It wasn't the size or the luxury, nor even the portrait of the emperor and what it said of Kurita, the samurai, that impressed Fosa. It was the unbelievable cleanliness of the quarters.
He'd asked of his senior naval centurion how the place had gotten so completely sanitized. The centurion had shrugged, "Got no clue, Cap'n. He never asked us for anything but a mop and bucket, sponges and some rags. Oh, and liquid cleaner."
Fosa was left with the only possible solution; that Kurita, at nearly a century old, had gotten down on his ancient hands and knees and made quarters fit for his emperor's portrait. That was rather humbling.
"I saved it from my battlecruiser," Kurita had said in explanation. "When we had to . . . surrender"—and the word came out only with painful difficulty—"I took it last, as I was leaving. Every day I apologize to it that I and my comrades failed in our duty. Perhaps someday the emperor shall forgive us."
Which helped convince Fosa, not that he needed much convincing, that the Yamatans were not just odd, but admirably odd.
"How goes the hunt?" Kurita asked.
"Not well," the captain said. "Admittedly we've only been on station
two weeks but . . . "
"But given the frequency of reported piratical attacks near this section of the coast a week should have seen at least two," the commodore supplied.
Fosa nodded. "Yes, but there's been nothing. Attacks north of us, yes. Attacks south of us, yes. Nothing here."
The Yamatan quoted, "All warfare is based on deception. Therefore, when capable, feign incapacity; when active, inactivity. When near, make it appear that you are far away; when far away, that you are near. Offer the enemy a bait to lure him, feign disorder and strike him. When he concentrates, prepare against him."
"Musashi?" the Balboan asked. "The Book of Five Rings?"
Kurita shook his grey head. "Sun Tzu."
"Do you think someone is reporting on our positions and dispositions, Commodore?"
"Unquestionably," Kurita answered. "The only real question is who."
"Not the Federated States Navy," Fosa said. "Even if the Legion is in bad grace with their government their armed forces are still strong friends."
"I agree," the Yamatan said. "That leaves the Tauran Union, the Volgans, the Zhong, and the UEPF. In any case, it hardly matters who, for our purposes. What matters is the fact that that someone, to all appearances, is reporting on us."
"I wonder if the FSN can shed any light," the Yamatan wondered. "After all, they're rather . . . oh . . . . capable."
FSS Ironsides, Xamar Coast, 6/6/467
The twin-engined Cricket B came down at an angle that made the deck crew blanch. It didn't roll but hit, bounced once and then again, then came to an almost unbelievable stop.
"It ain't natural," pronounced one of the deck crew. His purple overalls marked him as a "grape," or fuel handler.
An officer from the bridge crew was on hand, detailed to escort Fosa and his small party down to the captain's port cabin. The party didn't include Kurita.
"I do not hate them, Captain-san," the Yamatan had explained, "but it would be . . . awkward, even so. My family was in Motonari, you see." Motonari was one of the two cities in Yamato atomic bombed by the FSC.
Being led through the carrier's innards was a less intimidating exercise for
Fosa than had been the approach that showed how completely it dwarfed his own command. One hundred thousand tons and more. God, what a ship.
The passageways seemed more to a human scale to Fosa, and then he came to the hangar deck.
I could almost fit Dos Lindas down in it, he thought in awe and wonder. He did some measurement by eye. No, I could fit Dos Lindas into it, if we ripped off both flight decks. Then he consoled himself with the thought, It's not the size of the ship in the fight; it's the size of the fight in the ship. That, and the rules of engagement.
The rest of the journey afoot was uneventful, but informative. Twice Fosa stopped to ask his escort officer questions about the ship's operation. Both times he made a mental note to at least consider changing SOP on the Dos Lindas.
The captain met him warmly by his port cabin's hatch. Leading him into the quarters, somewhat larger than Fosa's and Kurita's combined, the Ironside's captain made the introductions, the important one of which was to the admiral.
Fosa was surprised to see a bottle of rum sitting on the captain's table. "I thought all FSS ships were dry," he said.
The admiral shrugged. "Yes and no. The chaplain is allowed sacramental alcohol, and the ship's medical staff keeps medicinal brandy. In our case, the chaplain believes in having sacramental bourbon and scotch, rum and cognac, along with the wine. That particular bottle was being held as medicinal rum until it could be properly blessed."
"I see. How . . . " Fosa wanted to say "morally ingenious" but didn't know how far his welcome stayed. He let it go.
"We can be morally ingenious," the admiral said.
Lunch and small talk followed. It was a decent meal, but no better than what was served aboard Dos Lindas, and perhaps not as good. Fosa made a point of inviting both the captain and the admiral, as well as the other two officers present, signals and operations, to come aboard his own ship at their earliest convenience.
"Regretfully, Legate Fosa, we cannot," the admiral answered for all. "If we did, it would be lending official FSC sanction to what we suspect—to be honest, what we hope—is your mission and your rules of engagement. That, our government and the . . . people . . . in charge would never tolerate."
"I understand," Fosa agreed. "Perhaps in some future time, some happier time for your service."
Ironside's skipper said, "The admiral meant what he said, Legate. We sincerely hope you will be able to do what we are expressly forbidden from doing, which is to say, we hope you can do even the slightest good." The captain pushed a folder over to Fosa. "Take a look at that."
Fosa opened the file and saw that it contained a couple of dozen eight-by-ten glossies and a couple of printed sheets of paper. When he looked carefully at the first photo he said, "My God . . . "
The admiral answered, "Our God had nothing to do with it."
The photos were of the massacre, the butchery, of the crew of the Estrella de Castilla.
Fosa shuffled through the photos as quickly as he could. When he came to the first printed sheet he began to read. Halfway through the rules of engagement he exclaimed, "How in the hell can they expect you to do anything under this nonsense?"
"They don't expect us to do anything, Legate," The admiral explained. "They expect us to make the appearance of doing something. Don't you have progressives at home? Appearances matter a lot more to them than actually doing anything."