He flipped onto his stomach and crawled. When he reached the other side, he hoisted up and saw that not far from him, near the fence, were five motorcycles with sidecars. Beyond the motorcycles, a file of soldiers cranked two leaf-green Zero fighters’ engines to life, and above the base, a fleet of American B-29 Superfortresses zoomed.
He couldn’t spot the tanks—they had been next to a Zero fighter, but now they were gone. Snapping his head around, he realized a file of Japanese soldiers had blocked them. He climbed out of the trench, and crouching, scurried along the motorcycles for cover. A soldier carrying a fuel hose attached to a fighter was walking toward him. Ernest jerked around before he was spotted and dashed to a nearby staircase and ran down. It was an underground tunnel, fortified with cement, large and spacious, able to fit a double-decker bus. He didn’t know where it led or how deep it was, but he feared that if he ran too deep inside, he might not be able to get out.
He had just turned around when a shout came from deeper in the tunnel. He ran up the stairs and reached the ground, where he saw a soldier climb out of the open top of a tank to bow to an officer on a motorcycle with a sidecar. The engine of the tank was running.
He leaped toward the tank, climbed on one of the seven round wheels, and fumbled for a handle to mount. But there was no handle on the rear slope. Desperate, he dug into a steel roller, hoisted himself up, and tumbled into the lidless turret, his head knocking against the gun mount inside the turret. The massive main gun swiveled; the tank rattled, the wheels digging into the ground.
The soldier who had started the tank and the officer ran toward him. Was that Yamazaki? Ernest’s heart chilled. It was Yamazaki, who pointed at him with the black barrel of a rifle.
Fear raced up Ernest’s spine. Without a lid on the tank, he was an easy target. He pounded the buttons in front of him and grappled with the lever to propel the metal beast to move. Nothing happened. He put all his weight on his foot and pulled the lever again. The transmission roared and the machine pitched, thrusting him forward just as a bullet grazed his hair. His heart jumped to his throat. He was going to die before seeing Aiyi for the last time.
Then the tank rambled forward at a surprisingly fast speed, rammed into the row of motorcycles with sidecars, and grazed the wire fence, setting off a blaze of sparks.
“No!” he shouted, but the tank kept jolting forward, slamming into the landing gear of a Zero fighter, hauling it through the vast field. The plane’s crew screamed, jumping aside. Shots popped around him like fireworks.
Suddenly all shots ceased, replaced by staccato shouts of warning.
He smelled it. The fuel.
He had slammed into the fighter fuel tank, or perhaps he had run over the fuel hose. Now he must find the entrance to the base and get out of here before it exploded. Crouching, he struggled with the lever, searching frantically among the maze of smoke and sparks for the entrance. Where is the entrance? His body bounced in the air as the tank thrust forward, a cacophony of running engines and clashing metals booming in his ears. He peered through the swirling waves of dust, looking for the building with a gate.
Nothing but a thick wall of dust and smoke.
And the tank sped on, a wild metal beast.
Rivers of sweat ran down his face; the pungent smell of fuel and smoke choked his throat. “Shit!”
He must have pushed something wrong; desperate, he tried to reverse his action. But when he took his hands off the lever, the tank threw him, and he smashed against the inside of the turret. Struggling to rise, he managed to hold on to the opening, just as the tank crashed into a building. Bricks exploded. A dull sound rang in his ears; his vision blurred.
When he could see again, a man ran toward him in the suffocating smoke. He had a massive bag on his shoulder, and he was waving at him wildly. It was Ying, who had promised to wait for him outside the base.
“I’m here, I’m here!” Ernest waved, raising his voice above the booming of the tank, which, to Ernest’s relief, had slowed down considerably.
“Stop the tank, damn it!” Ying was shouting by the side of the tank, digging into his bag.
“I’m trying!”
“Try harder!”
He fumbled for the lever, jammed at it. “It won’t stop!”
Then he saw what was in Ying’s hand. A machine gun. Aiming at him. He would shoot at him? After he stole the tank for him?
“Duck, Ernest!” The flame shot out of the machine gun. Ying fired—not at him, but at something behind him.
Ernest turned around. A raging mountain of fire had engulfed what used to be the base, and an orange cloud flooded toward him, torching his body. He cried out in agony, and unbelievably, he heard a scream answer him—a scream from another tank, right behind him, charging at full speed.