Drone Command (28 page)

The defense minister nodded violently.
“Hai!”

Tanaka stood and began applauding. The other ministers followed.
Ito remained seated, nodding his thanks. He shot a glance at Myers.
That's the best I can do
.

She nodded her thanks and prayed it was enough. In twenty-two hours, she'd know for sure whether or not Pearce had pulled everything together and what stuff Lane was actually made of.

CABINET ROOM

THE KANTEI

TOKYO, JAPAN

18 MAY 2017

10:18 A.M. (JST)

T
anaka's cell phone vibrated in his trousers while he was still applauding Ito's decision. Ito was soon surrounded by the other ministers who bowed and shook his hand, congratulating him. Tanaka slipped out of the room into the hall in the confusion, heading for his private offices.

Ito's decision to give the Americans another twenty-two hours was craven. The Americans would never risk a war with China on Japan's behalf. Why couldn't he see that? Like so many Japanese, Ito had become a willing participant in his own debasement. The whole country was suffering from a collective Stockholm syndrome. The Americans had killed millions of Japanese during the war, subverted the emperor's divinity, and imposed pacifism on Japan by force of arms. And yet they acted as if America were some kind of benefactor. Japan must stand on its own two feet and assume its rightful role in the world. Only a nuclear-armed Japan would be able to do so. China, Russia, and the United States only respected force. Even backward North Korea had nuclear weapons—and look how the United States feared them!

Of course, Ito disagreed with his views. At least Ito was willing to consider conventional rearmament and amending the Constitution. But it wasn't enough. Ito was the head of the nation and yet he had no martial spirit. That made him not only weak, but also a traitor to his culture
and his people. Tanaka prayed Ito would have the guts to follow through on his promise to attack the Chinese fleet if the Americans failed to keep their promise, but he doubted it. Fortunately, Tanaka had a few reliable allies in the naval and air branches of the JSDF. If Ito wouldn't pull the trigger, they would.

Safely behind his locked office door, Tanaka checked his text message. Finally, good news. His friend at the Naicho had, in fact, been able to locate Pearce through a mutual contact in the maritime service. The American was definitely up to something. The former CIA officer was mounting some kind of operation, no doubt directed at disabling Japan's ability to defend itself against the Chinese. Like Myers, Pearce was an arrogant
gaijin
. He was also dangerous. Now that Pearce had been located, he could be dealt with. Tanaka messaged back to his friend at the Naicho to send his men home, then forwarded Pearce's location to another number. He also called his JMSDF contact and told him to alert his men to the pending action.

Unlike Ito, Tanaka wasn't afraid to shed blood in defense of the homeland. Especially American blood.

SASEBO NAVAL BASE

NAGASAKI PREFECTURE, JAPAN

18 MAY 2017

23:07 P.M. (JST)

A
vintage American muscle car rumbled up to the poorly lit side gate of the JMSDF naval base. Only one guard was on duty. He stepped out of his guard shack and leaned into the driver's open window. Two men dressed in black tactical gear were crammed inside the two-door coupe. The driver gave the password, slipped the guard a wad of cash. The guard waved them through.

—

P
earce and Dr. T. J. Ashley, a colleague and UUV expert, worked feverishly on the last assembly. They had just twenty minutes to finish up and get everything loaded on the fast launch if they hoped to meet the rendezvous at sea on time. Pearce's Bluetooth rang.

“Are you watching your monitor?” Ian asked.

“Kinda busy.”

“You've got company.”

“So take care of it.”

“On it.”

“But I want them alive.”

Ian hesitated. “If you insist.”

—

T
he two-man sniper team set up on the rooftop of the nearest building just two hundred yards away from the Vietnam-era Quonset hut where Pearce and Ashley were working. The spotter had Pearce and the short-haired woman in his scope inside the building. He whispered the exact distance to the shooter, lying prone on his belly and sighting his rifle.

“Can't miss,” he said, adjusting the scope one click.

The spotter glanced down around the perimeter one last time through his scope. Didn't see anything.

“All clear. Fire when ready.”

The shooter smiled. His left hand was missing a finger but his shooting hand was intact.

“Ready.”

The shooter slipped his shooting hand toward the trigger guard. Two flash-bangs bounced on the asphalt roof between the shooter and spotter. Ian's whisper-quiet quadcopter sped away. Before either man realized what had happened, the flash-bangs exploded.

—

T
he yakuza awoke, his face slapped hard by a big hand.

He blinked his bleary eyes furiously against the fluorescent lights blazing overhead. He attempted to move his hands to shield his eyes but couldn't. A thin plastic cable tie bit into his wrists behind his back so tightly his shoulders ached. He hardly noticed this because of the screaming headache hammering inside of his skull.

The big American lifted him up by his tactical shirt and pulled his face close to his, shouting. But the Okinawan yakuza didn't speak any English and he could hardly hear him anyway through the shrill whine in his aching ears. He glanced over at the shooter, who lay on the floor, arms cuffed behind his back, blood trickling out of his ears and nose. His shirt had been ripped away, revealing the brightly colored yakuza tattoos adorning his chest and arms.

The spotter began to panic. If he looked as bad as the shooter did, then he was truly fucked.

The American let go of the spotter's shirt and he thudded back to the floor. His eyes followed the American's combat boots as they trudged toward a worktable in the center of the room. The spotter saw the short-haired lady carrying a big sealed plastic case out of the Quonset hut. She seemed entirely unconcerned about the situation. Her indifference terrified him even more.

The American turned around, holding a pair of yellow-gripped wire cutters in his hands. The spotter's heart raced. The American marched over to the shooter and rolled him onto his stomach, exposing his cuffed hands pinned behind his back. The American was shouting again and kneeling on the shooter's spine, holding the shooter's left hand and tugging on the stubbed finger cut off from an earlier failure.

The shooter screamed, tears streaming down his face, utterly panicked. The spotter didn't need to speak English to know what the American must have been threatening. The American shoved the shooter's index finger between the razor-sharp cutting blades and began to squeeze the grips. That crazy American was going to cut off all the shooter's fingers if he didn't talk—but the spotter knew the shooter wouldn't. Then the American would come after him—

“Oshiro! Oshiro!” The spotter shouted his boss's name over and over.
What else could the American want?

The big American turned his cold-blooded gaze toward him. Shouted something again. The spotter couldn't make it out.

The spotter saw his friend shouting at him, face twisted with rage. He couldn't quite hear him, but the way his mouth formed the words it looked like he was screaming for him to shut the fuck up.

The American dashed over to the spotter, pushing the wire cutters into his face and shouting again. The spotter felt his bladder give way, hot piss welling up inside of his pants.
What did this crazy bastard want now? To say the name again?

“Oshiro! OSHIRO! O-SHI-RO!”

The American's livid scowl softened. He stood, touched his earpiece, then spoke. A moment later, the spotter barely heard the American say, “Oshiro.” The spotter sighed with relief. He'd guessed right. The American had wanted to know who had sent them. Oshiro-
san
was his
oyabun
, the boss of his
gumi
.

The American tapped his earpiece again, tossed the wire cutters onto the table. He grabbed something and turned back around, marching over to the shooter.

Oh, shit
.

The American shoved a clear plastic bag over the shooter's head, whipped out a long white plastic cable tie, and ripped it around the shooter's neck, zipping it tightly.

The shooter panicked, screamed. When he inhaled, the plastic bag sucked partway into his mouth, which only made him panic more. He exhaled until he out of breath inhaled again, and sucked the bag back into his mouth. The cycle repeated. The American watched emotionlessly. The breaths came shorter and shorter. The bag fogged.

The American stood and turned his withering gaze at the spotter. He stepped slowly over to him, knelt down. Held another plastic bag and zip tie in front of the spotter's face. Leaned in close. Spoke, moving his mouth slowly.

The spotter squinted, trying desperately to hear the words.

“Ya-ma-da? Ya-ma-da?” the American asked.

“
Hai!
Yamada! Yamada!”

A slew of words vomited out of the spotter's mouth, explaining that his
oyabun
Oshiro-
san
had ordered the attack at sea on the American Yamada, using one of his own fishing trawlers but making it look Chinese, just like he'd ordered. It was just a job. Nothing personal. Him? He liked Americans. Even drove an American—

A plastic bag snapped over the spotter's face, clouding his vision. He kicked and twisted as hard as he could, but the American planted a heavy knee into his chest, pinning him to the ground. A moment later, the zip tie cinched around his neck. He tried not to panic, tried to take small,
measured breaths. Felt more than two hundred pounds lift off his chest as the American stood and stepped away.

The spotter rolled over just in time to watch the American jog out the door. He shouted for mercy through the fogging bag. The last thing he saw was the American's hand hitting the light switch, throwing the room into an eternal black.

THE SITUATION ROOM

THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

18 MAY 2017

10:42 A.M. (EDT)

T
he Situation Room had just been refurbished again, updated with the latest security and communications equipment. It looked nothing like Kennedy's original room, with its small table, paneled walls, analogue clocks, and Bakelite telephones. But Lane felt the weight of history nonetheless. JFK had created the Situation Room after the Bay of Pigs fiasco, believing his administration had stumbled into a crisis and nearly a world war because he lacked enough credible information. Fifty-five years later, Lane still felt like he didn't have all the intel he needed to avoid a war with China, despite all of the computers and high-tech gear surrounding him. But he was going to have to make a decision today nonetheless.

Lane sat at the head of the rectangular mahogany table where he had control of the video monitors. The others sat in the high-backed leather chairs in no particular order, ignoring protocol. Lane was informal and preferred to keep it that way even in the Situation Room. In attendance were JCS Chairman General Onstot and the other service chiefs, along with Director of National Intelligence Pia, Secretary of State Wheeler, Secretary of Defense Shafer, and National Security Advisor Garza.

The image on the nearly wall-length HD screen opposite Lane was a live satellite video feed showing the Chinese fleet steaming toward the
Senkakus. He intentionally kept all of the other video screens blank. Too much information was as big a problem as the lack of it.

Lane spoke to the speakerphone on the table. Myers was on the other end in Japan. “What's the word from your man Ian?”

“He's still running the software analysis. He isn't able to confirm whether or not the Wu-14 will actually work.”

“And the bot?”

“It's found several Chinese classified test results claiming success.”

The DNI chimed in. “Same as the thumb-drive data you sent us. Our analysts say it's legit, so that clinches it.”

“Not necessarily,” Myers said. “Ian believes it's possible all of those reports might be falsified, including the internal ones.”

“Why would the Chinese file bogus test results with their own people?”

“For the same reasons our defense contractors sometimes do,” Garza said. “They massage the data to get continued funding for their pet projects. Even some of the peer-reviewed science journals are loaded with bogus research these days. Everyone's out for a buck.”

“Thank you, Margaret. I appreciate everything you've done.”

“My pleasure, Mr. President. I'll wait for your further instructions.” Myers clicked off.

“Well, you heard it for yourselves. President Myers says that if we don't send the
George Washington
across the red line and block the Chinese assault on the Senkakus the Japanese will go to war without us.” Lane turned to Secretary Wheeler. “Do you concur with her assessment?”

Wheeler nodded. “The Japanese will undoubtedly go to war without us, especially now that the presence of the Chinese fleet was leaked to the Japanese press. New and larger mass protests have broken out all over Japan. If Ito doesn't act quickly, his government will fall and a militarist right-wing coalition will undoubtedly be formed. If that happens, all bets are off.”

Lane turned to the DNI. “How did the Japanese media get this information?”

Pia shrugged his shoulders. “A leak in Ito's cabinet or maybe on the
JSDF staff. Certainly wasn't on our end, otherwise it would've gone to an American media outlet.”

“The Japanese won't be waiting for us for much longer. Our fleet guys at Yokosuka report their JMSDF counterparts are prepping for war even as we speak,” Onstot said.

The
George Washington
was ported out of Yokosuka, but the carrier and its battle group were already at sea. After his meeting with the JCS at the Tank several days earlier, Lane had decided to deploy the
George Washington
to Okinawa for a “training exercise,” hoping that it would prove to be enough of a deterrent to keep the Chinese at bay, but clearly the ploy had failed. The
George Washington
and its escorts were two miles north of Okinawa, which kept them safely beyond the Chinese red line, but still within striking distance of the Senkakus.

“Still no word from President Sun?” Lane asked.

Wheeler shook her head. “He's just waiting to see how all of this plays out to his advantage. Our best guess is that he's hoping to clean house when this is all over. It's a shrewd gamble.”

“He's a sonofabitch for risking a war for his personal political gain.”

“Like every other fucking politician,” Garza said. Catching himself, he added, “Present company excluded.”

“He's not the only one. The rest of the PLA is standing on the sidelines, too. They'll be the first ones to applaud if Admiral Ji pulls this thing off,” Shafer said.

Lane shifted in his chair. “If we deploy the
George Washington
across the red line, will that be enough to stop the Chinese?”

Wheeler drummed her fingers on the table, weighing her response. “My gut says no. We've communicated our position clearly and forthrightly. There's no misunderstanding. If the
George Washington
doesn't deter them on the far side of the red line, it won't on the near side.”

“Which only confirms President Myers's report. The Chinese wouldn't be this bold if they didn't possess a fully operational carrier-killing missile,” Onstot said. “The navy sure as hell believes it. Our satellites report that a DF-21D mobile launcher at Ningbo has been prepared and is ready for launch.”

“The Wu-14?” Lane asked.

“Based on what Pearce and Myers described, I would say so.”

“Should we risk sending the
George Washington
over the red line?”

“The navy says not unless we're willing to do a preemptive strike on that mobile platform,” Shafer said.

“Which starts the war,” Garza said. “Exactly what we're trying to avoid.”

“That platform might be a decoy. The real launcher might be somewhere else,” General Onstot said.

The DNI shook his head. “Our intelligence reports indicate no other movement or deployment of mobile launchers outside of Ningbo, something they should've done as a decoy move if nothing else. Somebody over there isn't doing Feng and Ji any favors.”

“Does that mean President Sun is sending us a signal?” Lane asked. The CIA had just confirmed that both Vice Chairman Feng and Admiral Ji were on board the
Liaoning.

The secretary of state shook her head. “I'm not sure. Feng and Ji are thick as thieves, and the two of them together pose the greatest threat to Sun's presidency.”

“You're saying he's hoping they'll go down with the ship?” Lane asked, incredulous.

“He isn't doing anything extra to prevent that possibility, that's for sure,” Garza said.

Lane turned back to Pia. “What if we ask the Chinese for a forty-eight-hour delay?”

“To what end? They're determined to seize the Senkakus even if they granted us another forty-eight hours, which they likely won't.”

“And if we don't do anything and allow the Chinese to seize the Senkakus and abandon the Japanese to their fate, all of our other allies in the region—Taiwan, the Philippines, even Australia—will question our commitment to them. They'll run as fast as they can to Beijing to cut their best deals before the Chinese turn their fleets in their direction,” Wheeler said.

“A complete power realignment throughout the western Pacific. Hell, all of Asia, for that matter,” Shafer added.

“And you'll embolden the North Koreans for sure,” Pia said.

Onstot leaned forward. “For the record, the navy strongly believes that sending the
George Washington
over the red line will result in its destruction.”

“So we're still at square one. Damned if we do, damned if we don't,” Lane said.

“It's a lose-lose situation,” Garza said. “A one-handed clap.”

“Almost,” Lane said, leaning back. “There's still one option.”

His advisors all exchanged a glance, curious. “What have we missed?” Wheeler finally asked.

Lane smiled. “Pearce.”