Shattered Trident - Страница 12

It should have been trivial for one of Todai’s most famous professors to reserve several seminar rooms. But the school had needed to know what conference the rooms were for. So Komamura had invented one, on “maritime economics,” and then had to invent a reason why information on the “conference” should not appear on the school’s Web page or in the newsletter. And he had to submit a preliminary list of attendees at least a week before the conference, and a final list within twenty-four hours of the opening session…

There seemed to be a hundred details, each requiring phone calls and e-mails. And with every interaction, he’d wondered if this was the one the Chinese would spot. Regardless of its innocence, each communication was a data point, a stone in the river. Given enough rocks, the Chinese might find a path across.

His classwork suffered. Even after unloading every duty he could on his hard-working graduate students, there were certain tasks he refused to delegate. Doctoral dissertations needed to be reviewed, lecture notes updated. It was work, but work he enjoyed because of his fascination with economics.

And then there were the frequent meetings with Admiral Kubo. Komamura looked forward to them, and he believed the chief of the maritime staff enjoyed the break from his demanding routine.

Kubo Noriaki was a small, square-faced man, legendary for the long hours he put in at his desk, and his love of sumo wrestling. The admiral always dressed in civilian clothes, which did nothing to change the air of authority that surrounded him. Sitting in a Tokyo udon restaurant, the two looked like a pair of senior executives on their lunch break. Tokyo had hundreds of such shops, and they never ate in the same one twice.

Their last meeting had not been as pleasant as most. Komamura had received word from his contacts in both India and Taiwan, on the same day, that they would not be attending his conference, even as observers. He was depressed, and it surprised him that he was so upset.

“Of course you take it personally. This alliance is your child, sensei.” Kubo insisted on addressing him using the same honorific Komamura’s students used. It could mean “teacher,” or “master,” and implied a level of professional respect that Komamura really didn’t feel worthy of right then. Kubo also insisted, because of his civilian “cover,” that Komamura simply address him as “Kubo-san.”

The admiral was realistic. “Not everyone will think the alliance is as necessary as you do. India has reasons for keeping its distance. They are not directly threatened by Chinese expansion into the South China Sea, at least not yet. They are interested in ways of weakening their greatest enemy, but their participation is a risk with much less benefit. They will join once they believe we have a good chance of success.

“Taiwan is a different problem. They have lived next to the dragon for seventy years, and are very cautious. If China discovered the alliance, and that Taiwan was involved, it would be disastrous for us and more so for Taiwan.”

Kubo asked, “If China succeeds in gaining control over the resources in the South China Sea—oil, food, minerals, not to mention control of the sea lanes—what are the long-term consequences for Taiwan?”

Komamura answered, “I covered that in the book, of course. Even a conservative—”

“I mean the political consequences, Professor,” Kubo interrupted. “Ten and twenty years later. You said it yourself, in chapter nine. ‘Political power is based on, and is directly proportional to, economic power.’ You even had a chart. Can Taiwan remain independent under those circumstances?”

“Politically,” Komamura mused. “With China stronger, possibly the strongest economy in the world, and all the littoral nations weaker. Taipei would have little choice but to accept unification, on Communist Chinese terms.”

“Then that’s the message you must give to the Taiwanese leadership. If you use only economic or military arguments, you will not convince them.”

“Am I really the best man for this task?” Komamura asked. “I’m not a diplomat.”

“You are the famous author of Navies for Asia. We believe that your independence from the Japanese government is an asset, not a disadvantage. You will speak your mind, not parrot our government’s agenda. As to your lack of expertise, you’ve inspired three governments to work together. Considering the historical bad blood between us, you’ve performed nothing short of a miracle to get this far. With time, the others too will be convinced. When will you go to Taiwan again?”

“I’ve been invited to lead a seminar at Zuoying Naval Yard next week.” He paused. “After the conference.”

“It’s a good time to speak to them. We will know so much more. And right before you go, there’s a microbrewery here in Tokyo you should visit. Admiral Wu Chen loves their Kenji Weizen.”

24 August 2016

By Water

Halifax, Nova Scotia

He’d moved to the house in Purcell’s Cove ten years ago, paying far too much, but it was unthinkable to be away from the water. It hadn’t been in the best shape when he bought it, and since then he’d fixed what he could by himself, and let the rest age gracefully.

Hector Alexander McMurtrie didn’t care what the outside of the house looked like, and he cared even less about the yard. He’d dealt with the neighbors’ complaints by planting evergreens, which had eventually blocked the view, except toward the ocean.

“Mac” left the kitchen, which also doubled as the dining room, and headed for his office at the other end of the house. He passed what could have been a formal dining room but was instead filled with filing cabinets. They lined two walls, while shelves above them were filled with ship models and nautical memorabilia. Prints and nautical charts covered every patch of wall space above chest level. The hallway was similarly decorated.

He shuffled past the first bedroom, where he actually slept, lined with bookshelves, and entered what should have been the master bedroom but was instead his office.

The house was sited on a low rise, and built so that bay windows in the kitchen and master bedroom faced the water. Mac didn’t see any reason for spending his time with his eyes closed in the room with the best view of the ocean.

The shelf formed by the large bay window held his favorite relics and models: a Hog Islander his father had helped him build when he was thirteen, a small piece of the merchant ship Mont-Blanc, shattered in the 1917 explosion, several seashells, and other treasures, none of them tall enough to block the view.

He stood looking out for several moments, gauging the weather. Clear, with thin high stratus. A pair of binoculars sat in one corner of the window shelf, but there was nothing on the horizon to look at.

His desk, secondhand when he bought it, faced the blank wall next to the bay. All Mac had to do was turn his head to the left and he could check to see if the ocean was still there. The desk was extended on either side by folding tables. One was loaded with printers, a server box, and a wide-bed scanner, while the other was covered with papers and reference books. Behind him a bookcase had been divided into cubbyholes, each labeled and holding a project, some urgent, and some waiting years for the right moment.

Bookshelves filled the available wall space, prints and photos and maps covered the walls, and ship models and assorted maritime knickknacks occupied every horizontal surface.

Taking a large sip from his third cup of coffee, Mac was ready to get to work, although he hardly thought of it as such. Twelve years ago, when the Irving Shipbuilding Company had offered early retirement, he’d jumped at it. Now, on the high side of sixty, his second career kept him typing ten or twelve hours a day, more if he wanted. It felt like he’d always done it this way, as if being a naval architect had just helped prepare him for his real occupation.

As he’d expected, the electronic inbox was full. E-mails from friends and associates all over the world passed on bits of information on naval and merchant ships, or asked questions about naval technology. Some sent images, others brought new work: requests for two book reviews just this morning, an offer of collaboration on a photo book, and a request for an article on steam-powered reciprocating propulsion plants. That was one of his specialties.

It was his own fault. Thirty years ago, he’d started a computer bulletin board on GEnie with his own mix of naval news, opinion, and outright bias. That had evolved into “Bywater’s Blog,” named in honor of another naval writer, Hector C. Bywater. It was also a play on words, since the mailbox in front of his home read BY WATER.

Because he was usually right, and often insightful, he’d attracted more and more readers, who had provided more and more information. Part of the fun was not just reading the latest gossip, but adding a piece, or two, to the jigsaw puzzle. One of Mac’s smarter ideas had been to include the amount of new information contributed to the membership statistics. Now other naval writers, sailors from navies and the merchant service, and hundreds of enthusiasts competed to send him information.

His digital empire included an online database and daughter blogs on warship developments, shipbuilding, and maritime losses. The spinoffs had greatly improved the readability of his daily blog, but had also doubled, or even tripled, the amount of e-mail he had to answer.