Drone Command (25 page)

MINISTRY OF STATE SECURITY REGIONAL HEADQUARTERS

NINGBO, ZHEJIANG PROVINCE, CHINA

16 MAY 2017

V
ice Chairman Feng had commandeered the security chief's own office and threw him out, waiting for the phone call for news about his son. He paced the floor like a nervous cat, smoking furiously. The intercom rang. “It's the Berlin embassy, sir.”

Feng snatched up the receiver. “Jianli!”

“I'm sorry, sir. My name is Liu. I'm the station chief.”

“Where's my son?”

“He's been sedated. Doctor's orders.”

Feng's grip tightened on the phone. Perhaps Jianli's kidnapper had castrated him after all. “Was he injured?”

“Traumatized. Just crying, mostly.”

Feng winced. That wouldn't do. But his son's cowardice couldn't be helped now. At least he was safe.

“Have him contact me the minute he wakes up. As soon as he's fit to travel, he's to return home—even if he protests. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And if anything happens to him between now and his arrival, I'll hold you personally responsible. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly.”

“To whom have you spoken of these matters?”

“No one, just as you ordered. Only one other agent was with me when we picked him up. And the doctor, of course.”

“Make sure they understand the importance of silence. If one word of this gets out—”

“I'll be held responsible.”

“I'll have you all shot.”

Feng slammed the phone into its cradle. The image of his naked son hanging like a pig in a slaughterhouse clawed at his heart.

He pulled his secure cell phone from his pocket and punched the speed dial for Admiral Ji. He'd teach those American bastards a lesson in humiliation. Drive it deep into their ugly round eyes like a burning spike.

SAKAI FAMILY COMPOUND

AKUNE, KAGOSHIMA PREFECTURE, JAPAN

17 MAY 2017

T
he rays of the rising sun shot through the towering cumulonimbus on the horizon. A sign, surely.

Sanjuro Sakai sipped the steaming cup of tea, his clear eyes transfixed by the morning sky. The weather report said it would be a clear day, no rain, slight breeze from the west.

Another sign.

Sanjuro had lived a full and interesting life. He was eighty-nine years old and in perfect health. It was a miracle. Born in 1928, he was just seventeen years old when the war ended. If the war had lasted another day, he wouldn't have survived it. His parents and sister didn't, perishing in a fire set by American incendiary bombs.

After the war, Sanjuro fed himself by selling scrap metal, then he apprenticed in a small-engine repair shop. Within a decade, he owned it and began designing his own motors. He sold a patent. Married. Started a family. Started another company.

His wife gave him one son and three daughters before she passed. His children gave him ten grandchildren and five great-grandchildren. An unusually large family in Japan these days. His son grew the company into an international firm worth millions. His daughters all earned university degrees. His grandchildren were educated abroad. They, in turn, had grown the business even larger and diversified it. His entire family was wealthy, comfortable, and close. They worshipped the ground
Sanjuro walked on because everything they enjoyed had all come from his hand.

A fine life indeed.

But his blessings didn't end there. All of his life he loved to fly. His vision was still nearly perfect and he was Japan's second-oldest licensed pilot. Never a crash.

And today was a good day to fly.

But Sanjuro was no fool. Life begins and it ends like the rising and the setting of the sun. He turned his attention to the ancient black-and-white photographs on the small table near his bed, a shrine of memories. Family and friends long gone. He missed them. He stroked his long silvery mustache.

Soon
, he thought.

—

S
anjuro felt the ocean breeze battering his wrinkled face. He could smell the salt. It made him feel young again. Flying always did. The electric hangar door opened at the push of a button. His great-grandson Ikki was already inside, fixing a GoPro camera on the dashboard of the Mitsubishi A6M. The single-engine aircraft was his favorite. A classic. An extravagant gift from his son years ago.

Sanjuro walked the plane, inspecting it. It had been recently serviced and repainted. He checked the ailerons for play, kicked the tires—plenty of air. The hangar floor was clean. No leaks. The mechanic who maintained the family's aircraft was an excellent technician. An artist with a wrench. Sanjuro expected no less than perfection from him and usually got it.

Thirty minutes later, Ikki climbed down and helped Sanjuro pull on his old flight suit, green and baggy on his ancient frame. Then he nimbly climbed the pegs in the fuselage, careful to step only on them and the pad on the wing. Once Sanjuro was inside the cockpit, Ikki followed him up and stood on the wing pad.

“You're still spry, Great-grandfather.”

“Stretching and bending, every day!” He laughed and patted Ikki's
round belly. “Don't forget! Or you'll be a fat man in a wheelchair way too soon.”

Ikki explained to him again how to activate both GoPro cameras, the one in the cockpit facing him and the one on the cowling facing forward, but Sanjuro remembered everything. His mind was as sharp as his eyes. An overactive bladder was the only thing that bothered him. No matter. Today was a short flight.

Ikki pulled out his own video camera. Flipped open the screen. Held it up and hit the record button. “Ready, Great-grandfather?”

“It's a beautiful day to fly, isn't it?” He smiled like a child at play, a mouth full of crooked teeth beneath his mustache.

“Yes, it is.”

They chatted briefly as Sanjuro tested the stick and rudder pedals. Ikki was Sanjuro's favorite great-grandchild, now a grown man, though he thought of him as a boy. Ikki was crazy about flying just like Sanjuro was. Sat at his feet for hours and listened to the old man's stories, especially about the war. Sanjuro talked most about the friends he lost, much younger than Ikki at the time, loyal and brave in service to the emperor. Sanjuro was grateful that Ikki was attentive to his stories. His friends would live a while longer in Ikki's heart long after he was gone, even if only as Sanjuro's memories.

Sanjuro adjusted his
hachimaki
, then pulled on his head gear. Smiled brightly into Ikki's camera. Ikki smiled back and shut it off.

“Good luck and good flying, Great-grandfather.” He patted Sanjuro's shoulder. The old man squeezed his great-grandson's hand.

“It's an easy trip. Don't worry.”

Minutes later, the white aircraft lifted off, captured in Ikki's viewfinder. Sanjuro must have sensed it. He wiggled the Mitsubishi's wings, waving good-bye.

—

T
he television screen flashed
LIVE! BREAKING NEWS!

The two attractive Japanese television anchors, a man and a woman, spoke in rapid, breathless urgency. A video flashed on the screen behind
them. A GoPro camera image of the Chinese oil-drilling ship as seen from above through the flickering shadow of a spinning prop blade.

The young woman announced, “Moments ago, Mr. Sanjuro Sakai—”

The drilling ship grew larger and larger as the camera sped toward the platform.

“Industrialist, family man, and Japan's second-oldest pilot—”

The camera plunged into the drill ship's steel deck, a last-second blur of scattering jumpsuits and steel rigging before the image cut to black.

“Crashed his aircraft today in an apparent suicide attack on the Chinese oil-drilling ship
Tiger II
, in the disputed waters of the Senkaku Islands.”

The television image cut away from the anchors. Ikki's video loop filled the screen. Played again. This time with audio. Sanjuro's voice cried out as the plane plummeted toward the
Tiger II
,
“Banzai! Banzai! BANZAI!”

The male anchor appeared on screen. “No word yet from the Chinese government concerning the extent of the damage. A Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force spokesman just released a statement that the ship caught fire from the strike, but that the fire appears to be under control.”

A new image flashed on the monitor behind them. Sanjuro's smiling face, crinkled and bright, flashing his crooked teeth beneath a rakish silver mustache. He stood in his baggy green aviator's jumpsuit and
hachimaki
—a white headband with a rising sun and kanji that read
FOR JAPAN!
In the background, his white Mitsubishi A6M, the fabled Zero fighter aircraft of World War II legend, gleamed in the sunlight, a bright red sun painted on the fuselage.

The anchorwoman held up a sheet of paper. Other images of Sanjuro flashed behind her, including an Imperial Army photo of seventeen-year-old Sanjuro in the same jumpsuit standing in front of the same kind of airplane, a nearly duplicate image—all carefully crafted by Ikki.

“I have in my hands a copy of the letter he gave to his great-grandson Ikki Sakai just moments before he departed on his fateful journey. It reads, in part, ‘Do not weep for me. Rejoice! It is a beautiful death, to die for one's country. For today I join my brave comrades who flew their
Zeros into the teeth of another invader. We are all delicate flowers, and in the end, our sweet fragrance must fade.'”

The beautiful young woman, a former actress, choked up at the last words and wiped away a tear. She continued reading, inspired. “‘Japan! Do not fear the Dragon. Resist him, and he shall flee. The divine wind shall drive him from our waters. Death is not the end. Do not fear it. But shame will last forever. Fight!'”

The male anchor continued. “Sanjuro Sakai, one of Japan's oldest living pilots, was almost the youngest kamikaze pilot in history. He volunteered as a teenager to fly a suicide mission, but the war ended the day before Corporal Sakai's scheduled flight could take place. His family states that Corporal Sakai lived a long and happy life, but in the end, he had become haunted by the memories of his young friends who had completed their missions.”

The newscast continued, reviewing Sanjuro's long and prosperous life, updating the
Tiger II'
s damage reports, detailing the specs of Japan's most famous fighter aircraft, the history of the kamikaze, and broadcasting several other still images and video clips of Sanjuro and the attack. All of this had been supplied by Ikki, who stood in the station owner's office while watching the broadcast, toasting the owner, an old university pal, with Yamazaki Single-malt Sherry Cask whiskey. The station owner, like Ikki, hated the Chinese, but hated the cowardice of the current Japanese government even more.

When Sanjuro first confided in his great-grandson that he planned to attack the Chinese oil-drilling ship, Ikki protested. But his formidable great-grandfather was undeterred, and he eventually persuaded Ikki to use his exceptional media talents to stir Japan into action against the ancient invader through Sanjuro's sacrifice.

Ikki finally agreed. As both an obedient offspring and an ardent nationalist like Sanjuro, he could do no less. He planned and executed the entire publicity campaign. Besides the carefully crafted images he provided to the news station, the award-winning filmmaker produced several stirring videos of Sanjuro set to patriotic music, along with footage of his final fatal flight and posted them on the Internet.

Within hours of the attack, the videos went completely viral—not just in Japan but all across China as well. Sanjuro's death was hailed by many Japanese as the greatest patriotic act since the war, transforming him instantly into a cult hero to the masses. Sanjuro's Zero had slammed into the Chinese drillship, but his self-sacrificing death exploded in the hearts and minds of Japanese nationalists, who now revered him as the Last Kamikaze. The Japanese stock market viewed the act less favorably, dropping nearly three percent within an hour before nervous regulators suspended trading for the day.

Every Japanese news outlet carried Sanjuro's story and broadcast the video images throughout the morning. Left-wing stations that belittled or condemned the attack were themselves attacked by protestors wearing
hachimaki
identical to Sanjuro's. Patriotic rallies began springing up all across Japan. So did the counterprotests.

By the early afternoon, the brave deck crew of the
Tiger II
finally managed to put out the last flames caused by Sanjuro's strike, but they couldn't stop the raging fire that now burned all across Asia, a blaze that threatened to set the whole world on fire.

THE KANTEI

TOKYO, JAPAN

17 MAY 2017

M
yers exited the fifth-floor elevator with the American ambassador, following one of Prime Minister Ito's secretaries. The retractable roof was open to an afternoon sky. The sunlight shimmered on the white pebbles and large
aji
stones elegantly arrayed in the rock garden. The effect was instant tranquility, a splash of unadorned nature in the midst of their technology-fueled crisis. It was just another example of the ultramodern architectural marvel known as the Kantei, Japan's version of Myers's previous working quarters, the nineteenth-century White House.

The secretary led them to the prime minister's suite of offices, finally directing them to the his private conference room, where they were met by Ito and Tanaka. The room was elegantly paneled in horse chestnut and stainless steel. In the center was a round table constructed of a beautiful Japanese red cherrywood polished to a high gloss. The round shape struck Myers as particularly egalitarian, unlike the four-sided power platforms preferred in Washington and America's corporate boardrooms.

Greetings were exchanged, beverages served.

“I thought Mr. Pearce would join us,” Tanaka said. “Our two nations may soon be at war with China.”

Myers resented his tone. She was well aware of the gravity of the situation. So was Pearce. “Mr. Pearce asked me to extend his apologies. He's not feeling well.”

“Was he badly injured while in Chinese custody?” Ito asked, obviously concerned. His famous shock of silver hair was more disarrayed than usual.

His ego, mostly
, Myers wanted to say. “Nothing that a little rest won't take care of.”

Technically, Pearce wasn't feeling 100 percent, but the truth was that Myers didn't want to reveal that he was conferring with someone in an even more important meeting. With any luck, he'd be able to throw off any Naicho agents who might be tailing him. Japan's intelligence service was small but well organized and proficient. Lane had offered to arrange for help from the CIA chief of station, but Pearce thought it wiser to keep as many people out of the loop as possible. Myers agreed. It would be disastrous if the Japanese thought the CIA was being deployed in an operation designed to thwart their own security service.

An assistant entered the room. “President Lane is ready.”

Ito thanked her. The assistant left, shutting the door. It was just the four of them now. The meeting was top secret. Ito dimmed the lights. A moment later, Lane appeared on a wide-screen HDTV for a live teleconference.

“President Lane, thank you for taking my call. It must be very late where you are.”

Lane flashed his famously boyish smile but couldn't hide the dark circles under his eyes. “It's nice and quiet around here now. Easier to get things done. Thank you for agreeing to keep our meeting today private. I'm looking forward to a frank and open discussion of all of our options.”

“We are as well,” Ito said. “Shall we proceed?”

“Please.”

Ito nodded. “Of course, you know President Myers and Ambassador Davis.”

Lane nodded. “President Myers, Ambassador Davis. Good to see you both.”

Myers grinned. “It's just Margaret, Mr. President.”

“And I believe you know Mr. Tanaka, the parliamentary senior vice minister of foreign affairs.”

“We've never met, but I'm well aware of Vice Minister Tanaka's importance in your administration. I'm grateful he's here with us. His expertise is invaluable. How may I help you, Mr. Prime Minister?”

Ito folded his hands in front of him. “I'm sure you're well aware of the unfortunate events that have transpired today. The crash of a Japanese civilian aircraft into the Chinese drilling ship has led to mass protests across Japan and now China.”

Lane nodded. “I've been apprised by the State Department of the situation. My understanding is that the protests in Osaka and Nagasaki have been particularly violent, at least by Japanese standards.”

“Regrettably, Chinese businesses have been attacked—mostly smashed windows and graffiti,” Ito said. “And counterprotestors have been beaten with fists and pelted with stones, but no serious injuries have occurred.”

“But the situation is escalating. If the Japanese people become aroused, we can expect far more violence.” Tanaka added, “We have reports that yakuza elements are getting involved. They have guns and explosives, and aren't afraid to use them.” Tanaka tried to sound concerned. In fact, he was counting on his old friend Kobayashi to escalate the violence as quickly as possible. The yakuza boss had already silenced a number of prominent left-wing critics in small acts of terror that hadn't yet reached the police blotters.

“I'm even more concerned about events in China. The current violence there is far surpassing the mass protests that unfolded slightly more than a week ago. At least two Japanese nationals have been killed. Our foreign minister has issued a travel warning, urging our citizens to avoid unnecessary travel to or within China. Some Japanese citizens have already sought refuge at our embassy in Beijing.”

“My understanding is that your government has issued a formal apology to Beijing for the suicide attack today?”

“Over my strong protest,” Tanaka said.

Ito nodded. “Yes, but the apology was rejected.”

“And the rejection has been made public,” Tanaka said. “To our great embarrassment.”

“Was it wise to go public with that information?” Myers asked.

“The apology and rejection were issued through back channels. Somehow, the information was leaked,” Ito said.

Only an act of iron will kept a grin from stealing across Tanaka's scowling face. His people had leaked the story to one of the right-wing papers, along with one of the largest left-leaning blogs. Tanaka knew that both sides would be furious, albeit for different reasons. The more pressure he could bring to bear on Ito, the better. He thought Ito was weak, too willing to negotiate and compromise. Properly applied pressure would force him to act in the national interest.

“Our Ministry of Defense has put the JSDF on high alert,” Tanaka said.

“That will only add fuel to the fire, don't you think?” Ambassador Davis asked. “The Chinese might see that as a preparation for hostilities.”

“The JSDF has orders to engage in no provocative actions,” Ito said. “My government is under extreme pressure to respond. My own party is ready to revolt if I don't act swiftly and decisively.”

“I understand your situation, but I urge you to refrain from anything rash,” Lane said.

“Rash? Our satellites indicate that the Chinese aircraft carrier
Liaoning
is preparing to set sail within twenty-four hours from its port in Ningbo,” Tanaka said. “Our intelligence service reports that a PLA marine assault battalion has just arrived in Ningbo as well.”

“The CIA confirms both of those reports,” Lane said. “I understand your concerns. But these could all be preparations for a military exercise, not an invasion of the Senkakus.”

“Would it be easier to block the Chinese from invading the islands or driving them out after they've landed?” Tanaka asked.

“Let's hope that neither situation will occur,” Lane said.

“And if it does?” Tanaka asked.

That's the question, isn't it?
Lane thought.
And my answer may plunge us all into war.
“The best course of action is for us to do everything we can to prevent either from happening.”

“If we restrain ourselves, we give the Chinese the opportunity to deescalate,” Ambassador Davis said.

“For the sake of argument, let's assume we restrain ourselves. Let's further assume the Chinese take our restraint as cowardice and decide to send the
Liaoning
and its support ships to the Senkakus, along with that battalion of marines. What will you do then, Mr. President?” Tanaka jabbed a finger at the desk, driving home his question.

“Katsu!” Ito said. In nearly whispered Japanese, the prime minister urged his friend to restrain himself. But Tanaka wouldn't relent. He glowered at the video screen.

Lane took a sip of water, considering his reply. “I know President Myers briefed you on her visit to Ningbo. She was able to confirm the existence of the Wu-14, a hypersonic glide vehicle capable of disabling or destroying an aircraft carrier. This is classified information, gentlemen, but the United States currently has no known defense against this weapon. We would throw every available antimissile defense weapon at it, but all of our computer models show that the Chinese would likely score a killing strike.”

“You have other weapons in your arsenal,” Tanaka insisted. “You could take out their aircraft carrier with a sub-launched cruise missile.”

“A preemptive strike?” Myers asked, incredulous. “Like Pearl Harbor?”

“I was thinking about Israel's Six-Day War. Do you disagree with the wisdom of their strategy?”

Myers didn't, of course. Israel's preemptive assault on the Egyptian air force allowed it to prevail in its war against Egypt, Syria, and Jordan.

“Or perhaps we're speaking of deterrence,” Ito offered. “If the Chinese sink the
George Washington
, we sink the
Liaoning
. That act alone would set back their carrier program by a decade. That threat might be enough to dissuade the Chinese from any rash decisions.”

Myers shared a glance with Davis. A career diplomat, Davis had studied and lived in Japan for a decade before joining the State Department. His raised eyebrow confirmed her intuition. Ito's use of the word “we” was significant.

“My generals and admirals are urging me to avoid conflict at all costs. Once hostilities begin, there's no way to predict how far or how fast they would escalate. Even the threat of retaliation would prove dangerous in the current climate,” Lane said.

Myers hated to hear Lane talk like this. It almost sounded weak and cowardly. But she knew Lane and knew his distinguished combat record. She also understood the incredible pressure he must have been under from the Pentagon. When all of your senior military advisors tell you not to do something that might start a war, you tend to listen, even if you are the commander in chief. Caution was in order. The stakes were high—the highest. If a war actually did break out, there was no guarantee it would end favorably for the U.S. Wars were notoriously unpredictable. Pearce was fond of quoting the heavyweight boxing champion Mike Tyson: “Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face.”

“I'm sure the Chinese know as well as we do about your unwillingness to do anything to provoke them. Don't you see that such passivity will goad them into action?” Tanaka insisted. “If you're not willing to show your sword, then your enemies will assume you can't use it.”

“The
George Washington
and other American combat forces have been ‘showing the sword' on Japan's behalf for seven decades,” Myers said.

“Mr. President, let's be frank,” Ito said. “If the Chinese do start hostilities, what will the United States do? If you're not even willing to threaten them now before hostilities begin, why would you be more willing to issue threats against them afterward?”

“The Chinese would know that we would have to respond,” Lane said.

“What if they sink your carrier?” Tanaka asked. “Won't your response to the sinking only escalate the violence? Put even more American lives at risk?”

“The State Department doesn't believe that China would be so foolish as to provoke either Japan or the United States into a war it couldn't possibly win,” Davis said. “America and Japan are two of China's largest trading partners. They have far more to lose and little to gain by starting a war over the Senkakus.”

Tanaka turned toward the American ambassador. “Then why have they created this fiction about Mao Island? Why have they started drilling operations? Don't you understand? The Chinese have sent a very clear signal. They're willing to start a war. And I believe they're willing to start a war because they know you won't do anything to oppose them.”

“Our intelligence sources disagree,” Davis said.

“With all due respect, American intelligence has fallen short on many occasions in recent years, beginning with the notable lack of WMDs in Iraq,” Ito said. “That failure of intelligence led to an unnecessary war against Saddam Hussein and a decadelong war against the Iraqi insurgency afterward. As the prime minister of Japan, I reaffirm my nation's unwavering commitment to the United States, but I don't affirm our confidence in your intelligence services.”

Tanaka grunted his approval.
“Hai.”

Can't say that I blame you
, Myers thought. “Let's not forget the Chinese threat about the red line that they conveniently placed just beyond the Senkakus. They said they would consider it an act of war if American naval vessels crossed it and promised to launch the Wu-14 at any carrier that did.”

Tanaka threw out several other tactical possibilities that kept the
George Washington
out of harm's way, but every scenario he proposed had already been hashed out at the Pentagon. In each case, the likely outcome was war, and the only way to carry out operations against Chinese forces was with force projection and that meant deploying the
George Washington
and its battle group. The United States didn't want to risk losing either. Tanaka finally threw up his hands in disgust.

“It seems clear to me, Mr. President, that the United States has no wish for war with China. Neither do we,” Ito said. He sat up straighter in his chair. “But we are determined to defend our national interests and our national honor. If the Chinese dispatch the
Liaoning
into Japanese territorial waters, I will instruct the JSDF to respond.”