Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “He will soon be turned over to the ultimate authority, Admiral Allen. They can judge him.”

  “This is wrong, sir. Unjust, inhuman…”

  “We are dealing with a dog, not a human. And please, Admiral Allen, do not attempt to remind me of my responsibilities.” The voice was surprisingly cordial.

  “Let me pray, admiral. Please, sir. One last prayer.” Fujita gestured and the guards untied the Arab’s hands. “A rug — please, a rug.”

  Fujita waved to a rating. The man rushed forward and spread a tatami mat on the platform. With his feet still bound, the Arab wriggled onto the mat like a young seal. “East? East?”

  Gesturing with his sword, Atsumi said quietly, “Mecca is in that direction.”

  Khalifa bowed to the east with his forehead touching the floor and began to chant, “There is no God but Allah and Mohammad is his prophet.” He repeated the prayer a half-dozen times and then looked up at Fujita. “I am ready for my haj, you yellow monkey!”

  “Behead him!” Fujita shouted.

  The Arab struggled up onto his knees, swinging. Brutally, a guard smashed him to the platform with a blow to the neck. In a moment, the hands were tied down again and the basket waited. “Proceed, Commander Atsumi,” Fujita barked.

  “Allah akbar! Allah akbar!” the doomed man cried over and over. Atsumi raised his sword and paused, and the world paused with him. No hammers, tools, blowers, engines, or anything else made a sound. Then there was a flash of steel, a hum like passing wings of death, a thud of steel crunching through flesh and bone and the cries ceased, the head crunched into the basket and blood spurted onto the platform.

  Fujita spoke to the corpse. “Death, though cold as ice, is a fire which will purify your body.” He turned to Kawamoto. “Place him in that box.” He indicated a crate in a corner. “Address it to the Libyan Embassy.”

  “Deliver it, sir?”

  “No. Place it outside our perimeter, phone them and tell them to pick it up. If they do not, he can go out with the garbage.” He moved his eyes over the rigid ranks. “You are dismissed!”

  As Brent left with Mark Allen, the admiral said softly, “Barbaric, Brent. It’s still there.”

  “But, sir,” Brent said just as softly, “what could he do?”

  “What could he do?” Allen repeated incredulously.

  “Yes, sir. He had no choice. They must be shown.”

  “My God, Brent. My God. What’s happening to you?”

  But Brent did not wonder at the words. It had been right. It had been just.

  *

  Work on Yonaga proceeded rapidly, and there always seemed to be at least twenty Zeros circling the warship as new pilots practiced with the veterans. There were no intruders, but early Monday a JAL Constellation wandered too close to Yonaga’s airspace and a dozen Zeros pounced, one firing a burst ahead of the transport. In haste born of panic, the pilot of the big Lockheed wheeled her into a sharp bank and fled for the airport. Hundreds of Yonaga’s seamen pointed and laughed.

  Yoshi Matsuhara spent all of Monday and most of Tuesday at the airport. Brent noticed a new gleam in the pilot’s eye and spring to his step when he left the ship.

  “Got a date tonight, Yoshi?” Brent whispered to the commander late Tuesday afternoon as the flyer returned, passing Brent’s station next to the Nambu at the foot of the accommodation ladder.

  Matsuhara’s smile was warm. “Come to think of it, I do have some plans. And you?”

  Brent chuckled. “I might get away for a little while, Yoshi.”

  They both laughed.

  *

  Kimio Ursazawa’s home was a large traditional wood-frame structure in Shibuya-Ku district of Tokyo. After removing his shoes, Kimio ushered Yoshi into the main room, seating him on a zabuton placed in front of the Tokonoma — a vase with an artful arrangement of cherry blossoms in front of an exquisite pen and ink sketch. Kimio was dressed in a tight kimono, and her hair again was done in classic style. After filling his cup with hot sake, she sat opposite him.

  “It is generous of you, Yoshi-san, to find time in your busy schedule to honor my humble home.”

  He smiled at the time-honored, self-deprecatory opening of the Japanese hostess.

  “No, indeed, Kimio,” he said, following the ancient script. “It is I who is honored — a mere sailor invited into such a splendid dwelling by such a lovely hostess.” He emptied his cup. She filled it.

  “We almost forgot,” he said quickly, raising his cup. “The emperor.”

  “The emperor,” she echoed. They drank, and surprisingly the cup was empty again and Kimio recharged them both. “You leave soon?”

  “That is classified.”

  “Everyone will see you leave. You cannot hide Yonaga. She is as big as Fuji-san. And there are rumors that an Arab force is gathering. Perhaps to attack Indonesia and then Japan.”

  “Rumors,” he said cautiously. “I am only a flyer who follows his orders.”

  “Yoshi-san,” she said suddenly, lightening her voice. “Let’s shut out the world tonight. Just you and I and nothing else.” She held his eyes with hers, and again he felt that strange feverish feeling.

  “Yes, Kimio, I have never had that luxury. Yes. Let us try.”

  She rose slowly. “I have prepared a meal for you.” As she walked to the kitchen, Yoshi felt a physical jolt as he watched the smooth flow of her buttocks under the kimono.

  In a moment she returned and served the meal fit for the gods: sushi, exquisite eels in rice and soya sauce, tempura dipped in a thin batter and fried with mushrooms, sweet potatoes and green beans, bowls of steaming rice and soba. And his saka-zuki was kept filled.

  Sighing as he finished the gourmet meal, Yoshi relaxed, sipping more sake instead of tea. Kimio returned after clearing the table and sat toying with her own saka-zuki. He felt content and the sake was warm, adding a glow to everything. Kimio appeared even more beautiful. “You are a stunning woman,” he said with simple sincerity.

  “Thank you, Yoshi. You are an extremely handsome man.” He felt heat on his face. Reaching across the table, she took his hand. “You have not been with a woman for many, many years.”

  “You know that.” He captured her other hand. It felt like warm velvet.

  “You think I am attractive, Yoshi-san?”

  “You are beautiful. You have the body of a goddess.”

  “Would you like to see it?”

  Not believing his ears, he caught his breath as if someone had punched him in the solar plexus. “You do not owe me that.”

  “Would you like to see my body?” she repeated.

  His lips trembled and he felt a million tiny needles pressing against his face and neck. Incapable of forming the word, he nodded mutely.

  Slowly, she stood, moved to the center of the room and locked eyes with him. Hypnotized, he watched as she leisurely pulled the sprigs, combs and pins from her hair. Shaking her head, she sent the gleaming mass tumbling about her shoulders like a cascade of black silk. Then she untied the obi, released the fasteners and let the kimono fall open, revealing amber-tinted flesh and delicate white undergarments. The kimono slipped from her shoulders and slithered to the floor. Yoshi had trouble breathing, and his eyes, wide and unblinking, drank in the sculpted body clad only in fragile silk brassiere and narrow, lace-trimmed panties. He felt a force in the room — the power of her sexuality — that brought him to his feet like metal drawn to a magnet. Extending her hand, she said, “I am not doing this because you are a samurai who serves the emperor.”

  “Why, then? Why for me?”

  She looked at him, eyes glazed with passion. “At this moment, Yoshi-san, I serve myself.” She reached behind her and the brassiere fell away, releasing the mounds of her large pointed breasts.

  Yoshi raised his hands, cupped the breasts, caressing the areolas and nipples. She gasped and moved closer. The frustration of decades overwhelmed him, and he crushed her to him, kissing her mouth, eyes, neck, breasts, stomach, as s
he twisted and moaned. “The last is for you,” she hissed.

  At first he did not understand. Then she placed his hand on the elastic band, and he pulled down hard, ripping the silk of the panties as he tore off the garment, shaking like a man with palsy. There was thunder in his ears as he stared at the dark triangle of hair covering her sex. And her hands were busy, too, unbuttoning his tunic.

  “A pistol,” she said.

  “Yes. Orders.” Then, despite shaking, numbed fingers, he discarded the Otsu, and the rest of his uniform soon followed, strewn on the floor like old rags.

  Her eyes moved over his shoulders, small waist, muscular legs and turgid manhood. “You are magnificent, Yoshi-san.”

  Taking his hand, she led him to another room with a large futan. Slowly, she lay on her back and raised her hand to him. He lowered himself between her legs, and she raised her hips as he finally found the hot, liquid depths of her. She gasped and clawed his back, and the room seemed to turn like a carousel.

  Again and again he took her, frenzied and untiring until the early hours of the morning when he finally slipped from her and fell into a deep sleep — a rest of contentment and peace he had not known for over forty years.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Work progressed quickly and the five-inch magazine and the damaged bulkhead of engine room three were completely repaired within ten days. Another week found the outer hull patched and the fuel tanks repaired. But there was ominous news from the Mediterranean.

  Three weeks after entering dry dock, Admiral Fujita called a staff meeting. Frank Dempster, who had been ashore for a full week, stood in front of a chart attached to a bulkhead and said, pointing, “As you know, there is always a lot of tanker traffic here in the Gulf of Aden and especially here.” He moved the pointer northwest. “In the Gulf of Oman.”

  “Exiting the Persian Gulf,” Fujita suggested.

  “Yes, sir.” He turned back to the chart. “The US Navy has SSBNs on station here and here.” He stabbed points in the Arabian Sea just off the Gulf of Aden and the Gulf of Oman.

  “SSBN?” Kawamoto queried.

  “Sorry,” the CIA man said. “An SSBN was originally designed as a ‘boomer’ — missile boat; that is, before the Chinese laser system went into orbit. Now they are used as modified attack boats and for reconnaissance. I understand the boats on station are Ohios, both nuclear, nineteen thousand tons submerged, and they can stay there for months.”

  “Your report,” Fujita said impatiently. The CIA man’s face was flushed and his smile crooked. Brent, seated at the far end of the table with the junior officers, wondered if Dempster had been drinking.

  “Yes, sir. Three days ago, two two hundred thousand ton tankers exited the Gulf of Oman and headed southeast.”

  Fujita interrupted. “But ships of that size would not be fleet oilers.”

  “True, sir. But we have reports they’re headed for the Nicobar Islands.” The pointer slid to the west across 40° of longitude to a point north of the northern tip of Sumatra.

  Mark Allen spoke up. “The Nicobars are Indian.”

  “And India is under Kadafi’s heel,” Bernstein said.

  “I can’t believe that,” Mark Allen shot back.

  “It makes no difference, Mark,” Dempster said. “According to our information, the Arabs are setting up a floating base there — in the Nicobar Islands. Just the way we did at Kwajalein, Ulithi…”

  “I know, I know,” Allen said.

  Fujita seized the issue. “What is the registry of the tankers?”

  “Liberian.”

  “Convenience?”

  “Correct, admiral. They are Arab owned and Arab manned.”

  “Then they can anchor anywhere they like — in any neutral port. Your argument is academic.”

  Allen and Dempster stared at each other. “Of course,” Dempster conceded, reddening.

  Fujita pushed on. “And what about the fleet replenishment vessels? The fast twenty to thirty thousand ton tankers?”

  “Three exited the Gulf of Aden last night. All ex-Russians. Two thirty-five thousand tonners of the Berezina class and one twenty-five thousand ton tanker of the Boris Chiliken class.”

  “Then the large tankers can anchor anywhere, the smaller vessels can refuel their task force and off load more oil from the larger vessels.”

  “There’s nothing illegal about that, admiral,” Mark Allen agreed.

  “And the Russians and Arabs own your United Nations and the World Court?”

  “In my opinion,” Dempster said, “that is an accurate assessment, admiral.”

  Fujita’s eyes flashed to Bernstein. “Colonel, before the meeting you told me the Arab task force was underway.”

  “Yes. We just got the transmission. The Israeli Air Force reports three carriers, two cruisers, and perhaps twelve destroyers have made a transit of the Red Sea and should be entering the Gulf of Aden now. Our agents tell us they are headed for Indonesia.”

  Every back in the room stiffened, and the old admiral’s eyes roamed the table. “Now, with the movement of the tankers, we can be assured it has started.” He raised the pointer. “They should steam southeast across the Arabian Sea and pass south of the Maldive Islands and north of the Chagos Archipelago. Then due east across the Indian Ocean to a point west of Sumatra and south of the Nicobar Islands. That is a run of almost six thousand miles. They must refuel here.” The pointer struck the chart again west of Sumatra. “Then, if they wish to destroy the Indonesian fields and attack us, they must enter the Straits of Malacca.” He traced the pointer southeast through a narrow neck of water flanked by Malaysia on the north and Sumatra to the south. “And then into the Java Sea before they make their turn north to attack Japan.” He thumped the pointer on the deck thoughtfully. “A terrible place for heavy ships. Terrible!” The astonishing encyclopedic mind of the insatiable reader went to work. “During the Greater East Asia War, the British lost the Prince of Wales and Repulse here.” He stabbed a point off the Malay Peninsula. “The Dorsetshire and Cornwall here.” He indicated a point off Ceylon. He moved the pointer north of Java. “And that stupid Dutch admiral, Karel Doorman, lost Kortenaer, Electra, Jupiter, Java, De Ruyter, Houston, and Perth here, in confined waters.” He tapped the chart. “Here, in this graveyard of stupid seamanship, we will catch them!”

  “Banzai! Banzai!”

  The old admiral traced a line southwest from Tokyo through the Philippine Sea west of the Ryukyus, then north of Luzon and south into the South China Sea. “We have a run of fifteen hundred miles to intercept,” he said almost to himself. “We can engage them first and then refuel.” He spoke to the CIA man. “Mr. Dempster, you have permission for our tankers to anchor in Subic Bay?”

  “Yes, sir. They are underway from Valdez — should anchor in Subic Bay within forty-eight hours.” The CIA man glanced at a document. “The Philippine government has been deeply concerned about threats to the Indonesian fields. We have been negotiating for permission to use an old American strip at Puerto Princesa on Palawan in the event Yonaga’s flight deck is damaged. The Filipinos will not rearm or refuel our aircraft. However, they may allow them to land.”

  Fujita thumped the chart. “Good, good. You have done well, Mr. Dempster. Let us hope we do not need Palawan.” He stared thoughtfully at the American Intelligence agent. “But we still do not have their permission?”

  “Right, sir. But we expect it, and we should have their decision come over a NIS transmission from their ambassador in Washington tomorrow.”

  “They have as much at stake as we do,” Fujita grumbled. He turned to Kawamoto. “I want to put to sea by zero-eight hundred tomorrow morning.”

  “But, sir, the work is not finished.”

  “Our liberty parties will be back, we have restored watertight integrity to engine room three and the auxiliary five inch magazine.”

  “Yes, sir. But the bulkhead between fire rooms eleven and thirteen is holed. And we have not restored watertight integrity to
compartment five-seven-one, the starboard thrust block room, and the center motor room. I have calculated one hit on the starboard side aft would admit two thousand tons of seawater. Also, we have not completed provisioning…”

  Turning to Matsuhara, Fujita cut off Kawamoto with a wave. “Your fighters?”

  “Ready, sir.”

  To Commander Yamabushi: “Your bombers?”

  “Ready, sir.”

  To Captain Fite: “Escorts?”

  “Ready, sir!”

  “Engineering?”

  “All boilers are serviced and ready. Auxiliary engines are standing by and can take over as soon as we disconnect from shore power, and our fuel tanks are topped off.”

  “Light off all boilers now and tell Lieutenant Commander Kamakura to start flooding the dock.” The commander lifted a phone to his ear. Continuing, Fujita moved his eyes to Lieutenant Nobomitsu Atsumi. “Gunnery?”

  “All weapons and fire control are ready — magazines are full.”

  Fujita moved to Admiral Mark Allen. “Our encryption boxes, radar, radar detectors?”

  “All ready, sir. We have a new ESM — Electronic Support Measures — sensor that can record radar signals, classify frequency data, pulse repetition, power, and even ‘fingerprint’ the transmitter.”

  Despite confusion among the Japanese officers, Fujita returned to the executive officer. “But you are short of stores.”

  Kawamoto fidgeted nervously. “Yes, sir.”

  “Load as much as you can, especially rice, until we leave the dock, which should be in seven or eight hours.” He fingered a single white hair on his chin. “If necessary, we will go on half rations. But, regardless, we sortie tomorrow morning.”

  “Banzai! Banzai!”

  Dempster interrupted the shouts. “Sir! Sir! With your permission, I would like to remain aboard for this operation.” Silence.

  “There are grave dangers.”

  “I’m aware, sir.”

  “Very well. Welcome aboard.”

  *

  Although excitement was running high and Yonaga began to stir to life with the rumble of auxiliary engines and the roar of oil-fed boilers, Brent Ross found little to do. Not having the watch and with liberty cancelled, he walked to Yoshi Matsuhara’s cabin, mind filled with thoughts of Sarah.