Rules of The Hunt f-2

by VICTOR O'REILLY

  The folding-stock weapon was fitted with laser sight, sound suppressor, under-barrel 40mm grenade launcher, and hundred-round C-Mag. The U.S.-made C-Mag was an extremely compact, spring-loaded, plastic double-drum that fed rounds from each drum alternatively and provided over three times the capacity of a conventional magazine.

  The combination of elements added up to the most vicious personal weapon he had yet encountered, and it did not look like the kind of thing you would carry on a routine investigation.

  He leaned across the tiny cabin and spoke to Tanabu-san. The intercom would have been an easier way of overcoming the engine noise, but the fewer people who heard their discussion the better.

  "Shouldn't we do this through channels, Tanabu-san?" he said. "This is really a job for a large force of kidotai. My men are not really trained for this sort of thing."

  Chifune bent forward to meet him halfway. Supremely feminine as she was, and dressed in a tan linen suit with skirt ending well above the knee-line, she should, thought Oga, have appeared slightly ridiculous with all this firepower; but that was not the case. She handled her weapons system as if nothing were more natural.

  He could smell her perfume as she moved close. Her complexion was flawless, her deep-brown eyes, flecked with gold, compelling. She was going to be a hard woman to resist. In fact, she had already proved that she was a hard woman to resist, or he would not be in this helicopter.

  "Oga-san," Chifune said, "time is critical, and we do not have the evidence to get a large raid approved without hacking through the bureaucracy. We're following a suspicion based upon my knowledge of how the Namakas work and the one slim fact that Fitzduane-san's beeper continued to function for five minutes after the explosion. Further, where we are going is a defense installation. To get approval to raid that would mean going right to the top, which would take forever and blow security. The Namakas, you must know, have friends in the highest places. At a certain level in the power structure, it is hard to know where loyalties lie. That is the reality of money politics in Japan today. There are those who will be very happy to see Fitzduane-san dead and the status quo preserved."

  Oga gulped. The woman was making it worse. If this thing went wrong, he was risking not just his life but his career. He could imagine what his wife, a thoroughly practical woman, would say. Still, she was not here, and Tanabu-san very much was.

  "As to your competence for this kind of operation, Sergeant-san," said Chifune, "I know you are very highly thought of and that you were in the paratroops, just like Adachi-san, before you joined the police."

  Oga nodded.

  "And as to your men," continued Chifune, "I have the greatest confidence in the Tokyo MPD and I have no doubt they will do their duty with distinction."

  Oga sighed. He had no change against this woman. Without being aware of the transition, he mentally switched from his police role to his previous airborne training. They were going in and they would do what had to be done, and that was that. The pieces could be picked up afterward.

  He turned to his two detectives. He had had to leave his other men behind because of space limitations in the helicopter, but the men he had kept, Detectives Renako and Sakado, were rock-solid.

  "Check your weapons, lads," he said. "Where we're going may be hot."

  The sprawling industrial mass that was the Namaka Steel empire showed up on the skyline, and Chifune spoke an instruction to the pilot. Seconds later, the helicopter was speeding along at only a few feet above wave-top height, and Sergeant Oga was totally back into airborne mode and wondering why he had ever left. He loved this kind of shit.

  "AIRBORNE!" he shouted.

  "AIRBORNE!" repeated his men. Neither had seen military service, but if it was appropriate for the redoubtable Sergeant Oga, it was appropriate for them. Group solidarity was all important. And somehow it sounded just right.

  Chifune smiled and made a punching gesture with her right hand. "All the way," she said.

  * * * * *

  "Fitzduane-san," said Kei, "I must tell you I regret you have to die."

  "You are a brave man and an honorable man — but you must understand that I have no choice. We have an obligation to kill you. It is a matter of giri. And now it is also a matter of self-preservation. You know too much."

  Fitzduane looked at each man in turn. Two yakuza stood against the dojo wall near where his personal belongings, including the Calico, lay. The other two stood on either side of Kei Namaka. Goto stood several paces behind him.

  Fitzduane was about to remark on the insanity of the whole ghastly business, but then realized the futility of saying anything. Kei was following a different agenda. From his and the yakuza's perspective, Fitzduane was an obstacle that must be cleared away. It was not personal; it was business. And so, if you accepted this warped logic, killing him in the most interesting and entertaining way also made sense.

  "Fitzduane-san," said Kei. "You and I are both members of the Medieval Warrior's Society. We both share an interest in medieval weapons. We are both expert swordsmen. Accordingly, it seems appropriate to use this opportunity to resolve an old debate — the merits of the Japanese sword, the katana, against a Western equivalent. Katana versus rapier is what I have in mind, but I am open to suggestions."

  Fitzduane went through the options. The obvious alternative to the rapier was the sabre, but that would be no contest. Katana and sabre were both primarily designed for cutting, but in this respect, in his opinion, the katana was incomparable. It was lighter, better balanced, could be manipulated faster, and had a vastly superior cutting edge.

  No, any chance he had lay in the rapier. The rapier was designed to kill with the point. It was the type of weapon he had trained with. It was where he had the maximum advantage, and Kei must know this. The man was a murderer and a criminal, but he was not without some honor. Or perhaps honor was to the motivator but merely simple curiosity. Either way, it was academic. Motivation was no longer an issue. It was now down to the fundamentals: who would live, who would die.

  "I also thought," said Kei, "that this would be an excellent opportunity to try out the ax you so kindly gave me. It is not an original medieval weapon, of course, but the workmanship is outstanding, so I am giving it honorary status."

  He hefted the glittering weapon as he spoke and then swung it around in a circle. "If anyone is seriously wounded, they will be dispatched with this ax. If you kill my two champions, I shall fight you with the katana, but finish you with the ax. One way or another, this weapon will be blooded today. We shall field-test the quality of Irish workmanship."

  In more ways than you know, if I have half a chance, thought Fitzduane. A great deal of effort by the Ranger Operations Research people had gone into preparing the presentation ax for Kei, but Fitzduane's own decapitation was not one of the results that Fitzduane had in mind. Instead, the objectives had been twofold: to intrigue Kei Namaka — and this had certainly succeeded — and to kill Kei, if an opportunity arose.

  Under a thin coat of hardened steel, and lined with lead to resist X rays, in case Namaka security people were as routinely paranoid as most of their breed, the thick center of the double-edged ax head contained a pound of plastic explosive surrounded by five hundred miniature ball bearings. The device was totally sealed in and could not be detected by a chemical sniffer or even by removing the head from the shaft. The decorative wire binding the shaft made an excellent radio aerial. The effect when detonated would be roughly the same as two Claymore directional mines placed back-to-back.

  Unfortunately, the radio detonator — Fitzduane's watch — had been removed from him and lay across the room with his other belongings, beside the two yakuza in the corner. Well, a British Army friend of his liked to say, plans had a habit of turning to ratshit. Like it or not, he was going to have to fight with a sword. Close to the end of the twentieth century, it seemed like a ridiculous weapon to have to use, but at close quarters it would kill just as surely as a firearm.

  "Fit
zduane-san," said Kei. "I do not wish to cause you unnecessary anguish by raising false hopes by not making your situation quite clear. You may be harboring thoughts of escaping from this dojo. Forget them. Your efforts would be futile. The door to the helicopter landing pad on the roof is locked, and outside is guarded by a special team of a dozen men loyal only to my clan. Frankly, your situation is hopeless. Your only recourse is to die with dignity. I am sure you will not disappoint me."

  He bowed as he finished speaking. "The first, and I expect the last, man you will fight is Hitai-sensei. He is the instructor of the Insuji-gumi."

  Fitzduane took his time replying. Hitai was a muscular yakuza of medium height with intelligent eyes and a peacock's-head tattoo showing at his throat. He looked to be in his mid-forties. His sword was still in its scabbard in his sash. The suffix sensei was not the best of news. This was not a thug with a blade, but a master with probably a quarter of a century's experience behind him. Experience with Japanese swords, though. European techniques were very different.

  Fitzduane looked across to Kei and bowed back slightly. "Thank you for the morale-raising speech, Namaka-san," he said dryly. "I shall endeavor to meet my obligations in the appropriate way."

  Another yakuza came forward and laid a rapier on the polished floor several yards in front of Fitzduane, then backed away hastily. Fitzduane moved forward almost casually, keeping his eye on Hitai, and dropped to one knee and picked it up. Hitai did not move. He just gazed impassively at this gaijin.

  Fitzduane had learned not only to sword-fight from his father, but also something of the history of swordplay. It was Fitzduane Senior's belief that skill with a blade should be instinctive rather than consciously premeditated, so he used to talk to his young pupil while fighting, trying to both teach and distract. The result, after many years, was that Fitzduane, while fencing, fought almost entirely on instinct and by reflex, and before a major bout actually found it helpful to clear his mind and think of something other than the minutiae of tactics.

  "The first recorded sword, as far as I know, Hugo," his father had said, "was an Egyptian weapon made of bronze from the nineteenth century B.C. called a khopesh, with a long grip and a sickle-shaped blade. Actually, it was more of a knife than a sword, but it was interesting metallurgically in that it was made from one piece.

  "Around fifteen hundred B.C., longer bronze swords were produced, and these were narrow thrusting weapons up to three feet long and only half an inch wide. The thinking was right, but not the technology. Bronze is a soft metal and such a narrow length would bend, so eventually a shorter, leaf-shaped blade evolved."

  Fitzduane, rapier in hand, slowly backed away from Hitai. The yakuza looked at Kei Namaka in surprise, then advanced toward the gaijin. Hitai's katana was still in its sheath.

  "Slowly, around a thousand B.C., iron replaced bronze and the leaf shape became a little narrower and the short, broad-bladed weapon carried by the Roman legionaries, the Spanish sword, emerged. This was about two feet long and two inches wide, and it was state of the art at the time. It was designed primarily for thrusting. It was long enough to allow close-in work when carrying a shield, but no so long it bent or got in the way of your neighbor. It was worn on the right side for a quick draw unencumbered by the shield, and it was light, compact, and deadly. In contrast, the Gauls had long, slashing swords. Throughout the history of sword fighting, there has been a debate about whether the sword is primarily a thrusting or cutting weapon. Well, the Romans liked the point, and their empire lasted longer than most. They had a saying: Duas uncias in puncta mortalis est, which is worth remembering even today. ‘Two inches in the right spot is fatal.’ The thrust, in my opinion, expressed over two thousand years after the Romans came to the same conclusion, is still the most deadly technique for a sword."

  The yakuza sensei was looking impatient. The gaijin had backed away slowly but continually, and he would soon be off the wooden floor and onto the tatami mats where visitors sat. Still, he could not retreat much longer. Two yakuza guards with slung Uzis and drawn katanas stood against the wall. They would soon prod this cowardly foreigner back into action.

  There has been some mystery about what had happened during the abortive hit on Yasukini-dori outside the Fairmont and some talk about the gaijin's fighting prowess. It was now clear that the gaijin had had nothing to do with his escape. The police must have intervened unexpectedly and it was as simple as that.

  "The Romans were primarily infantry," Fitzduane's father had said. "After they lost high ground, cavalry in the form of Attila the Hun and the Goths, for example, became the dominant arm for a while, and swords became longer and more used for cutting. You needed a long sword if you were going to fight from a horse, and using the point if you are a horseman is near impossible. From a horse, you slash. The point only comes into play with a spear or lance, and even then it is largely limited to one kill. A pointed weapon sticks in its victim, and if you are on a horse, either you let go or else you get thrown."

  Kei Namaka stepped forward, his face red with anger. "Fitzduane-san, what you are doing is not permissible. You must not retreat over the tatami mats. It is not proper. Fighting must be confined to the wooden floor. If you do not follow the rules, I shall order my men to cut you down. Frankly, you are a great disappointment."

  Fitzduane stopped retreating, as if unsure what to do next. His shoulders were bent and he was carrying his sword low. There was a decided aura of defeat about him. He looked around, and the two yakuza wall guards brandished their weapons and made it clear that if he retreated any more, he would be killed. It was an imminent threat. The guards were only a couple of paces behind him. He was barely out of sword range.

  He remembered his father again. "From the end of the Roman Empire for about the next thousand years, Western swords tended to be long, straight, wide-bladed, and heavy — and used primarily for slashing. This was the case whether horsemen or infantry were involved. Either way, a long heavy weapon was favored. Disciplined fighting in shielded, mutually protecting lines, Roman-style, was no longer practiced, and a long heavy weapon was deemed necessary to cut through armor and had the added advantage of keeping your enemy a reasonable distance away.

  "Armor," Fitzduane's father had continued, "became somewhat redundant when guns were introduced in the fourteenth century, and evolving technology, thanks in no small part to the Arabs, found a way of making swords thinner and lighter. And so, in the sixteenth century, the rapier emerged. It was a lighter, narrow, two-edge-bladed weapon with a primary emphasis on killing with the point."

  Fitzduane looked up, first at Hitai and then at Kei Namaka. "Namaka-san," he said. "What we are doing is insane. All of this" — he made a gesture encompassing all in the dojo — "is unnecessary. The result can only be death and imprisonment. Why? Why? It's pointless. Even if you succeed in killing me, there are others who know what I know."

  Kei Namaka's initial anger turned to a black, sullen rage. The gaijin's behavior was no longer merely inappropriate. It was embarrassing. It was causing him, the chairman of the Namaka Corporation, to lose face. It was an unendurable humiliation. He made a gesture of contempt. "Kill the gaijin," he said in Japanese, "and take your time about it."

  20

  Tokyo, Japan

  June 28

  Because of its involvement in defense, Namaka Special Steels was a restricted military area, so Chifune ordered the Koancho pilot to circle the rooftop landing zone twice, while announcing that this was a special police inspection through the loudspeaker.

  Half a dozen armed uniformed guards could be seen on the roof and a small control tower doubtless held more, so she did not want a hot landing if it could possibly be avoided.

  The helicopter was in Tokyo MPD livery, and police authority was respected in Japan, so she did not expect any serious difficulty in actually landing. Whether she would be able to get much further than the roof was another question, but she would worry about that after they had touched down. Normall
y, her Koancho credentials could get her into just about anywhere. The security service was held in some awe.

  The reaction from the guards was unexpected. The helicopter was energetically waved away and then a booming amplified voice from the ground announced: “Warning. This is a restricted area. Do not try to land or we will open fire. I repeat. Do not try to land or we will open fire.”

  Chifune and Oga looked at each other in shock. This was unprecedented. "Extraordinary," muttered Oga. What was nearly violence-free Japan coming to when guards on a steel plant could threaten an official aircraft with lethal force? Respect for authority was going to hell.

  "Decidedly odd, Sergeant-san," said Chifune. She ordered the pilot to circle again, and perused the landing pad through a pair of pintle-mounted, high-power, gyroscopically stabilized glasses. Because of the vibration inherent in their design, helicopters were terrible things to use binoculars from, but the gyro stabilization made all the difference. The picture was rock-steady and, magnified fifteen times, the guards looked nearly close enough to touch.

  She pushed the glasses on their mount over to Oga. Koancho has all the latest surveillance toys, he reflected, as he focused the instrument on a group of guards below. Suddenly, the strange reaction of the guards made sense. "Yakuza," he said forcefully. "I recognize some of the faces. These cannot be proper Japanese Defense Agency-cleared guards. These people are criminals. What are they doing here?"

  "I expect the Namakas know the answer to that," said Chifune grimly.

  She called up Koancho control, transmitted a picture of the faces below in real time to the duty officer, and called for backup. A voice in reply told her not to try to land until reinforcements arrived. She started to argue, then noticed that a panel on top of the control tower had opened and several guards carrying something had emerged. The video link with control was still running. There was a brief warning cry from the horrified duty officer, and then a line of red tracer stabbed into the sky toward them and the radio went dead.