The Samurai Inheritance

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The plane had been in the air for almost two hours and would begin its descent to Buin airbase in a few minutes. Long experience had taught the man in the immaculate green uniform that he could allow himself to doze despite the all-pervasive drone of the twin engines and the constant vibrations running through the aluminium fuselage. He tried to relax. If the relentless metallic clamour meant nothing useful could be achieved, forty years of naval discipline and his Samurai blood dictated he should rest body and mind. But how could a man, even a man as inured to discomfort as he, ever become accustomed to this cramped steel bucket seat? The damned thing seemed to sink its claws into every piece of flesh it touched. He allowed himself an inner smile, though his lips didn’t twitch. Not even an admiral had the privilege of a cushioned seat in a converted Mitsubishi G4M, but that was no one’s fault but his own. After all, he’d personally approved the design of the swift and agile light bomber the crews called the Flying Cigar.

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