Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  Roaring in a head-on interception, the Israelis peeled into two sections – one to the left of the Naka-jima and the other to the right. Within seconds, at least four AT6s had been shot from the sky. Brent cheered.

  But his cheers froze in his throat as magically a row of holes appeared in the bomber’s rudder. Mochitsura was shrieking, stabbing his sword downward. The DC-3 was actually below them, on their left side and rising, while a Cessna was on their right, closing but out of range. They were boxed in and the Israelis were far astern, chasing Arabs or whipping into their turns.

  Frantically, Brent swung his weapon to the Douglas. Saw men firing at him out of the old plane’s windows.

  He squeezed the trigger, felt the Nambu buck as he swung his sight slowly the length of the enemy’s cabin. Faces and guns vanished as the stream of slugs bowled men over. Brent felt a new warmth of excitement, intense, like feeling Sarah Aranson’s body against his. But savagely, a sledge hammer struck Brent on the head, twisting him, sending him crashing against the side of the cockpit, finally crumbling and twisting him over the dual controls. But Sarah was there, still, staring with wide, moist eyes. The date’s off, Brent heard himself say as light drained from the world. The date’s off.

  *

  A soft warm spray on his face slowly washed away the darkness. Faces. Many faces. Close. Lieutenant Takii, Ensign Mochitsura and Sarah’s. He was dead. No… couldn’t be. Japanese went to the Yasakuni Shrine, not to the Christian paradise. And Sarah was a Jew. She wouldn’t be there either. And his head ached.

  Mochitsura leaned closer. “You fought well, Ensign," he said, spraying the “s” in “Ensign.

  Brent turned his head. He was stretched under the bomber, wing shading him from the sun. He found Sarah’s face. But soldiers closed in. Two had red crosses on their helmets. Gently, Brent’s helmet was removed, and someone bathed the side of his head with lava. He groaned. Twisted. Kept his eyes on the Israeli woman.

  “Damn it, Sarah Aranson, every time I see you, I’m shot or stabbed! There were chuckles.

  A red cross bared a needle. “No!”

  “But you may go into shock, Ensign.”

  “I won’t go into shock.”

  Leaning over the medics, Sarah moved closer. She was real. There was no doubt about that.

  “A pain killer, then. Not a sedative, Ensign.”

  The throbbing in Brent’s head forced an affirmative nod. A sharp, quick pain in the arm and instantly the throbbing began to diminish. Men began bandaging his head. “Anything else, Doctor?”

  “I’m a corpsman, and no. You sharpened a seven-point-seven with your skull —–lost some blood. Nothing else."

  Jumping straight up and bearing his sword, Takii shouted, “He shot down a DC-3.” Mochitsura followed the pilot’s example, waved his sword overhead. The two old Japanese squared off as if to engage in combat. Then they shouted, “Yonaga banzai! Ross banzai."

  Astonished, the Israelis watched as the two officers swung their swords stiffly like two old crabs, clanging them together in what appeared to be a carefully choreographed and stylized bit of Kabuki theater. Then, after sheathing the weapons, they came to attention, faced the American and bowed.

  “Banzai, Takii. Banzai, Mochitsura,” Brent said, smiling. He felt himself lifted and then placed on a stretcher. In a moment, he was pushed into an ambulance. But he was happy. Sarah was there, seated on a jump seat next to the orderly, holding Brent’s hand.

  “I never knew a man who would go to such lengths to keep a date,” she said, smiling.

  “It wasn’t anything,” the ensign said, matter-of-factly. “Do it everyday.”

  The aid station was in the Pan American passengers’ waiting room in the damaged main building at the Ben Gurion Airport. By the time Brent was propped up on a bunk, the pain was gone and he felt pleasandy drowsy.

  “IV, Major Leonard?” the orderly asked a bulky, middle-aged doctor who suddenly appeared at the side of the bed.

  Leaning over Brent, Leonard flashed a light in the American’s eyes, felt his pulse. “Did he lose much blood, Sergeant?”

  “Not much, sir. They parted his hair, though. Just a little blood on his flight suit, and blood pressure’s normal, temperature’s normal, pulse is strong.”

  “Yes, I know, Sergeant.”

  For the first time, Brent noticed the absence of his flight suit. Looking down, he could see his khakis, clean and well-pressed.

  Major Leonard said, “We’ll keep him here for twenty-four hours—”

  “Sorry, Doctor,” Brent said, swinging his feet slowly over the edge of the bed. “I can’t remain.”

  “As a major in the Israeli Army, I’m telling you, Ensign – you’ve got to remain!”

  “With due respect, Doctor, if I don’t complete my mission, there won’t be any Israel.”

  Sarah stepped forward. “Captain Sarah Aranson, Intelligence. The Ensign is on a vital mission which is top secret, Major. I’ve been sent to pick him up.”

  Leonard shrugged. “He’s weak, Captain. Could bleed… even hemorrhage… should be kept under observation.”

  Brent wobbled to his feet. “I feel great… could run a ‘nine-four’ hundred!”

  “Ensign,” Sarah said, “maybe you should stay, we could—”

  “No, Captain,” Brent interrupted. “Of course I’m weak. But I didn’t catch one in the gut. This is only a crease.”

  “I won’t take the responsibility,” the major said.

  “Please,” Brent pleaded. “Get me some coffee. I’m okay.”

  “All right, Ensign,” Sarah said. “But if you bleed, we’ll take you to the nearest aid station.”

  “Good,” Brent said, sitting quickly. “Now the coffee.”

  *

  Sitting in a small office next to the abandoned SAS ticket counter, Brent felt better. Although he was weak, two cups of coffee had cleared his head and buoyed his spirits. And now he sat next to Sarah Aranson facing Major Max Silverberg of Israeli Intelligence.

  “They were waiting for you, Ensign.”

  “Yes. But I had a great crew,” Brent said. And then looking around, “Takii! Mochitsura! Where are they?”

  “They’ve been taken to the mess hall and then to a BOQ. They’ll be billeted here.”

  “This is Ben Gurion Airport?”

  “Sorry, Brent. Yes. Of course. This is Ben Gurion.”

  Silverberg continued. “The encryption box is on these premises, locked in a safe. Just before you take off and, according to Colonel Bernstein’s last transmission, that should be thirty-six hours from now, well padlock it to your wrist.”

  Brent pondered the statement. “My ankle, Major. I need both hands for my machine gun.”

  Silverberg nodded. “That’s all I need tell you, Ensign. The coding is done and, I assume, Colonel Bernstein is still in… ah, good health.”

  “Yes – when I left.”

  “He can hook it up – it’s a simple procedure. And we can communicate again.” Silverberg turned to Sarah. “Captain, find a billet for the ensign.” He moved his eyes to Brent. “He needs rest – feed him a steak. He’s a good man.” Rising slowly, Silverberg extended his hand. “Sholoem aleichem.”

  “And to you, peace,” Brent said, shaking the major’s hand.

  *

  Driving the jeep from the airport east to Tel Aviv, Sarah Aranson kept one eye on the road and the other on the big American ensign who slouched in the cramped passenger’s seat. “Sure you’re all right, Brent?”

  “I haven’t felt this well since I was in Tokyo.” Suddenly, a large military truck entered the highway, forcing a quick turn of the wheel and shifting of gears. Expertly, Sarah swung the little vehicle around the truck and shifted back into fourth gear, skirt hiking up to her knees.

  “Glad you wore a skirt,” he said, casually.

  “You’re feeling better, all right.”

  Brent chuckled. “Not much traffic.”

  “Mostly military. A few buses. Th
e oil embargo has hit hard.”

  “We’re entering the city,” Brent said. And then waving a hand at the ruins of an office building. “Lord, that building was clobbered.” They passed several more smashed buildings. “Lord.”

  “Air raids, Brent. But they stopped a few days after Yonaga entered the Mediterranean.” A tall building loomed on the left. “We’re on Hayarkon Street and that’s the Sheraton.”

  Brent nodded. “There’s a whole row of them along the beach.”

  “Yes. The Ramada, Diplomat, Plaza, Carleton. We even have a Hilton.”

  “There aren’t many people.”

  “No. The government has evacuated most of the children and older people.” She tapped the steering wheel. “But the country’s so small. It’s hard to find a place to hide.”

  “The Arabs haven’t broken through?”

  “No. It was a touch and go at Al Khalil for a while. But we’re holding. We can’t afford to let them drive to the sea… split us. And they’re massing armor. It looks like they’re going to give it one last try.” She moved her eyes to Brent. “We need Yonaga and Mikasa.”

  “Admiral Fujita has pledged aid.”

  “Where is Yonaga?”

  Brent began to speak, glanced at his watch. “I’ll answer that question twelve hours from now.”

  Sarah chuckled. “Spoken like James Bond.”

  Brent laughed. “Where are you taking me?”

  “There’s a BOQ at Natanya,” Sarah answered. “Or, you can come to my place.”

  “You’ve given me a difficult decision, Captain.”

  “Ponder it a while, Ensign.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Evacuated.”

  The American scratched his chin thoughtfully. “This will come as a shock, Captain. But let’s check out your billet.”

  *

  Sarah Aranson’s apartment was a smart but austere two bedroom on the third floor of a modem eight-story building. From the couch in the living room where he sipped a martini, Brent had a view of the Mediterranean, the blue surface of a ballroom flecked with gold and silver by the declining sun.

  “I’ll have to fry your steak,” Sarah called from the tiny cooking alcove.

  “I’ll eat it raw!”

  Standing over the two-burner stove, Sarah felt a deep glow of happiness. He was alive. And she had not expected it. Had not known happiness since the Bekaa Valley. She had hoped and prayed he would be sent for the encryption box. Had Bernstein conspired with Fujita? Impossible. Fujita thought only of Yonaga. There were no romantic thoughts there. They had dried up decades ago. Brent was here. That was all that mattered. She had her moment of happiness and would grab it with both hands.

  She wanted him. Had wanted him from the first moment they met. Memories of that night in Tokyo had tortured her for months – his strong hard body against hers. She adjusted a flame under a pan of potatoes. Thinking of her mother, she smiled.

  “A good Jewish girl knows a man’s heart is next to his stomach,” she had advised, over and over.

  Quickly, Sarah checked the steak and returned to the couch, seating herself next to the American, drink in hand. She felt his hand on hers, big, warm but strangely undemanding.

  “How do you feel, Brent?”

  “Weak. The steak will help. I just realized. I haven’t eaten for fifteen hours.”

  “I’ll turn it up.”

  “No!” He raised his glass. “I need this.”

  She touched his glass with hers. “L’chayim.” Then reading confusion on his face, “Sorry, it’s Hebrew – ‘To life; to your health.’”

  He nodded. Then they drank slowly, eyeing each other over their glasses. “God, I worried about you. You destroyed the Brooklyn?”

  “Yes.”

  “Destroyed the strips at Al Kararim and Misratah?”

  “Yes. Fujita is a genius.”

  “Then Yonaga is steaming for Tripoli.”

  He laughed. “Perhaps.”

  She felt his arm around her. Raised her lips. Pulled his head down. Then his mouth was on hers, tongue circling her lips in a fiery trail. She groaned, found his tongue with hers, pulled him on her. Gasping, she felt his lips move down, find the hard pulse in her neck. Then, strangely, he stopped, sat up, holding her close but staring at the sea.

  Pushing her hair back, Sarah said, “What's wrong, Brent? Darling, what is it?”

  He glanced at his watch. “You were right, you know.”

  “About what?”

  “Tripoli!”

  “I know, Brent.”

  “They could be dying… all of them, Sarah. Now!” She bit her lip – remained silent as he continued. “They could be dying and… and I’m here.”

  “Making love to me, Brent… and it isn't right. Is that it, Brent?”

  “Yes. That's exactly it and it’s crazy because I have dreamed of you every night. You are my fantasy. I want you more than I have ever wanted anything in my entire life.” He tapped his chin with his knuckles. “But it isn’t right… somehow. You mean too much – they mean too much. Oh Lord, Sarah. I’m so corny, but I can't help it.”

  “No,” she said, pulling his head to her shoulder. “I understand. Later, Brent… later.” Slowly, she stood, pulling him to his feet. “It’s time to eat, Brent.” They walked to the alcove.

  *

  “That was marvelous,” he said, slouching on the couch, holding a cup of coffee and staring through the window into the darkness. “You know,” he said, sipping and gesturing with his cup, “even in the darkest of nights, there's a horizon at sea. Somehow starlight sifts through the clouds or, perhaps, the natural luminescence of the sea, but there’s always light – always a horizon to be seen over the bows – to steam for.”

  She snuggled close. “You can see a horizon?”

  “Yes. For both of us. It’s there and well bask in it.” She kissed his cheek. “Brent. I have two bedrooms.”

  He looked at her with tired eyes. “Sarah, please let me sleep with you. I want to… need to hold you.”

  Pulling him by the hand, she stood slowly. “This way, Brent.”

  In a moment, they were in her small bedroom, standing at the foot of a queen-sized bed, spread with a purple, brocaded cover. He put his hand to his head, reeled.

  “Sit down,” she said, alarmed.

  Sitting heavily, the young American lay back.

  “You all right, Brent?”

  “It all caught up with me, Sarah. Sorry.”

  “‘Sorry’, nonsense,” she said, untying his shoes. “What are you doing?”

  “Quiet! I’ll show you how a good Jewish girl takes care of her man.” She pulled off his shoes. “Scoot up, Brent.”

  In a moment, the ensign sighed as his head was pillowed in satin. He reached for his belt. “I’ll do it.” She stood. Pulled with both hands, then laid the ensign’s trousers on a chair. He sat up, clawed clumsily at his shirt.

  “Lay back, Brent.” In a moment, only the ensign’s shorts remained. She lay down beside him.

  Propping herself up on an elbow, Sarah ran her fingers through the stiff chest hair, found a trail. “Thanks to that Sabbath’s knife,” he said. And then, slowly, “Sarah, please take off your clothes.”

  She came to her feet. While he watched every move, she removed her blouse and then her skirt. “Your underwear,” he said. “It’s green… green jockey shorts.”

  She laughed. “Army issue. I left my lace panties on the airstrip at Hadera.”

  Still wearing her underwear, she stretched beside him, lips to his. Then his arms were around her, and she sighed happily as he pulled her against him, kissing her mouth, her cheeks, eyes, hair.

  “I love you. I love you,” he whispered in her ear.

  She pulled his head down to her neck. “I love you, Brent… love you.”

  He held her for a long moment. Then his breathing became deep and regular. And finally, exhaustion overtook Sarah Aranson.

  *

  The ringin
g of the phone brought Sarah up from the pillow. Quickly, she pulled away from the sleeping American, threw on a robe, and ran to the living room. She put the instrument to her ear. It was Silverberg speaking in excited bursts.

  “Turkish, Greek and Italian sources reported a successful and daring raid on Tripoli,” he said. “A destroyer entered the harbor, moored to the Mayeda Maru and withdrew. And over a hundred Arab planes had been shot down and a battery of howitzers destroyed, Sarah. They did it! They did it! And Mikasa has entered the Mediterranean.”

  “Oh, wonderful, Max.” She heard a noise behind her. “I’ll see you later today.” She cradled the phone.

  Turning, she found Brent Ross, dressed only in his trousers. She told him of Yonaga, Tripoli, Mikasa and the great victory.

  Laughing, he wrapped both arms around her like a great bear, jumped up and down in a circle. “Great! Great!” He kissed her. “Now can you see the horizon?”

  “Yes! Yes!” She pushed her head against his chest.

  “It’s always there, Sarah.”

  “I’ll fix you breakfast,” she said, pushing away.

  “No!” He recaptured her, crushing her lips hungrily. He pulled her into the bedroom, threw his trousers on the floor. Then his shorts followed.

  “Brent, Brent—”

  He reached out with one hand and pulled her robe free, throwing it on the floor with his trousers. Wordlessly, she unsnapped her brassiere, let it fall. She reached for the one remaining garment.

  “No!” He pushed her gendy onto the bed. “Let me.” Rising, he placed both hands on her waistband. Raising her hips, she felt him pull and in a moment, she was nude.

  But he did not come for her immediately. Instead, he stood, eyeing her slowly: her lips, firm swollen breasts, tiny waist, hips, thighs.

  She stared back, not wondering about her passion. He was magnificent: wide corded neck, broad chest, muscular arms, flat stomach. She reached up. “Brent! Please, Brent. Brent!”

  Slowly, he lowered himself into her welcoming arms. Eyes glazed with desire, she felt his weight between her legs. Clamping her mouth to his, she found his tongue and pushed up with her hips as he drove into her moist, warm depths.