Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  Fujita read the curious faces, pointed. “A shrine made of paulownia wood. It contains good-luck charms and mementos from the Yasakuni Shrine.” He turned to the chart. “We will maintain a course of one-seven-zero until we are five hundred kilometers from Tokyo.” He exchanged a glance with Bernstein. “Then, we will send our SOS.”

  There was the sound of excited voices. Brent looked at Mark Allen who stared back blankly and shrugged, saying softly, “I don’t know a damn thing, Brent.”

  Stabbing a pointer at the map, Fujita continued. “At latitude thirty-one degrees north, longitude one hundred forty-seven degrees, ten minutes west, we will dump debris and two bodies.”

  Brent came erect. Two bodies; refrigerated.

  “Admiral,” Mark Allen said. “You really believe we can convince the world Yonaga has foundered?”

  Fujita nodded at Bernstein. “Destroyed or foundered, Admiral,” Bernstein said.

  “It won’t work, Colonel.”

  “I know, Admiral. But Wayne Miller and Frank Dempster have already prepared news releases, and the news media of the free world will carry their stories.”

  Allen pressed on. “Search parties?”

  “They will conveniently search far to the west of us and after they find the wreckage, the search will be abandoned, anyway.”

  “It won’t work,” Mark Allen repeated flatly.

  Bernstein drummed the desk. “Perhaps. But it will put them off the scent, we hope, for a few days or, perhaps, weeks.”

  “The bodies?” Brent said. “You’ll use the Arabs – correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “They don’t look like Japanese.”

  Fujita smiled at Brent Ross. “True, Ensign. But remember, the sea will take care of that. It makes all corpses equal.” He returned to the chart, stabbed with the pointer. “We will rendezvous with our escorts east of the Mariana Islands at eighteen degrees, twenty minutes north, one hundred fifty-nine degrees west. Then we will steam southeasterly – avoiding main shipping routes – passing north of the Marshall Islands and Palmyra Atoll and south of Johnston and the Hawaiian Islands to a point here!” He stabbed the rubber tip on the chart at a point midway between the Galapagos Islands and Palmyra.

  “Fuel?” Mark Allen said. “You’ve already steamed four thousand miles.”

  Fujita nodded. “In a moment, Admiral Allen.” He returned to the chart. “Then we will steam almost directly south skirting Cape Horn, keeping out of radar range. Then we will turn northeast into the South Atlantic splitting the ocean midway between South America and Africa.” The pointer moved up the chart. “Just south of the Azores, we will come to an easterly heading and pass through the Straits of Gibral-ter.”

  “Just like that,” Mark Allen said. “Steam right in and no one will notice.”

  Fujita nodded to Bernstein. “She will be disguised as an American carrier,” the Israeli said. “Yonaga and her escorts will fly American colors.”

  “Which carrier?” Allen sputtered. “You just can’t—”

  “The arrangements have been made,” the Israeli interrupted, smiling. “Your navy has already cut orders for the assignment of the USS Tarawa to the Sixth Fleet. Miller promised they’d be on the air with it today. The Russians will decode within two hours, and Kadafi will have the information within twenty-four hours.”

  “But the Tarawa is an LHA,” Brent said, “an amphibious assault ship. It carries no fixed-wing aircraft.”

  “All true,” Bernstein agreed. “But she has a rectangular flight deck and is being converted to carry twenty-four fixed-wing aircraft.”

  “She’s not that similar,” Mark Allen said. “And she must be a couple hundred feet shorter than Yonaga.” He threw up his hands. “And even in the southeast Pacific and south Atlantic, Yonaga’s bound to be spotted by steamers long before she reachs the ‘Med.’”

  “He’s right! It won’t work,” Brent said, shaking his head.

  “What do you suggest, Ensign Ross?”

  “Two-block the Japanese ensign, steam right in and kick the shit out of them!”

  “Spoken like a samurai,” Admiral Fujita said smiling. “But we will give it a chance. The CIA and Israeli Intelligence have done much planning.” He thumped the pointer on the desk. “We have the finest radar on earth, and we might be lucky and avoid detection. And there is nothing to lose. We know the hostages will probably die no matter what we do. But remember, we have a chance and you,” he nodded at Bernstein, “claim Yonaga’s presence will help stabilize the whole Middle East.”

  “True,” Bernstein said.

  Fujita turned to Mark Allen. “You were concerned about fuel!”

  “Yes.”

  The old admiral gestured at Bernstein. “The Israeli government has bought two fleet tankers from the United States Navy. We will be refueled at sea twice.” He turned to the chart, stabbed once in the southeast Pacific and again in the Atlantic, south of the Azores.

  Mark Allen sighed. “You’ve been busy, Colonel Bernstein.”

  The Israeli grinned. “Thank you, Admiral.”

  Fujita turned to Matsuhara. “Commander, you have instructed your search aircraft to maintain a ceiling of one hundred meters or less”

  “Yes, Sir. It limits our parameters but we will stay below Al Kufra’s radar.”

  “Al Kufra,” Mark Allen said. “She’s disappeared – it’s a big ocean.”

  Fujita thumped the pointer on the deck. “True, but we have something to settle with her and, if necessary, will do it in Tripoli Harbor.” He turned back to Matsuhara. “Anything yet?”

  “A half-dozen merchantmen and two tankers. Usual traffic in and out of Tokyo Bay.”

  Fujita dropped the pointer clattering to the deck and brought up both hands in a prayerful position. Turning to the shrine, he slapped his hands sharply three times, muttering, “Amaterasu – make our eyes as plentiful as your light.” Every Japanese stood, turned to the paulownia shrine and clapped his hands.

  Puzzled, Bernstein turned to Mark Allen. The American admiral whispered, “They’re attracting the attention of the sun god.”

  The phone rang. “The god has our number,” Bernstein whispered back to the American. Brent and Mark chuckled.

  The flight leader answered. After speaking briefly, he turned to the admiral. “Perhaps we were heard, sir. Scout number four has sighted a small trawler three hundred kilometers to the east.”

  “Course and speed?”

  “Zero-nine-zero, Admiral; Speed approximately ten knots.”

  “Very well,” Fujita said, suddenly animated by the scent of battle. And Brent noticed a new glint in the old sailor’s eyes. They were hard, cold, angry – not the eyes of an old man. There was power there; stubbornness and flinty resolve. The old admiral dampened his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Take twelve Zero-zens carrying two one-hundred-twenty kilogram bombs. Attack from ail points of the compass but from no higher than one hundred meters.”

  “No Aichis or Nakajimas?”

  “No, Yoshi-san. She cannot draw much water, is small, and a difficult torpedo problem. And the Aichis would have to climb too high – into airsearch radar – to make their dives. No, the best weapon for this problem is the fighter-bomber. And, Yoshi-san, hit her aft – fast. All her electronics equipment is there.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. I will brief my section leaders.”

  “Wait!” Allen shouted. “You aren’t sure. You may sink a stranger – kill innocent men.”

  Fujita eyed the American coldly. “We have an ECM. We will close on her and wait until we pick up her signals.” He moved his eyes to Bernstein. “Can you tell from these signals if we have Al Kufra?”

  Both the Israeli intelligence officer and the American admiral nodded. “It’s a good indication,” Bernstein said.

  “Very well.” He turned to Matsuhara. “I will order each Zero-sen armed with one hundred twenty kilogram bombs. You are dismissed.” He turned to Kawamoto. “Bring the ship to zero-nine-zero and in
crease speed to twenty-four knots.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Fujita smiled. “Gentlemen, this meeting is closed.”

  *

  Standing on a dais in Briefing Room Three before a chart of the western Pacific, Yoshi Matsuhara moved his eyes over the expectant faces of the eleven seated pilots assigned to the strike against Al Kufra. All were dressed to match the flight leader: brown flight suits, fur-lined helmets with earflaps up and circled with hachimachi headbands, rising sun patches on the left shoulder and ranking patch on the right. Gloves, parachutes and oxygen masks were piled at their feet, and each held a clipboard securing a chart prepared by Captain Kawamoto’s staff detailing navigation points to and from the expected target area.

  Talking softly, the flight leader turned to a yeoman. Soon, Al Kufra was scrawled across the blackboard. There was a cheer.

  While gripping his sword hilt with one hand, Yoshi made a downward gesture with the other, silencing the pilots.

  “We have reason to believe,” he began in a booming voice, “Al Kufra has been sighted by one of our scouts. We are steaming now at twenty-four knots on a course of zero-nine-zero to a launch point here.” He stabbed a pointer at the chart. “Longitude one hundred forty-six degrees west, latitude twenty-nine degrees, ten minutes north. The trawler is one hundred fifty kilometers due east of that point.” Glancing at the blackboard where the yeoman copied the position, the men scrawled on their boards like eager schoolboys.

  “In a few minutes, the carrier will come to zero-four-five, and we will launch. The wind is still northeasterly, gusting to twelve knots. There are a few high cirrus clouds but visibility is excellent – good flying conditions. For your point option data, the carrier will come to zero-nine-five and steam at sixteen knots until this strike is recovered.”

  The yeoman unrolled a small flag, held it high. Pointing, Matsuhara continued. “This is the Libyan flag. Make certain it flies from the trawler’s gaff before attacking. Anyway, you will follow my lead. Watch me!” The yeoman draped the flag over a chair.

  There was a hissing sound as the commander bared his killing blade. Pointing his sword at the pilots, Matsuhara said, grimly, “Observe flight discipline. You are the best.” He thumped the point on the deck. “The Libyans degraded Commander Mineichi Fujimoto by killing him like an animal – making carrion of him, destroyed his karma.” There was an angry rumble. “And ECM reports powerful incoming signals – powerful signals that indicate an intelligence vessel. We believe she is trying to track us!” More angry voices.

  With a quick motion, the sword was returned to its scabbard. “Each of you has two one-hundred-twenty kilogram bombs. Hit her aft – her bridge and all of her communications equipment is clustered aft” Impatiently, he paused while his pilots wrote. “She has a single anti-aircraft mount abaft her funnel. The Americans and the Israeli call it a Gatling. It is a thirty millimeter with six barrels and a rate of fire of three thousand rounds a minute.” Eleven faces looked up in surprise. “Yes! I said three thousand rounds a minute. It has a range of about fifteen hundred meters.”

  “You flight leaders,” swords clattering, three officers came to their feet rigidly, “Lieutenant Kurokawa will follow me. We will take off first and circle south and to the east of the target at two hundred knots, altitude one hundred meters. We will attack on a course of two-seven-zero and climb to an altitude of a thousand meters after our runs.”

  Matsuhara moved his eyes to a slight white-haired officer. “Do you understand, Lieutenant Kurokawa?”

  “Yes, sir!” came back in a thin, high voice. Kurokawa repeated the orders and seated himself.

  “And you, Commander Ariga. You will take off forty minutes after Lieutenant Kurokawa and lead your section and Lieutenant Koshiki’s section to the target on a heading of zero-nine-zero, speed of advance one hundred fifty knots, altitude one hundred meters. After the target is destroyed, exit at an altitude of one hundred meters.” The brown eyes moved from one officer to the other. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Ariga repeated the orders and the officers seated themselves.

  “This way we will put her on an anvil and not kill each other.” Again, the sword hissed into the commander’s hand. The point moved from one pilot to another. “Stay with your wingmen! Observe flight discipline! Follow my lead and Commander Ariga’s lead. Radio silence until my first transmission!” And, then striking the sword point against the deck to emphasize each word, “I will personally shoot down any ronin who disobeys these orders.” He gestured to the blackboard which the yeoman covered with numbers and ideograms.

  “Another thing,” Matsuhara said, sheathing his sword. “If you are hit, use your parachutes. I know you are anxious to enter the Yasakuni Shrine, but the emperor needs every pilot.” He waved a hand. “This is all that is left of the Imperial Navy. If the hostages are to be rescued from that animal Kadafi, you will do it. Be frugal with your lives and remember, before this is over, we may all enter the Yasakuni Shrine together!”

  Coming to their feet as one man, the pilots chorused, “Tenno heika banzai!” over and over.

  Standing with a hand on his hilt, Yoshi Matsuhara moved his eyes slowly over his men. “The best,” he said to himself. “The very best!”

  *

  Seated in his cockpit, Matsuhara opened the Sakae’s throttle, checked his instruments: rpms thirty seven hundred; manifold pressure eighty centimeters of mercury; oil temperature forty degrees. Grunting with frustration, he throttled back to idle, cursing the cold oil. Knowing he had at least a four-minute delay, he turned to the bridge where he found Admiral Fujita, Colonel Bernstein, and Ensign Brent Ross staring down. He felt the usual surge of hatred, but now it was tempered with respect. The young American was tough – tough like a tiger. He had fought like a samurai, gained his vengeance against the Sabbah. And he had been merciless. But they had something to settle. His family was dead – burned like trash.

  And Colonel Bernstein and the German captain. What exquisite hatred. He had never seen such venom between men. The reports must be true. The Germans had murdered six million Jews in murder factories. A samurai was trained to kill, but the organized, mechanical massacre of helpless millions brought no glory to anyone. Degraded both killed and killers. The German should die and, strangely, he hoped to see Bernstein dispatch him.

  And the Israeli woman. She had been fiercely attractive. The few moments they were alone in the elevator had sent his blood pounding, brought heat to his groin. It had been a lifetime since he had had a woman. The Israeli had such a rounded figure, small waist, firm breasts. He wanted to touch her there. Western women had such huge breasts, big buttocks. He sighed. Tried to clear the hot thoughts from his mind. Wished he had never seen Sarah Aranson. Admiral Fujita was right. Women should never be allowed on a fighting ship.

  He hoped the trawler was Al Kufra. He would find his satisfaction by killing Libyans. Instead of finding the hot, dewy center of Sarah Aranson, he would sew the Pacific with corpses. Then, when it was over, he would feel spent – satisfied. He always had. It was better than a woman.

  He glanced at his instruments. Oil temperature fifty degrees. He checked his brakes again. Locked. He gave a thumb up to his crew chief, felt the plane vibrate as tie downs were released and handlers raced to their catwalks. Only the men at the chocks and wing tips remained. Matsuhara moved his eyes to the yellow-clad flight director. Suddenly, the officer raised a single flag. Nodding, Matsuhara stabbed a finger straight up. With a jerk, the chocks were pulled and the last four handlers raced to the sides of the deck.

  The flag dropped. Holding his breath, Matsuhara pushed the throttle to the fire wall, saw the tachometer needle race to five thousand. He disliked taking off from this short runway with a full load of fuel and two one-hundred-twenty kilogram bombs. He would make the Sakae work.

  The needle approached the red line. He released his breath and his brakes. The little fighter leaped toward the bow, and Matsuhara felt himself pu
shed back hard against his seat. Now, the speed indicator raced past a hundred knots. He held the Zero on the deck a little longer than usual, watched the needle pass one hundred twenty knots, then pulled back on the stick. He felt the Zero lift; mush a little at first, but then climb sharply. Immediately, he pulled up on a lever and felt two thuds as the wheels retracted into their wells.

  With one quick motion, the canopy was closed and locked and the flight leader began a low counter-clockwise orbit. Looking down, he could see his wingmen Lieutenant Tetsu Takamura and NAP Hitoshi Kojima streaking down the deck while Kurokawa and his wingmen sat in their cockpits, revving their engines.

  In a moment, six Zeros raced to the southeast, skimming the water.

  *

  Looking down from one hundred meters, the sea was a vast, sparkling blue tatami mat, speckled with wind-driven white caps. And the sky was a lighter version of the mat; clouds, ripped by the wind, scurrying far overhead. Despite the dangers, Yoshi enjoyed low altitudes – reveled in the sensation of speed, the sea unrolling beneath his fuselage. The cavern of the sky swallowed everything – clouds, planes, birds – slowed time; made the world crawl by with maddening slowness. But down here, a man could live, feel the exhilaration of speed.

  He checked his compass heading – one-four-zero, hit the instrument with the heel of his hand. Glanced at the sun. Grunted, knowing the sun was where it should be.

  He glanced to the left and then to the right. His wingmen were there – they were always there and had been since China. Knowing his tail was covered, he concentrated on the east and northeast. Nothing yet and, glancing at his clipboard, knew there would be nothing for perhaps an hour or more.

  There was a temptation to relax. But he knew only a fool would let his senses dull. The sea was too close. A momentary lapse could send the entire flight crashing into the whitecaps. And at one hundred meters, a man could not trust his altimeter. “Keep one eye on the sea and the other on your tail,” had been his instructors impossible advice so long ago at Tsuchiura.