Mizuzawa believed that with political systems in turmoil, economic systems would soon follow. With a reduction in Japanese exports to those economic systems, the Japanese economy would wither. Such a path would add insult to injury. Western domination, followed by Japanese decline, would be unacceptable. Preemptive measures to ensure Japanese security, Mizuzawa assured himself, were in order.
Mizuzawa finished his prayer and stood, feeling relaxed and confident.
He sat upon a pillow, overlooking the pond. Doing so, he thought back to his childhood. He remembered being fifteen years old when he heard that the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor had been an unqualified success. He had swelled with pride in his family and his nation. He had asked his father if he could serve in the armed forces like his two brothers. His father gave him permission, telling him he needed to fight for his country. He saw limited action on Okinawa and watched Americans kill his two brothers in the battle.
He winced as he remembered being nineteen years old and hearing of the atomic bombs dropped at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Why had the Americans dropped the bombs only on the Asian race? Could they not bear to destroy their own precious European culture with the same devastation that they wreaked on the diminutive yellow people?
He had read Truman’s memoirs with disgust. Despite those lies, he was convinced the bomb was available for use on the Germans but saved for the Japanese. Why did the Americans not lock up the immigrant Germans when they joined the war in Europe? But they felt at liberty to shame and humiliate the Japanese immigrants who had, for whatever reason, searched for a new life in America. Worse, it took them fifty years to give those innocent Japanese bystanders the proper recompense for their losses. Most were dead, anyway. Why had America denied the Japanese immigration rights? Mizuzawa worked himself into a rage, clenching his fists. Americans — self-righteous bastards!
Mizuzawa believed that the Japanese people owed the Americans nothing. The United States had defeated his country in battle and occupied his people’s land to shape Japan in the Western image. No more, Mizuzawa thought to himself, no more.
Yes, the Japanese Empire would once again rise from the sea, not like some hideous monster, spraying foam and seawater in all directions, but like the benevolent vessel that she was, sifting through the fog of the post-9-11 world order and aiding the sinking ships around her.
He was at peace, sitting cross-legged on the bridge, suspended above the water. With his eyes shut, another Sun Tzu maxim rolled through his mind.
Draw them in with the prospect of gain, take them by confusion.
Chapter 30
Juan Ayala stuffed his cell phone into his pocket. Talbosa, his mentor, had given him the word to execute his mission. Ayala had made two subsequent calls: one to his assault element at Manila International Airport and one to his support team leader at the naval base, where he was located as well. Ayala was about half a kilometer from the team that would create the diversion before he personally led the attack on the American position.
As he cleaned the Shansi pistol that he had carried with him through ten years of the revolution, he smiled thinly at the opportunity to kill more Americans. Only twenty-two, he remembered receiving the Chinese mock up of the broom-handled Mauser C96 semi-automatic pistol from an Abu Sayyaf veteran when he was a twelve-year-old boy living in the wastelands of Olongapo, a city of brothels just outside Subic Bay Naval Base.
He carried four ten-round stripper clips of .45-caliber ammunition for the thirty-centimeter-long pistol with attachable buttstock, the broom handle, which allowed Ayala to shoulder-fire the weapon or use it in pistol-grip mode. It had served him well on the stupid American sitting alone in his truck on the naval base. That had almost been too easy. He had asked the man for a cigarette.
“Hey, Joe, any smoke?” he had said to the man sitting in the white SUV. The man, with his elbow propped on the frame of the open window, had not been alarmed at the sight of the short brown man with a deep scar running from his right ear to his chin. The fool had shut off the ignition and reached into his pockets, acting without hesitation.
Images of ten-year-old Filipino girls who had turned to whoring for the American sailors had sprung through Ayala’s mind. From less than a meter away, without hesitation or remorse, he had leveled the pistol and pulled the trigger. One shot was all he had required. The .45 caliber bullet had struck the Yanqui in the forehead, just above the nose, causing bright red blood to spray outward and onto the windshield of the Blazer.
Surprising to Ayala, the man’s forehead had remained largely intact. The bigger hole had been to the back of his head, where the exit wound had removed a quarter of his cranium. Ayala had then taken his roll of M186 demolition charge and taped pieces in strategic locations on the vehicle. The M186 consisted of pentaerythrite tetranitrate (PETN), a highly sensitive and powerful explosive that he had acquired from the last ammunition raid they had conducted at the naval base. He had rigged the blasting caps so that they would ignite when the driver-side door was opened and a metal clothes pin snapped shut, completing an electrical circuit to the vehicle battery. Proud of his work, he had then faded into the darkness moments before two airplanes landed not a half kilometer away from his latest victory for the cause.
Watching as soldiers disembarked from the aircraft and moved aggressively to the outer reaches of the runway, he had padded into the night, having accomplished his mission.
Killing Americans or high-ranking Filipino government officials had become his specialty in the Abu Sayyaf organization. He had organized his own sparrow squad, and like policemen writing tickets, they were expected to reach a weekly quota of either assassinations or intelligence gathering. On that night, he had done both by himself. For that, he was awarded a command in the final coup.
Now, two days later, at 0400 hours, he slid the pistol into the attachable wooden shoulder stock, a unique feature of this weapon, wrapped it in plastic with the .45 caliber ammo, and jammed the deadly ensemble into his backpack. He leaned over, grabbed his Chinese Type 68 assault rifle, and looked at the seventy-five men he commanded, all huddled tightly in the dark, steamy jungle just northwest of Subic Bay Naval Base. They carried a mixture of Type 68s, a Chinese version of the Russian AK-47, M16s, and AK-47s. Through years of pilferage from U.S. ammunition storage locations, and their own resupply efforts, they had accumulated a healthy stockpile of contraband. They had 5.56mm and 7.62mm ammunition, explosives, mortar rounds, and light antitank weapons. Ayala’s men had three 81mm mortars they had stolen from the Army of the Philippines over two years ago.
Working with Talbosa’s guidance, Ayala knew the airport raid he would direct at 0500 hours would be coordinated with similar attacks across the islands. An air traffic controller friend had given him a tip that an American government airplane was scheduled to arrive that morning. Destroying it and killing the passengers would reap huge financial gains for the movement.
The Abu Sayyaf network had issued broad guidance and, through the Internet, the small cells scattered across the Philippine Islands had developed the plan to overthrow the central government. Ayala’s mission involved capturing the airport and the ammunition that had been unloaded from the American barge yesterday.