Fiends of the Rising Sun (28 page)

"Japanese spy?" Paxton spluttered, his eyes unable to avoid glancing at the cooling corpse on the day bed. "Kissy is a spy?"

"Was a spy, past tense," Kimura observed, his voice dripping with disdain. He opened his lips and ran his tongue around them, cleaning away the last few drops of blood that lingered there. Paxton could see elongated canine teeth jutting down from Kimura's upper jaw. The marine had seen enough horror films at the local picture house in San Diego to recognise fangs, but his mind rebelled at the evidence of his own eyes. This Japanese man couldn't be a vampire, could he? It was impossible! Vampires were make believe, fodder for fright flicks that gave people a cheap thrill and encouraged sweethearts to cuddle closer together in the back row at the movie house.

The marine pushed those thoughts to one side. Something else Kimura had said set alarm bells ringing in Paxton's head. "What did you mean about today of all days? What's so different about today?"

Kimura held up a hand for silence and tilted his head to one side, listening to sounds coming from beyond the porch. Paxton also listened, becoming aware of a low thrumming noise in the distance, getting louder as it was getting closer. The thrumming was similar to the sound of an approaching aircraft, but replicated a dozen times over and then a dozen times more. Thanks to the many months Paxton had spent at Pearl Harbour, he could recognise the engine noises of the different aircraft used by the US Navy and other branches of the armed services. This noise was different from all of those, similar but not the same. He moved to the edge of the porch and pushed aside the nearest bamboo blind to get a good look at the sky.

A low-wing monoplane fighter zoomed over the building, so close Paxton could clearly see a blood-red circle painted on the underside of each wing. As soon as it had passed, two more followed it, then another three at a higher altitude. The marine stared up into the blue, unable to believe what he was seeing. Dozens of Japanese fighters and bombers were swarming across the sky above Oahu, all of them headed in the same direction, south, towards the harbour down below, all flying straight for Pearl.

Paxton staggered away from the side of the porch, letting the bamboo blind fall back into place. "It's an attack," he gasped, his mind still reeling at the reality of what he'd seen. "The Japanese are attacking the navy yard!"

"Consider yourself fortunate that I have fed well in the last few hours," Kimura hissed in the marine's ear, startling Paxton with his proximity. "I haven't yet acquired a taste for American blood, especially when it runs so thick with alcohol. But soon my kind will feast on your soldiers as a farmer eats his own swine. Remember this day well, it's the beginning of the end. Our empire will drive you from the Pacific, my brethren will drain you dry."

Kimura moved so close that the marine could smell Kissy's blood on the vampire's breath. "I need to leave, but I'm going to mark you with a wound that cannot easily be hidden, a sign to all my brethren that you are now my thrall. You promised to protect that woman, to save her, and you failed. She died because of you, and her blood is on your hands. Every time you see this wound, it will remind you of that failure, that betrayal.

"Some scars never heal," the vampire continued. "This will be one of them. When next we meet, you will be my plaything, my chattel to do with as I wish. Remember this moment well, for it is when your slavery began." Kimura stretched his hand out across Paxton's bare chest, letting the sharp, talon-like fingernails scratch at the skin until they came to rest above his right nipple.
Don't move
, he hissed inside Paxton's thoughts,
or it will be worse for you.

Kimura ripped his nails downwards, slicing through skin and flesh, a spray of pink droplets clouding the air. A flap of something wet and red fell to the wooden floorboards, and Paxton felt hot moisture running down one side of his chest. He looked down and saw a ragged oval of skin on the porch floor, a nipple in the middle of it, several dark hairs sprouting from the skin. Where that nipple should have been was an absence, a raw slice of his breast exposed to the air, blood running from the wound. The marine clamped a hand over his breast, trying to staunch the bleeding. Then the shock of his injury hit and he sank to his knees, spewing green bile on the floorboards.

Remember this day
, Kimura told the marine.
From this day until you die, you are mine, my thrall. I own a piece of your soul.
Kimura reached down and picked up the chunk of skin and flesh with the nipple on it.
I'll take this with me, as a memento. I believe you Americans call it a forget-me-not.

Paxton watched in horror as Kimura grinned at him one last time before fading away into a mist, vanishing before his eyes. The marine was still kneeling in the same place when a sedan burst out of a garage beneath the house and drove away, hurtling down the hill towards Pearl Harbour, tyres screeching in protest. In the distance Paxton could see that the Japanese fighters and bombers were closing up into formation above the navy yards. A flash of light exploded below them at the harbour, the dull crump of the detonation reaching the wounded marine a moment later. A plume of smoke billowed upwards into the air. The attack on Pearl Harbour had begun.

Walton had been idly looking out of the window of the captain's office, watching a marine colour guard prepare to hoist the stars and stripes, when a wave of airplanes flew in formation towards the navy yards. "That's strange," he said. "I mean, I know some pilots are fond of showing off, but why are they practising fly-pasts first thing on a Sunday morning?" Walton stepped aside to let Maeda see. The other marine had spent the night under guard in the captain's office, waiting to explain what had happened. "Pat, what do you make of it?"

Maeda joined Walton at the window, happy to have something different to look at. He had studied every photo and citation on the office walls a dozen times over and probably knew them better than the captain of B Company. He watched the fighters approaching the base in a V-formation, like birds heading south for winter. "Those aren't our planes," Maeda said.

"They're not?" Walton asked, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the early morning sun. "Well, whose planes are they then?"

An explosion rocked the building, followed closely by one dull crump after another, all on top of each other. Next came the sound of machine guns as the approaching aircraft opened fire. "They're enemy planes," Maeda realised.

"Don't be stupid, Pat. Nobody would attack an American military base."

"Tell that to the pilots of those planes!" Maeda shouted, dropping to the office floor. The young marine beside him remained standing, still gawping out of the window. The sound of machine guns was matched by the roar of the approaching aircraft engines. "Walton, you idiot, get down before you get shot!" Maeda grabbed his comrade and pulled him to the floor moments before the windows were blown apart. Enemy bullets shattered the glass before slamming into the office's walls and floor, broken glass showering the two men like hailstones. Then the fighter planes roared over the building, more than a dozen of them, all still firing their machine guns.

Maeda was first to risk a glimpse out of the window when the wave of enemy aircraft had passed. Down below, half the colour guard was dead or dying, their bodies shredded by the surprise attack. Survivors tended to the wounded as other marines spilled onto the parade ground eager to see what had happened, not realising the danger they were entering. "Get back inside!" Maeda yelled, cupping both hands around his mouth. "We're under attack!"

The men on the ground looked at Maeda as if he was insane. Another attack wave of enemy fighters was already on its approach, coming in low over Pearl, heading directly for the navy yards. Maeda spotted a bugler with flame red hair tending one of the wounded. "Morton, sound general quarters!"

The bugler looked down and realised he was still clutching his instrument in one hand. Morton sprinted to a loudhailer mounted on a stand at the edge of the parade ground and, after spitting on the ground to wet his lips, blew general quarters. Immediately all those outside raced for their appointed defensive positions, everyone running in different directions. But the next wave of enemy fighters was already upon the navy yards. The rat-tat-tat of machine guns cut through the air like some staccato dance of death, its chilling rhythm perforating the quiet Sunday morning with brutal disregard. Those still out on the parade ground threw themselves flat. Some were lucky enough to escape the strafing bullets, but many were not so fortunate.

Maeda peered at the underside of the enemy planes as they flew over. Beneath each wing was a circle of blood red, the symbol of the rising sun. Maeda felt a sickening lurch in his stomach at the significance of this, both for the future and for him personally. "It's the Japanese," he gasped, hardly able to believe he was saying the words. "We're being attacked by the Japanese!"

"But you're Japanese," Walton whispered from beside him.

"I was born in San Francisco; I'm as American as you are!" Maeda snapped before crawling towards the office door. We've got to get out there! We've got to fight back!"

"You can't leave, Pat," the other marine protested, "you're under arrest."

"Don't be ridiculous," Maeda snarled. "The Japanese Empire has just declared war on the United States! For all I know, this aerial attack could be a way of softening us up before they launch a full-scale invasion of the Hawaiian Islands. We've got to get up on the roof!"

"Why the roof?"

"That's the best vantage point to see what's going on, and it's the best place to return fire. We can take a machine gun and use it against the enemy, maybe shoot one or two of them out of the sky!" Maeda had reached the doorway. He looked back across the bullet riddled office at the terrified youth. "I can't operate the machine gun on my own. Are you coming with me?"

Walton bit his bottom lip, terror all too evident in his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he scrambled across the floor towards Maeda. He had almost reached the doorway before the next wave of Japanese fighters swept in over the navy yards, strafing the marine barracks and other buildings with bullets. Walton shoved Maeda to safety before diving on top of him. The pair hugged the floor as the room around them exploded, furniture and fixtures shot to pieces by the passing planes. Once the attack had passed, Walton retrieved his metal helmet from the floor and patted the other marine on the back. "Pat, you all right?"

"I'm fine, but you're a lot heavier than you look," Maeda complained. "Now, let's find ourselves a machine gun so we can start fighting back!"

Marquez was looking forward to getting back on the ground at Ford Island. Life on board the
Enterprise
was fine, but it wasn't home to him yet. Maybe in time he'd become like Chuck, who got antsy when they stayed in one port for more than a few days. For now, the ensign still called dry land his second choice as home, Marquez was always happiest in the sky. As the youngest pilot on the Big E, he took more than his fair share of ribbing from the other fliers, but Marquez liked to think they were learning to respect him. If nothing else, he had the best eyes of any pilot on board, so it came as no surprise when he noticed the approaching aircraft before Chuck.

Bravo had flown ahead in his private race to reach the field at Ford Island before anyone else, no doubt abandoning his wingman in the process, but Chuck and Marquez maintained a two-plane formation. Their SBDs were still west of Pearl when Marquez saw a large formation of planes buzzing around the facility at Ewa Mooring Mast Field, near Barbers Point on the south-west coast of Oahu. Marquez glanced over one shoulder at Mead, his radioman and gunner. "Hey, Sid, you heard anything about US Army pilots being out and about this morning?"

"Nothing yet, why?"

"Looks like a squadron of them are circling Ewa." Marquez radioed Chuck to see if he could explain the cluster of aircraft above Barbers Point, but the lieutenant had no further intelligence to add.

"Skid," Mead cut in, "one of our friends is coming over to say hello."

Marquez twisted around to see a single-engine aircraft approaching, but he couldn't get a good sight of it. "Funny, it doesn't look like any of our planes. What do you think, Sid?" Before Mead could answer, a line of bullets blistered the SBD's skin, scaring the hell out of both pilot and gunner. Marquez jerked his controls to the right as the aircraft swept past, almost colliding with Chuck.

"Skid, what the hell are you doing?" the lieutenant yelled via his radio.

"We're under attack, I repeat, we're under attack!" Marquez shouted back. "Those planes at Ewa aren't ours, I think they're Japanese. We need to take evasive action, now!"

"You're sure?" Chuck replied, his voice tinged with disbelief.

"I'm damned sure, and my fuselage has the bullet holes to prove it!"

"Understood. Okay, break right on my command, but stay in formation!"

"Roger that!"

The enemy plane was coming around for another gunnery pass, slicing a tight arc through the air as it turned back to swoop at the two SBDs. "Break right!" Chuck snarled. Marquez followed the command, swinging his aircraft over in formation with the lieutenant. The two of them slipped beneath the oncoming enemy plane, escaping the hail of bullets spitting from its armaments.

"That's a Japanese Zero!" Chuck exclaimed. "Sweet mercy, this is it! The Japanese are attacking! This means we're at war!"

"What do we do?" Marquez replied, keeping his Dauntless tight to Chuck's wing. "We haven't got enough fuel to get back to the
Enterprise
."

"Just as well," the lieutenant said. "We'd be in danger of leading the Japs straight to the big E if we went back to her. Long as she remains out at sea she'll be almost impossible to find. Be grateful the
Enterprise
wasn't in port when..." Chuck's voice trailed off. Marquez couldn't tell if there was a malfunction with his radio equipment.

"Lieutenant, are you there? Lieutenant?"