by C. G. Cooper
Waller looked up in surprise. “As in mortar shelled?”
“Yes,” the politician knew he had Waller’s attention. “The drug cartels are getting their hands on anything they want. What’s next, heavy artillery?”
“Why aren’t we doing anything about it?”
“These guys aren’t idiots, Hank. They sit just on the other side of the border and wage war. We don’t cross the border because Mexico is our ally. Problem is, the Mexican authorities are completely overwhelmed. They’ve got their hands full in major cities where hundreds of people are being murdered in broad daylight. What do they have to gain by helping us protect OUR border? Hell, a lot of their revenue comes from illegal immigrants coming over here and shipping money back to Mexico.”
“So why doesn’t the President put the screws to Mexico? I know we’ve done some joint ops before. We can help them if they need the help.”
The politician laughed. “Are you kidding? When was the last time you saw the President put the screws to any foreign leader? I think the only country he’s had a real pissing contest with is Israel. And they’re our allies! No, he doesn’t like making waves. He’d rather send drones into Pakistan than bitch slap a neighbor.”
“That sounds pretty harsh,” Waller scolded.
“It’s the truth, Hank. Come on. You’ve been in the hot seat. You know how it goes. Give these guys an inch and they take a whole country.”
The politician went on to tell the ex-President about the powerful cartel that was changing the face of the border war. Led by a secretive gangster, the expanding organization now played gatekeeper for other cartels looking to ship their illegal goods into America. The mortar attack was suspected to be the work of the same cartel.
Waller listened intently. The politician wouldn’t know until nearly a month later that Waller had passed the information on to a secret band of warriors.
+++
This time the results of the clandestine operation came from the DEA representative to the politician’s committee. The man described, in detail, the load of intel that had recently been anonymously sent to their office. As a side note, the DEA man reported that the head of the border cartel had recently been found and gagged outside the regional Mexican police headquarters. Attached to the man were ten kilos of cocaine and enough video evidence to incarcerate him and his associates for hundreds of years.
So these covert warriors weren’t just killers. They had the ability to deliver criminals alive to the authorities when appropriate.
The politician filed the thought away. He then set about having his contacts get him information on President Waller’s conversations and travels. He hadn’t known the exact identity of the organization conducting the covert operations, but he would soon.
The highlights of the almost two-year secret investigation filled the space the size of a large manila envelope. It was a pity he’d have to break up the party, but it was for the greater good: America’s future.
+++
Cal and Brian sifted through the contents of the envelope. There were pictures of Council members together at various locations along with snippets of conversations. It sounded like someone had paraphrased after listening in. Maybe some of their Secret Service Agents?
All the documents felt more like a precursor. They were incomplete. Something was missing. What was it? What were they getting at? They seemed to be saying, “If you think this is a lot, just wait until you see what else we’ve got.”
Maybe it was just a fishing expedition. Maybe whoever ‘they’ were didn’t know anything. They were making one point painfully obvious: by delivering the envelope right to their suite, they knew where they were AND they knew about their connection to the Council of Patriots.
Cal picked up the secure phone next to Neil and dialed a number from memory. It was a number he swore he’d never use. He waited as the secure connection went through.
Hank Waller answered, “Yes?”
“Mr. President, we have a problem.”
Chapter 29
Las Vegas, Nevada
12:28pm, September 18th
The group of Japanese men sat around the conference room table, chatting with colleagues as they waited for their host to begin.
Kazuo Nakamura looked around the room and remembered days long gone. These men truly were like family. Their histories were forever intertwined.
+++
Kazuo’s father, Akemi Nakamura, had been close to fifty when his son was born. His first wife, who’d left him childless, died six years earlier. His second wife was twenty-five years his junior. He’d married her simply to produce an heir.
The second wife produced a son, but died from complications during his birth. Young Kazuo was raised by an elderly housekeeper and occasionally allowed to enter his father’s world.
At the age of nine, Kazuo awoke late one night. He heard loud shouting from the other side of the house. Being in a traditional Japanese home, most of the doors were literally paper-thin. He crept towards the commotion and peeked through a small hole in one of the door’s panes.
He observed his father and four other men sitting around their chabudai dining room table. His father pointed at one of the men across the short table and yelled, “You know how that makes us look! You take advantage of the American contracts, but you will not be social with them!”
The man kept his head bowed in deference and tried to explain. “But, Nakamura-san, these Americans will do more business with us if I find the time to eat dinner with them or…”
“NO! I SAID NO! You must never associate yourself with them outside of business. We will use them for now, but soon Japan will be ours once again. The next time…”
The elder Nakamura stopped in mid-sentence. Even at close to sixty years of age, he was still physically commanding. Not a day passed that Kazuo’s father didn’t practice in the family dojo. Looking straight at Kazuo, he sprang up and moved to the door. Young Kazuo knew there was no sense in running. He’d felt his father’s wrath before.
The elder Nakamura’s hand shot through the thin papered pane, grabbed his son by the back of his head, and threw him into the room. He’d proceeded to methodically beat his son. There would be no cuts or bruises on his face or hands, but his torso would be black and blue for weeks. He was sure that his father had broken at least two ribs in the process.
The next day, his father walked into his room. Kazuo was at his desk doing his homework.
“Come with me,” his father ordered.
With a wince, Kazuo rose and followed.
They entered the family dojo and the old man turned to his son. “Have you learned your lesson?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Good. The next time you are caught spying…” he let the threat linger as he turned to the small shrine situated in one corner.
He grabbed two sake glasses, filled them, and handed one to his son.
“I have a story to tell you, son. Drink first, then we talk.”
Kazuo did as instructed and gulped down the fiery liquid. It was his first taste of sake, but far from his last.
His father produced a pile of papers from a locked compartment under the small shrine. Kazuo looked at him anxiously.
“Have I ever told you the history of our family, My Son?”
“No, Father.”
Akemi Nakamura nodded and spread the papers on the floor then knelt. Son followed. The first thing young Kazuo noticed were the pictures of his father. He was always standing in uniform. He knew his father has served in World War II, but he didn’t know in what capacity.
“I was very young when I entered my first military academy,” his father began. “At that time, we had a very strong force. Because my father was a prominent politician, I was given the choice of where to serve. After excelling in my studies and training, I was selected to serve with our Military Police. We were called the Kempeitai. I was recruited to be part of their elite interrogation unit. I trained extensively with the Germa
n Abwehr. Some of my friends flew to Italy to train with the Italian Military Intelligence called the Servizio Informazioni Militare, or SIM. It was a wonderful time in our history. The Empire reached farther than we ever had in our history. I spent much time in China and the Pacific islands. We captured and tortured our enemies. I was a very good interrogator. They called me Akemi. Do you know what that means, my son?”
“I think it means Beauty of Dawn, Father.”
“That is correct. Now, what is on our national flag of Japan?”
“A rising sun, Father.”
“Yes. I was named Akemi because of my cruelty and success. My fellow soldiers saw my actions as bringing about the new dawn. The rise of the Empire of Japan.”
“But, Father, is Akemi not your real name?”
“It is now. That is another part of the story. As I was saying, we conquered wherever we went. Our warriors could not be stopped. The Pacific Islands, China, and Australia were all within our grasp.”
Nakamura’s eyes clouded. “That all changed with the invasion of Pearl Harbor.”
“I thought that was a great victory for our people, Father.”
“It was, my son. But it was only one battle. And that small victory awoke the American giant. Yes, we fared well at first. I still remember the newspapers filled with sinking American warships. It was a glorious time to be Japanese. But, after a time, the Americans recovered. Soon they were shipping unlimited resources to the Pacific. Our warriors fought valiantly…but, of course, you know the rest.”
Father and son sat silent for a moment. Akemi seemed to be gathering his thoughts again.
“After the war the Americans came looking for war criminals. I knew that what I did was in service of the Emperor. It did not matter to the Americans. They tracked down many of my friends. Most were hung or shot.”
Kazuo’s eyes went wide with wonder. “What happened to you, Father?”
“I was eventually caught. Luckily, I had forged documents with my new name, Akemi Nakamura. My other stroke of luck was that anyone who witnessed what I’d done was now dead. That is, all except for a few of my men. Some were captured and some escaped. The gentlemen you saw last night were four of them. I was imprisoned until no evidence could be produced to prosecute me. I found a new home and started my new life. Over the years, I found some of my old comrades. Most have new names as well. We meet periodically to reminisce about the old days and talk of the future.”
Kazuo stared at his father with awe. His father had been a great warrior of Japan, just like the mighty Samurai he learned about in school.
+++
The next time his father’s friends came for a visit, Kazuo was invited. He was always instructed to sit and stay quiet. A trend quickly emerged in Kazuo’s mind. They were planning something. What was it?
Soon, with the approval of the elder Nakamura, the other men started bringing their own sons to the gatherings. Kazuo became their leader. Not only did they spend time together at the Nakamura household, they would run in the hills and play Samurai. Little did he know then that gatherings for monthly dinners would one day become what it was today.
He forged those relationships through his teenage years and his father slowly prepared him for the future. There was always the lesson of putting Japan first. They talked for hours about their ancestors as they trained in the dojo. Kazuo remembered those days fondly.
Then came the day when the military police came to his home. By some cruel twist of fate, the modern day version of the Japanese Kempeitai had found his father’s true identity. Enough evidence was presented at the trial to lead to a swift prosecution. The war criminal, Akemi Nakamura, and his associates were killed by a Japanese military firing squad at the age of sixty-eight.
No one thought to question the children.
+++
Kazuo Nakamura assumed leadership of Japanese outcasts. Instead of mourning, he turned his sights on the ultimate goal: returning the Empire of Japan to its former glory. He had two enemies to confront: first, the current Japanese leadership and second, the United States. He saw the two as being the parties guilty of killing his father. He would not forget.
He led a delicate balancing act in the ensuing years. Nakamura pursued his education both in Japan and in the United States. Instead of being outwardly hostile to non-Japanese, Kazuo encouraged his small band to branch out. They learned about their enemies and entrenched themselves in both the Japanese and American political systems.
Nakamura’s patriots slowly grew over the years. Now, there were close to twenty men in the inner circle. The influence of the group extended throughout the Japanese and North American economies. They studied their enemies and gained leverage whenever possible.
Kazuo relocated to America when his son was born and raised Ishi as an American. They’d first lived in San Francisco, then moved east and settled into Wellesley, a quiet suburb of Boston. At the age of nine, his son was indoctrinated into the group. He’d been an apt pupil.
By dumb luck, Nakamura had stumbled upon what would become one of their greatest assets. During Ishi’s freshman year of private high school, he’d become friends with the son of a famous celebrity. At first, the strict father had forbidden the relationship. He didn’t want his son THAT Americanized.
One of Kazuo’s strengths as a businessman was to always search for the silver lining of unintended consequences. For years, he’d tried to figure out how to infiltrate America’s capital. So far, he’d only achieved marginal success. His son’s high school friendship gave him another idea. What if his son and the children of his compatriots became the friends of prominent politicians? He decided to try an experiment. First, he made discrete inquiries.
The next morning, he instructed Ishi to begin cultivating a relationship with the son of a long-standing U.S. Congressman. The two were in the same private high school but had never mingled in the same groups. Later that day, Ishi returned home to tell his father that the Congressman’s son had rebuffed his attempts at friendship.
After a severe rebuke, Kazuo calmed down and gave his son more to work with.
“I want you to do anything you need to. Find out if the boy uses drugs. Maybe he likes girls and alcohol. Observe without being obvious.”
Ishi agreed and the next day came home with the expected details.
“Father, I followed the boy and his friends at a discreet distance and found that they do like marijuana. In fact, I saw them smoking behind the football bleachers.”
His father smiled. “Good work, my son. We have our way in.”
Over the next week, father and son crafted a scheme to get Ishi into the boy’s clique. Through his contacts, Kazuo Nakamura purchased medical-grade marijuana. He had Ishi practice smoking the drug in order to understand its effects and to learn how to maintain control. The next week, Ishi joined the boys behind the bleachers.
The Congressman’s son, a fat spoiled teenager, confronted Ishi. “We don’t want Japs hanging around us.”
His friends laughed, but Ishi ignored the comments. Instead, he pulled out a carefully rolled joint, lit it, and took a long hit. The boys’ eyes opened wide and menace changed to wonder.
“Where’d you get that, Jap boy?” asked the Congressman’s son.
The young Nakamura looked straight into the boy’s eyes and pointed at him. “First, my name is Ishi,” he paused to take another hit. He could almost see the boys salivating. “Second, you want some?” He motioned to the boy with his joint.
“What is it?”
“It’s something special.”
“Is it laced with something?”
Ishi shook his head. “Nope. Just some shit stolen from a government lab.”
The other boys all looked to the Congressman’s son. They knew what his father did. They waited for him to lead.
The boy smiled and grabbed the joint hungrily. “I think you’re gonna fit in just fine around here, Ishi.”
It was a huge lesson for the Nakamuras. They now und
erstood how their targets could be manipulated. Simply find their vice and exploit it. It was a formula they continued to use. Nakamura instructed his Japanese compatriots to do the same with their children and their businesses. Soon, their results surpassed Nakamura’s wildest predictions. Blackmail was a powerful tool.
After doing some research, Kazuo found another interesting weakness he could exploit. The sons of prominent bureaucrats tended to follow in their fathers’ footsteps. Over the years this phenomenon created families that would become political dynasties. It was time to attack the governmental elite.
During college, Kazuo Nakamura chose Ishi’s target: The Zimmer Dynasty.
+++
The Nakamura’s ultimate victory neared. Their blackmail list stretched far and wide. Leading Japanese politicians and businessman, hungry for additional international market share and respect, had privately endorsed Nakamura’s bold plan. In exchange for crippling the American machine, they would push through the reform needed to bring Japan back to superpower status. Yes, it would mean some minor disputes in Asia. But the ends justified the means. Besides, they would have the tacit approval of the next American President. The Empire of Japan would rise again.
+++
Back in his posh suite, the politician ran the details through his mind. He wished the coup didn’t involve the Japanese, but that was now beyond his control. So far, they’d succeeded in their planning. If worse came to worst, he could always point the finger back at them.
Grabbing his gin and tonic, he sat down and prepared for the mayhem.
Chapter 30
Las Vegas, Nevada
1:34pm, September 18th
President Waller and Cal decided that meeting to review and discuss the packet was worth the risk. Cal agreed to meet the former President in under an hour.
Meanwhile, Neil had successfully hacked his way into the Ichiban internal servers. He was now downloading the mountain of information for his software to start analyzing. Patel also had a team ready to assist at his office back at SSI headquarters.