by Peter Albano
There was a flurry of yellow and white as handlers released tie-downs and chocks and raced for their catwalks. With its Sakae roaring hungrily, the first Zero roared down the flight deck. Then one after another, the gleaming white fighters raced down the short runway and climbed into the sky.
“A trimotor! A trimotor, admiral!” Brent said, leaning into his glasses.
“That’s a JU-fifty-two,” a new voice said behind him.
In a moment Adm. Mark Allen stood at Fujita’s other side, adjusting his helmet strap with one hand and raising his binoculars with the other. A whitehaired veteran of twelve WWII carrier battles, scholar and expert on Japan, the admiral — along with Brent Ross — was on liaison from Naval Intelligence and served as Fujita’s adviser at general quarters.
“The JU has Swissair markings, Admiral Fujita,” Brent said.
“I can only judge her by her company, ensign. She will die with the others.” The old sailor turned to the talker, saying, “Radar! Range to the nearest enemy aircraft!”
“Fifteen kilometers, sir.”
“All ahead flank!”
“You still have three fighters to launch, admiral. In this wind, you’ll blow them off the deck.”
“They will take their chances, Admiral Allen.”
Brent felt a new surge as the ship’s engines strained at the load and eighty-four thousand tons of steel smashed into the swell, exploding spray into glistening rainbows, hull booming its objections with hollow reverberations.
There was a cheer from some portside gunners.
“Our CAP has shot down a pair of fighters, admiral, and the JU’s going in.”
“Very well.”
The flight deck reverberated with the blasts of radial engines at full throttle, and two more A6M2s clawed for altitude. One remained.
“Range?”
“Six kilometers, admiral.”
“Main battery, stand by to engage aircraft to port — local control.” The old Japanese leaned over the windscreen impatiently. “Launch that last Zero-sen!”
With an uneven roar, the last fighter leaped as its pilot released his brakes. Brent saw a flash of white, then heard a backfire. In horror, he watched as the Mitsubishi faltered, then lifted in a sudden gust.
“Too short! Too short!”
Tilting to its left, the little plane caught the flight deck with a wing tip and catapulted crazily over the port side, shedding a wing and smashing into the nine man crew of a 25 millimeter mount.
“No rescue!” Fujita shouted at the talker as the little plane crashed into the sea and began twisting into the depths in Yonaga’s boiling wake.
“Admiral,” Mark Allen said suddenly, “I would suggest your destroyers form a tighter screen. They must be ranging at least five hundred yards. We need those five-inch thirty-eights in closer, sir.”
“Very well.” The old man turned to the talker. “Radio room — bridge to bridge. Escorts close on me to two hundred meters.”
Thunder rolled as the two American destroyers to starboard began firing. Brent had always been amazed by the speed of each ship’s five, five inch, thirty-eight caliber cannons — cannons which could fire over twenty rounds per minute, turning the Fletchers into volcanos that belched flashes through clouds of brown smoke.
“In range, admiral.”
“Commence firing!”
Like a thunderclap, twenty 127 millimeter guns fired as one. Groaning, Brent twisted his head but kept his glass on the approaching raid. The smell of cordite, the excited shouts of gunners, and the clang of brass casings on steel froze his stomach, and he felt his heart pound like a war drum, the hum of blood in his ears. His glasses trembled as they brought the carnage close; enemy fighters and bombers were being ripped by Zeros from above and below, yet at least a half-dozen bombers bored in toward the carrier while the bulk of Yonaga’s CAP engaged and pursued five or six ME-109s. Brent knew some of the enemy bombers would get through. Then he saw the two long cylinders.
“Torpedoes, admiral,” he said sharply. “Slung under the AT-sixes.”
“They’ll try to distract us with the high level and sneak in their fish while we’re looking up,” Mark Allen said.
“Put us on the anvil with their two torpedo bombers,” Fujita mused. “We shall see!”
Ignoring the ugly brown smears of AA filling the air, the surviving enemy planes wheeled slowly toward Yonaga and into the precise focus of Brent Ross’s glasses. Every detail became clear: two HE-111s with glazed noses armed with 20 millimeter guns, twin Jumo-211A liquid-cooled engines, slender fuselages and high rudders like shark’s fins; two Douglas DC-3s powered by huge Pratt and Whitney engines with landing gear tucked into the nacelles like double chins, round, pregnant fuselages and bomb bay doors cut into their bellies; and a pair of North American AT-6 Texans with Pratt and Whitney engines, high canopies and rear-pointing machine guns and huge, glistening torpedoes slung under their bellies. Brent choked off a gasp as the torpedo planes dived suddenly, once circling far ahead of the carrier.
“Torpedo planes beginning their runs, admiral,” the young American said through tight lips.
“Very well.”
“Don’t change course yet, Admiral Fujita.”
“I know, Admiral Allen. Let them commit themselves.”
The old American nodded into his glasses.
A new ripping sound drifted across the water as the Fletchers opened fire with scores of 20 millimeter and 40 millimeter guns. There were staccato blasts from Yonaga’s foretop, and then the galleries leaped with fire as triple-mounted 25 millimeter batteries exploded to life, spraying the approaching planes with garlands of smoking tracers.
The AT-6, circling ahead of the carrier, was caught by Captain Fite’s fire and blasted from the sky like a swatted fly. A Heinkel lost a wing and dropped into a tight spin, crashing into the sea in a hundred-foot column of water and debris. A DC-3 exploded, then a pair of Zeros pounced on the other, killing its crew with long bursts. Another Japanese fighter put a burst into a Heinkel’s wing, breaking it off at the root. It was so close, Brent could see it spill entrails of colored wires and fuel lines as it twisted into the sea.
Now one HE-111 remained, making its run close to the water from port while the AT-6 was coming hard on the starboard bow.
“Right full rudder!” Fujita screamed. “Steady up on two-two-zero.”
“Good! Good!” Allen said. “Give him the bow.”
Recklessly, the Heinkel bored in, ignoring the storm of tracers and pursuing Zeros with the intensity of a man bent on suicide.
Brent dropped his glasses to his waist, stared upward with both hands gripping the windscreen with white knuckles. There was nausea and sour gorge rising. But he choked it back. Squared his shoulders as the same terrifying thoughts that crowd the minds of all men caught in combat filled his. They were coming for him, Brent Ross. These strange men in those old bombers wanted his blood — his alone. Again he felt the urge to run. To hide. The same panic he had known off Tripoli. But, again, he stood up to himself. Choked it back, presenting the cold visage of the samurai.
Not more than 200 feet high, and with one engine streaming smoke, the bomber was on them. Suddenly, six shiny black cylinders dropped away and arced toward Brent. But the bombardier had waited a split-second too long. Five of the bombs whistled over the deck and exploded in the sea off the port quarter. There was a sharp blast and shriek of tortured metal as the sixth struck a 127 millimeter mount, blowing the cannon into the sea, followed by its crew that rained into the water like broken mannequins.
As the bomber flashed overhead, its burning engine ripped out of its nacelle and tore away with most of the wing. Shedding pieces of aluminum like a reptile flaking skin and trailing ganglias of wires and fuel lines, the dying Heinkel flipped onto its back and smashed into the sea, cartwheeling crazily across the surface, revolving, flinging pieces and finally coming to rest in a great spray of water.
“Torpedo dead ahead!” rang from the fore
top.
“I have her,” Fujita said, moving forward, followed by Brent, Mark Allen, and the talker.
Brent studied the approaching streak. “We may take in on the port bow, admiral.”
“Left one point.”
A voice from the tube repeated the admiral’s command.
“If she’s a ‘homer,’ we’ll eat it, admiral,” Allen said.
“You mean either magnetic or turbulence.”
“Correct! Even acoustical, admiral.”
Fujita turned to the talker. “All stop!”
Brent felt the vibrations of the great engines come to a halt.
“Helmsman is to let me know the instant he begins to lose steerageway,” Fujita shouted to the talker.
Hypnotized, Brent watched the approaching streak, not even noticing the AT-6 plummet to its grave. In seconds, the torpedo passed to starboard and was soon lost astern.”
“Banzai! Banzai!”
Brent felt a sudden deflation, a draining of emotion. “I’m alive,” a little voice said. “It’s over and I’m alive.” The ensign smiled to himself.
“Cease fire, all ahead standard, steady on one-two-zero,” Fujita said. “Bridge to bridge — Captain Fite, pick up survivors, resume one-two-zero, speed eighteen, standard cruising formations.” The talker repeated the commands into the mouthpiece while Fujita’s narrow black eyes moved around the bridge like glistening ebony, pausing on Brent Ross. The power there brought a surge of pride. The young man’s back was suddenly steel, and he squared his shoulders which felt a yard wide.
“Swimmers in the water! Swimmers, bearing two-eight-zero, range fifteen hundred!” rang from the foretop.
Raising his glasses, Brent saw part of the fuselage and tail of the JU-52 still above water with survivors clinging to the rudders. A Fletcher moved slowly toward the wreckage.
“Bridge to bridge,” Fujita shouted. “Transfer all survivors to the flagship immediately.” And then in a thick voice: “To all hands, you showed great yamato damashii! Banzai! Banzai!”
“Banzai!” reverberated through the ship again and again, accompanied by the rumble of thousands of boots struck sharply on steel.
The ancient Japanese turned to the Americans. “In your own tradition, Admiral Allen and Ensign Ross — well done! Well done!”
Despite a thickness in his throat, Brent managed a deep, “Thank you, sir.”
Then side by side, the Americans saluted.
After a hasty response, Fujita turned back to the talker. “Secure from general quarters. Set the sea watch, condition two of readiness. Department heads will meet with me in Flag Plot at fourteen hundred hours.”
The old man turned and walked slowly from the bridge.
Chapter Two
When Brent Ross entered Flag Plot, Adm. Mark Allen was speaking. “The Russians aren’t giving Kadafi their latest torpedoes, Admiral Fujita.”
Quickly, Brent seated himself in his usual place next to Allen while Fujita nodded from his chair at the head of the long oak table. Located between the flag bridge and the admiral’s quarters and furnished with a single table, a dozen chairs, bulkhead mounted charts, blower, speaker, communications equipment bolted on a corner table manned by a rating, the long room boasted a large equestrian picture of a youthful Emperor Hirohito fixed to the bulkhead behind Fujita.
“Yes, Admiral Allen,” Fujita said, nodding agreement. “That seems to be the consensus of the staff.”
Brent suppressed a chuckle with difficulty. Staff! What a strange mélange of age, race, and nationality clustered around the table; he and the elderly Mark Allen were both graduates of Annapolis, experts on language and on loan from Naval Intelligence (NIS); on liaison from Israeli Intelligence, Col. Irving Bernstein with sparse white hair, deeply lined face, and a neat mustache, was a tattooed survivor of Auschwitz and expert on codes, ciphers, and cryptanalysis; Executive Officer Capt. Masao Kawamoto, graduate of Eta Jima — Japan’s Annapolis — nearly seven decades before; he was shriveled and thin as a bamboo stalk, as though the flesh had been burned from his bones by the mid-Atlantic sun; Scribe Lt. Kenji Hironaka, also an Eta Jima graduate, who showed his age in a face fallen into a desiccated ruin of crisscrossing lines and pockets of sagging flesh, a permanently curved spine hunching him over his pad where he brushed ideograms with a trembling hand while giggling sporadically at private jokes; incongruously youthful Gunnery Officer Commander Nobomitsu Atsumi with black hair and eyes bright and dark as polished onyx, showing only a few lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth to hint at his sixty-two years.
The flight leader Commander, Yoshi Matsuhara, was not in the room.
Admiral Fujita tapped a pad with a single gnarled finger. “We lost two Zero-sens and their pilots. Also, eight gunners entered the Yasakuni Shrine, and twelve more were wounded. However, the single bomb hit did not damage our hull or impair Yonaga’s ability to fight. Eighteen of the enemy planes were destroyed and the rest put to flight! Our ETA, Tokyo Bay, remains unchanged.”
“Banzai! Banzai!” Hironaka and Kawamoto sputtered, spraying saliva and staggering from their chairs. A wave from Fujita sent them toppling back.
“The prisoners, sir?” Brent Ross asked.
“Four, ensign. They are being examined by our medical staff and will be sent to us immediately.”
There was a knock. A nod from the admiral sent a rating to the door. The flight leader commander, Yoshi Matsuhara entered, followed by a pilot Brent recognized as Lt. Nobutake Konoye who had commanded the ready Zeros. Both men, wearing swords and still in their brown flight suits and clutching helmets, goggles and hachimachi headbands, stood at attention facing Admiral Fujita.
Unusually tall for a Japanese, Commander Yoshi Matsuhara had a very un-Japanese visage with large eyes, aquiline nose, and sharp chin. His black hair appeared bleached in silver-white streaks from years of salt and sun. By contrast, Lt. Nobutake Konoye was short and squat with narrow eyes and a strong square jaw to match his massive physique, which appeared to be made of roughly hewn boulders. Burning pinpoints, his eyes were sheltered beneath massive black brows and a valance of coal-black hair.
Both men still wore the outline of their goggles on their faces.
“Fine interception, Commander Matsuhara,” the old admiral said. “You broke up the bomber swarm.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Your losses?”
“Lt. Tamon Kajioka and NAP First Class, Heijiro Abe both honored their hachimachi headbands, dying for the emperor with great Yamato damashii, admiral.”
“Their spirits dwell in the Yasakuni Shrine,” Hironaka shouted suddenly.
Ignoring the scribe, Fujita moved his eyes to Konoye. Brent noticed a warning glint smoldering in the depths. “You led the ready Zeros!”
“Yes, sir,” the pilot answered in a crater-deep voice.
“There were bombers in the air — making their runs on Yonaga while you chased fighters,” Fujita spat, voice stinging like a whip.
“I have no excuses. I made the choice, feeling it was tactically correct and giving Commander Matsuhara —”
“Enough! You made the decision agreeable to you.” The old admiral leaned forward, fists clutched on the desk like old roots. “The Haga Kure teaches that a man who chooses only what is agreeable to him is useless.”
They lapsed into silence so that the whine of the blowers and hum of the turbines intruded like whispers.
The deep voice, suddenly flat and dead, broke the silence. “With your permission, sir, the Haga Kure also teaches to attack first and kill or be killed even if you face a thousand enemies.”
“The bombers! The bombers! Always the bombers!” Fujita shouted, pounding on the polished oak with a bent fist. “They were your thousand enemies.”
Again silence filled the compartment.
The square jaw worked slowly, neck cords bulging. “Sir,” Konoye said, “with your permission, I will commit seppuku immediately.”
The mention of ritualistic suicide
sent an electric shock pulsing through the room. A dozen spines stiffened.
“Splendid and honorable thing you would do,” Fujita acknowledged, respect softening the anger in his voice, “But no, I cannot give you permission. At this moment, the emperor is in far more need of live pilots than dead heroes.”
“I cannot drink gall, sir.”
“Said like a samurai! Then remember your priorities. Always the bombers!”
The pilot continued tensely: “Please, admiral — remember my request.”
“Of course. But you should remember, too, Lieutenant Konoye, I contemplated the honorable exit at the sharp end of a wakizashi, when we lost all the hostages at Tripoli. I and I alone was at fault. But I made the same decision for myself that I have made for you. The emperor needs us both!”
“Banzai,” Hironaka and Kawamoto shouted.
Konoye’s implacable face showed no emotion as he spoke. “Thank you, sir, I understand.”
The reference to the hostages jolted Brent’s memory. Over a thousand hostages had been taken by Kadafi’s terrorists when a band of thugs captured the Japanese liner Mayeda Maru and steamed her triumphantly into Tripoli Harbor. Everyone remembered the uproar in Japan, the emperor’s unprecedented personal plea to Admiral Fujita, the CIA’s secret acquisition of seven Fletchers, the Arabs’ jihad against Israel, the long voyage around South America that avoided the Suez Canal and Arab eyes. Then the massive, costly air battles over Misratah and Al Khalil where Fujita’s veterans destroyed Kadafi’s fighter strength. And the horror of the surface engagement when Yonaga was caught by the Brooklyn class cruiser and her escorts. Only Fujita’s uncanny grasp of tactics, and the suicidal bravery of his pilots, saved the great carrier.
Capt. John Fite’s brave run into Tripoli Harbor was perhaps the most courageous act of the campaign. Disguised as an Arab destroyer, Fite had taken his ship alongside the Mayeda Maru while Yonaga’s air groups savaged the harbor. Here, the American captain had found the ultimate horror; every passenger and crewman was dead, long dead. Killed slowly by garroting and dismemberment.
Brent recalled the rage and hunger for vengeance when Fujita had hurled his “avenging eagles” at the Arabs who threatened to drive Israeli forces into the sea at Al Khalil. A terrible revenge was exacted, and the Arab armies broke and fled before the combined power of the Israelis and Japanese.