The San Francisco airfield baked under the late afternoon sun. Sal stood at the Farsailer's rail, watching Boot tinker with one of the gimballing rotors, when the urgent message arrived.
The telegraph operator ran across the field, waving the paper over his head. “Captain Cartwright! Emergency dispatch!”
Sal took the telegram, Boot leaning over his shoulder to read:
JAPANESE ROYAL YACHT SHOHO MARU LOST POWER IN PACIFIC STORM STOP
EMPERORS BROTHER ABOARD STOP
LAST POSITION 38N 137W STOP
ALL VESSELS REQUESTED TO ASSIST STOP
MASSIVE STORM SYSTEM MOVING EAST STOP
“That's less than six hours from here,” Boot said, already calculating in his head. “We're probably the closest ship capable of flying in this weather.”
“And the only one able to get there before that storm hits the yacht,” Sal added grimly. “But we're not set up for passenger rescue.”
Boot's eyes lit up. “Give me ten minutes. I've got an idea.” He turned and began shouting to the ground crews lounging in the shade. “Hey! You lot! I need every piece of lumber and metal you can find! Boxes, crates, spools — anything not bolted down!”
“What are you thinking?” Sal asked as confused workers began gathering materials.
“We're going to build a rescue basket,” Boot grinned. “Big enough for five people at a time, small enough to control in the wind. I'll build it en route.”
Sal nodded. The Farsailer was designed for cargo, not passenger rescue, but if anyone could improvise a solution, it was Boot.
Within ten minutes, the Farsailer's hold was packed with scavenged materials and they were airborne, racing the approaching storm. Below them, the Pacific sparkled deceptively calm in the setting sun. But ahead, massive thunderheads were building, their tops already reaching above thirty thousand feet.
In the hold, Boot worked feverishly, the sounds of sawing and hammering echoing through the ship. Every so often he would drag unneeded materials to the open cargo ramp, tossing them into the ocean below. Gradually, a large basket took shape, reinforced with crossbeams and featuring a hinged gate for easy access.
The British radio message cut through the static: “This is HMS Implacable to all vessels. We are responding to Shōhō Maru distress call. Currently at position 41N 147W, moving to assist. All vessels should avoid interference with Royal Navy rescue operations.”
Sal and Boot exchanged knowing looks.
“Mighty convenient,” Boot said. “A British warship just happening to be within range of a secret Japanese diplomatic mission.”
“They must have been shadowing the yacht,” Sal agreed, checking their heading. “Waiting for an opportunity like this. If they 'rescue' the Emperor's brother...”
“Japan would be in their debt,” Boot finished. “Another piece on their game board. Or they could use him as a hostage to make the Emperor more…compliant.”
The Farsailer hit the edge of the storm like a wall. Rain hammered against the windows while wind buffeted the massive airship from all sides. Sal's hands moved constantly over the controls, using the gimballing rotors and the dynamic levium system to keep them steady.
Lightning lit up the clouds around them, followed almost instantly by deafening thunder. The Farsailer pushed deeper into the storm, her red hull illuminated briefly by each flash.
Through gaps in the clouds, Sal caught occasional glimpses of the angry Pacific below. Massive waves rolled across the surface, their white caps visible even in the growing darkness.
“There!” Boot pointed through a brief break in the rain. A single running light bobbed in the darkness — the Shōhō Maru, fighting to stay afloat in the mountainous seas.
“This is going to be tricky,” Sal said grimly as he brought the Farsailer around. “We'll only get one shot at each pickup. Watch those waves — if one catches us while we're close to the yacht...”
Boot nodded, understanding the danger. One wrong move could slam the ships together with devastating results.
Sal keyed the radio. “Shōhō Maru, this is American airship Farsailer. We're going to attempt a rescue. We have a lift basket that can take five people at a time. When we position overhead, we'll lower it to your deck. Blink your running lights if you understand.”
The yacht's lights blinked once in acknowledgment.
“Boot, get down to the crane controls. I'll try to hold us steady above them.” Sal's hands tightened on the controls as he maneuvered the massive airship into position.
The Farsailer's hull rattled against the confused winds as Sal brought her to hover sixty feet above the yacht's heaving deck. Lightning revealed the scene in stark flashes — the yacht rolling violently in massive swells, waves breaking over her bow.
Sal flicked on the Farsailer’s landing lights but the beams barely cut through the torrenting rain.
“Ready with the basket!” Boot called through the intercom from his control station. “Lowering now!”
The rescue basket, Boot's improvised creation of lumber and metal, swung beneath the Farsailer. Sal watched through the rear deck windows as it descended, using the gimballing rotors to compensate for each gust of wind that threatened to swing the basket into the yacht's rigging.
“Almost there...” Boot muttered, working his controls with delicate precision. “Just need to... got it!”
The basket touched down on the yacht's pitching deck. Immediately, crew members helped the Emperor's brother and his physician into it, along with three others. Boot didn't wait — as soon as they were strapped in, he began raising the basket.
A minute later he reported over the intercom.
“First group rescued,” he reported. “His Imperial Highness is aboard.”
“Good,” Sal grunted, fighting the controls as another massive gust hit them. “Because this storm's getting worse.”
The Farsailer shuddered as Sal fought to maintain position for the second run. Boot's basket swung beneath them, silhouetted against the yacht's running lights.
Sal worked to counteract the swing while keeping the airship above the yacht.
“Five more secured!” Boot called out. Sal could hear the strain in his friend's voice as he worked the crane controls. The basket rose through the rain, its occupants clinging to the safety straps as wind buffeted them.
Another massive swell lifted the yacht's stern, nearly smashing it into the descending basket on the third run. Only Boot's quick reaction on the crane controls prevented disaster.
“Two more trips,” Boot calculated. “If this blasted wind would just—”
Lightning split the sky, followed instantly by thunder that rattled the Farsailer's windows. The storm was directly overhead now.
“Forget counting!” Sal shouted. “Get as many as you can in the basket. That yacht won't last much longer in these waves!”
Boot didn't argue. On the next drop, seven men crammed into the basket before Boot began hauling them up.
“Last group ready!” Boot's voice crackled through the intercom. “Three people — the captain and two engineers.”
Sal could see the yacht was riding dangerously low in the water now. Her bow dipped under each wave, struggling to rise again. They had minutes at most.
The basket touched down one final time. Through the rain-streaked windows, Sal watched the last three men scramble aboard. The yacht's captain paused only long enough to grab a small case — presumably the ship's logs — before strapping himself in.
“They're secure!” Boot shouted. “Get us out of here!”
Sal didn't need to be told twice. He engaged all six rotors at full power, lifting the Farsailer away from the failing yacht. Below them, another massive wave broke over the Shōhō Maru's bow. This time, she didn't rise.
“Everyone's aboard and accounted for,” Boot reported as he made his way back to the bridge. “twenty total. I've got them secured in the cargo hold, except for His Imperial Highness and his physician — they're in your quarters as planned.”
Something abruptly shrieked past the Farsailer's hull, the sound barely audible over the storm. The massive red airship shuddered from the near miss.
“That wasn't lightning!” Boot shouted from the cargo bay where he was securing the last section of the rescue basket. His mechanical leg clanked on the metal deck as he hurried to the bridge.
“No,” Sal agreed grimly, his hands steady on the controls. “Sounds like the Implacable found us. Or at least found our general direction.”
Another shell passed somewhere off their port side, and the sound disappeared into the howling wind and rain. The British warship was firing blind into the storm, hoping to get lucky.
Sal initiated a hard turn north while releasing the levium compression system. The Farsailer's nose rose sharply as her cells expanded, pushing them rapidly higher into the turbulent sky.
“Better check on our passengers,” Sal called to Boot. “This is going to get rough. Everyone still secure?”
“All set. His Imperial Highness is actually sleeping — if you can believe it. The doctor gave him something for seasickness.” Boot braced himself against the bridge doorway as another shell screamed past in the darkness. “Should I start dumping water for the steam screen?”
“No, save it. In this weather they're shooting blind. But we need to—”
A massive explosion rocked the air dead ahead of them. The Farsailer plunged through the superheated aftermath of the shell burst, the turbulence threatening to tear control from Sal's hands.
A bright light arced through the storm, casting an eerie red glow across the clouds. The Implacable had started firing flares, trying to illuminate their quarry.
“Clever,” Boot muttered. “But it works both ways — now we can see where they're shooting from.”
Three more flares burst in quick succession, forming a rough box of red light in the clouds. The Farsailer's distinctive red hull would have stood out like a beacon if caught in their glare.
“Hold onto something,” Sal warned. He threw the Farsailer into a steep climb, pushing her above the flares' illumination. The ship groaned as she clawed her way higher into the storm.
Another salvo of shells passed beneath them, the British gunners still firing at their previous altitude. A flare burst uncomfortably close, its red light reflecting off the Farsailer's hull for just a moment before Sal banked hard into a cloud bank.
“They saw us!” Boot shouted, pointing to where more flares were now arcing toward their new position.
“Then let's show them how fast she really is,” Sal said with grim determination. He engaged all six gimballing rotors to full power. The Farsailer surged forward, her powerful engines quickly carrying them beyond the range of both flares and guns.
Within minutes, the flashes of gunfire were lost in the storm behind them. The British warship, wallowing in the heavy seas below, had no hope of keeping pace with the Farsailer at full speed.
“Well,” Boot said as he checked their heading, “that's one way to test the engines. We should make it to San Francisco well ahead of the storm now.”
“And our passengers?”
“Still secure. I don't think His Imperial Highness even woke up during all that.”
Sal smiled as he eased back on the throttle, the Farsailer's engines settling into a steady rhythm as they headed east through the gradually calming sky. Behind them, the storm continued to rage, hiding any trace of their passage from the frustrated British warship.
Dawn was breaking over San Francisco Bay when the Farsailer approached the airfield. The storm had stayed far behind them, leaving them with clear skies for their landing.
“Better radio ahead,” Sal said. “We don't want to cause an international incident by surprising anyone with our passengers.”
Boot nodded and sent a brief message explaining their situation. The response was immediate — they were to land at a private berth on the far side of the airfield.
As they descended, they could see a small group of official-looking automobiles waiting. American diplomatic staff, Sal guessed, along with what appeared to be Japanese representatives from their consulate in San Francisco.
“I'll handle the landing,” Boot said. “You escort His Imperial Highness.”
Sal made his way to his quarters where he found the Emperor's brother already awake and looking remarkably composed given their night's adventure. The doctor was helping him straighten his rain-wrinkled uniform.
“Captain Cartwright,” the prince said in perfect English, “I believe we owe you and Mr. Boot our lives. Japan will not forget this.”
“Just doing our duty, Your Imperial Highness,” Sal replied with a slight bow. “Though I admit, it's not our usual type of cargo.”
The prince smiled. “Perhaps not. But I suspect this night may have changed more than just our travel plans. Britain's actions will not go unnoticed by my brother. They have acted deceitfully in this.”
The Farsailer settled gently onto her cradle as Boot guided her in. The prince's words hung in the air — a suggestion of shifting alliances and changing times that went far beyond a simple rescue mission.
|||
A week after the rescue, a formal letter arrived at the Farsailer's hangar. The envelope bore the chrysanthemum seal of the Imperial household. Inside, written on rice paper in both Japanese and English, was an invitation:
His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Meiji, requests the honor of receiving Captain Salvatore Cartwright, Mr. Liam Fitzgerald, and their distinguished vessel, the Farsailer, at the Imperial Palace in Tokyo. Their bravery and skill in rescuing His Imperial Highness Prince Arisugawa and his companions has earned them the gratitude of Japan.
Boot whistled as he read over Sal's shoulder. “The Imperial Palace? That's not something you see every day — especially not for Westerners.”
“Look at this part,” Sal pointed to a subsequent paragraph. “'All necessary diplomatic arrangements have been made with British authorities for your safe passage.' Sounds like the Emperor is sending quite a message to London.”
The letter went on to indicate that the Farsailer would be granted special permission to cradle at the Imperial Airfield — the first American vessel ever to receive such an honor. They would be presented with the Order of the Rising Sun, one of Japan's highest honors.
“Well, Boot,” Sal said, carefully folding the letter, “looks like we'll need to give the old girl a fresh coat of paint. Can't show up at the Imperial Palace looking anything less than our best.”
“Aye,” Boot grinned, already mentally calculating how much red paint they'd need. “Though I suspect it's not just about honoring us. The Emperor's making a statement about Britain’s position in the Pacific.”
Sal nodded as he looked out at the Farsailer, her red hull gleaming in the morning sun. What had started as a desperate rescue in a storm was turning into something much bigger — perhaps even a turning point in the balance of power in the Pacific.
“You know what this means, don't you?” Boot added with a mischievous glint in his eye. “We'll need to figure out how to bow properly without my leg locking up at the wrong moment.”
Sal laughed. From storm-tossed seas to the Imperial Palace — it was just another adventure for the Farsailer and her crew, but one that would be remembered in two nations' histories.
Miyazaki would love it.
Now, you should have had the Emperor's niece aboard as well for the full Nausicaa treatment.