Fiends of the Rising Sun (30 page)

Not long after 08.00 a dozen American planes tried to land at the field, but were attacked by their own side as well as the Zeros. Anything moving in the sky was a target for those on the ground, regardless of what markings it bore or whether the planes were making recognition manoeuvres. Eventually eight of the aircraft landed, but from his hiding place in the shadows Hitori could see that all of them had sustained damage to their fuselages. The other four flew off, no doubt trying to find safer landings elsewhere. The vampyr smiled. News of the friendly fire incidents would soon spread among anti-aircraft crews at the airfield. With luck, they would be less likely to shoot down any plane obviously trying to land. That could help when the time came for him and Kimura to be extracted.

"Identify yourself! Who are you and what are you doing in there?" a gruff voice demanded from behind Hitori. He swivelled around to find an American sentry aiming a sub-machine gun at him. The soldier's eyes widened when he realised Hitori was Japanese. "You're one of them!" His gaze darted around, searching for any sign that Hitori was not alone. "Where are the rest of your buddies, Tojo, or don't you understand English?"

"I understand English perfectly well," Hitori replied. He reached inside the sentry's thoughts and pushed.
You needn't be afraid of me.

The soldier's face twitched, as if someone was stabbing him with a needle. "I needn't be afraid of you," he said, parroting Hitori's commands.

You're perfectly safe, so you can lower your weapon.

Again the sentry flinched before repeating what he was told. "I'm perfectly safe. I can lower my weapon." But his hands did not move.

Lower your weapon
, Hitori urged, pushing with everything he had.

The soldier's face was a mass of spasms, tics and twitches, his will battling against the powerful suggestive impulse implanted in his mind by the vampyr's orders. A drop of blood fell from the American's nose, followed by another and another, until blood was pouring freely from both nostrils. Still the sentry would not give in, would not lower his weapon.

Locked in a battle of wills with the soldier, Hitori did not dare attempt to change to another form. Instead he walked towards the sentry, all his power bent against the stubborn American.
You will give in to me or I shall crush your mind
, Hitori snarled.
You will surrender or you will die!

"Never," the sentry gasped, his finger closing around the sub-machine gun's trigger. Hitori flung himself at the soldier, swatting the barrel aside with ease before closing a fist around the obstinate American's neck, lifting his foe's body clear off the ground. The sentry's feet kicked at thin air.

"You've remarkable willpower," the vampyr hissed, "but it won't save you!" Hitori ripped open the sentry's collar with his spare hand, exposing the throat. But doing this also freed the twin chains hidden inside the soldier's tunic. His dog tags hung from one chain, while the other supported a silver cross. It pressed against Hitori's skin, burning its way into the vampyr's flesh. He cried out, hurt and enraged, before tossing the sentry to one side. The American collided awkwardly with the side of a concrete barracks block, his neck snapping with a dull crack, before the lifeless body slid to the ground.

Hitori was busy staring at the cross burned into the back of his left hand, the skin bubbling and smoking as if acid had been poured over it. The acrid smell of burning flesh rose from the crucifix-shaped wound, insinuating its way into the vampyr's nostrils, making him gag at the stench. He hadn't felt pain or exhaustion once since becoming a vampyr. Yes, he often rested during the hours of daylight, but that was as much about avoiding the sun as anything else. He had forgotten what pain felt like, had begun to believe himself invulnerable like Constanta. Now the simple happenstance of a silver cross falling against his skin had reminded Hitori of his weaknesses. The pain was both exquisite and excruciating.

"Hey, Ronnie, you okay?" a voice called out, just ahead of the sound of hurried footsteps approaching. Hitori realised he had lingered for too long in one place, absorbed in his own thoughts when he should have kept watch for more sentries. Before he could escape half a dozen guards armed with sub-machine guns had surrounded him, while another of them was examining the corpse of their fallen comrade. "Ronnie's dead! His neck's broken!" The blond soldier picked up the metal helmet his dead colleague had been wearing. It had crumpled at the point of impact where Hitori had thrown Ronnie against the concrete wall. "Did you do this to him?"

"In a manner of speaking," the vampyr replied. He studied the faces of those surrounding him. There were too many for him to control all their minds at once, and he could not escape by transforming his shape. Trying to flee as mist, wolf or bat would mean exposing himself to direct sunlight and he would be dead within moments of leaving the shadows.

"You murdered Ronnie!"

"Killing an enemy soldier is not murder in wartime."

The soldier who had been studying the corpse stormed over to the vampyr and dragged him out of the shadows, into the morning air. Fortunately for Hitori he was wearing a peaked cap, gloves and a heavy overcoat with the collar turned up, protecting him from the sunlight, for now. The furious soldier drew a .45 pistol and pressed the barrel against Hitori's forehead. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you, right here, right now. You said it yourself; our two countries are at war, so killing you wouldn't be murder."

"I am attached to the Japanese consulate here on Oahu. I possess full diplomatic immunity," Hitori replied, staring into his captor's eye. "Shoot me and you will suffer the consequences. Now, take me to your leader."

Maeda pulled on the Browning's trigger, firing swift, deadly bursts at the next wave of Zeros as they scudded low over the navy yard. Walton crouched on the left side of the machine gun, making sure the ammunition belt fed straight into the weapon, keeping it from jamming or misfiring. Try as Maeda might, he couldn't get a bead on the Japanese fighters. They were appearing out of the black fog created by burning ships and buildings, coming in low and fast, moving far quicker than he could react. "Dammit!" he snapped as half a dozen enemy planes shot past his position atop B Company's barracks. His training told him to aim ahead of the target, let them fly into his line of fire, but that was easier said than done with an enemy passing over your head at three hundred miles an hour.

"We're nearly out of ammo," Walton shouted, struggling to be heard above the sound of exploding bombs and anti-aircraft barrages. He glanced around, but Maeda had exhausted all they had brought up in their rush to reach the roof. "I'll have to go back down and find some more."

"Not yet," Maeda replied. "I still need you to feed the ammo belt."

"Here they come again," Walton said, pointing to the east.

Maeda swung the Browning around to face the approaching Zeros. So far they had been concentrating on other parts of Pearl, strafing the navy yards and approach roads. Now they were heading for the barracks blocks, and B Company's home was directly in their path. Walton scrambled to stay alongside the machine gun, his eyes fixed on the incoming fighters. There were three of them, all swooping at the two marines on the roof, guns blazing. "Pat, they're after us!"

"I know," Maeda snarled. "Let's change their minds." He got his eyes down level with the Browning's sights and took aim just ahead of the Zeros. He sensed rather than saw the line of bullets stabbing into the far end of the barracks roof, each round throwing up dust and chunks of cement. Maeda closed his finger around the trigger, let out a breath and opened fire. The Browning spat high velocity death at the Japanese fighters, shooting round after round into their path.

Everything around Maeda seemed to slow down, as if time was coming to a standstill on top of the barracks. Before the Zeros had passed in the blink of an eye, but now it felt as if they were in slow motion. Maeda watched as the line of enemy bullets traced straight lines across the roof towards him and Walton. He saw the propeller on the enemy fighters turning in the air and the muzzle flashes of their machine guns. He felt every tiny movement of the Browning as it fired back at the Zeros, the jerk of the ammunition belt as it fed through the weapon and spilled out on to the cement opposite Walton. A dull pain stabbed into his right shoulder, as if someone had jabbed him with a stick, and he heard Walton cry out.

Then the Zeros were ripping through the air overhead and spluttering away, their engines choking on the fumes clogging the sky. Maeda twisted around and saw black smoke billowing from the lead fighter, accompanied by orange tongues of flame and white sparks. "We got one!" Maeda shouted, his left fist clenched in triumph. "We got one of them!" He turned to Walton, eager to share the moment with his comrade. The young marine's face was ashen, and a stream of blood was pouring from his mouth. "Walton? You okay?"

Walton fell forwards, pitching face-first into the cement. Maeda saw a handful of gaping holes in his comrade's back, tracing a line up Walton's spine. He pressed two fingers to the youth's throat in search of a pulse, but found nothing. Only then did Maeda realise how heavy his own right arm felt. He looked at it and was shocked to see gleaming white bone exposed where an enemy bullet had ripped through his uniform and buried itself in his body.

Pain lanced through his arm and chest, and he was finding it hard to breathe. There was a trickle of blood on the front of his uniform, escaping a small hole over the right breast. Maeda stuck a finger in the hole and found a much bigger hole underneath the fabric, soft and wet and terrifying. He was gasping for air, unable to get enough into his lungs. It felt like when he was a boy and his father had taught him to swim. The first day Maeda had swallowed a mouthful of the sea and had to be pulled from the water, choking and coughing. He had learned his lesson, but now that drowning sensation was back.

Another trio of Zeros was already closing on the barracks building, intent on finishing the job their colleagues had started. Maeda tried pulling the Browning's trigger with his left hand, but it was too weak and he had exhausted the ammunition supply firing at the last attack. He was a sitting duck on the roof, unable to get away and with nothing to take cover behind. The Zeros opened fire, fresh lines of ammunition peppering the roof, tracing a deathly path towards the wounded Maeda. The marine had one option left. "I'm sorry," he whispered before grabbing his comrade's dead body and pulling it over him as a shield. Walton's corpse protected Maeda's head and torso, but his legs remained out in the open and exposed. The marine screamed in pain as the passing pilots found their target with cruel accuracy. He was almost grateful when the darkness took him. Whatever happened next, Maeda didn't want to be conscious for it.

Marquez was fighting for his life above Pearl Harbour. He had been separated from the lieutenant soon after they broke left to avoid a blizzard of anti-aircraft fire. Chuck took evasive action to avoid a head-on collision with a Japanese bomber, diving beneath the approaching Val. Marquez had continued on his course, not realising where the lieutenant had gone until it was too late. Four Zeros appeared from the clouds and any attempts to get back into formation had to be abandoned. Marquez was flying for survival, plain and simple. Two of the Zeros got in behind him and opened fire, their machine guns shattering the glass at the back of the SBD's canopy.

Marquez heard a cry of pain behind him and felt something wet hit the back of his neck. "Mead, are you okay? Sid? Sid, can you hear me?" The pilot didn't dare look around, all his concentration bent on trying to shake off the pursuing Zeros. He twisted the controls, first to the left, then hard to the right, zigzagging the Dauntless through the bleak sky. "Sid, talk to me! Sid!"

"I'm hit," the gunner replied.

"How bad is it?"

"Bad enough."

"What about the radio? Can you call down to the ground, tell them to stop firing at us, tell them we're on their side?"

"No good... radio's shot to hell."

Marquez muttered a curse. "What about the gun, is that still working?"

"Enough to deal with these bastards," Mead replied, coughing and spitting. "You keep us in the air, Skid, I'll do the rest."

"Thanks. I'll get us down as soon as I-" Marquez's words died in his throat. Another Dauntless had appeared from a cloud of black smoke directly ahead, on a collision course with them. Marquez wrenched his controls left and hoped his counterpart in the oncoming SBD did the same. The two aircraft flashed past each other, coming within a few feet. Marquez glimpsed a crudely painted cartoon of Tojo on the side of the passing plane. It was Bravo's Dauntless, the damned fool had almost killed them with his antics.

Marquez levelled out his wings and found himself directly behind an unfamiliar tail. It was one of the enemy aircraft, a Zero. The SBD pilot urged his plane forward, extracting every last ounce of speed from the bullet-riddled Dauntless. If I'm going to die on the first day of the war, Marquez thought, I want to take at least one of these damned Japs with me. He closed up to the Zero's tail and opened fire with his machine guns, the bullets tearing into the back of the enemy fighter. He kept his finger on the firing button, emptying his magazines into the Zero, ignoring the greasy black smoke pouring out of the rear of the enemy plane. Oil was leaking from the Zero, and it spattered against the front of Marquez's canopy, obscuring his forward view.

He heard Mead coughing behind him, the sound dying away to a sick, empty gurgle until the gunner was making no sound at all. "Mead? Mead, are you okay? Mead, talk to me! Can you hear me back there?" Then there was another chilling noise from up ahead, the sound of an engine dying. All those rounds he had fired into the Zero were doing their job. The clouds of smoke from ahead of the SBD abruptly parted to reveal an empty sky. "We did it, Mead! We took out our first Zero!" Marquez was grinning from ear to ear until a shadow fell on the top of his canopy. The Zero was directly above him and coming straight down.