The Shiro Project

by David Khara

“Would it have killed you to let me know that we’d be shooting rubber bullets?” she screamed when she opened her eyes.

  Several hundred feet away, Branislav was leaning against a tree trunk. He slid all the way to the ground.

  “Rubber bullets,” he said and sighed as he held his head with both hands.

  Ignoring the woman’s accusations, Eytan opened a slit in what remained of the command post and peered inside.

  “I don’t see how that would’ve changed anything,” he responded distractedly, noting with satisfaction that all three occupants—two men in uniform and the woman wearing the white coat—were unconscious.

  He was about to enter when Elena crept up behind him with her arm cocked. Eytan turned around at lightning speed and diverted the attack with his palm. Before she could react, he grabbed her by the neck. Her jaw dropped in awe of his grip. He leaned in close and locked his cold blue eyes with hers. It wouldn’t take much for him to crush her windpipe.

  “Did you really think we were going to kill all these people? You’ve been a huge help so far. Don’t ruin it,” he said with disarming calmness.

  He released his grip and stepped back. Elena was tempted to launch a full-on attack that would settle things once and for all. But she was still shaking and decided to opt for a stalemate.

  “You should have warned me. That’s all,” she muttered, rubbing her throat.

  “Sure, but I didn’t. No deaths, but plenty of injuries. You’ll have to wait to get your dose of blood. End of discussion.”

  “Could you at least explain why you brought these weapons?”

  “I came to Prague hoping to beat up your little buddies from the Consortium. And I was planning to take prisoners. So I armed up. Is that explanation good enough for you?”

  “No.”

  “Whatever. I’ll get over it. Czechy?”

  “Uh, is that my new nickname?” asked Branislav, surprised to be addressed at all.

  “Yes, I’m not going to say your name out loud while we’re here,” Eytan responded.

  “Ah, all right.”

  “I’m bringing you the person we’ll be questioning. So pull your mask down. Elena, take the laptop and the files next to it. Over and out.”

  Elena was still frustrated. But she did as she was told. She quickly unplugged the PC cables and grabbed the computer. Eytan lifted the woman’s eyelids to make sure she wasn’t faking her unconscious state and picked her up.

  Crouched under a truck, a stunned Jan watched them leave the camp. Without any means of communication or backup, he knew this was no time to take action. Following them was the smarter move.

  Reaching the top of the hill, Eytan had barely lowered his prisoner to the ground, when Branislav rushed to meet him. He shook his hand vigorously.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he said. “I honestly believed you were going crazy.”

  “That’s not how his holiness operates,” Elena said as she walked up to the two men.

  She squatted beside the brunette and tied her wrists together with the nylon rope from her partner’s bag. Then she ripped off a strip of the woman’s coat and used it to blindfold her.

  “I’m not some naïve goody-two-shoes. If I had considered these people real enemies, not a single one of them would have gotten out alive,” Eytan responded. “In this case, killing them would have accomplished nothing for our mission.”

  Branislav didn’t know if the statement merited any praise, but it would do.

  Elena guarded the unconscious brunette while Branislav scanned the disk files with the Kidon agent at his side. Most of the documents were obscure medical reports riddled with terms that were impossible to comprehend. Branislav expressed his frustration in a string of swear words and grunts.

  Eytan gave up and walked over to his bag. He picked up the pile of documents and was flipping through them when he found something that put him in a good mood. It was a series of enlarged photographs. He flashed a predatory smile.

  It was time to question the prisoner and move out as quickly as possible.

  “See if you can wake her up,” Eytan ordered Elena.

  For once, his command was met with enthusiasm. A series of slaps to the face ensued. The scientist strained to lift her head after several attempts. Branislav approached Eytan and whispered in his ear.

  “Why am I wearing this mask if she can’t see anything?”

  “Safety first.”

  Elena unceremoniously pulled the woman into a sitting position.

  The interrogation proceeded with surprising simplicity. Eytan asked the questions. Branislav translated them as well as he could, and the terrified prisoner replied compliantly. Five minutes later, it was all finished. Eytan, however, was unsatisfied with the sparse information they had been able to glean.

  “Tell her not to worry,” Eytan said. “She has nothing to be afraid of. I’m going to drop her off at the camp. Pack everything up. I’ll be quick.” The woman yelped as Eytan threw her over his shoulder like an old rug and disappeared into the forest.

  From his hiding spot behind a bush, Jan didn’t have a good visual of the inquisitors, but he had heard everything. He had learned, to his astonishment, that the region had been subjected to a viral attack.

  He knew he had to capture one of these people. But he didn’t want to act recklessly, and he had only his handgun. His rifle had been lost in the chaos. “Damn, I wish Karel were here,” he said and sighed. “He would have known what to do.” Jan still failed to grasp how two people could have led such a violent frontal so effectively. Fortunately, the giant had cleared out. The masked man appeared to be unarmed. So the woman with the red hair appeared to be the only serious challenge.

  With Eytan and the prisoner gone, Branislav could finally remove his mask. He soothed his itchy face and swore that he’d throw the knit concealment into his parents’ fireplace the next chance he got.

  “Who told you to take that off?”

  As per usual, Branislav couldn’t tell if Elena was serious or pulling his leg.

  “Uh, what’s the big deal? We’re finished here, right? I don’t see why I need to keep it on.”

  Branislav stopped and raised his hands in the air.

  “You don’t have to be a drama queen about it. I was joking,” Elena replied.

  With a subtle move of his chin, Branislav instructed Elena to look over her shoulder. She obliged.

  Behind her, a man with a gun was moving toward the two of them. He signaled her to raise her hands. She complied.

  “On the ground, both of you,” the soldier ordered in patchy English.

  Elena did as she was told. But Branislav stalled. He was hoping to spot Eytan coming back from his drop-off. Nervous, vexed, and impatient, the soldier leaped at Branislav and hit him in the face with the butt of his gun. Branislav fell flat on his ass. He held his injured and bloody nose with both hands.

  Like a world-class gymnast, Elena pushed down on the ground with all her strength, jumped to her feet, and swung her legs at the man’s chest. He dropped his weapon and tumbled backward but regrouped by rolling into a perfect summersault. Stabilized once again, he adopted a Wing Chun stance—hands open in front of his torso—and advanced toward the woman.

  Elena froze as straight as an arrow, arms by her side. With a quick chest rotation, she dodged the first impulsive jab and countered with a low kick to the man’s shin.

  “I have a feeling that you and I are going to hit it off,” he said with a sinister smile.

  Elena found the first few moves entertaining. She was waiting patiently for the perfect moment to finish the poor guy off. Bring it on, she thought silently.

  But this man knew what he was doing. As she registered her opponent’s prowess, Elena’s arrogance vanished and was replaced with serious concentration. His masterful hand-to-hand combat skills forced her to rely on a full range of blocks and sways. She wasn’t gaining an inch of ground. And she was beginning to pant.

  A slight duck by he
r opponent gave Elena the opportunity she needed to take the advantage and bring the battle to a close. She seized it. She faked a right hook, forcing the man to block an absent attack. It was time to seal the deal. She circled in on him and wiped him out with a punch to the face. Before he had time to respond, she struck his forearm from below with her right hand and completed a reverse maneuver with the left hand. At the unmistakable sound of fractured bones, she knew she had successfully landed her move.

  She heard a howl of pain followed by a loud thud as his body hit the ground. But as she stood over her victim, Elena wasn’t feeling victorious. She couldn’t understand why, but she couldn’t see him. In fact, she couldn’t see anything.

  Eytan placed his gift at what was left of the camp. In a few moments, the soldiers would be pulling themselves together, and despite the inevitable broken bones from the nonlethal bullets, they’d be quick to sound the alarm. The authorities would surely be baffled by the use of rubber ammunition; this confusion would slow down their decision making and muddle their judgment. He would have preferred using other measures, but only a quick, violent, and deliberately exaggerated act could be effective in such an emergency. He was prepared to do anything to get Eli back. But had he crossed a line? He hated to admit it, but Cypher and he had a common goal. They both wanted to eliminate this threat, which was becoming more serious by the second. It was a sad truth: as much as government leaders went on and on about the quest for peace, the research into chemical, biological, and nuclear weaponry seemed to be gaining momentum. Death was already an inescapable truth. Did the world’s power brokers have to work so hard to hurry it along? And how many more innocent people would pay the price for their megalomania?

  A wave of heat snapped Eytan out of his thoughts. Rivers of sweat were pouring down his smooth-shaven skull. His veins were throbbing. He lowered himself to the ground and rested his back against a tree. He pulled out a small case that looked like it held cigars. Inside was a syringe filled with greenish liquid. His heart was beating at a dangerously fast clip. Trembling, he planted the needle in his right forearm and injected himself. The serum, which he always had with him, had been the source of his survival for decades. His heart slowed, and at the same moment, the world around him froze.

  CHAPTER 18

  Research Center Unit 731, Harbin, Manchuria, 1943

  He had been told the trip would be rough, and so far it was delivering on that promise. The young man felt homesick, but he hid it from his colleagues. Compassion was not a virtue valued by the Imperial Army, even in its medical unit. In fact, it wasn’t considered a prerogative at all. Loyalty and devotion were all that mattered to the emperor of Japan.

  Hirokazu Shinje considered himself a highly capable professional. It was an opinion that had been bolstered by his rigorous medical studies at Tokyo Imperial University. But since arriving on the continent, his confidence had been shaken by the center’s strict disciplinary practices.

  He was extremely proud to have been awarded this assignment in Manchuria, a region that had been occupied by Japan since the early nineteen thirties. Shrouded in secrecy, the research center near the city of Harbin focused on issues of water purification and the prevention of contagious diseases. Unit 731 dealt with vital questions concerning the protection of the Empire of the Rising Sun, and being invited there was quite an honor.

  In reality, however, living conditions and the nature of the work were far from satisfying. Researchers had to show absolute obedience or risk being hazed, a common practice in the army. And while the staff had access to recreational facilities, it was easy to feel trapped by the fifteen-foot-high fences and the watchtowers that bordered the grounds.

  Ruling this impressive kingdom was Lieutenant General Shiro Ishii. One hundred and fifty buildings on grounds that covered three and a half square miles were under his command. The man was charismatic, but he was also given to indulgences that shocked those inside and outside the military. He liked his booze and women and wasn’t inclined to show the least bit of restraint. Some people attributed his behavior to psychological problems. Hirokazu didn’t care about the cause or causes. He just thought the man was bat-shit nuts.

  Fortunately, they rarely crossed paths. This wasn’t surprising, considering the number of people working at the massive research center. In addition to the thousands of Japanese employees, there were Chinese and other Asian prisoners, as well as some Caucasian internees. Every day, the occupying government’s swift and radical justice system imprisoned another batch of criminals.

  Hirokazu had no problems with this. As far as he was concerned, criminals, especially Chinese criminals, were an unworthy, insignificant subspecies. And even though society had no use for them, they were quite helpful in his line of work: vaccine research. His sector relied heavily on a steady flow of human guinea pigs. The research they permitted him to do was much more reliable than animal testing.

  Three months into his assignment at the research facility, Hirokazu had established a predictable routine. After a light morning workout, he would survey the infected test subjects and monitor the progression of their ailments. Then came the inoculation phase, in which he would administer vaccines and new pathogenic strains. In the afternoon, he would attend a lecture given by an expert in a field such as biochemistry, hematology, virology, or surgery. Every once in a while he would go to the lab to hone his dissection skills.

  He followed this routine seven days a week. But he never complained. And neither did any of his colleagues, whose professional lives were almost identical to his. After all, Japan had taken on the Americans in the Pacific. The Japanese soldiers were willing to sacrifice their lives for the cause, but researchers like Hirokazu were making a significant contribution, as well.

  Hirokazu fought the monotony of the job by measuring his progress in the understanding and mastery of infectious agents. This knowledge would be helpful not only in the war effort, but also in his career.

  At the moment, he was impatiently waiting for his snooze-fest anatomy seminar to end. The ten other students in the lecture hall appeared to be just as bored as he was. But they were all jolted awake when a gray-haired man in a uniform with legal department insignia barged into the auditorium. He whispered a few words in the professor’s ear and addressed the small crowd.

  “We’re going to conclude our class with a new exercise. Leave your things here and follow me.”

  Hirokazu and the others complied. With their instructor leading the pack, the group left the room and then the building. Together, they walked to the closest prison and down to the locker room in the basement. Once there, they were told to change into protective clothing and leather aprons.

  They were led down a long corridor to a door guarded by two men. One of the guards opened the door and ushered them into a large area resembling a crude operating room. It contained only wooden tables and wheeled carts holding various surgical instruments. Hirokazu had to blink several times to adjust his eyes to the blindingly bright ceiling lights.

  Without having to be told, the students formed a semicircle in front of their professor. The man in uniform entered behind them.

  “Today, you’re going to practice surgery under simulated battlefield conditions. I’m expecting your very best work, as the fate of our soldiers depends on it.”

  He then gave an order to the guards, who brought in two Chinese men in chains. The first was approaching fifty, while the second looked like he was in his early twenties. The two men resembled each other, and Hirokazu thought they were father and son. They had identical birthmarks in the corners of their mouths.

  The prisoners appeared to be disoriented and terrified—less by the soldiers who handled them roughly than by the scholarly assembly of men in white shirts. Unlike the human guinea pigs used for viral tests, these men didn’t look malnourished. The students were told that the men hadn’t come from the prison, but from a nearby village. Hirokazu reflected on this and what it could mean. His questions were quic
kly answered.

  The man in uniform took out his handgun—a Type 14 Nambu pistol—and shot two bullets into the stomachs of the Chinese men. At the sound of the gunfire, Hirokazu’s heart stopped for what felt like many seconds. Terrified, he looked at the two injured victims curled up on the ground and squirming like earthworms.

  “The first group’s task will be to extract the bullets from the younger subject. Act as if he’s one of our own soldiers. The second team will amputate the four limbs of the older subject and then examine the viscera. The materials you will need are at your disposal, but no anesthesia. You’ll be judged on the survival rates of your subjects. Get to work!”

  The excitement in the room felt almost electric. Many of the students were jazzed by the unique nature of the experiment. The opportunity to operate on live subjects was extraordinary.

  Hirokazu elbowed his way to the table that had been tasked with bullet extraction. The young man was screaming in agony while the students strapped him to the wooden table with his arms crossed. A gag was placed over his mouth to muffle his shrieks. The students at the other table gave the father the same treatment. His agonized screams were even louder. Four students, two for each specimen, examined the men for breathing, cardiac rhythm, and the other vital signs.

  Behind a large glass window, Shiro Ishii, surrounded by a throng of military men, doctors, and researchers, some of whom were taking notes, was observing the surgeries. Hirokazu saw they were all fully engaged in the procedures.

  Hirokazu glanced at the other table, where one of the doctors was using a saw to slice into the older man’s right leg. He could feel his lunch coming up with the sounds that followed—breaking bones and smothered shrieks. Throwing up in front of the officials and his colleagues would mean the end of his career, so he used every bit of his discipline to quell the churning in his gut. His own operating table bore a closer resemblance to his idea of surgery as an art. The precision and thoroughness of his work calmed him down.