On the eastern shore of the Chiba Prefecture, only three kilometers from the Pacific Ocean, Major Suzuki Koki picked his way through the rubble of the Iioka Railway Station, offering encouraging words to the remaining men in his company. Less than half of his men were alive and half of those injured, including him. His limp was getting worse, but he tried to ignore the throbbing in his left leg from the shrapnel buried in his thigh. He tried to hide the pain and set an example for his weary men.
His men were firing through jagged holes blown in the railway station wall, attempting to repel the latest PLA onslaught. After completing his round, his senses numbed by the staccato firing of rifles and the rumbling explosions of incoming artillery rounds, Suzuki leaned back against the cool cinder block wall, taking care not to put weight on his left leg as he slid slowly to the ground. Placing his pistol on the floor next to him, he winced as he pulled his left knee up with both hands to examine the deep gash in his thigh, protected from the dust and rubble by a wrapping of blood-stained gauze. Lifting the edge of the bandage up, he confirmed the bleeding had stopped. After the never-ending flood of bad news over the last eleven days, this was good news indeed.
Eleven days ago, seated at his desk in the Ministry of Defense Headquarters in Tokyo, he had watched China’s surprise attack unfold on his computer monitor. Once the shock wore off, he had raced to the outskirts of Tokyo to join his unit. Japan was ill prepared for a land invasion, convinced their sea power would thwart any attempt. But China had prepared well and struck fast, devastating Japanese naval forces. With the American Pacific Fleet destroyed, there was nothing to deter the flow of Chinese soldiers and equipment onto the Japanese home islands.
The fighting had been fierce around the dozen Chinese beachheads on the western shore of Japan’s main island, but the PLA gained a foothold and once they broke out from their beachheads, Suzuki’s company, like the rest of the Japanese Ground Self-Defense Force, had been in full retreat mode. Until now, that is. Suzuki and the rest of 1st Division had been ordered to hold their position along the Sobu Rail Line at all cost; retreat or surrender was not an option. An explanation hadn’t been provided, but given their proximity to the eastern shore, Suzuki figured the sixty kilometers of Kujukuri’s straight, reef-less shore was the only viable beachhead remaining for America’s Marine Expeditionary Forces.
Major Suzuki was in command of the entire 34th Infantry Regiment now. The Colonel—hell, every officer senior to him—had been killed or injured, those surviving too incapacitated to issue commands. By good fortune, Suzuki’s regiment had linked up with a medical unit, and even now one of the Medics was making his way through the rubble, checking on the injured men assigned to the front line.
As the Medic made his way toward Suzuki, an explosion rocked the railway station. Twenty feet away, stone and men were blown backward as a gaping hole appeared in the railway station wall. As Suzuki gazed at the hole, he realized something had changed. This wasn’t the result of an artillery shell. He rolled to his side, peering through a ragged one-foot-wide hole in the cinder block wall. Emerging from the tree line, a dozen turrets appeared, and he heard the faint clanking of metal treads.
The Chinese had ferried tanks onto the island.
The situation was hopeless. They needed shoulder-fired anti-tank missiles, weapons Suzuki’s company didn’t possess. Against advancing tanks, they’d be forced to wait until the tanks crashed through the railway station walls, then his men would toss grenades into the tank tracks, disabling them to prevent their advance toward the beach behind them. Unfortunately, there would be little left of Suzuki’s company afterward. Protected behind each tank, a platoon of Chinese infantry was advancing toward the railway station. Once the railway station walls were breached, what was left of Suzuki’s company would be overwhelmed.
However, his orders were clear.
This was their final stand.
There was a puff of white smoke from one of the tank turrets, and this time a section of the railway station to Suzuki’s right vaporized in a shower of debris, ricocheting in every direction. Suzuki shouted to his men, but he couldn’t hear himself—there was a loud ringing in his ears from the two explosions. No one responded as the dust drifted through the terminal, partially obscuring his vision. He pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the pain shooting through his thigh. If his men couldn’t hear him, he would lead by example. He climbed over the rubble toward the nearest injured man, grabbing him under his shoulders, dragging him away from the gaping hole in the wall. His men recovered from their daze, scrambling toward the injured, pulling them to temporary safety behind intact sections of the railway station.
Once the injured men had been pulled to safety, Suzuki peered through the nearest hole in the wall. The tanks, which had closed half the distance from the tree line to the terminal, had turned their attention to adjacent buildings along the Sobu Rail Line, occupied by other 1st Division units. One of the tanks swiveled its turret back toward the Iioka Railway Station, and Suzuki swore he was staring right down the turret barrel. He fought the instinct to cover his head with his arms—there was no way to protect himself from a direct hit.
As Suzuki stared at the tank, waiting for it to fire, the turret exploded in a fireball of orange flame and black smoke, and the tank ground to a halt. The two adjacent tanks also erupted in fireballs roiling upward, one of the turrets blown completely off the tank base. A few seconds later, Harrier jets streaked overhead, headed inland as bombs fell toward PLA formations farther back. The horizon erupted in a mass of red-tinged fireballs, black smoke spiraling upward.
For the first time in eleven days, Major Suzuki Koki smiled.
The Americans had arrived.