by David Bishop
Commander Nishino Kozo stood alone in the conning tower of his submarine, designated I-17 by the Imperial Japanese Navy. It was less than a year since the vessel had been commissioned from Yokosuka Navy Yard, and the submarine was on its first offensive mission, bound for the island of Oahu. The final destination remained a closely guarded secret, known only to a handful of officers on board. Fewer still knew the true reason why their commander had been obliged to surrender his private quarters for the two strangers that joined I-17 shortly before it left Japanese territorial waters.
Kozo pressed a pair of binoculars to his eyes, the magnifying lenses enabling him to better study the ocean ahead for enemy craft. They were still several days from the target and it was imperative that I-17's approach did not become known to the Americans. Representatives of the Japanese Empire and the US government remained locked in negotiations at Washington DC, searching for a way beyond the impasse that separated the two nations. The discovery of a Japanese submarine en route to America's naval stronghold in the Pacific would be problematic. The fact that it had a midget submarine strapped to the aft deck would be even harder to explain. Both governments knew war between them was fast becoming inevitable, but it was unlikely the Americans expected Japanese forces to launch an attack against Pearl Harbour. The submarine had already been forced to take evasive action to avoid a US Navy battle group headed towards Wake Island.
The commander felt a cold shiver run up his spine as one of the unwelcome passengers joined him in the conning tower, climbing up the metal steps into the open air. It was night and the moon overhead was almost full, casting a pale blue hue across the dark sea. But it was not the cool evening breeze that chilled Kozo's blood. The submarine had left Japan in the middle of November for its journey halfway across the Pacific. The vessel maintained radio silence all the way, but the I-17 didn't submerge until it neared the US controlled Wake Island at the end of the month. In all that time, neither of the passengers had ventured into the conning tower during the hours of daylight.
Since passing Wake Island the submarine had stayed underwater by day and surfaced only at night, as was procedure. The passengers had used the long hours of submersion to test their midget sub, charging all of the 192 two-cell batteries that would power its electric motor. The rest of the time the duo stayed in their borrowed quarters, speaking to nobody except the commander and refusing to acknowledge anything said to them by other members of the crew. Kozo knew how much this disquieted the ninety-three men serving under him, thanks to reports from his executive officer, Itami.
The fact that neither of the passengers ate in the officers' mess was common knowledge after this long at sea. It was assumed by most that the strangers had brought their own provisions, something to which Kozo could well attest. When word spread about the commander surrendering his own quarters to the outsiders, Kozo had felt forced to address his crew about the matter, in an effort to quell any unrest. It was better they never know the truth about the unwelcome guests. If their real identity was discovered, a bloody mutiny would certainly follow, and Kozo could not imagine the consequences of that.
"Good evening, commander," the passenger said, his voice as flat and calm as the sea around them. "We continue to make good speed, yes?"
"Yes sir," Kozo replied. It hurt the commander's pride to call a guest on his vessel "sir", but the orders sent by General Tojo left no doubt who was in charge of this mission. The I-17 and its crew were expendable, their sole purpose to deliver the midget sub and its passengers successfully to Oahu.
"And we're still on schedule to reach our destination?"
"Yes sir," Kozo said through gritted teeth, keeping the binoculars pressed to his face, trying and failing to conceal his anger.
"Call me Zenji, if it will irritate you less," Hitori said. "We are all on the same side, and I've no wish to pull rank."
"I'd prefer to maintain the formalities," the commander replied, lowering his binoculars. "After what happened earlier, you'll understand why I don't want to be on friendlier terms with you or your... associate."
"I must apologise for Kimura. He's among my most promising recruits, but he is also the most bloodthirsty of the kyuuketsuki. His hunger got the better of him. It is not easy for us to withstand such confinement. Unlike your crew, we have not had years of training to cope with life in a submarine."
"My crew would tear you and your associate limb from limb if they knew what had happened earlier," Kozo spat, unable to contain his fury any longer.
"Your crew could try to hurt us, but their lives would be forfeit."
"Is that a threat?"
"Consider it a statement of fact," Hitori said, his voice empty of emotion.
The commander glared at his passenger, searching Hitori's features for some hint of remorse or regret. The other man's face was austere, impossible to read, his hooded eyes like slits of darkness beneath a shock of short, black hair. "The crew will notice when Itami doesn't emerge from my cabin sooner or later. You can't keep his body there indefinitely."
"Kimura will put the corpse overboard, once he has finished removing the head. You must ensure the crew is kept well away from the gangways between your quarters and the conning tower at midnight. That should give Kimura ample time to dispose of the carcass."
"Carcass? That's my second in command you're talking about!"
"Tell your crew Itami's death was a tragic accident. He saw the cables holding our midget sub were coming undone. The executive officer risked his life to fix the cables, but was swept away soon after by a freak wave."
"Nobody will believe that," Kozo insisted. He felt Hitori's gaze boring into him, as if it were burrowing into his very soul.
"You will convince them."
"I will convince them," the commander heard himself say, though the words were not of his own making. Hitori smiled and looked up at the moon.
"In a few days we'll reach the target and depart in our midget sub, leaving your vessel and its crew in peace. Until then, the responsibility for concealing this unfortunate incident falls on you. Consider it a necessary evil."
"A necessary evil," Kozo muttered. Now that Hitori was no longer staring at him, the commander could feel his willpower returning. "Is that what you and Kimura are, a necessary evil?" Hitori did not reply, but Kozo could have sworn he saw a shadow of doubt pass across the other man's face. "Why remove Itami's head before you dispose of his body? Hasn't he suffered enough at your hands? Must you desecrate his remains too?"
Hitori did not speak.
"Answer me, damn you!"
The passenger laughed at this comment, but there was no humour in his voice, only bitterness. "There's little point in damning one whose soul has already been surrendered," Hitori murmured.
The commander shuddered, his mind still struggling to cope with what he'd witnessed earlier. Itami had been curious to discover what Hitori and his associate were doing for food, since they had taken no meals while on board the submarine. The executive officer waited until both passengers were busy with the midget sub before venturing into the commander's quarters. Itami left a message for Kozo with one of his crew, in case something went wrong.
It was an hour before Kozo was given the note. He went straight to his quarters and found the executive officer's pale, lifeless body inside, sprawled awkwardly on the floor. Two smears of crimson ran down the side of Itami's neck, stark red against the pale, wan skin. Kimura was hunched in a corner, licking blood from his fingers like a predator savouring its latest kill. Kozo shook his head. Kimura had not been acting like a predator; the passenger was a predator, a monster that had sucked the lifeblood from Itami's body. There were two other corpses in the cabin, both Chinese prisoners of war.
A third POW was shackled to the wall, his face frozen in terror. At first Kozo had thought the prisoner had been struck dumb by the horrors they'd witnessed, but when he examined the two Chinese corpses, he found that their tongues had been plucked out. A cursory examination of the surv
ivor showed he had suffered the same violation. Without tongues, the prisoners couldn't cry out or beg for mercy. Hitori and Kimura had brought three oblong crates with them when they boarded the I-17. The commander now realised that each crate contained a living food supply.
"When this mission is over," Kozo told Hitori, "I have to write a letter to Itami's wife explaining why her husband is not coming home, why their children will have to grow up without a father. I can't tell them the truth, but at least you can explain to me why they can't have his body to bury."
"Would you condemn your executive officer to the same fate as I?" Hitori asked. He drew back his lips to reveal two fearsome fangs. "He has been killed by a vampyr. By severing his head we stop him becoming like us."
"Then... it is an act of mercy," Kozo whispered.
Hitori nodded. "It is the least we can do."
Martinez arrived at Fort Stotsenberg's Stores Depot as Buntz was padlocking the front door for the night. "Hey, Arnie, what's the big idea? I thought you were meant to stay open another half hour?"
"You got a problem with me knocking off early?" Buntz sneered.
"The sarge sent me over to collect some blankets, if we've got any going spare. The nurses at the army hospital are running short."
The overweight soldier snorted. "Aimes sent you, or you volunteered? I swear you spend more time with those nurses than you do at firing practice."
Martinez shrugged and grinned. "What can I say? The nurses are a whole lot prettier than Sergeant Aimes."
"My butt's a whole lot prettier than Sergeant Aimes," Buntz observed.
"I'll take your word for it, Arnie. So, you gonna re-open? I promised Nurse Baker that I'd-"
"So, it's Nurse Baker who wants the blankets, is it? Not the sarge?"
Martinez grimaced. "Well, she didn't exactly ask for the blankets, but I heard her saying how few they've got left over at the hospital and-"
"And you thought a quick raid on Stores would get you into her good books, maybe even inside her uniform, if you catch my drift."
"It's not like that. Angela and me, we're just good-"
"Now it's Angela. I didn't know you two were on first-name terms."
"We're getting along all right. Look, Arnie, you gonna help me or not?"
"What's in it for me?"
Martinez sighed. "Does everything have to be for the benefit of Arnie Buntz? Can't you do something out of the goodness of your heart, just once?"
"Nope, ain't no profit in it."
"But I'm tapped out, and we don't get paid until Monday."
"That's too bad," Buntz said as he walked away, twirling the keys to the stores around one of his fingers. Martinez scurried after him.
"Arnie, this could be for your benefit. You know all the brass have been expecting a Japanese attack. What happens if you get injured and end up in the hospital? Wouldn't you want to have a blanket on your bed?"
"Ain't gonna happen," Buntz said. "First sign of a Jap plane, I'll be taking cover faster than you can say New Mexico. You want to impress the lovely Nurse Baker, you're gonna have to find another way, loverboy." He strolled off towards the barracks, leaving a deflated Martinez behind. But the prospect of seeing Angela soon restored the young soldier's spirits as he made his way across the base to the small army hospital.
The 200th Coast Artillery had been stationed at Fort Stotsenberg since September, moving to the facility soon after arriving in the Philippines. The base was some seventy-five miles north of Manila, adjacent to Clark Field where several US Army Air Force squadrons were based, mostly bombers. Ten weeks had passed since the regiment's arrival, ten weeks of settling in, unpacking artillery equipment and getting the guns into position. Aimes had the men in Martinez's battery running firing drills and mock target practice every day, but their guns remained unfired. There was no target ammunition available and the ammunition held in reserve for an enemy strike was as old as some of the recruits. God help us if the Japs do attack, Aimes often swore.
Martinez quickened his pace as he approached the hospital entrance, the concrete building a stark silhouette against the green mountains beyond it. He had met Nurse Baker, Angela, after Wierzbowski dislocated a knee in a game of gridiron. The big man had gone down like a wounded animal, and Martinez had stayed with his friend all the way to the base hospital. It was Angela who put Wierzbowski's knee back into position and bandaged the ruptured joint. She had flame red hair, a smattering of freckles across her cheeks and the cutest smile Martinez had ever seen.
After that he went back and visited Wierzbowski in hospital every day, twice a day if he could find a good excuse. Martinez was heartbroken when his friend recovered enough to be discharged. The private went back to the hospital anyway, on some feeble pretext, and stammered out to Angela how he felt about her. The nurse laughed when Martinez offered to marry her. "Don't you think we should have a few dates first, see if we've got anything in common?"
"Sure," Martinez agreed. "Then we get married."
"One thing at a time, tiger," she had replied, smiling her infectious smile.
So they dated, taking walks under the moonlight after Angela finished her shift, or talking for hours about their lives before the Philippines. The pair shared war stories about growing up Catholic, the thrashings they'd gotten from convent nuns keen to instil discipline and a fear of god. Both came from large families where money was scarce and hand-me-down clothes the way of the world. Angela laughed as she recalled spending her first pay packet on buying a brassiere of her own, after years of making do with lingerie inherited from her many sisters.
The two of them made out like teenagers when nobody was around, but they had an unspoken agreement; they had both been saving themselves for marriage and they both had to respect that. But Martinez had decided that tonight was the night. Tonight he was asking Angela to marry him, as soon as they could. He couldn't wait any longer to be with her. Besides, if war was as close as everyone said, he didn't want to risk getting shipped out to another station and being separated from her. Martinez closed his eyes to offer up a silent prayer before entering the hospital: Please, God, let her say 'yes'.
The aircraft carrier USS Enterprise sailed west across the Pacific towards Wake Island, a tiny rock in the middle of nowhere that was home to an American detachment. But the ship designated CV-6 was not alone in the ocean. A US Navy battle group shadowed the vessel, with three heavy cruisers and six destroyers keeping the Enterprise company on its voyage. Marine Fighting Squadron 211 was on board the Big E, as many of the crew liked to call her. These dozen planes were to be stationed on Wake Island, and the Enterprise was delivering them to their new home. The notion of such a massive ship acting as a delivery service amused Ensign Ramon Marquez. Sure, the name "aircraft carrier" kind of implied the Enterprise should be doing just that, carrying aircraft, but he always thought of her as a fighting ship, a metal warrior slicing across vast seas and oceans in search of combat.
So far, the only combat Marquez had seen was at Tokyo Joe's back in Hawaii. Like Chuck and Bravo, he had been determined to stay out of the bar brawl, not wanting to lose a week's flying privileges, but then that MP had started causing trouble and Chuck had gone down bleeding, leaving Marquez little choice but to step in. Bravo had remained on the sidelines, not getting involved until someone had taken a swing at him. That rattled his cage, and Bravo had come out fighting, abandoning his usual policy of non-intervention unless it helped his own cause. When the dust had finally settled, all three of them were hauled before their commander for a rollicking and not one, not two, but three weeks without flying privileges. Marquez still wasn't sure which irked the commander more, the fact they'd been fighting in public, or the fact they hadn't won. Pride was important on board the Big E.
It was a relief when October came and they could finally get back in the air. Marquez loved to fly more than anything else in the world. Growing up dirt poor, he'd never have believed he stood a chance of becoming a pilot. His mother was a cleaner
at the nearby training school for naval aviators. Marquez often thought a mop and a bucket was the closest he'd ever get to a cockpit. But a tutor at the school had taken the youngster under his wing, arranging scholarships and nurturing little Ramon's ambitions. The day Marquez made his first solo flight had been among the proudest of his life, and also one of the scariest. The undercarriage on his plane had collapsed during takeoff, leaving the young pilot without any way of making a regulation landing. His mentor was summoned to the control tower and had talked Marquez down, persuading the terrified flyer to attempt an emergency landing. The young pilot had belly-flopped his plane onto the grass beside the runway and slid all the way to safety. After walking away from that without a scratch, there was only one nickname he was ever likely to have in his flying career: Skid Marquez.
Now he was a fully fledged navy pilot, in charge of an SBD Dauntless on the USS Enterprise. According to the navy, the initials SBD stood for the words Ship Borne Dive-Bomber. According to the pilots, the letters actually represented Slow But Deadly. Marquez couldn't care less about his plane's flaws. Sometimes he felt like pinching himself to make sure being a pilot wasn't a dream. Each day he went to look at his plane to make certain it was real. He ran his hands over the fuselage, feeling every curve and rivet of his beautiful sky chariot. He climbed into the pilot's seat and closed his eyes, imagining himself in aerial combat, his fingertips poised over the controls. He envisaged enemy aircraft crossing in front of him and saw himself opening fire with his twin .30 machine guns. The targets exploded into flaming shards of-
"Hey, Skid, you planning to start the war early?" Marquez opened his eyes and saw Chuck standing by his own plane, waving. The young pilot waved back, embarrassed at having been caught pretending. Chuck gestured for him to come over, so Marquez clambered out of the cockpit and jumped down to the floor, his boots landing with a heavy clump on the metal surface. He strode across to Chuck's plane. "You seen Bravo?"