Read Online Fiends of the Rising Sun by David Bishop - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Bishop
Tags: Science-Fiction
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cheerfully. "Hey kid, there you are, thought I'd lost you!" He ducked beneath a swinging right hook from a snarling soldier and deftly kicked his attacker in the groin. The unhappy soldier went down with a groan and stayed down, nursing his crushed pride.
"What happened?" Walton asked. In front of him sailors, marines and soldiers were beating seven kinds of hell out of each other, using tables, chairs and stools as weapons to supplement their fists, foreheads and feet.
"That guy you bumped into tried to kiss Kissy," Maeda replied. "Paxton's kinda sweet on her and, well, you can probably guess the rest. Never get between a man and the woman he lusts after, that's my advice." An unfamiliar marine flew between the two of them and smacked into the wall. He slumped to the sandy floor, out cold long before his body had stopped moving.
"What should I do?" Walton wondered.
"Punch anybody that tries to punch you," Maeda said with a grin, "but try to punch them first." He rubbed his hands with glee. "You ready for action?"
"I guess so."
"Then pick your partner and let's get started!" Maeda jumped on top of the nearest table and dived straight into the middle of the carnage, taking several men down with him in the process. Within moments he was gone, swallowed by the chaos, another body battling for supremacy in the middle of the mayhem and madness.
Walton was about to follow Maeda's example when a strong hand clasped his arm. "I wouldn't if I was you," a deep voice whispered in his ear. The young marine twisted around to see three men leaning against the wall nearby, all dressed in naval pilot's uniforms, content to watch the brawl without getting dragged into it.
"But my buddies are in there," Walton said, gesturing at the mass of flying fists and bruised flesh, "somewhere."
"Trust me, the MPs will be here any minute. Once that happens, you don't want to be in the middle of that mess," the nearest pilot advised. His jaw line was so chiselled and his eyes so blue that he looked like he'd stepped off a navy recruiting poster. The pilot offered to shake Walton's hand. "My name's Richards, by the way, Lieutenant Charles Richards, but everyone calls me Chuck."
"Err, Walton," the marine mumbled, "David Walton. Everybody calls me... David Walton, I guess, except for Paxton, he keeps calling me Flinch." Another body went flying past, startling Walton.
"I can see where you got that nickname," Richards laughed, before jerking a thumb at his fellow pilots. "This is Ensign Ramon Marquez and Lieutenant Peter Taylor, but we call 'em Skid and Bravo. We're all off the Enterprise ."
"How come you're not fighting?" Walton wondered.
"Captain's orders," Marquez replied. He had a drooping moustache, black hair slicked back, and a pock marked face. "We get caught fighting again and we're grounded, no flying for a week."
"I'm not losing my privileges for anyone," Taylor sneered. He had dark hair, brooding eyes.
"Bravo is our team player," Marquez quipped.
Before Walton could reply, a cacophony of harsh, penetrating whistles cut through the chaos, bringing a halt to the bar brawl. Everyone inside Tokyo Joe's stopped hitting each other and turned to look for the source of the ear-piercing sound. A phalanx of grim faced military policemen were standing at both entrances to the bar, a dozen blocking the way out to the street and another dozen cutting off any escape to the beach. One of the MPs stepped forward, his face cherry red with anger. "This is over! Each and every one of you is under arrest! You've brought disgrace on our units, disgrace on your country and disgrace on yourselves. You've got thirty seconds to-"
He never finished the sentence. A bamboo stool, thrown by unseen hands, smacked into the side of his head. That brought a roar of approval from the heart of the brawl. Within moments the fighting resumed, but now the unruly warriors had a new target: the MPs. All those who had been busy beating each other senseless joined together
"What happened?" Walton asked. In front of him sailors, marines and soldiers were beating seven kinds of hell out of each other, using tables, chairs and stools as weapons to supplement their fists, foreheads and feet.
"That guy you bumped into tried to kiss Kissy," Maeda replied. "Paxton's kinda sweet on her and, well, you can probably guess the rest. Never get between a man and the woman he lusts after, that's my advice." An unfamiliar marine flew between the two of them and smacked into the wall. He slumped to the sandy floor, out cold long before his body had stopped moving.
"What should I do?" Walton wondered.
"Punch anybody that tries to punch you," Maeda said with a grin, "but try to punch them first." He rubbed his hands with glee. "You ready for action?"
"I guess so."
"Then pick your partner and let's get started!" Maeda jumped on top of the nearest table and dived straight into the middle of the carnage, taking several men down with him in the process. Within moments he was gone, swallowed by the chaos, another body battling for supremacy in the middle of the mayhem and madness.
Walton was about to follow Maeda's example when a strong hand clasped his arm. "I wouldn't if I was you," a deep voice whispered in his ear. The young marine twisted around to see three men leaning against the wall nearby, all dressed in naval pilot's uniforms, content to watch the brawl without getting dragged into it.
"But my buddies are in there," Walton said, gesturing at the mass of flying fists and bruised flesh, "somewhere."
"Trust me, the MPs will be here any minute. Once that happens, you don't want to be in the middle of that mess," the nearest pilot advised. His jaw line was so chiselled and his eyes so blue that he looked like he'd stepped off a navy recruiting poster. The pilot offered to shake Walton's hand. "My name's Richards, by the way, Lieutenant Charles Richards, but everyone calls me Chuck."
"Err, Walton," the marine mumbled, "David Walton. Everybody calls me... David Walton, I guess, except for Paxton, he keeps calling me Flinch." Another body went flying past, startling Walton.
"I can see where you got that nickname," Richards laughed, before jerking a thumb at his fellow pilots. "This is Ensign Ramon Marquez and Lieutenant Peter Taylor, but we call 'em Skid and Bravo. We're all off the Enterprise ."
"How come you're not fighting?" Walton wondered.
"Captain's orders," Marquez replied. He had a drooping moustache, black hair slicked back, and a pock marked face. "We get caught fighting again and we're grounded, no flying for a week."
"I'm not losing my privileges for anyone," Taylor sneered. He had dark hair, brooding eyes.
"Bravo is our team player," Marquez quipped.
Before Walton could reply, a cacophony of harsh, penetrating whistles cut through the chaos, bringing a halt to the bar brawl. Everyone inside Tokyo Joe's stopped hitting each other and turned to look for the source of the ear-piercing sound. A phalanx of grim faced military policemen were standing at both entrances to the bar, a dozen blocking the way out to the street and another dozen cutting off any escape to the beach. One of the MPs stepped forward, his face cherry red with anger. "This is over! Each and every one of you is under arrest! You've brought disgrace on our units, disgrace on your country and disgrace on yourselves. You've got thirty seconds to-"
He never finished the sentence. A bamboo stool, thrown by unseen hands, smacked into the side of his head. That brought a roar of approval from the heart of the brawl. Within moments the fighting resumed, but now the unruly warriors had a new target: the MPs. All those who had been busy beating each other senseless joined together
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