Sudden Threat

by A. J Tata

  “Something about a fire makes you stare at it,” Rathburn said.

  “Agreed.”

  The plane etched a trace across the sky, arching toward the Philippines where a government delegation, and God knows what else, would meet them.

  As Matt drifted to sleep, a thought nibbled at his mind, spiraling into the black void that brought rest. What was it? There, he had it for a moment.

  Something about watching fires.

  CHAPTER 28

  Georgetown, Washington, DC

  Dick Diamond stood at the window of Saul Fox’s Georgetown townhouse reading his Blackberry. Looking up, he could see the Potomac, some stores along M Street, and a glimpse of the Kennedy Center. It was, after all, prime real estate. He had turned up Puccini again, Calaf’s voice belting out, “Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me, il nome mio nessun saprà.” But my secret is hidden within me. None will know my name!

  Diamond pocketed his digital assistant and ran a well-manicured hand along the revolver he had purchased, then walked to the bed and fitted the weapon between the mattress and box spring. He stepped back, assessed its positioning, and made an adjustment. Then he sat on the bed, leaned back a bit, and let his arm fall naturally along the mattress. He felt around and determined the pistol needed to be moved about six inches toward the headboard and a few inches toward the edge. His considerable weight had crushed the mattress into the pistol, making retrieval at the right moment awkward, if not impossible.

  And that would not be good.

  He removed the pistol and awkwardly stuffed it in his coat pocket, confident that he could place it properly when necessary and have it … available.

  As soon as his hand left his jacket, Saul Fox came walking into the bedroom, wearing a white robe that had the letters SF stenciled on the left breast pocket in gold thread—real gold.

  “Dick, we need to talk about this Philippine thing,” Fox said.

  “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, yes, I presume so,” Fox agreed. He sat on a chaise and the robe fell away, exposing a short, bare leg.

  Diamond sat in a cherry Thonet No. 14 chair made of six pieces of steamed and bent cane wood. It was nearly a hundred years old, and Diamond thought he was going to break the chair as his large derriere pressed into the antique.

  “You know Takishi, right?” Fox asked.

  Diamond hesitated, not wanting to answer right away. “Yes, of course. He’s a big wheel in Japan, and he was a student at Harvard B School when I was teaching at the JFK School. Quite popular, bright mind, very … Japanese.”

  “Good. Good,” Fox said. He pulled the robe over his leg and rubbed his face with an open palm as if to test his shave.

  “How so?”

  “I’m thinking about everything we’re hearing. We’ve got one dead guy in the Philippines. Patterson, something like that. Matt Garrett was supposedly roaming around down there from the CIA. Stone had his press conference, and now we’ve got an infantry company going there.”

  “Still all very manageable within the big picture. I mean an A team and a rifle company, that’s not much more than we let Stone send to Afghanistan.”

  Fox smiled, then his expression changed as he sat up. “I know. That’s sort of my point. Our entire plan was to let Nine-eleven happen, however that was going to play out, then use it as a window of opportunity for our own purposes; to achieve lasting fame. Brilliant.”

  “Yes, but are we the only ones looking in the window?” Diamond asked, getting Fox’s point.

  “That’s what I want you to talk to Takishi about.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Tokyo, Japan

  Japanese Prime Minister Kirusu Mizuzawa sat in his office in the Kantei, the Japanese equivalent of the White House. Upon becoming prime minister two years ago, he had decorated his workplace with various pictures and mementoes he had acquired throughout his distinguished military and political careers.

  One of his first actions as prime minister was to place next to the map of Japan a large map of Southeast Asia. Sitting at his desk, he could look up and see the four major islands of Japan in large scale, as well as the Pacific Rim from the northeastern Chinese border to central Australia. Centrally locat-ed were the Philippine Islands. Just to the north of the Philippines was the island of Formosa, or Taiwan. He had circled Taiwan and the Philippines with red highlighter and put a question mark next to Indonesia.

  He stood and walked around the front of his desk, leaning against it. He was a short man in his mid-seventies. His face was wrinkled like that of a Chinese Shar-Pei. His eyes peeked from between two coin slots in his wizened face. He kept his black hair cropped close to his head with a crew cut. A scar from an American bayonet during the Great Pacific War ran across the top of his right forearm. It had not healed properly and curved outward in grotesque fashion.

  He took his suit jacket off and placed it over the back of his chair. He then slipped on his black samurai robe and walked through the open glass doors behind his desk. The night air was cool and heavy, settling upon Mizuzawa in wavy mists. Stepping with a bare foot past a decorative rock, he strode onto the bridge that spanned the dark koi pond. He watched the large orange and white fish smack at the water’s surface and swim lazily in another direction. A small pagoda faced him on the other side of the pond.

  His robe flowing with his gait, he strode slowly around the carefully trimmed hedges in the garden. He stopped and raised his arms, palms stretched outward, then slowly brought them down, beginning a jujitsu ritual of relaxation. He performed several maneuvers, eyes closed, as he felt the enemy surrounding him.

  An unarmed method of defense, jujitsu was designed to throw the opponent off-balance through movement and deception. Karate differed in that it focused on the accurate application of well-timed blows to the opponent. Mizuzawa moved in rhythmic harmony, clearing his mind for the monumental decisions that lay ahead. His process of Henka had been gradual, but he felt that he had a consensus within the administration and that they were convinced of the course he had chosen.

  In the courtyard stood a bronze statue of Confucius. He relied on Confucian ideology as his spiritual guide and, more than ever, needed reassurance that he was embarking on the correct path. He looked at the painting and bowed. Kneeling on a red satin pillow, he closed his eyes and prayed silently. He asked for the wisdom to do what was correct for Japan and the courage to act on the wisdom. He felt that Confucius was listening and continued to ask for the right and proper guidance. He asked for forgiveness in advance should he fail.

  It was a prayer he had been making daily for two years, ever since he launched compartmentalized sectors of his government on the mission that would elevate Japan’s security resources to the same level as its economic and political resources. Under his direction, Japan would be a true superpower.

  His society had suffered the humiliation of Western dominance long enough. With America so fully engaged in the Global War on Terror, he sensed a rare geopolitical opportunity. He saw America losing its hegemonic control as it got further sucked into the twirling vortex of Muslim extremism. Assuredly, there would be missteps, and Japan needed to be prepared to capitalize on those as they occurred. Similarly, China and North Korea loomed just over the horizon, and Mizuzawa had suffered the last embarrassment of a missile shot across his land from China or North Korea.

  Mizuzawa believed that with political systems in turmoil, economic systems would soon follow. With a reduction in Japanese exports to those economic systems, the Japanese economy would wither. Such a path would add insult to injury. Western domination, followed by Japanese decline, would be unacceptable. Preemptive measures to ensure Japanese security, Mizuzawa assured himself, were in order.

  Mizuzawa finished his prayer and stood, feeling relaxed and confident.

  He sat upon a pillow, overlooking the pond. Doing so, he thought back to his childhood. He remembered being fifteen years old when he heard that the Japanese attack on Pearl Har
bor had been an unqualified success. He had swelled with pride in his family and his nation. He had asked his father if he could serve in the armed forces like his two brothers. His father gave him permission, telling him he needed to fight for his country. He saw limited action on Okinawa and watched Americans kill his two brothers in the battle.

  He winced as he remembered being nineteen years old and hearing of the atomic bombs dropped at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Why had the Americans dropped the bombs only on the Asian race? Could they not bear to destroy their own precious European culture with the same devastation that they wreaked on the diminutive yellow people?

  He had read Truman’s memoirs with disgust. Despite those lies, he was convinced the bomb was available for use on the Germans but saved for the Japanese. Why did the Americans not lock up the immigrant Germans when they joined the war in Europe? But they felt at liberty to shame and humiliate the Japanese immigrants who had, for whatever reason, searched for a new life in America. Worse, it took them fifty years to give those innocent Japanese bystanders the proper recompense for their losses. Most were dead, anyway. Why had America denied the Japanese immigration rights? Mizuzawa worked himself into a rage, clenching his fists. Americans—self-righteous bastards!

  Mizuzawa believed that the Japanese people owed the Americans nothing. The United States had defeated his country in battle and occupied his people’s land to shape Japan in the Western image. No more, Mizuzawa thought to himself, no more.

  Yes, the Japanese Empire would once again rise from the sea, not like some hideous monster, spraying foam and seawater in all directions, but like the benevolent vessel that she was, sifting through the fog of the post-9-11 world order and aiding the sinking ships around her.

  He was at peace, sitting cross-legged on the bridge, suspended above the water. With his eyes shut, another Sun Tzu maxim rolled through his mind.

  Draw them in with the prospect of gain, take them by confusion.

  CHAPTER 30

  Subic Bay, Luzon Island, Philippines

  Juan Ayala stuffed his cell phone into his pocket. Talbosa, his mentor, had given him the word to execute his mission. Ayala had made two subsequent calls: one to his assault element at Manila International Airport and one to his support team leader at the naval base, where he was located as well. Ayala was about half a kilometer from the team that would create the diversion before he personally led the attack on the American position.

  As he cleaned the Shansi pistol that he had carried with him through ten years of the revolution, he smiled thinly at the opportunity to kill more Americans. Only twenty-two, he remembered receiving the Chinese mock up of the broom-handled Mauser C96 semi-automatic pistol from an Abu Sayyaf veteran when he was a twelve-year-old boy living in the wastelands of Olongapo, a city of brothels just outside Subic Bay Naval Base.

  He carried four ten-round stripper clips of .45- caliber ammunition for the thirty-centimeter-long pistol with attachable buttstock, the broom handle, which allowed Ayala to shoulder-fire the weapon or use it in pistol-grip mode. It had served him well on the stupid American sitting alone in his truck on the naval base. That had almost been too easy. He had asked the man for a cigarette.

  “Hey, Joe, any smoke?” he had said to the man sitting in the white SUV. The man, with his elbow propped on the frame of the open window, had not been alarmed at the sight of the short brown man with a deep scar running from his right ear to his chin. The fool had shut off the ignition and reached into his pockets, acting without hesitation.

  Images of ten-year-old Filipino girls who had turned to whoring for the American sailors had sprung through Ayala’s mind. From less than a meter away, without hesitation or remorse, he had leveled the pistol and pulled the trigger. One shot was all he had required. The .45 caliber bullet had struck the Yanqui in the forehead, just above the nose, causing bright red blood to spray outward and onto the windshield of the Blazer.

  Surprising to Ayala, the man’s forehead had remained largely intact. The bigger hole had been to the back of his head, where the exit wound had removed a quarter of his cranium. Ayala had then taken his roll of M186 demolition charge and taped pieces in strategic locations on the vehicle. The M186 consisted of pentaerythrite tetranitrate (PETN), a highly sensitive and powerful explosive that he had acquired from the last ammunition raid they had conducted at the naval base. He had rigged the blasting caps so that they would ignite when the driver-side door was opened and a metal clothes pin snapped shut, completing an electrical circuit to the vehicle battery. Proud of his work, he had then faded into the darkness moments before two airplanes landed not a half kilometer away from his latest victory for the cause.

  Watching as soldiers disembarked from the aircraft and moved aggressively to the outer reaches of the runway, he had padded into the night, having accomplished his mission.

  Killing Americans or high-ranking Filipino government officials had become his specialty in the Abu Sayyaf organization. He had organized his own sparrow squad, and like policemen writing tickets, they were expected to reach a weekly quota of either assassinations or intelligence gathering. On that night, he had done both by himself. For that, he was awarded a command in the final coup.

  Now, two days later, at 0400 hours, he slid the pistol into the attachable wooden shoulder stock, a unique feature of this weapon, wrapped it in plastic with the .45 caliber ammo, and jammed the deadly ensemble into his backpack. He leaned over, grabbed his Chinese Type 68 assault rifle, and looked at the seventy-five men he commanded, all huddled tightly in the dark, steamy jungle just northwest of Subic Bay Naval Base. They carried a mixture of Type 68s, a Chinese version of the Russian AK-47, M16s, and AK-47s. Through years of pilferage from U.S. ammunition storage locations, and their own resupply efforts, they had accumulated a healthy stockpile of contraband. They had 5.56mm and 7.62mm ammunition, explosives, mortar rounds, and light antitank weapons. Ayala’s men had three 81mm mortars they had stolen from the Army of the Philippines over two years ago.

  Working with Talbosa’s guidance, Ayala knew the airport raid he would direct at 0500 hours would be coordinated with similar attacks across the islands. An air traffic controller friend had given him a tip that an American government airplane was scheduled to arrive that morning. Destroying it and killing the passengers would reap huge financial gains for the movement.

  The Abu Sayyaf network had issued broad guidance and, through the Internet, the small cells scattered across the Philippine Islands had developed the plan to overthrow the central government. Ayala’s mission involved capturing the airport and the ammunition that had been unloaded from the American barge yesterday.

  His plan was to have the mortar teams lob rounds away from the ammunition dump, drawing the American unit away from the real target. Then he would sweep from the west into the rear of the American position, shooting and killing them all.

  CHAPTER 31

  Zachary Garrett walked the company’s defensive positions wearing his night-vision goggles. His men were alert and wide-eyed, having learned of the American ruthlessly shot through the forehead two days ago.

  The ammunition was stacked on a pier to the south of the white barracks. The navy ship had been delayed a few days, a major at the embassy told him, even though the ultimate destination of the ammunition was Afghanistan, where combat was raging.

  Doesn’t make sense, Zachary thought to himself.

  He had stuck with his original plan to use two platoons for perimeter defense and let one platoon “relax” in the barracks every twelve hours. The constant movement was designed to confuse any enemy that might want to target them or the ammunition and had worked so far. He looked at his watch, popped a cracker from an MRE into his mouth, and continued to survey both his position and the defensive array of his company. It was 0415 hours. The sun would soon rise, and he would want to be on full alert when it did so because “that’s when the bad guys always attack,” as the saying went. He furrowed his brow.

  Taylor’s
platoon was defending the eastern approach to the base. They had developed a good defense in depth that protected the main mounted avenue of approach into their position. The Olongapo gate had a four-lane road going through it that the enemy could use to make a mounted assault. Taylor had positioned his three squads of eleven men throughout the depth of the road as it led to the dock area, and they had constructed an elaborate barrier plan to prevent car bombs and such from splitting their defenses. He was nearly five hundred meters from the command post. Stan Barker’s Third Platoon, “Blue six,” was to the north, covering the route that they had taken from the airfield that first night. His right flank was tied in with Taylor’s left flank, and they had mutually supporting lines of fire. His sector sketch back in the command post (CP) reflected the array. Barker’s men would intercept anyone coming out of the valley along the runway.

  He was accepting risk in the west along the waterfront. Zachary felt that Barker’s left flank could accurately observe any movement into that area and reposition to defend against any attack from the docks. Success would depend upon Barker’s initia-tive, something that concerned Zachary.

  Zachary had one squad of the reserve platoon guarding the stockpile of ammunition. That foggy morning, Kurtz’s men were in the barracks, most sleeping soundly. Their primary mission was to act as the company reserve, a sort of quick-reaction force. Zachary had them sleep with their boots and uniforms on, so that the only thing they would have to do was grab their weapons, which were in their cots with them, and move to the location he ordered them to. The CP was also in that area, so they could pass the word quickly.

  He walked, kicking at the dirt and dried lava that would soon be hot dust in the raging Philippine sun. He had worked on several flex plans in his mind. With no vehicles to move his troops, they would have to run if they were to get into alternate positions to handle other avenues of approach.