Designated Targets

Nine seconds.

McLeod dropped down in time to see another trooper cut the throat of a guard who had been hiding on the floor of the trench.

Eight seconds.

They made it with time to spare.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three . . .

Hellfire rockets destroyed the bunker three seconds early.

He was shaking. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t stop the deep body tremors that had seized him as the fury of the barbarian war machine fell upon his command.

General Masaharu Homma knew profound shame. He had failed his men and his emperor. He had expected to hold out for at least a week, but had lasted less than an hour.

Less than an hour.

He stood, trembling, in the open window on the second floor of the building where he had hoped to make his last stand. He still would, but he understood now what a futile gesture it would be. He wished that a stray round or a sniper would relieve him of his disgrace. The demonic noise of pitched battle had fallen back to the sound of scattered, pitiable skirmishes, most of which ended the same way: with that peculiar ripping snarl of a barbarian’s rifle as it snuffed out another life.

He could hear the dull chop of their wingless aircraft. The sound seemed to swirl everywhere around him. And now he understood that the high-pitched whine belonged to their tanks.

There wasn’t much of his command left. Some of the staff officers had barricaded themselves in on the lower floors and piled up a sizable cache of rifles and grenades. Somebody had even salvaged a Type 97 antitank rifle from somewhere. There were a handful of reports from Luzon and Singapore that it was the only thing short of cannon fire that could punch through the mysterious padded armor worn by the Emergence barbarians. Perhaps they might take one or two with them.

Most likely they would all die in some bizarre cataclysm, such as the firebomb that had annihilated Wakuda’s company down by the riverbank.

As he stood at the window, peering into the harsh tropical light, two of the eight-wheeled armored cars rumbled into the street. The turrets traversed with a humming sound he could hear even over the noise of small-scale fighting. The long barrels came to a halt when they had lined up on his building.

So this was it.

Homma unbuttoned the flap on his holster and stepped out onto the little balcony. He raised his pistol to squeeze off six shots. The officers and orderlies on the floor below and in the offices to either side of his opened up with small arms. The antitank rifle sounded with a much deeper boom, and he was sure he saw the round strike the angled glacis plate of the lead vehicle. An extra-long spark streaked off the camouflage paint.

The turret guns erupted, and he was immediately thrown to his feet as the entire building seemed to shudder backwards under the impact. Plaster fell from the ceiling, and windows shattered. The noise was deafening, and painful. It filled the whole world, forcing him to drop his sidearm and jam his hands over his ears.

He could feel the cannon shells demolishing the floors beneath, and expected to die as the building simply fell in on itself.

Instead, he rolled over, ready to crawl downstairs and die with some honor among his comrades, only to find himself staring into the face of his assassin.

The man appeared in the doorway without warning. He looked huge, looming over Homma in his bulky armor. His was white, but most of his face was hidden behind goggles that were so perfectly mirrored, all the general could see in them was a distorted image of himself.

He clawed around for the pistol he’d dropped as the soldier raised one of the two weapons he was carrying. It was black, and oddly shaped, with two metal spikes poking—

He jumped as the spikes fizzed across the room and embedded themselves in his chest. He noticed wires leading back to the device.

And then the world turned black.

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

Homma came to in a different room. No. A tent.

He had no idea of how long he had remained unconscious. The tent was lit by glowing tubes, so perhaps night had fallen.

He lay on a cot. It was a simple structure of canvas and wood, but strange machines sat on a trestle table to his left. Somebody spoke in English. He tried to focus through the pain of a blinding headache and the sudden realization that he was a prisoner.

More shame. Unending, unutterable shame.

Hard, callused hands held him down. His head was clamped in a lock and wrenched backwards, exposing his neck. He felt a cool metallic object press against his jugular and then a sharp sting.

He passed into darkness again.

Battalion Intelligence Officer Major Annie Coulthard stepped back from the prisoner.

“Give him a minute or so, sir.”

“Thank you, Major,” said Colonel Jones.