Raiders

by William B. McCloskey

  Kodama frowned. “You have told me boat is yours.”

  “Not this one. My boat’s the one over there that I almost went aboard.”

  “Boat which wife said do not go?”

  Hank’s turn to frown. “Well, something like that.” He announced, “Hey, everybody. Over here when you get a chance.”

  Adele barely glanced up. “Just come aboard, Hank dear. As you see, we’re all busy.”

  Instead of the encounter for which Hank had braced, everyone merely called hi to Kodama and then continued their work.

  12

  KODAMA

  KODIAK, MID-SEPTEMBER 1982

  A fulfilled samurai, of course, served a master worthy of the blood he was prepared to shed. No such master had ever entered the life of Yukihiro Kodama. Fishing masters under whom he’d worked before becoming one himself invariably betrayed weakness, and no self-inflated fishery official had ever proven worthy. It left him a modern ronen—samurai for hire without a master.

  Kodama often daydreamed of his samurai ancestors and the authority they’d held over their world. An engraved sword hung in the apartment beyond the reach of all but his oldest son, but close enough for all to gaze up and see the inscriptions and absorb their meaning. It was the household’s treasure. To lie wasn’t his nature, but he never announced that he’d bought the sword in bachelor youth with his first money as a fisherman. Since the sword hung close to the tidy shrine with a photo of his father and a ceremonial cup, all assumed that the hands of Kodama ancestors had once gripped the hilt.

  His own father had been a noble fisherman—a fishing master, of course—after serving the Emperor as a destroyer captain in the Imperial Navy during the war of American aggression. In modern peacetime, even those of samurai tradition needed to make a commoner’s living, since Japan was unfairly prevented by victor nations led by America from keeping the military profession. And since the ocean had finally claimed his honored father after what was surely a heroic battle pitted against the unconquerable Bering Sea, fishing vessels were acceptable to the warrior tradition. Thus so, like this, he too had cast his lot.

  Captain Henry Carford was a few years his junior, but he had about him the confidence of leadership. He wasn’t weak—he’d bravely stood up to judo knocks when clearly he had no defense against being injured, and he’d been firm in demanding his way among Japanese fishery officials, however unseemly his actions—but how strong was he? His wife appeared stronger. No Japanese wife would stop her husband from boarding his own vessel, certainly not in front of others. (And imagine such a bold kiss in public to a stranger, from surely an otherwise respectable woman. Any pleasure it gave was immaterial. Would she do such a thing to him again? Surely not in front of other Japanese?)

  Captain Carford had shown himself reassuringly knowledgeable in the Kushiro shipyard, although so childish in his desire to pull nets that he offended Mr. Nagao of the fishing cooperative who had prepared a hospitable day of information. And then he foolishly descended to the netpulling level aboard the Kanazawa boat where he’d been invited to observe as an honored official. Immaterial that the fishermen themselves enjoyed his behavior, and had announced in Japanese that if Americans were like this, they were perhaps not barbarians.

  Americans had always put him on guard. Of course they were powerful and selfish. It came with successful aggression. They had even removed the rights of their own Indian fishermen. But they were bold. The man named Swede. Straightforward. Appraising eye strangely warm. In spite of himself Kodama liked Americans. And he felt excitement to be among them.

  It would be necessary to guard against foolish enthusiasm for America in the reports he needed to send back to Director Tsurifune via the son, Shoji. To make reports bothered him less now that he’d thought it over. The task—which Subdirector Shoji Tsurifune named a requirement for his being hired—could be done with honor by reporting only simple facts that everyone knew.

  It was the sealed envelope that made him uneasy. “To be shown to no one, and opened only if you are instructed,” the Subdirector had said when handing it to him in private before he boarded the plane in Tokyo. He then had added lightly: “Don’t worry, it’s written in Japanese, for nobody to read but us. Probably you’ll never be told to open it, but rather to burn it.”

  Thus Kodama surveyed the boat that was to be his first American battleground, and its seamen who would be either colleagues or adversaries. The boat was smaller than he’d expected, although it appeared sturdy and well maintained. But an elderly woman, the owner, in fact, performing labor on deck? Nothing in this country respected proprieties.

  Captain Carford’s wife informed him that he’d stay the night in their house since it was too late to worry about settling on the boat, and now she herself drove the car. The captain rode as a mere passenger. May the home be cleaner than the car, Kodama hoped, and brushed grit from the seat. They traveled into wilderness over a road eventually full of holes. He sat in the center row of seats with the youngest boy, while the older boy and girl sprawled in the back section with luggage and boxes. After crawling for a while, intoning voom, voom, the child curled up with his boots against Kodama’s thigh. Kodama squeezed against the side of the car and looked toward the parents up front for a reprimand. They paid no attention. What kind of discipline was this? The legs unlimbered further to fill the gap he’d left. Nothing for it but to grip the small ankles to keep the boots from touching him. Sturdy young bones. Like his own children, now far away.

  “Stay on your side,” said the girl in back. “You’re wet.”

  “I am on my side,” the boy said calmly. “That’s the line right there. And so are you wet.”

  “Oh. Well, stay there.” Soon all three children were asleep.

  Kodama wished for his own children.

  They drove mile after mile in a direction away from town, on a road with holes so wide that the wife sometimes slowed to swerve around them. The warmth from the car heater had relieved his chill, but it intensified odors of oil and fish he hadn’t smelled this close up for years. Rain pelted against the roof. His feet remained wet. A dim daylight persisted. Gloomy mists enclosed the countryside. The occasional house they passed stood desolate on rocks or engulfed darkly in vegetation. One stream they crossed gushed against their wheels with a force that shook the car. What if it rose further and prevented their return?

  His head jiggled with the car’s bounce and he began to feel ill. A handle that might have lowered the window to give him air wouldn’t turn. The trip continued on and on. So far from town! At one point the road skirted a bay. Sinister high rocks rose from the water. Huge tombs surrounded by fogs. Ghostly. A place to encounter ancestors. It both repelled and attracted. “This is your home?”

  “Gettin’ close.”

  At length high trees formed a wall on both sides of the road. Enough light remained to see green mosses that clung along the trunks. The wife pulled from the road onto a bare rise in the forest darkness. “Pete,” she said in a voice of easy command, “Hurry in and move your toys and pajamas. Mr. Kodama’s sleeping in your room, and you’ll go with Henny. Hen, give him a hand before you start your homework.”

  “Okay,” said the boy without rancor. His child brother evidently liked the idea because he gave a happy whoop. “But look here, brat,” said the eldest. “One fart and you’re on the floor.”

  Kodama left the car slowly. A chill engulfed him at once. Water dripped from the trees, and the vegetation smelled of wetness. In American movies this would be a place for mystery and murder. A low house of dark wood lay lightless ahead. Captain pulled Kodama’s bags from the back and carried them himself along with his own. “Here it is, Kodama-san. Welcome. Hope you’ve packed better shoes than those.”

  They entered the house through a damp vestibule where, seen by flashlight, chopped wood stood on one side and shelves of cans on the other. Suddenly a dog and a cat brushed his legs. He leapt aside. Humiliating, that the captain laughed and the others joine
d. These people did not understand. Entering the house, now angry, Kodama braced himself for a continued chill. Instead it was warm with a mellow odor of burning wood. Captain explained in the dark that the generator must need gas, and everyone busily lighted oil lamps and candles. By flickering light he could see unwashed pots in a sink on the left, but otherwise the kitchen appeared neat.

  “Shoes by the door, please, Mr. Kodama,” said the wife, pointing to the line of boots and heavy shoes left by the others. She started dropping pieces of wood into a stove by the sink. Soon a flame licked up through a circular opening. To the right, inviting him, lay a carpeted room with stuffed chairs and wood paneling. Through a large window, lights from the town glinted far away over water.

  “His feet are wet,” said Captain. “Henny, in my top drawer, bring Mr. Kodama a pair of boot socks.” The boy went obediently. In Japan, people said that American children did not respect or obey their parents. This at least appeared not to be so.

  In truth they all showed him great kindness. Soon the generator was working and they had electricity although it was dim and flickering. But then he needed to use the toilet. “Here we go,” said Captain with strange cheer. “You’ll need better shoes than those.” He produced rubber boots too large even with two layers of thick socks. Captain called the animals, now all outside, and locked them away, then led him with a flashlight through dripping trees to a bare wooden shack. Inside, there was only a hole in a board, and beside it a roll of paper over which a spider crawled. What safe home high from the ground had he left for this?

  “Want me to wait for you, Kodama-san?”

  He felt hollow and desolate. Be brave. “Not necessary.”

  “See you back at the house.”

  Alone, with only a flashlight to connect him to civilization, he squatted above the hole and looked out through black branches at the distant lights. Barbarians lived like this. Suddenly he laughed to himself and relaxed. So had lived every ancestor. Thus, it was good.

  Next morning the sun sparkled on water seen through the large window. They ate fried eggs. The children obediently cleaned the dishes while Captain and his wife (by now she had told him more than once to call her Jody, but this was not proper) packed boxes into the vehicle. Kodama stood, not sure where he could help but feeling he should. Soon they were returning to the town and the wife again drove. The trees now looked less sinister. The mountains were green. One had snow on top, very like Japan although rougher. (Everything was rougher. Expect it of America!)

  After delivering the children to school they returned to the fishing vessel. The others were already there working, even the elderly owner-woman who now was painting the box she had cleaned.

  He surveyed the machinery. Through fervent study during the past month, after Captain Carford rescued him from the hated office and placed him in the shipyard, he had reeducated himself in longline equipment, especially that developed since his own experience and that suited for smaller vessels than he’d known. The most vital part of it on this vessel, the ridged wheel that would grip the line and pull it from the sea, appeared sturdily mounted by the starboard rail. Its black hydraulic hoses seemed connected in the right places. They had erected bins properly along the cramped deck space, wide enough to contain large fish. But where did they expect to cut baits and place them on hundreds of hooks? From that table in the center against the hatch, where it interfered with bringing aboard the line? He followed Captain aboard.

  “Hey, everybody. Meet your new shipmate,” announced Captain Carford. “Hi” and “Yo” they called, but only one of them stopped work to come over. “Kodama-san, meet Seth O’Malley, my mate,” said Captain. “Seth, this is Yukihiro Kodama, traditional longline man.” He left for some other business.

  “Right,” said the large, hairy man named Seth. “How’re you doing?” He glanced at his hand, then held it out. The hand was streaked with grease.

  Kodama considered, controlled resentment, and took hold of the hand. It squeezed his slowly until he wanted to jump from the pain, but he kept his face impassive. Too late to harden his own hand against the crush. He remembered now that Americans made a contest of their handshakes. But this pressure was purposeful. When at last it ended, his hand had lost feeling. He glanced at it, black-matted and limp.

  “Oh. Grease. Too bad. Rag over there.”

  No regret in the voice. Nor with the face, set in unsmiling lines even though the mouth stretched in something like a grin. Greasy red cap clapped down on random hair that showed no care for appearance. The appraising eyes had no warmth. Kodama took care to return the gaze with equal chill. A thick-boned American who’d never lacked food to feed his bearlike size. They would be enemies. And this was the only one who had even bothered to come greet him.

  “Kodama-san’s going to show us how to prepare for the Japanese market,” Captain called across deck.

  “I figure we already know how,” said the man named Seth.

  The two men’s eyes continued the duel until Seth shrugged and walked away.

  “Well, how do you do, sir?” It was the woman in trousers who owned the boat. She looked him over in such a frank and friendly manner that he felt confused. Easier to identify an outright enemy. She offered her hand.

  He held up his own and backed away. “Not clean, madam.”

  “I should say it isn’t. Don’t get that on your clothes. Seth dear, fetch him a rag.”

  It was satisfying to see the reluctance with which the Seth man obeyed. This was the second strong American woman today, and the only two he’d ever met. He liked them both. (But please, madam, do not kiss me.) To his relief she merely asked about his family and said she hoped he’d enjoy his stay.

  “But now tell me,” she continued. “I’m serving the boys steak tomorrow tonight for bon voyage as the French say, good trip. Animal protein for strength, and nothing but the best. Do Japanese eat meat, or should I pull you some fish from the freezer? And then you must tell me whether you want it raw or cooked.”

  Captain Carford laughed.

  Kodama followed her talk enough to say: “Steak very nice, madam. And yes, cooked, also very nice.”

  “Good, good.” She patted his arm and didn’t seem to notice how he edged away. “See? You’re already becoming one of us. And you may call me Adele.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Kodama’s perspective kept him in good humor even when Captain Carford next conducted him down a ladder with his gear into a dark compartment of bunks, and he realized there existed no space to separate authorities from crew. Even though he’d prepared himself to work side by side with ordinary fishermen as if he were back to being a student, he’d assumed that Captain had means to separate those he relied upon for expert advice. Captain helped place his bags on a bunk among all the others. An upper bunk at that, requiring him to climb with feet balanced first against the rail of a crewman in the more privileged bunk below.

  As he unpacked, the thick envelope from Shoji Tsurifune fell to deck from among tightly folded clothes where he had slipped it. Papers forgotten in the excitement of everything else! He tensed.

  “Dropped something,” said Captain, and handed it to him.

  Kodama restrained his impulse to snatch it back, and received the thing with a steady hand. Captain paid it no further attention.

  Best to forget this envelope again, Kodama told himself. As the Subdirector said, it would probably never be opened but eventually burned. He placed it carefully at the bottom of his bag, and turned to the disagreeable high bunk that would be his quarters. Remember: better this, all of this— even the envelope that was surely of no importance—than a life spent sitting shoulder to shoulder at a table checking papers, supervised by an office weakling who trembled before his superiors.

  “Think you’ll be shipshape here, K-san?”

  “Of course.”

  13

  THE GREAT GAME CONTINUES

  KODIAK, MID-SEPTEMBER 1982

  Hank gave himself barely
enough time to introduce Kodama and settle him in. There was an entire new set of gear to face. At least his friend appeared to be be adjusting. First hurdle passed with Seth. Even though Seth was snappish, he and Kodama seemed to have shaken hands warmly, judging by how their grips had lingered. The others would fall in behind Seth.

  The sight of longline gear stirred old memories. But back then he’d been merely a bright-eyed kid with more muscle and energy than sense, jumping to Norwegian orders at beginner level. He might remember, after fifteen years, how to gut and ice a halibut, but he’d never been in charge of stalking them. It suddenly hit him close to panic. Only another day before they needed to leave for the grounds, with no way to learn by trial and error before getting into the thick of it. Adele’s money was at stake. And his own reputation.

  The floats around them clattered with activity. Crews thumped boxes from carts to decks and checked out noisy gear. But missing were the usual shouts and high-flown jokes before boats set out. The men all seemed grimly intent. He didn’t recognize many of them, strangers to the regular fleets probably recruited in expedience: kids with big dangling hands, standing unsure of what to do. In command he was going to be nearly as greenhorn as the dumbest of them.

  Jody stood dockside. He gestured her aboard but she shook her head. “Only when I’m crew. I’d be in the way now.”

  It meant he needed to lean over the rail. He tried to keep his voice down. “Go to Fish and Game, would you? But act like you’re checking for your own info, not mine. About halibut. What depths do you find them? Any regs to the number of lines? Where’s the best grounds west of here? And bait. Herring and squid, that was bait in the old days. And hooks. Somebody said they even have a different kind of hook these days, so maybe also different bait. Look for some booklet, or printouts.”

  Seth glared up from the windlass that he and Terry were fixing. “Try asking me. Think maybe I’d’ve asked around? Like, they find these fish down forty to a hundred fathom give or take, if you want to know. And up in the wheelhouse I’ve got a chart all marked with places. I’ve stood for drinks and found out all about places. And we got a hundred boxes of herring and squid waiting in the freeze locker. And incidentally, since this boat don’t have freezers, we need ice—but for your information there’s more boats this trip than ice to go around. But Jake at the icehouse, I shoot hoops with him nights at the high school since we’ve been on the beach. You can be glad I do.”