Raging Sun (A James Acton Thriller, #16) (James Acton Thrillers), Page 2

  Except perhaps to fail His Majesty.

  The door to the shelter opened, the heavy wood slamming against the concrete wall with a loud slap, startling everyone inside. “Major!”

  Sato leapt to his feet, snapping to attention at the sight of his commanding officer, Colonel Tanaka. “Yes, sir!”

  “Follow me!”

  “Yes, sir!” He grabbed his hat off the table, the others saying nothing, all eyes averted lest they be dragged themselves from the safety of the shelter, the pounding outside showing no signs of letting up.

  He pulled the door shut behind him, climbing the stairs carved into the ground, soon joining his commanding officer in what was hard to describe as fresh air. He presented himself to Tanaka and bowed, it barely returned, the man instead staring out over the city.

  A city afire.

  Searchlights crisscrossed the sky, anti-aircraft fire thundering away, tracer fire revealing their positions, the sky thick with the drone of heavy bombers delivering their death from above, unchallenged by a decimated air force.

  His home burned.

  His country cried for mercy.

  A mercy they wouldn’t receive. Not from the brutal Americans.

  “I’ve chosen you for a most important mission.”

  He snapped to attention, sucking in a deep breath. His stomach filled with butterflies and his chest tightened with fear, but a slight flush of pride flowed through him, tempering the natural fight or flight response. He hadn’t seen a day of action since the war began, though if he should be needed in these final days, he may yet regain the honor he felt he had lost by not defending his country.

  “You are to handpick a team of ten men. His Majesty has ordered that the Imperial Regalia be moved from their sanctuaries to somewhere safe before the Americans arrive.”

  “Yes, sir. It will be my honor to protect the Imperial Regalia from the American horde. Where shall we take them?”

  “To the northern islands. There are currently no enemy troops near there, nor do we anticipate any as they have no strategic value. Take your men, three month’s supplies, and bury the Imperial Regalia so they cannot be found by the enemy should you be discovered. When it has been deemed safe by His Majesty, you will be called for.”

  “When do we leave?”

  “Immediately.”

  He hesitated for a moment, the Colonel catching it.

  “What is it?”

  “Our families. If this is indeed the end…”

  The colonel eyed him. “Is it not their duty to sacrifice their lives for His Majesty? Would you have their wellbeing interfere with your duty to Him?”

  Sato immediately dropped into a bow of shame, his eyes squeezed tight, his arms straight and tucked against his sides. “I apologize for my selfishness, Colonel. Of course, our duty to His Majesty is of the utmost importance!”

  There was a pause, the sounds of the bombs and screams in the distance the only sounds beside the rustling of the leaves of the keyaki trees surrounding them. “Your family is near here, is it not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I think your route will take you past their house, will it not?”

  It wouldn’t. It couldn’t. It would actually be a few minutes out of the way.

  He suppressed an eager smile, cocking his head slowly to the side so he might catch a glimpse of the colonel while still hunched over with his shame. “Ahh, yes?”

  “It would be unfortunate if there were vehicle trouble for a few minutes in that neighborhood.”

  “I-it would be?”

  “Yes, I think it would be. Now fulfill your duty to His Majesty!”

  He bowed even deeper. “Yes, Colonel!”

  3

  Kharkar Island, South Kuril Islands, Russian Federation

  Japanese name: Harukaru Island

  Present Day. Four weeks before Acton’s arrival in Moscow

  “Umm, Comrade Lieutenant, you need to see this.”

  Lieutenant Markov stared up the communications tower at the white, red and blue of the Russian flag fluttering overhead in the wind, it having just been replaced, the Japanese having an annoying habit of sneaking onto the island from time to time to steal the flag, sometimes even replacing it with their own.

  So it probably wasn’t the government, but civilians doing it.

  Teenagers. They’re the same everywhere.

  He had no doubt that if he went on YouTube, he’d probably find footage of them actually carrying out the deed. It never ceased to amaze him the stupidity of today’s youth, and he knew from friends around the world that it wasn’t just a Russian phenomenon.

  They’re stupid everywhere. Who posts footage of their crime on the Internet?

  He grunted, taking one last glance at the flag.

  I wonder why so many flags are red, white and blue.

  He looked at the seaman. “What is it?”

  “I, umm, found something.”

  Markov frowned. “Out with it, Seaman. What did you find?”

  Instead of replying, the young man, part of the generation he had little respect for, turned and walked hurriedly to the southern portion of the tiny island. Markov followed, his frown deepening. He was about to open his mouth when he came upon two of his men standing, staring at the ground.

  They looked up as he arrived.

  “What is it?”

  They all pointed at the side of a slight embankment. Markov stepped forward, it evident the recent typhoon had done a number on the already rough terrain, the communications tower not the only thing to take a hit from the storm.

  His eyes popped wide.

  “Are those—?”

  “Bones!” cried the seaman, the others bobbing their heads rapidly.

  “Someone was murdered and buried here,” said another, stepping forward and pointing at a shattered skull, its grinning visage unsettling to say the least. “Look, a bullet hole!”

  Markov knelt down beside the remains and leaned closer to the skull, there clearly a circular hole in the forehead, as if the person had been shot at close range, essentially between the eyes.

  Executed.

  He noticed something flap in the wind, just a sliver of fabric exposed by the heavy rains. He reached over and gently brushed away the dirt, exposing more of it. His eyes narrowed. He carefully yanked at the cloth, revealing what appeared to be an epaulette.

  With insignia.

  He leaned back on his haunches, considering the find.

  “It’s a Japanese soldier.”

  “But who killed him?” asked the seaman, kneeling beside him. “He looks like he’s been dead a long time.”

  “He has. I’d say at least seventy years.”

  4

  Shiba District, Tokyo, Empire of Japan

  August 13, 1945

  “Stop here.”

  The Isuzu Type 94 truck ground to a halt, his driver looking at him curiously then at the sky nervously. The bombing had continued over the hour that it had taken to load their supplies, though it wasn’t concentrated on this area, it mostly residential and already devastated.

  There’s not much point in bombing homes to dust when they’re already rubble.

  Factories and naval yards, however, were fair game.

  Over and over.

  “What is it, sir?”

  “Something’s wrong with the engine.”

  The young corporal’s eyebrows rose. “Sir? The engine is—”

  Major Hiroshi Sato glared at him, the young man cringing. “There’s something wrong with the engine. I think it will take you about fifteen minutes to repair it.”

  “Umm, y-yes, sir. I-I think there might be.”

  “Good. Get to work.” Sato jumped to the ground then rounded to the back of the truck where his second-in-command, First Lieutenant Moto, joined him from the second vehicle. “Something’s wrong with the truck.”

  “Really?” The lieutenant began to push his sleeves up, appearing eager to dive under the hood of their Isuzu bu
ilt transport.

  Sato held up a hand. “Your family is near here?”

  A cloud replaced the eagerness. “Yes.”

  “Tell the men. Fifteen minutes. Anyone not here when I get back will be hunted down and shot along with their families.”

  Moto appeared confused for a moment then his jaw dropped slightly before snapping tightly shut. “A patrol of the neighborhood, perhaps?”

  Sato smiled. “You’ll earn that third star with thinking like that.”

  Moto grinned then snapped to attention, a smart salute executed. Sato returned it.

  “Fifteen minutes. Tell the men.”

  Moto nodded and spun on his heel as Sato turned, walking briskly down a rubble-strewn lane and rounding a corner. Out of sight of his men, he sprinted toward his home, it still standing though damaged the last time he had seen it. He turned the corner and the air sucked out of him as if he had been struck in the stomach by a cricket bat.

  His home was levelled.

  Bile threatened to fill his mouth yet he pushed himself forward, stumbling toward his humble home, it now reduced to a single wall, the rest collapsed inward, a crater next to it where their neighbor used to live.

  Their home completely destroyed.

  His at least was recognizable as once being the safe haven of an innocent family, once a home where the laughter of children and the singing of his wife and mother-in-law could be heard before times had turned grim.

  The laughter was sometimes still there, the innocence of children a blessing that could still bring a smile to his face even on the worst of days.

  But the singing had stopped, his wife no longer a happy woman. He had told her to take her mother and stay with his family in the countryside yet she had refused.

  “This is my home. No one will force me from it, not the Americans, and not you.”

  It was a futile argument that he hadn’t pressed.

  As he collapsed to his knees in what was once their front doorway, tears threatened to erupt, tears of shame in his failure as a husband to protect his wife, a father to protect his young children, as a soldier to protect these innocent civilians.

  And as a man, to fail them all.

  His shoulders shook and his chin dropped to his chest as he could hold back the emotions no longer. He cursed the war, he cursed the Americans, and if he weren’t such a dedicated soldier, he would curse His Majesty.

  But he couldn’t.

  And he chastised himself for even thinking it.

  Though he would curse the military and the government, those truly responsible for getting them into this war, and truly responsible for its failure.

  A siren sounded in the distance, the air raid over, the reprieve missed in his grief.

  “Hiroshi?”

  He tensed up, his hands darting to his face to wipe the tears as he pushed himself to his feet. He brushed his knees free of the dirt he had knelt in then drew a breath before turning.

  He smiled slightly as he recognized his neighbor. “Mrs. Kita, it is a relief to see you are well.” He nodded toward the crater that was once the old woman’s home. “I had feared the worst.”

  She shuffled over to him as others began to emerge from their hiding places, the occupants of a bomb shelter down the road beginning to spill out into the nearly impassable street. “We are fine. We were all in the shelter when it happened.”

  His head dropped and he squeezed his eyes shut. “When did it happen?”

  “Three days ago. It was the only bomb to hit the area. The Volunteer Fighting Core Officer said it was probably a mistake, a bomb not releasing when it should, or one of the murderous Americans thinking nothing of dropping a bomb meant for a factory, instead on a house.”

  Three days. If only she had listened!

  “Hiroshi!”

  His chin lifted and his eyes widened as he heard a voice he would recognize through the shock of a thousand bombs. His wife. He peered past Mrs. Kita and spotted her, running toward him, her arms outstretched, her usually beautiful hair held tightly by a dirty bandage wrapped around her head. He stumbled toward her, numb to the reality of the situation, a moment ago the love of his life dead, and now, alive and well, falling into his arms, sobbing. He held her tight, saying nothing, his eyes shutting out the world around them as he lost himself in this moment granted him by the gods.

  “Daddy!”

  It was a chorus as wondrous as the most capable of choirs as four little bodies slammed into them, their tiny arms wrapping around his legs and those of their mother. He breathed a sigh of relief as he released his wife, gazing for a moment to the heavens to thank the gods for watching over his family.

  “I feared you were dead.”

  “We almost were,” said his wife. “I was getting water with the children when it hit.” She stared at their home, tears rolling down her cheeks. “We should be dead.”

  “But you are not.” He checked his watch then turned to her. “I want you to take the children, tonight, and head for my parents’ place.”

  His wife shook her head. “No, I want to—”

  He lowered his voice, placing his mouth to her ear. “The war is about to be lost. Perhaps in a matter of days. Once the Americans arrive, they will rape and pillage their way across the country. Our children will be slaughtered in front of you and when they are done with you, you will beg them to kill you.” His wife paled, his message at last sinking in. “You must go. Now.”

  She nodded, gripping her children close to her side. “What about you?”

  “I’m leaving on a special mission for His Majesty. I should be safe. Once the war is over, it may take some time before I return, so do not be alarmed.”

  She looked up at him. “I love you.”

  He smiled. “I love you too.”

  “We love you, Daddy!”

  He dropped to a knee and gave them all hugs then took his eldest son, only nine, by the shoulders. “You are the man of the house until I return. You will obey your mother, but protect her and your sisters. Understood?”

  He snapped out a salute. “Yes, Major!”

  Sato smiled then rose to return the salute. “As you were!”

  Little arms instantly ensnarled his leg. He looked at his wife. “I have to go. I’ll come find you as soon as I can.”

  She nodded, a final hug and kiss exchanged. “Be safe.”

  “You be safe.”

  She pried the children off him and he walked briskly away, taking one last glance at his family as he turned the corner, his children waving, his wife forcing a smile on her face, the image one he hoped he could burn into his memory until he saw them again.

  But as he rounded the corner and lost sight of them, a chill ran through his body as he knew with a certainty unlike any he had felt before, that he would never see them again.

  5

  Ebiso District, Tokyo, Japan

  Present Day. Three days before Acton’s arrival in Moscow

  “It’s a matter of honor.”

  Jiro sat on the floor of his living room, legs crossed, hands resting on his knees as he breathed deeply, his eyes gently closed. He held it then slowly exhaled, willing his inner demons out of his body.

  It wasn’t working.

  He couldn’t meditate anymore, his troubles far too great, his discipline far too lacking. His mother was pressuring him to get married, his boss was pressuring him to put in more hours, and his landlady was pressuring him to do the chores around the property he had promised in exchange for a break on his rent.

  And his stomach growled with a ravenous hunger, despite having only eaten an hour before.

  I hate diabetes.

  He was one of the lucky ones—and he certainly meant that sarcastically—where his body didn’t work properly, his brain constantly being signaled that he was hungry, despite having just eaten a generous helping of salmon and rice. He was so ravenous, he would be tempted to gnaw at his arm if he could.

  He cast his eyes down at his too round stomach.


  It’s all your fault.

  He had abused his body for years trying to escape the pain, the pain of a childhood of teasing, of a propensity to gain weight at the drop of a hat, never to lose it unless he starved himself.

  What kind of a life is it if I have to starve myself for the rest of it?

  A tear rolled down his cheek.

  No life at all.

  He worked his ass off at work, easily putting in twelve hours a day, six days a week, yet it was never enough. Times were tough, and the boss wanted everyone to put in more effort.

  For the same pay.

  And then there was his love life.

  There was none.

  At least now there wasn’t. He had been pining over Keiko in Personnel for the better part of two years, and had finally gathered up the courage just this morning to ask her to coffee.

  The look she had given him had cleaved his stomach hollow.

  He hadn’t waited for the words of rejection, he had merely turned and left.

  It was the giggles that echoed behind him from the others that had truly knocked the wind out of him.

  He was pathetic.

  With the hours he was putting in at the office, he’d never have time to find a woman to marry, so his sick mother would never get off his back, and even if he did find the time, it was obvious after years of trying he was neither appealing to the opposite sex—no matter how much his mother insisted he was—nor confident enough to approach a woman.

  He would die alone, exhausted, doing the same job he had committed to during college.

  His life was a prison he couldn’t escape. One of constant work, little play, and now a disease he wasn’t sure he could handle.

  Life isn’t worth living.

  He opened his eyes, his grandfather’s ceremonial shin gunto sword mounted on the wall. He knew how to commit seppuku, the ritual suicide—he had researched it enough over the past few months—it a painful though quick method of ending all his suffering, but it was also a terrifying prospect.