Castillo caught the boy’s eye and gave him a nod.
Sonderson grinned back at him
Castillo turned his attention back to the destroyer. He was very happy to see the Japanese — hell, he would have been happy to see anyone who could lend a hand in pulling those men off the bottom — but he knew the Kirishima’s captain. Sakutaro Kagawa was as tough and professional a mariner as Castillo had ever met. If there was anyone who could help him think of a way out of the box it was Sakutaro Kagawa.
Sonderson cut speed and the Zodiac glided past the destroyer’s stern, angling towards the rope ladder hanging down the ship’s gray flank.
He desperately needed to talk with Kagawa before the Russians got here and complicated the diplomatic equation.
And then Castillo glanced up.
He saw a helicopter sitting on the destroyer’s landing deck, but it wasn’t the SH-60F Seahawk Castillo expected. No, if the Seahawk was a graceful dragonfly, this machine had the squashed aspect of a fly, short and dumpy, topped with dual rotors, its fuselage painted white, its engines and belly painted a baby blue.
A flapping Russian flag painted just aft of the cockpit.
Castillo’s mind was racing as he rose carefully to his feet in the Zodiac, trying not to tip out of the small rubber boat and plunge into the sea. They had more than enough people to rescue already. He stood in a low crouch as the Zodiac dipped with a falling wave then rose with the heaving sea and slammed into the destroyer’s steel hull. Castillo had been leaning in towards the ship and the contact punched the air out of his lungs, but he had the wit to grab a rung of the manila rope ladder hanging over the side and climb.
He felt the Jacob’s ladder flex as Paul Trent followed him up. Castillo reached the top and a man reached down to help haul him over the side. Castillo scrambled to his feet and saw the man who’d helped him was Sakutaro Kagawa.
Castillo came to attention and saluted. “Request permission to come aboard, Captain.”
Kagawa returned his salute. “You mosta welcome, Captain.”
Castillo slowly slipped off his green foul weather jacket and draped the sodden garment over his arm, careful of the envelope tucked inside. He had traded his poopie suit for scrub khakis in an effort to show respect for Kagawa and his crew, but he was startled to see that the Japanese captain was dressed in service blues.
He was even more startled to see a Russian officer standing next to Kagawa, also wearing dress blues, the three stars on his gold-trimmed epaulettes telling Castillo that he was a full admiral.
Kagawa was standing five or six inches forward of the Russian, his right shoulder angled just enough that there was no way the admiral could see his face.
Castillo glanced from the Russian flag officer back to Kagawa.
The Japanese officer raised an eyebrow and, without moving his head a millimeter, his eyes flickered left towards the admiral. And then, quick as a blink, the expression was gone from his round face, wiped away as if it had never been.
“Catillo-san, please to meet Admira Nikolai Zhakov of the Russian Navy. Admira, this is Captain Mark Castillo.”
For a second, Castillo looked at the man, deciding how to greet him. He had saluted Kagawa as a matter of courtesy when boarding his ship. Castillo had no doubt if their roles were reversed the Japanese officer would have done the same. Zhakov was of superior rank — but he wasn’t an ally and this wasn’t his ship. And there was no way he was going to salute a Russian.
Castillo reached forward to shake the man’s hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Admiral. Please let me assure you we will do all we can to rescue the men of the Daniil Moskovskiy.”
Zhakov was a tank of a man, an inch taller than Castillo and with a ruddy complexion. He looked to be in his fifties and judging by the sag of the skin under his eyes, the admiral was no stranger to the occasional bottle of vodka. Most of the admiral’s head was covered by his white combination cover, but Castillo saw buzz-short gray hair along the side of his head. The Russian flag officer looked like an old warhorse a year or two away from being put out to pasture.
But the man’s clever, dark eyes told an entirely different story.
It turned out that Zhakov had a grip like a steel vice. “Spasiba, Commander. Your, em, generosity during these troubles is very much appreciated. I am happy to teell you how you may help.”
Then he smiled like a shark.
The use of the rank Commander — though technically correct — was a mild insult since a ship’s commanding officer was always referred to as captain. Zhakov was reminding him he was junior — and claiming the authority to instruct Castillo on how his submarine would be used.
Castillo smiled back. Time to remind this guy that he wasn’t talking to a subordinate. “The United States of America stands ready to assist our Russian friends in this difficult time.”
Kagawa, who was standing between the two men, took a step back.
Zhakov’s eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth tightened ever so slightly. But when he spoke his voice was placid. “Weell said, Commander. Captain Kagawa has generously offered use of his wardroom. Shall we discuss the matter there?”
Wouldn’t want to play poker with you, buddy, Castillo thought. He nodded and Kagawa led the way toward the ship’s superstructure.
Castillo hesitated for a moment, glancing backwards. Sometime during all the posturing, Paul Trent had climbed aboard. The XO glanced at the Russian’s retreating back and puffed air out of his mouth, shook his head.
Castillo knew just how he felt.
The destroyer’s wardroom was a place of understated elegance — and considerably larger than the tiny space where Pasadena’s officers ate. The room was carpeted in a deep blue shag that felt soft under Castillo’s shiny black Oxfords.
On one end of the space there was a place for talk and relaxation, a trio of sofas covered in burgundy leather arranged in a “U” around a plasma TV on the inboard bulkhead. (It was a Sony, of course.) Beside the television was a book case.
The dining room featured a beautifully polished table constructed of cherry wood with a dozen place settings — enough to accommodate a third of the ship’s officers at a sitting.
Opposite the table was a lush painting of the san no torii—the third gate — of the Kirishima Jingu Shrine. Torii gates marked the transition from the profane to the sacred and so were common at the entrance to Shinto shrines. This one was a brilliant vermillion with a gracefully curved upper lintel painted black. It must have been autumn when the image had been painted; the normally green needles of Japanese red pines had faded to yellow and the maple trees were a flaming red. Somehow the painting managed to convey the brutal fury of fire — even while the graceful arc of the gate called forth the holy.
Castillo could see why this painting had been chosen to adorn the bulkhead of Kirishima’s wardroom.
Kagawa said something in Japanese and the mess stewards just vanished, the wardroom hatch clicking softly behind them. Castillo turned from the painting to see that they had left behind a tea service. Both Kagawa and the Russian admiral were helping themselves to a cup. Castillo knew it was probably rude, but he decided he’d pass on the tea.
He was already wired enough.
“So, Commander,” said Zhakov, stirring a dollop of honey into his tea, “were you able to make contact with our submarine?”