Attack of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “True,” McIntyre agreed. “But they don’t dare challenge Kadafi and, with Iran and Iraq back to open warfare, it’s too risky to try to send loaded tankers through the Straits of Hormuz anyway.” She tabled a document and looked up. “Don’t forget, the US is on strict rationing and we are hard put to maintain our allies in western Europe. Japan gets most of the Alaskan production now.”

  Fujita waved a hand and spoke to his executive officer. “We will manage, Commander Arai. Let the civilians drive their Hondas less.” There were tension-relieving chuckles.

  McIntyre continued while a dozen pairs of eyes fixed on her like shipwrecked sailors dreaming of a feast. “Our information indicates the Majestic being repaired in Surabaya will take at least four more months to repair.” She looked around. “She’s a seven-hundred-foot ship, can operate forty-four aircraft, speed thirty knots, numerous rapid-fire AA guns and dual purpose seventy-six-millimeter cannons.”

  “Where is the rest of the force?” Arai asked.

  “Tomonuto Atoll.”

  “Why, it’s radioactive still from our hydrogen-bomb tests over thirty years ago,” Mark Allen said.

  “Yes,” McIntyre agreed. “And uninhabited.”

  “This is confirmed?” Fujita asked.

  “Negative, Admiral,” Dale said. All eyes followed her hand as she placed it on her hip. Then, self-consciously, she dropped it to her side. She continued, “With our satellite system destroyed and with a shortage of LRAs and — don’t forget — the US has been forced to pull back to Hawaii — it is impossible to reconnoiter every backwater on earth.” She rubbed her temple thoughtfully. “But we have heard rumors about great ships from the natives.”

  “Natives?” Mark Allen exclaimed. “But you just said Tomonuto Atoll is uninhabited.”

  McIntyre nodded. “Yes. Of course. That makes intelligence gathering more difficult. We picked up rumors at Truk.”

  “A base is more than just an anchorage,” Mark Allen offered.

  The CIA agent smiled, a brilliant display of perfect white teeth. “I know,” she said, glancing down at a dossier. “We have information they have two depot ships and a forty-thousand-ton oiler anchored there.” A rumble of alarm filled the room.

  Fujita said to the woman, “According to our information, the other carrier is the new Spanish ship Principe de Asturias — seven hundred feet, fifty aircraft, speed thirty-two, heavily armed with AA and the latest radar.”

  McIntyre nodded agreement. “And they have two cruisers,” she continued. “The Arabs bought the old Babur — ex-British London — from Pakistan. Seven thousand four hundred tons, length five hundred seventy feet, main battery six, five-point-two-five-inch Armstrong-Vickers, Mark twenty-six rapid fire guns and ‘numerous’ twenty-millimeter Orlikons and forty-millimeter Bofors in dual and quadruple mounts.” She continued reading while the officers stared. She described the Arab cruiser Umar Farooz, ex-British HMS Llandaff bought from the Bangladesh Navy. The ship was only three hundred sixty feet long, but was very fast with a top speed of thirty-four knots and she was loaded with armament: four, four-point-five-inch cannons in her main battery and a reported twenty-four twenty-millimeter Orlikons and twenty forty-millimeter Bofors in her secondary.”

  The officers eyed each other grimly. Brent’s headache seemed to grow again. He gripped his forehead as Fujita spoke. “We know about their cruisers. Our information indicates their escort consists of seven Gearing class destroyers.”

  “Yes, Admiral,” she said. “But our information indicates at least twelve Fletchers and Gearings with their standard five and six five-inch thirty-eight main batteries, torpedoes, and loaded with AA.”

  Fite came to life. “Fire-control radar?”

  Dale shook her head and Fite appeared visibly relieved. “Surface and air search, only, Captain.” Her eyes moved restlessly around the room, finally coming to rest on Admiral Fujita. “I have an encryption, box — for NIS.”

  Fujita inclined his head toward Mark Allen who said, “Lieutenant Ross is in charge of ciphers — computers. See him after the meeting, Ms. McIntyre.”

  McIntyre looked around. “Lieutenant Ross?”

  Mark Allen smiled and said, “He’s sitting next to you.”

  “Oh,” she said, turning to Ross and smiling lavishly. Brent returned the smile and mumbled a greeting.

  Mark Allen said to Fujita, “May I introduce the staff, Admiral?”

  Grimacing, the old admiral nodded slowly. Mark Allen stood and quickly introduced the officers and gave a brief description of each man’s duties. The woman’s green eyes moved with the introductions and the old Japanese officers stared back almost foolishly, like schoolboys looking for approval. Fujita was obviously disconcerted and drummed the table impatiently. A woman had invaded his realm. To him this could only mean trouble, and he could see it on the faces of his men. Brent Ross had seen the admiral’s hostility to women over two years ago when the Israeli intelligence agent, Sarah Aranson, had come aboard. Fujita drove her off the ship.

  “We need submarines. We do not have the capacity to reconnoiter the Marianas and Tomonuto Atoll by air,” Fujita said.

  The CIA agent pulled a single sheet from her valise and sighed. “As you know,” she said, staring at the document, “the US Navy does not have enough subs to maintain its own surveillance stations. However, with the shortage, several WW II museum boats have been refitted and one, the Blackfin, is on loan to the CIA. However, we had plans for her off the Crimean Peninsula.”

  “Can we have her?” Fujita asked, eyes gleaming like a hungry schoolboy eyeing a candy bar. “Ms. McIntyre,” he conceded again. Brent almost laughed. The old man would do anything to gain a new weapon.

  “I can request it,” she said.

  “And add my signature,” Mark Allen said with youthful eagerness. “I’ll make a request through my own channels. Where is she?”

  “New York.” Her eyes ran down another document. “She is only partially manned. She has an exec, two other officers, and only thirty men.”

  “The Blackfin is of the Gato class. I made two patrols on the Grouper in ’42 as the exec. Send me,” Mark Allen said, staring at Admiral Fujita.

  The woman’s voice was casual. “Can you command her, Admiral Allen?”

  Mark Allen swallowed hard. “I didn’t expect the command. Lord, I’m rusty, of course. And how can you offer me the command when we don’t have her?”

  “Of course you don’t have her.” She tapped the desk thoughtfully. “She isn’t due to be operational in the Black Sea for another year when two Dallas class boats are due for overhaul. But with your request, I think you’ll get her, and we would need a captain. That’s what’s holding us up now, the shortage of experienced diesel-boat skippers.”

  “You said she has an exec,” Allen said.

  “Lieutenant Reginald Williams,” she said, glancing at her notes. “An experienced sub man, but only in nuclear boats.”

  Fujita broke in impatiently. “Put in your requests. This could be academic if we are refused. I will contact the Imperial Palace and see what pressures can be put on the Pentagon from there.” And then emphatically, “I want that sub.” He nodded at Dale. “You may be seated, Ms. McIntyre,” he said.

  The woman seated herself, and as she rocked to tuck under her skirt, she brushed against Brent Ross’s arm. He could feel the hard muscle under the wool and found even the inadvertent touch exciting. His headache faded.

  Fujita eyed his staff silently. He began to talk, emphasizing his words with the pointer’s tip against the desk. “Remember to be alert not only when on watch on Yonaga, but when ashore. We have had problems with terrorists and Japanese Red Army swine. No man is to go ashore unarmed.” He moved his eyes to the woman. “Where is your escort, Ms. McIntyre?”

  She smiled, patted an armpit. “Here. My Beretta — nine-millimeter, seven-round automatic.”

  “You are alone?”

  “Yes.”

  Fujita shook his head. �
�You do not have eyes in the back of your head. Our brave enemies like to attack from behind — especially unescorted women and children.” He looked at Brent Ross. “See to it she is escorted home.”

  Brent nodded with forced solemnity. “Yes, sir.” He saw both Mark Allen and Yoshi Matsuhara suppress smiles.

  Fujita stood slowly and turned to a small paulownia wood shrine attached to the wall under the emperor’s picture. Built like a tiny, open cabin with a miniature log roof and framed with delicately carved lotus blossoms, it contained a number of icons set like markers in a graveyard; a talisman of the Eight Myriads of Deities, a Buddha from Three Thousand Worlds, a minute gold Buddha of exquisite workmanship from Minatogawa, a gold-and-platinum tiger representing the revered, tora, who wanders far, makes his kills but always returns home, and a number of good-luck charms from the shrines at Kochi and Yasakuni. Picking up a small, knobbed stick, the old sailor tapped a tiny gong hanging from the shrine three times — he considered odd numbers lucky, two and four signified death and were avoided.

  Everyone stood and the Japanese and Brent clapped three times. Fujita reached far back into the past. “Oh, Bodhidharma,” he said, naming the first patriarch of Zen who preached about enlightenment through intuition, “let each of us find enlightenment through intuition and meditation like the flash of a meteor’s path. Let us transcend the illusion of ego and reality, live free in the world, free from the barrier of preconception, free from the known which is imagination, memory, and the past, and free from the unknown which is nothing but the future defiled by our memories.” Running a finger over the lotus blossoms, he continued, “Free Dai Nippon from the slough of hedonism and irreverence for the emperor like the lotus which grows in mud but bursts out to blossom into a beautiful bloom.” He raised a tiny hand and his voice swelled, “Let our nation find her glory again in the glow from the sacred Mikado.” He looked over his men slowly before continuing, this time calling on the most important Shinto god. “And Amaterasu-O-Mi-Kami, help us find a way to rid this world of terror, exorcise the devils — Kadafi, Khomeini, Arafat, Jumblatt, those of the Red Army, Nidal…”

  He was interrupted by shouts of “Banzai!” and “Tenno heiko banzai!” (“Long live the emperor!”)

  He waved his men to silence. Finally, in a soft voice, he said, “You are dismissed.”

  Quietly, the staff rose and filed through the door. Brent led Dale McIntyre to a small conference room across the passageway.

  Chapter IV

  “When you come on board this ship you shed a couple of centuries,” Dale said from a stiff-backed chair across the small table from Brent. The room was small, sparse, and designed for not more than four men. With two armed guards standing inside the door, the small space was filled to capacity. She waved at the guards. “My firing squad?”

  Brent laughed. “The admiral’s probably afraid you’ll stowaway.”

  It was Dale’s turn to laugh and Brent liked what he saw — even, polished white teeth and lines of good humor that came to life at the corners of her eyes and mouth. But they were deeper than he expected, indicated a few more years than he had first guessed.

  “I’m Dale,” she said.

  “I’m Brent, Dale.”

  “I have a box for you,” she said. He raised an eyebrow and held back a smile with effort. She reddened, obviously disquieted by the gaffe — or was it a Freudian slip. The green eyes averted to the deck and she reached down. “I mean, I have your encryption box.” She placed a small package on the table and her aplomb returned quickly. “It’s hard-wired and programmed to access your AN-UYK-Nineteen data processor. Your codes and ciphers will be safe for another million bytes.”

  Brent was all business. “The software?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry, it’s not ready. I’ll give you a call when it comes in.” She hunched forward. “I can’t understand Fujita.” She waved. “And the others.”

  “Like a time capsule,” he offered.

  “He’s a living, breathing ghost of the past,” she said.

  “He also has the greatest military mind I have ever known, Dale.”

  “He’s also the greatest bigot.”

  Brent felt anger stir. “He’s a nineteenth-century man, Dale. From a different age.”

  “Eighteenth century and he’d better come of age.”

  He felt good humor slip away. “Japan needs him and we need him. Without Admiral Fujita, world terrorism would be running wild. Israel would have gone under three years ago, Japan would have been beaten into submission, the Middle East lost, America on the ropes, NATO destroyed…”

  “I know. I know,” she said impatiently. “I wasn’t trying to antagonize you.” She brushed a long golden strand of hair back from her eye. The gesture was graceful and completely feminine. The guards watched and Brent stared, fascinated. It had been a long time since Mayumi Hachiya. “But he was rude to me, Brent.” Her voice became hard. “I don’t allow insults. I felt like slapping him.” She hunched forward. “He’s not a god, Brent, and he didn’t have to order me off the ship.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I would never, under any circumstances, come on board this ship again, anyway.”

  “A woman does not belong on a warship.”

  “You’re another Fujita.”

  “Can’t you understand, Dale, thousands of men — lonely, forced to deny natural…”

  “Why don’t you say it — horny! Randy!”

  “Of course. The presence of a woman could lead to — ah, disruption.”

  “I had no intention of disrupting Fujita and taking him to bed when I came on board this ship.” A pixieish smile crept over her face. “Anyway, the thought is appalling.” She touched his hand with a single finger while the guards watched wide-eyed. He pulled back despite the warmth of the touch and the deep tingling.

  “I think I’d better escort you back to your office.”

  She laughed softly. “It’s not necessary.”

  “Orders.”

  Her smile lost its humor. “Oh, yes. God himself has spoken. The eleventh commandment, ‘Thou shalt not disobey Fujita’s every whim’.”

  There was a sharp cracking sound as Brent slapped the desk with an open palm. “He’s my superior officer. Of course I obey my orders.”

  Her lips curled down harshly. “You’re the ‘American Samurai,’ aren’t you?”

  He shrugged. “That’s what Kadafi and his killers call me.”

  “I’ve seen it in the press.”

  “The Japanese media are run by traitors.”

  The line of her lips became mocking and the polished emerald of the incongruous eyes penetrated his like lasers. “I hear you’re good at chopping off heads.”

  Brent felt heat on his face and his voice was hard. “It’s time to leave.” He patted the encryption box. “I’ve got to deliver this,” he said, rising.

  Followed by Dale McIntyre and the two guards, Brent’s temper cooled and he led the way aft to the ship’s Combat Information Center (CIC). They walked through the chart house where two quartermasters were hand-correcting charts with pen and ink and then the radio room where both old tube sets and modern, transistorized receivers and transmitters sat side by side, bolted to the shelves. Ratings and officers turned and greeted Brent, offering congratulations on his victory and recovery. Brent smiled and returned the salutes with friendly, warm words, addressing each by his name. The woman’s body did not go unnoticed as they passed.

  Dale stiffened under the eyes and held her head high and smiled lightly in the mood of sparkle and pleasure all attractive women feel when hungry male eyes probe, penetrate, and disrobe. Like most women with alluring figures, she was not averse to standing in the limelight. Finally, they entered a compartment filled with banks of electronic equipment and plotting boards. The lights had been rheostated down to a dull rose glow to protect the night vision of the men on watch and to make the glowing scopes more easily read. The green glow of the scopes merging
with the rose lights gave everyone a bilious cast, outlined veins and lips in blue and colored teeth purple as if one were viewing the cast of a cheap horror movie. Brent waved and pointed at the two guards who waited at the door.

  The half-dozen men on watch came to their feet, shouting “Welcome back, Mr. Ross!”

  “How do you feel, Lieutenant?”

  “Shot down another one, Mr. Ross!” No one mentioned Takii.

  “As you were. As you were,” Brent said thickly. Shaking hands and greeting each man he felt the strong force of comradeship permeating the room. He belonged here, was part of Yonaga. There were no doubts. At that moment, he felt he was in a room filled with brothers — the fraternity of war. Admiral Mark Allen was wrong.

  Working his way toward the back of the compartment, Brent led Dale to a console where a tall, thin, scholarly young American with bifocals perched on his thin nose like an elongated drop of water stood grinning. Grasping Brent’s hand, he offered congratulations on Brent’s kill and his rapid recovery. Brent patted the young man’s shoulder and introduced him to Dale.

  “This is Electronics Technician Martin Reed,” Brent said. “As you were,” Brent said, gesturing at the console, which consisted of a keyboard beneath rows of dimly lighted switches and buttons, a green scope minus the customary sweeping beam of a radar scan, and more switches and buttons tilted down for easy access above the operator’s head like the instrumentation in the cockpit of an airliner.

  Reed settled back down into his padded chair and Brent handed him the encryption box. “Put it into operation at twenty-four hundred hours tomorrow night,” Brent said.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Dale looked around the room in awe. “I thought the admiral was old-fashioned — believed in the old methods.”

  Both men laughed. Brent said, “Unless the ‘old method’ menaces his ship. Then he learns fast.”