There it was. Sierra was looking for an opening. He could sense that Nugama might be willing to deal. Sierra’s experience told him that when a man faces certain death, he will frequently seek the option that preserves his life. Nugama didn’t need to know just yet that he wasn’t going to live. He slightly nudged Father Xavier in the right thigh with his right elbow as the guard took a step toward them.
“Operations, this is Shimpu,” said a static-filled voice over the radio receiver positioned next to the computer monitor. “Thirty minutes out from target, I can see the harbor.”
Sierra looked at the radio, then back at Mizuzawa, who was nearly foaming at the mouth.
“Well, Prime Minister, what are you going to do?”
Mizuzawa turned the jagged edge of the sake bottle up to his lips, drinking the remainder of the liquid from the capped bottle. The sharp glass cut his lips, causing bright red streams of blood to slide down his face. Nugama watched, his eyes darting nervously toward the two priests.
Biting a chunk of the glass from the bottle, then chewing, Mizuzawa tossed the jagged glass at Sierra. Mizuzawa then drew his revolver from his holster, waving it madly in Sierra’s face.
“The Americans must die! They dropped bombs on Nagasaki and Hiroshima! We drop bomb on Los Angeles! In thirty minutes, the Japanese people will have revenge for the most heinous war crimes of all time. Then we will be even!” Mizuzawa shouted, spitting wads of blood and glass into Sierra’s face.
“I ask you one last time,” Sierra said, calmly, his stoic countenance showing no sign of fear. “Are you going to stop the ship?”
“You idiot! Can’t you see this is our destiny?! Soon my generation will go the way of the Shimpu. We will all be gone, taking with us the memories of the horror of Nagasaki and Hiroshima. If we do not act now, revenge will never be achieved. The West will have triumphed over the East, an unforgivable sin. I would have you tell the Americans ‘no,’ but now I must kill you both. I have told you too much already,” Mizuzawa said, red spit bubbles forming at the corner of his mouth. He angled the revolver toward Sierra’s face.
“Wait, Prime Minister, you underestimate me. I will tell the Americans nothing,” Sierra said, his voice like granite.
“I wish I could trust you, but the Christian faith is useless, and, therefore, so are you.”
Sierra looked at Nugama, who had turned away, awaiting the blast. He thought he saw a tear streaming down Nugama’s cheek, which was a good sign.
Nugama flinched as a shot rang loudly in the close quarters of the office. He heard a man fall to the ground, dropping to one knee, then the other. Another shot echoed loudly in the small room.
“Either you turn that ship around, or you’re next,” Sierra said. Father Xavier’s Glock was dangerously close to Nugama’s temple. Sierra’s Glock was wafting smoke from the bore and still aimed at the dead guard.
Nugama picked up the radio handset and said, “Shimpu, this is operations center. Reverse course, the worthless Americans have met our demands. Your mission is complete.”
“Roger, Shimpu turning now. Congratulations,” Sazaku said.
Father Xavier held his pistol level with Nugama’s face, then backed away from the Japanese general, nodding at the man’s revolver.
Sierra saw Nugama reach for his own revolver and Father Xavier let him finish the move. Nugama’s hand slid slowly up his side, and he turned the weapon against his temple, pulling the trigger. The bullet bored through his brain, squeezed out the other side, and tumbled harmlessly onto Mizuzawa’s body.
Nugama slumped to the floor, draped across Mizuzawa’s legs, their bodies forming an X on the floor.
“Fathers Sierra and Xavier” pulled the starched collars from their black shirts, tossed them on the desk, and Xavier wheeled Sierra into the hot Philippine sun. Sierra removed the brown contact lenses and chucked them aside also. Strapping, combat-ready Marines opened the tall iron gate surrounding the chapel grounds and carried Sierra onto the hospital litter, which they placed in the UH-60 helicopter for immediate evacuation back to the Mercy.
“Sir, you okay?” the security detail leader asked.
“Fine. Get me back to the hospital ship.”
The Marines snapped to attention and saluted the wounded warrior and his partner, as the Black Hawk departed.
Chapter 102
Karen had gone numb when she heard the news. This time, the green sedan did not carry Meredith; rather, it bore the grim reaper.
“Your brother is dead, ma’am. Killed in action. Performed magnificently. Made a difference. Made history.” The man had spoken in broken sentences, or so it seemed, as Karen had collapsed on the wooden porch.
Meredith had lifted her, though, holding her up with her strong arms. “Be strong, Karen,” Meredith had said. And so she was.
Reverend Early spoke that day, standing next to the fresh-tilled dirt next to Mother Garrett’s grave in the shadows of the Blue Ridge. The new hole would receive her brother, and Karen had almost asked them to dig one for her. There had been no other news, except a report that a civilian had died from a gunshot wound to the stomach. She would pray and be strong though. She would try to believe that she had one brother still alive. Like walking against a gale-force wind, she would force herself to go against her instincts.
Meredith sat next to her in the cold metal chair on the cool spring morning. The fog had only recently lifted, replaced by the smell of fresh-cut hay. The old brick house was perched above them on the hill across from the barn where the horses and cows wandered, oblivious to all of the pain endured in the Garrett household during the past month.
There was more pain to follow. There always was.
The elder Garrett sat on the other side of Karen, and they all peered into the deep hole that would receive their loved one.
They couldn’t help it, Meredith and Karen. They cried openly, unembarrassed, with the hundred or so well-wishers standing behind them and paying their last respects to Stanardsville’s fallen hero.
“He died in the fury of combat, protecting the world from a heinous enemy. Through his personal efforts and his sacrifice, the world is truly a safer place,” Reverend Early said. He spoke eloquently, as all preachers seem to do. He was emphatic at just the right moment, and soft-spoken when necessary. His words soothed and at least tried to heal the pain.
Meredith watched and couldn’t help but think of when she had first met Matt in Palau. She looked away, seeing the angular wings of a dove dart back and forth along the tree line near the stream. A rabbit hopped into a hole near the barn, and the wind churned lightly atop the trees. She felt the Blue Ridge to her back, strong and powerful, full of grace. Yes, amazing grace.
She stood as the gathering began singing “Amazing Grace.”
“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost but now am found …”
The DC-9 Nightingale had landed at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland less than fifteen miles from Washington over three hours ago.
The government car sped down Route 29 until it reached the small town of Ruckersville, then turned right onto a county-maintained road. Passing an outlet store, then Shifflett Exxon, the car sped past a Greene County police officer, who did not bother to pursue. The trees and split-rail fences that cordoned the road whipped by with monotony. The Blue Ridge stared down upon him from the west, almost seeming to smile. The rolling hills and gradual peaks adorned with trees and shrub and grass opened their arms wide, welcoming the man. It gave him a good feeling, a sense of connection. He remembered the area well, and was glad that he could visit once again.