HART

It rains all week in this mountainous region west of Tokyo. The rain began to fall from Monday, to Thursday it was like a storm, and when people started hoping for a beautiful weekend, the rain had no intention to stop. The western area was flooded, and the engineers had to dig a drains, but when water flowed to the collective dining room they had to destroy it. After a few days of working in the the cold, they all went to the conclusion that the base located in a low-lying area, that there was no use in digging, that praying for the rain to stopl seemed more practical

Colonel Hart Sayer stood on the steps of the officers' quarters, eyes setting on the opposite yard, sucking air through his teeth. It was almost six in the morning and he couldn't see a soul on the nearly three hundred square meter yard, except for the three or four raincoats that hovered near the protective barrier like ghosts. The medical wing insisted that him to postpone the usual training activities because as they told him, letting soldiers exposed themselves in such weather like this had no use except becoming perfect targets for pneumonia. After thirty years of considering the Army as his true and only home, Hart did not like this idea at all, the lack of a trumpet and a sound of boots pounding the ground every morning seemed like a punishment to him.

Rain water shot over the Colonel's uniform as he headed toward to the headquarters. It was an old, gray, two-storey masion which had been derelict long before Hart came here and saw the utility of an apartment with few windows, locating in a remote area, worthy to become temporary headquarters of Task force 22. The soldier standing in the guard post hurriedly saluted him as he passed, another person appeared out of nowhere with an umbrella and accompanied his commander to the door before returning to his position. Hart went inside, took off his jacket and hat then went upstairs. At least the atmosphere inside was a little more comfortable, dry and clean.

The radio operator was still snoring on the sofa, and there was about an hour before the work time so he didn't intend to wake him up. Although he has been in Japan for a while, his biological clock still runs as it did in Southern California, so there are always unoccupied moments during the day. Hart went back and forth around the desk, looked up at the bookshelf, reached his hand for a book before immediately puting it back. He seldom read books nor watch television in the morning but liked to listen to Raido, a habit from childhood with his grandfather in a wooden house in godforsaking place of Arizona, where in the 70s, electricity and television was still consider as "Luxury". Tokyo also has a radio station but there was no English channel and Hart would never understand the gibberish spoken by the locals.

Japan is a mysterious country and its people also had something very strange, foreign to a man who had traveled around the globe like him. At times, he had to question the credibility of his Japanese ally. Do they like or hate America? It's hard to know. In Panama, Iraq, Afghanistan or Yemen it is somewhat simpler, half of the population wants him dead, the rest only expects him to get the hell out of their land.

For a while, the Colonel came up with the idea of probing Japanese attitudes. He dressed in his finest uniform with three silver stars, two purple hearts on the chest before taking the first bus to Tokyo's busiest station and sitting there for hours. Despite hating smoking than most men, Hart made an exception and sucked a pipe in his mouth in order to mimic the image of General Mc Arthur whom he thought had bemcame an unforgetable fingure in the minds of Japanese people. Honestly, he had been expecting for peeks and pouting from this provocation but finally received nothing. They completely ignored him as if he wasn't there and that did not mean they were hostile. Never in his life, the Cononel felt so frustrated and impotent.

As a commander of a Special Forces unit, Hart knew that the battlefield today was not just about running and shooting, it requires him to have a certain understanding of indigenous people and use that knowledge as an advantage, and would be a catastrophe when he couldn't even tell if they are enemies or not . Hart had to admit this was a somewhat of a terrible start when he might coordinate with the Japanese in the upcoming mission though in his whole life he always considered himself an optimist.

The colonel made himself a cup of coffee and sat down behind his desk. The effective way to kill time now was to read the secret documents sent by the CIA, something tha until this very moment, had been proven completely useless. All intelligence on the mysterious Special Region was provided by Japan and they shared them sparingly. After year and a half since Ginza Incident, Hart knew that on the other side of the gate had a multiracial nation called the Saderan Empire .Besides that he had no further information. Last week, he had to make a complaint call to Admiral Flint because they sent him a list of flowers loved by the Saderan people while what he needed was a map and like an attempt to piss him off, every document pages always began with the sentence :

"This is unconfirmed information based on personal observations and unknown sources of indigenous culture . "

" What the hell is this?" He mumbled, " Did they just tell me that I can't believe what I read?"

"That means they don't know anything"

A voice coming from the door .Hart looked up, only to see the tall and thin figure. Many comrades have left him at farewell parties or in coffins but this person was still here.

"Emerson. What make you wake up so early?"

"Cold weather is not good for knee joints. The doctor advice me not to lie down for too long. "Emerson slowly entered the room, his face was as pale as usual. "Can I sit?"

Hart didn't answer, he just simply nod his head and continued his work. After all these years, he still didn't understand why his friend kept keeping those polite gestures in front of him. Perhaps it had something to do with the way they were raised but he still has not found a satisfactory answer yet.

Hart met Emerson at the Braka training camp when he was sent to Afghanistan as an advisor in 1985. Right from the first meeting, he had an aversion to the young man with platinum hair, strong jaw, wearing round-rimmed glasse cause Hart wasn't a part of his class. The West Point arrogrant pricks had a habit of reminding him of his forrty ninner ancestors, so whenever seeing one of their kind, Hart almost wanted to thrown punches until collapse due to exhausted. The Mujahideen that year also recognized the difference between the two, although both wore the same military uniform, serving a same country. While Lieutenant Emerson was as handsome and elegant as a noble, Hart had the rough features of the working class.

But after a few time hearing bullet ripping through the air, seeing the blood of enemies or comrades on the sand, Hart finally discovered that his partner was not as bad as he thought. Emerson Wilkes was a crusader, an sensitive aristocrat and a bitter soldier. It was the dramatic and upper- class herorism of his that made Hart's inner envy slowly faded away, and like a adventurous novel with a happy ending, he decided to befriend Emerson.

Actually, Hart never regret that decision. If it weren't for Emerson and the Wilkes family, he would be far from where he was now. Impulsive nature made Hart always a potential officer but also made it difficult for him to climb higher.

"Is there anything new?" Emerson asked, pointing at the stack of paper that Hart was reading "I came across it. It was as useless as whatever they provided us before. The first two chapters seem to be fine, at least we knows the new world is not barbaric as we thought. The rest only makes your head hurt with the otaku terminology. "

Ota..ku? He had heard this word somewhere before. The annoying thing when learning Japanese was some words were too long to remember while others were just so short that sound confusing.

"Otaku, manga or anime addicts, Japanese have a name for them. Do you remember the gaudy young people wearing weird costume in downtown few moths ago ? Cosplayer, a form of Otaku. "

That was unforgettable. Those cosplayers make Hippie's toe pants and headbands look like a harmless sobbing.

"Coffee?"

Hart hurried over to another matter before Emerson dragged him into boring topics. Today was a overcast and dull day so the Cononel did not like talking about things that easily irritated him.

"Yes, please. It is always a pleasurse to start the day with a cup of Castillo. "

Since he wasn't a connoisseur of coffee, Hart hesitantly let Emerson rub his slender hands around a cup of Bolivian coffee and hope that his old friend didn't notice the difference. Well, no matter what Columbia and Bolivia was still on the same continent.

"I'm afraid there are some bad news." Emerson took a small, grim sip and set the cup down on the table. "It seems we will be responsible for escorting a diplomatic convoy in Special Region if I understand correctly implications that had been thrown out by Washington in the last few months "

Hart knew that the US involvement in the Special Region was only a matter of time. Japan cannot delay it any longer, they have two obvious options: Losing allies or accepting benefits. He was not surprised when they chose the second one, especially when there was plenty people out there who only wanted to see Japanese people eating grass.

"And if you was going to ask how much time we have then it would be much, about a week or two at best."

"Good God." Hart was disappointed. Two weeks couldn't guarantee anything, "How on earth did the Admiral assume that I can come up with a plan in a week when I don't even have a map?"

"Not Admiral." Emerson reminded him "Order directly came from the White House and remember that this is not a military campaign. A Diplomatic Mission, I believe that how it is called. "

" It's the same! "Hart was annoyed "They can call it anything they want but whenever my soldiers step one foot into hostile territory, it is war. "

Nobody wants to hear anything about fighting, invading or dying at the moment, he knew. From Wincosin to New Orleans, people held each other's hands and sing Kumbaya with a lying son of bitch on the stage delivering messages of peace and prosperity. Twenty years and three wars, the United States was too tired to be dragged into another conflict and any flag draped coffin sent back home just mean more people want to burn down the White House for the second time.

But that's not exactly what makes Hart worry. Complex tasks was what special forces created for. All soldiers in the unit were seasoned men and fought with him in Iraq. They have conducted much more difficult mission with low casualties.

"The problem is…" Emerson gently adjusted his glasses, and as usual Hart knew he was going to hear something very bad. "The Japanese only allowed a delegation of thirty people in the Special Region, no more and no less and the President has agreed to that . "

They wanted to kill themselves. Hart just wanted to scream out loud. Ambassador's staff alone consist at least more than twenty people, and if they were allowed to send thirty then he only had six or five men to do the security job . It would be a disaster if they were attacked. With no air support and backup, thirty men would be fishes in the barrel . He had no doubt in abilities of the men he personally trained but sending half of a squad out there was a vauge effort, a suicidal one to be precise. He hoped someone had told the President how unreasonable this plan was.

"Politically speaking, I think they would like the idea." Emerson seemed to read Hart's thoughts. "Russia and China will scream if American troops rush to the District, a group of thirty people is more acceptable."

"Acceptable?" Hart quipped, "If thirty corpse are considered acceptable then I have nothing to say.

Lieutenant Colonel have nothing to respond to that, just sighed and enjoyed a cup of coffee. Just like him, Emerson understood the risks in this mission, but what else could be done now except pick out the best among their men and pray?

At 8 am, the delegation list finally came in fax. The secretary brought it to Hart with a copy. He was somewhat relieved when there were only twenty-two names on paper, which meant he would have eight seasoned combatants on the field. Honestly, Hart prefered the number twelve, at least he had enough troops to divide them into two teams: Shields and Spears. Team Shield is responsible for protecting and evacuating the non-combatants when attacked and the spear team would destroy the enemy or at least restrain them.

"Ambassador Dominic Hobson. Do you know him, Emerson? "

Hart is not a big type of communication. Parties, small talk and handshakes made him uncomfortable. They, the elite of American society talk too much, laugh too much and there was nothing good came from these people except the nosy. During the wedding at the Wilkes family manor in the spring of last year, he had to create a dramatic story about the alcoholic father and the mother he never knew to please Lady Tunner. Apparently Hart was not very good at this and the suspicious look on the face of the beautiful woman forced him to ask Emerson to testify his story.

"Not much, I only met him a few times. A former ambassador to Rome, fluent in Latin, French and Italian. A man who loves collecting Roman-Greek antiques "

At least they choose the right man for the job, Hart thought. He assured Dominic to jump up when he heard he was chosen.

"Let's see, Ruth Chapman secretary, Diana Sobler linguist, and Adu Aman Farris" Emerson grinned. "Anti-racism is a trend."

Hart had nothing against the people from the middle east but to anyone who ever witnessing the Sunni translator blowing up R & R's representative office in Bagdad also said it was a bad idea. The boredom continues with Frank Charlerson, agricultural engineer, Eddy Louge, construction engineer and ... Kayle Wilson, Major… US army.

"Ronald Wilson's daughter," Emerson said. "I think you know him."

Of course, Hart knew. Ronald Wilson was one of commanders in Desert Strom, who nominated him to be commander of 1st ranger battalion after the war. As far as he knew, Ron was about to have a chair in the security advisory council. He was indeed an ambitious one. Speaking of that old man, Hart was a little startled by the prospect that he would get the full consequences if the Lieutenant General's precious daughter broke a nail.

"I think you must be glad ? Kayle Wilson is an experienced."

"Experienced? What do I need from an girl that make coffee better than you? Damn, it would trade her for two more box of 50 cal"

Emerson smirked and swore to God, Hart hated whenever he did that. It made him look like an idiot.

"Major Kayle Wilson has been in Iraq for five years." Emerson said "Two tours to Afghanistan, an urban warfare expert and anti guerrilla."

Finally, there is an interesting thing to start the day. Hart did not hesitate to check the files on his computer and wondered why Kayle Wilson wasn't under his radar for the past few years. Anyone with two silver star medals is easily noticed by Task Force 22.

Spectre!

Hart grimaced when he saw the name. It was a waste of real talent. He did not expect that General Ronald to risk his daughter's career with these thugs. Honestly, Spectre at first had proved it's usefulness and no one expected things end up like that

"Why the hell is she here for? Didn't they dissolve the unit?" Hart asked. Spectre had no longer existed on the papers since the day the CIA took over, so it was hard to know. "They should have done that right after the little facility of their nearly got exposed by some random reporters. It was just too risky to continute and "Bloody Thurday" was what you get for playing with fire for too long."

"The arrogance got the better of them and I doubt that they would gave up on Spectre easily even after those hearings and investigation"

Emerson long suspected that the CIA had formed a few paramilitary teams from whatever remained of Spectre to avoid wasting resources. But if this speculation was true then something was wrong here . The White House obviously could ask CIA to undertake this task without counseling the Army. Espionage and diplomacy had been hand in hand since the begin of time

Maybe the president just had enough of Langley and placed his trust in real soldiers? Hart hoped that was the case. After the catastrophy such as the Weapons of Mass Destruction, the White House might finally open its eyes to the fact that the infamous Intelligence Agency wasn't as reliable as it was supposed to be.

He had a bad impression of the CIA and its shady practices right from the first days in Iraq. Many times, his men had crawl through mud and blood to secure empty ammunition depots, dusty technical complexes which was supposed to be where Sadam hid nuclear progarms. The CIA lost it's reputation in Iraq but his men lost more things than the reputation that they never wanted.

"I don't want to spoil your excitement but you need to be cautious" Emerson said. "There was something very weird about this mission. "

It was even weirder hearing those words coming from you "We'll talk about this later. Now, gather all team leaders for me , I want to have a meeting in twenty minutes. We have a lot to do. "

Emerson stood up and left the room, but before he put his hand on the door knob, he turned to ask Hart:

"Should I contact Kayle Wilson?"

"Do whatever you consider necessary,"

Emerson nodded, saluted him then quickly vanished like smoke.

"Someday I will have word with him about this. Definitely "