Robert Conroy - Rising Sun

“The decision to strip other cities of their defenses was made by the president, who understands the risks involved. It is a chance that we have to take. As for the Mexicans, they will cooperate or they will regret it for a thousand years.”

“I understand,” DeWitt said.

Hopkins continued. “And if this should succeed, I guarantee you that you will get a prominent place in the historical record as well as a fourth star.”

DeWitt glared. “Do you really think I’m such a prick that all I want is another star? Of course I’d like to be promoted. I’m just as human and ambitious as the next man, but my first love is for my country and my second is for my command and the men in it. I’ve sworn to protect the West Coast and I’m damn well doing it to the best of my ability, no matter what some sob sisters think of my methods, and your inference that I can be bribed by another star is disgusting.”

Hopkins sat back, astonished by the outburst. “I apologize.”

“Don’t bother,” DeWitt said, his anger spent. “You can have anything you want. I will cooperate more than fully. Just one thing about my future. If this fails and results in another navy disaster, just keep my name out of it.”

The crews from the movie studios in Hollywood had no idea where they were going or why. They only knew that the U.S. Navy wanted them for a special project and that was good enough for them. As a result, several hundred men had volunteered, been put on a navy transport and shipped to the east coast of Mexico, across from the Baja Peninsula. There they found a tent city waiting for them, along with a number of barges that had been lashed together just offshore. They were confused by the sight and were further disconcerted by the presence of a number of antiaircraft batteries being built along with rude airstrips in various stages of construction.

Captain Bill Merchant called the assembly to order. They’d first thought of meeting in a large tent, but the air inside was stifling. Instead, they met outside by the waters of the Gulf of California. Merchant also thought that a little morale building was in order, so he’d brought in enough bottles of beer to lubricate the citizens of a good-sized city.

After thanking them for volunteering and getting everyone a cold one, Merchant got down to business. “You people are all supposed to be the best set designers and builders on the face of the earth. You’ve made magic out of movies by convincing people that they were watching Robin Hood in a real castle, a little girl traipsing through Oz, and, maybe most dramatically, setting fire to the city of Atlanta in Gone With the Wind . Gentlemen, you have dazzled and impressed countless millions of people with your ability to make things look real.”

He paused and took a deep swallow of his beer. It was a Schlitz and he didn’t particularly like Schlitz, but it was cold and the Baja was torrid.

“We, the United States Army and Navy, want you to build a fleet out of those barges. You will have all the plywood and paint you need, and when you are done, we want anybody flying over real quickly to see a pair of aircraft carriers, a handful of cruisers, and a bunch of destroyers sitting out there in the bay. I wouldn’t mind if there were dummy models of planes on the decks of the carriers.”

A hand was raised. “You don’t want them full-sized, do you?”

“Nope. Maybe half or three quarters will do. They can’t be too small or somebody doing a flyover will notice.”

The first man rose. He had a big grin on his face. “The suckers we build are going to be lures or maybe bait, aren’t they?”

“Yep, and we’re going after real big yellow fish from the Land of the Rising Sun.”

Another hand. “When the hell do you want these mothers made?”

Merchant grinned. “I was thinking a week ago. But, since the sun is beginning to set, I think tomorrow morning is a better idea. When we start, though, we’re going to work like hell and pretty much around the clock. In the meantime, we have a bunch of dead cows that have been carved into steaks, and a whole lot more beer, and unless anybody has any objections, let’s get started.”

Bear clutched his rifle and ducked as the grenade went off not more than fifty yards away. He looked up and laughed. “Another damned Jap just went to meet his ancestors.” The other men in his group smiled appreciatively, but nervously. When would the last Jap be dead?

Almost all the Japanese Alaskan force had been killed in the suicidal attack on Fairbanks, but a few hundred had been left behind for various reasons, usually involving their inability to move because of earlier injuries or illness. Clearing them out of their nests and hidey-holes was both time-consuming and dangerous. Maybe the Japanese remnants weren’t very mobile, but they were, as he liked to say, very hostile.

Rifle fire to his left made him duck again until he recognized the sound as that coming from an American Springfield.

“Got him,” someone yelled.

Good work, Bear thought. Once they cleared out all the Japs, Ruby could head back to her home at Anchorage. She said she had some things to clean out and then added that she thought she was through with the restaurant business. She’d told him she’d had enough of waiting on a bunch of drunken lechers who tried to paw her and then left lousy tips. She would stay with Bear. She told him it would be fun hibernating with him during the cold, snowy winter. He thought he would burn up a lot of firewood keeping it warm enough so they could romp naked, but decided it would be well worth it and, besides, Alaska had a lot of trees. Come summer they would worry about making a living and other long-term stuff.

More shots and this time he dropped to the ground. He recognized the sound of a Japanese rifle, followed by a rain of shots from Springfields. A moment later came the crump sound of a grenade going off, followed by yells from American soldiers. Another Japanese fanatic had decided to swallow a grenade. Jesus, he thought, what crazy people. Who would ever prefer death to surrender and living? Then he thought about the atrocities committed by the Japanese on American POWs and captured civilians and wondered just what he would do if confronted by the choice of dying or surrendering to Japanese mercies. Damn, he thought. What a hell of a way to run a war.

Farris had spent much of the time since he’d been wounded floating in and out of consciousness. He’d dreamed sometimes, and the dreams were often terrible. He kept seeing Stecher being blown up and then a montage of Japanese faces, their mouths open and all of them screaming that he should die. What was worse was that he couldn’t force himself to wake up, as he could as a kid with a nightmare. He’d heard people’s voices saying that they were keeping him sedated until his injuries had healed enough.

Injuries? What the hell were they talking about? He felt like he was underwater and trying to reach the surface. His mind strained and reached for the light. He opened his eyes and blinked. The room was dimly lit and he had trouble focusing. He looked around and saw another bed, but it was empty. The room was stark and sterile and obviously a hospital.

Then he realized he was looking through only his right eye. Oh Christ, he wondered, have I lost an eye?

He mumbled something and a man appeared and stuffed a drinking straw in his mouth. “Drink this. You’ve got to get yourself lubricated before you can talk properly.”

Farris did as he was told and the cold water was an elixir. “Drink all you want, buddy, just take it slowly. I don’t want to have to clean up your puke.”

With each successive swallow, he felt his strength returning. A distant memory recalled his aunt watering her potted plants and how some of them would perk up almost immediately. He decided that’s what he was, a house plant, a house plant with one eye.