Marc Cameron - National Security

Mrs. Miyagi bowed slightly, folding both hands in front of her waist. “Would you permit me to see your blade?”

Quinn drew the CRKT Hissatsu killing tool from his waistband. Modeled in the style of an ancient Japanese dirk, it was one of the few knives on the market that wasn’t meant for double duty as a letter opener, or camp tool. The long, slender blade had no other job than the quick penetration of vital organs where it could inflict the most lethal damage.

“A knife?” Thibodaux tilted his big head, unconvinced.

“Why not?” The enigmatic woman peered through narrowed eyes. “Sicarii Zealots in first-century Palestine killed in broad daylight with a short sword known as a sica. The Fidaiin, most feared of the ancient assassins, always used a dagger to work their acts of terror. Even Spartans, whom you Marines revere so much, were renowned for their use of a short sword.”

“Short being the operative weakness,” Thibodaux said.

“Ah,” Miyagi said, scolding the Cajun. “When a Spartan youth once complained to his mother that his sword was too short, the warrior mother told her boy the weapon would be long enough if he would only step forward.”

Thibodaux sighed. “Touche,” he said, giving Quinn an I-told-you-so look.

Her history lesson over for the moment, Mrs. Miyagi turned her attention back to Quinn, who was grinning ear to ear at Thibodaux’s mental thrashing. “Very nice,” she said, drawing the twelve-inch blade from its Kydex scabbard. “I’m sure it has served you well.”

Quinn tipped his head, agreeing but saying nothing.

Mrs. Miyagi examined the Hissatsu under the natural light streaming in from her dining-room window. “Do you know of the ancient swordsmith Masamune?”

“I do indeed,” Quinn said. “Some feel Masamune was the greatest of all Japanese sword makers during the late thirteenth century. Leaves floating down a river toward his blade were said to have sensed the sharpness and veered away in the current. While other weapons were sharp, Masamune swords held a certain mystical power-discerning about what they cut.”

“You know your history.” Mrs. Miyagi gave an approving smile. She held the Hissatsu flat, across both hands. “Many years ago I was given a Masamune dagger-much like your blade. It is called Yawaraka-Te…”

“Gentle Hand, like the legend of the river and the leaves,” Quinn mused. It was so typical for the Japanese to give an instrument of death such a serene name.

“Yawaraka-Te now rests in your Halliburton case, under the guns,” Mrs. Miyagi said. “I make it a gift to you.”

Quinn caught his breath. A pair of pistols was one thing, but a centuries-old blade forged by a Japanese master was a heavy burden. He may have saved the Director’s grandson, but this woman didn’t know him at all. For her to give him a sword that for all practical purposes was a Japanese national treasure was unthinkable. Still, he could see from the set in Mrs. Miyagi’s jaw to refuse it would be unthinkable.

“Do I get a cool knife?” Thibodaux peeked under the corner of the foam insert inside his aluminum case.

A mischievous sparkle formed in Mrs. Miyagi’s bottomless brown eyes, flashing at Quinn. He nodded, understanding her meaning without words passing between them.

She pushed the Hissatsu toward the Cajun. “Blades are far more powerful when they come to us as a gift. Quinn San wants you to have this one.” Offering him Jericho’s knife with both hands, she changed the subject. “Now, there is much to do. Please put that away and follow me.”

Thibodaux slumped, shoving the present in his aluminum case. “I told you she didn’t like me,” he whispered. “But hey, thanks anyway for the pigsticker, beb.”

Quinn was severely tempted to look under the pistols in his case. He longed to touch the eight-hundred-year-old blade. That would be rude though, so he let it wait.

Mrs. Miyagi stepped out to her front porch and motioned toward the circular driveway. “The Director authorized a second BMW Adventure, identical to yours, Quinn San, but for the color.”

Thibodaux all but vaulted onto the red and black GS. Except for the color it was the twin to Jericho’s gunmetal bike, complete with Touratech aluminum cases.

Mrs. Miyagi ran her hand over the huge gas tank on Quinn’s motorcycle. “The Shop made a few adjustments while you slept. A little more travel in the front suspension… tuned the engine to coax out an additional ten horsepower to your original one oh five… and added run-flat tires.”

Sitting astride his new bike, Thibodaux tipped back and forth on the center stand. He looked like a giant kid on an electric pony. “I’ll bet they shoot rockets or some-”

“Don’t touch that!” Mrs. Miyagi snapped. She stepped closer, pointing at a gray button on the handlebars.

“Really?” The Marine jerked his hand away as if he’d been bitten.

“No, Thibodaux San,” Mrs. Miyagi laughed. “That controls your heated hand grips. Motorcycles do not make a good platform for rockets.” Her smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “However, these particular motorcycles will carry you from point A to point B very fast, in places where a conventional vehicle can not always go. As riders you won’t stand out when wearing armored clothing. We have full custom suits based on the measurements you provided. They are fashioned from Aerostich Transit Leather-both the pants and the jackets. Breathable and waterproof, but engineers at the Shop have installed a small cooling system for more pleasant summer wear. Ballistic shielding has been added to the crash armor already in place.”

“I’d like to visit this Shop,” Quinn said, giving his bike a quick once-over to make sure everything was in the proper place. He called it his pre-flight.

“Ah.” Miyagi smiled. “Perhaps someday I can arrange this. The Shop is a small, subunit of DARPA specializing in equipment for teams such as yours.” DARPA-the Defense Advanced Research Project Agency-was a component of the Department of Defense comprised of government and contracted research specialists in everything from nano-bots to guided missile lasers.

Miyagi continued with her gear issue. “Our engineers have added a heads-up display to the visor of your helmet, using the same technology employed by fighter pilots. You will be able to keep your eyes on the road but still access night vision, GPS, and even a video link if that should become necessary-though I don’t recommend it while riding, for safety’s sake. Your helmets have also been wired with a voice encrypted, wireless STU.” The STU was a secure telephone unit usually operated with an encryption key.

“Once they are imprinted, you’ll be able to speak securely to the Director’s office as well as to each other and, when needed, more conventional telephones.”

Thibodaux rolled the black, visored helmet in his beefy hands. “I’ll bet I could check my Facebook on this thing.”

Quinn’s head snapped up. “You’re on Facebook?”

“Sure ’nuff.” Thibodaux grinned. “You’re not?”

“Indeed, you could use the equipment to check such things…” Mrs. Miyagi pursed her lips as if she was about to say something else but turned her attention to Quinn instead. She rested a bronze hand on the handlebar of his motorcycle. “There are quite a lot of improvements, too many to comprehend in a short briefing. They were designed to be intuitive so nothing should surprise you. I believe you will be pleased as you learn of them. Some may even save your life.”

“So,” Jericho said, already feeling the calm waves of normalcy his bike provided, “we train with you?”

“That is correct,” Miyagi said. “I am aware of your previous curriculum. I will provide a more spiritual… esoteric sort of guidance to prepare you for what the Director has in mind.”