hours in the sun, and her thick mane of magnificent golden hair further testified to a life devoted to the outdoors. Streaked with silver, platinum, and copper-gold, it was swept up elegantly into a chignon that was wrapped behind her head like a rope as thick as a man’s thumb. Although not beautiful in the classic sense, with a nose a little sharper than it should have been and lips thin where they should have been full, she was a striking woman who exuded sexuality with every hip-swinging stride. Struck to breathless silence, the old officers, so long deprived, stared hungrily.
It was then Bren
t realized that most of the old men had probably never seen the full breasts and sculpted hips of a western woman. Dale McIntyre must have appeared as a shapely Amazon to them.
“You are Dale McIntyre?” Fujita said incredulously.
“I am,” she said, timbre of her voice low and resonant with strength. She was obviously not cowed by the roomful of Japanese officers who, both old and young, were known for their medieval attitude toward women that challenged the chauvinism of the Arabs they hated. “I have a report,” she added. Fujita gestured to the chair. Dale seated herself next to Brent Ross, placed the box on the deck between her chair and Brent’s and spread documents before her. Glancing down at the box, Brent caught sight of a shapely nylon-covered calf that shone like polished ivory. His headache faded.
Fujita fired an opening broadside. “Women are not allowed on Yonaga, madam.”
The woman’s large green eyes seized Fujita with glacial coolness. “The CIA is not in the seventeenth century, Admiral.”
The admiral slapped the desk with a palm. “Proceed with your report, madam.”
“I am Ms. McIntyre.”
“Proceed, madam.”
Dale McIntyre came to her feet, stuffing documents back into her valise. “I refuse, Mister Fujita,” she said, voice cracking ice. The slight brought a gasp from the officers.
“Very well,” Fujita said. The woman paused and all eyes moved to Fujita. Every man in the room knew the report could be critical, could possibly even hold Yonaga’s survival in the balance. He spit the words as if each was a bite of rotten fruit. “Give your report, Ms. McIntyre,” he conceded. And then to save face, “And then leave this ship.”
“My pleasure on both counts,” she said, standing erect and holding several documents before her. “The United States cannot send Japan any more oil,” she began.
“We are having trouble maintaining our training schedules, now, with our ration of petrol,” the executive officer, Commander Mitake Arai, said. “What about the Persian Gulf states, Kuwait, Bahrain, Oman, and the United Arab Emirates. They have not joined Kadafi’s jihad and they have enormous oil reserves.”
