Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  He was not completely satisfied with his tactics. True, they would split the enemy’s attention, force him to make a choice with his Gatling. But with radio silence, he knew there was little chance his sections and Ariga’s would arrive over the target at precisely the same instant. He had done his best. Now, he would trust to luck, the skill of his pilots and the favor of the gods. On a day like this, they must be watching.

  *

  After a passage of nearly an hour, and sweeping in a wide arc from southeast to northeast, Commander Yoshi Matsuhara saw the white scar on the blue surface far to the west and north. A ship. But Ariga’s Zeros were nowhere to be seen.

  Kicking left rudder, he dropped even lower until his propeller actually kicked up spray. There was an umbrella of radar, and he would keep it over him. Then, circling north of the ship, he was able to see her port side clearly and the three red, white and blue bars of her flag streaming at her gaff. Rusty hull, superstructure aft, a jungle of antennas. It was Al Kufra. Were they asleep? Depending on their radar? It made no difference. He would attack.

  Kicking left rudder, he pulled back on the stick, gaining altitude to one hundred meters. He glanced at his speed indicator. One hundred fifty knots. He wanted full military speed but knew his bombing accuracy would suffer. Clenching his teeth, he brought the reticle of his gunsight to Al Kufra’s bridge. He was almost in range. Gently, he caressed the red button on the control stick with one hand and reached for the bomb-release lever with the other.

  Suddenly, smoking firebrands erupted from the Libyan’s stern and streamed past him. The gun crew was awake. He cursed. Punched the red button. The Zero bounced and vibrated as his cannons and machine guns stuttered, tracers streaming into the enemy’s bridge, exploding and bouncing crazily. And more tracers streamed from his left and right as Kojima and Takamura opened fire. His loyal wingmen; always tied to his elevators.

  He caught a sudden burst of flashes on the trawler’s bow. At least two more guns adding a torrent of tracers. Shocked, he stiffened, inadvertendy pulling up on his bomb release lever. Free of two hundred forty kilograms of bombs, the little fighter bounced skyward, sending tracers over the Libyan’s mast. Frantically, Yoshi pushed the stick forward, bringing the bridge back into the range finder’s circles.

  Suddenly, there was an extra presence on his left and right. His bombs. Sailing parallel to his cockpit. They must have hit the water and skipped. Horrified, Mat-suhara pulled back on the stick and the cylinders fell away. Then an invisible fist struck the Zero twice and hurled it even higher and faster.

  He pushed his left rudder pedal and pulled the stick even further back and to the left, banking sharply, counter-clockwise, leading his wingmen around for another pass. Killed by your own bouncing bombs, he thought. What a stupid way to die. The gods must be watching.

  Staring down, he saw Al Kufra with flames and greasy black smoke roiling from her superstructure and shattered funnel. And Lieutenant Kurakawa was making his run. But Al Kufra’s Gatling still fired, sending a torrent of tracers to meet the attackers. And the two bow-mounted machine guns, no one knew about, added their fire. Fascinated, Matsuhara watched as Kurakawa’s right hand wingman staggered and then climbed crazily, exploding in a great yellow ball and sending smoking fragments arcing into the sea in a hundred meter radius.

  Cursing, the flight leader punched the canopy and rotated his head to the west. The sky was empty. Where was Ariga?

  The Zero fluttered. Al Kufra wallowed as two more bombs hit her amidships. Her wake began to vanish. Giving the Zero more throttle, Matsuhara brought his section up on the vessel’s stern. Tracers raced to meet him. The Gatling still fired. He caught the gun crew on his cross-hairs. Pushed the button. His wingmen fired. Ripped by twenty millimeter shells, men leaped and tumbled like slaughtered game. The tracer storm stopped. Then Yoshi caught six specks on the horizon, low on the water.

  Suddenly, Ariga was there leading his six Zeros in an attack on the Libyan’s starboard side. Although her bow guns still fired, the burning ship was dead in the water and had no chance. Four more bombs hit, hurling burning debris in a huge circle. Heeling hard to starboard, she hemorrhaged burning oil, finally turning the red-lead of her bottom skyward. Throttling back, Matsuhara led ten Zeros around the dead ship in a great circle like vultures over carrion. Three rafts containing a dozen furiously paddling men moved away from the grave.

  Pulling the microphone to his mouth, Yoshi spat, “Remember Commander Mineichi Fujimoto! There will be no survivors!” A chorus of “Banzais” crackled in his earphones. “Follow me!”

  He kicked right rudder and pushed the stick forward bringing the nose down. He throttled back. This would be a leisurely run.

  Roped together, the rafts bobbed in the chop in a ragged column. White faces stared upward. Grinning, the commander felt his lips hard against his teeth. He pulled back gently on the stick, bringing the first raft to the center of his range finder. He pressed the red button. Splashes leaped from the sea all around the first raft. And men and pieces of men were flung high in columns of water and debris. Matsuhara felt a sudden warm feeling deep inside. This was better than Sarah Aranson. Pulling back on his stick gently, he saw the splashes march through the next two rafts smashing men and rafts, staining the sea. He circled to the left, frustrated because he knew there would be no more targets after the last Zero made its pass. He struck his clipboard.

  But he was wrong. Circling slowly, he saw a single, tall bearded man pull himself from the sea which had suddenly calmed. Slowly, the man stood atop a shattered raft, turned his face to the sky and extended his arms.

  The ship had vanished and the sea was glass marred only by a pool of burning oil. Slowly, Yoshi brought the tall man into his gunsight. But he hesitated. Closed the range. The man’s eyes were closed and he turned slowly, facing east. There was a serene expectancy in the gesture. Yoshi punched the button. The man’s stomach exploded and he was hurled into the sea, trailing an umbilical of intestines.

  Just another corpse, the commander thought with satisfaction. Just another corpse.

  Chapter XIV

  “You picked up nothing, Admiral Allen?” Fujita asked.

  Mark Allen glanced at Brent Ross. The ensign read the cue. “We were guarding all emergency frequencies and Al Kufra used none.”

  “It’s possible she used some secret frequency,” Bernstein said.

  “But not probable,” Mark Allen suggested.

  “True.”

  Fujita appeared relaxed, moved his eyes to the fourth man seated in front of his desk. “You took her by surprise, Yoshi-san?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Survivors?”

  “None.” Then the flight leader described every detail of the attack, including the killing of the survivors.

  “We suffered casualties, Yoshi-san?”

  “Ensign Suetsugu, Admiral. He died with great Yamato damashii.”

  “Good. Good. He will await us in the Yasakuni Shrine.”

  “We could have taken prisoners, Admiral,” Mark Allen said suddenly.

  “Why? They’re animals,” Bernstein shot back. “You saw Fujimoto.”

  “Please! Gentlemen,” Fujita said. “I am the captain of this vessel, and I will decide those questions. Your argument is academic.” And then to Mark Allen, “Yonaga cannot waste time searching and, obviously, we cannot leave survivors in our wake.”

  “And now, Admiral, we proceed and rendezvous with our escorts.”

  “Correct, Admiral Allen.” The old Japanese tapped the oak. “Any more transmissions from search vessels?”

  “The usual, Sir. Apparently, two Self Defense Force frigates are squaring out from the point where we dropped the wreckage and the two Arabs.”

  “Good! Good!” Fujita said. And then quickly, “Gentlemen, you may return to your duties.”

  As the officers rose, there was a knock. Opening the door, Brent admitted Radioman Toyoyama who handed the Admiral a message. “We just copied this,
Admiral.”

  “Green One.”

  “No, Sir. News reports, sir.”

  After dismissing Toyoyama, Fujita scanned the document. His voice was grim. “Kadafi has garroted twenty hostages.” There were rumbles of rage. “And Arab aircraft are raiding an Israeli fighter base at a place called Hadera.”

  “Hadera?” Mark Allen said, turning to Colonel Bernstein.

  “It’s on the coast,” Bernstein said. “North of Tel Aviv. We’ve concentrated a hundred P-Fifty-Ones, a few Spitfires and other fighters there.”

  As Brent left the cabin, Bernstein turned and said softly, “Captain Aranson’s ship couldn't be there yet.”

  “Right,” Brent said. “Not enough time. She couldn’t possibly be there.”

  *

  Running across the concrete strip, Sarah Aranson glanced fearfully over her shoulder as a hundred flutes shrieked toward her. Then a great blast hurled her to the ground, purse and suitcase tumbling, spilling contents. The DC-6. She had just left it after a flight from Dakar and now it was flaming wreckage.

  She felt a strong hand on her arm. It was Sergeant David Levine. She had flown across Africa with the burly young sergeant. “Come on, Captain,” he said, stabbing a finger at the edge of the strip. “There are slit trenches there – we’re dead meat here.”

  Fearfully and unsteadily, she came to her feet. Saw the contents of her suitcase; flushed as her eyes fell on slips, brassieres, lace-trimmed panties. She had an impulse to grab them up; hide her embarrassment. Insane!

  “For God’s sake, Captain.”

  Shaking her head, she pushed on the sergeant’s chest. “The others?”

  “The others will take care of themselves.”

  But looking back toward the burning transport, she saw nothing but corpses and pieces of bodies. The big hand pulled her and she found herself running. Looking back, she saw her lingerie; expensive silks bought in Paris. She was leaving her womanhood there, on the filthy concrete. She sobbed. Wondered about her sanity. More concussions. She staggered. A great hand grabbed her throat, choked off her breath. Her legs were rubber. But the big sergeant pulled her along.

  Then the concrete was gone. She felt loose dirt and then she was pulled down into a trench. Short and shallow, it was crowded with a half-dozen soldiers.

  And the noise. She grabbed her ears and rocked as sticks of bombs exploded, raining concrete, dirt, rocks and wreckage. Guns were firing all around. She heard the sergeant’s voice. “Heinkel One-Elevens, ME One-Oh-Nines. There must be a hundred of them.”

  “And DC-Threes, AT-Sixes,” a colonel said, waving at the attackers. And then awed, “Those two diving planes are Stukas.”

  She had to see. She raised her head. There were three hangars, a control tower and several low buildings housing shops at the old British strip. Surrounding the single concrete runway were revetments and anti-aircraft positions. Flames and tracers spouted from dozens of cannons and machine guns lacing the sky with tracers and brown puffs. But the tower was match sticks and two hangars burned, sending flames and black, greasy smoke skyward in a spreading pall!

  “Where are our fighters?” an anguished voice screamed.

  “There! There they are!” Men pointed. There were cheers. Staring skyward, Sarah found chaos. High in the sky, she saw twin-engined aircraft, flying in Vs moving across the strip, dropping bombs. But then she saw needle nose fighters diving through the bombers trailing smoke.

  A bomber exploded. Another shed a wing. Cheers. Then she saw fighters dueling. The sergeant shouted, “Those Messerschmitts have no chance against the Mustang.”

  Bombs continued to crash, but most of them were landing wide of the mark. And there were roars of great engines as more fighters were pushed from their revetments and raced down the edge of the runway and clawed for altitude.

  Now, Sarah began to see a pattern. In pairs, the Israeli Mustangs swept through the bombers at tremendous speed, each plane firing six fifty-caliber machine guns. Soon, the sky began to rain planes and parts of planes.

  A lieutenant stood, waved a fist. “Kill them! Kill them!” Anxious hands pulled the lieutenant down.

  A Messerschmitt arrowed downward with a Mustang close behind. The Arab fighter pulled up hard, raced down the strip, skimming low. But the Israeli clung to his enemy’s tail, flame leaping from the leading edge of his wings. The Arab dipped, hit the concrete, bounced, twisted, shed part of one wing, hit the strip again nose down, and dissolved into a vast, streaking bolt of flame and swirling, burning debris. More cheers.

  “JU Eighty-Seven! Stuka!”

  An antique plane with ludicrous fixed landing gear swept close over the trench with two Mustangs swooping on its tail like hawks. Neck craned, Sarah saw flames leap from the fighters and actually heard staccato thuds of twelve machine guns as two silvery fuselages flashed overhead. Canopy smashed, the dive bomber pulled straight up, stalled, and then twisted downward, smashing into the flaming ruins of a hangar it had just bombed. More cheers.

  Almost miraculously, it was over; Arab aircraft wheeling and turning to the south. But the Israeli fighters followed like sharks in a feeding frenzy, sending more bombers flaming and spinning to their graves.

  Sara felt the strong hand on her arm. Coming to her feet, she heard Levine’s voice. “We won! We won!”

  She moved her eyes over the burning hangars, wrecked tower, bodies scattered over the strip, flaming wreckage, and turned slowly to the beaming sergeant.

  “Yes, Sergeant. A great victory. Truly, a great victory!”

  Chapter XV

  Exactly as predicted by Admiral Fujita, Yonaga met her escorts at latitude eighteen degrees, twenty minutes north, longitude one hundred fifty-nine degrees west. Standing on the bridge with Admiral Fujita, Mark Allen and Irving Bernstein, Brent caught his breath as the sleek, gray destroyers slashed over the southern horizon, leaving white wakes. Although the ensign had studied navigation and knew of the invisible lines called longitude and latitude crisscrossing the earth, Brent felt awe at the precision of the rendezvous in the middle of the monotonous, flat wilderness, devoid of landmarks and road signs. Furthermore, the navigator, Commander Atsumi, had done it the old-fashioned way with a sextant, chronometer and plotting sheets.

  “Seven! Seven!” Fujita spat. “I was told there would be eleven.”

  “I have no answer,” Bernstein said in a hollow voice. “We bought eleven.”

  Fascinated, Brent watched as the column of destroyers closed on Yonaga’s starboard side. Staring through his binoculars, he was impressed by the graceful deck lines of the Fletcher class destroyer. Each had two five-inch mounts forward and three aft like small trees in thickets of forty millimeter and twenty millimeter antiaircraft guns. Three had six torpedo tubes mounted amidships between the twin funnels.

  After glancing at the glassy sea and the cloudless sky, Fujita turned to the talker. “To the bridge, all engines stop – to the signal bridge, make the hoist; commanding officers, report aboard immediately.” And then to his companions, “Admiral Allen, Colonel Bernstein, Ensign Ross – please accompany me to Flag Plot.”

  *

  With Fujita’s staff, the Americans, Bernstein and seven destroyer captains, the conference room was crowded. In fact, the junior officers, Lieutenant Hironaka, Lieutenant Nobu Yonai, Lieutenant Commander Nobomitsu Atsumi and Ensign Brent Ross, stood. The captains, six wearing three gold stripes while the seventh – a huge, bear-like man – boasting four, sat expectantly, eyes riveted on Fujita in awe. All showed signs of age and all wore American style uniforms.

  Eyes narrow and focused on the “bear,” Fujita opened the conversation. “I was informed,” he said gesturing at Bernstein, “that you are Captain John Fite.” Fite nodded. “Four of your command are missing.”

  A deep, sonorous voice rumbled, “Breakdowns, sir.”

  Fujita shot a glance at Bernstein. “Mint?”

  Turning his palms up, the Israeli shrugged. “They were the best, Admiral.”


  “True, Admiral,” Fite confirmed. “They had engine failures in high speed tests. The ships that remain have been overhauled and are as reliable as forty-year old ships can be made.”

  Fujita nodded. “Seven must do – you can still provide an adequate screen.” His eyes moved over the officers. “Your captains?”

  Gesturing and with obvious pride, Fite introduced the six commanding officers: Andrew Wright, Robert Lucy, Paul Jackson, Neves Kozloff, Howard Warner and Gregory Ogren. All were veterans of World War Two, and all were experienced destroyer captains.

  “Your crews – where did you recruit your crews?”

  “Most of our men are American and Japanese.”

  The junior officers stared intently like spectators at a tennis match as the two senior officers continued their dialogue. “Mercenaries,” Fujita observed.

  “True. But each man had to prove to the CIA and Israeli Intelligence that he had strong motives, other than money, for serving.” He waved a hand. “My captains are serving for no pay. All have lost close friends or relatives to Arab terrorists or have other compelling personal reasons for sitting at this table.”

  “Splendid,” Fujita said, beaming. “Vengeance motivates better than money.”

  Fite moved his eyes slowly over his captains. “Hate, Admiral,” he said, gruffly. “Hate.” The captains nodded.

  Placing his small, gnarled hands flat on the table, the old Japanese stared with intense, beaded black eyes. “And Yonaga, Captain Fite. You must have hate for Yonaga!”

  Stunned by the bluntness of the attack, the Americans squirmed and exchanged confused glances.

  “We have our priorities, Admiral,” Fite answered, unflustered. “And we have our orders. Every man here knows the stability of the world, and the fate of our nation rests on the success of this mission. Gangsters will inherit everything if we fail.”

  Fujita sank back, obviously pleased by the answer. “Good. Good. Festering wounds heal better if cleansed and exposed.”