South China Sea

two hundred miles away. As it was, by the time the beating started, the 2:38 to Niigata was well on its way across the Kanto Plain north of Tokyo, speeding toward the fourteen-mile Daishimizu tunnel, which would take Tazuko Komura from Japan’s “front” or the omote Nihon, to ura Nihon, the “inner Japan” beyond the alps.

Before she had moved to the frenetic glitter of Japan’s east coast, the west coast around Niigata had been Tazuko’s home. In its own way, Niigata was as flashy and as fast as Tokyo, but not far from Niigata you were in the small villages of Japan, hundreds of years old. It was a Japan in which having a life of yutakasa—of great value — was not measured in yen or worldly possessions, but in the spirit of harmony one experienced with the rhythm of the seasons and the wisdom of traditions passed down from one craftsman to another.

For Tazuko, it had still been a land in which she was one of the gaijin, but its affinity for things rural and old captivated her. Her nostalgia, however, was a fantasy, at odds with the often harsh reality of modern industrial Japan, with the kind of industrial wealth Pyongyang wanted to emulate. But Tazuko felt no such contradiction, and knew if she was to give her life to help thrust North Korea onto the stage of major world powers, then she would give that life. And should anyone doubt her courage, then they would soon doubt no longer.

At first she hadn’t planned anything even remotely heroic, but heroism, if it meant self-sacrifice, had more or less been forced upon her by the stringent security carried out by the automatic rail “scout” machines that constantly monitored the tracks of the bullet trains. Had anyone wanted to put the sausage-shaped explosive on the rail tracks or supporting structures, they would have had to do it in darkness, for the moment they used a light, their position would have been immediately identified by the infrared track cameras. Besides, the way to inflict the most damage on the Japanese psyche was not to blow up part of the track, but to stop the train itself, to puncture their much vaunted and worldwide reputation for speed, safety, and quality. Also, if they expected an attack, it would be on the southward Tokyo-Hakata line, where U.S. and JDF troops would most likely travel as part of the buildup of force in Vietnam.

* * *

“Tell him,” Wray said, lighting another cigarette, “that if he doesn’t tell us the name and whereabouts of his contact, he’s going to have an accident — a fatal one.”

“I’ve already told him,” the JDF agent replied.

“Maybe he thinks we’re bluffing.”

“No,” the JDF agent assured Wray. “He knows.” The other JDF agent indicated to the American that they should go outside.

In the hallway they talked about how far they really wanted to go. Wray said he didn’t want to kill the son of a bitch, but with the segmented air/sea Second Army supply line stretching from Japan to Hanoi over 2,200 miles away, any sabotage would be disastrous for what the U.N. hoped would be Freeman’s counterattack against the Chinese. The JDF agent said he didn’t mind beating the crap out of the North Korean — it would be a message to the Gong An Bu, Chinese Intelligence, that if they insisted on using gaijin to do their dirty work in Japan, this is what would happen to their agents.

Wray, now that his bluff was being called, wasn’t so tough. He said the trouble with killing the little bastard was all the fucking paperwork involved, but what he really meant was “killing the little bastard” was a contradiction of what they were supposedly fighting for — inconvenient stuff like habeas corpus. Without wanting to sound weak, Wray wanted to convey this to the JDF agent. “Chinese’d just take him out and shoot him in the neck if he was one of ours.”

“We don’t have to shoot him,” the JDF agent said. “There wouldn’t even be a bruise.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wray said. “But like I said — too much friggin’ paperwork.”

“It’s up to you,” his Japanese colleague said amicably.

“Well, stick a barrel against his head and tell him to tell you who he contacted and why — I mean their specific target.”

The JDF man made a face. It was a question. What happens if he still doesn’t answer? You’ve lost all credibility. Right?

“Try it,” Wray said. “I’ve got a hunch the little bastard’ll sing like a bird.”

“Do you want to try it?” the JDF agent asked. What he meant was, You lose face if you want to, Wray-san, but not me.

“All right,” Wray said. “I’ll do it. Give him another fifteen minutes to think about it, then call me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

On the point of Freeman’s recon patrol, D’Lupo’s squad of seven men from the first platoon had moved out to the flanks and back again in cloverleaf pattern, a rifle platoon between them and the HQ section behind them, the warm jungle dampness causing their shirts to cling to them like Saran Wrap under the Kevlar bulletproof vest, each man wearing a patrol harness, pistol belt, two ammo pouches, one smoke and two fragmentation grenades, and a K-bar knife, in addition to bandoleers of machine-gun bullets, a poncho, C-rations for the ninety-six-hour probe of Chinese positions, a claymore mine, and a collapsible shovel. But all this mountain of gear, except for his M-16, was ready for instant jettisoning if necessary by a quick ruck release strap, leaving the grunt as free as possible to fight.

Behind the HQ squad of General Freeman, Major Robert Cline, Marte Price, the radio operator PFC Rhin, and the two CNN crew, was a weapons platoon led by Martinez, made up of SAS and Delta veterans. They were a rear guard, but moving as cautiously as the men on the point, lest they get caught in an ambush, should the enemy try to sucker them in by allowing the point, the HQ and rifle platoon, to pass before springing a trap.

The haunting night sounds — thousands of birds and some of the millions of bats from caves like those around Lang Son— filled the darkness with such a flood of noise that was both unnerving and reassuring, since neither side would hear the other in the middle of such a racket, unless the Chinese tried to move tanks or self- propelled heavy artillery units down the road.

The noise of the bats and the general confusion they’d caused in the undergrowth amid a variety of animals, from wild pig to small deer, serow goats, and flying squirrels, seemed to cease almost as quickly as it had started. Then it began to rain, a deluge dumped on the jungle, immediately washing off much of the insect repellent on exposed flesh. In ten minutes the downpour too had ceased, and now masses of insects, mainly mosquitoes, buzzed, and rain could be heard plopping from the trees into pools and onto the canopies of broad-leafed plants as the soldiers unavoidably brushed against them.

There was a dull thump, followed by another, then another.

“Mor—” But the mortar rounds had already landed, splitting the air, their explosions throwing up earth in huge, dark convulsions of undergrowth and fire — men screaming all around, the frenetic chattering of machine guns opening up — another scream and the purplish veined explosions of grenades, the crash of more grenades, mortars — the air hot, coming in bursts whose concussion stunned and whose shrapnel lacerated the thick vegetation like hail.

Though the farthest ahead, D’Lupo’s squad was only now coming under attack, the trap being sprung, men yelling on the perimeter, “Two o’clock — five five!” and another explosion, the air acrid with the stink of cordite and muddy earth. Hunkered down, Freeman was calling back to the trucks for a relay message to Hanoi for TACAIR from wherever he could get it.

It came, but not quickly enough. By the time four Tomcats roared in from Enterprise as dawn broke, their ordnance bristling on hard points, their vapor trails sculpted golden by the early sun, the fighting was over, the enemy had withdrawn, and Freeman’s recon force was left with nine dead and about an equal number wounded. Medevac choppers now appeared like black bugs descending. As Freeman stomped about, Marte Price, badly shaken by the attack, moved behind him from corpse to corpse. She could see his eyes moisten, but whether it was from suppressed rage, compassion, or both, she couldn’t tell.

“Goddamn it,” he said to no one in particular. “For Second Army to get mauled like that first time out in ‘Nam—”