Drone Command

THIRTY

The freighter was nearly forty years old and looked every year of it on the outside with its peeling paint and rusted hull, but that was a convenient disguise. The old freighter’s cargo hold had been lavishly refurbished for an entirely new purpose, fit for princes and champions.

Tanaka sat next to Kobayashi-san, the most powerful yakuza boss in Tokyo, in the premium seats with the best view, high up, like a caesar at the coliseum. Half of Japan’s eighty thousand yakuza pledged allegiance to the Kobayashi-gumi, the most vicious and well-funded crime syndicate in the country.

Tanaka had known Kobayashi for years and owed much of his political career to the wise old yakuza. But Kobayashi had never invited Tanaka to one of these fabled events before, which, until tonight, Tanaka believed were only an urban legend.

Kobayashi had founded his gumi the old-fashioned way back in the ’70s, through extortion, gambling, and prostitution. But his organization entered the ranks of the superwealthy by securing bank loans from Japan’s most respectable institutions back in the bubbling heyday of the ’80s, when banking regulations were lax and property values were soaring.

But when the great Japanese miracle bubble burst and the economy crashed, Kobayashi’s unsecured bank loans were nowhere to be found, having been made by shell companies with no traceable records connected to the wily boss. When the dust finally settled on the real estate crash, Kobayashi bought up prime Tokyo real estate in the early 2000s for pennies on the dollar, becoming one of Japan’s largest legitimate commercial landlords. He was known in police circles by the code name the Realtor.

The yakuza organizations were not unlike the keiretsu conglomerates that dominated Japan’s domestic economy, the powerful interlocking corporate relationships that forged the crony-capitalist system known as Japan, Inc. The yakuza organizations became natural allies with several of the largest Japanese keiretsu conglomerates and, in turn, with their political connections. The yakuza achieved in Japan what the American mafia could only dream of by several orders of magnitude. The Chicago mob connection to the Kennedys paled in comparison.

In recent years, tough laws cracking down on yakuza activities and their associations with political and corporate elites had significantly curtailed the smaller gumis. But Kobayashi’s organization flourished behind its gilded corporate doors and secure political connections.

But old habits died hard for the well-heeled gangster, and he kept his hand in the more traditional lines of the family business, especially gambling. In fact, gambling gave birth to the yakuza concept hundreds of years before; the name itself was derived from the numbers in a card game that indicated a losing hand. Despite his European-tailored suits and two-hundred-dollar haircuts, the now urbane Kobayashi was still a street gambler at heart — and a cold-blooded killer. Once a year he hosted the Golden Sword tournament on this ship, a sign of his nostalgia for all things Japanese and the old yakuza ways peopled with hard, violent men who fancied themselves the luckless sons of ronin—masterless samurai.

The polished bamboo floor was surrounded by three rows of plush leather bench seats, each row higher than the first, all with a clear view of the arena. The audience sat cross-legged in the traditional manner, and each was served the finest gourmet food and beverages available between bouts. The price of admission was one hundred ounces of gold. Kobayashi no longer trusted the fiat currencies of Japan or the West — but the one-hundred-twenty-thousand-dollar ticket price was pocket change for the assembled audience, most of whom were other yakuza bosses, including several of Kobayashi’s most trusted lieutenants. But the audience also included two Saudi princes, a Russian oil magnate, and several other respectable billionaires, along with a few select guests, including Tanaka.

Stable owners brought at least one fighter to the tournament and some brought several. Even though the real money would exchange hands in the betting, it was the victorious stable owner of tonight’s tournament who would win a samurai sword crafted in pure twenty-four-carat gold — a useless instrument in combat, but of inestimable worth in bragging rights alone.

Tanaka watched the current bout eagerly. The two men squaring off were former national kendo champions, Japan’s famous nonlethal sword-fighting martial art practiced all over the world. Traditional kendo combatants were covered from head to ankle in safety equipment — protective face masks, head gear, body armor, padded gloves — and wielded flexible bamboo-slat swords. International Kendo Federation (FIK) bouts were safe, and winners were determined by a point system based on landing harmless blows to the opponent.

But the Golden Sword was anything but a sanctioned FIK tournament.

The two past champions on the floor fought with only grilled face masks and wielded bokuto—samurai swords fashioned from the hardest known woods available. Battles were won when an opponent quit, was knocked unconscious, or was killed, the latter two easily accomplished with bokuto wielded by highly skilled swordsmen. Most preferred the long katana, but some fought with shorter wakizashi and even knife-sized tanto blades, sometimes one in each hand.

Without fear of injury or death, FIK bouts were almost dancelike in their careful choreography, each combatant seeking openings to swiftly score points with a tap of bamboo. But in the Golden Sword tournament, a single “point” scored with a wooden sword blade usually meant cracked teeth, broken bones, or a split skull and thus the end of the bout.

A large digital clock counted down the five-minute limit on bouts. Combatants who failed to score a single blow were given a second three-minute bout. If no points were scored then, both were eliminated from the tournament and banned for life, which bore the greatest shame. Some unfortunates suffered harsher treatment later by their temperamental stable owners. But the rewards for winning fighters were mind-numbingly staggering. More than one millionaire would be made on the killing floor tonight, though perhaps at the cost of an eye, limb, or brain injury.

The two champions circled each other in short, sharp steps, both wielding long wooden katana. Suddenly, gut-wrenching screams exploded as both men lunged in a lightning-fast strike. The swords clacked like gunshots when they struck, swords flashing and striking again and again. The champion in black — a Korean — staggered under a blow to his left shoulder by the Japanese fighter in red, but not before he landed his own hard strike against the other man’s helmet. Both men fell away, reeling in blinding pain, swords held up defensively. The clock was ticking down. Less than one minute to go.

The Japanese fighter ripped the helmet off his head and flung it aside. His hair was matted with blood where the blow landed.

The audience erupted with wild applause.

Kobayashi lit a fresh cigarette from his current one. A doe-eyed Russian girl refilled the yakuza’s glass with bubbling Cristal.

“Is that one yours, Kobayashi-san?” Tanaka asked, nodding at the Japanese fighter.

The yakuza chuckled, his eyes still fixed on the killing floor. “Looking for an inside scoop?”

Tanaka laughed. “No. Your humble servant doesn’t have enough gold to make a wager.”

“I can loan you any amount you need.”

“Thank you, sir, but no.”

Kobayashi slapped his knee, laughing loudly. “You always were the smart one, Tanaka! That’s why I like you, even if you aren’t a yakuza.”

“I’m not worthy of such an honor.”

Kobayashi howled again. “You’re a politician, that’s for sure!”

Both men knew that Tanaka was highborn and pure Japanese, but Kobayashi was the son of a Chinese mother and a poor working-class Japanese father. Many yakuza were ethnic outcasts of non-Japanese heritage, despite being third- or even fourth-generation inhabitants of Japan. Unlike in America, being born in Japan didn’t automatically make a person a Japanese citizen. Kobayashi never admitted to his shameful Chinese heritage, only to his legitimate Japanese blood. His untold wealth bought him the respect he needed from the poorer purebreds like Tanaka who needed either his muscle or cash — or both.

The digital clock flashed thirty seconds. A loud alarm bell began blaring like a klaxon, marking the countdown.

“Watch!” Kobayashi shouted, his aged eyes filled with childish delight.

The Japanese lunged at the Korean, a war cry screaming from his mouth, eyes crazed, sword raised high above his head for a killing blow.

The Korean raised his sword to block, but the Japanese checked his swing and pulled back at the last second. He cursed the Korean, called him a coward, his voice booming, amplified by pure adrenaline. The clock ticked off fifteen seconds.

The Korean circled cautiously. The crowd booed and jeered. The Japanese lowered his sword to his side and mocked the Korean’s mother, his manhood, his paternity. The clock ticked five seconds to go.

The Korean shouted a bloodcurdling curse and grabbed his helmet with his left hand. In the second it took him to clear the mask from his face, the Japanese lunged again, sword held in both hands, thrusting straight forward. The sharp tip of the wooden blade plunged into the Korean’s unprotected throat, cutting off his scream. He dropped his katana and instinctively grabbed the blade plunging into his neck. Too late.

The Japanese shouted his kiai, ramming the wooden tip in as deep as he could, legs pumping hard, forcing the Korean backward until the Korean tripped over the first row of seats, scattering the bettors, the Japanese fighter on top of him, throwing his full weight on his sword until the Korean’s neck snapped in two with a crack.

The buzzer blared. Bout over.

The audience screamed with bloodlust, joyous, even the losers.

The Japanese lifted his bloody blade high, spreading his arms wide, face beaming with pride. A shower of gold and silver coins crashed on the floor at his feet.

Kobayashi shook his head in disgust. “No honor in that.”

Tanaka nodded his agreement. “He acts like a filthy American footballer after a goal.”

Kobayashi shook his head. “I fear for our young people. They have lost their way.” He took another drag on his cigarette.

“Then it’s our responsibility to teach them the old ways before it’s too late.”

“Too late? How?”

“I know you’re a learned man and pay attention to the affairs of the world.”

Kobayashi grunted, accepting the compliment. “The Chinese again?”

“Yes.”

Kobayashi thought about that as he watched the Korean’s corpse being ceremoniously carried away. Several towel boys slid onto the floor and mopped up the blood and sweat.

“Will we be at war soon?”

Tanaka nodded. “Yes. It’s almost unavoidable.”

A voluptuous African woman with short-cropped, blazing red hair approached carrying a silver platter of freshly sliced sashimi. She described the extremely costly tray items in faultless Japanese.

“Almost unavoidable?” Kobayashi pointed at three different plates of sashimi. The girl set them down in front of him and flashed an offering smile at Tanaka. He waived her away and she left with a small bow.

“War can be avoided, Oyabun. But it will not be easy.”

Kobayashi lifted a piece of fatty otoro tuna with his chopsticks and dropped it into his mouth. The sweet belly meat practically melted on his tongue. He pointed to the plate, indicating Tanaka should take some. He did.

“What about Ito?” Kobayashi asked.

“He’s an American lackey, a monkey on a leash. The fool will stumble into war and drag us all the way to hell. Unless you help me.”

The old yakuza nodded. Yakuza were famously patriotic and ultranationalistic, a common trait among organized-crime elements the world over. Even the Chinese Communists were known to have employed the lawless Triads in patriotic service to the world revolution.

“What must be done?”

Tanaka laid out the details of his plan as the next combatants entered the ring. Three men in green strode in from one side of the ring like a street gang, rough and unmannered. Their dark bare torsos were shredded with thick cords of sinewy muscle and slathered in bright yakuza ink, but heavy grilled kendo masks hid their faces. They took up positions on the far side of the circle, flashing their wooden swords back and forth as if flicking at flies, impatient for battle. Tanaka guessed the yakuza fighters were mixed-race Okinawans.

“Sounds risky. What’s in it for you?”

“Nothing, Oyabun.”

“Not very smart. So what’s in it for me?”

“Even less. Perhaps worse.” They both knew that Kobayashi was putting his entire organization at risk by throwing in with Tanaka’s plan.

“So what would that make me?”

“A patriot.”

Kobayashi nodded his head, calculating. Finally, he snapped his head curtly. Hai!

A lone fighter entered from the opposite side of the room, each step an act of ceremonial grace. He wore a traditional kendo uniform — a keikogi with three-quarter-length sleeves over his torso, and the pleated skirt known as a hakama. Both were dyed in traditional indigo blue. A white and red “sun circle” Japanese national flag was sewn on the back. His mask was tucked under one muscled arm. His face was stalwart and handsome like one of the samurai soap-opera stars seen constantly on Japanese television, but his thick black hair was styled in a crew cut, the bristles stiff and dense. He pulled on his mask with ritual precision and carefully adjusted the wooden tanto tucked in his belt.

“This will be something special,” Kobayashi said. He nodded toward the lone Japanese fighter. “That man has never been defeated.”

Tanaka was a martial artist himself. He saw clearly that the disciplined Japanese was the superior fighter and certain to win in spite of being outnumbered by the Okinawan rabble.

The referee approached, dressed in the traditional long-skirted garb of a kendo judge. He was short but powerfully built, and his pencil mustache was tinged with gray. He pointed at the clock with a folded fan until it flashed five minutes. He raised his arm. The combatants bowed to one another. The referee slashed the air with his hand and the bout began. The audience shouted.

The three yakuza fighters backed up and spread out equidistant as the Japanese advanced into the center. The yakuza fighters swiftly spread out even farther, forming a three-pointed perimeter around the Japanese swordsman.

The Japanese stood rock still in the center of the arena, dropping his head to his chest, resting his katana on the top of his helmet mask almost as if he were praying.

The yakuza fighter directly in front of him glanced up at the clock. Twenty seconds had already elapsed. He shouted to his compatriots and the three men inched forward, their feet never leaving the wooden floor, trying not to reveal their positions, trying to move in sync so as to arrive at the same destination at the same time.

Cautiously, deliberately, they each inched closer and closer. The audience was dead silent. Not even the tink of glasses or silverware. The closer the yakuza fighters got, the farther forward everyone in the audience leaned.

When the yakuza fighters got within slightly more than a sword’s length distance, they all shouted as one and charged, katana slashing wildly. The Japanese twisted, parried, turned, spun, and swung faster than anything Tanaka had ever seen. Sword strikes clacked like a string of firecrackers. The yakuza fighters fell back. The Japanese stood firm.

The audience applauded.

To his practiced eye, it seemed to Tanaka that all the yakuza strikes were blocked. If any landed, the Japanese hadn’t shown it. No signs of injury. But Tanaka noticed the bleeding knuckles on the hand of one of the yakuza fighters, and another one was shaking out an obviously injured wrist.

The yakuza fighters regathered their wits. This time, they moved in a circular motion around the Japanese, coordinating their speed and distance by shouting to one another in short, crisp, singular vowels, as much to confuse the Japanese as to organize their next attack. The shouts bounced back and forth like an echo while the Japanese kept his head bowed to the ground.

The yakuza fighters circled cautiously as the seconds ticked off. When one of the Okinawan fighters crossed directly in front of him, the Japanese fighter vaulted forward, slashing down hard at his head. The Okinawan held his sword up in defense, but the crashing blow from the Japanese was so forceful that the fighter’s own wooden blade cracked into his skull, buckling his knees and breaking his scalp. He staggered badly.

When the Japanese leaped into the frontal attack, the other two yakuza fighters charged at him from the sides. By the time they reached him, the Japanese had already broken the first man’s nose and managed to duck and turn in a vicious sweeping motion, raking the other men’s knees with his own blade.

All three yakuza fighters howled in pain and fell back, even as the first man tried to stanch his bleeding scalp with a palm pressed firmly against the top of his head.

The audience applauded again.

Wounded and humiliated, the three Okinawan fighters retreated to the outermost edge of the fighting circle while the Japanese returned to the very center.

The clock clicked off the four-minute mark.

The Japanese lifted off his mask and tossed it aside.

The three yakuza fighters exchanged nervous glances with one another through their masks as the Japanese raised his long katana parallel to his torso near his right shoulder like a batter at the plate.

All three yakuza screamed in rage and charged the Japanese. He pulled his short tanto out of his belt in a flash and spun, using both blades as a shield against the falling blows. The three yakuza crashed into him, blocking his arms, keeping him from making powerful thrusts, but they were in too close. The Japanese punished them with his elbows and knees.

But the Okinawans landed their own blows, too, finally drawing blood on the handsome unmasked face before they fell back, gasping for air, trembling with rage and pain. They took up their far positions again, preparing for the final assault.

The Japanese shook his head to clear it. Blood stained his indigo keikogi. He signaled to the referee, who, in turn, glanced up at Kobayashi. The yakuza overlord nodded his approval, and the referee shouted a command as his hand thrust into the air with an open fan, signaling a time-out. Rare, but legal. A privilege for the Japanese fighter, a former Golden Sword tournament champion. The clock stopped.

The audience jeered, especially the white gaijin.

Tanaka scowled. The foreigners had no manners.

The Japanese retreated to his starting position and set his katana and tanto down on the polished bamboo floor. He untied the belt to his keikogi and pulled it off, revealing his heavily muscled upper body. It was covered in vivid inks, too: gods and monsters in brightly colored hues. But Tanaka admired the dragon on his chest the most. Its monstrous gaping mouth filled his upper torso while scaly green arms extended down his biceps and forearms, ending in vicious claws in the palms of his hands that ran the length of his outstretched fingers.

The Japanese clapped his hands twice and three retainers ran out in traditional kendo garb, each carrying a black case. They bolted over to the exhausted Okinawans and fell at their feet, setting each case down, then opening it and, while remaining in a bowing position, holding up a razor-sharp carbon steel katana high enough for each yakuza fighter to take hold of.

The audience went insane. The betting pool exploded.

Tanaka watched Kobayashi toss a cool million into the pot, tapping out the bet on the tablet with his yellowed fingertips.

The Okinawan fighters glanced at one another through their masks. What would they do? The metal swords were an obvious insult, but they had already proven overmatched against the lone Japanese fighter. They were proud Okinawans and hated the purebred mainlander now openly mocking them with his haughty smile.

Tanaka couldn’t believe his eyes when, a moment later, all three yanked off their masks and tossed them across the arena floor.

“He’s lucky they’re rash,” Tanaka said.

“Luck is a woman.”

Each yakuza fighter picked up his steel sword from the case extended to him, and the retainers bolted away.

The referee barked a command and the combatants took up their original positions opposite one another. The yakuza fighters gained confidence with each passing second, their hands gripping hard steel while the Japanese fighter held only wooden blades.

The referee held his hand high to restart the bout. The Japanese threw his tanto aside.

The crowd cheered madly. The betting pool added another two million.

The referee cast a glance at Kobayashi, who nodded his approval. The referee chopped his hand down hard with a shout. The clock resumed its countdown.

Thirty-two seconds to go.

The audience leaped to its feet, howling and clapping as the four opponents squared off. The three Okinawans circled the man in the middle, slowly tightening the noose. The Japanese raised his wooden bokuto high above his head, shouted his war cry, and lunged at the man in front of him.

But the Okinawan didn’t move.

The Japanese slashed his wooden sword toward the man’s skull just as the Okinawan dropped to one knee and held his own razor-sharp blade above his head, braced on each end by his wiry hands.

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.”