by Peter Albano
“What few documents are extant — most of Seven-Three-One’s records were obliterated by air raids or by the unit’s own officers — indicate Yonaga was sent to a secret base on the Siberian coast shortly before the outbreak of hostilities in 1941. She vanished. There is no record of communication of any kind over the decades. We can only assume Seven-Three-One considered her lost with all hands and attempted to destroy all traces of her existence.
“But, obviously, she was not lost. Apparently, somehow, she was trapped in a secret anchorage for over four decades. Tragically, she finally broke free.” The voice suddenly grew hoarse. A short silence.
The voice returned with new determination. “No people, nation, culture can understand us. In particular, the Western mind cannot comprehend the devotion and loyalty the Japanese feel for their emperor. Americans, please understand, right or wrong, today the crew of Yonaga was obeying orders — obeying orders to an extent that, in your minds, defies credibility, but nevertheless, is completely logical and even expected in our way of thinking.” The voice choked off. The Americans sat, staring straight ahead like people contemplating a crypt.
The sepulchral voice returned. “But, again, these men were obeying orders. This trait is common to all good men who bear arms. Americans, we beseech you — understand; please try. Do not slaughter these men. We have contacted them on one of our old fleet frequencies. Their transmitter is malfunctioning, but we know they are headed for Tokyo Bay. Please let them live. We are devastated by what happened at Pearl Harbor, too. But we have paid the price in blood many times over. Please, in this most impossible hour, show mercy. Let them live!” Again, the voice choked. Silence.
And then, with new firmness, the broadcast resumed. “There is an American prisoner on board Yonaga. His name is Ross, possibly Theodore. He is a retired captain of the United States Navy.”
Cheers. Horror pushed aside for a moment, every man surrounded Brent, pounded his back. Pamela pushed her way through, kissed the young ensign’s cheek. Gradually, bedlam subsided.
“God, some good news — some good news, after all this,” Brent said softly. He grabbed Pamela, held her close, hiding his watery eyes in the soft folds of her hair.
“Brent,” Bell said softly. “I’ll arrange a flight to Tokyo. We’ll meet the seventh carrier.” He turned to Mark Allen.
“Yes. I should go, too,” the admiral said.
The commander moved his gaze to Mason Avery, who stood apart, staring at the embracing couple, wide eyed. “You, Captain?” Bell asked.
But Avery never answered. He only stared, jaw trembling.
THIRTEEN
7 December 1983
Despite crippling losses, the crew of Yonaga was ecstatic. “Banzais” had resounded through the ship immediately after Shimizu’s joyous transmission of “Tora, tora, tora,” and continued as the flight commander transmitted reports of new successes. Especially riotous had been the news of the sinking of the New Jersey.
And now, as the strike returned, the jubilant crew lined the catwalks, waving flags, cheering. Standing next to Admiral Fujita on the flag bridge, Ted Ross counted only six Aichis, seven Nakajimas, and seven Mitsubishis. At least twelve dead and wounded crewmen were carried from damaged bombers.
But the elation was undiminished. As each plane landed, Kawamoto and Fujita thumped each other with bony fists. They actually laughed, jumped up and down. “We have climbed Mount Niitaka. Banzai!” they shouted as each plane landed.
Finally, the last aircraft approached and made a perfect three-point landing. It was Shimizu. Watching the commander pull himself from the cockpit, Ross felt the pressure build, in his head, chest, and stomach as if every vestige of hatred seemed to be concentrated on this one man. Strangely, he was incapable of hating Fujita.
Gesturing to the door to his cabin, Fujita spoke to the American. “In there, Captain. You are to witness the commander’s report.”
“Why?”
“You do not have the prerogative to question, Captain.”
But as Ted walked to the door, his guards staring over the bridge rail unconcerned, he knew he was still their witness — the stranger whose presence added to the drama, fed their egos. And better yet, he was the enemy. An implacable foe who warred against them relentlessly with fists and words. And he had killed one of them. Especially to Shimizu, Ted Ross was a challenge — a challenge awaiting destruction. The American snorted, “Never!” as he entered the cabin.
*
“A carrier destroyed, one battleship — probably the New Jersey — sunk,” Shimizu said, standing in front of the admiral’s desk. Looking up from his chair at the pinched face and the close-set eyes, surrounded by clean skin perfectly defining the goggles the pilot held in his hands, Ross was struck by the insect-like appearance of the countenance.
“Carnivorous, filthy insect,” he said suddenly.
Without turning his head, Shimizu said, “Do you feel you are capable of stepping on this insect, Captain?”
Ross came to his feet, hissing through clenched teeth, “Now!”
“Captain!” Fujita shouted. “Must I threaten again — perhaps the prospect of irons will calm you.”
Ross stood motionless for a moment, Kawamoto, Hironaka, the communications men, staring. Pressure seemed to be pushing Trigger’s eyes from their sockets. He gestured toward the flight commander. “Certainly, bushido should permit a personal settlement with the commander.” Shimizu turned to Ross, caught his eyes with an amused stare. Ross continued. “Or is the commander intending to continue the evasive maneuvers of a fighter pilot?”
“I have never avoided you, Captain. But there is a time for everything. Especially dying — as you shall see.”
“Enough,” Fujita said. “This will be settled but in my time and at my discretion.” And then impatiently to Shimizu, “Continue with your report.”
Shimizu returned to the admiral. “Plan Z worked perfectly. Airfields were neutralized easily. The enemy was surprised and confused. As we suspected, our low level approach defeated their radar.”
“Our casualties were heavy.”
“Yes. Many samurai entered the Yasakuni Shrine this day, Admiral.”
“Araki? Toyofuku?”
“Araki died gloriously, Admiral. He dove his D3A into the carrier. Three of his command followed him. The carrier became Fuji-san.” Fujita nodded, savoring each word. “Toyofuku?”
“Unknown, Admiral. He is missing, shot down by autogiros or a new, fast anti-aircraft gun on the New Jersey.”
“Fast?”
“Not for long, Admiral.” There were chuckles. “Their fighters?” The old man clenched his fists on his desk, showed bony, white knuckles. “Did they have Sidewinder?”
“Four large, fast fighters attacked. They used rockets but the flares defeated them.”
“Ah, good.” The old man leaned back, crossed his hands across his chest. “Just as we expected.” “Yes, sir. The enemy fighters were unbelievably fast but maneuvered poorly. Lieutenant Shigemitsu and five members of his command destroyed the enemy fighters by ramming. Not one escaped.”
“Glorious! Glorious, Masao.” The admiral leveled his gaze. “You must be anxious to debrief your men, Commander. You are dismissed.” Shimizu saluted, turned and left, glancing balefully at the American as he closed the door.
“Commander Kawamoto,” the admiral continued. “I want a complete report on the status of our airgroups and aircrews within an hour.”
“Yes, sir,” Kawamoto said rising.
“And, Commander,” Fujita said, handing him a small slip of yellow paper, “personally hand this message to the communications officer and instruct him to transmit on all fleet frequencies.”
“The filaments in our power tubes are old — have become brittle, sir.”
“So have our bones, Commander. But we destroyed Pearl Harbor, today.”
The Japanese laughed. The admiral turned to the American. “You may be interested, Captain; the message reads: �
�Yonaga has climbed Mount Niitaka. Long live the emperor.’”
The compartment was filled with “Banzais.” Ross felt strangely phlegmatic, eyeing his companions like an observer from another planet. He was puzzled. When Shimizu left, his anger seemed to go with the man. Now, perhaps influenced again by the eerie presence in the cabin, he felt curiosity push aside all other emotions. Strange, Pearl Harbor had been ravaged that morning, yet he sat calmly watching the madmen responsible.
The admiral raised his hands. Silence. “You may go, Commander.” The commander saluted and left. Fujita turned to one of the communications men. “Matsuzoe, inform the radio room — add to my message on all fleet frequencies — Yonaga has a prisoner, Captain Ted — ah, Theodore Ross.” The old man glanced at the American with warm eyes.
“Thank you, Admiral. My son will welcome the news.”
The old man sank back. “There is much to do, Captain.” He pressed a button. An orderly opened the door. “Summon the captain’s guards.” And then to Ross. “You will return to your cabin — I will summon you later.”
“Very well, Admiral.” Ross rose.
*
Four hours later, Ross was called to the admiral’s cabin where the old man awaited him, alone. The euphoria was gone. “The radios are broken down, Captain. We transmitted sporadically. Kawamoto was right; the filaments in our power tubes broke down. Even our receivers are out.” He turned his palms up on the desk. “Your son may not know of your safety.”
“I appreciate the effort.” Again, Ross wondered about his attitude. Felt like a subject of hypnosis. “This vessel is definitely targeted now, Admiral. There are probably American bombers orbiting you at this moment. So high, you cannot see or hear them.”
“We can see them — eight at twenty thousand meters. Our Zeros can’t reach them.”
“Zeros?”
“Why yes, Captain. We still have twelve Mitsubishis capable of combat. Three are continuously airborne as CAP.”
Ross slapped his forehead. “They can’t touch those bombers.”
“Let them venture lower for their bomb runs, Captain.”
“Not necessary, Admiral. They have smart bombs.”
“Smart?”
“Guided, Admiral. The bombardiers just keep their sights on their targets, and the bombs’ guidance systems take over — make a sure hit.”
“Why haven’t they attacked?”
Ross thought for a long moment. “There may be orders to allow this vessel to proceed. You could have been destroyed hours ago by missiles fired from subs — even land based.” His jaw took a grim set. “Maybe an American carrier will intercept you — ” he leaned forward — “use you for target practice.”
The old man stiffened. “We still have four Aichis and five Nakajimas. This target can strike back. Let them take their chances.”
Ross pushed his finger tips together. Studied them. “We’re on a westerly heading.”
“We are returning to Japan — to Tokyo Bay as ordered in Plan Z.”
“You can only anchor there by the grace of the United States Armed Forces.” He looked up.
“Please, Captain, your history again.”
The wall. Ross knew he could never penetrate it. He was still fascinated by the ancient, devious mind. “Many good men died today, Admiral.” The old man hunched forward, eagerly, obviously sensing an exchange. He dampened his thin lips. “That is the destiny of all men.”
“Many young men died.”
“On the battlefield, Captain. There is no better death.”
Ross felt a familiar frustration swell. “What was proved?”
“Proved? What is always proved, Captain — men will grasp the opportunity to die in battle, joyously.” He glanced at a sheet of paper on his desk. “This is the flight commander’s report.” He raised the sheet. “Four autogiros attacked our Nakajimas and then engaged six of our fighters. They had no chance against our Zeros, yet attacked, destroying five of my fighters.” He drummed his fingers on the report. “They were all shot down. Died like samurai.”
“Americans have courage, too, Admiral.”
The old man sighed. “Yes, you have brought that lesson home.”
Ross hunched forward, sensing an opening. “You once said, ‘we who wear the mantle of command are all samurai.’”
The old man sat erect, obviously pleased. “A rhetorical statement, but true.”
Ross pressed on, eyes locked with the admiral’s. “I defeated Hirata, honorably and at great disadvantage.”
“Yes.”
“Then I have earned my challenge of Commander Masao Shimizu. A fair break — even odds. The same weapons.”
The old man’s face cracked into a slow smile. “You will have your opportunity, Captain.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow, Captain. And Captain?”
“Sir?”
“You would make a very fine Japanese.”
Ross laughed. Sat back. Wondered about his own sanity. Had he become one of them?
*
Ross was surprised when he actually saw the next day dawn. He had expected an attack, perhaps vaporization. But nothing happened. True, B-52s continued to orbit, but the American pilots appeared content to keep Yonaga under observation from at least fifty thousand feet.
But Trigger’s mind was not on B-52s. Instead, gripping his wakizashi, he hunched forward staring into Shimizu’s eyes — eyes that shone like brown ice. At least he was familiar with the arena, particularly the footing. Everything was the same, the Buddha-flanked altar, white boxes of the cremated, the scarlet platform, white-covered deck, and the ranks of silent officers in dress blues flanking the admiral. But this time, the odds were even; Shimizu gripped an identical wakizashi.
The commander circled his blade, moved toward the American. Trigger stepped back toward the platform. Looking at the point, his stomach wrenched. Again, thoughts of killing with this weapon — a weapon that had to be pushed into the victim, ripping intestines, cutting tissue, pouring a torrent of blood on the user — numbed his mind. He had never used a knife, but looking into Shimizu’s grinning, confident visage, he knew he could rip this man with relish.
He expected Shimizu to be skillful. He knew the Japanese had trained hard at physical skills. Aoshima and Hirata had both been astonishingly agile. Shimizu was younger, perhaps three years younger than himself. But he was heavier, stronger. But strength didn’t matter with the blade.
Shimizu faked a lunge. Ross refused the bait. Retreated another step. “What’s wrong, Yankee? Afraid to taste the steel?”
“I’ve got a stomach full for you, insect.”
Shimizu lunged. Ross vaulted to the side, catching the commander’s blade with his own. The American continued his retreat. Leaped atop the platform. Shimizu lunged for his abdomen. A sharp pain. Ross hopped to one side. Swung his knife at Shimizu’s eyes. The Japanese stepped back, laughing.
Warm liquid trickled down the American’s leg. His breath came hard like the victim of an executioner’s garrote.
“That was only a taste, filthy barbarian,” Shimizu said.
Ross had been stunned by the man’s speed.
Knew he was hurt. Gripped his abdomen with his left hand. Felt blood. He set his jaw. Bent his knees. Hunched on the platform like a man defending his mountain. The commander was good. Very good.
Shimizu edged to his right, knife extended. There was a step. That was it. In a moment, Shimizu moved up the step. Ross retreated. Knife held waist high. Gripping his wound. But the wound was slight. He removed his hand. Put the slash from his mind. Better to help his balance with his left hand. He extended the arm.
With unbelievable speed, Shimizu sprang in a low crouch to his left, making a backhand swing with his blade. Trigger lunged for his opponent’s throat. Found air. Felt a sharp burning rip across his chest. More blood. Now, his shirt and pants were bloody.
Shimizu laughed. “Another taste, unwashed swine.”
Gasping, Ross retreate
d, almost to the edge of the platform, his back to the altar. He felt his chest. Wet. Sticky. But, apparently, not deep. Shimizu was toying with him, could have killed him twice. His stomach became ice. Arms heavy. He was almost to the edge.
Shimizu closed. Thrust. Ross parried, catching the commander’s blade with his own. Pushed. Found his strength.
A backhand slash. Ross parried again. Shimizu cursed. Thrust straight on like a swordsman. The American leaped backward, landing neatly on the deck, in front of the altar, on the balls of his feet. He knew the Japanese was no longer toying. He was moving in for the kill. Ross felt an uncommon emotion. Fear. He was overmatched.
Shimizu made a long graceful bound, landing far to Ted’s left side. Both men, knives extended, faced each other rigidly like the altar Buddhas. Trigger noticed Shimizu’s labored breath.
But Shimizu moved again. Quickly. Thrusting. Slashing. Each time stopped by the retreating American’s blade. Suddenly, Shimizu made a quick move to his left, stabbed for the American’s eyes. Ross parried, desperately. With a shout of triumph, the Japanese slashed downward, catching the American’s hand, knocking Trigger’s wakizashi to the deck.
Shimizu stepped back. Laughed. Held the knife at his side. “I’m going to put this — ” he raised the knife — “in your stomach; it is slower that way.”
No man can accept his own mortality. Ross was no different. But now, staring at the grinning death’s head, he felt strangely calm, an acceptance. He set his jaw. Knew he would never beg. He’d show these samurai how a man can die. His back was against the shelves. He raised a hand, supported himself on a shelf. Boxes. He felt boxes filled with ashes. Hope rose like flames from ashes. He moved a hand, felt a loose lid. Shimizu was still laughing. Knife at his side.
“His hand is on our honored dead,” he heard Kawamoto scream.
Silence. Shimizu stood still.