by Peter Albano
“Kapitan Werner Schlieben.”
“Captain?” the old doctor said, incredulously. “You ordered the attack?”
“No! Of course not, Herr Doktor. Those crazy Sabbah did. They took over the ship – twelve of them.”
“You were fortunate.”
“I was on the starboard wing of the bridge. One of your first shells blew me over the side.” He groaned, “In’sein! In’sein!”
Horikoshi turned to Torisu. “Phone the admiral. Tell him the old white-haired one can talk.”
“Aye, aye, Doctor.” The man hobbled toward the end of the room and a small glass enclosed office.
“Herr Doktor,” the German cried. “You call Admiral Fujita!"
“Yes.”
“He is a monster.”
“You shall see.”
There was a long silence. The wounded man spoke again. “You have other prisoners, Herr Doktor?"
“Yes. Two."
“Who are they? Where are they? Are they injured?"
“One is Mana Zaki Alaqi and the other is Yousef Ibrahim. I treated them both for shock and purged them of oil they had swallowed. Both are in the ship’s brig.”
“A miracle," the German said. “A miracle anyone could survive." The voice became hard. “They are Sabbah – both of them."
“You are innocent," the doctor scoffed.
“Of course. I follow my orders but not to suicide like those schwein Sabbah.”
“You had a thousand tons of nitrate aboard, and you knew it, Kapitan," Brent said suddenly.
“Who are you?"
“Ensign Brent Ross and don’t try to tell me you weren’t aware of your own cargo."
“It was fertilizer, Yankee scheisser.”
“Don’t ‘Yankee shit’ me, du altes arschloch."
Stunned, the German’s eyes widened. “You called me an ‘old ass—’”
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen,” the doctor said. “No fist fights until you are able to stand… please.” Two orderlies entered carrying aluminum trays. “Ah,” the doctor said. “Your breakfast is here.”
Quickly, Brent and Schlieben were propped up. The German raised a cover. “Gott in himmel – raw fish, rice and pickles.”
The doctor raised the German’s other cover. “Steak, eggs, milk, coffee. Both of you have two breakfasts. Now eat – you will feel like new men.” He smiled wryly. “Then, when you are healthy enough, you can kill each other.”
Brent and the German ate silently.
*
After finishing both breakfasts, Brent felt strength flow back into his arms and legs. But there were new worries. He heard the doctor and orderlies talking about a Libyan trawler that had put in for fuel the day before. Heavily burdened with radar, she had steamed into port slowly while Yonaga’s CAP circled her. And search parties had not found a trace of Commander Fujimoto. Then Brent realized he had lost a day. Apparently, he had slept for over twenty-four hours.
A hum interrupted his thoughts. All eyes moved to a bulkhead-mounted speaker as Admiral Fujita’s voice filled the compartment. “Men of Yonaga, this is Admiral Fujita. Our search parties have not found Commander Mineichi Fujimoto. We will continue to search, assisted by the police. While he is missing, Lieutenant J. G. Nobu Yonai will be in charge of the communications department.”
“This vessel will leave dry dock this afternoon at fifteen hundred hours and will sail for the Mediterranean the day after tomorrow at eleven hundred hours.” There was the expected rumble of thousands of feet and choruses of “Banzai.” Brent looked at the German who stared back, eyes shifting uneasily.
The voice continued. “As you know, we will rendezvous with eleven escorts. We will develop communications, anti-submarine, anti-aircraft, screening and station-keeping procedures enroute. As seamen, you know this will be a difficult assignment, indeed. But we have no time. We know Moammar Kadafi has executed the Japanese ambassador, has captured the Mayeda Maru and holds her one thousand ten passengers and crew of six hundred twenty-two hostage in Tripoli, demanding five billion American dollars in tribute. We know this. The emperor knows it and the world knows it. The philosopher Wang Yang-ming said, To know and not to act is not to know’.” There was a long pause. And then Fujita’s voice boomed, “Yonaga knows!”
More thunder and cheers and the German looked bewildered, muttering, “Gott! Gott!” Concentrating on the speaker, Brent ignored him.
“Battleship Mikasa will proceed to the Mediterranean. The orders have been cut, and work has already begun to restore her. Her engines have been run, and her main battery has been superbly maintained. She may be under way within a week. If she cannot steam under her own power, she will be towed.
“As you know, Yonaga has been declared a national monument and is now listed in the National Register of Historic Places. As a Historic Place, she has become an official depository of relics of the Greater East Asia War. Museums and private collections have been searched, and today we will load twenty-one Zero-sens, twelve Aichis, and seventeen Nakajimas. None of these aircraft fly, but they all use the same Sakae engine; and we have the spare engines to pull them into the sky and the pilots to fly them. All told, Yonaga has one hundred forty-six avenging eagles.” Again, cheers and “Banzais” interrupted.
“A six-man Japanese negotiating team left for Tripoli yesterday. They will attempt to delay and confuse Kadafi. Also, news reports have been released, describing Yonaga as a rusted, worn-out hulk. We hope to throw the Arabs off the scent. But, remember, it is very difficult to keep secrets in this world and almost impossible to move a twelve ship task group half-way around this world without detection. But the emperor has ordered it, and we will do it.”
The voice paused, but the humming continued. All ears were cocked expectantly. They were not disappointed. “Remember the pledge of the samurai, ‘For the sake of the emperor, I shall not die in bed.’”
More cheers and “Banzais”. Then the humming stopped. Warily, the German looked at the American ensign. “You’re one of them, aren’t you Amerikaner!”
Brent stared into the cold blue eyes. “As far as you’re concerned, Kapitan… ja!”
“Up, gentlemen… up!” Horikoshi shouted from the other end of the compartment.
The German groaned. “Nein! Nein! Too soon, Herr Doktor!”
“Nonsense! Up!”
In a moment, the German’s guard and an orderly pulled Schlieben to his feet, white gown dragging the floor.
“All right! All right!” Brent said as another orderly approached.
In a moment, both patients were hobbling slowly up and down the aisle, orderlies hovering and supporting, hands to their patients’ elbows. After an initial lightheadedness, Brent found surprising strength in his legs. And his wounds ached but the searing raw flame of pain was gone. He shrugged off the orderly.
Schlieben saw the American’s victory, claimed his own by swinging his arms. Soon, the two white-gowned men hobbled slowly up and down the aisle, unassisted, glaring when they passed each other.
“Splendid! Splendid!” Chief Orderly Eiichi Horikoshi mocked. “Soon you will be well enough to kill. That is the primary function of this sick bay. Suture, splint, replace blood, put them back behind their guns. Yes, indeed. Then we get a new crop and do it all again.” There was no humor in his laugh.
In a few minutes, both patients tired and willingly allowed orderlies to help them to their beds. Ignoring the German, Brent lay back and closed his eyes. Sarah returned. He saw her face, the warm brown eyes. And her arms were around his neck, warmth melting the cold of that night so long ago. Tel Aviv! Tel Aviv! They would meet someday. They had to. He kept his eyes tightly closed, knowing even the most minute crack of light would drive her away. And she lingered, holding him as they drifted off together back into the dark room. But the men were there. He heard their voices. Tried to open his eyes, but failed. Felt fear. Grabbed the bottle and was fighting again. “I’ll cut off your balls!”
“You’ll cut off what?” F
ujita said.
Eyes wide, Brent returned to the sick bay. Shocked, he found Admiral Fujita, Lieutenant Hironaka and Colonel Irving Bernstein standing at the foot of his bed.
“I was having a dream, Admiral”
“Obviously,” the admiral chuckled. And then nodding to the colonel, “You know Colonel Irving Bernstein of Israeli Intelligence. I just met him at the gangway.”
“Jude! Jude!” came from the German who sat propped in his bed. “Jude schwein!”
Shocked, Brent came to wakefulness, wondering about the German captain’s recklessness. He would challenge anyone. Maybe the man anticipated death, found doom in the eyes of the samurai, masking fear with bravado.
Bernstein moved to the German’s bed, rolled up the khaki on his right arm.
“Danke, Kapitan,” Bernstein said, scornfully. “Meet one who got away.”
The German sputtered. “Someday, we will finish the job… Schweinhund. Drive you Zionists into the sea; finish with machine guns what we started with Zyklon B.”
Brent could not believe the hatred on the man’s face. He was out of control.
“Enough, Captain,” Fujita snapped. “Control yourself or I will throw you in the brig with your two Arabs!”
“They are not my Arabs. They are Sabbath!”
“Yes. I know you claim a mutiny – claim Sabbah took over Zilah.”
“It is true, Admiral. We Germans are many things, but we are not suicidal fools.”
Fujita nodded. “Zilah is on the bottom.”
“They will never stop attacking you now, Admiral.”
“Let them come; they can only die.” Fujita fingered his chin. “You know of a Libyan trawler… a so-called spy ship.”
“Kadafi has one, the Al Kufra. She’s an old Russian,” the German answered.
“Radar?”
“I do not know!”
“Armament?”
“I do not know.”
It was obvious the man was lying. “Captain,” Fujita said, harshly. “There are methods of interrogation that would open the mouth of a stone Buddha. Do not tempt me!”
Hironaka laughed a wild little laugh and then wiped spittle off his chin with a sleeve.
Brent saw bravado melt replaced by fear flickering in the German’s blue eyes. But before he could reply, Bernstein spoke. “Admiral, I haven’t had time to discuss this with you, but the Al Kufra is an old Russian intelligence vessel – an AGI.”
Fujita spoke slowly. “I have heard of these ships, Colonel. What do you know of them – the so-called AGI?”
Hearing soft footsteps, Brent turned his head, finding Horikoshi and Torisu crowding close, ears cocked curiously. Fujita ignored them, concentrating on the Israeli.
“We know the Al Kufra well,” Bernstein answered. “She steams up and down our coast monitoring broadcasts and attempting to track our aircraft with her long-range airsearch.”
“Efficient, Colonel?”
“Ha! The Russians are a bunch of clods, but Al Kufra is manned by Libyans.”
“This is bad?”
“Bad! They’re a herd of goats. They always have breakdowns and half of their equipment doesn’t work, and they know little about repairing it, anyway.”
“But she is still a threat!”
“She could find Yonaga at eighty kilometers, if that’s what you mean?”
Fujita sighed. “Are there more of these spy ships?”
“Unfortunately, yes. The Russians have commissioned fifty-two, according to our sources and information provided by the CIA – you know we work together.”
“I would assume so.” Fujita fingered his chin thoughtfully. “And the Russians will be spying for Kadafi.”
“True, Sir. You may encounter rusty little converted trawlers like Al Kufra or large specially designed intelligence factories manned by Russian naval personnel. The latest are the Primorye class and Balzam class of four and five thousand tons.”
“You said ‘intelligence factories’.”
“Yes, Admiral. Besides sea and airsearch radar and electronics listening equipment, these ships are designed to operate with their ELINT surveillance satellites.”
“Sacred Buddha!”
“You’d be shocked, Admiral. It’s a highly sophisticated concept. Before the Chinese lasers went into orbit, the ELINTs locked on to electronic signals from Western warships, fed the informations to the AGIs; and then the AGIs relayed the data to Soviet warships and shore stations. In other words, this system provided a continuous update of targeting information.”
Fujita chuckled. “But no more – thanks to our inscrutable Chinese friends.”
Hironaka giggled. Wiped his chin.
“True, Admiral. But the radar capability is still there. Al Kufra has what we have designated as ‘Big Net,’ ‘Top Steer,’ and ‘Pop Group’ radar systems. All are well designed systems.”
“But, Colonel,” Fujita noted. “A machine can only be as efficient as the operator who mans it.”
“True. And an uneducated Berber goatherder does not make a good technician.”
Awed, Werner Schlieben came to life. “You knew about the ELINTs?”
Bernstein’s voice was bitter. “Ha! During our nineteen seventy-three war with the Arabs, the Russians orbited four satellites and kept us under constant surveillance – cost us casualties.”
Fujita broke in. “Speed and armament of Al Kujra?”
“Slow, perhaps a flank speed of sixteen knots. She has one thirty-millimeter, six-barrel, Gatling amidships.”
“Range?”
“Perhaps fifteen hundred meters.”
Fujita spoke thoughtfully. “Can we expect a picket line of these vessels?”
“Probably not. They normally keep station off Holy Loch, Scotland; Guam; the Southeastern coast of the United States; Charleston, South Carolina; Florida; and Rota, Spain.” The Israeli tugged at his beard. “Don’t forget, Admiral. Their top priority is monitoring the Americans and, according to a report I received this morning, the Russians are still maintaining the same patrols.”
“Good! Good!” A sly look came into the admiral’s eyes. “Colonel, you said the ELINTs ‘locked on’ to electronic signals.”
“True.”
“Can Yonaga be equipped with such a device – a device that will lock on to enemy radar?”
Brent saw a look of surprise cross the Israeli’s face. “You’re ahead of me, Admiral. I was about to suggest ‘electronic countermeasures’ or an ECM.”
Fujita smiled as broadly as his wrinkles would allow. “When can this ECM be installed?”
“This afternoon, sir. A simple installation. But well need the highest point of the vessel for the antenna.”
“The masthead is yours.” And then thoughtfully, “Range.”
“It will outrange any radar, simply because it only reads incoming signals while radar scans its own ‘bounce.’”
Staring at Bernstein, the German came to life abruptly. “You’re from the Ruhr!”
“Yes, Essen,” Bernstein acknowledged. “And you are too – you have the accent.”
“Dusseldorf.”
“Just think. We were practically neighbors.”
“I didn’t live in a ghetto, Jude!” Bernstein’s voice was calm, like a man ordering a sandwich. “How many women and children did you kill, Kapitan?”
“Not enough!”
All eyes moved to the Israeli and the German. Brent wondered about Fujita’s silence. The man had the look of a scientist studying specimens through a microscope. Here before them were two men representing the greatest tragedy of the twentieth century. And Fujita would let them relive it, play it out and gain his own insights into the horror. Or did the samurai find a macabre kind of humor here? Obviously, Bernstein and Schlieben were in the past, tangled in their own webs of hatred. They had found their forty-seven ronin.
Bernstein continued as if only he and Schlieben were in the room. “You are proud of your part, Kapitan?”
“Waffe
n SS. I was attached to the Panzer Lehr Division.”
“‘Special actions?”
“Yes. In Warsaw, Kiev, Smolensk, Lithuania, Estonia—”
“Not just Jews, then.”
“Of course not. Slavs, Gypsies—”
“How many subhumans did you kill?”
The German shrugged. “One doesn’t count dead flies when he sprays his kitchen. We had them dig their pits, shot them off the edge.”
“Much slower than Zyklon B.”
“Oh, yes. We worked under most trying conditions.”
The Israeli nodded sympathetically. “It must have been exhausting.”
“And you, Oberst Bernstein?”
Brent was shocked. The German had acknowledged the Israeli’s rank. He was beginning to act like a man at a reunion. The concussion must have scrambled his brain. And the Israeli was as calm as the sea in the doldrums. Perhaps, he, too, was deriving some kind of twisted pleasure from the conversation. Could it be, as a survivor, he had never interviewed an exterminator? He was certainly calm – calm beyond belief. And Fujita continued to stare with narrow lids, absorbing everything.
Bernstein’s voice broke through Brent’s thoughts. “My father, mother, young brother and I were arrested in nineteen forty-three. We were sent to Auschwitz.”
“Ah, yes. Our most efficient operation, Oberst.”
“Yes, Kapitan. My mother and father were thumbed to the gas chambers while my brother was sent to the officers to be used as a woman.” The first edge of bitterness crept into the pedestrian tones. “My father wore his decorations – he had been wounded at Verdun, a true hero of the Vaterland. I never saw any of them again.”
“You survived two years in Auschwitz?”
“Yes. I was strong. Made a fine laborer for the Reich. I was liberated in nineteen forty-five. Made my way to Israel.” The Israeli tugged on his beard meditatively. “Perhaps, with Admiral Fujita’s permission, you could be my guest in Tel Aviv. I have a number of friends who would enjoy meeting you.”
Wide-eyed, the German shook his head, spoke slowly like an awakening dreamer. “Nein! Nein! You will not—”
“Please, gentlemen,” Fujita interrupted. “There is much to do if this vessel is to get under way in forty-eight hours.” He turned to Brent Ross. “If you are well enough, be on the bridge tomorrow morning at ten hundred hours. The Libyan is scheduled to make her sortie. I can use your good eyes.”