The Seventh Samurai

by Doug Walker

  As their strength returned, they learned to trim the raft in foul weather, to hang on frantically to windward as the large waves curled over their small vessel, and be one with the sea. And they began to talk once more and argue.

  Nat would tell Sam how Israel lived under the gun from birth. That their children, grandchildren all down the line of descendents face periods of violence with their neighbors, that the stress would someday become unbearable. And how ultimately Israel would be swamped by a burgeoning Arab population. There was simply no way out under the present circumstances. There would be no third temple. There would be no Israel.

  "I know what Israel is," Sam insisted. "I grew up there! How can we acquire enough land to defend Israel? The Russians couldn't defend Moscow against ICBMs. The Americans can't defend St. Louis. What do you want? World domination?"

  To this question, Nat was silent. Sam thought the militant group was looking for something along that line. "Tell me the plan, Nat. At least tell me your part of it. Or what was to be your part."

  "I can tell you nothing," Nat said grimly. "You know what I do, what my job is. Underwater salvage, underwater demolition. Obviously they didn't bring me along to make speeches. Let's talk about something else. Let's try for another one of those blue fish." Nat looked into the water beneath the raft and saw the blues shooting by in darting patterns. Deeper down he saw the dark circlings of the sharks.

  CHAPTER 23: The White House

  President Jim Black slammed down one of the several phones on his desk and shouted to his secretary, "Get Kipp on the line, dammit. " He was referring to his national security advisor, Kipp Pell. Seconds later the secretary pressed a buzzer. Kipp was on the line.

  "Kipp! What the hell's going on? I just got a call from a senator who tells me we have Israeli commandos and three of their assault helicopters aboard one of our carriers in the Indian Ocean. I get this from the Hill. Why don't I know about these things?"

  "Sorry, Mr. President. I don't have all the facts myself. I did hear something about it. The Israelis contacted the Pentagon and asked for some help to search for a little ship. It's a matter of illness of some sort. It's advertised as a mission of mercy."

  "Mission of mercy my ass. If Senator Tinsmith is correct, these guys are battle ready and the Navy thinks they have White House approval. Tinsmith's son is serving aboard and e-mailed him. What a way to find out! God knows what those nuts might do. Kipp, get those guys under wraps and tell the Navy there is no White House approval. The Israelis slipped this one in through the back door. Get back to me, Kipp. Minutes, not hours."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Remember," the president shouted for emphasis, "Our ass is way out on this one and if it stays there, someone's going to kick it." He clicked the phone dead on his desk and took a deep breath. "Mary," he shouted, "get me the Israeli prime minister on the horn." With all the electronic devices available, Black preferred to shout to his secretary. It gave him a chance to release pent-up pressure of which he had a good supply.

  For the next five minutes he busied himself with the ever-present task of signing letters and notes. Then the buzzer, and Mary Fiedler shouted from the outer office. "It's Prime Minister Baker."

  "Prime minister," he said, lifting the phone, "how are you this fine day?" He had no idea if it was morning, evening, or night in the Mideast.

  "Just fine, Mr. President, I was just thinking of you." The two had not developed a first-name relationship. Differences erupted frequently. They did have a common interest in the Southeastern Athletic Conference, the Atlantic Coast Conference, the Big South, Duke, Old Dominion, North Carolina, Georgia and a few other teams that they would sometimes discuss at length, but there was a certain arms-length feeling between the two. "Did you get the case of wine I sent over?"

  "Yes, a good bouquet, an interesting wine. You're doing some great things over there," the President said, as he recalled that it could only be consumed icy cold and as quickly as possible. He had sent the bulk of the case to a charity auction in Rockville. "I understand we have some of your troops aboard one of our aircraft carriers. I believe it's the fleet carrier in the Indian Ocean."

  "Yes, I want to thank you for that. It's a big help to us, our little nation. We're looking for a freighter called the Pride of Dakar. The son of a very sick man is aboard. It would be nice if we could unite him with his father at this tragic hour."

  "Everyone likes to help out in time of need. A freighter generally can be reached by radio or located in some port of call. It seems to me a simple request would have done the job. Our sailors are capable of keeping their eyes open for a freighter. We could even launch an air search of some kind."

  "Your Navy has been assisting with an informal air search, I'm pleased to say. But no luck yet."

  "I thought that might be the case. I don't know how you arranged this, Prime Minister, but somehow your people short-circuited my office. We weren't in the loop."

  "It's not that important, Mr. President. A simple mercy mission. It happens every day."

  "Yes, I know about mercy. Except you have assault helicopters and armed commandos on one of our naval vessels. I'm afraid we will have to get them off immediately, and get them off in a way that doesn't offend any of our neighbors of allies. I don't know how you got them on, but maybe you can get them off in the same way. I'm trying not to jump to conclusions on this one, but my informant was a very angry senator who heads a very strong committee, and he could cause me a lot of embarrassment."

  "I understand," Baker said flatly. "I meant to call you on this because there is something more to it." The President rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Here it comes, whatever it is. "There's been a theft of some very sensitive materials that could have wide-ranging international implications. We believe that material is aboard that freighter. I happen to have briefed our ambassador in Washington on this matter. He's standing by right now and can be in your office in twenty minutes to give you the story. We're in a rotten spot, Mr. President."

  "If I'm in on this, I want the whole story, unvarnished, with the bark on. Don't set me up for a surprise down the line."

  "Our back are to the wall, Mr. President. I know I should have called you earlier, but we tried to contain the situation. Our ambassador will be there within minutes. Back door?"

  "By all means. Have him come through the Old Executive Office building. No limousine. In fact a cab would be best."

  "You got it." Prime Minister Baker cradled his phone, then put through the call to Washington himself.

  CHAPTER 24: Rescue

  Their last night at sea, a hard rain fell. It hissed as it hit the water around the raft and pounded like bullets on their cloth protection. They huddled under the shelter between the thwarts and ate turtle eggs embedded in deep yellow fat. Fresh water was plentiful. Their boils were vanishing and their blisters had healed. The sea was their larder. In the gray dawn they heard the mewing of wheeling gulls and a fish splashed near their raft. The quickening light brought ships, U.S. naval vessels. They had sailed among them during the night.

  "We're saved," Sam shouted. "God damn, Nat, we're saved." He jumped to his feet and began to dance. He waved the gaff in the air and shouted, but the ships were too distant to hear. But they would be seen, it was all a matter of time. Sun glinted the water, and a grim-faced Nat Lowe pulled the revolver from the tight pocket on the side of the raft. "I think they see us," Sam shouted. "I think I see someone on that ship waving to me!"

  "Look at me," Nat said.

  "What is it?" Sam asked. "Do you see them waving, too?" He turned toward his lover.

  "I have a gun under this cloth, Sam. I'm sorry but I have to shoot you."

  A smile, then a look of wild disbelief crossed Sam's face. Then he realized Nat was flat serious. "No, Nat, please not that." The boy started to turn in an appeal to the nearby vessels.

  Nat fired two shots, one in the chest, the second closer to the stomach. He reached forward and twisted Sam's legs, rolling him in
to the sea. He jumped as if to grab him, but actually he was dropping the gun into the water. He saw the body hesitate on the surface, then start spiraling down, saw the glint of teeth and the flash of fin. The patient sharks began their feast. The water tinged pink.

  On the bridge of the carrier, a signalman reported to the officer of the deck. "Sir, we have the report of a life raft in the water with one or two men aboard. It is stenciled with the name, Pride of Dakar.

  Both Nat Lowe and the raft were carried to the deck of the carrier by helicopter, the USS Birdsong, where Nat stood on shaky legs, his body stinking from the days at sea, his clothing filthy rags. A few of the Israeli commandos, including the major in command, crowded to get a look at him.

  The executive officer of the carrier said the obvious, "You're very lucky to be alive."

  "I know it," he answered, then looked with hollow eyes at the group gathering around him, puzzled that some seemed to be Israeli military.

  "We'd better get you to sickbay," the exec added. He was about to issue the order when the Israeli major intervened.

  "This is the reason we're here, to take care of the Pride of Dakar. We have a doctor. Let us take him to our quarters. We might find out where the ship is."

  "You are an Israeli?" the exec asked Nat.

  "I am."

  "It's OK with me," he said to the major. "Take good care of him. He's been through a lot. I'll have the raft cleaned up, It smells like shit."

  The Israelis moved off with Nat in their midst. They helped him along to the big room where they had set up headquarters, with bedrolls on the floor. Once inside, the major turned to Nat and demanded, "Where's the ship? Where's the Pride of Dakar?"

  "I'd like to sit down," Nat said. A chair was brought and Nat slowly lowered his reeking body into it. Someone in the crowd suggested a shower.

  "Where's the ship," the major demanded once more.

  Nat shook his head slowly, his eyes on the deck. "I don't know."

  "Where was it when you saw it? How'd you get here? Did it sink?"

  "Days ago. Don't know how many. We were far south. This young man, Sam, fell over. No one nearby but me. I cut away the raft and went in after him. No time to raise an alarm. By the time we were in the raft, the ship was gone. That's it."

  "That's not it," said the major. "For one thing, where is this Sam?"

  "Shot himself this morning, dropped over the side. Went out of his head."

  "Was he the young man, the student? His father's in the Knesset?"

  "That's him," Nat acknowledged.

  "And you. Who are you?"

  "Nat Lowe, merchant seaman. I was one of the crew."

  "Where's the ship bound and what's its cargo?" the major snapped.

  "We were going to India, I think, and then to Indonesia. I was just a crew member."

  "And the cargo?"

  "Mixed, I suppose. I'm not an officer. I was a crewmember, a seaman. I can't answer your questions. I'd like to rest."

  "Plenty of time to rest after you've answered all my questions. I know who you are and what you've been up to. I need details, and you will answer my questions," the major's voice grew angry, "one way or the other."

  "Shall I make him talk, Sir?" a sergeant asked.

  "We'll give him one more chance to answer on his own, then the trouble starts. You'd better start talking, Nat!" The major felt he had an advantage if he could keep Nat in a weakened condition, confused from the hell at sea and possibly distraught over the boy's death. "We'd better take him into a small room."

  "Sir," a voice boomed from the edge of the group.

  The major looked around and said, "What?"

  "Sir," the booming voice said again. The source was a large black man in a U.S. Navy uniform. "We cannot have men abused, or tortured aboard this ship."

  "Who are you?" the major questioned.

  "I'm Lieutenant Harry Burgess. This man needs treatment."

  "Well, Lieutenant, I'm a major in the Israeli army and the executive officer put me in charge of this man. You'd best be on your way." He turned back to Nat and was about to help him into a smaller room when Burgess spoke again.

  "We run this vessel according to the book and it does not include abuse, or torture. This man needs attention and I'll see that he gets it." He stepped to the hatchway, opened it and told a marine guard that he needed two marines to help him. Then he folded his arms and looked at the major who was at a momentary loss. The door opened again and a marine private and a lance corporal came in. "Take this man we picked up to sickbay," Burgess ordered, "then see that he's placed under guard."

  The marines looked at the crowd of surly Israelis, then looked at Burgess. Finally, one said, "Aye, Aye, Sir." They made their way to the ragged Nat Lowe and escorted him out of the room.

  "You'll regret this, Lieutenant," the major said.

  "I'll regret nothing," he shot back. "We've had enough trouble in Iraq and Gitmo with prisoners being ill treated. That's a lesson we've learned." He opened the door once more and asked the marine guard if he could find an officer, then resumed his arms folded stance, staring at the major. Moments later a marine major entered the room.

  "You asked for me, Lieutenant?" he questioned.

  "Yes, these Israelis were about to try to beat some information out of the survivor we just picked up. There's been some flap about them being on board. I don't think they should have weapons, but I'll leave that up to you. In the meantime, I'll report to the exec." He saluted and was gone.

  "I'm Major Punt Sakler," the marine officer said to the crowd at large. "Who's in charge here?"

  The Israeli major stepped forward. "I am, and we demand the survivor of the Pride of Dakar be returned to us. He has information that is vital to the security of Israel and it could be important to your country."

  "I see," Major Sakler said. "The lieutenant will doubtless pass your concerns on to the exec. In the meantime, you men seem loaded for bear. I think we all better stack our weapons over near that bulkhead." He made a motion with his hand.

  "We won't give up our weapons," the Israeli officer asserted. There was grumbling among his men.

  "On a U.S. Navy ship, with my men on board, there's no way that you can keep those weapons. They'll be returned to you when you leave. There seems to be a question about why you are on board and what your purpose might be. It hasn't been made clear. Stack the weapons."

  The Israeli major turned to his men and said, "Stack the weapons."

  ***

  Nat Lowe had bathed, been checked over by medics and put to bed between clean sheets. A marine guard was placed outside the door. For all his ordeal, he was in remarkably good shape, but now he knew the Israelis had him and they knew something was inside his head. If they didn't get it today, during this hour, they would fly him back to Israel, probably tomorrow at the latest and work on him. Brutal torture? Probably not. Sophisticated drugs would probably best serve their purposes. But would they be able to unlock the secrets in his head? Learn the destination of the freighter and tap into the Japanese connection? He didn't know everything, but he knew more than enough. After a light meal he fell into a fitful sleep.

  A friendly Israeli came sauntering along the passage to where the marine guard sat on a low stool. "How is our survivor?" he asked.

  "I think he's just fine. The corpsmen gave him a clean bill of health. I suppose he'll sleep for a week."

  "That's great. This is a wonderful ship. So big, like a city in itself. He turned to go, then doubled back in a cat-like move, and pushed a long, slender blade through the marine's back and into his heart. Then he was in the cabin, blade in hand, bending over his intended victim. "Sorry. Nat," he whispered, then plunged the blade under Nat's arm and through the heart. He made no effort to withdraw it, but simply wiped the prints with the sheet.

  Not long after, when the two bodies were found, it was determined that the murder weapon was a meat skewer, like those commonly used for shish kabob. The wake of the Pride of Dakar wou
ld not be traced through Nat Lowe. The organization with no name had men strategically place here, there and everywhere. And just before the order was given for the third holocaust, many of the loyal would take cover and a multitude of others would die.

  CHAPTER 25: The Tokyo Detective

  Taro Watanabe slept late the day after his meeting with Akira Yoshimoto. He awoke to find his boss had gone to greet old friends at the Tokyo police department. Watanabe grabbed a bowl of miso soup and rice at the hotel coffee shop. Then he too headed for the Tokyo police department. He had long intended to meet with his counterpart, the man who headed the Tokyo flying squad that concerned itself with crimes by and against foreigners.

  He found the person he was looking for, Detective Goro Maeda, in his office and the two discussed their respective jobs. The Tokyo area, or the Kanto, contained thousands of foreigners from many different countries. Maeda's largest job seemed to be simply keeping track of enough interpreters to handle the problems that seemed to erupt daily.

  Many third-world workers had either come to Japan legally, or slipped in unnoticed in search of high paying jobs. Those who came legally often hung on illegally after tourist or work visas expired. Bar girls and dancers - prostitutes - were shipped in by the hundreds by the Japanese mafia, the yakuza, from such places as the Philippines, Thailand, Malaysia and other countries, even Australia. Everyone was anxious to grab their slice of the Japanese economic miracle, which had crested some years back. The miracle had grown old and moved on, now boom times seemed in store for China. Watanabe found his problems in the Osaka area dwarfed by those of big, earthy, seamy Tokyo.

  "I wouldn't trade places with you Maeda-san, for all the yen in the Bank of Japan. Confusion seems to be a way of life in Tokyo."

  "From the outside we must seem in chaos, but one case at a time. We straighten things out. I hope to visit Osaka some day soon. I'll look you up. Maybe you can show me the sights."

  "I'll look forward to it," Watanabe replied, if you're a tourist, you'll probably be more interested in Kyoto and Nara. One guidebook tells tourists if you ever get to Osaka, get on a train for Kyoto instantly. We do have a large castle, but even that is overshadowed by the one they use in the samurai films farther west."