Attack of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “I don’t get it,” Brent said in frustration. “You know nothing about the Arab battle group?”

  Horikoshi straightened. “No! Nothing!” He nodded at a bedpan. “Just fill that, Lieutenant, with quarts of urine and we will pull that out of your arm.” He pointed at the IV hanging over Brent’s head. “As you Americans would say, piss your guts out.”

  From the first moment Brent met Chief Orderly Eiichi Horikoshi over a year earlier, he had been amazed and confused by the old man. A “plank owner” (an original member of the crew), he had reported aboard Yonaga in 1938 as a hospital orderly “striker.” During the forty-two-year entrapment at Sano Wan, the ship’s five doctors began to die off. Admiral Fujita recognized a rare talent for medicine in Eiichi who quickly learned even the most complex surgical techniques by assisting Yonaga’s outstanding physicians. Gradually, Horikoshi took charge of the sick bay. Finally, one morning in 1967, the last doctor died and Horikoshi was given command and he began intensive training of a cadre of the most promising orderlies. Having a deep distrust for the medical profession which he considered peopled with “charlatans and fakes,” Fujita was confident of Horikoshi’s competence. He knew surgery was taught on the time-honored journeyman-apprentice relationship and not through textbooks. He did not hesitate to give Horikoshi a free hand.

  Horikoshi considered the sick bay his domain, not showing the subservience of enlisted men to officers that typified the Imperial Navy. In fact, even when Admiral Fujita appeared in the sick bay, obeisance was missing from Eiichi’s demeanor. Respect and loyalty were there, true; obsequiousness, however, never. Indeed, there was a confidence that approached arrogance in the old orderly like a daimyo ruling his realm. He had been offered a commission but refused it, telling Fujita he was just a simple uneducated farmer’s son and not a professional.

  When Yonaga returned to Tokyo Bay, professionally trained doctors were offered immediately by the Self Defense Force. To Horikoshi’s delight, Fujita refused. Instead, new young strikers were brought aboard and Horikoshi and four of his most competent assistants began their training. Eiichi studied the latest medical literature and ordered the most modern equipment and medications. His intelligent staff learned quickly and Yonaga’s sick bay became one of the most efficient medical facilities on earth. And with heavy fighting against the terrorism riding roughshod over the world, there were many casualties and terrible wounds of every description. Many crewmen died in the ward — some new and very young. Chief Orderly Eiichi Horikoshi added a strand of bitterness to his cloak of arrogance.

  The old man’s next words shocked Brent: “See to it he eats at least thirty eggs a day.”

  “Thirty!” Brent said in astonishment. “Christ, I’ll start clucking.”

  “You need protein. Eat the eggs if you want to return to duty.” A sly grin twisted Eiichi’s face. “That should please you, Lieutenant.”

  “What do you mean,” Brent asked, not trusting the expression and feeling like a straight man in a low comedy routine.

  The old man continued, “A good rooster can take care of a barnyard full of hens. I understand you have kept many hens happy.”

  A groan turned their heads. It was Takii. The smiles vanished and a grim silence filled the room like a cold viscous fluid, seeping into every corner and coating everyone with its chill. Quickly, Horikoshi and Takeda moved to the next bed and pulled the sheet from the cradle which covered the patient.

  “More sedatives, Chief?” Takeda asked. “We have not changed the dose and he may be building up a resistance.”

  The old man shook his head. “Continue with the same dosage of Demerol, but after my examination.”

  To Brent’s knowledge, Lieutenant Yoshiro Takii had never been conscious. He had lain like a burned vegetable, breathing shallowly, every need provided by tubes, bottles, and attendants who changed bottles and emptied pans. “What are his chances?” Brent asked in a soft voice.

  “Considering the extent and severity of his burns and his age — about ten percent.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Brent murmured. “And no eyes, ears, nose…” He was stopped by a sudden flash of pain across his chest. Horikoshi gestured at the medication chart. Quickly, Takeda removed a syringe, and in a moment Brent winced as a needle pricked his arm. “I didn’t need that,” the American said. “You just wanted to shut me up.”

  “That is my decision,” the old chief said, turning back to Takii. His voice droned on with a timbre of cold professionalism: “Continue with the endotracheal intubation and watch his urine output.”

  “A tracheostomy, Chief?” Takeda asked.

  “Not yet. Only if severe edema develops with fluid retention.”

  “I understand, Chief.”

  “Continue with the saline soaks, Takeda. And I want an arterial line to monitor mean arterial pressure — the femoral artery.”

  Takeda muttered understanding. “Continue with the ten-percent Sulfamylon, Chief?”

  Horikoshi pondered for a moment. “It penetrates the eschars well, but we are getting some metabolic acidosis. Reduce sulfamylon to five percent for two days, three times daily.”

  Confused by the medical terminology and with his eyelids turning to lead, Brent listened with a deep, sinking feeling as Eiichi droned on, prescribing new medications and canceling others. Anger began to grow in the young American. Why keep Takii alive? It made no sense. The old pilot had been cremated before death. An invalid who could only live in pain, without eyes, ears, nose, and almost half of his flesh burned away. A horror that would challenge Hollywood’s most talented special effects men. The droning continued, became a bass viol in a vast auditorium. Brent drifted off into the dream world of Demerol.

  That night Brent heard the strange sounds for the first time — rustling and popping sounds like a stiff wind bending trees, soughing through the leaves and rubbing small branches against each other so that they broke and tumbled to the ground. The wind formed letters — a word. His name. “Brent-san — Brent-san,” it said, before fading away.

  The lieutenant turned to Takii’s bed. The pilot was as still as death. Could he speak? Brent asked himself. Impossible. He had seen Takii’s face when the bandages were changed. Not only had his mouth been burned away, but his right jaw was gone nearly to his ear, exposing his blackened teeth like two rows of badly tarnished silver. Brent remained awake for nearly an hour. Finally, an attendant brought a familiar needle to his bedside and sleep returned.

  *

  The next day pain was reduced to persistent itching of the leg and chest, and Brent managed to refuse painkillers and his headache was completely gone. To his relief the IV was removed, and for the first time since being wounded, he was wide awake when Commander Yoshi Matsuhara entered the sick bay. “Where ya’ been, man?” Brent asked in a boisterous mood.

  “Working. We can’t all take catered vacations in luxurious surroundings like these.” The pilot seated himself next to the bed.

  “I haven’t seen you for two days.”

  “It’s been six, Brent, and I’ve been here every day. You have been asleep.”

  “Six days,” Brent repeated with wonder. And then quickly, “How long have we been in port?” With a lack of motion and the whine of auxiliary engines replacing the thump of the main engines, like any experienced sailor, Brent knew the ship was in a sheltered body of water.

  “We moored at dock B-Two, Yokosuka, yesterday.”

  Brent felt sudden distress as an aching worry returned. “The Arab carriers — you said we put two fish into one.” And then in sudden confusion, “You did say that yesterday, didn’t you, or did I dream it? They’ve shot me so full of morphine I can’t tell fact from fiction.”

  Yoshi smiled, a deep, contented look. “No, you did not dream it and I told you that at least six days ago, too. The morning after you were wounded we found them two hundred kilometers east of Yap. We put two gyos into a Majestic class carrier. They are making for the Makassar Straits, probably put in at Suraba
ya.”

  Brent waved at the glass-enclosed office at the end of the ward. “Horikoshi wouldn’t tell me anything. I don’t get it.”

  “He is a strange one. He hates war, Brent.”

  “But he serves in Yonaga. He could transfer.”

  Matsuhara shook his head. “No. His family is dead and this is all he knows. And Admiral Fujita would never release him. He is the best in his field.”

  “And the craziest.”

  The air group commander grinned. “Aren’t we all, Brent. Look at our profession — the way we make a living.”

  Brent grunted at the logic and then was struck with a new thought. “According to international law, the Arabs only have seventy-two hours in a neutral port.”

  Yoshi grinned sardonically. “There is no law and who is neutral? Only strength and ‘King Oil’ count.”

  “Then you think they’ll be repaired in the Indonesian yards?”

  “Indonesia is OPEC, Indonesia is pro-Kadafi, Indonesia wants to survive. Yes, indeed, the Majestic will be repaired.”

  “It’ll take months. We’ll nail her there — in the harbor.”

  Yoshi shook his head. “No. The Arabs have bases on Borneo, Halamahara. You know Admiral Fujita would never knowingly take Yonaga within range of land-based aircraft unless he had no choice. He will wait until she comes out — attack in the open sea where he has maneuvering room.”

  Brent’s mind returned to its former speed and questions crowded to be answered. “The Marianas, Rosencrance, Arab LRAs…”

  Yoshi waved him to silence. “When I flew over the west coast of Saipan I spotted a transport in Tanapag Harbor.”

  Brent raised an eyebrow. “We flew down the east coast — over Magicienne Bay. We didn’t see it.”

  Yoshi continued, “Apparently, they landed a special force.”

  “The Fifth Special Combat Battalion or a parachute brigade?”

  “Very good, Brent. It is the Seventh Parachute Brigade and both units were landed. They are in regimental strength.”

  “I remember Bernstein’s briefing. Israeli Intelligence spotted those special troops, a couple of transports, and ten new subs months ago. Israeli agents staked out the whorehouses in Tripoli and Benghazi — picked up all the dope from their own whores.”

  “Best way to handle Arabs.” They both chuckled. Yoshi said, “Those subs were Zulus and now they have eight.”

  “Eight? I don’t get it. Bernstein was sure of ten.”

  The pilot laughed softly. “We sank two Zulus and the transport just east of Rota. We took prisoners. That is how we got our intelligence.”

  “Interrogation?”

  “Yes, Brent. Admiral Fujita can be very persuasive.” He snickered.

  Brent knew how “persuasive” a samurai could be. He had seen prisoners beaten, tortured, shot, and beheaded. Yes, indeed, Fujita was a master at persuasion. At first the American had been shocked and sickened. But now he had learned to expect it, especially since the Arabs had butchered all of the passengers and crew — over a thousand prisoners — of the cruise ship Mayeda Maru in the harbor at Tripoli two years earlier. Most had been killed slowly by garroting.

  Yoshi moved on: “They have occupied both Saipan and Tinian.”

  “Air bases, Yoshi.”

  “Of course. Bases for strikes against us with their long-range aircraft.”

  “Have they landed any LRAs?”

  “Not yet. But they have three squadrons of converted Constellations, Douglas DC-4 Skymasters, and DC-6 Liftmasters training in Libya.”

  “Did they take Aguijan?”

  “No. We have agents there now. The place is like a table — hard to assault. Our men can watch both islands for aerial activity.”

  “The Arabs will pick up their radio signals.”

  “We know. As you would say, ‘that comes with the territory,’ Brent-san.” He studied his big hands spread across his knees. “We know nothing about Rosencrance. I know he landed on Tinian.”

  “You know?”

  “Of course. I damaged him badly with twenty-millimeter.” He punched an open palm with a clenched fist. “But the gods turned away. I ran out of ammunition.”

  “Someday we’ll kill that swine, Yoshi-san.”

  “I want the privilege, Brent-san.”

  “Take a number.” They both chuckled.

  Abruptly, Yoshi’s jaw hardened and the black eyes gleamed with new intensity. He moved his eyes to the Konoye sword and spoke slowly as if each word was coated with acid and had to be forced from his lips. “The emperor is very ill. It may only be a matter of time. There are rumors of cancer — internal bleeding. I feel he will join his fellow gods in a few weeks.”

  “I’m sorry, Yoshi-san. I know how important he is.”

  “Important!” The Japanese raised his eyebrows. “You know of Kokutai?” It was more of a statement than a question. Yoshi knew better than anyone how well Brent had been indoctrinated into Japanese culture and traditions. He himself had spent long hours discussing the Hagakure, Shintoism, Buddhism, poetry, painting, literature, and Japanese history with the young American.

  “Of course. The emperor is Japan.”

  “Good, Brent-san. But he is much more — our heart and soul, the national essence itself.”

  “Crown Prince Akihito is a good man.”

  “Yes. Japan is fortunate to have him.” The pilot rose slowly, broke the somber mood. “You look well, Brent-san.”

  “I hope to return to duty in a few days,” Brent said, welcoming the change in subject.

  A slow smile spread across Matsuhara’s face. “Do not hurry it, Brent-san.”

  “No doubt the Arabs will invade Tokyo and wreck the Ginza worse than Godzilla if I don’t get out of this sack.”

  Matsuhara was chuckling as he walked out of the door.

  *

  That night Brent was awakened again by the wind moaning through the branches, the rustling of leaves. “Brent-san. Brent-san,” the wind said. Slowly Brent swung his feet to the deck and stood in the dim light coming from a single shielded bulb at the far end of the ward and the brightly lighted office at the opposite end where the duty orderly sat at his desk. Again “Brent-san.” It came from Takii. But that was impossible. The man was petrified wood.

  Carefully, Brent leaned over the wrapped, immolated form and lowered his ear over the head. Then he heard it, distorted and hissed through mucus that caused a continuous popping sound like tiny bubbles bursting, but distinct and unmistakable. “Kill me, Brent-san. Kill me.” The young American recoiled as if he had just heard a ghost speak.

  A high, anxious voice interrupted. “Mr. Ross. What is it? You should not be out of your bed.” It was the young duty orderly, Third Class Petty Officer Haruo Kayatani, who was hurrying down the aisle, rubber soles squeaking with each step on the highly polished vinyl floor.

  For some reason unknown to himself, Brent concealed the truth. “I thought he said something.”

  “Impossible, Mr. Ross.” The young man pulled a syringe from the service cart. “He probably groaned.” He emptied the syringe into an IV bottle. “Here. That should quiet him.”

  Brent sank back onto his bed. “Yes. That was it, I’m sure. Groans, Orderly Kayatani.” Brent lay on his side and eyed Yoshiro Takii until finally, early in the morning, he drifted off.

  The next day, Yoshiro was as silent as a corpse. Brent began to doubt himself — question his own memories of the sounds. But he was off painkillers, strong again, in charge of his faculties and alert and would be discharged the next day. He stared hard at the wrapped head, the tubes, watched as the orderlies changed dressings. Looking at the pilot’s head, Brent remembered the burned logs reduced to black charcoal that filled his father’s fireplace on winter nights when he was a little boy. Takii’s head was a charred log, the skin so completely destroyed it would not even blister. Purple and black, it was ridged, crusted, and devastated, like the side of a volcano scoured by a lava flow.

  Then, th
at afternoon, he heard the popping again. Uneasily, Brent stared at the pilot. It was unmistakable, air was hissing through Takii’s trachea, making tiny volleys of pops as it forced its way through collected mucus. Suddenly, Takii coughed, a deep, liquid sound that sent yellow mucus flying. Immediately, Kayatani and Takeda were at Takii’s side. “Suction,” he heard Shingen Takeda order. With quick movements Kayatani forced a tube down the pilot’s throat and there was a faint sound like a vacuum. Lieutenant Takii was silent for the rest of the afternoon.

  That night it began again. First the popping and then the rustling sounds. This time Brent was on his feet and hunched over the pilot’s bed in seconds. The words were run together, nearly formless and garbled, but Takii was speaking and Brent understood. “Brent-san. Brent-san. Can you hear me?”

  Brent leaned close and spoke to the place where his pilot’s ear had been. “Yes, Yoshiro-san. I can hear you.”

  “Kill me, Brent-san.” Stunned, the American stared down mutely. “Please kill me, my friend.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You must.” The wrappings fell silent and Brent thought Takii had lapsed into unconsciousness. But the voice returned. “You love me, Brent-san?”

  “You are my friend, Yoshiro-san. Of course.”

  “Then kill me. Let me die like a samurai — not like this. The way you honored Konoye. My sword. A single stroke.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Please.” The figure shook. Takii was sobbing. “In the name of Sacred Buddha, it hurts. Help me, please. The sword. The sword…” The voice trailed off.

  Brent Ross came erect slowly, like a man hypnotized. Tears streaked his cheeks and his heavy shoulders trembled as he gasped for breath like the victim of a killer’s garrote. His eyes moved the length of the dark ward to the office where the duty orderly hunched over his desk, lost in a novel. Everyone had been sedated for the night and not a patient stirred. It was then Brent realized Takii must have built up immunity to the painkillers — had deliberately suffered pain in periods of wakefulness, saving himself for a few short periods of consciousness and time to persuade Brent to dispatch him in glory.