The map hung on the left side of the room. Most days Lieutenant Jack Mizuha stopped to admire it on his way to lunch, stepping into the briefing room after a quick glance over his shoulder to see that no one was around. He liked the festive colors of each country, and the way the world, thus flattened and miniaturized, looked manageable (France, the benign size of a fingertip; Turkey, as wide as a hat badge; China, the width of a hand). It was in all ways a perfect map, except for an almost imperceptible smudge mark on the small yellow square of Indiana, as if that state had been tapped too often with an index finger, or moistened by an inadvertent breath. Mizuha was an educated man, but he’d never been beyond the Hawaiian Islands; he didn’t know many people who had. The world was a place he pieced together by reading the local newspaper, borrowing books from the Waimea Public Library, looking at this map. And of the wide kaleidoscope of countries and towns, he wasn’t sure why he wanted to visit Indiana most of all. Except that he had once heard that it was called the Heart Land; this sounded vital and beautiful to him.
Today, as he walked into the briefing room, the map was different, and Mizuha turned his head away from it quickly. A red marker pen disrupted the bright colors. Hong Kong, the Philippines, and Thailand were all circled, dates scrawled nearby with no regard for the countries that they obscured. Places that Mizuha had never bothered to inspect, which had only a week ago been small specks in the blue paper sea (Wake Island, Guam, Midway Island), were now haloed in red. Japanese military aggression now bloodied the primary colors and precise lines of Mizuha’s world.
Lieutenant Colonel Fitzgerald talked to a tall Caucasian man with bushy eyebrows and a sloped posture. The man said nothing, only pulled on his hat now and then as if shading himself from a nonexistent sun. He wore old denim pants and the toes of his boots were scuffed into pink nubs. Ice blue eyes blinked at the ground as the lieutenant colonel talked. He didn’t look like the richest man around. Nor did he have the bearing of someone who inspired obedience and fear. Mizuha remembered the rumors about Mr. Aylmer Robinson and his island. About him being a dictator and enslaving the native Hawaiians there. Far-fetched, he thought now.
Fitzgerald spoke for a few more moments and then looked up as if he had just noticed Mizuha. He swept his arm toward him.
-Officer Jack Mizuha will be leading the mission.
Robinson turned and looked at Mizuha for a beat. Mizuha was used to this—there was nisei hysteria all over the island—but he would give the man only a few seconds before he spoke up himself. It would be impertinent, but so what? It was rude the way the white men treated him. Mizuha clenched his jaw. Robinson continued to say nothing.
One, one thousand, two, two thousand.
Robinson coughed.
Three, three thousand…
He rubbed one hand against his hip.
Five, five thousand.
Robinson thrust his hand forward. He nodded.
-Pleased to meet you, he said.
The handshake was quick and firm.
-Anything you need to know about the island, we get squared away during crossing.
-That’s fine, said Mizuha. He eyed the man closely.
-And I don’t want any guns brought to the island, continued Robinson. No bloodshed. They’re a peaceful people. They don’t understand aggression.
-We’ll do what we can. But this is war, said Mizuha slowly. As a—
-I’m sure that our men will be as conservative as possible, Mr. Robinson, interrupted Fitzgerald. Guns are only a last resort for all of us.
-No bloodshed, Robinson repeated. Officer Mizuha seems like a competent man. I’m confident this will go well. He tugged his hat again, lowered his eyes, and began to walk to the door.
-Mr. Robinson, sir, Mizuha called after him. Robinson turned and, with both of his untrimmed eyebrows raised, waited.
-This Japanese couple on your island. The Haradas. It isn’t Yoshio Harada, from Waimea? Drove a Shell Oil truck some ways back.
-That would be him, said Robinson slowly. He’s my caretaker. And a beekeeper. A good one. That’s why I asked him to my island. Guess I misjudged the man.
Mizuha’s heart sank. If someone like Yoshio Harada could do this, what else could happen? He shook his head.
-Well respected here on Kauai, if I remember him right. Only met him a few times, but—well, it seems impossible.
Robinson didn’t respond at first. Mizuha watched his face harden and close.
-The Niihauans don’t lie, he said sharply. At first I thought, well, to quote the Bible, “he knows not what he does.” But in the end the reasons don’t matter. As a military man, Officer Mizuha, you understand this. We must only get to Niihau and solve this situation before it turns more dire.
-Agreed, sir, said Mizuha. He watched Robinson touch his hat and walk out with a peculiar loping gait, each foot in the air a tad longer than needed, unhurried, but purposeful. He did not know if he liked the man, but he understood now how he could run an island efficiently or even, as some said, a kingdom.