by Peter Albano
“I can’t believe this,” she said, leaning forward intently. “Why, he was born during the Meiji Restoration.” She stabbed a finger at the shrine. “It’s like having Nyoirin Kwannon come to life in this room, waving all six arms.” Then with disbelief, “Admiral Fujita must be over a hundred years old.”
He chuckled into his cup. “Right. And if that surprises you, listen to this…” He paused for dramatic effect. “He attended USC.”
“What is this USC?"
“Sorry. The University of Southern California — as a graduate student after World War One.”
She nodded. “Yes. Japanese officers were sent to English and American universities. We all know that.”
“The English built your navy. The uniforms, the tradition, even the language of the fleet was English. In fact, English is still the command language of Yonaga. Every member of the crew must speak it.”
“His family — he must have a family.”
Brent drank once more. He shook his head. “All dead. Killed at Hiroshima. Now his family is Yonaga.” He tossed off the last of his sake. Quickly, the cup was filled. Now the entire room was moving like a carousel and Brent pushed his sakazuki away. He sighed. “You Japanese do your serious drinking on empty stomachs. I’ll never get used to that.”
“Oh, I am remiss,” she said, rising.
“I didn’t mean that,” Brent said, mortified by his lack of tact. He cursed the sake.
She laughed. “But I have prepared something for you. Something that should appeal to your American palate.”
In a moment she returned with a tray loaded with cheeses, sliced meats, pickles, olives, rolls, mustard, relishes, and a pot of steaming hot black coffee.
“That’s what I need the most,” Brent said, reaching for the coffee. Then he prepared a sandwich, layering it with meats, cheeses and pickles. “A real ‘Dagwood’,” he said, taking his first bite.
“‘Dagwood’?”
“Giant.”
She smiled as she prepared a dainty sandwich of a single roll and two pieces of meat.
Brent took a sip of coffee and the room began to stabilize. “You’re a student, Mayumi?”
“Yes. At the Tokyo University for Women. I am a senior.”
Brent searched the youthful face. The girl was obviously older than she looked. “What's your major?” He pushed the sakazuki to the corner of the table and drank more coffee.
“Languages. English, Russian, German and French.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do you intend to work for an airline?”
“No, Brent. For my father. He is in the import business.”
The lieutenant nodded, troubled by a new thought. “Mayumi, are you engaged, going steady —” He stumbled self-consciously, “Ah, something…?”
She laughed — a laugh belonging only to Japanese women, a musical sound like a clear mountain stream over pebbles. “Something, yes.”
Brent stopped the sandwich halfway to his mouth. There was disappointment in his voice. “‘Something’?”
“I was promised, when I was born, to my second cousin, Denko Yunoyama.”
“You'll marry him?”
“In the old days, yes. But not in modern times. Anyway, Denko already has a mistress in Kobe.”
“He could marry you, anyway. That isn’t uncommon.”
“In the past, true. But times have changed. You Americans brought great reforms with you after the war.” She caught his eyes and held them with a warm, penetrating stare. She leaned forward. “The old ways are dead — as dead as the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere.”
“Your family?”
“My father has accepted it. He must. I will not marry Denko.” He felt the soft velvet of her hand on his. “I make my own choices, Brent-san.”
The use of the familiar “san” and the touch brought a sudden warmth and he dropped the sandwich, losing himself in the warm black depths of her eyes.
“The Yasakuni Shrine, Mayumi-san?”
“Friday, yes.”
“I like the way you say ‘yes’”
She smiled wryly. “I do not say it very often.”
“But it is in your vocabulary?”
She laughed, a deep joyous sound. “It is, but not in four languages.”
He joined her laughter with his own. A glance at his watch broke the spell. “I must leave. My duty begins at midnight.” He rose.
She came to her feet. “Your mistress is as demanding as Denko’s.”
“More.”
“Why?”
“She rules our lives.”
“And she can take them,” she added soberly.
They moved to the door together. She stood close to him and stared upward with a searching look, taking both of his hands in hers, carefully avoiding the injured knuckles. “Friday is four days away. It seems such a long time, Brent-san.”
“Interminable.”
Her eyes moved over his face, the bruises, the cut lips, the bandaged neck. She came up on her toes and he leaned down, taking her small shoulders in his big hands. Lips of velvet brushed his cheek. “Did that hurt, Brent-san?”
“That's the best therapy in the world.” He put his arms around her. “You said you make your own choices, Mayumi-san?”
Gently, she placed her cheek on his. “Yes, Brent-san. My own choices.”
He let his hands slide slowly down her arms and onto her torso, dip in at her waist, flare out at her hips. He felt the hard body shudder under his touch. There was pressure behind his eyes and his heart thumped hard against his ribs.
As he turned to leave, he felt a painful wrenching as if he were breaking a physical bond. Walking down the hall, he felt eyes on his back. Then, only after he stepped into the elevator, he heard a click as Mayumi’s door closed.
Although the next four days were busy and hectic, they moved slowly. More new engines came aboard and Yoshi Matsuhara was overjoyed with the prospect of equipping all of his fighters with the new 1900- horsepower Nakajima power plant. Yard workmen and crewmen swarmed over the superstructure and flight deck and the repairs moved quickly. On Wednesday the new ESM equipment came aboard and by Thursday it had been installed.
Standing in the crowded CIC (Combat Information Center) — a large, dark, quiet compartment with walls a solid bank of electronic instruments and glass plotting panels — Brent stared at the new console and computer with Admiral Mark Allen and Captain Irving Bernstein. Seated before the equipment was the ship’s most experienced technician, Cryptographer First Class Alan Pierson. On loan from NIS, Pierson was a brilliant young man with prematurely thinning blond hair and thick glasses that gave him the aspect of a bookworm. And this, indeed, he was, constantly studying the latest manuals and electronic literature. Every officer respected his knowledge of both American and Russian equipment. His computers held radar signatures of all known Russian and Arab warships and it was joked he could detect and identify Khadafy’s fart at 2,000 miles.
“The best,” Mark Allen said, staring at a glowing green scope. “The SLQ-32.”
“What can it do?” Bernstein asked.
“It’s passive,” Allen said. “That is, it doesn’t transmit, it only receives.” He looked down at Pierson, “Brief us, Pierson.”
Obviously pleased by the admiral’s request, the young technician spoke with his eyes constantly fixed on the new equipment. “Beats everything we had before.” He patted a console next to the tube affectionately. “This is the UYK-19 computer which is accessed by the ESM. It has an 80-K memory. I’ve already programmed in the signatures of all known enemy sets. When the ESM picks up a signal, we can identify it as fast as I can punch a key.”
“It’s undetectable?” Bernstein asked.
“Yes, sir,” Pierson said. “It emits no signal and this beauty has port and starboard antenna assemblies giving full three-hundred-sixty-degree coverage and it measures incoming frequencies instantaneously. It covers all known threat frequencies.”
Bernstein was not s
atisfied. “Specifics. How do you read it?”
“It doesn’t ask much of the operator,” Pierson asked. He gestured. “It can handle signals of up to five-hundred-thousand-pulses-per-second over the D to J bands. It automatically compares signals with the threat library I have already programmed — just over two-thousand radars.” He pointed to the tube. “The tactical warning board flashes a light for each threat and a buzzer sounds. Then the operator can request a listing of their identities and actually determine the degree of threat.”
“Automatically?”
“Yes, Captain Bernstein. The twenty-five highest threats are displayed automatically and the operator can request up to one-hundred-twenty-five in descending order of priority” He looked up at Admiral Mark Allen. “Admiral, I thought we had an ECM coming, too.”
Allen looked at Bernstein. “Electronic Counter Measures.” And then to Pierson, “It should be here this afternoon. IPs an add-on — the thirty-two-A.”
“A good unit, sir.”
“The ECM is a jamming device,” Bernstein said.
“Yes, sir, Captain Bernstein,” Pierson said. “The 32-A can jam the electronic emissions of an enemy — either broadband or spot jamming in a specific frequency.”
“But it’s detectable,” Bernstein said, tugging at the point of his beard.
“Very good,” Allen said, rejoining the conversation. “It emits a signal and can be intercepted.”
“Sometimes the best radar protection is no radar at all. Turn everything off. Radios, too. We learned that in the desert,” Bernstein said.
Allen nodded. “Desert warfare is a lot like naval warfare.” He gestured in a wide arc at the banks of surface search, air search, fire control radar and rows of computers. “True. Sometimes it is better to secure all electronics — emit nothing. Become a dead log.” He turned to Brent Ross. “You've been quiet, Lieutenant.” His eyes moved over the battered face which still showed bruises and slight discoloration. “You feel all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have liberty tomorrow?”
“Brent felt a warmth on his cheeks. “Yes, Admiral.”
“Oh, I understand.”
Everyone smiled.
Located in the huge Kitanomaru Park on the north side of the Imperial Palace, the Yasakuni Shrine was a simple unadorned building built in nineteenth-century style with only a silk awning displaying the Imperial Chrysanthemum distinguishing it. When Brent and Mayumi walked into the park, they entered a festive fairground that reminded Brent of his one visit to Disney World when he was a youth on an outing with his parents. Mayumi, radiant in a white silk blouse with cherry blossom designs and knee-length skirt that revealed her straight, well-formed legs, turned to Brent, “Our attitude toward death usually surprises, ah — shocks Westerners.”
Brent smiled without pain, his injuries, except for his bandaged neck, almost healed. His eye was nearly normal again and the swelling had vanished from his lips. “I am familiar with the attitude.” He waved. “Don’t forget, many of my shipmates are here.” And then grimly, “They believed in this, strove for this, and died for this. I’ve got to see it.”
They both fell silent as they wove their way through the festive crowd. Nearly everyone walked about arm-in-arm and most of the girls were dressed as Mayumi; light, gay, bright-colored western clothing, or if preferring Japanese garb, colorful yukatas. Walking under a torn, Brent felt a surge of excitement as Mayumi slipped her arm through his. He could feel her body close against his arm.
Approaching the temple, they entered an avenue flanked by exhibitions of paintings, poetry, calligraphy and the art of flower arrangement. The trees lining the road were festooned with innumerable gaily decorated paper lanterns and the sound of music and singing could be heard. Finally, they made their way past a big door emblazoned with the inevitable chrysanthemum, and stood before the shrine with hundreds of others. Some stood rigidly in a position that was reminiscent of military attention; others clapped their hands in the usual manner to attract the attention of the gods, and others threw coins into a huge box outside the entrance.
The young American looked around in wonder. “Whole families are here.”
“Yes. It’s a traditional family pilgrimage. Children, parents, grandparents.” She gestured to an open pavilion where about sixty people were dancing in a circle to the sounds of a band. “It’s the bon-odori.”
“From the o-bon — the festival of the dead?”
“Yes, Brent. But a happy occasion.”
He nodded soberly, thoughts of mangled bodies intruding. “You know, Mayumi, I can’t get used to that.”
“Of course. You are a Christian and to you death is a gate leading to final judgement.” She tightened her grip on his arm and moved her lips closer to his ear. “The door closes and seals off the past and defines the future forever.”
“Very good,” he said, impressed.
“But to us, in both Shinto and Buddhism, death is not a fearful thing.”
“No, indeed,” Brent said. “Especially to the samurai.”
“To all of us, Brent. Don’t forget, our religions are optimistic. Buddhism teaches rebirth and Shinto promises life everlasting in the world of the kami where gods and mortals mingle and, in a sense, blend or fuse.”
“And if you die as a samurai, eternity with the other heroes is guaranteed.”
“Exactly.” She waved at the shrine. “Their spirits are all here.”
“Yes. I know.”
She looked up with concern in her eyes. “Brent, this is depressing you.”
He smiled. “I was the one who insisted on coming.”
“You had to see it.”
“A compulsion.”
“I have a compulsion to eat.”
He laughed. “I know several great restaurants.”
“Some other time, Brent. I’ve prepared something for you at my place.”
“Your place?”
Her eyes held his like an enchantress. “Yes. My place.”
They turned toward the exit.
Although the bar stool was tall, Brent’s feet rested on the carpet. “Western-style,” Mayumi said, turning from the broiler and pushing a plate across the bar. “Steak, baked potato, broccoli, string beans, and lemon meringue pie for dessert.”
“Lord, Mayumi,” Brent said, raising his knife and fork. “I haven’t seen food like this for over a year.”
“We can honor Western traditions, too.”
“You certainly can,” Brent said, filling his mouth with New York cut steak.
Within twenty minutes his plate was clean and he moved to a long sofa which faced the marble top table. Mayumi served him a cup of coffee and sat close to him. He felt her hand on his. “I’m glad your injuries are better.” She raised his big hand into the light. “You recover quickly.” She dropped his hand but continued holding it. Her eyes searched his face. “Your good looks are back, Brent-san.”
“You mean they were absent on my last visit.”
Her laughter was champagne trickling into a glass.
“They were hard to find.”
His laughter joined hers and he slipped his arm around her narrow shoulders. She looked up and he pulled her close, drawn to her lips like-a metal shaving to a magnet. He found her lips soft, warm, her mouth open, wet and hungry, her tongue a slithering reptile waiting for his. Her arms circled his neck and he could feel the wild pounding of her heart against his chest. There was heat there; her mouth, the flesh of her neck and arms. His frantic hands searched, her breasts swelling against his chest. He felt his veins charge with a rush of quick blood. Then, suddenly, her hands found the back of his neck and a sharp pain shot through his body and he pulled away.
“Oh, Brent-san. I’m sorry. Your injuries.”
“Damn the injuries!”
“No, Brent-san.” She pulled away. “It is late and I have an early morning class.” She stood, grasped his hands and tried to pull him to his feet. “Please,” she pleade
d.
Reluctantly, the young American stood. “All right,” he muttered.
Still holding his hands, she backed to the door, her eyes riveted to his. “Sunday, Brent-san.” She stopped, back to the door.
He pressed his body against hers, his lips close to her ear. “You make your own decisions?”
“Yes,” she whispered back.
“Have you made yours, yet?”
She laughed, a nervous little sound. “Maybe by Sunday.”
“I know a great restaurant…”
He was halted by her lips, pressing, her tongue searching his mouth. Now he felt the maddening full length of her malleable body which seemed to mold itself to his. His mood thickened with lust and began to steam with stirrings of sexual fury, frantic hands moving over her back, her swelling breasts, her hips, buttocks.
Gasping, she pulled away. “No. Please.”
“That’s no goddamned way to send me home,” he hissed, unable to hide his irritation.
She turned him toward the door. “Please, Brent. Sunday.” She opened the door.
“All right,” he said, grudgingly. “Sunday.”
She closed the door behind him.
*
Saturday was a long day for Brent. Mayumi was there when he closed his eyes, when he dreamed, when he read, wherever he turned, like a brand on his consciousness. He could actually feel the imprint of her lips, her body pressing against his. It was exquisite. It was torture.
He spent the morning in CIC with Cryptographer Alan Pierson and the only other American enlisted man assigned to Yonaga, Cryptographer Second Class Danny Menefee. The trio studied the new equipment and poured over manuals for hours. It took a deliberate painful effort to shake the girl from his thoughts, but she always returned, defeating him. Near noon, a laser printer sprang to life racing through a long coded reception of at least two-thousand characters in seconds. Quickly, Menefee, who was seated next to Pierson, ripped the message from the machine, folded it, placed it in an envelope and handed it to Brent Ross. “For Admiral Allen, Mister Ross.”