by Mike Maden
Yamada lifted the four-foot-long robo-fish and hauled it belowdecks for processing in their miniature lab. Its software was programmed for autonomous swimming, diving to specific depths at regular intervals, and recording data as it went. The young woman running his onboard IT department would handle the data download and analysis. Part of the robo-fish’s skin provided data collection—a kind of flypaper for chemical elements, including cesium-137. Samples would be drawn and analyzed by another grad student when they got back to the mainland. But for now, Yamada would subject it to a simple scan to see if any radioactivity could be detected. He wanded the robo-fish’s entire body with a handheld Geiger counter. Nothing. He began to think the whole trip out this way was a wild-goose chase. Maybe the bad guys had fed him a false lead to get him away from the real evidence he had been gathering earlier.
“Kenji, report to the bridge.” The voice on the loudspeaker was urgent—one of his grad students was piloting the boat today.
Yamada dashed up the ladder and made his way to the enclosed cabin above the main deck.
“What’s wrong?”
The bearded young man pointed to the northeast. A fishing trawler. “Been tracking him on our radar scope. Getting awfully close.”
The rusted trawler ran a parallel course. Looked like it would pass by, but with little room to spare. Their research ship was dead in the water, waiting to retrieve several other submersible sensors, including two more robo-fish.
“Did you raise him on the radio? Try to waive him off?”
“He’s not doing anything illegal, technically. I thought I’d call you first.”
Yamada grabbed a pair of high-powered binoculars. Adjusted the furled focus ring. He scanned the vessel. Booms, drums, winches. “Definitely a fishing trawler.” His glass stopped on the big red flag with the five golden stars on the fantail.
Yamada lowered the binoculars, frowning. They were out of the shipping lanes. Hadn’t seen much of any traffic the last few days.
“It’s a Chinese vessel, isn’t it?” the pilot asked.
Yamada nodded.
“You think we’re in any danger?” They had all heard about the Chinese trawler attack on the Japanese dive boat several days earlier. Yamada made sure to keep his American flag flying at all times.
“Has he altered course at all?”
“Not since I’ve been tracking him.”
Yamada scratched his head, an old nervous habit. If they moved too far off their current location, it would take them a lot more time to retrieve the other submersibles, even with their autonomous homing capabilities. If they held their position, they would be all packed up and heading back to Nagasaki for the night in less than an hour. “We’ll stay put. We aren’t in any danger unless that trawler changes course.”
Twenty minutes later, it did.
FORTY-NINE
NAGASAKI AIRPORT
NAGASAKI, JAPAN
16 MAY 2017
Floodlights bathed the tarmac where Feng’s Gulfstream taxied to a stop. The stars overhead were hidden by a bank of low clouds.
Myers’s hair whipped in the brisk ocean breeze that chilled her to the bone. The cabin door opened and the stairs deployed. Her heart skipped a beat when Pearce finally emerged in the doorway. As soon as he stepped onto the tarmac, the stairs behind him were lifted and the door shut. A moment later, the turbines whined as the plane began to taxi away.
Pearce’s broad frame was only a shadow as he crossed the asphalt. It took everything in her not to run to him because that was the kind of thing only silly women did in bad Hollywood movies. The American ambassador, Henry Davis, was with her, along with a navy corpsman stationed at the American embassy.
Troy emerged out of the shadows into the light of the hangar. Myers gasped. His unshaven face was badly bruised. One of his sleep-deprived eyes was red and blackened. Dried blood stained his collar. The horrible memory of Pearce’s head wound in Algeria flooded over her.
Bad movie or not, she ran to him.
“Troy—”
She wanted to gather him up in her arms and hug him, but she was afraid to touch him. She gently laid her hands on his shoulders.
He smiled. “Hey.”
She stood back. “What did they do to you?”
“A couple of love taps. No big deal.” He lisped a little. His lower lip was swollen.
“No big deal? You look like you walked into a wall,” Myers said.
“You should see the other guy.” Pearce laughed. Winced again. Didn’t want to tell Myers the other guy was actually a middle-aged woman who used his head for a punching bag.
Myers and the navy corpsman steered him toward a bench near the hangar wall. The corpsman broke out his medical kit.
“Can I get you anything?” the ambassador asked. “What do you need?”
“A shower and a change of clothes for a start. I’m kind of ripe.”
The corpsman flashed a light in both of Pearce’s eyes.
“How’s your head? Headache? Dizzy?”
“No.” Pearce lied. His head hurt like hell, but he’d be damned if he was going to spend the night in a navy hospital.
“Anything broken?”
“No.”
“How about a belt?” The corpsman pulled a silver flask from his coat and held it up.
“Don’t tempt me.”
The corpsman pocketed the flask and pressed two fingers on Pearce’s inner wrist, feeling for a pulse, counting the beats while staring at his watch.
“How badly did they beat you?” Myers asked.
“I’ve had worse, believe me. I’m fine, really.”
“Heart rate is good,” the corpsman said. “They hit you with anything? Electric shock? Any wounds?”
“Just my ego. Honestly, I’m fine.”
The corpsman closed up his kit. “I’d like to get you to the base clinic for a full exam or even the local hospital if you’d prefer.”
“All I need is that shower. Maybe a steak, medium rare.” Pearce stood and stretched, working out the kinks.
“I’m filing a formal protest with my counterpart in Beijing first thing in the morning,” the ambassador said. “Lot of good it will do.”
“Does Lane know I’m back?” Pearce asked.
The ambassador nodded. “Called him the moment your plane landed.”
Pearce looked at Myers. “How’d you get me out of there?”
“Called a friend of yours. She was very persuasive.” Myers didn’t know the ambassador well. Even if she did, she didn’t want to admit to an official in the Lane administration that she’d instigated the kidnapping of a Chinese national on German territory by an Israeli secret agent. “I’ll fill in the details later.”
Myers turned to the corpsman and the ambassador. “I need a moment, please.” They both nodded and stepped away per their prior arrangement. When they were out of earshot, Myers took one of Pearce’s hands in hers.
“I’m okay, really,” Pearce said, smiling through the pain. Myers loved the way the corners of his eyes crinkled up when he smiled like that.
“Troy, I’ve got some bad news.”
Pearce’s smile disappeared. “What?”
“It’s your friend, Kenji Yamada.”
FIFTY
CITY MORGUE
NAGASAKI, JAPAN
16 MAY 2017
The young Japanese medical examiner carefully pulled open the refrigerated stainless-steel drawer and stepped quietly back.
Pearce took a deep breath. He pulled back the crisp white sheet. His blood pressure plunged. It felt like the floor was falling out from beneath his feet.
His old friend Kenji Yamada lay there, his pale, bearded face oddly serene, his body butchered. Yamada’s corpse had been cleaned after the examination but not repaired. What remained of it was ghostly pale from b
lood loss, almost blue. Giant gashes had sliced him open across the chest and stomach. His left arm was practically severed just above the elbow, barely connected by a skein of milky white tendons, badly frayed. Most of the meat was missing from both thighs, exposing white shattered bone. After years in combat, Pearce had seen worse—some of it inflicted by him. But Kenji loved life and living things more than anyone else he’d ever known. Seeing his mangled corpse numbed Pearce to the quick.
“The cause of death appears to be a massive blow to the back of the head by a blunt object,” the examiner said in excellent but thickly accented English. “Perhaps a pipe or even a piece of heavy wood.”
“The other injuries?”
“In my estimation, the lacerations on the upper torso were caused by propeller blades. The same for the left arm, possibly.”
“And his legs?”
“Sharks.”
Pearce nodded. He’d seen enough.
The examiner replaced the sheet with ceremonious precision.
“My condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“He was your friend, yes?”
“Yes.”
The young examiner nodded grimly. He slowly pushed the drawer shut. The metal glides whispered as the drawer disappeared into the wall. The door shut. The tiled room echoed with a heavy metal click as the locking mechanism engaged.
The medical examiner finally turned to Pearce, his dark eyes furious. “The Chinese must pay for this.”
Pearce nodded.
They would.
—
Pearce was greeted in the waiting room outside of the morgue by Myers, Ambassador Davis, and Tanaka.
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Pearce,” the ambassador said.
“It was good of you to come at this time of night.” Pearce glanced at Tanaka. “Both of you.”
“All of Japan grieves with you, and for your friend Dr. Yamada.” Tanaka bowed slightly.
“Thank you. Kenji was a good man and a good friend.”
“My government is outraged,” Tanaka continued. “We consider the attack on Dr. Yamada as an attack upon us as well. He was a naturalized American citizen, but he was born on Japanese soil.”
“He loved America and Japan equally.”
Tanaka turned to the ambassador. “The United States must do something more than lodge a formal protest.”
“President Lane is meeting with his cabinet even as we speak.”
“If your government will not act to defend Japan, it must at least act to defend itself.”
“I’m inclined to agree,” the ambassador said. “I’m sure President Lane will be contacting Prime Minister Ito shortly.”
Tanaka’s phone vibrated. He checked it. “Please, you must excuse me.” He shook Pearce’s hand. “Again, my condolences.” He nodded to Myers and the ambassador then put his phone to his ear and listened to his message as he walked out of the room.
“I understand he has no living relatives?” the ambassador asked.
“He was never married and has no children. His parents passed away years ago. They’re buried in Hawaii.”
“We’ll make all the necessary arrangements to have him flown home,” the ambassador said. “I’ll contact your office for the particulars.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll be waiting in the car,” the ambassador said.
After he cleared the room, Pearce asked Myers, “What do we know for sure?”
“Five dead, one survivor. One of the dead was a Japanese national. The survivor is adamant that it was a Chinese vessel. A fishing trawler. Recognized the flag.”
“Just like that other attack,” Pearce said. “I’m guessing this is all over the news?”
“Not yet. The government convinced the local news stations to spike the story for at least twenty-four hours for national security reasons. There’s no video and the lone survivor is at the hospital in a private room under protection. She’s agreed to not speak to anybody about what happened yet. She’s a brave girl.”
“How badly is she hurt?”
“Broken arm, exposure. And . . .”
“They raped her.”
“Yeah.”
Myers nodded grimly. “If the Chinese want a war with us, this should do it.”
Pearce frowned. “Yeah, it should.” He felt the old familiar rage welling up inside his gut. But something held it in check. Killing Americans in Japanese territorial waters right now would likely lead China into war with both countries. The Chinese would know that. Maybe their leadership had finally lost their minds. Decided now or never, like Tojo did when he lashed out at Pearl Harbor.
Or maybe they hadn’t. This wasn’t a sneak attack. It was an assassination. And then he remembered.
World War I had started that way, too.
FIFTY-ONE
MINISTRY OF STATE SECURITY REGIONAL HEADQUARTERS
NINGBO, ZHEJIANG PROVINCE, CHINA
16 MAY 2017
Vice Chairman Feng had commandeered the security chief’s own office and threw him out, waiting for the phone call for news about his son. He paced the floor like a nervous cat, smoking furiously. The intercom rang. “It’s the Berlin embassy, sir.”
Feng snatched up the receiver. “Jianli!”
“I’m sorry, sir. My name is Liu. I’m the station chief.”
“Where’s my son?”
“He’s been sedated. Doctor’s orders.”
Feng’s grip tightened on the phone. Perhaps Jianli’s kidnapper had castrated him after all. “Was he injured?”
“Traumatized. Just crying, mostly.”
Feng winced. That wouldn’t do. But his son’s cowardice couldn’t be helped now. At least he was safe.
“Have him contact me the minute he wakes up. As soon as he’s fit to travel, he’s to return home—even if he protests. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And if anything happens to him between now and his arrival, I’ll hold you personally responsible. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly.”
“To whom have you spoken of these matters?”
“No one, just as you ordered. Only one other agent was with me when we picked him up. And the doctor, of course.”
“Make sure they understand the importance of silence. If one word of this gets out—”
“I’ll be held responsible.”
“I’ll have you all shot.”
Feng slammed the phone into its cradle. The image of his naked son hanging like a pig in a slaughterhouse clawed at his heart.
He pulled his secure cell phone from his pocket and punched the speed dial for Admiral Ji. He’d teach those American bastards a lesson in humiliation. Drive it deep into their ugly round eyes like a burning spike.
FIFTY-TWO
SAKAI FAMILY COMPOUND
AKUNE, KAGOSHIMA PREFECTURE, JAPAN
17 MAY 2017
The rays of the rising sun shot through the towering cumulonimbus on the horizon. A sign, surely.
Sanjuro Sakai sipped the steaming cup of tea, his clear eyes transfixed by the morning sky. The weather report said it would be a clear day, no rain, slight breeze from the west.
Another sign.
Sanjuro had lived a full and interesting life. He was eighty-nine years old and in perfect health. It was a miracle. Born in 1928, he was just seventeen years old when the war ended. If the war had lasted another day, he wouldn’t have survived it. His parents and sister didn’t, perishing in a fire set by American incendiary bombs.
After the war, Sanjuro fed himself by selling scrap metal, then he apprenticed in a small-engine repair shop. Within a decade, he owned it and began designing his own motors. He sold a patent. Married. Started a family. Started another company.
His wife gave him one son
and three daughters before she passed. His children gave him ten grandchildren and five great-grandchildren. An unusually large family in Japan these days. His son grew the company into an international firm worth millions. His daughters all earned university degrees. His grandchildren were educated abroad. They, in turn, had grown the business even larger and diversified it. His entire family was wealthy, comfortable, and close. They worshipped the ground Sanjuro walked on because everything they enjoyed had all come from his hand.
A fine life indeed.
But his blessings didn’t end there. All of his life he loved to fly. His vision was still nearly perfect and he was Japan’s second-oldest licensed pilot. Never a crash.
And today was a good day to fly.
But Sanjuro was no fool. Life begins and it ends like the rising and the setting of the sun. He turned his attention to the ancient black-and-white photographs on the small table near his bed, a shrine of memories. Family and friends long gone. He missed them. He stroked his long silvery mustache.
Soon, he thought.
—
Sanjuro felt the ocean breeze battering his wrinkled face. He could smell the salt. It made him feel young again. Flying always did. The electric hangar door opened at the push of a button. His great-grandson Ikki was already inside, fixing a GoPro camera on the dashboard of the Mitsubishi A6M. The single-engine aircraft was his favorite. A classic. An extravagant gift from his son years ago.
Sanjuro walked the plane, inspecting it. It had been recently serviced and repainted. He checked the ailerons for play, kicked the tires—plenty of air. The hangar floor was clean. No leaks. The mechanic who maintained the family’s aircraft was an excellent technician. An artist with a wrench. Sanjuro expected no less than perfection from him and usually got it.
Thirty minutes later, Ikki climbed down and helped Sanjuro pull on his old flight suit, green and baggy on his ancient frame. Then he nimbly climbed the pegs in the fuselage, careful to step only on them and the pad on the wing. Once Sanjuro was inside the cockpit, Ikki followed him up and stood on the wing pad.