“That’s a gross overstatement. But I think you have to agree that the Chinese present numerous challenges to both Japan and the world. They steal other countries’ intellectual property. They manipulate their currency. They use de facto slave labor to take critical manufacturing jobs from places like the United States. They are creating border disputes with virtually every country in the region and are building a military to press those claims. They protect the North Koreans. Their environmental problems are scaling to the point that they’re causing damage outside their borders. And their demand for resources is becoming almost limitless. Obviously, I could go on, but the basic point is that they aren’t contributors to the world. They’re leeches. A billion tiny leeches.”

This time Castilla was unable to hide his feelings: the blood drained visibly from his face. Takahashi leaned forward, putting his cup on the table and meeting the eye of the man who had once been the most powerful in the world. “I tell you all this as a courtesy, Mr. President. Japan neither wants nor needs your protection. Finish your summit if you must, but pull your carrier groups back and stay out of this. It’s none of your affair.”

“What if the American people are unwilling to just stand by while you perpetrate genocide?”

Castilla expected Takahashi to take offense at his characterization and his horror grew when the soldier’s expression didn’t even flicker. “Make no mistake, Mr. President. I will protect my country’s interests at all costs. And against all enemies.”

47

47

Northeastern Japan

Randi Russell ducked under the branches of a tree and continued upward toward the intermittent flashes of blue sky. The mountain was just one in the endless rolling carpet of green that covered this remote part of the island. The complete lack of trails was comforting from an anonymity standpoint, but not ideal for speed. The foliage was nearly as dense as she’d run into in Laos, though it wasn’t as hot, thank God.

She put her back against a tree and lifted the nozzle of her CamelBak to her mouth. Visibility was only about ten feet but she was confident she wasn’t being followed. In order to even approximate silence, someone would have to slow to a rate of no more than a couple hundred yards an hour, and that would have left them crawling along the canyon below.

She’d decided that plausible deniability was completely lost—no one was going to believe that an American bushwhacking toward a nuclear storage facility was a lost hiker. In light of that, Randi had equipped herself with ultralight hiking boots, fatigues dyed specifically for the environment, and a silenced Beretta with two spare clips. If anyone spotted her, there would be no doubt about her purpose, but at least there would be a reasonable chance for escape.