Eyes of the Emperor

by Graham Salisbury

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, you said something. What was it?”

  I tried to keep glaring at him but had to turn away when his eyes said, Go on, get sassy one more time and you'll see what your superiors have to say about that.

  “I said fine.”

  Smith smirked. “One more thing—watch for the dog. When you see it's obvious that he's located you, I want you to reveal yourself—looking mean. I will then command you to halt and raise your hands over your head—but you will ignore me and keep up the menace. Can you do that?”

  “Sure. You want me to act like I'm trying to challenge you, or kill you.”

  “Exactly. And the dog's going to pick up on it. You're going to trigger something deadly in him.”

  From the corner of my eye I could already see something deadly watching every move I made. I was the fuse; he was the bomb.

  “After a short struggle, stop resisting. He'll keep ripping at the sleeve until I call him off. You will be subdued. The dog will have won. Are we clear?”

  “Clear.”

  I ran into the jungle.

  “Thirty minutes,” Smith called after me. “Remember, hide like your life depends on it!”

  The coveralls and sleeves flopped under my arm as I ran.

  I came to a low spot where the grasses grew tall. There was a hidden pond that I couldn't see until I broke through the bushes and my feet were sloshing through the muck at the edges. I stopped and stepped back. I needed a stick.

  I found a fallen branch and broke off part of it. Out in the water, two lumps looked back at me. Alligator eyes. But it was the snakes I worried about, because they could be anywhere. I slapped at the weeds around the water, cringing just thinking about stepping on a water moccasin. Snick! One bite, you could die, way out here.

  There were no snakes.

  But there was that alligator.

  So I kept running, slapping away tree branches and spiky-leafed palmettos, racing down the skinny length of the island. When I found shallow water I ran into it to try to hide my trail. I even stopped to tie palmetto leaves to my boots, making like duck feet, hoping that, too, might hide my scent. But they fell off after a couple of minutes.

  I came up onto a stand of tall grass at the edge of another pond, this one larger than the last. It seemed like a good place to hide. Deep enough. Water to wash away my scent. No eyes floating like lumps.

  This is the place.

  But what I did wasn't smart.

  First, I struggled into the coveralls and pulled on the attack sleeves; then, with my stick, I waded into the waist-high scummy brown pond.

  I poked around in the marsh grass.

  Boof!

  A dark water moccasin shot out of the weeds and curled across the water into a bank of grass beyond. Haaa! My guts churned.

  When my heart slowed, I took a deep breath and worked my way deeper into the grass where the snake had come from, whacking everything in front of me.

  This is insane.

  Using the stick, I turned back and lifted the grass I'd trampled, so I wouldn't leave a visible trail leading to my hiding place. When I got into the middle of the island of grass, I flattened down into the shallow water on my stomach and brushed the grass aside so I could see back to where Kooch would come from. Every part of me but the top of my head was submerged in the muck of brown water.

  Flea-sized black bugs trailed up the reeds inches from my face. The smell was like the swampy stink that came out of our sink on Ship Island. Mosquitoes on the surface scattered as murky warm water oozed into my coveralls and soaked my clothes.

  I waited, swallowed by a ferocious silence.

  Gave me the willies.

  For the first time I thought about what I'd done—placed myself in a bad situation. When Kooch found me I wouldn't have any solid ground to dig my feet into. But worse than that, the padding was already soaking up water like a sponge. It would bog me down. I'd be at the mercy of chance. That just wasn't good enough.

  But it was too late. No time.

  I peeked through the grass, considering maybe, just maybe, Kooch wouldn't be able to follow my scent into the water and walk on by.

  Not a chance.

  Never in my life had I been as alert to what was around me. Everything registered. If something was there, I would notice it—bugs, snakes, scorpions, alligators, man, or dog.

  I cringed at the thought of getting more dog bites. Unless Smith was fast, Kooch would tear through the soggy padding quickly and easily. And Smith hadn't given me a neck guard. I was as exposed as a chicken on a chopping block.

  I swallowed dirty water while thinking that thought and choked on it, spitting the stinky bits of bugs and mud out while trying to stay quiet.

  Something moved in the trees.

  I held my breath, sank down.

  A slinking shadow.

  Then Smith.

  Kooch stopped and raised his head, his ears cocked for ward.

  Smith came up behind him, glancing into the bushes, the trees, the buggy swamp—looking everywhere I wasn't. But he knew Kooch was on to me.

  Smith squatted and took off the leash. Why I even hoped that dog might not find my scent was beyond me.

  Kooch loped ahead, sniffing the ground exactly where I'd walked. Smith jogged after him.

  My scalp prickled. The water went cold as my fear spread. Bad idea, hiding here. Bad, bad, bad.

  Kooch knew I was close.

  He followed his nose, sweeping over the sand, faster, faster, Smith plunging after him, shoving branches away, jumping over dead trees.

  Kooch stopped suddenly, a low growl rumbling in his throat.

  “Watch him,” Smith whispered. “Find the enemy.”

  Kooch grew more agitated, going one way, then another, then coming back, finding the scent, losing it, closing in, and in, and in.

  My heart was pounding so hard I thought Kooch might hear it.

  “Good boy, watch him, now.”

  Kooch suddenly inhaled the scent.

  So close now.

  He knew.

  When he was almost on me, I whooshed up out of the grass, dripping with muddy water—a monster. “Ahhh!”

  Kooch jumped back. He raised his lips and snarled, a terrifying sound, something deep, dark, and ancient.

  I staggered toward dry land, trying to get out of the mud, the weight of the padding doubled.

  I needed solid ground. Fast.

  Kooch ran parallel to me, a thin wall of grass and water separating us.

  “Halt!” Smith yelled. “Put your hands over your head!”

  But I kept going, like Smith had told me to do, now almost out of the water.

  “Get him! Kill!”

  Kooch sprang ahead, charging.

  Before I slogged free of the weeds, I turned and braced for the impact, because I knew he was going to hit like a truck. His iron jaws would rip me to pieces if I didn't do this right.

  He leaped, up and up.

  Flying.

  I raised my left arm as he came down on me. His jaws clamped on the padded sleeve. I staggered under the weight, like a hundred-pound bag of sand tumbling down on me.

  Down, down.

  Falling back.

  I hit water. Went under.

  Kooch was attached to my arm, yanking me one way and the next.

  I came up for air, pushing back, his jaws still clamped on the sleeve. I tried to roll away, to get out from under him. But he had the power, all of it.

  I yelped when he ripped the sleeve off my arm.

  For a second Kooch was confused. Sleeve in his jaws, with no man. He dropped it.

  I backed away on my hands, still sitting in the mud.

  Mind blank.

  Staring into bloodthirsty ice-pick eyes.

  In a blink, Kooch lunged for my throat, just like he remembered from before, like he was trained to do—where the reward was, the meat, the wet blood.

  I fell back and tried to li
ft the other sleeve.

  Too late.

  He pushed past the sleeve. His breath fell on me, hot.

  I'm dead, I'm dead.

  “Kooch,” I gasped, gagging on my fear. “No—”

  I was about to die.

  But what I saw in my head in that moment was him coming up to kiss me, to lick my face like he did in the first days. Kissing, kissing. Good dog, Kooch, my friend, good friendly dog. Somebody's pet.

  His teeth scraped my jaw, trying to get to my neck. I could feel the sharp points. I squeezed my eyes shut. “Smith!” I yelled. “Get him off!”

  Smith was a blur running toward me, a look of horror on his face, his mouth gaped open.

  Saying nothing.

  Not Out.

  Not Stop.

  I raised my naked arm to protect my neck. Kooch bit down.

  “Ahhhhh!”

  “Out!” Smith finally yelled. “Out!”

  Kooch let go, backed off, growling, a deep and terrifying sound. He stood waiting for Smith with his hackles up, waiting for the command: Kill! Kill! Kill!

  I leaped up, blood oozing from my arm. “Why didn't you call him off soon as he hit me!”

  I charged.

  Smith was off balance when I plowed into him. He went down, and I pounded him with the clubs of my fists.

  Kooch charged in, snarling and tearing at both of us.

  But I kept fighting.

  “Stop, stop!” Smith shouted, pushing me back.

  But it was Kooch, not Smith, who brought me back to my senses. The dog would kill us both if we didn't do something fast. I stopped.

  “Out!” Smith shouted. “Out!”

  Kooch, confused, lips high and wild and teeth like yellow death, backed off, the rumbling in his throat like distant thunder.

  Smith, gasping, leaped up and collared him. Through his ripped shirt I could see the bloody cuts on his chest where Kooch had ripped into him. Smith's hands shook. His face was ghost white and beaded with sweat and muddy water. When he saw me looking at him, his eyes dropped.

  We sat back in the dirt, catching our breath. Kooch stood with his legs spread, head low, watching us.

  Then, slowly, he lay down.

  Panting. Resting.

  We headed back through the jungle in silence, Smith and Kooch a step ahead of me, when they should have been behind me, as if keeping a close watch over their prisoner.

  I staggered to keep my balance when a wave of sudden dizziness clouded my vision. Delayed reaction. I felt like throwing up.

  Smith and Kooch picked up the pace, now almost out of sight ahead of me.

  I took a step, and another.

  Moving on, blood badges staining my shirt.

  That night on Ship Island I climbed to the top of Fort Massachusetts in the dark and lay flat on my back looking up at the stars. My cuts were not as bad as Smith's, who probably had to get a few stitches. Still, my wounds stung under the new bandages.

  It smelled fishy up there.

  A good smell that made me feel alive, and safe.

  Peaceful.

  The stars twinkled bright as campfires.

  Funny, but those stars seemed different to me now. For probably the first time in my life I saw them and actually thought about them. When you almost die you pay more attention. I thought about my life and my friends, and how we were all in this war together, bleeding the same blood, taking what was dished out by those above us, following orders—me and my Cat Island brothers, who all sympathized over my new dog bites, calling me Mr. Purple Heart.

  It was just what I needed.

  As I lay there, the air cooled, slow and easy. I calmed down, not as much as I wanted to, but enough. What about Smith? Was he shook up, too?

  Yes.

  Who wouldn't be?

  A while later, I went back to my bunk and kept to myself, me and my good-luck stone. I had to remember to thank Herbie for that, because on this day luck had let me live.

  The rest of the guys lounged around talking low until Ricky Kondo decided to bring out a small stack of letters that had come in with Leroy.

  “Eddy,” he said. “Looks like somebody loves you after all.”

  It was from Herbie.

  But I was still too shaky to open it.

  “We got three days off,” Ricky said, waving an officiallooking letter. “Brass coming after that.”

  “What brass?” PeeWee said.

  “The major and some big shots from Washington coming to see how the K-9 program is working.”

  “It's working,” Chik said. “Those dogs are dangerous. Look at Eddy.”

  “That was their goal,” Ricky said. “Smell us, hate us, attack us on sight. Remember Parrish said that?”

  Nods and mumbles rolled around the room.

  “Eddy, you did the best at making your dog hate you,” PeeWee said. “That's what they coming to see, ah? You just show them those scars.”

  More nods. “Yeah, Eddy, ain't nobody better than you.”

  I remembered something Smith had said about a little test. Was this it? Some show for the guys making the big decisions?

  PeeWee and Golden Boy got a game of cards going. Cobra went to sleep. Outside, Ricky Kondo sat by himself in the dark.

  I settled on the floor with my back against my bunk and tore open Herbie's letter, the only one I'd ever gotten from him. But that was okay. He had enough to worry about.

  Eddy.

  Pop finished the sampan today, the one he was making for the haole in Kaneohe to replace the one that burned up. Lucky the new owner is a white guy, because Pop can't make boats for Japanese now. The boat looks good. He won't take it out for a test until he got the haole on board. If it works, he just going give the guy the boat right then.

  Still now nobody knows why the first one blew up. Pop says it's not important to know why, and to forget it. It would only bring more trouble to know. What happened, happened. That's what he said. But I don't think he thinks it was an accident. Me either. What I think is somebody blew it up on purpose. But who can prove it? And what you going do even if you can? Nothing. Only make it worse. So maybe Pop is right. But how can you just walk away, Eddy? Makes me too mad. You know what they did to my friend's boat? You remember the Taiyo Maru, Nakaji's boat? The FBI or the army or somebody took it up the canal past the rice fields and put a hole in it. Sank it, Eddy! Just because it was a Japanese boat. And that ain't right. His boy, Tomi, going try bring it up.

  Well, other than that, I'm good and so is Ma. She volunteers at the Red Cross one day a week, making socks. Get this, she says it makes her feel like she's fighting the war right alongside you. Crazy, yeah?

  Are you anywhere near the fighting? I hope not. What I see in the papers is terrible. Bodies of dead guys, blown-up towns. Have you heard of an island called Guadalcanal? It's in the South Pacific. Well, there was a big fight there between us and Japan. Lasted about six months. We won it, but lot of guys died, Eddy. On both sides. I hope you aren't anywhere like that.

  Well, this is too long, so I'll sign off now.

  Oh yeah, one more thing. Ugly Sharky and Opah both just dragging around. Pop says it's because of you were too nice to them before. Now they can't live without you. They lovesick.

  Bye.

  Herbie Okubo.

  I chuckled and folded the letter back into the envelope. Funny how he signed it Herbie Okubo, like he thought maybe I didn't remember his last name.

  I shook my head.

  You wrong, Pop.

  You got to fight back. You don't, you lose your selfrespect.

  But what about when they don't let you fight?

  I got up off the floor and plopped down on my bunk. When I closed my eyes I heard Pop's voice.

  Ganbare, Eddy. Ganbare.

  Keep going.

  I rolled over and covered my head with my pillow.

  Four days later, Leroy eased the Sugar Babe in toward the island, one hand on the wheel, the other raised in salute. Me, Cobra, and Ricky Kondo were s
itting on the pier, fishing.

  Leroy smiled up at us, the idling boat rumbling easy on the water. “Ah-low-ha,” he said with a grin. “That how y'all say it back t'home?”

  “Only if you one haole,” Cobra said.

  “One what?”

  “Don't worry. You pass.”

  “We working today?” Ricky asked.

  “Yup. Just dropped some men in suits off over to Cat. They're waiting on y'all.”

  “They like the cow rays?” I said.

  Leroy snorted. “You kidding? I let them city shoes off on the other side at the pier.”

  “Oh. Forgot about that.”

  Leroy tossed up a line. “Apparently they're here to see how y'alls are working out.”

  “They say who they were?”

  “Nope, but they looked important.”

  Ricky frowned. Again, he'd been skipped when the information was handed out. “Well, I guess we better go find out what's going on, then,” he said.

  “Your major just asked for…Wait a minute.”

  Leroy pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket. Stumbling through the pronunciation, he read, “Okubo, Uehara, Okazaki, Matsumaru, and Kondo.”

  “Major Parrish?” I said. “He's over there?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  A half hour later we boarded the Sugar Babe. Everybody else got to stay behind and go fishing.

  “No worry,” Slim called from the pier. “We save you some sea trout, ah.”

  “You do that,” Cobra said as the boat pulled away, “because the real men going come back real hungry, ah? Make us a nice meal, now.”

  Slim grinned.

  Boy, was I going to miss all this when it was over. Strange, I know, but this island was like a home to me now.

  Chik started singing.

  “You're in the army now, you're not behind a plow, you'll never get rich by digging a ditch, you're in the army now.”

  Pretty soon all of us were hooting and swaying, singing it over and over, like that other song that gives you a headache, “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.”

  At Cat Island, we waded ashore and hiked through the trees to our meeting spot. My stomach was rising, making me feel sick. I wasn't scared; I just wasn't ready.

  Seven men were waiting for us.