Attack of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “No. You?”

  She shook her head, held him closer.

  His hands roamed her back restlessly, from her neck to her hips. “Then look out for my Oedipus complex,” he said, chuckling.

  She kissed him gently on the cheek and he left.

  Chapter V

  “One killed, two broken wrists, four broken jaws, and two fractured skulls,” Police Captain Kamagasuo Kudo recited, standing in front of Admiral Fujita’s desk.

  Brent had been called into the admiral’s office with Watertender First Class Azuma Kurosu and Seaman Kenzo Nakayama when the officer stormed aboard. Yoshi Matsuhara had requested to be present and he and the scribe, Commander Hakuseki Katsube, were the only other officers present. The only men seated were Katsube and Admiral Fujita. Flanking the desk, Brent and Yoshi stood at attention while Azuma Kurosu and Kenzo Nakayama stood rigidly just inside the door. Police Captain Kamagasuo Kudo dominated the center of the room in front of the admiral like a magistrate holding court.

  “A dead man?” Brent said. “I didn’t hit him that hard.”

  Kudo, a short, fat man of middle years, shifted his eyes to the American. “A blow to the trachea. It was crushed. He strangled.” He eyed the big American from head to foot. “You are Brent Ross, the American Samurai?”

  Brent looked down on the police captain who had been crushed and creased by the weight of his work into a shape so singular he reminded the American of a giant old crab heaving across the sand of an aquarium. “Some members of the press call me that,” Brent said with an amused glint in his eyes.

  “You are a violent man, sir. A new corpse yesterday and two years ago you killed a man in an alley two kilometers from here and blinded another. Last year you shot a helpless woman in cold blood…”

  “Helpless? In cold blood?” Fujita shouted, coming half out of his chair. The old legs gave out and he sank back and leaned over the oak, fists clenched. “She was a terrorist trying to blow us off our blocks in the dry dock. And those men in the alley attacked Brent Ross.” He waved a hand in disgust. “Commander Matsuhara and our own seaman guards rescued Lieutenant Ross. He was wounded — could have bled to death. We never saw a single policeman that night — only the next day when it was safe and you were investigating. And yesterday there was no police presence and you knew there were demonstrations. This has been going on for years.”

  “We were not called, sir.”

  “I’m to wait for you?”

  “Yes, Admiral. Obey the law. We will enforce it.”

  A red tinge forced its way through the parchment of Fujita’s cheeks to lend an ominous blue hue to the old man’s complexion. “You do not tell me to obey anything!” A tiny fist slammed down on the desk, “Where were you yesterday when that gyangu (gang of criminals) attacked my men and the woman they were escorting?” He turned to Brent. “Did you ever see a policeman, Mr. Ross.”

  “No, sir.”

  “We are stretched thin, sir. There are riots in the Ginza, demonstrations outside the Imperial Palace…”

  Fujita cut him off with a wave. “Do not tell me of your problems, Captain. I will come to an understanding with you.” The old man’s thin smile caught the policeman off guard. He expected a concession. Brent knew something else was brewing. “I will set up Nambus outside the parking lot and escort my supply trucks with my own armed guards. In that way, your overtaxed personnel can be freed to police the women’s toilets in Ueno Park.”

  “Sir, that is grossly unfair. You can’t send guards armed with machine guns and rifles into metropolitan Tokyo.”

  The lines of the admiral’s face rearranged themselves into harsh patterns. “Watch me, Captain Kudo, and I warn you, do not try to stop me.”

  The policeman sighed with resignation, but there was no surrender in his voice. “I know what you are doing — I know you stand between world terrorism and Japan.” He tapped a palm with a pudgy fist. “Without you we would have lost everything, been under Kadafi’s heel.” Fujita nodded and sank back for the first time. “But, Admiral, Yonaga is not a sovereign state. We still have laws, a police force to enforce them, a Self Defense Force. You just cannot run rough shod over our laws, ignore our judicial system.”

  Fujita toyed with the single white hair hanging from his chin. “I am my own law, Yonaga’s judge and jury. I will choose the actions of my men and keep this in mind,” he pressed down on the desk with both hands, “no one attacks any member of my crew without digging his own grave first.” His eyes bored into the captain. “You are a Japanese. How can you forget the value of honor, the sacredness of vengeance — the vengeance of the forty-seven ronin?” He patted the leather-bound copy of the Hagakure in its customary place on the desk and paraphrased one of his favorite passages: “Can you sleep on logs, eat dishonor, drink gall while your enemies dance around you like temple devils?”

  The man shifted restlessly. There was pain in his voice, “That is unfair, Admiral. I cannot forget — I seek redress, sir. But the citizens of Tokyo pay me to uphold the law.”

  Fujita waved in irritation. “Uphold your law. But tell your men to give my men a wide berth. We do not savor the taste of gall and dishonor.” He flattened both hands on the desk. “Keep in mind, we are samurai, follow Bushido and the instructions of the Mikado.”

  “He is near hogyo.”

  Brent was an expert in Japanese, but Kudo’s use of hogyo was confusing. However, he quickly surmised from context and the demeanor of the speaker that hogyo was an honorific reserved for the emperor, a level of expression used exclusively for the Son of Heaven by the older Japanese who still observed old customs. Since the language of the ship was English, a tradition Fujita maintained from the turn of the century when the Navy had been patterned after the Royal Navy and English adopted from British advisers, Brent seldom heard Japanese spoken in flag country. However, when he did encounter the native tongue in other parts of the ship, he had learned and used the usual three distinct levels of politeness: talking down, or up, or on a level of equality. There was no English equivalent for hogyo, and respect for the emperor had forced the policeman to lapse into his native tongue, using a fourth rare level, reserved for the emperor. Discreetly, Kudo had avoided the ordinary but polite word for death — shikyo — and actually said, nearing demise.

  Fujita had no trouble with the honorific. “Impossible. He is a god. He is just moving on to another plane of existence. You must know that.”

  “Of course, Admiral. But he is still hogyo.”

  “Crown Prince Akihito follows Bushido just like his father.” The old admiral patted the Hagakure. “He will continue the tradition. Japan will remain free.”

  Kudo stirred restlessly and Brent knew the man had another troubling thought and would not leave until he was finished. He had guts. He moved his eyes back to Brent. “You are a follower of Kensei?” It was a strange question to ask, and all eyes fell on the American. Brent knew the policeman felt he would be taken aback. His answer was prompt and brought surprise to Kudo’s face, “You mean Miyamoto Musashi, who was known as the Kensei — the Sword Saint?”

  “He lived four hundred years ago — our most famous samurai,” Fujita said, tapping the desk impatiently. “What does Miyamoto Musashi have to do with Lieutenant Ross?”

  Kudo’s eyes never left Brent’s. “Musashi gave birth to kendo.” Everyone looked puzzled, but Brent began to see the drift, the subtle turn. Kudo continued, “Kendo that teaches…”

  Fujita interrupted in midsentence, obviously on to the policeman’s track, too. “Teaches a spiritual attitude for life, a code throughout one’s existence on earth, respect for elders, hard work, training, living life to the fullest.”

  Kudo picked up the thread. “And it also teaches to strike with one’s stave or rifle or whatever weapon is at hand quickly at several points. Top of the head, right torso, jaw, and, of course, the throat. I have already told you, there were two broken wrists, four broken jaws, two fractured skulls, and we found the dead man’s
throat crushed as if struck by an expert at kendo.”

  It was clear to Brent, Kenzo Nakayama, and Azuma Kurosu that Dale McIntyre’s kick had killed the man. Without even glancing at each other, the three made a silent compact; no help to the police to indict the woman or anyone else — for that matter. The truth would remain locked within themselves. It was the right thing to do; the samurai thing to do. Honor was at stake. And Chief Yoshitomi and his men were equally immutable, and, perhaps, had not seen the blow that had been struck like a bolt of lightning, anyway. Any information about the woman’s lethal attack would have to come from the demonstrators and obviously the policeman had not been able to discover the identity of the killer from them, either.

  Watertender Azuma Kurosu stepped forward. “I am the ship’s kendo champion,” he said, staring at Kudo.

  “You struck the fatal blow?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps? You do not know?”

  Kurosu shrugged. “It was a melee…”

  “I did it,” Kenzo Nakayama said.

  “You’re both wrong,” Brent said. “I distinctly remember hitting him with…”

  While Fujita watched in amusement, the policeman waved in frustration. “Enough.” He gestured at the watertender. “I will take this man in for questioning.”

  Fujita’s face twitched. “You are a brave man, Captain Kudo, and you do have gall.”

  “I do my duty.”

  “Do your duty elsewhere, because Watertender Kurosu remains here.”

  “Sir! May I remind you, when both civilian and military law apply, civilian law takes precedence.”

  “No,” Fujita said. “You may not remind me.” He brought the knuckles of both fists together and Brent could see from the old man’s expression that he was enjoying himself. “I told you I was judge and jury on Yonaga. I will administer punishment.” He gestured at Kurosu. “Watertender Kurosu, I find you guilty of assault, and it is my decision to place you on report and restrict you from the ship’s bilges for the remainder of the day.”

  The ridiculous statement was met with guffaws.

  “This is ludicrous. I protest!” Kudo exploded, chin quivering.

  “Protest all you like. I have made my decision.”

  Kudo whirled toward the door.

  “I did not excuse you.”

  Kudo took two steps and was caught by Brent on one side and Yoshi Matsuhara on the other. Grabbing his arms and pinning them, the two officers lifted the fat policeman off the deck, turned him, and dragged him back to the admiral’s desk. His face was purple and contorted with rage. “You cannot do this!”

  “This is my ship — my command. You wait until I dismiss you, is that clear?” Kudo sputtered, incapable of speech.

  “Do you understand me?” Fujita repeated.

  “Yes. Yes,” the captain hissed.

  “Request permission to leave,” Brent said softly into the man’s ear that looked like a red cabbage.

  The captain choked on the words, but said them: “Request permission to leave the ship.”

  “Sir!” Brent commanded.

  “Sir!” Kudo repeated.

  Fujita smirked with amusement. “Permission granted.”

  The policeman’s departure was accompanied by chuckles and laughter.

  Admiral Fujita dismissed everyone except Lieutenant Brent Ross and Commander Yoshi Matsu-hara. The two officers remained standing. The admiral fingered the yellow paper of a signal, and in his usual protean fashion, put the policeman out of his mind and replaced him with a new thought. “I have some new information regarding the Arab presence in the Marianas.” He stared up at Yoshi. “Our agents report two regiments of the enemy’s best troops occupying both Saipan and Tinian. The Fifth Special Combat Battalion on Saipan and the Seventh Parachute Brigade occupying Tinian.”

  Both officers nodded. “Yes, sir. The units were reported at the last briefing, Admiral,” Yoshi reminded him.

  Brent saw a fleeting, bewildered look flee across the old face. The memory — the old man’s suspect memory, his only concession to the years. But Fujita picked up the thread in casual tones. “These are fine troops — not just the usual cowardly Arabs.”

  This was new information. “Mercenaries, sir?” Brent asked.

  “Yes. German, Russian, English, French…” His face twisted with distaste in anticipation of what was to come, “American and Japanese.”

  “But no LRAs, sir,” Yoshi said.

  The admiral nodded agreement. “No aircraft have been seen operating. This has been confirmed by our observers on Aguijan.”

  “The Rosencrance staffel, sir?” Yoski asked.

  “Puzzling,” Fujita said. “No sign of them. Intelligence claims the staffel has been withdrawn.”

  “Sir…” Brent said. “With one carrier disabled, maybe they just don’t have the air power and the logistical support to fight the Israeli Air Force, train carrier pilots, and maintain a strong fighter presence in the Marianas.”

  Fujita nodded. “True. Their losses have been heavy.”

  Yoshi said, “But new Messerschmitts are being built in East Germany and Daimler Benz is producing a new engine and there is no shortage of pilots when you can pay a million a year.”

  “I know — I know,” the old admiral said. “But we have a respite, Yoshi. Intensify your training.”

  “Fuel, sir. Fuel?”

  The admiral brightened. “Good news. The Department of National Parks has sent us new supplies and the needs of the Self Defense Force have been reduced since the carrier attack.”

  Yoshi smiled. “Good, sir. We can use every minute.”

  Brent said, “Admiral, the only way we can destroy the Arab units in the Marianas is with an amphibious force. We’ve got to land troops and kill them.”

  Fujita eyed the American. “Strange how your mind can parallel mine. Yes. Of course. That is the only way.”

  “But we have no amphibious force,” Yoshi offered.

  “True,” Fujita said. He patted a dossier on his desk. “This is top secret,” he said. “We are forming one. Three regiments of assault troops, a heavy weapons battalion, and a tank battalion. All volunteers and under my command.”

  “But we’re a public park!”

  “The landing force is being trained under the auspices of the Self Defense Force outside Narita.”

  “We don’t have the ships, landing craft,” Brent said. “You’re talking about landing a full division.”

  “The Self Defense Force has three Miura class LSTs and one Atsumi.”

  Brent interrupted. “I trained in amphibious warfare, sir. We need LCVPs (Landing Craft Vehicle And Personnel), LCUs (Utility Landing Craft), experienced officers. And four LSTs can’t carry a division. We need LSDs (Dock Landing Ships), transports.”

  “I know all this, Mr. Ross,” the admiral said testily. He ran his hand over the dossier. “We are working on those problems. In fact, there are a number of old American vessels moored in the Hudson River that have been made available to us through the CIA. Admiral Mark Allen is working on the transfer at this moment. We will send a few officers there shortly.”

  “Good. Good,” Brent and Yoshi chorused.

  The admiral sat silently for a moment, fingering the Hagakure, and Brent knew the canny mind had moved somewhere else. “You still request permission to commit seppuku, Yoshi-san?” he asked in a suddenly soft voice.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Because of the woman — the woman you loved who was killed by the terrorists in Ueno Park.”

  “Yes, Admiral. I was careless. I was remiss…”

  “That’s not true,” Brent challenged. “I was as much to blame…”

  “No!” Matsuhara said sharply. “I was her escort — her fiancé.”

  The admiral waved them to silence. “You are my air group commander, the best fighter pilot on earth, Yoshi-san.” He sighed deeply. “We have lost so heavily — the spirits of hundreds of our finest samurai have journeyed to the Yas
akuni Shrine.” He fixed the air group commander with eyes like moist coals. “You know I still cannot honor your request. The emperor needs you, Japan needs you, and Yonaga needs you.”

  Matsuhara drew himself up very tall. “Yes, sir.” He stabbed a finger upward. “I will seek it up there. It is right. That is the place for a fighter pilot. Much closer to the gods than down here.”

  Fujita’s eyes followed the finger to the overhead. “Death is as light as a feather, Yoshi-san.”

  Yoshi finished the famous Meijian rescript, “Duty is as heavy as the mountain.”

  Fujita smiled. “And your shoulders are broad and strong. You have borne a heavy burden for Yonaga — as heavy as Fujisan.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The pilot glanced at the brass clock hanging behind the admiral’s desk. “May I be excused, sir. I have a new training command at Tokyo International.”

  The admiral nodded his assent and Yoshi Matsuhara turned to leave. The admiral’s afterthought stopped him. “And Yoshi-san, I increased airport security to a full company of seaman guards with heavy machine guns and mortars.”

  Yoshi smiled for the first time. “Police Captain Kudo should be delighted.”

  Brent and the admiral laughed while Yoshi left the room.

  After the door closed, the narrow eyes moved to Brent’s face and held him. He stared back. “You have a violent temper, Brent-san.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “It can work in your favor and it can kill — perhaps kill you.” The old man drummed the desk. “You are very much like your father.”

  “His temper turned on himself.”

  “And it destroyed him, Brent-san.”

  “I know, Admiral.”

  “Yesterday, in the parking lot, you conducted yourself well — in the best traditions of Bushido.” Brent smiled. “When in doubt, choose battle. Attack first even if you face a thousand enemies.” The old face cracked with sudden good humor. “You have been studying the copy of the Hagakure I gave you, Brent-san.”

  “If a daimyo thinks of his samurai as his children, they will think of him as their parent, and their relationship will be in harmony.”