by Peter Albano
*
Escorted by two guards, Ted Ross was taken to a corner of the hangar deck where he found himself in front of a large square room built of unpainted wooden sheeting. A single door opened onto the interior. There Ross found Edmundson, flanked by guards. The Americans exchanged greetings while the guards stood idly, waiting.
Rows of aircraft, illuminated by overhead floodlights, jammed the deck. Crewmen swarmed everywhere, working on engines, adjusting controls, flaps, ailerons. Bombs and torpedoes were still in ready racks; the smell of gasoline was weak.
“I think they’re readying a patrol back by the aft elevator, but not a full strike,” Ross said. Edmundson nodded.
“What happened, Captain,” Todd asked. “I heard the engines — gunfire.”
Quickly, the captain told the young seaman about the destruction of the Tupolev.
“Christ, Captain. Don’t they know the Russians must have them targeted — missiles programmed?”
“They don’t even care, Todd. A samurai lives to die.” He waved at the room’s single entrance. “We’re going to watch a samurai who has found his time to die.”
“What?”
“See those flowers on either side of the entrance — Imperial chrysanthemums, representing the emperor. And the gilded board over the doorway — it’s called a torii. The young man nodded. “It’s probably a combination Buddhist temple and Shinto shrine,” Ross continued. “We’re going to watch one of the murderous bastards cut out his own guts.”
The young man blanched. “Why?”
“Nothing important, just his honor — a little loss of face.”
At that moment, Admiral Fujita approached, followed by Commander Hirata and Lieutenant Commander Kawamoto. Hirata gripped his sword, glared at Ross. Trigger spat on the deck. Fujita inclined his head toward the room. Ross and Edmundson were pushed into the temple.
*
When Ross entered, he did not find what he had expected. True, the enclosure was a place of worship. But there was no big nave with recesses. Indeed, there were no seats at all. Instead, perhaps a hundred officers stood in ranks, facing an altar attached to a bulkhead. Stacked on shelves on both sides of the altar were hundreds of small white boxes marked with ideograms. Two Buddhas flanked the altar; a raised platform about ten feet square was in the center of the room. The platform was covered with a scarlet rug. None of the deck was exposed, beautiful white mats covering every square inch.
“Those boxes,” Ross whispered, “Their cremated dead. They’ll do anything in their power to return them to Japan — fight, die … ”
Todd pondered for a moment. And then under his breath, “They’re about two thousand boxes short.”
Ross noticed an ideogram done in beautiful black calligraphy above the altar. “‘Infinite Salvation’,” he muttered to Edmundson. “We’re going to watch the salvation of Lieutenant Taki Mori at the end of a wakizashi.”
“Wakizashi?”
“Knife.”
Suddenly, without apparent signal, the ranks of officers — splendid in dress blues — faced the admiral and bowed. Fujita acknowledged each rank with a nod.
The Americans were pushed forward. “Bow, red-faced swine,” Hirata hissed, punching Ross in the back. Three times the foreigners bowed, once to each rank. Then they were pushed into a line where Ross found himself flanked by Fujita and Edmundson.
There was a stirring in the back of the room and the echoing sounds of men working on aircraft ceased. Then silence descended like a dropped blanket as Lt. Taki Mori entered, followed by three officers. Slight, with long black hair knotted at the back, the supplicant wore a flowing white robe with wide hempen wings.
Fujita turned to the Americans, and said in a hushed voice, “Captain, you have much experience with things Japanese, but you have never witnessed seppuku?”
Trigger looked down at the flat, creased visage. “No, Admiral. It’s an experience I can do without.”
“Both of you need this. The world should witness this — this man will show you true Yamato damashii.”
“Japanese spirit,” Ross said, turning to Edmundson.
Again silence as Lieutenant Mori and his retinue stopped in front of the admiral. The white-robed man bowed deeply. The bow was answered by a stiff nod. Then Mori faced each rank, bowing. The ranks returned his salute.
Walking slowly and with great dignity, the condemned man mounted the raised floor and prostrated himself before the altar. Several minutes passed before he rose, turned and then sank cross-legged to the floor, facing the admiral. An officer moved to his left side, crouching, staring at the lieutenant’s face.
The admiral’s voice was soft. “Lieutenant Mori requested that every detail be explained to you,” he said, turning to the Americans. “That officer, kneeling to his left, is Commander Yoshitomo Ota. He is Taki Mori’s best friend and kaishaku. His is the most important duty. If Lieutenant Mori falters, the kaishaku must behead him immediately. If Mori proceeds successfully with his seppuku, Commander Ota must behead him with one, clean stroke to complete the ceremony.”
The Americans looked at each other, nodded numbly. Admiral Fujita glanced at the condemned man, raised a hand. One of the attending officers stepped forward, bearing a stand on which lay a dagger, loosely wrapped in paper.
“The wakizashi,” Fujita said almost to himself, voice warmed by respect. “Exactly nine-and-one-half inches in length with its point and edges razor sharp.”
Trigger felt a visceral jolt. There was perspiration on his palms.
The dagger-bearing officer prostrated himself, handing the weapon to the condemned man who received it reverently, raising it to his head with both hands, examined it, finally placing it in front of himself.
“I, and I alone,” Mori said suddenly in a crater-deep voice, “gave the order to fire on the autogiro before our honorable commanding officer’s order. For this crime, I disembowel myself, and I implore you who are present to be my witnesses.” The condemned man reached into his belt, removing a piece of paper.
“His death poem,” Fujita said out of the side of his mouth.
Mori read, “Blue sky and sea are one, merging in the distance, as life and death blend, becoming the perfect now, for eternity.” He dropped the paper. Only the condemned and the crouching kaishaku remained on the platform. Mori bowed arid then stripped his upper garments, tucking his sleeves under his knees.
“He did that to prevent himself from falling forward. This would give the kaishaku a difficult stroke,” Fujita said.
Hypnotized, Ross watched as Mori, with a steady hand took the dirk that lay before him; looked at it wistfully, almost affectionately; took several deep breaths, seemingly collecting his thoughts for the last time. He placed the point to the left side of his abdomen.
The sounds of Yonaga’s great turbines and the whine of blowers seemed to fade in the far distance, replaced by a tense, smothering silence that bent Trigger’s shoulders with its weight. Ross could only hear his own breathing as he watched Mori, jaw hardened with resolve, lips a determined slash, push on the handle. The blade, driven with agonizing slowness, released spurting blood, staining the robes. Then, pulled horizontally, it was followed by more blood, pouring over the crossed legs, running to the carpet. Now the kaishaku leaned forward, studying Mori’s every move, long, curved killing blade poised.
Fujita’s voice came from another dimension. “The horizontal cut released the ‘seat of the mind,’” he said simply. “Now the upward cut to complete disembowelment.’’
Deliberately, the blade was turned and pulled upward. Not a muscle in Mori’s face moved. Silently, he withdrew the blade and leaned forward, stretching out his neck, intestines snaking into his lap and onto the floor. At that moment, the kaishaku sprang to his feet, raised his sword overhead, and brought it hissing downward. There was a butcher-shop sound of steel cleaving meat and bone followed by a thud as the severed head fell from the body, rolling across the carpet and onto the deck, almost to Trigge
r’s feet, eyes still open. The headless body remained bent, intestines piling on the floor, blood spurting from severed jugulars in torrents.
Stifling a groan, Ross stared, never believing a human body held so much blood — blood that hosed into puddles, coagulating in sheets on the platform, on the deck, at Trigger’s feet. Every man stood rigidly, staring. Finally, the spurting stopped, but blood continued to ooze.
Ross felt Edmundson’s hand on his arm. The young man pointed down at Trigger’s feet. Mori’s head rested casually on a cheek, eyes wide open, staring up at Ross. Trigger tasted bile. Spat. Edmundson vomited.
Ross heard Hirata laugh in the far distance. He shook his head. Then Hirata’s words, sharpened by sarcasm, stabbed, shocking him from horror. “So, you have no stomach for a samurai’s death, round eyed, hairy apes.” Hirata’s chin was wet with spittle, and his eyes flashed dangerously. Obviously, the man’s bloodlust had been fanned.
Trigger felt a familiar hot tingling of the flesh, a hard pulse in his throat, sudden calmness and sharpening of the senses. He turned to the commander. “Anytime you aspire to these lofty heights,” he said, gesturing at the gory platform, “I’ll be happy to be your kaishaku — oh, mighty warrior.”
Growling, Hirata leaped from the ranks, sword hissing from its scabbard. He faced Ross, feet spread, killing blade held with two hands over his right shoulder. Roughly, strong hands pinned Trigger’s arms to his sides. The guards. Ross had never seen them.
“No!” Edmundson shouted. Then he cried out with pain as both arms were turned up behind him and held by another pair of guards. There was no other movement. Every officer remained rigid, staring at the Americans impassively.
“Admiral,” Trigger Ross shouted. “Is this bushido? Do samurai attack helpless men with swords?”
The old sailor gazed at the American, his scabrous, flat face a death’s head. “Your life — your death amount to nothing. You have been intemperate and have insulted a samurai with your sarcasm. Yes. He has a right to dispose of you. He must regain face. I warned you.”
“Butcher helpless men,” Edmundson shouted.
“This is not medieval Europe. We are not knights of the round table,” the admiral snorted. “This is a microcosm of Japan. Yes. According to ancient bushido, the commander can attack the captain, a peasant, any inferior, even to test the sharpness of his sword. He is within our code.”
“Release the odorous barbarian,” Hirata screeched. Immediately, Trigger’s arms were freed. “I would prefer to kill you while you flee. There is no sport, otherwise.”
“A weapon,” Ross shouted.
“You accepted the risk, Captain. You were aware. We discussed this possibility,” the admiral said. ‘‘The commander gave you your release. He was generous. Now he is committed to single combat.” Hirata bowed deeply, lowering the sword.
Ross leaped, reaching down, grasping the only weapon he could find. Frantically, his fingers closed on the knotted, long hair on the crown of Mori’s head. He raised the head, eyes wide open, chin slack, dripping blood. Hirata came erect, raised the sword.
Ross eyed his opponent with the practiced eye of a man who had fought for his life many times. Hirata was short, light, but appeared quick, agile. In fact, most of the Japanese appeared fast and nimble despite age. He remembered how the ancient Cmdr. Susumu Aoshima had so casually eluded his charge in the admiral’s cabin. Hirata appeared to be in his early seventies; perhaps ten years older than himself. Thus, Trigger was younger, bigger, and stronger, but the commander had the blade.
And what a blade. He felt a tremor, the sight of the razor-like edge cutting through his confidence, making him aware of the vulnerability of his flesh. And Hirata must be an expert. Could slash and cut from a distance, releasing his blood in a torrent. Disembowel him with a single stroke, sending his intestines to mingle with Mori’s. But rage submerged fear. Ross moved backward toward the platform, blood slippery under his shoes. He held Mori’s head high. Poised.
Hirata followed. Crablike. Sword held over the right shoulder. Looking for the opening. The single stroke. The Japanese way. But the American was not close enough.
Ross heard a sliding, thumping sound behind him. A quick glance. Mori’s body had slid from the platform onto its back, trailing intestines and clots of coagulated blood, coming to rest on the deck just behind him. Where was the wakizashi? Probably in the cadaver’s hand.
Ross stepped behind the body. Hirata closed. He was almost close enough. Trigger shifted his weight from side to side. Felt his feet slip in the blood. Panic. But he regained his balance and composure quickly. Hirata smiled. Crabbed forward. Ross expected the Japanese to step to the side. Come around the body. But instead, like a predator charging for the kill, Hirata leaped over the corpse, sword hissing in an arc. Ross hurled himself to the left, dropping to his left knee. The sword flashed over his head. With all his power, he swung the severed head.
The head caught the commander on the right side of his face, sending him sprawling and sliding in the blood, sword clattering into the crowd. The ranks parted and closed, concealing the sword. Then Ross realized Hirata could expect no help from his fellow officers. He had committed himself to man-to-man combat. Bushido dictated he save his face without help.
Ross came to his feet just as Hirata stood erect, eyes searching the headless body. They both saw the wakizashi at the same time, held in Mori’s half-open hand, covered with blood, resting on a heap of intestines. Both men leaped. But the American slipped, fell to his knees, cursing.
Triumphantly, the Japanese bent over the corpse, pulled the blade free, and wiped it on his uniform. He moved toward Ross.
Trigger backed, Mori’s head still clutched by the hair. Hirata advanced, knife held before him, circling. Ross felt a visceral tightening. Again, the awesome impact of cold steel. That blade was far more frightening than the sword, sending his head spinning with thoughts of the insanity of a man who could cut and slash, spilling another’s blood over himself. He had killed with a gun. A gun could kill horribly. But always at a distance. Even the sword usually killed at more than an arm’s length. But the knife was different. Intimate. Brought killer and killed together as no other weapon could. He shook his head. Tore his eyes from the blade. Found Hirata’s gleaming black depths.
The two circled Mori’s body. Ross felt a step behind him. Backed up, stepping onto the platform. A dry spot on the red cover. Solid footing at last. The commander followed, hunched forward, knife extended.
Hirata lunged. Trigger leaped to the side, swinging the head. Both men missed. Hirata was standing on the spot where Mori had disemboweled himself. The American faked a throw. The Japanese ducked. Laughed. Ross leaped to his right. The commander followed, swinging his knife, slipping in the blood.
Then Ross saw the opening he had prayed for. He swung the head in a crimson arc, catching Hirata’s knife hand, sending the blade flying. The two men crashed together, fell to the floor, shouting. Mori’s head rolled across the platform.
Ross was astonished at the small man’s strength. Over and over they rolled across the platform, flailing, shrieking into each other’s ears, blood coating them like red paste. Hirata was snarling — a wolf hungry for blood.
They were too close to punch effectively. Instead, Hirata aimed to gouge the American’s eyes. As they rolled, Ross twisted his head away from the fingers, pushing his elbows into his enemy’s stomach.
Ross felt an animal’s teeth at his throat. He twisted frantically. Forced a knee between them. Forced an opening. Pulled back a fist. Punched. Felt Hirata’s jaw collapse with the blow.
Now the American pushed the Japanese across the slippery deck, holding him with a left arm across the chest while punching with his right fist. Repeatedly, the big fist crashed into the Oriental’s face. Teeth flew. Blood ran from the commander’s nose. His mouth. The Japanese weakened. Ross heard an animal growl. It was himself. He looked up. Not a man moved. Mori’s head leered down from the platform.
&
nbsp; In a moment, Ross had the head in his hands.
Then straddling Hirata and gripping the head with both hands under the chin and around the neck he began to smash the skull into Hirata’s face. Over and over the head crashed down. Teeth, blood, and cartilage sprayed. Trigger began to chant. “Sparta, Coast Guard, Russians.” An eyeball rolled across the deck. Then another. Not knowing or caring whose eyes, Ross continued smashing.
“Captain! Captain!” Edmundson screamed. “For God’s sake. Enough! Enough! In the name of Jesus — stop!”
Ross stopped, breathing heavily. Turned. Saw nothing but a wall of blue. Turned back to the red pulp beneath him. The eyes were gone, nose a hole, mouth a red gap blowing red bubbles. Trigger gripped the head at the ears. Raised it, muttering, “Now, you son of a bitch, you don’t have to worry about saving face. You don’t have one.”
Ross heard a “No!” shouted in a distant canyon as he smashed the head down on Hirata’s face, pushing it against his enemy’s mouth and nose. He heard the Japanese gasp, felt him tremble. The trembling became spasms, then convulsions. Finally, Hirata was still.
Ross rose slowly. Standing over Hirata’s body with slumped shoulders, hands at his sides, uniform, hands, and face caked with blood, his eyes swept the ranks of silent officers. His gaze stopped on the admiral. The old man’s chin was high and square, blackness of eyes heightened by moisture. Ross spoke softly, “The price of glory is never too high, Admiral.”
SIX
4 December 1983
Despite the Naval Academy’s strong mathematical curriculum, Brent Ross still felt inadequate when facing a room full of computer equipment. Seated in Pamela Ward’s glass-enclosed office with his brief case on the floor at his side, he had a view of the adjoining equipment-jammed room. But his mind was not on computers or even Pamela Ward, seated almost within reach behind her desk. Instead, his thoughts were on his father — missing for three days, undoubtedly lost, his corpse fathoms deep, mummified by the cold depths of the Bering Sea.