Drone Command (8 page)

THE PEACE PARK

NAGASAKI, JAPAN

5 MAY 2017

Y
ou wonder why Dr. Ikeda and Admiral Hara were so resistant to your presentation?” Tanaka asked. “This is why.”

Pearce, Myers, and Tanaka stood at the foot of the stone obelisk marking the hypocenter, the ground location of the atomic blast fifteen hundred feet above that devastated the city on August 9, 1945. A series of concentric circles emanated from the spot that also contained a cenotaph memorializing Nagasaki's dead.

Pearce stared into the grim afternoon sky. Imagined the blinding blast and the mushrooming cloud directly above his head, the pressure waves crushing the city, and walls of fire incinerating the bowl-shaped valley. Felt his skin tingle as if he could feel the deadly radiation still lingering in the air.

Tanaka had already shown them several of the other statues and monuments in the Peace Park, but the severe austerity of the hypocenter memorial was the image that most impacted Pearce. He found himself speaking more quietly than usual, if at all, while he walked the grounds. He'd felt the same way at Pearl Harbor and Arlington National Cemetery, too. Only then, he felt both reverence for the dead and their sacrifices, and a profound sense of patriotism. Here, he felt only sadness for the civilian victims of an apocalyptic war.

Myers, too, resisted the temptation to succumb to the solemnity of
the place, though she was clearly moved by it. That so many people died in a blinding, momentary flash was almost too much to comprehend.

Tanaka sensed the Americans' resistance.

“My seat in the Diet represents this city. My family traces its history back more than three hundred years here.” Tanaka pointed at a fragment of brick wall on the radius of the far circle. “That's a remnant of the Urakami Cathedral, the largest Catholic church in Asia before it was destroyed by the Fat Man. Nagasaki was the center of the Christian faith in this country when it was obliterated.”

Pearce wanted to ask,
And whose fault is that?
But he bit his tongue. He was a soldier on a diplomatic mission, not the captain of a debate squad.

“My maternal grandmother was praying in that crowded cathedral on the morning that Fat Man exploded, killing everyone inside. I'm sure you know the statistics for the rest of the city, the tens of thousands who died instantly, and the tens of thousands more who died of radiation, burns and disease over the next months and years. What happened here so many years ago isn't a theory for me or my colleagues, or even a historical fact. It's a deeply personal event that changed all of our lives.”

“War is terrible,” Myers offered, not wanting to offend Tanaka. But she felt much the same way as Pearce did. You started it, we ended it.

“Yes, it is terrible. That's exactly the point of this monument. Unlike some of my colleagues on the right, I don't blame America for this tragedy. Of course, many historians now agree that the atomic strikes weren't necessary to end the war, but at the time, perhaps, it was not so obvious.”

“There are other ways to kill,” Pearce said, instantly regretting the comment. He was referring to the Rape of Nanking when Japanese soldiers killed perhaps as many as three hundred thousand Chinese—many of them innocent civilians—with just bayonets, rifle butts, and bullets. Unlike the Germans, too many Japanese not only glossed over their many war crimes, they also sometimes even denied them.

“Yes. Humans are terribly creative when it comes to destruction. You Americans have always been brilliant in your application of technology to war. I didn't bring you here to evoke any kind of sympathy for my
people. But I don't think you Americans appreciate the true destructiveness of that war on my nation.”

“I've seen war up close and personal,” Pearce said. “You don't need to tell me how shitty it is.”

“Yes, of course. President Myers told me about your battlefield bravery. I admire that more than you know. But what do your people know about total war? Your cities have never been burned, your civilian populations decimated. That is something altogether different.”

“We don't fight wars to expand our territory. We fight wars to protect our freedoms and the freedoms of our allies,” Myers said.

“Yes, you do. And you fight those wars with the latest technologies, whether drones or nuclear weapons.”

“Once a war begins, you sure as hell fight to win it with everything you have,” Pearce said.

Or should
, he thought.

Tanaka nodded. “Of course. And so you are the first nation in history to launch a nuclear attack. But we were the first to suffer it. Like the Israelis, we say, ‘Never again.' Dr. Ikeda wants to wish war away through complete disarmament. Men like him would even abolish the JSDF. Admiral Hara, on the other hand, wants to push it away through the prime minister's policy of proactive pacifism. Either way, both are reacting to the destruction of this place.”

“Admiral Hara is risking another nuclear attack if he succeeds in pushing forward a massive arms race with China,” Myers said. She wanted to say,
And so are you
.

“Admiral Hara believes in deterrence, just like the United States does. Why else does your country maintain the world's largest military?”

“Our military is as large as it is because we take our treaty obligations seriously, including the one we have with Japan,” Myers said.

A group of uniformed Japanese schoolchildren approached the park. Tanaka's security people ushered them away.

Tanaka turned to Myers. “May I ask you a personal question regarding your time as president?”

“Of course.”

Tanaka glanced back up at the obelisk that pointed at the darkening sky above them. A storm was on the way. “Is there anything you wouldn't have done to protect your people?”

“I'm a patriot. I love my country. Yes, I would've done anything to protect her. Still would.”

“Which includes avoiding nuclear war, doesn't it?”

“Of course. Nobody wins in a nuclear exchange.”

“And yet, American nuclear doctrine only prevents war by promising war. That seems irrational.”

“Mutual assured destruction has served us well since the '60s. For rational actors, MAD works because the prospect of it is so terribly irrational.”

“And, in your opinion, the American nuclear umbrella truly covers Japan?”

“We're totally committed to your nation's defense.”

“Even to the point of war with China?”

“Of course. We're only as secure as our alliances. If we fail our allies, we fail ourselves.”

“And, as president, you would have willingly traded Los Angeles for Osaka in a nuclear confrontation with China simply to honor a treaty commitment with my country?”

“If the Chinese thought otherwise, war would be more likely.”

“But how does sacrificing the people of Los Angeles protect them?”

Myers thought about the war photos she'd seen earlier that day. Nagasaki a desolate ruin. Burned corpses, crushed homes. She thought about Los Angeles after a nuclear strike, or even Denver. Her precious Colorado forests ablaze with fire. It sickened her.

“The president is the president of the whole country, not just a single city, as well as its commander in chief. As much as I would hate it, I would sacrifice one American city to save all the others in our alliance.”

Tanaka smiled thinly. “Yes, I'm sure you would. But would President Lane?”

“Without question. Why do you doubt his commitment?”

“I don't. But you understand why other Japanese might not be as confident as I am?”

“We count on the wisdom and influence of men like you to help us guarantee the peace.”

“President Lane won his election with your help, did he not?”

“Not exactly. I was happy to advise him informally, suggest political allies from both parties he could trust. But he ran his own campaign.”

“He also ran on no new boots on the ground, didn't he?”

Myers nodded. “Yes, but what that means is no new, unnecessary, undefinable, unwinnable wars. Our alliance with Japan doesn't fall under that definition.”

“May I ask you a personal question?” Pearce said.

Tanaka nodded. “Of course.”

“I understand that you're still in favor of nuclear energy, even after the Fukushima disaster.” Pearce glanced around the ground-zero monument. “Even after this. I would think Japan would be the most antinuclear country on the planet.”

Tanaka visibly tensed.

“Yes, I understand your confusion. But it's quite simple, really. Unlike the U.S., Japan has few natural resources. We import all of our energy. Complete energy independence is an economic and strategic necessity if we wish to remain a sovereign, independent country. Only nuclear energy offers us that prospect.”

“But a catastrophic nuclear event could destroy your country,” Myers said.

“Admiral Hara intimated the North Koreans could strike the Fukushima complex with their new missile. That would be far more devastating than Hiroshima and Nagasaki combined,” Pearce said. “Fukushima might be your undoing.”

“Freedom isn't free. Isn't that what you Americans always say?”

“We say a lot of things,” Pearce said. “Especially things that can fit on a bumper sticker.”

“The bomb that was dropped here ended the war between us. Do you know what began it?” Tanaka asked.

“Pearl Harbor,” Myers said without hesitation.

“And what caused Pearl Harbor? An American oil embargo against
Japan. So you see, Japanese energy independence is as vital to your national security as it is to ours.”

Tanaka glanced at the fading sky. “The storm is almost here. We should leave.”

Pearce checked the sky. Dark clouds boiled overhead. Tanaka was right. The storm would be breaking soon.

MAO ISLAND

APPROXIMATELY SIX MILES DUE WEST OF THE SENKAKU/DIAOYU ISLANDS

EAST CHINA SEA

6 MAY 2017

T
he forty-three-foot-long blue and white marine salvage boat bobbed heavily in the choppy waters. Rising Sun pennants flapped on wires that ran the length of the ship high into the rigging, and an enormous Rising Sun flag flew on top of the heavy winch on the fantail. They all flapped in the crisp breeze like a flock of red and white gulls hovering over the ship. Patriotic banners proclaimed
SENKAKU ISLANDS BELONG TO JAPAN!
in kanji ideographs and hiragana phonetic script and English.

A half-dozen crewmen were near the winch and dive gear, guiding a submerged diver to the exact location of the Chinese stele so they could haul it up. The men all wore Rising Sun headbands, mostly college students and activists from the mainland. Locals crewed the boat.

A small aluminum skiff with an outboard motor ran circles around the dive boat, also flying colors. The driver in the rear wore a Rising Sun headband as did his passenger, who stood uneasily toward the bow, shooting video. Patriotic music blared from a portable digital player at their feet.

A boat horn blasted in the distance. The men on the dive boat looked up. Someone shouted and pointed.

A red and white fishing trawler split the blue water against its high prow. Rusted and weather-beaten, the ancient sea hag had two dozen old car tires serving as fenders. Black smoke belched out of a short stack.
Fishing trawlers were common out here. But this one was plowing straight at them.

One of the Japanese crew shouted and waved to the video boat to check it out. The driver gunned the big outboard motor and raced toward the approaching rust bucket. The little skiff bounced heavily in the waves, tossing the amateur cameraman to the deck. He righted himself on the bench and straddled it, clutching it tightly between his thighs for balance. He put his eye to the camera's rubber cup to keep the trawler in sight. He hit the record button, then the zoom.

The camera swept over the trawler's decks and rigging that were crowded with fishermen in slickers and coveralls. Each held some sort of crude weapon—aluminum bats, wooden clubs, hunks of lumber. The cameraman caught the faded white letters on the bow. A Chinese boat for sure.

The cameraman shouted to the driver to get back to the dive boat. The little aluminum skiff spun on a dime. The driver banked a steep turn in the water, nearly spilling both of them out in his panic. They got within shouting distance of the salvage boat, yelling out dire warnings.

The Japanese crew erupted in their own panicked shouts as they scrambled over the decks, looking for weapons or shelter. A lookout called out the quickening distance as the rusted Chinese trawler barreled closer. The men on the winch engaged the motor, raising up the diver as quickly as possible without inducing the bends. The captain couldn't start the engines. The spinning props would have fouled the dive lines or, worse, shredded the diver. He shouted orders at the inexperienced volunteers to hurry.

The Chinese trawler reversed its engines hard and cut the wheel sharply. The ancient hulk deftly swept sideways, running parallel to the dive boat just yards away.

The Japanese captain blasted his horn in vain, hoping the Chinese boat would push away at the last second. He wished he had an automatic rifle instead of the .38 Smith & Wesson revolver he kept beneath his bunk. He ran for it anyway.

The trawler's engines cut completely but the ship's momentum carried it forward. The two steel hulls thundered on impact, throwing one
of the Japanese crew overboard and tumbling others to the deck, shouting in terror.

The Chinese fishermen leaped aboard the dive boat, laughing and cursing. They were large men with hard, flat-iron faces and feral eyes. They swung their bats and clubs with a practiced efficiency, cracking ribs, knees, and skulls as they swarmed the decks and flooded into the cabin and below deck. The few Japanese who offered resistance or even dared take a swing were mauled by the larger men, some taller by a foot—Mongols.

The Japanese volunteers fell to the deck when struck, balling up, trying to protect themselves from the heavy boots and clenched fists smashing their faces and kicking their guts. The crew who tried to hide were hauled out into the open and bitch slapped until they bled, and the few who made it below deck were beaten even more savagely. A gunshot cracked inside the captain's quarters. The few coherent Japanese flinched at the sound but the Chinese were unfazed.

Within ten minutes, the entire crew was subdued, reduced to a heap of quivering bloody worms writhing on the deck. Radios and other electronic equipment were smashed to pieces. Two Chinese went below the waterline, disabled the engine, cut the fuel lines, smashed the controls.

All of the Rising Sun headbands were ripped from their owners and tossed over the side with a laugh, along with the patriotic banners, as other Chinese crewmen leaped from their trawler and secured the Japanese dive boat with ropes. The rest of the marauding Chinese scrambled back aboard their vessel and the trawler towed the dive boat five kilometers away, dragging the hapless diver behind it a hundred and twenty meters below the surface like a baited hook.

The small skiff trailed on the water behind them, keeping its distance. The driver fished out the first crewman who had been tossed off the dive boat when the ships collided. The two of them barely managed to haul up the furious captain, who was cursing the Chinese despite his broken jaw after he had been thrown overboard like a bag of garbage.

Through it all, the excited cameraman never wavered. He caught everything on his Sony digicam, filling up the flash drive, eager to upload the savage imagery on the Internet as soon as he got to shore.