The Death Master Chronicles: Book One, the Ultimatum

By R.C. Beale

The old sailor pulled out a stub of a pencil from a soiled shirt pocket and began to cross out letters on the drink coaster. The circular piece of paper had the words The Brass Monkey in a nice scroll at the top and then a picture of three monkeys in the center, with the additional worlds, see, hear, speak, no evil underneath. He first removed, no evil, and then began to systematically pencil out all the letters in The Brass Monkey which were not contained in see, hear, speak. This left H. E. Rasske on the face of the coaster. An alert waitress soon picked up the empty drink glass and paper coaster returning both items to the bartender. In this manner, word reached Rasske quickly that someone needed to talk to him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491863404

R.C. Beale

The author first became acquainted with the Death Master regimen in the US Marine Corps. In boot camp one day, while playing hand games with a fellow recruit, an observant drill instructor asked the author to accompany him to see the company commander. The D.I. told the Colonel, “This kid from Idaho has the fastest hands I think I’ve ever seen.” The commander asked the author to perform a few tests and then asked, “How would you like to train to be a Death Master?” The author had never heard the term and asked, “What in the world is that?” The commander replied, “The Marine Corps takes promising candidates and train them to kill people with their bare hands, which is nothing new. But in this instance, you would be trained to end a life and the victim would die a silent death. No noise. It would be exercised in very secret operations where a weapon cannot be used. The author consented to the training, but never had the privilege of finishing it. The Marine Corps decided they did not need the expertise any longer since the Korean War was now over. Some time later the author was medically discharged from the Marines because of a service aggravated disability. He has always been fascinated with the idea of this expertise and has devoted the better part of forty five years researching it. Research has shown it is a concept almost 8,000 years old and comes from the Assamese culture, not the Shaolin Temple. The concept has been incorporated into these works of historical fiction to tell a story of what possibly, “could have been”. The author has been asked on several occasions about whether any of the content of these books refers to him in particular. The only thing the author can truthfully say is that there is a large part of him and the way he grew up in these pages. Enough said. R.C. Beale

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CONTENTS

Foreword

Prologue

Chapter1. ‘Dead Game’

Chapter2. Macau

Chapter3. Home Re-Visited

Chapter4. Nick

Chapter5. The Game

Chapter6. Young Duwa

Chapter7. The Marines

Chapter8. The Legend Of The Brass Monkey

Chapter9. Sophia Elizabeth Madariaga

Chapter10. The Street Of Many Promises

Chapter11. Bayan Of The Thousand Eyes

Chapter12. Shinobi—Assassin’s Failure

Chapter13. Unforgivable Failures

Chapter14. Kempetai-San

Chapter15. The Final Victim

Resurrection

BOOK ONE

The Ultimatum

(Second Edition)

The Legend of the Brass Monkey

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see, hear, speak, no evil

This story is dedicated to Piwacket, a loving companion for twenty two years. You have made me believe in ghosts.

FOREWORD

I n Malaysia and among the Assamese people who live along the Brahmaputra River, Pendekar is a term normally associated with those who have exceptional mastery of Silat. This term is the best starting point if one wants to understand what Silat is and the attitudes, mentality and culture of the people who practice this very deadly art form.

The word Pendekar comes from a combination of two words, ‘Pandai’ which means clever and ‘Akal’ which means mind or intellect. It is difficult to convey the actual nuances when these words are expressed, but in the Assamese culture Pendekar can mean ‘Clever Mind’. This meaning transcends mere martial arts skills alone as a Pendekar is also respected by the society he or she lives in for wisdom and knowledge, an embodiment of an ideal concept. Pendari are sought for counsel and the ability to heal, which is in stark contrast to their deadly skills.

In the art the Pendari practices, this utilization of intellect to rationalize the full range of weapons they have been naturally endowed with is expressed in the way they use the body as an integrated system devoted to the subjugation or destruction of their enemies by whichever is most suitable for the situation at hand. In Assamese this is expressed as ‘Dari hujung rambut ke hujung kaki’, meaning ‘from the tips of our hair to the tip of our toes’, the entire body is a potential and lethal weapon to be used at the right moment.

The Pendari is not locked in by a single paradigm but understands their knowledge and perception is limited; humility and nobility is their character and reflected in their behaviour. In many cases the Pendari is also a religious leader in their community, and frequently would have travelled extensively and studied under many masters of different styles. The Pendari may teach an amalgamation of these styles but not giving any name to the art form that they teach. They normally choose to teach in small groups of students and often the best teach in this manner.

This story and the Chronicle works to follow are about the Ultimate Pendekar as acknowledged and practiced by the eleven generations of the de Rasske family.

This work was copyrighted on February 25, 2013. Registration #2560928596. Any use of the contents without the written permission of the author is prohibited and will be vigorously prosecuted in a court of law

PROLOGUE

O n a late summer day at a private secluded place in a mountainous region just east of the Great Basin in the western United States, a stocky gray-haired gentleman tended a rose garden near the side of a small cabin. The structure had been constructed as close to the rock of the mammoth red rock mountain as possible. In addition, the cabin was protected by huge rock formations on each side. In front of the structure, in a southerly direction, a large garden plot derived the benefit of the direct rays of the afternoon sun. Judging from the appearance of the well-manicured area, gardening was an obvious labor of love. A small tributary of a larger creek ran nearby on the far side of the road from which he drew buckets of water to nurture the plants. There was also evidence there had been a feeder ditch to divert water from the tiny stream to run water toward the garden area. The man stopped the tilling and weeding chores occasionally to converse with a large seal point Siamese cat sitting on its haunches nearby, its attention focused on his every move.

Henri Rasske was now elderly and chose to devote most of his waking hours reminiscing about his past life, reconstructing old battles and assignments time and time again. He seldom tired of telling tales over and over to his furry companion. The animal would utter a low growl occasionally as she listened to his long narratives, adding a peculiar emphasis to the outcome of each tale as if she understood the words, enjoying the dissertation and succinct manner in which each story was delivered.

Of late, his choice was to recall as many childhood events as possible and dwell on how his unique and exemplary life had begun. Like many of those who served before him, his mind often dwelled on the possibility of what could have happened if he’d had the opportunity to re-live his life and follow a different calling. Had this possibility ever come to pass; he’d decided long ago, even more time would have been reserved for the felines who had served as his protectors. Over the decades, each bodyguard had possessed unforgettable traits and he remembered each one with fondness. Individually, they had protected his life with unwavering loyalty. He well knew his existence would have been cut short without their services. Now, awareness in the knowledge his life was winding down toward its end also contributed greatly to the motivation of recounting every assignment and campaign in which he had ever been involved. For what-ever reason; including several he didn’t quite understand, he assumed this was simply a natural course of events for anyone reaching old age.

It’s so strange to think, Bayan, he mused, snipping a dried flower from the end of a rose stem. This act enabled the plant to produce yet another flower, in time. Henri carefully placed the dried leaves in a pocket to join a collection of several others. He saved the shriveled petals and some of the leaves to brew rose tea. They produced a flavorful drink with a sweet flowery scent, which was most enjoyable in to addition its medicinal qualities. "Can you imagine that I, Henri Rasske, was once responsible for the death of the Admiral who commanded the Imperial Secret Service? He committed suicide, you know. The Japanese call it seppuku. The word has to do with abdomen, so I need not elaborate on how the suicide act is carried out. It is a most distasteful procedure anyway. I certainly wouldn’t want to watch anyone shove a knife into their stomach and then wait for a designated second to cut off their head with a Samurai sword, ending all the misery and pain.’

‘You and many of your illustrious ancestors were so instrumental in my survival during those terrible days; alerting me to the many dangers placed in my path and watching over me as I slept. If it had not been for Mai Tai’s diligence as well as your own, my pet, He paused to pat the owl-faced feline on the head, I would have surely perished, long ago. There are times I wish I could be remembered for earning those Presidential Citations for reasons other than owning a nightclub and catering to every kind of spy and lowlife you can imagine."

The cat uttered another low, ominous growl followed by a quiet meow as she quickly licked his outstretched hand, as if in agreement and to undoubtedly spur this particular story to a swift conclusion. He sometimes wondered if she might be growing tired of listening to his daily tales of the past. After all, he had a tremendous backlog of stories to tell and did so at every opportunity.

What he didn’t share with the animal, was the fact he was mentioned in Secret Service archives as the only man during the entire course of World War ll who had schooled Marine Corp Raiders in his particular expertise of the art of self-defense. This included the ability to end the life of an adversary with one singular, swift and well placed movement of either hand. From his arsenal of the Pendekar regimen he had taught Marines a form of Wu-Yi, a variation of the ancient art called Silat, which would enable them to kill instantly and quietly after all other methods of defense had been exhausted. Since many Raiders were sent on missions classified as covert and secretive, the use of any weapon other than a knife was out of the question. Gunshots were easily heard and their source of origin easy to identify and knives could result in screams, also an undesirable outcome. His grueling training schedule of the men in the Marine Corp Raider Battalions had been at the direction of the Secretary of War and the President’s personal representative.

Henri Rasske was and had been for all his life, a member of an elite fraternity counted on the fingers of one hand, as his father and grandfather and nine other family generations before them. He was the last in a line of martial arts guru’s schooled in secret and deadly methods of survival, a required addition to the myriad of qualities contributing to the makeup of a spy. The mention of the word Death Master induced immediate awe and quite naturally, fear, in anyone familiar with martial arts, in private and, of course, highly informed circles.

His particular knowledge and the regimen he taught did not emanate from Budo nor was it directly related to any standards emerging from the Shaolin Temple and the Wushu martial arts training all those hundreds of years ago. He’d always thought it came into being prior to the dynasty of Emperor Kang, from an ancient predecessor of Pendari, but that was another story. It had nothing to do with Taoism or the Chinese School of Self Seclusion. The skills he personally tutored to the Marines probably came into being much earlier than the Assamese Silat link, although there were no written records to document or substantiate his theory. His grandfather, nine times removed, had long ago journeyed to the far off lands of Tibet, Nepal, and Mongolia. He lived in a monastery called the Eagle’s Lair in the far away Himalayan Nango Kola Valley for many years, acquiring knowledge of the art from the Assamese monks who resided there. This was the knowledge in which Henri was now so expert. This distant relative had been the first outsider, the first member of any Western civilization to be so honored. He’d traveled there with Tamerlane’s armies under the command of Generalissimo Lord Bayan of Thousand Eyes, so the story is told, a scholar in search of adventure and enlightenment.

Henri’s very existence depended solely on the ability to defend him against and overcome those who were always in pursuit. These would be assassin’s primary mission was to obtain the information stored in his photographic mind and then, end his life. The advantage he held over his assailants was simple. No one knew for certain if he was really the man they were after. Many suspected his identity, but each time an assassin was sent to capture or kill him and failed, it brought about the inevitable possibility he wasn’t the person they were after at all. In conducting most of his assignments he operated simply as an independent businessman, one who had gained favor with local governments and was highly respected, in most instances. This was an attribute directly connected with the Pendekar tradition of Silat. He was soft spoken and amiable, to an extent no one would ever believe he would be capable of defending himself in such a manner, which was another attribute.

In short, he was a killing machine with a photographic memory. This, in turn, made him the perfect spy of spies. He did not buy and sell information as most were want to do in this profession. Henri merely observed and catalogued statistics he saw or heard and conveyed the matters to the proper US authorities. He was paid handsomely for this expertise and could have garnered a much larger fortune if he had wanted to sell his knowledge. Although, had he done so, it would surely have resulted in a contract on his life which even martial arts expertise could not have saved him from.

In all the many assignments during his lifetime, once he became a known participant in the world of espionage and the spy trade, the constant need for protection had worn heavily on his mind in the beginning. After a few years, he became hardened to the fact his life would always be hanging by a thread and accepted it as inevitable. Confidence in his ability to thwart any attempt on his life never wavered. He had the advantage of knowing the mammoth amounts of technical data and facts in his mind would be priceless to anyone who could gain access to it. This provided more protection of his life than anything else. His father had been adamant on this point and he now knew it was the correct course of action. The assassins who pursued him obviously could not slay him because if they did, all would be lost. Trying to take him in broad daylight while he was walking down the street was also not advisable. They could, but in the close knit fraternity of the spy profession, it simply was not done. In addition, killing him would lose the very information they were after and each of his enemies did not want to answer to a superior as to why the quarry was dead and no information had been retrieved. It would have been an admission of defeat to simply kill him and in the unwritten law of the spy profession, it simply was not done. Everywhere his mission assignments led him, local governments were contacted and he always made friends with the proper officials. Secondly, he made it a common practice to contribute greatly to their philanthropic projects. This usually curried favorable citizen status and offered more protection than any other venue. Anyone bent on capturing, interrogating, and then killing him would have to do it under the cover of darkness. The night was his best friend. Would be attackers faced much difficulty operating in the blackness. Henri wisely did not venture into the world after nightfall unless it was necessary. He had no fear of any attacker, but chose to stay away from the window of opportunity as much as possible. He slept soundly in quarters watched over by his Siamese bodyguards. This was the primary reason for the protection offered by his little four footed friends. The cats would always warn him and a split second was all the advance notice he needed. Under their watchful eye was his only opportunity to get a good night’s rest, in many cases.

Serious students of martial arts and their associated sciences heard only the stories related by their peers. Not one, including their mentors, had ever known a Death Master. They knew such an entity existed because in the natural and sequential course of progression in the martial arts community, there had to be one who was above all the others. A Death Master was revered in the same light as a supreme being. Regardless of commitment to the regimen and the length of time of study, each student knew there would always be one; somewhere, who was superior. There would always be an ultimate master, no matter the quality of the regimen or the depth of study. It was a common fear among participants of the art, regardless of the extent of their expertise and knowledge, there would always be that one, that single entity, who was better and there was nothing they could do about it. Orientals call it karma or joss and simply accept the fact. Henri decided long ago the stories passed from teacher to student that he’d heard were greatly exaggerated, related in multiples for maximum effect on any audience. In his lifetime, he’d heard several preposterous tales and simply smiled, knowing he could correct the storyteller if he so desired. Henri chose not to infringe on this avenue of the martial arts world because it would have resulted in patronization and he considered himself above that.

Better to let sleeping dogs lie, so to speak. I know what they do not know and that shall always be the way, he had muttered. Let those who choose to gain from such stories be content, if that is their wish.

Ah, Bayan, he sighed, as he stopped and sat on the porch of the modest frame dwelling to rest. The large seal point quickly took advantage of the opportunity and leaped onto his lap. What if we could live those times once more? What an adventure! I sometimes wonder what could have been, if I had practiced law or become an investment banker or something of that nature? What would have happened if dear Sophia and I could have had a life together after Macau? Do you remember her, my friend? We would be living in a very nice home with servants waiting on us hand and foot, I suppose. Sophia’s beautiful voice would be ours to listen to any time we chose. And you, he paused, looking down at the attentive feline, who immediately licked his nose, you would have been happy and very content to hunt mice and tomato worms in the garden. For one thing, it wouldn’t be necessary to protect me and you could simply have been my companion. However, let me hasten to say, I wouldn’t have entered into any profession which would have deprived me of your acquaintance. I cannot imagine a life without you by my side. Since the good Lord has blessed me and given me the opportunity to know Him and his Word, I feel so very fortunate for having known you and your ancestors. To have you as friends and then as family is all the more a blessing. It is very comforting, to know where one is going when our lives have ended on this earth and we leave the vessel which has carried us during our stay here. I do wonder though, if I will be able to see all my little friends when I reach the other side. It is a most curious speculation. The Father has not told me yet what to expect, in any case. I have discussed this with others during all the busy years and have been privy to the confidence of those who think little friends like you were placed in our lives to show us God’s love. If this is true, I suspect there is a great deal of love in your small body and it is greatly appreciated. He smiled as Bayan continued to lick his arm, her rough tongue scraping hard enough to cause pain, occasionally. I should hasten to add, dear little one, the feeling is mutual.

The cabin appeared tidy and well maintained, however the rooms were curiously small in size. From the exterior, it could have passed inspection as an average size dwelling. However, after a quick look into the window of the dining room, one could see it was sparsely furnished with only bare necessities. One would also note a woman’s hand had never been at work here. No curtains framed the windows, although a vase filled with fresh roses was displayed prominently on the small table in the center of the room to provide decoration. The vase was filled with fresh flowers daily, in season. The seemingly never ending supply of flowers did serve to mystify some of those bent on his discovery as to how this could be. First glance would reveal to any observer this would be called home anywhere, but closer inspection also disclosed there was no stove for warmth or cooking. In the one small room which could possibly have been used as a bedroom, there was no bed. This would immediately suggest to onlookers the occupant either slept standing upright or in another location.

I suppose we should go now, he ventured quietly, more to himself than to the cat.

The seal point reacted instantly, leaping up on his shoulders. She understood the words well and knew a quiet and restful time was approaching and she began to purr in anticipation.

Did I ever mention, Lady Bayan, you were named after Generalissimo Bayan, the most trusted commander of the Great Khan? In my family circles it is said that he was my grandfather eleven times removed. It has been written that Lord Bayan possessed a thousand eyes, you know. He knew everything of consequence which transpired around him at all times. It has been said there was nothing of importance in the entire civilized world he was not made aware of. Even though you’re not of his gender, it is a remarkable compliment to be named after such an important person. You are just like him, my little guardian. I suspect the two of you would have gotten along very well and would have been great friends. When we reach our quarters and have eaten, make yourself comfortable, for I am going to tell you the story of how I happened to be in Macau, that dreadful island of spies, in 1941. Henri knocked the ashes from his pipe on the porch railing and quickly refilled the bowl from a leather pouch. Instead of lighting the pipe again, he placed it in his pocket for use at a later time.

He entered the cabin through the front door, locking it securely and proceeded quickly to the bedroom and placed his gloved left hand on a precise spot on the center of the wall. Henri always covered his hands when opening the entryway to the cave ensuring no telltale spot was left on the wall which would tell a curiosity seeker the key to entry. Silently the entire wall swung about to reveal a dark entry and steps cut into the solid red rock. A walkway led downward, leveled, and then followed a corridor for a short distance leading to steps that began to rise upward into the bowels of the mountain directly behind the cabin. Rasske lit a torch he’d removed from a holder on the wall of the tunnel, its flickering light sending eerie shadows bouncing off the walls.

The wall of the cabin swung slowly back to its normal position and Henri locked it in place with a heavy timber dropped into anchor braces. As he began the long climb up the steps cut into the rock, he could feel Bayan’s muscular body relax slightly from her perch on his shoulder. She knew they were now safe and there was no longer a need for constant vigilance… .

CHAPTER ONE

‘DEAD GAME’

There will be no more after you, his father had stated in his commanding voice. You are the end. After you are gone, the ‘Game’ is dead.

T he solid rock staircase continued upward toward the dark confines of the cave they called home. It was the place where Henri and Bayan lived and slept; where he had prepared their meals for the past twenty years. They ventured down the steps to the cabin each day long enough to insure the dwelling appeared lived in and to tend the roses scattered about the outside of the house and to water the vegetables in the fenced garden. He’d constructed the fence years ago to keep the black tail deer prevalent to the region from eating everything he planted.

Henri’s feet were clad in soft, supple, leather moccasins which provided a firm grip on the steps cut into the rocks, in addition to ensuring complete silence as he traveled to and fro. After climbing the considerable distance, they reached a large room illuminated by an eerie glow from a natural window; a small hole opening higher up on the face of Horse Ranch Mountain. Cut in the front wall of the cave was another window covered with a blanket weighted at the bottom to prevent movement in the wind. The covering matched the shade of the rock wall of the mountain and made it invisible to the naked eye from below. He’d searched with a telescope several times and had finally found the blanket only because he knew its approximate location. Through this opening in the rock he could observe the landscape in