Fiends of the Rising Sun (21 page)

An investigation of the subject's familial background found few simple solutions for what might have created these dangerous tendencies. The father was a farmhand who died after falling from a horse twelve years ago, when the subject was eleven. The mother died of cancer five years later, but the subject did not begin to exhibit violent tendencies for another twenty-seven months after her demise. As the subject is an only child [and, indeed, now an orphan] there are no siblings to offer any further insight.

It seems clear the subject suffers from both violent and homicidal tendencies. Left unchecked, these inherent traits will worsen until an unknown number of deaths are caused as a consequence. The subject is a powder keg with a short fuse. The presiding judge's suggestion that the subject be entrusted to the army in lieu of imprisonment is, while novel, highly dangerous. The subject's murderous urges may prove useful in the services, but that does not make him a suitable soldier. It is the recommendation of this observer that the subject be held at a maximum security psychiatric facility indefinitely, pending further study.

Failing that, if the court is determined to transfer this problem into the hands of the army, it is suggested the subject be posted as far away from large population areas as possible, ideally as far from the United States as possible. Be under no illusions: Russell Wierzbowski will kill and kill again. He may find his true metier in war, but the resultant slaughter could be unstoppable. Turning the subject loose with a loaded weapon is akin to letting a genie escape from its bottle. Once the monster is out, there's no guarantee it can ever be put away again.

In summary, Russell Wierzbowski is a dangerous individual with a history of violence and mental instability. Turn him into a legitimate killer and the consequences could be truly terrifying. Imagine what would happen if he were to survive his time in the army? Is the presiding judge suggesting we create this monster and subsequently let it free to roam the countryside in peacetime? Wierzbowski is a killing machine, waiting to be unleashed. God help us all if we add training and skill to the murderous intent that burns inside this monster.

FOUR

Tokyo Joe's stayed open until sunrise on Saturday morning, business at the bar and grill was so good. Kissy felt grateful because it delayed the moment she would be alone with Kimura. She didn't trust him, and she didn't trust herself to be alone with him, knowing how easily she had succumbed to Kimura the previous evening. But as dawn approached and the last few drinkers were stumbling out of the door, Kissy realised Kimura had disappeared. One moment he had been behind the bar, staring at her with those forbidding eyes, and the next, he was gone, like the night vanishing before the first rays of morning sun. She searched the bar inside and out, but could find no trace of him.

Perplexed but relieved, Kissy ejected the final customer and locked the doors before counting the cash. Japanese-run businesses were considered fair game in parts of Oahu, especially with tensions rising between the empire and the US government. Kissy counted the bills twice and separated them into bundles before carrying the night's takings into the storeroom. The safe was buried beneath the building, its sole access via a hidden panel in the floor, under an old icebox. But when she tried to shove the icebox to one side, it would not budge, as if there was a dead weight inside.

Kissy had moved the metal casket often enough without help. Perhaps Kimura had stored something heavy inside it before he vanished? If so, she would have to remove it before being able to get into the safe. She tugged at the lid, but it remained stubbornly shut, as if something inside was keeping it closed. Impossible, Kissy thought, wiping a film of perspiration from her forehead. The rising sun was beating down on her through a skylight in the ceiling, and the storeroom was heating up rapidly. Kissy had another attempt and wrenched the lid open. What was within would haunt the rest of her days.

Kimura was inside the icebox, arms folded across his chest. Resting beside his head was another, that of Tetsuzo. The dead man's neck had been ripped apart, flaps of bloodstained skin hanging from beneath the jaw line. His dead eyes stared at Kissy glassily, like a doll's eyes. Worse was his mouth, the lips pulled back from the teeth, as if caught in time somewhere between a smile and a scream. Dried blood flecked his features, dark and red.

Kissy screamed, and Kimura's eyes snapped open. He reached a hand up from inside the icebox towards Kissy, his mouth hissing vile curses, but Kissy was standing beneath the skylight, bathed in the sun's warming rays. As Kimura's hand stretched for her Kissy backed away, and sunlight fell upon the icebox's interior. Kimura's screams sundered the air, and Kissy's nostrils were filled by the acrid stench of burning pork. She clamped her hands over both ears to block out the cacophony of Kimura's pain. His burning hand pulled the icebox lid shut, the slam of it choking the storeroom with more fumes.

She stumbled out into the main bar area, gagging on the aroma of burning flesh. Struggling with her keys, Kissy unlocked the door leading to the beach. She flung herself out on to the sand, retching and retching until her stomach had nothing left to expel. The image of that monster, resting inside the icebox as if it were a bed or a coffin was bad enough. The smell of it burning, she didn't know if she would ever get that stench out of her lungs, her hair, her clothes. But it was the sight of her husband's decapitated head that was burned deepest into her brain, imprinting itself on her imagination, the grisly revelation repeating itself over and over in her mind's eye.

Wierzbowski was not feeling good. Like all the men from his barracks, he'd been doing artillery drills from dawn till dusk ever since Aimes had caught Martinez and Nurse Baker in bed. Normally that wouldn't be a problem for Wierzbowski. He had the biggest and strongest physique of any man in the barracks and he welcomed physical exertion. The sinewy recruit always felt at his best being pushed to the physical limit, where every ounce of his mind and spirit had to be focused on the task in hand. It stopped him thinking about the carnal urges he got, the murderous rage that gripped his very soul.

Wierzbowski hadn't felt right for days. Recurrent waves of nausea and dizziness kept surging over him, and he'd been running a temperature for a week. At first he'd put it down to the ever-present humidity of the Philippines, a sweltering blanket of oppressive heat. But none of the other recruits in his barracks seemed to be suffering as badly, and Wierzbowski had always been among the strongest. Now he felt as weak as a kitten, hardly able to stand up, let along keep going. He kept pushing himself, nevertheless, determined to finish what he'd started. The collective punishment ended when Martinez and Baker got married, in less than an hour. One more set of drills and they could all relax.

Wierzbowski had the exacting, exhausting task of raising and lowering the barrel of a three-inch anti-aircraft gun. The battery worked in tandem with two nearby devices, the height finder and the director. The director was a large metal box atop a wheeled tripod. Those manning it used tracking scopes to identify a target, calculating the elevation and azimuth of the enemy. That data was passed to the height finder, a long metal tube atop another tripod stand. This determined the range to the target and converted it to an altitude. From that the director could accurately predict the target's location, so those aiming the gun could fire at the right spot in the sky.

It sounded complex but after weeks of drilling, the battery crew had become slick and assured, confident they could shoot seabirds out of the air. Of course, any enemy fighters or bombers would be moving a lot faster than any wildlife. More worrying was the fact that all the ammunition had powder train fuses effective up to only 20,000 feet. Anything flying at a higher altitude would be able to attack the base and neighbouring airfield with impunity.

Aimes came out to observe the final drill before the wedding, making sure they did everything by the book and didn't cut any corners. Martinez ran the drill with ruthless efficiency, not letting any of the men slacken off for a moment. Wierzbowski had another reason not to let the others know about his illness. His presence was the only reason the others hadn't sought revenge against Martinez for all these extra drills. Everyone knew the two men were friends, and everybody in the barracks was afraid of Wierzbowski. He'd never lost a fight since joining the army, either in the boxing ring or elsewhere. Hell, even at the bar brawl back in Honolulu, he'd beaten half a dozen MPs to a standstill before letting himself be arrested.

When the drill was finally completed, Martinez had the recruits stand at attention so the sergeant could offer his assessment of their latest efforts. "You're tired," Aimes began. "I know you're tired. You've been drilling on this gun from sunrise to sunset since yesterday morning. That explains your physical exhaustion and your lack of speed. It doesn't explain the sloppy way you finished that last exercise. I've seen more precision in the mess hall! I've a good mind to keep all of you out here drilling until tomorrow night."

A collective groan escaped from the recruits, their uniforms soaked with perspiration, their hands made red by blisters. Wierzbowski felt another wave of dizziness sweeping over him. His legs had the strength of melting rubber, and Aimes seemed to swim and sway before Wierzbowski's gaze, the sergeant's figure shimmering in the midday heat haze. The recruit blinked repeatedly, trying to focus on Aimes, but a bout of shivering overtook him. Wierzbowski hugged himself, desperate for warmth in the searing heat.

"Wierzbowski! What the hell's the matter with you?" the sergeant yelled.

"I'm c-cold, s-sergeant."

"Cold? It's boiling out here! How in God's good name can you be cold?"

"I j-just am, s-sergeant," the recruit said, perspiration rolling his face.

"If you're so damned cold, why are you sweating like a pig?"

"I d-don't know, s-sergeant." Wierzbowski's legs gave way beneath him and he sank to the ground, the side of his head thudding into the edge of the metal platform supporting the anti-aircraft gun. Blackness took him, but not before he heard the concerned voice of Martinez in the distance.

"Quick, somebody run to the hospital, get a stretcher and a nurse!"

Kohichi Seki was destroying files in his office at the Japanese consulate on Oahu. He didn't notice the cloud of mist seeping beneath his door. His official title was treasurer, but Seki had spent much of the past nine months assisting Takeo Yoshikama, another operative for the empire's naval intelligence. The pair of them monitored American readiness for war, hiring small planes for sight-seeing flights over Pearl Harbour and even travelling on a US Navy tug to eavesdrop conversations between sailors.

Now it was late on Saturday afternoon and war was imminent. He'd received a message from Tokyo instructing all agents on American soil to destroy their covert materials. Once fighting began, it would not be long before the US authorities moved in to arrest any and all Japanese suspects. Seki's first priority was to break down the machine that had been sending and receiving communications with Japan, using the Purple cipher system. Once that was irreparable, he had to burn any and all incriminating files. As long as the Federal Bureau of Investigation believed he was merely a treasurer for the consulate, Seki stood a chance of being included in some future prisoner exchange. If he was accused of spying, he could face a firing squad.

"Good," a silky voice said behind the spy. Seki spun around to find a stranger inside his office. The features were Japanese, but there was something else about this intruder that perturbed Seki, an uneasy quality that set his nerves on edge. "I see you have the good sense to cover your tracks."

"Who are you? How did you get in?" Seki demanded, reaching for the pistol he'd left atop his desk. But the blotter was empty, the weapon missing.

The stranger held up the weapon. "Looking for this?"

"Yes, and you haven't answered my questions!"

"Nor will I. It's enough you hear these words: climb Mount Niitaka!"

Seki gasped. He had not been honoured with membership in the Black Dragons, but he knew the recognition phrase and its meaning. "Forgive me."

The stranger waved away all apologies. "Tell me what you've learned in the past two weeks. It took some time to get here from the homeland and I've been out of contact with the latest intelligence about US military movements."

Seki nodded, years of discipline and indoctrination informing his meek obedience to the commands of the intruder. He knew better than to question his superiors, especially one as disquieting as this mysterious arrival. Seki spread a hand-drawn map of Oahu across his desk and gave a status report. As he outlined which vessels were moored within Pearl Harbour and which were out at sea, the spy risked a few glances at his interrogator.

The intruder was tall and slim, but possessed a personal magnetism that Seki found bewitching. Beneath the slicked back, black hair was a patrician face with hooded eyes and narrow lips. Twice Seki thought he saw fangs inside the newcomer's mouth, but the covert agent dismissed that as whimsy. The stranger still had questions, even after the briefing was concluded.

"What about the Americans' attitude? They obviously believe we are ready to go to war, but are they ready for an attack on US soil?"

"I've heard that Admiral Kimmel doesn't believe the empire would dare move against Hawaii. His greatest worry for the bases here is saboteurs among the Japanese American population on the islands. They represent two out of every five workers. If mobilised against the US, the saboteur threat could devastate the naval facilities, not to mention the local economy."

The stranger laughed. "Kimmel does not believe we would dare start a war with his people. He will learn the error of his ways soon enough." Seki nodded, but added no further opinions. It was not his place. This appeared to amuse the stranger. "You're wondering how I got into the consulate on a Saturday afternoon, aren't you?"