Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

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Voyages of the Seventh Carrier Page 45

by Peter Albano


  *

  Crossing the gangway, Sarah Aranson stared wide-eyed. She had never seen anything like it. A great steel, flood-lighted behemoth bristling with guns manned by helmeted sailors. And the frantic activity. Everywhere, men scurried; pounding, scraping, painting, installing equipment. And there were a half-dozen antique aircraft tied down on the flight deck.

  “This way! This way!” the commander shouted, helping his two seamen carry the big American through a doorway and onto the vessel’s second deck. He jerked his head to the right. “Down this passageway.” A half-dozen sailors rushed up, took the American from the three exhausted men. “Sick bay! Sick bay!”

  Grunting and struggling, the bearers carried their burden down the passageway past dozens of aged green-clad sailors who stepped aside, staring at the bloody American curiously. In a moment, the men and their burden disappeared through a doorway. But the commander turned, barred the way.

  '“Wait here,” he said, sharply.

  “Why?”

  “I’ll call you,” he said, turning and slamming the door in her face.

  “Dreck! Dreck!” the Israeli captain spat.

  *

  Over an hour later, Sarah Aranson was admitted by a white-clad rating. Entering the sick bay, she found a large, brilliantly lighted room lined with cots. Only a few were occupied and white-clad orderlies seemed to be everywhere. All eyed her curiously as she followed the rating to the far corner of the compartment where Brent Ross was stretched on a cot.

  Four men clustered around the ensign’s bed. At the foot, two very old officers dressed in blue stood silently, while at the head the commander leaned on a bulkhead. Staring down, the three officers watched the fourth man – a doctor dressed in a white smock, stethoscope dangling – lean close to the ensign adjusting an IV. Quickly, Sarah moved close to the bed. She was ignored.

  Brent appeared to be sleeping. Although he was very pale, his breathing was deep and regular. Sarah sighed with relief.

  The doctor straightened slowly and with difficulty. He was very, very old. In fact, all the Japanese appeared ancient except the commander who merely appeared middle-aged.

  Looking directly past Sarah as if she did not exist, the doctor addressed the oldest living man Sarah had ever seen.

  “Two shallow but long slashes – one across the chest and the other across the abdomen. One hundred twenty sutures put him back together. A few minor cuts, bruises and abrasions. He has lost blood, but we are taking care of that.” He gestured at the IV. “He is young, strong – should regain his strength quickly, Admiral Fujita” The old admiral nodded silently.

  Sarah’s eyes widened. So this was the storied Fujita – the ghost of the seventh carrier. The samurai who survived over forty years in the northern reaches of the Bering Sea, maintaining his ship, crew, equipment; attacked Pearl Harbor over four decades late and blew the Zilah out of the sea. But he was a bent little animated mummy who appeared in imminent danger of being swallowed by the blue shroud of his own uniform. How could such an innocuous figure be so strong, wreak destruction so lavishly?

  His rasping voice, soft but cutting like the steel edge of a sword, slashed away her doubts. “You must be the Israeli woman, Sarah Aranson,” he said, narrow eyes glistening ominously from a scabrous face fissured and serrated by a hundred years. Every head turned to the woman.

  “Yes,” she said, anger smouldering, ignoring the warning in his eyes. “You refused to allow me aboard.”

  “Of course! You do not belong here – no woman belongs here.”

  Sarah felt heat flush her cheeks. But the disciplined officer prevailed, controlled the welling hostility, found a sure way to pique Fujita’s interest. “Not even if a woman has information that can help Yonaga survive?”

  The admiral put his head to one side like an old bird. The tone was curt but some of the frost had melted. “We will discuss that matter in a few moments, Madam.” Then, nodding to his left, “My executive officer, Commander Masao Kawamoto.” To the head of the bed: “Commander Yoshi Matsuhara; he came to your aid.” And last to the physician: “Our surgeon, Chief Hospital Orderly Eiichi Horikoshi.”

  Admiral Fujita turned back to Commander Matsuhara, gesturing at Brent Ross. “He fought well, Yoshi-san?”

  “Like his father, Admiral.” There was a hint of admiration in the voice.

  “They were terrorists?”

  “No doubt about that, Admiral. One is dead; the other has no eyes, no mouth—” Shrugging, he turned his palms up.

  Tightening his lips, Fujita nodded. “Sometimes life can be worse than death. A wise decision, Yoshi-san.”

  Shouts of “Brent! Brent!” turned Sarah’s head. An old American dressed in khaki, and with wild white hair flying, rushed in, stopping at the head of the bed next to the doctor. “Why didn’t you call me?” he said to Admiral Fujita, bitterly.

  “We searched for you, Admiral Allen.”

  “I was ashore, stretching my legs in the yard.”

  “Inform the duty officer when you leave the ship.”

  The American muttered under his breath, then turned to the doctor. “How is he?”

  Horikoshi described the ensign’s condition; the old admiral nodded in obvious relief. Then he turned quickly to the woman. “You’re Captain Sarah Aranson.”

  “Yes.”

  “You were ambushed!”

  “Yes. Two Arabs.”

  The American turned to the doctor. And then staring at a rating badge sewed to the physician’s sleeve, he said, incredulously, “You’re a rating!”

  “Yes,” Fujita answered. “This is Chief Hospital Orderly Eiichi Horikoshi. All of our doctors died years ago, and our orderlies became our physicians.”

  “Without formal training?”

  “They served apprenticeships, learned through experience.”

  “Jesus!”

  “How else do men learn? Throughout history, doctors have made a mysterious ritual of their training. That way, they can charge enormous fees – make victims of their patients.”

  Mark Allen waved at the IV. “But the blood—”

  “Type O,” Horikoshi said, calmly. “As indicated on his identity tags.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Maritime Self Defense Force, Admiral Allen. While Yonaga loaded ammunition, we took on whole blood, plasma – the latest in drugs, medical supplies and equipment.” He glanced around slowly, smiling enigmatically. “The end products of war can always be found in this room.”

  Mark Allen seemed relieved for a moment. But then concern returned as he stared at Brent. “He’s unconscious.”

  The surgeon smiled. “He is mildly sedated. We always sedate wounded men to counteract shock.” The American admiral nodded, glanced at the woman. “You had something for us?”

  “For Yonaga. A code.”

  Fujita spoke. “A code? For what?”

  “Communications between Israeli Intelligence and Yonaga?”

  Fujita dampened his thin lips with the tip of his tongue. “Where is it?”

  Sarah gestured at Ross. “It’s in his inside coat pocket.”

  The admiral glanced at the surgeon. “His clothes?”

  The chief hospital orderly nodded toward a canvas bag next to the bed. “In there, sir. Nothing has been touched – not even cut when we removed them.”

  “Very good.” Fujita turned back to the woman. “You said you were ambushed?”

  “Two men, Admiral.” She described the evening, even the drinking. Spared nothing but the embraces.

  “Foolish,” Admiral Fujita said. “Foolish.”

  The woman nodded reluctant agreement. “They were Sabbah, Admiral.”

  “Sabbah?”

  “Yes, Sir. Suicidal Arab terrorists. According to our informants, they manned Zilah.” And then casually, “We understand you took three prisoners.”

  “That is my concern, Madam.”

  Again, Sarah felt anger rise. “If you please, Admiral Fujita,” she said, i
cily. “I’m a captain – Captain Sarah Aranson.”

  “Sarah! Sarah,” came from the bed.

  In a moment, the Israeli was on her knees, clutching the ensign’s hand. “You’re going to be all right, Brent.” She ran a hand over his forehead.

  “You’re okay?”

  “Yes, Brent.”

  “We were dumb. Walked right into it.”

  She nodded. “Yes – true.”

  “The Sabbah?”

  “Eliminated,” Matsuhara said, smiling.

  Brent moved his eyes to Admiral Fujita. “In my inside pocket—”

  “I know… a code,” Fujita said, softly. And then to Sarah, “There are matters we should discuss. Commander Matsuhara will escort you to my cabin.” Followed by the hobbling Kawamoto, the old admiral left, walking with surprising agility.

  Sarah started to rise, but Brent clung to her hand. She leaned close to him. “We have a date in Tel Aviv.”

  “My social calendar is crowded, but I’ll try to wedge you in,” he said, smiling weakly.

  Matsuhara moved to the foot of the bed. “It’s time.”

  Sarah looked down at the strong face, the tired yet warm blue eyes. She whispered in his ear hurriedly. “I have a place – my own place in Tel Aviv. I’m going to lure you there – ravish your young, strong body.”

  He chuckled with delight. “I’ll fight you, you know. I’m not easy.”

  “Captain, it’s time,” Matsuhara snapped, impatiently.

  With a sigh, the Israeli stood. “Mazel tov, Yankee.”

  “So long, Israeli.”

  As she pulled her hand from his, turned and left, he watched —–stared with narrow eyes as she walked and finally vanished through the door. Then he stared at the door, never turning his head until sleep finally closed his heavy lids.

  *

  Following Commander Yoshi Matsuhara through interminable passageways and past scores of gawking crewmen, Captain Sarah Aranson saw little; mind filled with Ensign Brent Ross. The American was handsome and intelligent, and really witty and charming for someone so young. And he was so young; perhaps ten years younger than herself. She knew she attracted him; her slender figure and the sway of her trim hips under the tailored uniform invariably turned men’s heads. He was no different in that respect.

  But she had sensed something different in his eyes; or had fooled herself into thinking she saw something different – not just longing and hunger. He appreciated her for her presence and her intelligence. The fact that she had only known him for a few hours meant nothing. Israeli women learned early to compress months into minutes when dealing with their men. In fact, she had met and fallen in love with Captain Ari Weitzman in one afternoon. With death behind every boulder, lurking behind clouds, squatting on pads all around their tiny country, time was a luxury no Israeli could afford.

  That day Ari shot his Mirage into the sky, leading his flight north to Lebanon and the Bekaa Valley, Sarah had felt a familiar emptiness. Somehow, she knew he would die. Maybe not that day, but he would die. They were after the SAM missile sites, hunting the killer rockets that hunted them – grotesque, flaming poles twisting on radar's invisible fingers to turn and twist with the nimble fighters. Ari had not been nimble enough. He had even turned into the sun, trying the familiar maneuver that usually locked a rocket's terminal guidance system on solar glare and heat. But nothing worked. Nothing at all. Bits and pieces of fighter and pilot had been scattered over the Bekaa Valley. No body or piece of body worth wailing over. Just a memory; like so many others.

  Sarah had felt the same guilt all women feel when a lover is lost in battle. Should she have pleaded, begged on her knees, persuaded him to move to America? Should she have become pregnant? But she knew that nothing would have worked – nothing could have convinced him. The war had consumed him – all else came second.

  And now this young American attracted her fiercely. But war was still here, forcing her to walk away from Brent when every sense told her to rush back, hold him close. And she would probably never see him again. Not in this world. Their date in Tel Aviv was a fabrication, a sham to build a wounded man's morale; and they both knew it.

  Her reveries were jarred by Matsuhara's voice. “This way to the elevator,” he said, pointing to an alcove.

  Nodding, the Israeli followed the Japanese into the small car. Matsuhara spoke.

  “This is the third deck – shops, sick bay, mess halls, officers’ staterooms—”

  Despite her somber mood, Sarah chuckled. The man sounded like an elevator operator at Macy’s.

  After closing the door, he pushed some controls and the woman felt herself rising. “I’ve never been on a carrier before,” she said.

  The commander appeared pleased, betrayed his eagerness to talk. “We’ll pass the hangar deck next which is actually the main deck of Yonaga. In a sense, the flight deck is actually a platform built on top of it. All carriers are built this way.”

  Smiling to herself, the woman nodded. The man was obviously starved for conversation, moved on without encouragement. “We’ll pass the gallery deck which is exactly that – a gallery. It is a partial deck between the hangar deck and flight deck. Air crew ready rooms are located there.”

  “And then the flight deck.”

  “Yes,” he said, smiling. “We are probably passing it now.”

  “It’s as big as a kibbutz.”

  “What?”

  She smiled. “A small farm.”

  “A large farm, Captain.”

  The woman felt pleased. Matsuhara had honored her rank. She encouraged him. “Now we’re entering the island.”

  “Yes.” Macy’s elevator operator returned. “Navigation, bridge, flag country, fire control, air operations—”

  “The heart and brain of the ship”

  “You are very perceptive for a… a, for a— ”

  “For a woman; isn’t that right, Commander Matsuhara?”

  The man was as flustered as a teenage boy. Finally managed, “Perhaps, Captain.”

  Stabbing a finger downward, she returned to his favorite topic. “Down there, below the second deck.”

  He smiled. “Yonaga has five decks. Storerooms, ammunition and sixteen Kanpon boilers, geared turbines in four engine rooms. All of these vitals are protected by an eight inch armored box. And the rudder weighs forty-five tons, the bower anchor fourteen—”

  The elevator jarred to a halt. He led her into a large circular room. A half-dozen ratings snapped to attention, stared at the woman with familiar incredulity. “The number one bridge,” he said, waving. And then gesturing and moving aft, “Chart house and back there,” he pointed, “Combat Intelligence.”

  Through the chart house, Sarah could see a large room with a huge table centered, radios and communications equipment lining the walls. And the familiar glow of radar – two green scopes with blips pulsing and fading as beams swept their usual circular patterns. Perhaps a dozen men manned the equipment. Turning, as one, they stared at the woman. Four were American enlisted men.

  Ignoring the stares, the Israeli said, “You man your radar here, in the yards. It’s a hopeless clutter.”

  “Not our airsearch. It’s the latest American equipment.” He waved a hand. “And those men are training our crew.”

  “But no computers.”

  “The Americans insist on them. You, too?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes. Your enemies will have them.”

  He nodded silently, turned toward a door. Walking behind the commander, the woman felt every inch of her body probed by dozens of hungry eyes.

  *

  When Captain Sarah Aranson entered Admired Fujita’s cabin, she found him seated behind his desk like a weathered marble deity. Quickly, he introduced her to his secretary, Commander Kenji Hironaka who staggered out of his chair to answer her salute with his own, raising a bent and twisted hand. Acknowledging Admired Fujita’s gesture, the Israeli intelligence officer seated herself with Commander Kawamoto to her r
ight while Commander Yoshi Matsuhara found a seat to her left. And Wayne Miller was there, seated next to Admiral Mark Allen. Both Americans had their backs to a bulkhead hung with a huge equestrian picture of a youthful Emperor Hirohito.

  “Good to see you, Wayne,” she exclaimed, leaning toward the CIA man and extending a hand.

  “I hear you met Sabbah,” he said, rising for a moment.

  “Yes. In an alley, but Brent Ross is all right.” And then puzzled, “Are you assigned here?”

  The American’s answer was edged with bitterness. “Frank and I are ‘guests’! He’s in our cabin.” And then to Admiral Fujita, “You’ll hear from the American Ambassador.”

  “I already have,” Fujita said. “And I will release you at my discretion.” The admiral hunched forward, eyes boring into the CIA man. “You wish to see Yonaga serve the purposes of your country?”

  “That’s putting it harshly.”

  “But true, Mister Miller.”

  “Yes.”

  The eyes moved to the woman. “And you would have Yonaga serve your country.”

  “We would serve each other, Admiral.”

  “But Yonaga can survive without Israel. Can Israel survive without Yonaga?”

  “It would be difficult, but Jews are survivors.”

  Fujita appeared pleased by the answer. “We have your code. Admiral Allen and Brent Ross will assist.”

  “A computer is mandatory, Admiral,” Sarah said flatly. Allen and Miller nodded agreement.

  “Why?”

  “Because ‘Green One’ is geared to computers,” the Israeli answered.

  Admiral Mark Allen spoke. “True, prior to this liaison with the Israelis, before the necessity to decode, you could operate without them. Your fire control is short range, basically visual, over open sights. But you can’t handle codes and ciphers without computers.”

  The old Japanese admiral kept his eyes on the woman. “Please explain these wondrous machines that have captivated you. Why are they so smart?”

  Sarah tapped her armrest. “Actually, they are quite stupid; always operate in a binary system but with great speed.”

  “Will their tubes burn out?”

  Sarah suppressed a chuckle. “No, Admiral. The basic components of computers are silicon chips called semiconductors. These chips are no larger than your fingernail.” Sarah caught her breath, wondering if a centenarian had any fingernails. She pressed on. “One chip can be packed with hundreds of thousands of electronic circuits.”

 

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