Drone Command

The steel blade absorbed the blow. The wooden sword bit deeply into the razor-sharp edge — so deeply that it stuck for just a fraction of a second.

A fraction of a second the Japanese fighter didn’t have.

Just as he managed to free his bokuto, two finely honed carbon steel edges slashed across his back, opening his flesh as if they were boning a fish. The Japanese screamed in agony and whipped around only to be slashed again across his broad chest. Blood poured out of the dragon’s voracious mouth as his body crashed to the floor.

The crowd stood in stunned silence, including Tanaka. But Kobayashi sat grinning like a Buddha.

“I don’t understand,” Tanaka said. He saw Kobayashi betting heavily. He assumed he’d been betting on the Japanese.

“There’s the man we need to lead your operation,” Kobayashi said.

Tanaka glanced at the three yakuza on the arena floor, pacing around the corpse and laughing like hyenas over their kill. Tanaka couldn’t decide which one he meant.

“Him.” Kobayashi nodded toward a large man standing in the audience on the far side of the area. The big Okinawan was fat like a sumotori and wore his long hair in a ponytail. Voluminous black silk pants and shirt couldn’t hide his enormous girth, and the heavy gold chains around his neck were nearly lost in the folds of fat.

“Oshiro-san is the one you can count on,” Kobayashi said.

“Why him?”

“Those are his boys. Rough, but fearless.”

“Impressive,” Tanaka said. “Those Okinawans are better trained than I realized.”

Kobayashi nodded. “Good fighting dogs are always trained. Oshiro-san keeps his men vicious, effective, and obedient.” And then he laughed. “But those Okinawans are crazy, too. Crazy enough to do what needs to be done.”

THIRTY-ONE

EAST SEA FLEET HEADQUARTERS (PLAN)

NINGBO, ZHEJIANG PROVINCE, CHINA

14 MAY 2017

Myers and Pearce tried to relax in their plush leather seats despite the blaring sirens outside that were muted by the armored chassis and bulletproof glass of the twenty-foot-long Red Flag L8 limousine. An armed military escort raced in front and behind them as the convoy roared past the open gate, sentries erect, saluting Admiral Ji’s flags snapping just above the big bug-eyed headlights of the gleaming black vehicle.

After landing at Ningbo airport in Feng’s private Gulfstream G150, the convoy whisked Pearce and Myers out of the bustling city over the bridge to the naval facilities on the southern side of Zhoushan Island. Myers kept eager eyes on the buildings, equipment, and personnel speeding past her window, taking it all in. They finally reached the four-story headquarters and rolled to a stop, the sirens suddenly cutting off like a slit throat.

A scowling PLAN lieutenant commander yanked open the limousine door and motioned for Pearce and Myers to follow. He marched them into the building and up three flights of stairs, where they were greeted by two hulking armed guards. The lieutenant commander barked an order and the guards opened two heavy steel doors with synchronized precision. Still unsmiling, the PLAN officer shot a stiff open palm toward the open doors, bidding the two Americans to enter. They did, and the doors closed silently behind them.

Admiral Ji and Vice Chairman Feng stood in front of Ji’s desk, an ornately crafted piece of antique captain’s furniture. Ivory-eyed sea dragons held up the four corners of the mahogany desktop. Paned windows overlooked the harbor.

“Madame President, Mr. Pearce, thank you for coming. I trust your journey was a pleasant one?” Feng asked. He approached Myers with an extended hand.

Pearce grabbed it instead. “Thanks, it was.”

Feng’s plastic smile didn’t budge as his hand was caught in the vice grip of Pearce’s handshake.

“This is Admiral Ji, the commander of the East Sea Fleet.”

Ji nodded deferentially to Myers. “Welcome, Madame President.”

“Coffee? Tea? Something to eat?” Feng asked.

“No, thank you. We didn’t come here for the food or the hospitality,” Myers said.

“I admire your frankness. A hallmark of your presidential administration,” Feng said. “Please, be seated.” He gestured toward the four club chairs arranged in a circle.

The Chinese and Pearce went to sit down, but Myers proceeded over to the window. Her eyes scanned the ships tied up to the piers. Two diesel submarines, a missile destroyer, several smaller ships. Civilian dockworkers and sailors serviced the vessels.

“Lovely view. I can’t wait to see the George Washington pulling into your harbor.”

“President Myers, please,” Feng said.

“Of course.” She took the last remaining seat.

“It was good of you to take the trouble of coming here,” Feng said.

“It was terribly inconvenient. I hope it will be worth my valuable time.”

“I don’t think you’ll be disappointed,” Feng said.

“That’s what you promised on the phone.”