Attack of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  The rest of the afternoon was spent studying communications manuals with Pittman, Owen, and Battle. Brent spent most of his time reading old pamphlets on the TDC — Torpedo Data Computer. All bore the date, 1942. “Computers,” he snorted to himself. “Back then?”

  Late in the afternoon when everyone was fatigued and Brent had trouble focusing his eyes, Admiral Allen entered. He sagged into a chair. He looked haggard and very old. He ordered Pittman, Owen, and Battle to inspect the engine room where Chief Engineer Brooks Dunlap was awaiting them. As they left, he turned to Brent. “Our new radar and ESM will be installed tomorrow. It’s your department. We’re getting the SPS-Ten, D-band surface and air search radar.”

  “Christ, the ‘Ten’ is a thirty-year-old tube set.”

  “Westinghouse has upgraded it. Tubes are out, no one can replace them anymore. Our unit is solid state with a new CRT (cathode ray tube).”

  “ESM?”

  Mark Allen smiled slowly. “We’ll do a little better with electronic support measures than we did with sonar. We’re getting a WLR-Eight.”

  Brent Ross beamed. “That’s great stuff, Sir.”

  “Modified.”

  “Oh,” Brent managed suspiciously.

  Mark Allen chuckled. “We just don’t have the room for the entire system.”

  “The computers? It has two and it isn’t worth a damn without them, sir.”

  “We’ll get one. The Sylvania PSP-Three-Hundred.”

  “Good. Good. Then we’ll have automatic signal acquisition, analysis and processing, anyway.”

  “Right, Brent. And measurement of signal direction of arrival, analysis of frequency, modulation and pulse width, Brent.”

  “But no threat library or priority searches and threat warning.”

  “Those functions are out, Brent.” He ran his fingertips over the white stubble on his chin. “We won’t have room in the conning tower for it so I’m having it installed in the control room next to the diving station. Anyway, we’ll only use it just before surfacing and when surfaced.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A troubled look darkened the old face. “We have a problem, Brent.”

  Brent looked up expectantly. Mark Allen continued. “I can’t go with you to the UN tomorrow.” He waved his arms helplessly. “Look at this mess. There’s a million and one things to do and no time. I can serve Admiral Fujita better by remaining here. You and Bernstein attend and I’m sending the exec as my representative.”

  “I think it’s a nothing meeting, sir.”

  “But we’ve been ordered.”

  “Of course, Admiral.”

  Mark Allen drummed his fingers on the table as if he were playing an instrument. “There’s a chance — a very remote chance that we can make the first move toward an understanding.”

  “With the PLO? They’re bush players in this league. The big players are Kadafi, Hafez Assad, Saddam Hussein, Walid Jumblatt…”

  “I know. I know, Brent. But Arafat has a lot of influence in all Arab circles.”

  “Khomeini’s jumping in.”

  “How did you know that, Brent?”

  Brent explained his conversation with Dale McIntyre.

  Mark Allen nodded dejectedly. “Doesn’t look good.” He moved his eyes to Brent. Suddenly a sly smile twisted his lips and he said casually, “Oh, by the way, you’re starboard section and the officers of the starboard section have liberty Friday night. I hope you can use it.”

  Brent blushed like a schoolboy. “I might think of something to do, sir.”

  *

  The ride to UN Headquarters was short, almost directly across town to the East River and the foot of Forty-Second Street. However, with the fuel shortage, cabs were hard to find. And one passenger had been added at the last moment; Chief Torpedoman Masayori Fujiwara was sent along by Admiral Allen. “An adviser and a bodyguard. You don’t want any of those Arabs to get behind you,” the admiral had warned.

  Brent welcomed the tough chief. His Otsu was back on the sub and he felt naked without it. No one could carry a pistol past the UN’s metal detectors anyway. Three cabs passed before Fujiwara finally stepped boldly out onto West Avenue and forced one to stop. The driver cursed, shouting he had another fare to pick up. Fujiwara slapped the windshield with his leather cane and grabbed the man by the collar. Instantly, the driver decided he was available. Quickly, Brent Ross, Reginald Williams, and Colonel Irving Bernstein tumbled into the rear of the cab. Fujiwara sat next to the driver. With the sailors all dressed in their service dress blues, Bernstein’s desert fatigues looked strangely out of place. But the Israeli had said over and over, “I’ll not dress for anything but combat until my country is at peace.”

  Even in a world of magnificent towers, the thirty-nine story vertical glass box of the UN’s Secretariat Building presented a dramatic profile, rising from a cluster of satellite buildings. With white marble end walls and side walls of green glass set in an aluminum grid, the tower and the entire complex was set in a beautifully landscaped site.

  Exiting the cab on First Avenue, the group approached the seven nickel-bronze entrance doors of the General Assembly Building, passing pools and statuary, Williams read an inscription on the pedestal of a bronze statue. “‘Let us beat our swords into plowshares.’”

  Bernstein snorted scornfully, “Yeah, we’ll plow Kadafi under.” The men snickered.

  At the door a guard examined their identification and consulted a register, politely informing them that their meeting was to be held in Conference Room Two. The Arab delegation had already arrived and was waiting for them with a British arbitrator. He pointed to a hallway opening off the left side of the lobby. Quickly, they walked past an information desk, past a bronze of Poseidon, and under a replica of the first Sputnik. Finally, they found Conference Room Two.

  They entered through two solid oak doors and found a long room with a polished table. Six men were in the room, seated at the table. All were dressed in smart business suits with the exception of one who wore a magnificent silk burnoose. Open embassy cases were on the table. Three were smoking and the room stank of Egyptian tobacco.

  A tall, slender man of middle years rose from his position at the head of the table. Speaking through a warm, toothy smile, he had the most dulcet voice this side of the Royal Shakespeare Company. “I’m Neville Hathaway, aide to the British ambassador. The secretary-general asked me to look in on this show. He’s awfully keen to help out, and all that.”

  Looking at the Englishman, Brent chuckled. With thinning gray hair slicked straight back, a pencil-thin mustache, a large Adam’s apple, high forehead, large aristocratic nose, gaunt physique and perfectly tailored tweeds, the man was so completely British he could have leaped from the pages of Punch. He even had a gold-rimmed pince-nez perched precariously on his nose.

  Brent’s eyes were caught by the man seated next to Hathaway. It was the renegade American killer, Kenneth Rosencrance. About thirty years old, Rosencrance was a big, pasty-white man with a huge leonine head and a full shock of white-blond hair, colorless lips, and the sunken cheeks of a cadaver. His blue-gray eyes were fixed on Brent with the intensity of laser beams, the look satisfied as if he were seated in his fighter, waiting for Brent Ross and, at last, bringing him into his sights. Not one man of the Arab delegation rose.

  “Delighted to see you again, Lieutenant Ross,” the flyer said sarcastically.

  “Oh, you know each other,” Hathaway said. “Good show.”

  Staring at the flyer, Brent felt an old anger begin to resurge, deep down. He knew Rosencrance quite well — too well. He remembered the fistfight in Yonaga’s sick bay over a year ago when he had almost killed Rosencrance. The American’s vow to kill Brent. There was nothing redeeming about Rosencrance; he was a killer without principles who killed for money and the perverted thrill he derived from killing. Brent suspected the man would still kill even if he were not paid the million a year in salary and fifty-thousand-dollar bonuses for each victory. It
was rumored he had painted seventeen Japanese flags on the fuselage of his ME 109.

  “Yes, Mr. Hathaway,” Brent said casually. “We’re old friends.” He stared at Rosencrance, “It’s been a long time, Captain,” Brent said. “We do have some unfinished business.”

  The colorless lips turned down. “Yes we do, ol’ buddy. I assure you I haven’t forgotten.”

  “I’d be delighted to do it again — any place, any time.”

  “I’ll see to the arrangements,” Rosencrance said curtly.

  Hathaway gestured at the empty chairs. “Please be seated, gentlemen, and we’ll get to it straightaway.”

  Bernstein nodded and the four men sat. Hathaway introduced the first three men of the Arab delegation, all thin, dark, Semitic in appearance: Iman Younis, splendid in his burnoose, was the personal representative of Yassir Arafat and the PLO; Jai Ahmed a Syrian who represented Hafez Assad, the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine — General Command, Abu Nidal, Nabih Berri of the Shi’ite Amal militia and another half-dozen terrorist factions based in Lebanon; Ali Sabagh, an Iranian representing the Ayatollah Khomeini.

  Bernstein and Brent exchanged a startled look and then stared at the Iranian.

  Rosencrance interrupted Hathaway and introduced the last man of his delegation, a big white-haired man in his late fifties with the thick lips of a sensualist and the beady black eyes of a cobra. “This is Captain Wolfgang ‘Zebra’ Vatz, one of my best pilots. He’s snuffed ten Nips.” Fujiwara came erect angrily. Brent placed a hand on his arm. Vatz nodded at the chief and the thick red lips curled cruelly into a sneer.

  Brent had never met the German, but knew him by reputation. A great pilot, it was said he had flown the ME 262 jet for the Luftwaffe as Adolph Galland’s wingman when Vatz was only sixteen years of age. Now one of Kadafi’s highest paid killers, he flew often as Rosencrance’s wingman in a flamboyantly painted, white-striped ME 109. Thus the sobriquet, “Zebra.” He was a merciless killer and had gained infamy by riddling two parachuting Japanese pilots and was suspected of the machine-gunning of four sailors in a life raft.

  Despite Brent’s efforts, Fujiwara struggled to his feet and Brent pulled him back with a scraping of chairs on hardwood. Hathaway’s eyes widened and he almost dropped his pince-nez. He spoke to Fujiwara and Rosencrance like a scolding schoolmaster, “I say, chaps. We’re here to solve problems.” Brent felt Fujiwara relax, but the torpedoman’s breath was short, and anger flushed his face. Hathaway nodded at Colonel Bernstein, who he recognized as the senior officer. “Please introduce your men and then we’ll get cracking.”

  Colonel Bernstein rose and introduced his delegation. Their opposite numbers were sullen, glaring at each man with undisguised hostility. There were no handshakes. Brent had a deep sense of foreboding and unease. Was this really an attempt at some type of reconciliation, or a trap?

  Hathaway tapped his pince-nez on the table. “As all of you know, this meeting is being held in the friendly offices of the UN in an attempt to come to some kind of understanding —” He waved his hand. “Find a common ground on which we can agree and put an end to the bloody fighting between you that has been going on for over four years without profit for anyone.”

  Rosencrance raised a hand; Hathaway nodded. The American said, “We asked for this meeting because we have been instructed to do precisely that — attempt to end the fighting.”

  The Englishman beamed. “Bully. That’s ripping.”

  Brent was surprised, Rosencrance had actually sounded sincere.

  Rosencrance glanced at some notes and continued. “A few conditions must be met — first, Yonaga must never enter the Mediterranean again, the monitor Mikasa must be withdrawn, the Israelis must withdraw from the West Bank and the Sinai.” Brent heard Bernstein gasp. Rosencrance droned on. “Admiral Fujita must apologize for the destruction of the DC-3 over Tokyo Bay that was the incident that started hostilities…”

  Brent interrupted. “That happened over four years ago.”

  “That’s right. Innocent people were murdered.”

  “What was the guilt of the twelve hundred Japanese you garroted on Mayeda Maru in Tripoli Harbor?”

  “Justifiable retaliation.”

  Hathaway tapped his pince-nez on the table in alarm. “I say, gentlemen. Things are getting a bit out of hand. Daresay, let’s…”

  Everyone ignored him. Ali Sabagh leaped to his feet as Hathaway watched openmouthed. The Iranian spoke in a high-squeaky tones like an out-of-tune violin. “I have been instructed to inform you by the Ayatollah himself, if you do not cease hostilities against the forces of the free Muslims of the world, we will unite behind Allah in an unstoppable jihad with Colonel Kadafi’s forces that will obliterate all evil from the face of this planet.” He stabbed a finger at Bernstein. “And we will start with the Jews.”

  “Hear! Hear!” Vatz screamed. “We will finish it!” He gestured at the six blue-tattooed numbers on the Israeli’s arm. “You are one of them.”

  Bernstein jumped to his feet. “Auschwitz, class of ’45, you son-of-a-bitch. I got away!” Brent grabbed the back of Bernstein’s shirt.

  Hathaway came to his feet. “Dear me, gentlemen,” he cried. “Please calm yourselves. This will be a hard slog, but not impossible…”

  Brent pulled Bernstein back, pleading, “One minute, Colonel.” Then shouted the Arabs to silence, “Will you pull out of the Marianas? Indonesia? Reduce the price of oil? Permit free trade in the Middle East and Mediterranean? Free access to the Persian Gulf for all nations?”

  “Quite,” Hathaway said to the Arabs. “That’s cricket, don’t you think, chaps?” The Englishman was speaking to the walls.

  Rosencrance laughed raucously, sneered at Brent. “Jesus Christ, man. Do you want a free ticket to Disneyland, too?”

  Hathaway held up his hands in futility, glaring at Rosencrance. “Blast it, man. You’re a boorish cad, sir. You’re making a muck of the whole lot.”

  “Well, daresay, bully for you, old sod,” Rosencrance taunted, mimicking the Englishman through his chuckles.

  Williams said to Brent, “This is bullshit, man. They want everything and will give nothing.”

  Rosencrance glared at Brent. Gestured at Yonaga’s delegation. “What the fuck is this, ol’ buddy. You show up with a Kike, slant, nigger, and you’re nothing but a half-Jap yourself.”

  Williams bolted from his chair followed by Fujiwara. Williams shouted, “You son-of-a-bitch!”

  “Shut up, nigger!” Rosencrance shouted. “This is none of your fuckin’ business. Go back to the apes.”

  Williams lunged. Brent grabbed him. Rosencrance was on his feet. Then everyone in the room left his chair and started cursing and screaming at the same time.

  Hathaway shouted and pleaded. “Please, gentlemen. The object of this meeting is peace!”

  Rosencrance pointed at Reginald Williams, shouting, “Then get that spade out of here!”

  Williams began to break loose. Fujiwara grabbed his other arm. “No, Reggie,” Brent pleaded. “I promised Admiral Fujita ‘no violence.’”

  “I don’t even know him,” Williams screamed. With that he broke away and charged Rosencrance.

  Hathaway pounded a button on the table before him.

  Rosencrance squatted low, met Reginald’s charge with a quick kick to the midriff while Vatz attacked the American from behind.

  “Oh, the hell with it,” Brent said, wading in, catching Vatz with a right to the side of the head that sent the German staggering. Younis, Sabagh, and Ahmed jumped in, trying to hit Williams and Brent from behind. But Bernstein and Fujiwara leaped over the table, knocking over chairs and smashing a small side table, knocking off and breaking a pitcher and a dozen glasses.

  Brandishing his leather cane, Fujiwara shouted, “Banzai! Banzai!” Brent heard hard slapping sounds and screams of pain as the chief lashed out with the vicious weapon. More shouts of, “Banzai!”

  Brent took up the cry. “Banzai!”

&n
bsp; Rosencrance and Williams were exchanging blows; surprisingly the American renegade was holding his own. He was no coward.

  A small body hit Brent from behind, staggering him. Then Vatz whirled, bringing up a fist that caught Brent on the side of the head. There was a shock that traveled down his spine and neon lights flashed on and off. There was a salty taste in his mouth. He whirled, hitting the German with a three punch combination that broke his nose, sent teeth flying, and ripped Brent’s knuckles. Vatz dropped as if executed.

  Williams was down, apparently unconscious, hit on the head from behind by the burnoosed Arab with a broken chair, and punched from the front by Rosencrance. Rosencrance had the broken pitcher in his hand, raised over Reggie’s face. “I’m gonna improve your looks, you jig son-of-a-bitch!” he bellowed.

  “No!” Brent screamed, lunging. He caught the arm, twisted the wrist back.

  Crying in pain, Rosencrance dropped the pitcher and whirled, bringing up his right and catching Brent in the ribs. Brent felt a sharp pain as if stabbed in the chest with a hot knife, and the breath exploded from his lips. Quickly, he recovered, weaving, catching the American with two quick left jabs and then a right uppercut to the jaw that landed with so much force he felt the shock all the way to the shoulder, knuckles cracking and his skin ripping free. Eyes glazed, Rosencrance reeled back on rubbery legs.

  “Banzai! Banzai!” both Brent and Fujiwara shouted.

  Suddenly, there were shouts from the door and the room filled with security personnel wielding clubs. Within seconds the combatants were separated, staggering back, bloody, gasping, spitting threats and oaths.

  A security man shouted, “All of you out or I’ll have you arrested. Now! Out!”

  Hathaway picked at the pieces of his pince-nez scattered across the table. He spoke to himself. “I’ve had a jugful of this lot.”

  Sullenly, the men filed from the room. Brent helped Reginald Williams from the floor and led him through the door. He could hear Rosencrance hissing, “This isn’t finished. Not yet. I’ll get you. Both of you — pricks.” And then with his eyes sparking with the distilled essence of hatred, he said to Brent, “I’m going to ‘Banzai’ your ass, ol’ buddy. You’re nothing but a fuckin’ white Jap.”