Fiends of the Rising Sun

by David Bishop

  She blinked again, a single tear of blood seeping from one eye. The nurse opened her lips and whispered something that Father Kelly couldn't hear. He leaned closer, tilting his head to one side. "Tell... Juan... I love..."

  Then she said no more.

  To the east, Pearl Harbour was still burning when the Japanese broke off their attack on the Philippines. It was late afternoon on Oahu by the time Marquez found his way to the landing strip on Ford Island. Of the eighteen SBDs that left the Enterprise that morning on a routine scouting mission, at least seven had been shot down or had crash landed. Exact numbers were not yet known as communications had broken down with several outlying landing strips on Oahu, including Kaneohe and Haleiwa Field. It was hoped that some of the unaccounted for planes had sought refuge from enemy fighters and friendly fire elsewhere in Hawaii, but nobody knew for sure.

  Marquez found Lieutenant Richards being tended by a medic at Ford Island, having suffered burns to his hands and face after his SBD had caught fire. Bravo had already refuelled and taken on board fresh ammunition before flying off in search of any remaining enemy planes still haunting the skies over Oahu. "He's claiming two kills," Chuck said, wincing as more bandages were wrapped around his scorched hands. "Nobody saw them, so I guess we'll have to take his word for it, but I've got my doubts."

  Marquez grimaced. "He's determined to grab all the glory, isn't he?"

  The lieutenant nodded. "We'll see how glorious Bravo looks after I give evidence about him abandoning his wingman when he left the Big E this morning. Coker got picked off by four Zeros near Barber Point. That wouldn't have happened if Bravo had stayed in formation. Coker was young, he didn't know any better. Bravo's a damned menace to everyone in the air group. But we lost so many good pilots today that they'll probably let him off with a slap on the wrist. As far as Bravo's concerned, that's next door to a commendation."

  Marquez nodded. "Look, lieutenant, I wanted to say thanks. You saved my butt after I had to bail out over the harbour." He detailed his narrow escape from the Kate strafing survivors in the water. "I'd be dead if it wasn't for you."

  "I'm sure you'll do the same for me one day," Chuck said. He noticed the younger pilot grinning. "What's so damned funny?"

  "I was remembering what I said this morning, before we took off from the Enterprise, how all the waiting around was driving me crazy."

  Chuck nodded. "I also told you there'd be plenty of war to go around."

  "You still think we'll crush 'em in weeks?"

  The lieutenant frowned. "Not now. From what I've seen today, most of the ships anchored at Pearl got the crap blown out of them by the Japanese. It'll take months to get some of them refitted and ready for action, and too many of the others are nothing but history. We're lucky all the aircraft carriers were out at sea, otherwise the navy would hardly have a fleet in the Pacific still worthy of the name. Coming back from today, it'll take time."

  A radio operator ran into the medical bay. "You seen the commander?"

  The medic tending Chuck shook his head. "Not since breakfast, why?"

  "Admiral Kimmel's called an emergency meeting of all command staff from across Oahu. Pearl's not the only place the Japs have hit. We're getting reports of attacks on the Philippines, Wake Island and Malaya. Word is there are invasion forces moving to occupy Guam and God alone knows where else. They're all in for it." When the radio operator had gone, the three men he left behind looked at each other, absorbing the meaning of his words.

  Marquez broke the silence. "I guess you were right, Chuck. There's gonna be plenty of war to go around before this is over."

  "God help us all," the lieutenant muttered.

  Suzuki and his kyuuketsuki strafed Fort Stotsenberg again and again, making numerous passes over the base while machine-gunning anything that moved below them. The other Zeros followed their example, seeking to emulate the merciless savagery of the black fighters. The kyuuketsuki peeled away from the target only after exhausting their ammunition, Suzuki leading them back towards Taiwan. But for the loss of Otomo, the mission had been an unqualified success. May all our battles be this simple, Suzuki thought.

  Private Maeda woke in a makeshift bed, surrounded by dozens of other wounded marines. Maeda looked around and realised that they were inside the non-commissioned officer's club near the navy yard at Pearl. He tried to sit up but dizziness forced him back down into bad. A medical orderly noticed that Maeda was conscious and came over to examine him. "How are you feeling?"

  "Like someone drop-kicked my butt from here to Honolulu and back again. What the hell happened?" Maeda asked. He glanced at the wounded on either side of him, but did not recognise either man. They must be A Company, he reasoned, otherwise I'd know them. Then again, the bandages covering most of their faces made it hard to tell. Maeda reached a hand up to his own features and was relieved to find no dressings or absences, everything still in its proper place on his face.

  "I'm told they found you on the barracks roof, under the body of another marine. The two of you had been manning a machine gun."

  "The body of-" Maeda said, before his memory came flooding back in bits and pieces. "Walton, is he all right? Is he here?"

  The medic shook his head. "I'm sorry, he... He didn't make it."

  Not after I used his body as a human shield, the marine thought, but he kept that to himself. "The Japanese, the attack, what happened?"

  "Nobody's too sure yet, but Pearl wasn't the only place they hit."

  "San Francisco?" Maeda asked, suddenly worried in case his parents were in harm's way on the mainland.

  "No, no, Pearl's as far east as the Japs came. Mostly they've been hitting places like Malaya and the Philippines," the medic reassured him.

  The marine breathed a little easier. The rest of the family was safe, for now. But who knew how long the conflict would last, or how far the Japanese would get before somebody stopped them? Another worry hit Maeda. How would people on the mainland react to the surprise attack on Pearl Harbour? How would his parents cope as expatriate Japanese on American soil? He needed to get in touch with them, to find out what was happening back home. But try as he might, his strength had deserted him. "I can't seem to sit up," he told the medic. God, don't let me be paralysed, Maeda thought.

  "Better if you don't try for a few days. The doctors managed to get most of the bullets out and re-inflate your lung, but it was touch and go for a while."

  "My lung?"

  "The right one collapsed after a bullet passed through it. You also suffered wounds to the right shoulder and both your legs."

  "My legs..." Maeda realised there was a canopy over the bottom half of his body, shielding his legs from view. "I can't feel my legs!"

  "It's okay," the medic reassured him. "Don't worry, they're still there. You're pretty heavily sedated for the pain, so you won't feel much of anything for the next few days. After that... Well, it's a case of wait and see."

  "Will I walk again?"

  The medic smiled. "You'll be in plaster for a month, and using crutches for a while after that, but the doctors expect you to make a full and complete recovery." Another patient among the wounded nearby cried out, his pain all too audible in the normally cheery clubroom. "Look, I've got other guys I need to check up on," the medic said, already walking away. "I'll come back and see how you're doing later, okay?"

  Maeda nodded, a sudden wave of exhaustion washing over him. He had no idea how many hours must have passed since he blacked out on the roof, but it was dark outside the windows. That meant it was night. Maeda brushed a hand across his jaw but found no stubble, so it was probably still Sunday. Twelve, maybe fifteen hours ago he'd been in the captain's office, waiting to face charges for helping Paxton go AWOL. Where was Paxton now? And what had happened to Sergeant Hicks? Maeda cursed himself for not thinking of them sooner, when he could have asked the medic for news.

  "Lying down on the job as usual?" a familiar voice asked.

  Maeda saw Paxton approaching, pick
ing his way through the rows and rows of cots sprawled around the NCO's club. "That's rich coming from a guy who left me in the lurch to chase a girl called Kissy." The wounded marine waited until Paxton had reached his bed before asking how his comrade had gotten back on base. "Don't tell me, you snuck in while everyone else was busy fighting the Japs, right? Nobody even noticed."

  "Not exactly," Paxton replied. He explained about the captain's amnesty and his suspended punishment. "I guess that applies to you, too. The captain said Piper blamed you for helping me get away."

  "Piper, that asshole! He'd report his own mother if she broke regs."

  "Not now," Paxton said. "Piper got blown up by the Japs in the first attack wave. One of the doctors told me he died an hour ago."

  "Oh," Maeda replied, wishing he could take back what he'd said, "sorry."

  "Hey, no skin off my chin. Besides, you're right, Piper was an asshole. I'm sorry he's dead and all, but we weren't exactly the best of friends. Way I figure it, there's no point crying over dead people that I never cared about much while they were still alive, right?"

  Maeda rolled his eyes at Paxton's attitude. "What about the sarge?"

  "Still alive and kicking, unfortunately: large as life, and twice as ugly."

  "No change there, then. He's gonna make life hell for us, isn't he?"

  "Oh yeah. We're marked men, as far as he's concerned," Paxton agreed.

  Maeda could feel his energy seeping away. "You heard about Walton?"

  The other marine nodded. "I also heard tell you brought down a Zero."

  "We both did. I couldn't have done it without Walton. He was terrified, but he still came with me up onto the barracks' roof. He didn't flinch, not once, not even when..." Maeda's voice faded as tiredness swamped him.

  "You look done in," Paxton observed. "I'll go, let you get some rest. Medics say you'll be up and about before you know it."

  "Great. I can't wait."

  Paxton gave Maeda's left hand a friendly squeeze. "Thanks for saying what you did to Piper. Most people in the unit wouldn't do that for me, and I appreciate it. From now on, I've got your back, come hell or high water."

  Maeda couldn't help smiling. "We're marines, remember? Before all of this is over I'm guessing we can expect to see plenty of both." Sleep took him, its black embrace darker than any eclipse. But Maeda's slumber would be restless, haunted by the sounds of Zeros flying by, mingled with Walton's screams.

  Only after the final Japanese aircraft had flown away did the survivors at Clark Field and Fort Stotsenberg have a chance to take in the enormity of what had happened. The runways were destroyed, littered with the burning wrecks of broken, blasted B-17s and P-40s. The barracks at Fort Stotsenberg were half a mile away from the airfield, but they had suffered just as badly. Half of Stores was gone, blown apart by enemy bombs, while the base hospital was a mess. The suicidal Zero had devastated the first floor, collapsing part of the roof and smashing in the western wall.

  It was Father Kelly who came and found Martinez, and told him about Angela. The priest was covered in grey dust, the only clean areas on his face where tears had washed away the grime. Martinez couldn't stop looking at the priest's hands, stained burgundy by dried blood, as Father Kelly recounted what had happened to Angela. "Her final words were 'Tell Juan I love him'. She died thinking of you. She didn't suffer, I don't think. One of the doctors said the shrapnel severed her spine, she wouldn't have felt a thing after that."

  "I want to see her," Martinez muttered.

  "Juan, I don't think that's a good idea. Give the other nurses a chance to clean her up. You don't want to remember Angela as she is now."

  "I need to see her!" Martinez howled, before collapsing into tears. The priest embraced him, patting the shell-shocked soldier on the back.

  "In good time," Father Kelly said. "You'll see her in good time."

  Wierzbowski and Buntz were waiting for Martinez when Father Kelly brought him to the hospital. The doctors had patched up Wierzbowski with temporary dressings over his bullet wounds. The bloody bandages reminded Martinez of the bright red poinsettia flowers his mother loved to grow, back home in New Mexico. Buntz had climbed out of the bomb-blasted Stores building after the enemy attack was over, little the worse for his brush with death. He and Wierzbowski nodded to Martinez, neither of them finding any words to speak.

  "She's through here," Father Kelly said, ushering Martinez through a door and along a corridor. They passed a large pile of discarded uniforms covered with blood and dirt. A soldier's helmet sat to one side of the debris, the metal crumpled like a discarded love letter. Martinez couldn't help wondering whose head had been inside that helmet. Was it one of his unit? They had lost half a dozen good men to Japanese bullets and bombs, not counting Sergeant Aimes. It was hard to imagine life without his rat-a-tat-tat voice barking orders at them, berating their efforts to match his standards.

  The priest stopped outside a closed door and knocked on the blank wood. It opened and two nurses emerged, their faces hollow and numb. One of them was Ruth, who had been Angela's best friend among all the hospital staff. She looked right through Martinez, not even recognising him. When the nurses had gone, Father Kelly patted the young soldier on the back.

  "You can go in now, son."

  Hitori stood on the edge of the aircraft carrier, watching the white caps on the waves below as twilight settled over the Pacific. He wondered how Suzuki and the other kyuuketsuki fliers had fared on their mission to the Philippines. No doubt there would be losses, but he hoped they had acquitted themselves well against the enemy's guns and grunts. Kimura had proven himself an able lieutenant on Oahu, though he displayed a sadistic streak that troubled Hitori. Would each successive generation of vampyrs be more violent, more brutal than the last? If that were so, what future would they have in the Japanese Empire's war with the Americans? Yes, the kyuuketsuki had sacrificed much in the service of the emperor, but did that also mean sacrificing their humanity?

  Something else was troubling him, something Constanta had said as they had stood on that balcony in Tokyo, three months ago. Hitori shook his head, unable to believe so little time had passed since he had become a vampyr; it felt more like a lifetime, a lifetime of lifetimes. How long would eternity feel if these three months were anything to go by? But there was no use wondering over such enigmas. He had more urgent issues to address than eternity.

  "When the war of the humans is over, the vampyr nation will rise up to start a new war, the war of blood, a crimson conflict to decide the future of the world. We shall take our rightful place as the dominant species. Humans will be to us as cattle are to humans: fodder, nothing more, nothing less." Those had been Constanta's words, and at the time Hitori had not questioned them. Standing in the presence of his sire was intoxicating, like drinking too much warm sake on a hot night. Now he had seen the consequences of his deal with that devil and borne witness to his own animal savagery.

  Imagine a world where there are thousands of vampyrs like me, Hitori thought, swarming across cities and continents. It was one thing to use the worst weapons imaginable to win a war, but what about during peacetime? He was building an army of kyuuketsuki, vampyr samurai more brutal than any fighting force seen in history. What happened when the war for the Pacific was over? What would be their next target? Hitori shook his head. As a soldier, he'd learned not to care about faceless civilians, they were the enemy and that was all, but what about his wife, Aiko, and their son Noriyuki? What would happen to them during Constanta's unholy war of blood?

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Kimura's footfalls. "Quite a day," his lieutenant commented, joining him at the ship's edge.

  "Quite a day," Hitori agreed. "History in the making."

  "And we were there! We fought the enemy at Pearl Harbour as our bombs pummelled their navy into submission. According to what I've heard from our pilots, the Americans don't have a fleet anymore; the Pacific is ours for the taking. This war could be over within a f
ew months."

  "Don't be so certain, Kimura. The Americans I encountered on Oahu were many things, venal, proud, cowardly, brave, but they weren't very different from our own people. We Japanese believe ourselves superior to them, grandly saying we have an empire. When I looked inside the minds of the Americans, I saw that they believed much the same about themselves. To them, we are little yellow men, a race of tiny and insignificant people."

  "But they must know differently after today? We destroyed their navy, and attacked their islands with impunity. We proved our superiority today."

  "Perhaps, but I fear we may have merely woken a slumbering giant, forcing it to pay attention to what's happening across the world. Once that giant puts on its armour, America will not be so easily undone again. What we did today was sting a mighty beast. I fear the retribution for hurting its pride will be terrible and relentless."

  "But surely-" Kimura protested, before a gesture silenced him.

  "Trust me," Hitori said, "the war for the Pacific has only just begun. I'm certain we shall play an important part in the years to come, the battles ahead."

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Fiends of the Rising Sun is David Bishop's tenth book for Black Flame and his eighteenth published novel. Born and raised in New Zealand, he worked as a daily newspaper journalist for five years before moving to the UK. After a decade editing such acclaimed comics as 2000 AD and the Judge Dredd Megazine, he quit to go freelance and moved even further north to Scotland. Besides being a prolific scribe of pulp fiction novels, Bishop also writes scripts for radio drama, comics, computer games and articles for magazines.

  The long-awaited book of his definitive 2000 AD history, Thrill-Power Overload, is being published during 2007.