by Peter Albano
She laughed. “I know what you mean. But, no, it wouldn’t work. Eventually, I would become the old companion of a young man. It would kill me to see you eyeing younger women.”
Brent sighed in frustration at her intransigence but knew further arguments were useless. “All right,” he said with resignation. “I’ll not trouble you in the future.” He took a big drink.
She began to cry and he held her close. “It’s been decided for us, anyway, Brent,” she managed, choking back her sobs.
“What do you mean?”
She dabbed at her eyes with a linen handkerchief and regained control. “I’ll leave tomorrow morning. They claim I need R and R. My replacement is already here-Horace Mayfield.”
“Don’t know him.”
“He’s a good man; Fujita should approve. After all, Mayfield does have balls.” She emptied her glass, picked his up and recharged them both. When she returned, she sat very close to him. She sipped her drink and stared at him over the glass. Her eyes probed deep, as if she were trying to read the book of his soul. He squirmed uncomfortably and took a large drink.
“What drives you, Brent?”
“What do you mean?”
She waved at the harbor, and her quick change in tack took him by surprise. “Out there. The fighting, the killing. With all those other young boys hunting for the Arabs — hunting for death, not life.” She kissed his cheek. “Is that your white whale, Brent? Is death such a sorceress she can lure you beautiful young boys away from everything — families, loved ones, children?”
Brent knew to speak of duty would be nonsense. He could only say, “I truly don’t know. All I can say is, it must be done and I am here to try to do it.”
“That’s what men have been saying as long was there have been men and their stupid wars to fight.” She paused, seemed to grope for her thought. “Peace has never been the destiny of man,” she said and took a drink.
Brent emptied half his glass. “You sound like Oliver Wendell Holmes.”
“He knew what he was talking about.”
“He didn’t know that it is the future that commands today.”
She snickered. “I don’t agree. You can’t see the future, Brent. But try. You can’t find regrets there — only in the past.”
“We will all find regrets there if we don’t stop Kadafi and the rest of those madmen.”
It was her turn to sigh at her companion’s obstinance. “Useless, isn’t it, Brent?”
He emptied his glass. “I’m afraid so.” He rose. “The encryption box?”
Quickly she vanished into her bedroom and then reappeared carrying a small black plastic case. Handing him the case she said, “‘Gamma Yellow’ hard wired into the box and your software.”
He crammed the box into an inside pocket, signed a receipt she handed to him, and walked to the door. She moved close to him, lifted her face, and circled his neck with her arms. “Dear boy. Dear boy. If only...”
He placed a single finger on her lips, silencing her. “Don’t say it, Dale. I’ll see you again.”
“Yes, of course, Darling. I’ll see you again.”
They both knew they were lying. They held each other tight and kissed with a final urgency known only to lovers at their final parting.
He stepped into the hall, the guard snapped to attention and then followed the young lieutenant to the elevator. He heard the door close softly behind him.
Chapter Ten
The next morning before breakfast, Lieutenant Brent Ross was summoned to Admiral Fujita’s cabin. The old sailor was alone and seated in his usual place behind the teak wood desk. He waved Brent to a chair.
Brent stirred with a familiar uneasiness. Seated before Admiral Hiroshi Fujita, the young American felt an abstruse presence permeate the room as if the old man had aged to the point where his physicality was a shadow of life and his essence an inexorable force that could penetrate one’s mind, read thoughts, and even predict and perhaps control a man’s reactions. It was an eerie, disquieting feeling, and Brent felt foolish at his discomfort. But it was there whenever he was alone with the ancient mariner, and he suspected others had reacted in the same way.
“It is good to have you back on board, Brent-san,” the admiral said.
“It is good to be back, Admiral.”
Brent expected a subtle reference to “the woman,” perhaps some sage observations on the place of women in general. He knew the old man was aware of his close attachment to Dale McIntyre and probably even knew of their torrid affair in New York — he seemed to have eyes and ears everywhere. And something else suddenly jarred the young man: he was certain Fujita knew Dale’s explosion in his cabin had been planned, contrived, and executed by a clever, scheming mind. Fujita did not surprise him.
Arching the remnants of a single white eyebrow, the old man said wryly, “Sometimes it is easier to defeat an enemy task force than to cope with the vagaries of the female mind, Brent-san.”
Brent smiled at the sly humor. “I know too well, sir. That lesson has been driven home several times.”
The admiral tapped the desk and the humor was gone. “Do you feel that any personal problems could interfere with the executions of your duties?”
“Of course not, sir,”
Brent was shocked by the bluntness of the Admiral’s next words. “I could transfer you — you could be given duty closer to the woman.”
The young man came erect, and the line of his jaw hardened. “My duty is here, sir. And I resent the implication that my duty could suffer because of a personal issue.”
“You are a man of great strength, Brent-san.” He fingered his chin and toyed with the single hair. “We can learn from the Hindus, Brent-san.”
“The Hindus?”
The old man stared at the overhead and spoke slowly. “According to the Laws of Manu, the man who guards his speech, his mind, and his body with regard to all living things — the man who bridles his anger and lust shall receive fulfillment and total liberation shall be his.” He drummed the desk with his tiny fingers. “Wise words, indeed, gems for the ears of the samurai.”
Brent stared at the irascible little man for a moment. He was not surprised by Fujita’s reference to the Laws of Manu. They were as old as Jesus and had had a powerful influence on Asian thinking. The foundation for Indian law, they were an immense body of precepts drawn from religion, custom, ethics, and law. It ranged from the origin of the cosmos to the penalties for crime and the rules governing a wife’s duties to her husband. All Eastern religions borrowed, exchanged, and sometimes merged beliefs and tenets in their evolutions, yet all converged on a basic philosophy: all things were somehow one. This concept of “the river of life” imbued the Laws of Manu. This was a remarkable contrast to Brent’s Christian world of natural law, with its passion for making distinctions based neatly on corresponding macrocosms and microcosms.
Since serving on Yonaga, the young American had learned to accept and live with the conflicts and contradictions neatly pigeon-holed in his mind side by side. This ability to live with contradictions was typical of the Asian mind, and the greater the number of contradictions, the stronger the man.
“I can control — I can bridle my emotions, Admiral,” he said. “You must be aware of that by now. Must I remind you of my length of service in Yonaga?”
“It is settled between you and the woman?”
“It’s over.”
The old man nodded and there was a contented look on his face. Something else was occupying his mind and he changed direction in his usual fleeting fashion. “Commander Takuya Iwata has requested you serve as a radio-man-gunner in one of his Aichi 3DAs. He has heard of your prowess with a Nambu, your kills.”
“I would prefer to serve the devil, however, I will accept whatever assignment that will profit Yonaga most.”
The scabrous flesh cracked with a web of lines that would have conveyed an expression of pleasure on a younger face. “You have the eyes of an eagle, the brain of a
scholar, and the heart of a samurai, Brent-san. You have always served me well — as a junior officer on the bridge during combat, as a gunner, even as the executive officer of the old fleet boat Blackfin.” He tapped the teakwood as his quick mind changed direction. “I know there is bad blood between Commander Iwata and Lieutenant Williams and a challenge to Lieutenant Williams is a challenge to you.”
“Iwata is a bigot.”
The old man sighed. “He is a good officer. However, you heard my warning to him, I will transfer him if he ever insults Lieutenant Williams again.”
Brent smiled. “There may not be enough left of him to transfer.”
“Iwata is a samurai, a follower of Mishima, and very patriotic and courageous. He would tell a lion his breath smells bad.”
“He could become a quick meal, too.”
The old man patted the copy of the Hagakure resting on his desk and quoted a familiar passage, “‘If a warrior carries loyalty and filial piety on one shoulder and courage and devotion on the other and carries these burdens twenty-four hours a day until his shoulders wear out, he will be a samurai.’” He stared into Brent’s eyes, “Commander Iwata has these qualities, and he was personally recommended by Emperor Akihito.”
So that was it. Emperor Akihito, one hundred twenty-fifth in a direct line of descent from the sun goddess Amaterasu-O-Mi-Ka-mi, the only authority Admiral Fujita honored as he had Akihito’s father Hirohito, grandfather Yoshihito, and great grandfather Meiji before him. Iwata was on solid footing indeed. Brent turned his lips under and pondered for a moment, his mind on a recent conversation with Yoshi Matsuhara. “Respectfully, sir. According to Bodhidharma, in this world the soul in conjunction with the body performs three kinds of acts — good, indifferent, and evil. Commander Iwata has proved to me he is capable of the second and third. Only the crucible of battle will prove if he is capable of the first.”
“You are very wise for one so young, and I am happy to see you have been studying Zen.”
Staring at the stem, wrinkled face with its incongruous black eyes, Brent was struck with the respect and genuine affection that glowed there just as incongruously. It gave Brent a queer twinge, almost of conscience, to see the evident pleasure which Fujita experienced at the sight of him. It was odd to know that he was held in such high esteem by this bridge to the past, fearless fighter and legend in his own time. Maybe Yoshi Matsuhara was right. Maybe Brent reminded the old man of his long-incinerated son, Kazuo. But there was more to it than that. Brent had proved himself in battle time and again. This was the most important thing to this relic of the nineteenth century — this walking, breathing personification of the Code of Bushido.
Fujita’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “You must remember, my young friend, a samurai is loyal to his daimyo but does his utmost to control his own destiny — his time to live, his time to die.”
“Of course, sir.” Brent tapped his armrest with a set of massive knuckles. He moved back to a troubling thought. “You’ll assign me to one of the bombers?” He stabbed a finger at the sky. “Find my place to live or die up there? Yoshi said a man is closer to the gods up there and it’s the best place to die.”
“Once, after you held yourself responsible for the death of Watertender Azuma Kurosu, you asked my permission to commit seppuku. Is that still in your heart?” “No, sir. But every samurai,” he gestured at the Hagakure, “knows when there is a choice of either dying or not dying, it is better to die.” He raised the fist and shook it. “And as you told me once, sir, before I took off for my mission to Tel Aviv, the very first time I flew as a gunner, ‘If you are to die, die facing the enemy.’”
The old man reached up and ran a hand over his forehead thoughtfully. “You have learned the laws of bushido well, Brent-san. As usual, you speak with great logic.”
“Do I fly?”
“You love to fly, Brent-san.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
The old man tapped the teakwood. “Admiral White-head can handle my NIS liaison, and your enlisted personnel are very efficient. I may assign you to an aircraft if we are short of good gunners.” He chuckled. “Lieutenant Joji Kai has requested you for the rear cockpit of one of his Nakajima B-5-Ns, too.”
Brent reacted to the sudden good humor on the old man’s face. “I’m as popular as a homecoming queen.” Fujita’s laugh surprised him. “You know that one, sir?”
“Of course. Remember, I attended the University of Southern California as a young officer. I knew of those traditions, even watched some students build a great bonfire in a field in West Los Angeles.” He shrugged. “I believe the fire was to bolster their spirits, or perhaps, call on their gods to aid them in an athletic contest with some other nearby college.”
Brent roared with laughter. “Why do you laugh, Brent-san?”
The young lieutenant stabbed a finger at the admiral. “You and Williams have the same alma mater.”
“You mean we are schoolmates?”
“Yes. In a way,” Brent said, bringing himself under control. “You’re alumni of the same school.”
“He is a good captain. That may explain it,” Fujita said, expressing himself in one of his rare moments of humor. They both laughed.
A hasty knock interrupted them. Yoshi Matsuhara entered. His face was flushed, and he was obviously in a state of high excitement. Fujita waved him to a chair, but the air group commander stood behind it with both hands on the backrest. Fujita said, “I assumed you were on your way to Tokyo International Airport by now.”
“Sir,” the pilot said. “I just got word that a new Sakae Forty-Three engine has arrived. Nakajima calls it the Taifu (Typhoon.) I have already ordered my crew chief to stand by to install it. With your permission, I will test-fly it within a week.” He looked at the American. “Brent-san, this is a 3200-horsepower engine.”
“We discussed this new engine before, Yoshi-san,” Fujita said. “Must I continue to remind you your fighter was originally designed for a 950-horsepower power plant?”
“But, sir, you know it has been reinforced for the new Model 42 engine.”
“Yes, and only 2000-horsepower, Yoshi-san. The monster you describe is 1200-horsepower greater.”
“We will do extensive remodeling, sir. As I assured you, we already have plans to further reinforce the engine mounts, and the main wing spar with a new aluminum-titanium alloy beam, rig new control lines and strengthen the control surfaces — even the aileron hinges and wing fillets. The parts were fabricated by Mitsubishi months ago and are in storage at Tokyo International Airport.”
Fujita tugged at his single whisker. “How did Nakajima manage to cram so much horsepower into this new engine?”
“The Taifu is modeled after the Wright Cyclone R-3350 and has water-methanol injection...”
Fujita halted him with a raised hand and again showed his amazing knowledge of the minutest detail of World War II. “That is the engine that powered the Boeing B-29, the Super Fortress. You did not tell me of this before.”
Brent and Yoshi exchanged a startled look. “I did not know, sir,” Matsuhara said. “I was just informed that Boeing engineers were hired by Nakajima to build it.”
The old man drummed the table. “It had two banks of cylinders, eighteen in all. How in the world can you expect to install this monster in the nose of a Zero-sen?”
“Two banks of nine cylinders and they are small and compact. The engine only weighs a hundred kilograms...” He looked at Brent, “Two-hundred-twenty-pounds more than my Sakae 42.”
Brent was astonished. “How did they cut down in the weight, Yoshi-san?”
“Extensive use of titanium and magnesium. Magnesium is one-third lighter than aluminum.”
“It will be nose-heavy,” Fujita observed.
“No, sir. We will counterbalance with a heavier fuselage, stronger arresting hook and cable. We will install larger, heavier longerons and formers and replace the wooden stringers with aluminum alloy.” His eyes f
airly danced with excitement. “And we have new, larger fuselage fuel tanks which will increase my range and with the heavier construction will perfectly compensate for the heavier nose.”
“This is a major rebuilding that you intend to complete in only a week?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will need more time.”
“We have it. At the most, it will take ten days — perhaps, two weeks.”
Fujita turned his thin lips under. He was still not convinced. His narrow eyes were filled with misgivings, and he showed more of his incredible knowledge with his next statement. “I have read that the Cyclone R-3350 had a stubborn tendency to overheat and burst into flames. The engine is too compact, is air cooled, and the air does not circulate and cool well enough. Do you know that in 1943, Boeing’s chief test pilot and ten of its flight engineers test-flew a prototype, and they were all killed when the magnesium in an engine ignited and burned completely through a wing spar?”
Yoshi showed his knowledge. “But that was a prototype, sir. The engines were remodeled, and the magnesium crankcases were replaced with those of molded aluminum alloy. And, Admiral, a new turbo fan has been installed to suck in air and cool the engine.”
“Does it work?”
“I will test it and let you know, sir.”
The old man shook his head. “The torque, Yoshi-san. It must be monstrous. It could kill you.”
“We will retrim the aircraft, Admiral, and I will fly with one hand on my trimming wheel.” He leaned forward over the chair. “Do I have your permission, sir?”
“You have faith in this engine — the Tajfu?”
“Of course, Admiral. I will have the greatest fighter in the sky.”
“Or the quickest death.”
“My karma is strong, sir.” He pointed at the Hagakure and mouthed one of the admiral’s favorite passages, “‘The way of the samurai is one of righteous impetuousness, and it is best to dash in headlong with your sword unsheathed. Anything less, and the gods and Buddha will turn their backs,’” His eyes moved to Brent and then back to the admiral and he said, “I will have the greatest sword in the heavens-a sword that can slash through Rosencrance and Vatz in one stroke.”
