Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

“Never let the cup be empty, never let it be full,” Miyume said over his shoulder. He could feel her warm breath on his neck. Sarah threw a quick, hard glance.

  Kimio held up her cup. “May Watatsumi-no-Mikoto smile on you.” She glanced at Brent. “The sea god.”

  They all drank, but Matsuhara held his cup just inches from his lips. He quoted an old samurai maxim. “‘There is a time to live and a time to die’ — may we sow the sea with our enemies’ corpses.”

  “But return! Return!” Kimio pleaded, eyes moist.

  “Of course,” Brent injected. “We are led by the finest seaman and naval tactician alive.” He glanced at Sarah, who appeared fuzzy and slightly out of focus like an aging Hollywood actress photographed through gauze. “Admiral Fujita,” he managed to say, without slurring his words. They all drank.

  There was the flash of kimonos, and a black lacquered box was placed in front of each diner. Opening his, Brent found sliced eel layered on white rice.

  “Shimagawa,” Matsuhara enthused with delight. He picked up his hashi and attacked the food with relish. All the other diners except the American showed the same enthusiasm. Slowly, Brent raised his sticks and began to eat. Heavily spiced, the eel was pleasantly tasteful.

  Then the dishes came one after another; “Cha-wan-mushi,” Miyume announced, placing a superb steamed custard filled with vegetables and fish in front of Brent. And there were ginkgo nuts, baby crabs, cherries, peas, noodles, and more sake. He remembered vinegared carrots and um-abo-shi, pickled plum seeds, or was it pickled cucumbers? Anyway, it was pickled something.

  “Better than Ma-ku-do-na ru do,” Miyume quipped.

  Kimio and Sarah roared with laughter while the men looked at each other in bewilderment. “McDonalds! McDonalds!” Sarah finally said.

  Yoshi shook his head, but Brent laughed.

  Finally the sated diners sat back while the geisha and her maiko cleared the table. Then Kojiku sat with her samisen on her lap, and Miyume moved to the center of the room. Her hips began to move provocatively, and the black eyes roamed from one man to another, never to a woman. “As my last offering,” she said, still affecting the traditional little-girl personality of the geisha, “I would like to perform the Geisha warutsu.” She looked long and hard at Brent while Sarah squirmed. Miyume smiled. “The Geisha waltz, ensign.” Brent smiled back.

  Kojiku plucked and Miyume swayed, her voice, deep and rich and obviously trained, filled the room. Moving with tiny graceful steps, arms extended, hands continuously in motion like feathers in a breeze, she sang, eyes ignoring the women, challenging the men who stared back:

  You guide my footsteps in the dance

  And my hair is loosened in your

  Embrace. I catch a glimpse of a

  Fleeting love; I am perturbed

  And at the same time happy.

  She bowed. Kojiku stood and bowed. Applauding, the guests stood and all four bowed.

  Smiling, Miyume and her maiko left. As the geisha passed Brent, she brushed him, and he felt a small pressure against his tunic. Reaching into his pocket, he found a card. He smiled.

  Kimio and Yoshi seated themselves and began to sip tea from a service that Miyume had left on the table. But Sarah stared at Brent. “I hate to tell you this, but something came over just as I left the office. It’s been deciphered, but I would like to go over it — should go over it.” She looked at Brent, pleading. “I’m sorry, Brent. You can stay. I’ll catch a cab…”

  “No, you won’t,” the ensign said. “We’ll go together.” He turned to Kimio and Yoshi. “Will you excuse me?”

  “Of course,” Yoshi said. Kimio nodded.

  “We’ll leave you the staff car.”

  “Fine,” Yoshi said. “I think my driver’s license has expired, but I can manage.” Everyone laughed.

  As Brent and Sarah stepped into the garden, Sarah asked softly as she clutched Brent’s arm, “Do you think anyone believed me?”

  “Absolutely no one!”

  They were laughing as they entered the cab.

  *

  After Brent and Sarah left, the two Japanese sat quietly, sipping their tea. And then self-consciously, Yoshi said, “You wanted to show me ‘Dai nippon’ still lives, Kimio.”

  She smiled. “I think that was obvious, Yoshi.” She tabled her cup. “As obvious as Sarah’s excuse for leaving.” He laughed. “Are you convinced, Yoshi-san?”

  “No. But I was happy you tried.”

  “It has been a long time since you talked to a woman.”

  “I had a conversation in the ship’s elevator last December with Sarah Aranson.”

  “That is all?”

  “Yes. You know Yonaga’s history. You know we were isolated — trapped in Sano-wan for over forty years.”

  “Sarah told me you lost your family.”

  “Yes. My wife Sumiko and my sons Masahei and Hisaya in the great fire raid.” He drummed the table. “I was filled with hate, thirsted for the revenge of the forty-seven ronin. Insulted Brent Ross.”

  “Ensign Brent Ross? But you are friends. Anyone can see…”

  “Not at first. I insulted him — goaded him. Chose him as the instrument of my revenge. But he stood up to me like a samurai, has fought like a samurai, with courage and intelligence. And Admiral Fujita depends on his eyes of the hawk and treats him…” He stopped in mid-sentence, struck by a new thought. “I met the admiral’s family when I was first assigned to Yonaga. He had two sons. One, Makoto, was big, strong, intelligent —”

  Kimio interrupted the thought. “They are all dead?”

  Yoshi nodded. “Hiroshima.”

  The woman toyed with her cup. “Yoshi-san, you speak with an accent.”

  The commander laughed. “I was born in Los Angeles, California.”

  “A nisei,” she said, wide-eyed.

  “Yes. My father and mother were doha, loyal to the mikado.”

  “But you are an American citizen?”

  “Of course. There were thousands of nisei who served the emperor.”

  “You still do.”

  “Kokutau still lives in Yonaga. Gives us a reason for existence.”

  “But the gods still reign. Amaterasu…”

  “True. But this,” he said and waved a hand, “is not our Japan.”

  She lowered her moist eyes. “I am sorry, Yoshi-san. We tried.”

  She reached across the table, covered his hand with hers. It was soft, warm, and there was electricity there that fanned a long dormant heat to life. Suddenly distressed, he pulled his hand away. “Your family?” he asked huskily.

  “You know my husband Kiyotaka was first mate on the Mayeda Maru.”

  “We tried to avenge him. Piled Libyan corpses —”

  “Please!” she choked. “I do not want that.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Peace. To see my children grow into a free, happy world with no hate.”

  He sighed. “Yes. Something mankind has wanted since time began but could never find. Instead, they give men like me endless work.” He hunched forward. “You have children?”

  “My son Sadamori is away at Fukuoka attending the university. My daughter Shimikiko is married, lives in Kobe and will make a grandmother of me in four months.”

  “You look so young.”

  “Thank you, Yoshi-san. I was born in 1944.”

  “Your parents?”

  “My father flew for the emperor. He vanished over Saipan two days after I was born. My mother died a few years ago.” She held his eyes riveted for a long moment. “You are the one with eternal youth. Your hair is black, skin clear, and you have the physique of a young man.” She shook her head. “It seems a miracle.”

  He felt his face heat up. “Thank you, Kimio. It seems men who have existed as we; austere lives with no tobacco, alcohol, eating plain food, exercising daily, have maintained better health.”

  “Maintained better health? Why, you have defied time!”

  “No man defies time. Per
haps, a few can endure it with a little more grace.”

  “You said you did without many things, Yoshi-san.”

  “Yes.” He blushed, knowing where her mind was.

  “All those years with no women.”

  “Yes.”

  “You could have taken ‘pleasure girls.’ The army did. Everyone knows that.”

  “No. It was impossible. We were destined for the Pearl Harbor attack. We were the flagship of Kido Butai.”

  She shook her head. “You have not had a woman for over forty years.”

  Strangely, he was not shocked by her bold remark. He had this woman for himself, and she was interested in him. She devoured his words and challenged him at the same time. His response was as blunt as her appraisal. “Isolation does not corrupt a samurai. Men will not love men because they are deprived.” He squirmed uneasily. “And the warrior will not abuse himself.”

  “Your release?”

  “There was none until I could kill.” Her eyes widened with shock, but he seemed to look beyond her into the past with eyes narrowing and the hint of a smile toying with the corners of his mouth. “First there were three over China, then a giant Russian jet when we broke loose from Sano-wan, autogiros at Pearl Harbor, an AGI, an observation plane. But the best was at Al Kararim and Misratah. We shot them out of the skies like slaughtered game. Then the Cape Verde Islands; we killed them all…”

  “Please, Yoshi-san. Please. This is your woman? War? Killing. Is that how it is with all men?”

  “I cannot speak for all men.”

  “Then you have the wrong kami — you have been tricked.”

  “Tricked?”

  “Yes! You have been bedding a whore. She took my father, my husband, so many…”

  “The samurai does not think that way.” He leaned forward. “The Haga Kure teaches, ‘Having received the word of the emperor, one must act upon it.’” He pounded the table with a closed fist, eyes flashing. “What would you do with Kadafi? Let him have his way?”

  “There are always Kadafis. History is filled with them.”

  “He killed your husband. Do you know how he died? How long it —”

  “Please! Please, commander,” she pleaded hoarsely. “Take me home.” Covering her eyes with a palm, she turned away.

  Yoshi felt despair. Leaning forward, he almost touched her hand. This woman, this exquisite woman, was lost to him. It had been so long, and he knew his words had been harsh — offensive. But he had to see her again.

  “Do not think of me as a butcher, Kimio,” he said, voice softened with deep concern.

  “I do not — I know Yonaga has taken terrible losses, and you stand between us and those madmen, Yoshi-san.”

  “May I see you again, Kimio?”

  “Oh yes. Yes. Come to my house on your next liberty. I will cook you a meal that would please the gods.” She smiled and reached across the table.

  “Tuesday — next Tuesday.” This time he clutched her hands and held them for a long moment as his eyes locked with hers. His heart pounded in his chest and the deep, strange warmth spread.

  *

  Sarah’s apartment was on the ninth floor of a new building in the Shinjuku-hu district. Completely modern and westernized, it boasted a large living room, dinette, kitchen, bath, bedroom, and a huge window overlooking the city. From a luxurious sofa in the living room, Brent could see the lighted grounds of the imperial palace just three miles away and the garish neon glare of the Genza in the far distance.

  “Chivas Regal and soda,” Sarah announced as she backed through the kitchen’s swinging doors holding two highballs.

  Handing the ensign his drink, she sat close to him, raising her glass, she said, “L’ chayim.”

  “To your health, too,” he said quickly.

  “You remember,” she said, obviously pleased.

  “How could I ever forget thirty-six hours with you?”

  She laughed and spoke with lowered eyes. “I think we set records, Brent.” Tabling her drink, the soldier crept back into her voice. “You were attacked off the Cape Verde Islands; torpedoed three hundred miles from Pearl Harbor.”

  “It’s been in the media. There’s no secret.”

  “You took prisoners.”

  “Yes. But that’s been reported, too.” He began to wonder about the surprising turn in the conversation.

  “You released both prisoners to the Maritime Self-Defense Force.”

  “No. There were three, two Germans and an Arab. For some reason germane only to himself, Admiral Fujita released the two Germans to the Maritime Self-Defense Force. He’s kept the Arab on board — I would guess for further interrogation.”

  He sipped his drink and, wrapping a hand around Sarah’s, he caught a glimpse of smooth knees as she pulled her legs up on the couch and leaned close to him. “You picked up a survivor.”

  “Why, yes. Kathryn Suzuki. But that — ah, information about her has been classified by the admiral. There has been no public release…”

  “I know. Her name is Fukiko Hino and she is a terrorist. She and an Arab, Abdul al Kazarim, tried to bomb Yonaga yesterday. Right?”

  “I didn’t even know his name.”

  Sarah took a long drink. “You were close to her, weren’t you, Brent?”

  “Bernstein!”

  “Not really — only as far as he functions as part of the intelligence apparatus. He’s very closemouthed.”

  “You have agents in Hawaii — at the graving dock, here.”

  She smiled. “As an intelligence officer, you couldn’t expect me to answer that.”

  It was Brent’s turn to take a deep drink. “So, what’s on your mind, Sarah?”

  “You went to bed with her.”

  He felt more than just alcohol burning in the pit of his stomach. “This is beneath you, Sarah.”

  “Why?” The soldier was gone and she was all woman. “You’re the most important man in my life.”

  He pulled his hand away. “You’re important to me, too, Sarah. But we made no commitments — no promises. You weren’t betrayed.” There were traces of sarcasm in his voice.

  “Do you feel attachment to her? Could you — would you see her again?”

  “See her again?” He was stunned. “She’s dead! They’re both dead. You didn’t know?”

  “No. Only that there was an attempt on Yonaga. Our informants told us Hino and Kazarim were the only Sabbah in Tokyo. It was easy to add up even with Fujita’s tight lid on it.” She moved a little closer. “How did she die?”

  “I shot Kazarim off the running board of a truck they loaded with H.E.”

  “And Kathryn?”

  He drained his glass. Sighed. “She was on her back, wounded.” He stopped.

  “And?”

  “And I put one between her eyes.”

  “Oh, Brent,” she said, shocked.

  “You wanted her dead, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. All Sabbah. But it must have been hard on you.”

  “Not really. They cut Chief Shimada’s throat, were trying to destroy Yonaga.” He held up his empty glass.

  Quickly, she disappeared into the kitchen and returned with recharged highballs and sat close, breast pressed to his arm. He took a long drink. “Maybe I’d better leave, Sarah.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you, but if you feel you should, Brent.” And then added softly, “I’ve missed you so — so terribly much.” She brushed her lips across his cheek. He tabled his drink and sought her lips. Her mouth was open, wet and hot, tongue hungry. She pulled him down on the couch, and he could feel her hard body tremble under his hands. “You’re not angry with me?” she gasped between kisses, running her hands over his broad back.

  “God, no, Sarah. I’ve waited so long for you. So long.” He ran his hands over the swollen breasts, waist, hips, to the hem of the skirt, then upward over burning flesh.

  She pushed hard against his chest. “Not here, darling.” Slowly, they came to their feet, trembling for each othe
r. For a long moment they stood close, running their hands over each other. She sought his neck, bulging muscles of his arms, flat stomach, narrow hips, finally his throbbing manhood, while his hands slipped down her back to her firm buttocks, then he pulled her against him hard. “God,” she groaned, taking his hand. “This is torture.” She led him to the bedroom.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The next day the announcement blared over Yonaga’s PA system suddenly, taking Brent by surprise just as he came off watch. It was Kawamoto: “All officers not on duty report to the Shrine of Infinite Salvation immediately for a special ceremony.”

  When Brent entered the shrine, wondering about a “special ceremony,” he found perhaps two hundred officers headed by Admiral Fujita and his staff standing at ease in ranks. Many of the officers were new young replacements, and again Brent was struck by the youthful appearance of Yonaga’s original crewmen who stood side by side with the replacements. Brent took a position in the front rank between Adm. Mark Allen and Commander Matsuhara. Matsuhara greeted him with a smile.

  “What’s up?” the ensign asked. Matsuhara shrugged.

  Suddenly two ratings entered, one carrying a large wooden block and the other a basket. The block was placed on the platform in the center of the shrine and the basket next to it.

  “I think I know,” Mark Allen said ominously.

  Kawamoto shouted, “Officers — attention!” Hundreds of booted feet thudded together. Then two seaman guards entered, dragging the bound and terrified Tam Ali Khalifa between them. They dragged the Arab onto the platform. Fujita nodded and Atsumi stepped onto the platform. Hissing like a snake leaping from ambush, he pulled his long killing blade from its scabbard.

  “So that’s why he kept him,” Brent said to himself.

  “Your comrades have killed three of my men. You will die in return. A dog for three samurai. A terrible trade, indeed, but better than no barter at all,” Fujita said.

  “No!” Khalifa screamed. “No trial?”

  “As much of a trial as your friends gave Chief Shimada.” Fujita nodded, and the guards threw the Arab down roughly on the block, securing his hands to cuffs at the base and tying his feet together tightly.

  “Admiral Fujita,” Mark Allen shouted. “There is no honor in what you do. This man should be turned over to the authorities.”