Jones Henry turned to Swede with a mischievous grin. “You want a ride on my boat? We’ll see what they’re up to. Keep watch so we know when these boys go. I’ll trail ’em. Follow on radar if they move off too fast. Only way we’ll ever find out what’s up, looks like.” In answer, Swede slapped Jones on the shoulder.
Jimmy Amberman laughed. “Then I’ll train something off the fantail for you, cuz. Nobody’s yet locked up the bread crumbs on us.”
37
NO SECRET AT ALL
After Swede accepted his invitation at the NCO club, Jones had hurried . to his boat to set things straight. Not that things weren’t shipshape for a boat, but you never could tell with picky landlubbers. He fitted a clean cover on his own lower bunk mattress for Swede and he moved his own gear to the bunk above it. Best not to have feet clambering onto his face when the fellow gets seasick.
Then what to do about the crew? This consisted entirely of a kid named Lloyd whom Jones had taken on from the dock in Kodiak. “Putting you ashore overnight. This trip don’t concern you,” Jones said casually.
“You think I’m not up to anything out there, skipper?” Lloyd cocked an eyebrow, then flopped down on his bunk. “Thanks, but I think I’ll just stay aboard.” Jones regarded the kid. Up from some stateside college for a summer’s adventure, but not a bad worker, considering. Big attitude, certainly. Too big, Jones felt sometimes. Still, an extra pair of hands might come in handy. “Alright, fine. But you do as I say, no questions. And don’t you be telling anyone where we’re going or what you see. Not without my go-ahead first. Got it?”
The kid shrugged. Take it or leave it, kid. Jones thought, folding his arms over his broad chest—hoping he looked as no-nonsense as he felt.
“Yeah okay, skipper. I can keep my mouth shut.” They shook on it. “Just . . . take a nap or something,” Jones said.
When Swede appeared, briskly ready, Jones was glad to see that he wore rough clothes instead of the usual suit and tie. Guy wasn’t going to put on airs. Which was good since he wouldn’t have gotten away with it.
Jones patted the lower bunk. “Make yourself at home.”
Soon after, with Swede alongside, Jones watched the Coast Guard ship through binoculars. At length, he reported: “There go my two chiefs back aboard over the gangway. And an officer. With some fellow in civvies who looks . . . Damned if he ain’t. That’s a Jap! I knew they were up to some trick.”
“Let me see,” said Swede, and a moment later, “Yes, a Japanese civilian. And now there’s a man on the pier throwing off their lines.”
“Don’t tell me they ain’t pulling something!” Jones leapt the rail of his boat and started the engine. “We’ll hang ready by the breakwater. No law says we can’t trail ’em.”
An hour later both vessels were in open water. Jones’s boat came alive in that way he savored—pitching and rolling. He watched Swede, ready to enjoy how the man got sick. But Swede remained alongside him at the wheel, no problem.
The Coast Guard ship glided past them in the water, barely reacting to the waves. No question but that it would leave them behind. Yet Jones figured they’d remain as a clear radar blip for some fifteen miles, and by then, if they hadn’t changed course they were probably pointed toward their destination.
Swede held tight to a rail for support, but he continued to talk as if they were steady on land. When a sudden cross-sea swept a loose shackle bumping across deck, he went out before Jones could stop him—braced with practiced sea legs—and retrieved the piece before it washed overboard. He returned inside, dripping wet. Plainly Swede had enjoyed himself.
Jones watched, chagrined to have left anything on his deck unsecured while grudgingly aware that maybe Swede was fit for sea after all. But nevertheless: “Mebbe should have let it go. Rough out there.”
“A shackle costs at least three dollars, so you shouldn’t lose it to the sea,
eh?”
The further they drew from land, the higher the waves they encountered. Whenever the boat descended into a trough, they found themselves looking up at gray water. By now the Coast Guard ship was at least two miles ahead of them, with its black hull and brown superstructure dimming as it grew smaller.
“I can pursue if you want to rest,” Swede offered. “This chase may last a long time, so we must stay alert.”
“I’m all right. Mebbe you ought to lie down a while.”
“During the war and the Resistance against the German butchers, I held wheels like this in bad weather. Worse weather. Escaping, sometimes. Spying sometimes. But often with life in danger. Maybe now I’m a company manager, but I haven’t forgotten. This now’s a pleasure, to chase without any consequence of death, but still with mystery. I don’t wish to lie down.”
Jones nodded. He liked this man, who only recently he’d begun to regard as something more than a mere company pisshead. “Well, I ain’t sleeping either. But you take the wheel a while if you want. I’ll make coffee—we might be here for a haul.”
The chase, which began to appear to have no end, terminated abruptly in the sight of masts. The Coast Guard ship, which had disappeared from view for an hour except as a green dot on Jones’s basic boat radar, could now be discerned near a vessel almost twice its length. Further out on the horizon bobbed the outlines of other ships.
The large vessel they gazed at lay huffing in the sea like a whale. Waves that pushed Jones’s boat into constant motion, that rolled discernibly against the black Coast Guard hull, seemed barely to ripple against the high bow of this massive vessel. An outlet located barely halfway down its side poured a steady stream of wastewater from a height well above their own masthead.
“That vessel is well cared for,” observed Swede. “It’s new, or at least not very old. From the pictures my company sent me for identification purposes, this is a factory ship. A new idea on the ocean. Very interesting. Built to receive catches from smaller vessels and to process these catches at sea in the manner of a cannery on shore.”
As they neared, Jones left the helm to Swede as he scanned the factory ship with binoculars. “What I see loud and clear is Jap letters on its side. Probably says something like ‘Fuck you.’”
“More likely I think it’s the name of the vessel as it’s lettered above in English.”
“Oh.” Jones deflated. “You call that English?”
“Well, Jones. This is what I’ve come to see. To observe, eh? This, and those other vessels out there on the horizon. A fishing fleet, I suspect. More even than I had imagined. Good for American business if they catch and deliver to us. Bad if the fish are to reach shore only in Japan. I’m concerned that the US government is making this deal in secret because it’s ashamed to admit to it.”
Jones spat into the water. “If my boat had a torpedo, she’d get it. Sink you, like all you bastards sank us.” He spat again, for want of anything else to do. “Sink every last one of you out there!”
“But we have no torpedo,” Swede reminded Jones gently. “Do you mind if we go closer, Jones? If they allowed us aboard, would you go?”
“Sooner cut off my arm. And where would I put my own boat out here? But if they’re dumb enough to say yes, and you’re dumb enough to go, I’ll wait for you. Don’t hurt to see the enemy all the way I guess.” He pointed his bow directly at the factory ship and revved his engine. “Let’s ram the son of a bitch.”
“Yes. Go. Pretend!”
In the water below the factory ship skipped a small open surfboat of the kind used by the Coast Guard. It was barely a sand flea in comparison. The two men in it wore dress blues beneath their lifejackets.
“Hey!” called Swede. “You’re guarding against invasion I see. Or preparing to give a tow?”
The man who looked up was Chief Jimmy Amberman.
“Looks like we couldn't shake you,” he exclaimed heartily.
Swede called over the sound of the waves, “Are you preparing to go aboard this ship?”
“Not me. Just waiting to take ba
ck our CO and Exec. They brought over this little Jap guy. Making a big deal of it, so they wanted to show some uniforms—even down here in the boat.”
“An important official?”
“Fellow was too seasick to tell! Brought some bags with him, so I guess he’s staying. But maybe that’s a secret like everything else, so don’t say I told you. Back on the ship they even opened our letters home before they mailed ’em off in Adak.”
Swede gazed up at the ship’s side. “I want to go aboard there. But I don’t see a ladder.”
“If they say yes, they’ll lower a bucket for you like they did for our guys.”
“Hey there,” Swede called up. Two heads peered down from the rail. “Hi. Wish to come aboard.” The two men above watched them in silence. At length one of them waved.
“Hell,” said Chief Amberman. “You might be talking French for all they can figure.”
Swede turned to Jones with a grin. “Please hold your ears, and forgive me that I’ve taken the trouble to learn a little Japanese.” To the men above he shouted “Konichiwa!” and followed with other Japanese words accompanied by gestures.
The heads disappeared, and minutes later, a Jacob’s ladder clattered down. “Guess you don’t rate a bucket,” Jimmy Amberman laughed.
Swede waited for Jones’s boat to ride the crest of a wave, then jumped to the ladder’s flopping rungs. He climbed quickly so as to be above the boat’s rail on the next surge.
“Your boy knows how to do it,” said Jimmy.
“At least that far,” growled Jones. He watched as Swede, agile as a monkey, scampered up rung by rung. On the way up, his cap flew off and wind carried it into the ocean. At the top, hands waited to help him over the rail, but he swung himself over easily. The man would probably have made a good fisherman if he’d stuck to it, rather than going ashore.
Twenty minutes later, Swede’s head of ruffled blond hair appeared at the rail. “Jones!” he called. “You’re invited aboard also. Nice food here. They’ll pass you a line so the boat can drift safely astern. If you wish.”
“Jap line! Probably rotten and will break.”
From the Coast Guard skiff, Jimmy Amberman called with gruff humor, “Go do it, cuz. See what all the secret’s about for both of us. We’ll mind your boat.” Jones started to shake his head in an outraged negative, and then considered. Hadn’t he come this far?
“Alright,” he called. “I’ll come up. But damned if I’m gonna leave my boat attached to some Jap rope and no one watching. Just wait a sec.”
He dropped down into the cabin, where the kid Lloyd was snoring away again. Though he’d come a few times on deck and had exchanged some banter with Swede, for the most part he’d stayed below and out of the way. Not much for him to do anyway, Jones reasoned, before shaking him roughly awake.
“Need you on deck, kid,” Jones said. “Be quick—need you to keep an eye on things.”
Lloyd looked surprised, but swung himself out of the bunk directly. Something you learned to do quick out here, Jones mused.
“You going somewhere, skipper?”
“Not your concern.”
On deck, Lloyd let out a low whistle. “That Japanese?” he asked.
“Mebbe. Just need you to keep your mouth shut and watch the boat don’t drift away. In case the line breaks.” The kid nodded and looked on while Jones climbed the Jacob’s ladder, the rope joined boards clacking against the steel hull of the factory ship. At every third or fourth step, he paused to look down. Bad thing for a skipper to leave his boat in the hands of an unexperienced crewman, although it did ride easily on its line. What if the Japs cut it loose out of orneriness? Shouldn’t’ve left it. Wouldn’t have, probably, but for the Coast Guard skiff standing watch. And hell, ought to see for himself what the Japs were up to.
When his line of sight finally reached the level of the rail, there was Swede standing with some Japs. Jones shrugged off an offer of assistance, but he hadn’t even swung a leg over to deck when cameras started clicking. He scowled automatically. “What’s this?”
“Don’t worry,” joked Swede. “Photographs are for newspapers back in Tokyo, not here.”
“Well I guess their cameras’re going to break if they take much more of me.” Jones kept the scowl. It wouldn’t do to be shown here enjoying himself, wherever the pictures went.
He had barely put both feet on deck when another Jap came forward and grasped his hand to shake it. “This is Captain Mitsuboshi,” Swede continued. “He’s come to greet you personally and welcome you aboard. Then he must return to his duties.”
Jones took the hand. It had little grip. “Yeah, well, okay. Hello, captain.” Swede explained that someone was about to give them a tour of the ship, after which the captain hoped that they would be his guests for refreshments. Jones began to ask why they were being treated like VIPs and what did Swede tell them in their lingo, exactly, when Swede shot him a warning glance. When the captain had gone a few steps forward, Swede lowered his voice.
“Just act like you belong here, yes? They think we are part of the American delegation. Don’t give them a reason to be suspicious of you.”
“Us, you mean.”
“Ja, Jones, us.”
Jones had ridden crowded troopships, so the size of this ship was nothing new. But the rest was out of some fantasy book. Little Japs scampered everywhere. Many wore the squashed caps he remembered from their prisoners on Okinawa, and some even wore parts of uniforms. On deck, men in black rubber suits hosed sections of a cargo net. Inside, down some steps and through corridors that Jones noted were fresh painted, a bunch of them sat at long tables on a messdeck, clacking chopsticks over bowls of food. Down further metal stairs, from doors surrounded outside by sandals and boots, others looked up with their blank Jap expressions from tiered bunks in crowded staterooms: hard to count how many with all the clothes and towels draped everywhere. Down further, entire lower decks were taken up by machinery and shining metal troughs. With a final flourish, their guide announced: “Very good capacity!” and threw open the doors of a freeze locker, empty but for swirling ice clouds. The space was bigger than that of Jones’s entire boat. “Soon filling with product!” announced the guide proudly.
“Ja,” muttered Swede. “Yes. Many men. And they are prepared for fish.” Their guide seemed to understand. He nodded with one of those people’s typical blank smiles.
“Hai! Full equipment. Very modern. Ready for product from gillnet vessels!”
“You will look happy, please,” said a man they had not noticed, followed by a camera flash.
Jones kept the scowl that had settled on his face. “That guy been trailing us?” he muttered.
“No,” replied Swede. “I think he was waiting here for us. But they’re taking pictures everywhere.”
“Yes, now again,” said the photographer. “You will look happy, please.” Jones glared in the direction of the camera.
Their guide conducted them back to the main deck and across into another housing that extended up to the windows of the bridge. “For officers,” he explained. “And for officials.”
Again, the corridors smelled of fresh paint. They were led to a room with a few tables covered with clean blue cloths. At one side, under portholes, was a longer, covered table holding tureens and an open platter of food.
Seated at one table were two Coast Guard officers, the Japanese captain, and other Japanese. The captain rose and beckoned them over. At once, Swede assumed a more formal bearing. He nodded to the two Coast Guard officers and shook hands saying, something in Japanese as he was introduced to the others.
Jones remained standing. He felt out of place. Wasn’t one of those Japs the fellow who had gotten in his way a couple of times in Bristol Bay the summer before and then at that village dance, now with hair slicked and wearing a tie?
“And here,” said Swede smoothly, “Please meet my friend Mr. Jones Henry, a famous fishing captain.”
“Ah!” exclaimed one of the Japan
ese and extended his hand eagerly. “A great pleasure, Mr. Jones. You will have fishing information for us.” He introduced himself as the representative of a large company in his nation.
The Jap Jones probably knew eyed him directly, gave a little bow, and said in a respectful voice, “Again pleasure that we meet, sir.”
“Yup. You get around.”
“I represent the fishing enterprises of Tsurifune and others in my town. As also in Bristol Bay and in Akutan village. I hope that you have had good fishing.”
“Can’t complain.”
Two other Japanese came in, carrying cameras. Under the polite direction of the ship’s captain, the Americans were placed among the Japanese officials for a group photo. Then the captain declared: “Friendship!” and went to each American and shook hands while the cameras clicked.
Jones hesitated when the captain reached him. At last he accepted the man’s limp handshake for the photo but didn’t relax his scowl. Let ’em figure that one out back in Tokyo.
Another Japanese joined them. “Pardon me,” he said in clear English. “A bit seasick for a while, I’m afraid. John Kobayashi, American research scientist in the US state of Washington.” It was the passenger from ashore who had come aboard with the Coast Guard officers. The man continued, speaking to the others in Japanese that at times seemed a bit halting.
Captain Mitsuboshi clapped his hands, and soon a bowl of steaming noodles in broth had been placed in front of each man. Jones, offered his choice of utensils by the steward serving them, waved aside the chopsticks and took a spoon and fork. He picked through the noodles and sorted out the slippery black objects that might have been mushrooms but just as probably some kind of beetle or even chopped rat. Swede, using chopsticks, ate the black things without hesitation. So did the others. Not his business what others put in their mouths.
The Jap he knew named Surifooly or something began to speak politely to the American Coast Guard. After a few sentences, the Japanese-American John Kobayashi held up his hand and explained: “Now that I’m here to interpret, this representative of the fishing vessels wishes to tell you the following. I’ll try to give it exactly. But I must explain that I’m an American citizen and don’t often speak Japanese anymore.” He spoke in Japanese to the man, who replied confidently, and then with “Okay, I’m getting it right. I think” translated sentence by sentence.
WARRIORS Page 38
