Sudden Threat (57 page)

“Well, then, tell the Pope to mind his own business,” Mizuzawa said.

“Are you refusing to reverse the course of the ship, Prime Minister?” Sierra asked, as if he were negotiating.

“There is no ship, Sierra. Now leave,” Mizuzawa shot back. His eyes darted between Fathers Sierra and Xavier, registering something, perhaps a telepathic bond between the two men.

“Wait a second, sir—” Nugama said, only to be cut off by Mizuzawa.

“Enough!” Mizuzawa screamed, grabbing the capped bottle of sake and cracking it over the computer’s keyboard, the alcohol’s clear liquid spreading over the gray frame.

There it was. Sierra was looking for an opening. He could sense that Nugama might be willing to deal. Sierra’s experience told him that when a man faces certain death, he will frequently seek the option that preserves his life. Nugama didn’t need to know just yet that he wasn’t going to live. He slightly nudged Father Xavier in the right thigh with his right elbow as the guard took a step toward them.

“Operations, this is
Shimpu,
” said a static-filled voice over the radio receiver positioned next to the computer monitor. “Thirty minutes out from target, I can see the harbor.”

Sierra looked at the radio, then back at Mizuzawa, who was nearly foaming at the mouth.

“Well, Prime Minister, what are you going to do?”

Mizuzawa turned the jagged edge of the sake bottle up to his lips, drinking the remainder of the liquid from the capped bottle. The sharp glass cut his lips, causing bright red streams of blood to slide down his face. Nugama watched, his eyes darting nervously toward the two priests.

Biting a chunk of the glass from the bottle, then chewing, Mizuzawa tossed the jagged glass at Sierra. Mizuzawa then drew his revolver from his holster, waving it madly in Sierra’s face.

“The Americans must die! They dropped bombs on Nagasaki and Hiroshima! We drop bomb on Los Angeles! In thirty minutes, the Japanese people will have revenge for the most heinous war crimes of all time. Then we will be even!” Mizuzawa shouted, spitting wads of blood and glass into Sierra’s face.

“I ask you one last time,” Sierra said, calmly, his stoic countenance showing no sign of fear. “Are you going to stop the ship?”

“You idiot! Can’t you see this is our destiny?! Soon my generation will go the way of the
Shimpu.
We will all be gone, taking with us the memories of the horror of Nagasaki and Hiroshima. If we do not act now, revenge will never be achieved. The West will have triumphed over the East, an unforgivable sin. I would have you tell the Americans ‘no,’ but now I must kill you both. I have told you too much already,” Mizuzawa said, red spit bubbles forming at the corner of his mouth. He angled the revolver toward Sierra’s face.

“Wait, Prime Minister, you underestimate me. I will tell the Americans nothing,” Sierra said, his voice like granite.

“I wish I could trust you, but the Christian faith is useless, and, therefore, so are you.”

Sierra looked at Nugama, who had turned away, awaiting the blast. He thought he saw a tear streaming down Nugama’s cheek, which was a good sign.

Nugama flinched as a shot rang loudly in the close quarters of the office. He heard a man fall to the ground, dropping to one knee, then the other. Another shot echoed loudly in the small room.

“Either you turn that ship around, or you’re next,” Sierra said. Father Xavier’s Glock was dangerously close to Nugama’s temple. Sierra’s Glock was wafting smoke from the bore and still aimed at the dead guard.

Nugama picked up the radio handset and said, “
Shimpu,
this is operations center. Reverse course, the worthless Americans have met our demands. Your mission is complete.”

“Roger,
Shimpu
turning now. Congratulations,” Sazaku said.

Father Xavier held his pistol level with Nugama’s face, then backed away from the Japanese general, nodding at the man’s revolver.

Sierra saw Nugama reach for his own revolver and Father Xavier let him finish the move. Nugama’s hand slid slowly up his side, and he turned the weapon against his temple, pulling the trigger. The bullet bored through his brain, squeezed out the other side, and tumbled harmlessly onto Mizuzawa’s body.

Nugama slumped to the floor, draped across Mizuzawa’s legs, their bodies forming an X on the floor.

“Fathers Sierra and Xavier” pulled the starched collars from their black shirts, tossed them on the desk, and Xavier wheeled Sierra into the hot Philippine sun. Sierra removed the brown contact lenses and chucked them aside also. Strapping, combat-ready Marines opened the tall iron gate surrounding the chapel grounds and carried Sierra onto the hospital litter, which they placed in the UH-60 helicopter for immediate evacuation back to the
Mercy.

 “Sir, you okay?” the security detail leader asked.

“Fine. Get me back to the hospital ship.”

The Marines snapped to attention and saluted the wounded warrior and his partner, as the Black Hawk departed.

CHAPTER 102

Greene County, Virginia

Karen had gone numb when she heard the news. This time, the green sedan did not carry Meredith; rather, it bore the grim reaper.

“Your brother is dead, ma’am. Killed in action. Performed magnificently. Made a difference. Made history.” The man had spoken in broken sentences, or so it seemed, as Karen had collapsed on the wooden porch.

Meredith had lifted her, though, holding her up with her strong arms. “Be strong, Karen,” Meredith had said. And so she was.

Reverend Early spoke that day, standing next to the fresh-tilled dirt next to Mother Garrett’s grave in the shadows of the Blue Ridge. The new hole would receive her brother, and Karen had almost asked them to dig one for her. There had been no other news, except a report that a civilian had died from a gunshot wound to the stomach. She would pray and be strong though. She would try to believe that she had one brother still alive. Like walking against a gale-force wind, she would force herself to go against her instincts.

Meredith sat next to her in the cold metal chair on the cool spring morning. The fog had only recently lifted, replaced by the smell of fresh-cut hay. The old brick house was perched above them on the hill across from the barn where the horses and cows wandered, oblivious to all of the pain endured in the Garrett household during the past month.

There was more pain to follow. There always was.

The elder Garrett sat on the other side of Karen, and they all peered into the deep hole that would receive their loved one.

They couldn’t help it, Meredith and Karen. They cried openly, unembarrassed, with the hundred or so well-wishers standing behind them and paying their last respects to Stanardsville’s fallen hero.

“He died in the fury of combat, protecting the world from a heinous enemy. Through his personal efforts and his sacrifice, the world is truly a safer place,” Reverend Early said. He spoke eloquently, as all preachers seem to do. He was emphatic at just the right moment, and soft-spoken when necessary. His words soothed and at least tried to heal the pain.

Meredith watched and couldn’t help but think of when she had first met Matt in Palau. She looked away, seeing the angular wings of a dove dart back and forth along the tree line near the stream. A rabbit hopped into a hole near the barn, and the wind churned lightly atop the trees. She felt the Blue Ridge to her back, strong and powerful, full of grace. Yes, amazing grace.

She stood as the gathering began singing “Amazing Grace.”

“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost but now am found …”

The DC-9 Nightingale
had landed at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland less than fifteen miles from Washington over three hours ago.

The government car sped down Route 29 until it reached the small town of Ruckersville, then turned right onto a county-maintained road. Passing an outlet store, then Shifflett Exxon, the car sped past a Greene County police officer, who did not bother to pursue. The trees and split-rail fences that cordoned the road whipped by with monotony. The Blue Ridge stared down upon him from the west, almost seeming to smile. The rolling hills and gradual peaks adorned with trees and shrub and grass opened their arms wide, welcoming the man.  It gave him a good feeling, a sense of connection. He remembered the area well, and was glad that he could visit once again.

The car turned off the paved road and dipped once to the right as it crossed the cattle guard, then found purchase in the gravel and hardstand that was the road.

The passenger could see the brick house and he felt secure. Just being on the property, the land, was enough to make him want to stop the driver and let him walk and feel the red clay beneath his feet. If only he
could
walk.

The car stopped in a circular area just outside the wooden porch, and the driver opened the door so that he could give assistance.

“Once was blind
, but now can see!”

Meredith looked down, then over her shoulder at the Blue Ridge, rising above her like a powerfully strong man, but emanating the seductiveness and lure of a beautiful woman. The mountains gave her strength. She knew that she could be strong. She had endured.

She looked at Karen, who was also peering over her shoulder, having stopped singing as well. Beyond the throng of well-wishers, their mouths all moving in synch, they could see the source of their strength. Something so beautiful had to develop the character of its people.

A special breed.

They both turned and looked at each other, Meredith’s blond hair lying softly on her black dress, Karen’s reddish brown hair equally beautiful in its unfamiliar position fanned across her shoulders. Each woman, beautiful and strong.
Like the Blue Ridge.

Their eyes connected, passing a knowing sign that they would forever endure the tragedies of the past. And that those tragedies had created an indelible link between them. Life would go on. It always did.

Meredith looked back at the coffin sitting ominously next to the rectangular hole as she felt the wind brush her face and thought she could feel Matt’s presence. How fitting, she thought, as she heard a commotion at the back of the crowd.

The man used
crutches to assist his movement to the graveyard, the rubber tips collecting, then kicking out, red clay. Near the back of the group, he heard one woman gasp, as if she saw a ghost, perhaps a ghost of the man who was supposed to be in the coffin.

The singing slowed, then stopped, as the man made his way to the front of the group and placed his hands on the shoulders of the blond-haired woman.

Meredith felt the
wind kick at her face again, bringing a smile to her lips. Suddenly, the chorus of “Amazing Grace” grew louder, echoing distinctly through the valley below, then resonating loudly back to the Blue Ridge. It was a proud sound, a comforting one.

Then there were the comforting hands of a well-wisher upon her back. She reached and touched both hands lightly, patting them to say “thank you.” Odd, though, that both hands were bandaged.

Why would Preacher Early be smiling so much, singing so loud?

Meredith thought she heard a familiar voice say, “How’s my Virginian?”

There he was. Matt Garrett, flesh and blood. Scars and healing wounds ran across his face, white gauze covered his hands, and he looked
tired
.

The singing stopped at the very moment Meredith placed both her hands to her mouth, holding back the tears and the joy and the frustration and the sadness and the happiness. Her emotions tumbled through her body, coursed through her mind, causing her to shake and stretch her hands outward, seemingly unsure of what to do.

Matt managed a weak smile and laid his chin on her shoulder as he grabbed Karen and his father, who were by then standing and holding on to him.

Karen grabbed the back of his hair and held him tightly, saying, “My God, you’re back. Thank you.” They all held on to Matt’s bandaged torso tightly, squeezing so hard it hurt him, but it didn’t matter. Then Riley Dwyer, Zachary’s girlfriend, was joining the group, her long, curly strawberry blond hair falling across Karen’s back. And there was Blake Sessoms, his childhood friend, smiling, his ponytail shaking as he cried and joined the growing throng.

He hugged them all as best he could, looked over the shoulders and heads burrowed into his strong chest, and stared into his brother’s grave, weeping. Out of the corner of his misty eyes he noticed a young girl, maybe fourteen, standing away from the group, near the fence, with her arms crossed, staring at the mountains. Amanda: Zach’s daughter.

Mr. Garrett turned his head, looked at Zachary’s grave, and said to his God, “My boys are home. Thank you.”

CHAPTER 103

Georgetown, Washington, DC

Saul Fox and Dick Diamond lay in bed in Fox’s Georgetown townhouse. Fox was propped on one elbow, lightly stroking Diamond’s arm. A week had passed since the Japanese general and prime minister had died in Manila’s Malcanang Palace Catholic sanctuary and the
Shimpu
had been stopped. Fox had opened the window earlier in the day, allowing the cool evening air to flutter through the heavy drapes. The piano strokes of Bach’s “Well-Tempered Clavier” pinged softly through the surround-sound speakers.

“This was all so very exciting,” Fox said. “So close to Armageddon in Los Angeles.”

“I’m not sure I can wait until next spring for Iraq,” Diamond said softly. “The thrill was beyond belief.”

“A long, continuous frisson of pleasure.”

“Yes, a frisson.”

“Afghanistan was no fun, like a bad lay,” Fox said. “Just lay there, if you’ll pardon my pun.”

“But this was satyr-like, almost kinky.” Diamond smiled. “We had no idea what was going to happen next, what nerve ending might tingle.”

“The continuous ratcheting upward, like building toward a climax, was unbelievable,” Fox agreed.