Fiends of the Rising Sun

by David Bishop

  He walked inside as the first beams of sunlight stabbed through the clouds to illuminate the morning. General Tojo was waiting for Hitori, his face betraying nothing. "Well? How do you feel? Has this Rumanian made you stronger, more powerful?"

  "Yes, general," Hitori conceded.

  "Excellent. Word of your demise in Manchuria has already been posted and I sent my adjutant to break the news to your beautiful young wife, Aiko."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Tojo took a piece of paper from his desk and handed the document to Hitori. It was marked with the emperor's seal. "This gives you power to requisition anyone and anything you need to further your cause. War with the Americans is imminent and you will play a vital part in ensuring our first strike is an effective one. The greater the surprise, the deadlier our blow will be." A knock at the office door interrupted them. "Come!" the general snapped.

  Suzuki entered and bowed low to both men. "Aiko Hitori has been told of her husband's unfortunate demise," he reported.

  "Very good," Tojo said. "There is no turning back for you, Zenji. Your future is bound up in the inevitable war to come. The same will soon be true for all of Japan, all of the empire. I have much to do in preparation for that glorious day, and so do you. Dismissed." The general returned to his desk and sat down, doing his best to ignore the others.

  Hitori let his friend usher him out. But the vampyr paused to look back over his shoulder at one of Japan's most powerful men. Tojo was trying to drink from a steaming cup of green tea, but his right hand was shaking too much. The general was forced to use both hands to hold the cup steady, his fingers visibly trembling. He's terrified, Hitori realised, terrified of me. The Minister of War for Japan is afraid of me.

  Suzuki closed the office door. "I'm sorry, Zenji, he made me tell Aiko about you dying in Manchuria. She's... She didn't take the news well." Suzuki waited, but his friend did not react. "Zenji, did you hear what I said?" He grabbed Hitori by the arm. "Zenji!"

  Hitori frowned. "Don't touch me," he warned.

  "But you were-"

  "It doesn't matter, not anymore."

  "What about Aiko?"

  "I can't think about her, not now." Hitori looked along the corridor in both directions. From his time as Tojo's adjutant, he knew that this early in the morning most of the building was still empty. "Your office, is it still by the stairs?"

  "Y-Yes... Why do you ask?"

  "I need your undivided attention and I don't want us to be disturbed."

  The two friends strode to Suzuki's office, locking the door once they were inside. Hitori was careful to keep away from the window, where sunlight was already flooding into the chamber. "Yesterday, you offered to take my place. Would you still do that?"

  "Of course."

  "Would you give up everything and everyone you know if I asked?"

  "Zenji, you know I would."

  "Good," Hitori said, a smile curling his lips. "Then you will become my lieutenant, my second in command for the dark days that lie ahead."

  "Whatever you want of me, it's yours to take," Suzuki replied.

  "You have access to all the efficiency reports, citations for bravery and valour in combat, yes? You can identify the best of the best among all of our soldiers, pilots and sailors, the men who would sacrifice anything and everything if they believed it was in service of the emperor?"

  The adjutant gestured at filing cabinets behind his desk. "It's all in there. Anything else you need I can summon from records."

  "Excellent," Hitori said. "Those men will be our weapons, bringing terror to the skies, seas and soils of the Pacific. They will become like us."

  "Like us?"

  "Yes, like us. Loosen your collar, Shiro, I'm going to drink your blood, before letting you drink a little of mine. After that we shall be bonded together for eternity, our fates intertwined for all time. What more could any friend ask?"

  TO: Sister Marie Kelly, Our Lady of the Sacred Heart Convent, Chicago

  Dear Sis,

  Well, we're due into the Philippines tomorrow and I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to being off this boat. I knew becoming an army chaplain would have its hardships, but thought the vocation we've both chosen would leave me well prepared for such things. I hadn't grasped the need to spend so long in such uncomfortable conditions. A natural sailor I am not, as you'll recall from that time we went out on the boating pond. Sadly, my sea legs have not improved over the years.

  As chaplain, I've been fortunate enough to be afforded a little more privacy than most of the men. They're a good group, earthy and likeable, although that applies more to some than others, of course. Young Juan Martinez is a wonderful fellow, kind and generous to a fault, always willing to come to the aid of his fellow recruits. At the other end of the scale is Arnold Buntz, who would steal the pennies from a dead man's eyes. I know that sounds harsh, but Buntz has all the morals of a sewer rat, and none of the charm. My silver crucifix, the one you gave me last Christmas, went missing on the first day of our voyage.

  Martinez returned it to me a week later. At first he wouldn't say how or where he found it, but I later discovered Buntz was responsible for the theft. He may not have taken it himself - Buntz rarely gets his own hands dirty - but it came to rest in his possession. As a result, I've taken to locking my tiny cabin each time I leave. A priest should be able to trust his parishioners, but I suppose Buntz would argue he's not among my flock, no matter how many times I invite him to mass. Yes, I know Sis, I should consider him a challenge. Something tells me I'll have challenges enough in the weeks and months ahead.

  Well, I can hear the other men making their way to the mess for our evening meal, so I'd better finish this if I want to eat tonight. Please write with all the news from home. I miss it and all of you terribly.

  All my love,

  Shamus.

  FIVE

  "Make no mistake, men, you have not come to the Philippines for a holiday!" Douglas MacArthur was standing on a raised dais, hands on his hips, a pipe clenched in the corner of his mouth. The commanding general of the United States Army Forces in the Far East looked out over the assembled ranks of the 200th Coast Artillery, all of whom were standing at attention in the blazing, midday heat. "You have not been sent to this place to work on your tan or to fraternise with the locals. You are stationed here as America's first line of defence against the threat posed to our great nation from the Orient. The politicians back home will tell you that America has no interest in starting a war, and that is how it should be. But if someone picks a fight with us, I'd like to think we'd be damn well ready to fight back!"

  Buntz, Wierzbowski and Martinez were standing shoulder to shoulder at the back of the assembled troops, under the watchful gaze of Sergeant Aimes. The stone-faced disciplinarian had been on their backs since the incident in Honolulu, berating Wierzbowski and Buntz for their part in the brawl at Tokyo Joe's and for disgracing the good name of the regiment. Martinez had escaped punishment for his part, but not the sergeant's suspicion. "I'm keeping my eye on you," Aimes snarled once a day at the young private, "my good eye!" The sergeant had lost one of his eyes in a regimental boxing match ten years earlier and the glass eye that replaced it was slightly too large, bulging grotesquely from the socket.

  "Make no mistake, we're in harm's way here," MacArthur continued. "I believe we will be at war within a year, maybe sooner. The Imperial Japanese Navy has been aggressively rearming itself for the best part of a decade. It is one of the few armies in the world with practical fighting experience, thanks to four years of battling the Chinese in Manchuria. You may think of them as little slant-eyed, yellow-skinned cowards, but I believe they pose the greatest possible threat to our position within the Pacific. All the negotiations in the world won't change the fact that war in this region is inevitable. When that war comes, and, by God, it will come, you men will see all the action you ever wanted and more. We need to get you ready for that action. We need to defend these islands with our hearts
, our minds, our weapons and our lives!"

  Buntz snorted. "No way I'm putting my ass on the line for some two-bit rock in the middle of nowhere, not me. Hell, if the Japs want to come around my old neighbourhood and start something, they'll find plenty of people there spoiling for a fight."

  "Put a sock in it, Buntz," the sergeant hissed.

  The general pulled the pipe from his mouth and used it to gesticulate at his troops. "I have confidence in all of you. You've already proven yourselves in non-combat situations. Each of you has undergone eight months of hard, rigorous training at Fort Bliss in Texas. It was due to the quality of your efforts during training that you were selected for this assignment. Hell, the 200th is officially the best anti-aircraft regiment in the entire US armed forces, regular or otherwise. That takes some doing. I am confident that with men of your calibre we'll defend these islands with honour, with strength and with precision!"

  "Three cheers for the general!" Aimes bellowed. The assembled troops replied in unison, some two thousand of them cheering their new commander.

  MacArthur smiled, accepting the honour with a nod. He waited until the cheers had died down before continuing with his address. "Now, I know you're all tired from the long voyage and no doubt eager to get to your new postings. I won't keep you out in this sweltering sun any longer than I have to, you'll be glad to hear. But I believe we should all pray for the success of your mission here. Would the regimental chaplain please join me on the dais?"

  Father Kelly was standing near the back of the assembly, his thoughts elsewhere. It took a nudge from behind by Martinez to get his attention. "Hey, father, the general's calling for you!"

  The priest looked around and realised everyone was staring at him. "Father, would you join me up here on stage?" the general asked. "That's if you're not too busy." That got a laugh from the men, further embarrassing the priest. Blushing to his blond roots, Father Kelly fell out of line and hurried towards the dais. He almost stumbled on the stairs before reaching MacArthur. The general shook him by the hand and welcomed the nervous priest to the Philippines. "The men and I would certainly appreciate it if you could lead us all in a prayer of thanks for their safe voyage, and of hope for the future."

  "It would be my honour," Kelly replied.

  "Good. We'll have need of your faith in the weeks and months to come," MacArthur said. He stepped aside so the priest could address the men.

  "Let us pray," Kelly said, endeavouring to make his voice loud enough to be heard by everyone. The soldiers lowered their heads, ready to receive his blessing. "Heavenly father, we ask that you look after these young men, sent here to defend these islands. We ask that you give them the gift of faith: faith to believe in themselves and each other, faith to do what's best."

  At the back of the assembled troops Martinez and Wierzbowski both had their heads bowed forward, listening to the priest's words, but Buntz was too busy smirking to pay much attention to the prayer. "Hey, Wierzbowski," he hissed out of the side of his mouth. "You hear what MacArthur called his little boy? Arthur MacArthur! What kind of name is that for a kid?"

  "Buntz, shut up!" Martinez whispered.

  "I wasn't talking to you, Sancho. I was talking to my buddy here."

  "If you don't want to hear the father's prayer, at least shut up so the rest of us can listen to it, okay?" Martinez hissed, aware of the sergeant's gaze.

  "Don't tell me what to do," Buntz growled. "I spent every day since we left Hawaii getting punished for that brawl and you got off scot free. You don't got the right to tell Arnold Buntz what to do, you little 'spic!"

  "What did you call me?" Martinez demanded.

  "Don't get your panties in a bunch, Sancho. I only called you a 'spic, it's short for Hispanic, okay?"

  "No, it's not okay. And stop calling me Sancho! My name is Juan."

  The smirking Buntz made an obscene, sacrilegious suggestion and got a punch in the nose from Wierzbowski. The overweight soldier responded by flinging himself at the taciturn recruit. Within moments the two of them were grappling on the ground, fingers trying to gouge out eyes, fists pounding flesh. Buntz had a weight advantage over his opponent but little else, and soon found himself pinned to the dirt, Wierzbowski giving him a pasting.

  "Amen," Father Kelly said at the front of the assembly.

  "Amen," the general echoed. "Thank you all for being so patient with me. Hopefully I'll get to know some of you a little better in the days to come." His gaze shifted to the altercation at the back of the assembly. MacArthur suppressed a rueful smile. "I see some of you are eager to practise your hand to hand combat techniques. Such enthusiasm is to be applauded, but let's not leave our best game in the locker room, okay boys? That's all, dismissed."

  The sergeant waited until MacArthur had left the dais before ripping Buntz and Wierzbowski apart. Aimes concentrated his attentions on Buntz while Martinez stopped Wierzbowski from going back for more. "Why'd you do that? Buntz was insulting me, not you. I could've dealt with him myself."

  His comrade shrugged. "I've been wanting to wipe that smirk off his face since San Francisco. He just gave me a good excuse."

  Buntz was busy arguing with the sergeant, protesting at being held back. "Let me at him! I could take that ape, anytime, any place!"

  "Yeah, sure," Aimes replied, "and my sister-in-law's ass isn't the size of Nebraska. Well now, the two of you just earned yourselves a month without privileges for that display. Count yourself lucky the general decided not to get involved, otherwise you'd both be facing a court martial. Now get your sorry asses out of my sight, before I double your punishments. Move!"

  Vice-Admiral Chuichi Nagumo's face split into a sneer. "This fool wants what?" He snapped his fingers until one of his men handed across a handwritten list detailing pilots and planes being requisitioned from the aircraft carrier Akagi. Nagumo was commander of the Imperial Japanese Navy's 1st Air Fleet, and notorious for the shortness of his temper. The vice-admiral's narrow, steely eyes slid down the document, his nostrils flaring. "Outrageous! On what authority does this upstart expect to take my best men and machines? Bring him in here, now!"

  The officer who had delivered the list stepped out of the bridge for a few moments before returning with a younger man. Nagumo glared at the newcomer, committing his features to memory. I will make an example of this whelp, he decided. I want to be able to describe his face well when I tell others the story of how I crushed him. Nagumo doubted the man standing opposite was more than thirty, and probably much less. The newcomer had a cruel mouth and a wry, questioning aspect to his demeanour, as if he had a secret advantage over everyone else in the room. His eyes were hooded, revealing no trace of fear or misgiving. Everything about this upstart screamed of insolence, his casual stance, the refusal to acknowledge the ritual bows when he entered, even the way he looked Nagumo up and down.

  The vice-admiral had expected this messenger to be humbled, even petrified, standing on the bridge of an imperial aircraft carrier. Instead he found his own will weakening, and his desire to see this worm humiliated melting away like the snow on Mount Fuji during summer. Nagumo broke eye contact with the visitor, determined not to give in. He chose to study the arrogant arrival's uniform. It bore the emperor's insignia, suggesting the wearer was drawn from Hirohito's personal guard. But there was another emblem visible on the collar, the peaked cap and over the left breast of the newcomer's tunic. Nagumo squinted, finding it difficult to make out the emblem's detail. The symbol was sculpted from black metal, so the insignia blended into the black tunic and cap band on which it rested.

  "It's a bat with wings unfurled, clutching the rising sun in its claws," the newcomer said, his voice thick with disdain for the vice-admiral.

  "I can see what it is," Nagumo snapped.

  "You seemed to be having a few problems making it out. Still, not that surprising at your age. I'm surprised the IJN chose you for this command."

  The vice-admiral's nostrils flared. "You insolent pup! How dare you address
me in that manner! Do you have any conception of how many ways I could destroy you for that remark?"

  "I'm guessing... none."

  Nagumo stepped closer to the newcomer. "What is your name?"

  "Why should I tell you?"

  "It would be helpful to know for when I notify your next of kin."

  "Is that a threat?"

  "Consider it a promise."

  "Don't make promises you can't keep, Chuichi." The other officers on the bridge gasped in shock at hearing a stranger use the vice-admiral's first name so casually, as if the two men were old friends. Nagumo drew back a hand to strike the sneering, smirking upstart, but it never reached its target. The fist flailed at thin air, the newcomer evading the blow with contemptuous ease, as if Nagumo's attack was slower than that of an infant. When the vice-admiral had recovered his composure, he found the upstart standing behind him, yet he hadn't seen the man move. How was this possible?

  "My name is Suzuki, Shiro Suzuki, and as much as I enjoy goading pompous old men like you, I don't have time to play any more games today."

  "You will pay for this with your life!" Nagumo raged.

  "I think not." Suzuki produced a sheet of parchment and handed it to the vice-admiral. Nagumo's eyes raced across the text, and then widened in dismay. "As you can see, I have full authority from the emperor to do and say whatever I please. You have no choice but to obey my every whim. Had I the time, I'd make you and your men dance around this aircraft carrier like little girls, but I've wasted enough energy on your petulance. You will furnish me with the pilots and planes I have requested, or suffer the consequences."

  "Of course, sir," Nagumo replied, bowing as low as he could to Suzuki. "All will be as you ask, but when will my men and machines be returned?"

  "They are my men and machines now. That's all you need to know."