Quest of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  But Brent brought up his knees as Rosencrance crashed down on him, catching the flyer in the solar plexus. Rosencrance shrieked as if he had fallen on a lance. “God damn you! Kill! Kill you,” he rasped hoarsely, face contorted by rage and pain into a hideous mask.

  Brent’s strength returned quickly and staring up into the cold green eyes like chips of green ice, he saw death — cold, implacable death. Then suddenly, it seemed that time slowed and his vision cleared and concentrated to brilliant clarity. Pushing upward with one leg and both arms, Brent hurled the heavy flyer up and over, rolling on the deck with him, over and over, punching, gouging, screaming into each other’s faces like ravening beasts. And indeed, Rosencrance was mad, baring his teeth and biting Brent’s corded neck, fangs bared for the jugular like a rabid wolf.

  Brent shouted with pain as teeth ripped his neck. Frantically, he cupped the flyer’s chin in his hand and pushed with all his strength, trying to break the man’s neck. Rosencrance’s head snapped back, tearing flesh away from the lacerated neck. The flyer’s lungs exploded with breath, soughing like a typhoon through pines and he rolled away, coming to his knees. But Brent, on his own knees, was on him, knocking him backward with a punch that caught Rosencrance again on the destroyed nose. More spittle and blood flew and the force of the blow sent the flyer crashing into a medicine cart which overturned, spilling plasma, IVs, medications, instruments, bandages, hypodermic syringes, and needles over the deck.

  Screaming an incoherent, primal sound of triumph, Rosencrance grabbed a pair of scissors. Holding them like a dagger, he came slowly and unsteadily to his feet. Brent scooped up the only weapon available, three hypodermic syringes. He removed the plastic tips from the needles and held them in one hand matching his enemy’s menacing stance.

  “Cut you, man. You’re gonna be sliced sushi, ol’ buddy,” Rosencrance said, spitting blood. He lunged forward.

  The flyer’s swing was wild and Brent stepped lightly to one side and dropped almost to his knees, bringing the syringes up hard, catching Rosencrance in the fleshy part of his buttock. Bellowing with pain, Rosencrance dropped the scissors, but caught the young lieutenant with the back of a fist to the eye. Brent felt the plastic syringes break off from the implanted needles as both men fell heavily to the deck. Rosencrance pulled the cruel needles from his buttock with one hand and clawed for Brent’s eyes with the other. Within seconds, Brent levered him away with his knees, gaining room for his punches. Two hard, straight punches to the jaw sent yellow enamel and bloody spittle flying and the flyer weakened, rolling to his back from the force of the blows. Then Brent was on top of him, pinning his arms with his knees. Brent scooped up the scissors.

  “Banzai! Banzai!” echoed through the compartment.

  Staring down, Brent heard nothing, felt nothing except the urge to annihilate, obliterate his enemy. The world went silent. He saw a mangled nose, blood and mucous bubbling through his enemy’s labored breathing. Both eyes were swollen and the whites were streaked red from broken blood vessels. Three teeth were missing and two others broken. The swollen lips were purple and a half-dozen lacerations streamed blood. Even his ears were swollen, lobes like large burgundy-red grapes.

  “Fuck you,” Rosencrance hissed through the broken teeth. “Go ahead, do it — are you chicken, ol’ buddy?”

  There were sharp pains in Brent’s neck and torn knuckles and he felt hot blood streaming down his chest. Snarling, he raised the scissors.

  Commander Tashiro Okuma’s voice echoed from a distant canyon. “Stop! I order you to stop, Brent Ross.” There was the sound of running boots approaching.

  Brent turned glazed eyes to the commander who ran toward him followed by four armed seaman guards. “Fuck you, Okuma. We’ve both earned this.”

  But before he could deliver the blow, a strong hand caught his fist and ripped the scissors from his grasp.

  Seaman Shosetsu Yui had quietly approached from Brent’s rear and pulled the scissors away. Maddened, Brent came to his feet. “You don’t have the right!” he shrieked. Suddenly, the black curtain dropped, the knees seemed to break and he was sitting groggily on the collapsed bed.

  Okuma stood over him, surveying the havoc. There was a hint of respect in his voice. “Report to the admiral, immediately, Mister Ross. Immediately.”

  Rosencrance brought himself up on his elbows, managing to smile despite three cracked ribs, missing teeth, swollen eyes and lips, bloody ears and three puncture wounds in his left buttock. “Yeah, Mister Ross,” he mocked. “You’ve been naughty. You’ve wrecked the joint.”

  He was laughing as Brent walked slowly from the room.

  Staring in his mirror, Brent was appalled. His right eye was almost swollen shut and wore a purple halo. The left side of his mouth was puffed as if it had been inflated like a balloon and his lips were split. Even his tongue smarted where his own teeth had ripped an outside edge. Reddish lumps on his head throbbed and his right hand was swollen and painful. Fortunately, Chief Orderly Eiichi Horikoshi had cleaned and dressed the wound on his neck and a sterile white bandage covered the bite.

  “Nothing as dirty as a human bite,” the old man had said as he taped gauze over the injury. Strangely, the old surgeon had not seemed upset over the destruction done to his ward. In fact, Brent detected a warm glow in Eiichi’s eyes whenever he glanced at Rosencrance who had been helped back through the wreckage to his bed.

  “He will eat no solids and he will be on his stomach for a week,” Horikoshi had chuckled as he cleaned the last of Brent’s wounds.

  “How can you look like that and be the winner?” Mark Allen said suddenly from the chair behind Brent’s tiny desk.

  The blood lust had vanished leaving a strange emptiness. Brent tried to smile but his lips and jaws were too painful. He spoke through clenched teeth. “A pyrrhic victory at best, Admiral,” he said. Then with new seriousness, “You were right about Rosencrance. He’s evil incarnate.”

  “Did you expect anything better?”

  Brent thought for a moment. “Not really, Admiral.” And then sighing, “I’d better report to Admiral Fujita.”

  Mark Allen came to his feet. “Let me help you into a fresh uniform,” he said, moving to the closet.

  Brent made no objections.

  Brent was glad that Admiral Fujita was alone. Obeying a waved command, the young lieutenant seated himself gingerly in front of the admiral’s desk. The old man spoke through his usual Buddha-like expression. “You have wrecked my sick bay, Lieutenant.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Brent said with a minimum movement of his jaws. “It was unavoidable.”

  The narrow brown eyes scrutinized the battered face in front of him. Fujita gestured, “You look like this and you won?”

  Brent tried to grin but the painful effort only elicited a meaningless throaty grunt. “Admiral Allen made the same comment, sir.”

  “You must control your temper.”

  “I was provoked.”

  “I know. I have reports from Chief Orderly Horikoshi, Orderly Shingen Takeda, Seaman Guard Shosetsu Yui and Lieutenant Taku Ishikawa.” He made a steeple of his fingers. “But according to Orderly Shingen Takeda and Seaman Guard Yui, you, a line officer, took command in the sick bay when, in fact, it was Takeda’s responsibility to maintain order.”

  “Nonsense, sir. Rosencrance was out of control — attacking Lieutenant Ishikawa.”

  The steeple collapsed and the thumbs began to duel. “Yes. I have Lieutenant Ishikawa’s report. He claims you acted with great courage, but, you had to be restrained from dispatching Rosencrance by the duty officer, Commander Okuma.”

  “Yes.”

  “You would have killed him?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have your father’s temper.”

  “I’ve been told this before, sir.”

  “I need this prisoner, Brent-san. He has information – information that may save lives, save Yonaga.”

  “I know this, sir.”

  “It is d
ifficult to extract information from dead men.”

  “He demeaned Lieutenant Ishikawa who is very weak from his wounds and I am convinced he was going to kill the lieutenant. And, he struck me.”

  The old man leaned back and dropped his hands to his lap. “I cannot condemn you for reacting like a samurai. But I am concerned about your temper. One day, it may cost you your life.”

  “Sir, with your permission: ‘Victory and defeat are temporary, the way of avoiding shame is found in death.’”

  The narrow eyes widened and the old admiral hunched forward. “You are quoting the Hagakure.” There was surprise in his voice.

  “Yes, sir. I’ve only begun to study it.”

  The old man appeared pleased. “Continue your reading, Brent-san” He tapped his desk thoughtfully.

  “You have duty today?”

  “OD — midwatch, sir.”

  “Port section liberty?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then liberty tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well. You need some recreation. I hope you have found suitable company ashore, Brent-san.”

  “Oh, I have, sir. I have.”

  Chapter Seven

  It was late afternoon when Brent exited the Tama-gawa-Dori at the Meiji Dori in the heart of the Shibuya District. Weaving his way through the congestion of pedestrians, carts, bicycles and a few automobiles, the young American found Aoyama-Dori and Mayumi Hachiya’s apartment building — a twelve-story modern structure of steel and glass. She had told him to look for the statue of the grieving dog, Hachiko, which was the symbol of the area. At least twice life-size, the bronze statue of the animal of obscure antecedents cast in a melancholy mood with head hung low and tail touching the ground, was easy to find, standing on a marble pedestal in a pond in front of the main entrance of the building.

  Brent had phoned Mayumi an hour earlier to inform her only of a “slight disagreement” he had had the day before. Although the balloon had vanished from his lip and the swelling had diminished around his battered eye, his lips were still cracked, eye blackened, bandaged neck sore and his entire visage covered with welts and bruises. The girl had nearly wept when he told her he did not feel he should keep their date. “You had a slight disagreement. Is that all? And you are worried about your appearance?”

  “Yes. I’m not very pretty and I’m sore.”

  She had laughed. “Brent,” she chided. “I thought women were the ones with the big vanities.”

  He had visions of the stunning girl, her exciting figure and his resistance eroded. Finally, he agreed. “But I’ve got to leave early,” he said.

  “Of course, Brent.”

  The elevator ride reminded him of his last flight in a B5N — a swift acceleration that left his stomach behind. With a dozen passengers crowded around him, Brent felt even more self-conscious as narrow black eyes blatantly stared with that unswerving gaze typical of the curious Japanese. He felt like a prisoner escaping from a jail cell when the elevator finally stopped at the tenth floor and he was able to elude the stares.

  When Mayumi opened the door to her apartment, Brent was startled to find her even more beautiful than he had remembered. Dressed in a tight-fitting yellow satin pant suit, her figure had taken on a voluptuousness it could never show under the most flattering kimono. Thick, coal-black hair hung down over her shoulders in glistening folds that sparked with the same warm glow shining in her eyes. Although she wore no makeup, her perfect skin had the luster of boundless health and her lips were rouged with the bright, young blood beneath. But shock hardened the soft lines of her face and the eyes widened as they moved over his battered countenance.

  “Brent. Brent,” she said, regaining her composure. “I’m so happy to see you.” She took his hand. He winced with pain as her soft fingers closed over bruised knuckles.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, releasing his hand. She gestured to a chair in a corner facing the room’s large window which looked over a wide vista of the city. Furnished in western style, the room seemed large to Brent after the confinement of a warship. There was a couch, low table of pure white marble artfully cut in graceful curves, another chair opposite Brent’s which Mayumi took and the floor was carpeted, not covered with tatami mats. But the East was there too — a small Shinto-Buddhist shrine hanging on one wall and a Heian landscape from the Fujiwara Period facing it from the wall opposite. Behind Brent was a tokonoma — a small cherry-wood table with a vase holding the usual clever flower arrangement, an exquisite porcelain figurine of the six-armed god, Nyoirin Kwannon, a gold Buddha and a tiger carved from jade. The kitchen was a small alcove with a breakfast bar separating it from the living room while an open door in the far wall revealed a short hall.

  Following his eyes, Mayumi gestured to the hall. “Bathroom and bedroom. Small, but all that a student needs.”

  Brent nodded, his mind filled with wonder. Yoshi had told him Mayumi’s family was very wealthy, an old family that had been in the exporting business for generations. Her father had bought Mayumi the apartment for four-million dollars. Brent had heard Tokyo land values were wild; now he knew they were insane.

  “The other men,” she said averting her eyes from his face. “They were badly injured?”

  Brent touched his face gingerly. “Other men?” He smiled carefully. “Only one, Mayumi. Kenneth Rosencrance.”

  “The American? ‘Killer’ Friessner’s companion?”

  “His wingman. We captured him. His ME crashed in the Ginza. It was in the papers.”

  “And you fought with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “He must be very strong.”

  “He does all right.”

  “And you?”

  Brent tapped the marble with his good knuckles. “I think he’ll remember me.”

  She sank back. “Brent, perhaps we should make our visit to the Yasakuni Shrine some other time.”

  “Yes. On Friday.”

  “That’s four days from now. Yoshi said you have liberty every other day.” She caught herself. “I’m sorry. I am prying.”

  Despite sore muscles, Brent smiled. “If you think I have someone — that I’m in love, perhaps — you’re right.” Brent chuckled at the poignancy of the girl’s crestfallen expression. “Her name is Yonaga and in the next four days I must minister to her needs.”

  Mayumi smiled broadly. “She is a very demanding mistress, Brent.” She hunched forward with new interest. “You’re in communications?”

  “Yes. Communications and electronic warfare. They go together.”

  “You are installing new radar — computers?”

  Brent was surprised by the boldness of the question. “Classified, Mayumi.” He felt uneasy.

  “Why, of course,” she said, the shy school girl returning. And then gaily, “I have tea, sake?”

  Brent sighed. “Sake, please.”

  Quickly, the girl rose and walked to the kitchen. Watching her, Brent felt a physical jolt as the firm body flowed sinuously under the satin as if she were moving to music. “Like a goddamned Beethoven symphony,” he said to himself. She returned in a moment, poured his hot sake into a sakazuki from a small pitcher and in the penumbra of soft twilight illuminating the window, turned to her chair in a slow, almost studied manner. Outlined as she turned by the weak light like an aurora, the girl’s breasts appeared like firm twin peaks, points of the nipples visible through the satin, and her hips and buttocks sculpted by a Renaissance artist. Brent caught his breath, gulped some sake to quench a sudden thirst and dampen parched lips. The spiced liquor burned his cut tongue and then his stomach as well. But he gulped it hungrily.

  Seating herself, she filled her own cup and raised it. “Yonaga.”

  “Yonaga,” he echoed.

  They drank and the sake coursed again, bringing the first hint of relaxation Brent had felt since the fight with Rosencrance. He drained his cup. She refilled it.

  “Yonaga has taken much punishment. She mus
t be a powerful ship.”

  Brent took another drink and a pleasant glow began to suffuse the room. “Yes. Yonaga is actually built on a battleship hull. Yamato class, the most powerful warships ever built.” He drank. Immediately his cup was recharged. He drank again and his words began to flow freely as if his tongue were oiled. “There were four in the class. Two were completed as battleships. Yamato and Musashi, seventy-two-thousand-tonners. Nine eighteen-point-two-inch guns, sixteen-inch armor, twelve-hundred compartments and even an eight-inch steel box around engines, boilers, magazines. The third, Shinana, was completed as a carrier.”

  “Then Shinana and Yonaga are sisters.”

  “Not really. Yonaga was lengthened, given sixteen Kanpon boilers instead of twelve, and displaces eighty-four-thousand-tons.”

  “But the others were lost in the Greater East Asia War?”

  “True. Yamato and Musashi to aircraft, Shinana to a submarine.” He took another drink. “But they took unbelievable punishment first.”

  She sipped her drink and refilled Brent’s cup. “Yes. There has been much in the papers and on television about Yonaga and her sisters.” A smile broke the perfect skin. “Yonaga is a public park like Mikasa?”

  Brent shook his head as the girl began to move slightly. “Mikasa — the old relic from the Japanese-Russian War?”

  “Yes.”

  Brent laughed, but the sound was too loud and too raucous. Flushing, he continued, “That’s right. A matter of convenience, Mayumi.”

  “Convenience?”

  “Yes. As a park, Yonaga is free of Article Nine of the constitution. The Diet can support her as a national monument. She’s actually in the Register of National Parks.” He brought the sakazuki to his lips. “Admiral Fujita served on Mikasa.”

  In the silence, Brent could hear traffic noises below. “Served on Mikasa?” Mayumi finally said to herself as if the words were impossible to believe.

  Laughing, Brent spilled some of his sake. Mayumi mopped it off the marble with a napkin. Challenged by the girl’s surprise, Brent pushed on despite a fog which was seeping through his brain. “The admiral graduated from Eta Jima as an ensign in Nineteen-oh-four.” The girl nodded numbly. “He was assigned to Mikasa in time for the Russian war. He was a turret captain at the battle of Tsushima in Nineteen-oh-five. They wiped out the whole Russian fleet. He’s very proud.”