by A. J Tata
“Hello, sir,” Meredith said in a cheery voice. She was dressed in a simple blue cocktail dress that plunged moderately low into her bustline.
White pearls lay softly against her bare neck, beckoning to him. Her hair was its usual blond splendor, only frozen into place with hair spray. The dress cut above her panty-hose-covered knees, and angled slightly up on the left side, teasing him. A faint smell of perfume circled him, accelerating his lust.
Her innocent smile and wide blue eyes greeted him, comforting him in his own knowledge that indeed she did want him. She dressed up just for me.
“Meredith, you look beautiful. I’m sorry I underdressed. I thought we were just going to go over a few notes. I can go change if you’d like,” he said, standing from the chair. Good move, Mick old boy. Make her the aggressor.
Andre had floated back to the kitchen with a shit-eating grin on his face. Boss man be getting some tonight. After catching sight of Meredith, Andre could not blame him.
“No, no,” she said, smiling, and grabbing him by the arm. She was personable and liked to touch in a social setting. It was her way of communicating.
Touching, already. That’s good. Very good.
“I’ve got the briefcase right here. And after hearing Kaitachi, I think we’ve got plenty to work on.”
“I was just going to have some dinner with Mrs. Stone, but she got called away. Would you like her plate?” Stone said.
“I’m so sorry,” Meredith said, again lightly touching his arm. He wanted to reach out and satisfy her on the spot. She obviously wanted him. The dress, the hair, the perfume, the pearls, the face, the smile, the high heels, the touching. Yes, there was no doubt she wanted him.
“Drinks?” Andre asked. He wore a white butler coat and shirt, with black pants and a black bow tie.
“Meredith?” Stone said, smiling, knowing what bounty lay ahead for him. He would savor the moment.
“Whatever you’re having, sir,” she said, her voice oozing over him, causing his heart to flutter. He blushed.
“Two glasses of champagne, please Andre,” he said. “And bring the bottle.” Yes, they would drink, loosen inhibitions, and maybe even skip dinner. I knew it. She’s wanted me since day one.
They sat on the leather sofa and drank cham-pagne. At some point Meredith had gained the courage to grab the remote control and flip the television to CNN, muting the volume so they could talk. She had one eye on the television though. Soon the president would be on.
Andre had served dinner and cleaned up, retiring for the evening to his quarters after bringing a second bottle of champagne. Stone had drunk most of the first bottle, distorting his already skewed perception of the evening. Meredith had successfully nursed two glasses but was feeling the effects of the alcohol. She still preferred beer.
“Ready to get to work, Meredith?” Stone said. He stood and stumbled.
“Don’t you want to wait for the president’s speech, sir?” Meredith asked seriously.
“No, I’ve seen a copy. Let’s go to the study.”
Stone stood, hovering over Meredith as she stared at the television.
CHAPTER 77
For the first time in the evening, Meredith was uncomfortable. She saw a glint in Stone’s eyes that sparkled of a hidden agenda. She looked nervously at her attire and suddenly felt guilty for being beautiful.
“C’mon. Let’s head to the study, there’s a TV in there,” he said. She was still wondering how she could have been so stupid. Had she led him on? No, maybe his motives were pure. She had done much for him, and indeed the country, in a behind-the-scenes sort of way over the past week. Perhaps this was Stone’s way of saying thank you, by letting some of the help enjoy a small part of his life. She wanted to believe that.
“I haven’t read the speech though. I’d like to see it, sir.”
“Hell, you wrote part of it,” he said. “I gave your report to Palmer. He said there was no use reinventing the wheel and that he’d embellish your comments and give them to the president.”
“Well, now I really want to see it,” she said, forcing a smile. Yes, she could do this. Delay until he got tired. He was an old man and would probably go limp soon.
She turned up the volume of the television as the camera panned the face of the president. He looked worried and tired.
Stone turned on the stereo, put a CD in the disc changer, and soon the Rolling Stones’ “Wild Horses” was belting out of the speakers, nearly overriding the television. Stone played a bit of air guitar, grabbed a mock microphone, and said, “Mick Jagger!”
Then he moved behind the sofa and rested his hands on the leather to either side of Meredith’s shoulders. She could feel his hot breath blowing into her hair. “I’m a rock star,” he whispered in her ear.
Gross.
“Good evening, my fellow Americans,” the president said. “Tonight I speak to you, the nation, and to the entire world concerning the rapidly unfolding events in the Philippines.
“As you all know, earlier today Japan announced her intentions to intervene militarily in the affairs of the Republic of the Philippines. Specifically, they stated that they wished to restore democracy to the freedom-loving people of the Philippines. Such a move is consistent with our desire to maintain dem-ocratic governments around the world, yet it competes with the emerging international consensus of guaranteeing the right to self-determination of individual countries.” Meredith smiled. It was her line. Stone had not lied; at least not about using her words for the president’s speech. More heavy breathing, though, like an obscene phone call.
“However, we will begin dialogue with the Japanese government to discuss alternatives to the physical military occupation of the Philippines. We believe there are other methods of securing Japan’s lines of communication through the South China and Celebes Seas. I ask the international community to be patient with us and with Japan. We will find a solution through statecraft.” Meredith wondered why the president would show the glimpse of a smile when he said “through statecraft.”
“My message to the American people is, don’t be alarmed. The situation is well under control. My message to the people of the Philippines is that we will work to ensure your country is not beholden to the dark vision of Islamic extremism. My message to the world is that we have the lead in this action. Our Japanese allies will work independently, yet we will closely monitor their military action. All freedom-seeking people wish to stem the flow of Islamic fundamentalism and the sinister future it harbors.
“Thank you and God bless America and all freedom-loving people.”
Short and way off the point, Meredith surmised.
It said so little, but meant so much. The world would interpret it as meaning Japan’s actions were intended to fight Islamic extremism, saving a bit of face for the president and perhaps calming the fears of China, Russia, and Korea. Those nations, at least in the near term, would be reluctant to take any kind of action against Japan. It was crucial to portray Japan as an ally, she had told Stone, thereby negating a knee-jerk response from any one country, lest they have to contend with the American nuclear and conventional arsenal.
“I told you, dearie,” Stone said. Meredith looked down and instinctively pulled her skirt toward her knees.
Stone had dimmed the lights during the short speech. It was clear he had not listened. She looked at the second bottle of champagne. He had nearly sucked it dry, and she cringed at the thought of his operating on a bottle and a half of alcohol. She had eluded several college men in similar circumstances, but never did she imagine she would have to pull the plug on the sexual batteries of the secretary of defense.
“The study, darling, or would you prefer to use—stay on the couch?” Stone said.
She sensed he was on testosterone override. The alcohol had flipped a switch in his brain, sending an electrical current to his penis, thereby relinquishing all control to the lower appendage for the time being.
She looked at her watch and sai
d, lamely, “Sir, I must really be going. You know what they say about wearing out—”
“The sofa?” Stone said, moving around to her front, intercepting her before she could escape. He grabbed her arm and sat next to her. He stared wildly at her breasts, which she instinctively covered.
“Sir!” Meredith said, weakly.
A weak protest. It always means they want it.
“Don’t you want to make love to one of the most powerful men in the world, Meredith?” Stone asked, sounding a bit like Jack Nicholson might. His fingers pressed into the flesh of her slender arm. His breath was sour with the musty odor of the cham-pagne fermenting in his belly.
“Sir, really. This is inappropriate,” she said, pushing him away and snatching her arm back. She looked at the bruises.
Then leave. Why are you just sitting there? Because you want it. That’s why. “You want me, don’t you. You’ve wanted me since you showed up in my office. Now let’s get down to business, Meredith. Let’s cut to the chase. I’m Mick Jagger,” Stone said, hungrily. He pulled at her dress and a naked breast popped out of the fabric.
Yes, that’s more like it. I knew you wanted me.
He grabbed her arms and lay on top of her, hiking her dress all the way up to her waist. He looked down at her panty hose and pulled at them with his fingers, wanting to secure his prize. He deserved it, he figured. It had been a hard week at the office.
Meredith, you stupid bitch, why are just taking this? Do something! He’s raping you! she thought.
Meredith used her strength to push Stone’s heavy body off her and onto the floor. She stood, stepping over him.
“Oh, want to get on top, huh. I should have guessed,” Stone said.
She pulled her panty hose up, grabbed her purse, and tried to run. Stone grabbed at her legs, causing her to fall and strike her forehead on the oak coffee table, leaving a huge gash, which gushed blood onto her face.
“You son of a bitch!” Meredith screamed, run-ning from the study. She bumped into Andre, who had awakened to the commotion, splattering blood onto his white T-shirt.
“He tried to rape me!” she said, running from the house and getting into her car. She sat in the car and cried for a moment.
When she looked up, Stone’s face was at the driver’s side window.
She locked the doors and cranked the engine. Typically, as in the movies, the car did not start, and the engine kept turning over.
Finally, she floored the gas pedal, flooding the engine. It cranked, pouring white smoke from the exhaust, and she sped away, purposely veering the car into Stone, knocking him on his rear.
He did not care.
She’s just playing hard to get. Mick Jagger never gets rejected.
Stone picked himself up, ascended the steps on his porch, and saw a small metal object in the dim light. Wobbling, he bent over and picked up the small device.
“What’s this?” he asked himself, his words slurring a bit as he pocketed an object about the size of his thumb.
“Brian Jones,” the newest member of the Rolling Stones, had received a call from Ronnie Wood, who was truthfully not too far away. It seemed he needed some assistance. A jam session, so to speak.
“Mick’s going a little crazy, and we will need to clean up after him,” Ronnie Wood had said.
“Just tell me where. I always have my axe to grind,” Brian Jones said.
And so Brian sat in his Buick Electra 225. “Gets about two gallons to the mile,” he always remarked to those who ogled the beast. And it was perfect when he wanted to play bumper cars.
He followed her off of Old Dominion onto Swinks Mill, then onto Lewinsville, where she curled onto the I-495 in preparation, he presumed, for entry onto the George Washington Parkway.
Brian Jones looked at his watch: almost 11:00 p.m. He saw the occasional car, but nothing that bothered him. He tailed the slow-moving Prelude at about a quarter mile distance. By the way she was driving, he wasn’t concerned about being noticed. She sped up to ninety miles an hour on I-495 and almost missed the entrance to the parkway, but caught it at the last minute, her wheels nearly leaving the pavement.
Mick must have put a good licking on her, he thought.
It was his time to inch closer. They were barreling down the parkway past Turkey Run Park and approaching the exit for Dolley Madison Boulevard. A sharp turn was approaching, which was followed by a bridge.
He was now less than five car lengths behind her and he flashed his bright lights at her, which caused her to speed up, as he had anticipated. Jones believed that Meredith would be fearful that Stone was following her, so he pulled up directly behind her as they were approaching 100 mph on the narrow road.
She accelerated into the turn and the Prelude left the road.
Jones slowed a bit and watched as the car failed to negotiate the turn and flipped onto its side. The low roof crumpled and sparks were flying every-where, then the vehicle skidded off the road, falling thirty feet below into a ditch just before the bridge.
Close enough, Brian Jones thought, so he kept driving.
The Electra didn’t have a scratch.
CHAPTER 78
Island of Luzon, Philippines
The attack had been successful. Takishi sat atop the turret of a brand-new, Japanese Type 90 tank with its 120mm smoothbore gun.
It seemed they could not miss. They had secured the Presidential Palace early in the operation. He had flown in the Mistubishi AH-X attack helicopter, still in its experimental phase. It had performed beautifully. Hellfire missiles reduced the thin-skinned rebel vehicles to burning hulks in seconds. The captured Scorpion tanks and old American M-113 Armored Personnel Carriers were no match for the new and improved version of the Japanese Imperial Army.
Once in the compound, they had completely destroyed the radio television stations. A holdover from the Marcos era was the fact that the government controlled the only two means of real-time communication to the people. Takishi had them destroyed immediately, preventing incoming or outgoing television or radio reports. Talbosa was most shocked of all to see Takishi enter the presidential grounds with nearly two hundred Japanese infantrymen trotting beside him carrying American M16 rifles. Takishi was wielding his New Nambu revolver, waving it and smiling at Talbosa.
“Let’s go, my friend. It is time to move on to another life,” Takishi said, pointing the revolver in Talbosa’s face.
“What are you doing, you fool?” Talbosa screamed.
“You are the fool, letting us build weapons in your own backyard. You idiot,” Takishi laughed.
Talbosa’s eyes sank to the ground, as did his hopes for a new Philippines, independent of imperialism. But once again, it appeared that the Japanese would write another chapter in the historical journal of Philippine conquest. First the Spanish, then the Americans, then the Japanese, then the Americans, and now the Japanese again.
“I guess everything does come full cycle,” Talbosa said softly, looking at Takishi.
Takishi smiled and nodded, watching as his forces rolled through the streets of Manila amidst an angry mob of people.
Lifting his pearl handled revolver to Talbosa’s head, Takishi pulled the trigger from point blank. Talbosa’s lifeless body slumped at the front gate of the Presidential Palace. As if to celebrate, the Japanese soldiers shot into the crowd, killing some, quickly dispersing the group that had assembled to protest. The Japanese army had gathered almost two thousand members of Talbosa’s Abu Sayyaf and were marching them north past the airport, into the countryside in the direction of Cabanatuan.
The tank treads creaked forward slowly, as if to nudge the stragglers in the group of rebels. Some women and children had accompanied their husbands and fathers for the march north to wherever. They were the fortunate ones, though, as thousands lay dead behind them.
The insurgents had put up a valiant fight but were no match for the sophisticated weaponry of the Japanese. The Japanese fought from the technological comfort of their machine
s, mowing down the rebels, who would foolishly stand and fire small-arms weapons at them. The insurgents had used most of their antitank and antiaircraft weapons during the initial assault and subsequent mopping-up operations. In fact, they had gotten downright careless with the ammunition, thinking and hoping they would no longer need it.
They had been wrong.
Takishi’s plan was to drive the Abu Sayyaf north to Fort Magsaysay where they would lock them in prison facilities, or shoot them, whichever Prime Minister Mizuzawa had decided.
The crowd neared three thousand as the Japanese soldiers would storm a hamlet of thatch huts, find weapons indicating the residents belonged to the Abu Sayyaf, and add them to the group. They walked with bare feet along the white cement road, past their neighbors and friends, some of whom watched the procession, others joining out of defiance. The Filipinos were a proud people, regardless of political orientation. They were tired of foreign domination of their country and would remain defiant to the end.
The large mob was getting hard to control. Takishi’s soldiers formed a cordon on either side of the tired, hungry group, walking much faster than the heat of the day allowed for. The pavement was piping hot, burning hardened bare feet at the touch. Pregnant women passed out along the way, dropping to the side, only to be nudged with the pointed tip of a soldier’s bayonet. Some lost their babies, others simply did not continue.
None of the group had enough time to secure any food or water for the march, many dropping from heat exhaustion. They had traveled over twenty miles in less than six hours, a brutal pace. Fort Magsaysay was fifty miles north of Manila. They were almost halfway there. Takishi believed they would be able to make it by nightfall.
CHAPTER 79
“Piece of shit,” Matt yelled, kicking the truck. It had died on them. Simply died without forewarning. No idiot light came on. No gauge needle pegged out. The truck just crapped out. They had traveled just five miles from their captivity.