Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  Dennis switched on his microphone. “Scarface Lead to Scarface Zero Four, will you please estimate ETD.”

  “Scarface Lead, estimate departure another five minutes. Calibration of my gyro incomplete.”

  Banks cursed to himself, keyed the intercom, spoke to his co-pilot. “Why is Clark so slow? He’s always last in everything. Woolsey and Dante calibrated in half this time.” He glanced at the other two Cobras of his flight squatting nearby, idling.

  “Maybe he’s worried about Rip Van Nip,” crackled back through a laugh. And then seriously, “You’re the flight commander. Get him off his dead butt. This idling gets to me.”

  Dennis laughed. “Yeah, the one-to-one bounce is hard on my kidneys, too.”

  An explosion. Banks craned his head, saw a C-47 vanish in a ball of flame and flying debris. “Jesus Christ.” Then two Hueys exploded and an ancient green aircraft with fixed landing gear swooped low over the Hueys, firing. The front of a hangar burst, collapsed in flame, burying two C-47s.

  Hyatt’s frightened voice. “What the fuck’s going on?”

  Then three white monoplanes, with red insignias on their wings and fuselages, dove from the western sky in a tight V and raced the length of the parked transports, flame leaping from their wings. More explosions. Flames billowed high into the sky.

  Ensign Dennis Banks choked back the disbelief, shook his head free of the manacles of fear, shouted into his microphone, “Scarface Flight, this is Scarface Lead, let’s haul ass. Follow my lead!”

  “The tower!”

  “Screw the tower, Hyatt. Anyway, it’s gone.” Dennis pulled up hard on the collective lever and pushed forward on the cyclic control, and felt the aircraft lift and lunge forward. He could see his co-pilot turn his head and state in horror at the point near the intersection of the field’s two runways. The tower was a pyre.

  At that moment, the only thought in Dennis Banks’ mind was to save himself and his command of four Cobras. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see his entire flight airborne and following. But to the south and east, green and white aircraft strafed and bombed Wheeler. Transports and helicopters burned in heaps and fragments. Two hangars were hit. Tiny, running figures were strafed and shot down in heaps.

  Banks shouted into his microphone. “Scarface Flight, throttle up and get out west — low — follow my lead. Check in!”

  “Zero one, roger.”

  “Zero two, roger.”

  “Zero three, roger,” crackled in his earphones. The voices were frightened.

  Dennis sighed as his air speed indicator passed one hundred knots, altimeter quickly climbed to five hundred feet. The Waianae Mountains loomed ahead. Thoughts of that funny Rip Van Nip message came to his mind. And the conversation with Brent Ross, three days ago, in Seattle. The Japs were here.

  Banks felt the Cobra leap and flutter. Then a huge explosion filled the air with thunder. He glanced to the south. A giant fireball roiled skyward over Pearl Harbor. Black smoke began to billow upward. He could see aircraft diving and swooping like angry vultures over carrion. “This is Scarface Leader,” he said into his microphone with controlled calmness. “The Rip Van Nip message was for real. Those are old Jap aircraft.” He squinted over Hyatt’s head. “Stay on my tail!”

  He banked the helicopter, headed south parallel to the Waianae Mountains, followed closely by the three Cobras.

  Banks clenched his jaw, gripped the controls tightly, and pushed horror and bewilderment from his mind. The frightened young man was gone, replaced by the professional. He was trained to kill, paid to kill, equipped to kill, and now it was time to hunt the hunters. Exact a price and perhaps die himself. He had no options.

  He spoke with the calm assurance of a pathologist about to dissect a cadaver. “Scarface Flight — arm. Prepare to engage.” He keyed the intercom. “Hyatt, I’ve got the turret.” In an instant, he had switched the turret control to “Pilot,” Arm Selector to “Turret,” pushed the Master Arm switch to “Arm,” and flipped his gun sight up from the control panel. Now he was in control of the three barrel, XM197, twenty-millimeter turret mounted beneath the Cobra’s nose. Caressing the firing button, he felt a new confidence, knowing the pressure of his thumb could fire 750 rounds of cannon shells in a minute.

  Leading his flight south at 120 knots, Banks soon saw the Manana Naval Supply Center flash below and then Interstate Route H-l, crowded with early morning traffic. As he crossed the highway, he looked at Pearl Harbor. A vast pall of black smoke, billowing from the shattered Tarawa, was spreading slowly over the harbor. Then a tower of water leaped from the New Jersey. And then he saw the torpedo planes, dozens of them in a stream miles long approaching the New Jersey, low and from the south.

  Banks shouted into his microphone, “Scarface Flight. We’ll engage the torpedo bombers making runs on the New Jersey. They may be faster than we are so we’ll attack from their left flank. On my command, Cobras One and Three break left; Two and Four break right. Watch your deflection and for Christ’s sake, keep your spacing — execute.”

  In a moment, the Cobras, in a line abreast, had left Pearl City behind, crossed Middle Loch, the Waipo Peninsula, and the southern tip of Ford Island where three small aircraft burned. ‘‘Hit them over Southeast Loch before they reach the smoke,” Banks said with calmness that surprised himself. The ensign moved the cyclic control, banking toward Southeast Loch.

  There were too many targets, lumbering green monoplanes with torpedoes slung beneath their fuselages. The flight commander brought the glowing thirty-millimeter circle and then the dot of his electric gun sight to the cowling of one. He fingered the firing button. The helicopter bucked and vibrated as three twenty-millimeter guns fired. The enemy plane shed a wing and plunged into the harbor. He kicked his rudder, banked to the left, caught another plane from the rear, sent a burst into the cockpit. The bomber flipped over on its back and fell into a spin.

  The Cobras swept through the stream, destroying a half dozen Japanese planes. Dennis was banking for another pass when he saw six white monoplanes high in the sky, diving. He spoke into his microphone. “This is Scarface Leader. Fighters! Two o’clock high. Must be Zeros. They’re fast and maneuverable. They have our rotors. Climb and meet them. Give them our noses and our turrets!” Quickly, the command was acknowledged and the helicopters turned almost as one and climbed toward the diving monoplanes.

  Switching the turret control to “Co-pilot,” Banks spoke into the intercom. “Hyatt, take the turret. I'll concentrate on the bird.”

  “Roger.” In an instant, the co-pilot raised his sighting station, gripped the handles, and hunched forward, squinting through the reticle.

  “They must be doing four hundred knots,” the co-pilot shouted, awed.

  “Leland! They’re in range!”

  The Cobra shook. A fighter exploded. Then another. Banks caught a flash to his left. Woolsey! His rotor flew off. The Cobra plummeted.

  Another fighter flamed, turned on its back, arced downward. In a wink, the flights passed each other. Banks shouted into his microphone, “This is Scarface Leader, come about for another pass.”

  Quickly, Banks reversed directions, feeling the force of at least three G’s push him into his seat.

  But only Clark remained. Woolsey had exploded and far below he saw Dante’s ship, engine dead, descending slowly on auto-rotation. Three Zeros were curving and climbing toward the Americans.

  Banks knew no orders were necessary. The two flights closed. Again, the bucking. A Zero flipped on its back. There were explosions in his ears. The turret was silent. Air rushed in, carrying fragments, stinging his face. Hyatt slumped forward, out of sight. No time for Hyatt; an engine was running wild. The aircraft shuddered, losing its trim. He fought the controls, hunched over the instrument panel. Both engines were heating. He threw two switches, silencing the howls of the wounded engines.

  Banks glanced to his left. Saw Clark’s smoking Cobra dropping sideways into a dive. Then, in horror, he saw the heli
copter explode, flinging its rotor high. Still revolving, the blades followed the raining, burning debris downward.

  The ensign pounded the control panel, called, “Hyatt! Hyatt!” But he knew there would be no answer. The lifeless co-pilot slumped forward, hands still gripping the sighting station.

  As the auto-rotating rotor lowered the Cobra gently, Banks looked around, mind numbed by the carnage below. The Tarawa was gone, replaced by Vesuvius. The New Jersey was firing but listing, torpedo bombers knifing in from her port side, horizontal bombers making their runs. The Arizona monument was gone. Smoke rose from Wheeler and Hickam. Then he caught a flash of white, high but descending. A Zero, burning, diving. An orange streak headed for the New Jersey. “Why? Why?” the ensign screamed.

  Dennis Banks convulsed, felt tears on his cheeks. He bent over the controls. Pounded his head.

  *

  The thudding rotors were gone but the roar of engines and the explosions continued throughout the nightmares. And now there was heat — heat that drove the darkness away brought Ensign Jeffrey Foulger to his hands and knees, shaking his head. Then, holding the ladder, he pulled himself to his feet, realizing the nightmares were reality.

  Everywhere there was smoke and flame. The sun had vanished, wiped out by swelling thunder-heads of black clouds. Even the sea was burning, a layer of oil from the New Jersey’s ruptured tanks spreading across the harbor. The battleship was low in the water. He looked fearfully skyward. Two white monoplanes, one smoking, circled. But the bombers were gone, disappearing to the southeast.

  He heard shouts of “Abandon ship, starboard!” Then he saw the motor launches. Dozens of small craft were approaching from the submarine base and the fuel depot. Several crewmen ran by, headed for the stern, vanishing around the aft turret, headed for the starboard side. One, uniform black and ripped, stopped. It was Quartermaster First Class Donald Wilcox.

  Jeffrey felt the man’s hand on his arm. “You’re hurt, Mister Foulger.” His eyes were on the ensign’s head.

  Foulger felt his head. Something sticky. Pulled his hand away. It was covered with blood.

  “Come on, sir. There are launches along the starboard side.”

  “We’re sunk, Wilcox!”

  “Almost on the bottom, sir. We must have taken ten torpedoes and three bombs. We’re settling on an even keel, Mister Foulger. Damage Control has been counter-flooding.”

  “Oh, Lord. Lord!” He shook his head slowly, felt it clear, brushed off the petty officer’s hand. “Thanks, Wilcox. I can make it.” They passed the turret and began to walk around it.

  Then Jeffrey heard it. A single engine screaming, approaching. He looked up. A white monoplane, trailing a streak of flame like a meteor, was plunging directly on him. “Haul ass,” he screamed, pushing the quartermaster. Wilcox vanished, running forward on the starboard side.

  Foulger moved toward the stern, pulled the automatic from his holster, raised it with both hands. The meteor was only a few hundred feet above his head. He grimaced, bared his teeth, screamed, “Come on you son of a bitch! Come and get it — the Big J — the Big J — the most formidable weapons’ system afloat!”

  He laughed as he fired. He was still firing and laughing when the plane hit the stem. The explosion enveloped the entire stern in flame and then a great fireball ascended, followed by black smoke.

  High in the sky, a white monoplane circled once and then disappeared to the southeast.

  *

  When the first message arrived at 1140 hours, Commander Bell’s office became a madhouse. By 1330 hours, Rear Adm. Mark Allen sat in front of Bell’s desk. Both men thumbed through reports, eyes glazed with disbelief as a continuous stream of enlisted men entered, adding new documents to the steadily growing pile on the commander’s desk.

  “Brent was right — Brent was right,” Bell kept muttering. “I’m ruined.”

  Mark Allen looked up from a report. “So are hundreds of dead boys at Pearl Harbor.”

  Bell bit his lip. “Why is CINCPAC so slow?” He waved a document. “Even this top secret message reports Tarawa and New Jersey sunk by unidentified aircraft.”

  Allen snorted. “It took them at least an hour to believe what they saw and, at this moment, they’re pawing through the wreckage of aircraft, trying to convince themselves they were attacked by Japanese aircraft — 1941 all over again.”

  Brent Ross entered, waving a message. “An AWAC has spotted a large ship 330 miles north of Oahu, moving west at a high speed. The Air Force is sending eight B-52s from March Air Force Base.”

  “Christ,” Allen said. “That’s a five, six hour interception. What about Oahu?”

  “Nothing’s left,” Bell said. His tone was funereal. And then to Brent Ross, “I’m — I’m beyond apologies … ” He waved his hands futilely. Brent seemed not to hear.

  Allen spoke. “Anything on subs?”

  “One of our SSN’s is closing on the unknown — ah, Japanese carrier from southeast of the Bonins,” Brent said. “She’s equipped with both harpoons and tomahawks.’’

  Allen tapped his fingertips together. “The Russians?”

  Brent answered. “Moscow Radio broadcast something about imperialists reaping their rewards.”

  Bell pulled himself together. “What did they lose? Just a single aircraft and a catcher boat.” He snorted. “They’ll probably decorate the Japs who pulled this!”

  “Anything from Japan?” Allen asked.

  The ensign shook his head. “Radio Japan’s been off the air since 1200, our time.”

  The admiral narrowed his eyes. “Strange!”

  The door opened. Capt. Mason Avery, puffy eyed and grim, entered and seated himself stiffly. There seemed to be a defiant set to his jaw. His bloodshot eyes moved from Brent Ross to Mark Allen and then back. “You got your carrier.” There was no concession in the voice.

  Brent’s eyes widened with incredulity. He spoke angrily. “Two ships are sunk, hundreds of men are dead, and you — you — ” He stepped forward. Mark Allen rose. “Brent — easy.”

  Bell gestured to a chair. “Sit down, Brent. Sit down. We need to discuss this.”

  Seething, Brent seated himself, turned to Avery. “Was this morning’s attack a personal insult, Captain? Was it hard on your pride? Your ego?”

  “That’s enough, Ensign.”

  “No! It’s not enough. You — ” Brent’s eyes went to Bell and then back to the captain — “both of you are responsible. You were warned!” He gestured to Mark Allen. “We warned you — pleaded … ”

  “The decision and message were correct,” Mason said flatly.

  “Correct!” Brent shouted, leaning forward, gripping the chair.

  “Yes,” Avery said, dispassionately. “On the basis of facts, suppositions, and even myths, a carrier was still out of the question and the so-called Rip Van Nip message was correct. The field commanders never took it seriously.”

  “We never told them to expect an attack,” Brent spat.

  “We couldn’t!”

  “Why?”

  Silence. Mason and Brent stared at each other, eyes bound by invisible strings. Brent could hear the older man breathing. Mason spoke quickly. “Because military men are not paid to use their imaginations.”

  “What are they paid for?”

  “To obey orders, to use their weapons, and to die as far away from home as possible.”

  A giant spring was tightening in Brent’s chest. “Then those men at Pearl were doomed.”

  “In a sense, we’re all doomed when we put on these uniforms. We accept death as a consequence of the decisions of others — right or wrong.”

  “You’re inferring you were wrong.”

  “I didn’t say that. You heard me say the decision — ” Avery gestured at Bell — “was militarily correct.”

  Brent turned to Mark Allen. “You didn’t agree, Admiral.”

  Mark Allen stirred, restively. “If the burden of blame is to be placed somewhere, put it at my feet!”
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  “Admiral,” Brent said. “You warned … ”

  “I was the senior officer … ”

  “An advisor,” Brent interrupted.

  Allen shook his head, irritably. “No! No — please listen.” Silence. “I could have contacted CNO — or the commander-in-chief, himself. But — ”he nodded at Mason Avery — “the absolute proof of a carrier was missing.” And then bitterly, “I let the Rip Van Nip decision slip past me knowing my position — my career was safe.”

  There was a hard silence — a silence that comes after a man has allowed others to glimpse too much of himself. The door opened. Pamela Ward, face lined with fatigue, entered. Bell looked up, obviously relieved by the interruption. “How’s Fox-Blue-Able going, Lieutenant?”

  All three men stared at the woman who remained standing just inside the door. Her voice was high, unsteady. “It was the nulls — the damned nulls. All this — ” she waved a hand — “high-priced equipment and we didn’t pick up the nulls.”

  “What did you get?” Bell asked.

  She glanced at a long print-out. “The Russian LRA sighted an unescorted carrier.” She began to read, “‘Unknown carrier. Length, three hundred meters; beam, seventy. One tilted stack — deck cleared to receive aircraft — no aircraft in sight; probable LPH.’” She looked up. “This message was repeated nine times and ceased during the tenth transmission with the word ‘cleared.’” “Damn! Damn,” Bell said, pounding his desk. A technician entered, handed the commander a message, and exited. The commander scanned the document. “Radio Japan is coming on the air with a special message.”

  He threw a switch. After a short silence, a thick, deep voice blared from a wall-mounted speaker. “Today, a great tragedy struck Pearl Harbor and in the name of humanity, we implore understanding and, if possible, mercy. Our records are fragmentary, but apparently a seventh carrier — the Yonaga — was ordered to attack Pearl Harbor on December seventh, 1941. This vessel was assigned to the Army’s highly secret Unit Seven-Three-One. Consequently, conventional records of her disposition, even construction, were not kept. In fact, Yonaga was never officially commissioned into the Imperial Navy.