Mike Maden - Drone Command

Tanaka gripped the bars of the dip station in his powerful hands. A leather belt cinched around his waist held a fifty-pound weight by a chain that dangled below his knees. He leaned forward and lowered himself until his elbows were at ninety degrees, then thrust upward, pecs and triceps exploding with power until he was fully extended. He repeated the move again and again, watching himself in the wall-length mirror, careful to keep the heavy weight between his legs nearly motionless with his perfect form. Sweat poured off his face as his arms and chest burned with lactic acid. An aide pounded on the door of his private gym.

“Enter!”

Tanaka pounded out the last brutal rep, then set his feet on the platform to relieve his exhausted arms.

The aide ran over, bowing deeply, begging forgiveness as Tanaka unchained the dumbbell and dropped it onto its rack with a clang.

“What is it?”

The aide explained. Myers’s plane had crashed an hour ago in the East China Sea. Either shot down or forced down by a Chinese fighter jet.

“Dead?”

“No, sir. Rescued by one of our helicopters just a few minutes ago.”

Tanaka dismissed the man and mopped his soaking-wet face with a towel. The gym door shut. He was alone.

Tanaka burst into laughter.

It would have served the Americans right if she had been killed. They had taunted the dragon, and the dragon snapped. Americans were arrogant fools.

He grabbed a seventy-pound dumbbell from the rack and sat in a chair with a low padded back, starting his first set of triceps extensions, slowly lowering and raising the heavy weight behind his head. He could already feel the burn.

An old familiar rage welled up in his gut as he lifted. The Americans dare to tell us how to defend ourselves? They can’t even win their own wars, but presume to tell us how to protect our nation? Arrogant bastards.

Tanaka squeezed out the last rep and dropped the weight into his lap.

As bad as the Chinese were, at least they were honest , Tanaka thought. They hated Japan and everything it stood for, especially since Japan had proven itself superior in every regard. Their hatred wasn’t just public; it was public policy.

But Tanaka deeply resented America. It paraded around as if it were a rich benevolent uncle at a birthday party. But in Tanaka’s mind, America was a tyrant and a hypocrite. The United States had murdered hundreds of thousands of innocent Japanese citizens during the war in order to terrorize his country into submission, and now they have the gall to wage a war against terror?

Tanaka raised the weight back over his head, began the next set of reps, slow and steady. The seething anger energized his muscles.

The Americans forced a treaty on us , he fumed. Wrote our Constitution. Forbade us to have an army or navy. They might as well have castrated every Japanese male while they were at it. But worst of all, America destroyed our sacred culture by forcing Americanism on us, ripping out the heart of Japan by relegating the divine emperor to the status of just another privileged royal. The very essence of what it meant to be Japanese was our culture. By destroying our traditional culture, America destroyed Japan itself.

There was no doubt in Tanaka’s mind at all.

Japan’s only hope for survival as a nation and a culture was the destruction of both China and America.

Tanaka pushed the dumbbell faster and faster. Eight reps, nine reps—

Japan didn’t have the ability to destroy either the U.S. or China.

But they had the power to destroy each other.

Tanaka powered through another five reps. He shouted as he raised the dumbbell for the last rep, his arms trembling with fatigue, muscles failing with complete exhaustion. Tanaka roared a low, open-throated shout from deep within, releasing his last ounce of spiritual energy. The weight rose, millimeter by millimeter, until it finally cleared the back of his head. He lowered the heavy weight into his lap, grinning ear to ear. He stood and tossed the dumbbell into the rack.

It suddenly dawned on him. Myers had shown him the way.

He laughed again, clapping his hands. Hai!

She had shown him the way.

Myers stood at the window, arms crossed. Watched the traffic six stories below.

Pang Bo, the Chinese ambassador, stood behind her a respectful distance away. Hong Kong — tailored suit, Rolex watch, frameless glasses. His security people remained outside the door, over their protest. Pearce stood in the corner, glaring at the tall, well-groomed ambassador.

“My government is extremely grateful that you suffered no permanent injuries, Madame President.”

“That hardly seems possible, since your government obviously tried to kill me.”

“We were unaware of your presence on the plane, I assure you. A plane, I might add, that violated Chinese sovereign airspace—”

Myers laughed. “Are you kidding me? Mao Island? It’s a false claim under false pretenses.”

“It’s a perfectly legitimate claim that has been fully documented and presented to the appropriate international authorities for verification.”

“International authorities you bully or bribe into your sphere of influence.”

“China enjoys the same right as other nations to protect its borders, territories, and economic zones. We’re confident that the international community will eventually see things our way.”

Myers turned and faced Pang. A smug grin was plastered on his face.

“Because of the heightened state of tension between our two nations, I’m willing to keep this matter as private as possible, Mr. Pang. But I demand a full, official apology from your government for that reckless, senseless attack on our airplane.”

“Forgive me, Madame President, but it’s impossible to apologize for an act that wasn’t committed. We made no attack on your person, and had we known you were on board the aircraft, we would have taken extra precaution. But your aircraft was specifically warned to remain on its scheduled flight plan and that leaving the designated flight corridor could result in a shoot down.” The ambassador’s grin widened. “But as you witnessed, the Chinese people showed great restraint, and our pilot didn’t fire any weapons.”

“Good thing I wasn’t flying over Tiananmen Square.”

Pang’s grin fled.

“My government hoped that my appearance here at your hotel room would sufficiently convey our deepest concern for your well-being.”

“Your government is going to get us into a shooting war.”

“The Chinese people have no wish for war.”

“Then why are you trying to steal the oil reserves in the East China Sea?”

“One cannot steal from one’s self.”

“Tell me, Pang, who’s the idiot behind this Mao Island business? I know President Sun. He’s far too smart to do something this radically stupid.”

The ambassador’s jaw clenched. He opened his mouth to speak but decided against it.

Now it was Myers’s turn to grin. “Did I hit a nerve?”

“I believe President Sun is in complete agreement with the current policy.”

“How uninformed do you think I am? He’s not the one behind all of this. It’s Feng, isn’t it?”

The ambassador frowned briefly, surprised at her insider knowledge.

“Vice Chairman Feng speaks for many in our government. The East China Sea belongs to China. That is a historical fact and a current reality.”