Blood Red Sun

by Mertz, Stephen

  BLOOD RED SUN

  By Stephen Mertz

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Copyright 2012 / Stephen Mertz

  Copy-edited by: Darren Pulsford

  Cover design by: David Dodd

  Cover image courtesy of: Marc Grossman

  LICENSE NOTES

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  Meet the Author

  Stephen Mertz has traveled the world as a soldier, adventurer, and writer. His novels have been widely translated and have sold millions of copies worldwide. He currently lives in the American Southwest, and is always at work on a new novel.

  Book List

  Novels:

  Blood Red Sun

  Devil Creek

  Night Wind

  The Castro Directive

  The Korean Intercept

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  M.I.A. Hunter: Cambodian Hellhole

  M.I.A. Hunter: Exodus from Hell

  M.I.A. Hunter: Blood Storm

  M.I.A. Hunter: Escape from Nicaragua

  M.I.A. Hunter: Invasion U.S.S.R.

  M.I.A. Hunter: Crossfire Kill

  M.I.A. Hunter: Desert Death Raid

  M.I.A. Hunter: L.A. Gang War

  M.I.A. Hunter: Back to ‘Nam

  M.I.A. Hunter: Heavy Fire

  M.I.A. Hunter: China Strike

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  For

  Patricia Donnelly

  Prologue

  August 1945

  Hitler had fallen, but the war in the Pacific raged on.

  The Japanese refused to surrender.

  An ancient, proud, warrior race, their cities leveled by bombing raids and the first use of nuclear weapons in war, their naval forces and infantry defeated across the Pacific, Japan fought on.

  In Tokyo, in the corridors of crumbling power, some of those who remained did counsel surrender, but to most of the military commanders—and to other, more shadowy factions of power within Japan, many of them descended from the legendary samurai warriors of feudal Japan—the concept of surrender was inconceivable. Both their personal code of valor and the code of the samurai commanded death before the dishonor of surrender.

  The juggernaut that was the Allied war machine occupied the hard-won Philippines and was poised to strike at the heart of mainland Japan.

  A drawn-out, bloody invasion was anticipated …

  Chapter One

  The ruins of Manila baked beneath a hazy gray sky. At ten o’clock in the morning, the air was already muggy, oppressive.

  General Douglas MacArthur, supreme commander for the Allied powers, sat behind a wide desk in front of double windows overlooking what remained of a once beautiful city. A firm jawline, jutting like the prow of a destroyer, and a sharpness of eye and gesture belied his sixty-three years.

  Grouped folders, dispatches and communiqués were carefully arranged on the desk top. A pipe, not the famous corncob but a battered meerschaum, rested in a glass ashtray. A ceiling fan barely disturbed the sweltering air. Sounds of machinery and Filipino workmen clearing away rubble from across the street drifted through the open windows.

  The Manila City Hall had somehow miraculously escaped the devastation wrought by a brutal block-by-block defense of trapped Japanese troops six months earlier. For this reason, and because of its central location, it became General Headquarters for the occupying American force. The entire top floor was now MacArthur’s headquarters.

  MacArthur’s private office was plain, austere, the walls bare of maps or anything else except for one picture of Washington and one of Lincoln. In addition to the desk, the furnishings consisted only of a couch, one bookcase and a few chairs, two of which were presently occupied.

  It had become MacArthur’s routine to begin each day with a private high-level briefing attended only by his senior generals: Krueger, who commanded the Sixth Army, and Eichelberger, commander of the Eighth. On this morning of August 14, an orderly had barely departed after serving the men coffee when MacArthur initiated the briefing proper with a sudden look across his desk at Eichelberger.

  “You said you had something that couldn’t wait, Bob. Let’s get right to it, shall we?”

  The cadence of speech was oratorical but the tone was conversational, pitched in a warm, rich baritone.

  Robert Eichelberger was a thin-faced man with wiry black hair. In the months following the Allied landings, his Eighth Army had been engaged in reconquering the southern islands of the Philippines.

  “Last night a Nip major on Mindanao marched what was left of his command down out of the jungle,” he said. “They surrendered to one of our units near Butuan.”

  “Let me guess. Your Jap commander said he and his men knew they were done for, they knew our boys were closing in, and he couldn’t stand to see any more of his boys committing suicide to ‘save face.’ My field units have run into the same thing.” Walter Krueger was heavyset and rosy cheeked despite being well beyond middle age. His force had been assigned the task of clearing Luzon of 170,000 enemy troops dug into the mountainous jungles of the northern provinces, the largest Japanese army in the Pacific.

  “He’s been cooperative as hell,” Eichelberger said, “but there wasn’t much he could tell us that we didn’t already know. The one piece of news he did hand us was a doozey and here it is. Seems a general right here on Luzon is planning a major counteroffensive against us any day now. A General Goro.”

  “Well now, that is most interesting.” MacArthur registered a smile that was fleeting, humorless. “Especially in view of what Walter here was telling me just before you arrived. But we’ll get to that. Continue, Bob.”

  “Our P.O.W. says all he knows is that Goro has established communications between enemy holdout units spread all across the northern provinces. He’s not massing his forces. The P.O.W. major says he doesn’t know Goro’s timetable or exactly what Goro has in mind but it’s going to happen soon. Considering that the information was freely given, I’m inclined to believe him.” Eichelberger eyed Krueger. “Now what’s this news of yours, Walter?”

  “A fresh intelligence report from a Filipino guerrilla unit operating north of Malolos was waiting for me on my desk this morning,” said Krueger. “They have located an enemy base camp, what looks like a major staging area, five kilometers north of Malolos. The commander of that force is believed to be General Goro. I was submitting to the general here before you arrived that we put in for an air strike at once and blow the bastards to hell. That ought to squash any counteroffensive.”

  Eichelberger nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

  MacArthur spoke after a contemplative pause. “It doesn’t sound good to me. We want to stop Goro, yes, but I want him alive.”

  “Alive?” Krueger frowned.

  “Excuse me, General,” said Eichelberger, “but I don’t understand sparing Goro, knowing that he has a counteroffensive in the works, especially in light of what’s been occupying the majority of your time.”

  “You mean Operation Olympic.” The Philippines were to become the main base from which, in November, an army of five million men would invad
e Japan. “It is certainly true that that operation has been my principle concern of late,” MacArthur conceded, “but there is a new wrinkle, gentlemen, which you have heard me predict. There is peace in the air, believe it or not. As we speak, the Japanese are considering total surrender.”

  “Makes sense that they would,” said Eichelberger, “considering what we did to those two cities of theirs.”

  It was eight days since the devastation of Hiroshima, five days since Nagasaki.

  “Washington spends millions of dollars and man hours and thousands of lives to secure the Philippines for an invasion of Japan,” said MacArthur, “and two bombs change everything.”

  Krueger was still frowning. “General, I appreciate that you possess a keen understanding of the Asian mentality, but this imminent surrender you speak of is only supposition on our part. We have no intel from inside Japan to substantiate it.”

  MacArthur picked the meerschaum from the ashtray and studied the pipe as if considering the advisability of a smoke. “Let me put it this way. This war is almost over, one way or another, and we will win. And when we have won, our biggest immediate problem will be those Japanese in the military who will not surrender, in Japan and throughout the Pacific. If the Japanese government chooses not to surrender, for whatever misguided reasons of their own, and we are compelled to invade the Japanese mainland, we’re going to need every man we’ve got. Yes, we must stop Goro’s counter offense and the only effective way of doing so will be to have him alive. Remember, according to our information, he is not massing his forces, which means his planned counteroffensive will consist of perhaps dozens of synchronized strikes against us where we are weakest. If we have Goro alive, he can be persuaded, I am sure, to transmit radio messages cancelling such attacks.”

  Krueger’s frown softened. “I see what you mean. You’re right, of course.”

  “When Tokyo does surrender, which I assure you will happen and sooner than many of us may think, those militarist factions that refuse to surrender will continue to fight on against us to the last man regardless of their Emperor’s or their general’s wishes. I know this will happen. It is not in the Japanese character to surrender. Well, we can’t very well do anything about such elements inside Japan until we get there.” He set the meerschaum back in the ashtray and lifted his eyes to the men seated before him. “But we can initiate measures to deal with the fanatical elements dug in throughout these islands. If General Goro is capable of pulling together a counteroffensive of such magnitude as we’ve been led to believe, then he is an influential commander to be sure. A man to be reckoned with. A man to be used.”

  “If we can get this Goro under control now,” Eichelberger said, “that would be one hell of a persuasive example to get the other holdouts down out of the mountains instead of fighting on when the time comes. Having Goro alive could be invaluable.”

  “There’s the rub of it.” Krueger was frowning again. “I just don’t see how it’s possible to take Goro alive if he doesn’t want to surrender, and this counteroffensive he’s supposed to have cooking is proof enough that he has no intention of surrendering. Those die-hards in the mountains fight to the death. The Filipino guerrillas who think they’ve found Goro’s staging area are damn good fighters, but they don’t have the finesse for something like that. I don’t know anyone who does, not with the time element breathing down our necks. Capturing that Nip general alive is, frankly, the closest thing to an impossible mission I’ve ever heard of.”

  “It may seem impossible on the face of it,” said MacArthur, “and perhaps in truth it is, but it is worth a try. We must try.” He reached over and plucked a folder from the stack on his desk. “And I think I know just the man for the job.”

  John Ballard was thirty-five years old. A dark-haired, heavily muscled, big man, he moved with a light, easy gait. He wore sharply pressed khaki fatigues and combat boots.

  Striding around the corner of a barracks building, he was just in time to see Tex Hanklin take a haymaker to the jaw that deposited two-hundred-and-fifty pounds of caterwauling Texan onto his backside in the center of a ring of men.

  About twenty GIs were rubbernecking, most of them bare-chested in the heat like the combatants. A radio emitted dance music from an open window nearby, but that was pretty much drowned out by the noisy enthusiasm of those crowding in, egging the fighters on.

  Hanklin brought himself to his feet, shaking off the effects of the blow that had decked him.

  “You call that a punch?” he demanded of the oversized, red-headed Irishman in the circle with him. “If that’s the best you’ve got, partner, better box it up and send it home to mama.”

  Ballard scanned the clustered faces, looking for Mischkie, when the man he was looking for materialized from among those circling the fighters to slide in behind Hanklin like a professional trainer.

  Wilbur Mischkie was the physical opposite of Hanklin in every respect; wiry, intense rather than laconic, Brooklyn-born and raised.

  “Hope your vision’s good enough to see who just walked up, Reb,” Mischkie said as Ballard elbowed his way through to them. “You don’t want to take the count with the Sarge looking on, do you?”

  When he reached them, Ballard said just loudly enough for the two of them to hear, “I had a hunch it would be you two stirring up a ruckus.”

  “Ruckus?” Hanklin grinned. He was missing two middle teeth. “Why, what do you mean, Sarge?” He was working a chaw of chewing tobacco.

  “I mean the word’s all over Nichols Field that there’s good money going down on a fight over here. If the word got by my desk, it’ll get to the MPs in no time, if it hasn’t already.”

  “Sarge, Sarge,” said Mischkie, shaking his head. “You’ve gotten a case of the jitters since they broke up the team. You think the Reb and I can’t outrun a few MPs?” He patted Hanklin’s broad back. “Maybe you ought to place a few bucks on the boy, pick yourself up some easy money.”

  There was a lot going on. The crowd continued to grow.

  Ballard’s attention should have been on the men he had just managed to track down, but something about the way the big Irishman turned away just so for a moment while Ballard was speaking with Hanklin and Mischkie made Ballard look closer, and that’s when he saw the momentary glint of metal disappear into the Irishman’s right fist.

  The Irishman planted himself squarely in front of Hanklin, his fists raised, ready to trade blows.

  “Let’s go, you dumb shitkicker.”

  Hanklin grinned at Ballard. “Hey, Sarge, watch this.” He bobbed in, weaving, to take on his opponent.

  The enthusiasm of the crowd grew louder.

  Ballard had seen this act before. Mischkie would have already placed several hefty wagers on the outcome of this “impromptu” bout. Tex always took one or two on the jaw to keep the marks from thinking they’d been had.

  Ballard stepped between the fighters, facing the Irishman, before any more blows were traded.

  “Hold it, fellas.”

  “Aw, Sarge, let me finish this creampuff,” said Hanklin. “There’s good dough riding on this.”

  “Real good dough,” said the Irishman. He towered several inches over Ballard. “Take a walk, Sarge. Me and the hillbilly got some tussling to do.”

  “Then you do it without the brass knuckles, Red.”

  “Brass knuckles? What brass knuckles?”

  Ballard grasped the man’s right wrist with both hands, turned, pushed back into the man’s chest, planted his weight and pitched the Irishman over his shoulder, slamming the man onto his back upon the ground. Ballard then stepped down with a boot heel on the man’s right wrist, not with enough pressure to snap the bone, but with enough to make the fallen man cry out. His right hand opened. The brass knuckles slipped from thick, freckled fingers to glisten in the dust.

  Disgust, anger, and disappointment coursed through the crowd.

  “That’s the Sarge.” Hanklin grumbled, but he was still grinning as Ballard turne
d away from the fallen man. “Always looks out for the team even when there’s no more team to look out for.”

  “Behind you, Sarge,” said Mischkie.

  Ballard expected it. He reacted without turning. He rammed his right elbow hard into the Irishman’s gut as the man came up behind him with a ham-sized fist cocked back.

  The man exhaled a loud ooooof! and doubled over. Ballard snapped the same elbow back again and this time it connected with the assailant’s forehead and the man fell away, unconscious.

  Ballard continued walking. Hanklin and Mischkie walked with him.

  Mischkie threw a parting glance back at those bending over, attempting to revive the unconscious soldier.

  “Guess that cancels all bets. Damn, Sarge.”

  “So you two are still setting up suckers. I should have known you’d go back to your low-down ways without proper supervision.”

  “You were a good influence at that,” Mischkie nodded. “We were always too busy trying to keep our heads from getting shot off when we were with you to get into too much trouble.”

  “Kind of like trouble, myself,” Hanklin reminded them. “Truth of the matter is, things’ve been real boring around here since they busted up the old unit. Biggest mistake the Army ever made was putting you behind a desk, Sarge, and assigning me and Mischkie to pull sentry duty for a bunch of flyboys and their hot shit airplanes. Hell, I took on that airman back there as much out of boredom as to earn a little spending money.”

  A fast-approaching jeep racing directly toward them caught their attention.

  “Looks like those MPs you were coming over to warn us about,” said Mischkie. “We’d better scat.”

  The crowd drawn by the fight had already seen the approaching vehicle and was rapidly dispersing. There was no indication of a fight. The unconscious man had been carried away. Radio dance music filtered more clearly now from an open window.

  Ballard could make out that the driver was alone in the jeep.

  “I’ve never known cops, military or civilian, to send one man to break up a fight,” he said. “Let’s see what’s up.”