The Seventh Samurai

by Doug Walker

  "Would you like a drink? I have whisky, beer and sake, and a wet bar." Yoshimoto rose and walked to the wall where he slid back a section of walnut paneling.

  "It would be naughty of me, but I'd like to try whisky," Yoko said shyly. She was dying for a drink. Her hangover still lingered despite the aspirin she had been taking throughout the day. She watched as Yoshimoto mixed two whiskies and ginger ale. She wished he had used more whisky. If she was going to bed with this old man, as she had planned to, she would prefer to be drunk. "Oh, it looks so good," she gushed. "So refreshing. I suppose you know all about drinking, Yoshimoto-san."

  Yoshimoto looked at her and smiled. "Moderation is the most important thing about drinking and the most important rule in life." He handed her the drink and said, "Cheers."

  "I just knew you spoke English," Yoko said, then took a long, quick gulp of her drink.

  "A little," Yoshimoto said. Yoko downed her drink and Yoshimoto guessed that this was her first experience with whisky and was about to caution her when she stood up. She seemed to be unsteady and took a step toward the old man.

  "I feel a little dizzy," she said, then lurched into his arms. "Please steady me." Yoshimoto put his arms around her and she responded with her arms around him. The he felt her knee move between his legs. A moment later he was on top of her on the floor and they were undressing one another.

  Later that night he escorted her to her room and she insisted he come in. She led him to her narrow bed and proclaimed her love for him.

  Still later, in his office, where he spent the night, Yoshimoto had a feeling of elation and joy, but it was mixed with caution. He was convinced that he had won the heart of the young lady, but if Kyoko Suzuki learned of the affair she would come down on him like a hammer. This was no time to take risks. He could go to Kyoko, confess his sin, ask forgiveness and send Yoko away. She would forgive him and the problem would be solved.

  But the tender, innocent Yoko, was eager for his love and committed to him with the passion that only burns in the young. He must have her again.

  But he would be cautious. Caution had ruled his life from the early days.

  CHAPTER 29: Sea Chase

  Admiral Guy Blades had picked the Belknap class, guided missile cruiser, the USS Winslow, as his flagship, partly because it had accommodations and partly because it would be positioned better than any other vessel to intercept the Pride of Dakar. Anyway, that was his best guess. The vessel was considerably east of the Philippines and west of the Yap islands. The day before they had been steaming in the company of a Knox-class frigate, the Kirby, but it had gone off at 25 knots to take up its own station. Now the Winslow was alone in a vast sea, alone like hundreds of other U.S. and Australian vessels large and small, each hoping to find the needle that was the Pride of Dakar in the immense haystack of salt water.

  Blades had been sipping coffee and glancing through a copy of National Geographic when his aid, Lieutenant Cheddar banged once on the door and entered immediately. Cheddar had a knack of being just as polite as he had to be, no more, no less. One place he didn't want to be was in the Navy, and the worst place he could imagine was in the Navy and at sea, the circumstances in which he found himself.

  Regardless, Cheddar was always cheerful. His father had been an admiral who was determined to enjoy a second naval career vicariously through his son. Cheddar rebelled, but only part way. He had an underlying feeling of loyalty toward his father. He had refused to enter the Naval Academy, and had attended Brown University instead. But he had joined the Naval ROTC unit, which obligated him to serve a minimum amount of time. He had been shameless about having his father call in IOUs to get him on Blades' staff, under the false assumption that he would spend a couple of years in Hawaii and then resign to pursue money, comfort and young ladies.

  To his dismay, he found himself at sea, confined to a 547-foot-long cruiser that carried under 500 officers and men, including the flag staff. His father, on the other hand, retired to Coronado, California, living on reruns of "Victory at Sea," couldn't have been more delighted.

  Cheddar tossed the minimum salute to the admiral and reported. "They think they've seen the Pride of Dakar, Sir. Only it's repainted white and blue and renamed Glory."

  "That's the first break we've had, Cheddar. Where the fuck is it?" Blades put aside his national Geographic.

  "South of here. Apparently it came through the Celebes Sea. It's steering wide of the Philippines and heading our way."

  Blades smiled. "Son of a bitch, I was right. Does the captain have anything to say?"

  "Captain Horne says there's no problem. There's no way we can miss the Glory, or the Pride of Dakar, whatever it's called."

  "He always was too optimistic," Blades frowned. Blades and John Horne had been classmates at the academy. It was now obvious that Horne had risen as high as he would go through the Naval command. There was resentment on Horne's part that Blades was an admiral aboard his ship, which resulted in tension between the two officers.

  "Do you think we should pull other ships off station to intercept the Glory, Sir?"

  "I don't know. Horne's probably right. We do have the New Threat upgrade and every imaginable electronic gimmick aboard this ship. We even have a chopper." He suddenly looked at Cheddar. "Just how certain are they that this Glory is actually the Pride of Dakar?"

  Cheddar glanced at his scribbled notes. "Dimensions, general profile. Also, the Glory's owners seem phony. There is such a ship and she is insured, but everything within recent days. Efforts to contact the owners have been fruitless. The Glory's paint job is new.

  "Also, she seems to have no itinerary, no ports of call. The first spotting was by luck. Some fishermen in the Makassar Strait saw her and mentioned it to one of our people because she was out of the shipping lanes. Then a patrol plane took low-level pictures south of Mindanao."

  "If it is our quarry, the patrol plane might have caused her to change course," Blades said.

  "It did," Cheddar continued. "She was seen later by a trawler. She was headed our way."

  "Very good," Blades nodded. "Very good. Any speed or indication when she might reach us?"

  "Tomorrow toward sunset. There's a good chance we could send out planes and find her yet today."

  "Yes, we could," the admiral replied. "But we don't have orders to sink her, although it might be the best idea. And harassment from the air might make her change course during the night. We don't know how fast she can travel. Better to wait. We can't risk concentrating ships in our area. We have a net out and moving ships off station would merely weaken the net. Tomorrow, at first light, we can start and air search, and there'd be no chance of escape. Get me a rundown on the weather for the next few days."

  "Aye, aye, Sir." Cheddar did what passed for a salute and returned to the bridge.

  When he was gone, Blades picked up the National Geographic, but could not concentrate. He was thinking of Cheddar. He couldn't help but like the young man, but there was something lax about him, not the stuff a taut ship was made of. As a young officer, Blades had served under Cheddar's father. The old man had variously been called "The Big Cheese," or "Hard Cheese." The world was changing and with it the navy.

  He took a long, hard look at the barometer on the cabin wall. The glass was dropping. Weather ahead.

  ***

  Captain Silverman had the entire crew assembled on the forward deck. The Glory was dead in the water. "Men," he began, "we have a problem on our hands. Not necessarily fatal, though. The entire U.S. Navy is looking for us and we are far from our destination."

  "How did they find out," someone shouted.

  "Our prime minister, I suppose," the captain continued. "Naturally, the Mossad is turning everything upside down. They learned about the Pride of Dakar. Probably guessed we'd try to disguise it. Have been watching for a ship that meets the general description. Checked on the ownership of the Glory. Found it's legitimate, but fishy. And as you know, we've been buzzed by aircraft. Very li
kely they took pictures. So now they know generally where we are and generally which direction. I don't think they know our destination. Sparks has been monitoring almost around the clock. There's a lot of radio traffic. They are looking for us and they seem puzzled. So there's where we stand."

  "You aren't thinking about giving up, are you?" a bearded young man questioned.

  "Noch nisht (not yet) and probably never," Silverman laughed. "It was just glick (luck) to have no problems so far. The reason we're here, the reason we've made certain modifications, is to avoid capture. We have several carefully thought out options. We're doing one of them right now."

  "What's that?" came a question.

  "Sitting. There are no ships or planes in this part of the ocean. The people looking for us expect us to be moving, expect us to adhere to some kind of schedule. Well, we can sit and let them sweat. Of course we're shut down. No power can be used except for radio. No fans, no air conditioning." He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped sweat from his forehead. "Anyone who wants to can sleep on deck. It'll be hot, but there's plenty of water. Stay hydrated."

  "How long do we sit, Captain?"

  "I don't know. Sparks monitors the radio. We keep an eye on the weather and we wait. There are other options that may come along later. That will mean work, a hard, fast work, for every man. This is a good time to explain and get our ducks in a row. Our mission remains the same: The salvation of Israel and to build the third temple. Something for everyone."

  ***

  Late the following afternoon Admiral Blades went to the bridge of the Winslow, a place he usually tried to avoid. It could be awkward being on board a ship like this, a single vessel with the fleet spread in a line hundreds of miles long, waiting and watching. Captain Horne was in command of the Winslow, and Blades was careful not to step on his toes, or override his authority. Horne was on the bridge when Blades came in, trailed by Lieutenant Cheddar.

  "Any news of our quarry?" Blades asked Captain Horne.

  "Nothing. According to our information the Glory should be just a few miles south of us. We've had aircraft scour the area, but no trace. She could have gone any which way, even south."

  "You're suggesting a wider search pattern?" Blades asked.

  "No, Guy, we wouldn't know where to look. We could move the entire fleet south, though. Hunt them down. We know she's down there someplace."

  "And she knows we're up here, John. If we move the fleet it's possible she could hide somewhere and pass us by. We have to hang in here on full alert."

  Captain Horne scratched his chin. He didn't like commanding a flagship. He would have preferred his own ship no matter how humble, far from the top gold. "You think whoever's in charge of this Glory knows we're looking for them?"

  "I do. I can't believe otherwise. We've got enough radio traffic from our ships at sea and Naval air, plus ground-based air, to make the casual listener believe it's Armageddon time. It doesn't take a genius, and this Captain Silverman is a first-rate man."

  Horne scowled. "He still has a merchant tub and a mishmash of a crew. Hell, he might have broken down and be sitting someplace dead in the water. Maybe he can't even run, and for damn sure, he can't hide."

  Blades was tired of the conversation. Ever since he had known Horne the man had an attitude problem, a cynical outlook on the world. Such people found homes in the navy, but they didn't make it a better service. Graduation from the Naval Academy carried with it certain guarantees: no matter how big of a screw-up you were they would keep you and promote you to a certain level. Horne had hit his level and was painfully aware of it.

  "We have to sit and we have to wait. We might have a problem in keeping up morale, keeping the men interested, keeping them alert. We mustn't let Glory slip by us, us or any of our ships. There's too much at stake," Blades said.

  "If she comes this way she won't get by the Winslow," Horne boasted. "We have Norden surface search and every kind of electronic detection device. All in top condition and manned by a well-drilled crew. That scow doesn't have a chance against the Winslow. I don't know about the rest of the fleet."

  Blades smiled. He would rather see some positive action than hear a few words, but he said, "I admire your spirit, Captain. I understand we have some weather moving in."

  "Yes, overcast, certainly, maybe rain squalls, but we have eyes in the dark."

  The admiral said goodbye and, still trailed by Cheddar, took a stroll around the deck. The weather was still good, although a few clouds were appearing on the horizon. Gentle swells, no more than three feet high, caressed the Winslow."

  The vessel differed from many other missile cruisers because it had a single missile launcher forward and a five-inch gun mount toward the after part of the ship. This permitted missile stowage in the bow section, while allowing for a helicopter hangar and platform aft of the superstructure. With four Babcock and Wilcox boilers and two General Electric geared turbines, the Winslow had a range of 8,000 miles at 14 knots, or 2,500 miles at 30 knots. A top speed of 32.5 knots was possible.

  "The two men were on the fan tail, just beyond the five-inch gun. "Cheddar," the admiral asked, "do you enjoy life at sea?"

  "I was a Navy brat, Admiral. My father was also a Navy brat, but he took to it a little better than I did. His father was a CPO. So he outstripped his dad. I see no way to do better than mine. Not even as well. I'm not a lifer."

  "I suppose that answers my question," Blades said. "Traditions can be rather trying and dedicated people are bores." His eyes swept the skies and the gathering clouds. "I'd say we'll be in the soup by morning." He dismissed Cheddar and returned to his cabin to take a nap.

  Blades slept very little. Just keeping a fleet this size at sea was a problem. His flag staff numbered only eighteen - six officers including himself and Cheddar and twelve enlisted men. With this number they had to monitor ships spread over much of the Pacific Rim. A flotilla, by comparison, would be simple to control. Already they had lost a helicopter south of Guam, the pilot missing. A repair ship had collided with a Knox-class frigate in the Truk Islands, taking the frigate and its almost 300 men temporarily out of action.

  Blades' flag staff was working watch for watch, one on, one off. His radio communications in the flag offices were far superior to the Winslow itself. The flag staff had its own mess and generally kept to itself, not mingling with the officers and men of the Winslow, except for Cheddar, who was Blades' personal aid and the one he relied on to keep him informed about what was going on on the Winslow.

  The problem was that nothing was going on. The Glory had definitely been sighted to the south, whether it was the Pride of Dakar in disguise, or not. At its worst speed it should have been intercepted by now, or at least sighted by plane or located on radar. But there was nothing. Could it have turned south again? Should he draw the noose tight and concentrate on the Glory? What if it wasn't the Pride of Dakar? These things weighed on Blades' mind as he lay half awake in the gray dawn that followed the long night.

  Three sharp bangs on his cabin door were followed by the rattle of the handle. He had slipped the catch on so Cheddar couldn't get in. Blades stumbled across the deck in his skivvies and unlatched the door. "Morning, Cheddar."

  "We've been underway for some time, Admiral. I'm sorry, Sir. I was sleeping and no one alerted me."

  Blades paused and listened. Yes, they were underway and possibly even gaining speed. He should have sensed the vibrations, a stepped-up tempo of a vessel underway. Maybe he was getting old. "What's happened, Cheddar?"

  "Distress signal, Sir. A merchant ship."

  Blades felt his temper suddenly rise. "What the fuck! We can't leave our station for a merchant's distress signal! What's that half-witted Horne think he's doing?"

  "It's the Glory, Sir."

  "The Glory," Blades said slowly. Then looked straight at Cheddar and asked, "The Glory is sending a distress signal?"

  "Maybe, Sir. We're revved up to flank speed."

  Blades began pulling on his
clothes and gathering his thoughts. "Caution to the wind, eh? Flank speed. This was a bona fide call, Cheddar?"

  "I'm not an old salt, Admiral. I don't know. It seems a trifle bizarre."

  "Well, is there a ship out there?" he shouted, as he tied his shoes.

  "They have something on radar. In fact they have two or three things on radar. They don't seem to know what they all are."

  "With our equipment they don't know what they're looking at?" Blades said in amazement.

  "There seems to be some mystery, Sir."

  Blades was out the cabin door like a shot, with Cheddar in his wake. John Horne was not on the bridge. "Where in hell is the captain?" Blades demanded of the officer of the watch.

  A frightened ensign snapped a salute and stammered, "He's on the bow, Admiral, Sir."

  "What the fuck is he doing on the bow?" Blades questioned, attempting to lower his voice.

  "Watching for the Glory, Sir."

  "You mean we're in danger of colliding?" Blades asked sarcastically.

  "I don't know, Sir. We're locked into the distress signal."

  Blades nodded grimly. There was no reason to join Horne on the bow. He made a fast pace for the radar room. The room was jammed with personnel, all systems were manned - the Raytheon and Lockheed radars, the Norden surface search, the General Electric-Hughes sonars, even the Western Electric and Sperry fire control units.

  The admiral sought out the officer in charge and asked to speak with the man who had first spotted the Glory on radar. He was led to a chief petty officer who was still busy at his screen. "Chief, the admiral would like to know about this contact."

  The chief wheeled and faced the admiral. He was obviously not cowed by the heavy gold. His eyes lit up when he saw he was facing someone with sound judgment. "I think it's a ship, Sir. But there's some other crap out there. I'm not ready to swear to anything at this point."

  "You think it's a ship, Chief! What the fuck is all this equipment? Radar or a video game? Can you tell a ship when you see one?"

  The chief was unfazed by the admiral's bluster. Fifteen years ago he had served as a seaman on a destroyer the admiral had captained. "Yes, Sir. It looks like a ship and the radio people have verified that the distress signal is coming from the same location. But the truth is, there's something odd about this blip, although it's just a feeling I have. Also, I'd swear there's been some chaff fired out there somewhere. And we have something else that seems to be a ship, this one moving. But it's not a clear blip and no one can pick up the engine noise."