Five: Optics

    I could feel the rhythmic click-clacking of tracks beneath our feet begin to slow as our train cost into an environment far from the station we’d left behind. A soft wind blew through the tunnel of cherry blossom trees that arched over the tracks. We were treated to a shower of gentle pink and white petals. Harsh rays of early morning sunlight further obscured our view. Judging by the orientation of the sun, we’d arrived in neither the same physical space nor time since we’d departed hours ago.

    It was dawn. A new day in another world.

    Of the six strangers, five peered out in wonder through the eastward-facing windows of the train car as it continued to glide to a gentle stop. Master Sergeant Cross was not as captivated as the rest of us. We all turned toward him and the harsh repeating thuds of his body against wood in an ill attempt to break down the westward interior cabin door.

“Don’t just stand there all slack-jawed, we’re about to be ambushed like fish in a barrel!” MSG Cross shouted. Only LTC Buckner flinched and considered escape along with Cross. Only a flinch. After a breath, the lithe black man relaxed his posture and turned his attention back to the east windows. Cross’ face dropped, “Are you all out of your damn minds?”

Hellen Yao cleared her throat, “No. Some of us are of sound mind, while others are less so. We call it, ‘Fire Discipline.”

Cross dug his heels in, “Is that a dig at the Guards--” He shut himself up as Hellen turned to face him. His eyes glanced down to the two golden daggers behind the sun pins, then to the dual silver bars. Cross grit his teeth and against his better judgment opened his mouth, “I thought y'all in army intelligence were an oxymoron.”

“And I thought National Guardsmen were supposed to stay at home, barefoot in the kitchen where they belong,” Captain Yao stared him down, but before either came to blows the train stopped.

At the time, we were all expecting an engagement of some kind. Across all of our different fields, martial training, and branches of the armed services were trained to anticipate hostile enemy action and respond appropriately. Out of the thirty soldiers that traveled into the tunnel, only the seven of us remained. We too were soldiers, airmen, sailors, and officers. Being trapped in a small box, shipped into the heart of enemy territory, I couldn’t help but think back to the landing craft used to storm the beaches in Okinawa and Normandie. Men slaughtered before their feet even touched dry land.

If this were to be our fate, I was not content to die looking for a rear exit.

I would meet my end head-on.

With a hiss, the sliding doors slowly opened. The same recorded voice played after a cheerful ding, “[Welcome to Hirawa Prefecture, please ensure that you have all your belongings before departure of the railcar. His eminence Shogun Hirawa thanks you for using the Jade Rail Line.]”

We stood in the open doors expecting death.

Instead, in the middle of a raised wooden platform flanked by polished and pristine bright red fencing stood a single man of Asian descent. He wore traditional black wooden Geta footwear. His brilliant silk robe was a bright peach, ordained in deep green and black accents. His long braided silver beard matched the color of his thin spectacles.

The man raised one hand up and offered a slight bow, “[On behalf of his eminence, Shogun Hirawa, we welcome you to his prefecture. I am Magistrate Masta Killa of the Shaolin, voice and right hand of the Shogun--]”

Benjamin Cross pushes past our ranks and rushed forward onto the platform.

The elderly Magistrate did not move.

Quickly closing the gap between the train car and where the Magistrate stood, the soldier barked out, “On behalf of the United States of America and her armed forces, you are to release the soldiers that you’ve abduc-- ACK!” 

Faster than could be perceived by our naked eyes, the elderly magistrate had reached out with one hand for the Master Sergeant’s throat. The six of us watched in stunned silence as the Magistrate in his formal robe brought the formidable soldier twice his size gently down to his knees. MSG Cross repeatedly landed blows upon the Magistrate’s arm with both fists to release the old man's grip to no avail.

In Mandarin, Agent Jin emplored the Magistrate, “[With considerable forgiveness, that soldier does not speak on our behalf or that of the United States Government. Please release him and we shall see that he is punished accordingly for his insolence.]”

The Magistrate’s expression did not and had not changed from the serenity his greeting began with; “[I assure you, no harm shall befall your companion. Nor should you concern yourself with any harm that may be directed toward me.]” Masta Killa released his grip and the Master Sergeant remained face down on the deck gasping for air. Straightening out his robes, the Magistrate continued, “[I’ve been charged to answer your questions and reunite you with your soldiers. If you’d kindly follow me, we offer you lodgings and gifts for your stay.]”

We remained in the train car, surveying the scene upon the deck in suspicion, waiting for the hammer to fall.

“He looks awfully calm for one man against seven,” Mr. Cooper said quietly under his breath.

With a subtle gesture, LTC Buckner directed the OSS Agent to the tree line just beyond the station platform, “That’s because he’s covered by snipers, there and there. Archers from that distance? Wouldn’t even hear the twang of the bow before you had an arrow in your throat.”

I consider our options and our mission objectives before adding my peace; “We need to secure our soldiers. If they wanted us dead, Lieutenant Colonel, they could have taken their shot before the doors opened, correct?”

The soldier nodded slowly, "Agreed. So, what's our play?"

Gill Hershey drew a breath and took a single step forward onto the deck. He waited a moment, stiff with anticipation, and dread. He waited for the arrows to fly, but after a tense handful of seconds passed, the statesman spoke in eloquent Japanese, “[Gill Hershey, US State Department.] He bowed his head slightly, returning the same regard given by the Magistrate, "[On behalf of our government, we thank you for your hospitality and would like to negotiate the release of hostages into our custody.]”

The magistrate offered a subtle smile. In English, he replied, “Clarification: Statesman Hershey, your soldiers, and yourselves for that matter, are not hostages. You are guests here for the duration of your stay.”

“Then you will release the National Guardsmen back into our custody,” Mr. Hershey kept his tone even. Not a demand. Not a threat. In the same deliberate manner that Cronkite would come to deliver the nightly news, Hershey's tone evoked the perception of what was spoken was simply the way it was.

The Magistrate gave a humble nod, “As I have stated, they are not prisoners and will of course be released into your custody.” He raised the palm of his hand up and with a sweeping gesture directed our attention to a two-story building to our immediate right, “First, however, it is customary to present our guests with welcoming gifts and provide you with your accommodations before a formal exchange of information.”

In a hushed tone, Agent Lynn addressed the team of specialists that remained in the railcar, but specifically to Hershey, “Would it be too much to reveal our time constraint?”

The Statesman shook his head and spoke up, “Our deepest apologies, Magistrate, those who we represent have given us a strict time limit by which to recover our soldiers. I’m afraid, in the interest of keeping the peace and exchanging information, our men must first be delivered back…” Hershey paused, considering the oddity of exactly where they were; “Back on American Soil.”

Nodding, the Magistrate appeared to capitulate, “If peace will be ensured, we will make arrangements at once, certainly.” Raising his left-hand palm up, even with his chest, Masta Killa held what appeared to be a smooth black stone. Oddly, the stone lit up, and the Magistrate ordered in Mandarin, “[Please send for our distinguished guests and have them delivered to the station at once.]”

Turning his attention back to us, the Magistrate replied in English, “We shall deliver your soldiers back to their countrymen at once. If you will accompany me, we would very much enjoy showing you ours. This way, please…”

---

    At first glance, all seven of us were escorted only by the Magistrate. The Elderly man walked at a leisurely pace toward the strange two-story building to the left of the station. In reality, as pointed out discreetly by LTC Buckner, dozens of bowmen stood obscured among the trees. Their presence was felt without them being seen. All of us were intimately aware of their skills, their accuracy, and the corpses they’d left behind on American Soil.

    Presently unaware of by what means, we seven were decidedly no longer on American Soil.

    Everything from the foliage to the ground we walked upon was decidedly foreign and ancient; as if stepping through a history book into the height of the Edo Period. Once the initial tension was lessened from an ambush or unprovoked attack, we gathered our barrings beyond the station platform.

    Capturing our immediate attention directly across from the main courtyard beyond the station was the largest camphor tree I’d ever seen. In fact, it was not merely a singular tree but a collection of dozens all growing together, competing for the verticality that towered by my estimate close to seventy meters tall. I’d only seen sequoia that big when I’d traveled to Redwood National Forest as a boy. This collection of trees easily rivaled those giants in height and far surpassed them in girth.

    The trees in question however were walled off by an ornate stone barrier some nine feet high. A moat of flowing water also circled along the exterior of the wall beyond our immediate perception. There was an entrance through the garden wall however that beckoned us to explore beyond the bright red Tori Gate and wooden footbridge that spanned the flowing river.

We however were led away from the ominously empty courtyard and what appeared to be a tavern to our right. Worth mentioning was another bizarre structure that stood directly in the center of the stone-cut courtyard. Standing about nine feet high, covered in sigils that would periodically glow, shift, and fade across its face was a series of interlocking stone cylinders. At least, it would appear as if the cylinders would interlock. Seven smooth shale black stone constructs of various sizes floated atop one another. Not touching, not held by any perceivable means, just floating.

I made a mental note to return to this truly alien construct. The glowing, fading, neon blue sigils fell down the smooth shale like droplets of water in a hypnotic affect. Sadly there was no time to investigate further.

    Having stepped up for the initial confrontation, we’d collectively let Mr. Hershey take the lead, for now. I walked alongside him accompanied by CPT Yao and Agent Lynn. Considering that the Magistrate leading us spoke multiple languages, it was best we have as many ears on our opponent along with eyes.

    On the other end of the spectrum, still mending his pride, MSG Cross took up the rear. LTC Buckley accompanied him. Between the two, both soldiers focused on the potential for immediate enemy hostilities. Clearly, LTC Buckley was more restrained and calculating than the Master Sergeant.

    As we approached a two-story building, several aspects of its design became immediately apparent. First, it was built recently. Second, it was constructed with a modern style I’d not seen before. Its frame was aesthetically Japanese; but instead of a wood exterior, its walls were thick glass sheets. The large sliding front doors remained open, also made of glass. Faux bamboo piping divided the floor-to-ceiling exterior glass walls. Only the roof remained traditionally angled, tiled with jade shingles. The message relayed through the architecture alone was unmistakable: ‘Transparency’.

    With a subtle bow, the Magistrate Masta Killa addressed us at the steps of the two-story glass box building; “This is our office of immigration and foreign affairs. We invite you to receive your gifts and proper documentation for the duration of your stay inside.”

    Mr. Hershey looked back at us before answering, “What may I ask is our expected duration of stay?”

    Before the magistrate could answer, MSG Cross spoke up in a rather hoarse voice, “I think you’ve got that all backward,” he coughed under the strain, “You’re the ones that--”

    LTC Buckner whispered something to Cross.

    The Master Sergeant considered, then slowly closed his mouth into a scowl.

    With a small smile, lips still pressed tightly together the Magistrate replied to Hershey’s initial question, “You will be assessed within for what length of stay you’re eligible for. The standard length of stay is two days. Others have remained longer. Some, for shorter. It depends upon your assessment.”

    “Others?” Agent Cooper asked attempting to hide his shock.

    The Magistrate simply held up a hand in acknowledgment, “Your forgiveness, please. The time for answering all your questions will come after you’ve received proper documentation. If you please…” His right hand again gestured openly toward the sliding doors.

    LTC Buckley spoke up from the rear, “Magistrate, if there is no objection, we would prefer to be processed individually with the majority of our… Group, remaining here at the entrance.” It wasn’t a question. There was a not-so-subtle edge to the request that carefully veiled his threat. Unlike the Master Sergeant’s bullish approach, Lieutenant Colonel’s tactics to control the battlefield were more effective.

A pause as the elderly Magistrate studied LTC Buckley, but neither’s stone face gave anything away; “There is no objection. The first among you may proceed while your group remains here.”

Hershey turned once more to the group, silently asking for permission.

No objections were made.

We watched as the Statesman walked up the three bamboo steps, removed his shoes at the door, and stepped inside the glass box.

The doors slid closed.