Daniel Wyatt - The Mary Jane Mission

Then… a noisy aircraft — a Zero — flew low over head.

The guards looked up. Tiger darted off to the right, into the thick trees and ran, finally stopping a few minutes later to catch his breath. No one behind him. But he could hear the dogs barking. And they didn’t sound that far off. He kept running. The forest was thick, but it couldn’t keep him hidden for very long. For one of the few times in his life, he was truly scared. He knew what the Japanese authorities did to shot-down American airmen during World War Two. They had no mercy.

Coming to a short open field, he saw a ragged path a hundred feet off, leading from the field on the other side back into the forest. He took off on a dead run and made it to the path, just as two guards appeared at the edge of the forest. He turned and saw a flash from one of the guns.

Tiger hit the dirt, a stinging pain in his left leg. Bleeding from his ankle, he crawled, then ran as best he could from their sight into the forest. After fifty feet, he gave up. He dropped on the spot, beside a tree trunk, where he turned and waited. The guards ran up, shoving the rifle butts into his chest.

“All right, assholes, knock it off!”

The dogs barked fiercely, showing sharp teeth. The guards looked down at Tiger. One of them shouted and motioned to Tiger to get up. The guards blindfolded him and ordered him to walk the entire distance to Saburo’s house, punching him and prodding him along the way with the rifle butts.

They stopped at the truck, where Tiger was pushed into the back and was kept under guard for a slow, thirty-minute trip. Then his blindfold was ripped off and he was grabbed from the back of the truck. Facing him was a small, rod-bearing Japanese officer in glasses. Tiger looked around and saw the base he had shot up. He smiled when he saw the blackened remains of the fighters off to one side of the hangar.

The officer shouted in Japanese and some guards rushed forward to tie Tiger’s hands behind him. He was forced to walk again. On the way, he saw three Zeros off to the left, drop tanks attached to the bottom fuselage. The guards flung him into a room inside a small building. A large, tough-looking thug stared at him, as one guard dropped him on a chair. The officer stepped forward and stood over Tiger.

“All right, Joe, name, rank, and serial number,” the officer demanded in English.

“My name is not Joe,” Tiger replied. “And I need a doctor.”

“Every American is Joe to me.” The officer struck Tiger across the face with the rod. “Name, rank, serial number!”

Tiger felt a line of blood trickling down his cheek. “My name is Joe, United States—”

“Your real name!”

“I thought you decided my name is Joe.”

“Name, rank, serial number!”

“Lieutenant Jack Runsted, United States Navy. Number 565675.”

The officer pointed his stick toward the door. “That was some exhibition you put on out there today.”

“Fucking right it was.”

The officer caught the smirk on Tiger’s face and struck him again with the rod, this time on the shoulder. “What kind of aircraft were you flying?”

Tiger flinched and said, “I’m only required to give my name, rank, and serial number.”

“You’re one of those smart-ass Joes.”

“My name is Jack.”

One of the guards brought in Tiger’s helmet and oxygen mask and placed it on a long table. The officer looked at the pieces, and was especially interested in the darkened visor and padded lining. “What does Tiger stand for?” he asked, reading the name on the front.

“My nickname.”

The officer then eyed Tiger’s flight suit, poking the ankle and shoulder pockets. “Where did you come from? What base?”

Oh, what the hell, Tiger thought. Keeping military secrets now wouldn’t mean anything.

“A carrier.”

“Which one?”

“USS Midway.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s our… newest.”

“What kind of jet-propulsion aircraft were you flying?”

Tiger smiled. “The best. F-18 Hornet.”

“What engines were you using?”

“Twin turbofans. Sixteen thousand pounds of thrust. It can go twice the speed of sound.”

“Twice the speed of sound! That’s impossible! I want the truth!”

“It is the truth. Why would I lie? You saw what it could do.” Thanks to some 1990 Japanese computer technology , Tiger wanted to say. “You were lucky. If you hadn’t got a piece of me, I would have wiped out your whole base.”

“Where is your fighter now?”

“The bottom of the ocean.”

“Why are you so eager to answer my questions?”

Tiger held his head up. “Because Japan has lost the war. Your government will surrender within seventy-two hours. So you had better be good to me, pal.”

“Lies! All lies!” The officer brought the rod up to strike Tiger again, but didn’t.

Tiger was trying to loosen the rope of his tied hands. “You must know by now that Hiroshima and Nagasaki were destroyed a few days ago by two powerful atomic bombs.”

The officer pulled back. “How did you know?”

“I know.”

“What was your mission to our country?”

“Escort the third atomic mission.”

“Another one!”

“Yes.”

“The target. Give me the target!”

“Kyoto.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“We didn’t think you’d bomb Pearl Harbor.”

The officer spun around and said something to the guard at the door. The guard turned the handle and left.

Tiger winced. “May I have a doctor now?”

“Not until you answer more questions.”

“Shoot. I mean… go ahead.”

Tiger’s interrogation continued. All the answers he gave either puzzled or angered the officer. Then a doctor arrived and bandaged Tiger’s ankle. It was only a flesh wound — the bullet had grazed Tiger’s ankle — but he had lost a lot of blood. The officer left for five minutes, then returned with fire in his eyes. By that time, Tiger was nearly free of his rope.

“You are a liar, Joe! There was no attack on Kyoto! It is still standing. Where was the real attack? Answer me, Joe.”

Tiger realized now that the bomb didn’t go off. Thank God . Then something else occurred to him. Was it dropped in 1990?

The officer struck Tiger twice more on the shoulder. Then he stepped back and stomped to the door. Before leaving the room, he nodded at the muscle man.

GUAM

Cameron and the Shillings cramped themselves into the Shilling’s basement. Outside, the typhoon raged, making its landfall in the afternoon. Winds of more than a hundred miles per hour and a wall of rain slammed the city and the island of Guam. Electricity went first. The winds howled on for a few hours. Then the wind and rain died off. Suddenly, the sun shone through a crack in one of the boarded-up basement windows.

“It stopped,” Cameron noted with wonder. “And the sun’s shining.”

“Let’s go topside,” Robert suggested.

Les went outside with the men. They walked down the driveway and had a look at the neighborhood. Some trees had been uprooted, but the houses were generally intact, except for a few smashed windows, scattered debris in the yards, and a couple dented cars. Every roof had hung on. Les’s yard stood untouched. The air had a slight breeze to it, maybe five knots, and the temperature seemed warm.

Les studied the sky. In every direction, he saw a barrier of ominous cloud. “We’re surrounded. We’re in the eye.”

Robert and Cameron saw it too.

“It’s not over yet,” Cameron said.

“Not by a long shot,” Les replied. “We only got a few minutes, maybe an hour before the winds hit us from the opposite direction. The next time around it may be worse.”