The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3) Read online

  Empires Lost

  Charles S Jackson

  ©2011 Charles Jackson

  License Notes

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  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Book Three:

  The Dead Alone

  Since time began

  The dead alone know peace.

  Life is but melting snow.

  Nandai

  (1786-1817)

  Contents

  1. Misgivings

  2. The Troubles

  3. Casus Belli

  4. Bloody Sunday

  5. Warnings

  6. Calm Before the Storm

  7. Distant Thunder

  8. Loose Ends

  9. Synchronicity

  10. Days of Infamy

  11. Banzai…!

  12. Inconvenient Truths

  13. In Harm’s Way

  14. Best Laid Plans

  15. Laha

  16. Mentes Reae

  17. Minutes to Midnight

  18. Divine Winds

  19. Schisms

  20. Aftermath

  21. The Dead Alone

  22. Epilogue

   Author’s Note:

  1.Misgivings

  HQ, Army 3rd STC

  Natsu Shima, Truk Atoll

  September 16, 1942

  Wednesday

  Trying to ignore the persistent wooden clack of bokken colliding a short distance away, Shōsa (Major) Sakamoto Takasugi sat a few yards back from the campfire and sipped slowly at a small cup of sake as he offered up a silent prayer in honour of his ancestors. A majestic sunset bathed the entire island in a golden glow as the other two laughed and talked and a soothingly cool breeze wafted up from the water of the surrounding atoll, calming what had been a quite humid and uncomfortable day.

  The island upon which he’d spent most of the last twelve months was just one of many in that huge lagoon, and he’d come to truly appreciate its simple beauty during that time; a beauty, he was forced to admit with almost a faint, wry smile, that was somewhat marred by the dozens of grey-painted warships currently at anchor in the atoll’s clear, blue waters.

  Natsu Shima: the ‘Summer Island’. European maps called it ‘Dublon’, and it was one of many ringed by the jagged reefs of Truk Atoll. Part of the Caroline Island chain, a thousand miles north of New Guinea, it had later been claimed as part of the Spanish Empire, only to be sold to Germany at the end of the 19th Century.

  As the end of World War One, colonial control of Truk, along with many other islands in the Pacific and South East Asia, was then passed to Japan by League of Nations mandate. The Japanese had subsequently transformed Truk into a huge base of military operations, with engineers building roads, barracks, offices, bunkers and fortifications on islands within the lagoon, housing a combined army/navy garrison of almost fifty thousand men. Dublon was the administrative centre for the entire atoll, with a large proportion of the garrison billeted on that island.

  Situated in Dublon’s far south, not far from the Port Director’s offices and the Governor’s house, their position was up a long rise, some distance from a beach where much of the foreshore below was taken up by a sprawling farm of huge iron and concrete tanks filled with fuel oil, diesel and avgas, all connected to a long refuelling pier that stretched far out into the crystal-clear waters of the lagoon.

  Beyond that pier lay the far smaller Etten Island, perhaps another thousand yards away across the water, almost the entire island having been bulldozed to make way for an airstrip housing several chūtai (squadrons) of the Imperial Army Air Service. A pair of Hayabusa fighters droned past high overhead at that very moment, circling on patrol duty as if party to the ludicrous idea that there might actually be some likelihood of aerial attack.

  They were just two of a multitude of aircraft buzzing about the skies above Truk at any given time of day. The surrounding airspace was filled with the comings and goings of circling fighters and attack aircraft, transports, patrolling bombers and long-range flying-boats. All the while, utility helicopters of varying sizes flitted here and there between the islands, the new and incredibly useful craft just one of many benefits of their ongoing alliance with Nazi Germany.

  The surrounding seas too were filled with predominantly military shipping and from their vantage point alone, Sakamoto could easily see several cruisers, one aircraft carrier and a variety of lesser warships and tenders, all spread about the huge natural anchorage that was Truk Atoll. Of all of them, the only one of any significance to him whatsoever at that moment was the old cargo ship currently tied up at the refuelling pier below… the very same rather dubious-looking vessel that they would board just after dawn the following morning.

  A hardy old veteran named SS Exmoor, she’d been designed by the US Emergency Fleet Corporation during the First World War to address a growing shortage of merchant shipping. One of over a hundred 1022-Type cargo ships built, she’d been purchased from American Export Lines of New York two years earlier, everything arranged through a fake, Manila-based shipping company to circumvent the ongoing US economic restrictions on trade of almost any kind with Japan that had been instigated in reaction to the invasions of Manchuria and China during the 1930s.

  She’d been unofficially renamed of course – there were some who considered it bad luck to use a ship with an American name – and she’d been rechristened with a traditional Japanese ship name in a small ceremony, just a few days after the team’s arrival. A generally unremarkable ship of around 13,000 tons, it was unremarkable save for its use in training Sakamoto and the rest of his team with regard to the operation and control of that class of vessel – something that would be vital in a few months’ time. It would also serve to transport them as far as Honolulu, and then on to Mexico for the initial legs of their coming mission.

  At forty-two years of age, Sakamoto Takasugi had served his country diligently throughout his adult life, having grown up on his father’s farm, working with wheat and maize and becoming accustomed to long days of hard, honest work. Standing close to six feet, years of farm work had given him broad-shoulders and a solid, stocky build. With a round, open face and short-cropped, dark hair, his simple appearance hid a quick wit and even quicker reflexes that were belied somewhat by his larger stature. A keen mind complimented his strong back, and the young Sakamoto had joined the Imperial Japanese Army at just seventeen years of age as an officer cadet.

  His intelligence and dedication had been quickly noted, and it was also discovered that the new cadet possessed a flair for logistics; something that made him extremely valuable to his nation’s military. It was these talents that eventually resulted in the former farm worker spending the majority of his career posted to the Shipping Transport Command of the Imperial Japanese Army Railways and Shipping Section.

  It seemed a great irony to Sakamoto that a young man who’d joined the army after having spent the entirety of his childhood working the land, would spend his days of military service learning everything there was to learn about sea-going logistics and supply; from higher theory and strategy right down to the actual command and navigation of ships at sea. Unlike many other nations in which the navy controlled all seaborne freight and supply, as was the case with the United States for example, the Japanese Army was lar
gely in command of its own supply lines regardless of geography, and with Japan relying so heavily on its occupied territories, shipping was a large part of Army logistics indeed.

  Seated on a large ammunition crate, Sakamoto turned his head to take in the rest of their small barracks area. The trio had been given their own private bamboo hut, in which all three bunked down together as a team. A small campfire burned low in the open space between the hut and his crate within a ring of large, smoke-blackened stones. A small tetsubin sat amid the glowing coals with faint wisps of steam spiralling lazily from its short, stubby spout. Normally used for traditional tea ceremonies, this particular little cast-iron kettle had been commandeered for the purposes of warming the ‘home-brewed’ doburoku sake currently residing in a large glass bottle beside the fire.

  As he continued to sit and think silently, Isaki and Abukara circled each other and practised their kenjitsu, laughing, joking and dancing back and forth on the balls of their feet as their wooden practice swords crashed together, with far more noise and horseplay than any actual training being accomplished in Sakamoto’s opinion. Both were lieutenants in their early twenties, and had become close friends over the last few months despite being as disparate a pair of personalities as one could possibly imagine.

  The older of the pair by perhaps a year, Isaki Akitaka was almost as tall as Sakamoto but was thin and wiry, with angular features that made him appear older than his years. Normally solemn and serious of demeanour except when laughing at Abukara’s jokes or antics, Isaki had studied hard prior to enlistment and spoke fluent English, as did they all.

  By comparison, Abukara Katsuo was as broad and stocky as Sakamoto but stood at least half a head shorter. Full of seemingly boundless energy, the self-confidence of youth and self-assurance of his elite training generally served to fuel the already well-stoked fire of a warped and irreverent sense of humour that often infuriated peers and superiors alike.

  “Sakamoto-dono, come and practice with us!” Abukara called out breathlessly as be blocked a flurry of strokes and ducked teasingly beneath Isaki’s slashes. “Ise-chan gets tired waving those long arms of his about; come and teach us some of the venerable wisdom and experience that comes with age…!”

  The ‘invitation’ to join in was an old game that had never been accepted, and a smile threatened to break through at the corner of Sakamoto’s lips as he gave a single, faint nod in recognition of the younger man’s call.

  “Kekkou desu,” he declined with measured politeness. “You two warugaki are already making enough noise for an entire regiment,” he added drily, stifling a chuckle as the pair took a momentary break and both turned in his direction, breathing heavily. “You’ll forgive me if I leave all the foolishness to fine warriors of the Empire such as yourselves.” He rolled his eyes and rose from his seat, mostly managing to smother the growing urge to smile as he continued, poker-faced and playing his established role as ‘The Old Man’ to the hilt. “Better for us all to have an early night: we leave before dawn, and I intend to get as much rest as possible. If you two must continue with these antics, kindly do so further down the hill where I can’t hear you… ” he paused at the door to the hut before delivering the verbal coup-de-grace he’d been holding. “…besides… better I decline such a gracious offer for an opportunity to teach you both a lesson: I doubt Inada-san would be pleased to have two of his best young ‘samurai’ left incapacitated so soon before our departure…!”

  So politely had been the phrasing that it was at least a full minute before either of the two recognised the insult he’d handed them in parting, and Sakamoto finally allowed himself a broad, self-satisfied grin in the privacy of the hut as surprised laughter rang outside in reaction to his remarks.

  Standing by the foot of his bed, he opened a large footlocker placed atop a low, wooden table and took out an old and well-thumbed novel by Shiga Naoya, intending to read a while before bed, and as he picked up the book, his eyes strayed to what else lay beneath. Drawing back several thick layers of folded, Western-style civilian clothing, he stared down at the cold, malevolent shape of the submachine gun beneath.

  A German-made MP2SD3 rather than the more common Japanese Type-100 currently in service (also based on a Nazi design), it was a compact and powerful weapon he’d trained ceaselessly on over the last twelve months. From the dull sheen of the receiver and silenced barrel to the hard plastic furniture of its grips and stock, there was not a single frivolity to be found in its stark, utilitarian design.

  Suddenly serious once more, he lifted his gaze and stared out through the window over his bed, his eyes once more taking in the view of the refuelling pier below and the ship docked there. In deference to her origins as a merchant vessel, some clever junior officer had jokingly renamed her Kamikaze Maru. For Sakamoto, who knew the details of the classified mission upon which they were about to embark, there seemed something vaguely sinister about the irony of that name choice.

  Kamikaze: a ‘divine wind’ that was the name given to a series of huge typhoons that had twice saved Japan during the 13th Century by dispersing Mongol invasion fleets. There was no invasion force bound for their homeland now, yet the Americans and their trade restrictions were crippling his country all the same. The Empire needed oil and steel and raw materials to power a huge war machine and to feed a nation of millions crammed into a collection of tiny islands far too small to support them.

  The time of the Western colonial powers was clearly over, and with Japan in control, the rising influence and power of the Great East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere was poised to truly burst forth upon the world in just a few short months. There would be some resistance at first from other nations in the region, but once they came to realise the great service done in the abolition of European Imperialism, the Japanese would be seen as liberators and hailed as the creators of a powerful and independent Asia… at least, an Asia independent of Western rule. That was what the State believed and so did Sakamoto Takasugi, raised and trained as he had been in a state-sponsored environment of militaristic nationalism.

  And yet…

  And yet, he nevertheless held vague, nagging doubts regarding the mission on which he was about to embark. As a young boy, Sakamoto had spent much time in the care of his paternal grandfather as his parents working the land on their small farm. A former gunner’s mate on the battleship Mikasa during the capture of Port Arthur and the victory at Tsushima Strait, the old veteran had filled the young Sakamoto’s head with tales of great warriors and glorious battles, the most loved being those of the Chūshingura: the great Japanese legend that was the 16th Century bushidō tale of the 47 Ronin.

  The State taught every soldier that it was an honour to die for Japan and for The Emperor; that bushidō expected such glorious sacrifice. Sakamoto had no qualms about dying for his country if need be, but was not honour also one of the seven virtues of bushidō? Death in battle was an honourable sacrifice but there would be no battle where they were bound… at least, no battle so long as their fortune held. There was no doubt their mission would strike their enemy a mortal blow, yet the thought of attack by stealth against a small and predominantly civilian population was nevertheless a difficult duty to accept.

  His hand unconsciously reached into his trouser pocket, his fingers brushing against the brocaded silk of his traditional Shinto omamori, the kaiun talisman intended to provide the owner with a blessing of good fortune. He’d received this new charm from the local priest just a month earlier, having burned its year-old predecessor in a traditional ceremony at the hospital temple on the north-eastern side of the island.

  A sudden shudder ran through Sakamoto’s soul and he wondered for a moment whether the choice he’d made was a good one. Omamori were generally created for protection or blessing in specific areas – love and marriage, travel, success in business or a ward against evil – and kaiun was one specific to the hope of luck or good fortune. As he stared out at that distant ship on which they would begin their mission
of Divine Wind against their Western Imperialist enemies, Sakamoto Takasugi inexplicably wondered whether perhaps yaku-yoke – a ward against evil – might’ve been a more appropriate choice.

  Koningin Wilhelmina oil & gas field, Timor Sea

  300 miles WNW of Darwin, Australia

  September 19, 1942

  Saturday

  The hydrographic survey ship Ocean Vintage cruised westward at three knots beneath a sunny sky dotted with scattered clouds. With Dutch Timor just 120 miles to the north and the coast of Northern Australia another 300 miles to the south-east, she was part of a small but growing fleet of vessels being put to use in Australian regional waters in search of offshore oil. The seabed lay at a depth of 260 feet in that area and there was information to hand promising a large oil and gas field directly beneath her keel. It was the task of Ocean Vintage to locate sections of the sea floor that were suitable for the construction of drilling platforms, and with a looming Nazi victory in North Africa that might close access to the oilfields of the Middle East, it was a vital job indeed.

  Originally laid down as part of a US contract to manufacture wartime British merchant shipping, the 14,000-ton vessel had eventually been completed as a survey ship in early 1942, long after the fall of the United Kingdom had rendered her original tender null and void. She’d been purchased as part of a combined venture between Ampol (Australian Motorists Petroleum Co. Ltd) and Royal Dutch Shell (operating out of Curaçao in the Caribbean) with the intention of jointly exploiting the rich petroleum resources believed to be hidden beneath the sea in the straits between the Australian mainland, Dutch Timor and the rest of the Dutch East Indies.