Chapter Ten
The men and women of the force were kneeling in the traditional student’s position, backs straight, hands open, and palms resting down on their thighs. To all appearances they were at ease, listening to the morning’s instruction.
This morning, however, the assembly was different. This morning, the raised instructor’s platform held a dozen chairs filled by various corporation dignitaries. More importantly, the subject at hand was not instruction, but rather the formal transfer of command from Kumo to Tidwell.
Tidwell was both nervous and bored. He was bored because he was always bored by long speeches, particularly if he was one of the main subjects under discussion. Yet there was still the nervousness born from the anticipation of directly addressing the troops for the first time as their commander.
The speech was in English, as were all the speeches and instructions. One of the prerequisites for the force was a fluent knowledge of English. That didn’t make it any the less boring.
He grimaced and looked about the platform again. The corporation officials were sitting in Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum similarity, blank-faced and attentive. If nothing else in this stint of duty, he was going to try to learn some of the Oriental inscrutability. Depending on the Oriental, they viewed Westerners with distaste or amusement because of the ease with which their emotions could be read in their expressions and actions. The keynote of the Orient was control, and it started with oneself.
Craning his neck slightly, he snuck a glance at Clancy, standing in an easy parade rest behind him. There was the Western equivalent to the Oriental inscrutability: the military man. Back straight, eyes straight ahead, face expressionless. Behind the mask, Clancy’s mind would be as busy and opinionated as ever, but from viewing him, Tidwell did not have the faintest idea what he was thinking. In fact, Tidwell realized, he himself was currently the most animated figure on the platform. Suddenly self-conscious, he started to face front again when his eyes fell on Kumo.
Kumo was resplendent in his ceremonial robes. Protruding from his sash, at an unlikely angle to the Western eyes, was a samurai sword. Tidwell had heard that the sword had been in Kumo’s family for over fifteen generations.
He held the weapon in almost a religious awe. Its history was longer than Tidwell’s family tree, and it seemed to radiate a bloody aura of its own.
Anyone who didn’t believe that a weapon absorbed something from the men who used it, from the men it killed, anyone who didn’t believe that a weapon couldn’t have an identity and personality of its own had never held a weapon with a past.
He suddenly snapped back into focus. The speaker was stepping away from the microphone, looking at him expectantly, as were the others on the platform. Apparently, he had missed his introduction and was “on.”
He rose slowly, using the delay to collect his scattered thoughts, and stepped to the edge of the platform, ignoring the microphone to address the force directly. A brief gust of wind rippled the uniforms of his audience, but aside from that, there was no movement or reaction.
“Traditionally, Japan has produced the finest fighting men in the world. The Samurai, the Ninjas, are all legendary for their prowess in battle.”
There was no reaction from the force. Mentally he braced himself. Here we go!
“Also, traditionally, they have had the worst armies!”
The force stiffened without moving. Their faces remained immobile.
“The armies were unsuccessful because they fought as individuals, not as a team. As martial artists, you train the muscles of your body, the limbs of your body, to work together, to support each other. It would be unthinkable to attempt to fight if your arms and legs were allowed to move in uncontrolled random motions.”
They were with him, grudgingly, seeing where his logic was going.
“Similarly, an army can only be effective if the men and women in it work in cooperation and coordination with each other.”
He had made his point. Time to back off a little.
“Different cultures yield different fighting styles. I am not here to argue which style is better, for each style has its time and place. What must be decided is what style is necessary in which situation. In this case, that decision has been made by the executives of the Zaibatsu. As a result of that decision, I have been hired to train and lead you.”
Now the crunch.
“You are about to enter a highly specialized war. To successfully fight in this war, you must abandon any ideas you may have of nationalism or glory. You are mercenaries, as I am a mercenary, in the employ of the Zaibatsu complex. As such, you must learn to fight, to think in a way which may be completely foreign to what you have learned in the past. To allow time for this training, the date for our entry into the war has been moved back by two months.”
“I disagree, Mr. Tidwell.”
The words were soft and quiet, but they carried to every corner of the assemblage. In an instant the air was electric. Kumo!
“I disagree with everything you have said.”
There it was! The challenge! The gauntlet! Tidwell turned slowly to face his attacker. Kumo’s words were polite and soft as a caress, but the act of interrupting, let alone disagreeing, carried as much emotional impact in the Orient as a Western drill sergeant screaming his head off.
“In combat, the action is too fast for conscious thought. If one had to pause and think about coordination of one’s limbs, the battle would be lost before a decision was made. It is for this reason that martial artists train, so that each limb develops eyes of its own, a mind of its own. This enables a fighter to strike like lightning when an opening presents itself. Similarly, we train each man to be a self-contained unit, capable of making decisions and acting as the situation presents itself. This means he will never be hamstrung by slow decisions or a break in communications with his superior. As to your ‘specialized war’, a trained fighting man should be able to adapt and function in any situation. Your failure to recognize this betrays your ignorance of warfare.”
Tidwell shot a glance at the corporate officials. No one moved to interfere or defend. He was on his own. They were going to let the two of them settle it.
“Am I to understand that you are questioning the qualifications of Mr. Clancy and myself?” He tried to keep his voice as calm as Kumo’s.
“There is nothing to question. After two weeks here, you presume to be an expert on our force and seek to change it. You expect the force to follow you because the corporation tells them to. This is childish. The only way one may lead fighting men is if he holds their respect. That respect must be earned. It cannot be ordered. So far, all we have for proof is words. If your knowledge of battle is so vastly superior to ours, perhaps you could demonstrate it by defeating one of the force that we might see with our own eyes you are fit to lead us.”
Tidwell was thunderstruck. This was unheard of! In paperback novels, leaders would issue blanket challenges to their force to “any man who thinks he can lick me.” In life it was never done. Leaders were chosen for their knowledge of strategy and tactics, not their individual fighting prowess. It was doubtful that either Patton or Rommel, or Genghis Khan for that matter, could beat any man in their command in a fistfight. No commander in his right mind would jeopardize his authority by entering into a brawl.
It crossed his mind to refuse the challenge. He had already acknowledged the superior ability of the Japanese in individual combat, contesting only their group tactics. Just as quickly he rejected the thought. No matter how insane it was, he could not refuse this challenge. He was in the Orient. To refuse would be to indicate cowardice, to lose face. He would have to fight this battle and win it.
“Sensei, I have publicly stated that the people of Japan have produced the greatest fighters in history. I will elaborate and say that I have no doubts that the men and women under your instruction equal or surpass those warriors of old in skill. Moreover, I must bow to your superior knowledge of their abilities and attitudes.”
Kumo bowed his head slightly, acknowledging the compliment, but his eyes were still wary.
“However, what you tell me is that they must be convinced with action, not words. It has been always a characteristic of man that he can settle differences, pass his experiences from one generation to the next, and develop new ideas and concepts through the use of words. If you are correct in your appraisal of your students, if they are unable to be swayed by words, if the only way their respect can be earned is by action, then they are not men, they are animals.”
Kumo’s back stiffened.
“This is not surprising because you have trained them like animals.”
There was an angry stirring in the ranks.
“Normally, I would stand aside for men and women of such training, for they could defeat me with ease. But you tell me they are animals. As such, I will accept your challenge, Kumo. I will stand and defeat the man or woman of your choice any time, any place, with any weapon, for I am a man, and a man does not fear an animal.”
There were scattered angry cries from the ranks. First singly, then as a group, the force rose and stood at the ready position, wordlessly volunteering to champion the force by facing Tidwell.
The mercenary suppressed an impulse to smile at the sensei’s predicament. Kumo had obviously planned to face Tidwell himself. In slanting his retort toward the force, Tidwell had successfully forced Kumo into choosing a member from the ranks. A teacher cannot defend his students without implying a lack of confidence in their prowess. If the abilities of a student are challenged, the student must answer the challenge. Terrific. Would you rather face a tiger or a gorilla?
“Mr. Tidwell, your answer is eloquent, if unwise. You are aware that such a contest would be fought to the death?”
Tidwell nodded. He hadn’t been, but he was now. Inwardly, he gritted his teeth. Kumo wasn’t leaving him any outs.
“Very well. The time will be now, the place here. For weapons, you may have your choice.”
Clever bastard! He’s waiting to see weapons choice before he picks my opponent.
“I’ll fight as I stand.”
“I will also allow you to choose your opponent. I have faith in each of my students.”
Damn! He’d reversed it. Now if Tidwell didn’t choose Kumo for an opponent, it would appear he was probing for a weaker foe.
Tidwell scanned the force slowly, while he pondered the problem. Finally, he made his decision.
He turned to Kumo once more.
“I will face Aki.”
There was a quiet murmur of surprise as Aki rose and approached the platform. Obviously Tidwell was not trying to pick a weak opponent.
The powerhouse bounded onto the platform and bowed to Kumo. Kumo addressed him in rapid Japanese, then much to everyone’s astonishment, removed his sword and offered it to his student. Aki’s glance flickered over Tidwell, then he gave a short bow, shaking his head in refusal. Raising his head in calm pride, he rattled off a quick statement in Japanese, then turned to face Tidwell. Kumo inclined his head, then returned the sword to his sash. He barked a few quick commands, and several men sprang to clear the platform, relocating the dignitaries and their chairs to positions in front of and facing the scene of the upcoming duel.
Tidwell shrugged out of his jacket and Clancy stepped forward to take it.
“Are you out of your bloody mind, Steve?” he murmured under his breath.
“Do you see any options?”
“You could have let me fight him. If Kumo can have a champion, you should be able to have one too.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather handle this one myself. Nothing personal.”
“Just remember the option next time, if there is a next time.”
“C’mon Clancy, what could you do that I can’t in a spot like this?”
“For openers, I could blow him away while he’s bowing in.”
Clancy opened his hand slightly to reveal the derringer he was palming. Tidwell recognized it at once as Clancy’s favorite holdout weapon—two shots, loads exploding on impact, accurate to fifty feet in the hands of an expert, and Clancy was an expert.
“Tempting, but it wouldn’t impress the troops much.”
“But it would keep you alive!”
“Academic. We’re committed now.”
“Right. Win it!”
Win it. The mercenary’s send-off. Tidwell focused his mind on that expression as he took his place facing Aki. At times like this when the chips were down, it meant a lot more than all the good lucks in the world.
Suddenly the solution to the problem occurred to him. Chancy, but worth a try!
“Clancy, give me a pad and pencil.”
They appeared magically. No aide is complete without those tools. Tidwell scribbled something quickly on the top sheet, ripped it from the pad, and folded it twice.
“Give this to Mr. Yamada.”
Clancy nodded and took the note, stashing the pad and pencil as he went.
Everything was ready now. With relatively few adaptations, a lecture assembly had been converted into an arena. As he was talking to Clancy, Tidwell had been testing the platform surface. It was smooth sanded wood, unvarnished and solid. He considered taking off his boots for better traction, but discarded the idea. He’d rather have the extra weight on his feet for the fight—increased impact and all that.
Kumo sat at the rear center of the platform, overseeing the proceedings as always. Then Clancy vaulted back onto the platform, his errand complete. Deliberately he strode across the platform and took a position beside Kumo on the side closest Tidwell. Kumo glared, but did not challenge the move.
Tidwell suppressed a smile. Score one for Clancy. This was not a class exercise and Kumo was not an impartial instructor. It was a duel, and the seconds were now in position. One thing was sure—if he ever took a contract to take on the devil, he wanted Clancy guarding his flanks.
But now there was work to be done. For the first time, he focused his attention on Aki, meeting his enemy’s gaze directly. Aki was standing at the far end of the platform, relaxed and poised, eyes dead. The eyes showed neither fear nor anger. They simply watched, appraised, analyzed, and gave nothing in return. Tidwell realized that he was looking into a mirror, into the eyes of a killer. He realized it, accepted it, and put it out of his mind. He was ready.
He raised an eyebrow in question. Aki saw and gave a fractional nod of his head, more an acknowledgement than a bow, and the duel began.
Tidwell took one slow step forward and stopped, watching. Aki moved with leisurely grace into a wide, straddle-legged stance, and waited, watching.
Check! Aki was going to force Tidwell into making the opening move. He was putting his faith in his defense, in his ability to weather any attack Tidwell could throw at him and survive to finish the bout before his opponent could recover. However the duel went, it would be over quickly. Once Tidwell committed himself to an attack, it would either succeed or he would be dead.
Tidwell broke the tableau, moving diagonally to his right leisurely, almost sauntering. As he approached the edge of the platform he stopped, studied his opponent, then repeated the process, moving diagonally to the left. Aki stood unmoving, watching.
To an unschooled eye, it would appear almost as if Tidwell were an art connoisseur, viewing a statue from various angles. To the people watching, it was Aki’s challenge. He was saying, “Pick your attack, pick your angle. I will stop you and kill you.”
Finally Tidwell heaved a visible sigh. The decision was made. He moved slowly to the center of the platform, paused, considering Aki, then placed his hands behind his back and began moving toward him head-on. Theatrically he came, step by step, a study in slow motion. The question now was how close? How close would Aki let him come before launching a counterattack? Could he bait Aki into striking first? Committing first?
Ten feet separated them. Step. Seven feet. Step.
Tidwell’s right fist flashed out, whipping wide for a back-knuckle strike to Aki’s temple, a killing blow. In the same instant, Aki exploded into action, left arm coming up to block the strike, right fist driving out for a smashing punch to Tidwell’s solar plexus. Then in mid-heartbeat, the pattern changed. Tidwell’s left hand flashed out and the sun glinted off the blade of a stiletto lancing for the center of Aki’s chest. Aki’s counter-punch changed and his right arm snapped down to parry the knife-thrust.
Instead of catching Tidwell’s forearm, the block came down on the raised knife point as the weapon was pivoted in mid-thrust to meet the counter. The point plunged into the forearm, hitting bone, and Tidwell ripped the arm open, drawing the knife back toward him. As his arm came back, Tidwell jerked his knee up, slamming it into the wounded arm, then straightened the leg, snapping the toe of his boot into the wound for a third hit as Aki jerked backward, splintering the bone and sending his opponent off balance. Aki reeled back in agony, then caught his balance and tried to take a good position, even though his right arm would no longer respond to his will. His eyes glinted hard now, a tiger at bay.
Tidwell bounded backward, away from his injured foe and backpedaled to the far end of the platform. As Aki moved to follow, he pegged the knife into the platform at his feet, dropped to one knee, and held his arms out from his body at shoulder height.
“Aki! Stop!”
Aki paused, puzzled.
“Stop and listen!”
Suspiciously, Aki retreated slowly to the far end of the platform, putting distance between himself and Tidwell, but he listened.
“Mr. Yamada! Will you read aloud the note I passed you before the fight began.”
Mr. Yamada rose slowly from his seat with the other company officials, unfolded the note, and read: “I will strike Aki’s right forearm two to four times, then try to stop the fight.”
He sat down and a murmur rippled through the force.
“The point of the fight was to determine if I was qualified to lead this force in battle. At this point I have shown that not only can I strike your champion repeatedly, but that I can predict his moves in advance. This will be my function as your commander, to guide you against an enemy I know and can predict, giving maximum effectiveness to your skills. Having demonstrated this ability, I wish to end this duel if my opponent agrees. I only hope he embraces the same philosophy I do—that if given a choice, I will not waste lives. I will not kill or sacrifice my men needlessly. That is the way of the martial arts, and the way of the mercenary. Aki! Do you agree with me that the duel is over?”
Their eyes met for a long moment. Then slowly Aki drew himself up and bowed.
Kumo sprang to his feet, his face livid. He barked an order at Aki. Still in the bow, Aki raised his head and looked at Kumo, then at Tidwell, then back at Kumo, and shook his head.
Clancy tensed, his hand going to his waistband. Tidwell caught his eyes and shook his head in a firm negative.
Kumo screamed a phrase in Japanese at Aki, then snatched the sword from his sash and started across the platform at Tidwell.
Tidwell watched coldly as the sensei took three steps toward him, then stood up. As he did, the leg he had been kneeling on flashed forward and kicked the knife like a placekicker going for an extra point. The point snapped off and the knife somersaulted forward, plunging hilt-deep into the chest of the charging swordsman. Kumo stopped, went to one knee, tried to rise, then the sword slipped from his grasp and he fell. For several minutes there was silence. Then Tidwell turned to address his force.
“A great man has died here today. Training is canceled for the rest of the day that we might honor his memory. Assembly will be at 0600 hours tomorrow to receive your new orders. Dismissed.”
In silence, the force rose and began to disperse. Tidwell turned to view the body again. Aki was kneeling before his fallen sensei. In silence, Tidwell picked up the sword, removed the scabbard from Kumo’s sash and resheathed the weapon. He stared at the body for another moment, then turned and handed the sword to Aki. Their eyes met, then Tidwell bowed and turned away.
“Jesus Christ, Steve. Have you ever used that placekick stunt before? In combat?”
“Three times before. This is the second time it worked.”
“I saw it but I still don’t believe it. If I ever mouth off about your knives again, you can use one of them on me.”
“Yeah, right. Say, can you be sure someone takes care of Aki’s arm? I just want to go off and get drunk right now.”
“Sure thing, Steve. Oh, someone wants to talk to you.”
“Later, huh? I’m not up to it right now.”
“It’s the straw bosses.”
Clancy jerked a thumb toward the row of company officials.
“Oh!”
Tidwell turned and started wearily toward the men because they were his employers and he was a mercenary.