Seven: Weak Links

    The rich cedar and pungent mint of the camphor trees blended together on the cool breeze. Cherry blossom petals tumbled across the ground as we passed the tavern on our left, led by the Magistrate south-eastward along the broad stone path. Every few feet the path turned at ninety-degree angles only to right itself back a few feet after its abrupt turn. I’d counted five such sharp ‘L’ shaped indents into what should have been a relatively short path when the thick tree-lined walkway opened up to a massive lodge.

    In stark contrast to the modern glass box building, the lodge before us was of a traditional Edo Period design, much larger than anything I’d researched. Five stories tall at least, the building was also designed in an ‘L’ shape; the shorter section facing us, and the longer end extending outward on our right side. Bold cedar siding. Jade shingle roof set at steep angles. It looked inviting enough under the midday sun. Red paper lanterns hung on the exterior door with Kanji wrapped around each like a barber pole: 

“Welcome Travelers to the Grand Yoshida Lodge.”

“Who is Yoshida?” Agent Yao asked the Magistrate.

    Turning to face the group, the not-so-elderly man answered, “His eminence, Shogun Hirawa dedicated the construction of the Yoshida Travelers Lodge to the Yoshida Brothers; musicians who had passed through our prefecture some time ago. They were among the first to travel to our land...” He trailed off into a distant memory. Or, perhaps concealing the complete memory of what happened long ago.

    Before any follow-up questions could be asked, a staff member from the lodge held open the door for us and bid us inside.

    We were greeted by a dozen or so staff members dressed in fine robes, although of more functional design. All gave a short bow and greeted us in Japanese; “[Welcome, travelers, to the Grand Yoshida Lodge.]”

It was at this moment I recall when the power struggle truly began.

Lieutenant Colonel Buckner approached the Magistrate slowly, confidently, and spoke in a low tone, “Before we’re shown to our accommodations, I think it appropriate that we conclude our business.”

The Magistrate regarded the Lieutenant calmly, “Our business, here meaning the exchange of information, is scheduled to occur over the course of dinner in your honor.”

In a whisper laced with malice, “With all due respect, Magistrate--”

“-We accept your invitation and thank you for your hospitality,” Agent Jin spoke quickly, cutting off LTC Buckner’s potentially overt threat. This interruption was met with a glare that turned the seasoned FBI Agent’s face bright red as the malice was redirected from their host to the young woman.

“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” With a wave of his hand, the Magistrate directed our attention to the colonial maple-stained wood and jade accented lobby. Soft recessed lighting illuminated the space in a faux candlelit glow. A dark ebony wood staircase was set into the wall at the other end. No other patrons were seated in the black leather chairs between ourselves and the stairs. No other patrons were visible at all. Our collective attention turned back to the half-dozen armored samurai guarding the entrance. “We will come to collect you promptly at six for reception in the main dining hall. Do enjoy your stay.”

Lieutenant Colonel Buckner turned again to face the Magistrate before he made his exit past the samurai. All the armored guards held their long lances up at attention; “Again, with respect, I object to this… Delay.”

On his face, it would appear as though Masta Killa had the patients of a saint. His skill and efficiency incapacitating MSG Cross said otherwise. The armored guards made no hostile posture and remained perfectly still. The Magistrate spoke calmly, “On behalf of his eminence, the Shogun, we acknowledge your objection.”

Standing amongst the group of five, I recall that thickening of the atmosphere as LTC Buckner and our Host squared off. Each passing second tightened the screws on an increasingly fragile state of peace.

Fortunately, LTC Buckner did not push the issue further.

Masta Killa offered a slight bow and took his leave.

Perspiration continued to cascade over the young faces of the hotel staff. Hands trembled. Teeth gnashed together to keep foul words from escaping their lips. Most couldn’t have been more than twenty. Only a few years older than I was when I’d served in the First Great War. It’s a damning thing to one’s soul to see bloodshed at that age. Between the foreign military agents in their lobby and the armed guards, was it any wonder they all stood on edge?

 The Lead Bellman tepidly stepped forward and in British English asked, “May I show you to your rooms, please?”

---

    Despite most of my colleagues' fears, our rooms were not in fact prison cells. They were lodgings suitable for a high-level diplomat. Provided of course said the diplomat wasn’t particularly snobbish about a lack of western luxuries. The rooms were elegantly functional for the period we found ourselves in. Woven rice mats covered the main living space over a generous forty-square-foot living space. The thin walls were a plain cream color save for a single decorative ink and watercolor painting hung on the north wall. The eastern wall opened up to a small patio, notably not barred or obstructed in any way.

    On the southern wall, concealed shelving held the bedding, futon, a fold-out writing desk, and wooden chair. A sliding doorway also opened to a modest lavatory with a sink and mirror.

    All things considered, I was disappointed that I hadn’t packed any luggage. If my duty hadn’t involved preventing another global war, this lodge would have made for an enjoyable holiday.

    On the western wall, a sharp knock came on the wooden beam beside the sliding doorway. I opened it to find a stiff Agent Cooper standing outside; “Agent Calloway, how are you holding up?”

    “All things considered, not terrible. And, Mr. Calloway will suffice, thank you,” I replied humbly.

    Agent Cooper nodded, “We’re convening in Agent Jin’s room for a sitrep.”

    I accepted the invitation and quickly followed the OSS Agent down the hallway. The journey four doors down to Agent Jin’s room was relatively short. Again, I took notice not to be distracted by the simplistic elegance of the lodge. An ornate black and gold accented carpet ran down the length of the hallway over rich maple hardwood floors. Long, thin canvas paintings hung between each room. Each depicted a simple aspect of nature; a gathering of rocks, a tree, a wave: every minimalist brush stroke applied with perfection to the craft.

    “Agent Calloway,” Captain Yao said answering the door, “Come on in.”

    I entered, “Thank you, Captain. Please, Mr. Calloway is fine.”

    “Would you prefer Commander?” Agent Jin asked earnestly. “Agent Kapalini briefed me before you arrived. Any insight or intelligence you have to share would be most welcomed.” She stood by the window in the room identical to mine. The only difference was her wall canvas: storm clouds instead of a calm lake.

    “And what exactly is ‘Commander’ Calloway’s expertise in?” An irate Master Sergeant asked. Notably, he was the only one seated in the wooden folding chair against the south wall.

    I spoke up, my temper finally struck at the impossibly consistent hostility displayed by MSG Cross; “Over Two World Wars worth of experience as a Navy officer, Master Sergeant.” Breaking eye contact, MSG Cross huffed his acknowledgment. In that short pause, I surveyed the room. It appeared the other five members of our team were equally, if not more respectfully curious as to why I was here. Fortifying my temper, I continued, “In between my service, I was an investigative journalist for the San Diego Union-Tribune for fifteen years.”

    “Christ almighty, the Feds sent the press in with us?” Agent Cooper turned to knock his toe against the doorway.

    “I’m not here on behalf of the press,” I lied. It was actually only partially true; “I am here at the request of Lead Agent Kapalini as an expert in Japanese Culture and History. My objective is to gather the motive for this… Unusual incursion onto United States soil. I suspect that is our collective objective after securing our two hostages?”

    Quickly scanning the room, there was a look of solidarity on Agent Jin’s face. In the briefest of moments, the others displayed varying degrees of deception. The most transparent visage of hostile intent came, of course, from the hot-blooded Master Sergeant.

    Lieutenant Colonel Buckner spoke up from the other side of the window beside agent Jin; “We do appreciate your insight, Commander. However, as our lead negotiator has escorted the hostages back to US Soil, this is now a military operation.”

    MSG Cross stood up, “How do we even know they made it back? Who's to say that crazy train didn’t just, I dunno, zap them all somewhere else?” He took a breath seeing that he’d actually managed to capture our attention; “I was one of the first to breach the tunnel. It didn’t go anywhere. Checked twice. The first squads just came right back around to the other side. Unless we get a call, or signal, or somethin’ from the State Department Suit sayin’ they made it back, safe to assume they didn’t.”

    Surprisingly, Master Sergeant Cross had a valid point. We had no way of knowing for certain that Statesman Hershey or the two soldiers arrived back at the station. They could very well be stuck in some sort of limbo. But that raised another question that only fed into the larger one I was sent to answer; to what ends?

    Why would an enemy force build a train station in the middle of rural north-west United States?

    “Respectfully,” Agent Jin spoke directly to LTC Buckner, “Seeing as FBI personnel holds the majority for this operation along with the ranking officer, this is still a civilian operation first and foremost. We’re here to gather intelligence, not start a fight.” I remember Agent Jin’s eyes darting to mine, not so much asking, but insisting I concur with her statement.

    The OSS Agent stepped up, “Captain, we already have casualties by an enemy force in clear violation of the Postdam Declaration. Enemy action against the United States on our own goddamn soil! End of story. We're here to prevent an invading force that's already--”

    The rumblings of a five-way argument began to swell.

    Tension among five different branches of armed forces would snap at any moment.

    “Agent Cooper,” I spoke up, loud enough for the room to come to a whisper, “What were the questions you received on your visa questionnaire?”

    Momentarily stunned out of his defensive posture, the agent answered quickly, “Typical questions; name, date of birth, home state, etcetera. Why?”

    “Any of those questions particularly unusual?” I asked again pointedly.

    Before he spat out an answer, Agent Cooper set his jaw and considered, “You know, buried in the middle there, one of the questions asked, ‘Who is the current President of the Americas.’ Thought it was phrased kind of strange, but didn’t seem too far out of the ordinary at the time.”

    I surveyed the room as they all seemed to recall their test; “Anyonelse encounter similarly unusual questions?”

    Master Sergeant naturally spoke his mind, “Yeah, about thirty more than any of the rest of y’all apparently.” Surprisingly, he showed some self-awareness to see if the room would tolerate his elaboration. Mostly out of curiosity, the room allowed him to proceed; “Some of it was kinda personal, asking ‘bout my friends and family relations. There was this one question though I didn’t even know how to answer.” He seemed to chew on his words, almost embarrassed to continue.

    “What was the question?” Captain Yao asked.

    Master Sergeant looked away for a moment before answering quietly, “That weird stone rock asked, ‘Do I love my wife?’” A moment of silence as the oddity of the question hit us all in waves. Still stewing from what he must have considered an invasion of privacy the Master Sergeant blurted out, “I told the machine it wasn’t any of its goddam business. Then it turned off and spat out that white box with the rock.”

    I waited a moment for MSG Cross to collect his thoughts, “Why do you think your relationship with your wife would be relevant to these people?”

    The Master Sergeant shrugged, “Dunno. Why would they even care that a mountain boy from the sticks would marry an Asian? Ain’t their business anyhow.”

    With the Master Sergeant’s revelation aired out, a hypothesis began to form regarding one of the first mysteries; out of all the national guardsmen, why would Private Dobbs and Sergeant Kelly be taken? Without having seen their full profiles only their interaction with the samurai, I’d surmised that both actually spoke fluent Japanese. Master Sergeant Cross, having stayed in Oregon all his life, did in fact have a relationship with a Japanese woman.

    It seemed reasonable to consider that we weren’t merely a unit sent to assess our enemy, but also the perfect pawns for our opponents to assess their adversaries as well.

    How well could we collectively conceal what information we held while attempting to gather intelligence on our enemy? Would we even be able to persevere as a collective unit? It was clear in this room, that the breaks in the chain were starting to show.