by Peter Albano
“Yes indeed,” Martin agreed.
Dale waved at the console. “That’s ESM, isn’t it.” She placed a hand on the countertop and leaned forward, other arm akimbo, hand planted on a sculpted hip perfectly outlined by the tight, hard finish of the wool skirt. A half-dozen heads turned for fleeting glances of the marvelous spectacle.
“Very good,” Martin said. “ESM — Electronic Support Measures.” He patted the machine pridefully. “This is the Raytheon SLQ Thirty-Two — the best. With its port and starboard antenna assemblies it gives us three-hundred-sixty-degree azimuth coverage in all bands and instantaneous frequency measuring — we call it IFM. It has its own digital processor. In its passive mode, this little baby intercepts electronic emissions, can identify them within thirty-two milliseconds by PRF — ah, sorry, Pulse Repetition Frequency, type of scan, scan period, and frequency by accessing its own eighty K threat library.” He tapped the scope with a single finger. “And then we read out bearings and ranges here on its CRT.”
“No emissions for an enemy to pick up.”
“Yes. Absolutely undetectable Ms. McIntyre.”
“It sounds an alarm when it has a contact?”
Martin nodded. “A buzzer in the operator’s earphones and a gong everyone can hear.”
“But it can go active,” Dale observed.
“Very good, ma’am,” Martin said, running a finger over four switches like the caress of a lover. “In the active mode, it becomes ECM — ah, sorry, Electronic Counter Measures, jams broadband signals, that is, on a wide frequency bracket, or spot-jamming on specific frequencies. In the old days, when we had to defend against missile attacks, that was a life or death function.”
“Jamming the missiles’ terminal guidance systems?”
“Correct, ma’am. But now, our search is concentrated on ship and aircraft radar homing in on us — and subs, too, of course. Can be just as deadly as missiles.”
“But it’s not on line with fire-control,” Dale said.
The young technician smiled. “That’s verboten Ms. McIntyre. Glasnost, you know.” They all chuckled.
Brent stabbed a finger overhead. “All fire control is done up there, in the director with old-fashioned optical range finders.”
“I see.” The woman looked around the room, at the pulsing green radar scopes and their restless, sweeping beams, the men now staring at their sets instead of her body. “Why man this equipment in port. You’re getting nothing but harbor clutter.”
Brent spoke to the question. “Fujita’s orders. Training, and we can spot small vessels that approach too close and our air search, L- and S-band, is effective.” Dale nodded understanding.
Brent heard a guard cough loudly. “Time to leave, Ms. McIntyre,” Brent said.
The woman said to Reed, “Thanks for the tour, Technician Reed.”
The young man smiled up at Dale. “Come back soon, Ms. McIntyre.”
Dale laughed, a dazzling display of genuine humor and flashing teeth as white as new snow. “Sorry. Fujita would have me hung from the yardarm and drawn and quartered.”
A chuckle swept the room. Only then did Brent realize every man at every station had been listening to every word. He led Dale out of the room while the eyes followed.
*
Dale insisted on a detour to the pilot house before entering the elevator. With the guards following doggedly, they entered the compartment as wide as the bridge. The woodwork was oak, decks scrubbed teak, and polished brass glistened everywhere like gold jewelry in Tiffany’s window. Only two ratings were on watch. Both snapped to attention and then relaxed slightly at Brent’s command of, “At ease — as you were.”
In the front of the room under rows of armored brass portholes there was the usual huge wheel served with varnished line, the gyro repeater hooded in shining brass in front of it, a magnetic compass, speed across the bottom indicator, speed through the water indicator, four engine rev counters, and four engine-room telegraphs also polished with operating-room fervor. The rear of the bridge was the navigational area with its chart table, drafting machine and parallel rules, dividers, and pencils in their usual slots beneath the table. Above the table were dozens of volumes containing the infinite number of solutions to spherical triangle problems given the navigator by his elevations on stars, planets, or the sun, estimated position and Greenwich Civil Time. To one side was mounted a small radar repeater with an eyepiece in its coned hood, while to the other side the familiar wheel of a radio direction finder (RDF) projected down from the overhead. Banks of radios for ship-to-ship communications were bolted neatly onto shelves next to the radar repeater, and beneath the chart table rows of chart drawers were locked closed against the ship’s roll.
“Beautiful. Beautiful,” Dale said. “One could have surgery here.”
“This is Yonaga,” Brent said simply. He waved in an encompassing gesture. “Eight-inch armor. Don’t forget, Yonaga is a member of the greatest class of battleships ever laid down. It would take a direct hit from a large-caliber shell to put this station out of action.”
Dale gestured to the rear. “No LORAN? No modern aids to navigation?”
Brent shook his head. “Admiral Fujita insists on the old methods wherever possible. Commander Atsumi is probably the best navigator on earth.”
The woman surprised Brent with her knowledge. “But in foul weather you can’t get sights. We’ve got a boat in New York and I’ve done a lot of boating — long trips in the Caribbean and along the east coast. You would have to use DR exclusively.”
Brent nodded. “Atsumi is uncanny at dead reckoning.”
She smiled, a warm inviting look that almost brought Brent’s hands up and made him ache to touch her. “He’s had a lot of practice,” he said, gripping the sides of his trousers. They turned toward the elevator.
*
Dock B-2 was the single largest facility at Yokosuka. Surrounded by warehouses and service buildings, the facility was used for replenishment and repair. It was fitted with the usual tracked cranes that leaned over the ships like tired old birds, raising and lowering pallets with bent beaks. Yonaga occupied most of the dock space with two of her Fletchers close astern. Scaffolding had been rigged up the carrier’s side all the way to the signal bridge and yard workmen and ship’s company were busy installing new navigation and signal lights, cargo lights, and replacing a half-dozen twenty-five-millimeter triple-mounts with new mounts. Gangs were everywhere, scraping and painting in man’s endless war against the cancer of the sea, rust. And the sounds pounded home as they could never penetrate when one was inside a closed compartment in the ship; the rumble of the steel wheels of railroad transporters, whine and squeal of power cranes, truck engines in low gear straining under heavy loads, the machine-gun blasts of pneumatic tools, the electric hissing and popping of the huge automatic welders, the battlefield reports of the riveters’ hammers.
Stepping off the gangway onto the dock, Brent was followed by Dale and two new guards, each carrying a 7.7 millimeter Arisaka slung over his shoulder. They were old hands who Brent had known for over two years. The leading rate was that of Azuma Kurosu, a Watertender First Class, who was lean and wiry and highly respected as one of the most capable members of the crew of Engine Room Three and the ship’s champion at the violent sport of kendo. The man was a ferocious fighter and had fractured several skulls with his flashing stave while Brent had known him.
The second guard was Kenzo Nakayama, who was also a plank owner and the oldest seaman in the world. Although he was a capable armorer and knew his weapons better than most men knew their wives, he was a brawler and, despite his sixty-two years, his squat physique, barrel chest, and long arms that dangled at his sides simianlike gave the impression of a rolling, walking riot waiting for a chance to explode. His numerous fights had kept him broken down to his low rank. Both guards had the black hair and round, smooth faces of men decades younger. Brent knew Admiral Fujita had assigned the formidable pair because of their fierce repu
tations. Brent patted his armpit where his 6.5 millimeter Otsu — an automatic pistol that was so fast it was known as “the baby Nambu” — nestled in its leather holster.
As if ordered by a silent command, the group stopped and turned and stared at Yonaga with the silence and awe you find gripping spectators staring at natural phenomena like the Grand Canyon or the great falls at Victoria. No man could ever become brazen or indifferent to the size of Yonaga; not Brent, not the old guards. Standing only a few feet from the ship and staring up, Yonaga’s gracefully curved superstructure seemed to reach up into the low-hanging clouds like a steel Everest. The men scurrying on the giddying heights of the scaffolding were ants or other tiny insects, not humans at all. As the foursome stared, a small cloud detached itself from the overcast and crept over the vessel, concealing most of her forward director and upper works. Indeed, the leviathan did reach into the clouds.
“Incredible,” Dale said. “As high as the sky and a mile long.”
Brent chided her, “A fifth of a mile long, Dale.”
“Is that all? My God,” Dale breathed, “I still can’t believe that’s actually a ship — something built by men.”
“There are new tankers that are longer.”
“I’ve seen some in New York Harbor. Maybe they’re longer, but they’re not that massive.” She groped for words. “Ah, that tall, intricate, ah — complex. This is a warship, an airdrome, a skyscraper, a city…”
“And Fujita…”
She looked at him with an eyebrow raised in surprise. “Why, yes…of course, it is Fujita.”
With Watertender Kurosu leading and Seaman Kenzo following, they walked toward the gate house which was located between two huge warehouses. They passed concrete barriers staggered like old European “dragon’s teeth” so that a vehicle could not pass. Spotted in sandbagged emplacements, a dozen Nambus pointed their barrels at the ten-foot, barbed-wire, chain-link fence enclosing the entire area. Their gun captains exchanged salutes with Brent as they passed.
“You don’t take any chances, do you, Brent?” Dale said, moving close to the American and brushing his sleeve with her arm. He felt a familiar excitement begin to race deep inside. He did not move away.
Brent waved at the gate house where a half-dozen seaman guards stood at the barrier with slung rifles while two other guards manned phones inside the small window-lined house. “Last year when the ship was in dry dock a couple of terrorists tried to ram a truckload of HE through our barriers and drop twelve tons of plastique into the dry dock. Could’ve knocked her off her blocks — been the end of everything.”
“Obviously, they failed.”
Brent’s mind filled with thoughts of that day, the murderous Kathryn Suzuki — his incendiary lover for an unforgettable night — behind the wheel. The machine gun firing, the pistol bucking in his hand, the terrorist he shot from the fender, the smashed gate house, the riddled truck overturning, Kathryn looking up at him, blood welling from a wound in her lovely breast, pleading as he pulled the trigger of his Otsu, the small blue hole between her eyes, brains splattering the pavement, the spasmodic jerking as death rushed in. “Yes,” Brent said simply. “They failed.”
Passing the gate house and walking under the raised barrier, the chief petty officer in charge, Chief Teruhiko Yoshitomi, an original member of Yonaga’s crew and Yoshi Matsuhara’s crew chief, snapped to attention along with his guards. Short and heavy-set, he was a striking man with skin like tanned lemon, head crowned with a magnificent mane of white hair. He was the best mechanic on the ship and took great pride in his work. Every pilot wanted him, but Yoshi would not release him. “Good to see you well again, Mr. Ross. And congratulations on your kill. We do not get many from the B5N’s third seat, and now you have two. Marvelous shooting, sir.” The man’s smile was broad and warm.
“Thank you, Chief Yoshitomi,” Brent said, pausing. He waved toward a cluster of buildings that concealed the parking lot. “Any of our friends out there?”
“There must have been a hundred of them out there this morning, sir.”
“Demonstrators?” Dale said. “I didn’t see them when I parked. One or two bums, that’s all.”
“They were gone by ten hundred hours and the bums you saw were there to count and record traffic. Sometimes they even photograph everyone coming or leaving the ship.”
Dale said to the old chief, “How did you know there were a hundred?”
“I could smell them, ma’am.”
“Any now?” Brent asked.
Yoshitomi raised his nose and sniffed. “Twelve, sir.”
“Japanese Red Army swine?”
“Probably, Mr. Ross,” Yoshitomi said. “But they have their rights — constitutional rights.” He shrugged helplessly.
“Democracy always protects the criminal,” Brent said bitterly.
He exchanged salutes with the chief and turned toward the parking lot, Kurosu leading, Brent side by side with Dale and then the sauntering Nakayama.
Chief Yoshitomi had been wrong in his prediction; there were eleven demonstrators. Walking in a ragged line and carrying signs, they paraded at the entrance to the parking lot. All were filthy, unkempt, shoulder-length hair disheveled, men unshaven. Five of the group were women; at least Brent thought they were women. It was hard to tell because all were dressed alike; trousers, sandals or tennis shoes, torn shirts hanging over their belts, and no hats. But at least some had beards and Brent assumed these to be men. Brent read a few of the signs: “Japanese Die For American Imperialists,” “Blood For Oil,” and the omnipresent “Yankee Go Home” paraded past. Drawing closer to the group, Brent patted his armpit and the guards unslung their Arisakas and held them at a casual high port like Kendo staves.
The demonstrators stopped, bunched together, blocking the entrance to the parking lot. Kurosu did not even pause and Brent pushed Dale back and quickly overtook Kurosu. He took the watertender by the arm and stopped him only feet from the line and a tall, angular Caucasian who appeared to be the leader. He was a strong-looking man with gray streaks in his tangled shoulder-length hair and snarled beard. His mustache and beard were fouled with forgotten specks of food and tobacco and his teeth were stained as if they had been dipped in lemon and tar. He reeked.
Brent had encountered the same situation six months earlier when leaving the ship with Yoshi Matsuhara. Challenged by the leader of the demonstrators, Eugene Neeb, an unlikely Communist from a wealthy family in Arcadia, California, he had fought his way through and broken Neeb’s jaw in the melee. The fight had led to the ambush in Ueno Park and the death of Yoshi’s fiancée, Kimio Urshazawa. Brent killed Neeb. The memories were torturous and painful. Was it happening again? It seemed like déjà vu. Why didn’t the police clear these tramps and traitors away, Constitution or not? They were a travesty, a blot on civilization. And there wasn’t a policeman in sight. He felt his muscles bunch and tighten, heart barging against his ribs, the familiar heat coiling deep, the crystal-bright sharpening of his senses. Atavistic rage was rising. He could kill — he wanted to kill.
“Yankee killer,” the tall Caucasian shrieked in Brent’s face, waving his sign menacingly to and fro in a short arc.
Gritting his teeth, the lieutenant choked back the fury and spoke in a surprisingly even, modulated timbre. “Move. I’ll ask you once. Move.”
The entire group stood immobile; only the signs moved in short arcs above their heads. They grunted and wheezed incoherently like a pack of Neanderthals. Then there were shouts of “Die, Yonaga!”, “Nuke the Yankees!”, “Yankee shit go home!” One hulking man waved his sign at Dale, screaming, “I’m going to shove this sign up your pussy, slut!” Stunned by the sexual epithet, Brent felt the white heat break loose, the ravening beast of hatred and anger devouring the last vestige of reason, civilization. Snarling, he charged the leader who brought his sign down sharply, aiming at Brent’s head. But before the blow could be driven home, Kurosu’s Arisaka flashed up in a blur and caught the man’s hand, bre
aking both the handle of the sign and the demonstrator’s wrist. The sign flew through the air and the man collapsed to his knees, clutching his wrist and screaming in pain.
The others rushed in, flailing out with signs and fists. With Azuma Kurosu on one side and Kenzo Nakayama on the other and Dale close behind, Brent waded into the middle of the knot of terrorists who wailed and screamed like spirits in a purgatorial hell. The two guards made vicious weapons of their rifles, fighting them like two-handed staves, cracking jaws and, in particular, ears, with painfully disabling blows. Two men fell with broken jaws almost immediately while a third dark, squat man moved on Brent.
Broad-shouldered, he was a powerfully built man with dark, thick hair, head big-nosed and gaunt-boned with a heavy-bearded jaw. His complexion was dusky, and his birdlike eyes dilated and glittering with madness like those of an Arab in the grip of hashish. And, indeed, Brent knew he was right when the man bellowed in a spray of spittle, “I am Nazik abdul Habash. Allah Akbar!”
The power of the shout stopped everyone like a freeze frame in a Hollywood action drama. Then Nakayama moved toward the Arab. “No!” Brent said, grabbing the guard’s arm. Brent smiled, an icy, frightening look, “he’s my guest.”
Dragging their two injured members back, the demonstrators formed a semicircle while Dale, Nakayama, and Kurosu stood behind Brent. There was the thumping sound of a dozen boots striking pavement and Brent saw Chief Teruhiko Yoshitomi and five guards rush up, form ranks with rifles clubbed. Now they outnumbered the enemy, could easily force their way through. But a strange compulsion, a cold force like a giant’s hand, clutched at him, focusing his entire being on the sneering face before him.
“We will clear this rabble away for you, Mr. Ross,” Chief Yoshitomi said.
“Why not massacre us, you cowardly swine,” the Arab wheedled in a voice that singed. “You are experts at killing helpless people.”
“We’ve never bombed an airliner or shot up a school bus, ‘peoples’ hero,’” Brent taunted.