by Peter Albano
That has no end
I consign my spirit
For eternity.
“The knife,” he said softly. Brent offered, Konoye accepted reverently. “Now the sword and stand to my side.”
Standing, Brent took the curved killing blade from Kawamoto and was surprised by its weight. Like a hypnotized man, he stepped to the condemned man’s side and gripped the leather-wrapped handle.
“Hold it over your right shoulder and remain in that position until I complete the ceremony or falter. You understand?”
“Yes,” Brent said in a disembodied voice, raising the blade.
Quickly, Konoye stripped his upper garment and placed the point of the knife to the left side of his abdomen. A hundred men held their breaths.
With agonizing slowness, the blade was pushed in, parting flesh and squirting blood that ran down the white robe to the platform. Then the pull to the right while gouts of blood and gray intestines poured and tumbled to the platform like live snakes. Watching Konoye’s face, Brent saw muscles twitch, and the narrow eyes had become saucers. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and ran down his cheeks. But resolve did not dim. Finally, the knife turned up the right side; and suddenly the pitch forward, exposing the nape and the bull’s-eye knot of hair.
“Now!” Fujita’s voice commanded.
The command wiped out any hesitation, and the ensign swung with all his strength, bringing the great killing blade humming through a vicious half-circle that impacted the knot squarely. But Konoye had miscalculated with the knot. When he bent his neck forward, the knot crept upward to the base of the skull. There was the butcher-shop sound of steel cleaving bone and flesh, and Brent felt a jar as the blade thudded into solid bone instead of a cord of vertebrae. Nevertheless, with all his weight and strength behind the blade, the sword slashed through, severing the head just below the lower jaw, sending a spray of teeth, mucus, blood, and a half-severed tongue flying. The body, with still part of the lower jaw attached, pitched forward on the platform, sliced jugulars hosing blood from the still beating heart. The severed head rolled across the platform like a kicked ball, leaving a trail of gore and stopping at the edge, eyes staring at Brent.
“Banzai! Banzai!” reverberated through the deck like cannon shots.
The young ensign turned and vomited.
Chapter Thirteen
“The British have been clobbered,” Colonel Bernstein said from his seat in Flag Plot. “Radio Tripoli has been gloating all afternoon. They claim all three British carriers sunk, a frigate sunk, two frigates damaged, and four destroyers damaged. Also, they claim over a hundred British aircraft destroyed.” He looked at Fujita. “They walked into it,” he anguished. “They were hit by both carrier-based and land-based aircraft.”
Brent had had time only to return to his cabin and change out of his bloodstained clothes into fresh number two greens when the voice of Captain Kawamoto summoned the staff over the P.A. system. The blood madness had cooled, congealing into revulsion and disgust, and an acid bitter gorge still fouled his mouth when he entered the conference room. Every Japanese officer had greeted him with nods and faint smiles. Matsuhara had even grabbed his hand and muttered, “Well done.” But Brent yearned to be alone in his cabin with a bottle of Chivas Regal. He was incapable of assembling his thoughts and making precise judgments in what appeared to be a critical meeting.
“Jesus,” Allen said. “Thatcher should have known better. My God, they lost dozens of ships there to aircraft and subs during World War Two. Barham, Ark Royal…”
“What do you expect of a woman?” Fujita asked rhetorically. “She should be home minding her kitchen, not world affairs.” He turned to Mark Allen. “We can only find grim prospects in this news.”
“Sir,” Commander Atsumi said with an angry edge to his voice. “Kadafi has called us yellow monkeys…” A shock rumbled through the Japanese.
“True, admiral,” Allen confirmed. “He promises to ‘train those little yellow monkeys.’”
“You think he will send his task force to the Far East? He has no bases, Admiral Allen.”
“True,” Allen agreed. “But we know he has at least ten tankers and a half-dozen replenishment vessels. And,” he added, his face clouding over grimly, “we have reports that two pumping stations on the Alaska pipeline blew up this morning.”
Fujita’s agile mind responded. “Then that means if he can neutralize or destroy the Indonesian fields — you said Indonesia bolted OPEC — the Arab powers will be in a position to dictate — no, to enslave the world to the great god oil.”
Allen nodded. “But as I pointed out, sir, and even without Alaskan oil, the US can manage with strict rationing, and the USSR is in the same boat. But most of the rest of the world…” He shrugged and turned his palms up in a helpless gesture.
Fujita moved to Bernstein. “You expect an Arab move against us?”
The Israeli fingered some documents, but kept his eyes on Admiral Fujita. “As an Israeli, I have grown accustomed to Arab attacks. After all, we’ve been at war since 1948.” He glanced at a document, and Brent felt more trouble was on the way. The Israeli continued. “It’s true the jihad dissolved, and the Ayatollah Khomeini and Saddam Hussein have pulled back Iranian and Iraqi forces, and they are busy killing each other again. But all of you know Kadafi has three aims: to kill all dissidents at home and abroad, become the leader of a united Arab front, and to destroy Japan and Israel.”
“But Hosni Mubarak won’t allow his troops to cross Egyptian soil — they drove the Libyans out, Irv,” Allen said. “Israel’s frontiers are secure. The Israeli Air Force is still the strongest in the Middle East.”
“True, Mark. The IAF is the strongest air power in the region, and the Arabs’ unbroken army front is gone, but now Kadafi’s power is in his surface fleet.”
“And he has won a great victory, and Arabs will flock to a leader who can win,” Fujita observed.
“Throughout history this has been true,” Bernstein acknowledged. “We know Kadafi has the unwavering support of Syrian president, Assad, King Hussein of Jordan, King Hassan of Morocco, the Druze leader, Walid Jumblatt of Lebanon, the smiling butcher, Yassir Arafat of the PLO and, of course, Russia and every old ‘Nazi’ supports him.” He glanced at Mark Allen. “I would expect the Arabs to avoid a war of attrition with the IAF.”
Fujita spoke. “As I have already suggested, a strike at the Indonesian oil fields to destroy Japan’s only source of oil and then Israel.”
Bernstein and Allen both nodded agreement. Allen said to Admiral Fujita, “I can assure you both NIS and Israeli Intelligence are keeping a close watch on the situation. We should have confirmation within days — even hours. And there are American submarines posted on all possible routes the Arabs would take.”
Fujita rose slowly and moved to one of four charts attached to a bulkhead. “Yonaga is the greatest carrier on earth, and Yonaga defends a nation Kadafi despises. Yonaga stands in the way of Arab domination. I do not feel, gentlemen, that an attack on Indonesia and even our own home islands is an option — no, indeed, it is inevitable.” He turned to the chart. “I would expect them to assemble here while keeping the Israeli Air Force occupied with the land-based aircraft.” He moved a short pointer to indicate the eastern Mediterranean. “Transit the Suez Canal, the Red Sea into the Gulf of Aden and then steam southeast across the Indian Ocean.” The pointer swept downward. “To the Straits of Malacca into the Java Sea and then turn northeast into the South China Sea and make for Japan.” He dropped the pointer. “While steaming the Straits of Malacca and the Java Sea, oil installations on Sumatra and Borneo would be in easy range. In fact, surface ships could bombard the complexes at Balikpapan and Tawitawi. He can save his aircraft for us.” His eyes flashed to Mark Allen. “But, Kadafi must have his tankers…”
“Verified, sir.”
“Then let us assume they are coming,” the old admiral said, returning to his chair. Everyone stared silently for a moment. Fujita bro
ke it with words to Kawamoto. “Increase speed to thirty knots!” The old executive officer picked up a phone. Fujita turned back to Bernstein. “Encrypt a message to the admiralty — ah, National Parks Headquarters via your Israeli Intelligence officer in Tokyo: ‘Replacement aircraft and pilots as ordered in previous request to be assembled at Tokyo International…’” He glanced at his navigator.
“At thirty knots we’ll make our landfall.” He looked at a pad. “In forty hours.”
Fujita returned to Bernstein. “‘In forty hours. Our ETA, Yokosuka graving dock fourteen hundred hours on Friday.’ Repeat the message, colonel.”
The Israeli read the message back.
“Very well. This meeting is closed.” Fujita turned to Brent Ross. “Please remain. You, too, Admiral Allen and Commander Matsuhara.”
As the staff filed out of the room, Mark Allen and Yoshi Matsuhara eyed each other while Brent Ross stared at a bulkhead with dead eyes. The ensign expected to hear more of tactics and options but instead, Fujita’s mind was elsewhere. The voice was soft, warm. “You did well today, Brent-san.”
The use of the familiar san (honorable) stirred Brent out of his lethargy. “If you refer to what I did in the shrine…”
“Yes! You did a great service for Lieutenant Konoye.”
Mark Allen spoke. “I heard, Brent. I couldn’t believe —”
Matsuhara interrupted. “He performed magnificently. You would have been very proud, Admiral Allen.”
“You released him from his agony, and his spirit has flown to the Yasakuni Shrine,” Fujita said.
Brent opened his palms. Stared intently. “They’re covered with blood, sir. I didn’t feel this way after the Arabs. I fought them. I beat them. But with Konoye, I was an executioner.”
“No! He was his own executioner as it should be with a samurai. Your blow was ceremonial.”
“You should have used one of your own,” Allen said bitterly.
“Brent-san is one of our own,” Fujita retorted.
“You’ve put the young man under hideous pressure, Admiral Fujita.”
“You cannot understand us — cannot understand Bushido, can you? Most of you think Bushido is related to the martial arts.” Obviously irritated, Mark Allen opened his mouth as if to speak. Fujita waved him to silence with a gesture of impatience like a professor piqued by a slow student. “It is not a fighting technique, but a way of life, as we would say, ‘the way of the warrior.’” The voice rose. “It dictates everything from early rising, cleanliness, dress, courtesy in manner to strict obedience to one’s superiors and, also, care and protection for those below. In the old days, a samurai served by honoring his ancestors, obeying his mother and father, by his loyalty to his daimyo, who, in turn, obeyed his shogun, who served the emperor. Today, the loyalty is still there — he obeys his superior officers who serve the emperor. A break in this chain, failure of any kind, leads to dishonor and death.” He tapped his desk. “The good samurai perceives his own death and meets it joyously and quickly. As we would say, there is nothing else worth recording.”
“I know. I understand Bushido, admiral. I was raised in Japan; had my early schooling in Japan.”
“Then you should understand. There were no options, and Ensign Ross was only an instrument in Nobutake Konoye’s mind.”
“But you should be aware,” Allen pleaded. “Be aware of the western mind, admiral. My aide has had a shattering experience.”
Brent came to life, saying in an anguished voice, “I couldn’t even do a decent job of it!” He turned to Mark Allen, the blue of his eyes heightened by moisture. “I botched it. Hit him too high…” He choked on the rest of it.
“Not true. You hit your aiming point. The knot was my idea,” Fujita said.
“My God! My God!”
Matsuhara spoke with deep concern. “And Brent, your great strength did it — you did it cleanly.” Silence wrapped the room, covering everyone with its heavy blanket.
Brent spoke to the bulkhead. “It’s not just that.” His eyes found Matsuhara, flashing with new energy. “It’s the woman, too. I was stupid — allowed her to fool me — endangered us all.”
“Not true,” Fujita said. “We were all misled — believed the lies. And you defeated the assassin.”
“Yes,” Matsuhara joined in. “That was superb. His face was a thing of beauty.”
“Brent-san,” Fujita said. “We Japanese have a long history of wise men, and we preserve their words. One of the wisest was Shotoku Taishi who lived over a thousand years ago. He said. ‘While only few are born wise, it is open to many through earnest endeavor to become wise.’ You are gaining in wisdom; you are a valued aide, have the best eyes on the ship, know a dozen languages, and are an expert cryptographer. So learn from these experiences. Try to understand the ordeal to which Lieutenant Konoye subjected you and remember Yonaga needs you now more than ever.”
Brent straightened his spine, felt a new spirit creep through his body.
“Yes, Brent,” Allen sighed. “You must.”
Fujita moved on impatiently. “And there is a tradition we observe. The man committing seppuku always bestows a gift on his kaishaku.” He reached down behind his desk and brought up a samurai’s sword, which was encased in a magnificent scabbard and inlaid with gold and silver ideograms. But the most startling decoration was a sixteen-petaled chrysanthemum done in diamonds, rubies, and other precious stones.
“My God,” Allen breathed. “Beautiful.”
Fujita caressed the sword with his eyes and spoke reverently. “With the sword, the samurai defends the honor of his realm, his emperor. If he fails, he defends his honor by taking responsibility and committing…” His eyes moved to Brent Ross, then to Mark Allen. “You invented the rifle, which is nothing but a killing machine. But this…” He raised the weapon. “Represents life. This is a samurai’s soul,” he finished.
Staring at the jeweled scabbard transfixed, Brent spoke in a deep voice. “It’s Lieutenant Konoye’s, isn’t it?”
Lowering the sword to the desk, Fujita spoke slowly. “Yes. It is, or was, his. Lieutenant Konoye belonged to a distinguished samurai family.” He gestured. “The sixteen-petaled chrysanthemum represents the emperor, and these ideograms are the names of some of the lieutenant’s most renowned ancestors and identify places where they performed heroic deeds.” He pointed at the scabbard. “Daishi Konoye who died using this sword defending the Shogun Tokugawa against ronin assassins in the shogun’s own palace in Edo. And this name is Yoritomo Konoye who single-handedly dispatched a dozen garlic-eating Korean pirates, and here,” he said, caressing an ideogram, “his grandfather Nurano, who was gravely wounded leading a charge against Russian positions at Port Arthur in 1904, and,” he said in a trembling voice, “this represents his uncle, Enshu, who in 1912 committed seppuku as Emperor Meiji’s funeral entourage passed his home.” He sighed. “So you see, ensign, you have only helped preserve the destiny and tradition of a great family.” He offered the sword. “It is yours.”
Silently, the young American stood, accepting the blade.
“Please understand, ensign,” Fujita said smiling, “although we have our Bushido, our rigorous codes of warfare, we are humanitarians first — value life and preserve it.”
“Of course, admiral,” Brent said, staring at the scabbard.
One of the phones in a jumble of communications equipment in a corner rang. Quickly, Matsuhara took a message and turned to the admiral. “One of the prisoners is very ill, admiral,” he said, cradling the phone. “He is in the sick bay.”
Confusion crossed the old man’s face. “Prisoners?”
“Yes,” Mark Allen said. “The two Germans and the Arab.”
The old eyes brightened with remembrance. “Oh, yes. Of course. Execute them!”
Chapter Fourteen
Steaming at 30 knots with a stiff following breeze, Yonaga’s lookouts high in the foretop first made the landfall of Honshu’s mountainous coastline in the morning. It was a
blustery day with the wind quivering and breaking the surface into frothing whitecaps, sending spray streaking like long veils of bridal lace. Humped by the wind, a big following swell from the northeast as high as the hangar deck had taken the carrier squarely on the stern since the mid-watch began, driving her head-on into the troughs where her great bulbous battleship bow thundered into the back slopes of the swells, exploding curtains of blue water and spray, only to pitch back and rise again, readying herself for the onslaught of the next pursuing mountain of water. The sun was dimmed by a cover of clouds that rolled close to the sea, here and there the cover torn open by the jaws of the wind, revealing the sky’s blue vault. And the gulls were there in huge flocks, wheeling and planing into the wind on widespread pinions.
Despite the weather, the airgroups took off at dawn for the flight to Tokyo International Airport where they would be put through maintenance checks and training flight with new pilots. But most important, CAP flights over Yonaga would be maintained from the airport. Matsuhara remained aboard and would split his time between the carrier and the airport.
High on the bridge with the admiral, Mark Allen, Commander Matsuhara, and the usual crew, Brent Ross felt comfortable in his heavy foul-weather jacket. Radar had been reporting bearings on islands. Aoga Shima, Hachijo Jima, Mikina Jima, and Muyake Jima had all been called out and cut in by Commander Atsumi on his charts. Then the mainland itself was traced by the glowing green fingers, and the excitement began to mount. Brent was gratified, too, that the prisoners had been spared beheading. But only after hard pleading by Bernstein, Allen, and himself. Grudgingly, Fujita had conceded that there might be some information remaining to be extracted, but refused to keep them on board. They would be turned over to the Self-Defense Force immediately upon docking at Yokosuka. “The charge will be piracy,” the old man said. “And pirates are executed.” Then he smiled.
Now through his binoculars the ensign saw the outlines of the two peninsulas, Isu Hanto and Boso Hanto and their tips flanking the channel — Iro Zako off the port bow and Nojima Zaki off the starboard bow. Hundreds of crewmen gathered on the flight deck and, crowding the foretop, began to cheer.
