Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “This is right! This is right,” she heard him gasp her ear. But Sarah Aranson was beyond speech.

  Chapter XX

  Looking down from a thousand feet, Yonaga was a leaf flying in the wind. And the four destroyers were there, slashing the surface around the carrier. Like toys on a blue mat, Brent thought. Then he shifted his weight slowly, the manacle connected to the chained encryption box chafing his ankle.

  Memories of Sarah Aranson came back. He was back at the airport just before departure. Discreedy excusing himself, Major Silverberg had left them alone in his office. Holding each other, both lovers had strangely lacked words.

  Finally, Sarah had broken the silence. “I’ll be here… This isn’t over.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh, be careful… be careful, Brent.”

  “I will.”

  “Well be in touch. Yonaga should keep us informed now.”

  “Yes, Sarah. And if necessary, I’ll see you in Tokyo or Washington.”

  “Yes, Brent. I have an assignment coming up in Washington as soon as this is over.”

  “It’s a date, Sarah?”

  “Yes! Yes!”

  Mochitsura’s voice in his earphones broke Brent’s thoughts. “Check your safety belt and canopy lock and make sure your machine gun is secured in its well. Well be landing in a moment.”

  Brent repeated the command and then turned his head. Three Zeros were sweeping in an echelon toward the bomber’s tail. As the magnificent white machines swept by, they banked and Brent saw Matsuhara staring at him from the lead fighter. The commander saluted him. Shocked, Brent saluted back.

  Then there was a shriek, and Mochitsura was standing, waving his sword. But Takii’s sharp voice sent the navigator back to his seat. Brent felt the nose of the bomber drop and the rhythm of the Sakae slow. They were making their approach on the racing carrier – would land on a postage stamp, flying on the breeze across the surface of a lake. He held his breath.

  Brent turned his head as the Nakajima dropped stiffly into its final approach. Then, ahead on Yonaga’s stern he saw yellow flags drop and the engine was suddenly cut. There was shock of wheels hitting the deck, and then a great force threw him forward as the hook caught the first wire. Then the plane was stationary for a moment, and handlers suddenly swarmed around. Then slowly, the big green plane was walked forward.

  Turning his head up, Brent saw Admiral Fujita, Mark Allen, and Irving Bernstein staring down from their usual position on the flag bridge. “I’m home,” he said to himself. And then surprised, “Home?” He chuckled.

  *

  Seated with Ensign Morisada Mochitsura, Lieutenant Yoshiro Takii, Lieutenant Kenji Hironaka and Admiral Mark Allen in Admiral Fujita’s cabin – Colonel Irving Bernstein had rushed to Combat Intelligence with the encryption box – Brent felt a heavy, somber atmosphere almost as if defeat permeated the room.

  “Your wound,” Admiral Fujita said.

  “A scratch, Admiral.”

  “He shot down a DC-3!” Mochitsura shouted, standing. Lieutenant Takii silenced the navigator and then described the mission. Listening intently, the old admiral nodded.

  Brent spoke. “The mission to Tripoli was successful, Admiral. There were reports on the radio, from the Italians, Swiss, Turks—”

  “Yes, Ensign. Captain Fite went alongside, we gave him support, and he withdrew with no casualties.” There was no elation in the voice.

  “A victory, Sir.”

  Fujita eyed Mark Allen. Hironaka kept his eyes on his pad. “Brent,” Mark Allen said, slowly. “The hostages were all dead.”

  For a long moment, Brent listened to the blowers, the faint thump of engines. “All dead?”

  “Yes, Brent. And they had been for a long time.”

  Brent heard Takii curse, Mochitsura mutter. “Then, it was all for nothing?” the young American asked, almost as if he were speaking to himself.

  “Possibly a trap,” Mark Allen said. “A crazy, twisted plot concocted in the mind of that madman, Kadafi.” He pushed hair from his forehead. “It may just go back to that DC-3 over Tokyo Bay that our CAP damaged.”

  “That trivial incident?” Brent said.

  “Trivial incidents are the labor pains of war,” Fujita said.

  “All for nothing,” Brent repeated.

  “No,” Fujita said, firmly. “No act of war committed in the name of the mikado is ‘for nothing.’ And we enjoyed our revenge, and will savor more as did the forty-seven ronin. And many samurai fulfilled their karmas and entered the Yasakuni Shrine.” Then, flattening his withered hands on the oak, “The Arabs have given purpose to this moment, and life is a succession of moments. No, indeed, Ensign. This mission has not been for nothing.”

  There was a knock and Brent admitted Colonel Bernstein. Standing in front of Admiral Fujita’s desk, the man was obviously upset. “The Arabs. They’re mounting a major assault at Al Khalil. They’ve thrown everything into it.”

  Fujita pushed himself to his feet. “We will go to flank speed and engage them.” And, then with narrow eyes gleaming, “You, Colonel Bernstein, will brief our air groups.”

  “They’ll engage tanks.”

  “Tanks are not immune to bombs, and we will show them… show them the revenge of the samurai.”

  Chapter XXI

  “What you do know of Arab air bases in the Sinai, Jordan, Syria, Kapiton Schlieben?” Admiral Fujita asked from his customary seat at the head of the table in Flag Plot. Brent Ross, Mark Allen, Irving Bernstein, Masao Kawamoto, Kenji Hironaka and Yoshi Matsuhara stared at the German who stood at the far end, flanked by his guards.

  Shifting his eyes from man to man, the German spoke quickly, “One in Syria at Shahba and another in Jordan at Al Karak.”

  Fujita turned to Bernstein. “I expected lies,” the Israeli said. “But they do have a fighter base at Al Karak”

  Brent felt the interrogation was a waste of time. The German was a liar and everyone knew it. Obviously, he was stalling; guessing, trying to preserve his neck.

  The two days of hard steaming had brought Yonaga almost within range of Israel. But Green One had brought grim news that told of an Arab breakthrough at Al Khalil, armor driving a wedge almost to the coast. Air groups had been briefed and the first strike was to take off at dawn; less than sixteen hours of steaming.

  Bernstein said, “The Israeli Air Force will coordinate its attack with ours – put everything that can fly into the air – hit Al Karak at dawn tomorrow.”

  “You’ve become aggressive, Juden scheisse. You were such lambs when we herded you into the gas chambers,” Schlieben said, suddenly.

  Silence as every man stared at Schlieben and Bernstein. Glancing at Admiral Fujita, Brent detected a faint smile. That was it. He had brought the two together to witness their malevolence. Some diabolical twist of the samurai psyche fed on hate – was satisfied by hate and the inevitable blood-letting of consummation. All of the Japanese appeared enthralled. Was this their sole passion? Certainly, they had been denied women. Thirty hours with Sarah Aranson had drained him physically and emotionally. But these men had had no release except violence for nearly half a century.

  Rising slowly, Bernstein spoke. “I am one who seeks to avenge six million, Kapitan. Unfortunately, I can only kill you once.”

  The German laughed. “Circumcised schwein. You are a sheep like sill the rest. You show much bravery here where I cannot lay my hands on you.”

  “That is not true,” Fujita said softly. “If you gentlemen demand satisfaction, it can be arranged.”

  That was it, Brent thought. Fujita was releasing the forty-seven ronin for both men. Or was it just a show?

  Amusement?

  Schlieben’s beady eyes flashed around the room slyly. “Why should I risk my neck?” he said, reversing himself, voice shedding belligerence, caution creeping in.

  “Because, if you do not, I will have you quartered. You attempted to destroy Yonaga and are of no use to me. You are a liar and know
nothing, anyway.” And then to Bernstein, “You would like an opportunity to feed your vengeance?”

  “Yes.”

  “If I don’t fight him, I die?” the German asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Will you release me if I kill him?”

  “Yes, Kapitan. My word as a samurai.”

  Schlieben had the look of a drowning man trying to clutch a passing life bouy. “I will fight the Juden.”

  “Very well,” Fujita said. And then to both men, “We samurai believe that true courage is to live when it is right to live and to die when it is right to die. One of you will find his moment to die.” Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. “This meeting will be moved to the ‘Shrine of Infinite Salvation.’”

  Salvation, Brent thought, coming to his feet. A shrine a place to vent hatred – spill blood? What kind of ‘Infinite Salvation’ was this?

  *

  The ‘Shrine of Infinite Salvation’ was a large wooden Buddhist-Shinto Shrine located in a comer of the hangar deck. Built of unpainted plywood, it was fronted by a single entrance framed by a gilded tori. Although it was a shrine and a place of worship, there was no nave with recesses. Indeed, there were no seats at all. Instead, an altar was attached to a bulkhead while the center of the large room was dominated by a raised platform stretched with white cloth.

  When Brent entered the room, he was startled to see at least fifty officers standing in ranks, backs to the plywood walls.

  “How in the world did they know?” he said in hushed tones to Mark Allen.

  “Every ship has a silent telegraph – a grapevine for scuttlebutt,” Allen said. And then grimly, “They all want to watch the fun.”

  Moving to one side where Admiral Fujita stood with his officers, Brent listened as the old admiral spoke. “You will move to the platform,” he said, gesturing. Schlieben and Bernstein mounted the steps, turned to Fujita. “Vengeance is sacred to the samurai, and I will honor your quest. In fact, in your own tradition, you may even choose your weapons.” Obeying a silent command, Kawamoto pulled his sword from his scabbard, holding the long curved blade over his head with two hands. “Our killing blade,” Fujita said. “Or, if you prefer, the wakizashi. Again, another silent cue, and Hironaka brandished a knife, waving it menacingly, giggling and drooling.

  Leaning close to Brent’s ear, Mark Allen whispered, “He loves to read history but his books are old.” Brent nodded silently.

  “The wakizashi,” Bernstein said, quickly.

  “And you, Kapitan?”

  Nodding and swallowing hard, the German’s voice was barely audible. “The knife… the knife.”

  In a moment, two officers pulled blades from their scabbards and handed them to the combatants.

  “Face each other two meters apart,” Fujita said. “Both of your blades sure identical.” He turned to the Americans. “Nine and one-half inches long with points and edges razor sharp.” He turned back to the platform. “When I clap my hands, you may seek your revenge.”

  Crouching, Bernstein and Schlieben faced each other, knives extended. There had been the shouts of mechanics and the clatter of tools when Brent had first entered the hangar deck. But strangely, all sounds faded as if frozen and destroyed by the intensity of the moment.

  The clap came from far away and the two men began to circle each other, waving their blades. The German scored first, lunging and nicking Bernstein’s nose. The Israeli wiped blood with his sleeve.

  “Ha! I’ll send your nose to join your foreskin, hund.” The Israeli faked a thrust. The German leaped back.

  “What’s wrong, Nazi… killing women and children too easy… miss your gas chambers?”

  Fascinated, Brent watched as both men circled each other warily. Both appeared experienced with no advantage in size or reach. But the German searched Bernstein’s eyes while the Israeli concentrated on his enemy’s feet. Perhaps, the edge in experience went to the intelligence officer. Certainly, an experienced brawler knew his enemy’s feet revealed more about balance and intent than anything else.

  But Schlieben scored next. Faking a backswing, the German lunged, catching the Israeli waist high, ripping cloth, staining khaki red.

  “Ha, Juden. I will finish it. You escaped Zyklon B but you won’t be so lucky this time.”

  Obviously hurt, the Israeli staggered backward, leaving coagulating blood on the deck, holding his side with the captain close behind, pressing. But a horizontal slash drove Schlieben back. Bending very low, the German weaved back and forth like a cobra. But the Israeli recovered, stood square to his enemy, blade extended. Another lunge. The Israeli leaped backward, again clutching his waist. Then the retreat began, Bernstein stepping backward, leaving a trail of blood; Schlieben advancing, swinging his wakizashi viciously from left to right and back.

  Sensing his opponent was weakening, the German lunged much like a swordsman, stabbing at his enemy’s stomach, arm extended full length. But with surprising speed the Israeli leaped aside and countered. To Brent, the next moment seemed to freeze, suspended in time and space like a stop-action film.

  The German lost his balance. Either he slipped on blood or he simply stumbled. But the loss of balance sent him twisting into nine and one-half inches of razor sharp steel, which entered his body at the waist.

  There was the howl of a mortally injured animal and the two men wrapped arms around each other, standing in a macabre embrace and rocking like drunken lovers. Schlieben’s knife clattered to the floor and then the German collapsed slowly on his back, clutching his stomach, which erupted with gouts of blood. Breathing deeply with knife in hand, the Israeli stood over his enemy.

  “You have won,” Fujita said. “You are satisfied?”

  But the Israeli stared down silently at his writhing, groaning enemy. Suddenly, with his knife in his teeth, he grabbed the screaming German by the shoulders and dragged him onto the platform. Then a quick motion of the knife and a hard tug on the trousers exposed Schlieben’s genitals.

  The Israeli dropped to his knees. “Do you know what a Sandek is, Kapitan?” The German could only groan his reply. “He performs circumcisions, Herr Kapiton.”

  “No!” the German managed to shout, writhing in his pooling blood.

  Leaning over the German, the Israeli spoke casually. “Abraham circumcised himself, but you’re lucky; I’m going to do it for you.”

  “No!” The German tried to roll away, but the Israeli held him easily with one hand. Then he brought the blade high over his head. “The seal of God!” he shouted. Cleaving like a butcher’s blade, the steel thudded into the German’s genitals. A shriek. The knife flashed again and again, spraying blood and torn flesh. Frenzied, Bernstein was killing like a shark maddened by the scent of blood.

  Nauseated, Brent turned away as the German’s dying screams echoed from wall to wall. But the Japanese leaned forward, eyes gleaming, savoring every moment. Then, suddenly, there was silence. Slowly, the Israeli stood, knife falling to the deck, blood-soaked uniform hanging.

  “Splendid,” Fujita said. “Your vengeance has been fulfilled.”

  The Israeli began to laugh. “He’s won… won,” he managed, gesturing. “It can’t be avenged. It’s empty. It’s only a lesson. That’s what it will always be. A lesson taught six million times over.” Then, wide-eyed, the Israeli stiffened and then bent, racked by a spasm. Reeling, he was struck by more spasms, vomiting on the German’s chest and face.

  Slowly, Bernstein sagged to the floor, collapsing across his dead enemy.

  *

  Although Bernstein was in great pain and weak, he insisted on monitoring Green One the next morning when the strikes took off for the Israeli coast. Glancing back as he took off, Yoshi Matsuhara could see Brent Ross in his usual position next to Admiral Fujita on the flag bridge. The Yankee had little stomach for the Israeli’s revenge on the German. It had been exquisite, almost poetic, the way the man had killed. And now the Japanese had something to settle with the Arabs.

  He wo
uld never forget Captain Fite’s face when he described the horror of the Mayeda Mara. Over a thousand corpses, some more than a week old, had assailed them with an overwhelming stench. Most had been garotted, but some had been clubbed and others stabbed. No one had died quickly.

  Banking to the left and looking back at the carrier, the flight leader felt impatience. The bombers were slow to take off and form. Angrily, he threw his head back, striking the headrest. Sarah Aranson came back. He struck his head with a gloved fist.

  “Leave me alone!” he shouted into the slipstream. “Will I ever kill enough?”

  She was attracted to the American. He had seen that from the first night in Tokyo when he followed her to the alley where Brent Ross had killed the Sabbah. That night the American had been a samurai. And he had completed a mission to Tel Aviv. Shot down a Douglas. He had even saluted him. And why had Fujita sent the American? Someone else could have gone. Even a rating. Certainly, the old admiral was aware of the attraction. Missed nothing. Maybe Bernstein and Fujita had conspired.

  Pushing left rudder and increasing manifold pressure slightly, Matsuhara continued his wide swing around the carrier. But only half the bombers were in the air. His mind went back to Brent Ross. The American had no stomach for the Jew’s revenge on the Nazi. Maybe he had found Sarah Aranson in Tel Aviv and had left his hunger for war and vengeance between the woman’s loins. The true samurai had an insatiable appetite. But westerners lacked the strength of the Japanese. Even the Jew found his triumph empty and a mockery of a crime so enormous he found revenge impossible.

  “Only a lesson,” the Israeli had said.

  Yoshi snorted. Did Brent Ross still ache for his revenge? Did he still seek justice for his father’s death? He must, despite the woman who would fade with time, anyway.

  And what about Tokyo? His father, Seiko, mother, Akemi, brother, Hachiro, burned by Curtis LeMay like trash. Someone must pay for their deaths.

  Swiveling his head as he gained altitude, the air group commander finally sighed with satisfaction as the last Nakajima lumbered from the deck. Forty-six Zeros, twenty-three Aichis and twenty-one Nakajimas. That was all that was left. Many samurai had entered the Yasakuni Shrine. But these were Japanese. The best. And there was a score to settle.