by J. F. Holmes
Sweat began to bead on his forehead as she paced slowly behind him, but his eyes didn’t track on her, and he didn’t move. Her eyes still glowing red, she crooked her hands like claws over his back. Her mouth curled in distaste, and she said in a bitter tone, “A little something to remember me by, since you won’t remember the rest, Colonel.” Slowly, she mimed a raking motion across his back. He arched his back slightly, another moan escaping his mouth.
Kasumi closed the side door behind him, not even watching him fade into the night. Her spells would hold, and he would stumble to his rooms, not wakening until dawn. But he would be hers for the calling when she needed him. He was her creature now, he would do her bidding until she had no more need, and then she would discard him. Throw him aside as she had been…
Inhaling deeply, she forced herself to calm her mind and push the memories away. That woman did not matter anymore, nor did any man. She had power now, enough to take what she wanted from whomever she wanted, and leave their discarded corpses in her wake. Slowly the red in her eyes faded away, leaving only their normal brown color.
The Americans were easy prey, and so, so many of them deserved what was coming to them. There would be much death in the coming days, and many more would learn about true suffering. Not all the native people enjoyed being under American rule, and it was so easy to convince the aswang, the island witches and demons, to seeking out Americans for prey. This in turn helped to convince the natives that the Americans were not welcome here in the islands. She played no small part in that role, and it was easy for her to dominate the locals. Their petty spells and powers were no match for her knowledge, gained from over four hundred years of experience.
She slowly pushed open the door to the main living area, where four men were huddled over a shortwave radio. The room was lit only by the glow of the dials of the radio and a small lamp in the far corner. The radio operator had the angular features of a native of the Japanese islands, and held a set of headphones to his ears while he scribbled on a notepad. Two of the others were locals, pinoy they were called, and they watched anxiously. The fourth sat in an overstuffed chair, puffing quietly on a cigarette. His face was expressionless, and the hand that raised and lowered the cigarette was steady. The lights from the radio dial showed a strong Asian face, with thick, black hair and a Roman nose. Sweat beaded the face of the radio operator and the other men, but his face was dry and untroubled, as if the mere act of sweating was beneath his dignity.
Kasumi watched him from the shadows near the doorway, not bothering to disguise the hatred on her face. He held her true name, and thus had power over her. He was the only one who could defy her, who could defile her as she had been when she was human. So far he had not, but men were not to be trusted and always despised. They betrayed you sooner or later.
The radio operator leaned back and removed the headphones. He handed the notepad to the fourth man, who took it gravely and considered the message for several seconds while the cigarette burned unnoticed in his mouth. He turned to look at the other two men, ignoring Kasumi’s presence completely. His gaze traveled over the two of them, as if measuring them. They squirmed slightly, until at last he removed the cigarette and blew smoke into the room.
“Niitaka Yama Noboru 1208,” he read from the notepad, his voice deep and measured, courtesy of years of tutelage in public speaking and debate. “Translated, ‘Climb Mount Niitaka’, gentlemen. Negotiations with the American government have failed, and hostilities will commence on December eighth. You know your roles.”
1
Manila, Philippine Islands, 5 December 1941
He gripped the broken table leg with both hands, tightening his grip against the slickness of the blood that smeared it. Twisting it as he pushed down, he rose up off his knees to get better leverage. The ribcage crackled, and he felt the vibrations through the wood. More blood fountained up from the pierced heart, and the creature that had been his wife jerked one more time and was still. He slumped down, breath coming in gasps, and oblivious to the carnage and destruction of his home. Then the body jerked up, once, twice…
The PBY Catalina seaplane skipped twice as it touched down in the water of Manila Bay, throwing up great sprays of water. Captain John Torres, USMC, jerked awake in his seat. The nightmare was the same as it had ever been, leaving him in a cold sweat and breathing hard. Rubbing his face with both hands, he pushed the memories to the back of his mind with an effort that was far too familiar, and equally fruitless. Three years still hadn’t taken the edge off the memory, and he reached down into his musette bag, hands automatically finding the leather-wrapped metal flask. He hated it, hated every drink he took, but it was the only thing that masked him, letting him function with the rest of the people around him. The lightness of the flask as he pulled it out only made him shove it back into the bag with a tired sigh.
Bracing himself in his seat as the plane turned and slowed, preparing to taxi to the pier at the US Navy Base at Cavite, John turned his head to stare at the green water out the window. He was here to kill more things that caused nightmares, but he couldn’t kill his own nightmare. Ignoring the preparations of the other passengers around him, he continued to stare out the window as the nightmare echoes continued to fade. Only the increased conversation as the hatch opened and the sultry Pacific air filled the cabin roused him from his reverie.
Last off the seaplane, he hoisted his sea bag with ease over his shoulder and carried the musette bag in his hand. Of medium height and stocky, with dark black hair, he looked like many of the local pinoys, with the exception of his crew cut. He followed the others off the wooden pier to the quay. Most of the rest of the passengers were boarding a military bus idling at the base of the quay, but John made his way to a private car off to the side. Seated on the hood of the 1939 Chevrolet sedan, smoking a cigarette, was a slender, good-looking blonde captain in an Army Air Corps summer uniform.
“Good flight?” he asked as he hopped off the hood and walked around to open the trunk.
“Sam, after five days travelling, and over five thousand miles, we didn’t crash on landing. That’s a good flight.” John tossed his sea bag into the trunk, but held onto the musette bag and got in on the passenger side. The other man got into the driver’s seat and started the car.
“I’ve got us a secure room at the headquarters and made contact with the Unit’s man on the ground here. You can see what we’ve found out…” He trailed off as John held up his hand.
“No, just to the hotel. Let’s keep this quiet for now. No official visits or anything of the sort.” He looked out the window at the buildings passing by. “Quite frankly, we don’t care what classified is missing or what the Japs know about the defenses.”
He paused, his nostrils flaring. “We’re here to kill the…things that’ve been working them over.”
The pilot glanced over at his friend, concern in his blue eyes. “Maybe you should rest up first. A long trip like that is certain to tire a man out.”
Shaking his head, John turned to stare out the window. The storefronts flashed by, and the sidewalks were crowded with the daytime shoppers. None knew or suspected what the Japanese agent had unleashed here, and even worse, there were plenty here who would be just fine with Americans suffering under their attentions. “I’m fine. I just want to find Takeshi and the things he brought and force feed them my forty-five.”
The conversation lagged a bit until Sam asked, “We’re sure he’s here in the Philippines? I haven’t queried the G-2 shop on this yet. They’re still trying to verify my clearances.”
Working the clasp on the musette bag, John pulled out a manila envelope. It was sealed with heavy packing tape. He used a penknife to carefully slit the layers of tape and opened the envelope. “On October twenty-seventh, Naval Intelligence verified that Takeshi boarded a liner from Yokohama harbor bound for Manila. It’s about an eight to ten-day journey, putting him here no later than November sixth. That means he’s had almost a month to establish
his network and contact the local supernatural talent.”
He slid a black and white photograph from the folder and held it up so Sam could see it. The man in it was in his early 40s, with thick black hair. He had strong features which, combined with his piercing dark eyes, proclaimed him a man who held uncompromising principles. “Nakano Takeshi. Businessman on the surface, but in reality, a key agent of the Black Dragon society. He’s worked mostly in China and Manchuria against the Russians, and they report that he is ruthless and utterly committed to the cause. Plus he has a business degree from the University of California, of all things.”
Sam nodded at the picture. “Committed enough to employ things that go bump in the night?”
“Apparently, so are most of the Black Dragons. Their agenda for Japanese prominence in Asia and the Pacific region is flexible enough to consider using all means available, especially those of Japanese origin.” He slid a second photograph out of the folder. This one was much older, with yellowed edges and several creases. The quality wasn’t good, but it showed an open field with mountains in the background. Several men in Russian army uniforms were clustered around three bodies, all of which had been torn apart. Legs, arms, and heads were scattered about, and the only reason to believe there were three victims were the three visible heads. A third photograph followed, showing the inside of a hotel room. The simple bed was strewn with gore, and the body of a disemboweled man lay on the bed. Cyrillic letters were drawn in blood on the wall next to him.
Glancing over, Sam swallowed heavily. “He doesn’t mess around, does he?”
“Nope. The first group was a Russian counterintelligence team, who apparently got a little too close to exposing Takeshi’s activities. His pet spooks apparently either enlisted or coerced some of their Russian counterparts and pointed them straight at these guys. The second was a Chinese government bigwig Takeshi bought. The man then decided to go to the Russians and tell tales for more money.” John put the pictures away and stashed the folder back in the musette bag.
“These are just the ones our Siberian counterparts are willing to share with us. Evidently Takeshi’s supernatural activities over there have really stirred up the Russian spooks, no pun intended, and they’re having a hell of a time containing them.”
As Sam turned into the hotel parking lot and parked, John pulled out a leather-covered ID holder. Tossing it to him, he said, “The Boss got us these, which will hopefully get us through the red tape and allow us to requisition help as needed.”
Opening it, he found an ID card listing one “Samuel Greaves Hawthorne, III, Captain, USA”, and the title of “Investigator, Counter Intelligence Corps”. Opposite the ID was a pocket with a folded, mimeographed sheet of paper. Pulling it out, Sam saw that it directed the reader to render all assistance as required by the holder, and was signed by the Assistant Chief of Staff, G-2 (Intelligence), for the Army. Whistling low, he glanced over at John. “You got one too?”
John tapped his breast pocket. “Except mine is from the Office of Naval Intelligence. Between the two of us, we should be able to get access to whatever information we need, and even some backup. Now that the Fourth Marines are here, I should be able to requisition a squad or even a platoon if, when, we need some real firepower.”
The hotel was a simple affair, and each of them had their own room. They weren’t adjoining, but at least they were across from each other. John unpacked his bag while Sam went down to the lobby to call the Unit’s man here and have him meet them. This guy was an expert on the local supernatural lore, and was a local himself, Sam had said.
His uniforms hung neatly in the armoire, John pulled out a cheap bottle of bourbon from where it was nestled amidst his undershirts and socks. It was only a quarter full now, and filling the flask took care of almost all the rest. He hid the flask in the nightstand drawer under his skivvies, and considered the lone swallow remaining in the bottle. He was still standing there looking at the bottle in his hands when Sam knocked and came through the door.
“Ron’s busy right now, but he’ll be down before supper and…” he paused, looking at John looking at the bottle.
Tossing him the bottle, John turned back to his bag, glad to be able to hide his face. “Found it in the armoire. Guess someone didn’t want the last swallow.” He turned back to the chest of drawers and began to put away his clothes. “Help yourself.”
Sam shrugged, twisted the cap off, and tipped the bottle up. Swallowing, he grimaced. “Blech. Rotgut whiskey was fine enough at the fraternity house, but that was then.” He capped off the bottle and set it down on the rickety side table near the door. “Let’s go down to the bar and get a real drink while we wait for Ron, and you can tell me more about our boy Takeshi.”
Smiling in what he hoped looked like agreement, but was in fact relief, John said, “I thought you’d never ask.”
~~~~~
Takeshi sat at the sidewalk café in downtown Manila, tea and local pastries on the table. He was reading a local paper with ease, apparently fluent in Spanish, and occasionally raising an eyebrow at the articles. There was certainly enough anti-American sentiment on the political front. This Ganap party definitely wanted freedom for the country and removal, by force it seemed, of the Americans. It appeared the country was ripening quickly, and would soon be ready for the plucking. With its sugar and timber industries, it would be a fine addition to the Dai Nippon Teikoku, the Empire of Great Japan, as well as providing a vital forward military outpost against American and British imperialism in the Pacific. In this way the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere would grow into the Pacific and provide a secure forward base against Western imperialism.
He was still reading the paper when his second, Koga, strolled up to the table and sat down, as if he had just stepped away for a few minutes. Pouring himself a cup of tea, he said in a casual but lowered voice, “Our local talent reports that an American meeting the description supplied by your…asset arrived a few hours ago by seaplane at Cavite. He met another American already in place here in Manila. They did not go to the base, but instead are staying at the Hotel Elegante.”
As Koga sipped at his tea, Takeshi considered this information. It was not unexpected, and perhaps given the length of time it had taken him to arrive, indicative of a slowness in the American intelligence apparatus. “Do we have identification?”
Koga shook his head. “The new arrival was wearing the uniform of a United States Marine Corps officer, while the one he met was a pilot officer in their Air Corps. Without access to our files back home, it will be difficult to specifically identify either of them as Special Unit agents.”
He folded the paper neatly, smoothing the creases, and withdrew his wallet to lay some pesos on the table. “No matter. In the game of Go, one must plan for the future moves your opponent makes, so you may effect the capture. Come, let us put our contingency plans into play. If they are Special Unit, we will be prepared, and they will play into our hands. If they are not…” Standing, he shrugged. “What’s a few more American deaths?”
~~~~~
John and Sam sat at a simple table in a corner of the hotel bar, which itself was nothing more than a few tables inside and on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, and the bar itself. Given that sugar was a major part of the Philippine economy, rum made up a significant part of the selection. Sam tried to get John to try the basi, or wine made from sugar cane, but after one taste, the Marine pronounced that he wouldn’t use it to clean his weapon. After that he stuck to some of the local beers.
“Ron’s been tracking the activities of the local spooks. People have started reporting more and more of their activity in the past few weeks. All sorts of stories are flying around about things that go bump in the night. People are going missing, and lots of business in charms and protective spells. Also, church attendance is up.” Sam sipped the glass of basi, glancing at the bartender. The local was focused completely on some program coming over the radio and paid scant attention to them. Indeed
, aside from themselves and a couple of tourists at a table outside, the bar was empty.
John turned his beer bottle in a circle with his fingertips. “Just about the time Takeshi arrived. Seems like he’s back to his old tricks, pulling in the native talent for his work. We gotta figure there’s much more going on than just missing classified documents.” The beer was settling his nerves, although this was his third bottle in less than an hour. Better slow down. Not the time to get a load on. Once we take care of Takeshi, though…
“They have to be building up to something. He’s here, the classified is missing, and we’ve left China. You think the Philippines might be next?”
Shrugging, John lifted the bottle to his lips for a swallow. “Don’t really matter much. Our job is Takeshi’s creatures and Takeshi himself, whatever they’re doing. Man like that, what traffics with the spooks, he’s too dangerous to let live.”
He paused and looked Sam square in the eye. “Director himself told me to make sure we finished the bastard off. That’s half the reason we got them badges and letters. ‘Do what it takes, John.’” His voice grew harsh, and his eyes bored into Sam’s. “Well, I aim to do anything and everything it takes.”
Sam frowned, but then his eyes lit up as he looked toward the entrance. He gave a short motion with his head and said, “Ron’s here.”
John looked up from his beer at the new person. Or persons, rather. Ron was a slight pinoy with prematurely grey hair. He looked to be in his early 40s, and wore a plain white linen shirt and pants. With him was a tall Westerner, blonde with a military crew cut, wearing the tan shirt and brown pants the locals wore for everyday walking around. They walked up to the table and took the remaining two seats that Sam indicated.
“John, meet Ron.” He grinned at his creative alliteration.