by Peter Albano
“Yes, Admiral.”
The old sailor drummed the oak. “You will be escorted by my seaman guards.” He turned to the scribe, Commander Hakuseki Katsube. “Orders to the executive office. Ms. McIntyre is to be driven to the airport in a staff car with two armed guards. One truck is to precede her vehicle and another is to follow. Each truck is to carry six seaman guards and a Nambu mounted on the cab and another over the tail gate. They are to stop for nothing — police, Self Defense Force. Nothing!” Katsube brushed furiously and nodded. He handed the document to the communications man who walked across the cabin from his station in the corner. Holding the ideograms, he returned to the phone and began to speak into it softly.
“Admiral, please,” Dale said. “I must return to my hotel first.”
The old man nodded to the communications man who looked up. “Amend the order,” Fujita said.
Uneasily, Dale eyed the admiral and blurted, “May I speak alone to Lieutenant Ross, sir?”
“In a moment — across the passageway in the small conference room,” the admiral said.
Kudo said to the admiral, “With your permission, I would like to interview the lady and the lieutenant.” He waved a pad.
Fujita nodded his permission. The old man moved his eyes from face to face. There was fatigue on his face and the old eyes were tired. He spoke wearily. “This meeting is closed.”
Everyone rose slowly.
*
Dale sat close to Brent and stared across the table at Police Captain Kudo who poised a pencil over a pad and spoke softly and with concern. “I do not wish to prolong your ordeal, but I need your statements.”
“I understand,” Brent said. Dale nodded her agreement. Quietly, Brent described the events of the night, sparing no detail, even his involvement with Dale. Dale followed with her own story. The quiver was gone from her voice and she felt her old confidence returning. Finally, satisfied, the fat policeman left.
Dale eyed Brent anxiously. He seemed strangely docile and subdued for one who had fought so ferociously in the parking lot; killed so quickly and ruthlessly at the hotel. The broad shoulders slumped and the deep blue eyes with all of their excitement and promise were now as cold and lifeless as cut glass. She was sure it was not just Azuma Kurosu’s death that had devastated the young man. Certainly, she could not even imagine the pressures every man on Yonaga had felt. And Brent was so young. An American. The “American Samurai.” But was it possible? An American and a samurai? The two clashed. Were diametrically opposed. She spoke softly into the young man’s ear, “East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet.”
He turned to her, smiled for the first time, picked up the verse, “’Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat.’” He stared into her eyes. “You’re trying to tell me something, Dale?”
“Maybe Kipling tried a hundred years ago, Brent.”
“You think I’m — ah, unbalanced?”
She pondered for a moment. “Suicide doesn’t come from a perfectly healthy mind.”
“You don’t understand.”
“The Japanese understood, but they aren’t healthy. How can a follower of Bushido be healthy?”
He shrugged. “It’s viewpoint, Dale. From their viewpoint seppuku is perfectly logical.”
“When honor has been compromised. Right?”
“Yes. And western men do the same thing. You know that.”
“But they’re not honor-bound and ritualistic about it and they’re considered sick — aberrations.” She felt a deep turmoil. Anguish was in her voice. “You can’t wear different faces at the same time. We’re not made that way, Brent.” She waved a hand. “The Japanese are different — they wallow in contradictions, thrive on it.”
“I killed Azuma Kurosu. There’s no contradiction there.”
“Yes there is. I told you before. You reacted to the sound of the door — the hand under the napkin. You have the senses of a leopard.” She pleaded, “I’ve never seen such speed. If you hadn’t been fast, both of us would be dead, too. There was nothing you could do for him.”
For the first time, she saw life flicker deep in the blue depths. “You really believe that?”
“You know I do.”
He sighed. “You’re a great girl, Dale.” He leaned toward her as if he wanted to touch her, but then sat back. “It’s all academic anyway. Fujita refused permission.”
“Of course. He’s intelligent, a pragmatist. He can’t afford to throw you away and he knows it.” She drummed the table. “Commander Matsuhara made the same request?”
“Yes. A gunfight. He lost his fiancée. Blames himself.”
“Good Lord. I can’t believe this, Brent.” She looked at him, despair and frustration boiling deep. “Must you define your manhood with the calculus of death? Are you afraid to measure yourself against a woman? Is it safer to pull a trigger than to love a — ah, to love a woman?” And then she blurted it out, “To love me?”
He eyed her with a hint of awe in the blue depths. “You’re an amazing woman, Dale. You use words like scalpels. I’ve never thought of it that way.” He repeated, “The calculus of death,” to himself slowly as if he were memorizing the phrase. A smile softened the stone of his jaw. “And love you?” He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “You’re so bright, so beautiful. Oh, that would be so easy to do.”
“Then do it.”
His stare was enigmatic; warm yet still distant. “Someday,” his wave was all encompassing, “when all of this is over.”
She brightened with a new thought. “Your orders to Blackfin will be a good thing.”
“I think Fujita — all of them agree with you.”
“She’s moored in the Hudson River — just a few minutes from my place, Brent.” He remained silent. “I’ll see you?”
He moved his eyes to hers. The look was inscrutable, distant, like a meditating monk. “Yes. I’ll see you again.”
She was not convinced.
There was a knock and the door opened suddenly. It was the executive officer, Commander Mitake Arai. “Your escort is ready, Ms. McIntyre,” he said, eyeing Brent Ross curiously and with concern.
“I’m ready,” Dale said, coming to her feet.
Brent remained in the chair and stared as Dale turned toward the door. “Wait!” he shouted. He rose. “I’d like to walk you to the gangway.”
“Delighted,” she said, smiling warmly.
With Arai leading, they stepped into the passageway.
*
Two days later and seven hours before the chartered Constellation was to leave Tsuchiura with Brent, Admiral Mark Allen, and new crew members for Blackfin, Brent, Mark Allen, and Colonel Irving Bernstein were called to the admiral’s office. Rest had restored Brent’s energy and pulled him from the depths of his depression. His mind was crystal clear and the demons had vanished from his brain. But the wound of Kurosu’s death was still raw and he awoke several times in cold sweats, his mind filled with visions of the watertender’s death. It was not ended — would never end. And Dale was gone — in New York City now. He felt a void, an emptiness, a defeat.
There was a dispatch on the admiral’s desk that Brent had just decoded that morning. The admiral was drumming it. “There is to be some kind of meeting under the auspices of the United Nations in New York City. The PLO and various Arab groups are to meet informally with American, British, and Israeli representatives. No Japanese have been invited.”
The three officers nodded. All had been involved with the decoding of the signal and were familiar with its startling contents.
Brent said, “Admiral, the PLO is not a member of the United Nations.”
Bernstein spoke to Brent. “True, Brent. But they maintain a representation in New York.”
Mark Allen said, “The dispatch says nothing about the Libyans, Syrians, Jordanians, Egyptians, and the rest.”
“True,” Admiral Fujita agreed. “But something is afoot. I want representation — a report.
”
“That would be difficult, sir,” Bernstein said.
“Yes, I know,” Fujita said. “You know those people — ah, those vermin better than any other member of my staff, Colonel Bernstein. I am sending you.”
Bernstein caught his breath. “But, sir. With Admiral Allen and Brent Ross both detached, who will do the decoding? Cryptographers Reed and Pierson are the best, but you need specially trained officers.”
“I have requested replacements and they will be here at any moment.” He tugged the single white hair hanging from his chin thoughtfully. “I have decided all of you will be my official representatives to this meeting — as innocuous as it may be — as useless. We must attempt to keep the restoring of Blackfin a secret.”
“Respectfully, sir,” Mark Allen said. “That is virtually impossible. Blackfin is moored in the Hudson River, clearly visible to hundreds of thousands of people. And we’re taking thirty-one members of her crew with us. New York will be crawling with spies — every member of the Russian delegation to the UN is a KGB agent and the Arabs are no better. They’ll spot us when we leave the plane at Kennedy.”
“I know, Admiral Allen,” Fujita said. “But we have no choice. You must make the effort.”
“Officially, Blackfin has been contributed by the US Navy to Japan’s National Parks Department as a museum, Admiral Fujita, correct?” Allen asked.
“Correct. A functioning, viable vessel, capable of sea-keeping on her own.”
“And ostensibly Japan is to put her on exhibit as a relic of WW II — an enemy relic.” Everyone stared at the American admiral silently. He showed his amazing encyclopedic mind. “A member of a force that destroyed over two hundred warships and nearly six million tons of merchant shipping?”
“Yes,” Fujita said with a trace of bitterness.
Brent and Mark Allen exchanged a skeptical look. Bernstein spoke. “I didn’t know about the UN. That’s no good, Admiral Fujita. The Arabs will see through it immediately. It’s flimsy, full of contradictions…”
Fujita tapped the oak with bony knuckles. “I agree, but we have no choice. The American Navy dictates that we pick her up in New York Harbor or not at all.” He smiled slyly. “And remember, we Orientals are living contradictions — revel in them.” He laughed humorlessly, thumped the desk with knuckles like withered roots. “You must try. You may cause some confusion and conceal our true intentions. Those are my orders.”
There was a knock and the admiral gestured to the door and a seaman guard opened it. Two officers entered; one an American commander and the other wore the khakis of the Israeli Army.
“Your replacements,” Admiral Fujita said.
“Carrino. Joseph Carrino,” Mark Allen exclaimed, grabbing the American’s hand. Carrino, a short, dark man with a definite Latin flavor to his visage, grabbed the American admiral’s hand and shook it vigorously. Allen turned to Admiral Fujita. “You’ve got one of the best.” He slapped Carrino’s shoulder boisterously. “I taught him everything he knows.”
Bernstein also had met an old acquaintance. “Marshall Katz,” he said, shaking the Israeli’s hand. “Shalom.”
“Shalom,” the Israeli, a thin, graying man of about sixty, answered. His cheeks were hollow, hair sparse, flesh hard and lined like an old saddle as if he had spent too many years in hot desert winds and had had every drop of moisture burned from his flesh. But his voice was strong, and when he shook hands all round, his grip was firm.
Admiral Fujita cleared his throat and everyone snapped to attention. “My orders,” Carrino said, handing the admiral a long yellow envelope. Fujita accepted the envelope and then took Katz’s orders. Quickly, the steel-rimmed glasses appeared and the documents were scanned. Admiral Fujita was obviously pleased. “Welcome aboard, gentlemen,” he said.
“It’s an honor to serve with you, Admiral,” Carrino said.
“We are allies and all of Israel appreciates the sacrifices Yonaga has made to preserve our state and save the free world from terrorism,” Katz said.
Fujita acknowledged the Israeli with a nod and slowly unfolded from his chair, his every move worn by a century of time. He spoke to the new officers. “You need to be briefed on our latest intelligence reports.” He gestured at a chart on the bulkhead. “We have picked up signals from Aguijan and reports from native observers. There are reports of massacres on Saipan and Tinian.” The men rumbled angrily. “And there is intense activity at the airfields. The Libyans are enlarging them and repair facilities are being built.”
“They must be supplying them by submarine,” Mark Allen said.
“Yes,” Fujita said. “But there is still no aircraft activity.” He stabbed low in the chart. “The enemy Majestic is in dry dock in Surabaya. Will not be ready for months.” He moved the pointer to the western Carolines. “And the other carrier, the Principe de Asturias, two cruisers, and at least a dozen destroyers are here, in Tomonuto Atoll. Two depot ships, a tender and another oiler have been spotted.” His eyes embraced the room. “We have time — time to train our pilots and sortie for our decisive battle. We need Blackfin. The Arabs will not expect a submarine.” He stared at Mark Allen. “If we could pick off a carrier when they sortie from Tomonuto to intercept us…”
“Great opportunity,” Mark Allen agreed. “We should be ready.”
The admiral spoke to Carrino and Katz. “You understand the situation?”
They chorused, “Yes, Admiral.”
Carrino said, “Admiral, the Arab presence in the Marianas may pose the greatest threat of all, sir. All they need is some long-range aircraft.”
“You are perceptive, Commander Carrino.” He tugged on the whisker, surprised everyone. “An old Arab proverb warns: ‘If the camel once gets his nose in the tent, his body will soon follow.’ We are training a landing force. We will soon throw the beast out of the tent.” The men chuckled. Brent had an impulse to shout, “Banzai,” but controlled himself.
The old man’s eyes moved over Brent, Mark Allen, and Irving Bernstein. “Show my new staff the communications gear and introduce them to the technicians and then you are dismissed to your new duties. And exercise caution in your new assignments. The streets of New York can be more dangerous than an Arab dive bomber.”
The officers chuckled at the rare humor.
The admiral gestured at the paulownia wood shrine obeisantly. The officers snapped to attention and turned toward the shrine. Fujita and Brent Ross clapped twice. Fujita spoke. “May we follow the noble Eightfold Path of the Enlightened One, find the middle path between the pleasure of the senses and asceticism, and adhere to the Four Noble Truths. In this way we will be better men than our enemies and we will prevail, kill them all like the dogs they are.” He clapped again and everyone knew he was not finished. “Our enemies are strong and are massing to destroy us like typhoons at the first parallel. But a strong tree bends with the storm, not breaking even under the weight of the heaviest snowfall. Our honorable Tenno (Heavenly Emperor),” he said reverently, resorting to the honorific for the gravely ill Hirohito, “gave us these words in 1946 in Japan’s most desperate hour: ‘Under the weight of winter snow, the pine tree’s branches bend, but do not break.’” Turning slowly, his black eyes found every man and seemed to transfuse strength. “May the spirit of the Son of Heaven be with us in our quest — the quest for righteousness and honor.” He was silent for a moment. “You are dismissed.”
*
Yoshi Matsuhara was waiting in the passageway when Brent exited. He pulled the young American to his cabin, explaining, “I had to come back from the airfield to check on supplies — the new engines, and I wanted to see you before you left.”
After he closed the door, Brent found a seat at the small table in the Spartan cabin and Yoshi sat across from him, pouring two drinks from a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label. “Just one,” Brent said, raising the glass. “Today’s a working day.”
“To Blackfin,” Yoshi said. They both drank.
“Your air
groups?” Brent asked.
“Coming into shape. I have some fine pilots. But the torque of the new engine has made the Zero-sen a tricky aircraft. It forgives nothing.” He sighed. “I lost a pilot yesterday. Ground looped into a petrol truck.” He sipped his drink. “But I am expecting new engines today for the bombers. That’s why I’m here.”
“For the bombers?”
“Yes, Brent-san. Should make Kazuoshi Muira and Shusaku Endo happy.” He pushed his glass back and forth in a short journey on the tabletop. Spoke to the table, “Maybe you were right about my request for seppuku.”
Brent was not fooled. “You’re trying to tell me I made a foolish decision, Yoshi-san. Aren’t you?”
“Not foolish. No, it was a question of honor.” The glass stopped and he tapped it on the table, causing the Scotch to slosh and peak. “But hasty, perhaps, made when you were upset — not yourself.”
“And your decision? The same decision?”
“I think the same.” The pilot drank. Fixed Brent’s eyes with his, “Yonaga needs us, Brent-san. Seppuku must be put aside.”
“Fujita has forbidden it. Is that why?”
“No. Put aside by us. Out of mind until this is all over. When we are calm and the emotions are placid again.”
“If ever, Yoshi-san.” Drinking, Brent stared high above Yoshi’s head. He was far away, detached. “Do you think we — all of our power can influence history? What is happening on this planet?”
Yoshi chuckled. “You can ask some of the most amazing things, my young friend.”
Brent’s voice was filled with impatience. “Answer me, Yoshi-san. Answer,” he demanded.
The fighter pilot nodded, and his demeanor was earnest. “You mean the turn of the wheel of history — are the spokes gripped by the fates or turned by men?” He took a small drink and nursed the remainder of his Scotch before he answered his own question. “We are helpless, men do not make history, Brent-san, history makes us. We have no control over events. We flow with events like a man who has fallen into a flooded river.”
