The Apostates (41 page)

“Quiet, everyone! Quiet! Now listen to me, everything Manuela said is true. All your business interests will be protected under the Societatum Pentagram’s new Regime. But, the El Paradiso cartel continues to defy the Order, and still as we speak, counter attacks. They are the enemies of Christ, and Jacinto paid for his sins with his own blood. From here on out Manuela Noriega, head of the Noriega Cartel will be the head of a commission of families. She will get final approval on all new business ventures that the Families undertake. Manuela will report directly to the Order, which will then determine if the ventures are worthy of Christ. The alternative lies on the floor of this hall. I will leave the heads of the Families to deliberate with their organizations. I do anticipate hearing each and every one of your responses within a week. Thank you all so very much for attending tonight’s celebration. God bless you all! Now please, please, begin the music!” Carafa gestured for the band to play. They resumed the number they had been playing before the bloody toast. Members of Manuela’s serving staff rushed in to clean up the numerous bodies that littered the hall. They brought in mops to clean up pools of blood. Carafa leaped off the stage. He nodded to the guests as he walked through the crowd. He made gestures to encourage them to dance once more. Carafa resembled a portrait of Christ on the Cross at that moment with the red wine dripping down his brow, except that he was smiling maniacally.

Manuela gained her bearings from the scene
that had played out in front of her. She looked around the room, and the guests
bowed respectfully as she walked past. It occurred to her that Carafa had just
elevated her station among the cartel families to that akin to a mafia don. A
smile drew across her face: she suddenly felt the need for another drink for
she had an occasion to celebrate in her head. The party
continued well into the wee hours of the morning. After the initial shock, the
guests slowly forgot the bloodshed, as more liqueur flowed.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

A stray sun ray peaked through the crack between curtains. The ray impacted squarely on Monsignor Carafa’s face. The light roused him out of a deep sleep. He rubbed his face and felt the crust of dried wine come loose. He looked around him. He was in a large king-size bed with wrought iron end pieces. He looked over and gazed upon Manuela sound asleep beside him, she snored slightly. He felt good; truly alive. Carafa stretched his limbs and crawled out of the bed. He drew a curtain out of the way and opened the door that lead to the adjoining balcony. He stepped out into the crisp morning air. It was already hot this day, and the humidity was thick in the air. Manuela had been awoken and came out to the balcony to join him.

“Pietro, love? What are you doing up so
early?” She embraced him from behind as he stared out to the Strait’s water,
and scuttled vessels beneath the surface.

“I just needed to rise. We have
accomplished so much here, and there is much to admire. The Lord’s plan at
work!” Carafa said with amazement, almost like a child.

“Yes, we certainly have accomplished much,
thanks to your scheming, love!” Manuela said, leaning on the
parapet of the balcony.

“Nonsense. It’s all according to how the Lord has deemed it,” Carafa dismissed her observation. At that moment, Carafa had received a ping in from the Order channel. He accepted via his retinal H.U.D. It was Friar Benedict calling. The audio sounded like he was chewing food.

“Friar Benedict, blessed morning to you.
What is the purpose of your call?” Carafa asked.

“Monsignor, sir, I have received reports
that you may find interesting...” Benedict trailed off, a chewing noise could
be heard, which interrupted his speech.

“Go on,” Carafa insisted.

“Well, sir. Off the coast of Aqua Buena, a
scout had relayed the report of the sighting of a fleet of ships,
steaming south...” Benedict stuffed more food in his mouth, and chewed, making
a smacking noise.

“For the glory of God, do you ever stop
eating?” Carafa complained.

“Many pardons, sir,” Benedict replied.

“How fresh is this report?” Carafa asked.

“Just from early this morning, four A.M.?”
Benedict reported.

“Excellent. Please inform the other
Friars. Tell them to muster the militia and ready the fort,” Carafa commanded.

“Yes, of course.” Benedict signed off.

“Well, it appears something epic begins this day. The Apostate fleet has been spotted not far from here. You must ready your forces as well, Manuela.” Carafa explained to her. He embraced her, then left the balcony, to get dressed in his Order garb. Manuela remained on the balcony for some time more. She witnessed Carafa storming out of the city hall building, in full uniform. He yelled out for his gelding, and an attendant came running, leading his horse by the head. Carafa leaped onto the horse and rode off toward the docks. A porter from Manuela’s household came running into her quarters.

“Miss Noriega! What shall I tell the
townspeople to do? Word is battleships are sailing to attack the town!” the
porter was panicked.

“Calm down. Tell them I can accommodate about three hundred in the bomb shelter in the basement. The rest of the families are to open their shelters to the others or have them evacuate to hills until further notice. My God, I haven’t had breakfast yet.” Manuela left the balcony to get dressed and gestured the porter away, who left in haste to delegate her orders. Manuela threw off her morning robe and walked into her bedroom-sized closet, filled with her wardrobe. She shuffled through many layers and shelves of clothing. Picking through garments that had cost a fortune when new. Vast amounts of tops, blouses, and skirts, pantsuits, power suits with shoulder pads, leopard print everythings, and formal gowns galore could be seen.

She let out a sigh, “I have nothing to wear for the upcoming battle. I shall need to hit the town square shop for a suitable outfit,” Manuela resolved. In the meantime, she settled for something substandard out of her existing wardrobe.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Captain Inoguchi had been in a deep
depression since the battle. He had taken to too much whiskey and sake during
the fleet’s limp back to Japan, which was underway. The Captain had shunned
shaving and had not bathed for several days. This worried his subordinate
officers and there had been talk of relieving him from command. He sat in his
quarters at his desk, a map of the Pacific laid out on it. He had plotted where
the expanse of the Japanese empire had stretched during the beginning of the
war and where it was limited to now. The marking excluded the Mariana Island
chain, which had recently been invaded due to the defeat of the Japanese Mobile
fleet. The U.S. Marines had made landings on Guam and Tinian, and without Naval
and air support, and above all, resupply, it would only be a matter of time
before the Japanese garrisons were defeated.

Inoguchi thought about the implications of
the Americans taking the islands, building airbases, and conducting airstrikes
against the Japanese Home Islands with impunity. The thought made his heart
sink. Inoguchi tipped back a shot of sake. He winced. He thought about all the
airmen who were lost during the last battle. It was estimated that the Japanese
had lost ninety percent of its carrier aircraft capabilities in the “Great
Turkey Shoot” as it was called in American headlines. Inoguchi wondered what
kind of “corn-fed hick” had coined that term, and more to a point what it
actually meant. Did they have mass turkey hunts in rural farms in the middle of
America?

The Japanese had no response to the Americans now: that sail and fly unopposed except for Japanese surface vessels that stood little chance of making an impact without air support. The house of cards was quickly collapsing around Inoguchi. The High Command was still deluded that they could prevail against American forces. Inoguchi surmised that the only hope for continued combat capacity was to pour every last resource of the nation into the manufacture of new aircraft and crash course training legions of new pilots. But, that effort would leave every other aspect of Japanese life with shortages of unimaginable proportions. The people would starve; his family would starve.

The was another option: to convince the
Japanese High Command to surrender to the Americans. The
chances of this happening were slim to none, as the High Command was so far
removed from the reality of the situation. But, maybe he could convince Admiral
Ozawa to take up the idea with the High Command again. If he could convince
them of the gravity of the situation they might listen. For now he had no
way to contact the Admiral, for the fleet had to maintain radio silence during
the journey back to avoid being attacked. Inoguchi resolved that once he made
it to Japan he would contact Admiral Ozawa.

Captain Inoguchi suddenly felt uplifted slightly out of his depression with the thought of potential solutions to the nightmare that the Japanese Navy currently found itself in. He picked himself up out of the chair and shook off the stupor. He dragged himself over to his washbasin, and splashed water on his face, then lathered-up a brush with shaving cream and spread it over his stubble. He brandished his straight razor, and with careful strokes he removed cream and hair. When he finished, he found that he had nicked the skin on his neck, and it was bleeding. He reached for a rag to soak it up. After a shower, Inoguchi dressed presentably to leave his quarters. When he stepped foot outside of his quarters, he was joined by his retinue. One man handed Inoguchi a sealed envelope. Inoguchi accepted and made his way to the bridge of the Musashi. All the bridge crew shot upright at attention once the announcement was made that the Captain was on deck. Captain Inoguchi relieved the crew, and he took his place at the Conn.

Captain Inoguchi peered out of the forward observation portal. The waters of the sea were choppy, and it was windy and overcast out. He could feel the violent rocking of the ship, and hoped it would not get any worse. He held the envelope in his hands; it was from the office of Admiral Ozawa. He tore the seal open with his thumb and pulled out the folded sheet of paper, straightened it, and began reading. The message was informing Inoguchi that Admiral Ozawa was steaming back to Okinawa to tenure his resignation to the Japanese High Command in response to the disastrous defeat of the Navy at the Mariana Islands. Ozawa wrote to Inoguchi thanking him for his loyal service, and that he did not know who would be taking his place as acting Admiral. Inoguchi thought that this was an honorable gesture by the Admiral, to take responsibility and shame for the defeat, but something told him the resignation would not be accepted because the High Command was too desperate. Now was not the time to dispose of able leaders.

This troubled the Captain. There was no
longer enough officers and Admirals in the Japanese armed forces to allow for
resignation. Everyone was all in for good or ill, and he knew that High Command
would sacrifice every last war asset, just to slow the American advance. He
tried to put it out of his mind and focused on the rough seas. Inoguchi hoped
his massive battleship would reach Japan in one piece, and prayed to his God
for this violent storm to pass.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Greta had been cooped-up on the train all week. She was very glad that the journey was at an end. The trip by train had taken nearly a week. She had departed from Washington D.C. and was now at her destination: San Francisco, California. Greta had never been to western U.S. but had heard plenty about it. Many of her patients had been from the west: injured soldiers coming back from the war in Europe. Also, there was that one peculiar sailor she had met briefly that night, and he had told her about California at Old Ebbitt Grill. What was his name? It had come to her: Alexander Burke.

Greta grabbed her suitcase from the
luggage rack and stepped out onto the station platform. She stretched her arms
wide and yawned loudly. Despite the long ride, she was nicely made-up in her
military nurse’s uniform. She saw numerous other
nurses had departed the train and gathering to line up for a head count. Greta
trotted over and joined the queue. She couldn’t help but notice how similar all
the women looked, to foster camaraderie and common cause. She found it both
comforting and disconcerting at the same time. Soon she found herself toward
the front of the line. She glanced at the officer: he was bulldog of a human
with a stubby cigar on his lip. She could see that his stripes signaled that he
was a sergeant.

“Sanchez! Greta Sanchez!” the stocky
sergeant barked out. He glanced at Greta.

“Yes, present!” she fired off her
response. She marched over and took her place in an inspection line of the
Cadet Nurse Core. A portly, older nurse with a stern face marched over and
inspected the women. She thanked the bulldogged sergeant and he retired.

“Women of the Cadet Nurse Core: I am your
new commanding officer, Nurse Clementine Wainwright. The Lord has blessed us
with all of you fine ladies transferring from other areas. You all will do your
duty to save the lives of our God-fearing boys, out there fighting those
godless, yellow demons in the Pacific!” Nurse Wainwright paced up and down the
line of nurses. She glanced at each nurse in the eye as
she passed by, making some feel uncomfortable. Nurse Wainwright had deep-set,
beady eyes that were glazed over, with overly-bushy eyebrows. Her eyes were
hidden behind very thick lenses. Most found her appearance intimating, yet
cartoonish.

“Now, as much as the Pacific theater has become a mass grave for those heathens, Jap bastards, so to have many noble sons of America fallen there. Casualties are skyrocketing in this theater. And, so that is why you have been brought here. You brave women will be stationed for duty at the San Francisco Presidio U.S. Military base. Every nurse here will be working in the Letterman Medical Center. I expect every woman here to be at her peak performance. Sloth is a cardinal sin—remember that!” Nurse Wainwright continued her pacing, then, she focused upon Greta, who stood stiffly upright, awaiting Wainwright’s judgment.

“And who might you be, nurse?” Wainwright
prodded.

“My name is Greta Sanchez. Mrs.
Wainwright, ma’am!” Greta sounded off.

“Sanchez? Is that a Jap name? You look awfully lot like a Jap!” Wainwright growled at Greta and shot her a look of contempt.

“No, ma’am! It is not, in fact, a Jap
name! It is Spanish, ma’am. My ancestors are from Mexico and Puerto Rico,”
Greta quipped back trying not to incur more of Wainwright’s wrath.

“Spanish, huh? Mexican, well, if I recall
America gave both countries a good whoopin’in war,” Wainwright fondly recalled
wars she personally had nothing to do with.

“Ma’am, I fail to see what my background
has to do with our briefing!” she wished she hadn’t said anything before she
had finished the sentence. Nurse Wainwright’s beady eyes ignited with the torch
of hatred.

“Sanchez! Shut your spick-jap mouth! If I
hear another word out of you without my authorization I will have your ass!
Understood?” Wainwright’s spittle battered Greta’s face as she yelled.

“Yes, Nurse Wainwright, ma’am!” Greta
snapped, glaring squarely in Wainwright’s eyes with a contemptuous look. Greta
had to resist with every fiber of her being the urge to insult back.

“Sanchez, are you or are you not
Catholic?” Nurse Wainwright asked abruptly.

“Ma’am, yes, although I do not—”
Wainwright talked over her.

“Sanchez, do you know what that makes you? An enemy of my Faith. Your bastardized version of Christianity is full of false idols and excess. It makes your people lazy and prone to deceit. Oh yes, I will need to keep a close eye on you.” Wainwright broke into a smile. She took pleasure at berating Greta in such a one-sided manner. All Greta could do is return an icy stare.

“Alright, ladies. There’s a bus waiting outside the station to take us all to the Presidio. Please make your way out and board. We will then get you all situated in the nurse’s dormitory. Thank you!” Nurse Wainwright clapped her hands and gestured for the women to head outside the station. Greta fumed from the abuse that she had just taken, but she shook it off as best she could. She picked up her suitcase and followed the crowd outside the train station. A sign by the exit read: “Welcome to Oakland, California”. Nurse Wainwright lorded over the women like an alpha hen. She herded them all into the bus, giving Greta an extra nasty look when she passed by.

As soon as the bus started on its way and Greta found herself peering off the side of the Bay Bridge to the vast expanse of the San Francisco bay, her troubles rescinded to the back of her mind. The scenery was breathtaking to her. In the distance, she made out massive battleships at port, off what looked to be a huge man-made island. Numerous barges and logistics ships crisscrossed the choppy Bay waters. It felt as if the entire region had been mobilized for war. Off the north side of the bus, below the Bay Bridge she could see the spread of Treasure Island Naval base, abuzz with activity, harboring numerous vessels. Further off in the distance she could see a rocky outcropping, with oddly placed buildings that reminded Greta of medieval castles. She surmised that it was the notorious prison: Alcatraz. Greta imagined what the conditions must be like inside the grim-looking prison. She was morbidly fascinated by the place, which had once housed infamous bootlegger, Al Capone, and currently held George “Machine Gun” Kelly. She had read that the list of prominent criminals that had been sentenced to “The Rock” was extensive.

Greta was blown away by the beauty of the land to the north: Marin County, and the amazing sight of the red-hued, Golden Gate Bridge shimmering in the sunlight and fog, standing guard over the entrance to the San Francisco Bay. The San Francisco skyline reminded her of a science fiction novel, with the tall skyscrapers piercing through the thick fog bank that slowly crawled over the surface of the city. The Ferry Building clock tower stood proudly at the terminus of Market Street. Somehow she was enamored with the city at just the sight of it. The bus drove the nurses through city surface streets now, and it turned onto Van Ness Avenue after making the trip through the Financial District. The architecture of the surrounding buildings transitioned to that of stately mansions and apartment buildings constructed in a Victorian style. The bus made a turn on Lombard Street and it traversed an extremely wealthy part of town, which was covered by massive, brick mansions owned by aristocratic families. The bus eventually came upon a military checkpoint manned by military police. One M.P. checked the driver’s papers, then, waved the bus through, as the barrier was raised up. The bus drove down winding roads busy with military cargo trucks and troop transports. The road zigzagged through a forest of pine and eucalyptus. The trees formed a tight canopy overhead and was infiltrated by fingers of fog. The road led to a clearing: a large grass-covered area spanned with large white, adobe, colonial Spanish style buildings. The bus pulled into a parking lot and Nurse Wainwright announced that they had reached their destination: Letterman Medical Center. The nurses poured out of the bus with and exuded marvel at their surroundings, it was very beautiful for a military base.

The group of nurses was led to a female dormitory, which was very plain. Double bunk beds in two rows lined each wall of the elongated room. Next to each bed was a footlocker and clothing locker. The nurses poured into the hall, and each one was assigned a bed by Nurse Wainwright. When she came upon Greta, she sneered and assigned her the top bunk. Greta let that treatment roll off her back, as she just wanted to unpack and get settled in. She opened her suitcase and began hanging her clothes in the locker and placing her personal effects in her foot locker. All the other nurses got settled in, then Nurse Wainwright called for the women to assemble outside of the barracks. The nurses hurried outside and lined up for inspection in two ranks. Nurse Wainwright stood at the front of the lines.