Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  And what a flight deck. It appeared to be at least a thousand feet long and two hundred feet wide. Six Zeros, firmly tied down and chocked, squatted amidships, engines idling. Crewmen, burly in brown foul weather gear, stood by the chocks and tie downs. But Trigger knew the fighters would never leave the deck, a rolling platform sheathed with ice. Everywhere, hundreds of helmeted figures rushed across the deck and tumbled into gun tubs, manning automatic weapons and cannons which lined both sides of the flight deck like thickets of young saplings. The klaxons stopped.

  Then Trigger heard it: the roar of an engine and the thud of a rotor. There were shouts from the navigation bridge then the lookouts on the bridge and foretop joined the chorus, pointing to port where a fleeting white aircraft, low on the water, appeared for an instant and then disappeared in the mist.

  “It’s only a Coast Guard Sikorski — a rescue ship — harmless. He must be on a rescue mission. He won’t bother you. He must think you’re American.”

  Admiral Fujita pounded the rail. “Captain. Please observe bridge silence. Just answer my questions.”

  Trigger’s stomach felt empty and nauseous. He nodded slowly.

  “Military speed, Captain?”

  “His best speed is under a hundred knots.”

  “Based in the Aleutians?”

  “No. The Coast Guard has no bases in the Aleutians. He’s probably cutter based.” The sounds of the aircraft moved through the mist, now astern of the ship. Trigger shuddered as he stared across the flight deck where a forest of barrels tracked the sounds of the aircraft. “He can’t hurt you,” Ross pleaded.

  The admiral nodded to a guard. A blow to the stomach almost doubled the American.

  “Answer my questions!” Trigger nodded, biting his lip. “What is his standard operating procedure?”

  “His SOP would usually be to circle you and, I would guess, he’s hailing you at this moment on FM sixteen and bridge-to-bridge.”

  The admiral shrugged. “Those frequencies are unknown to us and, anyway, Yonaga is on radio silence.” Then he glanced at the flight deck, the idling fighters, and the thick, swirling mist. He barked a command at the talker. The six aircraft engines fell silent. The old man turned to Ross. “Yonaga has 32 five-inch guns and 186 twenty-five-millimeter rapid fire guns. Have you ever seen our twenty-five millimeter on full trigger?” he asked, smirking. He wheezed a chuckle before continuing. “Of course not.”

  “No!” Trigger shouted. “You can’t!” But before he could move, strong arms gripped him, pulling him from the rail.

  “Captain! You gave your word of honor.”

  “All right,” Trigger gasped. “But I refuse to be your fire control officer.”

  The admiral nodded. Trigger was released. The sounds of the aircraft had moved to starboard, muffled by the massive structure of the island.

  “He will close the range; won’t he, Captain?” Trigger’s lips thinned. He remained silent. The admiral cackled, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. Then Ross saw the aircraft, breaking through the mist, ahead of the carrier. The helicopter was at least a thousand yards away. Because the short range presented fusing problems, Trigger knew the admiral would be reluctant to use his cannon. It would be like throwing boulders at a fly. Yet, a thousand yards was a long range for twenty-five millimeter. The admiral must wait, hoping the Sikorski would close the range. The wait was not long.

  Trigger’s eyes widened and he began to mutter, “No. No. Go back, go back,” as the helicopter suddenly changed direction and arrowed in on the Yonaga’s port bow. The admiral shouted commands to the talker who nodded and mumbled into his phone. The entire port battery depressed, pointing at the approaching aircraft.

  There was a break in the mist. Fascinated, Trigger stared as every detail of the approaching Sikorski became clear: white fuselage, black radar dome projecting from a plexiglass nose, pontoons, wheels, and the yawning, round mouth of the. single jet engine mounted above the fuselage.

  Suddenly, tracers from a twenty-five-millimeter triple mount arced from the bow, looping over the aircraft. The admiral roared in anger, shouting at the talker.

  Trigger cursed, knowing what was going to happen, knowing he was helpless. Horrified, he watched as the entire port side of the ship belched sheets of flame and brown and white smoke as the port battery opened fire. Hundreds of tracers raced to meet the helicopter which seemed to stop and leap upward, turning on its axis. Tight lipped and breathless, Ross watched one of the most awesome pyrotechnic displays of the twentieth century: the anti-aircraft battery of a World War II carrier on full trigger. For an instant, the aircraft hung motionless, almost as if suspended on the tip of a solid pyramid of tracers.

  Pounding his head with clenched fists, Ross screamed, “God! God, no! No!” But his words were lost, drowned by the blast of scores of muzzles.

  The Sikorski was so close, the hits were clearly visible. The nose exploded and then bits of aluminum flew from the fuselage and pontoons, followed by a blast that sent the stabilizing rotor flying crazily like a wounded game bird. The plane was dead but the hungry guns raved on. Suddenly, with the engine belching flame, the helicopter fell on its back and plunged downward, the torque of the great rotor twisting it like a man at the end of a noose. As the aircraft crashed into the sea in a column of water, shattered plexiglass, and aluminum, Ross saw emblazoned on its side in bold, black, “U.S. Coast Guard, 1465.”

  *

  Ross and Edmundson were not returned to their original cabin. Instead, they found themselves pushed into the captain’s sea cabin, a small room next to Admiral Fujita’s quarters. Luxurious compared to their first quarters, the cabin — in addition to the mandatory speaker, blower, and brass clock — boasted a rug, two bunks with mattresses, a desk with pad and pencil, and two chairs. A chart of the Pacific covered one bulkhead while Emperor Hirohito, astride the usual white horse, stared down benignly from another.

  Slowly the Americans found the bunks and sat down heavily. Edmundson buried his head in his hands. For a long moment only the sounds of the turbines and blowers could be heard. Finally, the seaman mumbled into his hands, “Mad. Mad. That chopper had no chance.”

  “She was Coast Guard. No, she had no chance. The Japs opened up at three hundred yards. I’m glad you didn’t see it, Todd.”

  The younger man looked up. “This ship, the planes, crew — all left over from World War II. Crazy holdouts. Where in God’s name have they been?”

  “I would guess they’ve been hiding, or were frozen-in in the Arctic, maybe Siberia. But the important thing is they exist, are killers, and have a mission.”

  “These mad dogs own the block — for now. But carriers are vulnerable, Todd.”

  “How?” The young man brightened.

  “Most carriers sunk during World War II were not really sunk by the bombs and torpedoes that hit them.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The Hornet, Wasp, Lexington, Kaga, Akagi, Soryu, Hiryu, and God knows how many others were set off by enemy hits, all right. But their own stores of gasoline and bombs tore them to pieces. Did you notice the bombs and torpedoes in ready racks along the bulkheads of the hangar deck? And there’s high octane gas there, too.”

  “You mean we’re going to light this thing, like a bomb?”

  “We’ll try. All carriers are bombs, waiting for a match.”

  “When? How?”

  “We’ll wait our chance. Try not to irritate them. Pretend cooperation. They’ve been cooped up together so long, they’re crazy to talk to someone — anyone. Even us.”

  “Oh, God, Captain,” Todd said, slumping. “They watch us so closely.” And then he looked up, suddenly animated. “Radar, Captain, radar. This big hunk of iron must give a better return than a transponder.”

  “Right!” Trigger said, encouraged by the young man’s new enthusiasm. “AWACs must have her and maybe NORAD, too. Even the Russians.”

  “Of course, Captain.”

  “The Russi
ans fly their Bears and Badgers from Vladivostok on regular milk runs — right over the Bering Sea. Even satellites should have us.”

  “And, Captain, there are subs, trawlers, whalers — they should all pick up this hunk.”

  “Of course.”

  “But, Captain,” the seaman said, fire dimming. “Who would be looking for a World War II Jap carrier? And these crazy old bastards will fight — fight to the death, won’t they? They really believe they’re still fighting the war.”

  Trigger eyed the sagging young man, grasping for hope in a hopeless place. He knew Todd was a part-time seaman who lived in Los Angeles with a divorced mother. Nineteen years old, slender with flaxen hair and hazel eyes, the ambitious youth was trying to work his way through UCLA by hiring on with the Merchant Marine each winter. Now, Trigger was learning of his young companion’s intelligence. “You have a good mind,” Ross said, firmly. “You’re right, but if we work together, if we keep our heads, we can hurt them — maybe stop them.”

  Edmundson raised his head. “You’re right, Captain. We can’t give up.”

  Trigger smiled. “Good boy.”

  “If we’re to fight our enemy, we must know our enemy. I know very little about … about — ” Todd waved a hand — “these men. The World War II generation.”

  “I have an intimate knowledge, Todd. Did you know I was a POW?”

  “I’d heard.”

  Grimly, Trigger spoke of his capture in 1942 when, as a passenger on a Gooney Bird, he was shot down in the Solomons. Imprisoned in Mindanao’s notorious Camp Tosa, he was subjected to starvation and brutality that killed almost half the prisoners. Escaping in February of 1943, he and two other men stole an open boat and set out for Australia. Stealing from island to island, they moved southward. Finally, after a three month voyage, Ross — a tottering skeleton and the only survivor — staggered ashore at Darwin. Then he was commissioned and assigned to the carrier Essex. After the war, he had duty on General MacArthur’s staff, researching Japan, searching for the rationale behind the sneak attack of seven December, the ferocious resistance when hopelessly trapped, and the joyful willingness to die. “We fought the bloody bastards for four years and never understood them,” he concluded. “Maybe, we never really will, either.”

  Todd tapped his temple, thoughtfully. “The old admiral claimed they’re samurai. They’re back in the Middle Ages — medieval men.”

  “Exactly, Todd. Fujita was bragging about it. The Japanese modernized and industrialized, but they never really broke free from feudalism the way Europe did. His generation used the Haga kure, the official manual of the samurai, as a textbook. They’ll carry out their orders or die trying.” And then, caught up in the excitement of the subject and encouraged by Todd’s interest, the captain described the origins of the thousand-year-old samurai tradition. Gesturing and with eyes agleam, he spoke of how the samurai, trained in Buddhism, strived to maintain the integrity of his karma — the concept that one’s actions in this life determine one’s fate in the next. Successive rebirths could lead to perfection and the attainment of Nirvana, the place of exquisite peace where there is no past, no future, just a limitless now. Trigger pointed out how their captors were also followers of Shinto, the national religion of Japan which taught that Emperor Hirohito was the direct descendant of the sun goddess, Amaterasu. Dying for the emperor on the battlefield, assured a warrior’s place in the Yasakuni Shrine, the place where the spirits of heroes dwelled. “And,” Trigger concluded, “the word ‘samurai’ means ‘to be on guard.’”

  “But bushido … ”

  Trigger smiled. “You’ve done some reading. Bushido is the samurai’s code. It means ‘way of the warrior.’ It’s a lot like the code of the knights of the Middle Ages, but much stronger.”

  “Stronger?”

  “Yes. There are the usual rules of honor and loyalty; but dishonor must lead to seppuku.”

  “Seppuku?”

  “Sorry. Westerners call it hara-kiri — slang to the Japanese for ‘belly slitting.’ Any way you look at it, it’s ritualistic suicide — and they follow it.” Silently, Todd stared at his captain.

  “Somehow,” he said, almost to himself, “we must handle them — stop them from completing their mission, murdering some more.”

  “Right, Todd.” And then, gesturing to the chart, “I don’t know their mission, but I do know where they’re headed.”

  “How can you know?”

  “I understand Japanese, but we can’t let them know.” The young man nodded. Ross continued, “Remember when the old admiral yelled at one of those men in Japanese?”

  “Yeah. Just before they all cracked up.” “Right. He told him to get the navigator, that the Yonaga must split the passage between the Komandorskis and Attu.”

  “Then they’re headed for the north Pacific.”

  “Right, Todd. The north Pacific.” Ross turned his head, stared at the chart. “Now, let’s take a crack at their mission.”

  “How?”

  “The ship, itself, is a tip-off. She reeks of early World War II.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “There’s lots of evidence, Todd. For one thing, the aircraft: Aichi D3A1s, Nakajima B5N2s, and Mitsubishi A6M2s are all early models. By ’43, the B5N2s were replaced by B6Ns and the A6M2s by A6M5s. Only the D3A1s saw service for the entire war.”

  “The one with fixed landing gear.”

  “Right. That one was called Val. It’s a dive bomber. And another thing, the officers’ uniforms; they had old-fashioned stand collars and their rank badges were on their sleeves, not their cuffs.”

  “My God, you noticed that!”

  Trigger snorted. “I told you I was a POW. I was interrogated by those gentle bastards. Of course I noticed and remember. And their AA is a tip-off. This ship is equipped with old five-inch broadside guns — useless against high flying aircraft. By late ’42, fleet carriers were equipped with five-point-two-five dual purpose batteries. No, this baby’s an early one and must have had a mission assigned at the outbreak of war.”

  “Does that help?”

  Trigger chuckled, a humorless sound. “A little, Todd. In the first weeks of hostilities, the Japs struck from the Malay Peninsula to the Hawaiian Islands.” Trigger rose and walked to the chart. “Come here, Todd. Let’s use our heads.”

  In a moment, the two men were side by side, studying the chart. Trigger ran a finger downward from the Bering Sea between Attu and the Komandorskis. “They could only be on this longitude if they were going to attack the Aleutians, Wake, Midway or Pearl,” Trigger said, thoughtfully.

  “Or the West Coast, Captain.”

  “Possibly. They’d be stretching their fuel supplies for that — but possible.”

  “Maybe it’s the Aleutians. They could double back and hit Dutch Harbor.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re after something bigger and because of the condition of the planes on the hangar deck. Don’t you remember? They were testing controls and working on the engines. A lot of engines were on blocks, being serviced. The bombs and torpedoes were still in their ready racks. And there was only a weak smell of gasoline. These old carriers used to reek of it before a strike. No, it isn’t the Aleutians. They’d be bombing up and fueling now if they were making a run-in on Aleutian targets. No!”

  Both men stood silently for a long moment, staring at the chart.

  “Pearl Harbor,” Trigger said, flatly. “Pearl Harbor.”

  Edmundson stood motionless, staring, like a statue.

  THREE

  3 December 1983

  Standing on a dais before a large screen and chart of the Pacific Ocean, Cmdr. Craig Bell moved a pointer over the map, pointing at the Bering Sea. “Comthirteen, himself, has ordered this briefing to update the latest on the disappearance of Sparta, on one December,” he said, an unusual tension in his voice — a voice weakened by the size of the amphitheater-shaped room and the twenty-th
ree officers crowding it.

  Seated in theater seats, the officers hunched forward, pads and pencils in hand, while the intelligence officer placed the pointer in a rack and moved to a podium. “This is a matter for Naval Intelligence because it looks like the Russians have finally done it. Our search planes have located blasted and burned wreckage approximately one hundred miles north of Hall Island.” Bell nodded to an enlisted man seated before a cathode ray tube mounted above a keyboard. “This is cryptologic technician Christopher De Santo at the console of the CBC Sixteen,” Bell continued. “I know some of you are line officers or aviators and sometimes we Sixteen-Tens get carried away.” The reference to the intelligence officers’ designator brought a chuckle. “So, if we snow you with computer talk, stop the briefing and ask for definitions in plain English.”

  “Does that go for ensigns, too?” a young flyer in the first row asked. Laughter rumbled.

  “Yes, Ensign Banks,” Bell smiled. “From ensigns to admirals.” And then, business-like and gesturing to the console, he continued, “De Santo is online by satellite with Washington. We have a thirty minute, point-to-point window on our host computer CNO’s Microvac Fourteen Hundred. For those of you unfamiliar with this unit — ” his eyes found Banks — “it’s the largest main frame built. It’s sited under the Pentagon in a hardened shell and, needless to say, stores millions of bytes of information about Soviet weaponry.”

  “The Sparta, De Santo,” Bell said, gesturing at the screen.

  The technician’s hands glided over the keyboard. For a few seconds, only the click of keys could be heard. Quickly, soft, green alphanumerical characters were displayed, first on the enlisted man’s monitor and then repeated on the large screen:

  *

  Sparta. Owners, American Petroleum Exports, Inc. Destination, Teller, Alaska. ETA 1000, 2 December. Cargo, oil drilling supplies. Tonnage, 6,750. Last known position, longitude 172 degrees, 19 minutes west, latitude 61 degrees, 49 minutes north.