by J. L. ROBB
Now at age 57 Kyoto Kushito was founder and director of The Foundation, a virtually unknown and shadowy, world-wide terror think-tank, based somewhere around Hiroshima, or so it was believed. Kyoto Kushito was anything but even tempered like Grandpa. He had an obsession to do to the United States what they had done to Hiroshima and Nagasaki in August, 1945, and also to Grandpa Kushito and his chain-smoking chauffeur.
Within The Foundation was a virtually unknown group whose motto was a spinoff of the American Baby Boomers, the Baby Bombers. They consisted of a small but influential group of very wealthy Japanese men. Funded to the hilt, they had a plan of revenge and intended to use the Islamic world of terror as their vehicle of delivery.
While the Baby Boomer generation in America was born just after the war, another generation of children was being born in Japan. The new generation of Japanese begat a second post-war generation. Unlike the first, the second generation was not nearly so forgiving and forgot nothing.
The Baby Boomers did not suffer and lived the good life, while the new generation in Japan was born into a life of misery, birth defects, poverty, disease and radiation poisoning.
The simmering, festering hatred that Kyoto felt for the United States had now become manifest in the form of Euros, Yen, and Denari, as well as the rapidly declining dollar. The accumulated wealth of the Baby Bombers would have been the envy of many countries, had other countries known of their existence.
Over the years, things changed. The Japanese recovered from their humiliation and rebuilt their devastated country; only this country’s strength was economic rather than military. Kyoto was not a scientist or engineer but a shrewd businessman. The last thirty years had made him one of the richest men in the world. With investments in the automobile and truck industry and several water desalinization plants around the globe, Kyoto’s vast wealth accumulated.
Kyoto also owned an interest in Finhydronic Mini Subs located in Finland. The two-man submarines were used to monitor the destruction of sea life caused by deep ocean oil drilling, and they could dive to 3,000 feet for as long as two hours.
The mini submarines would have been a blessing to Kyoto, had he believed in God and blessings. He didn’t. But he did believe in his remarkable brainpower, and he was full of pride but never boastful. The use of the mini subs in the transportation of the briefcase nukes to Dmitry in Chechnya, then to Europe, and finally, Mexico, was just this side of Einstein genius.
Since the fall of the former Soviet Union, thanks primarily to U.S. President Ronald Reagan and his Star Wars defense scheme, Kyoto purchased weapons of mass destruction from the Ukraine and Russia, every opportunity he could. He was enthralled with chemicals, poisonous gases and biological agents and purchased ricin, smallpox, warfarin, Ebola, and Hantavirus in quantity. The best news though, according to Dmitry and Yousef, was that God apparently was willing, insha’Allah.
The Foundation now had a substantial nuclear closet. Most of it was no longer in the closet but distributed to central locations in Europe, Mexico and Russia. The Mexican police were easy to bribe, especially the border police; and most had no love for the United States. They believed that the United States stole Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California from Mexico, so the more bad things that could happen up north was fine with them.
Since the electronic border fence had been started under one president and stopped in mid-progress by the next, after millions had been spent, illegal entry from Mexico remained simple with tunnels and remote paths everywhere. Kyoto had been surprised when the virtual fence was stopped, but it worked for him and his plan. He was intrigued that America kept the porous Mexican border so porous, and he figured it must be business. They just couldn’t be that stupid.
The Foundation inventory included more than one hundred briefcase nukes and mini-briefcase nukes (Kyoto referred to the mini-nukes as lunch box nukes). There were also several nuclear torpedoes, three low yield nuclear bombs from North Korea, and five multi-megaton nuclear bombs, purchased from Pakistan. The second war between Russia and Georgia had been a boon for the arms proliferation business and was apparently leading to a regional war.
Kyoto thought it odd that world news reports never talked about the missing briefcase nukes from Ukraine; and when they did, when it was a slow-news day, they spoke of only a few small one-kiloton bombs. News commentators and reporters seemed to think that briefcase nukes were just small bombs. However, there was no such thing as a small nuclear weapon; and the nuclear weapons targeting America would truly be the gifts that keep on giving. As far as the quantity of briefcase nukes shipped to the United States and Europe, in the similar words of a past U.S. President, it all depends on what the meaning of few is.
Most billionaires do not drive their own autos, that service provided by chauffeurs trained as bodyguards. Kyoto however stayed out of the limelight and drove his own white Toyota Avalon himself, the Toyota blending in with so many other cars crowding Tokyo’s highways. Most Japanese folk had never heard of him. That’s the way he liked it.
Kyoto turned north onto the Shuto Expressway, making his way to Narita International Airport, Japan’s largest. There he would meet Dmitry, the Chechnyan, in the first floor men’s room at the south end of terminal one, and there they would swap identical, black briefcases.
Dmitry’s flight arrived several minutes early, unusual in today’s world of flight delays. It seemed to Dmitry that planes were being grounded more-and-more due to volcanic ash. At first it had been the eruption of Eyjafjallajökull in Iceland, then Soufriére Hills in the Caribbean, followed by the Katla Volcano just to the east of Eyjafjallajökull; and now several were erupting along the Pacific Ring of Fire.
As Dmitry worked his way to terminal one, he was puzzled by all the recent eruptions; and he was sure they were responsible for the increased earthquake activity throughout Asia and Russia. He didn’t like to fly into Tokyo because he knew from his studies that Tokyo would one day fall, not from war, but from a monster earthquake. They were due. The whole Ring of Fire was due.
Today’s meeting was so important that Dmitry quelled his fears and made the flight, a meeting in which not a word would be spoken, nor would he actually see Kyoto Kushito. He had never seen or actually met the mysterious Japanese businessman, other than the silent encounters that they had before in the men’s room at terminal one.
“Anything to declare?”
“No, I have only my briefcase.” Dmitry answered the customs agent in Japanese and laid the black, leather briefcase on the counter for inspection.
The customs agent examined the briefcase’s contents, looked for bank checks or certificates of exchange, but he found none. He did not examine the sheaf of business forms that were neatly placed inside, other than a brief shuffle. That’s what they always did, according to Kyoto’s message to Dmitry before his first visit to Tokyo.
Dmitry walked with a care-free stride, well aware of the body language experts employed throughout the Narita International and entered the men’s room and began walking with a limp. He entered the single handicap stall, secured the door and took a seat. The restroom was moderately crowded; and Dmitry hoped the guy in the next stall would hurry and vacate, plus he sounded sick, which was making Dmitry nauseated.
A few minutes early, Dmitry thought of his last encounter with Yousef in the restaurant in Chechnya. The Chechen soldiers had entered the restaurant that day as he and Yousef were leaving; and poor Yousef turned white as a sheet but kept his composure, sort of. When Dmitry called the Lieutenant by name, Yousef relaxed a little.
“What are you doing here, Niki? You’re scaring my poor friend here to death.” Dmitry had known Nikita for two years, and they became drinking buddies at Chayka, hoping to maintain the only bar in the area since there was really nothing to do but drink.
“Dmitry, my friend. Starting early today I see?” They guffawed, the way ex-Soviet men did. The soldiers relaxed and lowered their weapons. “We are having a training day, trying to lear
n how the average citizen will react during a terrorist event. You did not know?”
Dmitry did not know, and he knew most things that were going down with the police and military.
His thoughts drifted back to the moment as the guy next door exited the stall, the toilet flushing automatically due to motion detectors; and he found the bright lighting quite annoying. That only encouraged people to read the newspaper on the john, and bathrooms should have dim lighting.
Kyoto entered the adjacent stall, took his seat on the throne and coughed three times. Dmitry awaited the conclusion of the signal, a sneeze. Upon hearing the sneeze, it didn’t even sound fake, Dmitry slid his briefcase to the privacy barrier between the stalls, as did Kyoto. Quietly, the switch was made without anyone else hearing. Kyoto got up, the toilet flushed again and he exited.
Dmitry sat the briefcase on his lap and opened it to verify that the gold certificates were accounted for, and his head spun when he saw the gold. This was his biggest deal, ever. Yousef would be very happy, which would make Osama and Muhammed happy; and Dmitry just might retire and go into hiding. He noticed an envelope taped to the top inner panel. He opened it and read:
Meet me at 7:30 this evening at The Nadaman Restaurant. It is in the Shangri-La Hotel in Tokyo, 29th floor. I will be at the last table in the rear by the windows overlooking the gardens. Don’t be late.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“First of all, you must understand that in the last days scoffers will come, scoffing and following their own evil desires.” They will say, “Where is this ‘coming’ he promised? Ever since our fathers died, everything goes on as it has since the beginning of creation.” 2 Peter 3: 3-4
Jeff left his home this Friday morning and headed for breakfast at The Duluth Diner, just across the street from the Burger King on Peachtree Industrial Boulevard. There was no longer a need to frequent the Dunwoody Starbucks, as it was still a shambles from the bombing. Homeland Security testing continued. The Rexall Grill was closed for renovations.
July 4th had come and gone with no more terrorist instances in the United States, at least none known. Who knows what might be lurking in the water or food systems.
As summer edged ever closer to Labor Day, the United States and her allies had yet to devise a plan of punishment for the bombings, the destruction of London Bridge and the Eiffel Tower, and the huge leak in the Hudson River, finally contained.
The leaders of the Western countries were angry, the people were angry; but where and who would they bomb? Pakistan? Iran? Syria? Would they carpet bomb? Nuke them ‘til the sand turns to glass? Too many civilians around, and the Rules would not allow a win. Plus, nuclear would never be an option. We would have to suffer that experience first, Jeff knew. His friends knew, as well.
The Asian counterparts should have been angry, or at least angrier, considering the damage wreaked in their own countries; but they did a great deal of business with Iran and Pakistan in the forms of fuel and weapons. The Asian response was muted, as usual.
The United Nations would meet again, for further discussion. Israeli and American troops massed on the Azerbaijan border, just north of Iran; but there were no orders to act forthcoming. The troops awaited direction, hopefully. Waiting was the word du jour.
Most of the NATO countries knew of the rumors that Osama bin Laden was hiding out in the Chitral region along the Pakistan-Afghanistan border, but what were they to do? With the present rules of engagement in place, it would be impossible to defeat the bad guys. There was no doubt who the bad guys were, though the soldiers were often dismayed over the continuous anti-American comments they would hear from the American and European press, the nasty blogs especially. Sometimes it seemed like the soldiers were the bad guys.
Jeff considered why Atlanta had suddenly become such a target for the jihadists and what they expected to gain by raining terror onto Atlanta’s citizens. That was troubling. Much of Atlanta was owned by the Saudis. Could that be it?
Jeff was in an unusually dour mood. While our troops targeted only militants, reducing the civilian casualties as much as possible, at the cost of increased lives sacrificed by our own young soldiers, our children, the jihadists targeted women, children, donkeys, whatever. It all meant the same to these demented soldiers of slaughter. While our troops tortured the captured jihadists, who would slit Aunt Ethel’s throat in an instant, with barking dogs and nakedness, the jihadists simply removed the heads of those they captured. As our troops contributed to new schools in Afghanistan for the young girls once denied education, the merciful jihadists poisoned them in large numbers, believing the youngsters were better dead than educated. That was the Taliban way. Girls did not need an education.
Jeff found America becoming more and more frustrating, debt out of control, support for the troops lacking by so many. It seemed that Afghanistan had suddenly become Viet Nam all over again. Years earlier, the politicians said it was another Viet Nam, but it wasn’t. We were actually winning. But by golly, they did it. Now the civilians were running the war instead of the generals, and it was sure to fail.
Maybe I’ll move to Jamaica, lease a beach house and relax, he considered. But he could never do that. There was too much military and too much good old USA in his blood, and heart.
The hole in the Hudson River was finally plugged and Manhattan was getting back to normal, almost normal. The subway system was still out of commission, so the traffic nightmare was formidable, even more so than usual. The death toll from the flooding of the subway system turned out to be far greater than anticipated, so many of the homeless lived in the sub-tunnels beneath the subway. The rescue operation found actual signs of communal living in the tunnel systems below Manhattan, rickety chairs and small school desks like the schools used to have, with a built in inkwell. He remembered Sally’s ponytail and the ink, and the trouble he got in.
Then there were the sick people. Jeff couldn’t believe that the CDC had yet to identify the mystery virus. Maybe they had. Was it Spanish Flu or not? It was time to figure it out. He knew in his own mind that the Feds had the answer to the disease but had decided to withhold the knowledge.
His mood was dim. He pulled into the Duluth Diner parking lot, admiring the American flags that adorned the diner’s front lawn. Across the street, there was a sizeable protest of some kind going on in front of Burger King, two groups shouting at each other.
The AJC newspaper stand was empty, so Jeff grabbed a USA Today, and his stomach let out a small growl in anticipation of the feta cheese omelet that would soon follow. There were more cars than usual this morning; and when he walked in the second of two front doors, he knew why. Everyone was glued to the recently installed flat screens, attention focused on the news coming from the Gulf.
“The Gulf of Mexico is a big place,” the PBS commentator continued, “the ninth largest body of water in the world, 810 miles wide. The Gulf’s greatest depth is in excess of 14,000 feet, almost three miles, and occurs in a region known as the Sigsbee Deep. It is believed by most geologists that the Gulf of Mexico formed through the collapse of the sea floor, not by a meteor. The Gulf is bordered by five states, northern Mexico and Cuba, and expands along 1680 miles of the U.S. coastline and 1394 miles of Mexican coastline along the Bay of Campeche, extending almost to Cancun. The Bay of Campeche is home to the world’s largest population of whale sharks, the largest fish known to man.
“Should the oil reach Cancun and Cozumel, a very significant portion of the Mexican economy will suffer, even more than it’s suffering now. These are two of Mexico’s largest tourist areas and contributors to the Mexican income.”
Jeff sat at a table by the window but didn’t open his USA Today. He continued, like the others, to watch the Public Broadcasting Service commentator deliver nothing but bad news, so far.
“Last year when the hurricanes hit the Gulf, especially the last, great distress came upon the U.S. coastal environment. As you can see today, many buildings and homes along the northern coast
are still coated with the thick, brown, gooey crude oil that was blown ashore.”
Jeff remembered the television and youtube clips showing the windows that were broken from the gobs of goo blown inland. Car windows were shattered and metal buildings were dented from the imprints of constant bombardment of the crude.
“The rains associated with the hurricane activity of last summer and ever since, have consisted of water laced with oil, leaving a light sheen on plants, homes, vehicles and wildlife. Unfortunately, much of the fresh water sources for the wildlife community have been contaminated, resulting in the death of tens of thousands of animals so far, from shore birds to inland colonies of beaver. The oil-imbedded rainstorms occurred as far north as Memphis and St. Louis.”
Jeff thanked the waiter for his coffee and ordered the Diner Special, a Feta omelet, biscuit, grits and sliced tomato. The best $ 6.95 breakfast in town.
“Herein lies one of the many potential problems. If the Gulf of Mexico was indeed formed by the collapse of the seabed, it is at least feasible that it will collapse again as more and more oil is evacuated from the reservoirs of oil and methane under the current seabed.
“Some of last year’s hurricanes damaged several more of the deep drilling sites, as well as two shallow water rigs. The BP New Horizon well was successfully capped, but it appears to be leaking again, possibly as much as 12,000 gallons a day. Many coastal residents now refer to the Gulf as the Black Sea.
“With that said, it has been reported that Dr. Dennis Duncan at Mississippi State University, Professor of Geophysics, predicted last summer that with the depletion of oil from the reserves below the Gulf of Mexico, we could expect seabed collapse in several locations, possibly leading to a threat of tsunamis. As you know, that has already happened.