Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “You were calm — your fears didn’t show, admiral.”

  “Nor did yours, Mr. Ross.” Raising his glasses, he moved from the unsettling topic. “Kadafi and the rest of his thugs are not finished.”

  Brent welcomed the change in topic. “But, sir, we destroyed the whole force.”

  “Yes, ensign, but they have unlimited wealthy and Russian support. There will be work for Yonaga.”

  Brent sighed. “I hope not, admiral.”

  “We have taken heavy causalities; you are a valued aide — know the ship well and have adapted to, ah, our way of thinking with alacrity. Yonaga needs you, Brent-san.”

  “Thank you, admiral. But my career lies with NIS.”

  “Rot behind some desk in the Pentagon Brent-san when there may be samurai’s work to be done?”

  Brent felt like a trapped fly watching a hungry spider spinning a web around him. The man was a sorcerer. “Sir, I am an officer and will obey my orders.”

  “I intend to request that orders be cut assigning you permanently to my staff. But only if you agree.”

  “I’m flattered, admiral. Would you give me time to think it over — discuss it with Admiral Allen?”

  “Of course. But I must put a new staff together so let me know within twenty-four hours.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “And Brent-san, remember. You have earned your sword, the distinguished sword of the Konoye family.”

  Brent felt steely pride stir deep within him. “Thank you, sir.”

  *

  When Yonaga docked, row after row of ambulances were waiting behind a solid cordon of troops who manned machine guns in sandbagged positions. Enormous throngs of spectators stood outside the perimeter, staring in silence and pointing at the wounded giant.

  As soon as the lines were over and the ladder secured, Capt. Takahashi Aogi, the liaison officer from the Maritime Self-Defense Force, the dock master, Lieutenant Commander Kamakura, and their staffs came aboard, brushing past an endless procession of stretchers on the accommodation ladder in their haste.

  Meeting with the staff, the two officers listened grim-faced as first Admiral Fujita and then Commander Fukioka and Chief Warrant Officer Tanesaki described Yonaga’s needs and peeled off sheet after sheet of requisitions.

  “Eight months’ work, sir,” Kamakura said. “Besides the damage to your hull, the hangar and flight decks must be rebuilt.”

  “We have the time,” Fujita responded. “When can you take us?”

  “We will be ready in forty-eight hours, admiral.”

  “Very well.” The admiral turned to Kawamoto. “Port and starboard liberty but maintain eight five inch ready guns and a dozen ready twenty-five millimeter mounts.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Aogi and Kamakura eyed each other but remained mute. Finally, Aogi spoke. “All of Japan — all of the free world is indebted to Yonaga. The Philippine and Indonesian governments wish to decorate you, sir.”

  Fujita smiled. “You know the Imperial Navy decorates no living men. Let them wait for my ashes. They can drop their baubles on my box.” Brent restrained his laughter with a hand over his mouth.

  Although there was no Imperial Navy, not one man objected. The admiral gestured to the end of the table at a very fatigued escort commander. “It was Captain Fite and his brave captains who defeated the cruisers. Without them…” He turned his palms up and shrugged.

  “Thank you, sir,” rumbled from the big man.

  After nodding at Captain Fite, Aogi stood and handed Admiral Fujita a long white envelope. “From the emperor, sir.”

  Hastily, Fujita put on his steel-rimmed glasses and read. “He is pleased — has declared a holiday in honor of Yonaga and will personally attend services at the Yasakuni Shrine to honor our dead.”

  “Banzai! Banzai!”

  Brent found himself shouting and fell silent self-consciously under the curious stares of Adm. Mark Allen and Col. Irving Bernstein.

  *

  An hour later Brent was alone, stretched on his bunk, hands behind his head, staring at the overhead and wondering about Sarah Aranson. Certainly, she knew Yonaga was back, but of course, could not come aboard. And Bernstein had rushed ashore. The colonel would have told her he was well by now. He glanced at his watch. Liberty at 1500 hours; two more hours. He sighed. He would rush to a phone. None had been rigged on Yonaga as yet because of the battle damage, especially to the communications department.

  He reflected on the conversation he had just finished with Admiral Allen. “I’m returning to Washington, Brent,” the admiral had said. “You’re, my aide. You’re due for a promotion.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “You don’t show much enthusiasm,” the older man noted. “Fujita?”

  There had been a long, hard silence. “He says he needs me on his staff. Claims he can request my permanent assignment.”

  “There’s no doubt about that. At this moment he is one of the most powerful men in the free world. But your future is in Washington, Brent.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “Admiral Winter will be at the embassy tomorrow at thirteen hundred. He has our new orders. You must make your decision by then, Brent.”

  Shaking his head, Brent put the conversation out of his mind. Then reaching up, he ran a hand over the curved, jeweled scabbard of the Konoye sword. “I earned it. I really earned it,” he murmured.

  A knock interrupted his thoughts. When he opened the door, Commander Yoshi Matsuhara was grinning at him.

  “A ghost! A ghost!”

  Laughing, Yoshi grabbed Brent’s shoulders. “Does that feel like a ghost?”

  Brent grasped both of the flyer’s hands and pulled him into the cabin. “Our big receivers were out — we didn’t know, Yoshi-san. How did you do it? Where have you been?”

  “One thing at a time, Brent-san,” the commander said, seating himself, laughing. Brent stared back from his bunk, shaking his head, unable to believe Yoshi was really there, alive, laughing.

  “I was hit over the straits, lost part of my right wing at a very low altitude.” He sighed. “I prepared to enter the Yasakuni Shrine but Amaterasu rode with me, guided me to a landing on a field at Kotadaik on Singkep Lingga. The Indonesians flew me back with thirty-two other survivors. I have been waiting for you for three days.” He moved his eyes around the cabin. “Yonaga has been hit hard; very, very hard.”

  “Yes, Yoshi-san.” Slowly, Brent described the horrors of the air attacks and the frightful slaughter of the surface engagement. “We’re lucky Yonaga has battleship construction and a great crew,” Brent concluded. And then he added, “Our escorts took a terrible beating, but now, maybe we can all rest.”

  Matsuhara knuckled his forehead. “And perhaps not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Russians have developed a new Ilyushin fighter powered by a new three-thousand horsepower engine.”

  “But Grumman and Pratt and Whitney are developing a new fighter, too. And carriers are being converted. Let the Russians and Americans kill each other.”

  “You are an American!”

  Brent felt his cheeks redden. “Why, of course.”

  Yoshi drummed his fingers on his knee. “I have seen Kimio,” he announced suddenly.

  “I’m glad.”

  “She loves me, Brent-san.” He surprised the American again with his frankness.

  “You’re very lucky, Yoshi-san.”

  “I love her,” the commander said with complete candor. “I never felt I would ever feel that emotion for a woman again. My only love for decades was the love of a samurai for his emperor.”

  “Will you marry?”

  “Yes. Soon.”

  Brent grasped the flyer’s hand. “Congratulations, Yoshi-san. I’m happy for you.” He smiled. “You have found what you’ve been looking for?”

  Yoshi grinned back. “You mean like Captain Ahab?” Solemnly, he answered his own question. “No, I think not, Brent-san. Yo
u were right. His quest led to death, mine to life.” He riveted the American with piercing black eyes. “If a man looks long enough, searches every corner of this earth, every byway and remote inlet, what he seeks will find him.”

  Brent sat back. “Yes, Yoshi-san. There’s truth in that.”

  The pilot continued with a broad grin. “Sarah Aranson wishes to see you.”

  Brent came erect. “You’ve seen her?”

  “Of course.”

  “I was going to phone her as soon as I got on the beach.”

  “Not necessary, Brent-san. She is waiting for you outside the gate in a cab.”

  *

  It had been fierce and consuming and sometimes savage. Sarah lay back, her nude body limp and dampened by perspiration. Beside her, Brent stared at the ceiling until his breathing slowed and the weakening effects of their lovemaking faded. Turning and sitting up, he reached to the nightstand, found his scotch and soda and took a long drink. Then he sagged back.

  Rolling to her lover, Sarah pressed her breasts against his arm, lips to his cheek, and ran a finger through the hair on his chest until she found the long scar. She spoke into his ear. “Thank God, no new scars — at least none that show.”

  She had asked him about Yonaga and the battles while riding in the cab. “I saw you stand in,” she said. “I was on the bluff at Uraga. The flight deck, the bow, stern, and she’s low in the water. There were fires…”

  “Please, please, Sarah,” he had admonished, gently placing a big palm over lips. “Not now — not now. I want to hold you; must hold you.” Then he kissed her with the hunger of a newly rescued starving man. And she kissed him back, mouth open, wet and demanding. When they entered her apartment, they began disrobing as they hurried to her bedroom.

  “None that show,” she repeated, moving her hand to his arm and testing the big bicep.

  Perhaps the lovemaking had loosened his tongue. Certainly, he no longer felt the terrible edge of anxiety that slashed away composure and had invaded his fitful sleep with nightmares. Releasing air from his lungs audibly, he said, “We did take terrible losses. Hundreds of crewmen and most of our pilots and aircrews. And, yes, Yonaga is badly damaged.”

  “Yoshi survived.”

  “Oh, yes, Sarah.” Brent felt his spirits rise. “I know.”

  She nibbled at his ear. “Brent,” she said softly. “You’ve never been like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “When we made love, it was ferocious. More than just a hunger.”

  “I love you.”

  “And I love you, too, Brent. But it was more than that. You were wild, almost frightening.”

  “I didn’t hurt you.”

  “Oh, no, no, darling.” Propping herself up on an elbow, she kissed his forehead, eyes, nose, and then brushed her velvet lips across his mouth. “You’re everything a girl dreams about.”

  He looked up at her with trouble-clouded eyes. “Maybe it was what happened out there.” She looked puzzled. Stumbling, he tried to answer the question on her face. “It was killing — wholesale, savage, pitiless killing.”

  “Please, darling. Don’t…”

  “I must, Sarah.” He pondered for a moment. “I was frightened; very frightened.”

  “That’s normal.”

  He rushed on. “Of course I was hungry for you. You’re everything war can never be.” He stopped awkwardly. “I’m awfully corny.”

  She kissed the cord in his neck. “No, darling. I understand. What you were doing out there was a rite of death.” He wondered at the serious timbre of her voice. She continued. “And this beautiful thing between us, I look on it — I guess all women do — as a celebration of life.” She kissed his ear and ran fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. “Brent, remember, I don’t care why you need me. Just keep on wanting me.” Finding his lips, she kissed him hard, tongue darting, hand trailing down his flat stomach until she found the stiff hair and then she took him in her hand. Groaning, he rolled to her and covered her body with his.

  *

  Dawn was painting the eastern horizon with orange and golds when he left. Dressed in a sheer silk robe, she kissed him at the door. “The day after tomorrow. You promise?”

  “Yes, Sarah. I’ll have port section liberty.”

  She lowered her eyes. “We’ve been so busy in there.” She gestured at the bedroom. “I forgot to tell you I’ve been assigned to the Israeli Embassy in Washington.”

  “Great!”

  “We can see each other.” He turned away. “We will, won’t we, Brent? NIS is headquartered there. You’ll be sent —”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her voice rose. “Don’t know? I saw Admiral Allen at the gate. He said both of you…”

  He stepped back. “Admiral Fujita claims he needs me.”

  “Good, Lord, you’ve done enough.” And then softly. “We could be together.” She put her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  For a long moment he held her. Then, pulling away, he said, “I’d better leave. I’m due back aboard at oh-eight hundred.”

  “You didn’t answer!”

  “I know. I know,” he said, stepping through the door.

  *

  “You have reached your decision, Ensign Ross?” Standing at attention in front of the admiral’s desk, Brent still felt the tranquility and peace the night of lovemaking with Sarah had brought him. Maybe the old sorcerer wanted this — delayed the decision until he had been sated by a woman. How could he know? But he seemed to know everything.

  “Regardless of your decision, Brent-san, you have shown the finest qualities of the warrior — the samurai.”

  “Thank you, sir. But samurai?”

  “Yes. I think there is some of the samurai in all men who wear the mantle of command. Each finds his own duty, and then with the help of his gods, or god, honors it.” He leaned back. “Give more thought to your decision. Admiral Allen asked me to tell you to be at the American Embassy today at thirteen hundred hours.”

  “Yes, sir. I know.”

  The old Japanese placed gnarled fingers on the desk. “However, at the same hour a priest from the Yasakuni Shrine will conduct services in the Shrine of Infinite Salvation for our honored dead. My staff will attend in dress blues, white gloves, and swords.” The black eyes gleamed like polished black stones. “You have been honored with the Konoye sword. Make your decision, Brent-san.”

  *

  At 1200 hours Brent Ross shaved. Then, slowly, he began to dress. After adjusting his tie, he shrugged into his blue coat and stared into the mirror, pleased. “Almost finished,” he said to the reflection, eyeing the broad expanse of cloth covering his shoulders, the gleaming buttons, and the single gold lace ring on each cuff. Carefully, he placed the peaked cap squarely on his head and turned for the door. Before leaving, he pulled on his white gloves and buckled on the Konoye sword.

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  Acknowledgements

  I am indebted to airline pilots William D. Wilkerson and Dennis D. Silver who not only explained how to fly antique aircraft, but advised on performance characteristics as well. For solving technical problems with computers, ciphers, and radar, my grateful thanks to Dr. Roland W. Koch. I would also like to thank Master Mariner Donald Brandmeyer for helping with the innumerable problems that can confront a carrier at war.

  Finally, my gratitude to Jane Smith who transformed my scribbles into a legible manuscript.

 

 

 
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