Blood Red Sun

by Mertz, Stephen

  Evita Ramone, no older than eighteen or so at Ballard’s guess, moved with the stealth and wariness of a seasoned veteran of guerrilla warfare. She possessed the dusky, deceptively delicate beauty of the women of this part of the world. Her shoulder-length black hair, worn back, framed a movie star-lovely face unmarred by the hardships of her young life.

  At one point Luis Ramone said, “Sergeant,” his voice pitched low.

  “Yes?”

  “My sister and I and our men are prepared to die fighting the Japanese.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “What do you think our chances are?”

  “I don’t play the odds, Luis. I’m not a gambler.”

  “I feel compelled to point out, Sergeant, that you are gambling your life on the outcome of this mission.”

  “It’s only a gamble if you’re afraid to lose. How far are we from the base?”

  “No more than a quarter kilometer beyond the next ridge.”

  “In that case, we’ll take a short break here.”

  Ramone emitted a low bird call whistle that halted Castro and Valera up ahead and brought them back.

  Everyone grouped.

  “Five minute rest break and weapons check,” Ballard told them.

  Ramone instructed Castro and Valera in Tagalog, the local dialect, and they responded by falling away in opposite directions along the trail until the jungle night swallowed them.

  “Lookouts,” Luis explained. “The Japs patrol these trails every hour.”

  Ballard checked the action on his .45 as Ramone did the same with his rifle. Mischkie and Evita found a banana tree to sit under, side by side, and converse just out of earshot of anyone else. Hanklin was up ahead, leaning against a tree with the butt of his M-1 on his hip, looking impatient as hell.

  Ballard knew how Hanklin felt because he felt the same way. He holstered the .45 and saw Ramone watching Evita and Mischkie.

  Mischkie was leaning over close to whisper in the young woman’s ear. Evita’s eyes and voice in barely heard conversation sparkled with the curiosity and good humor of flirtation. She laughed at something Mischkie said. The sound reached Ballard’s ears and seemed to him achingly out of place here.

  “My sister seems to have found an admirer,” Ramone said with a chuckle.

  “I sympathize with your sister,” Ballard said the same way.

  “She seems to enjoy your man’s company.”

  “That’s Mischkie’s big problem. Every woman does.”

  Hanklin sidled over to join them. “Looks like the slicker’s working his line.” He grinned. “No offense, Luis, but I’d warn your sister off that Romeo before—”

  “Sergeant Ballard has already warned me,” Luis grinned, “but I know you men speak in jest of your buddy. It is your American way to relieve tension.”

  “Well, actually, Luis,” said Ballard, “much as Tex and I are personally fond of Wilbur, I wouldn’t lie to you if it involved your sister.”

  Mischkie actually had the kid nuzzling him back there under their banana tree.

  Hanklin looked away in disgust. “Time and place don’t mean nothing to that varmint. I tell you, Sarge—meaning no disrespect to you or your sister, Luis—but this is no damn job for a female, and there’s reason number one.”

  Ramone frowned. “Your friend, Wilbur, will become enamored of Evita and not do his job?”

  “Oh, the city boy’ll do his job, right enough.”

  “As will Evita. She has earned the right to be among us.”

  “I’ve seen her toting that rifle like she was born with it,” Hanklin conceded, “so I figure maybe you’re right, and I am safe enough with her along. Safe as anyone’ll be out here tonight, that is. I just naturally get to worrying about a gal if she’s around when the bullets start to fly.”

  “That’s Texas talk,” Ballard addressed Ramone. “It means that chivalry is not dead. It’s a good thing your sister’s along, Luis. We may need all the fire power we can get.”

  A bird call sounded from the direction Castro had taken, the chirp cutting through the constant insect and bird chatter and yet a nearly indiscernible part of it.

  “A Jap patrol,” Ramone whispered, “coming this way, very close.”

  Ballard made a motion with both hands. Mischkie and Evita and Hanklin faded into the wall of jungle on one side of the trail. Ballard and Ramone crouched down behind a fat palm tree trunk almost directly across from them.

  Ballard wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, unable as yet to discern movement in either direction along the trail. He unsheathed his knife.

  Ramone set down his rifle and clasped the handle of his bolo.

  “We should wait until they are upon us, then jump them and quietly gut them like fish.”

  Ballard whispered back, “No. They’re expected somewhere and when they don’t show up, Goro will send out a dozen patrols to look for them. We don’t want anyone to know we’re here if we can possibly avoid it.”

  Ramone considered this.

  “You’re right. There are plenty of other Japs to kill, another time.”

  “Here they come.”

  The point man of the patrol materialized with a rustle of vines. More soldiers appeared, grouped more than they should have been, their rifles slung wearily over their shoulders. They slogged along, chatting amongst themselves, paying no particular heed to the jungle night. They were young men, eight of them, no more than boys in uniform.

  General Goro’s first line of defense had grown lax with the routine boredom of holing up here in the middle of nowhere.

  They passed by within six inches of where Ballard and Ramone crouched. Ballard held his breath and tried to ignore the mosquito that was drinking his blood on the back of his sweaty neck.

  A few moments more and the last man disappeared where the trail curved. Those hidden to either side of the trail remained hidden a while longer, but there were no stragglers.

  Ballard stood and the others joined him. “Break’s over,” he said.

  The base was set on high ground. A ring of well-dug foxholes, circling the crest of the hill, was connected by a shallower communications crawlway.

  General Goro stood with his aide, Captain Aki, and surveyed the scene. Placement of the big Nambu machine guns had been cunningly designed by his engineers to be mutually protective with interlocking fields of fire. Goro nodded but made certain not to allow his subordinate to see the full extent of his satisfaction. This was his personal policy and, regardless, all he could think of now was how close his carefully laid out plans, his long months of organization and preparation and hiding out in this hell on earth of a jungle, were about to be realized.

  Those who were the cause of his situation here, the Americans, were about to be paid back in blood.

  He had received reports of some field commanders across the Philippines actually leading their troops down out of the jungles to surrender. This was particularly bad for the morale of those who held out, and he had effectively prevented his own men from learning of such reports.

  In General Goro’s camp, deserters were invariably tracked down and summarily executed on the spot.

  Goro had lost his entire family—his wife and four children and his mother and father—to the American bombing raids.

  Yes, the enemy would pay in blood until Goro and every last man of his died fighting. As far as Goro was concerned, nothing short of an edict from the Emperor himself would cancel the blood bath he was about to unleash throughout the northern provinces of Luzon.

  “Our defense perimeter looks most satisfactory, Captain Aki,” he said to the man at his side. “I believe we are ready for anything.”

  “And so we are, General-san. I thought you would approve.”

  “You should hardly have expected otherwise. Moving the machine gun nests closer to the perimeter was my suggestion. After tomorrow, after the offensive has been launched, the Americans will have reconnaissance planes cover
ing these hills. We must be prepared. If they locate us, they will attack.”

  “The patrols report no enemy presence in the area.”

  “That will change tomorrow, Captain. But let them find us. Let them come. The Nambu’s will cut them to ribbons. What time is it?”

  “1200 hours, General-san.”

  “The hour approaches. Good. We will at last strike instead of existing like miserable animals in the hills.”

  Goro led the way through a maze of huts, past where soldiers lounged, smoking cigarettes, some playing games of chance.

  Aki said, “Discipline is becoming difficult to maintain, sir.”

  “They are weary. Their morale is badly shaken. And who can blame them?” Goro gestured around them. “Since the fall of Manila, this has been our lot. But when they receive their orders, you will see a revitalization, Captain. I am handing them a chance to expunge our disgrace.”

  “Yes, General-san.”

  “We will taste the enemy’s blood. I will issue the communiqué to the staging areas throughout the island in less than thirty minutes. Only my commanders thus far know and they but await word from me.”

  The MacArthur residence in Manila was called Casa Blanca by the rank and file. The mansion, which belonged to the city’s wealthiest car dealer, a man named Bachrach, was situated in a section of estates that had escaped the ravages visited upon Manila during the Japanese occupation. The house was surrounded by well-tended gardens and came equipped with a swimming pool and sauna. The study was spacious enough to provide the general with all the pacing room he needed.

  He paced now, glancing down again at the message the captain had just handed him.

  “A radio operator on Okinawa scribbled it less than an hour ago, sir.”

  “Has its legitimacy been verified?”

  “Yes, sir. The Domei News Agency beamed it over from Tokyo in English.”

  MacArthur read aloud, continuing to pace.

  “Flash, flash. Tokyo, August 14. It is learned that an imperial message accepting the Potsdam Proclamation is forthcoming.”

  “Unconditional surrender,” said the captain. “Thank God.”

  MacArthur ceased his pacing. He set the message on his desk top, staring down at it as if unable to pull his eyes away.

  “Thank God,” he echoed. “Except for some lost souls who might not come back from a mission they didn’t have to be sent on.”

  Baron Tamura saw Keiko hugging the wall on the ledge outside the window. They held like that for a moment, a tableau between them, her feet securely planted, her back to the wall, her arms held out to the sides, palms pressed against the building for balance.

  From inside, behind her uncle, General Nagano asked, “What is it, Baron? Do you see something out there?”

  He drew his head back inside.

  “Nothing,” he said loudly enough for Keiko to hear. He had an impression of her already easing away from the window. Looking from General Nagano to Colonel Hayashi, then to Major Okada, he hoped that the confusion in his mind would not be apparent to them. He must focus his full attention on dealing with these men and deal with Keiko later. Still he could not help but wonder how much she had heard.

  The telephone rang.

  He took the brief call and, after replacing the receiver, said to the others, “News from two fronts. There has been a change in the plans for His Majesty to broadcast word of the surrender to the people. His Majesty has consented to make a recording of the royal edict sometime tonight in the Administrative Office of the Imperial Household Ministry. The recording will be broadcast tomorrow at noon.”

  “Then Major Hatanaka’s coup, our coup, must succeed!” Nagano said heatedly. “We must not allow the people of Japan to hear that broadcast.” His thin face was drawn, his voice worried.

  Hayashi nodded agreement. “The Emperor’s word will be obeyed if he instructs people to accept the surrender terms. Then, it will be too late.”

  “The spirit of the samurai does not die so easily,” Baron Tamura told them sternly. “I spoke of news from two fronts. The commander of the 302nd Air Corps at Atsugi has ordered his men to fight on.”

  Hayashi beamed. “But that is perfect. The 302nd is in possession of the newest warplanes—the Raiden, the Gekko, the Suisei.” The stout colonel’s jowls jiggled with his enthusiasm.

  “The largest base in Japan,” Nagano nodded. “It has its own underground generator, underground repair plant, sufficient food and munitions for years.”

  “And the commanders of these men owe their allegiance to you, Baron Tamura,” said Okada. The Kempeitai major’s steady eyes were resolute behind his eyeglasses. “I say again, it is my opinion that we are being overly cautious.”

  “The major raises a point worth discussing,” said Nagano.

  Hayashi addressed Baron Tamura. “Perhaps we should reconsider committing our full forces tonight. We are staking the future of Japan on this Hatanaka fellow and those hotheads at the War Ministry.”

  “No,” said the Baron. “Nothing has changed. We will wait and see what happens tonight at the palace. Major Okada, you will instruct Major Hatanaka that he is not to harm the Emperor, but his men must search out and destroy the recording of His Majesty’s speech when they seize the palace.”

  “Baron Tamura, please think of what is at stake and what we have,” said Hayashi. “I command the air force unit stationed at Tateyama. We have planes hidden in the woods, camouflaged. The Americans think the air field is non-operational. General Nagano has his troops of the Eastern Army and Major Okada, the full resources of the Kempeitai.”

  “No one can appreciate more than I what is at stake.” The Baron stared into the eyes of each man in turn. “It is the power I wield which has bonded these disparate factions together. The insurrection at Atsugi and Major Hatanaka’s coup strike at key targets. But if they are unsuccessful, we will move to alternate plans and we must have, in reserve for that, the forces which we hold back tonight.”

  “Forgive me if I sound presumptuous, Baron-san.” Okada’s gold tooth flashed. But do you not have faith in the outcome of Major Hatanaka’s coup? Have you already resigned yourself to their failure?”

  “We shall see.” The Baron’s eyes settled on the telephone upon his desk. “We will know the moment anything happens. There is nothing for us to do now but wait. The next few hours will determine our fate, and that of Japan.”

  Chapter Seven

  She retraced her way along the ledge, and again no one saw her from below. She lifted herself up onto the roof and darted back to return along the other ledge to her room. She climbed in through the window and stood there for several minutes, trembling.

  She willed herself to sit on the edge of her bed and concentrate on restoring some semblance of inner calm.

  The tremors subsided.

  She well knew her uncle’s sentiments about the war and the honor of Japan. She had somehow suspected in the back of her mind, she now realized, that something precisely like what she had overheard had been going on behind the closed door of her uncle’s office.

  She had suspected, she had chosen to act, to directly prove or disprove what she suspected, and her suspicions had been confirmed. But she had not expected the baron to catch her in the act of spying.

  What would he believe about her? She could not erase from her mind his surprise and, yes, dismay, during that instant of eye contact between them. Certainly he would not tell those with him what he had seen. If that were the case, he would have alerted them at once. He would confront her about it, but at a time of his choosing and not in the presence of those who were with him now, plotting rebellion.

  Rebellion.

  Against the Emperor.

  She must believe her own ears. Her uncle—a fine, good man whom she admired and respected, to whom she owed everything—and those with him were plotting rebellion. She knew her uncle well enough to know he must be bleeding inside, at terrible odds within himself.

  In Japan, the a
ncestry of the imperial family was widely believed to be traceable back through the first emperor, Jimmu, to the Sun Goddess, Amaterasu, and beyond them to the very creators of the islands of Japan. Keiko understood this to be superstition but could sincerely appreciate the Emperor as a symbol to the Japanese people, the core of their spiritual lives from peasant to nobleman. The Emperor was indeed a Ruler From Ages Eternal, as proclaimed, and as heir to the unbroken dynasty of a single imperial house during the entire history of Japan, the Emperor was a symbol of the unity and eternal existence of Japan.

  The Emperor is Japan.

  Rebellion …

  The open command car led the convoy of trucks past the Headquarters of the First Imperial Guards Division, toward Nijubashi Gate. The lights of the sentry command post there were reflected in the still waters of the Dokan Moat.

  Tokyo’s electrical power was blacked out, as usual, but the Imperial Palace and most of the other strategic centers such as the War Ministry Building were provided with electricity from their own auxiliary generators.

  The command car braked to a stop, as did the convoy of more than a dozen troop transports behind it. Sentries posted at the gate with bayoneted rifles stood pinned in the headlights of the staff car.

  A captain of the guards strutted out.

  “What is the meaning of—” he started to say, then interrupted himself when he recognized the man seated beside the driver. He saluted smartly. “Colonel!”

  A machine gun was mounted at the back of the open staff car and a soldier stood manning it.

  The colonel in the car said, “Captain, I have behind me in these trucks a battalion of the Second Regiment of the Imperial Guards Division.”

  “But, sir, there already is a battalion on duty guarding the Palace.”

  “And now there will be two battalions. Lift the gate, Captain, so my men and I may pass.”

  Normal procedure called for one battalion to be on guard at the Palace while a second remained at command headquarters.