Pacific Siege

12

General Raiden Nishikawa hovered over his best radio operator in the communications room of the concrete-block building that had housed the Russian military command on the island. It now served as his headquarters. He had broadcast his demands hours ago, and waited for responses.

Twice already he had seen American jet fighters sweep over the island. He had given strict instructions not to fire at any aircraft unless it fired first. The two twin-tailed planes had made three low-level runs, then climbed high, evidently on a continuing surveillance.

He had no objection to that. He had received another set of orders from his former commanding officer on Hokkaido. They were terse and angry. They told him to cease his aggression against Russia, to disarm his men, free the Russian prisoners, and return to Japanese soil within four hours.

General Nishikawa had not even acknowledged receiving the message.

His proclamation of independence had gone out on the radio more than ten hours ago. He had broadcast it on military frequencies in English, Japanese, and Russian. He was sure that the whole world now knew of his victory in liberating his home island of Kunashir. Already he had found the site of the graves of his grandparents and great-grandparents. The graves themselves had been obliterated, and a school now stood over the spot. He had prayed for an hour over the hallowed ground three times already. He would go again soon.

Others in his command had found the sites of the graves of their ancestors, and had paid their respects as well. More than half of his men here had ancestors in graves on the island.

Capturing the island had been simple. General Nishikawa had planned it carefully. He’d known there would be a U.S. carrier battle group in the Honshu area. He’d also checked the Russian calendar, and had selected a two-day Russian holiday. Three quarters of the Russian military would be on leave; those on duty would be on a traditional two-day drunk. It had looked remarkably simple on paper.

He had landed his two hundred troops on the pier at the island’s largest town, Golonido. The only two military sentries on duty had been so drunk they couldn’t stand. He had tied them up, and left them there.

He and a hundred men had simply walked into the military command post, and found only a dozen Russian soldiers there, none of them with a weapon. The officer in command had been a new lieutenant, and half drunk. Two shots had been fired in the whole invasion. One by an invader not familiar with his weapon and one by a Russian sentry who wasn’t quite as drunk as he seemed. No one had been wounded by either round.

Now General Nishikawa ordered the commo sergeant to bring him a typed report on all radio transmissions they’d received. He marched back to his office, cold and spartan in furnishings. Not at all like his large, comfortable office in Hokkaido. He sat at his desk, looking at the results of his men’s sweeps of the outlying posts. The island was more than 160 kilometers long but never more than fifteen kilometers wide.

Most of it was heavily forested on one side, with little room for any agriculture. There were two military posts, about fifty kilometers apart, but both had been captured by us troops, with only two dead Russian soldiers. He was secure. Until the big powers decided what to do. He was convinced that Japan would not send any force against him.

Many in the government had spoken out about Russia returning the Kuril Islands to their rightful place as part of the Japanese homeland.

What Russia, and even the United States, might do was the problem.

He hoped that the U.S. would steam the battle group northward, and serve as a block against the Russian force. If it came down to an attack by any of the three powers, his small force would be smashed within minutes. He didn’t think that would happen.

There would be a diplomatic settlement. Perhaps Japan would win the southern half of the island chain, perhaps even just take back Kunashir, and let Russia keep the northern, mostly unpopulated, and smaller islands. That seemed reasonable.

All he wanted was to be able to worship at the graves of his ancestors. He was here now, but wondered how long he could stay.

Nishikawa was an inch under six feet tall. The Japanese on Hokkaido had been known for being the tallest Japanese since the start of the century. He knew Ainu blood flowed in his veins, but most of the Ainu characteristics had been lost through intermarriage.

The Ainu were the earliest residents of Hokkaido, the Kuril Islands, and the large Russian Sakhalin Island, and they were not related to the Mongoloid native people of the other Japanese islands.

But none of that mattered now. Now his ancestors were far more important. That, and what the Russians would do when they arrived. He knew they would be coming. A knock sounded on his door, and the communications sergeant came through.

“Sir, a radio message to you from the Russians.” He handed a typed sheet to the general.

“General Nishikawa. We know who you are, and why you have invaded sacred Russian soil. We know of your small force, and how you captured our island. We do not wish to start World War Three. However, you must, I repeat MUST, take your troops off our island and return to Japan.

“We will allow you seven days to do this. Our military forces are powerful. Even now they are heading for Kunashir. Our aircraft will be monitoring your movements. If you do not evacuate our island within the seven days, your force will be crushed with powerful missile and aircraft attacks, and you will be annihilated to a man. There is no room for compromise. You are occupying sacred Russian soil and if you do not leave, you must suffer the fatal consequences.” The message was signed by Captain Admiral Vladimir Rostow.

“Dismissed,” General Nishikawa said, and the sergeant did a smart about-face and hurried out of the room. General Nishikawa opened the desk drawer, and took out a framed photograph. He stared at it, then smiled and touched each of the faces in the picture: his wife and their three children, two boys and a girl. He looked at it again, smiled, and brushed tears from his eyes, then gently put the treasure back in the drawer.

There was still a chance. The U.S. might step in and serve as a buffer between the island and the Russians. The Japanese Diet might pass some quick legislation to make his move legal. Russia might be willing to back down on its threat.

A slim chance still existed that he might have his dream. He would send all of the Russians on Kunashir Island on to other islands in the chain, then bring in his relatives and as many of those Japanese who had ancestors resting on this hard rock of an island who wanted to come. A chance. Yes, perhaps a good chance.

He called for Major Hitachi, his second in command. He had promoted him the day they embarked for the island. Hitachi was short, a little heavy, a career soldier, and excellent with the men. He also had ancestors buried on this island. They had yet to find Hitachi’s ancestors’ graves, or where their graves might have been.

“Major, I’m taking the utility vehicle and going to the school.

I’ll be back in an hour. Keep track of anything coming in by radio.

Ignore all transmissions from Defense Force’s radio.”

“Yes, Sir,” Hitachi said. “I’ll keep track of it.”

General Nishikawa left at once. He stepped into the Russian-style jeep, and the driver gunned away. He knew without asking where the general wanted to go.

First they stopped at an unused crab processing plant that had been turned into a prisoner-of-war compound. Fifty-six Russian soldiers were held there, including their commander, a Russian major who had suffered a minor injury when he had fallen down in a drunken stupor while being transported from an elaborate party the night of his capture.

General Nishikawa inspected the guards, looked in the large room where the prisoners were held, and then talked to his lieutenant in charge of the captives.

“Yes, Sir. All is quiet. The men seem to think that they will not be held here long. They say in this cold weather it’s much better to be in here rather than standing guard in the snow and ice. They assure me that it will snow again soon, and the temperature will drop well below zero degrees.”

“Keep them locked down, keep them fed and warm. We are not the enemy of these men.”

They drove from there directly to the school, now empty by decree.

On the far side of the playground, the earth had been leveled. General Nishikawa paced off twenty steps from the corner of the play area, and put a mark in the soil. He stepped off sixty paces from the pine tree growing at the side of the playground, and put another mark. Between the two had been a small hill that had contained the tombs of his family for over a hundred years. Now there was nothing but bare earth, and the marks of dozens of children who usually played over this area.

Tears squeezed out of his eyes as the general knelt in prayer on the sacred ground. He didn’t want to admit it, but it must be that the hill, and his ancestor’s remains, had been bulldozed into the small gully that had been directly in front of the hill. Now the gully was filled all the way to the school.

He wailed and cried openly for the souls of his departed ancestors, and for the evil that the heathen Russians had heaped on their souls by desecrating and destroying the graves.

For an hour he knelt on the ground praying.

By the time he returned to his military headquarters, there were three long typed messages on his desk. Each had come over the radio, since he had cut the telephone cable from Kunashir to Hokkaido. He settled down to read the messages. He knew they would be denunciations from the Russians, from the Americans, and from the senile and impotent Japanese politicians in the Diet.

Before he could read them, a thundering roar shook the building.

He rushed outside where two guards pointed away from the headquarters.

“Aircraft,” one said.

Three minutes later, two jet fighters again came in low over the town. The fighters did not fire, but their afterburners shook the whole community. As they flashed directly over the military headquarters building, General Nishikawa saw the identifying red stars on the wings.

“Ah, so. The Russians have arrived,” the general said. The planes made one more thundering low fly-over, then headed northwest for the Soya Strait between Hokkaido and the Russian island of Sakhalin. That way they would not penetrate the Japanese airspace on the way back to their Russian aircraft carrier somewhere to the southwest.

General Nishikawa hurried back to his office to read the three dispatches. The one on top was from Tokyo. The Prime Minister himself ordered him to end his invasion of Kunashir, and return his force to Hokkaido.

“If you do not comply with this order, you will be declared a traitor to Japan, and will be dealt with according to Japanese parliamentary law. You and your men will be outlaws, branded as cowards, and rebels, and forever denied entry into Japan. For the good of Japan, cease this outrageous invasion, and return to Japan at once.

I guarantee you leniency if you return within two days.”

The message was signed by the Prime Minister himself.

He could not do it. Nishikawa had sworn a vow of vengeance against the government that had destroyed the graves of his ancestors. He would not give up until he had caused them as much damage as they had done to his family.

The second message was sent by the United States ambassador in Tokyo.

“General Nishikawa: We appreciate your situation, and your honorable try to recover the graves of your ancestors; however, we do not agree with the way you have gone about it. We have a battle group steaming your way. The ships, planes, and men should be off your eastern shore shortly. We will attempt to put a screen around your headquarters with an air cover, and Naval ships along both coasts near the southern end of the island.

“If requested by the Japanese government, we will take action against you to subdue your force, and remove you from the island within the seven-day limit the Russians have imposed. It will be your option whether you oppose our forces or not. If you choose to fire upon our troops and aircraft, we will respond with all of our capability.

“We hope that we do not have to engage your forces in combat; however, we are ready, and ultimately able, to do so. We look to your timely response to our message.”

It was signed by the United States ambassador to Japan, Lloyd Contreras.

Nishikawa stared at the message and shook his head. “Mr. Ambassador, I’m sorry, but I’m not leaving my ancestors again. This time somebody will have to blow my dead body off this island. This is my ancestral home, and I intend to either live here or die here.”

He wrote down the same words and started to take them to the sergeant in the radio room. Then he stopped. Let them wonder. Yes, let them guess at what he would do. It would last longer that way. For a moment he wondered if he only had five more days to live. It was possible. General Nishikawa shrugged.

The third message was from the Russians, “Our planes have flown over your complex by now. We know where you are, and our computers are plotting the flight of our missiles, which will hit you with pinpoint accuracy. There is no hope that you can win. Give up now, and retain your life and the lives of your men. You have made your statement. The Russian government has always been ready and willing to discuss the future of the Kuril Islands. That offer still stands.

“You still have your transport, the small boats you negotiated the channel in to arrive at Kunashir. Move to them now, within the hour, and you’ll be safe in Japan before sunset.

“If you do not comply within the seven-day deadline we gave you, the military headquarters there, and any of your troops we can find, will be blasted into eternity, and quicker than you ever thought you will be visiting with your ancestors.”

General Nishikawa looked up as someone knocked on his door.

“Come.”

The communications sergeant hurried in. He smiled.

“General, sir. We have figured out the Russian radios here. We now have a network of the handheld units in four outposts. The lookouts posted make a net call every hour on the hour, and anytime that they see anything suspicious.

“The first reports came in just now. They can see no planes or ships, and everything with the local population is calm. There are enough food stores in the kitchen area to feed our people for just over a week. Then we’ll need a new food source.”

“Thanks, Sergeant. There won’t be any need for any more food. A week should do us fine. You’ve read the radio messages. We’ll be lucky to still be eating anything after a week.”

The sergeant saluted, did a smart about-face, and left the room.

General Nishikawa stared at the three messages spread out on his desk. He didn’t trust the Japanese government.

The United States spoke softly, but carried a huge stick. The Russians spoke bluntly, but had given him a week.

He could not figure out why, but he was the most afraid of the United States’ message. The big battle force, with missiles, rockets, and eighty-five aircraft, would be offshore within a few hours. He had to decide how to deal with them. The Russians would wait. It would be the Americans who presented him with the immediate threat.

He took out the two swords of the samurai and held them, the long one and the deadly shorter blade. Yes, at least one of his ancestors had been a samurai. He had been a military retainer of a Japanese diamyo practicing the chivalric code of Bushido. Honor above all. He stared at the smaller blade, then gently put it in the wooden sheath, then the silk wrappings, and placed it in the bottom desk drawer. Soon he would carry it with him at all times. Soon, but not yet.