by Peter Albano
“We’ll rely on deception,” Mark Allen said.
“That is correct. We will not invite close scrutiny, but there will be no more evasion. Speed, now, is of the essence.” The men nodded.
There were shouts from the foretop. The tanker was dropping astern with her ‘Baker’ struck and replaced by a new hoist.
“Signal bridge reports from the tanker, Admiral,” the talker said. “‘Fueling completed and good luck.’”
“Very well. Tell the OD to come to zero-two-five, speed thirty. To the signal bridge, execute the hoist.” In a moment, the deck began its usual vibrations, and the great carrier surged northward eagerly.
“Kadafi, here we come,” Brent muttered under his breath.
*
Ten days later, after refueling for the third time south of the Azores, Yonaga passed through the Straits of Gibraltar. “Do you think anyone believes we’re the USS Tarawa?” Mark Allen said, glasses on the great rock to the north.
“It makes no difference,” Fujita answered. “Yonaga is here and has a few accounts to settle. That is all that matters.”
Bernstein said, “Kadafi has the planes; the pilots, his jihad. He’s drunk on power.”
“We will show him,” Fujita continued in a soft voice, “that power is nothing but a breath upon the wind. And that is all he is – a breath upon the wind.”
Chapter XVI
“Radio Tripoli has reported Tarawa and seven escorts in the Mediterranean,” Mark Allen said, staring at Admiral Fujita. The admiral had convened the meeting immediately after clearing the Straits of Gibraltar. Brent Ross, Bernstein and Fujita’s entire staff sat around the long table in Flag Plot, staring at the old admiral expectantly.
Bernstein spoke. “And the Tass News Agency, Pravda and Isvestia carry the same reports.”
The old man nodded. “Maybe we have fooled them,” he said from his chair at the end of the oak table. He rose, gestured at a map of the Mediterranean. “At twenty knots we will be at this position in four days.” He stabbed a pointer at a point off the Gulf of Sidra. “All of the Libyan coast will be within range of our aircraft.” He turned to Matsuhara. “We can expect Libyan reconnaissance aircraft. We know they have some long range multi-engined aircraft.”
“DC-3s, DC-4s, DC-6s and a few Constellations, Admiral,” Bernstein said.
Fujita nodded understanding. He continued speaking to Matsuhara. “When we conclude this meeting, put a CAP of six Zeros in the air at six thousand meters.”
“Six thousand, sir?”
“Yes. Reconnaissance aircraft will fly much lower. In the event we have an intruder, we will vector you in by radar. If our pilots dive out of the sun, the enemy will have little time for aircraft recognition. Destroy them quickly.”
“Shall we ram?”
“No. We need the pilots.”
Raising a sheet of paper, Bernstein interrupted impatiently. “This came over from Israeli Intelligence just before the meeting. I decoded it myself.” He hunched forward. “Kadafi has most of his aircraft concentrated at two strips.” He stood, gestured to the chart. “With your permission, Admiral.”
Fujita acquiesced with a wave. Palming the pointer, Bernstein strode to the chart.
“They have airdromes at A1 Kararim and Misratah.” He pointed to two towns on the Libyan Coast. “Old American strips, isolated, forty kilometers apart and about one hundred fifty kilometers from Tripoli. One hundred fifty fighters – maybe a hundred bombers. A mixed bag of Mes-serschmitts, Heinkel Ills, JU 87s, Junkers 88s, AT-6 trainers and civilian aircraft.”
Moving the pointer, he struck three points to the east. “Between two and three hundred Arab fighters and bombers are reported to be operating against Israel out of El Arish in the Sinai, Jarash in Jordan, and Al Khushniyah in Syria.”
“You reported human wave attacks?” Fujita said.
The Israeli became grim, “Yes. When the Arabs have air control, they make mass attacks. We are holding, but here,” he moved the stick, “at Al Khali, they have pushed us back. They sustained ghastly casualties but came on.”
“But the lines are holding?”
“Yes,” Bernstein said. “Bent, but not broken. And, obviously, Israel can never win a war of attrition against them. They outnumber us twenty-five to one.” He thumped the pointer on the deck. “We’ve had some good news. The Arabs pulled their biggest raid against our strip at Hadera. Our Mustangs drove them off with heavy losses and immediately after the defeat, the Ayatollah Khomeini pulled his troops out and began attacking Iraq, again. Saddam Hussein did the same with his Iraqi troops. Now they’re killing each other again.”
“Just like old times,” Mark Allen said. And then quickly, “That was a tenuous alliance. The Iranians aren’t Arabs, anyway. They’re Persians. They just hate the Israelis.”
“Right,” Bernstein agreed. “And after Al Khalil and Hadera, the Ayatollah decided his old hate against Iraq was more profitable.” There was a chuckle. The Israeli continued. “But the jihad binding Kadafi, Hosni Mubarak, Hafez Assad Hussein of Jordan, Walid Jumblatt and Yassir Arafat is holding.”
Fujita raised his hands in frustration. “Please, Colonel. We have been isolated in the Arctic.”
“Sorry, Admiral. Libya, of course; Lebanon, Egypt, Syria and Jordan.”
The old Japanese nodded. “But Arab coalitions are delicate, Colonel.”
“Yes. They prefer to kill each other.”
“And historically,” the old Japanese mused, “when victorious, they were ruthless but the first reverse sends them running.” He eyed the Israeli colonel. “Our first priority is the hostages. You know that.”
“Yes.”
Fujita turned to his flight leader. “Our first attacks will be against the Libyans. There is a chance we can surprise them, Yoshi-san.” He struck the chart with a finger. “We will make our run in to this point in the Gulf of Sidra. We will keep a CAP of twenty-seven Zero-sens, split our air groups into two strikes, come in from the sea at a hundred meters, and catch them on the ground at Al Kararim and Misratah at the same moment.”
“The hostages?”
Fujita shook his head. “They are Japanese. Know we cannot eat stones, drink gall. And all of you know we cannot move against Tripoli without control of the air.”
The men nodded. He turned back to the Israeli. “After we have completed our mission against Kadafi, we will move against the jihad. I promise you as a samurai. I owe you that, now.”
The Israeli beamed. “Thank you, sir.”
Fujita sagged into his chair. “Do you have anything on the Brooklyn?”
“Sorry, Admiral. Nothing, except she is no longer in Tripoli. She must be in the eastern Mediterranean. But,” he struck a document with a single finger, “we have the exact location of the Mayeda Maru. She is still in Tripoli, tied up at Pier Four – a jetty near the entrance”
“Good! Good!” Fujita said. “Artillery?”
“One battery of field artillery – one-oh-five howitzers back of the jetty, five hundred meters to the east.”
“Emplaced?”
“No. In battery in an open field.”
“Infantry?”
“Two companies, south of town.” Bernstein seated himself.
Fujita shifted his eyes to Kawamoto. “We need a four hundred man landing force.”
The old executive officer eyed his superior thoughtfully. “We could reduce the number of loaders at our AA mounts, use mechanics – some engineers. However, we would reduce efficiency in gunnery, engineering and air operations.”
“Respectfully, Admiral,” Mark Allen said. “This is not Port Arthur. You can’t just steam into Tripoli and board Mayeda Maru?
The aged Japanese stared at the American. “With a proper ruse, Admiral Allen, one can steam through the gates of hell.”
“Then you must mean a destroyer.”
“Or two destroyers, Admiral. One with the landing force and one to go alongside the liner. The Libyans have Fletchers and so do we.”
Mark Allen shook his head. “Very risky, sir.”
“When is war not risky?” Fujita asked, balling his fists on the table. “May I remind you of the British destroyer Campeltown and its attack on Saint-Nazaire in nineteen forty-two?”
Stunned, Brent Ross stared at Mark Allen. The encyclopedic mind. Mark Allen voiced Brent’s thoughts.
“How… how did you know about that?”
The Japanese officers laughed. “We copied news and I have been reading your histories since we returned.” He tapped the table. “The Campeltown sneaked into the harbor disguised as a German destroyer. Carried out her mission.”
“True! True!” Mark Allen said. “One of the most daring raids in naval history. I remember it well. But Campeltown was a bomb – that’s all she was. Designed to blow up the biggest drydock on the English Channel. Good Lord, Admiral. Most of her crew and the landing force were killed or captured.”
“But she succeeded through deception.”
“Yes. But she evacuated no one.”
“It makes no difference. Surprise is the most decisive advantage in warfare. And, Admiral Allen, we have no choice.”
The American sighed helplessly. Shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps.”
Fujita turned to his navigator. “Commander Atsumi, I want everything we have on Tripoli. Depth charts, tide tables.” He moved to Kawamoto. “Assemble the landing force. Exercise them with their Arisakas and Nambus on the flight deck.” The executive officer began to rise. Fujita halted him. “At the end of the meeting.” He returned to Mark Allen. “Now, I need every scrap of information you have on Arab aircraft. We know very little.”
With every eye on him, the American admiral came to his feet. “Most of the aircraft you face have very short ranges. You can thank Herman Goring and his Luftwaffe planners.”
“Why?”
“It’s a matter of geography. European distances are short. Range in the Messerschmitt, Heinkels and Junkers was sacrificed for durability and firepower. Don’t forget, they were designed with the Spitfire and Hurricane in mind, which are both very short-ranged fighters while all of our – ah, I mean, your aircraft were built to fly the vast distances of the Pacific.”
“We have an advantage in range; I know.”
“A huge advantage, Admiral Fujita. All of the German aircraft are tactical, designed for close support of ground units and interception. We’re fortunate that they never developed a long-range strategic bomber. It cost them the Battle of Britain – maybe the war.”
“Like the B-29,” Matsuhara spat.
“Correct,” Allen said, ignoring the jab. “Your Zeros have an enormous advantage in maneuverability and climb rate.”
Chuckling, the Japanese looked at each other. “We know,” Matsuhara said, obviously amused.
Mark Allen pressed on. “The Arabs’ basic fighter is their Messerschmitt 109. It only has a range of about four hundred miles with a drop tank.”
Matsuhara snorted. “Our Zeros have five times the range.”
Mark Allen nodded. “But their armament matches yours.”
“Two twenty-millimeter cannons, and two seven-point-sevens” Bernstein injected.
“Thank you, Colonel,” Allen said. “Top speed about three hundred thirty miles per hour.”
“Five hundred thirty kilometers per hour. The same as ours,” Matsuhara said, quickly. “But they can’t turn with us.” He hunched forward. “Weight?”
Allen shrugged, turned to Bernstein who said, “The ME 109 weighs about fifty-two hundred pounds.”
The Japanese laughed. Matsuhara finally managed, “My Zero-zen only weighs forty-one hundred pounds. No wonder Germany lost the war.” More laughter. “We will turn inside of them, easily.”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps?” Matsuhara said. “The Zero can turn inside a bumblebee, and we will outclimb them.” There were “banzais.”
Fujita raised his hands. “Please, Gentlemen. What do you know of their other aircraft – their bombers – the Heinkel?”
“The 111 is a good, durable aircraft,” Allen answered. “It was the Luftwaffe’s standard level bomber. Range… oh, over a thousand miles—”
“Correct,” Bernstein said. “Eleven, twelve hundred – shorter than the Zero. Could do over two hundred miles per hour with, maybe, two to three tons of bombs.”
“The so-called ‘Stuka’?”
“Similar to your Aichi D-3-A,” Mark Allen answered while Bernstein concurred with a nod. “Good bomb load for a single-engined aircraft. One one-thousand pounder and four one-hundred pounders; top speed a little over two hundred miles per hour.” Matsuhara licked his lips. And then with his mouth twisted arrogantly, “Target practice.”
“Perhaps,” Mark Allen said grimly. “But one bomber could destroy Yonaga.”
“Nonsense!”
“You lost four carriers at Midway because your fully-loaded air groups were caught on deck by dive bombers,” Allen retorted hotly. “It only takes a firecracker to set off one of these carriers. Most carriers lost in the… ah, Greater East Asia War—” he nodded to Fujita, “tore themselves to pieces after bomb hits.”
There was a sober silence. Fujita nodded to Matsuhara. “Yoshi-san. See to our CAP, now.”
“There may be merchantmen nearby.”
Fujita turned to Yonai. “Check with radar, Lieutenant!”
Quickly, the communications officer put a phone to his ear, spoke in quick bursts, then cradled the phone. “One slow-moving blip at two hundred twenty kilometers, another at one hundred ninety. Both to the east and opening.”
“Good! Launch your CAP,” he said to Matsuhara. “And lead the first patrol yourself.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Matsuhara said smiling. He exited quickly.
Fujita pressed on. “Commander Kawamoto, cut orders for the strikes on A1 Kararim and Misratah. We will launch at two hundred fifty kilometers.” He moved to the chart, pointed. “At about latitude thirty-five degrees, longitude fifteen. Arm the Aichis and Nakajimas with one hundred forty kilogram fragmentation bombs with contact fuses. I will do the planning, work out launch point, carrier speed and course with the navigator, and provide the air groups with point option data just prior to launch.” The Japanese nodded understanding.
He turned to his communications officer. “Lieutenant Yonai, monitor Radio Tripoli.”
“We do, sir.”
“Good. Be sure you copy weather.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Inform our escorts of the projected launch point and estimated time of launch.” And then to his staff, “Return to your duties. Colonel Bernstein, Admiral Allen and Brent Ross, please remain.” The Japanese exited.
Fujita turned to Bernstein. “Well need ‘Green One’.”
“Then we should send for the encryption box as soon as possible.”
Fujita glanced at the chart. “We will not be in range of Israel for days.” He returned to the Israeli. “I want a tanker available here!” He pointed to the western Mediterranean.
Bernstein nodded. “We have several in Britain.”
“Good. Have one sortie immediately. I am sure we shall need to refuel long before this is over.” Tabling the pointer, the old man sat in his chair wearily. “Admiral Allen,” he said, moving his tired eyes to the American. “You have been in several carrier engagements?”
“Twelve.”
Fujita hunched forward. “Your cryptographers are efficient?”
“Four of the best, sir.”
“I want you on the bridge when we are at battle stations.” The old eyes moved to Brent Ross. “You, too, Ensign.”
“Yes, Admiral. You informed me, sir.”
“Oh.” There was momentary confusion interrupted by the roar of an engine as a Sakae coughed to life. Then another and another until a half-dozen engines thundered on the flight deck. Fujita cocked an ear like an old bird, then said, “Admiral Allen, if I become a casualty, Commander Kawamoto is my replacement and then down the usual lin
e of seniority.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Regardless of what happens to Yonaga, I want you on the bridge, available to whomever is in command.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
Fujita glanced at Brent Ross. “Open the door, Ensign.”
There, had been no knock, but Brent knew an ensign never challenged an order from an admiral. When the American pulled the door open, he found Captain Werner Schlieben staring at him. He was flanked by a pair of guards.
“Enter, Captain,” Fujita ordered. Brent returned to his chair but the German did not move.
“Enter!” Still, no reaction. With a shout, the guards pushed and the German was propelled into the room, tripping over a chair and crashing to the deck.
“Schwein! Schwein!” he shouted, as the guards pulled him to his feet.
“Obey orders, Herr Kapitan, or suffer the consequences.”
Slowly, the German’s eyes roved over the officers, finally stopping on Bernstein who seemed to be drawn to his feet by the intensity of the stare. “I dislike being in the same room with that Juden schleisse,” the German spat.
Again, Brent was stunned by the man’s arrogance. He had seen the gruesome fate of the two Sabbah; knew of the samurais’ proclivity for inventive, hideous deaths. Yet, he had not only challenged Bernstein, but Fujita’s authority as well.
Fujita nodded. Both guards struck the German in the stomach, sending him crashing into a bulkhead, mucus and spittle spraying. Groaning, he fell to all fours. The guards raised their fists.
“No!” Bernstein shouted, pushing the guards. “Let me have him.”
Gripping the table, the German pulled himself to his feet. “No,” he said, fearfully. “Don’t give me to that fotze.”
Brent was rocked by the man’s obscene mouth. But, apparently, the Japanese did not understand the loathsome word.
Schlieben continued. “I have information, Admiral. I can be of help,” he said, desperately. “Don’t give me to him,” he repeated.
From his chair, Fujita gestured at the chart. “We have learned there are Libyan airbases at Zuwarah and Surt.”
Startled by the lie, the Americans and the Israeli exchanged a glance but remained silent.