“Is this making history?” Henke said, staring into the view-screen.
“Nudging it along,” Vereshchagin said.
Detlef Jankowskie smiled as he maneuvered the ship. “Next stop, Yamato Station. Estimated time of launch is 8:50 Tokyo time.” On the station, Jankowskie could already detect the thin tubes of lasers beginning to track them.
Shoto Ward, Tokyo
AT 7:50, SCHUNICHI GYOHTEN LEFT HIS HOME AT 1-23-15 SHOTO accompanied by two aides and a bodyguard. A corpulent, cheery, and ruthless politician, Gyohten was killed by his size.
Ketlinsky had set his sensor to react to two or more men moving, at least one of whom stood less than 1.8 meters tall and massed more than 110 kilograms. Gyohten and his party fit these parameters.
As they stepped toward the waiting limousine, two directional mines lodged in the bushes on either side of the door exploded and scythed them down. One aide, considerably in advance of the others, almost lived until the ambulance arrived.
The New Akasaki Prince Hotel, Tokyo
AFTER COLDEWE FINISHED EXPLAINING WHAT UNITED STEEL-
Standard and the Imperial Government had done to Suid-Afrika, he opened the floor to questions.
One reporter timidly raised his hand. “But surely, if all of this is true, you will have accomplished your purposes merely by letting the Japanese people know that this has happened. What reason is there to conduct pointless attacks which will inevitably result in needless casualties?”
Coldewe wrinkled his nose. “If we wanted to send a message, we would have picked up the telephone. This sort of thing has been going on a lot, on colonial planets like Esdraelon and in places on Earth. There is an old, old saying in the military forces—we can’t keep you from doing something, but we can make you wish you hadn’t. We regret any unintentional casualties we cause.”
Mizoguchi added politely. “If we Japanese continue to embark on an incorrect course, the generation of children growing up will be forced to experience sadness.”
No one mistook his meaning.
When the questions ended, Mizoguchi bowed and put on his coat to leave. “Where are you going?” a reporter asked.
“Up until now, I have done very little to halt the drift in events. I have asked myself what is the responsibility of people who contribute to creating conditions in which nothing can be said.”
“But you are blind!” the Asahi reporter protested.
“Captain Coldewe assures me that I am still a very good soldier, and other people seem to be more blind than 1 am,” Mizoguchi said. “I hope that you will all take good care of your health.”
“Please do the same,” the Asahi man said in polite shock as Mizoguchi left.
“Where is he going?” the Mainichi man asked.
“There is a problem here in Japan that people who ask hard questions tend to get murdered. I told Hiroshi that killing one of your right-wing superpatriotic thugs was like killing one cockroach, but he told me it was a problem that the Japanese people had to resolve, and he wanted to make a start.”
Central Tokyo
THE MISSION’S FIRST SERIOUS PROBLEM AROSE AT 8:20. ONLY A
small percentage of people enter Tokyo each day by car, but that small percentage still represents an enormous number of vehicles. Native Edokkos zip through spaces with only a few centimeters’ clearance, leaving visitors aghast. Shipboard computer simulations can only approximate reality.
As Prigal drove north on Sakura-dori, locked in a huge moving mass of cars, to link up with de Kantzow, a kamikaze driver whipped by him through a tiny opening. Prigal flinched—and nudged a yatai street cart selling snacks from the edge of the sidewalk. Prigal immediately stopped, halting traffic behind him.
“Lean out the window and apologize!” Meagher hissed from the other side of the privacy partition.
“Shitsurei shimazi, ” Prigal stammered. “Sumimasen. Sumimasen. ”
The yatai owner began murmuring polite responses as he inspected the dent in his cart.
“Give him money!” Meagher whispered, opening the privacy partition a hair and dropping bills on the seat.
Prigal lowered the window and thrust the money into the man’s hands, repeating, “Sumimasen. ”
The yatai owner murmured dozos and protested that Prigal had given him too much.
Prigal pasted a fixed smile on his face and frantically waved him to take it.
The yatai owner smiled impishly in return and pushed a dozen skewers of taroyaki into the van.
“I see de Kantzow. Okay, get moving,” Meagher whispered harshly.
Prigal pulled away, still waving at the yatai owner, and angled to avoid a small knot of schoolchildren in their blue uniforms. Before they’d traveled half a block, he sat bolt upright and whispered, “Oh, no,” pointing into his rear view mirror.
A little policeman in white who had witnessed the accident was striding toward them, shouting, “Orai, orai!” and beckoning them to the side of the street. Traffic emptied out of the lane behind Prigal.
Meagher leaned across to whisper through the partition, “Ask him where you can get tickets to see the Takarazuka.”
“Sir, he’s going to want to see my license,” Prigal whimpered.
“Tell him it’s in your bag, and bring him on back,” Meagher whispered, and motioned for Miinalainen and Kirponos to get ready.
As Prigal brought the white mouse around and slowly raised the back door, Meagher waited until the policeman’s belt buckle came into view and shot him with a wave pistol on narrow beam at point-blank range. Almost before the man knew he was dead, Miinalainen gripped him by the front of his tunic and half lifted, half levered him into the vehicle, resting the body on the floor across everyone’s feet.
Meagher hissed, “Prigal, shut the door and act normal! Get us out of here fast, but not too fast.”
Prigal shut the rear door hastily and forced himself to walk around slowly and get back into the driver’s seat. Meagher turned his head. “Mother Elena, get on the radio and tell DeKe and Captain Hans we’ve been blown but good. Tell them I’m going to advance our part of the schedule by ten minutes.”
In the street outside, bystanders looked at one another uncertainly and wondered what they had seen.
As the vehicle squeezed back into the flow of traffic, Danny Meagher stared at the white-faced troopers sitting opposite him and pointed with his chin. “By the way, that’s the National Police Headquarters up the street there. Well, with luck we can brazen it out for another twenty minutes or so.”
Section Sergeant Yelenov nodded grimly.
“Do you know,” Meagher the former mercenary said in a pleasant tone, “the last time I had a day this frosted, you lads were shooting at me. I hope this works out better.” He turned and barked at Prigal, “Well, what are you waiting for? Pass some food back here!”
Guiding the mini with one hand, Prigal handed the taroyaki skewers back, saving one for himself. Numbly, he bit into it. “This is good.”
“It’s squid tentacles fried into batter balls,” Meagher said, and watched Prigal almost swallow his skewer. Meagher added, ‘Try to remember you’re not driving an armored car, and if you absolutely have to hit something else in the next ten minutes, try to hit a cart that sells something to go with squid.” Yelenov rolled his eyes. “I swear, if Prigal fell into a latrine headfirst—”
“Which he’s done!” Miinalainen and Kirponos echoed in chorus.
Mother Elena concluded plaintively, “—he’d come up with a gold ring in his teeth. But why did he have to be in my van?” Meagher stuffed money into the dead policeman’s pocket and began writing a note of apology to the man’s family on the back of his map. “Sorry, squirt,” he said, absently patting the corpse. “You were in the wrong place. Of course, I’ve felt like doing that to officious traffic cops for twenty-five years.”
Atsugi Air Defense Site, outside Tokyo
AT 8:35, INSIDE HIS PANEL TRUCK, PARKED JUST OUT OF SIGHT OF
on
e of the six air-defense installations ringing Tokyo, Lieutenant Gennadi Karaev looked his men over and said stiffly, “Well, it is time. During the planning, I told Raul that this part of his plan was completely inane.”
Section Sergeant Paavo Heiskanen gave him a quizzical look. “Being the proud combat soldiers that you are, I told Raul that the lot of you were as innocent of parade ground routine as the birds of the air and the beasts of the fields, and the thought of finding a dozen of you who could actually march in step was preposterous.”
Wolfish grins spread from face to face.
Karaev pointed his battered black umbrella from man to man. “Does each one of you understand what this mission means?” “If we don’t knock out the launchers and the lasers here, the Iceman can’t land and nobody gets picked up,” Tyulenov said. “Close. Actually it means that after nine months, I don’t
have to take any more acting or Japanese lessons, and I don’t have to eat any more raw fish. But, as you say, if we don’t succeed, no one gets picked up. So, please try not to embarrass me too much.”
His men smiled, familiar with Karaev’s eccentric brand of reverse psychology.
Tucking his umbrella—carefully patched to hide the more obvious bullet holes—under his arm, Karaev gestured munificently for Tyulenov to open the door.
Forming up, his three teams marched to the gate in the fence surrounding the air-defense center. Two men carried light machine guns and another held an s-mortar, which were the only heavy weapons that Karaev figured he could get inside the gate without attracting suspicion.
Spotting the rank insignia Karaev wore and the black stripes on his trousers, the two privates manning the gate hastily snapped to attention. “May we be of assistance, sir?” the senior of the two asked.
Karaev slowly removed his face shield. Karaev’s grandmother had been a Khant, one of the native peoples submerged in a tide of Russian immigrants to Siberia, and Karaev resembled her in his straight black hair and epicanthic folds. Cosmetic surgery had done the rest.
“I am Lieutenant-Colonel Nakayama from Imperial Security.” Karaev negligently held out a skillfully forged identity card in a leather case and snapped it shut. “Stand at attention when I address you! You will admit me to see your commanding officer immediately. We have reason to believe that your facility harbors politically unreliable individuals who are engaged in antigovemment activities.”
“But, honored sir, my instructions do not—”
“You will be silent! My orders take precedence. I begin to believe that you are accomplices to treason! Sergeant, detain both these men until we can look into this matter.”
Tyulenov reached through the window, plucked the rifle out of the unfortunate private’s grasp, and snapped Handcuffs on his wrists. His bewildered compatriot was treated with equal dispatch.
“Now, open this gate.”
The two privates did so. Tyulenov took control of the guard box, and Karaev placed the two of them in the center of his little column. They marched in silence to the entrance of the command bunker where the corporal of the guard and the officer of the day rushed out to meet them. Recognizing the insignia Karaev was wearing, the officer stopped in his tracks and saluted. Karaev returned it with cold and studied contempt.
“Sir—” the officer began.
“Please be silent!” Karaev shouted. “I did not give you permission to speak. You will take me to your commanding officer immediately. This is a matter of extreme urgency, and I will not permit delays! Individuals may be destroying documents even as we speak.”
Brushing by the young officer, Karaev entered the bunker. Pausing at the first armored blast door, he turned to two of his men. “You two! Stand guard here. Do not permit anyone to go by you.”
Anonymous behind their masks, Thys Meiring and Toivo Virkki saluted crisply in unison and assumed menacing positions by the door.
Showing the young officer his phony identity badge, Karaev prodded him with his umbrella. “Lieutenant, you will accompany me. These two privates are under suspicion of complicity. You will take personal responsibility for them until we can ascertain whether or not they are implicated.”
“Certainly, sir,” the lieutenant said, absolutely convinced he was dealing with a madman.
As they stepped through the second blast door, Karaev observed the sergeant manning the security checkpoint frantically phoning downstairs. He took the phone out of the man’s hand. “Lieutenant, arrange for your commander to be waiting for me. Inform him that this is a security matter of utmost urgency!”
The lieutenant did so, his eyes beginning to glaze over with fear, then he followed Karaev and his men into the elevator. As they descended four stories into the earth, Karaev ended the lieutenant’s feeble effort at conversation with a harsh look.
When they reached bottom, the lieutenant-colonel commanding the site was waiting, absolutely livid with rage. Nevertheless, when Karaev emerged, he bowed slightly.
Ignoring him, Karaev walked past, motioning the officer to follow. As soon as they were past the last set of security doors, Heiskanen triggered the ambush. Within two minutes, Karaev’s men had cleaned out the site’s operations center with gas grenades and seized the arms room.
Taking advantage of the rumors that had undoubtedly preceded his arrival, Karaev went on the intercom to announce that the site’s commanding officer had been arrested for conspiracy, and that Imperial Security had taken control. He ordered all personnel to assemble in the mess hall, where he locked them in as they arrived and tossed in a couple of incapacitation grenades while the team’s engineer, Moushegian, cut power to the lasers and wired the operations center to detonate.
Returning to the surface where Meiring and Virkki had secured their retreat, they blew the elevator and left a note explaining that about 150 men needed rescuing. On their way out, they picked up Tyulenov, who was covering the puzzled perimeter guards.
Although every one of the site’s lasers and missile launchers was physically intact, it would easily be a week before any of them could be made operable.
As Karaev’s group climbed back into their panel truck, Heiskanen said, “Even money that the ones on the fence don’t figure out what happened until their reliefs don’t show.” “No,” Karaev said. “In about ten or fifteen more minutes, every second officer in the Central Air Defense Force is going to want to know why this installation isn’t taking calls, and eventually it will dawn on someone that they have a problem.” He looked around as the panel truck pulled away and said coldly, “This operation would not have worked if the soldiers here had not been conditioned to believe that blacklegs are not governed by normal laws and procedures. Nevertheless—” He banged the roof of the truck with his umbrella to emphasize his point. “Good job! Now, let’s see if we can drive to Tachikawa before the traffic gets heavy.”
Haehioji Air Defense Site, outside Tokyo
AT THE NEIGHBORING HACHIOJI AIR DEFENSE SITE, JAN SNYMAN’S
assault group got as far the entrance to the command bunker before their imposture began to unravel. Playing the role of “Lieutenant-Colonel Nakayama,” Platoon Sergeant Liu easily bluffed his way past the gate guards, but the duty officer was of a different caliber than the one Karaev had browbeaten. Although he came out to meet them, he left the armored door to the command bunker locked and steadfastly refused Liu entry until he could clear his presence with the Ministry of Security.
As the Ministry of Security had other things to attend to, minutes passed as the officer waited for a reply, politely ignoring Liu’s increasingly pointed threats.
Abruptly, Snyman made up his mind and lightly slapped his hand against his side to signal Liu.
Responding to Snyman’s cue, Liu turned, pointing to Pollezheyev and Swart. “You two! Return at once and report this. The rest of you may stand at ease.”
Pollezheyev and Swart took off at a run. Snyman’s other men began drifting out of formation to give themselves enough space to fight. Uborevich, carrying
the s-mortar, calmly calculated the width of the firing slit in the pillbox covering the entrance to the command bunker; the machine gun inside could cut most of Snyman’s assault group down in seconds. He nodded his head fractionally.
When Pollezheyev whispered over the radio that he was in position, Snyman wiped his nose with a white handkerchief. On a count of three, Uborevich pumped three s-mortar rounds through the vision slit of the pillbox. Isaac Wanjau shot the brave lieutenant who had thwarted them, while the rest of Snyman’s men began picking off the perimeter guards in then-assigned sections.
Venedikov had been left at the guard shack with a light machine gun. Shooting the two guards next to him, he opened fire on the main barracks. As Pollezheyev and Swart began firing an eighty-eight at the nearer of the two massive antiaircraft lasers, Wanjau led a four-man team around the side of the command bunker to eliminate the remaining guards on the far side. Hachioji’s surprised defenders were in no position to reply effectively.
When Snyman took control of the site above ground at a cost of one man killed and one man wounded, the men inside the command bunker sensibly, if unheroically, left the armored door shut.
Taking advantage of the confusion, Snyman’s engineer, Nikoskelainen, grabbed Liu and sprinted back to the truck for more explosives than Snyman’s men were carrying. They came back dragging rucksacks stuffed with shaped charges.
“Police will be coming,” Snyman told Nikoskelainen as Swart and Pollezheyev stalked the last laser. “Slap those things on the missile silos so we can get out of here.” He keyed his wrist mount, “Assault three point Akita. Snyman here. Everybody, get ready to roll as soon as we blow the silos.”
Nikoskelainen planted a twenty-kilogram shaped charge on the flat cover of a silo and ducked as he touched it off. Crawling over to inspect his work, he poked a penlight down the hole the charge had gouged out of the metal. Immediately, he began jumping up and down and swearing.
Robert Frezza - [Colonial War 02] Page 34