Fiends of the Rising Sun (15 page)

It was a relief when October came and they could finally get back in the air. Marquez loved to fly more than anything else in the world. Growing up dirt poor, he'd never have believed he stood a chance of becoming a pilot. His mother was a cleaner at the nearby training school for naval aviators. Marquez often thought a mop and a bucket was the closest he'd ever get to a cockpit. But a tutor at the school had taken the youngster under his wing, arranging scholarships and nurturing little Ramon's ambitions. The day Marquez made his first solo flight had been among the proudest of his life, and also one of the scariest. The undercarriage on his plane had collapsed during takeoff, leaving the young pilot without any way of making a regulation landing. His mentor was summoned to the control tower and had talked Marquez down, persuading the terrified flyer to attempt an emergency landing. The young pilot had belly-flopped his plane onto the grass beside the runway and slid all the way to safety. After walking away from that without a scratch, there was only one nickname he was ever likely to have in his flying career: Skid Marquez.

Now he was a fully fledged navy pilot, in charge of an SBD Dauntless on the USS
Enterprise
. According to the navy, the initials SBD stood for the words Ship Borne Dive-Bomber. According to the pilots, the letters actually represented Slow But Deadly. Marquez couldn't care less about his plane's flaws. Sometimes he felt like pinching himself to make sure being a pilot wasn't a dream. Each day he went to look at his plane to make certain it was real. He ran his hands over the fuselage, feeling every curve and rivet of his beautiful sky chariot. He climbed into the pilot's seat and closed his eyes, imagining himself in aerial combat, his fingertips poised over the controls. He envisaged enemy aircraft crossing in front of him and saw himself opening fire with his twin .30 machine guns. The targets exploded into flaming shards of-

"Hey, Skid, you planning to start the war early?" Marquez opened his eyes and saw Chuck standing by his own plane, waving. The young pilot waved back, embarrassed at having been caught pretending. Chuck gestured for him to come over, so Marquez clambered out of the cockpit and jumped down to the floor, his boots landing with a heavy clump on the metal surface. He strode across to Chuck's plane. "You seen Bravo?"

"Not this morning," Marquez replied. He was still getting to know the other pilots and Bravo, Lieutenant Taylor, had done little to acknowledge his presence on board yet. "We're not exactly the best of friends."

Chuck laughed out loud. "Bravo's only friends are himself and his reflection. Did you know I once caught him staring at himself in a mirror? Most men would be embarrassed, but not Bravo. He went right back to staring at that mirror. Said he was picturing the enemy in his sights, imagining the moment of the kill. Claimed visualising the moment would make it happen."

"Really?" Marquez asked, too embarrassed to admit he had been doing much the same, just without the mirror. "Why are you looking for him?"

"Actually, I was looking for both of you. Bravo left a message on my bunk, said he wanted to meet both of us down here."

"Why?"

"No idea. He said it was a matter of importance, that's all."

"Oh, right." Marquez looked around but could see no sign of the other pilot. "Then I guess we should wait."

Chuck consulted his watch. "I'll give him three minutes. After that I'm due up on deck for a briefing about Thursday."

"Thursday?"

"When the fighters are launched for Wake Island?"

"Oh, yeah, right." Marquez grinned. "I got confused after we crossed the international dateline yesterday. Now I can't remember if today's Tuesday or Wednesday. I've never been over no dateline before."

"It's Tuesday on board, but it's still Monday back in Pearl. That makes it today here and yesterday there, as far as we're concerned, or tomorrow here and today there as far as the people in Pearl are concerned. Does that help?"

"Not really," the ensign admitted. "All this waiting around, it's driving me crazy. Halsey said we were on a war footing when we left Pearl last week, but nothing's happened since. I'm ready for action, you know?"

"Don't be so eager," Chuck said, laughing at his colleague. "If there is a war, you can guarantee there'll be plenty of it to go around."

"You said 'if there's a war'. You don't think it'll happen?"

The lieutenant shrugged. "The Japanese starting a whole new war in the Pacific doesn't make sense to me. Congress may be doing its best to keep us out of the war in Europe, but even they won't let the Japs take over the Philippines and places like that. As soon as they attack an American base, we're going to strike back, and hard. We'll crush 'em in weeks."

"I guess so," Marquez murmured.

"Hey, you two, over here!" The two pilots swung around to see Bravo standing in front of his Dauntless, pointing proudly at the fuselage beneath his cockpit. As Marquez and Chuck got closer, they could see a crude image painted on the side of the plane, depicting General Tojo as a slant eyed cartoon figure with a target on his forehead. Beneath that was the legend, "Tokyo or Bust". "What do you think about my work of art?"

"You painted that yourself?" Chuck asked.

"Paid one of the ground crew to do it. Granberg was a sign writer back in Minnesota before he got drafted. So, what do you think?"

"I thought the CAG forbade painting emblems on planes," Marquez said.

"The commander of the Air Group has got a big old stick up his butt the size of a flagpole," Bravo replied. "I'm amazed he can get in his cockpit." The sneering pilot produced three cigars from a breast pocket. "I've decided the three of us should place a little wager on the outcome of each sortie. Whoever brings down the most enemy planes collects a buck from the other two at the end of each day. Obviously, I intend to be the best flying ace in the Pacific, so I understand if you two are scared of taking my action-"

"I'm in!" Marquez blurted.

Bravo arched an eyebrow at the young ensign. "Very good, but try not to lose every day, otherwise you won't have any money left to send home to your poor mom. What about you, Richards, you up for a challenge?"

Chuck smiled. "I'm more worried about the state of your finances. Nobody's ever seen you open your wallet, Bravo. You sure the moths haven't eaten all your millions by now?"

"My finances are fine," Bravo retorted. "Are you in too, or do I have to ask one of the other incompetents to take your place in our little wager?"

"I'm in, all right, wouldn't miss it for the world, in fact."

Bravo nodded. "Glad to hear it." He handed each man a cigar. "As a gesture of goodwill, I thought we could share these, before the contest starts."

"Don't mind if I do," Chuck said, accepting the gift. Marquez followed his example, mimicking the others as they lit up. He'd never smoked a cigar before and within moments the ensign was choking and gasping for air. Chuck clapped a heavy hand on his back. "Don't worry, Skid. Everybody coughs the first time they smoke a cigar."

"R-right," Marquez coughed. He looked at Bravo through the cloud of pale blue cigar fumes. "Why choose us for your contest?"

"Plainly, I'm the best pilot on this ship," Bravo replied. "You two are about the only competition I've got on board, though that's damning you both with faint praise, frankly. I'll take what I can get."

"Charming as always," Chuck commented. "Good cigar, too."

"Only the best, that's my motto: only the best."

"In that case, may the best man win," Marquez said.

"Oh, I will," Bravo replied, "I certainly will."

Suzuki waited until the last rays of sunshine had disappeared well below the horizon before climbing from the cockpit of his Mitsubishi Type O aircraft. The Zero fighter was jet black from nose to tail, its sole distinguishing marks the red circle symbol of the rising sun and the kyuuketsuki insignia. Even the glass of its canopy was tinted black, as he had specified when requisitioning the plane from the Akagi. Six near identical Zeros had stopped behind his plane on the runway, arranged in a V-formation. At a signal from Suzuki, the pilots all opened their canopies and climbed out.

The aerial kyuuketsuki unit had been training diligently for more than two months in anticipation of the coming conflict. Suzuki had chosen dozens of men from among the Imperial Japanese Navy's best pilots, and from these selected the six pilots who would accompany him in the first attack wave. He had sired them personally, to make certain of their complete and utter loyalty. He had moulded them in his own image, to be as ruthless and bloodthirsty as he was, utterly merciless when the time came. In the heat of battle, Suzuki needed his kyuuketsuki flyers to think with one mind.

While he was training them in the ways of the vampyr, they were teaching Suzuki to fly the Zero as if he had been born in the cockpit. He had crashed three times, but emerged from each impact unharmed, grateful for the strength and resilience that being undead gave him. It took time, far longer than he had expected, but Suzuki was mastering his single engine fighter. He was good enough to lead the formation as it landed in Taiwan, though his landings still left a lot to be desired. No doubt his second in command, Otomo, would tease him about that later, as was the young pilot's way.

A sleek black sedan raced towards the seven Zeros, flanked by a covered truck and a refuelling rig, their headlines gleaming in the twilight. The sedan stopped close by and an officer emerged from the driver's seat. He strode over to Suzuki and bowed low, humbling himself before the new arrivals. "Captain Juzo Yoshihiro at your service. Forgive us for not being here when you landed," the officer said, a tremble of fear audible in his voice. "News of your coming reached me only as your planes were touching down. Had Tokyo given us more notice-"

"The short notification was my idea," Suzuki snapped, a curt flick of his left hand waving away the apology. "I wanted to see how soon your facilities could be ready for our particular needs. Once hostilities begin, you will need to be far quicker and more efficient in your response to surprises. From all I've heard, the conflict in Manchuria rarely runs to a schedule."

"Yes, sir, of course," the officer agreed, his eyes still downcast. "If I may be bold enough to ask, how long will you be gracing us with your presence?"

"My kyuuketsuki and I will be here until the eighth, when our first true mission begins. Have you prepared quarters for my pilots?"

"Yes, as specified. The windows have been blacked out and all the surrounding buildings vacated. You and your men will not be disturbed." For the first time, the officer risked raising his eyes to look at Suzuki's face. "You also asked for the provision of a dozen comfort women. We have taken them from the native population, but some are... more comfortable than others."

Suzuki heard a snigger behind him, and recognised it as Otomo. "Comfort woman" was the official term for a female forced to be the sex slave of Japanese servicemen. The practise had become popular in Manchuria where local women were plentiful and soldiers were away from their wives for months at a time. But Suzuki and his kyuuketsuki lusted for blood, not just any pleasures of the flesh. "The beauty and age of these women matters little to my men. They don't need these unfortunates for their looks."

The officer could not disguise a shudder at this, but his face remained impassive. He gestured to the covered truck. "If your pilots would get inside, they will be transported to their quarters. I will take you in my car."

The vampyr leader shook his head. "I go where my kyuuketsuki go. We fly as one and we travel as one. That is how we will conquer our enemies."

Martinez found Nurse Baker hunched over her desk in the main ward, writing on the charts for her few patients. The base hospital didn't see many serious injuries. Most were the result of accident rather than conflict, and anything life-threatening was soon transferred to a military hospital in Manila with superior facilities. As a consequence it was rare for more than one nurse to be on duty at a time in Fort Stotsenberg. A shift change was due within the hour, offering Martinez his chance to pop the question. He realised his hands were sweating and wiped them dry on his trousers before approaching Angela.

"Hey, how you doing?" he asked, trying to keep his voice cool and calm.

She jumped, not having heard his approach on the smooth floor. "Juan! You shouldn't sneak up on people; you almost gave me a heart attack."

He looked around and smiled. "Least you'd be in the right place for that."

Angela nodded, unable to stay angry at him for long. "I've got to finish these reports before Ruth arrives to cover the night shift."

"No problem," Martinez agreed. But he stayed where he was, reaching out a hand to stroke her back between the shoulder blades. Angela tried shrugging him off but he persisted until she gave in, surrendering her task.

"What is it?" she demanded, an angry tone in her voice that Martinez hadn't encountered before. He looked at her eyes and noticed how red they were, and recognised telltale blotchiness on her freckled cheeks.

"You've been crying. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Angela said before turning away, unable to hold his gaze.

Martinez crouched down on one knee beside her. "I can tell when a woman's been crying, I saw it with my mother often enough. What is it?" She didn't reply, only shaking her head. "Look, if it's about the extra blankets, I tried my best but Buntz shut down Stores early today. I'll try again tomorrow, I promise." A fresh tear trickled down Angela's cheek and splashed on the medical chart beneath her face. "Please, tell me, maybe I can help."

"You can't," she said, her voice close to breaking, "nobody can."

"You can't be certain of that."

"Yes, I can! There's nothing either of us can do about this." Angela wiped the tears from her face. "I got a new posting today. I'm being transferred back to the military hospital at Manila. They think we're overstaffed here."

Martinez felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. "When do you go?"