by Peter Albano
Smiling, the flyer ushered Brent into his cabin. Relaxing in a hard-backed chair, Brent noticed nail clippers, scissors, paper, and an envelope in front of Yoshi. Seeing the question in the American’s eyes, the flyer said, “We samurai believe in preparing for all eventualities.” He gestured at his littered desk. “I am writing Kimio and enclosing fingernail and hair clippings.”
“Fingernails and hair?”
“Yes. If I die and my ashes are not returned to Nippon, she can cremate these.” He tapped the envelope. “And this will aid my spirit in entering the Yasakuni Shrine.”
Brent nodded. He had just written Sarah Aranson, pledging his love and promising to return. He told Yoshi of his note, adding, “But I didn’t include any hair or fingernails.”
“Well, Brent-san, she is a Jew and you a Christian,” Matsuhara said earnestly.
“Correct, Yoshi-san.” The use of the familiar address was involuntary, but surprised neither of the men.
“Well, then, you will have two of the more powerful religions on earth pushing your spirit. Certainly, your soul should have no trouble making its way to heaven.” The dead serious expression belied the absurdity of the statement. Matsuhara was actually trying to console him. Brent nodded his gratitude gravely.
“Brent-san,” Yoshi said with unaccustomed shyness. “Do you like poetry?”
Surprised by the question, Brent answered, “Why, yes, I have enjoyed Burns, Byron, Sandburg, Frost…”
“Haiku?”
“Why, yes. My father was quite fond of it.”
The pilot moved his eyes to a sheet of paper on his desk, and his face reddened slightly. “I am very fond of Kimio Urshazawa and I am grateful to you.”
Brent was shocked. A samurai was actually baring himself. “I’m pleased, Yoshi-san. A man is not complete without a woman.”
The commander sighed. “For most of my life, I flew to fight and to die not thinking of women, family, especially after the fire raid. But now there is Kimio and I still fly for the emperor, but I would like to return, Brent-san.” He looked into the American’s eyes, surprising Brent again with his next question. “Do you think this will lessen me as a warrior?”
“Recklessness creates corpses, not heroes for the emperor,” Brent said.
Yoshi chuckled. “Sometimes you sound more like a samurai than a Japanese.” And then he added seriously, “During those long years in Sano-Wan, I read every book on board — I can read English, French, and German, too,” he said with pride. He moved on. “Have you ever read Moby Dick, Brent-san?”
“Why, yes. It’s a classic.”
The Japanese drummed the table. “Do you think we are all Ahabs pursuing our white whales?”
The ensign shrugged. “The biblical Ahab pursued false gods. But I think Melville might agree with you.”
“Then my white whale is honor, tradition, and dying for my emperor.”
“And Yonaga is our Pequod, Yoshi-san?” Brent was fascinated by a side of Matsuhara he had never suspected.
“Why not? And your quest is really the same as mine: honor, tradition and —”
“But I would live for my country.” The ensign hunched forward. “I don’t measure my manhood, my fate, with the calculus of death, Yoshi-san.”
“That is where you are wrong, Brent-san. Dying well on the field is the ultimate goal of all samurai. We find eternal life through death.”
“Of course — I know, Yoshi-san. And you know I would not turn my back on it.”
Obviously pleased, the pilot returned his eyes to the desk and tapped the single sheet of paper. “I have written a poem to Kimio. I would like to read it to you.”
“Of course, Yoshi-san. I would be honored.”
The flyer read:
Like a kite
Torn from its string
By the winter’s storm
My heart has tumbled
To Kimio’s feet.
“It’s beautiful, Yoshi-san.”
“It’s haiku and you lose the meter in English. In Japanese, it consists of three lines of five, seven, and five syllables. That is where you find its true beauty.”
“No, Yoshi-san. The true beauty is in the thought, not meter or syllables.”
“You are wise for an American of such few years,” Yoshi said with a broad grin. He was interrupted by a slight motion detectable by only men who spend their lives at sea. “We are afloat, Brent-san.”
“Time for the last act, Yoshi-san.”
“Yes. I can hear the hyoshigi calling us.” Quickly he folded the letter and sealed the envelope.
Chapter Nineteen
Preceded by her charging escorts, Yonaga stood out the Urago Suido early the next morning. Clearing point Nojima Zaki to port and Oshima Island to starboard, Fujita set a course of one-eight-zero, speed eighteen. From his usual station on the bridge, Brent Ross experienced a resurgence of confidence, feeling the thump of the four great engines in the steel grid under his feet. Yonaga was free of the beach, her umbilicals cut, her skin patched and her heartbeat strong again.
The morning was dark and foreboding with a large swell from the southwest taking the carrier on her port bow, lifting her and rolling her 84,000 tons gently as she crunched valleys in the endless combers, shearing off tons of gray water and flinging spray as high as the hangar deck. And the CAP could be heard but not seen in a solid overcast that was gray, too, like the flesh of day-old corpses. Shuddering, Brent plunged his hands deep into the pockets of his foul-weather jacket.
Fujita called him to the chart table. “We are on the one hundred fortieth meridian and will steam one-eight-zero until we reach the thirty-second parallel. Then we will change course to two-two-seven and enter the Philippine Sea here.” He ran a finger down the chart. Brent nodded and returned to the windscreen. He was off watch, but remained with the admiral, sweeping the horizon with his binoculars.
By noon the sky had cleared and the sea calmed. Bathed in brilliant sunlight, the carrier slashed through the flat sea like a knife through blue velvet. Everyone’s spirits buoyed with the weather.
The talker, Seaman Naoyuki, turned to the admiral. “Radar reports large formations of aircraft approaching from three-five-five, range three hundred kilometers, sir.”
“Very well. Our new airgroups,” Fujita said. “All ready guns track aircraft bearing three-five-five. CIC vector in the CAP.” Brent smiled to himself — the old man never took chances. After the passage of a few minutes, a deep rumble could be heard high in the sky and astern of the carrier. Raising his binoculars, Brent found echelon after echelon of aircraft flying in the usual Japanese formation of three threes of three. There were “banzais” from the flight deck.
“Stand by to take aboard aircraft,” Fujita shouted at Naoyuki. Commands were shouted, hoists made and executed and the great carrier swung slowly into the wind.
Brent sensed a new presence on the bridge. It was Yoshi Matsuhara who leaned anxiously over the windscreen, staring at the flight deck as the first aircraft, an Aichi D3A, made its approach.
“Damn, Brent,” the flyer said, pounding the rail. “I should have led them in.”
“Why, Yoshi?” Brent asked, gesturing high in the sky where gleaming white Zeros wheeled like restless sea birds. “Takamura and Kojima are the best. You said so yourself.”
“I know, I know, but I do not like being here while they are up there.”
Brent chuckled. “Join the club.”
“The club?”
Brent laughed, “I mean, that is all we know.”
The pilot smiled understanding.
After all the new aircraft landed, Matsuhara rushed to the gallery deck while Fujita shocked everyone with his next command. “Course two-two-seven, speed thirty.”
“Thirty?” Mark Allen said.
Fujita turned slowly to the American admiral. “I will discuss this decision with you in due time, Admiral Allen.”
“Of course, admiral. It was not a. challenge.”
*
At 30 knots, the task force penetrated the Philippine Sea quickly, leaving the Bonin Islands over the eastern horizon and Okinawa far over the western horizon to starboard. The next day Brent was called to the radio room by Cryptographer Pierson. Pushing his way into the crowded room, filled with green-glowing cathode ray tubes, computers, and bank after bank of electronic equipment, Brent finally stood behind the young cryptographer, who also stood watches at the ESM console. The young man was listening intently on his earphones and staring at the scope of a radar sensor. He glanced at the ensign with dark intelligent eyes, and his voice was hesitant as he slid an earphone from his right ear. “I think someone is out there and they’re curious, Mr. Ross.”
The man had an uncanny knack for detecting and interpreting signals. Knowing Pierson was on to something, Brent leaned forward.
“There it is again, sir.” Pierson clutched his earphone. Brent gestured to a bulkhead-mounted speaker. The technician threw a switch and static rasped. But then a faint fuzzy beep — one only. Then several seconds later, it was repeated.
Because radar could be detected at distances far greater than it could generate returns, Brent knew the chances were excellent they were undetected. Anyway, when an operator picked up a target, he focused the beam on the blip, and sensors on the target vessel would emit a constant high-pitched sound. This strange sweep was making the standard search of the unalerted operator.
Pierson stared at his scope, changed scales, cursed, turned another knob. He gestured at the dark patches on the edge of the scope. “He’s probably out there in that storm front — that’s why our scouts haven’t seen him.”
The fuzzy beep came through again and again. “He’s not targeting us,” Brent observed.
“No, sir. He’d direct his beam right at us, and we’d get a steady hum.” He turned a dial, threw two switches. “X-band, eight Gigahertz, maybe fifteen kilowatts, range about one hundred forty miles. Powerful, not a merchantman, Mr. Ross, but mounted on a small ship.”
“How can you tell?”
“At this range, the curvature of the earth causes the beam to pass over us.” The speaker beeped again, a blurred, hazy sound. “Hear that, sir? His beam width is only about four degrees and we’re getting the downside edge. That’s why it’s fuzzy, like not tuning a radio station’s carrier wave in on dead center. If he were targeting us, you know we’d get a steady, clear sound.”
Brent nodded. “You said it’s a small vessel?”
“Yes, sir. With a four degree beam and at a range of maybe one hundred forty miles, his antenna is less than two feet in diameter. A large ship would have a bigger antenna on a high mast, and they’d be ranging us by now, sir.”
A faint dot appeared on the edge of the scope, partially hidden by the storm. “There he is, sir. A sub or an AGI, I would guess, Mr. Ross.”
“Good work, Pierson,” Brent said.
“Report this to the OD?”
“No. I’ll report it to the admiral myself. He’s on the flag bridge.”
Just minutes later, Brent had worked his way through the crowded radio room, to the pilot house and up the ladder to the flag bridge to Admiral Fujita, who listened to the report with intense concentration. He lifted a phone and shouted commands. After cradling the phone, he turned to Brent. “A camera equipped B-five-N will make a run over the target.”
“It may be an enemy sub or AGI, sir. He’ll know we’re nearby.”
“They know, anyway, Mr. Ross. The whole world knows we are at sea.” He smiled slyly. “Let us hope it is an intelligence vessel. We will give him a good look.”
Perplexed, Brent lifted his glasses to the clouds on the far horizon.
*
“It’s a Ruskie AGI of the Primorye class,” Mark Allen said, seated in Flag Plot staring at the photograph. “Four thousand tons, top speed maybe fourteen knots. A real intelligence factory.”
“Good. Good,” Fujita said. He turned to Lieutenant Commander Atsumi and gave a command that baffled every man in the room. “Come to one-seven-three. Speed sixteen.”
“Sir,” Mark Allen said. “He’ll pick us up for sure.”
“I know, Admiral Allen, I know.”
*
The next afternoon, steaming slowly, Yonaga passed within six miles of the small trawlerlike vessel laden with antennas. She was so close, two of the carriers’ screening Fletchers actually passed outboard of her.
“She flies Russian colors,” Brent said, staring through his binoculars. At that moment six Zeros banked sharply and ‘ran the Russian’s keel’ from bow to stern, Sakaes at full throttle. Sluggishly, the little vessel turned away, showing Yonaga her stern. Everyone laughed.
Fujita turned to the talker. “Make the hoist, execute to follow, course two-two-seven.” He moved to the voice tube, eyes on Brent Ross.
The ensign swept his binoculars over the far-flung escorts, who were still in visible range to permit signaling by flags, pennants, and flashing lights. “All answer, sir.”
“Very well. Seaman Naoyuki, flag bridge execute.” To the voice tube: “Come right to two-two-seven.” He looked up at the fast disappearing AGI. “Now, Ivan, tell your Arab friends about our sixteen knot speed.” He turned to Brent. “Your man manning the radar sensor?”
“Pierson, sir. The best.”
“I want to know the instant we are out of Ivan’s radar sweep.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The old man was up to something — the keen tactical mind was grinding behind those glinting black eyes. But what? Why this deliberate contact? He shrugged. They would all find out soon enough. Maybe on the business ends of bombs and torpedoes. He returned to his binoculars.
*
The staff meeting was called immediately after Cryptographer Pierson reported the AGI’s signals weak and finally vanished completely. Immediately, Fujita ordered speed increased to 30 knots.
Clutching a handful of printouts, Dempster entered smiling and excited. “Admiral,” he said as the staff members seated themselves, “the Philippine government will allow us the use of the strip at Puerto Princesa on Palawan.”
“Excellent.”
But Mark Allen had grim news. “Cryptographer Herrerra just handed me this.” He waved a sheet. “A US submarine spotted the Arab task force about two hundred miles, three hundred twenty kilometers, southwest of Ceylon, or Sri Lanka, as it is called now.” He looked down and read, “Longitude seventy-eight degrees east, latitude about three degrees north.”
Standing, Fujita moved to the chart. “About here,” he said, pointing. “They must be making about twenty knots.” He fingered his chin. “They should be here off the northwest coast of Sumatra in about thirty-three hours, refuel and maybe enter the Straits of Malacca about forty hours from now — if they are good seamen.”
“Sir,” Mark Allen said. “They also know about us. We picked up that AGI’s transmissions, and he told the whole world where we were.”
“Good! And he told the whole world our speed was sixteen knots.” The officers looked at each other.
“But, sir,” Allen persisted. “They can expect us to change speed — design tactics —”
“But they do not really know, Admiral Allen.” He turned to the chart, stabbed a pointer far to the south in the South China Sea. “We will be here, between the Malay Peninsula and Borneo, four hundred eighty-five kilometers — three hundred miles — from the Straits of Malacca when they exit.” He turned back to the men. “We will even the odds.”
Mark Allen was not satisfied. “You’re assuming a lot, admiral. Poor reconnaissance, that they will arrive on schedule, that they will not detect our scouts…”
Fujita thumped the desk impatiently with the pointer’s rubber tip. “Admiral Allen, I have been reading Morison’s report of the Battle of Savo Island.”
Allen flushed. “I know, sir. I interviewed survivors and helped write that volume.”
“In that battle, you lost cruisers Quincy, Vincennes, Astoria, and Canberra in thirty minut
es simply because your stupid Admiral Ghormley, who knew a force of cruisers and destroyers under an old friend of mine, Gunichi Mikawa, was bearing down on him, never anticipated an increase in speed by Mikawa, and was caught with his guns trained fore and aft.”
“And you think you can emulate Mikawa? Catch them unprepared? It will take luck.”
“Only a fool depends on luck, Admiral Allen.” He turned back to the chart. “When they come into range, we will send in twenty-seven Zeros and twenty-seven Aichis at eighteen thousand feet.”
“Their A-band radar will pick them up at two hundred to two hundred fifty miles out, admiral,” Mark Allen said.
“Of course. They will intercept.” He stabbed at the chart. “We will send in our B-five-Ns low — one hundred meters from the water, under their radar. While they are looking up, we will blow them out of the water with gyos.”
“Banzai! Banzai!”
Chapter Twenty
The passage of three days found Yonaga steaming within one hundred fifty miles of the northern tip of Luzon and then southward, passing midway between Borneo and Vietnam until the Malay Peninsula was only a hundred miles over the southwest horizon and the Straits of Malacca three hundred miles in the same direction. Not a single merchantman had been sighted. Brent had a feeling of “High Noon,” of cleared streets and empty shops before the shootout began. In fact, one afternoon standing behind Pierson while staring at the ESM, the cryptographer commented bitterly, “Nothing, sir. Not since the AGI. They’re all afraid, aren’t they, Mr. Ross, like the kids on the block all watching while one guy with guts takes on the neighborhood bully. They don’t want to be involved, but they want to see the bully knocked on his ass.”
“I’m afraid you’re right, Pierson,” the ensign answered with his own share of bitterness.
A continuous CAP of twelve Zeros was kept aloft and half a dozen Aichis and Nakajimas with auxiliary fuel tanks ranged in every sector, searching for the enemy. Fujita paced the bridge like a caged tiger while keeping the task force on first a two-seven-zero heading and then running the reciprocal zero-nine-zero. “They must come through! They must come through!” he muttered to himself in frustration. “We’re burning fuel needlessly.”