by Peter Albano
Dale paused, looked up at the old sailor, and then turned her eyes to Iwata. “I’m sorry, Admiral,” she said, deep in her throat. She held Iwata with her eyes, which were chips of green ice, and pointed a finger at him like a dagger. “I’ll take no more crap from him.” She continued gathering papers.
There was a startled exchange among the Japanese. They had never seen a woman like this, heard such words fall from female lips, experienced such petulance and strength. Commander Takuya Iwata’s face became the color of sunset, and Brent snickered into his palm.
Fujita turned his tiny lips under and gestured to the chart. “Please, Miss McIntyre. We need the intelligence. The fate of our nation, of your nation, is in the balance.” His eyes roamed over his entire staff, finally settling on Iwata. “There will be no further outbursts.”
Brent could not believe his ears. The old man was pleading with a woman, treating her as an equal. But Yonaga’s very existence could depend on what the CIA knew — what this woman knew — and Yonaga was everything.
The woman sighed, stopped stuffing papers, and looked up. “That’s a guarantee?”
The old man swallowed hard, as if his Adam’s apple were his pride and he was choking on it. “A guarantee,” he managed. He pointed at the chart.
Dale tapped the table with her small knuckles. She had won, and every man knew it. “All right, sir. We’ll give it another try.” She returned to the chart and thumped the Western Carolines with the pointer. Her voice was surprisingly composed as if she were describing her apartment, a sunset, or a landscape, or ordering dinner. “Carrier Ramli al Kabir is anchored here with cruisers Babur and Umar Farooz, an oiler, three depot ships, and three Gearings.”
“Only three escorts?”
“Yes admiral. Blackfin sank one and either your aircraft damaged three more or they broke down. In any event, they are being repaired at Surabaya.” There was an excited rumble.
Fujita spoke thoughtfully. “Then they would be insane to put to sea without adequate escorts.” He stared at Dale. “Any estimate when repairs will be completed on the destroyers?”
The woman narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “Perhaps six weeks. Our agents reported one DD under tow. But keep in mind, their Essex, the Al Kufra, is making for the Straits of Malacca with three escorts.”
“Not enough.” Everyone nodded. “When the battle group puts to sea, they must leave at least two destroyers to cover the two entrances to the atoll. They need the three destroyers at Surabaya before they can attack.” He looked down the table at his air group commander. “Commander Matsuhara, the gods have given us a period of grace.”
“Yes, sir,” Matsuhara said. “In six weeks we should have our air groups up to full strength.”
Admiral Fujita struggled to his feet. “Then we shall deal with these vermin who would threaten our sacred land.” He gesticulated at the chart behind Dale McIntyre. “We will make a feint at the Marianas, pull them out of Tomonuto, and destroy them all!”
Cries of “Banzai!” and “Tenno heika banzai!” filled the room. Brent joined in, and Dale stared at him mouth agape, eyes wide.
Fujita glanced at a bulkhead-mounted brass clock and quieted the uproar. “It is late, gentlemen and...” he glanced at Dale, “lady.” He stared ar his men. “There is much to do before we are ready for sea.” He faced the shrine and clapped twice. Every officer stood. Again, Brent clapped with the Japanese. Dale, the Englishmen and Williams gaped at him curiously. Fujita spoke softly, mixing both Shintoism and Buddhism, “Oh Blessed One, let us meet our enemy recklessly like those already dead and follow Hachiman San (god of war) with constantly believing hearts. Let us strengthen our karmas on the field of battle, and if we are fortunate enough to yield up our spirits in service to the Son of Heaven, let us find permanent reality in nirvana. The Blessed One reminds us there are non-bom, non-caused. If there were not, there would be no refuge for us, that which is born, becomes, is created, is caused, dies on the field, and seeks nirvana.” He lowered his eyes, staring the length of the table with eyes like glazed black buttons. “Let us keep forever in our hearts our immortal Emperor Akihito’s declaration that his reign shall be that of Heisei — “the age of attaining peace” —a peace we shall find for him in an ocean of our enemy’s blood.” Lines of satisfaction creased the flesh of the corners of his mouth. “This meeting is closed,” he announced.
“Banzai! Tenno heika banzai!”
‘”Sir! Sir,” Dale McIntyre shouted through the din. “I haven”t finished my report.”
Fujita silenced the men with a wave. “I know, Miss McIntyre. You will remain.”
“And sir,” Brent said, “Mister Williams and I have a detailed report for you on the condition of Blackfin.”
“Of course. Of course.”.
Brent continued, “And our two prisoners are out in the passageway...”
“Two prisoners?” The old admiral appeared confused. Brent saw the same confusion he had noticed before. Age had taken a toll. Fujita’s memory was slipping. “Yes, Admiral. You ordered....”
“Oh, yes. I will interrogate them later. Put them in irons in the brig.” He gestured to the door. “Return to your duties.”
The officers filed silently from the room.
Chapter Six
The atmosphere in Admiral Fujita’s cabin was formal yet far more relaxed than that Brent had felt in Flag Plot. It was the second-largest room in Flag Country, only slightly smaller than Flag Plot. The old admiral walked stiffly to his polished teakwood desk and gestured for Brent, Dale, Yoshi Matsuhara, and Reginald Williams to seat themselves. Williams had insisted that he was strong enough to attend, and after Brent had assured the admiral he would conduct Williams to the sick bay personally, the old admiral had relented.
Looking around, Brent felt a warm feeling of nostalgia fulfilled as his eyes ran over the familiar surroundings. Behind the admiral hanging on the bulkhead was a large portrait of Emperor Akihito in mufti. In fact, there was no hint of militarism in the serene likeness. A Shinto-Hindu shrine similar to that in Flag Plot hung next to the portrait. Low bookcases jammed with hundreds of books were bolted to each bulkhead while charts were attached to the spaces above them. A door in the aft bulkhead led to the admiral’s sleeping quarters, while another opposite led to the cabin of a long-dead flag officer. This large room had been converted into the admiral’s library.
Here there were thousands of books dealing with World War II. The remarkable old man had studied and digested the information stored in each one. Many times Brent had seen him astonish officers with his knowledge of the Great Conflict. At times, an awed Brent had regarded Fujita as a “walking encyclopedia.”
Sighing, the old man seated himself at the desk that glistened like a highly polished mirror. The top was remarkably clean and neatly arranged, a stack of bound reports occupying a corner next to a two-tiered basket marked “Incoming” and “Outgoing,” a pad, pen, and brush in a polished ebony box in the center, and three telephones arranged in a row to one side. A copy of the ubiquitous Hagakure rested to one side next to the phones. There were five leather chairs bolted to the carpeted deck in a row in front of the admiral. A half-dozen wooden chairs were secured between bookcases, two in front of a corner table cluttered with communications gear. A yeoman first class sat there as expressionless as another piece of furniture. When extremely sensitive top secret matters were discussed, this man was usually dismissed.
Brent sat in the middle, directly in front of the admiral, while Yoshi, Dale, and Reginald Williams sat to either side. Relaxed by the embrace of the soft leather, Dale McIntyre sank back and crossed her legs, her calves and ankles showing like carved and polished ivory. The female presence was totally out of context, and to Brent she seemed to fill and light the room with a shimmering presence, the way a single exquisite bird can brighten a dim forest. It was disconcerting, and every man in the room except Fujita squirmed uncomfortably.
Remembrances of frantic evenings in the bedroom
of her Manhattan apartment crowded back, and Brent was shocked by the strength of his sudden physical desire for her, his viscera reacting to her, clenching like a fist in his groin. He felt his heart barge against the cage of his ribs.
With an effort he concentrated on the picture of the emperor, studying the fine suit, silk tie, and benign expression. The turmoil began to settle. Then Fujita’s voice broke in.
The old man began by addressing Reginald Williams. “You know all submarines of the Self-Defense Force have been sunk or scuttled. Blackfin constitutes our entire submarine force.”
Before Williams could respond, there was a knock. Fujita nodded, and the yeoman opened the door. A middle-aged full lieutenant dressed in the uniform of the Maritime Self-Defense Force entered. A short, fat man scarcely taller than Admiral Fujita, he appeared so singularly squat and wide that one got the impression he was looking at a tall man who had been compressed by a prodigious blow to the top of his head. He literally bulged out against his uniform like a heated sausage bursting its skin. Slowly he waddled across the room with the swaying gait of a man troubled by the chaffing of thighs so large they rubbed against each other with each step. Answering Fujita’s gesture like a toy pulled by its master, he finally halted at attention to one side of the desk. He had the expression of a man forced to face his firing squad without benefit of a blindfold. Brent remembered the face and toadlike body but could not recall the officer’s name.
“You missed the meeting, Lieutenant Koga,” the admiral said curtly to the newcomer.
Now Brent remembered. The fat Lieutenant Tadayoshi Koga had attended a staff meeting eight months earlier. Fujita’s distaste for the entire Maritime Defense Force had been vented on the fat man.
“Sorry, Admiral” the lieutenant said in a reedy querulous voice. “There was a Rengo Sekigun demonstration — ah, I mean riot that blocked off the two roads leading to the yard.”
Brent whispered into Reginald’s ear, “Rengo Sekigun is the Japanese Red Army.” Williams nodded.
Fujita bellowed at the communications man. “Yeoman Nakamura. Call Captain Mitake Arai. Tell him to send a company of seaman guards outside our perimeter and to clear the streets of Rengo Sekigun rabble. If necessary, sweep the communist vermin from the streets with Nambus (machine guns).” Nakamura threw a switch and began speaking into a phone.
“Sir,” Lieutenant Koga said, surprising everyone with a show of backbone. “We have a company of our own guards enroute, and the Tokyo police are on the scene. You can’t be a law unto yourself, sir.”
“Lieutenant! Do not try to tell me what 1 cannot do.” Fujita waved at the picture of the emperor. “I have the backing of the Mikado — the supreme authority. The Tokyo Police and the Diet can be damned!” The narrow eyes stared unblinking at Lieutenant Koga. “You are aware of Kokutai?”
“Of course, sir. “The emperor is Japan”.”
“And Japan is Yonaga,” Fujita countered quickly.
“But one must be judgmental, discriminating, Admiral.”
Silently Fujita picked up a brush and quickly formed an ideogram. He held it up for all to see. “Do you know what this is?” he asked. Perplexed, Dale stared at Brent while Brent, Yoshi, and Koga studied the calligraphy. Brent was an expert on Japanese, but the character was foreign to him.
“‘Cowardice,’” Yoshi Matsuhara hazarded.
Koga’s eyes studied the character and he squiggled his big bulk uncomfortably. “Yes. ‘Cowardice,’ and it’s Chinese, Admiral,” he said, obviously on guard.
Fujita’s eyes drilled into Koga as his tiny hand held up the Hagakure. “It is written here in our sacred manual.” He dropped the book and formed his fingers into a crooked steeple. “The Chinese character for ‘cowardice’ is made by adding the character for “discrimination” to the character radical for “mind.” He thumped the Hagakure with a clenched fist. “Now ‘meaning’ is ‘discrimination,’ and when a man attaches discrimination to his true mind, he becomes a coward.”
Koga’s lower lip trembled with distress. “Sir,” he said. “I am not suggesting anyone fall into the swamp of cowardice — turn his back on his duty.” He drew himself up. “I am a samurai, too.” He gestured at the Hagakure. “I know the way of the samurai and the book...”
“Then if you know the way of the samurai, never suggest anything that could compromise honor, our devotion to the Son of Heaven.”
“Of course, sir.” Koga sighed and turned his thick crimson lips under. He glanced around at the other occupants of the room. Gruffly, Admiral Fujita introduced Lieutenant Tadayoshi Koga of the Maritime Self-Defense Force to the others. As each officer was introduced, the lieutenant moved his beady, ferret-like eyes in horizontal movements from face to face. However, the eyes changed their pattern when they reached Dale McIntyre. Here they lingered and swept vertically while a thick tongue ran over the pouting red lips. Finally, Reginald Williams was introduced, and Koga stared long and hard at the black face. His mind was obviously still lingering on the woman’s body.
“You are the captain of Blackface?” he asked absent-mindedly, totally unaware of his gaffe.
“Blackfin! Blackfin!” Williams retorted, his anger cracking like electricity. He began to rise. Brent pulled him back down.
The crimson of a fuchsia in full bloom spread across Koga’s round face. Small beads of perspiration appeared miraculously on the brow. Everyone watched Koga curiously. He had leaped from one meat grinder into another. No one volunteered to help. He sputtered, “Ah...,” gulped, and seemed to gag on his own embarrassment. “Sorry, Lieutenant Williams,” he finally managed.
“An error, sir. Just a slip of the lip anyone could make.” He raised both hands defensively, as if fending off an assassin, and then compounded the gaffe, “Ah, some of my best friends — ah, my maid is a Pakistani.”
Williams breath exploded from deep in his lungs in an ominous rumble like a Kansas tornado. “I’m a Negro, not a Pakistani, and I don’t wait on tables,” he said through lips like the gash of a sharp blade. “And mind your faux pas, Lieutenant,” Williams warned. “I won’t tolerate a second.”
“Of course. Of course,” Koga said, obviously relieved to be released from the hook without further damage. Hastily he changed the topic, addressing the admiral. “Admiral Fujita,” he said, pulling some documents from an inside pocket. “I have some good news for you direct from the office of Chief of Staff, Admiral Shuichiyo Higashiyama.” Fujita hunched forward. Koga looked around at the others. “You know most of the Self-Defense Force was destroyed by an Arab carrier strike last year when Yonaga was making her attack on North Korea.” Nods encouraged the lieutenant to continue. He spoke proudly. “Well, gentlemen and lady, we have a frigate and a destroyer back in commission.” He glanced at a document. “The frigate is the Ayase of the Chikugo class, and the destroyer is the Yamagiri of the Asagiri class.”
Fujita waved in irritation. “These are cast-iron toys loaded with useless rockets and missiles.”
Koga came back quickly, “But sir, Yamagiri has a Melara 76-millimeter gun, which is fully automatic and can fire 85 rounds a minute. Ayase has two of these weapons, and both have two General Electric 20-millimeter Phalanx Mark Fifteen Gatlings with six barrels.” The reedy voice began to take on a timbre of pride. “Why, the Phalanx has its own radar that can track not only attacking aircraft, even its own projectiles. These weapons can fire 3000 rounds a minute, every round is aimed by its own computer. Not one human being is involved.”
While Koga spoke, Fujita pulled a pamphlet from his desk and opened it. Carefully he placed a pair of small steel-rimmed glasses with coke-bottle lenses on his nub of a nose. He thumped the pamphlet. “Yes, I know of these glamorous, ‘smart’ weapons,” he scoffed, voice heavy with sarcasm. He glanced at the maritime officer, whose jaw sagged, and then returned to the booklet. “You forgot that,” he read, “the Phalanx is a total weapon system consisting of six major assemblies.” His eyes skimmed and he turned the page. “Supported by
a high-speed radar-servo assembly and a digital computer, the fire control unit automatically makes its own target search, detects and declares target acquisition, tracks target, measures range, velocity, and angle, tracks its intercepting projectiles’ velocity and angles.”
“Correct, sir. Correct. It is a completely self-contained system,”
Fujita removed his glasses, looked up and said to Koga, “I have interviewed officers who have used these new weapons, and I have studied them.” Fujita patted the pamphlet and waved at his library. Then he hunched forward with both of his tiny hands flat on his desk. Blue veins were visible through the thin parchment-like skin. He caught Koga in the vise of his eyes. “Your weapons are fully automatic and fully unreliable.” Koga winced as if he were experiencing physical pain. Brent actually felt sorry for the man.
“They are too full of your silicon transistors, computers, and glamorous circuits that are always breaking down,” Fujita declared. Then he showed his vast naval knowledge. “The British lost ships in the war in the Falklands because of these highly sophisticated weapons that refused to function. They had rockets that would not fire, computers that would not compute. British officers began to cry and pray for old-fashioned machine guns that fired dumb bullets aimed by live men.” He struck the teakwood with fingers that would not bend completely into a fist. “I read their reports. I have recorded an eyewitness account by one of my own flyers, Captain Willard-Smith, who fought there. They lost ships and hundreds of men who should not have been lost-sacrificed to your god of high technology who fell through his throne of paper.” He thrust a finger at Koga. “Paper! Paper! It is so impressive on paper. But in fact, your ships are armed with unreliable junk that is always malfunctioning. My Fletchers can fire 125 rounds a minute of five-inch ordnance at five different targets. All weapons are hand loaded with semifixed ammunition. This American five-inch 38-caliber dual-purpose cannon is the finest naval gun of the twentieth century. And we have 25-millimeter, 20-millimeter and 40-millimeter machine guns, aimed by the eyes of samurais to a gun-sight — the best fire control machines in the world.” Silence filled the cabin as he drummed the desk, his volatile mind making another mercurial change in direction. “Radar. Your Yamagiri and Ayase have good radar.” It was a statement, not a question.
