Fiends of the Rising Sun

by David Bishop

  "Juan, I want to ask you something," she replied.

  "Ask away."

  Angela's eyes flickered towards Wierzbowski. "It's important."

  "Oh. Right." Martinez turned to his comrade. "Umm, Wierzbowski..."

  The other man drained his beer and stood up. "No problem. I've been thinking it's a good night for a walk anyway, so..." He nodded and smiled to Angela before strolling away, whistling something jaunty and tuneless.

  "He's a good guy," Martinez whispered once Wierzbowski was out of earshot. "Most of the others are scared of him, but I'd rather have him by my side when the shooting starts than somewhere else."

  "Why?"

  "He's a bigger target than me." The private laughed at his own joke, before noticing the look on his fiancée's face. "Hey, what is it? What's wrong?"

  "I need to tell you something and I need you to listen. No jokes, no teasing and no interrupting me, okay?"

  "Okay," Martinez agreed.

  "I think I'm in love with you," she began.

  "Just as well, since we're getting-"

  "No interruptions, Juan."

  "Sorry!" He pretended to pull a zipper across his mouth, turned an imaginary key to lock his lips shut and throw it over his shoulder. Angela smiled at the elaborate mime before resuming her speech.

  "I think I'm in love with you, but I'm not sure, not a hundred per cent. I know I want to be with you all the time, want to share my bed with you, share my body with you. But I'm worried we're rushing into the wedding because of my new posting and everybody talking about how war is coming anytime now. So I need you to answer a question for me. By the time you finish, I'm hoping I'll know what we should do. Is that okay?"

  Martinez nodded.

  "Why do you want to marry me, Juan?" He pointed at his mouth, the lips still pressed together. Angela laughed. "It's okay, you can talk now."

  He smiled. "Why do I want to marry you? That's easy. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to have children and grandchildren with you. I want to grow old with you and be with you, always. I love you, Angela, like I've never loved anybody before. Yeah, I know we're both young and maybe we haven't seen a lot of the world - I sure haven't, not yet - but I've seen enough to know you're the one for me. I've known that from the moment I met you."

  Through all of this Angela stared into her fiancé's warm, brown eyes, searching for the answers Father Kelly had promised would be there. She waited until Juan had finished before turning away, her feelings threatening to get the better of her. "Well?" he asked. "Do you know what we should do now?"

  "Yes, I do," Angela replied. She flung herself at Juan, kissing him as if they'd never have the chance to kiss again. Her hands clawed at the buttons on his uniform, scrabbling at the fastenings, desperate to undo them. Martinez grabbed her by the wrists.

  "What do you think you're doing, Angela?"

  "I want you, now!" she replied, her voice brooking no opposition.

  "But I thought you wanted to wait until our honeymoon?"

  "If I'm spending the rest of my life with you, soldier, I want to make sure all the goods are in full working order." She slid a hand down his chest, past the belt of his trousers until her fingers were cupping his-

  "Oh boy," Martinez gasped. "What say we take this inside? I happen to know the sergeant's off base tonight and his bed is empty."

  "Lead the way," Angela smiled.

  Private Jeffrey Dorn had a drinking problem. He knew it, his sergeant knew it, hell, everybody knew it. As far as the world was concerned, Dorn was an alcoholic, drinking his way to an early grave. As far as Dorn was concerned, his only problem was finding enough to drink on a regular basis. His daddy had been a drinker, and his granddaddy before him. Drinking ran in the family, in fact it was about the only talent his granddaddy had left him. He sure as hell didn't leave any money or much of anything in the brains department to his son. The private had hated every minute of high school. He couldn't enlist fast enough when an army recruiting officer came around offering free trips to exotic locations and all the chow you could eat. That had sounded like Dorn's idea of heaven. All the army needed to do was make sure the booze didn't flow like mud and it'd be the perfect life for him.

  He'd spent most of Thursday night and a good part of Friday's early hours aggressively pickling his innards at a variety of tropical taverns around downtown Honolulu. A run of luck at a friendly gambling den had provided him with more than enough funds to keep drinking until dawn, but eventually his binge had come to a halt in Tokyo Joe's. Play your cards right and that cute little Oriental girl behind the bar might let you pass out there for the night, or so the story went. But Dorn never did have much luck when it came to the ladies, and that night was no different. Kissy was missing in action, leaving her less delicious brother in charge of the bar and grill.

  Dorn's copious behind was still smarting from the vicious boot that had propelled him out of Tokyo Joe's not long ago. He had staggered away, grumbling to himself, trying to remember where he'd parked the colonel's jeep. No doubt the colonel would expect the vehicle to be present and correct in its appointed parking place come reveille, and that meant driving the damned thing back to base, soused or sober. Of course, driving it back would be that bit easier if Dorn could find the keys. He was almost certain he had remembered to remove them from the jeep before abandoning it outside the cathedral - that's where he'd left it, the cathedral! Well remembered that man, the private thought, somebody give him a cigar. Now all that was required was the keys and he'd be home free, give or take a few miles of weaving and swerving along the roads of Oahu.

  Dorn patted the pockets of his uniform, searching for the keys. Last place he could remember having them was in Tokyo Joe's. He'd put them down on the bar while searching for a dollar bill. He had no memory of picking them back up, but then he couldn't remember much of the last few hours. There was only one thing for it: he'd have to go back and reclaim his keys. Otherwise it was going to be his ass in a sling come sunrise, and he was planning on spending the morning nursing a hangover that could kill an MP.

  The drunken soldier made an about face and lurched back towards the bar and grill, staggering along empty streets. Ahead he could see a painted sign for the bar and two dark figures outside the door, looking at something on the pavement. Dorn squinted, trying to get the scene in focus, but his state of inebriation was making that well nigh impossible. Whatever the case, both figures were startled when he called out, his words as wayward as his progress.

  "Hey! Has either of you seen my keys?" he shouted. "I think I left them on the bar." As Dorn staggered closer, the two figures moved apart and moonlight fell on the shape at their feet. It was the sour-faced manager, the same slant eyed SOB that had kicked Dorn out earlier. At least, that's what it looked like to the private, but the body's ruptured neck and blood flecked face made it hard to be certain. "Whoa," the soldier slurred, "what happened to old misery guts Tetsuzo?"

  "He had an accident," one of the men replied, his face cast in shadow.

  "I'll say! Looks like somebody cut his throat!"

  "Yes, we did."

  Dorn frowned. He didn't have much sympathy for the murdered man, but that was no way to die, even for the likes of Nagara. "W-why'd you do that? He kick you out of the bar, too?"

  "Not exactly."

  A hand flashed through the moonlight and two long fingers buried themselves in Dorn's skull, stabbing straight through his eyeballs. He wanted to scream but fear froze his voice. A childlike croaking was all that escaped his dry, parched lips. The two fingers lifted him into the air, his legs kicking at nothing as his body went into a death spasm. Then he was flying sideways across the street, the early morning breeze cool across his skin and the scent of hibiscus flowers heavy in the air. The last name to pass through Dorn's mind was that of a deity to whom he had long since stopped praying. God, he thought in the last moments of his wasted life, I need a drink.

  Kimura stood over the corpse, his nose
wrinkling in protest at the stench of warm urine and cheap liquor that rose from Dorn. "I still hunger, but I'm not sure I can bring myself to feed upon this."

  "We drink blood from the living, not the dead, no matter how fresh the kill," Hitori said. "Corpses are carrion, not fit for our needs. His blood would taste like squid ink, pickled in alcohol." Hitori opened the door into Tokyo Joe's. "Bring the body here. We need to conceal both these corpses so they're not found until after Sunday. Once the attack begins, it matters little."

  Kimura picked up Dorn's remains with contemptuous ease and carried them to the entrance. Hitori followed him, bringing Nagara's remains. Inside the bar chairs were balanced atop circular tables and row upon row of glasses had been stacked along the bamboo bar, waiting to be washed. "No obvious hiding places in here," Kimura observed.

  "Strip the corpses and remove their identification," Hitori commanded. He marched across the sand-strewn floor to the other doorway. The sound of the waves crashing on the nearby beach testified to how close they were to water. "We could make it look as if they drowned. If we weigh down the bodies, it'll be days before either of them surfaces."

  "And by then we'll be long gone." Kimura found a wallet choked with American currency in the dead soldier's back pocket. "There's enough here to buy half of Honolulu a drink."

  "Good," Hitori said, returning to kneel by the corpses. "These Americans are slaves to their vices. We can use that against them. Now, help me rip the limbs off. The fewer body parts there are to identify, the longer it will take the authorities to realise what's happened." The vampyrs set about their task with clinical efficiency, removing the appendages as if plucking a chicken. Kimura asked questions while they worked, keeping his head tilted away from Dorn's corpse so as not to inhale its foul fumes.

  "You still haven't told me the specifics of our mission on Oahu, sir."

  Hitori pulled Nagara's head off as if removing the cork from a bottle of champagne. "You will replace this Black Dragon agent as manager of the bar and grill. Work alongside his partner on the night shift, and gather all available intelligence from the American servicemen that frequent this bar about the state of combat readiness. The more we know about the strength of their defences, the easier it will be to disable them on Sunday. I will contact you each dusk and dawn, so we can collate intelligence and plan our next movements. I have other objectives to pursue before the attack comes. Your task is here, gleaning intelligence from the enemy and Nagara's associate."

  Kimura did not look impressed by his assignment. "Is this the best use of my abilities? We are kyuuketsuki. We could terrorise the Americans, make them afraid of their own shadows-"

  "No," Hitori cut in, his voice low and menacing. "The time for that will come, but not yet. Our presence here, our very existence must remain a secret. In years to come the kyuuketsuki will be recognised as the empire's greatest weapon in this war. For now, we must work covertly." His expression softened as he rested a hand on Kimura's shoulder. "I know you are eager to spread your wings, to prove yourself in battle as a vampyr. Before we leave this island, you'll have that chance, I promise. You will bathe in American blood!"

  Extract from the personal journal of Lieutenant Charles Richards:

  December 1st, 1941.

  Well, it feels as if the waiting may soon be over. All my life I've dreamed about flying, and joining the navy made that dream into a reality. But I always knew there could be a price to pay for that: war. When the fighting broke out in Europe, it seemed inevitable that the United States would get involved. Hell, Pop fought in the Great War, as he liked to call it, the war to end all wars, that's what he believed. Guess I should be glad he's not alive to see how wrong that belief was, but I'd rather he was still alive and disappointed. I wish he could have beaten the cancer long enough to see me graduate and get my wings, but it wasn't to be.

  Two years and the best part of three months have passed since Great Britain declared war against Hitler and his damned Nazis. In that time the Germans have marched all over Europe in their jackboots and only the Brits have stood up to them. Watching the newsreel footage of how places like London have suffered from German bombing raids makes for pretty sobering viewing. I can't imagine the same thing happening to LA or the Big Apple, but I suppose it's possible, thanks to aircraft carriers and submarines. You never know what horrors the future holds, what curveballs life has in store.

  As a navy flier, it could well be my job to bomb the hell out of some other country one day, to help flatten a city. I'll have to do that knowing there are civilians below me, innocent women and children cowering in shelters, praying not to get blown to kingdom come. Is that just, is that right? Dropping bombs on innocent people because their leaders choose to go to war over oil or rubber or whatever other natural resources they crave? I sure as hell didn't vote for Roosevelt but he's our president, our commander in chief, and if he commits us to war, I'll do my best on his behalf. Strange the roads democracy can take you down.

  Halsey's had us on a war footing since last week. Scuttlebutt on the Big E says he got a telegram from Washington suggesting the Japs are getting ready for war. A first strike is expected soon in the Philippines, maybe Singapore too. That's a long way away from Pearl but Halsey's got us jumping through hoops anyway, running drills and preparing for the worst. If the Japs do hit one of our bases in the Pacific, I know Halsey will be itching to hit back, and our SBDs will be right there at the front of the queue.

  In the meantime I'm doing my best to keep the rest of the pilots and their gunners ready, but not too ready. We don't need anybody going off half-cocked and starting something nobody's ready to finish. If we are going to war in the Pacific, the other side has to fire the first shot. Even then, I'm not sure America has the stomach for war, not so soon after the last war, the Great War, the war that Pop thought would end all wars. I guess we wouldn't still have a navy or an army or an air force if it had ended all wars. We wouldn't need them anymore and I'd be out of a job, unable to fly. Strange the way life takes you sometimes, the paths it finds for you to walk, or fly, very strange.

  THREE

  Sergeant Harvey Aimes knew something was amiss when he found a brassiere hanging from the door handle of his private quarters. It was white with lace cups, and utterly incongruous in the barracks of an artillery regiment. The presence of lingerie inside the building was unwelcome, but the sergeant had known soldiers who liked to keep souvenirs of their conquests, all their conquests. Such men were not welcomed by Aimes and soon learned the error of their ways. The last thing his men needed was a distraction. Hell, if the sergeant had his way, there wouldn't be any women anywhere in the armed forces, and that included the nursing staff. Male medics were good enough for combat zones and they ought to be good enough for military hospitals, too.

  Aimes knew for a fact that none of the men under his command had any female undergarments in their possession. He undertook snap inspections at least once a week, and secretly searched the recruits' lockers while they were eating their chow or taking showers. So, that left one simple explanation for the brassiere coiled around his door handle: there was a topless nurse inside the sergeant's room. Aimes grimaced. He'd been away from Fort Stotsenberg overnight, overseeing a work detail to improve the road south to Manila. Aimes had pushed the men hard and they'd finished early, so he'd marched back to camp in the early hours, arriving not long before reveille. The sergeant had wanted to get a shower and shave. Now he had other priorities.

  Aimes removed the offending garment and opened the door. It was still dark inside the room, a single bunk and an army locker the only furniture. In normal circumstances the sergeant's quarters were immaculate, not a thread or speck of dirt to be found within. But these were not normal circumstances, and the dawn's early light revealed a floor strewn with discarded clothing: a nurse's blouse and skirt, along with the fatigues of a private. There was no mystery in determining who had left their uniforms on his floor, as the two culprits were asleep on the bed, sn
uggled together between the covers.

  "Martinez!" Aimes bellowed. "What the hell do you think you're doing in my bed, private? I'm away from the barracks for one night and I come back to find you in here with one of the nurses! Or perhaps her name is Goldilocks?"

  His words and their volume had the desired effect. Martinez was so startled he fell out of bed, his naked butt bouncing on the floor. The nurse shrieked in horror or shame or embarrassment - frankly, Aimes couldn't care less which - before pulling the covers up over her head. But the woman's evasive manoeuvres were not quick enough to prevent the sergeant from getting a good look at her flame red hair. "There's no use trying to hide, Nurse Baker," he snarled. "I know perfectly well that's you under there." She lowered the covers to look at Aimes. "Getting a head start on the honeymoon, were we?"

  "Sergeant, I can explain-" Martinez began.

  "You can?" Aimes folded his arms and smiled. "This I have to hear." The private opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

  "Actually..." Martinez began, "no, I can't. You were right first time."

  "My aim's always accurate," the sergeant said, "even with a glass eye."

  "We didn't mean any harm," Baker offered.

  "Let me guess, you just got carried away, is that it?"

  The embarrassed twosome looked at each other and nodded.

  "And my bed was nearest?"

  That got another sheepish nod from the guilty pair.

  Aimes sighed. "Remind me, when's the wedding?"

  "Sunday," Martinez said.

  "Just after midday," the nurse added.

  "Then you two can consider this an early present. I'm not going to report your conduct, Baker. I see no reason to besmirch your record with this sordid incident. But if I ever catch you within twenty feet of my barracks again, I'll take great pleasure in telling your superiors every detail of your excursion into enlisted territory. Once I leave the room you'll get dressed and vacate these barracks as soon as humanly possible. After that you're not to set eyes on loverboy until the wedding. Is that quite clear?"