Peter nodded. “They arrived a few minutes before you did. We’ve got China’s Foreign Minister and Japan’s Minster of Foreign Affairs. Both are complaining that they’re hungry, but otherwise I’d say they’re in good spirits.”
“Well, I can’t say I blame them,” Janet whispered as Peter led them into the foyer.
They marched through a series of ornate, white columns that circled the room. Beige settees surrounded a navy throw rug in the center of the room. An American eagle was woven into its fibers. One of the eagle’s talons clutched an olive branch, the other a quiver of arrows. It stood ready, for peace or war.
As Janet entered the room, she had to stifle an urge to laugh. The Chinese and Japanese officials looked almost identical to each other. Both were tall, slender men in charcoal grey suits. Even their glasses were similar.
The Japanese minster stood a couple inches taller than his Chinese counterpart, and his skin was a shade darker. She shook his hand, then turned to the Chinese foreign minister. “Gentlemen, please, accept my apologies. I’m so sorry I’m late.”
The diplomat’s smile was thin, but he nodded. “Of course, Madam Secretary. After all, you did have the longest flight.” Staff photographers darted forward to snap pictures as the officials greeted each other. The all shook hands and shared polite laughter.
“Well,” Janet said, “I understand we’ve all managed to work up quite an appetite this morning. I’ve asked the kitchen to prepare a specialty from the American South. Biscuits and gravy. What do you say we save the photo ops for after breakfast? Then we can visit these islands on a full stomach.”
The officials nodded their consent. Peter and Susan politely blocked the photographers as the three made their way to the dining room.
“I’ve never had this ‘biscuits and gravy’ you speak of,” the Chinese official said. “Sounds a bit heavy for my taste.”
Janet took the man’s arm and allowed them to fall a few steps behind the Japanese minster. “Well, I’ll tell you what. It beats the heck out of miso soup and cold fish.”
The captain of the Grey Fox gazed down from the bridge at the empty main deck. The sparkling daggers of morning sunlight cut through the dark clouds above them, reflecting on the waves ahead.
The Kusaka Industries heavy freighter had set sail from Beijing. Their cargo hold was only at half-capacity. They were transporting a meager quantity of cheap cellphones and even cheaper t-shirts.
Per his instructions, he had altered the shipping manifest to indicate a full load. His men had cleared the top deck, leaving a long, empty expanse that stretched from the bridge to the pointed bow.
The captain chomped down on his cigar. Smoking was not allowed on the bridge of Kusaka Industries vessels, but he always lit a cigar before returning to port. It was an old tradition, one he expected to take with him to his grave.
After a few deep puffs, he turned away from the window. According to the ship’s GPS navigation equipment, they were just inside Japan’s territorial waters. The huge freighter was positioned between the Sea of Japan and the East China Sea. Several hundred miles west, out of sight on the distant horizon, lay South Korea and their insane neighbors. And south of that, the behemoth … China.
Less than a hundred miles off their starboard bow sat the Senkaku Islands, the disputed rocks stirring up all the recent political turmoil.
The captain shrugged. He wasn’t much for politics. Japan claimed the islands belonged to them. China rattled its sabers, and occasionally flew drones and fighter jets over the disputed territory.
The captain had seen his share of bar fights in the seediest ports of call all around this world. This latest eruption bore all the markings of two drunkards, posturing and puffing their chests for the crowd. They would throw a few half-hearted punches, then slink back to their beers.
All the captain cared about was getting paid. And taking on this extra assignment for Kusaka-san promised a lucrative payday indeed. He cracked his knuckles and smiled. In the next five minutes, he would make more money than he had all year.
He took another puff of his cigar and turned to the small group of men behind him. He had ordered all general crew to clear the bridge and wait below decks. Equipment inspection, he had told them. The only men left stood behind him, talking in low, quiet voices. They were all dressed in identical black suits.
He wasn’t exactly sure who they were. They looked like yakuza to him—he had dealt with plenty of those types during his tenure in the shipping industry. But these men seemed different somehow.
They exhibited none of the bravado or swagger of the gangsters he had encountered in the past. These men were quiet, driven, and purposeful.
The captain cleared his throat and coughed. The men stopped talking and turned to face him.
“We’re in position,” he announced.
One of the men, a tall, slim figure who towered over him, nodded. He issued a quiet stream of orders to his comrades. The other men bowed and shouted, “Hai!” in unison. They cleared the bridge except for the tall man. He remained, standing next to the captain.
The two men watched as the doors of a large steel cargo container swung open. A few minutes later, a black missile-like form was wheeled out onto the empty deck.
Painstakingly refurbished and modified, the aircraft was a Chinese-made Lijian Mark 2. Also known as the “Sharp Sword,” it was an unmanned aerial vehicle, or UAV for short.
The drone cast a sinister shadow on the freighter’s empty deck. Its sweeping wings and bulging fuselage were covered by rubbery black, radar-reflective material. It resembled some sort of huge, predatory nocturnal bird.
The captain turned away from the window. “When do I get paid?”
The man beside him grunted, but did not look away as his men scurried about the drone, preparing it for flight. “Soon. We will all receive our reward soon.”
The tall man slipped in an earpiece. “Final check. Report,” he said. The captain could not hear the response, but the tall man nodded.
“Begin final countdown.”
His lips moved as he silently counted down from ten. The men outside maneuvered the drone into position. The empty deck of the ship stretched before it. Once the drone was in place, the men scattered and took cover behind the cargo container.
The countdown reached zero. The drone’s engines flared to life, and the sinister black craft charged forward. It rapidly gained speed.
Although the Chinese denied it, many believed the Lijian Mark 2 was based on stolen American plans for the US X-47B. Like that device, the drone was designed for aircraft carrier deployment. The Grey Fox was no aircraft carrier, but its upper deck was within operational tolerances for takeoff.
The drone screamed towards the end of the deck. The captain sucked in his breath. He watched as the craft tore across the metal surface. It charged closer and closer to the edge, and the churning sea waters below. What if the damn thing falls into the drink? he thought. How do I get paid then?
The drone was operating on autopilot. There was nothing the captain, or anyone else on board, could do to assist the aircraft. It would either take off and fly to its predetermined coordinates … or it would not. His companion showed no trace of emotion as he watched the drone speed towards the end of the deck. At the last second, inches away from crashing into the ship’s bulkhead, the drone lifted into the air. It soared above the ship’s deck, rising into the clouds above.
The captain raised his fist in the air and cheered. “Banzai!”
The tall man nodded and spoke into his earpiece. “Take off successful. Prepare for phase two. For Japan.”
The captain slapped him on the back. “Now we all get paid, eh?” he exclaimed with a wide grin.
“Hai. Now we have the honor of serving Japan with the ultimate sacrifice.” The man keyed in a code on his cellphone and then slipped the device in his pocket. The men outside sat down on the deck and stared up into the dark, cloudy sky. They watched the drone shrink into a
tiny black dot, and then disappear into the haze.
“Hey, what the hell are they doing?” the captain asked.
The tall man slipped his hand into his jacket. “They are preparing.”
“Preparing for what?”
“To be purified. By death.”
A sudden, deafening explosion rocked through the ship. The deck shuddered beneath his feet.
“What the hell was that?” the captain screamed.
He grabbed the ship’s radio. Before he could bring the microphone to his mouth, a second explosion shook the freighter. He could feel the ship listing already. Water had begun flood the cargo compartment. The ship’s hull was compromised.
The captain depressed the talk button on the microphone. “All hands, all hands, abandon—”
Before he could finish his sentence, a gunshot rang out on the bridge. The captain gasped as the metal slug tore into his lung. He dropped the radio as he fell. Above him, the mic swung back and forth on its curled rubber cable like a pendulum. He could tell by its swinging pattern that the ship was tilted off axis. They were sinking.
The tall man now stood over him, balancing against the extreme angle of the ship. He was aiming a heavy pistol down at the captain. The captain held up a hand in protest.
The tall man fired again. A bloody hole opened in the captain’s hand. The bullet tore through his flesh and buried itself in his chest.
His attacker knelt down to whisper, “You and your crew will also be purified. Together, we have raised the sword. Others will use it to strike the death blow.”
As the captain’s vision faded, he heard more muted gunfire, followed by screams. He caught a glimpse of the grey clouds outside the window before the ship lurched again and they slid from his view.
As he faded from the world around him, he thought of the drone streaking through the sky. An arrow of death, launched from the black heart of the underworld.
He hoped there was no underworld. No heaven. And, most importantly, no hell.
As the captain slipped in the final blackness of death, the stern of the Grey Fox dipped beneath the dark, churning water. The men on the deck and the tall man in the bridge sat with their legs crossed in the lotus position. Frigid water surged into the ship.
The tall man gasped as the freezing chill of the ocean struck his body, but he did not move. He looked forward, determined to stare death in the face as it came for him.
And death did come. The massive freighter disappeared underwater. Only the scattered flotsam and a few floating corpses marked the fact that it was ever there. Soon, the ocean’s churning waves would disperse even these last bits of evidence.
High up in the clouds, oblivious to the death and destruction below, the drone continued its relentless flight towards Japan.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Caine awoke to utter blackness. His head throbbed and ached. He gasped for breath.
The darkness surrounded him. He realized he was wearing a hood. He couldn’t see a thing under the sack covering his head. The smell of sweat and canvas triggered a surge of panic through his body. The hood reminded him of his days of imprisonment with the White Leopard clan.
For a few seconds, he was certain that he was back there, in the desert…. Everything and everyone else was just a dream. The mission, Rebecca, Hitomi, Mariko … they were hallucinations. Phantoms. The pain and the screaming were his only reality.
No, he thought. That’s in the past. Get a grip!
The seconds ticked by, each one an eternity of panic and terror. But Caine grit his teeth and remained still, his body betraying nothing. Soon the fear receded from his nerve endings. He was back in control.
A gentle rocking motion and the muted sound of tires on pavement confirmed he was in a vehicle. He remembered the security team and Kusaka’s smug, smiling face. He had almost killing the man in a stranglehold before the mercenaries had intervened.
They had beat him senseless, but they hadn’t sedated him. Sloppy. A breach of standard rendition procedure.
Bernatto must have contracted these men in haste. He had made some kind of deal with Japanese intelligence. Gave them something they wanted, in exchange for the sanctioned rendition of a burned agent. Once they got him out of the country, Caine knew exactly what would happen. He had run enough of these operations himself to know his future was bleak.
They would either shoot him or dump him in a black site prison, a place from which he would never resurface. Either way, he knew had to act before they arrived at their destination. Every second he delayed was a second closer to his death.
Caine listened. He heard men rustling, breathing, grunting. They did not speak, but he was able to piece together a mental picture of their positions in the vehicle.
The driver sat in front of him, to the left. He could hear the man sigh and curse under his breath as they hit traffic. That meant they were most likely still in Tokyo.
To his right sat another man. He heard a soft metallic clacking coming from that direction. It was a quiet, rhythmic sound that matched the bouncing of the vehicle over the pavement. The sound was subtle, barely noticeable, but it was a sound Caine knew well.
It was an automatic rifle, clattering against its sling as the vehicle vibrated.
Caine pegged the man next to him as the one who had beaten him unconscious. It was impossible to be sure, but he had a gut feeling. Either way, he knew the man was armed.
Assuming another man sat in the front passenger seat, he was dealing with three captors. The other men would be in a second vehicle, most likely a blocker car traveling ahead of them. Their job would be to keep an eye out for any possible resistance.
Caine let the motion of the vehicle rock him backwards. Without appearing to move, he rolled onto his back and let his head loll against the side of the vehicle. Judging by the amount of space in the backseat, he assumed they were in an SUV.
He didn’t much like his chances of taking out three armed men, while blindfolded and restrained. But he didn’t have much of a choice. If he was going to die, he would die fighting, not drugged up in some concrete bunker, lost in whatever country the CIA was farming its torture out to these days.
Caine tensed his muscles, and prepared to make his move. The vehicle gained speed as traffic eased up. Then the brakes squealed to life, and momentum rolled him forward. He knew the man next to him would be off balance as well.
Caine jerked his legs backwards. In one fluid motion, he slipped his feet through his tied arms. Before the man next to him could react, he lashed both legs out in a powerful kick. The blow cracked the man’s skull against the side window.
“Holy shit! This fucker’s awake!” a voice shouted from the front seat.
The man to his right grunted, then the jingle of the rifle strap rang out. Caine knew it was only a matter of time before the man clubbed him again or took a shot. Caine honed in on the metallic sound and kicked until he made contact with the rigid firearm. He drove it backwards and heard the man grunt again as the rifle smashed into his face.
How do you like it, asshole? Caine thought.
He rolled forward as the vehicle swerved back and forth. The driver reached back and struck him with a security baton. The coiled steel snapped across his back. A burning pain eclipsed all other sensations. The baton had struck his spine, square between the shoulder blades.
Caine collapsed to the floor of the vehicle. He twisted his body forward, shielding his vitals. The man to his right began stamping down on his back.
“You son of a bitch!” he roared, as his heavy combat boots battered Caine’s flesh.
As the rain of kicks and blows continued, Caine’s vision begin to blur. An arm wrapped around his neck and dragged his head up in a chokehold. A harsh whisper breathed in his ear.
“You know,” the voice hissed, “we’re supposed to get you out of the country before we do you. But hey, sometimes accidents happen.”
Caine coughed as the man’s forearm dug into his windpipe. Hi
s attacker’s other arm pressed down on the back of his head, driving his neck forward. Caine became lightheaded as the hold reduced the blood flow to his brain.
He tried to pummel the man with his bound hands, swinging them up and over his shoulder. But his awkward position beneath the seat made it impossible to land a hit. With each passing second, his strength ebbed away as his brain began to suffocate.
The naked choke, a variation on a jiu-jitsu maneuver, was a dangerous hold. If applied past the point of unconsciousness, it could easily cause brain damage or even death. And Caine had the distinct feeling his assailant had no intention of letting him go.
Caine forced his weakened legs to lift his body up, sliding his head up his attacker’s chest. When he felt the man’s breath on his neck, he tipped his head forward. A split-second later, he slammed it backwards. The back of his skull crushed into the man’s face.
The mercenary howled in pain and loosened his grip. Caine let his body go limp. He dropped like a stone, slipping out of the stranglehold.
As he fell back to the floor, the edge of the hood caught on the man’s forearm and pulled halfway up. A burst of daylight flashed into Caine’s face. He squinted, struggling to focus on his surroundings. The blood rushed back to his head, and he felt even dizzier than he had when suffocating.
The vehicle continued swerving left and right. The driver swung his baton again, just missing Caine’s face. The blow struck his shoulder with a loud crack. Caine winced, and it took all his willpower not to vomit on the floor. The pain, dizziness, and careening vehicle all conspired against his diminished senses.
He shook his head, and his vision began to clear. He caught a glimpse of the man next to him, hands covering his face as blood gushed from a broken nose. Then the front passenger twisted around and pointed a pistol at him.
He heard the click of the hammer and found himself staring down the barrel of Colt .45. He closed his eyes. Once the man fired, he wouldn’t have even a second to feel the pain before his head exploded into a bloody pulp.
The explosion was deafening as the gun fired.
[Thomas Caine #1] Tokyo Black Page 23
