Quest of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “True, Lieutenant,” Fujita acknowledged. “Both to submarines. And I pointed to the loss of Repulse and Prince of Wales off Maylaya to our aircraft. Keep in mind, we only entered the Mediterranean because Emperor Hirohito ordered it.”

  Okuma spoke, an amused smile twisting his face into a grotesque mask. “Admiral, if Lieutenant Ross is afraid, perhaps he could be assigned to shore duty while we avenge the cowardly air attack like men — like the forty-seven ronin.”

  Stunned by the insult, Brent felt a familiar heat fan his cheeks. But before he could speak, Admiral Fujita took control, squelching another explosion.

  “There will be no more bickering.” He thumped the table with a gnarled fist. “How many times must I tell you we cannot fight ourselves and the enemy at the same time?” He gestured at Brent. “The Lieutenant is right. It seems too easy. We have an old saying, ‘Beware of the worm that begs for the fish, it may be on the end of a hook.’” He turned to Yoshi Matsuhara. “Air Group Commander Yoshi Matsuhara will equip twelve of our B-5-N’s with auxiliary tanks. When we get underway, I will want at least a sixteen hundred-kilometer, one-thousand-mile search in the quadrants to the south, west and north, and I am not concerned about whose airspace we violate.”

  He glanced at Admiral Mark Allen and then Jason King. “Do we get airborne radar, yet?”

  “Sorry, sir,” King said, staring at his hands. “That’s one of…”

  “The chips?”

  “Yes, Admiral. We have agreed with the Russians to provide airborne IFF only.”

  “But shipboard electronics equipment is exempt?”

  “Yes, Admiral. And with your permission, we will bring aboard some of the latest ECM, ESM and ELINT systems.”

  Fujita threw up his hands. “You Americans and your acronyms.”

  “Sorry, sir. I mean electronic countermeasures, electronic support measures and electronic intelligence.”

  “Electronic intelligence! Smart computers?”

  King smiled. “In a way, sir. Elint has the capability to analyze enemy emissions and define all relevant electronic parameters — frequencies used, pulse repetition, pulse widths, scan rates, types of modulation, types of multiplexing. It can fingerprint and identify…”

  Fujita threw up his hands. “Enough.” He waved at Brent Ross, Mark Allen and Irving Bernstein. “Admiral Allen and these officers are in charge of communications and electronics. Confer with them and give me a complete report plus operating manuals for every piece of new equipment by 1600 hours tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Commander Yutaka Nakano cleared his throat with a self-conscious cough and Brent realized he had forgotten the diminutive Self-Defense officer was still in the room. “Admiral Fujita,” Nakano said softly and hesitantly, “the Self-Defense Force has six LSTs, two transports, and assorted small landing craft. If the Arabs make a landing,” he waved a small hand at the chart behind Fujita, “we are justified by Article Nine to defend ourselves.”

  “Of course.”

  “Completely constitutional,” Mark Allen agreed. “No problem, not even with this diet of pussy cats.”

  The old admiral looked around the room. “Is there anything else?” Silence. His eyes settled on Commander Yoshi Matsuhara. “Commander, you are a poet. Let us end this meeting with some of your haiku.”

  Yoshi rose slowly. “Sir,” he said in a soft voice. “Many of our samurai have entered the Yasakuni Shrine and many more of us will follow before this is finished. Instead of my poor efforts, with your permission, I would like to quote the monk Ryokan who died on the tenth day of the eight month in the second year of leyoshi.”

  Nodding his permission, the admiral leaned back, arms crossed across his narrow chest.

  Eyes raised and squinting into the light, Matsuhara continued reverently, “Ryokan took leave of this world with these words:

  ‘What will be my legacy?

  The blossoms of spring,

  The cuckoo in the hills,

  The leaves of autumn.’”

  Yoshi sank in his chair. Fujita leaned forward. “Thank you, Commander. Let us hope, those of us who are called upon to make the last journey do so with strong karmas and Yamato damashii.”

  There was an explosion of “Banzai!” and “Tenno heiko banzai!” (Long live the Emperor!”), with Okuma and Saiki waving fists, and Katsube supporting himself with one hand on the table while waving the other.

  Placing both hands on the table, Fujita spoke over the uproar with finality. “This meeting is closed.” And then, as chairs scraped and men rose in a spontaneous babble of conversation, the old admiral turned to Lieutenant Brent Ross. “Mister Ross, please remain.”

  Brent sank back into his chair. In a moment the room was free of everyone except Fujita, Ross and Mark Allen who paused in the doorway.

  Admiral Allen addressed Brent Ross, “Brent, I would like to have a meeting with you after you finish.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the lieutenant answered. Admiral Allen closed the door as he stepped into the passageway.

  Fujita indicated a chair next to his own. Brent obeyed the silent command quickly. The old admiral pushed a book across the table. “The Hagakure,” he said with reverence. “You should read it — no, study it.”

  The lieutenant picked up the heavy volume. “Your Bible.”

  “Not in the same sense you would use Bible.” He placed his hand on his own leather bound copy. “There is no theology here. Its philosophy is intuitive rather than rational, far removed from the pragmatism, humanism and materialism of the Occident.” He caressed the leather. “Here you will find one can explore the universe through meditation, and intuition based on verity and moral values can lead one to the basic building blocks of humanity.”

  “All that, sir?” Brent said, picking up his book.

  The old man chuckled. “Perhaps. The reader can take as much from the book as he brings to it. But, it will help you understand us — the samurai and his motivations.” He tapped the desk. “Anyway, Brent-san, you have already exhibited some of the best qualities of bushido. Bravery and loyalty are innate virtues with you.”

  “Thank you, sir. You are very generous.”

  “No. It is not generosity, you have earned your place here by your actions in a half-dozen battles. You have the best eyes on the ship and you have stood tall in the gravest dangers.”

  “I have been very frightened at times, sir.”

  “We all have been frightened, Brent-san. But as I have told you before, a brave man is a frightened man who manages his fear.”

  The young man tapped his temple thoughtfully. “You have said many times that I have the best eyes on the ship.” Fujita nodded. Brent continued. “Sir, if we do not have airborne radar and we must make visual searches only, I request permission to fly as an observer when we get underway.”

  The old man tugged on the single hair. “If that is the best way to serve Yonaga. Yes. I will grant my permission.” The old man gave the hair another pull. “You can handle the Type ninety-two machine gun?”

  “Why, yes, sir. I shot down a DC-three over the Med with one when I flew with Lieutenant Yoshiro Takii and Ensign Morisada Mochitsura in their B-5-N to Tel Aviv.”

  Confusion crossed the old sailor’s face and Brent knew one-hundred years had taken a toll of the man’s memory — an amazing memory that could recall the minutest details of distant happenings, especially from World War II, yet could forget recent events completely.

  “To pick up the Israeli encryption box, Admiral,” Brent explained further.

  “Oh, yes. Yes. Of course. In the Mediterranean.” And then, painfully, “You were wounded.”

  “Only a crease, sir,” Brent said, patting his head. “And I request, if I fly, I fly with Lieutenant Takii and Ensign Mochitsura.”

  “Granted.”

  The old man fingered the bridge of his tiny nose. “Brent-san, you know I prefer to allow my staff to settle differences without my intervention — even to the p
oint of violence if the safety of Yonaga is not compromised. That is the best way to clear the ship of conflict.”

  Brent knew where the admiral’s mind was. “Yes, sir. A wise policy. But Commander Okuma seems to hate me. There is open hostility…”

  “I know. And you know I would not force any man to accept affronts — insults demeaning to his rank. But we face great peril in the next few months and I must ask you to restrain yourself, seek your satisfaction — if it comes to that — at a later date. I will discuss the matter with Commander Okuma.”

  “It hasn’t come to that, sir. But I can’t speak for Commander Matsuhara. He is close to violence with Commander Okuma.”

  The young man thumped the table with massive knuckles. “Sir, may I ask a question — a personal question that a lieutenant really shouldn’t ask an admiral?”

  Fujita actually laughed audibly. “Go ahead, Lieutenant. However, I may not answer it.”

  Brent took the opening. “There is scuttlebutt you accepted Lieutenant Daizo Saiki because the Emperor insisted he be assigned to your staff.”

  “Scuttlebutt?”

  “Sorry, sir. I meant rumor.”

  “Oh, I understand. That is common knowledge. The lieutenant speaks openly of it.” The old man sank back. “You Americans have an expression, ‘off the record’. Let us speak in that manner, Brent-san.” The young man nodded eagerly. Fujita placed both hands on the table and hunched forward, “It is true, the Emperor requested that both Lieutenant Saiki and Commander Okuma be assigned.”

  “And never can the Emperor be denied.”

  “Deny the Emperor? You surprise me, Brent-san. He is sacred, a god, the one-hundred-twenty-fourth descendant in a direct blood line from the goddess Amaterasu-O-Mi-Kami. There could be no meaning to my life — no, our lives and no purpose in the existence of Yonaga.” He pointed at Brent’s copy of the Hagakure. “That book will make it all clear to you, Lieutenant.”

  “Of course, sir.” Brent concurred, the logic of the absurd statement perfectly clear and plausible.

  There was a knock and Seaman Guard Katai entered. He handed the admiral a message and stood at attention. After putting on his glasses and glancing at the document, the admiral looked up at Brent. “It seems our American guest, Captain Kenneth Rosencrance, had a small wound on his back that has become badly infected. My chief surgeon, Chief Hospital Orderly Eiichi Horikoshi, has requested that he be transferred to the sick bay.”

  “I didn’t know he was wounded, sir. Could be phony — self-inflicted. Maybe he thinks he’d have a better chance to escape from the sick bay.”

  Fujita squinted through his glasses. “There is a chance for blood poisoning — gangrene. We could lose him.”

  “Big loss.”

  A rare smile flashed across the old man’s face. He spoke to Katai, “Transfer him to the sick bay, but post a guard.”

  Katai bowed, turned smartly and left the room.

  Admiral Fujita gestured at some charts lying on the table. “I must study — prepare a welcome for our Arab friends when they sortie from Vladivostok and I will keep in mind your concerns. It does seem too easy and a sly Arab ambush may be in the making.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And, Lieutenant, we do not want to keep Admiral Allen waiting.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Please assure him I am not exerting an overwhelming influence on you.”

  Brent’s eyes widened with surprise. Did nothing escape this man?

  “You are still your own man. You are free to accept another assignment any time you wish.”

  Brent could only mutter, “I know, sir. But I prefer duty here, with you, in Yonaga.”

  The old Oriental was smiling when the young American left.

  *

  “I have a great opportunity for you in the Pentagon. First Assistant to the Chief Cryptographer. You should have two full stripes within six months, Brent. You’d be a fool to turn it down,” Mark Allen said, leaning back in his chair.

  Brent stared across the admiral’s desk into the intent gray-green eyes. “I appreciate your efforts, sir. But...”

  “But!” The older man interrupted. “But, you prefer duty in Yonaga?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your future’s at stake, Brent.”

  “Maybe the future of the world is at stake right here with this carrier, Admiral.”

  The old man pushed long strands of white hair from his forehead, irritably. “All right, Brent. I won’t pound a dead horse anymore. You just won’t leave Fujita. Right?”

  “We’ve been over this so many times, Admiral.”

  “I know.” Allen pointed at the copy of the Hagakure Brent had placed on the desk. “Fujita gave you that?”

  “Yes. He claims it’s the handbook of bushido.”

  “It was and, also, it was required reading in all Japanese schools before and during World War II.” Mark Allen pursed his lips thoughtfully. “It could only be exalted by the Japanese. It was written by Tsunetomo Yamamoto who was a retainer of a great daimyo, Lord Mitsushige Nabeshima, who died in Seventeen-hundred. Grief-stricken and forbidden seppuku by the shogunate, Yamamoto became a Buddhist priest and over a period of seven years he wrote the Hagakure, which incidentally, means ‘hidden by the leaves’. It’s nothing but a collection of homilies, anecdotes about Nabeshima and other famous nobility, aphorisms, rules of etiquette, conduct in battle and above all else the importance of loyalty to one’s lord and the necessity for dying well.”

  “Yes. I know, Admiral, and I intend to study it.”

  “But there are some very strange passages in it, indeed.” Reaching across the desk, Allen grasped the book, opened it and began to flip through the pages. “Here, here,” he smiled. “Listen to this, Brent, ‘If you cut a face lengthwise, urinate on it, and trample on it with straw sandals, it is said that the skin will come off.” Chuckling, he pushed the book back.

  Brent opened it at random. “But, here, sir, listen to this. “‘It is a cleansing act to throw away one’s life for the Mikado.’”

  “Yes. Death and the importance of dying well run through the book. You’ll find that dictum everywhere — almost every page.”

  “Sir,” Brent continued, tapping the book, mind wandering to another topic, “I appreciate your efforts to promote my career, but I feel I’m valuable here and Yonaga’s the only force capable of stopping Khadafy. We’re at the hub here, Admiral. Not on the rim looking down the spokes. You want this duty, too, sir.”

  The old American sighed. “Yes. That’s war. We can lose sphincter control when the salvos bracket us, but we can’t bear the thought of missing the battles, either.”

  “True, sir. I’ve felt it.”

  “We’ve all felt it, Brent. Do you know they called battles ‘big shows’ during World War I?”

  “A little before my time, sir.”

  The old man laughed. “The ‘big show’, Brent. And they kept marching into the jaws of it even though it devoured ten million of them.”

  “I think all men look at it as a show, sir.”

  “In a sense, yes,” Allen agreed with a seriousness Brent had never seen before. Suddenly he was in a different place, a different time, “But when the dead pile up, it becomes something else. Survival guilt sets in and a little bit of us dies with each of our brothers.”

  Brent was fixed by the gray-green eyes, but they stared right through him and the young man knew they were fixed on the past. Fascinated by an aspect of the admiral he had never seen before and caught up in ideas that mirrored his own, the young man continued, “But, Admiral, there is something in us — a built-in mechanism that eases the horror — erases it, leaving the excitement, the heady thrill of victory like nothing else short of a beautiful woman.”

  “So that we can do it over and over again, Brent.”

  “Yes, sir. And we do find out a lot about ourselves in battle.”

  “Yes. It does leave us naked, Brent. What you are is there for everyone to
see.” Sighing, Mark Allen sank back. A smile spread across his face like spilled oil. “You’re quite a philosopher, Brent.”

  Brent laughed. “Yoshi has said the same.”

  The old man leaned forward. “You’ve met a new woman.”

  Brent straightened with surprise. “How did you know?”

  Allen laughed. “When you came back from liberty, yesterday, your cheeks were flushed and your eyes were dancing. Don’t forget, I’ve known you since you were born.”

  Brent flushed. “She’s beautiful and intelligent, and we have a date tomorrow. We’re going sightseeing in Tokyo.”

  “Sightseeing?”

  “The Yasakuni Shrine, for sure.” Ross tapped his temple. “But now, I think I’ll do a little sightseeing in the sick bay.” Allen raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Rosencrance is there. An infection. There’s something phony about it and I want to see him.”

  “He’s foul — evil incarnate.”

  “I know. But there is something to be settled with my ol’ buddy’.”

  Neither man laughed as Brent rose.

  Chapter Six

  Chief Hospital Orderly Eiichi Horikoshi was a genuine antique. An original member of Yonaga’s crew, he was tiny and bent with fine, fluffy white hair and pale, brittle-looking skin crosshatched by the serrations and fissures of over eight decades. As he hobbled around the sick bay on arthritic knees, stethoscope dangling from his desiccated, bird-like neck, the little man appeared in imminent danger of being swallowed by the shroud of his white starched smock. But his eyes belied his age. They were wide and round for a Japanese, flashing around his ward alertly in quick, jerky movements.

  Assigned to the carrier in 1940 as a seaman, Eiichi Horikoshi volunteered for the sick bay as a hospital orderly “striker.” Within two years, he had become first assistant to the chief surgeon, Commander Ryotetsu Hoshino, who taught Eiichi not only the complex art of surgery but the mysteries of diagnoses as well. Eventually, during the ship’s entrapment in Sano Wan, Hoshino and the other four doctors died leaving the care of the sick to Horikoshi and a handful of enlisted assistants. When the ship returned to Tokyo Bay, Admiral Fujita, who distrusted the medical profession which he considered peopled with “fakers and swindlers,” had refused requests from the Self-Defense Force to assign fully qualified physicians to the carrier. Now, assisted by six orderlies, four of whom were as aged as he was, Eiichi Horikoshi still held sway over the sick bay, his tiny, blue-veined hands gripping authority as firmly as they did scalpels and clamps.