Rising Sun (23 page)

* * *

Ruby Oliver thought that Colonel James Gavin was the handsomest man she’d ever seen. The rugged-looking thirty-five-year-old commander of the 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment had arrived at Fairbanks a couple of days earlier along with the leading elements of his regiment and immediately made his presence known.

The first units of the 505th had parachuted in, which was dramatic and joyous to the Americans in Fairbanks. They’d waved and cheered as the paratroops floated down from the sky. Ruby and her group had arrived the day before by truck. She would not admit that they’d stolen it from an abandoned farm.

On first meeting her, Gavin had laughed and stripped her of her own little detachment of soldiers, but not until commending all of them for jobs well done. They had been interrogated by both Gavin and other officers. They told all they knew about the Japanese force that even now might be heading toward them. Ruby was able to confirm that the Japanese had no armor, little artillery, and few vehicles. They were not going to come up the road at thirty miles an hour like she had. Ten miles a day was more like it and she assured Gavin that the weather would begin to get truly shitty before long.

Now she was part of a volunteer group led by a big professional hunter and trapper named Bear Foley. Bear was well named. Although he was only a little over six feet tall, he weighed more than two hundred and forty pounds and he was indeed hairy. Foley now had close to four hundred men and fifty women in his volunteer brigade that Gavin chose to use as scouts. They’d already picked up on the fact that the Japanese were beginning to probe up the road to Fairbanks, which was why Gavin was there with his new command.

The lead elements of the 505th quickly improved the small and primitive airstrip to where C47s could land with their cargo of either twenty-plus troops or three tons of supplies. Both men and supplies were kept below maximum load weight because of the need to conserve fuel. Ruby and her cohorts noted with amusement that many of the military planes were painted over civilian DC-3s, and some still had passenger seating.

What was maddening was the time it took to develop a base so far away from the forty-eight states. The first planes unloaded fuel, much of which they promptly consumed for the trip back. After that, planes alternated between men, fuel, and supplies. Now, after a couple of hectic days and nights, more than two thousand men of the 505th were on the ground along with several hundred support personnel and a working supply of fuel and food. Talking to the troops, Ruby found that the regiment was someday going to be part of the newly forming 82nd Airborne Division and be entirely made up of paratroops.

Gavin was openly concerned about their lack of ammunition and artillery. The Alaskan Volunteer Scouts and other sources estimated the Japanese force at close to six thousand men now that it had been “reinforced” by the few survivors of the naval force the battleships had sunk.

Ruby sat on her sleeping bag in the tent she shared with Foley. He was a couple of years older than she and they’d hit it off immediately. He was a skilled hunter, something she admired since she thought she was pretty good herself. She was dressed in bra and panties and was intent on sewing a tear in her blouse.

“Looking good, Ruby,” Bear said with a grin as he stepped in.

She returned the smile. She’d lost twenty pounds and firmed up dramatically since the first Japanese attack. One thing good about war—it kept the weight down. Her dyed red hair was returning to its normal reddish-brown with disconcerting hints of gray that Bear didn’t seem to mind.

War also heightened the senses. She hadn’t slept with a man in more than a year, but now the urge was imperative.

“Join me,” she said. He laughed again and stripped down to his shorts after first closing the tent flap. He reached for her and she held up her hand.

“First tell me what Jim said.”

Bear laughed. “Jim? Damn it to hell, Ruby, he makes me call him Colonel. Anyhow, he said that the Japs will be heading for us because they have no place else to go. He says they’re starving since their support ships were sunk and they see Fairbanks as a way of staying alive. He says they’ll attack us with unbelievable ferocity because getting our supplies is their only hope of not starving to death. He says they would rather die in a suicide attack, not starve, which they feel would be cowardly. Gavin said he was stationed in the Philippines and helped them prepare for war with the Japs, so he’s studied them extensively. So, yeah, he sees a suicide attack by the Nips if things get real bad for them.”

Wonderful, she thought. She slipped out of her bra and panties and he got out of his shorts. She smiled when she saw he was more than ready. We could all be dead very, very shortly. Live and love while we can.

* * *

Beer runs qualified as emergencies, or so Stecher happily thought. Using rank for the privilege, he commandeered a jeep and drove the few miles to the hamlet of Bridger. Neither he nor Lieutenant Farris thought much of anything was likely to happen at nine o’clock this sunny Tuesday morning. As to their beloved company commander, it was highly improbable that Lytle was even awake, much less likely to stop by on an unannounced inspection. And who gave a shit if he did, he thought happily.

There had been a euchre tournament last night, and the men off duty had managed to wipe out their supply of suds; thus, the beer run to Sullivan’s small store in Bridger. Usually the lieutenant did it, but he was off someplace.

Stecher thought that life was not bad at all. He’d begun to get control over his fury regarding the loss of his brother. He recognized the helplessness of his situation. Until and if something changed dramatically, he would continue to spend World War II in southern California. And after talking to some navy pilots, he’d grudgingly come to accept the fact that soldiers on the ground were fair targets for pilots in planes. The enemy you spared today could come back and kill you tomorrow. What had happened to his brother was war, not murder.

He’d talked with a number of others who’d lost loved ones in the all too numerous defeats suffered by the United States. They’d commiserated, had a beer or six, and told how they controlled their anguish and sealed off their hate. If they didn’t it would consume them. Stecher would never get over the loss of his brother and would never want to, but he was beginning to understand what older people had said about life moving on after the death of someone dear. Someday, though, he would like his chance to personally kill at least one fucking Jap.

He pulled up in front of the single-story white frame store owned by Sullivan. He’d recently found out that Sullivan’s first name was Patrick. What else, he thought.

Stecher entered the store. No one was behind the counter, which was unusual. There was no way he could have sneaked up on Sullivan. There wasn’t that much else around in Bridger and anyone in the store had a clear view down the road, so somebody should have been there to greet him. Maybe Sullivan was in the can? He waited a few moments but heard nothing. He tapped on the wall by the door to announce himself, but still no one came. Should he help himself? Sullivan’s was an old-fashioned store where you told the clerk what you wanted and he got it for you. None of that supermarket stuff where you wandered around with a cart and filled it. Sullivan said there was too much opportunity to steal in such a situation.

So where was everybody? What the hell’s going on, Stecher thought. He heard the sound of something scurrying in the storage room in the back of the building. An animal? His rifle was in jeep only a few feet away. Should he get it? Hell, would he need it?

He heard a groan. He stepped around the counter and pushed open the door to the back room. There were no windows and it was illuminated only by the shaft of light from the open door. He heard more sounds.

Stecher fumbled by the doorway until he found a light switch and flipped it on. Two women were on the floor. They were bound hand and foot and there were rags stuffed in their mouths. They were Japanese.

One was older and her face was bruised. There was blood on her torn blouse. The younger one stared at him in primal fear. She did not appear be hurt and she looked very young, maybe fourteen.

Japs or not, they were suffering. He took the gags out of their mouths and gave them some water. He was not quite ready to untie them before he found out why they had been bound in the first place, although he didn’t think they were spies or saboteurs.

Stecher heard a metallic click behind him. “Stand and turn slowly.”

He did as told and found himself looking down the barrels of a shotgun held by Patrick Sullivan, the store owner.

The older woman jabbered something in what Stecher presumed was Japanese and Sullivan lowered his weapon. “Miko just told me you had nothing to do with this and were freeing them.”

Sullivan pulled a knife and deftly slashed the ropes holding them. Both women hugged each other and then Sullivan. The older woman, Miko, managed a smile for Stecher, while the younger one looked away. She seemed more embarrassed than hurt.

“It was two very young men who looked like Mexicans,” Miko said in unaccented English. “They came in and overpowered us before we could do anything. Thank you for helping,” she added to Stecher, who nodded.

She turned to Sullivan. “And just so you know, they did nothing other than take the few dollars in the register.”

Miko gathered up the younger woman. “Sergeant, this is my daughter, Nancy. Until the war started, she was a sophomore in college in San Francisco. We decided she was safer here.”

So much for being only fourteen, Stecher thought. Maybe Asian women matured differently. She also didn’t look totally Japanese. With a jolt, he realized that Sullivan was her father.

“So what are you going to do now?” Sullivan asked. “You going to turn them in and send them to a concentration camp?”

“I don’t know what the hell do to, Mr. Sullivan. Hey, they are your family, aren’t they? If so, they won’t be sent to a camp. Isn’t that the rule?”

Sullivan shrugged. “Nancy is my daughter and Miko is my wife. One problem, though, we never managed to get married formally. This is California, you know, and some of the traditional rules don’t always apply here. Both of these ladies were born here in California, which makes them citizens, and Nancy is only half-Japanese, so I guess only half of her will go to a camp.”

Stecher was at a loss. Technically, maybe the mother should be interned since she was hiding, which was against the law, and Sullivan was doing the hiding, which was also illegal. Damn. He hated the Japanese, but the rational part of him said that neither this woman nor her skinny daughter posed a threat to the United States. And would turning them in to the authorities do anything to help America win the war?

“So what are you going to do, Sergeant?” asked Sullivan. Stecher noted that the shotgun was still in the crook of his arm.

“Mr. Sullivan, I’m going to do what I set out to do in the first place and that’s get me a couple of cases of beer. What you do with your life is your own problem.”

* * *

Emotions were running high. Everyone in Nimitz’s offices was sickened, angered, and disgusted by the photos and films that had finally made it down to them from the brave men in Alaska who’d taken them. Men cursed and pounded their fists and a few men cried in frustration as they saw American soldiers and airmen being shot, drowned, and beheaded.

Dane had a hard time not being nauseated when the surviving crewmen of the PBY were chopped with the sword swung by the Jap officer. He’d known a couple of those guys. Granted, he had just met them before the takeoff and only shook their hands and wished them well, but he was part of the reason they were being murdered before his eyes. It had been his lamebrained idea to launch an attack by relatively defenseless flying boats in the first place that had led to their being shot down and captured. But for him, they’d still be flying long, dull, safe patrols over the endless Pacific.

Spruance, still functioning as Nimitz’s chief of staff, might have been reading Dane’s mind. “What happened to those men is nobody’s fault but the Japanese and, to a lesser extent, mine. I see Commander Dane looking miserable because he thinks he’s responsible, but he isn’t. I totally and enthusiastically supported the idea of the PBY raid, and I thought we would take even more casualties than we did. What I didn’t expect was that the Japs would kill those men in contravention of the Geneva Convention.”

The admiral took a sip of coffee. “Admittedly, the Japs never signed it and neither did we, but that does not permit them, or us, to behave like barbarians. When the war is over, or if they are captured, the men responsible will be brought to trial.”

“Can we behead them?” snarled Merchant.

“A lovely thought,” Spruance responded with a grim smile. “However, I don’t think that’ll be allowed under our rules. Hanging or a firing squad are our traditions. First, of course, we have to capture those people. We have been reasonably assured that none of the actual killings were done by their commander, this Colonel Yamasaki. That doesn’t absolve him. He’s responsible for the conduct of his men, just like General Homma is responsible for the Bataan Death March in the Philippines, and Hirohito’s responsible for the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor. When the time comes, those men will pay.”

“I don’t think they would have done it without Yamasaki’s approval, sir,” said Dane. “He might not have given direct orders, but I’m certain his men knew that he approved, at least tacitly.”

Merchant was still angry. “May I register my disapproval with the decision to withhold the photos from publication?”

“Duly noted,” Spruance said. “However, nothing’s going to change. The public is inflamed enough right now. The pictures will be saved for the proper time, and that may be a long ways off in the future. Word is, the president is concerned that families will recognize their loved ones being murdered and, even though they are aware that they were killed in action, it would serve no purpose to show them in the act of being slaughtered.”