"You've got to understand the geopolitical reality of deterrence," the admiral insisted. "If we lose face in front of our competitors on the world stage, we might as well fall on our swords. They'll come after us like pit bulls. We must neutralize the situation."
"How? We've already been over the military options. There's no way we can mount a full-scale assault without huge civilian casualties."
"This is going to be hard for you to understand, but please try," said the admiral. "During the Vietnamese action, we regularly faced operational dilemmas such as Yuma. Sometimes we were forced to resort to extreme measures to prevent certain villages from being overrun by enemy forces. Regrettable as it was from the human-factor standpoint, we had to destroy certain villages in order to save them."
The President of the United States took an involuntary step backward.
"Are you suggesting that I order an air strike on an American city?" he asked coldly.
"I see no other alternative. Better we show the world that we're not going to flinch from the tough decisions when it comes to protecting our borders. Do this and I guarantee there'll never be another Yuma."
The President's mouth came open. The words on the tip of his tongue never came out because, behind him, the endlessly repeating images of slaughter and death were replaced by the benign face of an old Japanese man. He began speaking in a quavering voice.
"My humble name is unimportant, but I am pleased to call myself Regent of Yuma," he said.
Every man in the Situation Room watched him in silence. The old man was seated at a desk. The white flag of Japan was spread out on the wall behind him. The red rising sun precisely circled his old head like a bloody halo. He resumed speaking.
"In my country we have a saying, 'Edo no kataki wo Nagasaki de utsu.' It means 'Take revenge at an unexpected place.' I have done this in the name of Showa, known to you as Emperor Hirohito. He was my emperor, whom I served with honor, and whom you humbled. Although he is with his ancestors, I now exalt him with this mighty deed."
"Nagasaki?" said the Secretary of Defense. "Didn't we nuke that city once?"
"If the American President is watching me," the old man continued, "I bring you greetings. I regret the loss of life, but it is necessary. I fear it will, and must, continue until the American government has surrendered itself to me. Sayonara."
The picture went black. Then another film clip came on the screen. It showed a man being held down while a tank ran over his head. At the bottom of the screen a legend flashed. It read, "The Execution of the Mayor of Yuma by New Imperial Army Forces."
"He's mad!" the President said. "Does he think we'll really surrender?"
"I don't know what that old rice-gobbler thinks," Admiral Blackbird growled, "but I implore you to consider my advice before the Russians or Chinese decide to take advantage of this."
"Hold on," the President said, leaping for the door.
"Where are you going?" the Secretary of Defense demanded.
"To the john," the President flung back. "I've been drinking coffee for nearly twenty-four hours straight. If I don't relieve my bladder, we're all going to be pushing mops."
The President did go to the john this time. When he was finished, he slipped into the Lincoln Bedroom and got on the red telephone to Dr. Harold W. Smith. "Smith. Anything?"
"No word from my people."
"How do you interpret that?" the President asked anxiously.
"Knowing them," Smith said tonelessly, "if they haven't intervened in the Yuma Emergency by now, I must conclude that they are either dead or incapacitated."
"The chairman of the join Chiefs is pressuring me to take out Yuma," the President said after a pause.
"I wish I could offer you some hope," said Smith, "but there is something to the admiral's argument. As a last resort, of course."
The President was silent for a long time. Smith broke in reluctantly.
"Mr. President, I saw the recent transmission. That man who called himself Regent of Yuma is the man I've been trying to locate for you, Nemuro Nishitsu, head of the Nishitsu Group."
"How could a conglomerate mount an invasion?"
"If you are asking me how in operational terms," Smith replied, "the answer to that is that they have the resources of a small country. In fact, it would not be far from the truth to categorize Nishitsu as a country without borders. Thanks to its many offices and factories, it has a presence in virtually every developed nation. I have been looking into the company's background. There is a disturbing pattern. Nemuro Nishitsu founded the firm shortly after World War II. At first, it was an electronics firm. It began expanding during the days of the transistor revolution. They made cheap radios, things of that sort. By the early seventies they had subsidiaries manufacturing cars, computers, VCR's and other highticket items. More recently they have branched out into global communications and military equipment. You might remember the attempt by one of their subsidiaries to buy out an American ceramics company last year. You yourself stopped it when it was brought to your attention that this company manufactured critical nuclear-weapons components."
"I remember. There was no way I could allow that to happen. "
"Unfortunately, this is also the company you permitted to manufacture the Japanese version of the F-16."
"Oh, my God," the President gasped. "That explains how they were able to outfight us in our own fighters. Their pilots had trained in the Japanese version."
"Regrettable, but true."
"What about Nishitsu himself?"
"He was, by all accounts, a fanatic follower of the emperor during the war. He has become something of a recluse in recent years, with a history of psychiatric and medical problems dating from the time he was extracted from the Burma jungle. These were thought to have been temporary. Once he had been reassimilated in Japanese society, he was considered perfectly normal."
"Does he have a wife, a family? Someone we could contact. Maybe he could be talked out of this."
"No family. They died when the atomic bomb fell on Nagasaki. If you're looking for a motive for his actions, you might not go any further than that."
"I see," the President said distantly. "Then there is nothing you can do for me. "
"I am sorry, Mr. President."
"Of course. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to make one of the most difficult decisions of my presidency." The President woodenly hung up the red telephone. He turned on his heel and walked in his tennis shoes to the Situation Room. He felt his gorge rise just thinking about the decision he faced. But he was the nation's commander in chief He would not shirk his responsibilities to America, or to the people of Yuma.
Chapter 19
Bartholomew Bronzini was adamant.
"Absolutely, positively, no fucking way!" he bellowed. Then he screamed and fell to his knees. He clawed at the dirt outside the meetinghouse on the Sun On Jo reservation. His eyes were wide with pain but he couldn't see anything except a kind of visual white noise. "Arrgghh!" he cried.
A stern voice intruded upon his agony. It was the voice of the tiny Oriental, Chiun.
"Since you do not appear to understand the enormity of your position, Greekling, then I will repeat it," Chiun was saying. "The Japanese leader has offered the lives of the children of any school I choose in return for you. This tragedy is your doing. If you have any honor, you will agree to be handed over to this man."
"I didn't know," Bronzini squeezed out through set teeth. "I had no idea this was gonna happen."
"Responsibility has nothing to do with intent. Your innocence is obvious. Otherwise you would not be fleeing from this army. Still, you will do as I say."
"Please, Mr. Bronzini, they're only children." It was a girl's voice. That publicity girl, Sheryl. "Everyone thinks of you as a hero. I know that's only in movies, but none of this would have happened if it wasn't for you."
"All right, all right," Bronzini groaned. The pain went away. Not slowly, the way pain sometimes recedes. But abruptly, as if it hadn't ever existed in the first place.
Bronzini stood up. He checked his left wrist, the focal point of his pain. There was no mark or cut. He looked at the long fingernails of the tiny Korean who called himself Chiun as they disappeared into his sleeves.