Drone Command (17 page)

“This will be something special,” Kobayashi said. He nodded toward the lone Japanese fighter. “That man has never been defeated.”

Tanaka was a martial artist himself. He saw clearly that the disciplined Japanese was the superior fighter and certain to win in spite of being outnumbered by the Okinawan rabble.

The referee approached, dressed in the traditional long-skirted garb of a kendo judge. He was short but powerfully built, and his pencil mustache was tinged with gray. He pointed at the clock with a folded fan until it flashed five minutes. He raised his arm. The combatants bowed to one another. The referee slashed the air with his hand and the bout began. The audience shouted.

The three yakuza fighters backed up and spread out equidistant as the Japanese advanced into the center. The yakuza fighters swiftly spread out even farther, forming a three-pointed perimeter around the Japanese swordsman.

The Japanese stood rock still in the center of the arena, dropping his head to his chest, resting his
katana
on the top of his helmet mask almost as if he were praying.

The yakuza fighter directly in front of him glanced up at the clock. Twenty seconds had already elapsed. He shouted to his compatriots and the three men inched forward, their feet never leaving the wooden floor, trying not to reveal their positions, trying to move in sync so as to arrive at the same destination at the same time.

Cautiously, deliberately, they each inched closer and closer. The audience was dead silent. Not even the
tink
of glasses or silverware. The closer the yakuza fighters got, the farther forward everyone in the audience leaned.

When the yakuza fighters got within slightly more than a sword's length distance, they all shouted as one and charged,
katana
slashing wildly. The Japanese twisted, parried, turned, spun, and swung faster than anything Tanaka had ever seen. Sword strikes clacked like a string of firecrackers. The yakuza fighters fell back. The Japanese stood firm.

The audience applauded.

To his practiced eye, it seemed to Tanaka that all the yakuza strikes were blocked. If any landed, the Japanese hadn't shown it. No signs of injury. But Tanaka noticed the bleeding knuckles on the hand of one
of the yakuza fighters, and another one was shaking out an obviously injured wrist.

The yakuza fighters regathered their wits. This time, they moved in a circular motion around the Japanese, coordinating their speed and distance by shouting to one another in short, crisp, singular vowels, as much to confuse the Japanese as to organize their next attack. The shouts bounced back and forth like an echo while the Japanese kept his head bowed to the ground.

The yakuza fighters circled cautiously as the seconds ticked off. When one of the Okinawan fighters crossed directly in front of him, the Japanese fighter vaulted forward, slashing down hard at his head. The Okinawan held his sword up in defense, but the crashing blow from the Japanese was so forceful that the fighter's own wooden blade cracked into his skull, buckling his knees and breaking his scalp. He staggered badly.

When the Japanese leaped into the frontal attack, the other two yakuza fighters charged at him from the sides. By the time they reached him, the Japanese had already broken the first man's nose and managed to duck and turn in a vicious sweeping motion, raking the other men's knees with his own blade.

All three yakuza fighters howled in pain and fell back, even as the first man tried to stanch his bleeding scalp with a palm pressed firmly against the top of his head.

The audience applauded again.

Wounded and humiliated, the three Okinawan fighters retreated to the outermost edge of the fighting circle while the Japanese returned to the very center.

The clock clicked off the four-minute mark.

The Japanese lifted off his mask and tossed it aside.

The three yakuza fighters exchanged nervous glances with one another through their masks as the Japanese raised his long
katana
parallel to his torso near his right shoulder like a batter at the plate.

All three yakuza screamed in rage and charged the Japanese. He pulled his short
tanto
out of his belt in a flash and spun, using both blades as a shield against the falling blows. The three yakuza crashed into
him, blocking his arms, keeping him from making powerful thrusts, but they were in too close. The Japanese punished them with his elbows and knees.

But the Okinawans landed their own blows, too, finally drawing blood on the handsome unmasked face before they fell back, gasping for air, trembling with rage and pain. They took up their far positions again, preparing for the final assault.

The Japanese shook his head to clear it. Blood stained his indigo
keikogi.
He signaled to the referee, who, in turn, glanced up at Kobayashi. The yakuza overlord nodded his approval, and the referee shouted a command as his hand thrust into the air with an open fan, signaling a time-out. Rare, but legal. A privilege for the Japanese fighter, a former Golden Sword tournament champion. The clock stopped.

The audience jeered, especially the white
gaijin
.

Tanaka scowled. The foreigners had no manners.

The Japanese retreated to his starting position and set his
katana
and
tanto
down on the polished bamboo floor. He untied the belt to his
keikogi
and pulled it off, revealing his heavily muscled upper body. It was covered in vivid inks, too: gods and monsters in brightly colored hues. But Tanaka admired the dragon on his chest the most. Its monstrous gaping mouth filled his upper torso while scaly green arms extended down his biceps and forearms, ending in vicious claws in the palms of his hands that ran the length of his outstretched fingers.

The Japanese clapped his hands twice and three retainers ran out in traditional kendo garb, each carrying a black case. They bolted over to the exhausted Okinawans and fell at their feet, setting each case down, then opening it and, while remaining in a bowing position, holding up a razor-sharp carbon steel
katana
high enough for each yakuza fighter to take hold of.

The audience went insane. The betting pool exploded.

Tanaka watched Kobayashi toss a cool million into the pot, tapping out the bet on the tablet with his yellowed fingertips.

The Okinawan fighters glanced at one another through their masks. What would they do? The metal swords were an obvious insult, but they
had already proven overmatched against the lone Japanese fighter. They were proud Okinawans and hated the purebred mainlander now openly mocking them with his haughty smile.

Tanaka couldn't believe his eyes when, a moment later, all three yanked off their masks and tossed them across the arena floor.

“He's lucky they're rash,” Tanaka said.

“Luck is a woman.”

Each yakuza fighter picked up his steel sword from the case extended to him, and the retainers bolted away.

The referee barked a command and the combatants took up their original positions opposite one another. The yakuza fighters gained confidence with each passing second, their hands gripping hard steel while the Japanese fighter held only wooden blades.

The referee held his hand high to restart the bout. The Japanese threw his
tanto
aside.

The crowd cheered madly. The betting pool added another two million.

The referee cast a glance at Kobayashi, who nodded his approval. The referee chopped his hand down hard with a shout. The clock resumed its countdown.

Thirty-two seconds to go.

The audience leaped to its feet, howling and clapping as the four opponents squared off. The three Okinawans circled the man in the middle, slowly tightening the noose. The Japanese raised his wooden
bokuto
high above his head, shouted his war cry, and lunged at the man in front of him.

But the Okinawan didn't move.

The Japanese slashed his wooden sword toward the man's skull just as the Okinawan dropped to one knee and held his own razor-sharp blade above his head, braced on each end by his wiry hands.

The steel blade absorbed the blow. The wooden sword bit deeply into the razor-sharp edge—so deeply that it stuck for just a fraction of a second.

A fraction of a second the Japanese fighter didn't have.

Just as he managed to free his
bokuto
, two finely honed carbon steel edges slashed across his back, opening his flesh as if they were boning a fish. The Japanese screamed in agony and whipped around only to be slashed again across his broad chest. Blood poured out of the dragon's voracious mouth as his body crashed to the floor.

The crowd stood in stunned silence, including Tanaka. But Kobayashi sat grinning like a Buddha.

“I don't understand,” Tanaka said. He saw Kobayashi betting heavily. He assumed he'd been betting on the Japanese.

“There's the man we need to lead your operation,” Kobayashi said.

Tanaka glanced at the three yakuza on the arena floor, pacing around the corpse and laughing like hyenas over their kill. Tanaka couldn't decide which one he meant.

“Him.” Kobayashi nodded toward a large man standing in the audience on the far side of the area. The big Okinawan was fat like a
sumotori
and wore his long hair in a ponytail. Voluminous black silk pants and shirt couldn't hide his enormous girth, and the heavy gold chains around his neck were nearly lost in the folds of fat.

“Oshiro-
san
is the one you can count on,” Kobayashi said.

“Why him?”

“Those are his boys. Rough, but fearless.”

“Impressive,” Tanaka said. “Those Okinawans are better trained than I realized.”

Kobayashi nodded. “Good fighting dogs are always trained. Oshiro-
san
keeps his men vicious, effective, and obedient.” And then he laughed. “But those Okinawans are crazy, too. Crazy enough to do what needs to be done.”

EAST SEA FLEET HEADQUARTERS (PLAN)

NINGBO, ZHEJIANG PROVINCE, CHINA

14 MAY 2017

M
yers and Pearce tried to relax in their plush leather seats despite the blaring sirens outside that were muted by the armored chassis and bulletproof glass of the twenty-foot-long Red Flag L8 limousine. An armed military escort raced in front and behind them as the convoy roared past the open gate, sentries erect, saluting Admiral Ji's flags snapping just above the big bug-eyed headlights of the gleaming black vehicle.

After landing at Ningbo airport in Feng's private Gulfstream G150, the convoy whisked Pearce and Myers out of the bustling city over the bridge to the naval facilities on the southern side of Zhoushan Island. Myers kept eager eyes on the buildings, equipment, and personnel speeding past her window, taking it all in. They finally reached the four-story headquarters and rolled to a stop, the sirens suddenly cutting off like a slit throat.

A scowling PLAN lieutenant commander yanked open the limousine door and motioned for Pearce and Myers to follow. He marched them into the building and up three flights of stairs, where they were greeted by two hulking armed guards. The lieutenant commander barked an order and the guards opened two heavy steel doors with synchronized precision. Still unsmiling, the PLAN officer shot a stiff open palm toward the open doors, bidding the two Americans to enter. They did, and the doors closed silently behind them.

Admiral Ji and Vice Chairman Feng stood in front of Ji's desk, an
ornately crafted piece of antique captain's furniture. Ivory-eyed sea dragons held up the four corners of the mahogany desktop. Paned windows overlooked the harbor.

“Madame President, Mr. Pearce, thank you for coming. I trust your journey was a pleasant one?” Feng asked. He approached Myers with an extended hand.

Pearce grabbed it instead. “Thanks, it was.”

Feng's plastic smile didn't budge as his hand was caught in the vice grip of Pearce's handshake.

“This is Admiral Ji, the commander of the East Sea Fleet.”

Ji nodded deferentially to Myers. “Welcome, Madame President.”

“Coffee? Tea? Something to eat?” Feng asked.

“No, thank you. We didn't come here for the food or the hospitality,” Myers said.

“I admire your frankness. A hallmark of your presidential administration,” Feng said. “Please, be seated.” He gestured toward the four club chairs arranged in a circle.

The Chinese and Pearce went to sit down, but Myers proceeded over to the window. Her eyes scanned the ships tied up to the piers. Two diesel submarines, a missile destroyer, several smaller ships. Civilian dockworkers and sailors serviced the vessels.

“Lovely view. I can't wait to see the
George Washington
pulling into your harbor.”

“President Myers, please,” Feng said.

“Of course.” She took the last remaining seat.

“It was good of you to take the trouble of coming here,” Feng said.

“It was terribly inconvenient. I hope it will be worth my valuable time.”

“I don't think you'll be disappointed,” Feng said.

“That's what you promised on the phone.”

“First things first. I offer my apologies for what happened to you and Mr. Pearce the other day. Our pilots are trained to be aggressive, but had they known someone as important as you was in the vicinity, they would have restrained themselves.”

“So if I had just been a member of the American proletariat, my death would have been acceptable to you?”

“Or a working stiff like me?” Pearce asked.

“Tensions in the area are high, and the Japanese are increasingly belligerent. We will not tolerate any Japanese violations of our national airspace,” Admiral Ji said. “For the sake of peace.”

Pearce tried not to laugh out loud. “Yeah, right.”

“Our apologies to you as well, Mr. Pearce. Your friendship with President Lane is noted, as is your incredible success as a security company. Drone warfare, correct?” Feng said.

“My company does far more civilian consulting than military these days. There are many more opportunities in the private sector for unmanned vehicles.”

“Perhaps then you are familiar with the Wu-14?” Ji asked.

“Yes, of course,” Pearce said. “Or at least the rumor of it. From everything I've read, you don't have the technical capacity for it.”

“Isn't that why we're here?” Myers asked. “I assumed that's the real reason why you invited us.”

“The primary reason was for me to apologize to you in person, just as you demanded from Ambassador Pang.” Feng's eyes narrowed.

“And so you have. I suppose it would be rude of me not to accept it.”

“Thank you,” Feng said.

Myers smiled. She doubted Feng understood the English language well enough to know that she hadn't technically accepted his apology.

“Our country does not wish to fight a war with the United States,” Admiral Ji said.

“Of course you don't. You'd lose,” Pearce shot back.

The admiral's face flushed. He wasn't used to subordinates speaking to him that way. Or anybody else, for that matter. “Perhaps. And perhaps not. As we are both nuclear powers, the possibility of even a small conflict escalating into a total nuclear confrontation is too great. In that event, we would both lose.”

“And if we're both not careful, the Japanese will drag you into war
against your will. You would do well to advise President Lane to keep the Japanese on a tight leash,” Feng said.

“The Japanese are our good friends and allies, and we don't abandon our friends or our allies in a time of crisis. That's a promise straight from President Lane. Tell that to President Sun.”

“I will convey your message to him directly, empty though it might be,” Feng said. “But I admire your, how do you say, chutzpah?”

Myers checked her watch. “It's getting late.”

“And I have another promise to keep.” Feng stood, straightening his tailored Mao jacket. He gestured sternly toward the steel doors, now open and flanked by armed guards.

Myers and Pearce exchanged a glance.

Looked like Feng had called their bluff.