Transmission # 6-0-0-5. Designate: Domino
North of The Wall, Tokyo Urban, Hidden Village: Konoha
Tracked asset observed for meeting with contact; furthering of diplomacy between North and South
05:45 hrs; November 9, 1963
As the first rays of dawn crept through the thin curtains of his modest apartment, Asuma Sarutobi stands before a cluttered mirror, cigarette in his mouth, and the weight of the world on his shoulders. Rarely does a day go by where the decisions he makes have consequences which affect all, and this one is no different. In fact, it may very well be the one that tips the proverbial domino ...
Does he go for the three piece glen check suit with the navy tie, or the single-breasted navy blue with matching fedora.
For this morning was not like any other; today he's got a hot date, and he needed to look the part.
He shuffled through the a small closet, doors barely hanging in their hinges, revealing an array of suits each telling a different story. As he examines his choices, he feels the pressure mounting; the right disguise could mean the difference between life and death. He needed to blend in, to become a ghost in the city, and yet stand out just enough to make the connection he desperately needed.
Fingers brush over a charcoal gray suit - tailored but worn, it screams professionalism of a businessman, someone who might belong in the corporate high-rises of South Tokyo. This would suit the backstory of a corporate trade, a plausible cover for a covert meeting in enemy territory. Yet, the fabric felt stifling, and could constrict him in the unpredictable urban jungle.
Next, he spotted a lighter, more casual ensemble: a beige linen suit that gave off an air of relaxed confidence. This could work for the laid-back artist or a wandering traveler, someone who could slip through the cracks of society unnoticed. But would it lend him the gravitas needed for a discussion with someone from the "right side"? The enemy he was tasked to engage?
Asuma sighed.
Off to the side of his leg he can feel the press of the cigarette pack. A few more drags from the one in his mouth, and quickly he douses it in an ashtray, only to pull another from the pack in his pocket. He lights, takes a puff, and lets go of a breath which threatened to choke him. Smoke curls like the shadows of Asuma's past, like the picture frames he keeps along the bureau, the nightstand, and alongside the mirror. Photos of a younger man proud in his military ensemble, happy and smiling awkwardly away from the camera.
Eventually, Asuma settles in a dark navy suit that struck balance between authority and approachability - a perfect guise for a diplomat caught in the fray of political intrigue. It was versatile enough to adapt to any narrative he might need to spin if caught. With a determined nod, Asuma dresses quickly, fastening his tie with a practiced hand.
And as he gazes at his reflection, a familiar resolve washes over him. Today, he would walk into the heat of the lion's den, dressed not as a jonin of Konoha, but as a man of the world, ready to navigate the treacherous waters of this 'Cold War'. Taking one last drag from his cigarette, he extinguishes it with purpose before stepping out to face whatever lay beyond The Wall.
Ginza station wasn't far from Konoha, nor did it pose a problem for Asuma getting clear of JSDF, US Army, and Wall checkpoints. They lined the mile-by-mile expanse seperating Tokyo Urban and Metropolitan centers, but pride swells within Asuma as he knows this land better than they ever could. Before the war his father took him and his brother hiking through these forests almost every weekend. Every trail, river, stream, alcove, glen and nook he could read like the back of his hand. Why he opted not to bring backup today despite Genma's protests.
Genma warned as Asuma was escorted from the village. "Your kids would be very upset if they found I let you outta here without anyone watching out for you."
"I'm a big boy, can take care of myself," Asuma says putting the fedora over his head. He doesn't see the small smirk on his second's face.
"Oh, I know you can handle yourself." Genma chides playfully. "It's her I don't think you can handle."
Why does everyone think he can't handle women? Asuma thinks. Was one time - ONE time - he goes into the Yamanaka flower shop for a bouquet of roses, and the next minute he's some sort of lothario around town. He had Ino to thank for that. Soon as she'd gotten her gossipy little mitts wrapped around it the rest was history.
The bell to the door of the Genki Pop jingles as steps out, fresh box of dango held in the crook of his arm. As he approached Ginza station, the atmosphere shifted as the district mingled with mix of early birds prepping for the day, and the stark military uniforms of JSDF personnel. With a practiced air, he approaches the first gate adopting the persona of one of the countless weary business travelers rushing to work. He flashes a polite smile, offering a slight nod to the guards, before handing over the ID and registration papers: Tozowa Junichi, age 31, bean counter for a merchant company in the south district. He projects an aura of normalcy as he's waved past, the guards seemingly preoccupied for anything and anyone else but him. Allowing Asuma to slip through and buy his ticket unchallenged.
Once he enters the platform, Asuma was enveloped by the cacophony of voices and rhythmic clatter of train wheels, a familiar and comforting reminder of Ginza's heartbeat. People ring about him, a sea of faces tired after a long week of work, yet thankful it was almost over. Monday promises becomes Friday possibilities as a young middle-class leave their homes to toil thanklessly in their capitalistic gulags. Asuma almost feels sorry for them as the train rumbles into the station. Stepping aboard, he chooses a spot near the door.
He surveys the carriage with a practiced eye, instincts kicking in whether or not there potential threats aboard or not. Common logic tells him "no, there shouldn't be", but he's been doing this too long, and too hard to go soft on the basics now. It was only when the train began pulling away, its tell-tale horn ringing out in the chilled November air, does he notice a curious looking boy seated a few rows away. No older than ten, with bright, inquisitive eyes that seemed to penetrate the layers of Asuma's carefully constructed disguise. Clutching a well-worn book with frayed pages, the boy was absorbed in his own world, blissfully unaware of all else.
All except for Asuma.
With a subtle glance, Asuma redirects his focus to the cityscape flashing outside the window, pretending he didn't notice the kid. A pang of nostalgia hits him, and he doesn't know why. Making him recall his own childhood filled with dreams of heroism and adventure, the stories his dad would drone on ceaselessly about. Those tales seemed so innocent compared to the complexities Asuma now faces. Where good and bad were easily defined, and no one doubted who the villains were. Aw, hell, enough of that, he thinks. He reminds himself to stay composed, embody the persona crafted; for it was the surest way he was going to make it out alive.
When the train enters into Tokyo Metropolitan east, Asuma loses sight of the boy in the thick press as people begin to exit. Outside the air permeates with a thick smell of morning breath, perfume, concrete and the tang of metallic rails as Asuma is jarred by the throng. Freshly brewed coffee from one of the kiosks in the corner, along with the buttery scent of pastries peppering the morning rush, gives a warm reprieve from the more jarring odors. Sharp scent of cigarettes as well hung heavy in the air, reminding of his own habitual indulgence and how bad he needed one right now. He bites the inside of his cheek, fighting the urge to fish one out and have a drag.
No, he'll wait till the meeting point; she didn't mind if he smoked anyways.
Stepping out from the confines of Tokyo Metro's station, he's hit instantly by the smell of newly turned asphalt and gasoline. Construction and restoration projects were an almost a daily occurrence here, factoring into the morning rush. He's lucky to spot a taxi as quick as he does, its illuminated lamp showing the kanji "空車" - "kuusha"- for empty. He hails it down, and gets in. Scent of worn leather and lemon air freshener apparent, as well as what the driver had for breakfast; a fried egg, scallions, rice and bacon.
The half eaten box in the passenger seat makes Asuma's stomach grumble at the memory of a warm meal, putting the small han-gou ration kit of bean paste and soy sauce he'd eaten earlier to shame.
"Where to, sir?" The driver asks, voice steady but lacking any distinctive quality.
He was a young man, Asuma notices, with soft features and a wholly unremarkable face. Pale, though. Very Pale. Milk white almost which was an odd thing for a Japanese person. It contrasts sharply with his jet black hair, and awkwardly polite smile. He delivers it like a high schooler going in for his first kiss, like a used car salesman trying to find common ground to get you off his lot with a brand new, shitty ride; like someone who's never once smiled before in his life.
Asuma chuckles before pushing thick-rimmed glasses up his nose.
"Kabukicho, please." Asuma replies, settling into his seat. He pulls out a dango stick from out of the box, and bites into a ball. "And if you don't mind, be quick about it."
"Of course, sir." Goes the almost robotic tone. Before the driver's even turned around fully to face the road, Asuma is jolted by the sudden shot of their car zooming into traffic like a bat out of hell.
Merging into the city's rhythm, the driver navigates the lively streets with a precise, confident air, blending seamlessly into the tapestry of Tokyo life. He knew every shortcut, every side street, effortlessly weaving in-and-out and around the looming towers of glass and steel. Tokyo Metropolitan's shining surface reflects the rays of a rising sun, causing the city to light up like a citrine stone aflame. It puts to shame the cheap, dimmed neon lights of Kabuchiko's once loud nightlife to shame.
"Here is fine," Asuma says. He's jerked hard in his seat when the taxi comes to a stop near the entrance of Tokyo's infamous red light district. Predictably, at this time everything and everyone is quite tame - a few girls still linger. Some men, too. All looking for a way home, or hoping to round out catching the sparse dregs still bopping around; Asuma can't fathom having the energy to..."go" so early in the morning. Maybe SHikamaru was rubbing off on him, but hell, some days getting out of bed felt like an achievement. Wouldn't surprise him, though, if she decided to stay up and put in some overtime; she was never one to let her job get in the way of a fun time.
"Is there anything else I can assist you with today, sir?"
Asuma is drawn back to the inhuman looking face of his driver. His eyes are closed, smile is wide, and seemingly brims with faux hospitality. Only when the sunlight hits through the windshield can Asuma see the skin isn't simply pale, but translucent. Polished to an odd sheen. Waxy, even. With blue and red veins running like wires under his neck and sides of his temples. Where his carotid is, a pulse appears faint and slow. His breathing, too, seems too measured, too precise. Almost set to a timer.
"No thank you," Opening the latch to his door, Asuma steps onto the street. Trash mills about neath his shoes, evidence this was a part of town unused to seeing much public works done around her.
Reaching into his back pocket for his wallet, Asuma prepares to hand the money over for the toll, till he's immediately stopped.
"Oh no, sir. Please, that isn't necessary today." Says the driver.
"No?" Asuma quirks an eyebrow, not entirely surprised.
"No," Again with the creepy smile - God, this kid needed more time with a coach to teach how it's done. "Today is on the house. Consider it a goodwill gesture."
Normally, he's not so intrigued. Business was never cut-and-dry as you like, and you couldn't let the weird nuances get to you. "Weird" was part of the routine. If anyone told otherwise then they were lying or an idiot. Point for being a ninja wasn't simply "expecting the unexpected"; it was about being unexpected while expecting everything else to go according to plan.
The only question here being, though, just who - or what- the hell this guy was.
He wasn't made in Japan - that much was certain. Asuma would've known about him if it was, because that was his job to know. A guy looking like this would've been bound to make waves.
"Gesture, huh? From who?" Asuma asks, studying the young man's features as his curiosity became more piled in the light of day. But just then, a familiar voice cuts his thoughts.
"From me." Anko Mitarashi chimed, tapping him on the shoulder and appearing behind him with her trademark mischievous grin. Exuding her usual confidence, she was dressed in her customary attire of fishnet stockings and black high heels. The large tan trench coat she wore was a new look, though. "Figured to ensure our little rendezvous remains completely confidential, outside help was needed. Don't worry, he's harmless."
Asuma reaches into the side pocket of his suit jacket, wrestling out the small pack of Doshi's stowed away there. "Harmless? Just who - or what - the hell is he?" He asks while the taxi cab driver still fixes him with the glazed over smile. Unbothered by the comment, the young man instead sits and waits patiently for further instruction. Bet he would wait there all day, too, if we didn't say otherwise.
Anko flashes the driver with a swift nod, before patting the roof of his car. "Okay, now, buh-bye. Go take your cute behind around the block and meet me at the end of the street, k? I shouldn't be long."
"Of course, Ms. Anko. Will be there waiting." Never changing expression, or even turning to face the road, the driver burns rubber as he presses hard on the gas. The taxi speeds offdown the street, nearly taking out a stop sign, before screeching down a right alley and turning out of sight. As Asuma lights up a cigarette, he half expected to hear the sound of an impending crash. Maybe a woman screaming, a cat screeching; sight of a metal rim rolling along the pavement. But miraculously, not a thing.
"Hell of a fine piece of work, ain't he? Got him on loan for the day. Awkward as sin, but oof, does he got a face I'd love to sit on... Are those dango for me? I'm starving." Anko snatches the box out of Asuma's hand, and rifles through it like a ravenous child. She plucks out two, and shoves one into her mouth. "Haven't eaten a thing since last night. You're a life savor. Shall we?" Anko gestures her head down the avenue, and Asuma assents.
Both walk side by side down the main artery feeding into Kabukicho, the morning light casting a soft glow on the empty street. As they strolled, neither of them let go of the parts they were playing: he was the shy, gawky looking business man, with the combed back hair, and somewhat unassuming demeanor; whereas she was the exotic, confident escort. At ease and knowledgeable of the now quiet, sleepy district.
As they passed a narrow alley, a few remaining prostituets leaning against the walls caught sight of Anko as they passed. Their eyes sparkled with recognition, and they greeted her with playful banter. "Morning, girl? Who's the fine man you've got today?" one called out, teasing smile on her chapped lips. Asuma blushed, the sudden attention catching him off guard, and he shoots Anko a sidelong glance. Half-embarrassed, half-amused, he goes, "I didn't sign up for this," as a slight chuckle escapes his lips.
Anko smirked, enjoying the moment. "Don't worry, babe. They know good company when they see it," she replied, her tone teasing but light-hearted, easing the gravity of serious topic which brought them together today.
"All right, so how much does the old man know?" Asuma asks, smoke escaping past his lips. "It needs to be understood we had nothing to do with this."
"So you say, but our intel tells a completely different story." Anko says, sound of her heels clacking hard against the concrete. "
"The intel you have is wrong: no order like that would've gotten approval from me. We're professionals, Anko, not a bunch of reckless mercenaries."
"Every guardsman sucking air through breathing tubes described a masked assassin able to walk up walls and breathe fire. Doesn't sound like some uppity ARVN officer looking to climb the ladder."
Asuma shakes his head and sighs before puffing out more smoke. "Just because someone has flashy abilities doesn't mean they're connected to us. Long range missions like that require planning, contacts, timing, and logistics. Which by the way, we don't have at the moment."
"Which makes it all the more reasonable for you guys to sell your talents to the highest bidder?"
"You really think we orchestrated this just to make a point?" Asuma grabs Ankle's elbow, gently turning her about to face him. "The landscape is delicate enough without throwing Konoha's name into the mix. We can't afford this kind of heat right now."
For a moment Anko measures Asuma with a serious look, dropping her usual playful demeanor while she stares a sharp knife at him; she might like to be touched, but only on her terms. Asuma was a decent enough guy, but even a leash went only so far. Besides, she had a reputation to keep; anyone else see that, and maybe word gets around she'd gotten soft. Which she certainly wasn't privy to. She crosses her arms, and leans against a graffitied wall. "And the red eyes? Can you tell who that sounds like."
Asuma pulls the cigarette from his mouth and grinds it into the ground. Shaking his head, he pulls out another. "You said the guy was wearing a mask, right?"
"At least a dozen eyewitnesses, including one who actually fought the assailant up close, all gave the same testimony. Red eyes, Asuma, and black irises. Whorls that can spin. Helluva coincidence, don't you think?"
The cigarette is burned to the nub in an instant as Asuma sucks it down. He'd seen the reports, heard the rumors, and made sure to keep everything under lock until he was able to corroborate what the other side thought. Honestly, he understood Anko's apprehension; the story made too much sense looking at it on a piece of paper. Even if the job seemed almost too "hammer and anvil" for something of their tastes, the results alone were undeniable.
Yet, still it didn't add up, because his facts say they simply couldn't.
"I've full knowledge of his whereabouts the time before and during when assassination took place. I can personally guarantee, and our logs will show, that during that timeframe he was with his captain all through that period."
"Kakashi being with him doesn't exactly help his case." Anko tells Asuma, who promptly throws up his hands in incredulity; if the one person who can actually vouch where Sasuke Uchiha was hurts, then what's the point telling the truth. Anko sees his reaction, and lets out an equally frustrated sigh. "Fine," she relents. "Can your logs state if Kakashi and Sasuke were in Konoha at the time?"
Asuma hesitates for a second. Taking a long huff of his cigarette, before shaking his head before throwing it away. "No, they weren't." he tells her.
"Then where were they?"
"I can't tell you that."
"Are you fucking kidding me, Asuma.." Anko fires back, clearly her turn now to be perturbed.
"They were conducting a mission privy to Konoha intelligence, Anko." He reiterates, knowing full well it'll do him no good. She presses further.
"What was the mission?"
"None of your business," Asuma tells her forcefully, fixing her with a stern look saying pressing further was pointless. "I understand fully the circumstances which brought us here, but I'm not going to divulge classified information on the goings-on of the village. We're still enemies, remember?"
"And that is why your dad's having a hard time convincing people Konoha and Sasuke Uchiha had nothing to do with this."
Defeated, Asuma shrugs again, killing for another smoke if he could. This divide between their respective sides was a long one to cross. Asuma spoke for himself and a few others whop believed this communication a necessary precaution in order to stabilize a precarious situation. But he knew - as did she - that this sentiment wasn't a universal precept most in Konoha subscribed to. Many in the Hidden Village saw the world as a black and white chess board, with clear, defined pieces and squares to move about. Yet, it was so much harder being the Hokage than anyone could imagine.
"I can't give away details that could compromise my comrades. It's the code, Anko - you know that as well as anyone. But if Konoha was involved, I wouldn't be here trying to reason with you. There are bigger threats out there than just the Uchiha name."
"Like what?" She asks as they continue walking down the empty lane.
Careful as he had to be, Asuma looks around just in case; you can never be so sure your ears were the only ones listening in. He offers Anko his arm for her to take, which she does, and he brings her in close. Leaning down to her ear, breath is warmed by tobacco and C-ration soy sauced rice balls, he relinquishes the only information he was willing to part with. Yet even the would see him in front of a tribunal if he wasn't careful.
Anko's eyes flash wide, and suddenly her demeanor changes entirely. She stops cold in her tracks, and Asuma doesn't say a word. He just looks at her with all the calm assuredness of his position. Sensitive information was a privilege, and as he gave it to her now, it was her responsibility to act accordingly with what he passed on. Since the start this Cold War, the Hidden Villages around the world operated under strict guidelines. Chaos was not their aim, but precision. Secrecy, anonymity, and plausible deniability were their greatest assets combating the ATLAS pact.
And a rogue operative threatened to upend that balance.
Asuma's expression lessens a bit, his unease dissipating as understanding passes between Anko and he. His counterpart takes in a deep breath, as she weighs what was told to her. Its obvious her thoughts are criss-crossing with new strategies, tactics, carefully prepped plans which are now adapting, changing, becoming something else. Yet no matter what those new thoughts might be, of all things Asuma needed to impress the most to her the most, was that they were in in this together. Together to navigate these murky waters of loyalty, duty, and the ever-present threat of deceit lurking in the shadows.
Suddenly, a taxi cab came to a screeching halt at teh end of the street, tires squealing against the curb. The door swings open, revealing yet again the pale-faced youth with the unbecoming smile. He waits for Anko, but before getting in, she turns to Asuma, her expression shifting from something businesslike to being a little more personal. "You know," she began, her voice steady but laced with sincerity, "it would be nice if you reached out to the old man every once in a while. He misses you, Asuma. Really."
Asuma hesitates as a spark of uncertainty crosses his face. He's not so sure about that, he tells her. Voice low, and a little more somber than he wanted it to sound. "But if he does want to talk, he knows where to find me."
Anko regards him, pale purple eyes searching for any sign of doubt or conflict. In that moment, silent acknowledgement of their shared history and the strained ties between them are made clear; they were both operatives bound by duty, yet still tied to their pasts. Asuma can't escape his, as much as she hers. In that at least there's some common ground, enough for maybe an understanding to come later on.
"We all have to make sacrifices, Asuma, but it doesn't take a lot to bridge the gap."
With a final glance she steps into the taxi, and the young man gives Asuma a perfunctory glance. The door slams and the engine revs. But before it prepares to pull away Anko sticks her head out the window, smile a mix of mischief and camaraderie.
"And, hey, yo! WeIf it means anything, I'd rather have you by my enemy, than anyone else a friend. Dig?" She calls before the taxi sped off into the heart of Tokyo, where -hopefully- she'll tell his father what he just told her.
Asuma stands there for a moment longer, the reality of their conversation settling in. He took a deep breath free of nicotine and it bothers him; he never could get used to morning air filling his lungs as he contemplates the fragile state of their world. With a heavy heart and another cigarette in his mouth, he turns back toward the streets of Kabukicho, knowing the path ahead is going to require more than just vigilance.
It was was going to take understanding, and perhaps, one day, reconciliation.
Transmission # 6-0-0-5. Designate: Domino
South of The Wall, Tokyo Metropolitan; Teien House, Official Residence of ROJ Prime Minister
Formal meeting to discuss Saigon intervention - infiltration successful.
21:30 hrs; November 9, 1963
The man feels out of place sitting off to the side of this well-maintained, overly pristine meeting room, meant for "better" men than he. He crosses his arms, fidgets his legs, and readjusts his seat while he nervously counts the number of ornamented tiles of this New-Baroque floor; he got up to two-hundred and ninety-three before giving up. "Fish out of water" didn't describe half of how he was feeling; more like a fish in a barrel, and someone holding a 12 gauge over his head. He gnaws on his bottom lip, a nervous tic he's had since Tarawa, and kept all the way up to Okinawa.
But he can't help it.
Lt. General Joseph Colton always felt uneasy whenever the topic of "war" was brought about.
"We cannot assume the only measured action available is military intervention. As I must reiterate once again, gentlemen, my government's position is of strict neutrality per Article 9 of our Constitution." Prime Minister Ikkyu reiterates. A genial man, a good man, a bit of a waif, however. He sits primly with his jasmine tea in front, and backdrop of the lighted Teien gardens behind.
"With all due respect to you and your government, Mr. Ikkyu: that's not your constitution. It's ours." Responds the US secretary of defense.
Robert McNamara's tone fits him to a "t"; matter-of-fact and by the book, with all the smugness of someone possessing a degree from Harvard Business School, and with the know-how to spin numbers in his favor. Colton didn't doubt the man's intelligence - Robert was a whiz kid who'd cut his teeth pouring over flight schedules and fueling records of all B-29 bombers in Southeast Asia in WW2. But numbers on paper don't always tell the whole story, and Ikkyu Madoka was not stupid.
"Then it is my Emperor's understanding to interpret 'your' words to their fullest definition." Madoka says back, undaunted and undeterred by his objective here.
More than I can say for the rest of these guys here, Colton looks down at his watch for what may be the fourth or fifth time. Three hours. Three hours they've deliberated without any breakthrough as to how to proceed further.
On one corner of the round table, the white haired gentleman with the stalwart build and filled out gray suit, Robert Menzies of Australia, played a precarious game. On one hand he was cozying to US interests now that Her Majesty's kingdom no longer resided in the British Isles, while at the same time minding the wishes of center-right Canberra; the Labor parties have been gaining ground, you see, with a majority of pro-liberal and communist speakers winning chairs. "If something is to be done, then it needs be done now. If not, I can't guarantee how much help I'll be come elections." He'd reiterated multiple times throughout the meeting, emboldening McNamara to press further for the group to have consensus regarding South Vietnam's tentative future.
"And it won't just be Vietnam. If Saigon falls, who's to say the Pathet Lao won't take over in Laos, or the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia. We might be seeing a wholesale wave of communist revolution take place over the majority of Indochina. I needn't tell you of the repercussions or cost in human life incurred if we drag our feet on this." McNamara states, trying to double down on the "morality of the mission" so to speak.
I this regard, he wasn't wrong. How many Whites were killed by the Bolsheviks after the Romanov's were torn apart and shot by the mob? How many casualties in Korea when the Soviet backed Kim family took charge? Hell, and in China they were still counting the bodies - one, for the civil war, and two, from the Great Leap Forward which saw hundreds of thousands starve to death through a man-made famine. These realities were known to all, but none more so than Chiang Kai-shek's frail, but stately Vice President Chen Cheng.
"We have been in contact Field Marshal Thanom, and he tells us the crisis in Vietnam is being watched by the King with great interest. We can expect Thailand's support if we are to act. However," Chen's voice is so hushed it's almost impossible to hear him fully. However, he speaks measuredly, and with intent as he also urges caution. "Our actions must not be misinterpreted; what is transpiring in Vietnam has as much to do with that country's volatile history of colonization and occupation. If we go, are we helping the people of South Vietnam or Charles de Gaulle?"
"Ohhh, I doubt very much Charlie would like to hear that." Menzies chimes as he takes a sip of his tea. "Still very disagreeable with the whole notion he needed help from Italians to win back his country."
Madoka sits and he nods his head, hands folding over so as to rest his chin upon them. "Which is another point we'd like to broach considering the gravity of what is being proposed. It's well-known Indochina is as much a proxy war between National French interests and the Syndicalist government of the Vichy regime. Both have jockeyed for control over former colonies since 1945. But if a coalition forms, will that not usher an equal response from the Fourth International?"
That's been the million-dollar question so far which has kept the world spiraling into world war three. Colton sat through a number of think-tanks since being stationed in Japan, read hours of studies and documents regarding 'tipping points", "x-factors", and "Doomsday what-ifs." Closest they came was Cuba in '61. Fortunately, common sense in the end won out. But how long can mankind keep teetering on the edge before God says he's had enough.
Oh, by any stretch, Joseph Colton wasn't a pacifist; he'd kill to ensure those syndie "labor" camps in France and Algeria, or the Soviet gulags in Siberia, never reach American soil. But in his mind there was a big difference protecting American interests on mountains and molehills, and Vietnam - as a whole - was definitely a molehill.
Robert didn't see it that way, though.
"Mr. Prime Minister, it is under my assessment, and of Major General Abernathy here, too-" It was the first time McNamara made note of George this entire time. The stern, squat faced man sitting next to him had a scowl on his face, and breathed heavy through his nose. An old war-horse, the two-star general didn't appreciate being Robert's arm candy through these talks.
"No major International response is expected if force is committed. The Syndicalist union is too preoccupied fighting in Africa to pivot suddenly to Asia. On top of that, Kruschev's stance in Moscow has taken a hit. After Havana he no longer has the stomach, or the pull, for intervention on Hanoi's behalf. Estimates might be Soviet aid could measure to no more than... $350 million dollars of aid? Annually? And that's only in equipment, money, material; but boots on the ground is a dubious assumption."
"And China? Korea? It's not so much bears we worry for in this part of the world, Mr. Secretary. If you catch my drift?"
McNamara laughs awkwardly, bobbing his head up and down like some duck pecking at the ground. "Oh! Oh, I do, sir. Yes...very good! But, uuuhhhh...It is my assessment that, uh, China -and in so Korea, too- will also be reluctant to act in a major combat way. Sino-Soviet relations has seen a large rift open between two major players. Could present us with an opportunity to force a wedge in and strike while there's dissension in the ranks. If we can save South Vietnam from capitulation, Mr. Prime Minister, it'll be a massive win for the ATLAS Pact. Prevention there could very well be the decisive action to have the domino fall the other way this time."
He can't actually believe what he's saying can he? Jesus Christ, George!?
As if on queue, the old general stirs like a slumbering giant with a snort.
"Or it can be the thing that turns this whole problem tits up." All eyes look to George, including the Defense Secretary's who looks like he'd just seen someone take a dump in his oatmeal.
For a moment, Joseph breathes a sigh of relief.
"Our assessment of a response from the Fourth International is as stated: division is apparent, and it might -Might- hamper a concentrated effort for Hanoi's war effort. Now military actions are on the table if it comes to that, but before we commit to such actions, first we need to consider EVERY factor presented to us." George holds McNamara with a pointed stare, before rounding on every one else.
"Let's for a moment consider what awaits us in Saigon. A demoralized allied force unfit after years focusing on a global civil war. A highly motivated enemy, with knowledge of the local terrain, whose tactics have been honed after twenty years fighting in jungles, mountains, and deltas on home turf. A sham of a government, built on the corpse of an unpopular president, which can barely exert control beyond the confines of its own capital. Not to mention any large gathering of troops will be perceived as a threat. Moscow and Beijing may find common cause if we overextend our assumptions."
"These are not assumptions, General, these are fac-"
"Gentlemen, the core of Army doctrine lies in the ability to advance towards a clear-cut, main objective. In South Vietnam I do not see an objective. What I see is a land torn-apart by warlords, incompetence, and deep-rooted cultural division. No army today is equipped to handle such an undertaking. The Vietnamese recognize the ineptitude of their own political leaders. However, they have not asked for us to be there, but the generals who conducted the coup in the first place. We will ostensibly be seen as nothing more than assets to keep those men in power, and it could galvanize a large part of the population more towards the Viet Cong or NVA."
"Are you telling us, George, there's no winning this fight?" Menzies asks, brow heavy with determination, but also doubt now.
"I'm saying it's a shitty situation, Robert. And I don't believe for one second it's worth any of my, or your, countrymen's lives."
After that the old general goes silent, the breadth of his words sucking the air out of the room. George goes back to looking down at weathered hands folded in front of him, face an unreadable scowl. Joseph bites his bottom lip hard, but at least now he's grateful someone spoke some sense here. McNamara would've loved to tout his numbers, notes and factoids. Three-hundred and thirty thousand US personnel in Japan alone. Five motorized rifle units, two tank divisions, the 501st Combat Regiment with chopper support, a military intelligence brigade, the 11th Airborne; fifty M102 howitzers, twenty-seven L5 pack howitzers, a dozen of the mobile M55's, a shit-ton of mortars, and a bird in the fucking bush. Not to mention enough air power to bomb a whole country back into the Stone Age if they wanted, and with a pack of Seabees to build whatever else on top.
Logistics was never the issue; McNamara had all he needed to wage a war without fully waking the beast. But what he wanted - needed - was a united coalition. A joint, multinational force. To move up and down the Pacific to meet such crises in turn. Was an easier sell for the pundits back home. Plus, it gave President Kennedy the ability to say it won't just be American lives at stake defending freedom of the South Vietnamese. Or avenging Ngo Dinh Diem, whom no one gave a shit about.
Or even William Colby, for that matter.
But someone did.
Out from a darkened corner in the tea room, behind where McNamara and General Abernathy sit, a shadow stirs. Colton had kept a bead on him since the talks began. Apparently, he'd landed yesterday at Okinawa in the early morning. Joseph hadn't a clue where the hell he'd been before this, spooks always came and went as they pleased. This one particularly had a troubling knack showing up exactly when he wanted to make a point.
"General Abernathy is absolutely correct," The man says, all blonde hair and dark Aviators; flip flops, loose white khaki pants, a Hawaiian shirt with oranges and flamingos on there. He looked better suited serving drinks in Maui than running around on the CIA's dime. "For what it's amounting to be, South Vietnam is looking like a no-win situation."
"Graham?" Robert McNamara looks surprised when he turns his head, and if not a little hurt; Graham Aker was supposed to be the man meant to smooth along talks by presenting favorable news. "I was under the impression you and I were of the belief Vietnam's problems were tenuous, but manageable. Your reports-"
"Were only the tip of the spear, sir. There's more there than meets the eye, but yes..." From under his arm Graham pulls out a number of manilla folders, thick and heavy with pages of reporting and calculations from his surveillance on the ground. With a noticeable limp, he hobbles around the table and plops a folder in front of each man seated. Lastly, he even offers one to Joseph.
"I do believe we have the means to facilitate change there. Progressive change. That can plug the gap of a potential Red wave from fermenting itself in the east. If that happens, Mr. Secretary McNamara is correct in the belief the toppling of numerous governments will only sew more chaos and disunity, which will disrupt a whole region of the world, and of which whose reverberating waves cannot be quantified."
"Again," Ikkyu Madoka interrupts, reading through Graham's filing with a pair of glasses he's pulled from his breast pocket. "All based off hypothesis and supposition. All the more reason the Republic of Japan does not wish to intercede. I second what Major General Abernathy has said."
"It says here you were in Saigon the night of the assassination?" Cheng inquires as he sifts through the papers.
"I was," Graham's easy smile fades like a candle being snuffed out. "And I can tell you first hand, the speculation we've all been hearing doesn't even come close to the truth. Diem's killer was no mere hired gun." Graham looks into the lone folder he's kept for himself, before pulling out a file he presents on the table. Joseph gets up to take look for himself. It's a photo. It's blurry, but in the midst of the riots outside the Presidential Palace, Colton can make out a hooded figure.
"That our man?" Menzies asks, leaning over for a better look.
"My first and last look before I lost him in the crowd. And needless to say, we all know where he went afterwards..." Graham throws down another piece of paper, causing a gasp to be heard from Ikkyu's pretty assistant standing over his shoulder. She wasn't the only one, as Menzies stands up, and Cheng backs into his seat. McNamara stares numbly, along with Madoka who brings a hand to cover his mouth.
Only Joseph, Graham, and Abernathy don't shirk away. These men had seen enough in their line of work, where - it's unfortunate to say - sights like these you become immune to. Part of the occupation to have a strong enough stomach, but the look of what used to be the Diem brothers and Colby...
"You were tracking him?" Colton looks up to ask Graham.
"Part of my mission was, yes." Graham nods. Colton doesn't ask what the other part was, knowing that was too far above his pay-grade to know.
"Who is he?" Abernathy asks pointedly, more confident knowing if he has an enemy to defend against, the better to prepare.
"The identity is unknown, but from all my data gathering, I've ascertained potentially an origin point: Konoha." Graham looks over to Madoka, who isn't surprised. He'd been briefed along with mot others of his cabinet, and the Emperor's security was more than doubled after finding out such speculation. Danzo heading to Sapporo was as much to find out if these rumors were true, and not rumor.
"Again are these facts, or simply your beliefs?" Ikkyu is fighting as much as he can, but Colton knows he's getting himself into a corner; you don't follow bear tracks and assume you're not going to find one. Konoha - the "ninja" village across the border, was always a target if things went haywire. It was only because the Emperor deemed the site a cultural heritage spot, that there was only so much he or George could do in response to raiding and whatnot.
"I don't need to rely on facts, Mr, Prime Minister, your face says it all. Along with my knowledge that Danzo Shimura has gone off on a goodwill mission to Sapporo. To lighten the load of our sanctions and embargoes, right? Offer up more avenues of trade? Don't get me wrong, it's not illegal for you to barter with a neighbor. But do you really think we in the United States government want our goods to end up in a nation we deem a terrorist state? Ask yourself the impact that'll have on our relationship going forward."
Ikkyu measures Graham with with the look of a man playing poker; Colton knew the Prime Minister to be a shrewd businessman, but as stated before, he was too much of a gentleman to ever debase himself -or his emperor- on a pissing contest of poker faces. It hadn't been unknown the trade sanctions hit The Democratic People's Republic of Japan hard, and more deliberation were being conducted. Which was fine - it was in there right to open. dialogue if they wanted. Yet, because Madoka was a good at business, he knew the pressure point here was America's unbridled trade with the South, which helped pivot the economy so handily after 1946.
Graham Aker knew this, too.
"Relax, Mr. Ikkyu; I'm not here to cause a problem, but offer solutions. For all of us," Graham limps about the table expressing his thoughts like a snake oil salesman. He's good, Colton never thought he didn't get to where he was iewhtout having a gift to schmooze. Hell, even had him believing a bit as Graham mapped out the idea.
"A large, heavy-handed military expedition will be far too cumbersome for any one to manage by themselves. And the terrain of Vietnam is far too stifling for any such presence to have absolute maneuverability and awareness. So what I propose is a small, highly trained task force dedicated to counter-insurgency operations in Vietnam. To assist and aid and better counteract aggressive actions of this such character-" Graham knocks the photo of the assassin. "-in the future."
Robert Menzies is nodding his head. "A smaller force may attract less attention from China or Moscow. But how do you ensure this task force can operate effectively without overwhelming support. My government is concerned about the perception of Australia being dragged into a quagmire."
"That's precisely the strength of the plan, Mr. Menzies. Keeping our presence limited, we avoid a backlash associated with a full-scale invasion. The task force would operate in a supportive role, assisting and advising local troops rather than taking the lead in combat. We'd focus on intelligence gathering , strategic strikes, and training. This way, we can disrupt Viet Cong operations without drawing attention to ourselves." Graham loos over to George as he says this, assuaging the general's concerns overall for a full military press. Colton is wary, but he can see George not looking unopposed.
"And what about the resources?" Chen Cheng says stroking his chin. " If we're to assist the South Vietnamese, they'll need material support. How does your plan address that?"
"We can source supplies from allies discreetly. Thailand for example, and the Philippines. We could set up an Air Bridge to drop in care packages when we need at any time. More importantly, it'll control the influx of what the ARVN can get their hands on. I know about the concern for the generals - we needn't gift tanks and jeeps just because they whine about it. We will appropriate what goes where, on our call."
"This approach..." Ikkyu Madoka looks contemplative, as he looks through more of the filings in Graham's work. "Would allow for my country to maintain commitment to our constitution. However, talks with Sapporo take precedence. First and foremost we are looking at the protection of our home islands, sir, and maintaining peace. We wish not to risk squander whatever progress we make on martial adventurism."
"And that is where precision comes in, Prime Minister." Graham's smile makes him look like the wolf who's about to blow the three little pigs house down. The wheels are turning in his head, and Colton is trying to figure what he intends to say next. "My impression is that you want a better report with Sapporo and that's fine - America won't stand in the way of such talks. In fact, we can leverage that to our advantage. If the North wishes for the embargoes to be lifted, then instead of talking, I say a partnership be broached. Talk with Shimura when you can, but tell him the South has a ...'need' for contractors. Payment being greater access to Tokyo Harbor, maybe?"
The leaders exchange glances as Aker's words strike a chord. There's a mix of apprehension and determination visible as they consider the implications. Robert McNamara is smiling from ear to ear, though: Graham was selling this perfectly. It consolidated many of the worries broached at the table, and his expression turned as he sensed the possibility for compromise. But Colton's eye widened. Ninja? Annoyance coursed through him. Are we seriously considering this?, he thought, feeling the gravity in the room shift, humming with newfound energy.
Madoka was the only one who could put a kibosh on it all if he wanted, but his careful demeanor relents. "Sapporo...could very well be convinced to this. Sending our own noncombatants, as a combined effort, might form a pretty good team."
"And you wouldn't be breaking neutrality, technically, Mr. Prime Minister." McNamara added, but Madoka didn't need his input. Joseph could see the decision being made in his head, as he calls over his assistant with the short hair. She leans over and he whispers something in her ear, before she quickly leaves the tea room.
As the discussion continues, Graham Aker speaks clearly and fluidly. The military junta backed by the generals will be a problem, but Graham had an answer for that. This joint task force comprised of operators from different backgrounds, parts of the world, hell, also being enemies at one point; how were they going to work together? No problem, according to Graham. Specialist training shouldn't be an issue, with integration being learned in the field if necessary. "The objective is the priority, and the priority is victory. That should be motivation enough."
Should be enough, he says. But what the hell does "objective is the priority" mean, if "victory" is the objective? The shit does victory look like there? Stabilizing the country? Beating back the commies? Killing enough VC to fill the pyramids of Giza?
Colton sat back, torn between skepticism and a small bit of anger: he'd known Graham Aker for a bit, but never quite trusted him. Probably had to do with the fact he never took off his sunglasses, even if it was the dead of night. The few times they'd drank together, Graham joked it was to protect his identity. "Never know who could be watching." Fuck, if a guy had to worry about who he was everywhere he went, than he must not be well-liked.
McNamara liked him because Graham said everything he wanted to hear. Unlike the military brass, who constantly poo-pooed every ornate, detail specific plan he threw their way. Without ever considering plans never survived first contact, nor should they; adaptability and thinking on your feet, was as good of an asset than a well-calculated thought process.
But even so, Colton kept his mouth shut. All through the remainder of the talks, till they were led through well preserved gardens of the meeting house, to where he and the general were both escorted into their MP jeeps. George talked only a little on the drive back to base, and actually agreed with what Graham had to say. "A small unit of elites may just be the thing to help avoid a shit-show in Saigon." He tells him, but Joseph had his doubts.
"Graham is asking for us to work with people who've had a slew of different training than what our boys are used to. Aussies and Taiwanese and, what, ninja from over The Wall? You've gotta be kidding me, George. This is damn joke if I've ever seen one." He says, but George gives a small chuckle and slight nod.
"I know," he goes, unbothered by the heavy bumps their jeep encounters. "When I was informed of this, I had a lot of doubts. But, Joseph, believe me: for what's coming there's no other alternative. This is the best we can do."
Joseph's antennae were piqued, but pressing George didn't get him anywhere. More and more it felt like he was left in the dark, where George and Graham and maybe even McNamara worked in tandem to see this whole thing come to play. Was this all their intent in the first place? These talks, these disagreements? It couldn't have all been a giant ploy? And if it was, for what even for?
"I can only relay to you what has been relayed to me." George says, making sure to keep his voice hushed so as their driver wouldn't hear. Joseph leans in close, as George whispers. "This task force could change the way the United States is gonna wage this Cold War. Proxy conflicts are becoming the way of the future now that no nuclear power wants to step into the ring. And that's good. This team, then, will be designed to be point of attack when conventional means will be too inflammatory."
"Team? What kind of team is able to do that?" To him, this wasn't the way Joseph Colton was trained to conduct war. Head-on, and fighting side by side was where he broke his teeth. Drilling in the yards at a march-step, to go along with field encounters and battalion maneuvering. All under enforced artillery cover. What's being proposed doesn't even sound like real life. "What do we even call this?"
Abernathy leans back in the seat. "Jury's still out on a formal name, but so far what's being posed is: The General Issue Japanese Oceania Expedition.. Guarantee the only reason Robert was so gung-ho trying to get Madoka to budge was so that they could keep 'Japanese' in the name."
"Sounds like a mouthful." Joseph says skeptically, unbelieving and still biting on his bottom lip.
George tuts him down, though.
"Yo, Joe, take it easy. As of right now this is all just planning. A lot more needs get into this, but for now relax. We'll brief the rest of the staff in the morning."