Attack of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “I’m on Scotch and I’ll stay with it,” Brent said. He ordered his Haig & Haig and Dale stayed with her Scotch and soda.

  While the waiter swayed to the bar, Brent enveloped Dale’s hand in his. “I think that waiter has fallen in love with you, Brent,” she said, pressing close, thrilling at the touch of his hard thigh against hers.

  Brent raised an eyebrow in surprise, turned, and stared at the waiter who was standing at the bar. “Didn’t notice, but he did smell beautiful.”

  Marcel minced back with the drinks and stood expectantly. “Ready, Dale?”

  Dale shook her head and held up her drink. Brent dismissed the waiter with a curt, “I’ll call you when we’re ready.” He turned to Dale with a puzzled look. “How could a beautiful woman like you not be ah — entangled?” He ran his eyes over her body and found her thigh with his hand and moved it up and down on the firm flesh. She reacted to the touch like a schoolgirl on her first date, squirmed, felt heat mount. She pushed it away. “No. Please, Brent,” she pleaded, holding his hand. “Not here.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know,” she said helplessly. “Please be a good boy.”

  “All right,” he conceded. “But answer my question.”

  She sighed. “I’ve been married — I was married for ten years to Jonathan McIntyre.”

  “Divorced?”

  “Yes.”

  “Children?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you break up?”

  “John never grew up. I think he felt he missed the sexual revolution when it chugged out of the station and spent our entire married life chasing the caboose. He was ten years older than I. When he was forty-two he bought a red Corvette and began to drive around with a green beret on his head and designer sunglasses on his nose, making all the singles’ bars in tight Calvin Kleins.”

  “My God. He was chasing other women with you at home? He was insane.” He tightened his grip on her hand.

  “Thanks, Brent. You’re sweet.” She kissed his cheek and sipped her drink. She told him of her youth. Born on Long Island, she was the only child of a stockbroker and a New York socialite. Her earliest memories of her father were of a big, distant man who spent most of his days and nights in his office in Lower Manhattan.

  She was educated in private schools and graduated from Bryn Mawr with a math major. Because she was away for most of her youth at school, her mother could spend her time with her bridge clubs and entertaining a succession of young lovers without interference. Immediately after graduation, it was obvious to Dale she was not wanted at home and she found a position with IBM as a computer programmer. When she married, she quit her job and moved into an apartment in Manhattan. At first she was happy, but then Jonathan cracked under his midlife crisis.

  After her divorce, she took a job with the CIA as a computer expert. Quickly, she mastered the latest technology and was moved to codes and ciphers. She worked in Washington, Seattle, Hawaii, and New York and found the job exciting and interesting.

  “You must have known other men.”

  “Of course, Brent.”

  “You never remarried?”

  “No. That’s not for me.” Her tone was bitter. She drank. Eyed him over her drink. “And you, Brent. How did you ever wind up on Yonaga? Talk about crazy circumstances.”

  He smiled. Told her of his youth. The academy. The assignment to the carrier by NIS. “And that’s about it,” he concluded. “I’m on permanent liaison and will remain on board as long as Admiral Fujita wants me.”

  She drained her glass and smiled. “You may not remain there much longer.”

  Surprised at the statement, Brent tabled his drink with a thump. “Fujita said something like that just this afternoon. What is this all about?” He waved at Marcel in irritation and pointed at his empty glass.

  “It’s not top secret — you’ll know tomorrow, anyway.” She rattled the ice cubes. “You’ve got Blackfin.”

  “So?” He shrugged his shoulders.

  She looked up at him as Marcel quietly replaced their drinks and murmured apologies which they both ignored. “Admiral Mark Allen has command and…”

  Brent finished her sentence, “And he has requested me.”

  “Yes. That’s my information.”

  “And Fujita knew it.” He drank deeply. “And he approved it or was still undecided. That’s it.”

  “Well, he’s not undecided anymore. It came through this afternoon. That was one condition the CIA laid on Fujita — we needed a qualified captain and staff.”

  “I know nothing about those old pig boats.”

  It was her turn to shrug. She turned her hands up in a hopeless gesture. “As Marcel would say, ‘C’est la guerre.’”

  He shook his head and stared over his glass at the entrance where Azuma Kurosu stood with the Arisaka at his side. With the exception of one couple dining in the far corner, every table was deserted. “Maybe Allen will finally get his way,” he said almost to himself.

  “Brent, there is one thing.” He moved his eyes to Dale. “There is an agreement. The subs, Zulus and Whiskeys that the Russians are supplying their allies and Gatos and Balaos we’re giving the Japanese…”

  “They must be all original? Right?”

  “Right, Brent. But with the exception of communications. They can be fitted with modern communications gear. It just came over from Geneva an hour ago.”

  Brent slapped the table. “That’s it. That’s his lever.” He took a stiff drink. But his mood changed quickly with a new thought. “Blackfin’s moored in New York Harbor and you live in the city?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you’re returning tomorrow?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I have duty in our New York office.”

  “Can I see you?” He turned his hands up in an indecisive gesture, “If I’m assigned?”

  “You’d better, Brent.” She fumbled in her purse, removed a checkbook, and tore off a deposit slip and handed it to Brent. “Here’s my address and phone number. I live in Lower Manhattan in a meat locker.”

  “A meat locker?”

  Her laugh was as delightful as a mountain stream over pebbles. “It’s not another word for bordello. I actually live in a ninety-year-old converted meat locker. It’s very large and, I feel, charming.”

  “Like a loft?”

  “Exactly.”

  His hand found her leg again. “We can be alone there, Dale?”

  “Completely.” He slid his hand up. She did not resist. Lost herself in the hot depths of his blue eyes.

  “Pardon, monsieur et madame. The cuisine will close soon,” Marcel said, materializing over the table.

  “We’d better eat,” Dale said.

  Brent appeared disgruntled. “The orchestra. I want to dance.”

  “Not tonight, monsieur. Only on weekends.”

  Brent raised his menu and sipped his drink. “All right.” He looked up at the waiter. “What do you suggest, Marcel?”

  The Frenchman beamed with the pleasure of recognition and moved closer to Brent, holding his pad and pencil. “We have excellent Escargots à la Bourguignon this evening, Monsieur Lieutenant.” He bunched his fingers, kissed them with full pursed lips, and cast them off to the sky.

  “Snails? No thanks,” Brent said.

  A look of dismay shadowed Marcel’s face, but he recovered quickly. “Perhaps, chicken.”

  “That’s more like it.” Brent looked at Dale. She nodded approval.

  Marcel gazed over Brent’s head with a dreamy look, gestured dramatically at the swinging kitchen door. “Our cuisinier prepares a superb Supremes de Volaille Rossini.”

  “That’s boned chicken breasts with a pâté,” Dale said.

  “Oui, madame. Pâté de foie gras,” he said, with the look of a man about to fall into bed with his lover. “Flavored with lean ham, parsley, beef stock Madeira.” He stared at Brent and edged closer to the big American. “I would suggest Soupe Albigeoise, Salade de
Tomates…” His face flushed, breath became short, and he cleared his throat with a tiny cough.

  “Fine. Fine,” Brent said. “I’ll leave it to you.”

  The waiter pulled himself up. “Vin, monsieur, a white vin with poulet.”

  “Your best white wine?” Brent asked.

  “Pouilly-Fuissé, monsieur, naturellement.”

  “Naturally. Bring it,” Brent said, impatiently waving at the swinging doors.

  With a delighted look crossing his face, Marcel walked to the kitchen with quick, short steps.

  “He sure knows his food — actually, loves it,” Dale said.

  Brent nodded solemnly. “He gets his kicks out of it. No doubt about that. I wanted to get rid of him before he had an orgasm.”

  Dale recoiled in mock horror. “Why, Brent, you’re such a naughty boy.”

  Marcel returned quickly with the soup, and an assistant poured the wine. Brent raised his glass. “To the meat locker.”

  Dale touched her glass to his and drank. The salad was exquisite, and then the entree and more wine. They drank and ate and became intoxicated with each other and the liquor, all the while Marcel and his assistant hovered close, bringing more dishes, and the wineglasses were never allowed to become empty.

  Toying with a half-empty glass, Dale found herself staring boldly at Brent’s straight nose, strong jaw, thick, corded neck. His broad shoulders filled his coat, an expanse of fine blue wool that seemed yards wide. Touching his arm, she felt the bunched muscles like knots of iron. The closeness of the forged, hard body of Grecian perfection fanned a deep heat in her that spread through her body on the warm rays of alcohol, awakening a gnawing hunger that thrilled and tormented at the same time.

  The waiter returned, but they refused dessert and sat quietly, looking at each other. Dale felt his hand again, moving up slowly, under her skirt.

  “Please, Brent.”

  Showing the effects of liquor and his desire for her, his face glowed the color of sunset. “We’re almost alone in here,” he said. “Almost as alone as we’ve ever been.” And he was right. Two more couples had entered while they ate but had taken tables across the room, seeking the dimly lighted privacy of corners, too. Marcel and his assistant had vanished into the kitchen and Dale wondered why they had been so slow in returning. Watertender Kurosu was barely visible, lounging in the shadows of the entrance.

  Dale started and squirmed as Brent’s hand touched the bare flesh above her hose, fingers hot and seeking. “No, Brent. Please.” She grabbed his hand, but her muscles were weak and the hand insistent in its quest as old as mankind, stroking in a circular pattern ever upward, trailing hot paths on her firm flesh.

  “I’m going to see that — what’s under my hand — all of you, someday,” he said huskily into her ear.

  Rising from visceral depths, the heat flared like a struck match, her muscles melting as the hand found the elastic band of her panties, pulled it aside roughly and snaked under. She sagged back, heart pounding as if a mad drummer were under her breast and the rush of blood hummed in her ears, warmed her cheeks…

  “Oh, Brent. No. This is torture.” She was out of control and she knew it — felt she could pull this young man down onto the settee, appearances be damned, and have him here and now in front of God and everyone else. She heard a creaking and the slap, slap sound of the swinging doors and she looked up as steps approached. Brent turned his head and the fingers stopped just short of their goal.

  A new waiter was approaching, a big, square man with a long stride. His right hand was under his napkin. Dale heard Brent’s breath catch as if he had been punched in the solar plexus, and in a fleeting instant his hand grabbed her shoulder and he pushed her with one powerful motion into the corner while his other hand leaped to his left armpit. “Brent!” she managed to shout.

  “Down!” he screamed, coming to his feet and turning the table over, glasses and silverware crashing to the floor and clattering across the deep carpet. The new waiter was across the dance floor and almost on them, pulling a long, vicious knife from its concealment under the linen napkin draped over his left arm. Dale felt fear like cold heavy oil spread through her guts. She tried to huddle within herself.

  “Sabbah! Allahu akbar,” the man cried, lunging for the American, who was unholstering his pistol. Dale knew Brent would never make it. Too much drinking. The distraction of her body. The sexual heat. It was all planned.

  A huge man with wild eyes and black hair like long coils of loose springs, the killer had the face and savage leer of a hungry hyena. Young and powerful, he leaped over the table casually, like a hurdler, as Brent tore the Otsu from its holster. The knife was high. Glistening even in the dim light. “Infidel swine! Yankee dog. Sabbah! Sabbah!” Cold steel flashed downward.

  Three shots, so fast they sounded like an automatic weapon, boomed in the room like artillery. The killer’s wide-open mouth exploded with a gout of blood and shattered teeth as a bullet hit the base of the man’s skull and ploughed out of his mouth. Another slug exited the man’s head just between his eyes, hurling both eyeballs, splintered fragments of skull, gouts of yellow-gray brains and gore onto Dale who screamed in terror and revulsion. The big man’s body twisted and collapsed at the top of his leap and instantly the powerful, vicious killing machine became just a dead, bleeding carcass with no direction or control, arms windmilling, legs water.

  Dale tried to twist away, but the body crashed down on her, pinning her with over two hundred pounds of dead weight. The shattered head thumped into hers, blood, splintered teeth, shreds of ripped tongue and gums and gore splattering her face and streaming down into her brassiere, soaking through the silk of her dress. A jugular had been severed and hot blood pulsed from a still beating heart, spurting onto the side of her head, soaking her hair. She screamed wildly again and again.

  She had known horror in her life, but never had she felt the atavistic explosion of distilled fear that drove her mindlessly to escape this frightful creature from her worst nightmare, pinning her down with his enormous weight. She pushed with her arms and legs, squirmed and turned to the side and thanked God through tears and sobs as the corpse slid in its own gore and rolled from her, tumbling to the floor with the muscle control of a rag doll.

  Coming erect, she gagged, the smell of cordite and the acid taste of her own gorge scalding her mouth and throat. Just a few feet away, Watertender Kurosu was crouching on the dance floor, Arisaka leveled and smoking. No diners or waiters were visible. Pistol in his hand, Brent stood between the legs of the overturned table. “Sabbah. Sabbah assassin,” he said. And then in panic, “Behind you, Kurosu!”

  Two dark men brandishing stubby pistols burst through the entrance and charged. The leader was tall and lean like a terrier and the other was squat and round and gorilla-like. Flame leaped from their pistols. The Otsu barked, Kurosu staggered and whirled, and then the rifle boomed again — once, twice, but not as fast as before. Vibrating with crashing reverberations, the interior of the room sounded as if someone had lighted an entire package of firecrackers and then threw in a few cherry bombs at random. Blue smoke hung like a fog.

  The tall leader stopped abruptly as if he had run into a stone wall and toppled backward onto the floor. The second man came on, pumping bullets into the watertender who dropped his Arisaka and slumped to the floor, clutching his stomach.

  “No!” Brent screamed. Charging. Firing. A hail of bullets caught the assassin in the chest and neck. He threw his head back, screamed, vomiting blood, and tumbled loosely as if his bones had turned to jelly, pistol skidding across the hardwood of the dance floor.

  Silence and then cries and shouts for mercy and help from diners who were hiding under their tables. A new commotion and a large man in a business suit ran through the entrance. He had a gun in his hand. Brent fired. The man dropped and rolled across the floor.

  The voice of the maître d’hôtel came from a dark corner. “That was hotel security — You’ve killed hotel security!
”

  “I don’t give a damn who he was! No one comes into this room with a gun!” In quick, precise movements, Brent ejected the clip from the Otsu and rammed a fresh one home into the base of the grip with the palm of his hand. There was a loud click as the spring-loaded locking pin snapped into place.

  More noise at the entrance and Brent leveled his pistol as he worked his way past a dead assassin toward the watertender. “I’ll kill any man who enters this room with a gun in his hand!” Brent shouted. The commotion stopped as Brent reached Kurosu’s side.

  A tense voice came from the foyer. “This is chief of hotel security, Hiromitsu Ochiai. Put down your weapon. The police are on their way.”

  Brent was on his knees next to Azuma Kurosu. “No chance. If you want to stay alive, stay out of this room. I have a woman and a wounded man. Have a car at the entrance. No driver. We’re leaving.”

  Brent leaned over the watertender, whispering. Azuma groaned back and suddenly went very limp. Dale thought she heard Brent whimper.

  Slowly, Dale came to her feet, face smeared with thickening blood, hair matted, gore streaking her cheeks, her dress. She took several deep breaths, tried to shake the paralyzing horror from her mind, and felt her old steadiness begin to return. Wiping coagulated blood from her face with a napkin, she walked to Brent who was still leaning over Kurosu. The big lieutenant’s shoulders were shaking. Dale stared down. Kurosu was relaxed and limp in the final embrace of death.

  Hiromitsu Ochiai’s tense voice from the foyer: “I will have a Mercedes sedan at the main entrance for you in three minutes.”

  Brent came to his feet slowly. “I need two men. They are to enter the room with their hands on top of their heads.”

  “Why should I do this? There are four dead men in that room.”

  “Five!”

  “You may want them for hostages.”

  Brent looked around the room. Waved at the maître d’ who was huddled with a waiter in a corner. “Over here! Over here!” Brent shouted, waving his pistol. Slowly the pair walked across the room.

  Brent gestured at the watertender’s body. “Pick him up.”