“We have discussed all of this in the past,” Toragawa said.
“With China in control of Taiwan and Singapore,” Carroll replied, “she can block, or threaten to block, the main shipping lanes leading to Japan.”
“China is not a maritime power,” Toragawa said.
Carroll looked at Toragawa. “Sir, China has excellent antiship missiles and with launch sites in Singapore, Taiwan, and Korea, can control all sea lanes leading to Japan. Further, China has successfully tested Ocean Wind.” Toragawa looked at his aide, an unmistakable sign that he had never heard of Ocean Wind. “Ocean Wind,” Carroll explained, “is a satellite guidance system for targeting ships far out to sea. It is part of the Silken Web satellite system.”
A sharp hiss escaped from Toragawa. It was so totally uncharacteristic of the man that Carroll was shocked into silence. Toragawa’s aide had heard it only once before and then a government had fallen. “Japan,” Toragawa said, his voice not betraying his anger, “helped the People’s Republic of China launch the Silken Web satellites.” His mind raced with new implications. Economic strength gave China the ability to become a military power and the only reason for China to use its antiship missile system would be to protect or further its economic interests. So obvious, Toragawa thought.
Carroll pressed his advantage. “We keep asking the question, What are the targets for those missiles?”
Toragawa knew the answer—shipping, Japan’s lifeblood. He looked into the future and concluded that the ultimate target was Japan itself. He stood and paced the floor. His aide almost fainted. Toragawa’s anger when he was aroused was deadly. “Now I understand your concern. We will provide the assistance you have asked for. I presume Miss Kamigami is our point of contact?” Carroll nodded, and Toragawa marched back into the conference room.
He stood at the head of the long table and gave a short speech in Japanese, recapping what Carroll had said and what it meant for them. Mazie translated for Hazelton. Toragawa asked the men to sit down and he rattled off “suggestions.” There was no discussion and only an occasional “hai “ to signify agreement. Hazelton’s hands shook when he wrote down the numbers and the sums of money Toragawa kept repeating.
Toragawa pressed a button and a wall panel raised revealing a map of China. “Our main problem,” he said in English, “is transportation. It would be best if we used the harbor at Haiphong in Vietnam and transshipped by rail.” He used an electronic pointer to outline the railroad from Hanoi to Nanning. He nodded and the meeting was ended.
Toragawa remained standing while the men filed out. “Miss Kamigami,” he said, his voice hard and cutting, “Japan’s contribution must remain a secret. We will do our part in Japan. But security outside Japan is your responsibility.” Then his face softened. He could see she was exhausted from traveling. “You will be very busy during the next few days arranging details. My family would be honored for you to stay with my granddaughter. It would be much more convenient and comfortable.” It was quickly arranged and Mazie left with Toragawa.
“I can’t believe that,” Hazelton told Carroll.
Carroll gave a short laugh. “Believe what? That the Japanese can make decisions so quickly when their interests are threatened?”
“I mean how did he know about Mazie?”
“I told him,” Carroll answered.
“Is that why he invited her to stay with his granddaughter?”
Carroll closed his briefcase. “His granddaughter is the last of the Toragawa line. He knows Mazie can be a role model and show her what a woman can do in the modern world. The old gentleman doesn’t miss a trick when it comes to preserving his family.”
Pieces started to fit together for Hazelton. “Is that why you picked Mazie to head the China Action Team?” Carroll allowed a slight smile but didn’t answer. “Did you suggest using Haiphong and the Hanoi railroad?”
Carroll snorted. “No. I didn’t have to. Toragawa is heavily invested in rebuilding Haiphong and Vietnam’s transportation network.”
“Toragawa’s going to make a profit out of this?” Panic edged Hazelton’s words.
“Megabucks,” Carroll replied. “Make that megayen. It was just one more reason for him to buy in. If you will, the frosting on the cake.”
Hazelton was incredulous. “That’s illegal! We can go to jail.”
“Only if we personally make money. So don’t take kickbacks and don’t get caught.”
Miho Toragawa, Hiro Toragawa’s only grandchild and the last of his family, was waiting for Mazie when she emerged from her bedroom the next morning. “I hope you slept well,” Miho said. She was a slender, very pretty twentynine-year-old woman with beautiful doe eyes.
“Very well,” Mazie replied as they sat down at the small table that had been set for a western-style breakfast. “And thank you for the use of the kimono. It’s beautiful.” They exchanged pleasantries as Mazie picked at her food. She still hadn’t found her appetite. Miho’s English was perfect and Mazie learned she had studied at Mills College in Oakland, California, before earning a graduate degree at Harvard in business and finance. Mazie found herself drawn to the young woman and they were soon good friends.
“My grandfather,” Miho confided in Mazie, “hopes that I can make a good marriage to continue the family heritage.”
Mazie had read the dossier on Hiro Toragawa. “Your grandfather is a most unusual man,” she said. “He may have other plans for you. Did he explain why I’m in Japan?” Miho nodded. “Perhaps,” Mazie ventured, “we can work together?”
“Yes,” Miho said, “I would like that.” She became very businesslike. “We will have to work behind the scenes through male surrogates—shadows within shadows.” She sipped her tea. “It is the Japanese way. My grandfather says you have such a man and he has arranged certain connections.” She smiled. “We must be very discreet.”
The two women spent the next hour plotting their strategy. Mazie soon realized that Miho had an insider’s knowledge of how the system worked and would be invaluable in creating what they started calling “The Japanese Connection.”
Mazie stood and tugged her borrowed kimono into place. It was four sizes smaller than anything she had worn in years. The constant traveling and crossing time zones had played havoc with her appetite and metabolism and she was losing weight. “Miho, I know that appearances are very important, and none of my clothes seem to fit. Can you help me select the right clothes to wear? I don’t wear makeup and perhaps I can do something with my eyes, like yours.”
Miho’s hand came to her mouth to hide her smile. “My eyes were like yours,” she said. Miho explained how a plastic surgeon cut the eyelid muscles that created the epicanthic fold of the eyelid. “It is a simple operation and only takes a few minutes. Your eyes are black and blue for a few days. But it’s better than being poked in the eye with a sharp stick.” They giggled at Miho’s use of American slang. “It can be done while you’re here,” Miho said. “I can arrange it.”
Mazie found the idea intriguing. “I could never fit it into my schedule,” she said. Miho only smiled.
Wentworth Hazelton paced the ramp in front of the twin-engined Gulfstream IV business jet as he waited for Mazie. He glanced at his watch—ten minutes before they lost their takeoff slot. “Come on,” he grumbled, “where are you?” He was tired and irritable after spending a week in Tokyo and had staked his claim to the bunk on board Toragawa’s personal jet. He intended to sleep for the entire flight to Hanoi. When he saw the black limousine speeding across the ramp, he climbed on board and told the pilots to start engines.
“Miss Kamigami is on her way,” he told the two Air Force sergeants who were going with them. “When I told her you were going with us,” he said, making conversation, “she called you the Junkyard Dogs. That’s a very unusual name.”
Ray Byers shrugged. “That’s Colonel Pontowski’s name for us,” he said.
“We’re procurement specialists,” Little Juan Alvarez added.
; “Well, then,” Hazelton said, “you can help us in Hanoi.”
“That’s the idea,” Byers replied.
Four suitcases preceded Mazie into the airplane and Hazelton barely recognized her. Her hair had been cut and styled and she was wearing new, and very expensive, clothes. “Why the sunglasses?” he asked.
“My eyes are tired,” she replied. She dropped the bags she was carrying and hurried back down the boarding steps to say goodbye to Miho.
Little Juan Alvarez looked out the window and said, “Nice.”
Sunday, July 7
Nanning, China
“This is a shoot and scoot exercise,” Trimler said as he escorted Zou Rong onto the observation platform that had been constructed for Zou’s visit to the training range. He was the only American on the range and stood beside Zou as an eleven-man crew towed an M-119 105-mm howitzer into position. “It’s a race against time,” Trimler explained. “They must set up, fire three rounds, and be moving within minutes. Otherwise, they can come under counterbattery fire. The weapon weighs four thousand pounds and can hurl a shell over thirteen kilometers.”
Zou waved him to silence. “I’m pleased,” Zou said, “that the New China Guard now has artillery. But when will we receive the tanks General Von Drexler has promised?” He did not wait for an answer and descended the stairs.
Most of Zou’s staff were clustered under a canvas canopy behind the observation platform sipping orange juice. Like Zou, they were bored. To a man, they flinched when the howitzer fired. “Bring the staff cars,” a freshly minted general ordered when he saw Zou move down the stairs. He checked his watch. They were ahead of schedule. “Call the restaurant,” the general ordered. “President Zou will be arriving early for lunch.” He turned to his aide. “Was Miss Li invited to join the president?” The aide assured him that both Kamigami and Jin Chu had arrived from Pingnan that morning and would be present.
The “lunch” was a twelve-course meal. Zou sat at the head table and listened as his staff discussed the status of the New China Guard. He automatically discounted 90 percent of what his staff said as posturing and lies. He turned to Trimler. “Eighteen days ago the First Regiment won a major victory at Pingnan. I saw for myself the cost of that victory. They suffered many casualties. Yet now”—he made a graceful gesture toward Kamigami’s end of the table—”they are combat ready while my main divisions remain in training. Why?”
The staff officers around Zou fell silent and waited for Trimler’s answer. “I can think of many reasons,” the American said. “Among them are leadership, training, and logistics. For some reason, the First does not have a supply problem.” Zou looked at the three generals who coordinated the flow of supplies to his army. They steal, he thought, but not from the First Regiment. “And the First,” Trimler concluded, “has high morale. The men trust their leaders and believe in what they are fighting for.”
“Is it ever that simple?” Zou asked. The Americans will never understand, he thought. The twentieth century and fifty years of communism had not changed China.
For Zou, it was Jin Chu who breathed life into the First Regiment. Her powers as a fortune teller were reaching mythical proportions and her visions of the future were never wrong. Because Kamigami’s officers trusted her and his men held her in awe, she gave a legitimacy to Kamigami only the Chinese could understand. In the past, it was a mark of “the mandate of heaven,” which gave an emperor the right to rule.
Zou was acutely aware that she was sitting near him, next to Kamigami.
It was late afternoon when Kamigami returned to their home in Nanning. He was tired after spending the afternoon in an endless round of meetings at the Combined Headquarters with Zou’s staff and Von Drexler’s advisors. The only break in the frustrating routine had come at midday when he and Jin Chu had attended the luncheon for Zou. For a brief time, he had relaxed in her calming shadow and touched reality.
For a moment, he stood in the doorway to the family room and watched as she and May May played with the baby girl he had rescued from the gutter in Pingnan. The women were cooing in a language he did not understand. They could be sisters, he thought. Slowly, the tension of the day slipped away. I’m in over my head playing staff politics, he concluded. I belong here and in the field, with my men.
Jin Chu sensed his presence and looked up. May May smiled and carried the baby from the room. “A gift arrived this afternoon,” Jin Chu said. She showed him an exquisite jade carving of a dragon and a tiger. It was about ten inches long and mounted on a black lacquer base.
“It looks very old,” he said.
“It was carved during the Ming Dynasty over four hundred years ago,” she told him. “It is priceless.”
“From Zou?” he asked. She didn’t answer.
That night he dreamed of Jin Chu recounting the legend of the four beauties.
Von Drexler’s majordomo stood quietly, waiting to be of instant service while the general ate breakfast. “James, where did you learn to speak English?” Von Drexler asked. The majordomo told him that he had been born and educated in Hong Kong. “Yes, I see,” Von Drexler said. He rose to leave. “Bring my car.”
“It’s here, sir,” James said. He was offended that Von Drexler would think he could overlook such a basic duty. “Get rid of the girls,” Von Drexler said.
“Do you require others?” There was no answer. “Perhaps you desire some other type of diversion?”
Von Drexler paused, considering the offer, teased by its implications. “Surprise me,” he replied.
James escorted the general to his waiting staff car and bowed when it pulled away. He walked sedately to his office, a study in composure. However, he did allow a slight smile when he made the necessary phone call.
“I need to see the bossman,” Trimler said when he walked into Sara Waters’ office. “All hell is breaking loose over at Combined Headquarters. You got any sanity pills here?”
“We used them all up last week,” Waters replied as she paged Pontowski.
“Call the Junkyard Dogs,” Trimler said. “We need to talk to them.” He set a small zinc-lined tin box on her desk and dropped a set of dog tags beside it.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“The worldly remains of Wang what’s-his-name, the deserter the Junkyard Dogs adopted.”
“Wang Peifu,” Waters said. She telephoned the Dogs’ compound. “Washington and Tanaka will be right over,” she explained. “Byers and Alvarez are in Hanoi.”
Within minutes, Pontowski and the two Junkyard Dogs were staring at the box as Trimler related what Kamigami had told him. “The PLA executed Wang … they call it the death by a thousand cuts. I think the bastards sent the body back as a warning. Kamigami had the body cremated and brought the ashes with him yesterday. What in hell was Wang doing that got him captured in the first place?”
“We wondered what had happened to him,” Big John Washington replied, avoiding the question. What Pontowski doesn’t know won’t hurt the Dogs, he decided. When Byers had heard the rumor about ten Warthogs going to Guilin, he had called in some markers owed him at the MAAG. It was better than being a stockbroker with insider information and he had sent Wang to Guilin to do some advance trading. But he had never returned.
Washington touched the box and then, his decision made, picked it up. “He was a good dude. There’s a temple in Nanning with a house of the dead. We’ll buy space for him on the wall. He’ll like looking down.”
Trimler sank into a chair when the Junkyard Dogs left. “Brace yourself,” he grumbled, “Von Drexler is turning into a megalomaniac. I think he fancies himself a reincarnation of Douglas MacArthur and a grand strategist. The war’s slowed down and we’re not seeing any fighting. I think the PLA and New China Guard are feeling each other out, looking for soft spots, places to attack. VD claims the PLA is going to make a major push into northern Guangxi Province and take Guilin. But Zou isn’t buying it.”
“So,” Pontowski said, “one of them ends up wi
th egg on his face if the other one is right.”
“That’s not all,” Trimler said. “VD has turned this into a pissing contest with Zou. Remember those ten Warthogs you’re sending to Guilin? Scratch that. He’s ordered the entire wing to go.”
“So our supply line gets a little longer,” Pontowski said. “It could be worse.”
“It is worse. You stay here.”
Anger shot across Pontowski’s face. “What the hell’s going on?”
“He’s assigned you to a staff job at Combined Headquarters to liaison’—whatever that means.”
“There is no way,” Pontowski gritted, “that he’s going to take my command away.” He jammed his hat on and headed out the door.
“Matt,” Trimler called after him, “change your uniform. He doesn’t allow flight suits or BDUs.”
“I’m not a REMF,” Pontowski shot back.
“I’ve never seen the colonel so angry,” Waters said. “What’s a REMF?”
“A REMF is a rear echelon motherfucker,” Trimler explained. “And it’s time I quit being one.”
General Von Drexler never saw the flight suit or the anger. What he did see was a well-turned-out lieutenant colonel in a class A uniform with every ribbon properly displayed. The general was painfully aware that Pontowski’s decorations had been earned in combat, not from staff duty like his own.
“I take it,” Von Drexler said, “that you do not agree with my decisions.”
“I didn’t at first,” Pontowski replied. “Then I thought about the possible benefits of a headquarters assignment. After all, I did work for you in the Pentagon and learned a great deal.” The last was true, but not in the positive way he made it sound. His tour in the Pentagon had been a depressing experience. “Liaison duties will allow me a chance to … ah … reestablish my former contacts and … ah… look to the future.” The hint of using political influence was obvious. He looked expectantly at Von Drexler, whose face suddenly resembled a frozen halibut. That put a little tension in the old sphincter muscle, Pontowski thought.
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