Sudden Threat

by A. J Tata

Stone rode back to the Pentagon with Meredith at his side, their legs touching in the back of the limousine. He wondered about her personal life. He glanced at her crossed legs, his mind defaulting to the testosterone instinct of forsaking mind over beauty. Silky panty hose covered her slender thighs. She was beautiful, sitting there looking out the window, watching DC bounce by. Maybe she would be drawn to his power. Yes, maybe that would work, he thought, ogling the naked skin above her neckline.

  Besides, he was tired of Ronnie Wood and Keith Richards getting all of the chicks.

  Phase IV: Winds of Chance

  CHAPTER 65

  Tokyo, Japan

  Takishi raised his glass to Mizuzawa’s. The expensive crystal chimed like a bell, signaling a new era.

  “Wonderful job in Washington,” Mizuzawa said, complimenting Takishi on his joint performance with Kaitachi.

  “Thank you, sir,” Takishi said, feeling vindicated for losing Abe and the killing of the Americans. The plan was proceeding nicely.

  “As we anticipated,” General Nugama said, also holding a glass of champagne in his hand, “phase one is going smoothly now that we have arranged for the departure of the Americans. Fine job, Takishi.” It was a rare compliment from Nugama. They had strategically fooled the Americans. The demon-stration in the East China Sea had worked.

  The three men stood and talked in Mizuzawa’s private garden behind his office. Normally, he did not allow visitors in the area, but it was a special day.

  The resurgence of Japan to her rightful place in history had begun. The result of their actions would be no more reliance on the United States for security and no more kowtowing to the American people. The Philippines would provide ample resources for future Japanese domination.

  The first order of business was to finish the job in the Philippines. Next would be to bring Taiwan home. What could the Americans do? Economic sanctions would be unrealistic. They would effectively be shutting down one-third of their economy. They would have to continue trading with Japan. Likewise for Europe. No, this was Japan’s moment in the sun. She would rise from the seas like King Neptune, pitchfork in hand, almighty and all-powerful.

  But it was a good plan. Stone had bought it totally. First the business about the Chinese and Taiwan. Now we have them thinking about Korea, Mizuzawa thought to himself.

  “Hopefully,” Mizuzawa said, smiling, “they will ‘turn another satellite’ for us.” He did his best Robert Stone impersonation. They laughed heartily. Deep and guttural. It was a mean laugh, sinister, low-pitched, and evil.

  Their intentions were in sharp contrast to the peaceful surroundings of the garden. The pagoda and bridge rose above them as they stood next to the dark water of the goldfish pond.

  “Yes, ‘we need you to change your constitution,’” Takishi said. More laughter.

  Then they stopped, noticing Mizuzawa’s eyes, fixated and burning red-hot. His eyelids wrinkled together, like knife slits in his skin. They watched the hatred and emotion well inside him. He was transforming. The moment had come, and he was remembering Nagasaki and Hiroshima. He was remembering MacArthur and his constitution. He was remembering almost sixty years of American domination and control.

  “No more!” he yelled, shocking Takishi and Nugama, causing them to step back. “We shall prevail!” he said in a husky voice. He raised his champagne glass high into the air, framed by the bridge and pagoda. Then he crushed it with his bare hand, squeezing the glass to tiny pieces, gashing his skin. Blood ran down his thick arm as he stared at his associates, standing near him, unsure of what to do.

  “We shall prevail!” Takishi barked, following suit.

  “We shall prevail!” Nugama yelled, caught up in the emotion of the moment. The two men raised their glasses, crushing them, and grinding the glass into their hands as blood streamed down their arms.

  “We shall prevail!” The words echoed in the garden enclave as the three men stared at one another, blood dripping from their hands, shards of glass stinging them all.

  Mizuzawa dismissed his two comrades. He would see them later that evening. First, though, he had to prepare for the speech he would give to his faction that night. He would inform them of his growing security concerns. It was all true. Korea was a threat. China was looming larger than ever, hanging its nuclear umbrella over Japan like a dark shadow. Taiwan had armed forces of over half a million people. Russia still leaned on them from the northwest. The least of their worries was the Global War on Terror, but what a wonderful opportunity it presented.

  Japan would create its own destiny.

  First, he had led them to the slick political takeover of the Philippines. Whether Talbosa realized it or not, he was a bought man. If he refused to play the game, Mizuzawa figured, he could simply impose a military government. But he needed the Philippines to secure an intermediate staging base for his war plans. After securing the Philippines, he would move to encircle Taiwan from both sides. It would be interesting to watch the Chinese reaction to that one. The United States would be caught flat-footed, he knew that for certain. You think you have problems in the Middle East?

  He sat once again on the bridge, cross-legged, peering down into the dark waters of the pond. His reflection gazed upward into his eyes, spinning his mind into another era. He could see the furrowed brow beneath his short hair. His eyes were mere rips in the cloth of his face.

  His thoughts spiraled into the distant past, and he was looking upon Tokyo Bay. He saw the American flotilla moored there, surrounding the USS Missouri, on which the infamous defeat of the Imperial Armed Forces had been formalized. It was humiliating. The Americans deliberately carried the limping Japanese Navy into port, as if on a leash, to display their loss to all of Japan. His country had been a bad dog, and America was the master, whipping them in front of the world. He watched as millions of radios across the world broadcast live the disgraceful Japanese surrender.

  From above, he could also see the holes in Japanese soil that used to be Nagasaki and Hiroshima. The Americans had claimed they were attacking industrial locations. True, those cities had weapons plants, Mizuzawa saw, but why hadn’t the Americans used their new weapons of mass destruction on their European ancestors? Truman’s decision, he determined, was a racist one. It was okay to vaporize little yellow people, but Kami forbid he should attack his European lineage with the same ferocity.

  Mizuzawa felt hatred well inside him. No one could deny him or his country their rightful place in history. They had shown the world that Japan was the most determined, educated, and fastidious race in the world. They could reign supreme over the United States and everybody else. It was their turn.

  Yes, it was Japan’s turn.

  CHAPTER 66

  Mizuzawa stood and walked slowly to his office. After washing and picking the glass from his hands, he walked across a courtyard to the ornate Imperial Palace, the residence of the Japanese emperor.

  He knocked on the door and opened it without waiting. The emperor stood in the foyer wearing a robe the color of a rusty mauve. It symbolized the rising sun.

  Mizuzawa bowed slowly. The emperor returned his bow with a slight nod.

  The one concession the United States had made to Japan at the conclusion of the Great Pacific War was to allow the emperor to remain as the head of the Japanese state. Truman had done it from a purely practical standpoint. He had seen the emperor as the one figure most revered in Japanese society, and the one person who could pass the message of utter defeat to the Japanese people. It had worked.

  But the emperor served as the single thread to the era of the Japanese warlords. He was a man of direct lineage from some of the most barbaric and courageous warriors in Japanese history. Theirs was a bloodline of savagery. Most other aspects of Japanese culture and society had blended with the dominant Western society.

  The Imperial Palace was uniquely Japanese, as was the emperor. Mizuzawa was unsure what the emperor knew about his plans for the future of Japan … and he knew that he had to
do something about that.

  The emperor, an aging man in his early seventies, had a peaceful look on his face, one of contentment and solitude. His wife, the empress, had passed away recently, and he was lonely. But he served in his figurehead position well. He held state dinners and entertained guests, a Western tradition, Mizuzawa thought with disgust.

  “Greetings, Prime Minister,” he said.

  “Good afternoon, Your Majesty,” Mizuzawa said in response.

  The two men walked into the palace along a dark koa wood foyer decorated with paintings of the former emperors. Mizuzawa recognized them all. He noticed with pride the paintings of Prince Ninigi, the grandson of the Sun Goddess Amaterasu Omikami, and Emperor Jimmu, Ninigi’s grandson. The oil paintings were cracking with age and in desperate need of restoration.

  As is my empire, Mizuzawa thought.

  They walked into a small room. It was the emperor’s private room for discussing matters of importance. Japanese pine framed a large trophy case that had been built into the wall. Behind the Plexiglas cover to the trophy case were three items. On either side of the trophy case were paintings of the eight gods of heaven and earth, who were viewed by the Japanese as the guarantors of their security.

  Mizuzawa and the emperor stood in front of the case, looking at the three sacred treasures, the Mirror, the Jewels, and the Sword.

  “What is this matter of importance you bring to me tonight, Prime Minister?” the emperor asked. His wrinkled eyes were drawn and set, as if he were ready to die. His pallid face was in sharp contrast to the rose-colored beauty of his flowing robe.

  “Your Majesty,” Mizuzawa said, looking at the sad, pale figure, “may I have access to the sacred treasures of Ninigi?”

  “Why do you desire this access?” the emperor asked without suspicion.

  “Your Majesty, I have embarked on a long and arduous journey as prime minister. I need to feel the strength of the sword in my hands; I need to fondle the beauty of the jewels against my skin; I need to see the vision of my actions in the mirror,” Mizuzawa said, poetically.

  “What is this journey?” the emperor asked, sliding open the glass, revealing the three sacred Japanese treasures.

  Mizuzawa looked at the items lying harmlessly in the open case. The jewels were curved jade beads nestled against a black velvet bag. The mirror was amazingly simple, yet old. Black and brown spots dotted the glass. Its frame was simple black lacquer.

  But the sword. The sword was wide. Its ivory handle gave way to a pristine, curling blade. It was the Kusanagi sword of Japanese legend. Mizuzawa fixated on it, knowing what must be done.

  “Your Majesty, I have taken your Japan on a course that will provide for her security for many generations to come,” Mizuzawa said, kneeling at the case and running his hand lightly over the jewels. His thick hand brushed the delicate velvet, causing it to wrinkle.

  “That is good, Prime Minister. Tell me more.”

  Mizuzawa shifted his gaze to the mirror. His face looked distorted, evil, reflecting back at him from the antique glass.

  “We have begun to build the military again, your Majesty. We will soon attack to regain Formosa,” Mizuzawa said. His words hung in the air like smog, polluting the Imperial Palace.

  “But for what purposes would you do such a thing?” the emperor asked, slowly. “We are protected by the eight gods of heaven and earth. They shall provide for us.”

  Fool, Mizuzawa thought.

  “Your Majesty,” Mizuzawa said, turning his lusting eyes to the huge saber, “we have many concerns.” None of which I expect you to understand. “Our economy cannot sustain itself forever. Our military is not adequate to defend the homeland against the Korean Peninsula or Chinese nuclear weapons.”

  “But the United States—”

  Fool. Just as I thought. The last tie to our true heritage has been tainted with Western lies.

  “—has guaranteed our security. They will come to our aid if it is necessary. I cannot allow your plan,” the emperor said, sternly, images of the old warrior bubbling forth in his words.

  “Your Majesty,” Mizuzawa said, taking his handkerchief out of his pocket and placing it on the pearl handle of the sword, “we must pursue this course. We have no other choice.”

  “You are wrong—” The emperor’s eyes grew wide, bulging outward, as he felt the sword slice through his abdomen.

  Mizuzawa had lifted the sword and turned slowly to the emperor, who had been only two steps behind him. He slid the sacred sword into the emperor with a well-trained thrust.

  He grabbed the emperor’s hands and placed them on the saber’s handle, as if he were performing seppuku, or hari-kari. He guided the old man onto his knees, ensuring he avoided the gathering pool of blood on the floor. He watched as the blood gushed onto the emperor’s robe, casting a dark image onto the rust-colored hue that once represented the morning glow of the rising sun.

  Its image had changed to something far graver. It was the unsettling darkness of a cold and eerie night, spreading across the robe, engulfing the fabric.

  Mizuzawa turned the sword in the emperor’s hands. The emperor looked at him and gasped, “Thank you. Now it is your responsibility.” He sucked one last gurgling breath and closed his eyes.

  Mizuzawa was momentarily taken aback. Had he known?

  The emperor’s body toppled to the floor, his hands still holding the sacred sword as he died.

  Mizuzawa stood above the man. “That’s right, old man. It is my responsibility. And my reward.”

  I didn’t think you had the stomach for it.

  CHAPTER 67

  White House, Washington, DC

  The president sat at his desk in the Oval Office. The camera’s huge eye blinked at him as it came to life. He stared into the TelePrompTer and read.

  Today I speak to you concerning Operation Enduring Freedom in the Philippines. Some American lives have been lost as they were caught in the cross fire of a revolution in that tormented country. I am sorry. Our nation’s heart goes out to the family members of the twenty-two individuals who were killed.

  Likewise, Filipino terrorists are still holding three Americans hostage. Thankfully, our gracious allies, the Japanese, have secured the release of the hostages and all other Americans and freedom-seeking individuals who wish to depart the country.

  We are conducting an evacuation of all U.S. personnel from the Philippines who wish to depart. Tonight, as I speak to you, American aircraft are soaring to a designated point in the Philippines to pick up our beloved countrymen.

  We will not condone attacks against Americans, and we will not tolerate those countries that harbor terrorists. While I firmly believe in the Filipino people’s right to determine their own form of government, independent from colonial or superpower influence, we will not stand by while Islamic fundamentalism imposes an oppressive form of government on freedom-loving peoples.

  As an initial step in countering the Philippine insurgency, I intend to impose economic sanctions on the country until the insurgents allow the elected government of the Philippines to return to power. I know sanctions at this time are no consolation to the family members of those Americans lost in combat, but it is a moral policy, and a policy that allows us to continue to focus on the United States’ vital interests in Afghanistan and Iraq.

  God bless our fighting men and women and God bless America.

  The camera eye closed. Davis cast a glance to Stone, Lantini, and Sewell, who were standing in the opposite corner of the office. They gave him a thumbs-up sign, approving of his performance. The men shook the president’s hand as the camera crew packed up its equipment.

  “That should do the trick,” Sewell said.

  “I hope so,” replied Davis, who looked at Stone and shrugged.

  On his way out, Sewell pulled his satellite Blackberry from his breast pocket and frowned as he scrolled through his messages.

  CHAPTER 68

  Subic Bay, Luzon Island, Philippines


  Zachary Garrett watched airplane after airplane land, load civilians, and take off into the sky from the very runway that they had used to enter the Philippines. The white Quonset huts were occupied with kitchen facilities and administrative personnel, who seemed to be orchestrating the evacuation of Americans.

  Resting his binoculars against the strap around his neck, he pondered why he had earlier received instructions to move to Subic Bay to board an aircraft for Hawaii, only to have that decision overturned by a tacsat message from his division headquarters to freeze in place. Moments later, another message from division informed him to move all civilian, wounded, and deceased personnel to the airfield that evening. He was to do this under the cover of darkness and conduct linkup with a CIA operative named X-Ray, whoever that was, at a specific grid-coordinate location northwest of the airfield just outside the naval base fence. X-Ray would have an infrared strobe light flashing and would use proper bona fides to identify himself.

  How refreshing, Zachary thought. X-Ray was to escort the personnel onto the airfield, load them on an aircraft, and send them home. His security platoon, however, was to retreat to his base camp and await further orders.

  The flaming sun hung low over the western horizon, large and distorted, sinking into the ocean. With it, the ferocious heat simmered ever so slightly. It was like turning an oven dial from broil to bake; nonetheless, the relative difference in the heat made it feel cooler. Zachary looked for the flash of green light that he had always heard about, but saw none, as the sun dipped below the horizon on the sea.

  In the musty jungle darkness, he watched his men prepare for the mission. Stan Barker’s platoon would escort the ambassador, his four civilian support staff, the wounded Sergeant Cartwright, Lieutenant Colonel Fraley, and the Air Force doctor who had been severely wounded. Doc Gore, the young enlisted medic who had so expertly patched Captain Garrett, had performed field surgery on the doctor. He removed a bullet from his shoulder using a hot knife and tweezers, then thoroughly rinsed the wound with Betadine. But it was the ample supply of penicillin that the doctor had given Zachary and Sergeant Cartwright that held the fever and infection in check. He was ambulatory, and that was all Zachary cared about. Zachary’s wound had begun to heal nicely. A long scab formed on the left side of his head, making it uncomfortable to wear his helmet, but other than that, he was fine.