The Ghost of Nakagusku

By Randall Hoover

A young Marine Corps sergeant newly assigned to a tour of duty on Okinawa, Japan, encounters a six-hundred-year-old ghost. Both the marine and the ghost have a history of violence and no desire to move past it. After a tumultuous beginning to their relationship, a relationship embroiled in murder investigations involving a local crime family, it forces a collaboration between the two.

Artemis Jones reenlisted in the Marine Corps for four years to receive orders to Okinawa. His wife, an army specialist, had received orders to Okinawa a year previous. This was to be their long-waited reunion. The ghost, a vengeful spirit with samurai training, growing ever stronger over the years, was finally strong enough to resume the role of protector over the family land. Whether by chance or by fate, their paths collide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887932125

Book preview

1

Going to the Rock

Week one, early September

The Twenty-Four Area of Marine Corps Base, Camp Pendleton, California, Communications Electronics Head Quarters, Office of the Commanding Officer, is better known as the mainside for Base Telephone.

What do you think you’re doing, Corporal? What’s the matter, does your pussy hurt?

This was not going to go well! It was 16:45 on a Tuesday, and Corporal Artemis Jones was locked at attention in front of Colonel Corry, Commanding Officer of the Communications Electronics Division, Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton. He was supposed to be off duty fifteen minutes ago. Jones knew this because he was staring at the clock centered on the faded green wall behind the colonel’s desk. The colonel was tall, well over six feet, ramrod straight, made out of rawhide, had close crop white hair, and enough scars on his face to let you know he hadn’t always sat behind a desk. No, this guy had spent some time on the shitter and probably in the shitter too. This was not a make-believe Marine. Colonel Corry was the real deal. Jones worked for Marine Corps Base Telephone, one of the commands that fell under Colonel Corry. He had requested mast, a procedure open to any Marine who believed, rightly or wrongly, that the Marine Corps was not living up to its end of the deal. In other words, if the Marine Corps screws over the poor little Marine, this was his or her chance to officially complain. The term was left over from the Corps history with the Navy, where it was originally called captain’s mast. Sometimes, a Marine’s problems get solved, but often a worse problem is created. Historically, Marines who bitched too loudly, too often, or officially through the channels of a request mast found themselves with a neat little set of orders to some place they’d rather not be. It varied by time and place. They typically chose a spot close to wherever Marines were experiencing the greatest incidence of lead poisoning. Requesting mast could be a real dicey thing.

Corporal Jones stood at attention, staring at the clock just over the colonel’s shoulder. Jones, with lean body, dark hair, blue eyes, 175 pounds, stood in front for the colonel wearing the uniform he had been working in all day. It wasn’t fresh or clean. He was a telephone man, and he’d been climbing poles, crawling under buildings, running wire, lugging tools, replacing phones, and in general working up a sweat. He was dirty, and he was overdue for the shower. This is not how he would have preferred to meet the colonel.

Corporal Jones, I have your record book here. From what I can tell, you are a squared-away Marine even if you do look like a bag of shit right now.

That’s fair!

I expect you’ve been working all day, and I’ll take that into account. I never trust a Marine who still looks fresh at the end of the day. It says here that you graduated as the honor man out of your platoon in boot camp and were promoted meritoriously to private first class. You have scored 300 out of 300 on your last four physical fitness tests, your rifle qualification is expert, shooting a score of 242 out of 250, you’ve never been reported late, you seem to stay out of trouble, have excellent evaluations, and were presented a letter of appreciation from Captain Wilson at 29 Palms. You have finished first or second in every Marine Corps school you’ve ever attended. Because of that, you were meritoriously promoted to lance corporal then later to corporal. You’ve been in the Marine Corps just under three years and been promoted meritoriously three times. That’s very impressive. So what the fuck is wrong with you? Did you suddenly become stupid? Why are you requesting mast? Speak up, Corporal. I don’t have all damn night.

Well, this sure as hell was not going well at all. But no one ever accused Jones of being a chicken, at least not twice, so he looked straight at the colonel and told him.

Last year, I was in telephone school at the Army base in Fort Monmouth, New Jersey. The school was okay. I wasn’t particularly fond of the Army, at least not all of it. But I did find one part of it I liked just fine. It was the part with a Specialist Four programmer named Vivian Clark. I became very attached to that part of the Army. I spent eight months getting to know Specialist Clark. We finished our electronics training at the same time. I received orders to Camp Pendleton, and she received orders to Okinawa. While we never thought we’d end up together, we were hoping it might be somewhere close. When she was assigned to Okinawa, things seemed promising. After all, one third of the Marine Corps is stationed on Okinawa. How tough could it be for a Marine to get orders there? It sure seemed like it would be easier than it’s turned out to be. Anyway, when I got to Pendleton, I called to the Assignment Monitor for Electronics Technicians Gunnery Sergeant Denver. He told me that I’d have to be on station for a year before he could cut me orders to Okinawa and that I’d have to reenlist to receive them. I told him no problem. So I waited six months, like the gunnery said, then reenlisted. I was at the two-and-a-half-year mark of a three-year hitch. I reenlisted for four more years. Specialist Clark was excited too. She took leave, flew back to Pendleton, and we were married in the Base Chapel, right across the street. That was six months ago. I have been on station for a year. I reenlisted six months ago with the promise of orders to Okinawa, and they have not materialized. In fact, it seems that Gunnery Sergeant Denver has developed amnesia. That’s messed up. I’m asking the Marine Corps to live up to its promise and cut me orders to Okinawa or I’d like to cancel my reenlistment. I did my part. It seems to me the Marine Corps is not living up to theirs.

Well, Corporal, let me get this straight, you are requesting mast because you miss your wife. Have I got that right? My heart bleeds for you, Corporal. You signed that reenlistment, Corporal. It’s a done deal. Let me tell you. The Marine Corps did not issue you a wife. If it wanted you to have one, we would have made it part of your basic issue. Do you think this Marine Corps can bend over backwards because you want to cuddle up with your sweetie pie? Do you think that’s how this Marine Corps works, Corporal? What the hell are you going to do, go crying home to your mama? Tell me, Corporal, what’s going through that little pea brain of yours? There are no guarantees in the Marine Corps. Sometimes, the Marine Corps assigns us where we want to be stationed, sometimes it doesn’t. The needs of the Marine Corps come first. You got that!

Colonel or not, he was starting to push his buttons. He looked at the colonel long and hard. He held his temper and his New York attitude in check. When he spoke, he kept his voice even and stuck with the facts.

Colonel, I understand that there was never a guarantee that I would be stationed with someone I met and married from another branch of service or even if I’d met and married someone from the Marine Corps. I play by the rules, and I expect others to do the same, at least from those that claim they’re on the same team. I understand that the Marine Corps doesn’t issue wives or anything else that comes with a personal life. I do not have a problem with that. But I do think I have a reasonable expectation for the Marine Corps to live up to its promise to issue me orders it promised in return for my reenlistment. I have done my part, and the Marine Corps is failing to do theirs. I know the Marine Corps can ignore their promise when it is in the best interest of the Corps to do so, and it looks like that is exactly what they are doing. But I’m not about to let this pass without having my say. If I just let this pass without standing up for what’s right or not doing my best to fix it, especially now that you know about it, you wouldn’t respect me as a man or a marine. Colonel, I thank you for your time. I am not normally considered to be a whiner, and I apologize if that is what my request sounds like. I’d appreciate any assistance you could lend with this problem, at least it’s a problem from my point of view, but if nothing can be done, I’ll accept that. But I cannot accept giving up. Once again, thank you for your time.

Corporal Jones, you stated your case. I’ll look into it and get back to you. What are you going to do if the answer is no?

If this does not work, I will investigate something else, and something else again. I’m no quitter. I intend to solve this problem, sir.

Colonel Cory spoke, You are dismissed corporal!

*****

Corporal Jones

The clock on the wall read 16:52. That seven minutes, seemed like seven hours. Little did I know the profound impact those seven minutes would have on the next fifteen years of my life! I’m glad I was already sweaty because the new sweat just mixed in with the old sweat, and I hoped the colonel couldn’t tell how nervous I was. Well, it started out bad then went straight down, but somehow, I might have recovered a little. Maybe it will work out, or maybe I’m screwed. One thing was for sure; I sure wouldn’t want to be Gunnery Sergeant Denver and explain to Colonel Corry why he screwed over one of his Marines. I’d sure like to be a fly on the wall if that conversation ever takes place. There is just enough time to hit the mess hall before it closes.

After dinner, I called my best friend, Steve, Corporal Moris, commonly known at the section as Moris with one R or just sometimes just plain old Mo. He was the best man at my wedding, and I was the best man at his. He was a crazy man. He’d once attacked a car that was coming at him with just his bare hands and a bad temper. Steve won. Even though it wasn’t a real car, it was a Gremlin. The car should have won. I guess that says a lot about the type of person who’d buy a Gremlin. The car did leave the parking lot; however, most of its front end was still where Steve was standing. Maybe it was a fair fight after all.

Steve and I compete at everything. When we first met, I conned him out of a $3.05 bus ticket. We ended up in the same barracks and electronics class at 29 Palms. We had been finishing first or second to each other in class ever since. Four schools and two years later, we were both Marine Corps telephone men. He was also a decent pool and foosball player. Together, we were just about unbeatable, but that never stopped us from trying to see which of us was better on any given night.

Hey, Steve, do you want to shoot some pool tonight? You know, I give lessons on Tuesday nights. The last time I saw you shoot, I thought you could use a few pointers.

What do you mean, Jonesy? I think it’s easier to hit the cue ball with the big end of the stick.

Mo, you’re starting to embarrass me in public.

Okay, Jonesy, do you want to meet at the ‘Shamrock,’ say seven?

Got it! See you there.

I really needed to unwind. Steve had known Vivian almost as long as I had. He knew how important this was to me. Damn, I had not seen Vivian for over six months. I’d seen Vivian back in March when we were married, but it was September, and her letters were starting to sound kind of distant. If I didn’t get over there soon, we might end up drifting apart. I knew there were pressures to long-distance relationships. I had passed on a chance to fool around a few times now. In fact, I had stopped visiting Curt’s house, one of my best friends, because his wife’s friend, Crystal, their neighbor, kept hitting on me. One or two more beers and who knows where that would have ended up. The problem was Crystal looked fine. It wasn’t a matter of if; it’s more a question of how long could my willpower last? That’s why I was staying away from Curt’s place. It’s better if somebody else took that home. I wanted to make sure it wasn’t going to be me.

I realized that if I was having trouble staying out of someone else’s bed, Vivian must be having trouble too. How was she handling it? She was a hot little American girl on an island with forty thousand Marines, as well as an assortment of other American men, most of whom were single. She had to be feeling the pressure too. After shooting pool, I’d write her another letter. I’d tell her about my meeting with Colonel Corry.

I had just enough time to shower and ride my Suzuki over to the Shamrock. The Shamrock was a kind of dive. It was in the seedy part of Carlsbad. Not many Marines went there, but that had never been a problem for me or Steve. We play pool there two or three times a week. No one seemed to mind a couple of jarheads hanging out in a biker bar with an Irish name.

Usually that would have been a real safe statement to make. However, Steve was playing well that night, and we’d been catching some unwanted attention. We’d managed to catch the eyes of a couple of local hustlers, both assholes. They were good players, but their game was hustling everyone at the tables. Usually, we just ignore them. Normally, Steve and I played the regulars for a buck a game or a beer. That was just good manners. These two assholes were kind of obnoxious. They’d win a table and insist on playing partners for ten dollars or more each game. Steve and I had been giving them space. We like pool, but we know the drill. Pool tables collect assholes. You find a bar with a pool table, sit down, and sure enough, usually sooner rather than later, an asshole or two will show up and spoil your good time. It’s one of the immutable laws of nature.

After a few early games, the other customers were leaving them alone too. In fact, everyone but us had left the table area completely. It didn’t take long for them to challenge us. Steve and I politely declined. We told them we were not in their league. I always use manners. No matter how rough a place you’re in, I always start out polite. Sometimes, that changes, but manners never go out of style, so I try to start things off on a positive note. It seemed that they thought we were good. In fact, they said they’d probably have a hard time beating us but would enjoy the challenge of playing two highly skilled players like us. We still declined. Then we became pussies, Marine Corps pussies, afraid to play real pool players. We’d had a few beers, and while we didn’t like to start trouble, we sure didn’t like being called pussies. They had found my hot button. In fact, it was the second time that day that someone had referred to me and used pussy in the same sentence. I guess I was still a little on edge. I couldn’t say I liked it at all. I was wondering if we might want to avoid a confrontation or possibly just leave when I heard Steve say Rack ’m, asshole. I’ll break.

Then I heard Asshole Number One said, What do you say, $20 each.

Steve said no. Artemis thought, Thank goodness, I only have $8 in my wallet. Steve said, I am thinking more like $50 each unless you are afraid of losing to a couple of Marine Corps pussies.

Shit. Today, was just going from bad to worse. My marriage was on shaky ground, I’d had my ass handed to him by Colonel Corry, I am probably going to get orders to some shithole, Steve had been kicking my ass at pool, and now we were going to get killed in a biker bar when they realize we made a bet we couldn’t cover. Even if no one likes hustlers, it’s considered bad manners to make bets you can’t cover. All that’s left to make this day perfect would be a bad case of the crabs. Well, regardless of how this day turned out, Steve was my best friend. I’ll back him up no matter what.

Steve broke and ran everything but the eight ball. Not bad! We might just get out of this with a whole skin. After a minute, they decided Asshole Number Two would shoot first for their team. The table was clear, so he ran four balls in a hurry, but then one hung up in the pocket. Well, there I was, one ball to make, but it was frozen on the side rail. The cue ball was directly across from the object ball on the other side, and the eight was locked against the other rail. I was looking at the shot and considering how to leave them safe. I didn’t see any way to keep them from running the table on the next shot, regardless of where I left the cue ball. I had almost no shot at all. I could hit the eight ball, but whatever I called would involve banking a ball that frozen to the rail.

They were expecting to win with their next shot. They had called us pussies. I was starting to feel kind of mean inside, way down where the heat starts to build. That’s when they started riding me, asking me what the hell I was going to do or why didn’t I just pay up now. There was no way I could leave them without a shot. Over the years, I’d had this same shot dozens of times. I never recalled making it. More than once, I had tried to play it cross sides. Half the time, I missed so bad the damn ball ended up in the far corner. I heard more taunts in the background. Fuck it! I aimed for a cross sides called cross corner to the far end, an almost impossible shot. Hell, I had missed the cross sides to the cross corner more than once, so why not give it a try? If I could make it when I did not intend to, maybe I could do when I wanted to. So if I was going to lose, I would do it with style.

There was no angle. The balls were right across from one another. This would be pure English. I stepped up, never batted an eye. I did what I always do with that shot; I aimed for cross sides and hit that cue ball like it was a redheaded stepchild. No one even had time to blink. All they heard was the eight ball drilling into the center of the corner pocket. I turned around and asked, Care to try again?

Steve didn’t have a monopoly on cocky. I had my share too. Well, right then and there, everyone who lost money to these jerks loved us. We were a couple of regulars who put these two assholes in their place. I could tell they didn’t want to pay up, but one look at the crowd and they knew they had to dig deep. They both paid up and left. But not before accusing us of being hustlers and pros and of taking advantage of them. Well, just in case anyone believed them, Steve and I showed a bit more class. We put the hundred on the bar and told the bartender to pour drinks for everyone until it ran out. It turned out that a hundred goes a long way in a draft beer establishment. I was glowing a little as we left. I still had to ride my motorcycle back through the gate. I was hoping the guards were too lazy to ask me to lift the face mask of my helmet. Most of them know me, so they wouldn’t necessarily have to compare my face to the