Trial of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “Correct,” Bernstein said.

  “And the Intrepid,” Williams added. “She’s a museum ship. She was moored near Blackfin in the Hudson River.”

  “These are powerful, fast ships, the best American carriers of the war,” Brent Ross offered. “You said glasnost. How in the world could glasnost put such a weapon in the hands of our enemies?”

  “By simple logic and gross stupidity,” Bernstein remonstrated, voice seething with anger and frustration. He focused his brown eyes on Brent Ross, “You know there are continuing negotiations in Geneva between the Russians and the Americans.”

  “Of course, this has been going on for years. This is where they speak piously of disarmament and decide what weapons we and the Arabs can use to kill each other.” There were nods and bitter words.

  “It was decided over a year ago by the negotiators of both powers that as a gesture of good will, units of the reserve fleets would be scrapped.”

  “Yes, I remember. The Bon Homme Richard was stricken from the lists.”

  “Of course,” Bernstein said. “Fourteen months ago she was sold for scrap to India. She was to be towed to Bombay. However, it was claimed by the Indian government both tug and tow were lost in the Bay of Bengal during a great storm.”

  “But it was a lie.”

  “Yes, Mister Ross. She was secretly sold to the Arabs for a promise of unlimited cheap oil and refitted at Midras. That’s an Indian port on the Bay of Bengal. She was sighted for the first time only six weeks ago steaming west to the Red Sea to pick up her air groups. As far as we know, she is in her classic original World War II configuration.”

  “This has been a closely guarded secret,” Williams said.

  “Of course,” Bernstein agreed. “The Arabs fooled us completely. They know we keep a close watch on Alexandria, Benghazi, Tripoli, Tunis, Oran, and Casablanca. We noticed intensive exercises with torpedo and dive bombers in the Mediterranean but never put these exercises together with an American carrier reported lost in a storm in the Bay of Bengal. It’s been kept out of the media and, obviously, the Arabs know how to keep their secrets.”

  Fujita broke in, a little frown of worry creasing the brown furrowed parchment of his forehead, and shadows were in his eyes. “Colonel Bernstein, you said she was in her original Greater East Asian War configuration?”

  “Right, sir.”

  “Then do you have her specifications?”

  The Israeli pulled a document from a pile of printouts. “Yes, Admiral. One of our agents transmitted the data this morning. I just decoded it.” He sighed. “Al Kufra is formidable. Displacement over 37,000 tons, depending on load...”

  “Aircraft? Aircraft, Colonel!” Iwata shouted.

  Bernstein waved him off like an irritating fly. “Length 271 meters...” He glanced at the Americans and the Englishmen and then a conversion table, “Ah, 890 feet, beam 30.78 meters or 101 feet, draught 9.44 meters, or 31 feet.”

  Iwata twisted in frustration. “Aircraft! Aircraft!”

  Bernstein stared at his notes as if the big leader of the dive-bombing squadrons did not exist. “Al Kufra is powered with four shaft Westinghouse geared turbines, developing 150,000-shaft horsepower, flank speed 32.2 knots. Armament twelve five-inch dual purpose cannons, sixty-eight 40-millimeter guns, seventy-two 20-millimeter Orlikons. Her range at twenty knots is 27,360 kilometers, which converts to 17,000 miles.” He looked up into Iwata’s smouldering eyes. Bernstein smiled, “She can operate from 90 to 108 aircraft.”

  “Does she have her full complement of aircraft?” Fujita asked.

  “Our operatives report she carries 36 Messerschmitt 109s, thirty-three Junkers, 87 dive-bombers, and 32 North American AT-6s converted to torpedo bombers.”

  AT-6s!” Yoshi Matsuhara said in a rapid voice. “Why, They’re nothing but old advanced trainers, slow, lightly armed, not maneuverable.”

  “They will have their fighter escorts,” Fujita said. And then to the Israeli, “Al Kufra was headed for the Straits of Malacca, Colonel?”

  “She was reported on that heading, Admiral.”

  The old admiral tugged on a single white hair dangling from his chin. He came out of his chair slowly, straightening one vertebrate at a time, as if he were unlimbering an old, rusty anchor chain. He moved to a chart on the bulkhead behind him and picked up a pointer. Tracing the chart with a rubber tip, he said almost to himself, “If they are ready for combat operations, they will steam the straits, but our agents in Singapore will sight them here.” He stabbed the chart at the southeast end of the Straits of Malacca. “And we will know immediately. They will enter the Java Sea here, steam east around the southern tip of Borneo, and then turn north into the Makassar Straits. I would expect them to fuel at Balikpapan on the east coast of Borneo and then steam north to the Celebes Sea.” The pointer traced northward toward the Philippine Islands. “Then a turn east and a run well south of Mindanao and into the Philippine Sea. Then east to the Caroline Islands and Tomonuto Atoll.”

  Fujita thumped the point on Tomonuto Atoll several times while he stared thoughtfully. “It would not be to our advantage to advertise her existence.” He turned to the staff and waved a hand disdainfully. “There are weak, sniveling cowards with the spines of women in the Diet who would pounce on the opportunity to surrender, cower at Kadafi’s feet, lick his boots, and trade their souls for oil for their Hondas. No! Only the officers in this room know of her existence.” There were nods and a rumble of approval.

  “But, sir,” Brent said. “The whole world knows their carrier Ramii al Kabir is based at Tomonuto with two cruisers and escorts. Add Ramli al Kabir’s air groups to Al Kunfra’s and they outnumber us.”

  “True,” Fujita said. “They have always outnumbered us, but never outfought us.” There were shouts of “Banzai!” that drowned out Brent.

  Williams broke through to Fujita. “Then we must add India to the list of our enemies.”

  Fujita placed his hand on the Hagakure, looked at the Americans, and spoke with force. “The samurai cares not for the size of his enemies’ forces, only the number he can kill before he himself is dispatched to his ancestors.” There were more shouts of “Banzai!”

  Fujita continued speaking to Williams, “One must not underestimate the power of blackmail by oil. In a very real sense, most of the world is arrayed against us.” He returned to Colonel Bernstein, “You have information on the Arab bases in the Marianas?”

  Bernstein shuffled some papers. “Yes, Admiral.” He looked around the room. “As most of you know, the Arabs occupied Saipan and Tinian six months ago — the Fifth Special Combat Battalion landing on Saipan, and the Seventh Parachute Brigade occupying Tinian. Our agents on Aguijan, which is only five kilometers from Tinian, report numerous reinforcements. Intelligence reports the Ninth parachute Brigade to Saipan and the Twenty-Second Regimental Combat team reinforcing Tinian. They’ve been digging in — rebuilding old Japanese bunkers.”

  “But they are only Arabs,” Commander Takuya Iwata sneered.

  Bernstein nodded grimly. “But well led and superbly trained. Easily compare with Jordan’s old Arab Legion. We’ve already fought some of these units in the Sinai.”

  Iwata persisted, “You said ‘well led’?”

  “Yes. All officers down to company commanders are German, Russian and, ah...” He sighed, “And American.”

  Williams squirmed uncomfortably, and Brent stared at the table, muttering curses under his breath.

  Fujita said, “There are renegades of all nationalities. No one nation has a monopoly on scoundrels. And all of you remember, bullets are not aware of national origins. We will kill them all.”

  “Banzai!” and “Tenno heika banzai!” resounded from the steel bulkheads. The old scribe Hakuseki Katsube staggered to his feet, waved a fist, and slid to the floor like a sack of broken bamboo. Chief Engineer Yoshida and Dive Bomber Commander Iwata picked him up and jammed him down into his chair. His head thumped forward onto the table, but he conti
nued to screech “Banzai!” and drool into his notes.

  Fujita restored order and spoke to Bernstein, “Enemy aircraft strength in the Marianas?”

  “Perhaps four squadrons of ME 109s operating out of the old strip at Isley Field. And two more using the old bomber strips on Tinian. But they took heavy casualties during the recent fighting. We estimate their effective fighter strength as under 30 aircraft.”

  “Long-range aircraft?”

  “A half-dozen Lockheed Super Constellations based on Tinian.”

  “They can range us easily,” Brent said. “But they were designed as transports, not bombers.”

  Bernstein sighed and tapped his temple in frustration. “They’ve been converted.”

  “That’s almost impossible,” Yoshi Matsuhara asserted. “Why, their control channels run right through the bottom of the fuselage.”

  “I know,” Bernstein said. “But they have some of the best technicians in the world. In fact, a few of the mechanics worked on the original Constellations.” His face became very grim. “They’ve solved the problem. They have their bomb bays and can carry a payload of five tons of bombs. Gentlemen, we’ve got to face the fact that the enemy possesses a LRA that can attack us from land bases at any time.”

  The room became a tomb. Fujita broke the ephemeral silence. “They would not dare to attack without fighter escort. Our CAP would cut them to pieces. And those Messerschmitts do not have the range for such a long flight. The enemy would be forced to commit his carriers. That is precisely what we want.”

  “Banzai! Banzai!”

  Commander Yoshi Matsuhara came to his feet. “Too soon. Too soon, Admiral. Our pilots are only half-trained, and we do not have our full complement of aircraft. If they attack now...” He shrugged and turned his palms up.

  Fujita turned to Bernstein. “Does Israeli intelligence feel the enemy is ready to attack?”

  Bernstein tapped the table with a single finger. “They have suffered casualties to their escorts, and their carrier Ramli al Kabir at Tomonuto lost heavily in fighters during her last sortie. The CIA could help, but Carrino —”

  He was interrupted by a knock. Fujita nodded and the rating manning the communications gear opened the door. CIA Agent Dale McIntyre walked in carrying a small valise.

  Brent jolted erect like a careless electrician who had touched a live wire. No one had warned him that Dale McIntyre was in Japan. The last time he talked to her by phone in New York, she had told him she was on her way to Washington, DC for permanent assignment at CIA headquarters. When Blackfin steamed out of New York Harbor, he felt he had lost her forever. But here she was, in Japan, on board Yonaga. Impossible, a dream come true.

  And how he had dreamed of her on those interminably lonely watches on Blackfin! How many times had he relived those ecstatic nights in her Manhattan apartment? How many times had memories of lost moments without the sensation of hot, yielding flesh brought torture instead of pleasure? He had tried to put her out of his mind, but her hungry open mouth, elegantly coltish body, and the feel of her long limbs enclosing him, trapping him in their crucifix, had intruded into his consciousness despite his efforts to banish her. Time and again he had felt his stomach turn empty and sick as his mind carried him back to those nights when their love-making propelled them both to heights of sensuous pleasure that crashed through all restraints, becoming a kind of sexual madness. How many times had he seen that perfect body in his reveries, thrashing, hips thrusting wildly to meet his assault? The gasps, the groans... the moans that gradually intensified to explosive shrieks of insensate pleasure. The collapse, his suddenly dead weight pressing her into the mattress, the sweet kisses and muttered promises all lovers exchange at this moment. Inevitably, reality would gradually creep back on the cacophonous waves of Manhattan’s deathless roar. Then dawn would come, and Blackfin waited at the dock.

  Now he was in the same room with her. If he raised his hand, he could almost touch her. He clenched his teeth to shield the turmoil he felt deep in his guts as his eyes roamed her. Despite visualizing her many times in his fantasies, he realized now he had forgotten just how attractive and sensuous she really was. She was wearing a black business suit with the ruffled lace collar of her blouse accenting the tan of her long, slender neck. Obviously tailored, the suit snugged up to her large breasts, trimmed in at her tiny waist, and flowed out sinuously over her full, sculpted hips and buttocks. With her skirt cut just below the knees, her well-shaped legs were well displayed and made more spectacular by glistening hose. She took only a few strides into the room before stopping, her striking green eyes finding Brent and then jumping to Admiral Fujita.

  Strange, how her face, which was not classic by any means, could be so appealing. Certainly, her thin nose appeared sharp, lips too small, chin cut off abruptly as if fashioned by a wood carver impatient to finish the job. But her hair was magnificent, long, of burnished gold, and with platinum streaks which appeared brushed in by Renoir. As usual, it was knotted and wound up into a chignon. Brent knew she was forty years old, but only a few incipient creases in the smooth, tanned flesh at the corners of her eyes hinted at the four decades. To the deprived men, she was sex personified. Brent wanted her here, now, in front of God and everyone. And so did every other man in the room, except, of course, Admiral Fujita.

  Brent remembered the first time Fujita had met Dale — the terrible scene when his nineteenth-century Japanese chauvinism collided with the liberated twentieth-century woman. She had prevailed then, but only because she carried information from the CIA vital to the survival of Yonaga.

  Brent, Reginald Williams, Colin Willard-Smith, and Elwyn York came to their feet. The Japanese remained seated, but every eye was focused on the woman.

  Fujita’s little jaw twitched, and a thumb and forefinger found the single white hair dangling from his chin. “Miss McIntyre,” he said in a carefully modulated voice. “You have information for us from the CIA?” The timbre was surprisingly cordial, not warm, but certainly not cold. He gestured to a chair which the communications rating had pushed to the table between Reginald Williams and Brent Ross.

  Dale nodded to the admiral and smiled at Brent Ross, Reginald Williams, and Colonel Irving Bernstein. “Good to see you again, gentlemen.” The three then rose, nodded, and muttered pleasantries before dropping back into their chairs.

  Although Dale had already met Scribe Katsube, Chief Engineer Yoshida, Executive Officer Arai, and Gunnery Officer Atsumi, Fujita introduced all the members of his staff as if she were meeting them for the first time. Each man stood and twitched self-consciously like a schoolboy. No one bowed. Brent was sure the old man had forgotten just who the woman had met.

  Dale did not seat herself. Instead, she opened her valise and removed some documents. She looked up. “I have some information for you,” she said. She gestured to a chart mounted on a bulkhead to Fujita’s side. He nodded assent. She walked to the chart with every eye fixed on her. Some of the old Japanese in the room had not touched a woman in over forty years. Brent saw actual pain on some wrinkled faces. Old scribe Hakuseki Katsube propped his sharp chin on a bony palm and stared wide-eyed as the hips swayed past him, eyes moving from right to left like two big black marbles rolling free in their sockets.

  Dale picked up a pointer and glanced at a small notebook she held in one hand. “I have the latest intelligence for you from the CIA.” She stabbed the chart. “As you know, since the Chinese laser system destroyed all reconnaissance satellites and grounded our AWACs, intelligence gathering has been very difficult. We have a few piston-engined AWAC aircraft now, but most of our information on Russian and Arab movements is reported by our SSNs (nuclear attack submarines) and SSBNs (nuclear ballistic missile submarines.) Los Angeles is on station here,” she moved the pointer, “at the western entrance of the Malacca Straits, Phoenix is south of the Philippines in the Celebes Sea, Providence is off Vladivostok, Norfolk is on station in the Coral Sea just south of the southern tip of New Guinea and, just
one week ago, Dallas took station off Tomonuto.” She made a big circle which encompassed most of the southwestern Pacific with the tip of the pointer. “No Arab force can enter this arena without being spotted, and all sightings will be reported to you.”

  “That is not enough!” Iwata shouted angrily. “We are fighting your war.” His flaring black eyes moved vehemently from Dale to Brent and Reginald and back to Dale. “You give us barely enough oil to keep Japan alive, equip us with inferior weapons, and then expect us to die for you.”

  Brent saw Fujita’s eyes glint with new interest, like a fire fanned by a breeze. The woman was about to be tested — put in her place. Brent knew the old man would not interfere.

  The woman’s eyes bored into the dive bomber commander like lasers. Her reaction shocked every man in the room except Brent. “We ask you to do nothing for us. You volunteered for this duty as I have for mine.” She slammed the pointer down hard on the table. It cracked like a whip, and everyone jerked back. “With the oil embargo the United States is hard put to just keep her allies supplied. We are on strict rationing, and you still get all of our Alaskan production.” She stabbed a finger at Brent and Reginald. “Americans are dying for you.”

  “We Japanese do most of it, and less would die if we had better equipment,” Iwata insisted.

  “Then the Russians could equip their Arab lackeys in the same way.” She placed her hands on the table and leaned over it toward Iwata, the movement hiking the back of her skirt up above her knees. Her lower hips and sculpted buttocks showed through the tight-fitting skirt, and her curvaceous legs glistened like polished ivory. Heads turned and eyes ogled wildly. Katsube wiped his chin. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, this is the best we can do. Take it or leave it,” she said. She straightened and began to stuff her documents back into her valise. Katsube groaned.

  Fujita raised both hands in a gesture of frustration, realizing he had entered the exchange too late. Serious damage had been done. “Miss McIntyre,” he said, glaring at Commander Takuya Iwata. “Please continue.”