“As if any of them or their families will ever see a shot fired,” Ortega snorted sardonically, shaking his head as he took another sip of his drink.
There was active conscription now in the United States, and the enlistment drives continued in an attempt to gather in even more recruits from sectors of the community not covered by the draft. It was all supposed to be impartial – a lottery system for ages 21 to 45, drawn from a national register of all eligible males ranging from 18 to 24 – but the reality that Miguel saw was that of families with enough money or enough influence (or both) always seemed to find their young men moved into the cushier ‘desk jobs’, if they were indeed drafted at all.
Fortunate enough to possess US citizenship, Miguel Alejandro Ortega had been the youngest of ten children. At twenty-two years of age he’d also been the first in the history of his family to have completed a university degree. It had been hard work for both the young man and the rest of his family, with all of his brothers and sisters working hard over many years, contributing large sums of money to provide their youngest and most academically successful sibling with the opportunity to make the most of his abilities.
Ortega was of typical Mexican appearance – olive-skinned, dark-haired and of slightly below average height – but he was fit and strong for all that and kept a regular exercise regime to maintain his health. Considered quite handsome by the women in his tenement block at home, his brown eyes were sharp and intelligent and had read more than their fair share of books already for such a young man, something he suspected had forced the need for the low-prescription glasses he now wore at all times.
Forced to move back in with oldest brother and his family in order to cut costs, Miguel had spent the last four years travelling across the border every day from Tijuana to attend business classes at the San Diego Community College. He’d worked hard and held down two part time jobs for most of that time, and had done his best to make his family proud and honour the sacrifice and investment they had all made in his future. Miguel had indeed done well, and had graduated in the top ten per cent of his class in business management, something that had filled the rest of his family with immense pride over his fine efforts.
It was his degree that had won him his current job – one that had him travelling all over Mexico and the South-Western United States gathering farming equipment and supplies for a new agricultural concern based out of Hawaii that was looking to set up a new venture on the US East Coast. He had no illusions. He knew that the fact he was new out of college (and of Mexican background) meant that he’d not been offered anywhere near the salary a white business manager might have been, but the money was still a king’s ransom by the standards of any job he’d previously held: with a year’s worth paid in US dollars in advance, plus monthly expenses, it had been a true godsend to the rest of his family, who’d worked so hard for so many years to secure his success.
It was all coming together now, though. An entire warehouse of stock was currently being loaded down at the docks, in preparation for the long journey south to the Panama Canal, and then on to New York. All he was waiting on, save for the completion of that loading, was the arrival of the consortium’s investors that very afternoon, with the intention of all travelling together for the rest of the journey to their destination.
“Senõr…! Senõr Ortega…!” A boy’s voice called out his name as the door to the street clattered open, and he turned quickly to find young Jorge standing by his right arm.
“You have some news?” He asked with a smile, the boy’s excitement suggesting he had something important to tell.
“You asked me to come for you when the boat came in, senõr … the big ship…!” Jorge exclaimed loudly, drawing kindly chuckles from some of the other patrons nearby. “The Exmoor…! That’s the name you told me! I wrote it on my hand so I would not forget… see…!” He ventured eagerly, holding out one small, grubby palm where that vessel’s name was indeed scrawled in an uneven, child-like scrawl.
“You’ve done well, Jorge,” Ortega praised in return, giving the boy’s unruly hair a gentle tousle before reaching into his pocket and handing over a handful of pesos that he knew was far too much. “Run back down to the harbour master and let him know I’ll be along in a few minutes to greet our arrivals. Off you go now – I’ll be there soon.”
Almost left speechless by the amount of money he’d been handed, Jorge could only nod profusely before darting off out through the front door once more. With a sigh of relief that his work in in Baja was finally coming to a close, Miguel Ortega rose from his stool and collected the small, leather suitcase standing by his feet. Dressed in a white summer suit and matching, open-neck shirt, he looked more like a member of the well-off middle class than a business man, and that suited him just fine, as he’d been specifically asked by his employers that their operations be kept private so as to prevent any interference from competing enterprises.
Leaving enough US currency on the bar to cover his drinks and a reasonable tip, he lifted the white fedora sitting on the benchtop beside him and settled it lightly onto his head before turning and also stepping out through the front doors into the humidity of the November afternoon.
The Bahia Todos Los Santos (Bay of All Saints) was a roughly-hewn semi-circle set into the Baja coast, of which the Port of Ensenada formed the north eastern section. Set back from water on the wide dock area, a cluster of warehouses and workshops in various states of repair stood between the water and the main road running back around the harbour to the south and the main part of the city. At the far end of the dock, two large steamers were currently moored adjacent to each other, a fact that made for a strange sight for anyone with a keen eye for detail.
One was loading cargo from several huge piles of boxes, crates and assorted loose goods that were lined up next to it on the jetty, while the second vessel – one that had only arrived twenty minutes earlier with smoke still rising from its stacks – seemed strangely silent and inactive. The most unusual thing about the whole scene was that save for some small variations in paintwork and superstructure modifications, both ships were clearly identical. Both were of the same 1022-type cargo class, built toward the end of the First World War and known colloquially as ‘Hog Islanders’.
That it would be as hot and humid as the Pacific Atoll they’d left some weeks before was something that had caught Sakamoto Takasugi by surprise as he trudged toward the landward end of the freight terminal’s long, concrete jetty, his steamer trunk trundling behind him. The heavy, leather-clad pine box had the benefit of tiny wheels set into its bottom corners to facilitate transportation, but it was heavy nevertheless and it hadn’t taken him long to break out into a sweat.
Halfway along the pier, Sakamoto stopped for a moment to catch his breath. From there he could look out across the whole port to the city and up into the highlands beyond to the east. Evening was beginning to draw near and the freight areas of the port were beginning to wind down now for the night, save for activity involved in loading the cargo ship behind them.
Across the bay on the other hand, the city was just starting to come to life: illuminated by the lights of houses, shops, bars and clubs, Ensenada began to ready itself for another evening of entertainment for locals and turistas alike. Far from the industrial wharves, a small ocean liner lay moored at the main passenger terminal to the south of the city, its ships’ lights also blazing as wealthy American tourists drank and laughed and partied on their ‘South-of-the-Border’ holidays.
To watch the Americans and their money there, across that water, it would be easy to think there was no war at all in the world… no war, poverty or privation. The privileged bourgeoisie of unrestrained Western capitalism were in his eyes a ‘new rich’, who’d managed to very quickly forget all about the social and economic devastation of the Great Depression just a decade before, and had to all intents and purposes gone straight back to the bad old ways of squandered and corrupt lifestyles that had contributed to the onset of
the global financial slump in the first place.
Sakamoto had spent his whole life surrounded by the State-sponsored Shintoism of Japanese society in which each citizen was constantly bombarded with the concept that the individual was nothing and that it was proper to offer yourself up as a vassal for the State: that it was every citizen’s duty to serve and protect the Imperial Family.
There were also the more traditional Shinto concepts of respect for one’s ancestors and the honouring of Kami – the ‘essence’ or spirit that filled and surrounded all living things: concepts that Sakamoto doubted most Americans had even heard of, let alone could’ve understood. Like many Japanese of the period, Sakamoto despised the Americans and Westerners in general for their lack of culture, their lack of spiritualism and their overwhelmingly arrogant, Western stupidity.
The passports he and his men carried declared them to be of Hawaiian descent – and therefore US citizens – and their cover relied heavily on the assumption that the average white American would be hard-pressed to make the distinction between someone of Hawaiian or Japanese ancestry when dealing with someone of Asian appearance: perhaps an arrogant assumption in itself, it was nevertheless one that had so far been proven entirely correct.
Sakamoto made a face that was mostly a grimace and took a soft pack of Lucky Strikes from the top pocket of his light cotton shirt. Using his teeth to pull one straight from the open packet, he slipped a Zippo lighter from the same pocket with his other hand and cupped the flame against the warm afternoon breeze as the cigarette lit. Lifting his head back, he drew a deep first breath and blew the smoke back into the air in a long plume that was instantly drawn away on the wind. Sakamoto had to admit; one thing he did like about the Americans was their tobacco.
“Thank the Gods we’re finally here, Sakamoto-dono!” Abukara observed softly in Japanese, coming to a halt at his left shoulder and savouring a moment of breeze as it hinted at turning cool. “I feel as if I’ve been trampled by a mule!”
“English only if you please, gentlemen… it would not do for us to be caught speaking another language,” Sakamoto replied slowly, allowing himself a thin smile as he enjoyed his cigarette. “There’ll be time enough for rest soon enough, but we’ve a little more to do first….” He grimaced at the thought, his own legs and back also aching from the constant travel that day. “Assuming Senõr Ortega has taken care of our paperwork as instructed, we should be out of here again first thing in the morning. After that you’ll have quite a few days of ‘doing nothing’ in which to find your rest.”
“I’d have preferred we were surrounded by our own men…” Isaki growled, also puffing on a cigarette as he sat on his own trunk, ten feet behind the pair. “We’ll be all alone with these gaijin for most of the journey, and I don’t trust them”
“Yes, Ise…” Sakamoto nodded with a wry grin, using the shortened ‘nickname’ they’d coined for him since they’d all gotten together several weeks before. “A Transport Command crew would have been preferable, but that would also have raised some significant questions that we cannot afford!” He frowned at his subordinate then. “And I’ll remind you once more: English words only!” He took another drag on the cigarette and sighed softly in exhalation. “There are only three of us because the mission only needs three of us…” He explained slowly, noting that the bravado the other two had displayed back on Natsu Shima had all but disappeared now that they were all in the midst of what to all intents and purposes was enemy territory. “If this mission fails, not even an entire regiment would save us, and of course, we need only succeed once…”
Isaki and Abukara exchanged fleeting, pointed glances as Sakamoto spoke those words: they’d spent enough time now with their commanding officer to know what he meant by ‘succeed’; that success almost certainly meant the sacrifice of their own lives. They’d all come to terms with that a long time ago, but both younger men were now finding that the actual execution of that vow to give their lives in the name of the Emperor was a far more serious matter than some high theoretical idea that was bravely discussed over cups of warm sake.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen!”
They all turned in unison toward the sound of the voice and caught sight of Miguel Ortega approaching from some distance away at a fast walking pace, also clearly sweating in the evening humidity. He came to a halt before Sakamoto, placing his suitcase on the ground at his feet and hurriedly wiping a hand on his trousers before extending it in greeting.
“Mister Ka’aihue, I presume…?” He ventured with some confidence, having already determined which of the three was in charge, based on the interactions he’d already observed. “Miguel Ortega… I’m your contact for the United States.”
“Yes, of course, Mister Ortega,” Sakamoto nodded after just a moment’s pause, quite carefully and respectfully accepting the offered hand with almost regimental precision. “Kind of you to meet our arrival…” He turned his head to indicate the ship loading just behind them. “I see that preparations are already underway for our departure tomorrow.”
“The Liberty Glo arrived earlier than expected – I thought it prudent to have loading commence immediately. The wire from your contact in Honolulu indicated there was a tight deadline for your trip if you were to secure an important deal in New York.”
“Exactly the case,” Sakamoto confirmed with a forced smile, grudgingly willing to accept that based on his initial impressions, this Ortega appeared to be an efficient worker, despite his youth and his ‘foreign’ ancestry. “You seem to have everything in hand, senõr…”
“Miguel, sir… please…”
“Miguel, then…” Sakamoto agreed reluctantly. “So I should introduce you to the rest of my group… this is Kūkae and Pupuka…” he added, turning and indicating Abukara and Isaki respectively. They are my business associates and my partners in this venture… accordingly, anything they request of you, you can assume it has met with my approval.”
“I understand, sir…” Ortega confirmed, nodding seriously.
“And you may call us Sam, Izzy and Abe,” Sakamoto advised, going with the nicknames all three had agreed on with another attempt at a friendly smile. His had been a slight stretch, but the others’ had really been no more than Anglicised pronunciations of the real names in any case, making it easier for all of them to remain in character and avoid any awkward explanations over forgetting who they were.
“Sam… Izzy… Abe…” Ortega repeated, glancing quizzically and each man in turn and receiving a confirming nod.
“Our native, cultural names are difficult for westerners to even spell, let alone pronounce,” Sakamoto explained quickly, nipping the next expected question in the bud. We’ve found it easier to use more white-sounding names when dealing with Americans… I’m sure you understand…”
“Of course… Sam…” Ortega nodded, considering his own experiences with racial prejudice and deciding the explanation wasn’t at all unreasonable. “If you’ll follow me, I’ve already prepared your immigration paperwork with the custom’s officer… all they need is your signatures as a formality. I’ve taken the liberty of booking you three rooms in the best hotel in town: I wanted to make sure you all got plenty of rest prior to departure tomorrow.”
“Well done, Miguel,” Sakamoto nodded, his pleasure genuine this time over being presented with the possibility of a bath and a comfortable bed.
There was a loud whistle and shouted call from behind, and all four men turned in that direction to catch sight of a long, heavy crate being lifted from the deck of the vessel upon which the trio had just arrived. Hanging below one of the large, rail-mounted pier cranes, it swung pendulously in the breeze at the bottom of a series of long, thick steel cables. Almost three metres long and over a metre square, the oblong box gave the impression of great weight, judging by the creak of the cables as the arm of the crane slowly brought it away from the ship and out over the pier.
It began to lower, crewmen on the dock taking hold of guide ropes d
angling from each corner to keep it steady. As it drew to within a few feet of the concrete, there was a sudden crack of breaking wire and someone called a sharp warning as one end of the crate thudded heavily to the pier, smashing the wood in one corner. The load crew’s leading hand began screaming at his charges, berating them for anything he could bring to mind, despite it probably being no one’s fault that the cable had failed under the strain.
It was difficult to make out any detail in what was now failing light, but Ortega thought perhaps he could see the dull gleam of metal beneath the shattered boards of the crate. That the corner of what lay within appeared to be slightly dented and deformed also suggested a soft metal – perhaps lead or something similar – although he could be certain without closer examination. Either way, it appeared there had been no other damage suffered as the crane hook lowered and someone brought forth a new and substantially thicker replacement cable.
“Shall we, gentlemen…?” Ortega inquired, extending an arm back toward the landward end of the pier in the suggestion they should follow on.
Neither he nor anyone else present on the dock had noticed the sudden, horrified expression that had flickered across the collective faces of all three Japanese officers standing there, as that crate had struck the concrete. Abukara fought a sudden urge to be physically sick, while Sakamoto himself had to steady his shaking hand enough to raise the cigarette once more to his lips as all three wondered exactly how close they had come to being obliterated in an explosion large enough to vaporise the cruise ship across the water and wipe out most of the city into the bargain.
The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3) Page 36
