“That is good, Prime Minister. Tell me more.”
Mizuzawa shifted his gaze to the mirror. His face looked distorted, evil, reflecting back at him from the antique glass.
“We have begun to build the military again, your Majesty. We will soon attack to regain Formosa,” Mizuzawa said. His words hung in the air like smog, polluting the Imperial Palace.
“But for what purposes would you do such a thing?” the emperor asked, slowly. “We are protected by the eight gods of heaven and earth. They shall provide for us.”
Fool, Mizuzawa thought.
“Your Majesty,” Mizuzawa said, turning his lusting eyes to the huge saber, “we have many concerns.” None of which I expect you to understand. “Our economy cannot sustain itself forever. Our military is not adequate to defend the homeland against the Korean Peninsula or Chinese nuclear weapons.”
“But the United States—”
Fool. Just as I thought. The last tie to our true heritage has been tainted with Western lies.
“—has guaranteed our security. They will come to our aid if it is necessary. I cannot allow your plan,” the emperor said, sternly, images of the old warrior bubbling forth in his words.
“Your Majesty,” Mizuzawa said, taking his handkerchief out of his pocket and placing it on the pearl handle of the sword, “we must pursue this course. We have no other choice.”
“You are wrong—” The emperor’s eyes grew wide, bulging outward, as he felt the sword slice through his abdomen.
Mizuzawa had lifted the sword and turned slowly to the emperor, who had been only two steps behind him. He slid the sacred sword into the emperor with a well-trained thrust.
He grabbed the emperor’s hands and placed them on the saber’s handle, as if he were performing seppuku, or hari-kari. He guided the old man onto his knees, ensuring he avoided the gathering pool of blood on the floor. He watched as the blood gushed onto the emperor’s robe, casting a dark image onto the rust-colored hue that once represented the morning glow of the rising sun.
Its image had changed to something far graver. It was the unsettling darkness of a cold and eerie night, spreading across the robe, engulfing the fabric.
Mizuzawa turned the sword in the emperor’s hands. The emperor looked at him and gasped, “Thank you. Now it is your responsibility.” He sucked one last gurgling breath and closed his eyes.
Mizuzawa was momentarily taken aback. Had he known?
The emperor’s body toppled to the floor, his hands still holding the sacred sword as he died.
Mizuzawa stood above the man. “That’s right, old man. It is my responsibility. And my reward.”
I didn’t think you had the stomach for it.
Chapter 67
The president sat at his desk in the Oval Office. The camera’s huge eye blinked at him as it came to life. He stared into the TelePrompTer and read.
Today I speak to you concerning Operation Enduring Freedom in the Philippines. Some American lives have been lost as they were caught in the cross fire of a revolution in that tormented country. I am sorry. Our nation’s heart goes out to the family members of the twenty-two individuals who were killed.
Likewise, Filipino terrorists are still holding three Americans hostage. Thankfully, our gracious allies, the Japanese, have secured the release of the hostages and all other Americans and freedom-seeking individuals who wish to depart the country.
We are conducting an evacuation of all U.S. personnel from the Philippines who wish to depart. Tonight, as I speak to you, American aircraft are soaring to a designated point in the Philippines to pick up our beloved countrymen.
We will not condone attacks against Americans, and we will not tolerate those countries that harbor terrorists. While I firmly believe in the Filipino people’s right to determine their own form of government, independent from colonial or superpower influence, we will not stand by while Islamic fundamentalism imposes an oppressive form of government on freedom-loving peoples.
As an initial step in countering the Philippine insurgency, I intend to impose economic sanctions on the country until the insurgents allow the elected government of the Philippines to return to power. I know sanctions at this time are no consolation to the family members of those Americans lost in combat, but it is a moral policy, and a policy that allows us to continue to focus on the United States’ vital interests in Afghanistan and Iraq.
God bless our fighting men and women and God bless America.
The camera eye closed. Davis cast a glance to Stone, Lantini, and Sewell, who were standing in the opposite corner of the office. They gave him a thumbs-up sign, approving of his performance. The men shook the president’s hand as the camera crew packed up its equipment.
“That should do the trick,” Sewell said.
“I hope so,” replied Davis, who looked at Stone and shrugged.
On his way out, Sewell pulled his satellite Blackberry from his breast pocket and frowned as he scrolled through his messages.
Chapter 68
Zachary Garrett watched airplane after airplane land, load civilians, and take off into the sky from the very runway that they had used to enter the Philippines. The white Quonset huts were occupied with kitchen facilities and administrative personnel, who seemed to be orchestrating the evacuation of Americans.
Resting his binoculars against the strap around his neck, he pondered why he had earlier received instructions to move to Subic Bay to board an aircraft for Hawaii, only to have that decision overturned by a tacsat message from his division headquarters to freeze in place. Moments later, another message from division informed him to move all civilian, wounded, and deceased personnel to the airfield that evening. He was to do this under the cover of darkness and conduct linkup with a CIA operative named X-Ray, whoever that was, at a specific grid-coordinate location northwest of the airfield just outside the naval base fence. X-Ray would have an infrared strobe light flashing and would use proper bona fides to identify himself.
How refreshing, Zachary thought. X-Ray was to escort the personnel onto the airfield, load them on an aircraft, and send them home. His security platoon, however, was to retreat to his base camp and await further orders.
The flaming sun hung low over the western horizon, large and distorted, sinking into the ocean. With it, the ferocious heat simmered ever so slightly. It was like turning an oven dial from broil to bake; nonetheless, the relative difference in the heat made it feel cooler. Zachary looked for the flash of green light that he had always heard about, but saw none, as the sun dipped below the horizon on the sea.
In the musty jungle darkness, he watched his men prepare for the mission. Stan Barker’s platoon would escort the ambassador, his four civilian support staff, the wounded Sergeant Cartwright, Lieutenant Colonel Fraley, and the Air Force doctor who had been severely wounded. Doc Gore, the young enlisted medic who had so expertly patched Captain Garrett, had performed field surgery on the doctor. He removed a bullet from his shoulder using a hot knife and tweezers, then thoroughly rinsed the wound with Betadine. But it was the ample supply of penicillin that the doctor had given Zachary and Sergeant Cartwright that held the fever and infection in check. He was ambulatory, and that was all Zachary cared about. Zachary’s wound had begun to heal nicely. A long scab formed on the left side of his head, making it uncomfortable to wear his helmet, but other than that, he was fine.