by Peter Albano
“You slowed her down for us, Captain,” Reginald said. “She was an impossible target at 32 knots. You brought her down.” He thumped Brent’s shoulder. “And Brent is my attack officer. He made the run.” There was warmth in the voice Brent had never heard before.
“Good work. Good work, Brent,” Fite said. He turned to the admiral. “Admiral Fujita, you have my preliminary report.”
Fujita adjusted his glasses and read from a document. “Number Five Gunhouse destroyed. Number Two stack holed. Eighteen five-inch hits to upper works … “
“Eighteen!” Brent and Reginald chorused in disbelief.
“Yes, gentlemen,” Fujita said. He continued reading, “Six 20-millimeter and two 40-millimeter mounts destroyed, Number One Boiler Room took a hit, two boilers disabled. Hull holed between frames thirty-one and thirty-two at the waterline. Thirty-three dead, forty-three wounded.” He looked at Fite’s bandaged arm and stiff leg. “We will make that figure forty-four wounded.” Fujita stared at Captain Fite silently. “Captain Fite,” he said softly. “DD-1 is out of commission permanently. It will take months...”
“Please, Sir. I have six DDs ready for sea. Two more Fletchers are in our reserve.”
“Why, they are junk — used for spare parts!”
A note of desperation crept into Fite’s voice, “But, sir. Put DD-1 with one of the reserve cans, give me a dry-dock and three weeks, and I’ll give you a first-class can.” “You need a rest.”
“Respectfully, terrorism never rests. How can we, Admiral? Their task force is almost ready to sortie. Four weeks, maybe five. Everyone knows it. Ask any kid in the Ginza...”
Fujita thumped the desk. “You are wounded Captain.”
“No, sir,” the escort commander said, trying to sit erect. “Nothing more than two mosquito bites.”
“With the jaws of tigers.” Fujita tapped the desk and then turned to Dale. “The CIA is negotiating for more Fletchers.”
“True, sir,” Dale acknowledged. “Two from the Philippines and another from Greece. We count forty-six in commission all over the world, and we’re trying to buy more.”
“Condition?”
“The Greek vessel is fair to good — the two in the Philippines are mint.”
“Are the negotiations closed?”
“We can deliver the two from the Philippines to you within a month.”
There was a murmur of excitement and approval. “Good. Good,” Fujita said.
Fite expressed his greatest fear to Dale. “Are there any reports of the Arabs equipping their Gearings with fire-control radar?”
Dale shook her head. “No. That is one area where the United States and Russia are holding firm.” Fite sighed audibly. “And no guidance systems for our Mark Forty -Eight torpedoes or their Five-Three-Threes.”
“Good. Good,” Fite said.
Fujita spoke to Williams, “You estimate it will take at least four weeks to make Blackfin ready for sea?”
“Yes, sir. As we discussed in the briefing.”
Again Brent saw a fleeting wave of confusion cross the admiral’s face. Had he forgotten already? They had just discussed the matter an hour ago.
“Of course. Of course,” the admiral said, hastily covering up his lapse.
Williams spoke, a troubled look twisting his face. “Admiral. There’s a small matter of prisoners.”
“We take them — a few.” Bernstein, Brent and Fite exchanged fleeting smiles. Dale McIntyre caught the exchange, and her face clouded with confusion and suspicion.
“I saw men murdered in the water by my executive officer,” Williams gestured at Brent. “By Captain Fite.” His voice dropped, “And in Tokyo Bay, I was no better. I blew a terrorist’s head off with a Thompson. He was helpless — in the water. I lost my head. I’m no better.”
“No. You didn’t lose your head, Lieutenant. You’re learning,” Fite said.
“Learning what?” Dale snapped, voice cracking ice, face reddening with the boil and surge of emotion. “The laws of the jungle — savagery. We did not know — the CIA never informed … “
Fujita stepped in. “You know of the Mayeda Maru. The garroting of over a thousand helpless Japanese civilians by Kadafi’s murderers?”
“Yes,” she said softly. “I know They’re merciless. I killed one myself last year just outside the gate to the yard.” She gestured at Brent. “He was there. It was self-defense. I had no choice. It wasn’t an extermination.” Bernstein spoke up, “Don’t ever tell a Jew anything about exterminations, Ms. McIntyre. Would you like to hear about Auschwitz?”
“This isn”t Auschwitz.”
“The whole word is Auschwitz,” the Israeli retorted. “Didn’t you know?”
She leaned toward the colonel. “I saw prisoner-of-war camps in Israel. You exchange prisoners. Don’t give me that crap.”
The Israeli’s brown eyes became smoky lamps. “I will, Ms. McIntyre. Most Jews have never even seen an extermination camp. They don’t know — they make their own mistakes. Our religion teaches humanity. That’s our one weakness. “Turn the other cheek,” the rabbis say. I ran out of cheeks in 1945.” He drove a fist into an open palm. “You said the Arabs have gas. Do you think they would hesitate to use it if they didn’t fear our bombs?” The rhetorical question hung in the air unanswered. “Vermin should be exterminated. That’s the only way.”
“Enough bickering,” Fujita said, thumping the desk. His eyes bored into the woman. “Madam. The concept of surrender is unknown to the samurai. The greatest ignominy, the ultimate disgrace, is to be taken prisoner. We honor our foe when we kill him on the field.”
The woman scoffed, “Some honor, Admiral.”
The old eyes smoldered. He controlled his temper with an effort. “Regardless of the reasons, regardless of world opinion, the conduct of my forces is totally my responsibility. Let the world know it is my decision to eliminate the enemy whenever possible. They exercise the same prerogatives against my personnel — in the water, in parachutes.”
Her wave encompassed everyone, “Then, when the helpless are killed, your men are obeying orders. The Nazis claimed the same thing at Nuremberg and were hanged for it.”
Fujita stabbed a finger at the woman. “I am not interested in Nuremberg or the Far East Tribunal. Only the conduct of this war and the destruction of our enemies.”
“Then it’s total war?”
“You did not know?”
“I did not know. In fact, most of the world does not know.” She glared at Colonel Bernstein, “Not even the Israelis — most of the Israelis.”
“Is there any other kind of war?” the admiral asked.
“There is humanity.”
Fujita laughed humorlessly. “Where? I have not encountered any in over a century.”
“When my duties are completed, I will apply for a transfer.”
“That is your decision, Madam.” Fujita hunched his bent shoulders even more and brought the narrow eyes down to slits. “If you women want equality, you must be ready to fight and die with equality.”
“I’m ready for it — have put my life on the line for it.” Her eyes traveled over every occupant in the room. “But I’m not ready for murder — never will be.”
“This is no place for a woman. War is man’s business,” Fujita said, matter-of-factly.
“You’ve said that before, Admiral. Now I know you’re right.” She rose.
Fujita brought up a hand. “I did not dismiss you.” She stared down at the little man, eyes cold, frozen glass. The voice was vapor off dry ice. “I request permission to be excused.”
“Were you escorted here?”
“No.”
“You usually stay at the Imperial. The CIA keeps rooms there.”
“Correct.”
“It is dangerous and you know it. You took great risk coming here without guard.” He looked at Brent. “Take two seamen guards and escort Miss McIntyre back to her quarters. Take a staff car.”
Dale glared at Brent. “I’ll take a cab
. I can take care of myself.” She patted her purse where Brent knew she carried her 7.65-millimeter Beretta. “I don’t need him.”
Brent knew exactly what the woman meant. She was not talking about guns or guards.
Fujita waved her off. “It’s an order,” he said. He spoke to Fite and Williams, “You two are to report immediately to sick bay. Yeoman Nakamura will show you there. Chief Hospital Orderly Eiichi Horikoshi will examine you and send me a report.” Slowly he pushed himself to his feet. “This meeting is closed,” he said. Everyone rose and moved silently toward the door.
Chapter Seven
When Brent and Dale crossed the accommodation ladder and left Yonaga, Dale was sullen and uncommunicative. They walked silently past the staggered concrete barriers like dragon’s teeth installed after Kathryn Suzuki attempted to crash into the compound with a truck loaded with plastique. Walking toward the gate house between rows of giant warehouses and shops, they passed a half-dozen sandbagged machine gun emplacements. Obviously, word of Blackfin’s destruction of the carrier Gefara and the destroyer Tubaru had spread like a forest fire through Yonaga’s mysterious “ship’s telegraph.” Brent knew no official announcement had been made yet. Men saluted and shouted greetings to Brent: “Welcome back, sir.” “Banzai Blackfin” “Good hunting, Mister Ross.” “Great kill. Lieutenant.” But all eyes were on Dale McIntyre’s swaying hips and shapely calves as they passed.
“Great kill,” Dale mimicked.
“There is no way you can understand,” Brent said with resignation.
“I can understand this,” she said. “Fujita deliberately set you up with me. He could have had me escorted by a hundred others.”
“You object?”
She seemed not to hear. “He did it before — last year. He made sure you took me back to my apartment.”
Brent smiled. “You showed no lack of enthusiasm.”
“He takes good care of his boy, doesn’t he. After all,” she said, her voice acid with sarcasm, “his boy’s been to sea for six months. He must be horny-needs a good piece of ass. Why not score with the old broad again?”
Brent felt an amalgam of hurt and anger cut through the carapace and touch raw, quick nerves. His eyes flashed with cold blue light like the glinting of bayonets. His lips drew into a grim line, and the rims of his nostrils flared and turned pale. Grabbing her arm with one hand, he spun her around. A hundred eyes focused on the pair as they stood inches apart, glaring. “If you were a man, I’d punch your goddamned brains out.”
“Why not? You fucked my brains out, you son-of-a-bitch.” She ran her eyes over his angry face, taut arms, balled fists. “Go on,” she taunted. “Hit me. Kill me. What’s one more life, more or less?”
He grabbed her shoulders. “My God, have you forgotten how they tried to kill us out there?” He waved past the gate house at the parking lot where they had had to fight for their lives against a mob of Red Army hoodlums. “Have you forgotten the restaurant — the French restaurant where I lost Watertender Azuma Kurosu, a man who gave his life saving yours — ours from Sabbah killers?”
“No, I haven’t forgotten. You killed three men that night. But it was a fair fight.”
“A fair fight?” he said, incredulous. “They ambushed us.”
“They weren’t helpless in the water?”
He threw up his hands in despair and looked around. Most of the gun crews were standing and staring at them, and a half-dozen men at the gate were looking their way. “Come on,” he said gruffly. “I’ve got to take you back.” He gestured to the gate where a black Mercedes 300-SE sedan was parked. Two seaman guards were standing next to it with slung Arisakas over their shoulders.
Side by side the pair walked hurriedly to the gate.
*
Dale McIntyre’s apartment was on the thirtieth floor of the Imperial Hotel. Although the hotel was nearly a hundred years old, it was one of the most modern in Tokyo, with a swimming pool, recreation and exercise rooms, eight restaurants, and a shopping arcade. Brent saw Dale to her door while one of the seaman guards waited at the elevator door with his rifle at port arms. Passersby glimpsed the glowering seaman and hurried past fearfully. Everyone was accustomed to strange sights in Tokyo these days, but a helmeted seaman in green battle fatigues clutching a rifle in a corridor of the Imperial Hotel could jar anyone’s composure.
Brent unlocked the door and stepped aside. Dale walked in and turned, holding the door open but barring entrance with her body. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m quite safe now. You can leave.”
She began to close the door. Brent held the door open with one hand. “It’s more than the killing, isn’t it, Dale?” he said, holding the glistening green eyes with the power of his stare.
“What do you mean?”
“The killing of survivors — of prisoners — could not have taken you by complete surprise. There must’ve been rumors, and the CIA has a way of finding things out.” He rubbed his chin. “There’s more to it — something personal between you and me.”
“You flatter yourself.”
He would not allow her to goad him. He continued in a calm voice, “What is it? Do you have another man? It can’t be that. All this wouldn’t be necessary if it were only another man. I could understand that. I’ve been at sea...”
“You’ve been at sea, so I had to find someone else to get laid. Is that it?” A film of moisture heightened the green of her eyes.
“It doesn’t have to be that crude.”
“You’re wasting my time, Lieutenant.”
“I’ll be back, you know, Dale.”
“The encryption box.”
“Yes. ‘Blue Alpha’ is compromised. The Arab mainframes in Tripoli and Damascus have broken it by now. You know that.”
“I know. I’ll pick up the box and software at the American Embassy tomorrow. And you’ll pick it up?”
“That’s my job. You know that. I’m NIS — the only Naval Intelligence officer on board Yonaga. You hand the box to me personally and witness my signature.”
“I assure you, Lieutenant, it’s the only box you’ll get in this apartment.” She pushed his hand aside and slammed the door. He whirled and walked quickly to the elevator.
The apartment was dark, but Dale did not turn on the lights. There was adequate illumination streaming in through the big French windows from the garish signs glaring in the Ginza. She hurried, almost ran, to the bedroom and hurled herself down onto the bed. Pounding the pillow, she cried over and over, “My boy. My boy. I love you Brent. Oh God, I love you.”
*
As Brent approached the door to Commander Yoshi Matsuhara’s cabin, he was in a grim mood. The dark ride back from Dale’s apartment over rain-slicked streets had been lonely and depressing. Visions of the woman and what they had meant to each other during those fiery nights in Manhattan stabbed at his heart. He knew she had been upset by the staffs casual attitude toward the killing of survivors, but he suspected there was far more to it than that. She seemed to suddenly and inexplicably hate him; or was she trying to hate, working at it? And strangely, through her tirades, he had thought he’d detected a hint of the old soft warmth glowing behind the icy emerald of her eyes.
In New York they had talked of love, of a permanent thing, but her age had worked on her heart like an acid. He remembered the woeful look on her face one night as they lay side by side after hours of fierce lovemaking when she turned to him and said, “My darling, do you realize, when you’re my age, I’ll be fifty-three.”
He had protested, claiming she was at the peak of her powers and would remain there for years. She had laughed and said, “You’re insatiable, my beautiful boy. The last time we made love, I was so sore, the next morning I had trouble walking to the kitchen.” They were both laughing when he pushed her onto her back. The memory brought a physical ache to his stomach as he reached up and knocked on the door of Yoshi’s cabin.
Matsuhara had obviously anticipated his knock. When Brent entered the sma
ll cabin only two doors from his own in Flag Country, he saw a bottle of Haig & Haig and two glasses on the small table bolted to the bulkhead. Smiling, Yoshi said, “Welcome Brent-san. I have been expecting you.” He gestured to the table and the bottle of scotch.
Sighing, Brent seated himself while Yoshi found his place opposite. “Straight up, no ice. That’s how you like it,” the flight commander said, pouring the amber liquid. He handed Brent a glass and held up his own. “To women,” the Japanese said. “The most inscrutable, baffling creatures ever invented.”
Brent stopped his glass inches from his lips. “You know, Yoshi-san?”
“I know, my friend.” He held his glass high. “Drink!” The men touched glasses and tossed off the drinks. Yoshi refilled the glasses. “She upset you?”
“Yes.”
“You love her.”
“I don’t know.” Brent took a sip of his drink. This time he swirled it and worked it around his teeth and gums, enjoying the sting and prickle and savoring the burnt charcoal flavor before swallowing it. “How can you know so much about Dale and me?”
Yoshi smiled. “Don’t forget, Brent-san, I saw you with her when you first met — saw the glow on your face after you had been with her, know how you fought for her life that night in the Imperial’s French restaurant. It was easy to see you were-ah, attached.” He sipped his scotch. “Anyway, my friend, I know you better than any man I have ever known.”
Brent took another drink. “Well, she doesn’t glow for me any more.”
Yoshi smiled. “She loves you, Brent-san.”
The American choked and almost dropped his glass. “She hates me — called me a son-of-a-bitch,” he sputtered.
The Japanese shook his head. “No, Brent-san: it was obvious to me. She deliberately antagonized the admiral, knew he disliked women and would bar her from the ship. I believe she wanted this and cleverly played on his prejudices. And she must have known more about the — ah, conduct of the war than she implied. After all, she is CIA.” He stared at his friend silently for a moment. “And there is something else. There was heat in her eyes when she looked at you, but it wasn’t hatred. She loves you. She is a woman with a problem, and the problem is herself.”
