Paxton had been walking for nearly an hour when a jeep of MPs shot past on its way towards the navy yards. It screeched to a halt before reversing back up the hill to him. The jeep had four MPs packed into it, all wearing metal dishpan helmets and clutching rifles. "Where you headed, soldier?" the driver asked, tipping his helmet back to get a good look at Paxton.
"Marine barracks," he said without thinking, "B Company."
"What happened? You on a 48-hour pass when the Japs attacked?"
"Something like that," Paxton replied, not wanting to get into the details.
"Uh-huh," the driver said, looking him up and down. There was a massive explosion down in the harbour, a fireball mushrooming into the sky. Moments later the sound of the blast reached the jeep. All five men were transfixed by the spectacle. Two hours ago it had been a peaceful, unremarkable Sunday morning; now they were witnesses to all hell breaking loose on an island in the middle of the Pacific.
A trio of Japanese fighters roared overhead, pursued by an SBD, the sudden noise startling Paxton and the MPs. "We're headed down to the navy yards, we'll give you a lift," the driver told Paxton, jerking a thumb at the rear of the jeep. "Guys, make some room back there. We've got a marine who's trying to get back to his base. Least we can do is take him where he can do some good, right?"
Paxton clambered into the rear of the jeep, wedging his butt between the two burly MPs already there. He winced as the effort strained the wound where his right nipple had been. "Something wrong?" one of the MPs asked.
"Got into a fight last night," Paxton lied, "nothing serious."
Marquez was grateful his parachute opened after he abandoned the plummeting, broken Dauntless, and even more grateful that none of the wreckage from his plane or the shattered Zero had torn though the fabric canopy. But his gratitude was soon washed away when he splashed down in the harbour, between Ford Island and the navy yards. The parachute sank down into the water, threatening to take Marquez with it to the bottom of the harbour, and the clasp on his harness was jammed. The pilot battled to undo the metal clasp, but his fingers were being numbed by the cold water and the harness had tangled itself around his yellow life-preserver. Eventually he fought his way free by sacrificing both, shrugging the parachute and life-preserver off over his shoulders. That left him without a buoyancy aid to help him stay afloat until a rescue boat could find him.
Marquez turned around in a slow circle, trying to get his bearings. He was used to seeing Pearl from the cockpit of his SBD, everything laid out below him like a vast tablecloth. It all looked so different from the surface of the harbour, choppy water and greasy black fumes obscuring most of the landmarks. Marquez thought he recognised Battleship Row, but instead of half a dozen proud navy vessels moored in pairs, all he could see were burning wrecks, vast clouds of black and grey rising from the ruins. The pall of smoke hid the morning sun, casting a queasy, funereal light across the harbour.
A Japanese bomber screamed over Marquez's head, its air brakes fully extended to slow the plane as it dived towards a nearby battleship. It might be an enemy plane, but Marquez could not help admiring the bravery and skills of its pilot, bringing the bomber in low and fast. The Val released its two bombs and peeled away into the sky, anti-aircraft fire peppering the air around the Japanese plane. Behind it the battleship took a direct hit, flames and debris skyrocketing upwards from the deck. Shrapnel from the blast showered the cold, choppy water around the pilot. He ducked beneath the water, not wanting to be wounded or knocked unconscious by falling debris.
When he resurfaced, the ship was still on fire. Marquez could see a tug coming alongside it, trying to give aid. He watched in horror as men set alight by fires on board the larger vessel dived into the water, trying to put out the flames burning them alive. The young pilot wanted to look away, but his eyes were riveted by the grisly, ghastly spectacle. He swam towards the survivors, determined to do what he could to help them.
As Marquez got closer another Japanese plane swooped down low over the water. His sharp eyes were drawn to three things about the aircraft: It had a longer canopy than the Val, suggesting the plane was a three-seater, probably a Kate; secondly, the bomber was jet black from nose to tail, and from wingtip to wingtip, even the glass canopy was tinted black, something he'd never seen before. The sole distinguishing mark on the aircraft was the emblem beneath its wings: the red circle of the Japanese Empire, clutched in the talons of a bird of some sort. As the Kate got closer, Marquez realised it was not a bird, but an image of a bat with its wings unfurled. He had never seen the insignia before, but it still sent a shudder of fear through his body.
Most important of all, the Kate's pilot had opened fire with his forward machine guns, strafing the harbour as he flew over it. "My god," Marquez whispered, "he's targeting the sailors in the water. That's barbaric!" The young pilot shouted at those nearby to get down, but few heard his cries above the cacophony of explosions and screaming aircraft engines. Bullets from the Kate cut deadly lines across the harbour, maiming and killing men intent on trying to escape the burning ships. Marquez dived back below the surface, bullets zipping past him underwater. He swam on, holding his breath for as long as possible before going back up for air. The water was dark, an oil slick spreading across the surface and blocking the sun.
Marquez saw somebody else ahead, also taking refuge below the surface, facing away from him. He swam towards him, using his best breaststroke to scythe through the murky water. Marquez tugged on his shoulder when he reached him, but got no response. He twisted him around in the water and came face to face with a corpse missing its lower jaw. A swollen, listless tongue licked at the crimson water, stained by blood and viscera. Turning the corpse had given its limbs a grisly momentum, and the arms wrapped themselves around Marquez, as if trying to embrace him. He pushed and kicked the body away, watching it tumble into the depths before swimming up towards fresh air.
The young pilot broke the surface gasping for breath, his mind haunted by the image of that dead sailor, his body still shuddering at the corpse's touch. A dozen more corpses were floating in the water around him, and the burning remnants of the battleship he'd seen explode were close on one side. The underwater currents must have been stronger than they seemed, Marquez realised. He heard the rat-tat-tat of machine guns and twisted around to see the Kate coming directly at him, both barrels spitting bullets, butchering all those still alive in the water. Marquez tried to duck back beneath the surface, but the crush of bodies around him made that impossible. It felt as if the dead were clinging to him, making sure he joined them.
Helpless in the water, Marquez watched as the Kate got closer by the moment, two lines of bullets stabbing into the water ahead, both of them tracing a path directly to his position. He wanted to close his eyes, but the Japanese plane held him mesmerised, like a rabbit in the headlights of a truck. A prayer sprang into his mind, the words of a child, but still they tumbled from his lips, one last invocation before the end. "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to keep," Marquez whispered in the water.
An SBD burst from the dark clouds billowing out of the battleship and flew in front of the Kate. The Japanese plane broke left to avoid a collision, its radial engine screaming in protest at the sudden change of trajectory. The two aircraft passed within a few feet of each other, the greasy black air swirling and curling behind them. Marquez cheered as he recognised the markings on the Dauntless that had saved him; it was Lieutenant Richards's plane! Twisting around in the water, the pilot watched as another SBD gave chase to the Kate, driving it away from the harbour, sending the enemy bomber south towards Hickam Field. Marquez smiled. Unless he was mistaken, that was Bravo. As usual, it was Chuck who had come to the aide of those in the water, risking himself to save them, while Bravo went chasing a Japanese kill.
"Is anybody still alive out there?" a gruff voice called. Marquez looked around and saw a tug nosing its way through corpse choked waters. Most of the crew was lining the edge of the tug, seeking survivors among the dead.
"Over here!" the pilot shouted, waving an arm in the air.
A lifebelt splashed into the harbour close by and Marquez swam towards it, grateful to be getting out of the chilling, bloody waters. He might be a navy pilot but any affection he had possessed for the sea had been vanquished today. He wanted revenge against an enemy that had turned Pearl Harbour into a killing ground, and had murdered his radioman, Mead. Now, more than ever, he wanted to be in the sky where he belonged.
Sergeant Dwight Cochrane was worried about the colonel. He'd worked for the old man at Hickam Field for three years, maintaining security around the army air base. In all that time the colonel had never broken a regulation, ignored an instruction or done anything that went against army procedure or protocol. All that had changed since the discovery of the Japanese spy near Hangar 15. The colonel was acting like some green, first-year rookie, choosing to interrogate the prisoner alone in his office, instead of under armed guard in a holding cell. A few minutes later the colonel called Cochrane and ordered that all the anti-aircraft units stationed around Hickam stand down, despite the fact that the field was still under attack from Japanese planes. Now the colonel had commanded sentries at the outer gate to allow another Oriental on to the base. Deciding that enough was enough, Cochrane knocked on the colonel's door and entered the office without waiting for permission.
"Sir, I've no wish to question your judgement, but I have to say..." The sergeant's words petered out as he took in the scene inside the office. The colonel's body was splayed out across the desk, with only an undershirt and shorts to maintain his dignity. The prisoner was crouching beside the body, his face clamped against the colonel's neck, wet sucking sounds escaping his lips. Worst of all, the colonel was moaning with pleasure, his eyes rolling back into his head as if caught in a moment of utter, overwhelming ecstasy.
Hitori ripped his mouth away from the colonel's throat, crimson droplets spilling down his chin. He hissed at the sergeant, lips drawn back to reveal two long fangs, strained red with fresh blood. Hitori was wearing the colonel's uniform, stolen from the dying man's body. Cochrane reached for his sidearm, fingers fumbling at the flap on his holster. Before he could pull the pistol free Hitori had already vaulted the desk and had a claw-like hand clasped around the sergeant's throat. The sharp, jagged fingernails dug into Cochrane's skin, scrabbling at the arteries carrying their rich red cargo around his body.
"What are you?" Cochrane whispered, his voice hoarse with terror.
"We're the future," Hitori replied, licking his ruby lips. "We're the new world order, the master race that will command humanity after this war."
At last the sergeant got his sidearm free and stabbed the barrel into the prisoner's side. "Yeah? Well, my little friend here says otherwise!" He pulled the trigger and fired six quick shots into the prisoner.
Hitori staggered backwards, screaming in anger, his elongated fingers clutching at the wound, his eyes riveted on the holes made by the bullets. But he did not die, did not collapse, did not succumb as Cochrane expected. Instead the prisoner started laughing, his screaming becoming a mocking cackle of mirth. "You fool! Mere bullets cannot kill my kind!"
The sergeant turned to run, about to shout for help from the other sentries outside, but a single word froze him in his tracks:
Stop
. He felt the beating of his heart decrease, the blood pumping through his body slow like some mighty steam hammer grinding to a halt. Time seemed to slide away from Cochrane until there was only him and Hitori's voice left alive. The world outside receded to nothing, the sounds of bombs falling, and anti-aircraft guns in the distance, dying away. He was alone with only this fiend for company.
Hitori walked around the sergeant in a circle, his gaze fixed on the frozen soldier's fearful face. "Your mind rebels against the reality of your senses. You saw me feeding on the blood of your commanding officer, but you dare not think of the name your people use for my kind. We have had many names in the history of humanity: vampyr, nosferatu, djavoli, creatures of the night. Why should one word frighten you so? Why should a name terrify?" Hitori reached into the sergeant's mind, giving back to Cochrane the power of speech. "Why?"
"Vampires don't exist," the sergeant said.
"I exist," Hitori replied, pulling back his upper lip to expose his fangs. "I feed, I kill, I hunt, I consume. Would you deny all of that?"
Cochrane shook his head.
"Good. Then you can be my thrall, my escort. The colonel has outlived his usefulness and you will take his place." Hitori snapped his fingers and the spell was broken. Cochrane could hear the bombs falling outside, the anti-aircraft guns blasting at anything that moved across the sky. The sergeant opened his mouth to call for help, but no sound came, no words escaped his lips. "You are mine now, body and soul," Hitori hissed.
A car horn sounded outside the office. Hitori strode over to the window and looked out. What he saw seemed to please him. "Good, Kimura's here, at last. Time we were going." The vampyr marched past Cochrane and out of the office, snapping his fingers like a master summoning his pet. "Come!"
Kimura sat in the battered saloon, watching the black Kate as it circled high above Hickam Field. He thought it fortunate that the surprise attacks on Pearl Harbour and the other military bases on Oahu had been such a success. The carnage and chaos created by the disorganised American response had kept security on the ground to a minimum. The US forces were concentrating all their energies on repelling the waves of Kates, Vals and Zeros. Kimura had been challenged just once as he drove from Kissy's home to Hickam Field.