Sake Bomb (42 page)

Hiro was an innocent 4-year-old when Little
Boy landed on Hiroshima. She and her parents lived nearly two miles
from the epicenter, but the heat from the blast was so intense it
scorched Hiro’s exposed skin, causing the dermis to boil and
blister the way direct contact with a hot iron would.

Hiro, a brilliant engineer with a keen mind
and determined heart, was forced to quietly bear the scars of
America’s hate until the day she died. She left a little girl of
her own motherless far too soon.

Where, Julie wondered, was the peace in
that?

She brought the aluminum beast into focus
once more, then her eyes shifted to other parts of the room. All
around the huge space various and sundry winged machines told the
history of “sophistication” of World War II, and a large mural
provided the backdrop for this monument to barbarism.

The Japanese man shuffled away, holding the
little girl’s hand. For support? Or in gratitude that, for now, she
didn’t understand the magnitude of hate man could cause his fellow
man?

Julie sighed and made her way back to the
placard. Her hand in her pocket, she fingered the final offering
and bowed her head. “As the rains—”

The room erupted in a cacophony of sounds,
snapping her head up and her focus to the door. A group of excited
school children surged in, a handful of adults in tow trying to
wrangle them all. The children darted to different parts of the
railing, laughed and pointed, marveled at the size of all the
planes. Bright eyes took in the “
cooooool
” aircrafts,
obviously aware of purpose as they made shooting sounds and diving
sounds and other sounds of battle snatched from the safety of
Transformer
movies.

All save one.

A little boy sidled up beside her, fervent
gaze on the placard. A deep frown creased his brow, and he glanced
out at the silver plane dominating the Smithsonian’s hall. He shook
his head and mumbled, “There should be a bell…”

“Jason!” another child called, “Come see
this one!”

A brief glance at Julie, Jason shoved his
hands in his pockets and trudged away.

Julie bowed her head again, whispered the
words she’d repeated at each of the five internment camps she
visited on her cross-country trip, and then settled a tiny flask of
water on the railing. After centering the knot in the red rope
around the neck, she set the last paper oleander beside it. Eyes
fixed on the Enola Gay, she worked the crab claw clasp of the
necklace, pulled it from around her throat. Then she folded it into
the palm of the woman now standing beside her, returning the locket
to its rightful owner.

Full circle.

“Mistress Shinari,” Julie said, bowing
slightly. Then she looked into her owner’s dark eyes.

Vanda smiled. “I’m so very proud of you,
pet.”

August 6
^th

Washington, DC

A
t 2:28
AM
the morning of August 6
^th
, a black SUV sped across the tarmac leaving
Ronald Reagan National Airport in Virginia.

How had Xander managed clearance?

Just one of many questions reeling through
Kizzie’s head. Too much had happened in the last 16 hours, one raw
scab of her past had been peeled off and she hadn’t taken the time
to process how she really felt about it. Didn’t have the time. She
slipped on the skin she was most comfortable in—Agent Kizzie
Baldwin—and focused on the important issues.

Harvey.

Set to go off sometime today.

When was one huge issue.

When was secondary to where.

All Kizzie had deduced was Washington D.C.:
68.3 square miles hiding a nuclear weapon the size of a picnic
basket.

Haystack, meet needle.

Phil forced the vehicle onto the George
Washington Parkway. The streets were mostly clear at this early
hour, yet the lack of traffic was the only positive. If Harvey went
off in a densely populated city like DC, wooden or stucco walls
wouldn’t save anyone.

Her phone vibrated and she pulled it from
her pocket; shoved Fay’s now-useless device into the driver seat’s
back pocket in front of her. “Go.”

Fletcher paused half a second.
“Triangulation on the phone shows it’s still in Tokyo, but it’s
registered to a Vanda Ohayashi. Professor with the University of
Tokyo’s Mechanical Engineering department, an emphasis in robotics.
In DC for a STEM competition for gifted kids held later today,
sponsored by the Smithsonian.”

“Smithsonian,” Kizzie said to Phil, and then
almost immediately to Fletcher, “Wait, there’s a million different
museums. Which one?”

“Not
at
the Smithsonian.
By
—”

“Fle—” Remembering who she was in the car
with, she chopped off his name and swallowed the groan. “Where,
specifically
?”

“Convention Center.”

Some of the tension in her neck and
shoulders eased. “Pick her up.”

“That’s the problem. We can’t find her.”

“
Shit
.”

Xander spun in the passenger seat, concern
in his gaze. Kizzie cracked the knuckles of her free hand. Harvey
was here someplace, set to explode in who-knew how long, and—

“She left her hotel room around 7pm
yesterday evening,” Fletcher cut in. “A kid from the program said
he saw her with a woman while they toured the Air and Space museum.
He was pretty upset because his submersible robot for the
competition is missing, too.”

“Specs on the other woman?”

“Young, long black hair, Japanese
descent…”

Vanda was Mistress Shinari. There were 5
sacred warriors, three dead, one sitting beside Kizzie in the back
seat of the SUV. This new woman might be the warrior unaccounted
for. But which?

Sumi’s smug words to Fay replayed in
Kizzie’s head, drowning Fletcher out: “
You have to choke a
fire.”

The tattoo on Fay’s shoulder. An oleander.
Relatively fresh, and right over where the other girls had an
In-Yo,
shinari
in the dragon position, their element in the
tiger slot. Was Fay’s element fire?

Submersible robot.

Xander had mentioned the best-case scenario
for using Harvey was a surface detonation. On land or…

“Water,” Kizzie mumbled. The puzzle clicked
into place and she said it louder. “Water. She’ll detonate in
water.”

“It’s DC,” Fletcher reminded her. “Water
everywhere.”

“Not too late to bail,” Xander said
half-heartedly, focus on the phone in his hand.

Kizzie shook her head without hesitation.
She’d stop this bomb.

Or die trying.

A light rain had started to fall, and Phil
flicked on the windshield wipers.

“It’s water. Gotta be someplace closed in,”
she said.

Xander nodded, thumb working like mad over
the display of his cell phone. “Reservoir or lake. The Potomac is
too random, especially if you want to make a point…”

She relayed the thought to Fletcher as the
SUV started over the bridge to bring them into DC proper. Cruising
over the rushing Potomac, Kizzie shoved down a breath to keep her
thoughts clear, but in the back of her mind she knew time was
running out.

“It’s pretty at night, with all the lights…”
Sumi said so low Kizzie almost missed it. Sumi sat on the passenger
side behind Xander, and had leaned forward to look out of the
window across from her. “Didn’t think it’d be so pretty.”

“Anything else you can think of, Kizzie?”
Fletcher asked through the phone.

She was mildly aware of Xander’s questioning
gaze, but Kizzie had her face turned to the view out her
window.

In the distance, the Washington Monument
pointed skyward like a beacon in the predawn black; in the
foreground a large domed building glowed yellow, reflecting off a
dark, mirrored surface.

A body of water surrounded by cherry
trees
—a sign of friendship from the Japanese…

Cherry trees were too fragile…

Oleanders were resilient...

The Tidal Basin.

Every major US building—the Pentagon, the
Capitol Building, the White House—not to mention most of the city’s
monuments were within a three-mile radius of that man-made
reservoir.

Every major symbol of America…

Cold dread inched down Kizzie’s spine.

“Get off,” Xander urged before Kizzie had
the chance. His eyes were on hers, but he spoke to Phil. “Now.”

* * * *

E
ast of the
Jefferson Memorial’s amber glow, Julie held an umbrella
outstretched over her Mistress’s head. Vanda crouched near the
water’s edge, working with a handful of tools and a small
flashlight. Puffs of breath clouded in the damp air, her locket
sliding along a familiar path beneath her collarbones as she
situated a sphere in the box.

Not a memory, but a feeling just as wispy
went through her. Surreal, to be on the cusp of the culmination of
her life’s work. And it
was
her life’s work:

August 4
^th
, 1985—She met Nikolay Sokoviev for the first
time. A kiss on the mouth and expensive gold locket for her
matushka.
For 4-year-old Vanda, a doll. “A late birthday
present, or an early one,” he’d said. She’d have preferred a
chemistry set, or an electronics kit to be more like her mother,
but
matushka
always said being grateful is to know peace.
Vanda smiled and hugged her father.

August 5
^th
,1985—Her first plane ride, going to see where
Matushka
came from: Hiroshima, Japan.
Matushka
was
named after
her
birth city, how come Vanda hadn’t been named
Mosc? Hiro let her have the window seat, and she’d spent the time
fascinated by the mechanized movements of aileron and spoiler and
flaps on the wing.

August 6
^th
, 1985—Hiro promised
wagashi
if she
behaved. The ceremony. The speeches. They added the names to the
box. The bells rang out. People cried. The building was across the
river.
Matushka
cried so Vanda cried. The promise:
“You
will not hate…it is a most powerful enemy…you must not bend to it,
not even a little. Promise me.”

Each day after had been dedicated to keeping
that promise.

Hate didn’t break her, or bend her, but
molded her for a greater purpose.

Revenge?

No, too simple. Too base.

This was more noble.

A plan steeped so long the brew was almost
too strong, too sweet.

For Hiro.

For the grandparents Vanda had never known,
whose absence forced her
matushka
to a Russia that barely
took the scarred child in.

For the communities ripped apart by a
careless mother and her obedient son.

For those hunched at cenotaphs; bottles and
flowers on railings; heads bowed before the Enola Gay; fingers,
gnarled and burned, pointing at the venerated, gleaming hull that
mocked their survival. For those who never saw the shiny bitch
creeping overhead.

For phantoms.

The trove of names who couldn’t
remember.

The living who would rather forget.

Vanda had not forgotten.

Not a nation. One person, willing to act for
all.

One warrior of peace.

Vanda was that warrior—had always
been
that warrior.

A smile touched her lips as she started the
timer on the cell phone. In a little over six hours, DC would be
razed to the ground, an echo of Hiroshima, and balance would be
restored.

No stopping it now.

Vanda caressed the hard metal like she would
a child’s cheek, then screwed the last bolt into the casing and
flipped the power switch on. A submersible robot beneath the thin
float would drag the bomb atop it to the center of the Tidal Basin,
forcing the huge metal box down as it went. The holes drilled into
the casing would help keep it under in case the short-lived
batteries on the robot went out.

She pushed the device into the water with a
small splash. In spite of the weight, the raft kept it afloat.
Perfect. Vanda lifted her hand; Julie helped her from the ground.
One last look at her creation and she let out a long breath.

In an interview after the first atomic bomb
was detonated in New Mexico, Oppenheimer, the bomb’s creator, said
he was reminded of words from the Hindu holy book, the
Bhagavad-Gita.

“Now, I am become death,” she quoted
reverently, “the destroyer of worlds.”

Fingering the device in her pocket, she
understood how he felt. Power crackled through her veins like an
electric current, potent and alive.

“You do it, pet.” Vanda nodded, holding out
a small remote control to her submissive. Julie’s eyes rounded as
she took the control; Vanda took hold of the umbrella’s shaft.
Julie eagerly worked the joysticks, and Vanda looked on with
pride.

This moment should have been hers and
Fay’s.

It would be.

Her true submissive was nearby, she could
feel her. After so long, Fay would be happy to be the only one
again. And she owed the woman a nice hard caning for her insolence
at the Peace Memorial. Yes, she’d be the one to show Fay who was
the owner, and who the pet. Smiling, Shinari eased the gun from
Julie’s pocket and the girl turned around.

“Doing fine, pet. This is just to protect
you…us.”

Julie continued with her task.

Yes, she and Fay would be together again
soon. Mistress above, submissive below.

Dynamic balance.

Gun in her hold, Vanda looked on, a proud
parent watching as her little boy was guided toward his final
resting place, preparing to change the world.

An immense peace settled on her
shoulders.

Her promises would be kept, both to her
mother
and
her father.