Mike Maden - Drone Command

“Oshiro! OSHIRO! O-SHI-RO!”

The American’s livid scowl softened. He stood, touched his earpiece, then spoke. A moment later, the spotter barely heard the American say, “Oshiro.” The spotter sighed with relief. He’d guessed right. The American had wanted to know who had sent them. Oshiro- san was his oyabun , the boss of his gumi .

The American tapped his earpiece again, tossed the wire cutters onto the table. He grabbed something and turned back around, marching over to the shooter.

Oh, shit .

The American shoved a clear plastic bag over the shooter’s head, whipped out a long white plastic cable tie, and ripped it around the shooter’s neck, zipping it tightly.

The shooter panicked, screamed. When he inhaled, the plastic bag sucked partway into his mouth, which only made him panic more. He exhaled until he out of breath inhaled again, and sucked the bag back into his mouth. The cycle repeated. The American watched emotionlessly. The breaths came shorter and shorter. The bag fogged.

The American stood and turned his withering gaze at the spotter. He stepped slowly over to him, knelt down. Held another plastic bag and zip tie in front of the spotter’s face. Leaned in close. Spoke, moving his mouth slowly.

The spotter squinted, trying desperately to hear the words.

“Ya-ma-da? Ya-ma-da?” the American asked.

“ Hai! Yamada! Yamada!”

A slew of words vomited out of the spotter’s mouth, explaining that his oyabun Oshiro- san had ordered the attack at sea on the American Yamada, using one of his own fishing trawlers but making it look Chinese, just like he’d ordered. It was just a job. Nothing personal. Him? He liked Americans. Even drove an American—

A plastic bag snapped over the spotter’s face, clouding his vision. He kicked and twisted as hard as he could, but the American planted a heavy knee into his chest, pinning him to the ground. A moment later, the zip tie cinched around his neck. He tried not to panic, tried to take small, measured breaths. Felt more than two hundred pounds lift off his chest as the American stood and stepped away.

The spotter rolled over just in time to watch the American jog out the door. He shouted for mercy through the fogging bag. The last thing he saw was the American’s hand hitting the light switch, throwing the room into an eternal black.

The Situation Room had just been refurbished again, updated with the latest security and communications equipment. It looked nothing like Kennedy’s original room, with its small table, paneled walls, analogue clocks, and Bakelite telephones. But Lane felt the weight of history nonetheless. JFK had created the Situation Room after the Bay of Pigs fiasco, believing his administration had stumbled into a crisis and nearly a world war because he lacked enough credible information. Fifty-five years later, Lane still felt like he didn’t have all the intel he needed to avoid a war with China, despite all of the computers and high-tech gear surrounding him. But he was going to have to make a decision today nonetheless.

Lane sat at the head of the rectangular mahogany table where he had control of the video monitors. The others sat in the high-backed leather chairs in no particular order, ignoring protocol. Lane was informal and preferred to keep it that way even in the Situation Room. In attendance were JCS Chairman General Onstot and the other service chiefs, along with Director of National Intelligence Pia, Secretary of State Wheeler, Secretary of Defense Shafer, and National Security Advisor Garza.

The image on the nearly wall-length HD screen opposite Lane was a live satellite video feed showing the Chinese fleet steaming toward the Senkakus. He intentionally kept all of the other video screens blank. Too much information was as big a problem as the lack of it.

Lane spoke to the speakerphone on the table. Myers was on the other end in Japan. “What’s the word from your man Ian?”

“He’s still running the software analysis. He isn’t able to confirm whether or not the Wu-14 will actually work.”

“And the bot?”

“It’s found several Chinese classified test results claiming success.”

The DNI chimed in. “Same as the thumb-drive data you sent us. Our analysts say it’s legit, so that clinches it.”

“Not necessarily,” Myers said. “Ian believes it’s possible all of those reports might be falsified, including the internal ones.”

“Why would the Chinese file bogus test results with their own people?”

“For the same reasons our defense contractors sometimes do,” Garza said. “They massage the data to get continued funding for their pet projects. Even some of the peer-reviewed science journals are loaded with bogus research these days. Everyone’s out for a buck.”

“Thank you, Margaret. I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

“My pleasure, Mr. President. I’ll wait for your further instructions.” Myers clicked off.

“Well, you heard it for yourselves. President Myers says that if we don’t send the George Washington across the red line and block the Chinese assault on the Senkakus the Japanese will go to war without us.” Lane turned to Secretary Wheeler. “Do you concur with her assessment?”

Wheeler nodded. “The Japanese will undoubtedly go to war without us, especially now that the presence of the Chinese fleet was leaked to the Japanese press. New and larger mass protests have broken out all over Japan. If Ito doesn’t act quickly, his government will fall and a militarist right-wing coalition will undoubtedly be formed. If that happens, all bets are off.”

Lane turned to the DNI. “How did the Japanese media get this information?”

Pia shrugged his shoulders. “A leak in Ito’s cabinet or maybe on the JSDF staff. Certainly wasn’t on our end, otherwise it would’ve gone to an American media outlet.”

“The Japanese won’t be waiting for us for much longer. Our fleet guys at Yokosuka report their JMSDF counterparts are prepping for war even as we speak,” Onstot said.

The George Washington was ported out of Yokosuka, but the carrier and its battle group were already at sea. After his meeting with the JCS at the Tank several days earlier, Lane had decided to deploy the George Washington to Okinawa for a “training exercise,” hoping that it would prove to be enough of a deterrent to keep the Chinese at bay, but clearly the ploy had failed. The George Washington and its escorts were two miles north of Okinawa, which kept them safely beyond the Chinese red line, but still within striking distance of the Senkakus.

“Still no word from President Sun?” Lane asked.

Wheeler shook her head. “He’s just waiting to see how all of this plays out to his advantage. Our best guess is that he’s hoping to clean house when this is all over. It’s a shrewd gamble.”

“He’s a sonofabitch for risking a war for his personal political gain.”

“Like every other fucking politician,” Garza said. Catching himself, he added, “Present company excluded.”

“He’s not the only one. The rest of the PLA is standing on the sidelines, too. They’ll be the first ones to applaud if Admiral Ji pulls this thing off,” Shafer said.

Lane shifted in his chair. “If we deploy the George Washington across the red line, will that be enough to stop the Chinese?”

Wheeler drummed her fingers on the table, weighing her response. “My gut says no. We’ve communicated our position clearly and forthrightly. There’s no misunderstanding. If the George Washington doesn’t deter them on the far side of the red line, it won’t on the near side.”