by Peter Albano
“The best,” Brent had noted, turning the woman back toward the wheelhouse and the elevator.
After the elevator’s door locked, Brent said, “All Yamatos had elevators. In fact, the battleship versions had two.” He punched a button. The car began to descend slowly.
Looking up with black eyes suddenly gone velvet, Kathryn moved closer. “Brent,” she said softly. “I’ve been alone, locked in my cabin.” He stared silently as the points of her breasts pushed against his chest. A tingling began deep in his groin, spreading slowly like the beginnings of a bonfire. “But it’s almost impossible for two people —”
“Two people,” he interrupted, big hands grasping her thin arms, “almost impossible for two people to be alone.”
“Yes.” Head back, she swayed toward him, eyes swimming with desire.
He dropped his hands. “Kathryn! This is not the place.”
“Where, Brent? Where?” Her voice was anguished.
He released his breath explosively. “Ashore, Kathryn. Ashore.”
“You can’t come to my cabin?”
“Unthinkable.”
“Unsamurai. Isn’t that why?”
The jarring stop of the car interrupted, and the door swung open on a half-dozen faces of curious plane handlers. They must have known the woman was on the car. But how? That mysterious ship’s telegraph, Brent thought, leading Kathryn from the elevator.
“Against the island,” he said, taking her arm and standing amongst the handlers who crouched and stared aft. “The last one.”
With a blast of hot cylinder heads, the pilot of the last plane — an Aichi D3A1 — opened his throttle. There was a flash of a yellow flag, and the big green monoplane lurched toward the bow. Brent had never stood on the flight deck during takeoff. The noise was overwhelming, gagging exhaust from the huge thousand horsepower Kinsei 43 engine blasted in their faces by a side-mounted exhaust pipe. As the plane thundered past, Brent saw details he had never seen clearly from the bridge: dull, nonreflecting paint on top of the cowl; telescopic external bomb sight projecting through the windshield; trousered fixed landing gear; crutches for bombs; under-wing dive brakes which could be rotated ninety degrees to steady near vertical dives; elongated rear canopy with drum-fed Type 92 machine gun pointed toward the tail and seated rigidly, the crewmen both helmeted, goggled and wearing hachimachi headbands.
Hands to ears, Brent and Kathryn watched as the dive-bomber raced past, rose from the deck, then dropped precariously low ahead of the ship and finally climbed away.
“Air search,” Brent said, waving over the bow. “Four sectors are searched ahead of the ship roughly from beam to beam. Radar cannot replace the human eye.”
She nodded. “Can we walk back there?” She pointed aft.
“Not during flight operations.”
“Oh,” she said with obvious disappointment.
“But we can go down to the hangar deck.”
“But no lower.”
“That’s right, Kathryn. No lower.”
“I might find a secluded corner and ravish your lily white body. Isn’t that what the admiral’s afraid of?”
Brent laughed. “Yeah. The whole staff’s virgins.” He led her to the elevator.
Exiting on the cavernous hangar deck, the couple entered organized bedlam: row after row of aircraft swarming with mechanics and pilots, the reverberating sounds of metal striking metal, shouts, all punctuated with the staccato blasts of pneumatic tools. Awed, Kathryn stopped in her tracks, staring overhead at rows of floodlights and then from side to side at the frenzied activity.
Chuckling, Brent waved a hand. “About a thousand by two hundred feet — three football fields.”
“Bigger than Rockefeller Center, the Metropolitan, Carlsbad Cavern all put together,” she said.
He stabbed a finger upward at a partial deck jutting over their heads. “The gallery deck. Pilots’ ready rooms.” He pointed to the opposite side. “Ready racks, bombs, and torpedoes, which can be attached in minutes.”
She gestured to a small tank mounted on a cart being pulled by two men. “That’s primitive. Don’t you have motorized carts?”
He shook his head. “The admiral insists on using the old methods — methods that are tried, true and understood by his men.”
“Like navigation.”
“Yes.” He nodded at the cart as it rumbled past on iron wheels. “It’s a bowser, used for fueling.” He pointed aft. “They’re gassing up the next CAP.”
“Why don’t they do it from the ship’s tanks, directly?”
“Too dangerous, Kathryn. This way a fire can be localized.”
“Carriers are volatile, Brent.”
“Very. They’re nothing but floating fuel and ammunition dumps.”
He caught a fleeting smile that broke her face into hard lines. And her eyes glinted. He shifted his weight uneasily. “What is it, Kathryn?”
“Why nothing.” Ignoring the stares of gawking mechanics, she took his arm and pointed to a wooden structure built near the bow. “What in the world is that?” She pulled him along.
“A shrine; the Shrine of Infinite Salvation,” he said, stopping in front of a large square room built of unpainted plywood.
Kathryn pointed to the single doorway crowned by a gilded board. “A torii. It’s probably a combined Buddhist temple and Shinto shrine.”
“Right!” Brent pointed to flowers painted on both sides of the entrance. “Chrysanthemums.”
“Of course, Brent. Sixteen petaled; they represent the emperor.”
“Four-oh, for you, Kathryn.” She laughed.
“This place is for honorable Japanese, not American sluts,” a deep voice grated threateningly behind them.
Turning together, the pair confronted a glowering Lieutenant Konoye. Dressed in green stained mechanic’s fatigues, the burly pilot stood in front of a Zero with its cowl removed, exposing the Sakae’s fourteen cylinders. The booming voice turned scores of heads, and silence spread throughout the vast deck like a cold fog. Within seconds, hundreds of eyes focused on Brent, Kathryn, and Nobutake Konoye. There was the shuffle of rubber-soled shoes, and scores of pilots and mechanics crowded around the trio in a silent circle, filling the compartment with a palpable aura of expectancy.
The line of Brent’s mouth altered, eyes chilled to the hardness of pale sapphires, and he felt a familiar hot coiled spring begin to unwind in his chest, pressuring against his ribs, racing his pulse and shortening his breath. His mind was suddenly a computer, analyzing Konoye’s blocklike stance, clenched fists, hard jaw, and menacing eyes. And his feet were spread, left before right, weight carefully balanced on the balls of his feet, clenched fists dangling casually at his sides. Every aspect of the man’s demeanor spelled killer. Brent spoke softly. “If the lieutenant desires an early entrance to the Yasakuni Shrine, I’ll be happy to open the door.”
“My argument is with her,” Konoye growled, stabbing a finger at the girl.
“Come on, you son-of-a-bitch,” Kathryn hissed, grabbing a crowbar from the deck. “Find out about the equality of the sexes.”
An astonished murmur swept the crowd, and the men pressed even closer.
Brent pushed the girl into the arms of an old chief, commanding, “Hold her, Chief Shimada.” Instantly, the girl’s arms were pinned by the chief, and a rating and the crowbar clattered to the deck.
“Let me go!”
“Quiet!” Brent shouted. “This is really my argument, and he knows it.” He nodded at Konoye.
A mirthless grin cracked the stone of the pilot’s face. “Have it your way, Yankee.”
“It’s not the girl, lieutenant, is it? It’s really the fire raid on Tokyo, your sunken fleet, destroyed air force, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Curtis Le May…”
The pilot’s narrow eyes became slits, glittering with hate. “Always! Always, ensign. It can never end.”
“The vengeance of the forty-seven ronin.”
“Of course. The way you avenged Pearl H
arbor.”
“Then come on, mighty samurai, improve your karma.”
“I will fight you in your own style, Yankee. Fists against fists. I could kill you with my feet.”
“That’s generous of you,” Brent said, instinctively raising his guard and dropping his right foot back.
Konoye raised a palm, smiling like a man who had suddenly stumbled on the idea of a lifetime. “Chief Shimada,” he shouted without taking his eyes from Brent. “The crowbar — between us.” His lips twisted, and his voice became acid with sarcasm. “An inscrutable Oriental touch. One weapon, two men.” He laughed and two hundred men giggled. The chief slid the weapon across the deck, midway between them.
“Now!” Konoye shouted, leaping before the American could set himself. Cursing, Brent hurled himself, but the lieutenant snatched the weapon from the deck with one hand, fending the big American off with the other and came to his feet lightly, chuckling.
Brent found his balance and faced his enemy. “That was fair,” he hissed, bitterly.
“As fair as your raid that incinerated my family.” Giggling, the big Japanese waved the crowbar back and forth. An amalgam of fear and rage screwed Brent’s guts into a ball and charged his veins with a rush of quick blood as he stared at the steel like a man hypnotized by a cobra.
At least twelve inches long, it was a fearsome weapon: curved claw at one end, sharp, flattened, knifelike edge at the other. And the look in Konoye’s eyes was that of a madman. It would take insanity to use that weapon; a weapon that could crack a man’s skull like an eggshell or open his abdomen, gushing blood and entrails on the user.
Konoye grasped the shaft just above the claw, bounced it in his palm, testing for balance. Then he advanced, holding it in front like a French duelist attacking with an épée, grinning confidently, circling the sharp edge.
Brent gave ground. Choked back his gorge as the Japanese circled the steel shaft and then thrust. But Brent leaped lightly to the side, the crowd bending away and closing behind, murmuring and chattering. But Brent was alone — alone with the steel point, moving his eyes constantly from his enemy’s feet to the point and back. The young American had fought many times with his fists and had defeated two Sabbah assassins in a Tokyo alley. He knew enough to study his opponent’s feet, not to be fooled by a man’s eyes. Watching the movements of the leading left foot, the ensign could anticipate his enemy’s tactics. The quick step, shift in balance and the lunge came again. Brent leaped to the side. The rod jabbed past his right side. Again and again the shaft flashed only inches away, but the American anticipated each thrust and avoided death with a quick sidestep. The crowd chattered gleefully.
Suddenly, Konoye tired of the game and grabbed the shaft with two hands. “I will kill you Japanese style,” he spat, raising the crowbar over his shoulder in the traditional style of the Japanese swordsman. The crowd rippled with new excitement.
In a way, the change in tactics worked in the American’s favor; the enormous advantage in reach was gone. But, the Japanese was on familiar ground, fighting in a manner taught by a lifetime of kendo and swordsmanship. Brent balled his fists, studied his enemy’s feet as Konoye crouched and swayed. The attack came with startling suddenness. Leaping like a crab and with the bar raised above his head like an executioner’s sword, the lieutenant swung with all his strength, trying for the samurai’s quick kill.
Brent leaped backward and steel whistled past his ear, glittering sullenly in the gloomy light. The hiss of it was like a passing shell. Then a shift in balance, the swing at last, and the American’s right fist brushed Konoye’s left shoulder and crashed into his ear. Whirling and landing on the balls of his feet, Brent faced his enemy, who rubbed his ear while grinning with stunned surprise.
“Very good,” the pilot said grudgingly. “Very, very good.” He raised the crowbar and advanced slowly.
Again, an artillery shell fluted as the big Oriental swung with all his strength. But Brent gambled and charged forward inside the arc. He brought a huge fist upward into the man’s midriff. There was an explosion of breath in Brent’s ear. Then a thud — an impact that shot pain across his back; a blow so hard it jarred his spine, jerked his head so that his teeth clashed in his skull. But the crowbar clattered across the deck and thudded against the wooden side of the shrine. The crowd shouted and screamed with delight. The combatants bounced apart. Brent’s breath was hard as he choked back the pain flaming across the small of his back. And Konoye was hurt, too. But he advanced, fists raised like a barroom brawler.
There was no boxing. Instead, Konoye tried to smother the American with a hail of blows. Lefts and rights rained off Brent’s shoulders and arms as he retreated. He ducked. Weaved to the left. One wild swing caught the American flush on the jaw, spraying spittle, sweat, and blood. Pain shot from his neck to his knees. His nose ran. He felt as if someone had slammed a door behind his eyes, and his vision was suddenly narrowed and dimmed. Shaking his head, he tore the curtains away and shifted his weight forward. He bent his knees following the bobbing Konoye who stepped back, breathing hard, tired by his attack. Brent saw an opening.
The American exploded from his crouch like a loaded spring, swinging with all of his two hundred ten pounds concentrated in the knuckles of his left fist. He felt his fist impact, heard the gristle in Konoye’s nose give with a crunch like teeth ripping a ripe apple. A fierce joy surged as mucus and blood sprayed. The Japanese stopped in his tracks. Quickly, Brent drove his right into the man’s midriff, doubling him over. Then, clenching both fists into a massive boulder, he drove them with all his power into the back of his enemy’s neck. Konoye fell like a steer struck by an executioner’s sledge.
Brent leaped onto his enemy, rolling him over. Amazingly, Konoye was not finished. Rolling over and over through the blood-maddened crowd, the combatants punched wildly. Brent hit again and again, some of the blows dying in the air, others ripping his knuckles on the steel deck, and yet others cracking against bone and muscle. Brent knew he was hurt, blood running from his nose and salting his mouth. But he felt nothing — only the drive to destroy his enemy. Low sounds rumbled from deep in his chest. He was growling. Konoye snarled back.
Whirling like two crazed wolves, the pair crashed into the Shrine of Infinite Salvation. The Japanese took the brunt of the collision, bending his back around the entrance. Feeling sudden weakness in his enemy, Brent shouted triumphantly, pinning his opponent to the deck by sitting astride his chest and locking his arms down with his knees. He saw something glint against the plywood. Grabbed the crowbar.
Staring down, he saw no fear in the bloodied and bruised face — a face with a broken nose, missing teeth, blood running from the nose, mouth, the corner of one eye, and left ear. A strange compulsion to not only kill, but to completely obliterate his enemy overwhelmed whatever civilization remained. The crowd froze, and silence filled the compartment heavily like a viscous fluid.
“Enough, Brent! Enough!” He heard Kathryn’s voice echo from a distant canyon.
“Never enough,” he rasped, raising the claw while holding Konoye at the throat with his left hand.
“Go ahead, Yankee,” Konoye said. “You owe me this.”
Brent hesitated. Remembered that night in the Tokyo alley, goaded by fear and hate. On top of the Arab. The animal was loose in his veins, striking, driving shards of glass into the Sabbah’s face, over and over. Destroying eyes, nose, mouth, the flesh itself. Then, going for the jugular. And Matsuhara’s voice echoing then, and now, again. “Brent! Brent Ross! Enough! Enough!”
He held the claw high. Turned slowly. And he was there. Matsuhara and Atsumi. Running through the crowd that parted like the sea before Yonaga’s prow. “No more! No more!” In a moment, Matsuhara and Atsumi pulled the American to his feet and pried the bar from his hand. Chief Shimada helped Konoye to his feet.
“You have no right — no right,” Konoye shouted, blood running across his face and dripping from his chin. “I have been denied seppuku, and I
have earned a samurai’s death.”
“You will earn it and enjoy it soon,” Matsuhara shouted. “But not here.” Then sweeping his eyes over the American, he said, “Both of you report to Admiral Fujita. Immediately!” And then to the crowd, he yelled, “Back to your duties!” The crowd melted silently like whipped dogs. “And you, Kathryn Suzuki. Back to your cabin.”
Slowly, Brent and Kathryn, flanked by Matsuhara and Atsumi, walked to the elevator.
Glaring, Lieutenant Konoye stared at the American until he disappeared into the elevator.
Chapter Five
“The emperor needs you,” Admiral Fujita barked from behind his desk, staring at the two blood-stained officers standing at attention before him. “Both of you.” Brent stiffened at the oblique compliment.
“You denied me seppuku, sir,” Konoye said, spitting s in a spray of blood and saliva through a bloody gap in his front teeth.
“Of course, you have been taught, ‘There is a time to live and a time to die.’ I have told you before, this is not the time to die, Lieutenant Konoye.”
“With your permission, sir, I have also been taught, ‘A warrior knows that death, though cold as ice, is a fire that purifies the body, and when in doubt, choose death.’”
“True. There is nothing more honorable than a warrior’s death.” Bony tendrils drummed the oak. “But carriers, submarines, and big-gunned ships lie in wait for Yonaga, lieutenant.” Fujita moved his eyes to Brent Ross. “The American was to be your instrument of death?”
“If the gods so deemed it, sir.”
“Respectfully, admiral. I challenged Lieutenant Konoye…”
“It was the woman, was it not?” Fujita shouted, voice stinging like the tail of a scorpion. “We will drop her at the first opportunity,” the old man added, pounding the desk with a tiny, bony fist. “Women do not belong on ships. Never! Never! Never!”
