Whispers of Ash (The Nameless Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Whispers of Ash

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Whispers of Ash

  Copyright © 2021 All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Thank you for purchasing this Great Wave Ink Publishing eBook.

  For Karin

  And I saw the wild beast and the kings of the earth.

  Their armies gathered together to wage war against the one seated on his horse and his army.

  —Revelation 19:19 (KJV)

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This series wouldn’t be possible without the following wonderful people:

  Lisa Omstead, Nathan Yokoyama, Nicholas Sansbury Smith, Karin de Vries, Daniel Arenson, Frances Liontakis, Sam Sisavath, Libby Cameron, Jacob Toye, Brandon Swanson.

  My beta readers: Mark Campbell, Bill Holder, Col. (Ret.) Olson, Shelli Shear, Anna Belfi, Lisa Long.

  I’m sure there are some I’m missing, including people I pestered about life in the Armed Forces. I thank you all.

  The friendly people of Japan.

  The team at Deranged Doctor Design.

  My family for encouraging me along the way.

  Lee Murray for your invaluable advice and encouragement.

  Editors: Laurel C. Kriegler, Alison Robertson and Nikki Crutchley.

  ALSO BY ADRIAN J. SMITH

  EXTINCTION NZ SERIES:

  THE RULE OF THREE

  THE FOURTH PHASE

  THE FIVE PILLARS

  NAMELESS SERIES:

  WHISPERS OF ASH

  SHADOWS OF ASH (COMING SOON)

  MASKS OF ASH (COMING SOON)

  PROLOGUE

  MANILA, JAPANESE-OCCUPIED PHILIPPINES

  21ST FEBRUARY 1945

  The artillery fire lit up the night sky like an angry summer thunderstorm. Bombs screamed as they fell and shook the ground, rattling the framed photographs in Major General Touma Yamada’s office. He let out a slow breath and cast his eyes over the report in front of him.

  Another bomb shrieked and the earth rumbled, closer this time. America and her allies pounding the Japanese defenses. MacArthur had come for his retribution, just like he had promised. Within another week, they would be inside Manila.

  Touma finished reading as his father’s words shouted in his mind.

  “Only hard work and dedication will bring honor to our family again. You must carry on our goal. A goal which sickness and fate have cursed me to fail. You must not. Dedication only, do not falter.”

  After three years, he had finally achieved something. Three years of failure. Of toil. Of heartbreak. Three years of disappointment, and now, as the empire crumbled around him, they were making progress.

  Touma clenched a fist at his side and lifted his eyes to Doctor Kosei Ando, a short and frail-looking man. Ando was locked in a bow, looking down at the wooden floor. Every few seconds, he would reach up and push his glasses back up his nose, toward his eyes.

  “Are you certain?” Touma said.

  “Yes, sir. I ran the final tests myself.”

  “Who else knows?”

  “Three of my colleagues.”

  Touma scribbled an address down and handed it to the other occupant of the room. Captain Sora Otsuka. Tall, muscular and loyal, Otsuka stood to attention.

  “Gather your squad and meet me at this location,” Touma said.

  “Sir.” Otsuka bowed and left the room.

  Touma strode from his office. He ignored his staff as they went about their tasks. The headquarters was a flurry of activity. Radio reports came in thick and fast. Maps of the American troop movements covered boards, with uniformed men continuously updating their positions. Touma didn’t need to look because to him the writing had been on the wall since October 20th, when MacArthur landed on Leyte to begin his push.

  The Japanese Imperial General Staff had decided to make the Philippines their last line of defense. To halt the American advance on Japan. It was all in vain; any sane man noticed that the end was here. So, Touma ignored it all. He ignored his staff as they thrust papers at him to sign. He ignored his sergeant’s bowing, and the young Filipino girl trying to stop herself from shaking as he walked past. If what Dr. Ando claimed was true, then he, Touma Yamada, could take his seat at the table. The way back in was finally here. Years ago, his family had been shamed. Cast out of the clan for something his grandfather had done. Now, with this discovery, he could form his own clan and rise to the power he desired.

  Touma led Dr. Ando through the maze of corridors and offices, through one building and into another. It would have been much quicker to walk on the street, but discretion was paramount. You never knew whose spies were keeping tabs on you. They took back alleys filled with starving people, nothing but skin and bones clothed in rags; passed children covered in filth, hands held out in the desperate hope that someone would take pity on them; and injured soldiers sucking on opium pipes to cloud the horrors of the war.

  In one street they walked down, someone had piled American propaganda pamphlets into neat stacks. Now the emaciated citizens were using them as fuel for their fires. Cooking the rats that ran over the decay. Everywhere they walked, there were the innocent victims of war.

  Touma hated seeing it. He wished for a better world, free of pain. Free of hate. Free of struggle. There were too many people in the world struggling for scraps.

  He turned and stopped in front of an old building. Once it had been the home of a Spanish trader made rich from spices and gold. Slaves were kept here. Now its dungeons housed prisoners of a different kind. Prisoners of war.

  Flashes of explosions boomed on the horizon as they entered the house and descended under the streets of Manila with only a few light bulbs to illuminate the way.

  A soldier was posted just inside the doorway. He stiffened and saluted.

  “Squad 18 will be along shortly. Let them pass. No one else,” Touma ordered.

  The soldier bowed and clicked his heels together before returning to attention.

  Touma covered his nose and mouth with his handkerchief, trying to stop the putrid smell of death and decay. Powerful odors of human excrement and sweat hung in the air. Cells,
housing those unfortunate enough to be selected for Ando’s experiments, lined a short hallway. Their cries of pain and anguish filled the space. Cries that pleaded for the suffering to end. Even death was better than living at this point.

  Touma shook his head in disgust and walked briskly to the laboratory at the end of the corridor. The sacrifices had been necessary, but he still didn’t like it.

  An American POW had been strapped to a gurney; his sun-bleached hair was plastered to his head with sweat. The POW’s eyes followed Touma and Ando, but he remained silent. Those eyes showed pity. Not for himself, but for the men standing in the room. They also flared with steely courage. A quality Touma admired about the Americans.

  “Well, Doctor, show me,” Touma said.

  Ando bowed, and removed a scalpel from a metal tray. He lifted it above the prisoner’s arm before pausing. Ando glanced at the three other scientists in the room. “Should they be seeing this?” he asked.

  “Yes. Let them see the results of their hard work,” Touma said, waving a hand dismissively.

  Ando ran the scalpel down the prisoner’s arm. He cut deep into the flesh, from the elbow down to the wrist. Bright red blood flowed out and dripped onto the gurney. Almost immediately, the blood began to thicken, then congeal.

  Within two minutes, the cut had stopped bleeding altogether. Throughout the demonstration, the prisoner had not uttered a sound.

  “Time to full healing?” Touma said.

  “Two, sometimes three days.”

  “Bullet wounds?”

  “A week to ten days,” Ando said. “Only superficial wounds at this stage. Grazes, through and through wounds. Any internal damage, I can’t heal.”

  “It’s a start.” Touma spent a few moments inspecting the wound. It was angry and red around the edges, but darkened congealed blood had already formed a thick crust. “The pain?”

  “My own concoction, derived from opium poppies and a drug the Germans gave us.”

  “All that in one dose?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ando said. He slid open a drawer and flicked through a black notebook. “It’s genius, really.”

  “Genius?”

  “Well, what I mean is, the Tumadok people have used this plant, scorpius, to stop bleeding for centuries. They made it into a black ointment and healed all manner of injuries. I find it fascinating.”

  “Save your admiration, Doctor. They are nothing but savages.” Touma smirked. “We took it and refined it. Turned it into something powerful. Something that will bring glory to the emperor.”

  “Yes, of course. I apologize, sir.”

  “Is this the only subject that responded to the drug?”

  “Fully? Yes,” Ando said, his eyes flicking down the passageway to the other cells.

  “Explain.”

  “Well … the …. There was one other. A New Zealander.”

  “New Zealander?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s in cell twenty-three. He responds to the drug. His healing is slow. A cut takes four to five days. I find working with him tiresome. He talks constantly, and if I spoke better English, I’m sure he makes jokes about us.”

  “Cut out his tongue. See how long he jokes then.”

  Touma removed his sidearm. Without a word, he shot the nearest scientist in the head, his gray brain matter coating the clean white wall behind. The other two men gasped and cringed, pushing themselves against the wall. Touma had blocked the only exit, preventing them from running away.

  “Sir, please, these men are experts in their fields. Our progress is nothing without their efforts,” Ando pleaded, dropping to his knees.

  Touma ignored him and pulled the trigger of his Nambu pistol twice more, shooting both the remaining scientists in the head. “There are plenty more experts. I’ll make sure you have everything you need.”

  “These men were the best. That would take years.”

  “You can always join them, Ando.”

  “No, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “We must perfect this drug from the scorpius plant,” Touma said, looking at the healing cut. “Do you have the vials of extract and specimens of the plant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. I want six vials of this man's blood.”

  He waited while Ando did as he was asked.

  The clicking of boots echoing down the concrete corridor alerted him to the captain’s approach. Squad 18 followed.

  Captain Otsuka bowed and looked at Touma, ignoring the bodies.

  He had been selected specifically because he was efficient and followed orders without question. Squad 18 was an execution unit. They had proven their worth to him time and again.

  Once Ando had finished extracting the blood, Touma shot the POW once in the head. The sudden bang causing the doctor to jump and fumble the vials.

  “Careful, Ando.”

  To Otsuka, he said, “Take the occupant of twenty-three to the rendezvous. Purge the rest, including any staff. Burn it all.”

  “Sir.” Otsuka bowed again and brought his rifle out in front of him, signaling to his men with his hands. They stomped down the hall and stood in front of the cell doors.

  Touma turned back to Ando. It was time to leave this city of hell. Time to feel the soil of his homeland under his feet once again. Time to right the wrong his family had endured for the last couple of decades.

  “Pack your belongings and all your research,” he said.

  ***

  Touma stood on the dock and observed the last crates being loaded onto the tramp steamer. He looked up at the dark skies, happy that there was no moon. Only a few stars shone through the cloudy skies. The Americans continued with their artillery barrage. Launching shell after shell into the Japanese, their flashes exploded in a dizzying array of light.

  Touma was quietly confident that using the steamer gave them a better chance of making it back to mainland Japan, avoiding the deadly US Navy.

  He had captured the ship in the early days of the occupation and used it on several covert missions. Now he needed it to get him to Vietnam. From there, they would continue over land.

  He gazed at the city of Manila one last time. Strangely, he was going to miss it. Not the city it was now. Manila before the war, with its mixture of architectural styles. With its wide streets crammed with vehicles and people, filled with a thousand cooking smells. He was going to miss the beautiful women dressed in delicate clothes. The colorful rickshaws and the children playing in the street. A city that had been fought over for centuries, and for a time had been proudly Filipino.

  He had seen the orders from above. Orders for when the Americans reached the city. Now it was a certainty. Again, he felt pity for the Filipinos. They were innocents caught up in a struggle for power.

  Major General Touma Yamada was a determined and ruthless man, but he wasn’t malicious. For him, the war was over. They had lost. They had awoken the sleeping giant, and now they were dealing with the beast and all its wrath.

  His war was over. Now it was time to rise to power.

  One

  Shinjuku, Japan

  Present Day

  His old life caught up to him at the tail end of Typhoon Hondo. Torrential rain fell from the night sky in ever-increasing volumes. Sheets of water cascaded down from the skyscrapers, drenching anyone who was scrambling for shelter. Winds whipped up by the typhoon swirled around the traffic-choked streets. Rubbish and debris stuck to the road for a few seconds before being blown back into the storm and away into the angry night.

  The neon signs and flashing billboards were barely visible, as were the lights that glared from the giant TV screens across the road. Hundreds of office workers, children, and shoppers rushed out of one Tokyo building and sprinted for another, desperate to stay dry. Some held newspapers or magazines over their heads, and some had umbrellas, but even those did little to stop them getting drenched.

  Ryan Connors stared down at the small earthenware cup sitting on the bar. The warm sake waited for him. Waited for hi
m to gulp it down and pour a refill from the jug, like most of the patrons in the bar did. Instead, he sipped on his green tea and turned his attention back to his book, Frank Herbert’s Dune. Book 323 on his “One thousand books to read before you die” list. For the last year Ryan had wished to do nothing more than to forget. When he wasn’t working as a tourist officer at Shinjuku Station or as a translator for a concert venue, he read. Read stories about alien wars. Books about dragons and elves. Books about skydivers saving humanity and Ebola-mutated viruses. He had worked his way through his list of books. It had been a peaceful year.

  The sake was to remind him of his past. Of what he had overcome. To remind him that he didn’t need alcohol to numb the pain. He didn’t want to forget. He wanted his mind sharp and clear, to remember all the golden moments. Keep the memories strong and full of life.

  To communicate his intention of staying, he removed a wad of yen and slid it across the bar. The old Japanese man accepted it. A brief look of pity flicked across his wrinkled face, but he remained silent, only nodding and making a note in his book by the register before placing a fresh pot of tea and some gyoza on the counter.

  The bartender busied himself with other customers. Out of habit, Ryan gazed around the room. His long-ago training kicking in, taking note of everyone. Their positions. What they were doing. He subconsciously noted the exit. How many paces away it was and whether the small bar had any others. He tried to block it all out, but there was no escaping his former job. An agent for LK3.

  An Infiltration/Recon/Espionage and Extraction agency. Off the books. Hidden in the shadows. Keeping the world safe. His team’s specialty had been extraction. Getting high-value assets stateside. Human or otherwise. He used to joke with the team that they were just glorified smugglers.

  He sipped his tea again, eager to forget what he had done for LK3. Memories of it did nothing but haunt him. They would whisper in his mind, flashing horror and blood. Death, sorrow, and suffering.

  That part of his life was over. He had moved on.

  It was the smell of his past that caught Ryan’s attention first. He registered it as two men and a woman stepped out of the deluge and into the bar, ducking under the noren flags.