Roosevelt started to make a pair of martinis. “What we do and how we do it are the military’s problem. I do think, however, that they could be looking so hard for a Trojan horse that they might miss something more obvious, such as submarines landing men and supplies.”
The thought pleased him, and he began to chuckle.
CHAPTER 12
Staff Sergeant Charley Finch was just about the only American who was delighted by the Japanese attack on December 7. Charley was a supply sergeant who had access to the vast warehouses that housed the army’s store of supplies.
At thirty-eight, short and overweight, Charley had been preparing for his retirement from the army by padding his nest. He had sold substantial amounts of material and army equipment to international dealers at a tenth of its worth. Even with this fragment of value, he saw thousands of dollars coming in, which he cabled to an account at the Bank of America in San Francisco. It was, he thought, foolproof.
At least it was until he got greedy and sold stuff to some local people who got stupid and then got caught, at which point he began to sweat bullets. The local crooks’ possession of military goods had brought in the FBI and, if it hadn’t been for the Japanese attack, would have seen him arrested when they traced it back. As it was, he’d been tipped off, and, while the bombs were fortuitously falling, he’d set fire to a couple of warehouses, figuring that “bomb damage” would account for any shortages.
He’d been right, and the FBI forgot about trivial matters like missing equipment and went chasing more important targets.
What he hadn’t counted on was being thrown into a POW camp. The conditions were brutal, the food was totally inadequate, and the guards were sadists who took great delight in beating prisoners to bloody pulps for the most trivial of reasons. They thought it was fun for one guard to direct a prisoner to perform one task while another would come along a few seconds later and change the order. Then the first guard would brutally beat the hapless prisoner for not carrying out the original assignment. If the prisoner tried to protest or did anything other than stand and take it, the beating got even more severe. Already, several prisoners had been beaten to death. Everyone knew it was a sadistic game the guards played, but there was nothing anyone could do about it.
So far, Charley had not been caught in it, but he figured his luck had run out when a pair of guards called him by name and dragged him out of the camp, so terrified that he could barely stand up. It’d happened to a lot of soldiers; not all of them had returned, and many of those who did come back had been beaten pretty badly.
Charley was dumped in the back of a truck and forced to lie on his face while he was driven a short ways. He knew where he was going- the kempetei headquarters.
He sat for several hours on a hard stool while he sweated and worried. Finally, two new guards grabbed him and dragged him into an office where he confronted a Japanese officer. His knees weakened and he almost fell as he recognized the officer. It was Colonel Omori, the head of the kempetei and a man whom others described as Satan himself. Beside him stood Satan’s helper, Lieutenant Goto.
“Sergeant Finch,” Omori said, “you are a crook, a liar, a thief, and a coward. Do you know what we do in Japan with people like you? We execute them, that’s what.”
Finch moaned in terror, and Omori continued. “The FBI destroyed most of its more important files before we took over. Yours they didn’t consider important. It’s ironic, isn’t it? Had we not attacked, you would have been in an American prison. Now you’re in a Japanese one.”
Finch did not respond. He was too frightened.
“Do you like prison, Sergeant Finch? Are the guards treating you kindly enough? Perhaps a couple will come and visit you tonight.”
“I’m fine, sir,” he stammered.
“Would you like to leave the camp and live in comfort?”
Charley turned wary. What was the Jap offering?
Omori continued. “Comfort means good food, clean quarters, liquor, and even sex. Wouldn’t you like to spend the rest of the war regaining your weight and fucking women?”
Now Finch was intrigued. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. I want information from your camp. We know there’s a radio in there, perhaps more than one, and we know there’s a camp hierarchy that is a potential source of resistance. Also, the FBI agents in Honolulu have disappeared. We think they are disguising themselves as prisoners, and we would like very much to talk to them.”
Charley nodded. He knew this was something he could not refuse to do. The comment about the guards’ conduct meant that his denial would be his death warrant. The guards would stomp him into the ground of the camp.
“We will devise a way for you not to get caught. For instance, we will take you out each day and return you each night to the camp, at least for the short term. Your story will be that you are inventorying the contents of several warehouses for us, and that we’ve given you the choice of doing it or being killed. Your friends will understand.
“Once you’ve given us the information, you will be taken from the camp and housed separately for the duration of the war.”
Charley liked the idea. There were risks, like how would he explain it away later, but later might just be a long ways in the future. He would cross that bridge when later actually arrived.
Omori opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of pliers. “These belong to Lieutenant Goto. Do you know what he does with them?”
“No, sir.” All of a sudden Charley felt that events had taken a wrong turn.
“The lieutenant likes to use the pliers to make people cooperate. First, he uses them to pull out fingernails and toenails, and then to crush fingers and toes, knuckle by knuckle and joint by joint. When that is done, he’ll either pull out a person’s teeth or use the pieces as a hammer to break the teeth off just below the gum. I understand the pain is excruciating.”
Charley was sweating again, and he had the sudden urge to urinate.
Omori looked fondly at the pliers and smiled at Goto, who just stared at Charley as if he were a lower form of life. “Then the lieutenant likes to use them to crush a person’s testicles and nose. Maybe he’ll just put loose folds of skin in them and squeeze with all his strength until the ends meet. It all proves that interrogation can be done quite effectively and with inexpensive and unexpected tools.” Omori smiled. “Do you know why I’m telling you this?”
Charley understood. “So I’ll know what’ll happen to me if I double-cross you.”
Omori beamed. “Excellent.”
Lieutenant Goto signaled, and two guards suddenly pinned Charley’s left hand to Omori’s desk. Goto took the pliers and smoothly yanked out the nail from the little finger. He waved the little piece of Charley as a trophy. Then, as Charley was gasping with pain and shock, Goto crushed the first knuckle of the same finger with the pliers.
The guards released Charley, who howled and writhed on the floor.
“Why?” he groaned as he clasped his damaged hand. “I said I’d cooperate.”
“I know,” Omori said, looking down on him. “This was to guarantee it. The pain you’ve just felt will be a thousand times greater if you fail me. Also, you have now been tortured by the Japanese for insolence and failure to cooperate fully. This means you can return to the camp as a hero. The medics there will be able to treat your wounds, and you will now be trusted by those in charge.”
Charley let the guards help him up. The pain was almost controllable, although his finger throbbed like it was on fire. Omori was right on both counts. The pain was an investment. Hell, if he survived, and he had every intention of doing so, he’d get a Purple Heart for this, maybe even some other medal. And he knew damned well that he wasn’t going to cross Omori for anything.
“Amazing,” Jake said as he looked at the slender silhouette of the sub offshore. “You navy guys can get a sub across the Pacific and right up to the coast of Hawaii with more precision than a bus arriving at a destination in
