Matsuo only stared at him, wishing the child had never been born.
Naka turned and slowly, carefully made his way along the translucent paper surface of the sliding door. He seemed afraid to walk free, and never stood without support. Probably normal for an eleven-month-old, but Matsuo had his own interpretation.
A timid soul just like his father.
Matsuo turned his thoughts inward. He knew his mood was directly attributable to Admiral Yamamoto's death. The news had struck him like a mortar blast. The sanest officer in the Imperial armed forces, the best strategic mind in the Orient, perhaps in the world, had been lost to Japan.
On April 18, the Mitsubishi bomber that was taking him to Bougainville on a personal inspection tour of the bases in the Solomons had been pounced upon and shot down by seventeen American P-38 fighters. The Supreme Command, in an effort to conceal the importance of their victim from the Americans, withheld release of the information until late May when the admiral's ashes had been brought back to Japan. Matsuo had stood on the dock and wept as the small white box was ceremoniously unloaded from the battleship Musashi.
Matsuo, of course, had learned of the tragedy immediately; he had also gathered from the celebratory tone of a few radio messages monitored shortly after the incident that the Americans were perfectly aware of the identity of the man they had shot down, and in fact had lain in wait for him.
More evidence to bolster Matsuo's contention that American intelligence had shattered all of Japan's codes and ciphers, and that a completely new system had to be designed and put into use. But his demands and his pleas were given only lip service: Yes, you are probably right, and work is progressing on it even as we speak, but now is not the time to disrupt communications.
Matsuo had his suspicions about the incident. He knew the admiral had been terribly frustrated in his attempts to convince the Supreme Command to offer peace and stop the war while Japan still held some advantages. Yamamoto saw the war now as one prolonged battle Japan could not possibly win against the likes of America. Certain defeat lay ahead on the present course. Since Yamamoto could not change that course, and could not honorably resign, only one option was left open to him.
Although he would never voice it, Matsuo suspected that Yamamoto knew his announcement of an aerial inspection tour would be intercepted and deciphered. Perhaps he had seen death in combat as preferable to watching his beloved Japan ground into the mud by the ever-growing power of the American war machine.
Japan had lost a national treasure and Matsuo had lost a confidant. Whenever the admiral had come to Tokyo, he had called Matsuo and the two would have dinner together. They would discuss the progress of the war—or lack of it—in candid terms. Yamamoto was the only high-ranking officer with whom Matsuo felt safe voicing a frank opinion of the conduct of the war, for he knew the admiral shared those views.
Now he was gone, and Matsuo felt more isolated than ever. He had Meiko, of course, but hardly anyone else. Perhaps it was because of her that he had become isolated. For he did not share the Japanese male's casual attitude toward extramarital sex, be it with mistresses or prostitutes. His fellow intelligence officers used to ask him along regularly for a night on the town, but he always refused. Geishas were boring and he could not dredge up any interest in visiting the bordellos.
He had turned them down so many times that they no longer bothered inviting him. Only Shigeo came around regularly, and he—
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of tearing paper. Matsuo looked up and saw Naka poking his little index finger through the polished paper of the shoji. He dragged it downward, leaving behind a long ragged tear.
Matsuo cursed under his breath. "No, Naka! That is bad! Don't do that!"
The child glanced at him over his shoulder, then turned back to the shoji and poked a new hole with his finger.
Matsuo's self-control rent with the sound of the tearing paper. He was up and halfway across the floor with his hand raised to strike when Naka turned toward him again. The innocent smile that beamed out from that little round face, so pleased at being able to puncture and rip the paper, stopped Matsuo in his tracks.
Naka twisted his body toward Matsuo and held up his arms. "Oji-than!" he said, still smiling.
Matsuo felt his anger cool and dissipate like breath in a January wind. The shoji was fair game for toddlers all over Japan. He had poked his share of holes in Nagata's as a child. He had to control this rage within him. If he didn't come to terms with it soon
"Oji-than!"
Suddenly Naka was walking toward him—on his own, free, unsupported. His first steps! Why wasn't Meiko here to see? To catch him? And why was he coming toward Matsuo with outstretched arms, weaving and wobbling like a drunken dwarf? He was going to fall and Matsuo didn't want to catch him—didn't want to so much as touch the child. Yet Naka was looking up at him and grinning so proudly—
Then his foot caught on the edge of a tatami and the smile disappeared as he plunged toward the floor. Matsuo dropped to his knees and caught his outstretched hands before he landed. Grasping him only by his fingers, he balanced Naka on his feet again and let him go. Naka immediately fell against him and threw his arms around his neck, then rested his head on Matsuo's shoulder.
"Oji-than."
With a will of their own, Matsuo's arms went around the child and gingerly embraced the little body, fearing to break it. He was amazed at the waves of emotion swirling through him, especially the warm and protective feelings for this tiny boy who was half Frank Slater. They frightened him and he worked to dam them up, to hide them away. He almost succeeded.
Then Naka leaned back and looked him in the face; he smiled and patted Matsuo on the shoulder
"Oji-than."
Matsuo could not help himself. He hugged Naka against him.
"I'm sorry!" he whispered. "Sorry for hating you. You no more chose your father than I chose mine." He pushed the startled child back and brushed the hair off his forehead, revealing the red birthmark. He smiled at him and Naka smiled back. "Frank Slater's son—little man, could have done better, but you could have done worse too."
* * *
Meiko paused as she reached for the handle on the front door. A high-pitched sound echoed from within. It sounded like a child's screams. She almost dropped the milk as she ran inside.
Naka lay on the floor of the main room. His face was a bright red and he was screeching… with laughter. Meiko stood back and tried to comprehend what she saw. She would have been less surprised to find a traveling Kabuki company set up and performing in her home than the incredible scene being played out before her.
Matsuo crouched behind the shoji directly to her right. The paper of one of its panels had been completely shredded. He had poked his head all the way through the ruined panel and was grimacing at Naka, sticking his tongue out to the side and twisting his face into bizarre expressions. Naka screeched again, then rolled over and laughed from deep in his belly.
"What is going on here?"
Matsuo's face lit as he looked up. "Meiko! Watch what he can do! You have to see!" He scurried around to Naka's side of the shoji and lifted him to his feet. He pointed him toward Meiko and let go. "Go to your mother!"
Meiko watched in awe as Naka lurched toward her with out-stretched arms. Joy burst free in her as she laughed and gathered him up and held him high in the air. She swung him onto her hip and turned to Matsuo. She could barely speak.
"You taught him?"
"Of course not," Matsuo said, beaming. "He taught himself. And look what else he taught himself."
He took Naka from her hip and placed him before the shoji, then stood back by her side to watch. Naka ran his hand over the translucent surface, then methodically, decisively, poked his index finger through the paper. He looked up at Meiko and grinned.
Meiko cringed at the tearing sound as he ripped a long gash in the shoji.
"Have I gone insane?" she said to Matsuo.
"No," he said, loo
king into her eyes.
She saw a new softness there, one that had been missing even through her pregnancy, missing ever since that fateful day on Sagami Bay six years ago.
"Then have you?"
He laughed. "No! I'm saner than I ever was. It's just that I..." He seemed to search for words. "I think I've wasted too much of our time wishing I could change the past. Nagata used to tell me that a wise and happy man is one who reveres the past and learns from it, but never tries to live there. One can change the only present and the future."
Meiko threw her arms around him. "Matsuo, do you know how much I love you?"
"Still? You must have started off with an enormous amount if you can have any left after all I've done and said since I found you again on Oahu."
"I have an endless supply for you."
She kissed him and snuggled in his arms, feeling safe and warm and right as they watched Naka make new holes in the shoji.
Over the sound of tearing paper, she heard Matsuo say softly, "You have a talent for naming children, too."
NOVEMBER
The ether was wearing off.
Hiroki watched as the child's respiratory rate quickened. Only its diaphragm and chest wall moved as it lay on the futon. No other muscles were capable of voluntary movement. He waited for it to cry out, a sure sign that consciousness had returned.
It? Actually, the child was a he—a three-year-old he—but Hiroki found it easier, more comfortable, to think of these children as things. A simple mental accommodation that allowed him to get through the day.
Hiroki felt that somehow there had to be a better way, but until they found it, this would have to do. So many children, so many surgeries…
…so many failures.
Even the Order's surgeons were beginning to doubt. They never said as much, but after so many years among the masked members of the Kakureta Kao, Hiroki had learned to read movement and posture as most people read facial expressions. And he had begun to detect a certain cynicism in the surgeons.
Who could blame them? After toiling daily on child after child without once producing a Black Wind shoten, even the most devoted monk would have to question the validity of the procedures.
But they had to succeed. Even as they stood here the Americans were storming through the Gilbert Islands. Makin and Betio had already fallen, and Tarawa would soon join them. Japan's bravest men were being overwhelmed. Nothing could stop the Americans now except maybe the Black Winds, and even that—
A low moan escaped the child, then rose in pitch to an amorphous shriek of terror. It was conscious now. Before the ether had put it to sleep, life had consisted of touch and taste and smell and sight and sound—a sense of corporeal existence. Now it was awakening to an existence devoid of all those things. Now it was aware, but trapped forever in a formless black void, cut off from all its senses, floating in an endless sea of unimaginable terror.
Hiroki shuddered at the anguish in the sound. What that child must be experiencing! What it must—
Something was happening. Dread clawed its way up Hiroki's spine with icy fingernails. He did not know what had changed exactly, but everything in the room was suddenly different—malevolently different. And darker? Yes. The light from the lanterns had dimmed.
"What's happening?" he said.
The surgeons looked at him, confusion showing through the eyeholes of their masks. Shimazu said nothing, but Hiroki could sense the sudden tension in his posture.
And then the light began to fade more quickly. The temperature plummeted as an inky mist congealed out of the air, swallowing the glow from the lamps. The mist began to writhe and undulate in a breeze that seemed to spring from the very walls of the closed room.
As it rose in velocity, he heard Shimazu cry out. "Kuroikaze! The Black Wind is rising!"
"The sedative!" Hiroki shouted, pointing to one of the surgeons. "Give it now!"
The old monk quickly tied a tourniquet around the child's arm and grabbed a pre-filled syringe. As the wind continued to rise, Hiroki watched the surgeon's trembling hand plunge the needle into the arm and empty the clear fluid into the vein.
No! He missed the vein!
He saw the skin rise alongside the vessel as the sedative infiltrated the subcutaneous tissue. It would take ten minutes at least before it took effect. They would all be dead by then.
Hiroki lost his footing and slipped to the floor as the wind rose to a howl. "The ether! Get the ether and knock him out!"
"It's downstairs!" one of the surgeons cried.
From the corner of his eye he saw Shimazu crawling toward the child, fighting the wind that shrieked in their ears and tore at their clothes. He grabbed the child's foot and pulled it closer to him. Hiroki saw the flash of a steel blade in his master's hand, saw it rise, saw it plunge downward.
The room brightened and the wind faded to a breeze, then disappeared. The monks picked themselves up from where they had been strewn about the room. They laughed and shouted banzais to each other as they clustered around the body of the child. Hiroki held back. He did not want the sight of that bloody little corpse to dampen the exultation flaring within him.
Japan would win. The Seer's predictions were holding true. They had brought back the Black Wind. Now that they had had a taste of success, they would redouble their efforts to produce another shoten. There would be no near-catastrophic laxity next time. Why this one had succeeded after so many failures, he could not say. But they would find out. They would harness the elemental fury of the Kuroikaze and use it to drive the Americans all the way back across the Pacific.
PART SIX
1944
1944
THE YEAR OF THE MONKEY
MARCH
BALAJURO ATOLL, MARSHALL ISLANDS
It was hot in the hut and I was thirsty, so I took a generous pull from my canteen, savoring the burn of the bourbon as it went down. I needed that.
Knapp and Ahern, the two others with me in the hut, didn't even look up. They used to nudge each other and point to the canteen when we first got here, but they were used to it now. They knew I had been with the HYPO team at the beginning of the war, and that carried a lot of weight. Besides, I did my share, so they let me be.
I was still in intelligence, but hanging on by my fingertips. Things had changed. I had changed. On the eve of the war I had been a deeply committed, super-competent go-getter of an intelligence officer. The world back then was a verdant, sun-dappled forest that teemed with life and the future was a ripe piece of fruit waiting to be plucked and relished. Now…
Now life looked to me like a limitless plain, stretching away in all directions, unmarred by hill or tree or anything that rose above shoe level. I was alone on that plain. I had no place to go, but it didn't matter because I didn't have the will to move, not the slightest desire to be anywhere. No matter how many people surrounded me, I was alone.
And when I drank, it was usually alone.
I didn't hide it from myself or from others. No excuses, no whining, no blaming fate or anybody else. No gnawing obsession, no driving compulsion. I was a drunk because I wanted to be. And I was very methodical about it: I drank as much as I could whenever I could. The pains told me how badly I was tearing up my guts, but that was okay. If I had been a Jap, I would have committed seppuku after the MPs found me and freed me from that tree overlooking Pearl. But I didn't have the nerve to drag a knife through my guts. So I was committing seppuku my own way. It was lots slower, but the result would be the same.
Gradually, over the past year and a half, I had been shunted away from the center of intelligence work until I was now posted at a listening post on a lonely atoll in the Marshalls. Balajuro wasn't such a bad place if you didn't mind malarial swamps surrounded by jungle so thick and stratified that sunlight never reached the ground, leaving its floor eternally wet. With each step the ground slurped rather than crunched underfoot, sending snakes and insects and slimy wet things better left unidentified crawling and slithering a
way or buzzing into the air that was already so full of insects you wanted to keep netting over your head whenever you were outside lest you inhale them by the lungful.
I almost wished the Japs had had a defensive force on Balajuro like they'd had on Kwajalein to the north. Admiral Hill had pounded Kwajalein from offshore for three full days, leaving its jungle a smoldering ruin. But he had just waltzed onto Balajuro and claimed it. That was why the jungle around us was alive and kicking, ever challenging us to battle as it doggedly worked to reclaim the little airstrip and the clearing where we were quartered.
I shared the listening post with two other men: Radioman Everett Ahern and Ensign Sam Knapp. Ahern was all of twenty-one, dark, long-boned, and thin as a rail, with traces of his teenage acne still specking his face. Knapp was closer to my age, blond and baby-faced. We had been cooped up out here for a month but we got along well. The work was pretty boring most of the time—monitor, decode, and translate, then pass on a summary of the intercepts—but we knew it was important. The right bit of information could pinpoint a Jap supply convoy or save a thousand lives during an assault.
Since Midway, no one in intelligence took anything for granted. Funny how things work out in intelligence.
After I got out of the base hospital at Pearl, I joined Rochefort's HYPO unit. We worked like slaves trying to break JN25, the Japanese Navy's prime code. I was feeling pretty rotten about myself and about life in general then. That was when I started doing some serious drinking. But I confined it to my off-hours. When I was with the HYPO team, I gave it one hundred percent. Better than one hundred percent. Because I wanted to get back at the Japs. Oh, how I wanted them to pay for what they had done to Pearl. All those ships, all those men. I hated everything and everyone Japanese.
So we sweated and we cursed and we got nowhere for over four months. Then, from a completely unexpected quarter, came a mother lode. From April 18 to April 21, Yamamoto had practically every ship in the Combined Fleet combing the Western Pacific for the carriers that had helped deliver Doolittle's token raid on Tokyo. We figured out the call signals of the ships and, since we knew what they were after, we added a lot of new pages to our paltry JN25 dictionary.
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