Fiends of the Rising Sun (12 page)

"It would be my honour," Kelly replied.

"Good. We'll have need of your faith in the weeks and months to come," MacArthur said. He stepped aside so the priest could address the men.

"Let us pray," Kelly said, endeavouring to make his voice loud enough to be heard by everyone. The soldiers lowered their heads, ready to receive his blessing. "Heavenly father, we ask that you look after these young men, sent here to defend these islands. We ask that you give them the gift of faith: faith to believe in themselves and each other, faith to do what's best."

At the back of the assembled troops Martinez and Wierzbowski both had their heads bowed forward, listening to the priest's words, but Buntz was too busy smirking to pay much attention to the prayer. "Hey, Wierzbowski," he hissed out of the side of his mouth. "You hear what MacArthur called his little boy? Arthur MacArthur! What kind of name is that for a kid?"

"Buntz, shut up!" Martinez whispered.

"I wasn't talking to you, Sancho. I was talking to my buddy here."

"If you don't want to hear the father's prayer, at least shut up so the rest of us can listen to it, okay?" Martinez hissed, aware of the sergeant's gaze.

"Don't tell me what to do," Buntz growled. "I spent every day since we left Hawaii getting punished for that brawl and you got off scot free. You don't got the right to tell Arnold Buntz what to do, you little 'spic!"

"What did you call me?" Martinez demanded.

"Don't get your panties in a bunch, Sancho. I only called you a 'spic, it's short for Hispanic, okay?"

"No, it's not okay. And stop calling me Sancho! My name is Juan."

The smirking Buntz made an obscene, sacrilegious suggestion and got a punch in the nose from Wierzbowski. The overweight soldier responded by flinging himself at the taciturn recruit. Within moments the two of them were grappling on the ground, fingers trying to gouge out eyes, fists pounding flesh. Buntz had a weight advantage over his opponent but little else, and soon found himself pinned to the dirt, Wierzbowski giving him a pasting.

"Amen," Father Kelly said at the front of the assembly.

"Amen," the general echoed. "Thank you all for being so patient with me. Hopefully I'll get to know some of you a little better in the days to come." His gaze shifted to the altercation at the back of the assembly. MacArthur suppressed a rueful smile. "I see some of you are eager to practise your hand to hand combat techniques. Such enthusiasm is to be applauded, but let's not leave our best game in the locker room, okay boys? That's all, dismissed."

The sergeant waited until MacArthur had left the dais before ripping Buntz and Wierzbowski apart. Aimes concentrated his attentions on Buntz while Martinez stopped Wierzbowski from going back for more. "Why'd you do that? Buntz was insulting me, not you. I could've dealt with him myself."

His comrade shrugged. "I've been wanting to wipe that smirk off his face since San Francisco. He just gave me a good excuse."

Buntz was busy arguing with the sergeant, protesting at being held back. "Let me at him! I could take that ape, anytime, any place!"

"Yeah, sure," Aimes replied, "and my sister-in-law's ass isn't the size of Nebraska. Well now, the two of you just earned yourselves a month without privileges for that display. Count yourself lucky the general decided not to get involved, otherwise you'd both be facing a court martial. Now get your sorry asses out of my sight, before I double your punishments. Move!"

Vice-Admiral Chuichi Nagumo's face split into a sneer. "This fool wants what?" He snapped his fingers until one of his men handed across a handwritten list detailing pilots and planes being requisitioned from the aircraft carrier Akagi. Nagumo was commander of the Imperial Japanese Navy's 1st Air Fleet, and notorious for the shortness of his temper. The vice-admiral's narrow, steely eyes slid down the document, his nostrils flaring. "Outrageous! On what authority does this upstart expect to take my best men and machines? Bring him in here, now!"

The officer who had delivered the list stepped out of the bridge for a few moments before returning with a younger man. Nagumo glared at the newcomer, committing his features to memory. I will make an example of this whelp, he decided. I want to be able to describe his face well when I tell others the story of how I crushed him. Nagumo doubted the man standing opposite was more than thirty, and probably much less. The newcomer had a cruel mouth and a wry, questioning aspect to his demeanour, as if he had a secret advantage over everyone else in the room. His eyes were hooded, revealing no trace of fear or misgiving. Everything about this upstart screamed of insolence, his casual stance, the refusal to acknowledge the ritual bows when he entered, even the way he looked Nagumo up and down.

The vice-admiral had expected this messenger to be humbled, even petrified, standing on the bridge of an imperial aircraft carrier. Instead he found his own will weakening, and his desire to see this worm humiliated melting away like the snow on Mount Fuji during summer. Nagumo broke eye contact with the visitor, determined not to give in. He chose to study the arrogant arrival's uniform. It bore the emperor's insignia, suggesting the wearer was drawn from Hirohito's personal guard. But there was another emblem visible on the collar, the peaked cap and over the left breast of the newcomer's tunic. Nagumo squinted, finding it difficult to make out the emblem's detail. The symbol was sculpted from black metal, so the insignia blended into the black tunic and cap band on which it rested.

"It's a bat with wings unfurled, clutching the rising sun in its claws," the newcomer said, his voice thick with disdain for the vice-admiral.

"I can see what it is," Nagumo snapped.

"You seemed to be having a few problems making it out. Still, not that surprising at your age. I'm surprised the IJN chose you for this command."

The vice-admiral's nostrils flared. "You insolent pup! How dare you address me in that manner! Do you have any conception of how many ways I could destroy you for that remark?"

"I'm guessing... none."

Nagumo stepped closer to the newcomer. "What is your name?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"It would be helpful to know for when I notify your next of kin."

"Is that a threat?"

"Consider it a promise."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Chuichi." The other officers on the bridge gasped in shock at hearing a stranger use the vice-admiral's first name so casually, as if the two men were old friends. Nagumo drew back a hand to strike the sneering, smirking upstart, but it never reached its target. The fist flailed at thin air, the newcomer evading the blow with contemptuous ease, as if Nagumo's attack was slower than that of an infant. When the vice-admiral had recovered his composure, he found the upstart standing behind him, yet he hadn't seen the man move. How was this possible?

"My name is Suzuki, Shiro Suzuki, and as much as I enjoy goading pompous old men like you, I don't have time to play any more games today."

"You will pay for this with your life!" Nagumo raged.

"I think not." Suzuki produced a sheet of parchment and handed it to the vice-admiral. Nagumo's eyes raced across the text, and then widened in dismay. "As you can see, I have full authority from the emperor to do and say whatever I please. You have no choice but to obey my every whim. Had I the time, I'd make you and your men dance around this aircraft carrier like little girls, but I've wasted enough energy on your petulance. You will furnish me with the pilots and planes I have requested, or suffer the consequences."

"Of course, sir," Nagumo replied, bowing as low as he could to Suzuki. "All will be as you ask, but when will my men and machines be returned?"

"They are my men and machines now. That's all you need to know."

"Of course. Forgive my impertinence in asking."

"Perhaps. In the meantime, I want my men sent to the officers' mess. I will be telling them about their new mission and I don't wish to be disturbed. While I am... teaching them about the future, you will have all the aircraft I've requested repainted to these specifications." Suzuki produced a piece of parchment with a diagram of a plane upon it. The aircraft was jet black, including the glass of its canopy. The only emblems visible on the fuselage were the red circle of the rising sun, and a bat with its wings unfurled. The nose of the plane had a mouth painted on it, with a red interior and pronounced, white canine teeth. To Nagumo's eyes, they looked like fangs. "The details on the nose are optional," Suzuki added with a smirk.

The vice-admiral knew better than to question the orders, having read how much power the emperor had placed in this impetuous young man's hands. Nagumo nodded in agreement before bowing once more, gesturing for the rest of his officers to follow suit. Suzuki moved to leave the bridge, but Nagumo remained standing between his visitor and the way out.

"Excuse me for asking, but how did you get on to this ship? We have not put into port for the past two days, and it is close to midnight. Getting on board an aircraft carrier without being noticed should be impossible."

"Yes, it should, shouldn't it?" Suzuki agreed. "You'd best do something to improve your security for what lies ahead, Chuichi. If I can get on board, what's to stop the enemy from achieving the same thing, hmm?" He arched an eyebrow at the vice-admiral, who stepped aside. Suzuki retrieved his letter of authority and marched from the bridge.

Aiko Hitori had the strangest feeling she was being haunted. Ever since hearing of her husband's death in Manchuria, Aiko had felt as if her beloved Zenji was close by, watching. Perhaps it was his spirit standing guard over her and baby Noriyuki. The child was still less than a month old, but she could see the boy had his father's eyes and that same determined chin. When little Noriyuki made his mind up to stay awake or cry or smile, nothing could persuade him to stop, not mother's milk, not pleading, not laughing. The child had a mind of his own. Sometimes, Aiko felt as if she and the boy were not alone in their modest home on the outskirts of Tokyo. Sometimes, she felt as if Zenji were still there with them, his spirit, his essence, his love.

Aiko had tried talking to the local Shinto priest about her feelings, but he would only smile and nod. Her mother would not listen to talk of spirits and ghosts, but her mother had never liked Zenji. No, that was unfair, her mother hated wars and soldiers. Aiko's father had been a soldier, had been taken away by war and never came back. When Aiko said she was marrying a soldier, her mother had cried for a week and thereafter always expressed doubts that Zenji would be alive long enough to sire a son and continue the family line. At least he had proved her wrong, in part; Noriyuki was the proof of that.

Aiko,
a voice whispered.

The beautiful young woman dropped the teapot she was carrying into the modest kitchen. Fortunately, it did not break, the matting underfoot protecting the porcelain from harm, but warm green tea did spill across the floor. Aiko ignored the mess, her eyes searching for some sign of her dead husband's presence, her ears listening for some sound that might reveal him to her. She knew Zenji was gone, but still struggled to accept the cold, hard facts that his friend Suzuki had presented to her. Zenji died a hero, but he died in another country, blown apart by an enemy shell. There was nothing left to bury, only his old uniform. Perhaps it was the fact that she never saw his body, never got a chance to honour his remains as she would have wished that left her troubled, unable to believe he was truly gone.

Aiko,
the voice whispered again.

She spun around, convinced that Zenji was standing behind her. Instead she found only a bamboo curtain, the canes sliding back and forth across an open window. A fog was rolling in on the evening breeze and wisps of its mist drifted in through the window. Aiko shivered, not sure if there was a sudden chill in the air or whether someone had walked over her grave in some future time. No, don't be so foolish, she told herself. It's a cool wind, that's all. She went to the window and pulled it shut, before drawing the silk kimono closer around her voluptuous figure. Zenji had always teased her for being so slender, so slight. He would have enjoyed the extra curves left by the pregnancy and the way nursing little Noriyuki had swollen her breasts. He would have caressed her belly and kissed her lips and-

A gurgle of happiness from the baby brought Aiko back to the present. She pushed away thoughts of his dead father and walked into the bedroom where the infant boy was lying in his crib. The baby was playing with a soft toy, a delicately sewn replica of a panda sent over from Manchuria by Zenji a few weeks before his death. Aiko frowned. She could have sworn the panda was lying on her bed before, not in the cot with the baby. It was not important. Noriyuki was happy and that was what mattered to her most now.

Aiko sat down on the bed and a scent caught in her nostrils, a scent she knew so well. It was warm and masculine, a musky aroma she recalled from when Zenji made love to her. She had buried her nose in his chest, savouring the scent of him, drawing it deep inside her lungs, wanting him to invade every part of her, wanting the two of them to be joined together forever. The war with China had ripped that away, but still his scent lingered on in her imagination. She let herself fall backwards on to their bed and closed her eyes, willing him to be with her once more, trying to remember and relive their last time together in this bed.

Zenji had known his orders to cross the Sea of Japan were imminent, as Suzuki had tipped him off. So her clever husband had swapped shifts with a colleague and arranged to race home, for one last night in bed with his wife. Both of them knew how dangerous the war in Manchuria was, despite the lies and propaganda published by the Imperial Japanese Army about its successes. Every time Zenji went to that accursed place, his chances of coming back became fewer. So they had made love as if it were the last time, because it could well have been the last time, and, for once, they were proved right. At least their last time had also given her little Noriyuki, so she would always have a part of Zenji to treasure. Aiko felt the tears welling up in her eyes once more, grief getting the better of her. She hated herself for crying so often and so much, but she was helpless to stop it.