by A. J Tata
That day, a week after the final battle at Fort Magsaysay, Mizuzawa used it for other purposes.
“Get me Sazaku,” Mizuzawa said to General Nugama from the confines of the small chapel. Mizuzawa did not expect the Americans to wait much longer, but hoped they would respect the sanctity of the Catholic Church long enough for him to make one last move.
The Marines had unhinged the northern edge of the Manila defensive line, rolled the flank with one brigade, and surrounded the Presidential Palace with another brigade, while the third brigade fixed the southern flank, preventing the Japanese from reinforcing against the breakthrough.
Takishi had made a frantic call only moments before Mizuzawa and Nugama had run into the chapel with as much radio gear as they could garner.
“I’m being destroyed!” Takishi had reported. The road from Fort Magsaysay to Bongabon was littered with burning Japanese tanks and infantry fighting vehicles, some ignited internally from stored ammunition.
“You’re on your own,” Mizuzawa responded to his friend, hearing the sound of exploding tanks in the background of Takishi’s transmission.
Mizuzawa learned from the Americans that Takishi had been found among the dead littered on the battlefield outside of Fort Magsaysay, a knife wound to the neck. Indeed, Mizuzawa was watching his plans for a new, more dominant Japanese Empire fade like the setting sun, melting into the western horizon.
But he had one more card to play. It was, after all, a game of high-stakes poker, where each country tried to read the other’s bluff, raising the ante when appropriate. Mizuzawa reached into his shirtsleeve and yanked out the ace he had tucked away before he had set the deadly train of events in motion.
“Sazaku, my friend. It is time,” Mizuzawa said into the satellite radio.
The transmission soared as a neat bundle of words through the atmosphere, bouncing off one satellite, then another, and finally entering the receiver screwed to a metal frame inside the cabin of Admiral Sazaku’s merchant marine car carrier: the Shimpu.
“Yes. I figured as much,” Sazaku responded, his transmission reversing the path of Mizuzawa’s.
“How long until you will detonate?” Mizuzawa asked, an edge to his voice. He was anxious to deal the Americans a fatal blow, even if it was a solitary strike that might invite massive retaliation. But he doubted that would happen. Americans were always believers in just wars, just victories, and just punishments.
A nuclear explosion in Los Angeles would be devastating for sure, but Mizuzawa would have shot his complete wad, having nothing else to fight with except his meager self-defense forces.
“I’m six hours out from the harbor. As soon as I touch the pier, I will vanish in a blaze of glory for my country,” Sazaku answered, reminiscent of the kamikaze pilots of World War II. Sazaku carried on the Japanese kamikaze tradition of writing a final poem before the splendid final moments of life.
I am the final victor/my country proud/the ship I steer/finishing loud/I am not alone/friends by my side/others gathered/in the ebbing tide/in the end/my floating corpse/finding safe harbor/Banzai Japan, no remorse.
“Yes, good. Continue your mission,” Mizuzawa ordered, then placed the handset back in its receiver. He looked at Nugama, an old friend whom he trusted.
“Do you have misgivings, my friend?” Mizuzawa asked, hoping for an honest answer.
“We can still win, Prime Minister. We can have Sazaku enter the port, then we can sue for peace on our terms,” Nugama responded, his gray hair shining bright beneath the stained-glass window. They could hear the intermittent pop of small-arms fire and the horrifying noise of American jets slicing low above the Manila skyline.
CHAPTER 100
Greene County, Virginia
While she was recovering at the Garrett farm in Stanardsville, Meredith continued to pore over the thumb drive, finding little else of use. She stood and stretched, catlike, her angora sweater providing full effect.
She went back to Matt’s room, where she had been sleeping, and studied the computer notes he had typed, which gave her an idea.
“Karen,” she shouted down the stairs. “Think Matt would mind if I looked at some files on his computer?”
“No, just stay away from all the sports illustrated swimsuit editions. He copies the pictures in Adobe PDF and saves them.” Karen smiled.
“I always thought of him as a man who could judge quality swimwear,” Meredith said, smiling. Like a Greek tragedy, the two women were able to manage pockets of humor, but overall the situation was a disaster.
Karen opened Matt’s computer using all of the protocols and she was inside Matt Garrett’s storage files. She was missing something—something she couldn’t remember, and Meredith believed it was substantial.
She scanned his personal e-mail. Lots of Viagra offers, announcements that his Bank of America account was going to be closed if he didn’t provide all of his financial data, and some that looked like stray friends, perhaps lovers.
She reprimanded herself for perusing the note from Kari Jackson from New York. Apparently they had once been an item in college. With a career like Matt’s, Meredith wished Kari good luck. Well, actually, she didn’t. Not the way she had grown to feel.
As she stared at the screen, a new e-mail appeared at the top in the form of a text message, meaning it was most likely sent from a cell phone. She didn’t recognize the phone number but did understand the message.
Check out Shimpu. Contact KIA. New location. Standing by.
That was it, Meredith derided herself. The eleventh ship was out there floating in the Pacific as a wild card. Matt had mentioned this to her when they first met in Palau.
She ran downstairs and kissed Karen on the cheek, then jumped in her Prelude to make the two-hour drive to DC along Route 29 and I-66. She called Mark, her assistant, to get her the proper parking clearances and to let them know she had urgent information. She fishtailed her small car into a parking space on the Ellipse less than five hundred yards from the Washington Monument.
She could see the tall white structure pointing into the sky, and even at that urgent moment was amazed that there was nothing actually holding the granite blocks together but their sheer weight.
She ran to the southwest gate of the White House, flashing her credentials and passing through the metal detector. The guard recognized her from her few visits with Stone and allowed her to pass after phoning Dave Palmer, who told him to send her through.
Worry etched lines of concern across her soft face. Dressed in blue jeans and flannel shirt, she had driven as fast as possible from Stanardsville.
She jogged beneath the awning that led to the business portion of the White House in the West Wing, then bounced up the stairs into Palmer’s corner office where Stone and Lantini were looking at a map on Palmer’s desk. She steeled herself against Stone’s presence and projected a determined demeanor.
“You’ve got to find this ship,” she demanded, slapping down a piece of paper on the desk with the word Shimpu scribbled in large, erratic script.
The three men looked at her, then the paper, and Palmer asked, “What’s the big deal, we’ve won this thing? We’ve got the Presidential Palace, and we’ve defeated their operational reserve. They’ve got nothing left. All we’ve got to do is root Mizuzawa out of the Catholic chapel there, and we can pack our bags.” His matter-of-fact demeanor only served to ignite a simmering fire in Meredith.
“You don’t understand! The ship has nukes on it and is roaming in the Pacific somewhere,” she said, shaking. She tried to maintain her professionalism, fearing that Palmer might just mistake her for another woman with PMS. The barriers were still there. If she had been a man, she could have done or said whatever she wanted, but as a woman, if she got too irate, she was just another crazy bitch.
“What makes you so sure, Meredith?” Stone asked, giving her the benefit of the doubt. After all, she had predicted with certainty the reaction of Japan’s neighbors. In fact, the president’s pol
icy was based in large part on Meredith’s acute analysis. Thankfully, the defeat of the Japanese ground forces had kept the Chinese and Koreans in check. The Russians and Taiwanese were merely extending their security zones and never had any intention of provoking Japan beyond convincing her to put her toys back in her bag and go home.
“This is the eleventh ship. I don’t know how I missed it, but remember there were ten that pulled away from Davao City. They were military sealift ships disguised as oil tankers. But look here,” she said, flipping some pages to a shipping log, “the Shimpu docked at Zhoushan a month ago, spent one night, never off-loaded anything, then arrived in Davao City and departed port the day Matt Garrett’s contact was killed on the pier. And Matt reported this.”
Palmer took a minute to scan the log, a product of United States HUMINT, human intelligence and passed it to Lantini, whose organization had originally provided the document. Routinely, operators around the world tracked foreign ships, particularly among high-risk nations. Stone looked over Lantini’s shoulder, and thought, What have we done?
“We know this ship docked in Zhoushan, loaded something, then left, then arrived in Davao, and left. Now we don’t know where it is. Is that right?” Palmer said. He added before she could answer, “Christ, what happened to your head.” He saw the six stitches that the Georgetown doctor had put in her forehead near the right temple.
“Jogging accident,” she said quickly, staring directly at Stone. “Why don’t we just try to find the Shimpu? And then we can hazard a guess as to what it’s doing.”
“You think there are nukes on the thing, really?” Lantini asked.
“Well, why don’t we worst-case it, then?” Sewell said, walking into the office. He wore his green Army uniform, bedecked with medals from conflicts in Vietnam, Grenada, Panama, and Iraq. Meredith smiled. Sewell returned the nonverbal greeting, shaking her hand.
“The president called me over to discuss his speech tonight, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation as I walked by,” Sewell said.
“We can shift our focus to this thing if you want, Chairman, but what about China and Korea? We might lose focus there just to start scanning for this one ship in the Pacific,” Palmer said.
“Why don’t we start looking at places like Guam, where we have most of our logistical support, Hawaii, God forbid, and even the West Coast. We can do it in that order. If it’s Guam or Hawaii, we need to find it fast. Heck, depending on how long this cannon’s been loose, it may already be docked somewhere,” Sewell said, the thought sending chills up Meredith’s spine.
She was glad that Sewell had come to the rescue. She was nervous enough with Stone in the room, but had also been beating her head against the glass ceiling of discrimination with Palmer, even though he was more understanding than most. But when there was a crisis, she couldn’t understand why Palmer, or any other man for that matter, just didn’t stuff it back in his underwear, zip it up, and forget that she was a woman. She appreciated Sewell’s gender-neutral approach and his protective aura with the predator Stone lurking so close.
“Why can’t we just tell Mizuzawa to call off the dog, or we’ll level Japan?” Palmer said.
“Get real, Dave. He knows we would never destroy the Japanese economy. It would never work for us in the long run. Besides, he’s probably already made up his mind,” Sewell said, making good sense to Meredith.
“That’s right,” Meredith said, “he’s probably been holding that ship in reserve somewhere, keeping his options open.”
“What does Shimpu mean, anyway?” Palmer asked.
“Divine Wind,” Meredith responded, and added. “Back in the late thirteenth century, monsoons saved the Japanese from defeat at the hands of the Mongols twice. The Japanese saw it as divine intervention.” Meredith shuddered once, then went on, “In World War II, the Japanese pilots who flew their airplanes into our ships were known as the Shimpu force, not kamikazes. Kamikaze was an American invention. Those men were supposedly divinely chosen and would ultimately provide victory for Japan. In a way, I guess they did, when you consider their economic resurgence. Now I bet Mizuzawa thinks it is providence that he can hold us hostage with a nuclear device on a ship.”
They remained silent for a moment, letting the gravity of the situation settle over them, like a gray haze. There was nothing worse than good news followed by bad news. The Armed Forces had finally crumbled the Japanese juggernaut on the Philippines, a quick operation really, and the president was ready to inform the world of this success.
But now a wild card floated recklessly about, somewhere, ready to deal a horrifying blow to America. Could they find it? Could they defend against it? What were the options?
“Well, the monsoon has lifted and we need to get a message to our man in the Philippines,” Sewell said, then departed.
CHAPTER 101
Manila, Philippines
Prime Minister Mizuzawa held a glass of chilled sake high in the air, clinking it against General Nugama’s crystal glass, containing the same.
“Banzai Japan,” Mizuzawa said, his voice muffled with an air of disappointment. He had not wanted to send the Shimpu on her final voyage, but gladly did so once the situation had turned for the worse. Her traditional enemies surrounded Japan, and he could sue for peace using the Shimpu, or he could let her steam right through the harbor and send a serious message to the world.
“Who could that be?” Mizuzawa asked Nugama, who shrugged his shoulders at the sound of the knock on the door.
“Your Excellency, it is Father Sierra. I wish to speak with you,” the priest said, his voice softened by the thick mahogany door. “The United Nations has asked me to come and speak with you as a neutral party.”
“Yes, come in, Father,” Mizuzawa said, as a guard opened the door. “But what about Father Xavier?”
“He’s here,” Sierra said.
Father Xavier nodded as he pushed Sierra’s wheelchair through the entry. Dressed in his black suit with its standard white collar, Father Sierra was an image of holiness. His compassionate brown eyes were set deep on his face. His skin was light brown and tan, his hands callused and rough. Father Sierra hid his hurt arm by draping his black coat over the sling. On the upside, the sling hid his pistol and IV bag nicely.
“I am Father Sierra, and, of course, you know Father Xavier,” Sierra said. He remained in charge of the conversation from his end, speaking Japanese and not wanting words to flow through an interpreter. His voice was firm, but wavered when he had to dig deep, which the Japanese language often required.
The priest spoke in Japanese, but could switch to Tagalog or English, whichever the men preferred.
Mizuzawa nodded at Father Xavier, with whom they had been conversing during their sanctuary in the Catholic building. Then Mizuzawa’s wide, scaly paws met Sierra’s as they shook hands—a Western tradition, but the wheelchair-bound man could not bow.
“The Americans have requested an audience with you, Prime Minister,” Sierra said.
“You have rough hands for a priest, Sierra,” Mizuzawa said suspiciously. “Anyway, what could the Americans want with me, other than to kill me?” Mizuzawa said, almost laughing. “Soon, they will surely want to do that.”
Sierra looked at the two men as Xavier closed the door to the small office they occupied. The room was filled mostly with clerical equipment: old computer, desk, bookcase, the two cots the men used for sleeping, and the radio equipment. He felt Xavier’s necessary presence return behind him.
Sierra scanned the room and the men, noticing that both Mizuzawa and Nugama each had a new Nambu model 60 .38 caliber revolver holstered on his right hip. Nugama’s uniform was wrinkled and dirty from days of wear, and Mizuzawa looked comfortable in his olive regalia.
The two men looked at Father Sierra and took light sips from their sake.
“Gentlemen, the Americans are concerned about a nuclear weapon that they believe you may have stored on a commercial ship,” Sierra said. Mizuzawa
dropped his glass on the floor, the fine crystal shattering cleanly into thousands of tiny pieces and clear sake, leaving a dark stain on the tile.
“While the Catholic Church recognizes your right to political asylum, we cannot harbor a terrorist. So please, if you have designs with this weapon of terror, reverse its course, or I must release you,” Sierra said, eloquently.
“Sierra, mind your own business. You do what the Pope tells you, understand?” Mizuzawa said. “Where did you come from anyway? We’ve been dealing with Xavier and have had no problems until now.”
Sierra ignored the question, and continued in Japanese, “The Pope wishes that you would stop the ship and turn it over to a United Nations force for boarding. The Shimpu, is it not?” Sierra said in a stern voice. Actually, he had never contacted the Vatican but was sure that the Pope would want the ship stopped.
“Well, then, tell the Pope to mind his own business,” Mizuzawa said.
“Are you refusing to reverse the course of the ship, Prime Minister?” Sierra asked, as if he were negotiating.
“There is no ship, Sierra. Now leave,” Mizuzawa shot back. His eyes darted between Fathers Sierra and Xavier, registering something, perhaps a telepathic bond between the two men.
“Wait a second, sir—” Nugama said, only to be cut off by Mizuzawa.
“Enough!” Mizuzawa screamed, grabbing the capped bottle of sake and cracking it over the computer’s keyboard, the alcohol’s clear liquid spreading over the gray frame.
There it was. Sierra was looking for an opening. He could sense that Nugama might be willing to deal. Sierra’s experience told him that when a man faces certain death, he will frequently seek the option that preserves his life. Nugama didn’t need to know just yet that he wasn’t going to live. He slightly nudged Father Xavier in the right thigh with his right elbow as the guard took a step toward them.