Drone Command

Pearce wondered how many of the sergeant’s relatives had been killed by American troops and planes, shot or bombed or napalmed into oblivion. More than a million North Vietnamese soldiers and Viet Cong fighters had been killed by allied forces. Tens of thousands of civilians, too, if not more. No wonder that sergeant hated his guts.

But then again, how many of his father’s friends had been killed by the NVA and the VC? Those vicious bastards had murdered hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians during and after the war. The Vietnamese Communists were just as ruthless as the murderous Pol Pot regime and all the other killing machines that had marched under the red banner over the years. Lenin, Stalin, Mao. Mao, the bloodiest of them all.

Now America and Vietnam, former combatants and ideological enemies, were trading partners and burgeoning allies. All that blood and death apparently couldn’t stem the tide of strip-mall capitalism. Why did all those people have to die in the first place? Why can’t the politicians cut out the killing and the bullshit and just get straight to the money and leave the rest of us alone?

The bile rose in the back of his throat. Pearce hated politics. He suddenly felt the urge to bail out of there and hightail his ass back to Wyoming. He’d lost too many friends in Afghanistan and Iraq because of politics. Annie’s death was the worst. And his dad. Agent Orange probably caused his dad’s brain cancer, but it was the lousy VA hospital service that actually killed him.

But Pearce knew he wouldn’t run away. He’d made a promise to Myers and Lane to serve again. More important, he’d made the promise to himself. He loved his country despite its faults, most of them connected to the idiots running Capitol Hill. Most Americans were decent, hardworking people. So were most Vietnamese or Iraqis or even Chinese, for that matter. In the U.S. it was the elected representatives and the high-dollar lobbyists and the Wall Street bankers who kept pissing in the punch bowl.

But Myers was different. He knew that the moment he met her. Thank God Mike Early begged him to come on board and help her administration. He quit the Global War on Terrorism because self-serving politicians made decisions that benefited only them and killed people he cared about, including Annie. Myers was a politician, too, but not like the others. She put her country ahead of her own political career. That was rare. That was worth throwing in with. Yeah, she was something else. Remarkable, really. Pearce was grateful that he’d gotten to know her better since then. Not many people could say they were close friends with an ex-president. Especially a damned good president like her.

President Lane was a good one, too. Myers had introduced them. It was easy for Pearce to throw in with him as well. Without public servants like Lane, the United States was doomed — the world’s largest banana republic. Men and women like Lane and Myers needed all the help they could get from guys like him. “Ask not” was Lane’s campaign theme. Lane was mocked and derided for it, but he really believed it. So did the people who had voted him into office.

So did Pearce.

He offered to lend Lane a hand. Wasn’t sure what that entailed. He figured it would be connected to his war record, his drone expertise, so he wasn’t surprised when Lane asked him if he wanted to revive Drone Command, but Pearce held off. Heading up a vast new federal bureaucracy sounded like slow torture. Pearce knew how fast and nimble he could operate as a private contractor. The thought of all of those self-serving congressional committee chairmen peering over his shoulder pining for pork barrel handouts made him cringe.

But Lane and Myers said they also needed some help on a political matter. Pearce demurred, said he wasn’t a politician. Said yes anyway.

Duty and all that.

Standing on the balcony, sipping the last of his tea, he knew his real mission had barely begun and that he’d already nearly gotten killed doing it.

He could only imagine what was waiting for him out there in the dark. Didn’t matter. That was the job.

EIGHT

TANAKA’S PRIVATE OFFICE

THE KANTEI

TOKYO, JAPAN

4 MAY 2017

Tanaka sat behind his desk in Japan’s version of the White House, the ashtray in front of him crowded with butts. He flicked a gold-plated Dunhill to light another cigarette as his personal cell phone rang. He recognized the incoming number. A vice president of TEPCO, the Tokyo Electric Power Company. He took a long drag before picking up.

“Yoshio! How are you, my old friend?”

“I’m well, Tanaka-san. Sorry to bother you.”

Tanaka didn’t like the worried tone in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

“That American was snooping around again. Asking more questions.”

“The Issei? Yamada?”