CHAPTER TWO
SAKE TOWN IN SASEBO
“Are you sure
about this address, Sir?” Gunnery Sgt Hector Colón turned the paper over, as if
the directions might make more sense that way. “It’s in Sake Town.”
“Is there a
problem, gunny?”
General
Lukasziewicz, the Marine Commandant, had plucked his sergeant out of a hospital
ward a few months back, pinned a Purple Heart on him, and processed his
promotion to Gunnery Sergeant. The injuries Colón had received in the action on
Itbayat provided a convenient excuse to interrupt his progress through the
infantry ranks, at least for a little while, and seemed like a good way to keep
him from being debriefed about certain events by CIA operatives. Colón hadn’t
been assigned to any unit that included Capt Tenno, but he’d flown in her bird
a few times, and took part in the final firefight precipitated by her rescue of
Princess Akane of Japan. When Admiral James Crichton, Commander of the Pacific
Fleet, put a bug in his ear about deflecting any intrusive inquiries into the Jarheads
who’d been there, Lukasziewicz obliged without asking too many questions of his
own. So, for now, Hector Colón drove him wherever he needed to go in and around
Sasebo, Japan.
“No sir… it’s
just, most of the places on that end of the ginza
don’t… how shall I say?... I don’t know…”
“Spit it out,
Marine.”
“We may not be
welcome there, sir.”
Lukasziewicz
grumbled at this information, and watched as the Albuquerque Bridge, which connected
Nimitz Square, at the west end of the base, to the ginza, slipped past the side window. “What exactly is an izakaya?”
“It’s like a
bar, except usually with better food.”
“You like raw
fish?”
“Not really,
sir. But most izakayas seem to be
more about fried foods… and noodles. Is that where we’re headed?” The gunny’s
voice sounded hungry.
“I can’t bring
you in this time, gunny. Private meeting. Can you find some grub nearby?”
Lukasziewicz reached a handful of yen across the seat back. “Here. Take this.”
“Thank you,
sir. I can get something at Tonchinkan, or maybe Raras.” Colón glanced at the
bills in his hand, as he pulled up to the curb outside the address on the note.
“This is way too much, sir. Like ten times too much.”
“Fine. Bring me
the change, then… or don’t. Meet me out front in an hour.”
“Shall I wait,
sir, just in case they don’t let you in?”
Lukasziewicz shook
his head and watched Colón ease the car through a rather narrow alley, and head
back to Sailor Town at the other end of the ginza,
and finally turned to consider the rather unprepossessing entrance of the
establishment Crichton had selected. A simple, wooden sign with a few Japanese
characters etched in it hung over an open doorway, with a half-curtain
obscuring whatever went on inside. He pushed past the curtain, and stood inside
on an industrial rubber mat, perforated with penny-sized holes, over a large
drain hole – a rather direct solution, he thought, to the problem of inclement
weather and the lack of a covered entrance – and surveyed the interior.
The tables
toward the front sported dim candles, and seemed to be positioned around a tiny
stage, but no performers, or their gear, were in evidence. Every seat was
occupied, and younger men even stood around a few tables, as a waiter squeezed
in between bodies, finding passage where he could. Further back, booths lined
two walls, and these were also full of people. In a corner beyond the end of
the bar, a folding screen featuring what appeared to be a pen and ink drawing
of an ancient battle scene obscured an area that might be large enough for one
or two more booths. If Crichton was here at all, that’s probably where he’d be,
since Lukasziewicz couldn’t see another western face anywhere.
“No GI’s,
please,” the man behind the bar called out, when he took a few steps inside.
“Sailor Town is that way.” A few faces turned to look, and a man seated in a
corner – perhaps a bouncer – stepped forward, and then paused to consider the
significance of all the gold braid on this American’s uniform.
Just then,
another man, smaller and stooped from age, scurried out from behind the bar – “Irasshaimase,” he cried out, and
gestured to him to follow. “Kono yo ni
kuru… this way, come… here is Crichton-san.” Everyone else went back to
whatever had occupied their attention a moment earlier, though Lukasziewicz
could hardly imagine a less discreet way to make an entrance.
He paused
before stepping behind the folding screen to consider its ink drawing. In the
upper left corner, men in armor clashed with swords and spears, one side
crashing through a defensive line. Nearby, on the right, servants rushed a
palanquin across a dock toward a waiting barge. Snipers with long muskets took
aim at their opponents on both sides of the main battle, while horsemen charged
across an open field, brandishing swords or holding bows ready to shoot. A
final scene in the lower right corner – perhaps the image was meant to be
‘read’ from upper left to lower right – showed the same barge taking on water
as men in smaller boats mounted an attack, and the important personage had
fallen from the overturned palanquin, an arrow in his side. In an outstretched,
defiant arm, he held a golden sword out over the rushing waters of a mighty
river.
The minimalism
of the drawing impressed a career marine – only a few strokes served to suggest
the strength and energy of each figure, no ink wasted showing the eye what the
imagination could supply. The scene, taken as a whole, had the form of a
cresting wave, moving from one side to the other, and crashing down in the
image of the dying dignitary and the ceremonial sword.
Crichton’s
voice pulled him back into the moment and Lukasziewicz slid into the booth.
“Sorry, Jim. I couldn’t help looking at the other side.”
“It’s just a
cheap reproduction, Paul. You can probably buy one at the PX.”
“I figured, but
that’s what’s interesting… not that it’s expensive, or original, but that an
image like that one is considered ordinary. It tells the whole story of a
battle, with lots of gory detail, and fierce passions, and you find it in a
bar.”
“You’re saying
the Japanese are fierce?”
“… or at least
that they’re proud of that history. Even the Shogun, or the General, or whoever
that figure is, he’s dying at the end, and he holds up his sword rather than
clutching at his wounds.”
“Well, now I
know what to get you for Christmas.” Crichton laughed, and then glanced at the
booths visible from behind the screen to make sure they were empty. But that’s
not why I asked you to meet me here.”
“Has there been
a new development on your end?”
“Not exactly a
development.” Crichton gestured to the old man who’d led Lukasziewicz to the
back, and waited as he drew the folding screen further out, effectively
blocking the now empty booths next to them from view as well. No new customers
would be sitting there – though it was getting late, and the crowd out front
had already begun to thin out. He reappeared a moment later with two glasses of
beer and several small plates of food. “I took the liberty of ordering for
you.”
“How do you
even know about this place?” Lukasziewicz temporized, since it was clear his
host was waiting for the right moment to break the news, whatever it was. “My
driver was worried they wouldn’t even let me in.”
“Ordinarily,
they wouldn’t let either of us in. But Tenno introduced me to the owner. That’s
how it is over here… no admission without an invite.”
“Naturally… it
would be Tenno. I suppose she fits right in wherever she goes around here.”
“She told me
even she needed an invite at first. But after the Imperial Palace publically
acknowledged her part in the rescue… well, I don’t think there’s a bar in Japan
where she’d be allowed to pay for a drink.”
Crichton
gestured to the tempura plate in the
middle of the table. “These are my favorite.” He held up a large, crescent
shaped vegetable, covered in a crispy shell, and dipped it in a smaller sauce
bowl. “I think it’s some sort of pumpkin. Dig in. I ordered the shrimps for
you.”
“Last week,
SECNAV sent my office a list of O-3s he wants transferred to a temporary billet
at Quantico, and she’s on it.” There, he’d broken the ice. Now Crichton would
be free to reveal even bad news. He tried the shrimp. It was good.
“Does the
Secretary normally take an interest in personnel decisions on this level?”
“No, and I
think the rest of the list is probably a cover. Plus, I have no idea what a
dozen O-3s will find to do there. It’s not like there’s that much paperwork for
them to shift from one desk to another.”
“I was contacted directly by CIA… some
functionary from the Beijing station flew over… Nyquist, I think.” Crichton
rubbed his chin and growled out the next few words: “I imagine this is coming
from higher up in operations, or maybe one of the tech companies they control…
it’s hard to keep track of the pies they have fingers in… anyway, someone wants
her in Virginia.”
“That figures.
At my level, they have to disguise what they’re doing, but lower down, at fleet
level, they aren’t afraid to move openly.”
“What about
Cardano? He should be able to protect her from something like this. He has in
the past.”
“He may not
even be aware.” Lukasziewicz paused to give the question a second thought. “The
Intelligence Directorate doesn’t report to the Director of Clandestine
Services, and the tech guys seem to be all on the side of the DI. What’s more,
with the summit meeting in Rome, he probably has his hands full.”
“What options
does that leave her?”
“The usual,
re-up, or resign her commission. But these are the usual things that face any
career officer. If you stay, you accept the possibility of an unpleasant
billet…
“… and if you
go, you may be ‘stop-lossed’ back in.”
“You know as
well as I do that stop-loss has never been applied to the Corps or the Fleet,
except in wartime. There’s something you’re not telling me about this. What is
it?” Lukasziewicz examined Crichton’s face, and he paid more attention to the
beer he was nursing. “Look, Tenno can finish out her twenty, or not, without
any interference from us. I already as much as offered her a job if she musters
out next spring, like you asked… and it’s not like I can’t see a use for her
‘colorful’ skill set in our firm. She could prove to be an invaluable asset.
But from what I can see, she’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself.
What am I missing?”
“I don’t know
as much about her situation as I’d like, and she certainly seems to be a magnet
for bizarre and dangerous, types.”
“Are you
referring to the incident with General Diao’s son?”
“Sure, that,
but there’s more. I mean, she’s just one marine, but somehow she’s got the
attention of the Japanese imperial Household, and becomes a target of the coup
plotters. Why her, out of all the damn jarheads in the Corps?”
“You have a
longer connection with her…”
“Yeah. I knew
her father, and he was another one of those types… you know, when you’re around
them it’s like you’re at the center of some vortex of violent forces, and the
only safe course is to follow in his wake. He pulled the two of us out of more
than one hairy scene in Manila.”
“That’s funny,
because I wouldn’t normally take you for a brawler, Jim.”
“Me, neither,
but it’s not like we were picking fights… and her jacket was full of stuff like
that at the Academy.”
Lukasziewicz
laughed for a moment at the reminder of his own time as a midshipman. “So she
was a hellion in Annapolis?”
“That’s just
it. She wasn’t like that at all. Nose in a book, top marks in engineering, and
every tech subject we threw at her… and she even aced those damn poetry
classes. Just try to picture her third year. She helps the Fightin’ 28th
win Iron Company for the second year in a row by dominating in the pugil
sticks, meanwhile NCIS is investigating her for a string of assaults and a
couple of suspicious deaths in town. Then she agrees to go to the annual
martial arts tournament at Quantico…”
“I heard about
this one. Didn’t some fool put her in the men’s bracket… nearly got her
killed?”
“Well, that
part’s on me. But in my defense, there’d be no point having her compete in the
women’s bracket, plus the morale issues… Anyway, she held her own against the
men, took out a few marines, including the Pendleton boxing champ, and even a
few SEALs who’d been sent over. In the semifinals, she’s up against a Chinese
entrant, a former hand-to-hand combat trainer in the People’s Liberation Army,
and he’s good, maybe better than her. But it’s a close match, until he pulls a
blade he’s snuck into the ring…”
“A blade? What
the hell? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I know. This
is what I mean. It’s like nothing’s ever ordinary around her, just like with
her father.”
“I take it they
stopped the fight.”
“There wasn’t
time. One moment he has her in a chokehold from behind, the next she manages to
escape, and before anyone knows what’s happened, he’s about to jam a K-Bar through
her eye.”
“Holy hell. Why
haven’t I heard about this before?”
“SECNAV put a
lid on it, even scrubbed the videos from the MCEN… something about delicate
negotiations and helping the Chinese save face. You remember the Pacific Rim
conference?”
“Oh, yeah. That
was a few years before the coup. So, how’d you get her out of there?”
“I had nothing
to do with it, and to this day, I have no idea how she pulled it off, because
Colonel Feng was bigger, stronger, and at least as skilled as her. I mean, she
was just a third year mid up against a seasoned soldier. By the time anyone
outside the ring spotted the knife, he already had the complete upper hand, and
there’s no way she could have held him off for long, with the blade inches from
her face, and all his weight behind it. But then, in the twinkling of an eye,
somehow she turned the tables on him. It was like, one moment she’s about to
crumble under his onslaught, and the next she’s managed to duck under the
blade, slash his ribs with it, and then jam it through his neck, from one ear
to the other… all while he’s still holding the damn thing.”
“She killed
him, right there in the ring?”
“Yeah, she’s a
finisher.”
“Sounds like a
marine, to me. That’s what she did on Itbayat, isn’t it?”
Crichton took
the last of the tempura, and picked up his glass.
“She did what I
sent her there to do.”
“I’m sure we
can find something for her to do in our… concern.” Lukasziewicz laughed as he
considered the advantages such an operator might bring.
“Then you can
see why we might not want her to be ensnared in the Agency’s shadow.”
“Maybe, but how
can we prevent it? SECNAV has already made the request.”
“Can you
stall?”
“Sure, a month,
maybe six weeks. How would that help us?”
“The Commandant
of the Marine Corps has discretion over staff appointments, right?”
“Yes, but only
in the sense that I can put her name through to SECDEF’s final list without
SECNAV’s review. But he can intervene if gets wind of it.”
“I think, if
you push it through in the next few days, with SECDEF in Rome next week for the
summit it may turn out the paperwork never finds its way to SECNAV’s office.
This is one of those things Cardano just might be able to help with.”
Lukasziewicz
laughed again. “You realize this means we’ll have to promote her to an O-4.
Don’t you remember the last time we promoted her?”
“Yeah, she was
pissed. I’ll take the heat for it, don’t worry. Just put her on my staff, and
I’ll make sure she’s out of reach for the duration of Operation Talisman Blade.
After that, it’ll be up to her. If she signs a new contract, we can’t shield
her from whatever CIA has in mind… or she can retire free and clear, if she’s
willing to give up her twenty.”
“It’ll be a
loss to the corps.” Lukasziewicz rubbed his chin as he turned his mind to the
downside of their little plan.
“Knowing the agency,
she’s already lost to the corps. At least, we can make it worth her while.”
“It’s a good
thing I’m retiring in the spring… because this smells a lot like a burning
bridge.”
On the ride
back to the base, Lukasziewicz reflected on the nature of Jim Crichton’s
loyalty. “Even now, after three decades, he’s still watching out for George
Kane’s kid. Yeah, he’ll make a trustworthy business partner.”
“What was that,
sir?” Colón asked from the front seat.
“Nothing,
gunny. Did you find something diverting to do?”
“Yes, sir. What
with all the Aussies arriving in town, Sailor Town is hopping.”
“I guess the whole city has an interest in
the upcoming exercises.” Albuquerque Bridge slipped past the car window on the
right, and Lukasziewicz watched a stream of sailors making the long, rather
unruly, march back to base.
Continue to Ch 3
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