by David Bishop
But the Japanese passenger was a blank, a void, and that made his presence in the back seat all the more perturbing. His posture gave off no signals, and both hands rested comfortably in his lap. His sole distinguishing characteristic was to sit in the shadows, keeping out of direct sunlight at all times. Now the sun had set, the passenger appeared a little more relaxed, as if he no longer had any worries. Danner didn't know why this was significant, and his fare certainly wasn't volunteering any information. The cabbie had made a few attempts at conversation, but they were met by a stony silence from the back seat. He soon learned to shut up and drive.
Danner pulled on the handbrake and twisted around to look at his passenger. "Well, this is it, Tokyo Joe's Bar and Grill, the end of the line."
The Japanese man produced two twenty dollar bills and offered them to the driver, more than three times the required amount to settle the fare.
"That's too much," Danner said. "I can't accept that much from you."
His passenger frowned. "Why not?"
"I was just doing my job. Pay me the going rate and a tip if you want, but I can't accept that much. It wouldn't be right."
"You show great honour. I did not expect that."
"Like I said, I'm just doing my job."
"Very well." The passenger considered the two notes in his hand. "One of my countrymen or I may have need of your services later. Will you accept this money as advance payment to remain here until required?"
"Well, sure, but-"
Then we have an agreement, a voice whispered in the cabbie's mind.
"I guess we've got a deal," Danner said, accepting the twenties. "But if you or your friends don't get in my cab before midnight, I'm heading home."
"So be it." The passenger got out of the cab and shut the door.
"Hey!" the cabbie called out. "Nearly half the people on Oahu look Japanese. I need a name, otherwise I could give the wrong person your ride."
"Hitori or Kimura," the passenger said before entering the bar. Stay.
Danner decided he'd stay, and wrote the two names in pencil on one of the greenbacks. Maybe he'd been wrong about the passenger. Anybody who was willing to tip you more than twenty bucks couldn't be all bad, could he?
Paxton stared at the fallen sergeant, his mouth moving, but no words coming out. It was Maeda who came to the sergeant's aid, crouching down on the opposite side from Piper. He leaned over the body, one hand resting on the ground beside the head, listening for any sound from Hicks. "He's... It's okay, I can hear something... He's still breathing!" Maeda pointed to the gatehouse. "Piper, get on the phone and call for a medic. Do it!"
"Your hand," the sentry said.
Maeda looked at his palm, the one that had been on the ground. It was covered in blood, crimson dripping from his fingers. Using his clean hand, Maeda tipped the sergeant's head to one side. There was a pool of blood underneath it. "Call a damned medic, Piper, now!"
The sentry hurried into the guardhouse, his frantic voice echoing within the small structure as he shouted into a telephone for help. Paxton knelt down on the other side of Hicks, his face still stricken by the shock of what had happened. "Pat, what should I do? Tell me what I should do!"
Maeda frowned. "They're gonna throw the book at you no matter what happens, whether Hicks makes it or not."
"You think he could die?"
"The sergeant's got blood pouring out of the back of his head, Paxton. You heard what it sounded like when he hit the edge of the step. That noise, I think it was his skull cracking open. God only knows what'll happen to him."
Paxton licked his lips, trying to focus and think. "All I did was punch him. I've punched a dozen guys before and none of them ever..."
"We'll all tell them that, you, Piper and me," Maeda said. "We'll tell them it was an accident. Yeah, you meant to hit him, but that was all; you didn't mean this." Maeda looked at his bloody hand and wiped it dry on his khaki trousers, staining them crimson. "You'll still face charges, but it'll be okay as long as-"
"As long as he doesn't die?" Paxton cut in.
Maeda nodded.
"I can't take that chance," Paxton decided, getting back to his feet. "If I stay here and he dies, that's it, my life is over too."
"Well, what's the alternative?"
Paxton looked over his shoulder to the world beyond the gatehouse. "I take off, lose myself somewhere on the island until this all blows over. If Hicks dies, it'll be in the papers, I'll know not to come out of hiding. If he makes it, leave me a message with Kissy and I'll come back, face the music."
Maeda stood up. "That's crazy! You'll be going AWOL, that only makes you look more guilty. Run now and you'll spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder until they catch you, and they will catch you. Oahu's not a big place, and there're not enough places for you to hide. They'll find you, eventually."
"Maybe," Paxton conceded, "but if I'm going to spend the rest of my damned life rotting in a cell somewhere, I want one night in heaven first!" He turned and strode away from the gatehouse, away from the base.
"Don't do this!" Maeda called after him, but got no response.
Piper emerged from the gatehouse, drawing a pistol from his holster. "I told the MPs what happened. They say I've got to keep Paxton here until they arrive." The sentry glanced around, mystified until he spotted the marine striding away from him. "Hey, Paxton, come back!"
Still the fugitive didn't reply, his pace quickening until he was running away from the base. "I said come back here!" Piper yelled. "Otherwise I open fire."
Paxton was sprinting, running for his life.
The sentry raised his pistol and took aim at the receding figure. "Don't shoot," Maeda pleaded. "You know it was an accident."
"I've got my orders," the sentry said, hands trembling as his finger moved to pull the trigger. Maeda stepped over the prone sergeant and shoulder charged Piper so his shot flew harmlessly into the air. By the time the sentry had recovered from the attack, Paxton was out of sight. "Damn you!" Piper hissed at Maeda. "I'd have got him if you hadn't interfered."
"I doubt it; your hands were shaking too much."
The sentry swung his pistol around and aimed at Maeda, preparing to shoot the unarmed marine from point blank range. "Yeah, well, I think even I could hit you from this distance if I tried hard enough."
"Piper, I didn't do anything," Maeda protested.
"You aided and abetted the escape of an attempted murderer."
"What? All I did was bump into you, and Paxton didn't try to kill the sarge, he just punched him in the face. The rest was an accident and you know it!"
"Right now that's your word against mine."
"Fine! Shoot me if you want," Maeda snapped, kneeling back down beside the fallen man. "But killing me while I try to stop Sergeant Hicks from bleeding to death won't look good on your service record, will it?"
Suzuki and his cadre of kyuuketsuki sat at the back of the briefing as the assembled pilots were given their targets for the next day. More than 250 planes would fly from Taiwan to the Philippines where they were to attack Clark Field and Fort Stotsenberg. Two-thirds of the aerial armada would be bombers, with close to a hundred Zeros as escort. Once the bombers had finished pounding the US facilities, the fighters would swoop down and strafe anything that had escaped the high altitude bombardment. The goal was simple: to destroy the US Army Air Force in the Philippines, eliminating any American aerial counter-strike against Japanese forces.
The briefing officer was succinct and fierce. "Due to the time difference between here and Hawaii, our attack on Pearl Harbour will start before we reach the Philippines. We will not have the element of surprise on our side, so we'll need all our skill and courage to defeat the enemy. Dismissed!"
Suzuki kept his kyuuketsuki back while the other pilots filed out of the briefing. A few of those leaving risked a glance at the vampyr pilots, but most of the fliers didn't acknowledge their presence at the back of the room. Once the room had emptied, Suzuki stood to addres
s his vampyr cadre.
"It will not have escaped your attention that our countrymen keep away from us. Like all mortals, they fear the unknown, so they fear us. Remember that well, my brethren. When the attack commences tomorrow, the seven of us will fly as a separate unit from the others. They have strategic objectives to fulfil. Our goal is to bring fear and terror to the Americans. That is why our fighters are painted black from nose to tail, to mark us out as different, a force to be feared. Our capabilities are unknown. Tomorrow we shall change that. Tomorrow our wrath shall become the stuff of legends and nightmares."
Walton approached the gatehouse expecting another dull night of watching other marines coming and going. They'd leave the navy yard reeking of aftershave and hormones, ready to spend their hard earned dollars in the city. Around midnight the survivors would stagger back to their barracks, stinking of beer and tobacco, usually in pairs to stop one another from collapsing. Those that didn't make it back under their own steam would reappear later, slumped over in the back of MPs' jeeps, cuts and bruises telling their own story about what had happened.
After the brawl at Tokyo Joe's in September, Walton had little enthusiasm for similar bouts of debauchery. He was a simple country boy from a farming community, the eldest of half a dozen siblings. Aside from a few sips of hooch from an illicit still back home, he rarely drank and usually found himself regretting the consequences when he did. So, whenever Walton felt the urge to paint the town red, the young marine would volunteer for a night of sentry duty at the gatehouse. Seeing the effect demon drink had on his fellow recruits was more than enough to convince him that staying sober was the safer option.
But the night was still young when he reached the gatehouse to relieve Piper and already somebody was flat out on the ground. From a distance he looked dead drunk. When Walton got closer, the fallen figure just looked dead. He was shocked to realise that it was Sergeant Hicks, a pool of blood spreading out from beneath his skull. Maeda and Piper were standing over the sergeant arguing, the sentry shoving a pistol in Maeda's face.
"What the hell's going on?" Walton demanded.
"Thank god you're here," Maeda replied, relief all too evident on the marine's face. "Did you bring a medical bag or a first aid kit?"
"I'm just here to relieve Piper. What happened to the sarge?"
"Paxton attacked him and ran off, aided and abetted by an accomplice," the sentry said, pointing his pistol at Maeda, "him."
"That's crap and you know it!"
"That's what is going in my report, you slant-eyed SOB," Piper snarled. "Walton, put Maeda under arrest and escort him to the captain's office."
"Why? Pat says-"
Piper turned his pistol towards Walton. "I don't care what your yellow friend here says, I'm in charge now! Do what I tell you or else I'll have you brought up on charges as well. Is that clear enough for you?"
Walton stared at the end of the pistol. Nobody had ever pointed a gun at him before and the experience was frightening. All his life Walton had been fighting a constant battle with his terrors, fearful that someone would discover he was a coward. The smallest thing could scare him: spiders, heights, even the dark. He startled too easily, making him an easy target for bullies like Paxton. Walton had thought that joining the marines would force him to confront his demons and help him overcome his fears. There was no place for cowards in the corps, the recruiting officer had said. Guess I'm the exception that proves the rule, Walton decided. He swallowed hard and took a step towards the sentry.
"Now come on, Piper, you're not gonna shoot me, are you? I'm on your side, remember? Besides, I only just got here, didn't I?" Walton asked. He was close enough to touch the pistol now. The frightened soldier reached out a hand and wrapped it around the handgun. "Why don't you give me that weapon and then we can talk about what happened sensibly, okay?" He slowly, delicately, slid the pistol out of Piper's trembling hands. "That's it, that's the way. No need for guns, we're all friends here, aren't we?"
Piper's hands fell to his sides while his head nodded a numb agreement.
"That's right," Walton agreed, pocketing the weapon. "Look, why don't you go back inside the gatehouse and call the medics? They should have been here by now, shouldn't they? You go and put a rocket up them. Go on."
Piper walked into the gatehouse, his face ashen, hands still trembling. After a few moments Walton heard his colleague talking to the base infirmary. Maeda came over and shook Walton by the hand. "Thank god you got here when you did, Walton. I honestly thought he was going to shoot me."
"How's Hicks?"
Maeda frowned. "Not so good. I put a cloth under his head to staunch the bleeding, but he's been unconscious since the accident." Maeda looked around, searching for any sign of an ambulance or medics approaching. "Why aren't they here yet? The sarge'll die unless he gets proper medical attention soon."
"What happened?"
"Pretty much what Piper said, but less exaggerated. Paxton was trying to talk his way off base without a pass when the sarge arrived. Paxton punched Hicks in the face and the sarge fell over, hitting his head on that step. He hasn't moved since." At last the wail of sirens could be heard, getting louder and closer. "Paxton made a run for it and Piper was going to shoot him."
"So you stopped him?"
Maeda shrugged, embarrassed. "I just gave him a nudge, put his aim off. It was nothing, really. Any of us would have done the same."
"I wouldn't," Walton replied. "Paxton struck someone of superior rank; he's got to be punished for that. If what happened next was an accident, he should have stayed to face the consequences-"
"That's what I told him," Maeda cut in.
"Running away makes him look more guilty, not less. Piper was within his rights to shoot." Walton undid the catch holding his sidearm in place and let his hand rest on the grip. "You shouldn't have intervened, Pat."
"I couldn't let Piper shoot Paxton!"
"That wasn't your decision to make. I'm going to have to place you under arrest, until all of this can be sorted out."
"What?"
Walton frowned. "Please, Pat, don't make this any harder than it is."
Maeda glanced over his shoulder at the road to Honolulu, the same road Paxton had used to flee. But he wasn't Paxton and he never would be. Sighing, Maeda turned back to Walton. "Fine, arrest me, but as least let me stay here until the medics arrive, so I can explain to them what happened."
To: Mrs Irma Paxton, San Diego, California.
Dear Momma,
I don't know how to tell you this so I'm just gonna write it down in a letter and decide whether or not to mail this to you later. I think I killed a man an hour ago. I won't go into the details - that'll be for my court martial to decide, if it comes to that - but I want you to know I didn't mean to kill him. His name was Lee Hicks and he was our sergeant major at the base on Oahu. He's been ragging on my buddy Pat for months and I decided to step in. It seemed the right thing to do at the time.
We got into a tussle, well, I guess you could call it that. Truth is, I punched him in the nose and he went down. He cracked his head something fierce on a concrete step and then there was blood everywhere. After that I ran. Didn't know where I was running to, just what I was running from. I guess if you could talk to me, you'd say I'm always running away from trouble: the trouble I caused at home, the trouble I caused with that officer's wife at San Diego. You name it, I've made a mess of it.
I thought the corps might be something I could get right for once, do some good, make a difference in the world. Everybody says war is coming. I figured that'd be my chance to redeem myself. Now I'm not even gonna get the chance to do that. I've screwed up again and this time I can't see any way around what I've done, no wriggling out of my responsibility on this one. I'm to blame and that's all there is to it, plain and simple.
I'm writing this on a park bench, outside the cathedral. It's a beautiful building, Momma; I think you sure would like it a lot. All of Oahu is beautiful. I was kinda hoping
that one day I could bring you here and you could see it for yourself, but I guess that ain't gonna happen. Now I've got a choice to make. I'm gonna go inside the cathedral and make my confession, tell the priests what I've done and ask for absolution. Then no matter what else happens, I'll know I've got God's forgiveness. If He can forgive me, then maybe I can forgive myself. That's the first step.
After that I plan on getting blind drunk. I know, I know, you don't like me drinking and I guess you certainly don't want to read a letter from me telling you about my drinking. I know Daddy drank himself into an early grave and maybe I'll end up doing the same, but I'd like to think I've learnt a few things from his mistakes, just a few, mind. So, while I'm waiting for the MPs to come find me and drag my sorry butt back to face the music, I figure I might as well get myself good and liquored up. I ain't no great shakes at facing the music, never having done it before, and I certainly don't want to start while I'm sober.
Once I'm drunk, I'm going to ask a beautiful young woman called Kissy to marry me. She's got the prettiest eyes you ever did see, Momma, and a smile that makes your heart sing. I love her almost as much as I love you, and if she says yes to me, it'll make everything else that little bit easier to take. Wish me luck, Momma, because I think I'm gonna need it.
Well, I've run out of paper and I've still got so much I wanted to say - ain't that just typical? Still, I can tell you how much I love you, Momma, and how much I appreciate everything you done to try and bring me up right. I'm sorry to turn out such a disappointment to you, and I hope and pray that one day you'll forgive me.
Your loving son,
Benjamin.
SIX
Paxton was drunk and getting drunker by the minute. He'd been sitting at the bar in Tokyo Joe's for less than an hour, expecting the MPs to burst in any minute to drag his ass back to the navy yard. After that there would be questions, recriminations and accusations, with no doubt a court martial to follow, and, if Hicks died as a result of what had happened, the prospect of a long stretch in a military prison somewhere. Paxton figured that by the time he got out, he'd be too old to enjoy much of anything anymore. So he was downing drinks with alacrity, determined to savour his final minutes of freedom.
