The Tide (Tide Series Book 1)
Read The Tide (Tide Series Book 1) Online
Authors: Anthony J Melchiorri
The Tide
––––––––
Anthony J Melchiorri
October, 2015
S
ign up for Anthony’s spam-free newsletter for the chance to receive free books and stories, special offers, and all the latest info on his new releases:
http://bit.ly/ajmlist
The Tide
Copyright © 2015 by Anthony J. Melchiorri. All rights reserved.
First Edition: October 2015
ISBN-13: 978-1-5170-7905-5
ISBN-10: 1-5170-7905-5
Cover Design: Eloise Knapp Design
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Prologue
June 23, 1944
Tokyo, Japan
––––––––
A
breeze swept over the tarmac behind the Harbin Bioweapon Facility of Unit 731. The cool air provided a momentary reprieve from the suffocating, muggy summer heat, but it did nothing to assuage Shigeru Matsumoto’s hot memories of the blackened buildings, the burned bodies, the cities rendered nothing more than soot and ashes by the Americans’ firebombing.
Matsumoto’s fingers trembled, his nose scrunching into a snarl as he pictured his familial home in Yokohama. Where once the tatami mats had crunched under the feet of his elderly parents, his wife, and his children, there were left only the charred remains of a few rafters now rotting from the summer rains.
He curled his hand into a fist with exaggerated care, for the vial he held in his grip had the power to change the tide of war. Its contents were undeniably dangerous, but he kept it on him as a last resort should he find his life in the hands of a foreign invader.
“If the Americans should land within our empire, they will regret the day,” he said.
“America will bow before us and retreat back across the ocean,” Kinzo Nishiyama, a lab assistant, replied. “They will bring home only the stories of their shameful defeat.”
“There will be no invaders left to tell stories,” Matsumoto said, his voice laced with venom. His white coat flapped in the wind. He was one of the medical doctors assigned to Japan’s bioweapon and chemical research facilities. He’d taken his role seriously, spending exhausting hours in the laboratory, staring into microscopes and hunching over lab benches. While he didn’t carry a gun or a sword, he was a different type of warrior with the ability to kill countless enemies.
He spent that time away from his family, though Yokohama was only a short trip from Tokyo. Now he’d never see them again.
The Americans had made his assignment to Unit 731 personal.
“Yes, of course you’re right,” said Nishiyama. “None will make it back alive.”
General Otozo Yamada sauntered toward them with Surgeon General Shiro Ishii trailing behind.
“General.” Matusomoto bowed deeply, Nishiyama following suit.
Yamada’s face was creased in deep-set wrinkles, his dark-black hair turning gray. Undoubtedly the Soviet advances—and the unacknowledged defeats—weighed heavy on his mind. This was a man who harbored no intention of letting
gaijin
—foreigners—step foot on Japanese soil.
“We have little time,” he said, “and I have less to waste.”
“Yes, of course,” Surgeon General Ishii said, his hands clasped, his lips straight under his thick mustache. His eyes appeared cold and calm behind the round, black eyeglasses framing his face. “I am certain we have developed a weapon to ward off any gaijin from invading the Empire. We’ll strike fear into the deepest core of their beings. Every man, woman, and child will be grateful for their part in serving the great Empire when we deploy the Amanojaku weapon.”
“Amanojaku?” General Yamada asked. The weapon, the contents of the glass vial in Matsumoto’s hand, had been named after the demon-like creature of folklore that provoked people to act out their darkest desires and perform unspeakable deeds.
“The meaning will become clear soon enough,” Matsumoto said.
“We should be less interested in mythology,” Yamada said, “and more interested in this weapon’s purpose for preserving our Empire.”
“Very well, sir,” Matsumoto said and turned to Nishiyama. “Bring out the subjects.”
Nishiyama ducked into the yellow-brick Harbin building. He returned leading a line of twenty-five men still dressed in the soiled green fatigues they’d worn in combat. Their eyes were sunken, their faces sallow. Cheekbones jutted out, leaving no mystery as to the shape of the skulls behind their skin.
A cadre of Japanese guards prodded and herded them into the middle of the tarmac. A chain-link fence topped with barbed wire surrounded the area.
“American Marines, I am told,” Matsumoto said. “Supposed to be the finest caliber of Allied soldiers in the Pacific.”
“These look like a breed of weak, sad men,” Surgeon General Ishii said.
Matsumoto gave a slight nod and held up the glass vial again. Sunlight sparkled through it. A clear liquid, appearing as innocuous as water, sloshed inside. “All the better to demonstrate our capabilities.”
He handed the vial to General Yamada.
“What is this?” Yamada said.
“A protein concentrate I’ve developed, farmed from a variety of sources.”
Yamada peered into it and placed a thumb on top. He started to unscrew the tiny lid.
“You should be more careful with that,” Matsumoto said. Yamada gave it back to him. He stowed it in the pocket of his white coat. “Line them up,” he barked.
Nishiyama directed the guards to split the Americans into two uneven groups. They guided twenty-two of the Marines toward the far end of the fenced-in area. Then four guards secured the wrists of the remaining three Americans with heavy ropes and tied these ropes to a steel post hammered into the asphalt.
“Why don’t you get your ass in here, Doc?” one blond-haired American yelled in grating English, his hazel eyes bright against his bruised and sickly complexion.
Matsumoto remained stern, ignoring the soldier’s jibe.
“Who is this insolent man?” General Yamada asked. “And why don’t you strike him down?”
“In a few moments, you will understand. His name is Lieutenant Gregory Ewing. No one of note,” Matsumoto said. “I believe he was these men’s platoon commander.”
“Not a compelling leader if most of his men surrendered like this,” Yamada said, checking his wristwatch. “But enough. Let’s see this demonstration.”
“Very well.” Matsumoto gave Nishiyama a hand signal. The guards exited the fenced-in area, except for the four around the tied-up Marines. Three nurses, each with a single syringe in hand, walked up to the three separated Marines. They bent to administer the injections.
“Don’t let them stick you!” Ewing called as he stepped forward. One of the guards fired a warning shot at his feet, and Ewing backed against the chain-link fence with the rest of his men.
Two of the nurses proceeded, injecting their Marine subjects. The third attempted her injection, but the Marine threw his shoulder into her chest. Her fingers slipped, and the syringe’s needle stabbed into her hand. She let out a piercing scream.
Matsumoto frowned. “This is regrettable. Remove the other two nurses.” He pointed to the whimpering nurse who’d injected herself. “That one remains.”
Nishiyama nodded and barked orders at the guards. They herded the two nurses who’d succeeded through the gate. When the third ran to the fence, one guard shoved her back and slammed the gate shut.
She collapsed, wailing, her fists pulling against the fence.
“Why does she need to stay?” Yamada asked.
“It’s a precautionary measure,” Surgeon General Ishii said. He wiped his glasses on his shirt. “How long before it begins?”
“Not long,” Matsumoto said, his eyes glued to the roped-up Marines and the nurse, her chest heaving in sobbing breaths.
Gregory Ewing took a step forward again. “What the hell have you done to my men?”
His compatriots glanced around, anxious and confused.
The nurse’s sobbing ceased, and she collapsed into unconsciousness. The two Marines who’d received injections fell beside the steel post. The one who had foiled the nurse’s attempt to inject him bent toward his brothers in arms, his voice low. “Sam? Jimmy? Guys, you all right?”
Ewing strode toward the middle of the fenced-in space. A guard aimed his rifle, preparing to fire. Matsumoto shook his head and raised one hand.
Then the nurse shot to her feet. Her neck twisted wildly, her shoulders hunched. She caught sight of Ewing and froze. Her fingers twitched, and her arms trembled.
Ewing stared back at her. “What the—”
The nurse tilted back her head and let out a guttural scream. She sprinted at Ewing and knocked him to the ground. Her nails scratched at his face, gouged at his eyes. He held his arms before him to shield his face. Despite his emaciation, the nurse appeared no more than half his weight—yet she overpowered him easily.
Matsumoto felt a surge of pride as he watched the lieutenant struggle to fight the woman off. She sank her teeth into Ewing’s arm, and he let out an agonized yell. Three of his men rushed to pull her off. The nurse swung an arm out, and one Marine flew back into the other men approaching the brawl.
Another man yanked the nurse’s arm back. It twisted in a way that would have debilitated a normal person. She glanced down at her crooked wrist and then back up at the Marine holding her. In one swift movement she pounced on him, and his screams were abruptly silenced by the clunk of his skull on the asphalt. Ewing’s savior went limp on the pavement, giving the nurse free rein to dig her fingers into the man’s neck. Blood spilled from the wound as she tore his flesh and pulled his carotid artery free. It ripped with a sickening tear.
Bubbles of crimson liquid popped out of the Marine’s mouth. The nurse, her teeth chattering and limbs shaking, stood and screamed. The remaining men swarming around Ewing stared back incredulously.
Another growling roar echoed across the tarmac. One of the tied-up Marines had woken and stared wide-eyed at the third Marine who’d escaped his injection.
The enraged Marine lunged. One of his shoulders popped from its socket as he fought against the ropes securing his hands to the steel post. The third Marine shuffled backward, landing hard on his back. His second companion woke with a start, and the two injected Marines lashed against their ropes until the heavy bonds split. They descended upon the third man. He had no time to yell or struggle, tied up like a sacrificial offering to the gods.
“Do you see now why we call this weapon the Amanojaku?” Matsumoto asked Yamada.
The general nodded, seemingly transfixed by the bloodbath before him. Several of the men surrounding Ewing charged at the nurse. Her neck twisted from side to side as if she was taunting them. She stood her ground, her good arm raised at a forty-five-degree angle. The first Marine dove to tackle her. She sidestepped, grabbed him by the back of his neck, and swung him into the razor wire atop the fence. The sharp metal shredded his fragile flesh, and he yelled, stuck in the coils.
The nurse let another scream fly as she lunged at the other men charging her. She stabbed at them with her hands, her fingers working quick as daggers. Another Marine flew, knocked away by her inhuman strength. But sheer numbers, sheer weight pressed on the nurse until the Marines had formed a dogpile on her body, crushing her under their mass.
She let out a yell—not of pain, not of fear. Matsumoto was sure of it. It was pure, unadulterated rage escaping her lungs.
The two crazed Marines, torn ropes dangling from their wrists, turned from the third tied-up Marine they’d disemboweled. No longer the men they once were, they charged the brothers they had fought and bled with on the sandy beaches of the Pacific. They tore through the bodies, flinging them aside as if they weighed no more than hay-stuffed scarecrows.