by Peter Albano
Fujita waved the staff to silence and feeling Allen's and Bernstein's quizzical stares, Brent returned sheepishly to his seat, lifting the ancient Scribe from the table with one hand and dropping him back into his seat. The old man nodded gratefully.
John Fite suddenly came to life. “Admiral, I could post one of my Fletchers in the Korean Straits as a picket.”
“I have given this thought, Captain,” Fujita answered, “However, the mere presence of a picket would serve as advanced warning. No,” he glanced at Mark Allen, “we will wait word from the Ohio.” The quick mind leaped to a new topic, “Your report, Captain.”
“As you know, Admiral,” Fite said, “the CIA picked up three Fletchers — two from the Filipino Navy and one from Chile to restore our strength to seven escorts. The new vessels are in mint condition with original five-inch main batteries and twenty millimeter and forty millimeter secondaries. Two have mounts for ten twenty-one-inch torpedo tubes.”
Commander Mitake Arai spoke up. “Captain Fite, during the Greater East Asia War, I commanded destroyer Rikokaze in at least a dozen engagements in the Solomons.”
Fite nodding his shaggy head, spoke with complete candor, “I fought you there. I commanded the USS Padgett, DD three-twenty-four.”
Arai continued, “I dislike breaching this delicate topic, but your Mark Fourteen air-steam torpedo was the worst in the world. I actually saw several leap from the water like drunken porpoises, explode during their runs without hitting anything or hit steel and fail to explode. I saw one make a complete circle and hit the vessel that fired it — that one exploded.”
“True, Commander Arai. We had our problems, especially with the Mark Six magnetic exploder.”
“We never used magnetic exploders and the Germans discarded them by Nineteen-forty-one.” Arai leaned forward, challenged by the opportunity to engage a former enemy verbally. Fujita hunched over the desk, eyes darting from one man to the other. Arai continued, “The exploder had nothing to do with the erratic runs.”
“Of course, Commander,” Fite agreed. “There were problems with the steering control box and depth sensor.” A smile spilled across his face like cold oil and the candor was gone. “In Nineteen-forty-three we introduced the Mark Eighteen and, as you know, it was highly successful. In fact, we sank your entire merchant…”
Fujita interrupted, concerned that the opening of old wounds might upset the rapport of his staff. “Enough, gentlemen.” He concentrated his stare on Arai. “The discussion is academic. The Americans have supplied us with a new gyo — the Mark 46. It is electric powered like our old Type 92 Long Lance.
“Is it as good as the Russian 533?” Arai asked.
Fite spoke to Arai. “Better. It has never failed us. We’ve had one-hundred-percent success with the new Mark 32 contact detonator.”
“Contact?” Arai exclaimed, clearly distressed. “I thought we had active and passive…”
Fujita took control. “Commander Arai. You are new on board and I am happy to see you have been studying your ordnance manuals. You see, the Americans and Russians play dominoes with weapons.”
“Bargaining chips, Admiral. Bargaining chips,” Fite injected smiling.
“Bargaining chips — dominoes — what difference does it make? They trade off weapons like a game of Go,” Fujita said.
Arai pressed on. “I understand the 533 and the Mark 46 have their own computers and, in the passive mode, actually process target-originated noises and, if that fails, both torpedoes go active — send out their own acoustic pulses, analyze the returns and home in…”
“True,” Fujita interrupted, not to be outdone by a subordinate. “And if the computers get indigestion, they have wires — thirteen-thousand meters of wire — and all a commander needs to do is keep the cross-hairs of his range finder on his target. We were hit by two of these southeast of the Hawaiian Islands…” He flung both palms up in a gesture of futility. He turned to Mark Allen, “Perhaps, Admiral Allen, you had better explain to all new members of the staff about the — ah, arrangements made by the United States and the ‘Ivans’.”
The old American admiral moved rheumy eyes around the table. “Of course, sir,” he said standing. “Gentlemen, it all goes back to the supply of oil. With the Arab oil embargo of the west, the United States can only take care of itself, and that’s with strict rationing. Russia can supply itself, its European allies and no more. Indonesian oil — the N.E.I. to some of you — is drying up. The key is still the Mid-East and the friendly powers of the Persian Gulf who will still ship oil to Japan — Bahrain, the United Arab Emirates, Kuwait, the Saudis…”
“Yes, yes,” Fujita said impatiently. “Weapons! Weapons, Admiral Allen.”
“Of course, Admiral. My country and the Russians are in no position to wage warfare, especially with each other.” The new staff members nodded. “So both nations back their friends — allies. The Russians, of course, historically coveting the Dardanelles and perpetually wooing the Arabs and arming anyone who will kill Israelis,” Brent saw Bernstein wince involuntarily, “are supplying arms to Khadafy and his cronies, Hafez Assad of Syria, Rashid Karami of Lebanon, Walid Jumblatt the leader of the Druz militia in Lebanon…”
“Jumblatt is an unclean horosha — sorry, thug,” Lieutenant Daizo Saiki noted, tapping his pince-nez on the oak for emphasis.
“Hah! That isn’t all,” Allen said, warming to his subject. “Add Yassir Arafat of the PLO, Nabih Berri of the Shi’ite Amal militia.” A ripple of anger washed the room. “But you must understand, gentlemen, American and Russian delegations meet almost continuously in Geneva to discuss arms controls…” Allen was interrupted with raging laughter that bounced from the bulkheads in waves as every Japanese except Fujita joined in, some slapping the table, others clutching their stomachs. Even Brent Ross found himself smirking and chuckling. Only Fite and Bernstein managed to keep straight faces. Finally, Admiral Fujita quelled the guffaws with raised hands.
Face reddened and obviously disconcerted, Mark Allen returned to his seat. “Please, Admiral,” Fujita said contritely. “Let me apologize for the staff. Continue. We need your information — ah input.”
“I’m not here to amuse anyone, Admiral,” Allen said, voice shaking with anger.
“Of course, Admiral Allen.” And then glaring around the table, “It will not happen again.”
“The Geneva meetings led to compromises,” Allen managed, regaining his composure. “It has been agreed sophisticated homing devices on torpedoes will not be supplied by either side. The Russians will not arm their allies with their new automatic seventy-six-millimeter dual-purpose gun if the United States holds back on its own Mark 45, 5-inch, 54-caliber automatic weapon. And in-close, self-contained, Gading action systems are out, too; the Russians conceding the ADMG 630 six-barrel thirty-millimeter for the American Mark 15 6-barrel, 20-millimeter Phalanx.”
Arai spoke, “Radar and electronics, we have the best.”
“Yes. Radar, EC M — electronic counter-measures — IFF, computers are all exempt. Ids bombs, torpedoes, shells and guns that are heavily restricted.”
Fujita drew himself up, stared down the table with burning eyes, “Our 127-millimeter guns and our 25- millimeter machine guns are the finest and our crews are samurais all — our spirit is not restricted and every samurai knows The Way.”
He was interrupted by a barrage of “Banzai”.
He moved his eyes from Fite to Allen to Brent Ross. Then, patting a thin volume on the desk, continued, “The Hagakure teaches that fighting spirit is more important than weapons.” He leaned back, focused on the overhead and, without opening the book, quoted a passage verbatim: “‘If your sword be broken, strike with your hands. If your hands be severed, attack with your shoulders. If your shoulders be severed, tear open a dozen or so throats with your teeth. Then die facing your enemy’.” More “Banzai”.
The bedlam was interrupted by a knock. A nod from Fujita sent a communications rating to the door. A young e
nsign with a holstered 6.5-millimeter Rikushiki pistol on his hip entered. Observing the Japanese tradition of not saluting below decks — the flag bridge was considered below decks — the young officer bowed to Admiral Fujita and spoke in a crater-deep voice. “Ensign Kafu Futabatei with the three prisoners, as ordered, Admiral.”
“Very well. Bring in the first one.”
There was a look of expectancy, almost joy on the admiral's face. In the past, Brent had watched the interrogation of prisoners done as a staff function. While Fujita thrust, parried and toyed with the hapless quarry, the staff added questions or comments or just sat back and enjoyed the proceedings. Taught by the Hagakure that surrender was unthinkable and death in defeat the only option, all prisoners were held in contempt, subjected to brutal treatment and sometimes the executioner's blade. Upset by the beheading of a young Arab prisoner after the battle in the South China Sea, Brent had approached Yoshi Matsuhara. “Sometimes, we are hard to understand,” Yoshi had acknowledged. And then with raised eyebrows, “Have you ever heard the story of Lord Katsushuge and the ten prisoners?” Brent shook his head.
“It happened in Sixteen-eighty in the Hyogo Prefecture. All samurai, the prisoners had been overpowered and bound to prevent seppuku after a fierce battle. The ten were told to stand in a line. Their leader, a samurai named Soseki Watanabe, asked Lord Katsushuge to practice his swordmanship on his neck. Lord Katsushuge was sympathetic and lopped the man's head off with a single stroke. Then he moved down the line chopping off head after head until he reached the last man. But Lord Katsushuge was too exhausted to raise his sword. ‘Rest, my Lord, I have plenty of time, sir,’ the last samurai said. After resting, Lord Katsushuge obliged the man with his blade.”
Brent was shocked from his reverie as the first prisoner was pushed into the room. It was the American, Captain Kenneth Rosencrance. Brent was surprised by the man's youth — he appeared to be only about thirty. Yet he was a big man with such a powerful presence, a sense of maturity, he seemed much older. He had a leonine head with a full shock of long blond hair, skin as white as an Aspen ski slope, colorless lips and cheeks like those of a cadaver. Though his skin was unlined, there were subtle marks of cruelty at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Glowing from dark hollows like those of a skull, his fixed blue-gray eyes penetrated with a compelling intensity, a pitiless determination that said, “No quarter asked or given.” Flanked by guards, he slouched before the admiral. He wore leather flight clothes, wings and captain's bars.
“Come to attention!” Fujita barked.
A guard's fist to the back straightened the American. “The Geneva Conventions — where is your honor?” Rosencrance hissed.
“The same place yours was when you murdered Naval air pilot Junichiro Tanizaki in his parachute harness yesterday.” Fujita pulled on the single white strand dangling from his chin. “Your name, rank, and unit?”
“Oberst Kenneth Rosencrance, Vierter Jagerstaffel.”
“I know your basic organization is German, but speak English — every man in this room speaks English. Anyway, you are an American.”
“Yes, Admiral. I am a captain in the Fourth Fighter Squadron.”
“Your base?”
“I am not compelled…”
A guard drew back a fist, but Fujita stopped him with a raised hand. “It is not necessary,” the old admiral said. “We know you flew from Sergeyeoka.”
The prisoner leaned forward, eyes burning, voice rumbling from deep in his chest, “We will sink you — you can’t stop us. We will kill all of you.”
“Why do you fly against us?” For the first time, there was a hint of respect in the admiral’s voice.
“For freedom of the oppressed peoples of the world from American-Japanese imperialism and to exterminate them!” He stabbed a finger at Bernstein. “The Zionists who would make slaves of the Arabs.”
Bernstein came to his feet. “If you would like to begin the extermination here and now, I’m sure the admiral would accommodate us both,” the Israeli said casually.
“The moment is not propitious,” Fujita said to Bernstein, waving him to his chair. And to the prisoner, “There are over a hundred-million Arabs and only 4 million Israelis, Captain. Is that not true?”
“Yes,” Rosencrance said, grudgingly. “But the Israelis are heartless killers — murderers armed by America and Japan.”
“That is why you help them?”
“What about the million a year I hear they pay you,” Brent said suddenly. “Do those big bucks have any influence?”
Rosencrance stiffened as if shocked by electricity. “You’re the American — Brent Ross,” he spat the words out like a man who had just bitten into rotten fruit. “Why do you fight for these imperialist pigs?”
“Not for the money — unless you consider a lieutenant’s pay lavish.” Brent pondered for a moment while every eye was focused on his face. “Maybe it’s because I enjoy killing vermin like you.”
Rosencrance smiled for the first time. “That’s easy for you with all these…”
Brent interrupted. “I hear you get a bonus from ‘Madman’ Khadafy for every kill. Forty grand, right?”
“Fifty. I’ve snuffed a million dollars’ worth of Jap ass.” A big mirthless grin broke the white, lifeless face.
A fist to the stomach ended the laughter with an explosion of breath. As the man bent over gasping, Brent wondered at his bravado. Was he really that courageous or was this the arrogance of a condemned man?
“You flew with Johannes Friessner,” Fujita injected suddenly.
After several deep breaths, Rosencrance straightened, spoke directly to Fujita, “Everyone knows that. You can’t miss his checkerboard.”
“I did not miss your ME,” Yoshi Matsuhara said suddenly, apparently free of his anger for Tashiro Okuma and Daizo Saiki. “Blew off your tail, did I not?”
“Yeah, right. I was busy creaming your wingman — four twenties right into the cockpit. He was hamburger and I made another fifty G’s.”
Fujita put an end to the exchange. “Guards. Return this man to the brig. Bring in the next prisoner.”
As Rosencrance was pushed from the room, he twisted, speaking to Brent Ross, “I hope we’ll meet again, ol’ buddy.”
“I’ll try to arrange it,” Brent shouted as the American was propelled through the door by two burly guards.
Everyone in the room was shocked by the next prisoner. Dressed in a lieutenant’s uniform of the Libyan Air Force, he was a thin, wiry man of about sixty. He appeared unhealthy, his sunken cheeks covered by skin wrinkled like a sun-dried prune, skinny neck and skeletal hands corded with blue veins. One eyelid drooped away from the white — yellowed by African fevers — giving him a crafty, suspicious expression. He was oriental.
Fujita spoke, loathing clear in the timbre of his voice, “You are Japanese?”
The prisoner drew himself up like a man preparing to plunge into icy waters. “I am a citizen of the world — a fighter for the freedom of all peoples,” he answered, his voice surprisingly strong and resonant.
“We have already heard all that,” Fujita snapped. “Your name? Rank? Squadron — and in English, not German.”
“The Geneva Conventions!”
“You are a terrorist, not a prisoner of war. Answer my questions!” A guard slapped the prisoner across the face with a blow that sounded like the snap of a bull whip.
After staggering and shouting with pain, the man spoke in gasps from deep in his throat. “Lieutenant Takauji Harima, Second Squadron, Fourth Bombardment Wing. I was the copilot of the DC-6. I bailed out.”
“Your base?”
“Tripoli.”
Surprisingly, Fujita laughed. “Remarkable range, Lieutenant.” He tapped the Hagakure. “Where were you born?”
“I was born in Utsunomiya of the Tochigi Prefecture in Nineteen-twenty-six.”
“You fought for Nippon in the Greater East Asia War?”
“Yes. Honorably. I enlisted at age sixteen —
fought with the Fourth Infantry Division in Manchuko against the Chinese and Russians. Then my company was detached, became part of the Seventh Regimental Combat Team and was sent to a hellhole called Guadalcanal. I was one of twenty-three survivors withdrawn by destroyers in Nineteen-forty-three.” Fite and Arai both straightened and stared at each other incredulously. The prisoner continued, “Then we fought on New Britain, Bougainville, Choiseul and Okinawa. I was captured on Okinawa.”
“Captured!” Fujita spat.
“Yes, Admiral. I finally gained some sense after believing all that nonsense they taught us from that book.” He gestured at the copy of the Hagakure resting under the admiral’s hand.
Electric tension filled the room. Brent wondered about the man’s haughtiness. Perhaps, being a Japanese and knowing the Hagakure, he was even more aware of the samurai’s repugnance for prisoners than Rosencrance — who had already conceded his own doom. Surely, he spoke like one already dead. Brent’s suspicions were confirmed by Harima’s next utterance.
“That book,” he waved, “taught us shinigurai.” He moved his eyes to the Israeli and then to the Americans. Only Mark Allen nodded understanding. “To be crazy to die,” Harima explained. He raised his eyes, focused them on the picture of Hirohito above Fujita’s head. “Harden one’s resolution to die in battle, deliberately become as one already dead’.”
“You know the book,” Fujita conceded. “Yet, you have become a traitor to it, your ancestors, and your heritage.”
“Admiral, I lived up to the Confucian ideal — I was the complete man, the warrior and scholar, and what was my nirvana? My father, mother, sister and brother killed by B-29s. My nation in ruins, the Emperor no longer sacred, the American Caesar, Douglas MacArthur, our new emperor. You,” he waved at the Japanese, “were not here. How can you tell me…”
“So you became a terrorist — the killer of helpless women and children.”
