Edge of Valor (16 page)

I can handle that
. He nodded toward the passengers. “Are they angry with me?”

Fujimoto shrugged. “Just that you're here. They didn't plan for you.”

“I don't get it.”

“Your weight. There are too many of us. Like I said, we need every drop of gas.” He turned and put his head back against the seat.

Ingram leaned back and tried to wedge himself in, but the aluminum seat was small and bit into his butt. His back was cramping. He tried to sleep but awakened each time the plane bounced and jinked, sometimes far worse than the C-54. Once in a while someone crawled over the luggage pile, sat on the commode, and took care of business.

Darkness fell and the bouncing and stomach-grabbing downdrafts got worse. Once during a downdraft, the starboard engine sputtered and quit. Someone yelped; another cursed. Not quite windmilling to a stop, the engine started again with the pilot nursing it back to life and revving it to cruising power. Ingram couldn't see the faces of the other passengers, but he could feel their collective relief.

Surprised to find that he had slept for a while amid all the bouncing and shaking, Ingram awoke to a cabin darkened save for one small bulb near the
forward section. It cast a dim light, making the cabin's features stand out like a macabre horror movie. The people in front of him might just as well have been zombies strapped to their seats as they jiggled along. Suddenly, another figure appeared. This man was dressed in a fur-lined flight suit with goggles perched on his forehead. He spoke to the delegate in the forward seat. They motioned the rating forward, and the three were soon engaged in an intense conversation.

“What's going on?” asked Ingram.

“We'll soon find out,” said Fujimoto.

The flight-suited man disappeared forward into darkness. The rating crawled aft over the luggage, speaking with each of the delegates as he moved past. One—he looked like a general—stood and shouted at the man. But the rating moved on relaying his message. He spoke to Fujimoto last and then turned to the luggage pile and began tossing the bags toward the hatch.

Fujimoto stood and began helping.

“What?” called Ingram.

Fujimoto grunted as he wrestled with the bags. “Headwinds. We may not have enough gas to make Kisarazu.”

Lightning flashed, illuminating the passengers. The plane rocked to starboard; the pilot righted it. The passengers stood now, helping pass their luggage aft.

The rating opened the hatch and clipped it back. Wind roared in, chilling the cabin and making Ingram wish he'd brought a parka. Then the rating knelt and began tossing bags into the night.

The others towered over him passing bags. Ingram felt as if he were glued to his seat, blood frozen in his veins. My God. Helen! Not now, after all this. He'd survived the war and now there was a chance he'd end up in the Pacific with the enemy—his former enemy—after all.

“Wait!” Ingram jumped and held up a hand.

They stopped. The rating grabbed his shirt. “
Iko, iko
!”

Fujimoto said, “We're losing speed and fuel, Commander. We have to act quickly.”

“Act after you assure me the documents are safe,” demanded Ingram.

Fujimoto shouted forward. Someone shouted back. “All secure, Commander. Don't worry, it's as important to us as it is to you.”

Ingram looked forward. One of the civilians held up two oilskin-wrapped packages. Another held up a large mailing tube.
Have to go with that
. “Okay. Finish it up.”

Two minutes later, the bags were all gone save Ingram's small bag, which had been unceremoniously plopped on his jump seat.

The rating began securing the hatch. “Hold on,” shouted Ingram.

He unzipped his bag, dug out a foul-weather jacket, rezipped the bag, and handed it back to the rating. In an instant it was out the hatch and gone into the night.

With effort, the rating pushed the hatch shut and secured it. He walked forward and a civilian delegate handed him the two oilskin packages and the mail tube. He accepted them with a bow and then walked aft and sat near the hatch. He looked at Ingram, smiled, and nodded at what lay in his lap. He drew up his knees and hugged the packages close. To Ingram's surprise, the man flashed thumbs-up.

Fujimoto turned and said, “Thank you for sacrificing your luggage.”

“I'm as interested in living as you are,” Ingram said, wriggling into his foul-weather jacket.

Fujimoto brushed away an imaginary piece of dust. “I don't think so.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

Conversation stopped as the left engine sputtered, bucked in its mount, then roared back to life.

Jeepers
. Ingram checked his watch. They'd been in the air well over four hours. Plenty of time to make landfall in a normal flight.

“My life is over,” said Fujimoto.

Ingram thought about that.
Fujimoto's life is over? So what?
He felt the same way. For the past three and a half years, life had been fleeting—a very long, dark, and terrifying path. He'd been scared, speechless, and numb. But that was war, and in a way he had been resigned to it. Now, with the war supposedly over, the threat was gone and he'd just let go, allowing tendrils of peace to seep into his system, giving him a sense of well-being, of finally returning home and being with Helen and Jerry. Now this. No, he'd never get used to being scared. His heart was pounding and his arteries felt as if they were filled with battery acid, electrifying every cell.

“Nonsense. You have a lot to live for.”

Fujimoto waved a hand. “My country is dead. My father is dead. Dead are my two brothers. My mother died in 1936 from cholera. There is nothing left. So . . . when I fill my obligation to you and my country I intend to commit seppuku.”

“What's that?”

“Suicide. The honorable way.”

The engine sputtered again but caught almost immediately. Strangely, the air became smooth and it was suddenly light outside. Moonglow.

“Oh, hara-kiri.”

“That's what you call it.”

Ingram pointed to the enlisted rating at the hatch. “Why does he have all the diplomatic stuff?”

“Yakushima is a strong swimmer. Tried out for the 1936 Olympics in freestyle but fell short by two-tenths of a second. Can you imagine? If he had made the Olympics, he most likely would be someplace else, serving in a more honorable position. But for that two-tenths of a second we would not have his services tonight. All our diplomatic material is entrusted to him for safekeeping in case we go into the water.”

“I see.” Ingram looked over to Yakushima.

The man bowed his head.

“It's the best we can do. I'm sorry,” said Fujimoto. “Should the plane go down, we fear that your people will think it a trick of some sort. That we collectively committed seppuku and destroyed the documents as a gesture of defiance.”

Ingram thought about Japanese trickery from Pearl Harbor to Okinawa. But he put it aside and said, “I don't know about that, but there is something you should know.”

In the dim moonlight, Fujimoto's eyes were dull.

Tell him now. What does it matter? If we crash, he'll die happy; if not, then maybe I'll have his cooperation
. “You do have something to live for. Your brother is alive.”

“Yes.” He brushed it off as if Ingram were telling a bad joke.

“Seriously. Lieutenant Kotoku Fujimoto of the Imperial Japanese Marines is the brigade commander at Toro Village on Karafuto.”

“What is this?” Fujimoto's voice fairly boiled. He sat up straight, his lips curled.

“I need you to go up there with me tomorrow and get him out. And somebody else,” said Ingram.

Fujimoto spat, “How dare you? After what I tried to—”

The port engine sputtered. Then it quit. Then the starboard engine stopped as well. The only sound was wind whistling through the airframe, a sound somehow louder than the roar of the engines had been. Someone in the forward part of the plane shouted. The bomber took a down angle. But it was a smooth descent, with the light seeming to get a bit stronger.

People babbled. Someone moaned. A civilian tried to rise in his seat, but another, a dark hulking shadow, pulled him down and yelled at him.

Ingram braced himself against the bulkhead and pulled his seat belt strap as tight as possible.

Fujimoto turned and said in a near-conversational tone, “Were you joking?”

“Not in the least.”

“Then you have made me very happy.”

Ingram looked at Yakushima, then at the shrapnel hole. Whitecaps whizzed past. The ocean loomed close. Then closer.

The G4M2 hit and bounced. They were airborne for three luxurious seconds, then they bounced again; and hit hard. The plane slewed to a grinding stop on the right wing. Water gushed over the top of the fuselage.

Immediately, water sloshed in the cabin. Everyone shouted. They jumped up at once. Yakushima popped the hatch. Clutching the documents, he catapulted out and disappeared into the night.

Ingram unbuckled and stood. Water swirled around his legs. His knees!
Get out!

A general shoved Ingram back into his seat and pushed past. Fujimoto pulled him up. A screaming civilian tried to climb over them. Fujimoto elbowed him in the face and then shoved Ingram out the door.

Hands grabbed him as he pitched out. Yakushima.
What the hell?

Yakushima was upright, water sloshing around his thighs. With a smile, he eased Ingram forward to sit on the wing.

Bright moonlight. Land. The beach was twenty yards away. Small waves lapped onto the sand. In the distance were a few houses, one with a light in the window. And beyond, Ingram made out a sight not available to Americans for the past three and a half years: moonlight glittering off the snow-capped peak of Mount Fuji.

The plane rested in light surf.
Son of a gun. Might as well be in Malibu
.

Fujimoto sat beside him. They watched as the rest of the open-mouthed passengers piled out.

The two pilots exited the cockpit hatches, slid down the wing, and mingled with them. Soon everybody pumped the fliers' hands, laughing and babbling at the same time.

Miraculously, a flask was produced and passed around.

It came to Fujimoto and he took his swig, “Ahhhh. It's been awhile.” He offered it to Ingram.

“Thanks.” Ingram took a drink. Pure fire. The brandy burned gloriously on its way down, shoving aside demons. He passed it to one of the pilots. With a grin, the pilot bowed and tipped the flask toward each of those gathered around. Then he raised it to his mouth. An admiral began chanting, then two of the generals. Soon all were chanting as one pilot and then the other chug-a-lugged the remaining contents.

Fujimoto looked at the star-speckled sky. “Perhaps a new beginning, Commander.”

Chapter Eleven

21 August 1945

San Pedro, California

“N
oooo!” Helen sat bolt upright in bed. Her skin was clammy; her nerves jangled. Instinctively she reached for Todd.
Not here
. VJ day was five, no six, days ago. She wanted Todd.
Come home. It's time
.