Luck was with them for the time being. Left out in the open and completely exposed, the two guards that were their first targets were battered and bruised by the unexpected blast wave as it slammed both men against the wall of the barracks. In the midst of recovery, both men inadvertently staggered directly into Ritter’s path as he burst from the barracks, an advantage of height with him as he launched himself upon the nearer of the pair from the top of the low stairs. Barely audible over the roar of explosions and the continuing wail of the sirens, the unsuspecting private screamed horribly as the tanto punched straight through his tunic and slipped straight between his ribs, his life already fading as momentum and body weight sent him sprawling onto the hard earth with Ritter crashing down on top of him.
A yard or two further away, his partner turned in reaction to the sudden threat, making a move to unsling the submachine gun over his right shoulder and bring it to bear. He was never given a chance to complete the action as Eileen charged toward him with an atavistic roar of her own, home-made club held high and swing unerringly downward in a deadly arc toward the man’s head. His cloth field cap was no match for the hardened wood as it smashed down, crushing his skull with a sickening, moist thud and killing him instantly. His corpse dropped instantly to the ground in a lifeless heap.
A moment or two later and both bodies were neatly hidden inside the barracks, with little to show that there’d been any incident at all save for a fresh, dark stain against surrounding earth that was still damp in any case from the rain of the preceding days.
“You’re all right, Carl…?” Reuters asked carefully, wary of the wild gleam in the younger man’s eyes and the blood stain that covered the front of his tunic, making it difficult to determine if he himself had also been wounded.
“No…” he admitted breathlessly in return, unable to meet anyone’s gaze for more than a few seconds at a time, “but I can keep control if I don’t think about it too much…”
His right arm was red to the wrist, while blood dripped from the blade of the tanto he still held, forcing the others to look quickly away lest they all feel suddenly ill.
“Perhaps this might be a better option?” Eileen suggested distastefully, offering one of the submachine guns taken from the fallen guards and exchanging it for the blade.
“Yes… yes…!” Ritter exclaimed, obviously manic now and unable to calm down completely as he also accepted a pair of extra magazines that he stuffed into his belt. “Herr Schiller! We must move quickly…! You men…!” He barked, directing his next words at a trio of German sailors, one also armed with the other submachine gun. “You three make for the wharf and secure that flying boat! We need it safe and ready to fly when we return!”
“Jawohl, Mein Herr…!” All three turned almost as one and immediately jogged off toward the beach.
As this was happening, Eileen gingerly wiped the tanto’s blood-soaked blade with a small towel she’d taken from the barracks while helping to carry in the bodies. Eventually deciding it was clean enough, she slid it back into the scabbard she’s also taken from Ritter in exchange and, reaching around, slipped the weapon into the belt of her pants, positioning it in the small of her back at an angle that would give the least discomfort.
A dozen Australian and Dutch prisoners and a handful of German naval ratings had also gathered around in the moments following that initial attack, most of them having already prepared with makeshift weapons similar in construction to the club Eileen carried. As Eileen and Reuters took control of their respective groups in that moment, they began issuing orders intended to push their men into action and quickly dissipate the growing mistrust with which both sides were eye each other.
“Our deal still stands, Reichsmarschall…?” She asked quickly, sliding the wrapped blade into a side pocket of her army fatigue pants as she received a silent nod of agreement in return. “Then let’s go and get your fella, yeah? Two men out on the left flank, now…!” She continued quickly, despatching a pair of Australian troopers to guard any approach from that direction. “Four more to take station by hut lines four and five… the rest of you with me to the hospital!”
Hefting her club once more, she and her men moved off with the smaller group of Germans in the direction of the hospital wing at a cracking pace.
"We’ve got movement by the huts…” Jinkins noted, staring through a pair of binoculars as he took his turn at watch.
“Good time to make a break for it, now the rest of those Japs have buggered off,” Langdale observed, hurriedly fastening the lid of his canteen and slipping it back into the pouch at his belt as he raised his rifle and squinted through the scope in the same direction. “Can’t see much from here…” he added, inwardly cursing the compound layout, with that end of the Germans’ hut partially obscured by nearer buildings. All he could currently see of that particular area was a muddle of feet moving indistinctly between the stumps that held the closer huts well clear of the ground. “Think they might’ve killed one of the guards though…” he added grudgingly, catching a flash of dark red against what looked like a tan uniform amid the scuffle.
“More of our boys coming out of the other huts now…” the lieutenant added, somewhat unnecessarily as perhaps a dozen or more Australian and Dutch prisoners burst from their barracks almost in unison, all clearly converging on the initial area of activity. “Gotta be some kind of organised response.”
“Time to muck in and help, I reckon…” Langdale decided quickly, snapping back the cocking handle on his M2 and then loading a grenade into the under-barrel launcher. “You wanna lead off, lieutenant?”
“Happy to defer to experience, mate,” Jinkins replied with a broad grin. “I know a special forces man when I see one…”
“Sir…!” He nodded crisply in return, all business now as it came time for action.
“How do you wanna run this?”
“I’ll get you to take your platoon about five hundred yards around to the north there,” Langdale began, taking just a moment to think before extending an arm in the appropriate direction. “If you set up a firing line on that flank, you should have good vision straight down between the rows of the central huts, and also be able to cover off anyone approaching through the scrub from that direction. Keep the girl with you for the time being: it’ll be safer for her… I’ll take what’s left of second platoon with me and make an approach around the left flank, behind the hospital; that should give us good cover on the other side as well. You remember how to use that radio…?”
“Well enough, sarge… just press and talk, stop pressing and listen…” Jinkins nodded quickly, taking the small hand-held unit from his pocket and holding it up for inspection. Taken from the extra supplies that had been delivered the night before, it’s simplicity of operation had required all of five minutes’ training.
“Hold fast for my signal,” Langdale instructed, giving a nod of his own in return. “If you don’t hear from me in ten minutes, don’t bother coming for us: it means we’re already buggered: just get the hell out and try to link up with the rest of Gull Force.”
“Understood,” the lieutenant acknowledged, turning immediately and moving back into the jungle at a crouch, heading for where the rest of his men had set up camp a few dozen yards away.
Staring through the rifle scope again, Langdale panned the low-power optics across the clearing from right to left, scanning for any sign of what was actually going on. Within a few moments he caught a fleeting glimpse of a cluster of prisoners darting quickly between the far ends of two barrack lines, with at least two of those present clearly armed with what he clearly recognised as Uzi submachine guns. Behind them he also caught the momentary flash of a differing camouflage pattern that he’d only seen being worn by Eileen Donelson, himself and Lloyd during the whole time he’d been on the island. On that alone, he was utterly confident he’d identified at least one of the group.
“Where the bloody hell are you off to…?” he muttered out loud, scanning the rifl
e scope further across to the left as he followed through on their projected course and ended up quite close to the main hospital buildings. “What – or who have they got there who’s so bloody important…?”
His attention was drawn away from the scene at that moment by the subtle sound of footsteps approaching behind him. Turning, he took in the sight of the remnants of second platoon coming up as requested: twenty-odd men carrying an assortment of Allied and Japanese weapons, one of whom being the same private he’d had words with on the beach, hours before.
“You lot ready to kick Hirohito’s arse…?” He asked with an evil smile, receiving nods and soft, profanity-laden oaths of affirmation. “What about you, Bluey…?” He added, supressing a grin and purposefully accentuating a stereotypically indigenous tone in his voice. “Ready to shoot some Japs with this blackfella, eh?”
“Bloody oath, sarge!” Bluey Johnston replied in an instant, also grinning and not at all minding the chuckles of the others, bought at his expense.
“Shit-hot, fellas…!” Langdale declared, considering the matter closed as he crouched and signalled for them all to gather around. “We’re gonna skirt around the clearing here…” he continued, again pointing out directions as he developed his plan on the fly. “We’ll stay inside the treeline as long as we can and come out behind the hospital over there: that should cover our right flank as we head into the compound, and we’ve got first platoon covering or arses on that side anyway. From there, we’ll head into the barracks lines and start getting anyone we come across to the safety of the jungle. We’ve also got a bunch of prisoners heading that way from the other direction. There may be Germans mixed in with our boys, and their accents might not sound much different to some of the Dutch blokes here, so watch your fire: best not to go shooting at anyone who doesn’t look Japanese, unless they fire first. Any white buggers need shootin’…” he added, not able to supress another evil smirk, “…you just leave that to me…!” He got another round of laughter from that one, inwardly pleased with himself. “Understood…?”
“Sarge…!” They all chorused in unison, the whole group positively champing at the bit.
“Alright! Who’s got the DeLisle…?”
“Me again, sarge…” Bluey declared cheerfully, holding up a silenced M4 carbine for all to see.
“Then this is your lucky fuckin’ day, private… you get to take point!”
“Sarge…!”
The crack and rattle of gunfire rose up from the compound at that moment, and judging by the direction, Langdale feared it might well have involved the group of prisoners he’d spotted on the move, Donelson among them. He gave Johnston a single nod of encouragement and the private set off quickly through the jungle undergrowth to the south, skirting around the clearing with his rifle at the ready as they made for the edge of the clearing near the rear of the hospital building.
Thorne had come back around from the south in a huge arc before turning back in to the north once more, climbing on afterburner the entire time until he’d pushed well past ten thousand feet. The EOTS had maintained lock on Junyō throughout the manoeuvre, and it was instantly identified as a target as he turned onto final approach and it again came into view through his helmet targeting systems.
“Harbinger to Red Flight – status report, please…”
“Red Leader here, Harbinger…” the response came back immediately through his headset. “ETA ten minutes and closing – we can see the island now: looks like you’ve started without us…”
“Just thinning out the herd for you, Red Leader…” Thorne replied with a grin as the F-35 levelled out and began to accelerate toward supersonic once more. “Scratch one light carrier and commencing attack run on number two now…”
“No need to be greedy, sir…”
“Plenty for everyone, squadron leader,” Thorne quipped in return, feeling his adrenaline rise with his airspeed as the Lightning approached the sound barrier, a vapour cone of condensed water formed around its middle, and it punched on through to more stable flight beyond Mach One. “See you at the party… Harbinger out…”
His fire control systems began to beep at him, warning that weapon release was drawing near. At far greater height and speed than his initial attack, the release distance would be earlier than before, particularly considering he was this time carrying out a far more conventional level bombing attack. Puffs of black and grey flak began to burst to his rear, shells arcing upward from the heavier 127mm dual-purpose gun mounts fitted both to Junyō and to Nachi, the heavy cruiser anchored further up into the northern reaches of the bay near Paso. He was relatively safe from smaller AA weaponry at that altitude, and the speed of his approach was such that the Japanese gunners, having never been trained in targeting a supersonic jet, were bursting their shells far too late and having trouble tracking his progress.
Both vessels had by this time slipped their moorings and were moving now, seeking safety in the open sea beyond the southernmost reaches of Ambon’s encircling peninsulas. It took precious time to develop steam and any decent amount of speed however, and the relatively tight spaces of the bay itself left little room to manoeuvre as Junyō was forced to steer clear of her stricken, burning sister-ship.
The carrier’s target box merged with his bomb-aiming pipper in the following moment and four more bombs fell in quick sequence from beneath the Lightning – the remaining two from the triple-racks on each inner wing pylon and two more from its internal fuselage bays. With his main racks now empty, Thorne ejected both of them and they fell away in an instant, the aircraft positively surging ahead with the reduced drag as he pulled back on the stick, banked away to the north-east and took the Lightning higher still, a tongue of blue-white fire roaring from its boosted exhaust that was almost as long as the aircraft itself.
The bombs continued downward on along their ballistic arcs, their streamlined shapes slicing through the air as they closed unerringly on their turning target. The F-35’s fire control was the best that 21st Century technology could produce, and factors such as speed, direction and lead time had all been calculated to the smallest microsecond. Three of the four weapons released struck Junyō in quick succession, completely enveloping her in a red-black cloud of devastation that tore her apart in an instant.
Originally laid down as fast ocean liners prior to being commandeered by the Imperial Japanese Navy, the 24,000-ton Hiyō-class light carriers had never been fitted with the greater levels of armour plating accorded their larger, full-sized brethren. Three thermobaric weapons of such size – roughly equivalent in combined force to almost six thousand pounds of conventional TNT – were more than enough to destroy Junyō entirely. Debris and huge pieces of the vessel spiralled away in all directions, killing many exposed sailors on surrounding ships and also severely damaging some of the closer vessels themselves, and as the initial blast of smoke and flame cleared, rolling high into the sky, the shredded remnants of Junyō’s burning hull were already rolling over and slipping below the surface of the bay by her twisted and broken bow.
Survivors were also leaping from Hiyō now as huge, oil-fuelled fires spread the entire length of her buckling flight deck. A few minor magazine explosions ripped through her insides, causing the ship to shudder visibly in the water, only to be followed a moment later by another catastrophic blast as her aviation fuel and ordnance detonated simultaneously. Both sides of her double hull were blown out at the waterline and she too began to settle quickly, joining her sister-ship beneath the waves just a few minutes later. Streaking upward into the sky above, Max Thorne made a concerted effort ignore the fact that in just two attacks, he had snuffed out the lives of almost two thousand fellow human beings.
“Where are they…?” Hasegawa screamed, sword in hand and turning almost blue with rage as he towered over to first two guards he’d been able to find. “Which one of you incompetent pieces of filth has allowed them to escape…?”
It hadn’t taken long to locate the bodies of the guards
inside the otherwise empty barracks, nor had it been any harder to work out – considering the distinct lack of any prisoners anywhere in the vicinity – that their deaths had been part of some kind of mass escape attempt that on the face of it appeared to be working right at that moment in time.
“I want two squads ready with full assault gear!” He howled, incensed as he cast about the area outside the open doorway of the Germans’ hut with sword extended. “I know there’s an air raid…!” He bellowed, getting into the face of a terrified private foolish enough to have stated the obvious. “Two of our fucking aircraft carriers just blew up and sank!” He added, lifting the blade and jabbing it skyward as the ripping sound of the Lightning hurtling away overhead carried through over the din of explosions and wail of sirens. “Do you think that’s the Dragon King of the South Sea up there, you fucking peasant…? I want two squads assembled, and I want them now! I will find that bitch and her bastard-dog German friends and drag them back here by their fucking entrails if need be!”
Lieutenant Oshiro had been feeling particularly sorry for himself throughout most of that morning. That he’d again been shamed and dishonoured at the hands of a woman was bad enough; that he’d also been disarmed and had his nose broken by a man old enough to be an ‘ancestor’ had simply rubbed mental salt into the psychological wounds he’d suffered in conjunction with his physical injuries. As the initial air raid sirens had gone off, he was seated in a small treatment room of the main hospital, having his swollen, bruised and completely out of shape nose seen to by John Watson.
The doctor had taken some private enjoyment from making sure there hadn’t been quite enough local anaesthetic administered to make it comfortable for the pilot as he’d repositioned the broken cartilage and applied bandaging to the man’s bruised face. To some credit at least, Oshiro had managed to maintain a mostly-strong front during the whole process, wincing occasionally from the pain but otherwise remaining quite stoic under the circumstances.
The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3) Page 102
