Fiends of the Rising Sun Read Online Free PDF Page A

them.
    "Pineapple, it's a kind of fruit," Buntz replied, "grows on trees here."
    "I ain't had no pineapple before."
    "Trust me, Juan, before this shore leave is over you'll experience a lot of things you've never had before. We'll be calling you Don Juan before tomorrow comes, ain't that right, Wierzbowski?"
    The third member of the trio kept his own counsel, as usual. Some of the men had thought taking Wierzbowski out on the town might loosen his tongue, but there was scant evidence to confirm that theory so far. His staring, glaring eyes had frightened away three women and turned a passing military policeman a whiter shade of pale. Buntz was coming to the conclusion that bringing Wierzbowski with him and Martinez had been an error of judgement. He gave up trying to engage the monosyllabic soldier in conversation and focused his attentions back on the wide-eyed Martinez.
    "After you've made yourself sick on pineapple juice, we move on to the Squeeze Inn. That's a bar and grill I once went to, where they serve the best octopus on Oahu, fresh off the boat, seared over a blazing fire and sprinkled with lemon juice, salt and pepper. I tell you, Juan, that's some good eating."
    "Octopus?"
    "Yeah, mainly the tentacles."
    "Tentacles?"
    Buntz laughed as the young soldier's face shaded to green. "All that time on board and you never threw up. Now I get you on dry land and mention eating some tentacles, you look like you're gonna lose your lunch, Juan."
    Martinez swallowed hard. "No, really, I'm fine."
    "I mean, it's not like the tentacles are still squirming around!"
    That did the trick. The raw recruit from New Mexico stumbled to the nearest gutter and emptied his stomach into a storm drain, retching violently, again and again. Buntz had managed to wipe the smile off his face by the time Martinez had straightened back up. "Feeling better?"
    The youngest of the trio wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, cleaning away the final flecks of vomit. "Much better, thanks."
    Buntz wrapped an arm around Martinez's shoulder. "That's what friends are for, Juan. That's what friends are for. Now, if my memory serves me correctly, the pineapple factory should be just around the next corner."
     
    General Tojo stood by a tall window in his office at the Ministry of War in Tokyo, staring out at the city beyond the rectangular panes of glass. How long until that fool of a prime minister bowed to the inevitable and resigned? How long until the Japanese Empire attacked the Americans, those self-important adventurers who dared to impose a trade embargo on Japan's ability to import oil and other crucial resources? How long until the westerners realised they had a tiger by the tail when they tried to blockade ports to Japanese vessels and froze Japanese assets overseas? Did Roosevelt and his lackeys in Washington believe they could hold back the coming storm with their ill-chosen words and idle threats?
    The general's face twisted into a scowl at the Americans' arrogance. Soon they would discover the folly of their presumptions. Soon they would learn to fear the power of the Japanese Empire. Soon they would know the true meaning of fear. It was not fear itself they should be afraid of, but those wielding it as a samurai wields his sword, with precision and economy and utter ruthlessness. When the killing blow came, the Americans would not know what hit them. They would be rocked back on their heels, shaken to the very core by the audacity and skill with which their forces had been undone. Then and only then would it be time for negotiations and diplomats, once the imperial navy and army had done their duty and all of south-east Asia was under Japanese control.
    Tojo removed his wire framed glasses and used a cloth from his pocket to clean the small, circular lenses. All of that was still in the future. For now, he needed to secure a vital new weapon for the coming war, a thunderbolt to cast into the storm of battle, a dagger of stealth to strike