The guard moved his pistol toward an almost preternaturally calm Takahashi but at the last moment, swung it in the direction of the guard next to him. The sound of the shot was deafening in the confines of the small jet and warm blood was flung across Sanetomi’s cheek. He clawed at the buckle of his seat belt in an effort to get to his feet but was stopped when one of his remaining guards grabbed his wrist in a vise-like grip.

The security man closest to the cockpit broke away and ran toward it. A moment later two more shots rang out and Sanetomi saw the body of the copilot sag over the edge of his seat.

“Takahashi! What is this?” he heard himself say. But he knew quite well.

“It seems that the former soldiers you use in your security detail aren’t as loyal to you as you thought.”

“Stop this, General. There’s still time. You can’t—”

Sanetomi was silenced when a clear plastic bag was pulled over his head. He thrashed wildly, but there was no way to overcome the strength of the guards and the seat belt pulled tight across his lap. Finally, he went still, staring at Takahashi through the fogging plastic as his vision began to swim from lack of oxygen.

Takahashi returned his stare for a moment before twisting in his seat to shout to the guard who had taken control of the plane. “Contact the Chinese and tell them that we believe the prime minister has had a heart attack and request permission to divert to Chengdu in order to get him medical attention.”

The world around Sanetomi began to go dark but he wouldn’t allow himself to start fighting again. It would be futile and he refused to give the man casually watching him die the satisfaction. He forced his expression into a mask, giving away none of the fear he felt—for the Japanese people, for his family. For the horrors that Takahashi would soon unleash on China and the world.

It was his responsibility. His fault for not seeing what was happening in time to stop it. And for that, he deserved to die.

62

62

Kadena Air Base
Okinawa

The helicopter touched down about twenty-five yards from the hangar. Jon Smith immediately jumped out, running crouched toward the base commander, who was trying to stay clear of the powerful rotor wash.

“Colonel Smith,” he yelled in a heavy Southern drawl as they shook hands. “Steve Baron.”

“Nice to meet you, sir. Have you been briefed?”

Baron put a hand on his back and led him toward the hangar as the chopper started to lift off again. “I’m not sure I’d call it a briefing, but we’re ready for you. And I’m real anxious to hear what the hell all this is about.”