Page 2 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier
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 theMoonshinercrew 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.
