“Yeah, two years later the Japanese Zero goes 351 mph.”
“Well, Ito became head of the Kempei Tai. Spent a lot of time between Tokyo and Saipan.”
“Saipan?”
“It was rumored the Japanese had captured an important person. Wanted her for propaganda broadcasts.”
“Her? You mean the original Tokyo Rose?”
“Yes,” Tad said, “but it never happened. They used that lady from Chicago instead.”
“So, who was the prisoner?”
Tad twisted his hands in his lap. “I think it was Amelia Earhart.”
Vincent’s beer went down the wrong pipe. He choked out a loud cough.
“You okay?” Tad slapped him on the back.
“Yeah, just hadn’t thought of her for a while. She was the swap—the trade for Hirohito’s life?”
“I don’t know for sure.”
Vincent pushed his chair away from the table. “Well, I’m going to find out. I remember now. Hap Arnold sent Jackie Cochran to Tokyo to pick up all the files on AE. Guess what? There weren’t any.”
“Oh, but there were,” Tad said. “Ito mentioned her name many times. Every time I closed in, the hole got deeper. He was a smart cookie, juggled papers back and forth to Saipan.”
Vincent leaned forward. “What happened to him?”
“He disappeared, too.” Tad looked into Vincent’s blue eyes.
“And now here we are... in the CIA.”
A Vietnam Jungle
1965
“Down! Going down!” Tad Yamaguchi clutched his mike.
That was the last thing he remembered until his eyes blinked open to daylight. Sweat gushed off his face. Pain pulsated inside his head. His battered body lay flat in the mud. He tried to rise off his back but both shoulders felt crushed. Trembling, he stared upward. Twisted images flashed... The crash—burning plane. Crew didn’t stand a chance. How did he get out? Where was he? North of Saigon? Darkness—in and out. Heavy boots sloshing through mud.
Stink invaded Tad’s nostrils—rotting flesh. He blew out the dead air, opened his swollen eyelids. Human feces and rat droppings covered the slats where he lay in the bamboo cage. Underneath his prison, stagnant water from a slow-moving river waited for his broken bones. Mosquitoes sucked on him like he was a five-course meal. His arms would not move. Pain was king—kings don’t take commands. They called the shots. Death played tag with him. He closed his eyes... Vincent—where was his old comrade, his back up? The stopper—still searching for AE? Tad stirred in the heat. His eyes stayed shut. Couldn’t die yet. How would he ever tell Vincent what happened?
Two years later, Tad had survived transfers from one VC prison camp to another, each one tougher. Fever hit him again and again but he fought the devil to a standstill. Rumors said the CIA would get him out. The U.S. was involved big time now.
“Be ready,” informants told him.
Many ashen-faced prisoners herded into camp were dropped into underground cells fit only for the dead. Tad’s once-powerful body had withered. Couldn’t help the others. More chills attacked him. He battled the delirium, lost, passed out.
He awoke buried under wasted bodies in a crude closed box. Two water buffaloes jerked the cart over a muddy jungle trail. Monsoon rains unleashed their deluge on the slow procession. Tad drank water that filtered through cracks in the wood. Each turn of wheels shifted bodies. He shoved, grabbed for breathing space. Exhaustion was whipping him when he heard the tapping. He thought a lifeless arm rapped against the crate but the noise continued. He made out words. TOSHIO... WE ARE HERE... Electra? Could it be? Gotta hang on. He stuck his mouth in an air hole.
The caravan transported Tad to the Cambodian border, deposited him with Friendlies. After a month’s recuperation, he was still thin but his muscles rippled. His smooth face regained its smile. His dark eyes once again glistened.
He flew to Washington; reported to CIA superiors that Vietnam was not World War II. Conditions would only worsen. “Those people don’t want us there.” He knew none of the higher-ups wanted to hear it.
Debriefed, Tad took a short leave, visited his son, Marvin, in San Francisco. “Honda.” He hugged the young man wearing a hand-painted t-shirt and striped bellbottoms.
“Father.” Marvin pressed against his chest. “Been a while since I heard Honda.”
“Much too long.” Tad touched his son’s handsome face.
Marvin saw tears in his dad’s eyes. “I’m glad you made it.”
“Your old man still has a few days left.” He scanned the small, messy room.
“Okay, so I’m not up on cleaning.”
“It could stand a little organization.”
Marvin lit a cigarette. “Always the father.”
“Helped keep me alive.” He pushed back a few strands of Marvin’s long, black hair. “Guards wouldn’t cut mine either.”
Marvin laughed. “How about a beer?”
“I need one.” Tad dropped into an oversized beanbag chair.
Marvin glanced out the window, turned on a tiffany lamp. “Gonna rain.”
“I’ll take my water in a glass, thanks.”
“At least rain helped keep you alive, too.”
“True, Vincent used to tell me—become a killer, survive. I ate snakes, cockroaches, rats—whatever. When there was none, I cinched banana leaves around my belly.” Sweat beaded on Tad’s forehead. “Bastards! Sometimes a little bowl of rice. If we survived the cages, we’d die from dysentery or malnutrition.”
“It’s okay, Dad, you’re safe now.”
“I was lucky.” Tad took a long drink of beer. “No team’s made it yet.”
“Why did the Company get you out?”
“They need someone to go back in.”
Marvin looked closely at his father. “Go back? You think there’s a leak?”
“Betrayal’s a part of war.” Tad set his beer down, pushed back in the chair.
Marvin half smiled. “My buddies don’t think it’s a real war.”
“Damn right it’s a real war.” Tad’s face tightened. “Only reason you’re not there now—I got you in the Company.”
“But what’s wrong? So many men getting killed.”
“Big business—money talks. No win policy. Agents dropped behind lines, enemy’s waiting—poof, they’re gone! Maybe Vincent knew what he was doing. He only fought to win.”
Marvin pulled two more beers from the refrigerator. “You mean your partner left you hangin’? Where was he? What happened?”
“When we started, Vince unleashed killers like a mama piranha teaching babies to eat. But he was stuck at a desk. After losing every squad he sent in, he bowed out. I haven’t seen him in five years.”
“What kind of friend is that?”
Tad perked up. “He is a friend. We shared a lot of war.”
“He’s fought Orientals most of his life. Maybe he just tolerated you.”
“No!” Tad set his jaw. “He never hated us. America backed Japan into a corner.”
“And when they took Amelia Earhart?”
Tad took a deep breath. “He was mad, wanted to go get her. But their gunboats sealed off the Marshalls like a blanket of fog. We couldn’t get close.”
“Where was Vincent?”
“Nauru Island. Japanese agents knew about him. Had to keep him out of the way.”
Marvin stood, stretched. “You worked both sides.”
“We needed to know just what Japan was doing in the Pacific.”
“They both trusted you?”
“Trust? You gotta be kidding.”
Marvin focused on his father’s eyes. “Are you going to trust me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Tell me what’s going on. How all this is connected.”
Tad eased forward. “Five days after Earhart disappeared the Japanese invaded Southern China. That started their plan to rule Asia and all the Pacific.”
“She was a pawn.” Marvin lit another cigarette. “An
d Vincent was your friend.”
Tad sighed. “I felt like hell. He never forgot her—said he’d find her someday.”
“Vincent thinks Earhart’s still alive?” Marvin finished his beer.
“Someone sure does.” Tad shifted in his chair. “Sources say my old adversary, Triangle, is back.”
“Sooo . . .”
“He knows what happened to Amelia Earhart.”
“I want in.”
“Then you find Vincent.” Tad stood, faced his son. “But, be careful, Honda. The Company wouldn’t let him just walk away.”
CHAPTER ONE
Brisbane, Australia
March, 1967
“Hell of a night!” Vincent Carlson clutched the wheel of the Courage, his weathered 43-foot wooden sloop. Wind-churned waves vaulted the bow, flooded the deck. Heavy sheets of rain hammered Vincent’s tanned bearded face. He rubbed an arm across his eyes, squinted through the rain, and searched for the harbor’s entrance. His hand slipped off the wheel. “Damn, where’s that harbor?” He tightened his grip.
The sailboat surged forward, its headsail whipping, unleashed from brass cleats. Vincent grabbed the canvas, secured the line. Wind gusts pushed hard against his taut body, almost toppled him into the water. He clenched his jaw, shook wet hair out of his eyes. Brisbane’s lights glimmered through the downpour. “All because of you, A.E.” Salt water stung his lips.
The single mast of a large cutter sliced through the high waves broad on the port bow.
Vincent turned. “Who the hell?” He grabbed his binoculars, peered into the pelting rain. He’d seen that vessel before. A revenue cutter—armed to the teeth, no doubt. Only one man at the helm. Vincent let the binoculars hang on his neck. He’d beat it to port.
An hour later, Vincent coasted his sailboat into a dock on the Brisbane River, running through the city’s center, and made fast to the pier. The wind calmed but warm rain streamed from the black sky. He jumped onto the catwalk, started toward the wharf.
The cutter glided into a nearby slip. A short man, dressed in modest clothing, dark-blue stocking cap pulled tight over his head, hopped off the big craft. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. Rain blurred his facial features.
Vincent hesitated, hitched up his deck pants, then moved away from the nest of moored boats. A group of staggering sailors slurring “Waltzing Matilda” shielded him from the man with the stocking cap.
Walking tall along Queen Street, Vincent, his face chiseled handsome by the sun and water, took in the smell of simmering sausages, fresh rain, and smoky pubs. Their brick facades, pale beneath soggy red and orange bougainvillea, lined the cobbled street.
Vincent stopped in a doorway, shook the water off his thick, matted hair. A spiny sensation ran up the back of his muscular neck. He turned. The same man wove in and out of sailors plugging the narrow avenue. Vincent saw his youthful face, illuminated by blue and white neon signs. Wisps of straight black hair jutted from underneath his cap.
Japanese—he knew that face... Vincent struggled for an answer from the past. Before it came, the man ducked into an alley, melted into the night. His features remained etched in Vincent’s mind as he stared after the man.
At Jungle Wings, a tropical bar near the docks, Vincent pushed through swinging doors into the smoky room. He scanned the noisy crowd seated at scarred wooden tables, spied a space at the bar’s far end. Easing his wet body onto a rattan stool, Vincent sat with his back to the wall.
“Got any problems, mate?” The burly bartender’s large stomach slid along the countertop.
“Nothing rum won’t cure,” Vincent said.
The barkeep, with closely cropped brown hair, reached for a half-filled bottle. “Comin’ up, mate.”
Vincent fiddled with the wet bandana hugging his neck. Above the front doors a photo of a Lockheed Electra flying west over Oakland’s Bay Bridge caught his attention. She’d be alive now, if she’d gone that way the second time. He slapped his hand on the bar. “Hell, it’s been thirty years. She just wouldn’t ditch in the ocean.”
Four couples, deep in conversation, raised their heads. Vincent ignored them, gazed at a group of sailors hunched over beers across the stuffy room. AE’s Electra diving out of control toward the water slashed through his mind. His gut tightened waiting for the crash. That plane had plenty of fuel. Something else happened.
“Who went in the ocean, mate?” The bartender handed Vincent his drink.
Vincent’s glossy eyes refocused. “AE, Amelia Earhart, you know, the flier.”
“Fair dinkum mate. Quite famous in these parts, she was.”
Vincent put the glass to his lips, peered at the tapa-covered walls. “There used to be other photos of her up there.”
“They’re gone.” His azure eyes flashed.
“She’s why I come here. What happened?”
The bartender scratched his thick neck. “Came to work one day, found a break-in. Only things missing were a little cash and those pictures.”
“Very long ago?”
“Couple months.”
Vincent held his glass with both hands. “How long have you been here?”
“‘Bout a year.” His bulging chest stretched his blue and white striped t-shirt.
“That’s when I was here last. Must’ve been just before you came.” He took a swallow of rum. “Vincent’s my name.”
“They call me Blue.” He held out a huge right hand. “Put ‘er there, mate.”
Vincent flinched at the power of his shake. “Thought I had a good grip.”
Blue smiled, loosened his hold.
“My favorite picture was at Lae,” Vincent said, “beside her plane, just before she took off for Howland. Her face said it all, like the hardest leg was hers.”
“Must’ve been someone else’s favorite, too.”
“Seems that way. It was the last photo of her.”
“Mystery ever solved, mate?” Blue wiped the bar.
Vincent shook his head, gulped down the rest of his drink. “I’ll unlock it. She’s haunted me long enough. Certain things are bound to fall into place.”
“Yesterday” played on a timeworn jukebox at the opposite end of the barroom. Vincent placed both elbows on the teak counter, ran his fingers through his long, graying hair.
“Here ya go, mate.” Blue set down a second rum.
Vincent drained it. “Never should’ve left Lockheed—I built that damn plane.” He gripped his glass tighter.
Just inside the swinging doors a petite woman shook the water off her long, black hair. Vincent saw her young amber face. He stared for a moment then his gaze shifted to her small breasts jutting through her rain-soaked dress. She paused, looked the place over, and started toward his end of the bar.
Vincent eased back on his stool. What was she doing in this kind of place?
She moved straight through the crowd like she knew exactly where she was going and stopped in front of him. “Is this seat taken?” She pointed to the stool next to him.
Vincent bent close to her, drawn to her startling dark eyes.
“May I sit down?” Her soft voice barely cleared the background noise.
He started to stand but she put a smooth hand on his shoulder. “Sure, go ahead. I’m Vincent.” Her face was wet and fresh from the storm. The warmth of her presence and her wild beauty coursed his body. “Here.” He fumbled for the ragged scarf around his neck. “Dry off a little.”
“Thanks.” She patted her delicately carved face with the damp scarf. “Sure is raining.” She waved the cloth like a fan.
“Hi, darlin’,” the bartender said. “Welcome back.”
“Blue!” She leaned over the bar, kissed him, squeezed his thick forearm. “Same old Blue. Sure missed you and Brissy.”
“This place has been quite ugly without you, love.” He brushed a callused hand across her cheek. “Know just what you need.” He reached under the counter and fixed a tall drink topped with three red cherries.
She smiled,
saluted him with her glass. “Thank you.”
“How’d it go?” He touched her hand.
She set her drink on the bar without tasting it. “Not so good.”
“Time will cure it, love.” Blue patted her wrist.
“If it hadn’t been for Harry, I never would’ve made it.” She dabbed her eyes with Vincent’s scarf.
Vincent saw her anguish. What happened? Who was Harry?
“Harry called,” Blue said, “wanted to know if you made it back okay. Never did like that guy.”
“He’s a good friend.”
“Maybe so, but the couple times I’ve seen him and his old man something didn’t smell right.”
“Oh, Blue, you’re still biased against the Japanese.”
Another customer called. Blue moved away. She stared after him.
Vincent turned on his stool. “This is quite a bar, huh?”
She did not respond, just took a sip from her glass.
“Atmosphere—lots better than the pubs.”
She looked around the tropical room decorated with planes and air heroes from the thirties and forties. “Sometimes, I don’t know why I come here.”
“You don’t like this place?” He took a deep breath. “Couldn’t believe I found it. An honest-to-God bar. Rum in the air, bamboo, history.” What an idiot—here he was, making small talk to the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. God, he’d been away from the world too long.
“Yes, I do like it here.” She leaned back, swiveled on her stool. “Even the muggy rain—goes with the tropics.”
“Yeah, storm snagged me too.”
She focused on him for the first time. “Nice beard.”
He touched the scruffy beard. What was she thinking? The full power of her beauty hit him, warmed his loins. “How…how about another drink?” Without looking away from her, he waved. “Blue, two more of the same.”
“Thanks, I could use another.” She turned, faced the bar.
“You don’t sound Australian. Live here in Brisbane?”
“I’m attending graduate school.”
He peered at her reflection in the mirror. Man, she was young.
Amelia Page 3