Trial of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “Religious ceremonies are held there,” Mayfield offered.

  Brent nodded. “All kinds of special ceremonies.” He turned his lower lip under and popped his lips. “I suspect in a day or two you’ll both be ordered to attend a special ceremony the admiral is planning.”

  “For what? I don’t...” Before Williams could complete his question, he was interrupted by a shout.

  “Well,” the voice rang out sarcastically. “Our American samurai and his black friend have condescended to pay us a visit.”

  The men whirled. Brent was surprised to see Commander Takuya Iwata standing in front of a dive bomber that was having a new engine installed. He was dressed in the same green overalls worn by aircrewmen, and he had a large screwdriver in his hand.

  Williams bristled. “I don’t like your big mouth, man.” He gestured at the tool. “Shut it or I’ll cram that screwdriver up your ass.”

  All work stopped, and at least thirty men dropped their tools and followed Iwata as he advanced on the newcomers. He stopped a short distance from Brent Ross and said to Williams, “I have nothing to say to you. Admiral Fujita has prohibited any — ah, exchange between us.”

  “Don’t let that stop you. If you have some hard-on for me...” Williams waved at a huge open space between planes. “Let’s settle it now. Rank, military codes be damned.” He reached for the two gold bars on the collar of his tans. “I can take these off.”

  Brent stopped Williams. He had seen Japanese display exaggerated bravado many times before; the samurai, eager to prove his mettle to others and to himself, choosing the strongest, the most formidable foe as a testing ground. Brent would never forget how Lieutenant Nobutake Konoye and Commander Shusaku Endo had both challenged him like medieval knights daring an opponent to enter the lists. But these lists could be fatal. Still, it was an archaic drive, a relic of feudal times and the power of bushido that still drove men like Iwata to his own personal “High Noon.” Besides, it had been obvious, the man disliked blacks and loathed Brent. The young lieutenant felt a familiar heat begin to brew and seethe deep down inside. “Look, Commander Iwata,” he said. “Admiral Fujita said nothing about you and me.” He smiled, a flat, hard grimace of a man accustomed to physical violence and on the verge of indulging in more. “If for some reason you feel compelled to prove your manhood,” he gestured, “be my guest.”

  “I can fight my own battles,” Williams spat angrily. “It’s not you,” Brent said. “It’s not your battle.”

  Iwata agreed. “I do not like you, ‘American Samurai.’ Your courage is all in your mouth.” He waved the long glistening shaft of the screwdriver back and forth in front of Brent. “Someday I will make rope of your guts and choke you with it.”

  There were shouts of excitement, and the men crowded closer. Brent stared at the stainless steel shaft like a man measuring a cobra. “I thought samurai fought fairly, sought no unfair advantage. Are you afraid of me, oh mighty samurai?

  Iwata laughed and stepped closer.

  “Drop that screwdriver or give me one,” Brent warned, muscles tightening, eyes narrowing, anger clutching and squeezing his guts. He felt his dislike for Commander Takuya Iwata suddenly ripen into hatred, a tangible thing that sat heavily at the base of his throat, tingling in his fingertips and charging his legs and arms with new strength.

  Williams shouted at Iwata, “No screwdriver, you bastard.” He began to reach for a large pipe wrench on the deck near his feet. “If you don’t drop it, I’ll beat your brains out with this.”

  Iwata laughed. “I need nothing but my fists.” Casually he flung the heavy screwdriver to the side, and it clattered across the deck. The burly bomber commander squatted low, weight balanced on the balls of his feet, hands low before him and balled into fists. “I will fight you American style. Crudely, with fists.” His grin bared sharp yellow teeth. He gestured at the screwdriver, “I would not wish to kill Admiral Fujita’s favorite.”

  “Gee whiz, thanks,” Brent mocked. “I was awfully worried. Almost lost sphincter control.”

  Williams laughed and stood with his arms akimbo. The wrench remained on the deck. Mayfield stared at Brent and Iwata in disbelief. All the others crowded in close for the treat.

  Iwata’s gleaming eyes wandered over every man. “There is no rank here. Not until this is finished. We are all equal.” The men squealed with delight and anticipation of the grand show of watching two officers batter each other.

  Mayfield’s shocked voice echoed in the cavern. “I can’t believe this! You can’t be serious. Both of you, stop! This can’t be happening.” Mayfield’s words bounced off the steel bulkheads and the ears of every man with equal effect. Not one man even moved his eyes. The CIA man could only stare with wide eyes and open mouth.

  Williams stared silently with the look of a man who had been to this place many times and understood the mad drives that pushed the two antagonists inexorably toward each other and the violence that was now inevitable. Both had crossed the point of no return long ago.

  Iwata took two quick paces toward Brent. Brent expected a swing, a barroom approach, but was taken by surprise when the dive bomber commander drove off to the side and kicked left-legged for his genitals.

  With lightning-like reflexes, Brent rolled to the side, but he had time only to cross over his leg to protect his crotch. The kick caught him in the upper thigh.

  “American style, you son-of-a-bitch,” Williams roared, leaping forward. Four burly mechanics grabbed him.

  “Back, Reggie,” Brent shouted. “I can handle this asshole.” But an explosion of white pain had shot up into his groin and numbed his leg all the way to his knee. The momentum of the kick had carried the Japanese to Brent’s left side. Driving off his good leg, the American brought up a huge fist in a curving right upper-cut that had all of his 220 pounds behind it. The fist caught Iwata on the side of the head. Gasping at the power of the blow, the commander reeled backward into a group of mechanics. They pushed him back toward his adversary. He took his stance, knees bent, this time balled fists held higher.

  This time the barroom brawler Brent expected came on. Big fists lashed out in a barrage, and Brent retreated, ignoring the pain in his leg and taking the blows on his arms or allowing the fists to slide off his shoulders. One big fist glanced off his shoulder, impacting the side of his head. It felt as though someone had slammed a door behind Brent’s eyes and his vision narrowed suddenly, rockets flashing across his retinas. Another blow caught him on the jaw, and suddenly his mouth was filled with the salty, metallic taste of blood. A stream of blood shot out of the side of his mouth. Still he gave ground, ducking, weaving, waiting.

  Iwata misread his retreating opponent. Scenting victory and shouting triumphantly, Iwata charged like a corrida bull smelling blood. It was a mistake. He was momentarily careless and gave Brent the opening he had been waiting for. Coming off his heels, Brent caught the big Japanese with a three-punch combination that smashed into the man’s face. Blood, spittle, enamel, and mucus sprayed. The bomber commander stopped like he had hit a stone wall. His mouth looked as though he had chewed a mouthful of black cherries, the jagged stumps of broken teeth bright red.

  Iwata tried to kick, but all he accomplished was to open his body to terrible punishment. At least four punches crashed into his ribs and solar plexus. Staggering back, he gasped like the victim of an executioner’s garotte, blood streaming down his chin and onto his overalls. However, his fists were up. He would not quit.

  Williams yelled, “Kill the son-of-a-bitch!”

  Mayfield screamed, “Stop! Stop!”

  But Brent had caught the scent of blood. An unbridled rage seized him with startling ferocity as though a beast had pounced on his back and was goading him with its claws. The beast growled but he recognized his own voice. Civilization had vanished, replaced by a bestial drive to destroy, obliterate his enemy.

  Iwata was superbly conditioned, recovered fast. He came on with remarkable tenacity, jabbing, punching,
punishing Brent to the body, and further cutting Brent’s mouth. A fist caught him high on the cheekbone; the crack of it seemed to explode in the dome of his skull.

  He gave ground, feeling a tickling warmth on his lower lip and blood pooled in his mouth. He spat it out like a stream of cherry juice. Another wild blow caught him on the jaw, jerking his head so that his teeth clashed. Pain shot down his neck and Brent could feel his tongue bleeding where it had smashed against his teeth. All attempts at finesse and clever boxing had long gone by the boards. He drove into the barrage, counterpunching straight on with short powerful jabs. Suddenly changing pace and shifting his balance to his right, he looped a left from the balls of his feet, feeling the solid shock of the aviator’s jawbone under his fist. Then a shift back and a right bludgeoned Iwata’s face squarely, the gristle in the flat nose giving way with a pop that could be heard by everyone. Iwata staggered back, and Brent caught him with a another ferocious punch to the point of his jaw.

  The Japanese staggered, knees giving like reeds overweight with rain, trying feebly to shake the blackness from his head and the blood from his eyes. His fists were still bunched but too heavy to lift above his waist. His chest heaved for air, he swayed, trying to catch his balance, but only managing to stagger. He grabbed Brent and then stumbled over the screwdriver. Both men tumbled to the deck, locked in a close embrace like two maddened lovers. They rolled, punched, spat into each other’s faces. The men followed them, cheering, screaming feverishly. Brent locked one of Iwata’s arms onto the deck with his body and then began to punch him with a single fist. Every punch was good, thudding into the pilot’s eyes, the already flattened nose, mouth, jaw. Blood, spittle, mucus, and bits of broken teeth sprayed.

  “Stop! Stop!” rang in the distance. This time Williams’ voice joined Mayfield’s.

  Nothing could stop Brent. The beast hungered for the jugular — the kill. He grunted, growled, spat incoherently, blood and saliva streaming down his chin. Finally a dozen strong hands grabbed him, pulled him off, and dragged him to his feet.

  Iwata remained on his back, bleeding from the mouth, nose, and both ears. His eyes were swollen shut and puffed up as if someone had inflated them, lips like swollen red sausages.

  “Let me finish it, god damn it,” Brent screamed, bloody froth running off his chin.

  “Jesus man! Jesus,” Williams said. “No more. No more. Enough!”

  Mayfield could only repeat, “My God. My God. Animals. Animals...”

  Brent tried to lunge back at his opponent, but strong hands pulled him away and led him to the elevator.

  *

  The killing lust had not completely faded as Brent stood before the admiral’s desk, flanked by Mayfield and Williams. The old sailor was busy talking on the phone. Finally, he cradled it and looked up. “Commander Takuya Iwata is in the sick bay. Chief Hospital Eiichi Horikoshi reports the commander sustained a broken nose, cracked cheekbone, numerous cuts and contusions to the mouth, ears, hands, ears, and possibly three broken ribs.” The old man shrugged. “When will this end, Lieutenant Ross?”

  “That’s unfair,” Williams said, sharply, his anger overwhelming his respect for rank. “Iwata goaded Brent — forced him into a fight. Kicked him.”

  “That’s right.” Mayfield agreed. “I saw it, too, Admiral.”

  Fujita silenced the pair with two raised palms. “That is not the point. I am not interested in placing blame.” Mayfield and Williams looked at each other in wonder. The admiral continued, “Mister Mayfield, you are dismissed — you have much to learn of Yonaga’s communications department.” He moved his eyes to Reginald Williams. “I know you are anxious to return to your boat. Both of you are dismissed to your duties.”

  “But, sir...”

  “I said you are dismissed, Mister Williams!”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Williams patted Brent on the back and followed Mayfield out of the door.

  Admiral Fujita indicated a chair and Brent sank into it slowly, sore muscles stiffening and objecting to the new position. As he sank back, the aches diminished. The old man gestured, “You look as if you need some of Chief Horikoshi’s ministrations.”

  Brent rubbed his sore jaw with a delicate touch. “No, sir. A few bruises.” He patted his chin. “A few cuts inside my mouth. Nothing serious, sir.”

  “I am not angry because of the fight.”

  “I know that, Admiral.”

  “But you lost control of yourself again. It has happened before. You killed a man and blinded another in an alley in Tokyo when you first reported. You were with that Israeli woman-ah...”

  “Sarah Aranson, sir. Terrorists. They ambushed as.” “You did the same thing in Hawaii.”

  “Another assassin, sir.”

  “I know. But that is not the point.” He knotted the little knobby fists and tapped his knuckles together. “It is your temper — you lose control...”

  “Become an animal?”

  “Precisely.” The little fists stopped their warfare and dropped to the table. “I knew your father well.”

  “I know.”

  “You have the same lack of control your father had.”

  “We’ve discussed this before, sir.”

  “I know,” Fujita said, waving a hand impatiently. “But your father’s temper and rage turned against him — led him to his destruction. A terrible waste.”

  “A good samurai is ready for death, delivers it to himself with his own hand if disgrace or defeat is imminent.”

  “It is not necessary to quote the Hagakure to me.” The black eyes flashed. “You are a valued assistant, and so is Commander Iwata. This madness that seizes you can lead to your destruction.” He waved. “Or the loss of a valuable officer. You wanted to kill Commander Iwata.”

  “True, sir.” He looked at the bulkhead above the little admiral’s head. “But he was no longer Commander Iwata.” He sighed. “They all become the same. They all become animals, creatures to be obliterated. Plagues, pestilence...” He looked straight into the admiral’s eyes. “Can’t you understand, sir?”

  The old man tugged on his chin and stared back with an unwavering stare. “In battle this killing frenzy can be an asset. But when it cannot be controlled, when it is turned on a valued member of my staff, I cannot understand or condone.”

  “You wish my resignation?”

  “No. I want control.” He leaned forward. “You are one of the most valued members of my staff. You know I do not object to clashes even between members of my crew. But you must choose the correct place and time.”

  “Respectfully, Sir. I did not choose the time or place this time. Commander Iwata made the decision. He insulted me, approached me, degraded my honor.” He pounded his armrest. “This is unacceptable to a samurai.”

  “True. You know I would never disagree with that. But this time, you should have tried, should have reported the incident to me,”

  “I’m sorry, Sir. I find that prospect repugnant.”

  Brent expected the old man to bridle with anger. Instead, he sat back almost in resignation. “Then this is my decision — if there is a repetition, I will transfer both of you. After we deal with the Arabs, you can kill each other and I will be happy to witness the proceedings.”

  Brent ran his tongue over his sore lips. “I understand, Sir.”

  The old man tapped the desk thoughtfully. “Do you remember when we discussed the Laws of Manu this morning?”

  “Why, of course.” The American smiled. “‘The man who bridles his lust and his anger shall achieve fulfillment. Total liberation is his.’”

  The old man smiled and nodded his head like a pleased schoolmaster. “Correct, Brent-san. Your mind is like one of those new recording devices.”

  Brent chuckled for the first time. “Thank you, Admiral. But I flunked the course.”

  “This ‘flunk’?”

  “Sorry, sir. I meant ‘failed.’”

  The old man shrugged his shoulders in a noncommittal gesture. “But your qu
ote is correct, Brent-san. Manu also taught that that which proceeds from a man’s soul shall shape his soul, that which proceeds from his speech shall shape his speech, and deeds that proceed from his body shall shape his body.”

  “Then there is no hope for Brent Ross.”

  “On the contrary, Brent-san. You shape yourself very well into these laws.”

  “Except for the last.”

  “Yes. The last.”

  Brent sighed and stared at the stern old face. “Then I shall carefully monitor the deeds that proceed from my body, Admiral.”

  The old man nodded and his eyes stared back into Brent’s like beams from the sun. “I know you will, Brent-san.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The following weeks were filled with frantic activity. At the end of the first week Captain John “slugger” Fite was overjoyed when two completely rebuilt Fletchers arrived from the Philippines. Now he had eight first-class destroyers and the men to man them. Immediately new crews were assigned and rigorous training procedures began. The frigate Ayase and destroyer Yamagiri steamed out of the bay to take their stations as radar pickets: Ayase to a patrol three hundred miles southeast of Iwo Jima, Yamagiri taking station four hundred miles almost directly east of Tokyo Bay. Reports and sightings by the two pickets and a dozen land-based stations were fed into Yonaga’s computers continuously. However, no enemy planes were detected by any of the searches except for Ayase. The frigate reported numerous long-range contacts with unidentified aircraft apparently operating out of Saipan and Tinian. These appeared to be search aircraft maintaining well-defined patrol areas. Only one visual sighting was made: a high-flying DC-6 far to the west. Maritime Defense Force PBMs and PBYs maintained continuous patrols but avoided overflying the Marianas, where they would be easy meat for enemy fighters.