Quest of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  With a clatter and ringing of chains, Salim al Hoss rolled from the block. “Please, Admiral. Let me pray.”

  Fujita signaled the guards and the prisoner was allowed to come to his knees. “A rug, please.”

  A piece of carpeting was brought forward and Salim's guards helped him onto it. “Mecca? Where is Mecca?” the Arab pleaded.

  “That way,” Fujita said impatiently, gesturing to the east.

  The Arab turned, began to pray, “God is most great. I testify there is no god but Allah. I testify that Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah…”

  “That is enough,” Fujita shouted. “You are ready for hell.” He moved his eyes to Okuma, “Get on with it, Commander.”

  Screaming, the Arab was dragged to the block, stretched across it, and his hands lashed down to the platform by a boatswain's mate. He began to shout, “Allah Akbar!” over and over. Despite the chains, ropes and efforts of the guards, he managed to twist and writhe, rocking and jerking the block up and down and to the sides.

  Licking his lips, Okuma lifted the big two-handed sword high over his shoulder. He paused. The Arab fell silent. The whole world fell silent. Even the usual ship noises vanished. Brent held his breath. Suddenly, the great blade whistled in a blurred semicircle. There was a sickening thud and Salim al Hoss screamed, a sharp sound of horror and pain that stabbed all the way to Brent's soul. The blade had hit the Arab across the shoulder blades, severing his spine and ripping both lungs. The screams became the keening of a wild animal caught in a steel trap and the purple lips sprayed blood.

  “The neck!” Fujita shouted. “In the name of Amaterasu, the neck!”

  Brent tasted the sour gorge of vomit rising in his throat. Admiral Mark Allen shouted, “They do better than this in the Chicago stockyards.” Kenneth Rosencrance could only say, “Jesus! Jesus!” Takauji Harima hurled himself to the deck, screaming and rolling in his own vomit. Colonel Irving Bernstein clasped his hands and lifted his eyes skyward.

  Again, the killing blade flashed, there was a thud and Salim’s head dropped into the basket like a dropped melon. Everyone sighed with relief in the silence.

  As the guards dumped the body and head into a wicker stretcher, Commander Okuma turned to the admiral. “Admiral Fujita, he twisted forward at the last moment.”

  “Bullshit!” Brent shouted. “Not that much.”

  “It was deliberate,” Yoshi Matsuhara added.

  Okuma leaned on his sword, blood lust gleaming dangerously in his eyes, “If either of you gentleman would care to challenge me…” Yoshi and Brent stepped forward together.

  “Enough!” Fujita bellowed. “I am tired of this bickering. Proceed with the next prisoner, Commander Okuma. And this time, the neck. One stroke.”

  Takauji Harima was dragged to the platform and tied down. “Turn him to the northeast,” Fujita commanded. The guards turned the prisoner.

  “Sir,” Rear Admiral Mark Allen shouted suddenly. “May I return to my quarters?”

  “No. You are a member of my staff. You must witness this.”

  “Witness butchery, Admiral? I will remain only under protest.”

  “Protest all you like, Admiral Allen. But you will remain.” He stabbed a finger at Commander Okuma, “Proceed.”

  “Please, Admiral,” Harima pleaded. “Allow me my prayer.”

  “One minute,” Fujita said, grudgingly.

  The prisoner raised his head, choked out the traditional Buddhist litany in gasps, “O Blessed One, let me find the peace that passeth understanding, come out of the fire of anger, of greed, of desire.” He dropped his head into his hands, and muttered unintelligibly into his cupped palms.

  Fujita interrupted. “Now! It is enough.”

  Screaming, Harima was tied down and he was still screaming when cold steel severed his neck and sliced through his voice box. Proudly, Okuma turned and smiled at Fujita like a child seeking approval for a chore well done. The body and head were dumped into the wicker stretcher and carried out. All eyes turned to Kenneth Rosencrance.

  The man’s face was so white and glistening with perspiration, it appeared pearlized. But his jaw was set in a hard line, eyes narrow with determination. “Admiral,” he said in a firm voice, “one request.”

  “A prayer?”

  “No. I’m an atheist. That nonsense won’t help a damned thing.” He turned to Brent Ross. “Let him do it. He’s an American. I prefer to die at his hands.”

  Brent stiffened. He was unable to believe his ears. “No,” he said hoarsely. “No, I won’t — I won’t do that.”

  “Then you’re a pussy, lieutenant,” Rosencrance taunted, grinning. “I’m supposed to be scared shitless, not you, ol’ buddy.”

  “Lieutenant Ross will serve as headsman if I so order it, Captain,” Fujita said. “However, it is academic. I have decided to let you live, Captain Kenneth Rosencrance.” A murmur swept through the room.

  “Thank you, sir,” Rosencrance said with his first show of emotion.

  Fujita smiled and gesturing at the bloody platform, said softly, “Before I finish with you, Captain, you may pray for that.”

  “You’ve got to change duty, Brent. Go back to NIS in Washington. I’ll cut the orders myself,” Admiral Allen said, sinking on his bunk.

  “But why, sir?” Brent asked, seating himself in one of the room’s two chairs. Brent had known the meeting would be disagreeable after the executions when Allen had taken his elbow as they exited the elevator and almost pulled the lieutenant down the passageway to his cabin. Brent continued, “I’m needed here. My orders read ‘assigned to cryptography and to any responsibility at the discretion of the Yonaga’s commanding officer’.”

  “I know, Brent. I wrote it.” The old admiral hunched forward. “Don’t forget, I was your father’s best friend — went to the Academy with him, served with him in World War II and during the occupation of Japan. I was best man at your father’s wedding and I shared their joy when you were born and…” he turned his head, “and I went to both of their funerals.” He brought his eyes back to the young man, “You know you aren’t just my aide, my subordinate.”

  “I appreciate that, sir. But why leave Yonaga?”

  “I’ve said it many times.”

  “I’m changing?”

  “Yes. And it worries me.”

  “We all change, Admiral.”

  “True. But you’re becoming one of them.” He gestured at the Konoye sword hanging from Brent’s belt and propped against the chair. “I’ve seen you kill casually. You beat one Arab to death in an alley, blinded another and made pulp of a third man’s face. You shot Kathryn Suzuki between the eyes when she was flat on her back and helpless.”

  Brent felt a visceral clutch of anger. His voice rose, “But, sir. Kathryn was a terrorist — tried to destroy Yonaga. Killed six men with that truck. She had twelve tons of plastique.”

  “True. But she was helpless, wounded. You could’ve taken her prisoner.”

  “Mad dogs are not imprisoned, Admiral.”

  Allen struck his knee with a clenched fist for emphasis. “That’s just it. It’s one thing to fight for survival, another to kill helpless people.”

  “You mean like Hiroshima and Nagasaki?”

  “That’s low, Brent. Low!”

  “But true, sir.”

  “Now you have become one of them.”

  “Why? Because I can’t find any rationale in all this killing?”

  “No. Because you’ve become a samurai. Have the same contempt for life they do. And you’ll find your death with them — like them, reaching for your goddamned nirvana.”

  “That’s been the story of mankind as long as there have been wars and men to fight them.”

  “Brent. That’s Fujita speaking. Vintage Fujita.”

  “Is that so bad, Admiral?” He pushed on before the older man could answer, “I thought we were fighting Arabs, not Japanese, Admiral.”

  The old man sighed. “Of course. The interests of our own nation
are at stake, too, Brent.”

  “Khadafy must be stopped, Admiral.”

  “I know. I know. But there is good use for you in the Pentagon.”

  A slight smile toyed with the corners of the young officer’s lips. “With respect, sir. Admiral Fujita claims I have the best eyes on the ship. He calls me the ‘human radar’. For this reason alone he wouldn’t…”

  “I know,” Mark Allen interrupted. “For this reason alone he would refuse to sign a request for transfer…but if you ask him?”

  “Again, with respect, Admiral. I wouldn’t be Ted ‘Trigger’ Ross’s son if I did that — left Yonaga when her greatest battles still lie ahead.”

  “You should’ve been a politician,” the old man said with resignation.

  The younger man palmed the hilt of his sword. “Admiral Allen, Commander Yoshi Matsuhara is waiting for me.”

  “Liberty?”

  “Yes, sir. But he can wait if you’re not…”

  The old man waved him off. “No. Enjoy your liberty, Lieutenant.” And then as an afterthought, “Is Commander Matsuhara planning to marry?”

  Brent smiled as he came to his feet. “Kimio Urshazawa, Admiral.”

  Allen nodded. “A lovely woman. I met her once. A widow, isn’t she?”

  “Yes. Her husband was Kiyotaka Urshazawa, the first mate on the Mayeda Maru. Moammar Khadafy had him garroted.”

  Dock B-2 was just north of the great graving dock at Yokosuka. After descending the accommodation ladder side by side with Commander Yoshi Matsuhara, Brent glanced back at the ship. Comprehending Yonaga’s size was almost like trying to fathom the universe. Brent had stood at the foot of New York’s World Trade Center Towers and stared upward giddily for a quarter of a mile to the tops. But here, at Dock B-2, he felt the same dizzying effect as he not only stared upward at the great vertical sweep of the superstructure and single stack of the behemoth, but her overwhelming length as well. Her battleship torpedo bulges and armor belt were not visible, bulbous bow and flushdecked hull testifying to her battleship design. In typical Japanese fashion, her stack tilted outboard three degrees and her superstructure was cluttered with radar, search, fire control, ECM and ECCM antennas. All along her side, gun tubs projected outboard, muzzles of ready cannons and machine guns visible like thickets.

  Yoshi seemed to read the young lieutenant’s mind. “Hard to believe one man can command all that, Brent.”

  “It’s him, isn’t it?”

  “Him?”

  “Yes. Admiral Fujita.”

  Yoshi pondered for a moment. “I think all captains and their ships are welded together in a way. It’s a natural thing.”

  “No. That isn’t it, Yoshi-san. It’s more than the traditional bonding.” He gestured at the leviathan. “Yonaga has a personality. A-a…” He stumbled self-consciously before blurting it out, “A soul and it’s all Fujita.”

  “Yes,” the Japanese agreed. “There is truth in what you say.” And then with a smile, “You know, Brent-san, there is a bit of philosopher in you.”

  Brent chuckled. “Well, Yoshi-san, let’s get philosophical about this gorgeous girl you’re going to introduce me to.”

  Matsuhara chuckled. “I told you, she’s Kimio’s niece. A student at the Tokyo University for Women.”

  Dock B-2 was part of the Yokosuka repair complex. Extending for almost a mile along the waterfront and including the great graving dock, the installation consisted of rows of corrugated warehouses, shops, and a dozen giant cranes mounted on railroad tracks which hung over the ships like giant pterodactyls. For security, the entire area was enclose by a heavy twelve-foot chain link fence pierced by a single gate. Always dissatisfied, Fujita had beefed up security. Four evenly spaced Type 92, 7.7-millimeter Nambu machine guns, in sandbagged positions and with overlapping fields of fire, were emplaced fifty yards from the ship and 200 yards from each other. All were manned by Yonaga’s crewmen who lounged and smoked but kept their eyes on the fence and the newly rebuilt gate house — a small wooden structure that had been demolished when Kathryn Suzuki and her Uzi firing companion, Abdul al Kazarim, had crashed through it with a truck loaded with twelve tons of explosives destined for Yonaga. Only quick thinking by Brent Ross and his machine gun crew had saved the ship.

  As Ross and Matsuhara approached the gate, they passed rows of cement barriers that made passage by vehicles impossible. They also made the parking of the ship’s staff cars inside the enclosure impossible. Walking to the parking lot, the pair passed the gate house, another pair of Nambus and answered the crisp salute of the petty officer in charge; Chief Gunner’s Mate Huch Hiranuma, a tough, grizzled old veteran of Yonaga’s original crew.

  They were not more than fifty feet past the gate when they heard shouts and chants and saw a long line of people beginning to straggle into view from behind a warehouse. Immediately, they faced a disorderly group of about twenty people who arrayed themselves in irregular lines in front of the officers, carrying signs and placards. Every man was bearded, filthy and had long stringy hair. The women were equally foul, wearing sack-like dresses and straw sandals. Their mouths were as vile as their bodies.

  “Yankee son-of-a-bitch, go home,” one man shouted, waving a sign that read, “Yonaga back to the ice”. Others waved signs reading, “Killers of the innocent”, “The people shall be free”, “Yonaga murders women and children in the Ginza”, and the perennial, omnipresent, “Yankee go home”.

  Yoshi squared his jaw. Brent clenched his teeth together and the pair moved shoulder to shoulder through the pickets. The protesters gave ground, then, suddenly, a big man — a Caucasian with a flat nose and black gap in his front teeth — grabbed Brent’s arm, screaming in perfect English, “Jew-loving imperialist shit! Someday I’ll shove your Cadillac down your throat!” He waved a sign: “Yankees grow rich on Japanese blood.”

  A familiar hot spring began to uncoil in the young lieutenant’s chest and he felt his heart begin to race against his ribs. He stopped, spoke softly, “Let go of me or you’ll be reading that sign with your asshole.”

  Everyone stopped, and stared at the pair. The man coughed and then spat through the gap in his front teeth, spraying Brent’s face with spittle and bits of slimy yellow mucous. A familiar flame seared all reason-all civilization from the young American’s brain. Although he was off balance with his weight on his back foot, he was still able to bring a huge ham-like fist upward on a straight line, impacting his opponent on the nose and right cheek. Without cartilage after numerous brawls, the nose flattened like a cream puff without the usual brittle-breaking sounds. As Brent followed with a left that caught the man squarely on the mouth, he felt bone break, collapsing under his fist with sounds like gravel under a boot and the picket was lifted upward and then propelled backward by the weight of 220 pounds of fury. Sign flying, he dropped like an axed sapling, the last of his front teeth scattering on the pavement. “Now you can gum my Cadillac to death, you son-of-a-bitch,” Brent hissed.

  Keeping a safe distance, the crowd gathered around the two officers who were back to back. “Killers! Brutes! Imperialists!” they chanted.

  Then Brent heard the thud of boots and Chief Petty Officer Huch Hiranuma and a half-dozen seaman guards charged into the crowd, rifle butts swinging. Screaming and crying epithets, the crowd scattered, dragging the unconscious protester with them.

  “Why? And so close to the gate?” Brent shouted. The chief came to attention. “Japan is a democracy, sir. Orders, sir. They can demonstrate.”

  “But they are violent,” Yoshi said.

  “I think the Rengo Sekigun is behind this, sir.”

  “The Japanese Red Army?”

  “Yes, sir. The terrorists. But this is the first time they have been violent, Commander Matsuhara.” He nodded at Brent, “I do not mean to offend, Mister Ross, but they seem to hate — ah.” He stumbled to a halt.

  Brent finished the man’s thought, “They hate Americans more than anything — anyone. Right, Chief?” The old
chief bit his lip. “I am afraid so, sir.”

  “They’re nothing but Khadafy-loving communist cowards,” Yoshi spat bitterly. “We’ve spilled a lot of American blood for them and their goddamned Toyotas.” He took Brent by the arm. “Let’s go, Brent-san.”

  “Gentlemen,” Hiranuma said suddenly. “I do not mean to be presumptuous, but are you armed?”

  Both officers smiled and Brent patted a slight bulge in his left armpit. “Six-point-five-millimeter automatic Otsu, Chief Hiranuma,” he answered.

  “Good, Mister Ross,” the chief said, returning the smile. “The ‘Baby Nambu’. You can cure nine terrorists in nine seconds with that little beauty.” There was no laughter as the officers turned toward the parking lot.

  Because Commander Yoshi Matsuhara drove the same way he flew his fighter, Brent refused to enter the Mitsubishi sedan until Yoshi agreed to allow the American to drive. As Brent wheeled the unmarked staff car onto the broad highway to Tokyo, which was about thirty miles distant, he mused, “You know, Yoshi-san, Mitsubishi has done a lot more damage to America with this car, tape recorders and electronics than it ever did with your Zero-sen.” He stopped short, awkwardly, realizing he had blundered into the most sensitive subject.

  Yoshi’s smile eased his friend through his discomfort. “You mean economic damage, Brent-san.”

  “Of course,” the American said, tension easing. “Do you know no video recording machines are manufactured in the United States? And most televisions and over twenty percent of the cars in the United States are made in Japan?”

  “That’s one way to win, Brent-san.” The commander tapped a temple thoughtfully, “But none of it works without oil.”

  “Yes. So who’ll win?” Brent left the rhetorical question unanswered, mind slipping to another sensitive subject. “Yoshi-san, Lieutenant Taku Ishikawa was out of his mind when he broke into the staff meeting. There was no way you could’ve fought with your folding wing tip shot off and a loose aileron. My god, it was hanging by one rivet. It was a miracle you landed. You should’ve bailed out…” He wheeled the little sedan around a slow-moving truck that was blocking the number one lane.