Girl Rides the Wind (5 page)

T
he ride
over to Haneda Airport in two buses took just over an hour—luck of the draw, since the other company would leave too late to avoid rush hour traffic—and the charter flights to Nagasaki would occupy another two hours. From there, a short helo-ride would deposit them at the naval base at Sasebo. Seating on the plane sorted itself out in predictable ways, by rank and nation, though nothing required it.

“At least on the bus, we didn’t have to endure the
gaijin
,” Tsukino muttered, glowering across the aisle to where Emily sat with Durant and Oleschenko. The flight attendant offered him a water bottle and a bag of the orb-like, slightly sweetened cookies called
hashimitsu
.

“Are you still stewing over the drubbing she gave you?” Ishikawa snorted.

Tsukino growled and turned to Kano for moral support, but none was forthcoming. “You know it’s not right, Captain, not after what she did to us.”

Kano waved him off with an angry glance, and stalked down the aisle to look for an empty seat in the back.

“I could have told you he wouldn’t bite on that one,” Ishikawa said. “But you have definitely got to let it go. So you got your ass kicked… so what? It’s not like you didn’t totally deserve it.”

“Will you ever shut up, Dice?”

“I only wish someone had made a video of it.”

“I’m sure someone did,” Tsukino huffed.

Out of the corner of one eye, Ishikawa noticed Oleschenko nudging Tenno, and gesturing toward the back, and he tried not to laugh at the captain’s consternation when she took the empty seat next to Tsukino instead.

“
Moushiwake arimasen
,
Tsukino-san
,” she said, in excessively formal Japanese, given her superior rank, and at the same time looking directly into Moon’s face.

“He’s not gonna like that,” Ishikawa couldn’t help thinking, knowing how mercurial his friend could be, “…and why is she apologizing to Tsukino anyway.” Such an odd figure, this American lieutenant, so clearly Japanese and yet somehow not. She spoke the language naturally enough, but with such formality, as if she’d been raised within the imperial court. Did she even know any slang? But in her manner, her gait, everything else about her, so much more like a boy.

“I did not mean to offend you,” Emily continued.

“Your apology means nothing to me,” Tsukino muttered. “Perhaps you can try it on Capt Kano.”

Tenno paused for a moment, sizing Moon up. Obviously, she’d already taken his measure in the ring yesterday, but perhaps she sought some other indication of his character now. Looking over Moon’s shoulder, Ishikawa saw a glint in her eyes, and shuddered—more like a predator, for that brief instant, than a human being, she seemed capable of any evil. “That must be how officers view us… or gods,” he thought, and gave Moon a shove to break the mood.

“Lighten up,” he said, forcing an uncomfortable laugh. “We all have to get along sooner or later. Might as well start now.”

“Don’t make everything into a joke, Dice,” he snarled back, without breaking eye contact.

“Don’t mistake this for an apology,” Emily said. “Even if I hadn’t beaten you in the ring, protocol does not require me to treat you as more than a bit of dirt on my shoe. But I suspect there’s something better than that in you, something worthy of respect. Help me find it… and you can start by showing me the respect my office demands… or I can grind you into the dust. It’s your choice.”

Neither one moved for a long moment, and Ishikawa’s heart thundered in his ears, as he wondered whether his friend could swallow that enormous pride. Finally, Moon nodded his head, and Emily grunted, stood up and nodded back, before returning to the seat next to Oleschenko.

Moon fell silent for a few moments, and refused to lift his head, which allowed Ishikawa to peer over his shoulder and make out bits and pieces of the Americans’ conversation, as much as his growing familiarity with English permitted.

“What the hell’d you do that for?” Oleschenko said—Ishikawa was fluent in American curse words, and much of their conversation came easy for him. “Kano’s alone back there. Don’t waste this opportunity.”

“Sorry, sir,” she said. “This isn’t the moment you think it is. It’s still his turf.”

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, Tenno…”

“There are layers, sir. I’ll get nowhere with him until I sort things out with his NCOs, especially Tsukino.”

“She’s right about that, sir,” Durant piped up.

“Whatever,” Oleschenko grumbled—using a word whose nuance Ishikawa had not yet mastered. “These guys are so touchy about losing.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “No Marine would ever bristle at a public humiliation.” Ishikawa assumed she meant this ironically, but he wasn’t sure.

Oleschenko grunted, and said, “You’re not giving me a civics lesson, are you, Lieutenant?” She said nothing, and he continued, “…which is why a Marine mud-brawl would have been so much better than that ticky-tack little tournament.”

“Sure would have,” Durant said, touching his nose gingerly.

Ishikawa touched his own nose, without realizing it.

T
he hop
over to the naval base at Sasebo in a pair of CH-46Es brought the usual exhilaration, sweeping in a wide pass over Omura Bay, Mt. Tara visible on the starboard side, the sun glistening on the western slopes of the old volcano, and the smaller Mt. Nagaura on the port side. They banked left over Segawa to avoid the residential neighborhoods crowding that end of Kyushu, and then right once they’d cleared the point at Kuchizaki and had a clear line into Sasebo. Shrines peeked at them from every point and promontory, if only the Marines cared to look for them.

Durant tapped her shoulder and she turned to see his swollen face grinning at her. She’d disconnected her headset, weary of Oleschenko’s constant chatter about how she had to talk to Kano, and how she’d probably blown their best chance.

“Is that her?” he asked, pointing out one of the port windows, once she’d reconnected her headset.

“No. The Princess Toyotama shrine is on the starboard side, just below the point.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he said, and then he caught sight of her smiling face.

“Yup, that’s her, the
Bonhomme Richard
, at the outer wharf, on the leeward side.”

“Is this your first time on something this size, LT?”

“Nah, I did my third year surface cruise on an Arleigh-Burke out of Yokosuka.”

“That’s nothing compared to a Wasp-class helo-carrier.”

“I guess,” she said.

“He’s just feeling the pressure, you know, from higher-ups,” Durant said, gesturing to Oleschenko, who’d also disconnected his headset.

“I get that, Sarge. It’s just that Kano’s a tough nut to crack. There’s some history…”

“Oh,” he said, eyeing her somewhat differently now.

“Nothing like that, dumbass.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to sort him out soon. We get underway tomorrow.”

Emily nodded.

The Phrog banked right and then left, and then left again, more steeply on the final turn, tossing the platoon around as it prepared for its final approach in a rising breeze. Specialist Chapman, who had dozed off unharnessed, lurched across the cabin into Durant. Shoved rudely back onto his perch, he woke disoriented and cursing at the webbing that now trapped his arm. The pilot called back to drop the ramp even before the tricycle landing gear touched the deck. Two gentle bounces, and Oleschenko was up barking out an order.

“Grab your gear and hit the deck, Marines.”

Two men in yellow jackets waved them toward a hatch on one edge of the flight deck, where the OOD awaited. Emily glanced up to see several men in strange uniforms staring down at them from Vulture’s Row. By the time the boarding protocols had been observed, the Phrogs were already gone, headed back to Nagasaki for two more loads, and a relative calm descended on the
Bonhomme Richard
, though it wouldn’t last long, since a line of Harriers could already be seen, snaking off into the distance, on approach for another round of a takeoff-and-landing exercise.

“It looks like the Chinese are already here,” she said, nudging Durant as they jogged across the deck. Three stripes on the shoulder boards of one man who stared at her with particular intensity marked him as an officer, probably the equivalent of a captain. She tried to remember the Mandarin word for it, and muttered, “
Shangwei
.”

Down a ladder and around two corners brought them to a wardroom where three master chiefs stood in a row, announcing berthing assignments and barking out orders in a tone of voice that expects immediate compliance from whoever hears it. The entrance of a Marine captain and his lieutenant in jungle-camo failed to raise any eyebrows, much less a salute or two.

“You’re squatting with Capt Diao, sir,” said one of the chiefs, holding a clipboard in one hand and running a pencil along one edge. “And Capt Ongpin.”

“Any English-speakers in that cabin?” Oleschenko asked.

“Oh, and Capt Kano, too.”

He glanced over at Emily with a gleam of helplessness in his eye, but other voices had already drawn her attention away.

“Lt Tenno,” another chief muttered, flipping through the pages on his clipboard. “Let’s see here… Clade, where’d we put Tenno?”

“Beats the hell out of me, Master Chief.”

The entrance of two ship’s officers stiffened the chief’s demeanor

“What seems to be the trouble, Master Chief?” a familiar voice called out from what seemed an impressive height, though he was merely standing a few feet away, and Emily turned to see an old friend.

“No trouble, Lt Talib, sir,” the chief replied in the ornate formality so dear to the Navy.

“Lt Tenno requesting permission to come aboard, sir,” Emily said, with a rigid salute. When Talib finally returned her salute, after a moment’s puzzlement, she continued in a lighter tone: “Aren’t you a sight…”

“Jarheads,” MC Clade muttered, perhaps a little more loudly than he’d intended, “…always screwing with protocol.”

“Don’t forget me,” a higher, equally familiar voice chirped at her, and a tall, slender blond with a page-boy haircut peeked over Zaki’s broad shoulder.

“CJ,” Emily exclaimed, before remembering her idiosyncratic commitment to protocol and snapping to attention with another salute.

“Oh, please, Em,” CJ said, stepping around. “That may work on the boys, but I need a hug.”

“We’re just trying to figure out where my bunk is.”

CJ frowned and turned to the chief: “I’ve got three empty racks in my berth, Master Chief. Put Lt Tenno with me.”

By this time, Clade had worked his way over to the Japanese contingent, who had been waiting in the passageway, and Emily noticed Kiku standing just inside the hatch.

“And Lt Otani,” she said. “She needs to bunk with me… I mean with us, you know, because of the language”

“You got that, Master Chief?” CJ said, and led the way out after he nodded. Emily followed her, calling “
Ikimasho, Kiku-san
” over her shoulder, and Lt Otani trotted along behind them, perhaps not used to the pace of CJ’s martial stride. Following in their wake, Zaki brought up the rear of the party

“It’s a maze down here,” Emily moaned.

“Yup,” CJ chirped. “Just like rabbits in a warren—that’s what Zaki always says.”

“Except this one’s the size of a small city.”

“It’s not that complicated,” Zaki said, pointing to the numbers painted on a bulkhead. “You just have to learn the code. These numbers identify what deck you’re on, how far forward you are, and how far off the center line.”

Lt Otani nodded approvingly. “Very good, thank you, Lieutenant-san. The numbers identify my position. Is it easy to find a path around the ship?”

“Not quite.” He scratched his chin and paused to allow a few red-jacketed sailors to squeeze by him in the ladderwell. “There are dead-ends and wrong turns, but you develop a sense for it eventually.”

With a crew of eleven hundred, the
Bonhomme Richard
was one of the first ships with quarters designed specifically to accommodate two hundred or so female crew members—as well as however many women might be included in the Marine Expeditionary Unit the ship was intended to carry in combat operations—the primary female-friendly feature being the inclusion of a private head within each berthing room.

Officers’ quarters tended to be roomy, within the narrow limits of shipboard life, and CJ’s could accommodate four, while enlisted sailors slept in rooms designed for sixty or more in racks stacked three high in most cases. But even with the extra room, once they’d entered, Zaki’s broad shoulders made even simple introductions, or in fact any movement, difficult.

“
O-Zaki
,” Kiku said with a giggle, and then blushed crimson, before bowing. “I am honored to make your acquaintance.”

“Zaki and CJ were classmates of mine at the Academy,” Emily said in Japanese.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, too, Lt Otani,” CJ said, extending her hand. When Zaki tried to bow, he almost bumped heads with CJ, the two of them towering over Kiku.

Once Zaki had been reminded of some other errand, and beds had been assigned and the gear stowed, CJ led them on a tour.

“First stop is the armory, so you two can check in your weapons.”

“Kiku-san only carries a regulation sidearm,” Emily said.

“I’m pretty sure the same can’t be said for you.” CJ laughed and nudged a bulky duffel with her foot.

“Armory?” Kiku asked with a raised eyebrow.

“All firearms must be secured unless we’re in an active combat zone,” CJ said, and led them through the bowels of the ship.

“Excellent condition.” Staff Sgt Huart turned Kiku’s Beretta over in his hands, before finding a place for it in a rack of similar weapons. “Looks like it’s never even been fired,” he said, and handed her a chit.

Once Emily had laid out her ordinance on a counter in front of Sgt Huart, CJ clucked at her. “I don’t know how you can even lift all that.”

Huart inspected and appraised each piece, then logged it in: “Remington 870… nice. Good in close quarters… really clears a room.”