Fiends of the Rising Sun (36 page)

Buntz realised that hiding in the latrine wasn't the safest option when the door disintegrated, blown apart by a nearby explosion. The portly recruit got off the toilet and pulled up his trousers in one, swift movement. Hell, if he was going to die today, he didn't want it to be on the crapper. Talk about your undignified ways to die. Buntz frowned. Was there a dignified way to die in the middle of a war? Probably not, he decided. Buntz waddled to the empty doorway and peered out. He could see a pile of smoking rubble where the entrance to his beloved stores building had been. Those bastards had blown it to pieces.

There was a whistling sound overhead, and Buntz looked up to see a fresh cluster of black shapes tumbling out of the sky, headed directly for the latrine. Grabbing hold of his still unfastened trousers, he started running for what was left of the stores. Somehow his mind had emptied itself and all he could think was how bombs never struck the same thing twice. It was only as Buntz reached the remains of his domain that he remembered it was lightning that was never supposed to strike twice in the same place, and even that wasn't true. His Uncle Bob got hit by lightning twice on the same golf course one summer. Of course, it never happened again, thanks to Uncle Bob being dead and all.

Buntz couldn't resist one last look back as the first bomb hit the latrine. The building exploded in a ball of fire, its detonation showering everything nearby with a torrential downpour of excrement. The blast threw Buntz inside the stores, and flung a wall of human bodily waste in after him. He survived the impact, but nearly choked to death on what he swallowed. The obese private coughed and spat, desperately trying to clear his throat. When he was able to speak at last, two words escaped his lips: "Aw, shit."

"Sweet Jesus, they just blew up the latrine," Wierzbowski whispered in disbelief. He'd gotten out of bed and was crouching on one side of a window in the hospital ward. Father Kelly was on the other side of the window, also looking out at the devastation being wrought by the enemy's bombs. "Forgive me, father, I didn't mean to take the Lord's name in vain."

The priest waved away his apology. "Don't worry about it, son. I was thinking much the same myself, although not in those same words."

So far the hospital had escaped the Japanese bombardment, but it was only a matter of time before it too suffered from the onslaught. Nobody had thought to put a Red Cross symbol on the roof, and no one was sure if the enemy would take any notice of such a display. For all those inside the hospital knew, the Japanese might consider that a provocation. Wierzbowski realised he had next to no understanding of the enemy or what it wanted from starting a war. I'm a soldier, he decided, just another grunt on the frontline. I don't need to know the reasons why we're at war; it's enough to know that we are. Enough to know I can kill as many of them as I want, and people will call me a hero instead of a murderer. He smiled, enjoying the realisation.

"What's happening out there?" Wierzbowski turned to see Nurse Baker, no, she was Nurse Martinez now, scuttling towards them, staying down in a low crouch to keep herself out of harm's way.

"They've been bombing Clark Field to bits for half an hour at least, and now the Japs are starting on us," he told her.

"What about our anti-aircraft gunners? Can't they stop them?"

"Not unless the enemy planes come down into range."

The nurse bit her bottom lip. "So Juan and the others are sitting ducks out there, waiting for a chance to fight back."

Father Kelly stretched out a comforting hand. "It'll be all right, Catherine."

She smiled. "Thank you, father, but my first name's Angela."

"Of course it is. Forgive me, my child, I got confused for a moment."

Wierzbowski noticed doubt and distress pass over the priest's face. What was troubling Father Kelly, and who was Catherine?

The Zeros had been hanging back, watching the Mitsubishis bombarding the American airstrip and base below. The fighters had come on the mission principally as escorts for the bombers, ready to protect them from a counterattack by US planes, but less than a handful of Americans had gotten off the ground as the bombing began, and they were soon driven away. As long as the Zeros stayed above the maximum range of the anti-aircraft guns below, they need not sustain any damage or losses. But where was the satisfaction in flying this far, only to watch the bombers have all the fun?

Otomo was bored. He'd been as patient as he could be, staying out of danger and fulfilling his duties as fighter escort, but his impetuous nature eventually got the better of him. He called Suzuki on the radio, using the special frequency reserved for the kyuuketsuki fliers. "Permission to go down and engage the enemy directly, sir!"

"Not yet, Otomo," his sire replied. "We've been ordered to wait until the bombing runs are complete. Once that happens, you can have all the sport you want with the Americans. Until it does, you'll be putting yourself and your aircraft in danger. You could even jeopardise the mission."

"Please, sir, tell me you don't believe that."

Suzuki hesitated before replying. "In truth, no, I don't, but this is our first mission. We have to prove our worth, both to the doubters among the imperial fliers and to our leader. Hitori expects-"

"Commander Hitori isn't here," Otomo snapped. "I'm going in!"

"Otomo, don't! We need to-"

But Otomo wasn't listening anymore. He removed his flying helmet with the radio earphones inside and put his Zero into a steep dive, savouring the sensation as it accelerated towards the US base below. He would show the Americans why they should fear the kyuuketsuki. He would make them quake in their boots, show them how feeble and weak their forces were, and what a powerful enemy they had made in the empire. He would show them all.

"Sarge! Sarge, here they come!" Martinez was looking at the sun, stabbing a finger at the sky. "This is our chance to fight back."

Aimes squinted up into the heavens. It was hard to see anything through the clouds of thick, black smoke floating past, but there was a shape getting bigger as it got closer, and it was no bomb. "Martinez is right! Everybody, get back to the gun, now! Those yellow bastards have been blowing us to pieces. Let's show them we ain't licked yet, not by a long way."

The artillery unit was up off the dirt in seconds, every man running for the anti-aircraft gun nearby. All those months of training and drilling that Aimes had made them do, all those exercises and repetitions they had endured while the sergeant snarled at them and cursed their efforts had all been leading to this. While other artillery teams around them were still hugging the ground, Martinez and his brothers in arms were loading their weapon and getting ready to fire. Aimes suppressed a smile of pride at their precision. There'd be time for that later, so long as they survived the rest of the day.

"Director team, what's the range?" he barked.

"Damn thing's coming in too fast to get a good fix."

"Anticipate, man, anticipate! Give us your best guess."

The soldier manning the director bellowed calculations to the crew on the gun. They responded within moments, adjusting the position of their barrel to take account of the rapidly approaching Zero's changing position overhead.

"Ready to fire?" Aimes demanded.

"Nearly," Martinez yelled back.

"Nearly's not good enough, damn you! Fire!"

"Fire!" Martinez echoed. The three-inch gun blasted a hole in the sky, but its projectile exploded above and beyond the Zero. "Too high!"

"Reload!" Aimes snarled. "Damn it, reload and fire again."

Otomo laughed as the puny Americans below tried to blow him out of the heavens. The first flak scudded past him, detonating uselessly where his Zero had already been. These fools were no match for his expertise. Vampyr or not, Otomo had always been the best pilot wherever he was: in training, on manoeuvres, on board the Akagi. Soon the whole world would know his name: Otomo, the great flying ace of the Pacific; Otomo, the Japanese pilot who single-handedly changed the course of the war. Otomo-

More American flak shot by his cockpit, fizzing through the air as it passed, but the second attempt was closer, much closer. The Zero jumped and juddered as it accelerated towards the ground, the controls dancing in Otomo's hands. He couldn't understand the sudden change, not until he twisted his head around and saw the flames on his tail through the canopy's tinted glass. The Americans had got lucky and now his Zero was like some crazed creature. Otomo had once watched a film from America about men called cowboys who tamed horses and herded cattle. His plane was like a wild animal, fighting with him for mastery. They did battle as the ground got closer and closer.

Otomo realised how close he was to the deck and wrenched backwards on his controls, determined not to be beaten in his first attack. He saw the anti-aircraft gun emplacement that had humbled him and swore a quiet vengeance against them. Otomo opened fire with his twin 7.7 mm machine guns, savouring the moment as battle was joined. "Fear me," he whispered.

Two lines of bullets strafed the anti-aircraft team as the Zero shot past, pulling up its nose just in time to avoid flying straight into the ground. Martinez heard men cry out in pain, as the enemy's bullets found their targets. Something hot and wet spattered his face on one side, while a pink aerosol choked his breath, making him gasp for air. The recruit looked around to see three corpses on the ground and another man dying beside them: Aimes. Martinez dived across to the sergeant, who was coughing blood, his teeth flecked crimson. An angry red stain was spreading across Aimes's chest. "Medic!" Martinez yelled, straining to be heard over the cacophony of anti-aircraft guns, explosions and men sobbing. "We need a medic over here!"

The sergeant coughed another mouthful of blood, spitting it out to clear his throat. "Did we get him? Did we kill the bastard?"

Martinez had seen the Zero fly past, its tail on fire. "Yeah, we got him, sarge. Don't know if we killed him, but we hit him all right. That's one Zero that won't be making it back to the land of the rising sun."

Grim satisfaction spread across the sergeant's face. "You take over."

"I can't," Martinez protested, "I'm just a grunt."

"You'll do," Aimes replied. He coughed again and was gone.

Otomo grimaced. He'd wrestled with his Zero and won back sufficient command of the plane to keep both of them in the sky, but little more. The controls were a mess, more flak had blown a hole in his canopy, and shafts of sunlight kept seeping inside, setting his face on fire. The rest of his body was safely covered by the flight suit, but his chin and cheeks were exposed. Otomo screamed in frustration and felt his tongue catch fire, flames licking the inside of his mouth. He'd never make it back to Taiwan in his shattered, battered Zero, let alone safely land the plane's remains.

The pilot had switched his radio back on and, against the odds, found that it was still working. The earphones in his flying helmet crackled into life, static mixing with Suzuki's voice, the words fading in and out. "Otomo, are you all right? Otomo, can you hear me? Respond!"

"I hear you," he replied, struggling to speak at all.

"Status report, now!"

"Doomed," Omoto said, "but I'm taking them with me."

"No, Otomo, you-" The radio died as electrical explosions danced around the cockpit, incinerating the controls. Otomo tried to slap the fires out with his gloved hands, but there were too many. His Zero was little more than a brick in the sky, searching for a final, fatal resting place.

The pilot punched a hole in the black glass in front of him, squinting to see through the sunshine where he could die. A two-storey building loomed ahead, the largest structure within what few moments he had left. Otomo gave the controls a last, savage jerk and flew his plane at the side of the hospital, emptying the twin machine guns into the windows ahead of him.

Father Kelly flung himself out of the way as bullets shattered all the windows on one side of the ward, but Wierzbowski wasn't so fast. Maybe it was curiosity that made him linger on his feet, or maybe the malaria had slowed his reactions. Whatever the cause, the patient was still standing when the suicidal Zero attacked the hospital. The priest tried to pull Wierzbowski down to the floor, but it was too little, too late. The patient's body jerked and spasmed, spatters of blood bursting from the bullet impacts, before he toppled over like some mighty tree. Wierzbowski smacked face first into the floor, his skull resounding with a dull thud as it hit.

The priest could only watch, fear freezing his limbs and his will. "I need a nurse here," he said, his voice little more than a whisper. Realising that nobody had heard, Father Kelly tried again, louder this time. He saw Nurse Martinez respond, getting up from behind the sandbags where she's taken shelter. He saw the Zero suddenly filling the windows of the hospital. And he saw the screaming face of the Japanese pilot, his features burning with white flames.

Then the plane flung itself into the building.

Suzuki watched Otomo's downfall with mute resignation. The pilot had been his best recruit, the finest flier among them all. But Otomo knew his own strengths all too well and they had made him arrogant. The pilot believed he was invincible before he was made a vampyr. Adding the promise of immortality to his abilities made that arrogance worse, not better.

Suzuki watched as the Zero caught fire, saw it skittering over the anti-aircraft units on the ground, and witnessed the plane's last moments before it flew into the side of a building, blowing like some merciless, divine wind of fury. "Otomo's dead," Suzuki announced to the other kyuuketsuki. "He ignored orders to chase glory and paid with his life. Let that be a lesson to you all."

"What do we do now, sir?" one of the other vampyr pilots asked.

"We avenge him!"

Martinez didn't notice that the hospital was on fire, he was too busy directing the anti-aircraft gun's fire. The lone Zero had been one target, making it much easier to focus. Now half a dozen fights were diving towards the unit, black wraiths against the early afternoon sky, taking up a V formation. Above them he could make out more Zeros turning over, starting their attack runs on the base. There must be nearly a hundred of them, he realised.