by J. M. Hayes
Quite mad, Sasaki reflected. Such talk was treason. No wonder “they” had tried to kill him. And yet he made sense, this admitted necrophiliac. Sasaki found Kira intriguing.
“Plans for the invasion of the continental United States are already underway. A waste of time, of course, since we must first dislodge the Americans from the Pacific. One of the more exotic approaches has us launching an invasion from the northern end of the Gulf of California, striking across into Arizona and cutting or controlling America’s primary sources of supply to Southern California. It’s not so foolish as it may first seem, provided only that we have eliminated the American Pacific presence and can build enough aircraft carriers and planes and troop transports and so on. Then we could hit Southern California from the sea, invading in several places. With a pincers movement we might carve out a vast chunk of American real estate on which to build a secure beachhead and amass the men and materials that a drive north and east would require.
“Strategically the concept is not unsound. The absurdity lies in expecting to clear the Americans from the Pacific in the first place. Nevertheless, certain wildly imaginative generals have become aware of an interesting development in Southern Arizona and would like to see it exploited in the hope it will make their subsequent invasion of that area less difficult.
“There has been a small rebellion among some Papagos against the requirement of Selective Service Registration. Actually, there are several small rebellions, but in one case an entire village has apparently taken up arms against the United States and gone into hiding in the desert.
“We want someone to make contact with the renegade village, rendezvous with a submarine which will supply them with modern arms and ammunition, and, by craft, promises, lies, or force, lead them in a guerrilla action against the government and people of the United States. To direct them in such a way that the rebellion spreads among their fellow tribesmen, perhaps even to other tribes in the region. Any time wasted by the United States in coping with an Indian uprising inside their own borders will be beneficial to the Japanese Empire. There is almost no chance it will succeed, of course, but in the short run….” He spread his hands as if to say “who knows?” and leaned back in his chair again, studying Sasaki’s reaction.
“It’s a suicide mission,” he added as an afterthought, “which makes you the ideal candidate.”
“What assistance can I expect?” Sasaki asked.
“We’ll fly you to San Francisco, smuggle you out of the Consulate there and into mainstream America where your upbringing should suffice to grant you mobility. We’ll provide a considerable amount of cash, a submarine filled with weapons and tools of the saboteur’s trade, and very little else. Japanese do not move easily or inconspicuously in America, especially now that awareness of the probability of war has begun to reach the average citizen. We have no network of agents in place, no safe houses. In fact, no presence whatsoever in the state of Arizona. We can’t even give you the names of sympathetic Japanese Americans. There may be some, but we are so ill prepared that we don’t know who they are.”
“But you can put me in contact with the dissident Papagos?”
“Not even that,” Kira admitted. “As I told you, it’s all quite hopeless, quite suicidal. We can give you the name of the most prominent opposition leader among the Papagos, a man who is at odds with their tribal council and its attitude of cooperation with federal authority. It seems likely he may know where to find them, but we don’t know that for certain.”
“And you seriously expect me to accept this assignment?” Sasaki asked. Not that he would refuse it. He only wondered if Kira understood him.
“Yes. Because there is that chance in a thousand you might succeed. Even in a small way. Because it’s a task only a genius, a superman, might accomplish. Because you believe you are such a man. Because you might even be right. You may find them, arm them, train them. You may even blow up a bridge, derail a train, strike an army installation. And, in the process, you may create a legend, bring in more dissatisfied Papago, Pima, maybe even other Indians. There is that chance in a million you could pull it off, regardless of what becomes of Japan. You just might establish a Native American Nation on the face of their own continent. It would assure you an immortality few earn.”
Yes, Sasaki thought, he understands me fairly well.
“And, there’s the other side of the coin. You’ve heard the recommendations in your file. If you refuse, those men waiting in the hall won’t be escorting you back to the front. I don’t know what they have in mind for you, some quiet little assassination, I should guess. I rather think you might enjoy pitting yourself against them, against the Kempeitai, perhaps as much as you would enjoy the other, but in the unlikely event you succeed here you will merely survive. There will be no public glory, no recognition. Yes, I think you’ll accept.”
Kira was right, except the pudgy little madman didn’t really believe Sasaki had a chance.
“When do I begin?” Sasaki inquired.
Kira smiled again. He reached into a new file and handed the Captain some documents. “The first of your new identities,” he explained. “Background information, your ticket to fly on a trans-Pacific clipper to San Francisco. You have already begun, Captain Sasaki,” Kira said, indicating with a wave of his hand that their interview was concluded, “and I wish you good fortune.”
Sasaki accepted the papers, rose, bowed slightly, and turned to leave. At the door he stopped. He was curious.
“What about you?” he asked. “Will you fight them or will you run?”
“Run?” It sounded as if Kira had never considered the option before. “No, certainly not. I’ll stay. I’ll survive. I’ll wait. Were you in Nanking, Captain?”
“I’ve been there,” Sasaki said, “but I wasn’t present during the slaughter.”
“They tell me it was a charnel house,” he said, wistfully. “I missed it too. A sad thing for a man of my proclivities. But before this war is over, Tokyo, all of Japan, will come to make Nanking seem a childish amusement in comparison. I’ll stay and survive and, in the end, I’ll enjoy my just rewards.”
“Yes, I see,” Sasaki told him. Quite mad. He pivoted and left Kira’s office. The man understood but underestimated him. Sasaki would succeed because he was prepared, without hesitation, to destroy anyone or anything in his way.
Talking About Spain
It was a warm night for a Sunday in mid-November, and the Spencers had dropped by J.D.’s for drinks. It was also supposed to be a short night because J.D. had to work the next morning and both of them had classes, but the conversation had been intriguing and no one seemed in any special hurry to end it. They were on J.D.’s front porch, watching the moonlight play across the rugged Catalina Mountains just north of the city. Mary knew it was late and she was feeling a little tipsy, even though she’d been drinking a lot less than the men. J.D. didn’t show any effects, but Larry wasn’t doing as well. He had just dozed off in his chair.
“Well,” Mary said. It wasn’t necessarily meant to be the beginning of an “it’s time to go” speech. It was time to go, but she really didn’t want to. J.D. had been talking about Spain, nothing very weighty, but he’d been letting Larry and the alcohol loosen his tongue. And then he’d stopped and just stood there with his shoulders slumped and his back to her. She guessed what she was offering him was the beginning of an exit line, if he chose to interpret it that way, or a little gentle sympathy.
J.D. didn’t seem to have heard her. He was standing next to the porch railing, leaning against a pillar, looking out at the night. She felt the urge to take him in her arms and say “there, there,” and “it’s OK,” but however that might help what was troubling him it would only make everything else more complicated. She was still wondering what she should do, what she would do, when J.D. started speaking. He didn’t turn around to face her, just spoke softly into the darkness. She had to concentrate to understand.
“That summer the planes were c
oming nearly every day,” J.D. said. “If they thought they saw something they bombed or strafed. It was bad.”
She turned and looked at Larry. He was sprawled in a chair beside her with his head slumped forward on his chest. His breathing was deep and regular. She had the feeling that this was what Larry, with his growing case of hero worship, so desperately wanted to hear. She thought about shaking him awake but wasn’t sure she wanted to share it, or, for that matter, hear it herself. She thought about interrupting J.D., explaining that it wasn’t really necessary for him to tell her those things, but she knew that wasn’t true. J.D. badly needed to tell someone. She, apparently, was it.
***
They lived like animals, burrowed into the hillsides in shallow dens or under the cover of dense thickets. They regularly patrolled the front, or their little section of it. The front stretched the length of Aragon. Occasionally they exchanged shots with a dimly seen enemy, then both forces would melt back into the forest, neither being inclined to press the action toward what might prove an unacceptable conclusion.
Thanks to the Collectivists, they ate well enough, but they had little ammunition and their uniforms were in tatters. Even though it was summer, there were never enough blankets for the nights. J.D. wasn’t the only one who had started to cough.
They were constantly besieged by rumors. The Nationalists’ strength was steadily increasing and it was expected that they would soon push forward in a major offensive. The way their planes kept coming seemed to prove it. That was bad enough, but then they heard there was feuding between the Communists and the Anarchists, two of the most important factions in the Republican Army. J.D.’s was just a small band. Half of them were politically unaligned beyond being ardent Anti-Fascists. The rest were local Trade Unionists and militant peasants.
As the rumors became more persistent, they started losing men. Then they learned that Lister’s Shock Battalion, who were supposed to be on their side, had started breaking up Republican Collectives in the rear. It was too much. The last of the locals packed up and marched off to stop him. They’d been the contacts with the nearby peasants and food all but stopped coming in.
Saturnino Martinez was the commander. He was a short, bulky man. He had a disconcerting way of looking out of the corner of his eyes when someone talked to him. He’d been too close when a grenade exploded. It cost him the hearing in his right ear, so he always cocked the left toward whoever was speaking.
Soon after the last of the locals left to join the civil war within a civil war behind them, Martinez gathered those who remained. It was obvious they couldn’t hold their section of the line much longer. A peasant from Tarragona, a small village in Nationalist hands, had come in the night before. The man claimed the Fascists were building an aerodrome in the valley below his village. While he still had men and ammunition, Martinez wanted to go and do something about it.
They set out before dawn. The peasant claimed the road was clear all the way to Orduna. Martinez decided to chance it. That way they could make the journey in a single day, hit the airfield that night, scatter and head back for Angüés to regroup and find someone in authority to ask how they were expected to hold the line with so few men and no supplies. It would also give them a chance to find out what was really happening in what remained of Republican Aragon.
It was a trap.
They went through a little village called Tres Santos about mid-morning. It was deserted. Nothing surprising in that, it was close to the front. The track that passed for a road rose out of the village into a low, jagged range of hills. They hiked up it silently, slowly. They were all tired and undernourished. They were saving their breath because they needed it for the climb and to listen for the motors of the airplanes. They could usually hear them coming long enough to dive off the road and hide.
It was quiet, except for the wind sighing in the trees and the irregular tramp of their boots, until the machine guns opened up and the grenades started falling. Half of them were dead before the rest knew what was happening.
The trail narrowed as they climbed into the pass. There were Nationalist troops above them in the rocks and brush. Martinez had led them into a place without cover, impossible to defend.
J.D. was walking steadily, concentrating on not coughing because he thought if he started he probably wouldn’t be able to stop. When he heard the first explosion he looked up from the feet of Fuentes, the man he was following, and saw Carlos Grijalva just beyond, stitched from crotch to clavicle, his body almost ripped in two by machine gun bullets. Fuentes turned to scream at him to take cover but his skull came apart in J.D.’s face. A grenade exploded and Pablo’s hand grabbed him on the shoulder. J.D. turned to see if he was hit or what he wanted, but Pablo wasn’t there, just the bloody stump of his wrist and the hand with the signet ring he’d said was the only thing he had that was his father’s. J.D. took the hand from his shoulder and held it, not sure what to do with it.
Medina came running back down the road, drawing fire. His gun was gone and he was wounded. He was screaming hysterically, mad with terror. He wasn’t even looking for cover, just running, responding to a desperate need to be elsewhere that J.D. felt just as keenly. Saturnino Martinez reached after Medina as he went past, then fell like a stone, the back of his head missing. J.D. dropped Pablo’s hand and tried to swing his rifle up to find a target but Medina ran headlong into him and both of them cartwheeled into the dirt. J.D. started to get up but the shooting stopped. It was quiet except for Medina’s mad howling. J.D. watched him scramble to his feet, then a machine gun opened up again. What was left of Medina tumbled against the rocks at the side of the road. J.D. lay still and tried not to breathe.
They came down out of the brush and boulders, grinning, joking, well fed men with fine modern weapons and neat uniforms. They began systematically looting the dead. Occasionally they kicked a body they thought might be faking, or stuck it with a bayonet. J.D. must have looked convincing. He’d been close to Fuentes and was covered with his gore, and there was the blood from Pablo’s hand.
J.D. was lying on his back. He kept his eyes open, just narrow slits, and a hand near the knife at his belt. Not that it would matter. If they found him, he was dead.
One of them wanted J.D.’s pack. It was under him, the strap across his shoulder. The man pulled at it and when it didn’t come easily, sawed through the strap with his bayonet. He cut J.D. from shoulder to mid-chest in the process but J.D. was so terrified he hardly felt it. He didn’t make a sound. He didn’t move. Somehow he managed not to cough.
And then they found Questas. Like J.D., he was only wounded, pretending to be dead. He must have made a less convincing corpse. One of them prodded Questas in the ass with a bayonet and Questas jumped and yelled. He also tried to get at his rifle, but they kicked it away and suddenly he was surrounded.
They grabbed and held him and one of their officers began to ask questions. When Questas wouldn’t answer, the man got out a knife. J.D. couldn’t see it except for the crowd of uniformed backs. But he could hear when Questas cried out and when, eventually, he begged them to stop. It didn’t matter. They no longer cared whether he told them anything or not. They were getting too much pleasure out of the knife. Then Questas started screaming. They were agonized, blood-chilling cries. In between screams he pleaded and sobbed while they told him how they’d cut him next. Then they’d do it and Questas would scream again.
***
Mary couldn’t remember getting to her feet. She was almost to J.D., reaching out for him. It was either the moment when she most needed or least wanted her husband to interfere. Larry did, though hardly in an orthodox fashion. There was no query of what was going on here, no sudden jealous rage, just a thump followed by an “Ooof!” and a muffled “Ouch,” as he fell head first out of his chair.
They both turned to help him up and see how badly he was hurt, which wasn’t much since they couldn’t find a cut, just a sore spot above the hairline that wouldn’t even leave a visible
bump. But Larry, it was obvious, needed to be taken home and put to bed and whatever had been about to happen there in the moonlight would have to be put off until another time.
J.D. helped her get Larry out to the Auburn, which she both adored and despised for its ostentation, then stood awkwardly at the curb while Larry mumbled complaints into the leather upholstery. Neither she nor J.D. could think of anything appropriate to say except goodnight. He was still standing there, watching, when she turned at the corner and headed south. The Auburn’s straight eight growled a throaty challenge from its exhaust, just loud enough to keep J.D. from hearing the expletive she suddenly couldn’t contain.
Zigzag
screaming!
Someone was screaming. J.D. bolted upright surrounded by the dying echo. Something imprisoned his arms and feet. He strained and tore free. They were only sweat-soaked sheets.
He stood beside his bed, confused, not yet sure where he was or what, if anything, he’d heard. His breath was short and ragged and his heart slammed in his chest.
There was another sound, hammering. Fists against a door. His door. And a voice.
“J.D., you all right? J.D.? Open up!”
“Yeah. Right. I’m OK. I’m coming.” His voice croaked, was hardly recognizable. He cleared his throat and tried again.
He was starting to wake up, the dream was losing its stranglehold. He had an uncomfortable idea that he knew who had been screaming, screaming along with Questas. He had done it before, but not for a long time. He had thought, hoped, it was over.
He found his way to the light switch, grabbed a robe, and went to the door. Jesus Gonzales was standing there, looking worried. He had his gun out of his holster and J.D. thought maybe he’d been close to kicking his way in.