Red Randall Over Tokyo

by R. Sidney Bowen

  Randall kept his eyes fixed steadily on the little brown killer from Nippon.

  “That’s up to you,” he said evenly, but with great effort. “Whatever you do, it won’t get you a thing. I’ve told you all I’m going to.”

  Black murder flared up in the other’s eyes. Randall saw the brown fingers tighten about the hilt of the samurai sword that hung from the man’s belt. And he knew beyond all doubt that in that instant he was staring Death straight in the face. He steeled himself for the slashing blow and breathed a silent prayer for Jimmy Joyce. If it had to turn out this way, then...

  The Japanese officer suddenly stiffened as a voice cried out to him in his native tongue. An instant later a dirty-uniformed Japanese soldier rushed in through the door, saluted, and poured a stream of sing-song sound off his lips. The officer listened silently through to the end, his flat face expressionless. When the soldier had finished he moved his eyes to Randall’s face, and the Yank air ace saw clearly the flames of cruel delight that lighted up their depths. He waited for the officer to hiss words at him, but the Nipponese spoke not a word. He just looked at Randall out of blazing eyes, and a lump of lead seemed to take the place of Red’s heart.

  “So, you will not tell me anything?” the officer finally screamed when Randall’s nerves were twanging to the snapping point. “It is not necessary now. Your little friend is not so much the fool as you. He has talked. He has told all. He will remain an honored prisoner. But you? You will die for the stupid fool you are.”

  “And you lie in your teeth!” Randall shouted recklessly. “My friend wouldn’t tell the likes of you the time of day!”

  “But he has told all!” the Jap shrilled. “He has told about the bombing of my country. And within an hour we will have captured the other members of your crew. I will keep you alive until then. They shall see what we do with dogs who lie. It will be as a lesson to them to remember about we Japanese!”

  For one horrible instant Randall feared that he could not check the wild, crazy laughter of unspeakable relief that churned its way up his throat. He wanted to hoot and bellow in the man’s face, but he curbed the mad desire with an effort. So that’s why he had not seen Jimmy Joyce in this cave when he had regained consciousness. The Japanese had taken him elsewhere to pull the age-old stunt on two captives—question them separately and then compare the answers.

  Obviously they had told Jimmy of the Tokyo raid, and Jimmy had grabbed at it as a chance to stall for time. Rather than let the men who questioned him know that he had not reached Kiaochow by air, he had admitted, it seemed, to having taken part in the raid. Apparently Jimmy had told them that the rest of the “plane’s crew” were hiding. That way he gained time for himself and for Randall, he believed. For it would most certainly be some time before the rest of the “crew” were found. And to top it off, the Japanese officer had just now told Randall that he would live until the others were found. Time gained. Precious, priceless time. It might be hours, and yet it might turn out to be only minutes. The Japanese officer had the lust for killing still in his eyes, and he might become too impatient to wait. But while there was still time...there was hope.

  Randall looked at the officer, sighed, and gave a little shrug of his shoulders.

  “Okay, you win,” he said in a dull voice. “If and when you find the others, you can do any darn thing you want with me. But just don’t take it out on my friend or the others.”

  “I have spoken!” the Nipponese snapped. “Your friend and the others will be spared the death that will be yours. They will observe only as a lesson to them for the future. And do not think that the others will not be found. We shall find them even if they are in the hands of the dog Chinese guerrillas who infest these mountains. Later we will kill all those swine guerrillas, too. They have been in these mountains too long as it is. Kiaochow belongs to Japan now, and not to the Chinese. We shall show them all how to live in and pay homage to our Emperor. We shall…”

  And then it happened. So swiftly, so silently, that Red Randall was not able to grasp its full meaning until it was all over!

  The door of the cave swung open, and Red caught a glimpse of two roughly dressed figures silhouetted against the stars in the night sky outside. Twin streams of flame spurted from the spot where the two figures stood, and the hill cave was filled with roaring sound. The Japanese officer skidded forward as though the section of dirt floor upon which he stood had been jerked away from beneath his feet. Blood spurted from his throat and head. He fell over like a log and lay still. By then the dirty-garbed soldier was also on the floor, stone dead, too.

  Utterly unable to think, but fully expecting the next burst of bullets to rip and slash into his body, Red sat rigid, waiting for the stinging pain that was to come. But the pain did not come. The two figures at the door ceased fire, stepped into the glow of the yellow light to lower their portable machine guns, and smiled at Randall. One of them, who appeared to have some kind of rank insignia on the shoulders of the rough cloth jacket he wore, and who was of giant size, pointed a gnarled finger at the two dead Japanese.

  “They will drive no one from these mountains!” he said in English. Then looking at Randall, he said, “It is well for you, my American friend, and for your friend outside, that we came in time. No, we Chinese do not make noise every time we kill Japanese. But to kill that officer was a special thing to celebrate. They killed my men who were waiting on the shore for an American submarine. We trailed them here, and all are dead. We did not kill your friend. We recognized his uniform. He is outside with my soldiers now. Tell me, did you come from the submarine my men were to meet, or are you two of those great heroes who dropped bombs on Tokyo today?”

  “We came from the submarine,” Randall said. “We…”

  He suddenly stopped short and stared at the huge Chinese. And then, unable to check himself, he pointed his finger at the man.

  “You’re...you’re General Ling Chan!” he cried.

  The big Chinese looked startled for a moment. Then he nodded and smiled broadly.

  “Yes, that is the one to whom you speak,” he said. “I am in command in these mountains. It is vermin like those two on the floor that we kill. A few at a time. Small patrols they send into these mountains. But one day I will have a large army. Then we kill many. We will kill all of them that are in China. It is so written, and it shall be so. How did you know me? Perhaps we have met before? Many fine Americans are my friends.”

  “So I have heard, sir,” Randall smiled at him. “And one of them is Colonel Denton, Chief of Far East Intelligence.”

  The General’s face lighted up with surprise and pleasure.

  “Colonel Denton?” he echoed. “He is here in Kiaochow?”

  “No, sir,” the Yank air ace told him. “But he sent my friend Lieutenant Joyce and myself to meet you. Here, sir, I have...”

  Randall stopped talking as a terrifying thought suddenly struck him. Had he been searched while he was unconscious, and had Colonel Denton’s letter been found? There was but one way to find out, and he thrust his hand inside his shirt to a point just below his left armpit. The sealed letter was still there in place. He tore it free from his skin, wincing slightly at the pain, pulled it out and handed it to General Ling Chan.

  “For you, sir, from Colonel Denton,” he said. “And may we go out and join my friend, Lieutenant Joyce?”

  The guerrilla General took the sweat-stained sealed envelope and stared at it as though it were some sort of precious jewel. Then he looked at Randall and smiled.

  “Yes, we will join your friend, Lieutenant,” he said. “And then we will go to my headquarters where we can obtain food and rest. And I will read this letter from my dear friend. No doubt he writes of something he wishes me to do, and for him I would do anything within my power. He is my close friend. Let us go outside.”

  Chapter Eleven – Mountain Stronghold

  IT REQUIRED AN hour of travel to reach General Ling Chan’s headquarters deep in the Kiaoch
ow Mountains, but only part of the journey was made on foot. Most of it was made astride sturdy, surefooted mountain donkeys, and for that both Randall and Jimmy Joyce were thankful. The painful memory of that other journey still lingered with them, and they were quite content to let the donkeys pick their way over the rough ground and skirt the edges of the thorny bushes that seemed to be the only flourishing plant in the rocky sloped wilderness.

  When they reached the General’s headquarters great indeed was their surprise. As individuals, the General and his men were tough-looking characters and were dressed accordingly, but their camp was in direct contrast to their appearance. It was a small village of well-constructed huts located on a plateau of ground, flanked on three sides by flat-walled cliffs. A single narrow gorge afforded the only means of entrance. It was little wonder that the Japanese had made no attempt to dislodge General Ling Chan’s forces, Randall reflected. A dozen men in the gorge could hold off an entire army with ease. It would cost the Japanese twenty of their soldiers for every guerrilla they killed. As for attempting to accomplish such a thing by air power, that would be costly, too. High altitude bombing would result perhaps in one hit in a thousand bombs, because it would be something like trying to drop a bomb down a coal mine shaft. And low altitude bombing, or strafing, was simply impossible because of the ring of jagged peaks that surrounded the military village.

  The General’s personal quarters were in the largest hut of all. The dirt floor was packed hard as cement and clean as a whistle. There, was plenty of comfortable furniture, and ten minutes after the General had ushered them in, they were served one of the tastiest meals they had ever eaten.

  At the moment, the two air aces were lounging in chairs while the General frowned over the letter that Colonel Denton had written to him. Obviously General Ling Chan was displeased by what he was reading. He was frowning, and every now and then he shook his head.

  Eventually the General finished the letter. He folded it and stuffed it inside his shirt, then stared unwinking for a moment or two at his guests.

  “Last week, or next week, it would be all right,” he suddenly spoke. “But now it is dangerous, very dangerous. The American raid on Japan this morning has excited the entire population. They never dreamed that General Doolittle and his brave air men would try such a thing.”

  “Doolittle, sir?” Randall echoed excitedly. “He led the raid? There was one, really? I’ve been wanting to ask you about it. I thought that Japanese officer was lying.”

  “Yes, there was an American raid on Japan this morning,” the General said gravely. “But it is too soon to learn what actually happened. And what little was told to me about the plans was told in secrecy. I can tell you only that there was a raid, and that General Doolittle was in command. All day the Japanese radio has been screaming. All lies, probably, but the entire population must be very excited. The Japanese will of course be on guard against a possible repeat raid. Therefore, it would be suicidal for you to try to reach Takahara by plane. The Japanese will be watching every airplane that flies over their islands. Until they feel that there will be no repeat raid, it is not safe.”

  “It may be too late then, sir!” Red exclaimed. “We’ve already taken a week to get this far. We just can’t call it off now, without a try.”

  “Of course we can’t, sir!” Jimmy Joyce echoed. “It may be a mighty long chance, but it’s one we’ve got to take. I’m sure that if you understood, sir, what we hope to accomplish, you’d agree that the risk was worth...”

  “I understand enough,” General Ling Chan said with a smile. “I understand why Colonel Denton selected you two for the task. And though he says little in his letter, I understand something of your mission. You see, I have met the one called Agent Six—in Japan, and in China, too.”

  “You’ve met him, you know him, sir?” Randall cried. “What is he like? What does he look like? We have only one way of identifying him, and that may take some doing.”

  “I know,” the General nodded, and held out his right hand, palm upward. “The blue dot. See? I have one also. And, forgive me, I first made sure that you both carried the blue dot before I allowed you to accompany me here. One cannot be too careful in war. This Agent Six? Yes, I know him well, but it is over a year since we last met. What is he like, you ask? Like anything he wishes to be at the moment. All his life he has lived in Japan, though he was born one of your countrymen. And I say that he knows the Japanese better than the Japanese know themselves. What does he look like? A Japanese today, a Chinese tomorrow, and an American the third day—whatever he wishes to look like. I could talk until the sun is high over that peak yonder and I would still only be able to tell you a little about Agent Six. Perhaps Colonel Denton knows his true name, but even I do not know that. This, however, I do know. If Agent Six has called for someone to be sent to him, he must know a secret that can change many things in the war with Japan.”

  From the General’s words it was evident that he did not know about Agent Ten, so Randall did not mention him. If Colonel Denton had written nothing about Agent Ten, it was not up to Jimmy or himself to enlighten the General.

  “Well, Colonel Denton thinks so, too, sir,” he said instead. “So that’s why we’ve just got to get through to him.”

  “And get back, also,” General Chan reminded him quietly.

  Red Randall and Jimmy Joyce exchanged hopeful glances, and then fastened their eyes on the General. The officer sat staring off into space for perhaps five minutes, then he banged his hand down on a mission school teacher’s bell at his elbow. As though by magic a junior officer suddenly appeared in the room. The General spoke to him rapidly in their native tongue. The junior officer nodded, and seemed to glide out of the room to return a moment later with a huge roll of paper. He placed it upon the bamboo table before the General and promptly made another phantom exit. The General unrolled the paper, and Randall, leaning slightly forward, saw that it consisted of several maps, all marked in Chinese characters. His hopes started soaring, and it was with an effort that he forced himself to remain still and wait.

  For fifteen minutes General Ling Chan pored over the maps. It was as though he had forgotten the presence of the two Yank air pilots. Then, suddenly, he lifted his head and looked at them with a faint twinkle in his eyes.

  “When youth has courage, it is not for the old ones to say no,” he said. “Death is every soldier’s shadow. He cannot run from it. It is there always. It is so written by the wise ones. A man is a fool only when he wastes himself on things of no importance. I will help you reach Agent Six at Takahara. And I will pray to my sacred gods for them to guide you back.”

  “Th...thank you, sir!” Red Randall fairly exploded. “And we will come back, too. We will!”

  “Yes, sir, and you can count on it!” Jimmy Joyce spoke up excitedly. “We’ll make it there and back, Japs or no Japs.”

  “But not alone,” General Ling Chan said with a shake of his head.

  “What do you mean, sir?” Red asked.

  “That I will send one with you,” the General replied. “One of my own men. Indeed, one of my own flesh and blood. My son, Colonel Harry Chan, whom I and his mother honored with one of your American names.”

  “But, sir!” Randall protested. “We couldn’t ask you to...”

  “You have not asked me,” the General replied gravely. “I have decided that he will accompany you. So be it. There are reasons, however. I have planes here, yes. One or two Chinese planes, but mostly Japanese. No pilots, however. China’s pilots are all needed in the south, so I sent mine there. I keep the planes, though, for the right day when it comes. And, yes, for such as you.”

  The General paused and a slow smile passed over his lips, though an agate glint filtered into his eyes.

  “To use the enemy’s planes against the enemy, yes!” he spoke suddenly with emphasis. “It is not spoken of as honorable in war, but this is not war. This is a death struggle against beasts and fiends who know no rules. They use
our uniforms to slip into our lines so that they can kill us. They hide behind our women and children while they shoot their guns, and we die because we are helpless to shoot back. One day I will use the enemy’s planes against the enemy. There are no rules. There is no honor in a war with beasts and fiends. I will give you a Japanese airplane that will carry you to Takahara. I will give you clothes to wear so that any Japanese eyes that see you will not light up with suspicion.”

  “I’m glad to hear what you said about using a Jap plane against the Japs, sir,” Randall said. “Colonel Denton spoke of the same thing, but frankly, I haven’t liked the idea of...well, I guess you’d call it traveling under false colors.”

  “Nor I, either,” Jimmy Joyce spoke up. “But the way you put it, sir, anything is all right, so long as it helps whip the Japs.”

  “It is written that you do not kill the jungle tiger by patting his head,” the General said. “When you meet, it is your life or his. So you kill him. The method is not important.”

  “About your son, sir,” Randall said as the other fell silent. “In what way can he help us? And I’m sure he can, or you would not send him along. But I don’t quite understand, sir.”

  “My son is not a pilot,” the General replied, “but he has spent many hundreds of hours in the air. He is an expert navigator, but far more important than that he knows this part of the world as you know the palm of your hand. He knows where Japanese airfields are located in Chosen as well as in the islands of Japan. He has seen them from the air many times. If it is possible to fly from here to Takahara, it is my son who can guide you over the route. Also, he speaks Japanese as well as a native of that country. And lastly, he visited the Takahara region several times before the war. You two have a mission to accomplish; my son can make it possible for you to safely reach Takahara,” the General concluded.

  Randall was suddenly filled with a strange sense of relief. Ever since leaving Australia thoughts of this last leg of the journey to Takahara had been like sharp barbs probing the back of his mind. Inner fears had babbled that it was impossible, that all the luck in the world would not be enough for them. They had never been to Japan. The pictures Colonel Denton had shown them were crystal clear and in minute detail, but places, and whole countries, can change in appearance from the air overnight. What flight route would they take? Would they fly a crow’s course, or were there points to avoid even though to do so cost precious gasoline? Neither of them spoke Japanese. Did that matter, or would Fate prove it to be Death’s trap?