Prologue

1945

North Field, Guam

The Moonshiner was the eighty-seventh aircraft in a line of 145 B-29B Superfortress bombers rolling down the tarmac. Their primary target was an aircraft factory near Tokyo, 1,500 miles away—about the distance from Canada to Mexico, and most of it over shark-infested waters.

Normally stationed by the "putt-putt" auxiliary motor during takeoff, the claustrophobic twenty-two-year-old tail gunner, Technical Sergeant Carl Jansen, had been given permission to stand near the cockpit so he could watch the takeoff through the big glass canopy.

The pilot mashed the brakes to the floorboard, his eyes fixed on the bomb-laden plane ahead of him wobbling uneasily into the sky.

Jansen mopped the sweat from his forehead, but it wasn't from the heat. He'd seen enough fatal crashes during takeoff to know this part of the flight was as dangerous as the flak and fighters waiting to ambush them along the way. This would be his fourth mission over Japan. Not so long ago, he was riding a Farmall F-20 tractor in his father's cornfields near Manteca, California. Over his mother's protests, he waived his occupational service exemption to join the war before it was too late.

Finally cleared by the tower, the pilot advanced the four throttles, rattling the airframe as they powered up. He released the brakes, and the Moonshiner rolled forward with its crew of eight and twenty tons of munitions.

Moments later, the sixty-seven-ton war wagon was aloft.

★

In the air over Tokyo

Jansen stood in the cramped tail section compartment, his head on a swivel and his hands on the radar-assisted pedestal gunsight. Japanese interceptors preferred nighttime attacks and they especially favored hitting the big American bombers from the rear.

That put Jansen squarely in the crosshairs. It didn't matter. He had a job to do. Built for speed and increased range, the B-29B had only one gunnery station—his. If Japanese fighters closed in on his vulnerable position it just meant he had a better chance of swatting them out of the sky with his three .50-caliber Browning machine guns.

He told his mother that his body armor and helmet protected him from Japanese bullets, but it wasn't true. He put more faith in his parachute despite the fact he had never gone through actual jump training.

The tail section roared with engine noise as the young gunner glanced through the large armored-glass windows. The night sky was filled with the shadows of bombers in formation—and, more ominously, hundreds of small black clouds of flak thumping all around them.

The first planes were already dropping their loads. Clouds covered the city far below, their undersides lit up by the flickering lights of exploding ordnance.

"Bombs away," the bombardier said. His voice over the interphone was clear and measured despite the thundering flak. The Moonshiner shuddered as the thousand-pound bombs released from their bay.

Jansen had once sat in the bombardier's tiny, unarmored compartment in the glass nose during a training flight in Texas. "Best seat in the house," the mustachioed lieutenant had joked with him. Jansen wasn't so sure back then. But now, standing here, with their P-51 Mustang fighter escorts far behind them, Jansen wondered if the bombardier wasn't right after all.

A sudden, blinding explosion tore through Jansen's compartment. Searing pain clawed at his back, shredding his parachute. With the distant shouts of "Bail out!" screaming in his headphones, the gunner turned and reached for the emergency door only to see the Moonshiner 's flaming fuselage streaking high and away as the tail section separated from the rest of the plane.

The tail section helicoptered down like a falling maple seed. Even if Jansen wanted to jump, he couldn't. Too shocked to scream, he hardly registered the ice-cold wind scouring his face and whistling beneath his helmet.

His narrowing eyesight fixed on the maelstrom of light erupting beneath the hellish clouds far below.

Jansen's mind reeled in terror, his death certain.

★

Unit 731 Complex

Japanese-Occupied Manchuria

Four days later

Dr. Yoshio Mitomo stood in the doorway of his clinic, shivering in the biting wind as the Japanese army truck screeched to a halt. Neither his thin lab coat nor well-trimmed beard offered any protection against the subzero temperature.

A burly sergeant jumped out of the cab, his boots sinking into the snowdrift. He barked orders as he approached the canvas-topped rear.

The truck gate slammed open and the large body of an American was tossed out. He lay in the snow, groaning as two soldiers leaped out of the back and began hitting him with the butts of their rifles, shouting for him to get up. The big American cried out in pain as he curled up in a fetal position to protect himself.

"Stop this!" Dr. Mitomo shouted as he stumbled through the snow. "I order you—stop this, now!"

The sergeant barked another order and the two privates stopped their assault.

The doctor stooped close to the American. The flyer was only dressed in a ragged flight suit stained with blood, some of it fresh. His left leg appeared to be broken.

"Help me get him inside before he freezes."

"Yes, sir!" the sergeant barked.

The two privates grabbed the American roughly and yanked him to his feet.

"Careful! This man is injured—"

"So what? This man is a war criminal," the sergeant said. "He bombs innocent civilians."

"Do as I say, Sergeant—or else."

The sergeant's snow-flecked face reddened from the bitter cold and his barely contained rage. He studied the doctor's implacable gaze before finally giving a curt nod and uttering a guttural " Hai. " He barked more orders to his men. They gently lifted the flyer to his feet.

Barely conscious, the tall American draped his arms around the necks of his diminutive guards and used them like crutches to steady himself. He turned to the doctor and whispered in a barely audible voice, " Thank you."

Mindful of the still raging sergeant, Dr. Mitomo fought back a smile, but nodded an acknowledgment. His eyes caught the name tag printed on the flyer's chest:

TSgt. Jansen

★

Jansen sat tall in a chair in Dr. Mitomo's office. His Chinese-made cotton pants and shirt were several sizes too small for the big-boned Dutchman, but clean and warm. Over the past two weeks, his broken leg had been properly set and cast, his infected wounds stitched and dressed, and a steady diet of healthy food, water, and tea had proven as restorative as the antibiotics and vitamin supplements Dr. Mitomo had provided. A pair of crutches leaned against the wall.

Jansen was certain he was being sent to a death camp after his capture and abuse by Japanese home guards. His initial prison stay on the outskirts of Tokyo had been a living nightmare, and his transport into the frozen north was itself nearly a death sentence. Guilt haunted him, convinced the rest of the Moonshiner crew were all dead.

His only consolation was to witness firsthand the utter devastation the U.S. Army Air Corps had wrought upon the enemy.

Sitting here in a sterile, well-lit room with Dr. Mitomo was strangely calming as the doctor read through a thick file on his desk.

"According to my records, you seem to be on a rapid road to recovery," Mitomo said. His English was faultless, having studied biochemistry at UCLA for three years before the war.

"I feel pretty good. And if I haven't said it before, I'll say it now. Thank you for your kindness."

"Of course. I'm a medical professional."

"We were told that American prisoners were not well treated."

"Unfortunately, that is often true, as you yourself experienced before arriving here."

"So tell me, Doc, why am I here?"

Mitomo shut the file folder.

"Your American air corps has destroyed most of our medical facilities on the mainland. Here in China we have escaped your wrath. It is one of the few places where any kind of decent medical care is possible for American POWs."

"When do I get shipped outta here?"

Mitomo pulled open a drawer and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

"Smoke?"

Jansen waved a big paw. "Nah, thanks. Never liked 'em. But you go ahead."

Mitomo flicked a lighter, and lit up. After taking a few puffs, he continued.

"I'm still working on finding a camp that will be less harsh than the one you are bound to be sent to."

Jansen arched his brow. "I appreciate that."

Mitomo smiled. "We're not all monsters, you know." He blew a cloud of smoke. "I would like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."

Jansen frowned. "You know, the Geneva Convention only requires me to give you my name, rank, and serial number."

"Which you have kindly provided. We have also determined that you belong to the 314th Wing based out of Guam, and that your aircraft was named Moonshiner , if I'm not mistaken."

"My name is Carl Jansen, my rank is technical sergeant, my serial number is—"

Mitomo waved a hand. "No need for all of that. You don't have to confirm or deny anything. All of that information was taken from the tail section of the plane you arrived in." The doctor laughed and shook his head. "It's a miracle, you know? How did you survive such a thing!"

The doctor's infectious laughter caught Jansen off guard. He couldn't help but smile himself.

"God himself must have set me down in those trees. Momma prays a lot."

"I am very pleased that you didn't die. You must have been in prime physical condition just to survive the mental stress of the ordeal."

"We ate pretty good back on the farm. Dad always said, ‘Food is medicine.'"

"A wise man. Now, the questions I wanted to ask you were simply about your medical history, such as whether or not you ever had smallpox. That sort of thing."

Jansen's eyes narrowed.

Mitomo smiled again. "I'm not trying to pry out of you any military secrets about smallpox or the quality of American medical care. No offense, but I'm probably already better versed in such matters than you are."

"Then why do you want my medical history?"

"I said that you are on the road to recovery, but you're not quite out of the woods. I need all the information you can give me so that I can be sure I'm treating you properly. For example, are you allergic to sulfa drugs?"

"I don't think so."

Mitomo took his response as a good sign. He opened the file back up and made a notation. He asked several more questions about childhood diseases, previous injuries, and his military vaccination record. Fifteen minutes later, he shut the file again.

"So, overall, how do you feel at the moment?"

Jansen rubbed his scruffy chin. "I could use a shave."

Mitomo stroked his well-groomed face. "I bet you could grow a fine beard."

Jansen grinned. "My mother made me promise not to. No tattoos, either."

"Ah, yes. Mothers." Mitomo stabbed out his cigarette. "Perhaps I can arrange something. In the meantime, I have one other favor to ask."

"Sure."

"I'd like to run a series of tests. Hearing, eyes, breathing. I want to make sure that we're not missing anything that might prove harmful or even fatal later on. I can't promise you quality health care once you leave this place. Is that acceptable to you?"

Jansen shrugged. "Yeah, that's fine."

"And then I can get you that shave."

★

Jansen sat in a small, enclosed glass booth with a headset perched over his ears. It almost felt like the tail gunner's compartment.

"Can you hear me?" Dr. Mitomo asked on the other side of the glass. He sat at a small desk with a control station and spoke into a microphone.

"Loud and clear, Doc."

"Good. The test will begin momentarily. You will hear a series of tones, sometimes in the left ear, sometimes in the right, sometimes in both. If you hear a tone in your left ear, lift your left hand; if the right ear, the right; and, of course, both hands if the tone rings in both ears. Understood?"

"Understood."

"Let's try it. Ready?"

"Ready."

Mitomo pressed a button on the control station.

A moment later, Jansen raised his left index finger.

"Very good, Carl. It looks like we're all set. Ready to begin the test?"

Jansen nodded. "Ready."

"Then let's begin."

Mitomo adjusted several dials and knobs for a few moments, then pressed the first tone button. Jansen lifted his right hand. Two seconds later, he lifted the left.

Jansen's face paled, his breathing shallow.

"Is something wrong?"

"Doc…I don't feel so good."

"Tell me what you're feeling."

Jansen bolted out of his chair, but his splinted leg gave way. He fell back, gasping for air, his panicked eyes pleading with Mitomo. He screamed for help, but the sound caught in his mouth. He clutched at his throat as his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

The big American airman crashed against the glass and crumbled to the floor.

★

Dr. Mitomo held the cigarette in his lips as he examined Jansen's open chest cavity. The corpse lay on a steel dissecting table.

Lieutenant General Ishi stormed into the autopsy room. He was the commander of Unit 731, officially known as the Epidemic Prevention and Water Purification Department of the Kwantung Army. In reality, it was Japan's testing center for chemical and biological warfare.

"What have you discovered, Mitomo?" the mustachioed surgeon asked.

"My aerosolized botulinum has worked perfectly on the American specimen."

He poked at the musculature around Jansen's lungs with his scalpel.

"The diaphragm, abdominals, intercostals, scalenes—even the sternocleidomastoid. All hard as vulcanized rubber. Total paralysis, and nearly instantaneous."

Jansen had been selected because he was considered a prime example of American biology.

Mitomo had put out an urgent request to the army for any captured Americans. Jansen had arrived in such terrible shape, however, that Mitomo was compelled to restore his health so that the test could be properly administered.

"And how many specimens have you tested?" Ishi asked.

"This is the fifth American. He's a perfect specimen with an excellent health record and no comorbidities. He showed no resistance to the botulinum whatsoever."

"Then we can proceed with Operation Black Chrysanthemum?"

"As soon as we produce sufficient quantities of the neurotoxin."

"Excellent. I will inform our superiors. Well done, Mitomo."

"Thank you, sir."

"When you have finished your examination, burn the body, as you have all the others."

"Of course."

Ishi clapped Mitomo on the shoulder.

"Thanks to you, we shall yet win this war."