“The president called me over to discuss his speech tonight, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation as I walked by,” Sewell said.
“We can shift our focus to this thing if you want, Chairman, but what about China and Korea? We might lose focus there just to start scanning for this one ship in the Pacific,” Palmer said.
“Why don’t we start looking at places like Guam, where we have most of our logistical support, Hawaii, God forbid, and even the West Coast. We can do it in that order. If it’s Guam or Hawaii, we need to find it fast. Heck, depending on how long this cannon’s been loose, it may already be docked somewhere,” Sewell said, the thought sending chills up Meredith’s spine.
She was glad that Sewell had come to the rescue. She was nervous enough with Stone in the room, but had also been beating her head against the glass ceiling of discrimination with Palmer, even though he was more understanding than most. But when there was a crisis, she couldn’t understand why Palmer, or any other man for that matter, just didn’t stuff it back in his underwear, zip it up, and forget that she was a woman. She appreciated Sewell’s gender-neutral approach and his protective aura with the predator Stone lurking so close.
“Why can’t we just tell Mizuzawa to call off the dog, or we’ll level Japan?” Palmer said.
“Get real, Dave. He knows we would never destroy the Japanese economy. It would never work for us in the long run. Besides, he’s probably already made up his mind,” Sewell said, making good sense to Meredith.
“That’s right,” Meredith said, “he’s probably been holding that ship in reserve somewhere, keeping his options open.”
“What does Shimpu mean, anyway?” Palmer asked.
“Divine Wind,” Meredith responded, and added. “Back in the late thirteenth century, monsoons saved the Japanese from defeat at the hands of the Mongols twice. The Japanese saw it as divine intervention.” Meredith shuddered once, then went on, “In World War II, the Japanese pilots who flew their airplanes into our ships were known as the Shimpu force, not kamikazes. Kamikaze was an American invention. Those men were supposedly divinely chosen and would ultimately provide victory for Japan. In a way, I guess they did, when you consider their economic resurgence. Now I bet Mizuzawa thinks it is providence that he can hold us hostage with a nuclear device on a ship.”
They remained silent for a moment, letting the gravity of the situation settle over them, like a gray haze. There was nothing worse than good news followed by bad news. The Armed Forces had finally crumbled the Japanese juggernaut on the Philippines, a quick operation really, and the president was ready to inform the world of this success.
But now a wild card floated recklessly about, somewhere, ready to deal a horrifying blow to America. Could they find it? Could they defend against it? What were the options?
“Well, the monsoon has lifted and we need to get a message to our man in the Philippines,” Sewell said, then departed.
Chapter 101
Prime Minister Mizuzawa held a glass of chilled sake high in the air, clinking it against General Nugama’s crystal glass, containing the same.
“Banzai Japan,” Mizuzawa said, his voice muffled with an air of disappointment. He had not wanted to send the Shimpu on her final voyage, but gladly did so once the situation had turned for the worse. Her traditional enemies surrounded Japan, and he could sue for peace using the Shimpu, or he could let her steam right through the harbor and send a serious message to the world.
“Who could that be?” Mizuzawa asked Nugama, who shrugged his shoulders at the sound of the knock on the door.
“Your Excellency, it is Father Sierra. I wish to speak with you,” the priest said, his voice softened by the thick mahogany door. “The United Nations has asked me to come and speak with you as a neutral party.”
“Yes, come in, Father,” Mizuzawa said, as a guard opened the door. “But what about Father Xavier?”
“He’s here,” Sierra said.
Father Xavier nodded as he pushed Sierra’s wheelchair through the entry. Dressed in his black suit with its standard white collar, Father Sierra was an image of holiness. His compassionate brown eyes were set deep on his face. His skin was light brown and tan, his hands callused and rough. Father Sierra hid his hurt arm by draping his black coat over the sling. On the upside, the sling hid his pistol and IV bag nicely.
“I am Father Sierra, and, of course, you know Father Xavier,” Sierra said. He remained in charge of the conversation from his end, speaking Japanese and not wanting words to flow through an interpreter. His voice was firm, but wavered when he had to dig deep, which the Japanese language often required.
The priest spoke in Japanese, but could switch to Tagalog or English, whichever the men preferred.
Mizuzawa nodded at Father Xavier, with whom they had been conversing during their sanctuary in the Catholic building. Then Mizuzawa’s wide, scaly paws met Sierra’s as they shook hands — a Western tradition, but the wheelchair-bound man could not bow.
“The Americans have requested an audience with you, Prime Minister,” Sierra said.
“You have rough hands for a priest, Sierra,” Mizuzawa said suspiciously. “Anyway, what could the Americans want with me, other than to kill me?” Mizuzawa said, almost laughing. “Soon, they will surely want to do that.”
Sierra looked at the two men as Xavier closed the door to the small office they occupied. The room was filled mostly with clerical equipment: old computer, desk, bookcase, the two cots the men used for sleeping, and the radio equipment. He felt Xavier’s necessary presence return behind him.
Sierra scanned the room and the men, noticing that both Mizuzawa and Nugama each had a new Nambu model 60 .38 caliber revolver holstered on his right hip. Nugama’s uniform was wrinkled and dirty from days of wear, and Mizuzawa looked comfortable in his olive regalia.
The two men looked at Father Sierra and took light sips from their sake.
“Gentlemen, the Americans are concerned about a nuclear weapon that they believe you may have stored on a commercial ship,” Sierra said. Mizuzawa dropped his glass on the floor, the fine crystal shattering cleanly into thousands of tiny pieces and clear sake, leaving a dark stain on the tile.
“While the Catholic Church recognizes your right to political asylum, we cannot harbor a terrorist. So please, if you have designs with this weapon of terror, reverse its course, or I must release you,” Sierra said, eloquently.
“Sierra, mind your own business. You do what the Pope tells you, understand?” Mizuzawa said. “Where did you come from anyway? We’ve been dealing with Xavier and have had no problems until now.”
Sierra ignored the question, and continued in Japanese, “The Pope wishes that you would stop the ship and turn it over to a United Nations force for boarding. The Shimpu, is it not?” Sierra said in a stern voice. Actually, he had never contacted the Vatican but was sure that the Pope would want the ship stopped.
“Well, then, tell the Pope to mind his own business,” Mizuzawa said.
“Are you refusing to reverse the course of the ship, Prime Minister?” Sierra asked, as if he were negotiating.
“There is no ship, Sierra. Now leave,” Mizuzawa shot back. His eyes darted between Fathers Sierra and Xavier, registering something, perhaps a telepathic bond between the two men.
“Wait a second, sir—” Nugama said, only to be cut off by Mizuzawa.
“Enough!” Mizuzawa screamed, grabbing the capped bottle of sake and cracking it over the computer’s keyboard, the alcohol’s clear liquid spreading over the gray frame.