There was movement behind the green curtain leading to officers’ country, and a head poked around it and looked at them, surprised. The curtain slashed back in place and a retreating voice reached his ears. “Shit. The Jap.”
The Marine smirked slightly and rolled his eyes. Then he looked squarely at Tamatsu. “That’s the new exec. Somebody finally remembered you. Maybe he’ll remind the captain.” He grinned darkly. “I hope he throws you to the fish.”
Thirty minutes later the curtain moved again and two men entered the compartment. One was younger than the other but had a brisk, businesslike demeanor. He had brown hair, but unlike everyone else Shinya had seen, there was no trace of stubble on his cheeks. His dark green eyes betrayed fatigue, but they were alert and curious. The other man was older, shorter, with a noticeable paunch. He looked tired too, and disheveled, but his expression wasn’t curious. It seethed with predatory hostility. The guard jumped to his feet as rapidly as his injured leg allowed.
“As you were, Sergeant-Alder, isn’t it?” said the first man.
“Alden, sir,” he replied. “Sergeant Pete Alden. Marine contingent, USS Houston.” He said the last with a grim glance at his prisoner.
“Glad to have you aboard, Sergeant. I apologize for not speaking with you sooner, but”-he allowed a wry expression-“I’ve been preoccupied.”
“No apology necessary, sir.”
“Nevertheless, I appreciate your taking charge of the prisoner in spite of your injury. How’s the leg?”
“Fine, sir.”
The captain accepted the lie. The injury didn’t affect Alden’s current duty, and there were plenty of wounded at their posts. Matt gestured at the Japanese. “Has he behaved?”
“No trouble, sir. Mostly he just sits and looks around. He does what I tell him, and I keep the crew from beatin’ him to death.”
Gray snorted, but Matt just nodded. He pulled a chair out at the table across from Tamatsu and sat with his elbows on the green surface, fingers intertwined, looking at the prisoner. The man looked back, unblinking, expressionless. Matt took a deep breath and exhaled. “What am I going to do with you?” he asked himself aloud.
Tamatsu felt a surge of adrenaline. He knew he should keep his mouth shut and pretend not to understand, but suddenly he couldn’t see the point. From what he’d seen and heard, the war he was part of was gone, as were-evidently-their respective navies and probably even countries as well. He was overwhelmed by that possibility, and when he’d first heard the rumors he suspected some ploy to get him to speak, if he could. Dinosaurs on Bali, indeed! Then he’d seen the ship and, through his shock, he realized that now was the time. If they later, inevitably, discovered he’d been listening to their conversations, they would never trust him- difficult as it might be anyway. No matter what he thought of the war, he was no traitor, but he wanted them to trust him. Whatever happened, wherever they were, they might be there a long, long time.
Hesitantly, he cleared his throat. To the astonishment of the man across from him, he spoke in excellent, lightly accented English. “Captain, I am Lieutenant Tamatsu Shinya. I am your prisoner. Japan did not ratify the Geneva Protocols, but I give my word of honor I will cooperate every way I possibly can, short of treachery to my people or government. Under the… unusual circumstances, I find it unlikely that the cooperation I offer will cause harm to my country. If you are willing to accept it, Captain, I offer my parole.”
There were a variety of expressions in the room. Tamatsu’s face remained impassive, but Gray’s clouded with anger and the Marine’s eyes widened in shock. Matt leaned back in his chair, shaken by yet another surprise, but he gathered himself quickly. If there was anything he’d learned about himself lately, it was that he had a growing ability to flow with assaults upon his preconceptions and adapt quickly. He only wished the assaults were less frequent.
“Lieutenant Shinya,” he said, “that’s… a generous offer. I’ll take it under advisement. I suppose you heard what I said on the comm a while ago?” The prisoner nodded. “Then you understand we’re in a tense situation for which there are no guidelines or regulations to refer to. Technically, you’re a prisoner of war, and somewhere, I assume, that war still rages. It’s my duty to present you to my superiors. Since I have no idea when or if that will ever occur…” He spread his hands out on the table. “I’ll consider it. I hope you won’t find it inconvenient, at present, if you remain under the protection of Sergeant Alden?”
Matt heard Gray grumbling as they worked their way aft. He’d decided to take a quick walk around-and be seen doing it-and look at repairs while getting a feel for the mood of the crew. He also wanted to talk to Spanky. The engineer was the only department head who hadn’t heard his comments in person. Gray continued to growl under his breath as they climbed into the open air on the main deck and stepped into the shade of the amidships deckhouse. Men formed a line leading to the open-air galley and snatched sandwiches from the counter as fast as the cooks put them down.
It was unbearably hot. That, at least, was the same. He changed direction and went back into the sun and stooped at the drinking fountain on the back of the big refrigerator next to the number one funnel. A stupid place for a refrigerator, he reflected again, but a great place for a drinking fountain. He pushed the button, and the cool stream rose to his lips. He drank, savoring the refrigerated water. Gray joined him.
“You seem annoyed, Boats,” Matt observed without preamble.
“That Nip. You ain’t gonna let him go, are you?”
“If he behaves, I might. Christ, we’ve got enough to worry about without guarding a Jap. He offered his parole.”
“So? They were making all nice before they bombed Pearl too. We wouldn’t have to guard him if-” Gray shifted uncomfortably and glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. “We ought to just get rid of him. He’s a Jap, for cryin’ out loud!”
Matt looked at him. “Get rid of him? You mean kill him?” He shook his head and stared at his crew for a long time while they talked and ate their sandwiches. He sighed. “No. We won’t. You know why? Because we’re Americans and we don’t do that.” He was quiet a moment longer and then strode aft again. “Wherever we are, we’re still Americans,” Gray heard him mutter.
The sun had just touched the sea when Spanky McFarlane stepped toward the rail near the number two torpedo mount. For the first time since their run from Surabaya, the deck was almost deserted. It had been a hard day in more ways than one, and with the most critical repairs complete, it was as though the crew had breathed a collective sigh of relief and then just collapsed. The only men he saw nearby were Dennis Silva and some of his hoodlum friends in the ordnance division, talking on the amidships deckhouse. Spanky ignored them. It was a moral imperative. If he paid too much attention to what those jerks were up to, he’d probably have to put them on report.
He took a dingy rag from his pocket to wipe sweat and grunge from his eyes. They burned like hell. He pitched it into the churning wake that scoured the side of the ship. Was it just his imagination, or had something actually snapped at the rag as it fluttered to the surface? He sagged against the safety chain. Starting to get jumpy, he thought, and fumbled for his smokes. With the ease of a practiced hand, he lit one in spite of the breeze and inhaled deeply. Yeah, it had been a hell of a day.
They’d buried their dead in the time-honored fashion soon after the Skipper came to talk. All those men-nearly a quarter of the crew- slipping over the side as the captain gruffly read the prayer. Spanky shuddered, wondering how deep the shrouded corpses went before being shredded by the piranha-like fish that seemed to be everywhere. The Old Man was thinking ahead, though. Instead of the customary four-inch shell sewn into their fart-bags to carry them down, they’d been sent to their graves with whatever wreckage or heavy piece of debris Spanky thought they could spare.