“We shall prevail!” Takishi barked, following suit.
“We shall prevail!” Nugama yelled, caught up in the emotion of the moment. The two men raised their glasses, crushing them, and grinding the glass into their hands as blood streamed down their arms.
“We shall prevail!” The words echoed in the garden enclave as the three men stared at one another, blood dripping from their hands, shards of glass stinging them all.
Mizuzawa dismissed his two comrades. He would see them later that evening. First, though, he had to prepare for the speech he would give to his faction that night. He would inform them of his growing security concerns. It was all true. Korea was a threat. China was looming larger than ever, hanging its nuclear umbrella over Japan like a dark shadow. Taiwan had armed forces of over half a million people. Russia still leaned on them from the northwest. The least of their worries was the Global War on Terror, but what a wonderful opportunity it presented.
Japan would create its own destiny.
First, he had led them to the slick political takeover of the Philippines. Whether Talbosa realized it or not, he was a bought man. If he refused to play the game, Mizuzawa figured, he could simply impose a military government. But he needed the Philippines to secure an intermediate staging base for his war plans. After securing the Philippines, he would move to encircle Taiwan from both sides. It would be interesting to watch the Chinese reaction to that one. The United States would be caught flat-footed, he knew that for certain. You think you have problems in the Middle East?
He sat once again on the bridge, cross-legged, peering down into the dark waters of the pond. His reflection gazed upward into his eyes, spinning his mind into another era. He could see the furrowed brow beneath his short hair. His eyes were mere rips in the cloth of his face.
His thoughts spiraled into the distant past, and he was looking upon Tokyo Bay. He saw the American flotilla moored there, surrounding the USS Missouri, on which the infamous defeat of the Imperial Armed Forces had been formalized. It was humiliating. The Americans deliberately carried the limping Japanese Navy into port, as if on a leash, to display their loss to all of Japan. His country had been a bad dog, and America was the master, whipping them in front of the world. He watched as millions of radios across the world broadcast live the disgraceful Japanese surrender.
From above, he could also see the holes in Japanese soil that used to be Nagasaki and Hiroshima. The Americans had claimed they were attacking industrial locations. True, those cities had weapons plants, Mizuzawa saw, but why hadn’t the Americans used their new weapons of mass destruction on their European ancestors? Truman’s decision, he determined, was a racist one. It was okay to vaporize little yellow people, but Kami forbid he should attack his European lineage with the same ferocity.
Mizuzawa felt hatred well inside him. No one could deny him or his country their rightful place in history. They had shown the world that Japan was the most determined, educated, and fastidious race in the world. They could reign supreme over the United States and everybody else. It was their turn.
Yes, it was Japan’s turn.
Chapter 66
Mizuzawa stood and walked slowly to his office. After washing and picking the glass from his hands, he walked across a courtyard to the ornate Imperial Palace, the residence of the Japanese emperor.
He knocked on the door and opened it without waiting. The emperor stood in the foyer wearing a robe the color of a rusty mauve. It symbolized the rising sun.
Mizuzawa bowed slowly. The emperor returned his bow with a slight nod.
The one concession the United States had made to Japan at the conclusion of the Great Pacific War was to allow the emperor to remain as the head of the Japanese state. Truman had done it from a purely practical standpoint. He had seen the emperor as the one figure most revered in Japanese society, and the one person who could pass the message of utter defeat to the Japanese people. It had worked.
But the emperor served as the single thread to the era of the Japanese warlords. He was a man of direct lineage from some of the most barbaric and courageous warriors in Japanese history. Theirs was a bloodline of savagery. Most other aspects of Japanese culture and society had blended with the dominant Western society.
The Imperial Palace was uniquely Japanese, as was the emperor. Mizuzawa was unsure what the emperor knew about his plans for the future of Japan … and he knew that he had to do something about that.
The emperor, an aging man in his early seventies, had a peaceful look on his face, one of contentment and solitude. His wife, the empress, had passed away recently, and he was lonely. But he served in his figurehead position well. He held state dinners and entertained guests, a Western tradition, Mizuzawa thought with disgust.
“Greetings, Prime Minister,” he said.
“Good afternoon, Your Majesty,” Mizuzawa said in response.
The two men walked into the palace along a dark koa wood foyer decorated with paintings of the former emperors. Mizuzawa recognized them all. He noticed with pride the paintings of Prince Ninigi, the grandson of the Sun Goddess Amaterasu Omikami, and Emperor Jimmu, Ninigi’s grandson. The oil paintings were cracking with age and in desperate need of restoration.
As is my empire, Mizuzawa thought.
They walked into a small room. It was the emperor’s private room for discussing matters of importance. Japanese pine framed a large trophy case that had been built into the wall. Behind the Plexiglas cover to the trophy case were three items. On either side of the trophy case were paintings of the eight gods of heaven and earth, who were viewed by the Japanese as the guarantors of their security.
Mizuzawa and the emperor stood in front of the case, looking at the three sacred treasures, the Mirror, the Jewels, and the Sword.
“What is this matter of importance you bring to me tonight, Prime Minister?” the emperor asked. His wrinkled eyes were drawn and set, as if he were ready to die. His pallid face was in sharp contrast to the rose-colored beauty of his flowing robe.
“Your Majesty,” Mizuzawa said, looking at the sad, pale figure, “may I have access to the sacred treasures of Ninigi?”
“Why do you desire this access?” the emperor asked without suspicion.
“Your Majesty, I have embarked on a long and arduous journey as prime minister. I need to feel the strength of the sword in my hands; I need to fondle the beauty of the jewels against my skin; I need to see the vision of my actions in the mirror,” Mizuzawa said, poetically.
“What is this journey?” the emperor asked, sliding open the glass, revealing the three sacred Japanese treasures.
Mizuzawa looked at the items lying harmlessly in the open case. The jewels were curved jade beads nestled against a black velvet bag. The mirror was amazingly simple, yet old. Black and brown spots dotted the glass. Its frame was simple black lacquer.
But the sword. The sword was wide. Its ivory handle gave way to a pristine, curling blade. It was the Kusanagi sword of Japanese legend. Mizuzawa fixated on it, knowing what must be done.
“Your Majesty, I have taken your Japan on a course that will provide for her security for many generations to come,” Mizuzawa said, kneeling at the case and running his hand lightly over the jewels. His thick hand brushed the delicate velvet, causing it to wrinkle.