Sudden Threat

by A. J Tata

  “Operations, this is Shimpu,” said a static-filled voice over the radio receiver positioned next to the computer monitor. “Thirty minutes out from target, I can see the harbor.”

  Sierra looked at the radio, then back at Mizuzawa, who was nearly foaming at the mouth.

  “Well, Prime Minister, what are you going to do?”

  Mizuzawa turned the jagged edge of the sake bottle up to his lips, drinking the remainder of the liquid from the capped bottle. The sharp glass cut his lips, causing bright red streams of blood to slide down his face. Nugama watched, his eyes darting nervously toward the two priests.

  Biting a chunk of the glass from the bottle, then chewing, Mizuzawa tossed the jagged glass at Sierra. Mizuzawa then drew his revolver from his holster, waving it madly in Sierra’s face.

  “The Americans must die! They dropped bombs on Nagasaki and Hiroshima! We drop bomb on Los Angeles! In thirty minutes, the Japanese people will have revenge for the most heinous war crimes of all time. Then we will be even!” Mizuzawa shouted, spitting wads of blood and glass into Sierra’s face.

  “I ask you one last time,” Sierra said, calmly, his stoic countenance showing no sign of fear. “Are you going to stop the ship?”

  “You idiot! Can’t you see this is our destiny?! Soon my generation will go the way of the Shimpu. We will all be gone, taking with us the memories of the horror of Nagasaki and Hiroshima. If we do not act now, revenge will never be achieved. The West will have triumphed over the East, an unforgivable sin. I would have you tell the Americans ‘no,’ but now I must kill you both. I have told you too much already,” Mizuzawa said, red spit bubbles forming at the corner of his mouth. He angled the revolver toward Sierra’s face.

  “Wait, Prime Minister, you underestimate me. I will tell the Americans nothing,” Sierra said, his voice like granite.

  “I wish I could trust you, but the Christian faith is useless, and, therefore, so are you.”

  Sierra looked at Nugama, who had turned away, awaiting the blast. He thought he saw a tear streaming down Nugama’s cheek, which was a good sign.

  Nugama flinched as a shot rang loudly in the close quarters of the office. He heard a man fall to the ground, dropping to one knee, then the other. Another shot echoed loudly in the small room.

  “Either you turn that ship around, or you’re next,” Sierra said. Father Xavier’s Glock was dangerously close to Nugama’s temple. Sierra’s Glock was wafting smoke from the bore and still aimed at the dead guard.

  Nugama picked up the radio handset and said, “Shimpu, this is operations center. Reverse course, the worthless Americans have met our demands. Your mission is complete.”

  “Roger, Shimpu turning now. Congratulations,” Sazaku said.

  Father Xavier held his pistol level with Nugama’s face, then backed away from the Japanese general, nodding at the man’s revolver.

  Sierra saw Nugama reach for his own revolver and Father Xavier let him finish the move. Nugama’s hand slid slowly up his side, and he turned the weapon against his temple, pulling the trigger. The bullet bored through his brain, squeezed out the other side, and tumbled harmlessly onto Mizuzawa’s body.

  Nugama slumped to the floor, draped across Mizuzawa’s legs, their bodies forming an X on the floor.

  “Fathers Sierra and Xavier” pulled the starched collars from their black shirts, tossed them on the desk, and Xavier wheeled Sierra into the hot Philippine sun. Sierra removed the brown contact lenses and chucked them aside also. Strapping, combat-ready Marines opened the tall iron gate surrounding the chapel grounds and carried Sierra onto the hospital litter, which they placed in the UH-60 helicopter for immediate evacuation back to the Mercy.

  “Sir, you okay?” the security detail leader asked.

  “Fine. Get me back to the hospital ship.”

  The Marines snapped to attention and saluted the wounded warrior and his partner, as the Black Hawk departed.

  CHAPTER 102

  Greene County, Virginia

  Karen had gone numb when she heard the news. This time, the green sedan did not carry Meredith; rather, it bore the grim reaper.

  “Your brother is dead, ma’am. Killed in action. Performed magnificently. Made a difference. Made history.” The man had spoken in broken sentences, or so it seemed, as Karen had collapsed on the wooden porch.

  Meredith had lifted her, though, holding her up with her strong arms. “Be strong, Karen,” Meredith had said. And so she was.

  Reverend Early spoke that day, standing next to the fresh-tilled dirt next to Mother Garrett’s grave in the shadows of the Blue Ridge. The new hole would receive her brother, and Karen had almost asked them to dig one for her. There had been no other news, except a report that a civilian had died from a gunshot wound to the stomach. She would pray and be strong though. She would try to believe that she had one brother still alive. Like walking against a gale-force wind, she would force herself to go against her instincts.

  Meredith sat next to her in the cold metal chair on the cool spring morning. The fog had only recently lifted, replaced by the smell of fresh-cut hay. The old brick house was perched above them on the hill across from the barn where the horses and cows wandered, oblivious to all of the pain endured in the Garrett household during the past month.

  There was more pain to follow. There always was.

  The elder Garrett sat on the other side of Karen, and they all peered into the deep hole that would receive their loved one.

  They couldn’t help it, Meredith and Karen. They cried openly, unembarrassed, with the hundred or so well-wishers standing behind them and paying their last respects to Stanardsville’s fallen hero.

  “He died in the fury of combat, protecting the world from a heinous enemy. Through his personal efforts and his sacrifice, the world is truly a safer place,” Reverend Early said. He spoke eloquently, as all preachers seem to do. He was emphatic at just the right moment, and soft-spoken when necessary. His words soothed and at least tried to heal the pain.

  Meredith watched and couldn’t help but think of when she had first met Matt in Palau. She looked away, seeing the angular wings of a dove dart back and forth along the tree line near the stream. A rabbit hopped into a hole near the barn, and the wind churned lightly atop the trees. She felt the Blue Ridge to her back, strong and powerful, full of grace. Yes, amazing grace.

  She stood as the gathering began singing “Amazing Grace.”

  “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost but now am found …”

  The DC-9 Nightingale had landed at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland less than fifteen miles from Washington over three hours ago.

  The government car sped down Route 29 until it reached the small town of Ruckersville, then turned right onto a county-maintained road. Passing an outlet store, then Shifflett Exxon, the car sped past a Greene County police officer, who did not bother to pursue. The trees and split-rail fences that cordoned the road whipped by with monotony. The Blue Ridge stared down upon him from the west, almost seeming to smile. The rolling hills and gradual peaks adorned with trees and shrub and grass opened their arms wide, welcoming the man. It gave him a good feeling, a sense of connection. He remembered the area well, and was glad that he could visit once again.

  The car turned off the paved road and dipped once to the right as it crossed the cattle guard, then found purchase in the gravel and hardstand that was the road.

  The passenger could see the brick house and he felt secure. Just being on the property, the land, was enough to make him want to stop the driver and let him walk and feel the red clay beneath his feet. If only he could walk.

  The car stopped in a circular area just outside the wooden porch, and the driver opened the door so that he could give assistance.

  “Once was blind, but now can see!”

  Meredith looked down, then over her shoulder at the Blue Ridge, rising above her like a powerfully strong man, but emanating the seductiveness and lure
of a beautiful woman. The mountains gave her strength. She knew that she could be strong. She had endured.

  She looked at Karen, who was also peering over her shoulder, having stopped singing as well. Beyond the throng of well-wishers, their mouths all moving in synch, they could see the source of their strength. Something so beautiful had to develop the character of its people.

  A special breed.

  They both turned and looked at each other, Meredith’s blond hair lying softly on her black dress, Karen’s reddish brown hair equally beautiful in its unfamiliar position fanned across her shoulders. Each woman, beautiful and strong. Like the Blue Ridge.

  Their eyes connected, passing a knowing sign that they would forever endure the tragedies of the past. And that those tragedies had created an indelible link between them. Life would go on. It always did.

  Meredith looked back at the coffin sitting ominously next to the rectangular hole as she felt the wind brush her face and thought she could feel Matt’s presence. How fitting, she thought, as she heard a commotion at the back of the crowd.

  The man used crutches to assist his movement to the graveyard, the rubber tips collecting, then kicking out, red clay. Near the back of the group, he heard one woman gasp, as if she saw a ghost, perhaps a ghost of the man who was supposed to be in the coffin.

  The singing slowed, then stopped, as the man made his way to the front of the group and placed his hands on the shoulders of the blond-haired woman.

  Meredith felt the wind kick at her face again, bringing a smile to her lips. Suddenly, the chorus of “Amazing Grace” grew louder, echoing distinctly through the valley below, then resonating loudly back to the Blue Ridge. It was a proud sound, a comforting one.

  Then there were the comforting hands of a well-wisher upon her back. She reached and touched both hands lightly, patting them to say “thank you.” Odd, though, that both hands were bandaged.

  Why would Preacher Early be smiling so much, singing so loud?

  Meredith thought she heard a familiar voice say, “How’s my Virginian?”

  There he was. Matt Garrett, flesh and blood. Scars and healing wounds ran across his face, white gauze covered his hands, and he looked tired.

  The singing stopped at the very moment Meredith placed both her hands to her mouth, holding back the tears and the joy and the frustration and the sadness and the happiness. Her emotions tumbled through her body, coursed through her mind, causing her to shake and stretch her hands outward, seemingly unsure of what to do.

  Matt managed a weak smile and laid his chin on her shoulder as he grabbed Karen and his father, who were by then standing and holding on to him.

  Karen grabbed the back of his hair and held him tightly, saying, “My God, you’re back. Thank you.” They all held on to Matt’s bandaged torso tightly, squeezing so hard it hurt him, but it didn’t matter. Then Riley Dwyer, Zachary’s girlfriend, was joining the group, her long, curly strawberry blond hair falling across Karen’s back. And there was Blake Sessoms, his childhood friend, smiling, his ponytail shaking as he cried and joined the growing throng.

  He hugged them all as best he could, looked over the shoulders and heads burrowed into his strong chest, and stared into his brother’s grave, weeping. Out of the corner of his misty eyes he noticed a young girl, maybe fourteen, standing away from the group, near the fence, with her arms crossed, staring at the mountains. Amanda: Zach’s daughter.

  Mr. Garrett turned his head, looked at Zachary’s grave, and said to his God, “My boys are home. Thank you.”

  CHAPTER 103

  Georgetown, Washington, DC

  Saul Fox and Dick Diamond lay in bed in Fox’s Georgetown townhouse. Fox was propped on one elbow, lightly stroking Diamond’s arm. A week had passed since the Japanese general and prime minister had died in Manila’s Malcanang Palace Catholic sanctuary and the Shimpu had been stopped. Fox had opened the window earlier in the day, allowing the cool evening air to flutter through the heavy drapes. The piano strokes of Bach’s “Well-Tempered Clavier” pinged softly through the surround-sound speakers.

  “This was all so very exciting,” Fox said. “So close to Armageddon in Los Angeles.”

  “I’m not sure I can wait until next spring for Iraq,” Diamond said softly. “The thrill was beyond belief.”

  “A long, continuous frisson of pleasure.”

  “Yes, a frisson.”

  “Afghanistan was no fun, like a bad lay,” Fox said. “Just lay there, if you’ll pardon my pun.”

  “But this was satyr-like, almost kinky.” Diamond smiled. “We had no idea what was going to happen next, what nerve ending might tingle.”

  “The continuous ratcheting upward, like building toward a climax, was unbelievable,” Fox agreed.

  “This is a fun game, Saul. I’m glad I know you.”

  Fox looked at Diamond and smiled again, lightly stroking his bare shoulder.

  “I just got confirmation that Takishi is dead,” Fox said.

  “Charlie Watts,” Diamond acknowledged, as if going through one of his checklists.

  “Stone is not going to bother us, guaranteed. He keeps his job, we keep ours. I have a police friend who has the tape of Stone trying to rape that blond woman. If anything ever happens to me, he’ll run with it.”

  “Mick Jagger,” Diamond whispered hoarsely.

  “And we know what happened to Rathburn,” Fox said.

  “Keith Richards,” Diamond whispered again, almost mournful, like a military funeral where the first sergeant calls the roll of the dead.

  “The news articles about short sales and so forth have tapered off, and I want to thank you for using your media contacts to help in that regard. Though they didn’t mention us, it was a bit close for comfort.”

  “You’re welcome.” Diamond smiled again.

  Fox had just purchased magenta sheets that matched the chintz covering the bay window, which offered a commanding view of the Potomac River and the wooded area around the GW Parkway. Fox looked over Diamond’s shoulder at the heavy mauve design on the curtains. He thought he saw one of them ruffle with the wind, however slight, that was wafting off the Potomac and into his lair.

  “Which leaves only one loose end,” Fox said.

  “Ronnie Wood.” Diamond sighed.

  Fox looked away, not sure if he was ready to act, but he grasped the knife handle with his free hand beneath the pillow and made a tense fist as he pondered his next move.

  “Well, actually ...” Fox began.

  “Before you do something stupid,” Diamond said, quickly. His arm had been hanging over the side of the bed, and he simply reached between the mattress and box springs and clutched the pistol handle in his right hand. “Who else could there be? I have enough dirt on you that, in the event of my death, you will be hanged in the media, tried in court, and most likely put to death by lethal injection when the world learns that you are at a minimum a Nine-eleven coconspirator. Or perhaps they will just put you in Guantanamo with the other terrorists, as Stone suggested.”

  Fox’s grip on the knife relaxed a bit as he smiled at Diamond and stroked his cheek.

  “Why would you say something like that to me, Dick? You know how I feel about you. We’re a team. I was just going to say that, actually, Ronnie Wood is going to be okay. He’s on board.”

  “A team,” Diamond reiterated, as he relaxed his grip on the pistol.

  “We have much work to do in testing our theories. We’re talking changing history in a forever kind of way,” Fox said, his words dueling with his instinct to kill Diamond. He had suspected for several weeks now that Diamond was Ronnie Wood, but still lacked hard evidence.

  “The Brothers of Babylon. The future. Eternal fame, like Churchill,” Diamond said.

  “Our theory about attacks on the homeland demonstrated outcomes that would have been otherwise impossible to imagine. Who would have guessed that the American people would have con-tributed a billion and a half dollars to charities? That patriotism would
have surged so much? That country music would be the clear winner?”

  They shared a good chuckle about the country music. Fox lifted the stereo remote and increased the volume on the Bach.

  “Yes, country music,” Diamond said.

  Fox continued, “And who would have thought that our movement would become so powerful. We can just point the way, and they follow, like sheep.” Fox eyed Diamond as he prepared his response.

  “Yes, like sheep,” Diamond said dreamily as he licked his lips.

  “We have navigated the most challenging possible tests. For so many years, from our university and think-tank offices, we could only dream about eternal fame. Jeffrey Sachs got all the credit for bringing capitalism to Russia and Poland after the Cold War. Now, we will be famous for what we will do in the Middle East.”

  “Famous,” Diamond said.

  CHAPTER 104

  Pentagon, Washington, DC

  It had been all Matt could do to heal and survive. Being pulled off the hospital ship Mercy that was by now situated somewhere in the Persian Gulf, in order to play the wheelchair-bound role as Father Sierra, was challenging.

  He had heard about the big battle at Fort Magsaysay, and General Zater had flown to the Mercy to give him the news about Zachary’s death on the battlefield. Somehow, he had been able to push adrenaline through his body sufficiently to subdue the pain for one last mission. X-Ray, his protégé, had told him that there were no others who could speak Japanese as well as he or play the role required. It wasn’t so much an order as it was a request, his friend had said.

  There was never any doubt that he would perform the mission, Matt knew. But the only way to do it was in tandem with Macrini as Father Xavier and Matt playing the feeble priest. Besides, the fact that there were two of them presented the Japanese commanders a new variable, and they had been able to parlay the confusion to good effect for the country. And while the doctors had all said no, all Matt had to do was think of Zach, and he said, “Yes—make it work.”