A/N: Terribly sorry about the long wait everyone. We moved from DC all the way down to Florida, and I had several other things that needed taking care of before I could get back to the story. Now that I'm unpacked and everything is in working order I should be able to get back on a normal working regimen. I bumped this story up to an 'R' rating as well, just a precaution though. No kinky stuff….yet.

Close Combat

Chapter 3

Far From Home

0459 Hours, 13 September 2010

Pyongyang, North Korea

Genji Inihara was a troubled man. He was an intelligence officer working for both the United States and Japan, but much more importantly he was an 'illegal' operative. Being an 'illegal' meant that he did not have diplomatic immunity applied to him, which meant that if, he was discovered than he would be dead. It was as simple as that. Cliché though it might sound, neither the United States nor Japan would come to his rescue were he to be caught. Espionage is a punishable offence, and in the type of nations that he was consistently sent to, the punishment most often came in the form of a bullet in the back of the head. He was at least a little lucky though, some operatives in places like the Middle East didn't even get the luxury of a quick bullet in the head, and they were more than likely beheaded.

Inihara was currently working deep cover inside North Korea, feeding his employers with information on their nuclear development. While of Japanese decent, Inihara's father was from South Korea, which gave him the facial characteristics that let him into the communist nation without too much hassle. It had taken a great amount of time before he reached the position he was in now, six and a half years to be exact.

At 32 years of age, he had started out low in the North Korean command structure, joining the military as a non-commissioned officer. He had endured many hard trials to climb the ranks, and he had to prove his intelligence in matters of nuclear development through several high-profile examinations. Through a long screening process, and whole hell of a lot of luck, Inihara was shipped out of his military unit and assigned to a nuke development team.

Of course, it would have been impossible to infiltrate such a high-ranking position with a Japanese name, so Inihara had falsified documents concocted with his new 'cover' identity. To the Korean government and everyone he had had contact with for the past 6 years, he was known as Suh Kwan. Unlike most Koreans he only had one given name to go with his family name, something Inihara attributed to the person who forged the documents being lazy. Though fitting with Korean culture, practically no one ever called him by his name. When he was still in the ranks it was always 'soldier' or 'private'. Now that he had climbed to a position of authority it was 'sir' and 'officer'.

Inihara had found it somewhat difficult to move from a free society like the one he had enjoyed in Japan to a communist system that North Korean employed. He had quickly discovered that there were more than a few hints of wisdom in the line about a fish not taking notice of the water it exists in until it is removed. He missed the life he had enjoyed for so long. Each day spent in this hellish country was torture, plain and simple.

The people of the country, at least the citizens, they tried their best but even they knew that the life they had been forced to live for the past 60 years was one of suppression and strict control. There were no creature comforts in this country, something that every society needs.

As if to prove this point, Inihara found himself walking down the street towards his apartment building. Even the street seemed to be devoid of significant life. His gaze fell over a nearby park, where no children played as the day slowly ended. Those who were out on this cold fall day moved with slow purpose, no time for pleasantries or exchanged words between them.

These people did not live, they survived. Each day was a struggle, one endless hurdle after another. There was no release from this existence, not until their body broke underneath the stress and they went onto another life.

Turning down an alley, Inihara entered a building and began ascending the staircase towards his apartment. Upon reaching the fourth floor he went down the hallway and entered his apartment. Peeling off the thick uncomfortable jacket he wore, he flicked the lights on, only to discover the power was out. He at first thought it was a planned power outage, until he noticed that the central heating had also failed to start.

Cursing bitterly Inihara entered his bedroom, deciding that there was nothing to do but get some rest, and hope that tomorrow the heat and electricity would be working.

Things hadn't always been this bad in North Korea. Not until President Kim Jong-Il had begun racing to get the nation's nuclear development finished. Money from every area of the nation's budget had been cut and stripped clean to pay for the labor and technology needed to accomplish his goal. Of course the citizens weren't informed of this, and the only answer received from the government was instruction to go about daily life as best they could.

'There won't be any good news for the people anytime soon either,' Inihara thought to himself. 'After killing seven of the scientists, the others finally cracked. Those missiles will be out of the country in no time.'

Unfortunately for America and Japan, he wouldn't be able to get that bit of information out for another week, when his contact would be returning from a trip north.

'That is, if he wasn't uncovered when he handed over the tape I gave him,' Inihara darkly thought. 'He may be under cover as a military inspector, but the Interior Ministry does not let any position held sway them from shadowing someone they think may be suspicious.'

Inihara quickly dispelled those thoughts. He was already suitably depressed, no need to drag himself down any further.

The looming premonition stayed in the back of his head though, despite his best efforts. He was miles away from what he had called home once. All that remained of the Japan in his mind was a distant memory, something that was there, but just couldn't be reached.

Shaking his head, Inihara slipped into his bed and closed his eyes.

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1323 Hours, 16 September 2010

Washington DC, Maryland

"When you two get to Japan make sure you give that letter to Kimura right away," Parker instructed. He shook both Ranma and Ryoga's hands and nodded once in farewell before turning away and getting into the waiting car that drove him off the tarmac.

"I suppose we should have expected something like this to happen," Ranma said softly. "After the first 21 years of our lives are filled with absolute chaos, enjoying almost a decade of relative peace and quiet was almost like asking for the shit to hit the fan."

Ryoga grunted his agreement as he started to climb the stairs to the waiting plane.

"It's not like anything that happens now could be as bad as the crap we've had to face before," he remarked. Ranma shot him a dry look.

"I've never known you to be much of an optimist Ryoga."

"Well one of us has to be," Ryoga shot back as they were shown to their seats. The plane was actually a government jet, and had been sent down from Kimura to retrieve them. It was empty save for a few Japanese executives and people from the embassy that had needed a ride.

"What do you think Kimura and McCullen are going to do?" Ranma asked once they were left alone.

"Its not like they can walk into the UN, hold up a piece of paper that says North Korea has ICBM's, and shake their finger at them," Ryoga responded sarcastically. He stopped and looked apologetically at Ranma. "Sorry, force of habit. What I meant was, there isn't much they can do right now. The only evidence we have would be scoffed at and ignored by most of the United Nations. The second we bring it up North Korea will just do a tighter lockdown and that might also mean ending the bits of information we've been getting from informants."

"Not to mention endangering the lives of agents inside the border," Ranma added. "But if we can't do anything publicly then Korea's just going to get away with building nukes and threatening the world with them."

Ryoga grunted his agreement. "This is the type of bullshit we've got to put up with now that were a part of the world of politics."

"Makes you almost wish we had turned down Kimura's offer," Ranma said.

An uneasy silence fell between the two as the plane taxied down the runway and headed for Japan.

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2345 Hours 16 September 2010

Moscow, Russia

Lt. Colonel Gregory Gogol marched stiffly down the hallway leading to the Director of Foreign Intelligence Services office. The Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR) was the closest department that resembled the KGB of the Cold War. The agency was tasked with promoting Russian Federation policy in the security sphere, to promoting the country's economic development and scientific and technical progress, and providing military-technical support for Russia's security. That was the more public aspects of the agency's role, there were of course several other functions it performed that was not meant for the ears of the public. The SVR was also charged with handling the gathering of intelligence on other nations, as well as inserting field operatives onto foreign soil.

Colonel Gogol was well aware of all this as he knocked on the door twice, waiting to be acknowledged. General Vyacheslav Trubnikov looked up from his paper work and smiled at Gogol, motioning him inside.

"It's nice to see I am not the only man who likes to put in a full day," General Trubnikov said in way of greeting. "I'm pleased you were able to come on such short notice."

Gogol smiled at the elderly soldier. General Trubnikov was one of the few intelligence officers he actually liked. He accredited that to the fact that Trubnikov had been a soldier in the Russian Army from the day he had turned 17. He hadn't even taken off his uniform when he was commissioned to lead the SVR in 1992, something that earned him a few enemies inside his organization, but also the glowing respect from men like Gogol.

"I was just finishing up some documents when you called sir. I must thank you for rescuing me from them."

General Trubnikov smiled, he personally liked Lt. Colonel Gogol, and mostly because the young man reminded him so much of himself when he was younger.

"There were some interesting new files given to my aide an hour ago, and I felt it would be best to deal with them before returning home," Trubnikov informed him. "It would seem the Americans and Japanese have gotten word about the missing nuclear technicians."

Gogol kept his face impassive, but inside he felt his heart skip a beat as an icy lump formed in his stomach. He had to make a mental note to continue breathing as Trubnikov gazed at him with a small smile slowly spreading along his face.

"Naturally such an event has caused some of the other directors to claim there was a security leak, and an investigation has been launched which will bring about the person who leaked this bit of information."

Trubnikov paused for a moment, eyeing Gogol carefully.

"You were in South Korea a few weeks ago were you not?"

Fighting the urge to swallow, Gogol answered, "Yes sir."

"As I seem to recall you have some friends in the Japanese PSIA do you not? One of whom that was attending the President's little affair correct?" Trubnikov questioned.

Gogol nodded once, waiting for security officers to storm in. They might not put a bullet in his head right away, that would cause a mess in Trubnikov's office. He'd have to wait until they took him to one of the lower levels, one of the interrogation rooms. It might not have been the Cold War anymore, but there was about the same amount of tolerance for intelligence agents now, as there was back then.

"If one were to make a small leap of faith it could become clear that such a relationship would prove to be detrimental to your position here," General Trubnikov explained.

His arms were beginning to shake, but Gogol forced himself to sit still. If he were going to be arrested for treason then he would at least face it like a soldier.

"My relationship with the Japanese PSIA is no more grievous than the friendship I share with the Director of the CIA," Gogol responded coolly. "I recall that when this relationship was discovered by the directors they were quite pleased of the potential they could see there."

General Trubnikov turned a glare on Gogol and let him sit in silence for a minute.

"The trouble with investigations like these, there are far too many dead ends and as it stands now we have neither the time nor the resources to waste going on some wild goose chase. This is why I ordered the investigation closed just a moment ago."

Gogol stared at Trubnikov in disbelief, his mouth gaping slightly. He was further shaken when the old soldier suddenly erupted into laughter.

"Do not fret Gregory," he laughed. "I would have ordered the information sent out to our allies myself if I hadn't known it would cause half the government to crap their pants."

Gogol felt the tension flow from his body at once. A small smile graced his features as he looked up at Trubnikov.

"I realized what the implications could be when I mentioned what I did to Hibiki, general. The government has been too tight-lipped about the developments in the past few months. It may cause embarrassment but we can't keep such information to ourselves, especially when it concerns the rest of the world," Gogol said.

Trubnikov smiled for a moment before turning serious.

"You are talking to the converted my dear friend. The government dogs that lurk in this building would have me strung up by my entrails for saying so but, there are some things that politics just fuck up. I have lived through too many wars to see my country collapse just because the government did not wish to appear with egg on its face," General Trubnikov paused. "There were some protests over my closing of the investigation, but since I will be retiring shortly there isn't much anyone can do until my replacement arrives."

"Retiring?" Gogol asked, surprised. As if for the first time he got a good look at Trubnikov. The man was well into his 70's. The skin on his face was sunken and gray. Truthfully the only youthful feature left were his eyes, which still held the mischievous glint that had been with him since birth.

"Yes, I've grown too old for this life. Or so my wife tells me," he laughed. "The government will be holding a short ceremony next week to honor my service, where I will be presented with some meaningless medals. After that, Andrei Kozyrev will be taking over."

Gogol fought an internal moan at the mention of that name. Kozyrev was a politician to the core, and a personal friend of the Defense Minister. Gogol doubted that the man had any previous experience in the intelligence business.

General Trubnikov read the look on Gogol's face. "I understand that such an announcement will cause quite a stir amongst the government. As I'm sure it will be a source of great pain for the lower-ranking intelligence members. Unfortunately there is nothing that can be done; I will be instructing all my trusted staff members on what they will do in my absence."

Gogol nodded once, a headache already forming at the thought of working under Kozyrev.

"Which brings us to the other reason why I called you in here," Trubnikov announced. "You have been a great asset to me over the years Gregory, and while I know Andrei Kozyrev will not be able to use you as effectively as he would if the man possessed a shred of intelligence, I want you to do what you can to assist the man and continue the work you have been doing. Personal differences must be set aside for the greater good of our homeland."

"I understand, general," Gogol said.

Trubnikov smiled, "With that out of the way I will now ask you if you would possible consider having a drink with me?"

"It would be an honor sir."

The smile broadened and Trubnikov got up and headed for a cabinet located along the wall. He extracted a bottle of vodka and two glasses. No words passed as the man poured healthy portions into each glass and handed Gogol one.

"So what medals will they be awarding you?" Gogol asked once the general had sat back down.

A snort came from Trubnikov. "I believe one is for outstanding service to the country. The other is some garbage about being an accredited member of the government party for so many years," his voice switched from condescending to serious. "Let me tell you Gregory, the only medals that are worth anything are the medals that adorn your chest right now. A man who can go out to war, knowing death is waiting but a few feet in front of him, and keep his head clear deserves the medals he will earn. There is no greater feeling. The thrill of battle, fighting in the dirt as Hell seems to have erupted from the depths of Earth itself and overtaken the battlefield. We who have been there, and seen what true fighting is, we are lucky, for we carry with us the memories of those that perished. No man that has walked away will ever forget the images, the screams, the terror."

Trubnikov's words struck Gogol. His hand hanging limply onto the glass as images flashed across his mind. Battles won, and lost. Men and women killed in unyielding fury, the terror that graces a soldiers' face as they realize that there will be no medic to patch them up.

Gogol looked up, seeing the same glazed expression in Trubnikov's eyes that he imagined had just graced his own. There were some things that took precedence over a person's life.

'Yes,' Gogol thought to himself. 'Kozyrev may be a fool, but if it is within my power to help him keep this country from collapsing, then I shall do it.'

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A/N: Once again, terribly sorry about the long wait. I've already started work on the next chapter so it should be out much sooner than this one.