Section 8 (11 page)

Tokyo

The Black Wind Society of the Yakuza was controlled by a middle-age man who looked like he would be comfortable standing behind the counter of the local pharmacy, smiling at customers and dispensing medicines to make them feel better. Atio Kasama had a slight smile almost permanently entrenched on his face, a look that had disarmed many he'd come in contact with over the years—to their great disadvantage, for Kasama was anything but a happy or pleasant man.
He harbored dark thoughts and ambitions, and had ever since watching his father, a strict disciplinarian who ran the family with an iron hand, butcher his mother with a knife, and then commit suicide—after tying him to a tree in their small backyard in suburban Tokyo many years ago. Kasama spent eight hours getting himself free of his father's knots, all the while watching the bodies of his parents go into rigor mortis in front of him and their blood coagulate in the mud that had formed underneath.
Even at that age, traumatized by what he'd witnessed, he knew he did not want what was going to come next if he stayed. His parents had been only children in their families, so he would become a ward of the state, an institution he saw as simply a much larger version of his father. As he worked his way free of the bonds, he decided that for the rest of his life he would make his own rules and live his life his own way.
He'd escaped from the knots and the dead household and disappeared into the Tokyo underworld. Subsequently, he learned the reason for his father's despair—he had owed a large debt to a bookie who worked for the Yakuza. Kasama went to visit the bookie—not to wreak vengeance, as one might suppose, but rather, to learn. He considered his father weak for giving up to a force outside of himself, and he wanted to understand such power. So he learned the trade of exploiting the weakness of gambling in others—others like his father. He also learned how to exploit other weaknesses in people, in the form of running prostitutes, lending money, and dealing illegal drugs.
By the time he was eighteen, Kasama had already made his mark in the criminal underworld. Then the Black Wind had come calling. It brought him into its fold and gave him the security he had never known within his own family. His determination never to give in to any of the vices he helped ply made him different from most of those around him and allowed him to rise quickly in the ranks. Added to that was a ruthlessness that had no boundaries. He would do whatever his superiors demanded of him, because he knew it was the quickest way to get to the point where he would be the one giving the orders.
He became the right-hand man to the head of the Black Wind over six years ago, and when his boss passed away in his sleep from a heart attack, Kasama assumed power, just one year ago. There had been a few squeaks of protest from others high in the organization, but he'd crushed those squeaks with direct and violent action, brooking no dissent to his rule. There were even rumors that the heart attack had not occurred naturally. Kasama knew the truth, which was that he had nothing to do with the death, but he allowed the rumor to circulate unchecked, since fear was the most effective tool for keeping his people in line.
Now he was in his armored limousine and on his way to an afternoon meeting with some rich industrialists at a location they had designated near the port of Tokyo. He was not happy. He had inherited a problem from his predecessor: nine rich businessmen who used the Black Wind's darker talents in some of their shadier negotiations around the world. His predecessor had made the deal in exchange for political influence and money, but somehow—Kasama wasn't quite sure when it happened—the balance of power had shifted too far in the businessmen's favor.
This past month he had gotten involved in brokering some sort of deal between this group and the Abu Sayef guerrillas in the Philippines. There had been similar dealings in the past, most of the time over the return of hostages taken by the guerrillas. Kasama usually sent people with the money to negotiate the release, and in the process kept a generous broker's fee. But this last encounter with the Abu Sayef had been different.
He sent a man with a message, and the reply had been a slap in the face to the Black Wind. Kasama watched the DVD of the killing of his man just once. He'd had it explained to him that the man was given some sort of virus that slowly killed him. He understood the message because he understood the old men with whom he was working: many of them had been involved in Unit 731 during the Second World War. The name of that infamous unit made even Kasama think twice about who he was dealing with.
So when the limousine pulled up to the nondescript warehouse where he was to meet some of the old men, he waited for a few moments, as three sport utility vehicles with tinted glass pulled in, one in front of his car, two behind. His men. Armed to the teeth. They were in an alley next to the port. Warehouses lined the alley and all the doors were shut. There was no one in sight.
It bothered Kasama that he had to make such a show of force for a meeting. It was a loss of face. But the DVD had made an impression on top of his feelings about those who had once been part of Unit 731. Something was going on, something he was not clued in to, and that bothered him more than the loss of face and made him wary. It also bothered him that his chief bodyguard had not been there to meet him. That was most unusual, and Kasama planned on severely disciplining the man—another finger removed would be a fitting punishment.
He remained in the car as a man got out of each SUV and took up position near the doors of the appointed place. They had automatic weapons, which they openly brandished. Kasama had never been here before. However, he'd met with the old men before in such out of the way places several times.
One of the men tried the door. It did not budge. Kasama frowned as he watched through the armored side window of his limousine. Who did these people think they were?
His cell phone rang and he flipped it open. "Yes?"
It was one of his assistants, informing him that his chief bodyguard had not shown up because he was dead, gunned down in the streets. Kasama snapped the phone shut.
"Take me back," he ordered his current bodyguard, who relayed the order to the driver.
At that moment at each end of the street, container carriers that serviced the port appeared. Each one had a container held high in its crane, and the heavy objects were dropped to the ground, blocking both ends. The sound of metal thudding on pavement echoed through the alley.
Kasama sat back in his seat and took a deep breath as his bodyguard screamed orders into his radio. He knew it was already too late. It was a strange experience, realizing he would soon be dead. The only other time he'd felt like this was the interim between his father stabbing his mother to death and using the knife on his own stomach. Kasama had never understood why his father didn't kill him too.
A rocket-propelled grenade streaked into the alley, and one of the SUVs exploded, showering the narrow space with metal and body parts. Then a second SUV was hit, and Kasama caught a glimpse of the rocket being fired from the rooftop just before it hit. Everyone was piling out of the third SUV, firing at the rooftops.
The limousine jerked forward, the driver trying to make them a moving target within the confines of the kill zone. There were four sharp, loud cracks, and then the sound of thousands of steel ball bearings splattering against the side of the limousine. A series of claymore mines had been hidden along both sides of the alley, and their effect upon detonation was to kill every man who was outside. Their riddled corpses were splattered about the alley, and the limousine jerked as the driver ran over one of them.
An effective combination, Kasama thought as he was thrown against his seat belt when the driver threw the limo into reverse. Someone had anticipated possible defensive reactions. He was almost curious to see what would come next. His head bodyguard thrust out a spare submachine gun toward him; he looked at it, then shook his head. Enough face had been lost.
"Stop," Kasama ordered.
The limousine came to a halt. The frightened driver looked over his shoulder to the rear. His bodyguard stared at Kasama in confusion. The confusion turned to fear as Kasama reached for the door handle.
"Sir! You cannot."
Kasama ignored him. He pushed the heavy door open and stepped out of the armored car. He could smell the distinctive odors of explosives and human viscera. He slowly turned, looking about, trying to see his enemies. His body was tense, expecting a bullet to impact at any second, but all was suddenly quiet.
He spotted no one. His bodyguard exited the car, weapon in hand, and was promptly killed as a bullet from a hidden sniper hit him between the eyes, taking half his head with it as passed through. The limo driver took that as his cue and accelerated away, leaving Kasama, even though there was no escape route. The car made it about forty feet before rockets from either side of the alley hit, almost ripping it in two.
Kasama folded his arms and stood tall.
A door across from him opened up and a figure stepped out, a samurai sword in hand. Kasama's eyes widened as he made out the feminine body outline underneath the black one-piece suit. The ultimate insult.

CHAPTER 8
Okinawa

The Humvee that had picked Vaughn up at the airfield came out of the tunnel into an open chamber where several other vehicles were parked, including three more Humvees. Various mounds of supplies were stacked here and there. The driver still had not said a word to him, indeed had not looked at him once, either in the rearview mirror or by turning around. As soon as the engine was turned off, as if on cue, the door to the right swung open and people began stepping out, all wearing sterile camouflage fatigues. Vaughn slowly got out of his Humvee, and as soon as he was clear, it departed, back the way it had come.
My new team
, he thought as he looked at them.
Several things struck him right away about his new teammates. First, one was female. A slender woman of Japanese descent with dark hair shorn tight against her skull and a white bandage on her forehead. One of the men was Korean. Vaughn had served long enough in the Far East to tell the ethnic differences among the races. Another was African-American. The other two were Caucasian, one a tall man with graying hair, the other short and powerfully built, with what appeared to be a permanent scowl on his face. And they all had the aura that Special Operations personnel carried. A sense of confidence without a need to press it upon anyone.
The short man stepped forward. "I'm the team leader. Name's Orson." Only five and a half feet tall, Orson looked like a human fireplug. "I spent some time in the SEALs," he said vaguely. "Including Team Six."
Vaughn knew that Team Six was the SEAL version of Delta Force—an elite counterterrorist unit. He'd worked with elements of Team Six several times on training missions but had never met Orson.
Orson turned to the others. "Gentlemen—and lady," he said. "Our latest and last addition to the team. Vaughn, formerly of Delta Force."
The "formerly" resonated in Vaughn's ears. For some reason, the way Orson said it made the finality of his decision strike home. There was no going back. He'd heard of people who, rumor said, had been recruited for covert units and then simply disappeared into the world of black ops. Vaughn also noted that Orson had not used his rank—another indicator that things were going to be very different. He followed as Orson led him down the line, introducing his new teammates.
"Hayes," Orson said, stopping in front of the black man. "He spent most of his childhood in the Philippine Islands, so he is our area expert. Also qualified on weapons and demolitions."
As Vaughn shook the man's hand, he had to wonder why his Delta Team hadn't had access to Hayes as an area specialist. They certainly could have used more intelligence about the setup on Jolo. He also noted that there was a tremor in Hayes's hand, so slight it was almost unnoticeable. Almost.
"Vaughn," Hayes said, the greeting noncommittal. He stepped back with a glance at the Japanese woman next to him.
"Tai." Orson said her name so sharply that Vaughn was uncertain for a moment if it was her name or some expression, but the doubt disappeared as she put her hand out.
"Welcome to the team, Vaughn."
"Tai is expert in demolitions, but her particular expertise is in intelligence and counterintelligence with a specialty on terrorism, particularly in the Pacific Rim."
Orson had already moved on to a tall gray-haired man. Before he could say anything, the man stuck his hand out. "Hey. Sinclair's my name. Spent some time in Fifth Group and the schoolhouse at Bragg teaching at SWC." He pronounced it "swick," which was what Special Forces people called the Special Warfare Center at Fort Bragg.
"Nice to meet you," Vaughn said, feeling a bit strange. Every other time he'd gone to a new unit, he'd at least known someone there, since the U.S. Special Operations community was still a relatively small one. Here he had no advance intelligence on these people and had to assume, or hope, they had none on him. He'd never met Sinclair, as far as he could remember, but Special Forces had grown into a large community in the nineties, and once he was in Delta Force, he'd little interaction with the Special Forces groups.
"Kasen," Royce said, stopping in front of the Korean. "Formerly of the First Ranger Battalion."
Kasen's grip was strong and the skin rough, toughened; Vaughn assumed it was from a rigorous martial arts routine. Kasen said nothing, staring at him with no apparent emotion, but Vaughn felt a coldness in the man. Vaughn had gone to Ranger school but never served in one of the battalions. He had a lot of respect for the soldiers who did, since they were the most elite infantry in the U.S. Army and perhaps the world. But there was a much different attitude between soldiers in the Ranger battalions and those in Special Forces: the former were more action oriented and thought in the short term, while the latter tended to be more cerebral and considered long-term missions.
"We're glad you're finally here so we can proceed," Orson said, giving Vaughn a cold look. With that, he spun about and headed back to the door.
"Hey," Sinclair said, slapping Vaughn on the back, "I'll give you a hand with your gear."
Orson led the other three inside, leaving Vaughn with Sinclair to haul the contents of the bundle that had been left there from his previous time in the tunnel.
"Friendly fucking lot, aren't they?" Sinclair said as he hoisted a duffel bag.
"You been here long?" Vaughn asked as he threw one strap of his rucksack over his shoulder and they headed for the door.
"Six hours," Sinclair said. "I was the third one here. I guess we've been waiting on you to get the show going."
"So everyone is new to the team?"
Sinclair shrugged. "I am. You are. You'll have to ask the others."
"Did you have to—" Vaughn hesitated, not sure how to phrase it.
"Pass a test?" Sinclair nodded. "Yeah, but we ain't supposed to talk about that. Everything's a big secret here. Hush-hush and all that good shit."
Vaughn had wanted to know how long Sinclair had been in Section 8, but he knew better than to ask too many questions right away. There would be time for that later. Sinclair's answer, though, did indicate this was a newly assembled team, which meant he wasn't the outsider. That was both good and bad: good, because he wouldn't have to be accepted by those who had already formed bonds; bad, because it meant they all would have to quickly form the bonds of trust and training that the upcoming mission was going to require. The thought of going on a mission with a group of people who had just been thrown together didn't sit well with Vaughn.
They stepped through, and the steel door slammed behind them. Vaughn looked around. A typical setup for isolation. Plywood boards with maps mounted on them along with satellite imagery and lists of supplies. Two more doors at the end that Vaughn assumed led to their bunks and latrine. "Functional" was the word that applied.
The other three Section 8 members were seated in folding chairs, Orson standing in front of them, waiting with impatience. Vaughn and Sinclair dropped the gear and sat down in the two remaining folding chairs. Orson had a remote in his hand, and a multimedia projector had been set up, attached to a laptop on the lectern in front of him. Orson took a thumb drive out of his coat pocket and plugged it into the USB port of the laptop. He worked the keyboard for a few moments, bringing up whatever he was going to show on the projector.
"Our mission," he began, "is to kill the leader of the Abu Sayef, a man named Rogelio Abayon." The face of a middle-age man appeared on the screen over Orson's right shoulder.
Vaughn felt a surge of adrenaline as Orson confirmed what Royce had promised—this was the real deal. No more pussyfooting around. No more reacting. They were going to take the war to the bad guy.
Orson tapped the screen. "This is the last photograph we have of Abayon, and it was taken over twenty-five years ago."
"No one's seen this guy in twenty-five years?" Sinclair asked with disbelief.
"No one's taken a photograph of Abayon in that time," Orson clarified. "He's been seen, but rarely. It appears he hasn't left Jolo Island in all those years. And outsiders aren't welcome on Jolo."
Orson looked at Hayes, a not too subtle prompt.
The black man nodded. "I saw Abayon on Jolo once, eight years ago. Only in passing. From what I managed to pick up, he has a hiding place on Hono Mountain, which pretty much dominates the entire island. There's supposed to be a set of tunnels built up there connecting natural caves. Only his closest people know where the entrance is."
Tai spoke up. "If Jolo is controlled by the Abu Sayef, what were you doing there?" she asked Hayes.
"My father was in the U.S. Navy. My mother was Filipino. I grew up mostly in Manila, but when I was twelve I—" He paused, as if figuring out how to say it. "—I traveled around the islands a lot with my friends. There are a lot of people like me, people of mixed race, in the islands. So although I don't pass as a native, since I speak the language and know the ways of the land, I can go pretty much anywhere."
"Eight years ago you were on Jolo?" Tai prompted.
Hayes nodded. "Yes."
She waited but he didn't elaborate.
"Your teen years seem long gone," Tai finally said. "What were you doing there?"
Hayes stared at her. "I was working."
"Doing?" she pressed.
Vaughn glanced at Orson and noted that he wasn't stepping in, giving tacit approval to Tai's line of questioning. Vaughn had noted that while Orson had given the background of certain members of the team, for others he'd been rather quiet.
Hayes didn't blink. "I was negotiating the transfer of funds for illicit drugs. Does that make you feel better?"
"No," Tai said. "You're a drug dealer."
"Was," Hayes said. "And do you want to know who was supplying me with the money to buy?" He didn't wait for an answer, and Vaughn half expected the answer that was coming, based on his experiences in Afghanistan. "The CIA. They wanted intelligence on the Abu Sayef and they recruited me to get it for them. What do they call it? Humint. Human intelligence. That was me. Of course they denied it, said I was just a drug dealer."
"Doing it for money," Tai said.
"What?" Hayes asked. "You do it for free?"
"I do it for my country," Tai said.
"So you hand your paycheck back?" Hayes asked.
Sinclair got them back on track. "When was the last time you were on Jolo?"
"Two years ago," Hayes said.
"Shit," Sinclair said. He looked at Orson. "And we're supposed to trust this guy?"
"Yes," Orson said. "Hayes has his reasons for being here. As you all do."
Sinclair wasn't satisfied. "So we're to take your word for it?"
Orson eyed him. "Would you like to explain to the others why you're here?"
Sinclair glared at Orson but didn't respond, which was answer enough. Vaughn shifted in his seat and picked up the sense of unease that Orson's question to Sinclair had generated in all of them.
"But you didn't see Abayon?" Tai asked Hayes.
"Only in passing, as I said."
"If I may continue." Orson made it an order, not a question. "As you all know, the Abu Sayef were recently responsible for the deaths of eighteen tourists of various nationalities."
Vaughn once more shifted uncomfortably in his chair. But no one turned to stare at him, so he had to believe they didn't know his role in the recent debacle on Jolo.
"With the exposure of American involvement in the failed raid on the compound on Jolo Island," Orson went on, "the normal covert, albeit unofficial, channels of going after Abayon and his organization are closed. No other organization dare touch this, and the Philippine government, which has jurisdiction, wants nothing more to do with Abayon, the Abu Sayef, or Jolo Island. We believe they have negotiated an informal truce."
Hayes snorted. "They've had an informal truce for a long time."
Orson continued. "Unfortunately, we have intelligence that the Abu Sayef have been making contact with various other terrorist organizations, including Al Qaeda. Such a linkage is unacceptable. There are also vague but substantiated reports that the Abu Sayef are planning a major terrorist operation against the United States. Therefore, we are taking the fight to the terrorists, not waiting for them to bring it to American soil again."
"Who is we?" Tai asked.
"Our team designation is Section Eight," Orson said, deliberately misinterpreting her question. "We have an AST team for support but they have no idea—nor should they—what our mission is. All requests for support will be encoded and passed through the AST, who will coordinate whatever you need.
"Questions?"
"Who is we?" Tai repeated. She amplified the question. "Who do we work for? If we're Section Eight, what is the designation of the organization we fall under?"
"Who we work for," Orson said, "is none of your business. Remember, an essential part of this is deniability."
"So what do we say if captured?" Tai asked.
"Don't get captured," Orson said.
Tai was not giving up easily. "If our bodies are found, what will be the cover story?"
"We'll be operating sterile with no indications of our nationality," Orson said. "We won't need a cover story."
Vaughn wasn't sure he bought that, but Tai seemed to have exhausted that line of questioning in the face of Orson's stone wall.
Kasen, the ex-Ranger, raised his hand and Orson acknowledged him with a nod. "Will killing Abayon destroy the Abu Sayef?
"Abayon founded the Abu Sayef after World War Two. He's the only leader it's ever had. Our estimate is that without him, the organization will splinter into ineffectual pieces that will spend most of their energy fighting among themselves. Without Abayon they'll be vulnerable. At that point it might be possible to get the Philippine government to take a stronger role.
"There is intelligence there"—Orson pointed at a row of laptop computers—"on both Abayon and his organization. As much as we know, which isn't much. One thing to know is that during World War Two Abayon fought with the Filipino guerrillas against the Japanese."
"So he was on our side," Vaughn said. He hadn't even heard of Abayon during the previous isolation for the raid. "Just like Ho Chi Minh was during the same war."
Orson didn't rise to the bait. "Gentlemen—and lady—we need to start planning."
"Is there a time limit on this?" Tai asked.
"We have five days to come up with a plan," Orson said. "We'll brief-back then and either get a go or you start over. So let's make it a good plan."
Like we'd want to come up with a bad one, Vaughn thought.
Orson scanned the other five section members as if assessing them with that simple look. "Tai, you are intelligence. There's a taped briefing on the Abu Sayef in the computer—I want you to distill out critical points in two hours. Hayes, you assist her with what you know about both the group and the locale, and also start giving me ways to infiltrate and exfiltrate Jolo Island and an idea exactly where our target is.