Black Wind by F. Paul Wilson
He was dark, whippet lean, and his hands darted around like hummingbirds when he talked. His New York City accent was even more pronounced in person than it had been over the radio.
"Yes, sir," we said in unison.
"Good. Now, I want to prepare you for what you're about to see. I'll begin by asking you what's wrong with all those fish out there on the lagoon."
"You mean, besides their being dead, sir?"
Captain Abrams's tone was icy. "Obviously."
I thought about that a moment as I watched the tropical sun beating down on all those white fish bellies. Then it hit me.
"No smell!"
"Exactly."
"But dead fish should stink by now."
His voice was low. "Not when all their bacteria are dead, too."
The enormity of what had happened on Balajuro was beginning to sink in.
"This isn't the first time this has happened, is it, sir?" I said.
He gave me a hard look. "No. This is the third. But you and Kendall are the first to actually see anything of it and survive."
"Some new sort of weapon the Japs are trying out?"
He nodded. "We thought at first it was a gas or something along that line, but after hearing what you two saw..."
"That was a lot more than poison gas, sir. That was…" I didn't know what to say.
I wanted to say it was strange, alien, supernatural, something that didn't belong in this world. But that sounded melodramatic and maybe even a little bit crazy. I was glad I wasn't the sole witness. With every passing hour, that towering column of black cloud seemed less real, less possible. Without Kendall to back me up, I'd be doubting my own memory by now.
"It was what, Lieutenant?" Abrams said.
"It was a catastrophe, sir. An unnatural catastrophe."
"You've got that right. And it only gets worse."
He motioned us to follow him. The other half of Abrams' team had landed on the airstrip this morning; as we walked along the jeep path through the jungle to join them, I couldn't escape the feeling that I was in a dream. The silence and utter lack of green heightened the nightmarish effect. The path was littered with dead insects, birds, and occasionally a rodent or small monkey. Nothing moved in the brown foliage. Even the moss on the trunks was dead. It was like a fake jungle, a sterile Tarzan movie set created by a demented, color-blind designer.
The stillness, the lifelessness—it wormed through the skin and into the soul. I might as well have been on the moon. And it was worse in the compound.
The air about the clearing was funereal when we arrived, and with good reason. I watched a crew of medics carrying sheet-covered bodies from the Quonsets and shacks across the tarmac and onto their special transports.
"Everyone?" I said to Abrams as a loaded stretcher was carried by.
"Everyone. We've yet to find even a cockroach alive after one of these wilts."
" ‘Wilt?’ Is that what it's called?"
"You got a better name for it?"
I looked around at the drooping jungle. I shook my head. "My two friends, Knapp and Ahern. I'd like to—"
"I don't advise you to see them. We'll have them all identified by dog tag."
"I just want to be sure, sir."
I was getting used to the look he gave me.
"Be my guest."
I went over to the radio shack. I didn't want to look at any corpses but felt I owed it to those two guys. We’d worked together and I thought they might have done the same for me if situations were reversed.
Two sheeted forms lay on the floor. Without allowing myself any time to reconsider, I went down on one knee beside the nearest and slipped the sheet off his face.
Knapp—but not as I remembered him. His features were basically the same, but his face seemed to have shrunken. His whole body seemed smaller. It was as if the wilt or whatever had sucked the very life out of him. No pain in his face, no fear in his expression; only a great sadness, an unplumbed hopelessness.
I checked Ahern. He’d looked shrunken to begin with. Now his skin looked like it was sticking directly to his bones. And his expression was the same as Knapp's.
"Kind of gives you the creeps, doesn't it?"
I looked up. Abrams was standing in the doorway.
"What do you mean?"
"That look on their faces. They've all got it. Every corpse on every one of the three islands hit by the wilt. They all look like that. I almost wish they'd have that ‘look of unimaginable horror' you read about in cheap pulp chillers."
I didn't tell Abrams that I happened to like those cheap pulp chillers and still read them whenever I could find one. But I had to agree with him. This hopeless, lost look—in a way, this was worse than horror.
A breathless civilian appeared at the door beside Abrams. "Captain! We've found something! A child!"
"Alive?"
"No, dead. But he's Japanese!"
They took off at a run. I covered up Knapp and Ahern and ran after them.
* * *
One of the sailors had noticed something dark floating at the rim of the atoll. He’d gone over to investigate and found the child floating facedown just under the surface of the fish-filled water. He looked about three years old and he was special in a couple of ways. He was Japanese—not supposed to be any Japs of any age on Balajuro—and it looked like he was starting to decompose.
No one could explain either.
I looked down at the bloated little body. I didn't want to get too close, but I could see some fresh surgical scars on him. He appeared to have been mutilated. Where the hell had he come from?
As I watched, I saw a live crab ride a wavelet in from the open ocean onto the coral and scuttle the rest of the way into the lagoon where a feast waited. Death had laid claim to every living thing last night, but already nature was setting the gears in motion to restore the balance of life and death on the atoll. For the first time since the attack on Pearl, I wasn't thinking about my next drink. I wanted some answers—about the wilt, about this Jap kid.
I took Abrams aside. "I want in on this."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"This wilt thing—you've got a team chasing it around. I'm volunteering to be a member."
Another one of those looks from Abrams. "You started the war as Lieutenant-jay-gee and here you are the same rank after almost two and a half years of active duty. What does that say about you?"
I knew it said a whole lot, and none of it good. Promotions came thick and fast during a war. I held my tongue and he went on.
"I talked to two of your former COs last night. They say you're not as reliable as you used to be."
"That's because I've stopped caring what my COs think."
Abrams pursed his lips. "That's not exactly what I'd call an extenuating circumstance."
"Look at it this way," I said with a shrug. I tried to appear casual but I really wanted this. For the first time in a couple of years I was feeling a tug of interest from something other than the bottle. I didn't want to let go. "I'm a guy who's got nothing to lose, but I'm also a guy who's seen a wilt in action and lived to tell about it. How can you go wrong?"
Abrams gave me an appraising look. "You've got a point there. But none of it matters."
"Why not?"
"Because you and Kendall are automatically on the team. Anybody who's even heard the slightest whisper of a rumor about the wilts is on the team. We're keeping a firm lid on this. We don't want anyone to know about it."
"You really think this is a Jap weapon?"
I couldn't believe anything human had had anything to do with what I'd seen last night.
"It seems to be playing that way. And if it is, we could be facing big trouble from here on in. We don't want any scare stories started, so as far as the fighting man and John Q. Public are concerned, there is no such thing as a ‘wilt.' Clear?"
"Very clear, sir," I said. "Why don't we have a drink on it?"
MAY
"The Black
Shimazu looked up from the fresh photographs of a devastated atoll and watched Hiroki's face. His features were animated as he described the total desolation of the smaller islands upon which the children had been set. The fires of hope and fervor in Hiroki's eyes had been dampened since the tragic experience with Yajima. It was encouraging to see them blazing high again.
"But we need more shoten."
"The surgeons are working to exhaustion." His student knew full well how intricate and involved a process it was to create a shoten. "There are many failures."
"Too many! For every success, we have ten failures. There must be another way."
"There is," Shimazu said, catching Hiroki's eyes. "Find the rest of the scrolls."
"I know that, sensei. But they elude me."
The deployment of the Kuroikaze was entirely in Hiroki's hands. Its means and methods had to remain a secret from the Supreme Command and the Emperor. Especially the Emperor. If He ever became aware that mutilated children were the shoten of the Black Wind, he would certainly forbid their use, no matter how badly they were needed. As with so much of the conduct of this war, it was best not to burden the Emperor with unpleasant details.
"I take it that it is not yet time to hold an Imperial Conference?"
Shimazu looked forward to the day when the Kakureta Kao could stand before the Emperor and be hailed as the saviors of Japan. Then they would be elevated to their rightful place as Guardians of the Empire and could begin the task of purifying Japanese life of all taint of Western influence. After being denied their proper glory for the defeat of the Mongol fleet in the twelfth century and after their failure to overthrow the shogunate in the sixteenth, their time had come at last. All the centuries of waiting were ready to bear fruit. The sweet taste of victory and vindication was on his lips.
"No, sensei. Not yet. We first must gain a major victory."
"And when will that be?"
"I don't know. I cannot launch an effective Kuroikaze assault without an arsenal of shoten. How can I gain offensive momentum when the surgeons can provide me with but one shoten a month? It is an impossible situation."
"The Mongol fleet was destroyed by a single Kuroikaze."
"I humbly remind my sensei that this is a different situation. The Kuroikaze are not well suited for the modern style of naval war. They were best in their ancient use, against a massed army or navy. But this war, with its battles shifting from island to island, with the enemy's troops and ships scattered over thousands of square miles of ocean, I need many shoten—enough to set them up on a whole string of islands, enough to throw the American troops and commanders into a lather of confusion and terror so that I can sneak a shoten into one of their command posts, or into the center of one of their task forces while it sits at anchor. But that is impossible under the present circumstances."
"The scrolls will be found in time," Shimazu said, comfortable in his faith in the Seer's visions.
He’d had other, less comforting visions, however. The nameless child kept reappearing. He had come to suspect that it was Meiko's child. Why was it in his visions? Why did he sense danger from it?
"But until they are," Hiroki said, "we shall need more shoten, many more shoten."
"Bring us the children, and we shall give you your shoten."
* * *
Hiroki hurried back to his office from the temple. Even with no new conquests by the Imperial Forces, his duties as Minister of Military and Economic Coordination filled every minute of the day. When he arrived, he found Matsuo waiting.
His younger brother was dressed in his navy uniform. He sat in the chair next to the desk, reading a newspaper as he waited. Hiroki thought he looked tired and drawn. They had seen each other rarely during the past year.
"Yes, dear brother," he said with a polite bow. "How may I be of assistance?"
Matsuo stood and returned the bow. "I have learned of the devastation of three small, American-held islands. I have heard their destruction is somehow linked to the Kakureta Kao. May I ask how?"
Hiroki hid his surprise. How had word leaked out? But Matsuo was in Intelligence and reputed to be very good at his work. Still, it was disconcerting to learn of a leak. He had been so careful.
The trial runs of the Black Winds had been carried out under the tightest security. Only the Naval Chief of Service knew why a skeleton-crewed submarine had been placed at the Order's disposal. For each mission, Hiroki had personally overseen the loading of the altered child upon the ship. The sedated shoten had been encased in a wicker basket to hide him from the prying eyes of the crew and escorted to his destination by two members of the Order's Outer Circles. Hiroki had wanted to go himself but Shimazu had forbidden it, saying he was too valuable to the Emperor and the war effort. The shoten was landed and hidden near the shore. The submarine and the acolytes then quickly retreated. When the sedative wore off, the Black Wind rose. The crew was isolated between missions. Still, rumor had leaked out. He supposed it was inevitable.
"I must swear you to secrecy in the name of the Emperor if I tell you."
"I swear in the name of the Son of Heaven," Matsuo said with a bow.
"Very well. We have loosed the Kuroikaze upon the Americans." He watched Matsuo's eyes widen.
"The Black Winds? But I thought—"
"You thought they were a folk tale. So many do. But I assure you they are not. Japan and all the world will know how real the Kuroikaze are when we learn again to fully control them."
Matsuo's face reflected his concern. "The Order can't control them?"
Hiroki hurried to explain. "It has been centuries since a Black Wind has been unleashed. No one alive has any experience with them. We are readying a full assault against the Americans soon. It will crush them."
Matsuo looked as if he wanted to believe that, but his voice held little conviction.
"That will be wonderful. Maybe it is not too late to salvage something from this war."
"We shall salvage victory!"
It irked him that his own brother was losing faith in the war effort.
"We shall see. I am curious as to how these Black Winds are called up. Perhaps if the Order shared the secret with the Navy—"
"It is forbidden. The Kakureta Kao is the guardian and wielder of the Black Wind."
Matsuo smiled. "Somehow, I knew you'd say that." He glanced around the office. "You have been well?"
"Thank you for your concern, yes."
They talked for a few moments about topics of general interest, each avoiding the subject of the other's personal life. Hiroki was tempted to ask after Meiko's child, to question the mark on his face and ask how closely it resembled the one Matsuo had described on the face of his boyhood friend, Frank Slater. But even though he would have dearly loved to reopen a wound that might have healed by now, he resisted the temptation. He feared his brother.
And besides, this was merely polite conversation between two men who were linked by blood but no longer shared affection or interest. He tried to bring the meeting to a close.
"I'm short of time, brother. If you would be so kind to excuse me?"
Matsuo rose. "Of course. I'm so very sorry. It seems there's a shortage of everything these days. Out on the streets it is the necessities of a civilized existence. In here it is time." He held up his copy of the daily Yomiuri. "According to today's paper, there is even a shortage of children in a certain quarter of the city. The same quarter as the Kakureta Kao temple. Children are disappearing from schools, from playgrounds, from their yards, even from their beds. Isn't that strange? Would the Order know anything about that?"
Hiroki felt himself tense inside.
What's Matsuo getting at? Does he suspect something?
He studied his brother's features but could see no suspicion there. Could it really be just an idle question?
"Why do you ask?"
"Just curious. Little seems to pass without the Kakureta Kao's knowledge. I was jus
"The Order is presently concerned with the Emperor's war," he said stiffly. "That takes precedence over everything else."
"Of course. I'll let you get on with your busy schedule."
Hiroki found himself trembling after Matsuo had left. No one must ever know of the children. Anyone who found out could not be allowed to live. Even his own brother.
JULY
SAIPAN
The wilts were still baffling the hell out of us. They seemed to occur with complete randomness as to time and place. Five of them to date, and so far, only Kendall and myself had seen one and lived to tell. The brass was getting worried, afraid that if word got out about this Japanese superweapon, about how whole islands were denuded of life by something no one could fight, it might demoralize the war effort.
Unfortunately, we were no closer to an answer now than four months ago when Balajuro died. The pressure was on our team and I was spending every sober moment on it. And I seemed to having more of those sober moments. Working on the wilts left less time to think about Meiko and Matsuo. And the less I thought about them, the less I wanted to drink.
I had combed through all the before-and-after intelligence reports in the areas around each of the wilts and had come up with one common denominator. I briefed Abrams on my thoughts.
"Before each of the five wilts, there's invariably a report of a lone enemy sub in the area."
"You think that's significant?" Abrams said. "We spot lone subs all the time."
"But they're usually on the prowl along the shipping lanes or headed toward an anchorage. These aren't. Before four of the five wilts, a sub was spotted heading directly away from the island in question only hours before the wilt struck. You could explain that nicely if it meant they’d planted a device to cause the wilt."
"Sounds reasonable. But what's that do for us?"
"It puts us on the lookout for Nip subs sneaking seaward from islands we hold."
He snorted. "Do you know how many you’re talking about? We expend an awful lot of man-hours watching for subs in critical areas. Do you have any idea what it would cost us in manpower to be on the lookout in noncritical areas?"