He decided to give himself a moment to stand and head out of his office to
the nearest water cooler, which was tucked in his secretary’s office, h’oggy
Bottom, he’d heard, had once been a nice marsh before some fool had de-
cided to drain it. What a pity the Sierra Club hadn’t been around then to
force an environmental-impact statement. They were so good at obstructing
things, and didn’t much care whether the things they halted were useful or
not, and as a result they occasionally did some public good. But not this
time, Ryan told himself, sitting back down. Then he lifted the STU-6 and
punched the speed-dial button for State.
“Good morning, Mr. Secretary,” the National Security Advisor said
pleasantly. “What’s the story about the demonstration outside the Tokyo
Embassy yesterday?”
” You saw CNN the same as I did, I’m sure,” Hanson replied, as though it
were not the function of an American embassy mission to provide better in-
formation than any citizen could get with his oatmeal.
“Yes, I did, as a matter of fact, but I would really like to have the opinion
of embassy personnel, like maybe the political officer, maybe even the
DCM,” Ryan said, allowing a little of his irritation to show. Ambassador
Chuck Whiting was a recent political appointee, a former senator who had
then become a Washington lawyer, and had actually represented some Japa-
nese business interests, but the Deputy Chief of Mission was an experienced
man and a Japan specialist who knew the culture.
“Walt decided to keep his people in. He didn’t want to provoke anything.
I’m not going to fault him for that.”
‘ ‘That may be, but I have in my hand an eyewitness report from an experi-
enced field officer who-”
“I have it, too, Ryan. It looks alarmist to me. Who is this guy?”
“As I said, an experienced field officer.”
“Umm-hmm, I see he knows Iran.” Ryan could hear the crackle of paper
over the phone.’ ‘That makes him a spook. I guess that colored his thinking a
little. How much experience in Japan?”
“Not much, but-”
“There you are. Alarmist, as I said. You want me to follow up on it,
though?”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary.”
“Okay, I’ll call Walt. Anything else? I’m prepping for Moscow, too.”
“Please, let’s light a fire under them?”
“Fine, Ryan. I’ll make sure that gets through. Remember, it’s already
nighttime over there, okay?”
“Fine.” Ryan replaced the phone in its cradle and swore. Mustn’t wake
up the Ambassador. He had several options. Typically, he took the most di-
reel. He lifted his desk phone and punched the button for the President’s
personal secretary.
“I need to talk to the boss for a few.”
“Thirty minutes?”
“That’ll be fine, thank you.”
The delay was explained by a ceremony in the East Room that Ryan had had
on his daily schedule sheet, too, but had forgotten about. It was just too big
for the Oval Office, which suited the secretarial staff. Ten TV cameras and a
good hundred or so journalists watched as Roger Durling affixed his signa-
ture to the Trade Reform Act. The nature of the legislation demanded a num-
ber of pens, one for each letter of his name, which made the signing a
lengthy and haphazard process. The first went, naturally enough, to Al
Trent, who had authored the bill. The rest went to committee chairmen in the
House and Senate, and also to selected minority members without whom the
bill could not possibly have sailed through Congress as rapidly as it had.
There was the usual applause, the usual handshakes, and a new entry was
made in the United States Code, Annotated. The Trade Reform Act was now
federal law.
One of the TV crews was from NHK. Their faces were glum. Next they
would drive to the Commerce Department to interview the legal team that
was analyzing Japanese laws and procedures for rapid duplication. It would
be an unusually educational experience for the foreign journalists.
Like most senior government officials, Chris Cook had a TV in his office.
He watched the signing on C-SPAN and, with it, saw the indefinite post-
ponement of his entry into the “private” sector. It made him uneasy to ac-
cept outside payments while still a federal employee. They were going into a
safe bank account, but it was illegal, wasn’t it? He didn’t really mean to
break the law. Amity between America and Japan was important to him. It
was now breaking down, and unless it could be rapidly restored, his career
would stagnate and effectively end despite all the promise it had shown for
so many years. And he needed the money. He had a dinner with Seiji sched-
uled for tonight. They had to discuss ways of making things right again, the
Deputy Assistant Secretary of State told himself, returning to his work.
On Massachusetts Avenue, Seiji Nagumo was watching the same TV chan-
nel and was just as unhappy. Nothing would ever be the same again, he
thought. Perhaps the new government … no, Goto was a demagogic fool.
His posturing and blustering would only make things worse. The sort of ac-
tion needed was . .. what?
For the first time in his career, Nagumo had no idea wluil thai might be.
Diplomacy had failed. Lobbying had failed. Even espionage, il tine could
call it that, had failed. Espionage? Was that the proper term’.’ Well, techni-
cally, yes, he admitted. He was now paying money tor informal ion. Cook
and others. At least they were well placed, at least he’d been able lo warn his
government, At least the Foreign Ministry knew that he’d done his best, as
much as any man could do-more, really. And he’d keep trying, working
through Cook to affect the way the Americans interpreted Japanese laws.
But the Americans had a term for it: rearranging the deck chairs on the Ti-
tanic.
Reflection only made it worse, and soon the only word for what he felt
was anguish. His countrymen would suffer, America, the world. All because
of one traffic accident that had killed six inconsequential people. It was mad-
ness.
Madness or not, it was how the world worked. A messenger came into his
office and handed over a sealed envelope for which Nagumo had to sign. He
waited until his office door closed again before he opened it.
The cover sheet told him much. The dispatch was eyes-only. Even the
Ambassador would never learn of what he was now reading. The instruc-
tions on the next two pages made his hand shake.
Nagumo remembered his history. Franz Ferdinand, June 28, 1914, in the
cursed city of Sarajevo, a titled nonentity, a man of such little consequence
that no one of importance had troubled himself to attend the funeral, but his
murder had been the “damned, foolish thing” to start the first war to span
the globe. In this case the inconsequential people had been a police officer
and some females.
And on such trivialities, this would happen? Nagumo went very pale, but
he had no choice in the matter, because his life was driven by the same
forces that turned the world on its axis.
Exercise DATELINE PARTNERS began at the scheduled time. Like most such
war games, it was a combination of free play and strict rules. The size of the
Pacific Ocean made for ample room, and the game would be played between
Marcus Island, a Japanese possession, and Midway. The idea was to simu-
late a conflict between the U.S. Navy and a smaller but modern frigate force,
played by the Japanese Navy. The odds were heavily loaded against the lat-
ter, but not completely so. Marcus Island-called Minami Tori-shima on
their charts-was, for the purposes of the exercise, deemed to be a continen-
tal land mass. In fact the atoll consisted of a mere 740 acres, scarcely large
enough for a meteorological station, a small fishing colony, and a single run-
way, from which would fly a trio of P-3C patrol aircraft. These could be
administratively “shot down” by American fighters, but would return to life
the next day. The commercial fishermen who also maintained a station on
the island to harvest squid, kelp, and the occasional swordt’ish for their home
markets welcomed the increased activity. The airmen had brought a cargo of
beer which they would exchange for the fresh catch in what had become a
friendly tradition.
Two of the three Orions lifted off before dawn, angling north and south, to
search for the American carrier fleet. Their crewmen, aware of the trade
problems between the two countries, concentrated on their mission. It was
not an unknown mission to the Japanese Navy, after all. Their forefathers
had done the same thing two generations before, in Kawasaki H8K2 flying
boats-the same contractor that had built these Orions-to search for the
marauding carriers commanded in turns by Halsey and Spruance. Many of