by Peter Albano
Brent scribbled Admiral Allen’s name on the envelope and handed it to a Japanese enlisted man. A quick bow, and the man was gone.
Within minutes, a phone buzzed and Cryptographer Menefee handed him the black instrument. He heard the Executive Officer, Commander Mitake Arai, on the line announcing an emergency meeting of the staff. Quickly, the young lieutenant walked aft the short distance to Flag Plot.
Only one aviator, Commander Tashiro Okuma, was present. The others, Lieutenant Taku Ishikawa, Commander Yoshi Matsuhara and Lieutenant Daizo Saiki, were ashore at Tokyo International Airport and Tsuchiura training new pilots and crews. Jason King was also absent, attending a meeting at the American embassy. All other members of the staff found their chairs at the table. As usual, Brent seated himself at the end next to Admiral Mark Allen and across from Captain Irving Bernstein. Admiral Allen appeared unusually pale and drawn.
Obviously agitated, Admiral Fujita opened the meeting. “You have a report, Admiral Allen,” he said, the timbre of his voice more of a command than a question.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, the old American flag officer came to his feet. “Yes, sir.” The shaggy head turned and puffy, watery gray-green eyes moved up and down the table, managing to avoid returning stares. He held up the printout. The voice was low, tinged heavily with bitterness. “Because of the impossible fuel situation, American forces are abandoning all bases in the Pacific except Hawaii.”
There was a roar of anguish. “The Philippines?” Commander Okuma shouted.
“Gone.” Allen muttered.
Okuma persisted. “Guam, Taiwan, the Marshalls, Gilberts?”
Mark Allen’s response was so low it was barely audible. “All gone.”
Okuma rose halfway out of his chair, leaned on the table and turned his eyes to Brent. There was the expected dislike there, but unaccustomed restraint, perhaps, respect sparked there, too. The expected attack did not materialize. Instead, the aviator said in a controlled voice, “We can be flanked now, especially from the south.” He waved at the chart of the western Pacific on the bulkhead. “There must be a hundred islands the Arabs could take. Unsinkable aircraft carriers.”
Standing, Fujita took control. He moved to the chart, spoke thoughtfully in a soft voice. “They have their spies.” He glanced at Captain Irving Bernstein.
“True, sir,” the Israeli agreed. “Every Arab embassy in Washington is staffed with spies and the Russian KGB gathers intelligence for them, too.”
Fujita continued. “Then they know already and their landing force becomes more viable — poses a greater threat.” He thumped the chart with a tiny fist. “Here! The entire western Pacific is in a power vacuum. Khadafy has OPEC’s oil, a hundred-million fanatic Arabs ready to realize their jihad. Yes, landings would be feasible, perhaps several at Yap, Palau, the Carolines, Marianas, the Bonins — ” He paused, ruminating, “even Okinawa.”
“Sir,” Bernstein said, waving a hand. Fujita nodded his assent and the Israeli rose. “Several weeks ago we received word that the Arabs were acquiring LRAs…”
“What? L what?” the old scribe, Commander Hakuseki Katsube said, suddenly asserting himself with unusual alertness.
“Sorry. ‘Long Range Aircraft’,” Bernstein explained. “They aren’t carrier aircraft and we assumed they were destined for service in the Middle East.”
“We know they have multi-engined aircraft,” the old scribe said.
Okuma re-entered the discussion. “DC-6s, Constellations….”
“True. But these are strategic aircraft and with the American withdrawal…” He waved.
The implications of the statement brought a sudden silence that engulfed the room like a cold wave. “Precisely what do you mean?” Fujita said.
“I mean strategic bombers. We know they have reconditioned and re-engined perhaps two dozen FW 200s.” He opened a dossier, studied a document in the silence. “It is a four-engined bomber and originally in its World War II configuration it mounted four one-thousand-horsepower Junkers Jumo engines. It had a cruising speed of one-hundred-fifty knots, range twenty-four hundred miles. It was heavily armed — one 7.9-millimeter machine gun in a dorsal turret, a flexible 13-millimeter machine gun mounted dorsally aft, a 20-millimeter cannon on each side, a centrally mounted 7.9-millimeter machine gun forward and a 9.9 machine gun aft. It could carry over two tons of bombs.”
“But it has been modified,” Fujita said.
“Yes, Admiral.” The Israeli selected another sheet. “Our informants tell us the Arabs and their German technicians are mounting new engines — the BMW 805-E, twenty-seven-hundred-horsepower power plant and the range and bomb carrying capacities are unknown but we assume they are vastly improved.”
“In your opinion, Captain, a range estimate.”
“All things considered, power, fuel consumption…” The Israeli tugged at the point of his beard. “I would say over five thousand kilometers — three thousand miles.”
“Sacred Buddha!” Fujita turned back to the chart. “Then they could bomb Tokyo from any of these bases.” He swung an arc with a finger that encompassed most of the western Pacific.
“Yes, sir.” The Israeli glanced at another document. “Just before the meeting I decoded another transmission. There are rumors that the Arabs are assembling a B-twenty-nine — perhaps, several.”
“Impossible,” Mark Allen sputtered. “The Enola Gay is owned by the Smithsonian. Otherwise, there aren’t any.”
“Not true, Admiral. In Nineteen-forty-four, hundreds operated out of,” Bernstein stared at the paper, “Kharagpur, in north-eastern India and Chengtu, in south-central China. Many crashed or were abandoned. The word we have is that Khadafy’s agents have been scouring the area.”
There was a knock. A nod from Fujita and Brent, who was the junior officer, opened the door, admitting Jason King. The CIA man’s white face was flushed and red veins were visible in vanilla cheeks. His breath was short and sweat trickled through the deep lines of his forehead. “Sir,” he said, approaching the admiral. “I have a report.” He gestured at a Mercator projection of the world attached to the bulkhead next to the shrine.
“Proceed,” Fujita said.
Moving to the chart, King picked up a rubber-tipped pointer. “I just got the latest intelligence.” He stabbed the Arabian Sea. “One of our subs sighted an Arab force of at least two carriers, two cruisers and numerous escorts, here, three hundred miles southwest of Socotra Island.”
There were shouts of anger and surprise.
“Course? Speed?”
“Sorry, Admiral. The sub reported a depth charge attack and went silent. They haven’t transmitted since.”
Fujita glared at Bernstein. “Israeli intelligence did not report this.”
Bernstein squirmed as King grinned triumphantly. “No, sir,” Bernstein said. “I can only say our reconnaissance aircraft are fully engaged and the Arab battle group must have exited the Gulf of Aden at night at high speed.”
Fujita was not finished with Bernstein. “The Arab amphibious force? Yesterday you told me it was maneuvering in the Indian Ocean.”
All eyes were on the Israeli. “Yes, sir. That was our latest estimate.”
“An estimate is a guess.”
“Of course, sir.”
The old admiral stepped next to King, pointed at the chart of the world. “This could be a pincers movement.” His smile surprised everyone. “We are the Romans and the Arabs are the Carthaginians and we are playing out Khadafy’s version of Cannae.” He thumped the Philippine Sea. “A double envelopment at sea.”
The admiral’s reference to the battle of Cannae during the Punic Wars — a battle where Hannibal annihilated a Roman army in 216 B.C. — surprised no one. His knowledge of military history was endless.
“Sir,” Jason King said, obviously agitated. “Do you still insist on attacking Mabruk and Al Hamra when they sortie from Vladivostok?”
The little Oriental drew himself up to his full four-feet-eleven-inch
height. “I am honor bound as a samurai to seek vengeance.”
Shouts of “Banzai!”
Admiral Allen entered the exchange. “But, sir, now it most certainly appears to be a trap.”
“Let them think we are asleep. The Arabs believe when a fox is asleep nothing falls into his mouth. But we will sharpen our teeth. Be ready for them.”
There were more shouts of “Banzai!”
Mark Allen persisted. “But, sir, it isn’t realistic to barrel through the Korean Straits into the Sea of Japan with the possibility of having an enemy battle group astern.”
The old admiral caught the American with an inflexible stare. “I am aware of this, Admiral Allen” He tugged at the single hair on his chin. “But do you not feel it would be wise to make the Arabs believe that this is precisely what we intend?”
“Yes, sir,” Allen said. “But we could be too far committed — in restricted waters, too close to airbases. Remember the Repulse and Prince of Wales.”
“I am aware and appreciate your counsel. That is why we are here. But we will proceed with the interception with one eye astern and wait for the Arabs to commit themselves. Then Yonaga will react.”
More “Banzais!”
Fujita turned to Bernstein. “One week ago, Israeli intelligence reported two Arab Gearings had sortied from the Gulf of Suez at high speed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We assumed they were headed for Vladivostok. But, now, perhaps, they are escorting the landing force.” He knuckled his forehead. The quick eyes moved to Admiral Allen. “Your submarine off Vladivostok reports nothing?”
“The transports are still at their docks, loading, Admiral.”
“Very well. The flight deck is repaired and we can put to sea without the aft director.” He turned to the engineering officer, Lieutenant Tatsuya Yoshida. “According to your last report all boilers are on line.”
“Yes, sir. I can give you six hundred pounds in all boilers with an hour's notice.”
“Maximum?”
“Seven-hundred-fifty pounds in all boilers except three and eight. I recommend no more than six-hundred pounds of pressure in those two.”
“Very well.” The old admiral pondered the information. “Flank speed should be thirty-one knots?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sir,” Executive Officer Commander Mitake Arai said anxiously. “I recommend we cancel all liberties.” Brent felt his heart skip a beat and a cold hand clutched at his stomach.
The admiral’s eyes flitted over the chart of the world. He spoke thoughtfully, “If Khadafy is making his move, we still have at least seventeen days.” He turned to the executive officer. “No, Commander, some of the men have not had liberty in over forty years. We will continue port and starboard for another week but no one is to leave the Tokyo area.”
“Yes, sir.”
Brent’s sigh of relief was so audible, Admiral Allen turned and grinned slyly. Brent felt his face flush.
Fujita grimaced grimly and spoke deep in his throat, “We must remember these threats to Dai Nippon come from the catacombs of insanity. Fathoming the fires in a madman’s mind is like fanning the sun with a peacock’s feather.” The black eyes blazed the length of the table, holding every man enthralled. “But we will be ready for Khadafy — ready wherever his insane plans take him.”
He was interrupted by “Banzai” shouted over and over. He raised his hands and silence returned with the swiftness of a kaiskakus blade. Turning to the shrine, he clapped twice. Every man rose and the Japanese clapped. Fujita spoke to the shrine, “O blessed Buddha, let us transcend the illusion of reality and live fully, free from the barriers of preconceptions of imagination, memory, the past — find the way with you in a universe free of illusions and in our consciousness discover the truth — divine the hearts and minds of our enemies and then destroy them.”
More cries of, “Banzai”, the stomping of boots. When the uproar had quieted, the old admiral clasped his hands reverently and raised his eyes to the overhead. “Tomorrow I meet with the Mikado.” He gesticulated at the Emperor’s picture. “With god-Hirohito and the spirit of kokutai guiding us, we cannot fail.” The intense eyes gleaming like newly mined chips of coal swept the staff. Then, a wave and the words, “This meeting is closed”, ended the meeting.
With choruses of “Tenno heiko banzai!” ringing in his ears, Brent Ross walked from the room.
Admiral Fujita disembarked at 1000 hours the next morning. Standing at attention with Admiral Mark Allen and Captain Irving Bernstein on the cavernous quarterdeck, Brent watched as the tiny admiral approached. Any other little old man would have looked ridiculous. But Fujita appeared splendidly naval in his finest dress blues which obviously dated back four decades or more: single-breasted tunic with rank patches boasting an admiral’s three cherry blossoms on both stand collar and laced cuffs, shoulder strap, trousers tucked into gleaming black leather boots, peaked cap with anchor, three gold stripes circling cap and sleeves, and in the admiral’s white-gloved left hand the hilt of his sword held stiffly at the correct parade ground angle.
A side party of fifty seaman guards snapped to attention, Arisakas held stiffly at their sides. There were ruffles, flourishes as drummers and buglers came to life. Then, as the old admiral passed Brent followed by Commander Katsube, Commander Arai, Commander Atsumi and Lieutenant Yoshida all proud in their blues, white gloves and swords, the old Chief Boatswain’s Mate Noriaki Doken twittered his pipe in its usual shrill flight of crowded notes. There was joy in the sound and pride.
Pausing at the head of the accommodation ladder, the admiral turned smartly, and saluted the officer of the deck and the colors. At that moment, a voice on the ship’s public address system shouted, “Ship’s company, man the starboard rail!” Boots struck steel with a rumble like an earthquake and thousands of men rushed to the starboard side. Standing at attention, they lined the rails, gun tubs, galleries, hangar deck, flight deck, bridge, and foretop. Rank after rank, all in blue, standing rigidly.
Unaided, the old admiral began to walk down the long ladder to the pier. Brent knew what was coming next. He had heard it before. The metallic voice boomed, “Ship’s company, the Kamigayo!”
Three thousand voices broke into the old, long abandoned and discredited national anthem. “Corpses drifting swollen in the sea depths, corpses rotting in the mountain grass. We shall die, we shall die for the Emperor. We shall never look back.”
When the old man reached the foot of the ladder, he turned, bowed to the stern, amidships and finally the bow. Brent found himself bowing along with thousands of others. Bernstein and Allen remained at attention.
“An orthodox Jew bows only to God,” Bernstein muttered.
“That is God,” Allen retorted under his breath. Brent remained silent.
The voice boomed from the speaker, “Three ‘banzais’ for the admiral!”
Like a broadside, the cheers thundered across the navy yard.
Brent watched as Fujita was helped by a seaman guard into a small cart much like a golf cart and was driven through the dragon’s teeth barrier of concrete piles to the gate house where his limousine waited. Then escorted by a police car with red lights flashing, led and followed by a pair of weapon’s carriers with twelve seaman guards each and with Nambus pointing over the tail gates, the old man drove off.
“Ship’s company dismissed,” echoed through the decks. But the men remained, cheering and waving.
Slowly, Brent, Mark Allen and Irving Bernstein turned away from the rail. As the young lieutenant followed the two older officers to the ladder, thoughts of Mayumi Hachiya crowded back into his mind. “Seven more hours,” he said to himself. “Will they ever pass?”
Chapter Eight
Mayumi was dressed in a white silk blouse trimmed in lace and buttoned to the neck. Her black skirt was knee-length, form-fitting and pulled in at the waist by a tight elastic waistband to show off her petite waist. Waist like a Coke bottle, Brent said to himself a
s he helped her into the Mitsubishi Galant.
As he pulled away from the curb in the gathering dusk, he turned to her, “I know a great place. The Chardonnay.”
“That’s French.” She looked at him wistfully. “You aren’t crazy about traditional Japanese food, are you?”
“That isn’t true,” he said defensively.
“You were suspicious of Kimio’s dishes.”
He chuckled. “That doesn’t mean I don’t like Japanese food.” He tapped the steering wheel as he braked for a red light. “It’s just that I don’t understand some of it.”
“Understand?” She laughed. And then with an undisguised dare in her voice, “How would you like to eat with the ultimate challenge?”
“The ultimate challenge?” He chuckled as the light turned green and he put the small sedan in first gear. “A philosophical meal?”
“You could say so. But very traditional.”
“I’m for it.”
“You could regret it, Brent.”
‘I’m game,” he said.
“It’s the Hashimari-ya,” she said, pointing at the next intersection. “Right on Meiji Dori.” And then with a seriousness that made him uneasy, “A samurai would like this.” She eyed him. “You’ll love it.”
The Hashimari-ya was in a sparsely populated area of the Shinjiku-Ku District. It was easy to find, a huge paper-and-bamboo lamp displaying the ideogram for Hashimari-ya written in calligraphy on both sides signaling the way. Entering the gate in the high bamboo fence surrounding the property, Brent and Mayumi found a scaled down forest — a miniature garden of dwarf pines, small shrubs and stone-lined paths which wound carelessly past six small huts. The outside world was excluded, the sounds of distant traffic gone in a sedate ambiance of wood, paper, polished stone and a tiny stream with graceful bridges.
“Better than Disneyland,” Brent muttered.
“Jochu-san,” (Miss Waitress) Mayumi called.