President’s Private Residence
The White House
Washington, DC, USA
Good to see you, Mr. Klein,” the head of the president’s protection detail said.
“Dave,” Klein said, returning the greeting.
He’d known David McClellan since the man had joined the Secret Service almost twenty years ago, and there was no more tight-lipped operative in the entire government. The perfect man for the job.
President Sam Adams Castilla was alone—it was nearly midnight and his wife, Cassie, would have gone to bed hours ago. He didn’t rise, instead watching his old friend approach with a cold Coors in his hand.
In the past, they’d been more open about their meetings, casting themselves as two childhood friends getting together to talk about old times. Lately, though, Klein had become concerned that the intelligence background that had made him an ideal choice to head Covert-One would raise suspicion. Now he flew as far beneath the radar as possible.
Castilla took a sip of his beer before speaking. “It hasn’t hit the papers yet but yesterday a Chinese missile cruiser targeted Japan’s new battleship with attack radar.”
“The Senkakus, I assume?”
The president nodded. “I’ve already got Russia, North Korea, the economy, and the entire Middle East to deal with. Now this.”
“It’s a lot of ships and a lot of bad blood in a very small area.”
“It’s World War Three in the making is what it is,” Castilla said, his voice rising in volume.
Klein pointed to the door behind which Castilla’s wife was sleeping, and the president lowered his voice. “It’s a lot worse than most people know. Look, I like Prime Minister Sanetomi and I’m sympathetic to the fact that what happened during the war is ancient history. But it frankly doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what the Chinese think. And to those assholes, the Rape of Nanking might as well have been last Tuesday.”
It was yet another of those impossibly complicated problems, this time made worse by both countries handling it in the most destructive way possible. Nationalism was on the rise in Asia, and every day it seemed to grow in pitch. Politicians who until recently had been calling for calm were now seeing the writing on the wall and allowing themselves to be swept up in the fervor. The question was, where would it end?
“Did you know that almost half of Chinese television shows revolve around the killing of enormous numbers of Japanese?” Castilla asked.
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Seven hundred million people just last season, Fred. That’s what? Six times the population of the whole country? I think the CIA told me it pencils out to twenty-two Japanese people per second, twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. You take that kind of hate, add a faltering economy, an oversize military-industrial complex, and some rocks sticking out of the ocean, and you’ve written the recipe for disaster.”
“What did Takahashi do?”
Masao Takahashi was the chief of staff in command of Japan’s defense forces. A brilliant military man but not exactly a dove.
“About the television shows? I doubt he watches them.”
Klein frowned. “I was referring to the attack radar, Sam.”
“To his credit, nothing. The Izumo went to battle stations and then backed the hell away.”
“He defused the situation, then? I’m honestly surprised. Maybe he’s getting a little perspective in his old age.”
“Yeah. Just enough perspective that now I have to worry that the son of a bitch is thinking about getting into politics. You know he’s one of the richest men in Japan, right?”
Klein nodded. “Technology, energy, defense contracting, gaming, and I don’t even know what else. His family’s built quite an empire since the war.”
“And make no mistake, he’s the patriarch. People will tell you that his siblings run the companies, but take it from me, they don’t take a piss without asking Masao first.”
Klein leaned back and looked at his old friend thoughtfully. The United States was not a country accustomed to being caught up in the current, but this might be one of those rare occasions. Tensions between Japan and China went back to well before America was even a twinkle in Thomas Jefferson’s eye.
“So now we’ve got two of the world’s largest economies staring at each other over the brink,” Castilla continued. “China’s got the second-largest military in the world, including nukes. Japan technically doesn’t have an army but has the fifth-largest defense budget on the planet and a quarter million active-duty soldiers.”
The Japanese constitution prevented the country from building a military or projecting power by force, but that clause had always been open to interpretation and now was coming under increasing criticism. In reality, Japan was one constitutional convention away from tossing three-quarters of a century of codified pacifism into the dustbin of history—something China would not take sitting down.
Castilla waved his beer can a little frantically. “And do you know who’s right in the middle of this shit storm? Me. Because we have a treaty saying in no uncertain terms that the United States will protect Japan if it’s ever attacked. If the Chinese decide they don’t like the direction the political winds are blowing in Japan—even though they’re partially to blame—what then? Do they sink that fancy new battleship? Mark my words, Fred, I’m in the process of getting painted into a very tight corner.”
The strength seemed to go out of him and he fell back into the cushions. He didn’t speak again for almost a minute. “Still no word on Jon?”
Klein hadn’t been prepared for the sudden change in subject and he didn’t immediately respond. Thoughts of Smith continued to tie knots in his stomach. Klein was responsible for sending him to Japan and now he found himself second-guessing that decision. Smith had been his best man, but he’d had no real experience operating in that theater. Had Klein made an error sending him there? Was Jon Smith’s disappearance his fault?
“Nothing yet.”
“I’m sorry.”
Castilla stared down at the can in his hand, but he was clearly just waiting for the right moment to speak again. The president of the United States didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on the fate of a single man. Even one like Jon Smith.
“Where does this leave your investigation into the Fukushima nuclear disaster, Fred?”
“It’s been a serious setback,” Klein admitted. “Our informant’s dead and the evidence he brought out of Reactor Four is missing along with Jon. After more than two years, I’m afraid we’re back to square one.”