Attack of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  The old man chuckled, a dry brittle sound, but, nevertheless, filled with good humor. “Very good, Brent-san. You have learned the most important passages.”

  Brent studied the incongruous smile on the usually stoic face. It gave the young American a queer twinge, almost of conscience, to see the evident pleasure the old man enjoyed just at the sight of him. He could not get used to the idea that he was admired — even regarded with deepest affection — by this talented seaman, this relic from the nineteenth century, brilliant strategist and tactician who had earned the dogged devotion of the entire crew and the admiration of half the world.

  As Brent stared at the old man, the smile vanished and the eyes dropped. The chameleon returned and the voice was subdued, edged with pain as the old man moved on to another topic. “As I said before, Brent-san, you performed a fine service for your pilot, Lieutenant Yoshiro Takii.” Brent waited silently, wondering about the sudden shift in conversation. In a moment he understood as the admiral reached under his desk and placed the magnificent Takii sword on his desk.

  “Oh, no, sir,” Brent said, raising his hands as if he were fending off an evil apparition.

  “I must offer it to you, Brent-san. I am honor-bound. It is yours by right of kaishaku.”

  “I know, sir. But I have the Konoye sword by that right.” There was agony in his voice. “One is enough. I don’t want Yoshiro’s. He was my friend. I-I…”

  “You loved him.”

  “Yes.”

  “It is not unmanly for a samurai to love his friends, Brent-san.” He raised the sword in an offertory gesture.

  Brent shook his head again and took a step back as if he were menaced by a poisonous reptile. “No. Keep it, sir.”

  The old man dropped the sword. “All right, Brent-san. I have done my duty and I understand. I was compelled by honor to make the offer. You know that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The wrinkled brow added new creases, and the narrow eyes caught Brent’s. “There is a chance I may give you independent duty far from this command.”

  “You can tell me no more?”

  The old man shrugged his tiny shoulders. “Not at this moment. I must await a decision from Geneva. You would welcome it?”

  “I am happy here, sir.”

  “It would further your career, Brent-san.”

  “You’ve been talking to Admiral Allen, sir.”

  The old man shook his head. “No, Brent-san. I know his sentiments. I know he has urged you to seek other duties.”

  Brent was not surprised at Fujita’s knowledge. Nothing — absolutely nothing seemed to escape him. It was almost as if he had spies hidden in every compartment or had the gift of prescience which enabled him to open secret doors and rummage the minds of others like a burglar ransacking a room. Although his powers seemed mystical, Brent knew the admiral was a pragmatic man with a practical political sense, a sly awareness of other men’s motives and how they might be levered to his own use, keeping a wary, testing eye on all those around him, conscious of their strengths and failings. “I am happy here, Admiral,” Brent said. “But I am your subordinate and under your orders and I would happily accept any duty that would aid us in our war against world terrorism.”

  The old man nodded. “Well said like the fine officer you are. I dislike assigning men to tasks they find repugnant. Such assignments do not work in the best interests of morale or Yonaga. But if this new post materializes, it will fit your experience and talents precisely.”

  Brent shook his head and spoke with sincerity. “I am ready, sir, for any task. You know I will do my best.”

  The thin lips curled upward in pleasure. “Very good, Lieutenant.” He rifled through some papers. Put on his steel-rimmed glasses and squinted at a document. “Our software for the new encryption box?”

  “I’m to pick it up this evening.”

  “At the Imperial Hotel.”

  Brent felt chagrined and his cheeks warmed. Of course Fujita knew, and he probably knew of the powerful attraction between Brent and Dale McIntyre.

  “I will send four seaman guards with you, Brent-san.”

  “Not really necessary, sir. I’ll be armed and I will only go to the hotel, pick up the software, and return to the ship.” He waved a hand. “With a full company at the airport and an extended perimeter at this facility, I respectfully submit that we are overextended now.”

  “You will be gone for several hours.” The old man was far ahead of Brent, seemed to be reading intimate pages of his mind. Brent shifted his weight uneasily. “Take one seaman guard. Post him on guard while you are — ah, transacting your business.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Brent said, blushing furiously. “Am I dismissed?”

  The old admiral motioned him out with a wave of his fingers and a knowing smile.

  *

  “I killed a man, didn’t I, Brent?” Dale McIntyre said, seated on the couch next to him, drinking her Scotch and soda.

  Followed by the doughty, irascible Watertender First Class Azuma Kurosu who had driven a Yonaga staff Mitsubishi, Brent had returned Dale’s Honda Accord to the rental agency in the basement garage of the Imperial and had then taken the elevator to the thirtieth floor with the rifle-toting watertender at his side. A dozen passengers had entered and left the car in its rise. All stared wide-eyed at the American and his bizarre companion. None dared utter a word.

  When Dale opened the door, Brent had his breath taken away at the sight of her. Dressed in a tight green silk frock with snug black belt to accent her tiny waist, each nuance of each curve and undulation of her superb body was defined by the clinging cloth. Her hair was down, brushed into glistening folds all the way to her shoulders, backlighted by the room and glowing like newly minted pieces of red gold and platinum. With the exception of a light touch of lipstick, she wore no cosmetics, her tanned skin glowing with ebullient health and tinged with the rose of excitement at the sight of him. But her expression had been solemn and there were traces of anguish under her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. There was trouble in the depths of the green eyes like a cloud shadow drifting across a green mountain lake. Brent sensed the tension and nervousness immediately. Her obvious disquiet made her even more desirable, brought to life an urge to circle her with his arms and console her, a powerful magnet that shocked a physical desire for her to life, and his body reacted free of his control, his heart pounding furiously, a clenched fist in his groin pushing hard. He swayed toward her.

  But she had turned away and led him to the sofa where drinks waited on a large marble-top table. Now the moist green eyes were staring up at him in wide anguish and she repeated the indictment, “I killed a man, didn’t I? It’s in all the papers. One man had a crushed trachea.”

  Brent drank his straight Scotch thoughtfully and circled the truth. “Who knows, Dale? It was a riot. Actually, two of my men claim they killed him.”

  “Oh!” Some of the tension drained from her face. “Your men?”

  “Yes. Azuma Kurosu,” he gestured at the door, “he’s on guard just outside in the hall, and Kenzo Nakayama. They’re both trained kendo fighters. In fact, Azuma is the ship’s champion.”

  “I know Kendo can kill.”

  “That’s what it’s for.”

  “Just like karate, Brent. I wish I had never taken those damned lessons.”

  “You may have saved my life, or — ah, something more important.”

  She smiled fleetingly for the first time and then drank deeply. “And you, too. That filthy man and his foul threats with that sign.” She shuddered and drank again, sighed some of the tension away as the Scotch began to spread. “That man had some very unsavory plans for me.” She looked up. “Why are the threats always sexual?”

  He sipped his drink thoughtfully. “Because, I guess, we all fear losing our sexual powers as much as our lives — maybe more. The threats alone strike a chord of fear. Worse than a dentist’s drill on a nerve.”

  “Sex and violence go togeth
er.”

  “Of course, Dale. Men equate the two.”

  Her eyes widened. “Not all men?”

  He shook his head. “Murderers — rapists. That’s what they were doing to us — all of us — raping.”

  “Yes. Yes. It makes sense, Brent.”

  “You’ve heard those threats before, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. Back in New York. Bums. In alleys. And once I was mugged and the threats were the same and at the end of a knife. He threatened to put the knife — to do something that terrifies a woman more than anything else.”

  “I know.”

  She drained her glass. Recharged her drink and Brent’s from a service on the table. “That’s why I learned karate.” Her gaze moved back to his eyes and held. “You’re sure one of your men killed the demonstrator?”

  Brent sipped the fiery liquid, filtering it between his teeth, enjoying the burnt wood flavor before swallowing it. “Even the police were convinced of that — wanted to arrest Azuma.”

  “But they didn’t?”

  Brent laughed, a lightness spreading upward and relaxing him. “There was a slight disagreement with Admiral Fujita.”

  She laughed, and a sparkle began to return to her eyes. “You know, Brent, I shouldn’t worry about that dead vermin, should I?”

  He shook his head. “Of course, not. I’m sure most of them were Rengo Sekigun.”

  She raised an eyebrow in confusion.

  “Japanese Red Army. Heartless killers of women and children.”

  She nodded understanding. “My department has a book on them.”

  “Oh? Well, so do we. In fact, we have a library. You met Bernstein, our Israeli liaison officer. He briefs us continuously on Middle East terrorist groups.” He continued as if he were eyeing a report on the table before him, “Red Army cadres train in Libya, Syria, and Wadi Haddad’s camp in Aden with the German Red Army, Baader-Meinhof, PLO, PFLP, IRA, the Basques’ ETA, Spanish GRAPO, and a dozen more I can’t remember.”

  “Nice bunch of lads.”

  “Their Tokyo cell is known as one of the deadliest bands of killers on earth. Its leader, Hiromi Matsunaga, planned the LOD Airport massacre, Dale.”

  “Yes. I remember that, Brent. Three of them.”

  “Killed twenty-six innocent travelers with machine guns and grenades.”

  “I know.” She filled his empty glass.

  “Now do you feel better, Dale?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, would you feel depressed if you stepped on a cockroach?”

  She smiled up at him and her eyes were warm. She moved closer and took his hand. “You’re a sweet boy, Brent.”

  “Boy! You aren’t singing another chorus of your ‘September Song’ again, Dale?”

  She laughed, shedding her grim mood. “My ‘toy-boy’? Is that it?”

  “You just want to ravish my pristine body. Right?”

  She laughed again and ran a hand over his arm, her fingertips leaving small, burning trails on his bicep. “You do have a great physique, Brent.”

  “Sorry. I’m saving myself for my wedding night.” Then with mock gravity, “There’ll be blood on the sheets.”

  Her laugh was deep and free and he kissed it off her face, her mouth open, tongue hungry and wet, meeting his. He pressed her back into the cushions, feeling the maddening swell of her breasts against his chest. Burning deep in his groin, the heat built quickly, spreading like flame through oil, turning his breath to gasps, and he trembled with the hunger for her. His hand found the rise of her breast, cupped it, toyed with the areola through the silk. She twisted, moaned, pulled hard on the back of his neck, darted her tongue over his lips, gums, dueled his.

  Suddenly her hands were on his chest, pushing, and she twisted away. “No, Brent,” she said breathlessly.

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. It just isn’t right.” She ran a hand through her hair and picked up her drink.

  “Too fast? Too soon?”

  She toyed with an ice cube with a single finger. “I’m not that sophomoric, but this is only the second time I’ve ever seen you.” She drank. “But I guess some of that is there, yes.” And then she gestured to the door, “And there’s a man in the hall, just outside the door.”

  “That bothers you?”

  “Yes.”

  He took a big swallow of Haig & Haig and suddenly saw a macabre kind of humor in the crazy set of circumstances that had thrown them together. “And you’re not a child molester,” he said slyly, changing the mood.

  The sparkle returned. “You’re uncanny.” She rose slowly and pulled him to his feet with her. He put his arms around her and she snuggled close, speaking into his ear. “The hotel has a half-dozen fine restaurants. I’ll give you the software and then we’ll eat. This is a business meeting, you know.”

  “Why, of course. What ever gave you the idea I had anything else in mind?”

  She was laughing as she disappeared into the bedroom. When she reappeared, she was carrying a small package which Brent slid into an inside pocket of his tunic. She held his hands and looked up into his eyes, her eyes bright emeralds reflecting candlelight. “It’s not that far from May to September, is it, Brent?”

  “No. And autumn is the most beautiful season. The leaves are glorious and the sun and clouds put on spectacular shows.”

  She kissed him fiercely.

  “That was spectacular,” he said hoarsely.

  Taking his hand, she led him to the door. Watertender Kurosu followed them into the elevator.

  *

  Dale felt a fulfilling sense of happiness as she led Brent to the first floor and the hotel’s new French restaurant. In the crowded elevator she stood close to him, holding his big arm with both of her hands, basking in the envious stares of a half-dozen other women in the elevator. Men and women alike gawked curiously and somewhat fearfully at Watertender Kurosu, who stood at the back of the elevator and stared fiercely at every newcomer as he entered.

  “I’ve never eaten there, but I hear it’s great. Same cuisine as Maxine’s and it’s supposed to have the same decor,” she said as she led Brent into a large, elaborate dining room with three magnificent crystal chandeliers, wall-to-ceiling velvet drapes and watered-silk wallpaper that matched the drapes.

  “The cancan?” he asked.

  She laughed. “No can-do,” she punned.

  The tuxedoed maître d’hôtel, a tall, thin, elderly Frenchman, who carried himself as erect as Napoleon on parade and commanded his waiters with the same authority, led the couple to a center table next to a small dance floor. “Madame, Monsieur Lieutenant,” he said, gesturing.

  To Dale’s surprise, Brent rejected the table, insisting on a secluded booth in a corner that faced the room’s only entrance. Designed as a corner unit, there were no chairs. Instead, a curved settee fit into the corner and there was room only for two diners to sit close together, side-by-side. Dale liked the arrangement as she slid in close to Brent. She might never see the young man again after tonight. She wanted the closeness. Felt a thrill in the touch of his hand on the thick leather seat.

  A quick motion from the maître d' and a small delicate waiter of about thirty hurried to the table. “Your waiter, Marcel Plubeau,” the maître d’hôtel said. He left quickly, obviously irritated by Brent’s insistence on changing tables. However, when he saw Kurosu approaching with his rifle casually slung across his shoulder, he stopped in midstride like a man walking into a glass door which was shut when he expected it to be open.

  “This man is yours, monsieur?” the maître d’hôtel asked, aghast, turning to the American. Marcel Plubeau stood mutely, fingering his menus.

  “Oui, monsieur,” Brent said, mimicking the maître d’hôtel’s grave demeanor.

  “S’il vous plaît, monsieur, he cannot come into — ah, carrying that carabine, he…”

  Brent smiled, ordered the watertender to take a post at the entrance. Azuma Kur
osu snapped to attention, saluted, turned smartly, leather heels of his boots stomping the hardwood like three shots from his rifle and marched back to the door followed by a hundred disbelieving eyes in the now dead-silent room.

  Brent explained to the maître d’, “I am an officer from the carrier Yonaga. He has been assigned to me as a guard and is a well-disciplined seaman. I assure you he will not cause you any awkwardness or embarrassment.”

  Yonaga was a magic word and the Frenchman bowed and smiled weakly. However, Dale could see he was still in a state of shock and unconvinced. After all, a rifleman was standing at his door, Yonaga crewman notwithstanding, and glaring at his diners. Several had already left and more were rising. “Hotel security may be curious, monsieur,” he said, a slight tremor in his voice.

  “Let them take their chances,” Brent said. “Now bring me the menu.”

  Piqued, the maître d’hôtel wheeled on his heel and stalked off.

  But hotel security was mysteriously absent and had been throughout the evening. Certainly, they had been forewarned by the row Seaman Kenzo Nakayama had had with a hotel employee on the sidewalk in front of the Imperial the previous day. Either they were hopelessly incompetent, scared, or had been contacted by someone in power and told to give the lieutenant and his guard wide latitude. Dale guessed either Fujita or a member of his staff had made discreet arrangements.

  Nervously, Marcel Plubeau, immaculately dressed in a tuxedo and carrying a white linen napkin on his left arm, leaned over Dale. She smelled his cologne, strong and sweet like Chanel Number Five. Strange, for a man, she thought. She watched him over her menu as he leaned close over Brent, smiling into Brent’s face while he handed the huge menu to the American. His long walnut-colored hair was carefully coiffed into a bob that fell to his left shoulder and was casually drawn back from the right cheek to display a large diamond earring in the pierced lobe of his right ear. His eyelashes were so long they curled, appearing soft and dark on his cheek. He smiled down at Brent, asking about champagnes, wines, and before-dinner drinks with a voice that was free of an accent and as soft and lyrical as a girl’s. Dale found him utterly repulsive.