Transmission # 6-0-0-5. Designate: Operator
North of The Wall, Tokyo Urban, Hidden Village: Konoha
Kakashi Hatake, subject 00198, caught on the road of life
06:30 hrs; November 18, 1963
Getting lost on the road of life wasn't an unusual occurrence for Kakashi. In fact, it had been happening more often as of late. Time just simply seemed to slip away from his grasp. Minutes, hours, days, weeks; they never seemed to stand still, and yet, Kakashi ever managed to stay afloat. Some days he thought they'd become too much - another wrinkle here, a silvery white strand poking from his unkempt gray there; his terrible habit of forgetting, remembering, then remembering again. All of it was stuffed into one, dried out, husk of a curmudgeon, who liked his salt-broiled saury and eggplant miso soup.
And his personal collection of mint-condition, first edition, author signed Icha-Icha Series of novels he kept hidden away for special occasions.
This moment was not a special occasion, though it could very well turn out to be.
Kakashi looks over at the clock hanging next to the door in his office. In bold, black numbers it reads "6:23" - the little hand was busted at seven minutes behind, and he never bothered fixing it. Sighing, he leans back in his chair. Another sleepless night, he thinks defeatedly. Lamenting as he looks over at the stacks of files he'd yet to tackle on desk. Each tower represented join captains and a bevy of young, promising ninja in Konoha Kakashi was tasked to evaluate and form into workable units. For the right combination of talents and personalities among his young charges could mean the difference between success or catastrophe in this most unprecedented of operations.
When Asuma had called them into his office and provided details, Kakashi had to admit, he was somewhat pleasantly surprised: joint operations with the South weren't so bad, if you asked his opinion. Of course, no one did. Nor did he ever offer; life was simpler that way. Because if you knew anything about Sapporo bureaucracy, it was that it tended to get in the way of if you kept opening your mouth. Hence, why he wore the mask. That, and for other reasons. But he didn't like bothering people about his particulars.
But, no, surprisingly a deal had been meted out between the three old ding bats Utatane, Shimura and Mitokado. One which could guarantee greater access to southern ports and trade, and assuage a worsening supply shortage which had been tightening everyone's belts these past hard months. Kakashi knew things wouldn't be any better come winter. And with Moscow and Beijing jockeying for position, lines within the Fourth International were beginning to form, with the price of feeding their people being Hokkaido's support in a future struggle.
"So, what are we? Moscow or Beijing?" Iruka, intel officer behind him scribbling in her notes, asks the Third Hokage who's causally puffing away on another cigarette; it'd be his third one so far.
"On the surface, we're going to try and curry favor with Beijing," Asuma dabs away at the ashtray as he forms a little mountain. "Underneath, I know Hokkaido is still angling to be friendly with the Soviets."
"Hmph! This is disgusting," Bekko blurts from where he is in the back. A grumpy, middle-aged, lifelong chunin; his sole defining trait is his apparent love for the Revolution, and itinerant hatred for Imperialist scum - he may be a problem, Kakashi thinks. "Sapporo shouldn't play games like this. The Noble One would never agree to such shameful terms."
"The only reason we're like this is because Mao and Krushchev are playing games with us, Bekko." The large figure of Comrade-Sensei Daikoku Funeno points out. "They've been withholding shipments for months."
"Shut your treasonous mouth! It's all because of the embargoes by those Imperialist dogs!"
Mizuki, ever subtle with his contempt, harrumphs noticeably. "Oh, shove it, lifer. Put an act on for the lady as much as you want, she still aint gonna titfuck you. Or get the meds Gecko needs."
"I said I'm feeling better," Hayate responds, but no one believes him; six months and that phlegmy cough tells everyone otherwise.
Asuma quiets everyone down with a soft, yet forceful slap of his desk, nearly making the stack of folders piled off to the side fall. He reminds everyone Konoha is the primary concern, and should be going forward irregardless of what the Russians or Chinese believe. Bekko makes his anger known, along with a few other fellow chunin not good enough to rise higher in the ranks. Kakashi was never one to discriminate against rank - Naruto was on his team, and he was still a genin. However, small minds and big pictures never mesh well. And Bekko and his lot were small frogs in an increasingly drying up pond.
"Konoha will always be our primary concern, but if it looks to be we've been 'hired' out...The other Villages may perceive this as us breaking tradition." Suzume reminds, bringing all the stuffy air of a schoolteacher to this proceeding. "This could invariably open the door for further misinterpretation of the rules regarding our status on the international stage."
"To be fair, ninja have traditionally been seen as workers-for-hire in the past." Kakashi replies, absentmindedly strolling about the office, noticing Iruka's personal secretary scribbling vociferously in her seat. "Is it so weird then if we take a job?"
"Not 'weird', but troubling." There is palpable concern in Suzume's voice. Pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, she lists off all the reasons each Hidden Village has operated under to maintain a strict method of restraint. "If we start selling our skills as payment, the consequences could be catastrophic. Operatives working worldwide, allegiances to the highest bidder and not the Cause, Villages able to be bought off against one another? It will be chaos..."
On this note, Suzume was correct. Power was a carefully monitored and curated concept in order to maintain an ecosystem of balance among the Villages. No one single Kage could hope to strong-arm the other, or maneuver without first convening a Gokage Kaidan - Kage Summit, if it was not according to Sanzo Nosaka's teachings. Though Fourth International aligned, broader missions with an international scope required a majority vote to enact. Something which hasn't happened in the last eight years. Distance between each Village played a factor - spread all over the world as they were, and with communications being easily monitored, dialogue was difficult.
But moreso, and this is a fact become all too noticeable within the Fourth International as whole, rivalry and squabbling have become an all too common sentiment.
"Who's to say that isn't already happening? Are we really so confident none of the other villages would honor the code?" Ibiki Morino was a man who could see the worst in the best, and this made him a valuable asset. At a time when information was deathly useful, Konoha's head interrogation expert ever kept his eyes open. "I wouldn't put it past anyone from Iwa to start some trouble."
"Why does it have to be Iwa? Recent reports suggest we've got our own outlaw hanging in our midst." The tone in Mizuki's voice is understood, and the revelation isn't unknown: all know of Saigon, and the implicating reports. Kakashi, though, wasn't going to stand for it.
"That matter's already been settled, Mizuki. By me and Lord Third in the official report." There was a tinge of a threat to his voice, as Kakashi fixed his eye towards Mizuki. "Do we really need to go over it again?"
Mizkuki crosses his arms, unimpressed. "Not necessary, comrade. I fully well understand the luxuries afforded to ANBU are for strict security purposes."
"Enough," Asumas voice is more tired, than angry, but his tone denotes this particular topic be quashed. When he get sup out of his chair, Kakashi wasn't the only one who could see the dark circles under his eyes. The mantle of leadership weighs heavy on many, but for Asuma it came with a particularly heavy cost. Alls you needed do was look around the circular office and see. "Suzume, as to your worries we've noted the risks, and have made all necessary calls to ensure no miscommunication will be had. Ame, Iwa, Kiri, and Suna have all been contacted, and I mean to convene a summit as soon as possible. But for all of you who have questions regarding are stance going forward..."
Asuma's shadow passes over the pictures of many of Konoha's esteemed characters. The famed Senju brothers, The Noble One himself, Chairman Mao and President Kim - men who had a great deal in shaping and rebuilding the Village as it was pulled from the ashes of war. Kakashi was a young kid when he'd met a few of those men, but by that time he was already a well-blooded shinobi, jaded and tired from fighting on the frontlines of the Shogunate's war. He'd lost so many friends, then...
They all did.
Especially, Asuma. Who kept his own share of personal effects on the wall, but never waxes over them. Kakashi wondered if he kept them there more out of respect, than sentiment. If he did, Asuma never said a word. Fair enough: Kakashi never liked talking about his own father, either.
"For many of you present there are concerns regarding the priorities of Konoha going forward in relation to Sapporo, but I want to make this abundantly clear to ALL of you: first and foremost our pledge is to the Democratic People's Republic of Japan. Period. Our goals are ever in line with the protection and preservation of that institution. In order for that to be, Konoha needs be strong. That strength comes from all of us here being able to trust in one another. Stand by one another. And most importantly, protecting the next generation of ninja to come after. To protect them from making the same mistakes as us. Comrades, what I'm asking is very difficult. It flies all the way against what you've been told for the last twenty years. But if it succeeds, we ensure our nation can stand on its own two feet. Without help from Moscow, Beijing, Seoul, or anyone else."
The jonin and chunin gave Asuma fixed looks. Some are stirred, others are unsure, all feel the weight pressed by their leader's plea. Kakashi felt it, too. Yet, it also hit home an unease which had nagged him for a long while. Going forward they were operating alone, and looked to be that way for the foreseeable future. Sapporo longed to live up to its "juritsu" mentality, but the question of can it last that long till it achieves this is very uncertain.
At that assume points to the stack of files on his desk, that Genma carries, and are scattered throughout the office like lonesome towers. These papers are of all the genin, chunin, and jonin assigned to teams within Konoha. The task of all the captains, comrade-proctors, and sub-level officers is to sift through each file and determine who among them is qualified for this undertaking. Pre-assigned teams will have due consideration, but captains may as yet make changes if needs be.
"I've already considered team 10 as viable candidates." Asuma pulls out another cigarette from his pack and lights up. "I may be biased, but I believe in them. And I would like all of you to do the same. Take your time with this, consider your options, and come to me with your choices afterwards. And Comrade-Sensei Kakashi, as well..."
And there was the kicker to the whole effing thing. The bane to Kakashi's existence and the sole obstacle which had intrinsically ruined his chances of making it through Icha-Icha Love Island Yacht Club for the twenty-seventh consecutive time. When he'd called in a the favor on Asuma for allowing him to take Sasuke out of the village, he didn't think his comeuppance would be more paperwork. And as the morning sun began to warm the leaves, and the birdsong came alive, Kakashi found himself walking a familiar path.
It was a stone's throw away from his office, and not-so-bad trek when he wanted to clear his mind. Some days he'd take Pakkun and the boys here for walks. Other times, he'd go it alone. For the silence was great here, and managed to hush the more incessant problems racking his brain. Recently, that spot wholly relegated to Naruto. Kakashi stumbles down the well-trodden path ringed by oaks and maples, the earthy browns and reds giving way to a fall chill, while a few leaves still clung to their green coats from a long summer.
He met a few villagers along the way. They waved to him, wished him a good morning, and Kakashi reciprocated, but one has time for pleasantries. Everyone regards each other almost like apparitions: they are seen, but not quite all there. Not wholly. None who walk back down this path converse much; it wasn't a place for needless small talk. Words felt heavy here, and were best kept for those who deserved it. It didn't take long before Kakashi enters the clearing. Where nestled on the outskirts of Konoha, hidden by Fuji's woodland, there dances a flickering flame upon on a black stone.
Ah, my old friend, he thinks.
The shrine is ringed by a wall whereupon hundreds to maybe thousands of names all meaning the world to someone somewhere adorn. A few Kakashi holds dear, and every time he visits they say to him "hello". He can be late to many things, but no matter where he was, or what eh was doing, he ever made sure to come here and pay his respects. It's unfortunate that's all he can give them - they deserve a helluva lot more than his condolences. Along with his students...
"Sigh...I'm sure you've all somewhat heard," Kakashi speaks in soft, mindful tone - there are other people about paying respects, and he wished not to bother them. "Reason I've been away for a bit is because I've been busy. You see, I've been tasked to select the best and brightest to go off on a mission. I know, another one. But this time...This time we're in a tough spot."
A slow, spiritless wind brushes against his cheek, his mask, and causes the fire to waft about like a fairy caught in a dream. The ebony stone is silent as always. Sitting there on its plinth, weathering and chipped from countless years braving the environment alone. Though the shinobi have done a fine job taking care of the memorial, it has definitely seen better days.
"I don't really know who's best suited. On paper they all sound really good, but you know I was never fantastic at this job. Can't tell you how much I hate kids - I know I have, but still. They're loud, nosey, annoying, smell funny, make up new words every day; find problems where there are none, and make up new ones on the spot, and call themselves intellectuals. They're all jerks. But I'd be lying if I said I'm not fond of the group I got now. They're...something."
More silence; Kakashi moves closer to the flame, hands in his pockets, noticing his reflection in the ebony surface.
"Sakura is the smartest girl I know; she's got a good eye, and can read a situation as well or if not better than Shikamaru if push came to shove. She's a good thinker on her feet, fast with her hands, and more importantly has a good heart. She reminds me a little bit like you," Kakashi doesn't specify who, but it's well understood to whom he was referring.
Sakura had been the brightest student Kakashi ever managed since his being promoted to captain of a ninja squad. She was the first to understand chakra manipulation, able to climb up a tree in no less than two minutes after he fumbled with its teaching. Her aptitude for problem-solving is admirable, having the best test scores out of a majority of the kunoichi in her class. And was Johnny-on-the-spot with the radio whenever Team 7 was in a pinch. Only thing which could hold her back, and this was something Kakashi had seen firsthand, was her skewed perception of herself. Where at times there were two Sakuras on hand, and one always held back the other. If she could only bring those two differing personalities together, she could very well be not just a fine kunoichi, but woman as well.
"Naruto...Hmmm...Naruto reminds me everyday why I'm thankful fatherhood is a bit beyond me. Glad there's only of him - sometimes, because I'm one-hundred percent positive I would've gone insane a long time ago if there wasn't. Then again, I'm happy for him. He keeps me honest, on my toes; I'll always be a better shinobi when he's around, because he's just got that 'thing'. He makes you believe. In him, in yourself; this job would definitely feel emptier if he weren't around. Which is why I'm worried about him."
Ever since that night at the dockyard, Kakashi made sure to avoid Naruto. He didn't think it was right, but he felt distance could squash whatever inklings he had on the boy's reasons on being there. He couldn't turn his mind off. It wasn't to find reasons as to why Naruto and Zabuza Momochi were together - that'd been easy for Kakashi to figure. No, it was more so to find excuses, reasons he could tell the boy why what he was doing was a bad idea. That it was dangerous. Not in the way the ninja were taught, how soldiers are trained to expect, but lethal in that questions beget confusion, and confusion into doubt.
Naruto was a good kid, an able kid who can stand on his own. Kakashi didn't believe for one second Naruto's reticence was due to doubt in who he was, what he was, or what he could achieve. More so because his interest was now elsewhere, curiosity compelling him to go further and further from the nest. This was dangerous. Chiefly, considering a ROOT detachment was on its way south from Akita. Being small and playing it safe was most important, which of those two things Naruto was never apt to do.
Kakashi let loose a forlorn sigh. As his sensei, Kakashi knew he had a duty to keep Naruto safe from such inclinations. At the same time, he knew telling Naruto what to do was no easy task.
"And then there's Sasuke," The cold surface pricks his fingertips as he brushes them along the stone, dew and a few stray pine needles being wiped away off. "He's difficult. You know that, but he's as good of a ninja. Good as I ever was, and will be better when it's all said and done. He's had a hard, hard road before him. And for some of it he had to endure it alone. Me being by his side won't make up for all that time lost, but if watching over him means I can keep him safe..."
Kakashi traces the names etched onto the cold stone. Sasuke had always been a prodigy, excelling in technique and strategy, embodying teh very essence of what it meant to eb a shinobi. Yet, beneath that perfection lay a tumultuous history, one that haunted him relentlessly. Kakashi contemplated how Sasuke's past, marred by loss and vengeance, could either serve as a burden or a catalyst for growth.
As Kakashi turns from the stone to walk the cemetery, his mind goes to his young ward with concern. ROOT's formal review into Sasuke's condition loomed over him like a storm cloud, casting shadows everywhere on the road of life. Kakashi knew he had to make a choice in regards to his own team, if he felt confident they can handle an operation such as this, handed down with restrictions and restraints. Could they handle the pressure, can they play well with others, would this benefit them in the end, or is Kakashi making another mistake?
And in a field filled with mistakes, Kakashi hesitates as he pulls the bells out from his pocket.
Considering them for a moment, he cannot say whether or not Sasuke was the best equipped to face his demons alone; there were many parts of him still closed off, but little by little, Kakashi knew he was made somewhat better with his inclusion into Team 7. For better or worse, they were a family. Dysfunctional, and albeit toxic at times, but if Sasuke had to confront his darkness again, best it to be done by the side of people who care for him. Something all veterans of the past war ended up learning.
Like Asuma said, they were stronger when standing by one another. So he will support Sasuke, hoping the scars of his past will make him stronger, instead of breaking him. And wishing that the Curse Mark flaring up was only a false flag, not at all indicative of the portents it brings...
Transmission # 6-0-0-5. Designate: Operator
South of The Wall, Camp Basilone, US Sixth Army Base
Lt. Colonel Joseph Colton reviewing candidates for General Issue Japanese Oceania Expedition
06:30 hrs; November 19, 1963
Joseph Colton's life had been one giant routine since his time at Basic.
Wake-ups don't begin at five sharp, but instead a little earlier. Gave you enough time to collect yourself for formation. Roll call would be initiated, along with any other announcements, then followed by the beginning of PT, which could include running, calisthenics, or any other exercises to get your blood going. Over time this became more a usual exertion, like a stretch or a yawn, than an actual pain in the ass. After this would be personal hygiene, breakfast in the chow hall, classes, weapons training, more drilling, and then specialized training relevant to his MOS.
At the time he was an 014. Mechanic. And made himself handy with all types of military vehicles. LVT's, M22 medium tanks, M3 halftracks, Willy Jeeps, and even goddamn tin can bicycles; he became a regular grease monkey around base. Was so bad it got to a point he started taking bets on being able to disassemble any type of engine, and put it back together again blindfolded. By the time he got reprimanded for it he near cleared about two hundred dollars.
Every particular part had its place, a function to perform, to ensure you would get from Point A to Point B with minimal problems. In the military usefulness was dictated by performance, and if the thing you were managing just didn't go, well, you wouldn't either. And that would initiate a shitload of backlogging all the way up the food-chain till somebody higher was going to have your ass.
Or an ass, didn't matter which particular one it could be.
Hell, Joe assumed every office wall was lined with behinds of lesser men; get high enough in command, eventually everything no longer becomes your fault. Some other shit-bird get canned, you get your medal, maybe another star to go along with it, too. Than you can rinse, wash, and repeat to see if this time - THIS time - your ignorance, or arrogance, can be justified.
Colton didn't want to be one of those officers who constantly threw shit against the wall to see if it would stick. If he was doing this, he wanted it done right once and be done with it. And if this thing would wind up going ass-over-end - which he invariably still think it would, he wasn't going to shirk it off either. He wasn't one to play games; if he screwed up here, then it'll be his ass on the wall.
"First Sergeant Hauser seems a good choice," Colton's aide-de-camp Clayton Abernathy, George's son, says as he looks over files strewn about the mess hall table. "Speaks French and German, graduated top of his class at Fort Benning, well-liked by most of the boys."
"He's turned down every officer's commission that's gone his way," Joseph takes a sip from his coffee, and notes the bitterness. Still not enough creamer, he thinks. He reaches for more of the powdered shit offered at every table, and dumps his tenth packet in. For good measure, he grabs the sugar, too. "The boys like him because he's not the one giving them orders. That tells me he either doesn't like calling the shots, or doesn't want to be blamed for 'em. What about Faireborn?"
Abernathy digs through the files set to the right of his bacon and eggs, and pulls out a thick manilla folder brimming with red, green and blue post it all over it. "Chief Warrant Officer Dashiell R. Faireborn. Rhodes Scholar, holds a degree in English literature - yeah, that'll be helpful, and graduated with top honors from Rangers School, Airborne School, and Special Forces school. And all at nineteen years old, huh? You don't think he's trying too hard?"
"I've seen him conducting drills out in the yard. He's a go-getter, tells it like it is, and holds his men - and himself - accountable. Sometimes you need a guy like that to make tough calls." Joe's still unsatisfied with how his coffee tastes. Suzy would kill him if she knew how much crap he was putting into his cup.
"Would you like some coffee to go with your syrup?" Clayton asks.
"Either it's the water or the beans, but I haven't had a good cup of coffee on base in ten months. Sometimes I wondered if those embargoes aren't hitting the Sixth, too."
Clayton shrugs, before forking in a mouthful of hashbrowns and eggs into his mouth. "Potatoes seem a'right."
After breakfast the two men navigate down one of the myriad red linoleum hallways over to Hanger 3. Smell of cheap aftershave, tobacco, and the same acrid whiff of shit coffee oozes off the manufactured walls of the base. Another example of the routine Colton became numb toward; with nothing to do, higher brass buzzes about like dirigibles with no direction between the mess or their own respective offices. Secretaries scurry about filing paperwork which really didn't need to be, and bean counters jot down notes of all the shipments and stockpiles of equipment on hand. George constantly felt the Supply Corps nickel-and-dimed everywhere they could. Joseph didn't think it was done out of maliciousness, but rather out of boredom; how many times can you count boxes of M14a's, before realizing the rifles were just going to be shelved in a corner.
However, more arrivals of the new standard rifle kept coming into base. Select platoons had been working with M16 for weeks - officers, M60 fire teams, and then slowly being given to the grunts. The complaints were varied, and Joseph's office hadn't had a day go by with someone asking for field manuals on how to work the damn things. "Self-cleaning, my ass," Joseph remarked, pulling one from its box.
Clayton agrees, but reminds Joe how much lighter the rifle was compared to even the shortened M14a's the Army issued three years ago. "I mean, you gotta admit, if you had a choice between dragging this around, or your M1, what would you choose?"
"My M1 - All day, every day." Minding the action of the bolt, Clayton rams a mag into the receiver. "We didn't complain about the weight, so long as the gun worked. I swear you look at one of these things the wrong way, it jams."
Joseph fires off five or six shots into the target, each one of the 5.56's hitting precisely where he aims. No problems, Clayton comments with a smug smile. Colton gives him a mindful look before switching the action. The remaining fifteen rounds pile downrange and burn the target into a mess. Again, no problems. "Guess I got one of the better ones," Joseph remarks, skeptically looking down at the hunk of plastic in his hands. It just didn't feel right, he says. If they were going to outfit an entire operation force, he'd feel much more comfortable sending the guys in with a weapon with some heft, and not a toy.
"Right now the malfunction rate is just two rounds per every thousand fired. And that was only because the ammo some jackass in DC sent us had too much of the leftover powder from when you and dad were storming Kanto," Clayton pops off a few shots with his own M16, hitting target dead center in the chest. Smiling confidently, he turns back to his CO. "Wrote it all in my report five months ago. Problems should be fixed. Trust me, Joe, if I'm be running around a steaming jungle, this is the tool I want."
"Oh, you think you're going?" Joseph inquires, eyebrow quirking up. "What makes you think you're qualified?"
"A lot of things," Clayton's resounding shots nail the bullseye effortlessly, making Joe roll his eyes.
Captain Clayton Abernathy wasn't a man who liked to tout his own appraisals. But for a young military officer with an easy manner, mild-mannered etiquette and a jawline most movie stars in Hollywood would kill for, he didn't really need a lot to show people he was a big deal. May be a bit older than most of the commissioned officers his age - twenty-seven was pushing it technically, and Joseph wondered this is why Clayton was itching for any sort of action. To prove himself, or to be more of himself; who the hell knew.
Peace time had a hell of an effect on the enlisted men coming to Camp Basilone near the outskirts of Tokyo. It was a far away place, misted in a sort of ephemeral air, in an exotic land "conquered" by the rolling tide of American steel and will. Guys back home were told of the exploits like they were listening to some myth about King Arthur and his Knights. They all jumped at the chance at wanting to be part of the winning team, only to find Army life was far less appealing after the war. As if Army life during the war was appealing, for that matter, either.
Still, an upswing of young men, gung-ho to do their part allowed for the war-weary veterans to go home stateside and begin their lives as civilians once more. While the "lifers" like Joe stayed back and made this his new routine. Suzy didn't mind, being an Army nurse through the war, she was just glad she and Joe made it through to have a life together. "Anywhere with you is the life I wanna have," she said. She probably didn't think it was in a little piece of Americana somewhere in Japan, though.
"Here's the main point," Clayton regaled Joe as they were rounding off their 5km run around Camp Basilone's perimeter. "You don't like half of any other other candidates here because you don't have faith in their NCO's. These other people - Australian bushwhackers, South Japan operatives, ninja from over The Wall? You got even less faith in. But me? You like me."
"I'd like you more if you shut up," Clayton huffed. Red in the face and fighting back the heart burn, Joe just tried keeping pace to not give Clayton the satisfaction of beating him in a glorified jog. At thirty-four he wasn't that much of an old man, but shit, did running not get easier.
"You need someone like me to keep it all together. It's obvious my dad's gonna be having you as one of the talking heads directing this thing, but you want a guy you can trust on the ground. I AM your guy."
"Even if I wanted, Clay - which I don't, your dad won't allow it." Joseph says while they pass by the firing range; to his chagrin, many of the infantry look to be handling the M16's.
"My dad trusts you," Clayton says, evenhandedly and without missing a beat; Joe figures this guy can probably go another three miles and not be bothered. Thankfully, they reach the front of one of countlessly identical barracks in the eastern quadrant of Basilone. Joe walks in disheveled and sweat-drenched in his white tee and black shorts, while Clay follows nary breaking a sweat. "If you say it, he will believe you."
"Which is why I'm not mentioning it - Thank you, Jill." Joe thanks his secretary for bringing his usual cup after a run. She was the only one who could make this crap taste anywhere halfway decent: cream filled, plenty of sugar, and tasting exactly like a cinnamon roll.
"Lt. Colonel before I let you go, faxes from Defense Australia outlining potential ideas for joint practices in counter-insurgency. May wanna take a look at this." Jill hands Joe a handful of paper still warm from the machine. "Oh, and your four o' clock with Mr. McNamara has been postponed - travel conflicts. But Graham Aker's available, he's said. To go over potential candidates he's picked, if you have any questions."
"Oh, uhhh- Wonderful, thank you, Pvt. Morelli. Ummm...tell him, I'll...Yeah."
He lets that trail off, because the last thing he needs is Graham Aker's opinion. He'd looked into the G-Man's "candidates", and half Joseph wouldn't believe even if they were cartoon characters. Skin made of stone, "blood mist", oriental kung-fu sorcery? What is he having some sort of sick joke or something at Joe's expense? Granted, you see some weird shit in this line of work, but nothing believable to the point Aker's been selling.
As he's lost in his thought, thinking what circle in hell he might be better off managing, Pvt. Morelli trails closely behind till they hit his office. Before he can dismiss her, she apologizes for what she's about to tell him. "And you have a visitor today, sir. I'm sorry, I tried reaching you, but you were indisposed with Captain Abernathy."
"I was just advising Lt. Colonel how we might maximize our potential in regards to the upcoming campaign," Clayton says, giving Morelli a playful wink.
"This isn't a campaign."
Before he set a hose on him, puzzled Joseph asks who it could be waiting inside. Before Morelli answers, Colton opens his door. First thing he thinks of is "Japanese Frank Sinatra". Sitting in the chair in front of his desk was an old papa-san. Papa-san being the GI pejorative for any of those bent backed, gray-haired geezers still kicking around town. This one looked like one those old samurai woodcuts he got from Okinawa. A long pipe sticks out his mouth, and one of those airy, dark purple sweaters they all wear opens at his chest. He smiles warmly over at Joseph past his beaten up fedora.
"Lt. Colonel Colton! A pleasure to finally see you." The man's legs shaking as he he puts all his weight on the rickety cane before him. From what Joseph can presume, his bodyguard - a young man, with long, red hair tied in a ponytail - moves to assist from where he stood in the corner. "I'm sorry to intrude unannounced, but I've been looking forward to our meeting for some time."
"No, no, please, sir," Joseph goes over and tells the papa-san it's not necessary. Of all the people to get up for, he certainly isn't one of them. "Sit down, sit down."
"Ah, these bones; don't seem to agree with me as they used to." He laughs, but it looks like even getting him to sit back down seemed to hurt. Morelli and Clayton attempt to move behind him, but papa-san shoos them off. "I'll have you know I did five hundred push-ups today. With one arm."
"Heh, that's four hundred and ninety-nine more than this guy," Clayton laughs as he nods over to his CO, but Joseph isn't amused. He directs for Clayton and Pvt. Morelli to give him the room; an itch in the back of his mind tells him this visitor was clearly different.
The door shuts behind them, only to be followed by an awkward silence. Joseph, not used to being ambushed in his own office, apologizes clumsily. He wasn't expecting anyone, he says. Especially not someone he didn't have the pleasure of meeting with beforehand, but yet, who expected to talk with him. "I don't believe you or I have had the pleasure of being introduced before." He says, still taken aback by the unexpected nature of this visit. "I assume, though, you're with Southern Intelligence if Morelli let you in here."
"Indeed, sir, we are." The man nods dutifully, bowing low in his seat. "Your secretary and staff do you honor; they were very adamant in not allowing Mr. Himura and I within five meters of your office without properly identification."
"And do you, sir? Have proper identification?" Colton eyeballs the sword dangling at the papa-san's bodyguard's hip. He's not worried by it, but having seen a few in the past he knows they don't need a lot of space to operate. "Armed men in my presence don't make me feel quite so hospitable."
Hiruzen looks over at his man and gives a slight chuckle. "Oh, no need to worry. Himura-san has sworn against violence since the war."
"Interesting choice for a bodyguard then," Joseph quips, arching his brow as he takes in the young man with the pleasant, yet scarred, visage. Broken men weren't an uncommon sight, being dime a dozen on most streets in this country.
Hiruzen gives an affable shake of his head, with another one of his easygoing laughs. "My father always told me a man is judged by the quality of company he keeps. I am honored to have Himura-san by my side."
Wish we could all share that sentiment, Joseph thinks, leaning back in his chair, but inner tone edged with skepticism.
"I have a name," Papa-san goes, with a knock on the floor by his cane. "And in my line of work, to give it is a sign of utmost trust. I am Sarutobi Hiruzen, head of the Naicho of the Republic of Japan, and of Emperor Showa's oniwabanshu. A pleasure to meet you."
Papa-san says it so matter-factly like it shouldn't matter, but it does.
Taking a sip from his coffee, Joseph does well to hide his surprise. He should be more well-versed in the cultural aesthetic and courtly groups in the South, but he knew enough to understand. The oniwabanshu-whatever were the personal guards to the Emperor, and were tough-as-nails sob's to finish once the Sixth made their push on Japan's home island. Every city became regular house of horrors for any Marine or Army geek dragging their knuckles: grenades in overturned helmets, goat heads in drinking wells, suicide banzai bombers. Those tough little bastards made you become the fastest Johnny on the spot, and if you weren't, someone back home was getting a letter.
A small part of Colton was glad they were technically on his side. Another part, though, he felt better to keep its mouth shut. He takes another sip from his coffee, and pretends to think happy thoughts.
"The emperor has sent me to inquire into the joint task force. He is very excited for this, and hopes it will foster growing unity - not only between our people, but our own brothers in the north. This pleases him greatly." The man known as Hiruzen smiles, but Joseph finds it hard to smile back. Hiruzen picks up on the man's distance, but tries to play it off. "I'm sure you are very busy, but I came by to say we are fully prepared to assist in whatever manner possible. We have very capable individuals anxious to work alongside you all. Candidates from the Arashikage clans and Koga are-
"No."
It comes out faster than Joseph is able to register what he's saying, and immediately he wants to dunk his head with remaining contents of his mug.
At some point, this was a reality Colton planned for. Integration was a priority for the military, had been since they began blending African-American troops with the whites to finally do away with the segregated system. He'd overseen it before, meshing his black and white and yellow and brown troops all into one common fighting force. Yes, it can be done, but not in the amount of time brass wanted. People from all over, needing to coordinate training and callsigns and tactics and strategies; something like this would take months if not a year to prep for. And another thing: papa-san had his ways, but how well would they work with Colton's? He hardly thought espionage and covert actions jived well with heavy artillery and air support in the field. Hell, he now had to figure out counter-insurgency tacts from the damned Aussies.
American military doctrine wasn't tuned for insurgents, but muzzle on muzzle brawls.
"Thank you. Mr. Sarahtobey," Joseph butchered the name, with the worst parts of his Rhode Island accent coming through. "No, I will definitely consider anyone you send. Just, for right now, focus is on ground personnel only. MP's, medics, engineers, logistics - I barely like enough of my own people to send over. Then, I'll start making my way through specialists."
That part was true; a good portion of infantry was expected to go, and filling out a quota of greenshirts to form defensive lines wasn't hard. However, Clayton before had mentioned he had little faith in the men slated to go and their officers. This was also true. Peace time saw regulations go to the wayside. Discipline was dubious, know-how could be outdated, and he then had to factor they'd need to be compiled with an assortment of other personalities each had no knowledge of beforehand. And this was supposed to be a "peace-keeping" force? They probably wouldn't even be able to keep the peace amongst one another, let alone instill it the people of South Vietnam.
"Of course, of course; I understand!" Hiruzen smiles with understanding, and takes in teh various decorations adorneing Joseph's office. It was the typical decor of a military man who had earned the privilege of personal space -pictures from younger days, framed degrees, and an assortment of war trophies. As Joseph observed Hiruzen's gaze linger, on these items, he felt a wave of self-consciousness was over him. "Why should I feel ashamed," he thought, aware Hiruzen probably had his own share of accolades as well.
Yet, amidst the medals and the folded American flag Joe seldom notices anymore, deep within he knew these were no longer badges of honor; more like reminders of scars endured.
"Your wife?" Hiruzen ventures, nodding to a photograph of Joseph and a cheerful woman dressed in their formal dress uniforms. Suzy had just cut her hair that day, and her straight auburn hair was tucked into her garrison cap. They'd taken a trip to Fuji that day, and it loomed in the background like a cobalt-grey giant. "She is very beautiful."
Joseph lets a small smile creep along his face as he agrees, "She is."
Hiruzen's expressions shifts, as he hints at a deeper sadness when he speaks, "My own wife died during the war." Bittersweet warmth permeates off him, as if he were recalling the fondest memories of his life.
It felt awkward and painful for Joseph to acknowledge such a painful truth, as what could any sincerity from a former enemy ever amount to. Still, his heart aches. "I'm very sorry for your loss." He didn't ask for details; the war still exacts a heavy toll on the living. 'What was her name?"
"Biwako," Hiruzen replied, his voice steady yet filled with emotion. "In Japanese we have a saying: 私は巨大なお尻舐め人間です
"The spirit of the ones we love never truly leave us." Joseph says, admiring the bent figure before him. Years can be unkind, even more so for those faced to wade through them alone. Yet, Hiruzen seemed unbothered, as instead he smiles, complementing Joseph for his understanding of the language. "You speak better English than I could Japanese. Suzy taught me. She ran an aid station for the wounded. From both sides. I helped when I could."
"A pure woman, then."
"Very."
Another lingering moment of silence passes, but this one wrapped in a peaceful understanding between them. Joseph doesn't feel small when talking to...Hiruzen? God, the name sounds so foreign, even in his mound he as a hard time pronouncing it. But there is gentle note to Hiruzen's demeanor one could ascribe to a grandfather, a doting ease by which the world comes easy to. Hardships may come and go, but one's presence does not break before trials. Choice makes us weak or strong, and from Joseph's perspective, Hiruzen's strength looked derived from a multitude of tough breaks along the road of life.
Getting up from his seat, Hiruzen moves faster than what was previously shown. He's unbothered by the crook in his back or the lines in his face, the liver spots fade and he looks almost ten years younger. Joseph thinks nothing of it, though is unsettled slightly by the ease of which Hiruzen ever smiles while tipping his hat to him, thanking him for the time. "I not keep you from your task, Colonel. I know you are a busy man, as am I. But I am heartened after speaking with you."
Joseph moves to offer his hand out, confused as to the reasoning behind this impromptu meet-and-greet, yet ascertaining it was as much. feeling out process for the old warhorse as it was for him. Hiruzen hakes Colton's hand with a firm, determined grip. As his father told him before, a man is judged by the quality of the company he keeps. "And I will be honored working with you in the future." He says, before leaving. The door opens to show Morelli and Clayton still at the doorway, pretending as if they weren't listening in.
And that sight hits Colton hard: ostensibly it was going to be young people, "kids", like these two who were going to be sent in to do the dirty work. And there were stacks more on his desk he needed sifting through. Colton had his excuses about qualities, temperament, or management, but he could never indulge being the one to send good quality off for flighty causes. Men like him and Hiruzen may be done waging battles, so it was going to fall on the shoulders of men and women like Jill and Clayton to finish them.
Lt. Colonel Joseph Colton had gotten used to the routine of military life: rinse, wash, and repeat; send the young off to do a job, hope to God for the best, and maybe get a medal. It's all become so commonplace he doesn't register it any longer. Not the wake-ups, the worse than average coffee, not the PT, or even the long walks with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. He knows Suzy always likes roses.
Transmission # 6-0-0-5. Designate: Operator
South of The Wall, Tokyo Metropolitan, Ginza Train Station
Aker makes contact
23:45 hrs; November 19, 1963
"There's nothing to worry about, you can trust me..."
Trust him he says, trust the man in the phone booth in the middle of an early morning, cold and bereft in a soulless black, the only light being form the row of street lights lining along the street from Ginza station. Graham had been freezing his nuts off for half hour before he could make the call, and even then it took five protocol beeps, two transmissions switches, and a turnaround wire to ensure he wasn't being listened to.
Once he knew the coast was clear, his mark decided to make the call. Their voice was muffled and airy, restrained with the modulator covering their tracks.
"Everything is pointing towards Saigon. Once that shit-show gets going, it'll be a lot easier to make the play." Aker's voice is calm, measured, only slightly fidgety in the cold. It drives his legs to fits, his pain meds long since wearing off. "No...Yes...If it's that conquering for you, then maybe you should've sent a more stable man."
The voice asks about his little buddy in the swamps and jungles in Vietnam, his ghostly shadow skulking about. The resistance has been making headways, and with the ARVN being driven into fits, the team sent in has been playing Aces. Time is no longer the issue; the media has been laying it thick withe very photoshoot, news story, and picture in the front page media. Burning huts, crying kids, monks shot dead in the street. This all couldn't be any more perfect, and with attention there...
"I know where she is, and a team is being arranged to extract. Once we got her in our hands, then we make the move. 'Tomorrow, together', am I right?"
The voice on the other end doesn't say much, and Aker doesn't like whoring himself out just so they could have peace of mind; a lot easier to hide your tracks with public telecommunications, than any other line. Even still, he had an important meeting in the south side of Tokyo. Tonight was one of the few times he could get into the city before he headed back stateside. Gato needed assurances for his continued cooperation, and Graham didn't like leaving volatile loose ends in his rearview.