“JD, we’ve got a problem with the Ghost III prototype, the one you’ve got...” Lori told him.
“Here comes trouble,” Flash whispered to JD. He nodded in the direction of a Navy Lieutenant Commander coming through the gate into the training area.
“I’ll call you back, Lori. Promise. Just as soon as my conference with Admiral Hallam is over.” JD ended the call.
“Smarmy clods like this guy are the reason I left active duty,” Flash whispered. “Name’s Gary Hare. Comes for a visit every day to see what we are doing out here with our ‘toy airplanes’. “
“Hello, guys!” Hare called heartily as he approached. “Training all finished up?”
He held out his hand to JD, who reluctantly shook it. “I’m Gary Hare, base operations.”
“JD Iselin, ISO.”
Hare grinned a wide grin that made him look both ingratiating and stupid. “You mercenaries live the easy life.” He hooked a thumb at the SEAL barracks. “Those guys have to work for a living.”
Flash closed the shipping box and took it to the steel security container and locked it.
JD said nothing.
“But I guess your little toys here ought to make life easier for my SEALS”
His SEALS?
“How far can these little guys fly anyway?”
JD checked his watch. “That’s classified. Sorry.”
Hare held up his hands. “Just making conversation. Not trying to get state secrets out of you.” He laughed a shrill laugh. “Come by the O-club tonight and I’ll buy you a beer. You can meet some of the local girls. If secrets are going to be gotten, they are the ones to do it. Japanese girls are beautiful.”
JD’s phone beeped. “I’ve got to get back to my meeting.”
Chapter 3
At the secure communications center, Hallam seated himself at the desk inside the Lexan cube. An aide was already seated there. On the widescreen TV was the Secretary of Defense, flanked by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Director of the CIA. “The North Korean missile is still estimated to be launch capable in fourteen hours?” the Secretary of Defense asked.
“We estimate no longer than ten hours from now,” Hallam said calmly.
“Activate OpPlan C immediately,” the Secretary of Defense told Admiral Hallam.
“Yes sir,” Hallam said, nodding to his aide, who communicated the order down the chain of command. Ships, aircraft and Marines were alerted, but OpPlan C was strictly a defense of Japan and stand-by to support South Korea. No ships or planes would alter their normal patrols.
“Sir,” Hallam said equably, “request latitude in rules of engagement. Request authority to fire on my order.”
The Secretary of Defense shook his head. “Sorry, the answer is no. You do not have authority to fire. Only I will give you that authority, is that clear?” The CIA director reviewed the situation, but none of it was new.
The Secretary of Defense rose from his chair and the screen went dark.
Hallam left the communications facility but instead of going back upstairs to the Operations Center, walked around the Headquarters building to the front entrance and went up to his office. The three Japanese secretary-translators stood as he entered.
“I don’t want to be disturbed for a few moments, Mrs. Suzuki. Thank you.”
He closed the door, sat down at his desk, and glanced at the daily situation report. Item three noted that ISO had completed the drone training for his SEAL team. Admiral Hallam set the report aside and leaned back in his chair, looking at the large paper map mounted on the wall. It was an old map, depicting Korea as a single nation.
He opened his desk drawer and took out a small hand written note dated yesterday evening, 1800 hours.
Bill, I need to see you ASAP.
Captain Henry Adams, MD
Chief Medical Officer
He folded the note and put it in his pocket, then went to the display case and took out a framed photograph of him, his wife Mary, and their daughter Monica taken more than thirty years ago. Mary had been dead now for almost ten years. Monica had her own life and it did not include him.
At his secure computer he called up a series of classified Operation Plans, selected one and issued an order putting it into effect immediately. Then he put his hat on and left the office, telling Mrs. Suzuki he would be off base for about an hour, then would return to the Operations Center.
Chapter 4
Outside the Administration building, the Japanese sky was blue, the immaculately trimmed lawn a deep green, the humid air blowing in from Tokyo Bay seemed almost alive. Hallam found himself smiling as he got in his staff car and told the driver to take him to Motomachi Street.
“Nothing settles the mind so much as the knowledge that one is to be executed in the morning,” Hallam quoted silently. He almost laughed out loud. Now that he had received his death sentence, the uncertainty was past. A weight of anxiety lifted from his shoulders.
Hallam had his driver let him off halfway down the eight blocks that comprised Motomachi Street. A street filled with small art galleries, boutique clothing stores, shops filled with gleaming European-made kitchenware. “Wait for me here.”
The crowd flowed past him, ordinary Japanese people going about their business. What if the North Koreans successfully launched a high ballistic shot at Japan, detonated a dirty nuclear fireball over Tokyo, letting a poisonous cloud of radioactive fallout drift south over Yokohama, bringing slow death to all these people?
Hallam glanced at his watch. The North Koreans were preparing a launch right now. Their nuclear warhead was unaccounted for, most likely being installed on the Tae Po Dong, the target of the attack unknown. And my own government says to do nothing but sit and wait.
A sign at a narrow alley advertised Atelier K, Contemporary Art, one flight up. Hallam went in the door and up the narrow flight of stairs.
The woman seated behind a tiny desk near the door stood and bowed. “Irasshaimase,” she greeted him in Japanese, then in English, “Welcome.”
Hallam nodded, and slowly made his way around the four walls, looking at each painting for a moment before moving on. The woman went down the stairs, then returned a moment later.
The gallery was a single room, twelve by ten meters, hardwood floor, track lights for the art on four walls, a single bench in the middle made of pale Japanese cryptomeria wood.
He was American military so she was undecided as to whether to bring tea, which she always did for Japanese visitors. He moved around the room, thoughtfully examining each painting, then sat on the bench, facing Tomoko’s two darkest paintings. She saw that he sat without fidgeting, with his back straight, so she decided to serve tea as she would a Japanese customer.
She brought it to him with strainer and handleless Japanese cup. “Sumimasen, dozo,” she said, setting it on the tray on the bench beside him.
“Domo,” he replied.
Hallam let his mind unfocus as he stared at the two paintings, one a foggy coastline seen from across a small bay. What appeared to be the exposed rock of a quarry in a small valley. The other painting was a cold bare classroom, eight children in blue uniforms, a teacher, his expression concerned, looking at them from his place at the blackboard. Both paintings were nicely executed but very dark, fearful in tone.
His