by Lars Teeney
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The strange, disk shape flying object moved with remarkable speed and maneuverability. The disk swerved and avoided through pillars of smoke from burning oil fires, and the outcroppings of metal hulls from ship wreckage. The nano-computer within processed data collected by visual sensors that scanned the oil-slicked waters for its query. The waves were choppy and the fog had settled over the Bay of Panama, which complicated the search. But the disk was attracted to a homing signal that soon made itself known. The disk increased speed and homed in on a piece of timber that was drifting further out to sea. The disk opened a small slot on its bottom side and lowered a handle, with a synthetic rubber grip. The disk reached the floating piece of timber, and a figure was clinging to the timber; a wet, bloody and one handed figure. The disk dropped its altitude to within reach of the Prelate Inoguchi.
Prelate Inoguchi raised her good hand up to the disk. It guided itself to her hand, and she grasped the handle firmly. The drone raised her by one arm out of the waters of the bay. She had been burnt on one side of her face and was suffering from a fractured rib. Numerous lacerations covered her body and the salt water had been constant torture to her. So, the disk-shaped drone had been her salvation. The drone carried her toward the ruined town of La Chorrera, as she dangled from one hand, swaying in the wind as the drone zipped toward shore.
The Prelate caught sight of the remains of a bazaar. She willed the drone to travel toward it. Once the drone was there it hovered not far over the ground. She released her grip and landed on her feet below. The Prelate looked around, she picked up and old, leather knapsack from an overturned cart. She searched the toppled produce stands and spice baskets. The Prelate picked up some melons and put them into the knapsack. She also grabbed links of sausage, bread, and a bundle of plantains. She found a container filled with aloe, and dipped some fingers into it and slathered some lotion onto the burns on her face. They were first-degree burns so her flesh would heal in time, but there would definitely be scars. Having felt satisfied that she had scavenged enough supplies for her journey, the Prelate willed her drone to come to her and she snatched the grip with her right hand. It lifted her high over the market and ruins of the surrounding shanties.
The Prelate gazed around the scenery. She spied the once mighty fortress: now a smoking pile of ruins. She looked toward the waterline of the Strait of Panama. There was an intact fishing vessel still moored to a pier in the marina. She willed the drone to reach the vessel. It lowered her gently down to the deck, and she let go. The Prelate peered around the ship; it appeared solid enough and would be sea-worthy. So, she primed and ignited the engine, and it sputtered and rumbled into action. She unfastened the mooring lines, which tethered the ship to the pier. The ship steamed through the narrows of the Strait.
After several hours, she had reached the terminus of the Strait. The Caribbean Sea lay before her. The Prelate stopped the ship and powered down the engine. She traveled below deck to see what she would find. There was a small kitchenette, with a range and a small refrigerator. So, she pulled off the leather knapsack and plucked out the sausage links and plantains. She had not eaten a decent meal for some time, having hidden within the fleet for so many weeks. Prior to this time she had survived off of bread and canned goods. The Prelate found a griddle and turned on the range, dropping three sausages on to it. They began sizzle at the contact with the heat. She unpeeled a plantain, then, used her metal-clad stump to smash up the plantain into a paste. She formed a crude patty from the paste and tossed it onto the hot griddle. After a time, her meal was ready. She transferred the food to a plate and went above deck.
It was dark now, and the stars were out. The Caribbean sky was clear above her but in the distance storms swirled and churned. The air was still hot and humid, and she had worked up a sweat cooking below deck, so it felt nice to be outside. She bit the end of a sausage and chewed. The Prelate got to thinking about the previous day’s fight. She had greatly underestimated her opponent, that large Captain of the New Jersey had got the upper hand on the Prelate. And that man: the one with the tattoos, it was the second time he interfered with her query. He was the one that severed her hand, and she wasn’t able to take revenge. She swore to herself and to her God that the next time around she would finish the job. The food had filled her belly, and she let it settle for some time, then she initiated the engine of the trawler and steamed along on her journey.
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DUSK
Captain Inoguchi had not told his family that he would never see them again. He wanted a pure, joyous moment unspoiled by worry and fear. Inoguchi and his family had vacated the base, under armed guard, to go to a lake in the shadow of Mount Fuji: Lake Yamanaka. They wanted to see nature, untouched by the ravages of war. In those precious hours, Inoguchi got to be alone with his wife, and their son, Tomo, was free to run around the lakeshore. During the summer months, the lake was usually swamped with enthusiasts, but the war had put a stop to that for now. The Inoguchi family nearly had the entire lake to themselves. It had been picturesque. The towering, snowcapped summit of Mount Fuji stood guard over them, warding off American airstrikes and clouds alike.
Tomo had laughed and splashed in the cool waters of Lake Yamanaka. His mother, Mariko, had nagged him not to get his bandages wet, but he had been in heaven; a brief interruption to the ongoing nightmare of war. Toshihira had not been completely relaxed. In the back of his mind clawed the dread of his upcoming suicide mission. Mariko could sense it, and did all she could to calm him. Despite this, Toshihira still treasured the trip. These memories would serve him well in times of peril. When the sun had started to descend behind Mount Fuji in the west, the Inoguchi family set back toward their armed escort, to shuttle them back to the base. Toshihira, on a whim, requested the driver to stop by his residence in Fujinomiya. The driver had agreed and changed course for his hometown. Mariko had not wanted to see their house in its current state, but Toshihira had to see the ruins for himself; he had a morbid curiosity. So the armed escort took the off-ramp toward Fujinomiya. They passed numerous blocks of totally devastated neighborhoods. The flammable materials from which the houses were constructed guaranteed the utter destruction of the vibrant neighborhoods.
Finally, the escort car had found Toshihira’s street. There were no distinguishable landmarks left. The only indicator of location was the scorched streets signs that were partially readable. Toshihira got out of the car, as did his family. They stood in the darkness, gazing at the partially-erect timber frame and the pile of ashes and scorched furniture that once was their modest home. Toshihira walked into the pile of refuse and ash, to look around what was once had been his den. Under debris and burnt wood, he found a half-incinerated portrait. It was of Kaito Inoguchi: Toshihira’s father. He was the reason why young Toshihira had joined the Imperial Navy. His father had been a destroyer captain in the early victorious period for the Imperial Navy. Kaito had taken part in the Battle of Tsushima in 1905. There the Japanese Navy had virtually wiped out a superior Russian Navy that had sailed around the world to engage them. The Russian flotilla had been extremely sure of victory and once they had been beaten, the Czar sued for peace. In those earlier, naive days, limited, gentlemanly war was the ritual. It was the reason that people like Kaito Inoguchi and the military elite of Japan were so encouraged about the prospects of carving out an empire. They had expected the Western Powers to adhere to that code. But, history marched along, and World War One occurred in Europe, which changed the nature of warfare: total war was now ruled. Had the Japanese conquered their empire just twenty years earlier, the powers of the world may have recognized their claim and their victories, Toshihira was sure of it.
Toshihira stared at the expression on his father’s face in the crude, monochrome portrait. It was an expression of supreme pride and masculinity. Toshihira found it ironic that his father only reached the rank of captain but had been so zealous for the military, while Toshihira had been r
eluctant to enlist and had always questioned the end goals, and yet, he had far surpassed his father’s career in the navy, reaching the rank of Rear Admiral. Then Toshihira had the thought that this might have only come to pass because so many overzealous militant officers had died in the war. The High Command had simply run short. Now they “scraped the bottom of the barrel”.
Toshihira had dusted off the portrait and tucked it under-arm. He stepped out from the ruins of his home and rejoined his family at the curb. He embraced his wife and told her, in a hushed tone, that if anything happened to him in the closing battles of the war, to make every effort to leave Japan. He warned her that once the war was finished there would surely be mass-shortages and misery would run rampant. He urged her to go anywhere, but most of all try to make it to America. Toshihira confided her that there would be opportunity to find there, and not to be afraid despite them being the enemy in that moment. He predicted that Capitalism had a short memory. She looked at him and nodded. She knew he had spoken the truth. After a time of reminiscing, the family got back into the escort car, and it had traveled back to the naval base.
Those were the last hours Inoguchi had spent in Japan. Now he was back aboard the Musashi that was the flagship of Admiral Kurita’s Central Force. They had been at sea, steaming from Japan to the northern Philippines Islands. The Central Force was part of a three-pronged operation to counter American landings at the Leyte Gulf in the eastern Philippines. There were two other forces taking part in the operation. One was the Northern Force, which was commanded by Vice-Admiral Jisaburó Ozawa. He had in his force the toothless aircraft carriers of the Navy, which lacked aircraft and trained pilots. Ozawa was given this command as punishment for his defeat at the Mariana Islands. This fleet of ships would serve as bait to lure American screening forces away from the site of amphibious landings at Leyte Gulf. If the American screening forces took the bait and pursued the Japanese carrier fleet that was the Northern Force, the Central and Southern forces, which consisted of battle worthy ships, would attack the landing sites and do as much damage as possible. The odds of success were extremely slim, considering American air superiority.
The Musashi and the Central Force had reached the northern coast of Luzon: the largest of the Philippine Islands. The Musashi had been assigned together with her sister, super battleship for which the class was named: The Yamato. With the two super battleships together in one strike force, no American picket line would be able to stand against them in surface action. The Northern Force’s task was to sail east around Luzon, then sail west through the San Bernardino Strait and attack the landings at Leyte Gulf. An ensign had informed Captain Inoguchi that the first phase of the attack was underway: the Japanese had mustered all their land-based aircraft in the region, almost six hundred planes, to sortie against the American Naval force. But, still Captain Inoguchi had protested the plan; he advocated for closer coordination with the Navy attacks, but he was not heard. Inoguchi had ordered the ensign to keep him abreast on any developments in the air-battle as they were available. Captain Inoguchi prayed to his Christian God that the land-based air-wing would have some degree of success. That was the only hope for the upcoming battle to sway in favor of the Japanese.
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Private Alexander Burke was on his way to the crew mess for dinner. It had been a full day of strikes against Japanese positions on the Philippines island of Luzon. The intense barrages that were let loose from the turrets of the Iowa had kept Private Burke and the gunnery crew busy all day. His ears were ringing from the loud cannonade that had lasted all day. The crew mess was filled to the brim with hungry personnel. Burke once again dreaded the food on offering as he always did. The constant action of the day meant that the meals had been hastily prepared all day, so that fact had added to Burke’s doubts that the food would be more than barely edible.
Burke joined the queue for food. Behind him stepped a Marine, who Burke did not fail to notice. The Marine looked at him, so Burke decided to introduce himself,
“Hey, how’s it going, soldier? I’m Private Alexander Burke: gunnery crew,” he held his hand out to shake the Marine’s hand. The jar-headed man looked Burke in the eye, then down at his hand, and after a moment of deliberation grasped his hand in an overly-firm shake. Burke did not want to show any sign of pain from the Marine’s strong grip.
“Hello! Please to meet ya. Quite some digs ya got on this ship.” The Marine sounded like he was angry about something, but then Burke thought that this may just be the Marine’s disposition.
“Yes, she’s quite the ship. Sometimes I get stir-crazy because of spending so long on her, but I wouldn’t want to serve on any other vessel, you know?” Burke asked.
“Why, yes I do! If I was in the Navy I’d want to be aboard this ship as well, after all, she was set down in the factory that belongs to my family’s company!” the Marine said proudly, with a booming voice.
“Oh really? What’s your name?” Burke had a hard time believing some nameless grunt was part of a wealthy family. The upper crust usually arranged for their children to enlist with an officer’s commission.
“Private First Class Warren Wynham! The pleasure’s all mine!” Wynham said with a scowl on his face. Burke couldn’t tell if there was a smile somewhere in there.
“No offense, Warren, but why are you a Marine, especially coming from your background? Wealth and all.” Burke almost wished he hadn’t asked before he finished the question.
“Why the fuck not? As a Marine, you get to take the fight up close and personal to the fuckin’ Japs, not sit back miles away and take potshots. I get to see the little, yellow monkey’s expression when I pop his head open with my bare hands.” Wynham’s face had turned red as he said his words.
“I think I understand.” Burke got the message.
“Also, when you’re successful, you become a target. In the future when I take the reigns of Wynham Industries from my father, can’t anyone ever accuse me of shirking my duty. I will have been on the front lines, killin’ for my country.” Wynham smiled, baring his pearly, white teeth in the process. Warren was a very handsome man for being a jarhead. He had classic good looks, like that of a politician or businessman, but he certainly did not lack the grit for which Marines were known for. Burke didn’t understand why he was on the ship, because he was not part of the Iowa’s contingent of Marines.
“What brings you to the Iowa, anyway?” Burke asked casually.
“The good Lord’s grace. We were part of an amphibious landing against an island off Luzon, and our landing craft was hit by a Jap shell. I’m the only survivor, as the Lord would have it, the Iowa was steaming by and looking for survivors—picked me up,” Warren Wynham exclaimed.
“That is definitely fortunate,” Burke conceded though he chalked it up to circumstance and not divine intervention.
The food queue moved closer to the service counter, so Burke picked up a plate for himself and handed another plate to Private Wynham, the Marine. Wynham nodded with acceptance. When Burke caught a glimpse of the food in the hot plates, his hopes were dashed for something decent. It was infamous Navy chop suey: a dish that was passed off as supposed Chinese cuisine. The American Navy version consisted of long, thin noodles, served with soggy, overcooked vegetables. Celery, onion, bean sprouts and bamboo shoots were treated with exceptional barbarity by the cooks. The whole thing was slathered in a starchy sauce, with barely any soy to it. The cooks would then take leftover cuts of meat from other meals, bread and fry the chunks, and add it to the concoction. Once again, Burke was sacrificing his culinary sensibilities because he did not want to starve.
The Marine also looked with an upturned nose. Despite his Spartan grit, he had been raised as part of the American aristocracy. He was used to the finest foods. But, he couldn’t be picky. Wynham was a Marine, and their rations were significantly substandard to what was on order here on the Iowa, so he also took the portion of chop suey without protest.
“H
ey, Wynham. Would you like to eat with us sailors?” Burke offered goodwill.
“No offense, mac. Marines eat with Marines. See you around, sailor.” With that, the Marine joined members of his own branch of the military, on the far side of the mess. Burke took the slight quite well: he knew that Marines considered sailors to be pansies. He just thought he’d try to transcend the divide. So, he joined Private Jones already digging into his meal and respected the military branch divide.
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On the bridge of the Iowa, Captain McCann followed the developments on the tactical battle table. They had been plotting the suspected positions of the Japanese fleet, and the intelligence was sparse. The spotter planes, which had been sent out from carriers hadn’t reported enemy contact. He was getting worried. The Iowa was on picket duty, attempting to cover the amphibious landings at Leyte Gulf. The Iowa had been assigned to Task Force Thirty Eight, which consisted of many Iowa-class, fast battleships. McCann thought the coming battle was particularly important, because it had potential political implications. This operation was General Douglas MacArthur’s fateful return to the Philippines. He had been defeated here, three years prior. Now the Conquering Hero was back for vengeance. An American defeat here would not be tolerated.
