8From WAR, Two Phantoms Were Born
Part II: The Few
A/N: This is the second Phantom chapter, focusing on the roots of Phantom Task. I based them on a secret society called Grey Wings from a forgotten gem of a PlayStation 2 game Cold Winter. It had a wonderful story penned by esteemed British comic writer Warren Ellis of Transmetropolitan fame. My longest chapter yet. Tell me what you think and don't act like Matthew.
The sky remained an alien gray but the cold was now unbearable. The intense fighting upstairs had drawn into a stalemate but it was no lull. Instead it was a proverbial brawl as both sides attempt to force the other capitulate, otherwise destroy them. Yet for all the dash and flair of the Infinite Stratos systems locked in combat, it was still a war for the grunts on the ground and in the air. Thousands of them, United Nations and Phantom Task, out in the snow and cold, slogging against each other in scenes that were all too familiar to all of them as infantry, fighting and shooting, backed up by armor and artillery, aircraft, the mighty flying steads in the second half of the twentieth century, the very things that the IS were supposed to render obsolete, irrelevant to the future of warfare fighting in one of the most inhospitable regions of the planet.
On the ground and in the air they played their roles to the fullest, just as their ancestors have done for millennia, when they made clubs, spears, axes, bows and arrows out of wood and bone, rock and sinew, and went against each other for anything such as a favorable pasture or hunting ground, anything they believed they needed to survive and cannot get unless the other fellow is out of the way.
This drama continued to play out in human history, the formula the same regardless of the context, or the tools, or the script being laid, for the last was always irrelevant, war was a stage play for which improvisation was encouraged all throughout, the more dramatic the performance the more it woes the audience. Who watched from the heavens looking down coldly on the desperate little creatures who fight over the rock they call home. The actors who survive will preserve those memories for the next generation to read. Who will read to their pleasure whatever it may be.
This drama was a complex mosaic made up of millions of interconnected, little dramas such as the one between Tabane and Temedu as the grand performance can only truly be alive once the little dramas play out concurrently, otherwise it would have been a stilted, pretentious affair.
"It's getting cold in here," Temedu said, feeling the nip of the cold. He did not have time to procure cold weather when the shit hit the fan.
"Yeah, that'd be nice," Tabane agreed as she handed back the file. She's even worse off in terms of protective clothing, just a woolen shawl and no boots to keep the cold away. Then an earsplitting bang occurred above as an orange fireball bloomed violently above.
"INCOMING!" he screamed and they took off to their feet as large pieces of ice and concrete rained down on them. A cacophony of explosions and cracking of large ceiling pieces followed as they shot for cover. Each large piece crashed closer behind them, threatening to overtake them. The fight-or-flight instinct took over their minds and choose the latter, seeing that fighting falling rubble with fists is flight of fancy in fighting anime. They have nothing else to think as they made their way for another part of the tunnel complex, holding a room that seemed like salvation. On the balls of their feet they dashed forward, screaming as they covered the last ten meters in a flash and diving for cover into the room.
Face forward on the floor, they coughed away the dust in their lungs and forced themselves up and rolled to their backs, panting in relief of having narrowly escaped being crushed to death.
"Damn bunker busters," muttered Temedu. He turned to the scientist.
"I think I'm fine..." she answered as she sat up, bones creaking. She took a breath of fresh air. "Man, that was intense!"
"You can say that again." The black man sat as well, brushing the dust away from himself with his hands. "Closest thing was Algeria, when we sabotaged the French aircraft carrier Alexis de Tocqueville while on call in the newly-constructed port at El Hamdania." The Alexis de Tocqueville was the PA 2 that was intended to replaced the Charles de Gaulle in the previous decade. It was much larger and at 75,000 tonnes it is in the weight class of the former Soviet Navy's Ulyanovsk.
"How was it intense?" she asked.
"Oh, you know, the usual," he replied nonchalantly. "Us sneaking in, Trojan Horse, came in and out guns blazing, blasting the shit out its innards, killing the charming and dastardly villain and his thuggish minions, and roaring into the sunset with angry patrol boats on our tail, escaping just in time for champagne."
Tabane chuckled at the Jame Bond/Rambo imagery. "Really?" Her tone had flippant humor.
Temedu savored his own joke before frowning. "No, it wasn't. Nothing like that." His voice went sober. "We infiltrated the ship a la Trojan horse. It took us twelve nerve-wracking hours tampering with equipment and facilities, with the aircraft and ammo elevators, radar and such without being detected. And we left just in time as the ship was about to leave. We only realized our work was done when news of a massive explosion and fire crippled the ship as she was patrolling near Turkish waters, killing two hundred and sixty aboard, and forcing it to spend twenty months in port for repairs. A lot of Francophobic Algerians cheered widely as the day the French ship docked for a visit was the anniversary of a nationalist demonstration where they unfurled the Algerian flag in May 8, 1945, which was banned by the French when the country was part of its empire. And it was named after Alexis de Tocqueville, the father of Western liberalism and a chief advocate of the brutal colonization of Algeria, which become the model of Western empire building on the continent." He walked over to an electric warmer and plugged it, turning it on. He sat down to warm himself.
Tabane followed suit. "How you'd take it?"
"What do you mean?" He looked up as he raised the heat
"Your mission accomplished." She sat end opposite of him.
He sighed. "To tell you the truth, it was complicated. I wasn't raised a violent man. I really did not enjoy killing more than two hundred people who were just in it to serve their country, see the world, and live a good life. But at the same... I had this odd satisfaction, being able to strike a blow at those who pulled the strings across the world, in the case then was France, who continues to influence the continent in their old empire to serve her needs and ends at our expense." He clenched his hands as he recalled his lost village. "Tocqueville was an aristocrat, an arrogant, lingering legacy that belied liberty, fraternity, and equality." He spat, " Fuck the French."
"So... tell me about Phantom Task?" Tabane asked.
"Phantom Task?" His eyes gazed upon the warmer in its blue-white glow. "Phantom Task began as a concept, a ray of hope in the ashes of the global conflagration known as World War II. One man saw the desolation of war and wanted to do something about it. I'll tell you a story because no amount of detailing of deeds can do justice at the foundation of Phantom Task."
There was once a boy who lived in Japan, in the city of Osaka. He was a hardworking boy, who keep to his chores and studies, to his family and school. He was a deeply-sensitive soul, intelligent, and a warmth that can melt the icicles in the eaves of his home in the spring. He lived in a time of high tension between old and new, liberalism and conservatism, communism and capitalism, fascism and democracy, nationalism and internationalism, and brutality and compassion.
He was never a healthy youth, having suffered several diseases in the course of his young life. He had survived but his body was left weak. He was disparaged by others for his lack of strength, a weak boy is of little use to his country and people, they say, as he cannot bear arms to go to war. They say it because whenever stronger, more stupid boys demanded him to do their homework, even if his grades suffer. The drill sergeant at his school was no less tolerant, making him do all the crap jobs after the big strong boys have finished drilling. But it mattered little to him. His mother called him a miracle and his father had him have the best doctors available as much as the family finances allow. He was a miracle not because his family was rich but because no one could have survived the plurality of diseases that attacked him: tuberculosis, measles, chickenpox, pneumonia. Who else can claim to survive all of those in their formative years?
Scrub, scrub, scrub. The brush made suds as the boy the went down on all fours, cleaning the drill hall of the high school he was in, removing the tracks of mud and dirt left behind by the other boys of the school's military contingent. Sweat formed on his face as he struggled hard to remove the stains. The only thing in his mind, which urged him on to hasten his task, was home, his family, his studies, especially his precious books.
And he was the only one in that wide hall as his scrubbing echoed loudly. The once who were assigned to clean the hall for the day never came, instead heaping the task on him for protesting having to do their schoolwork as he told him his father was irked by his falling grades. They beat him up for it and they made up a story to the drill sergeant about him refusing to obey them. The big, burly veteran of China and Siberia would not care any less. He was a weak little coward in his eyes, a shirker who could not serve his Emperor as divinely ordained from heaven, most likely a punishment from above for his father's moneymaking. The fat man hoped that these menial tasks put some backbone on his petty merchant's son, or waste him away, he cared none for useless weaklings either way.
While he toiled in his lonely, thankless task, accompanied only by him brushing the dirty floor, he heard the door open.
"Who's there!?" he called out. He could only take so much abuse for a day. All he wanted was to go home, return to his warm house with his parents, eat a warm meal cooked by his mother, and read his books. He shuddered as he feared yet another scrapping by his tormentors. Oh how he wanted it to end, he wanted it to stop but his father could not sway the wishes of his very patriotic family and friends.
"Karasu, is that you?" a girl's voice called out. His heart sank in relief. It was just Megumi. This girl, the daughter of a textile magnate, seemed to be the few people in school who actually cared about him. She came in and closed the door behind her. She approached him, her steps loudly echoing in the hall. "What are you still doing here? Aren't you supposed to be home?"
He was shocked to see the footprints made on the still-wet floor by Megumi. "Megumi! Don't walk on the floor, I just cleaned it."
She looked down to see her prints on the floor in her wake. She gasped and clasped her mouth for error. The boy collapsed on the floor and despaired as it meant he'll have to clean that section of the floor again. And that's if the fat bastard doesn't come back here at all.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she apologized as she took off her shoes and approached him on bare feet. She bent on his prone figure.
"It's alright," he assured her. "I volunteered for this." He lied. He did not want to appear weak to this girl. To spill out one's troubles to anybody is a sign of weakness, said the sergeant. A real man keeps them to himself.
"But you're stuck here and your family must be worried." She knew he was lying and why. She knew all about his troubles. The poor boy had to take all the abuse heaped upon him in school and in the streets. He did not deserve any of that. This boy was more worthy of her attention than all his oppressors, most of whom her family picked up as possible prospects for her in the future.
"I can do this, I can," he protested feebly.
"No, you need help," she pointed out, persistent. "Here, I'll help you." She rolled up the sleeves of her blouse and bent down to take a rag.
"No! Don't, please! If the sergeant come's back, we'll be in trouble!" He was shocked to see the girl of one of the city's better-off helping him. What's more, her charity will get both of them in trouble, fearing what happens if they're caught together. She'll bring shame to her family while he will be sent to an even deeper hell.
"I don't think so," she replied with a knowing smile.
"But they might think w-we-we had done it!" Sweat increased on his body as his situation seemed to turn for the worse.
"No, I think he visited that cafeteria lady." Megumi then whispered. "I think he might be doing what you mean to her."
The boy's face was scandalized further. She already knew of the secret things done between men and women? How can someone so proper know of something so vulgar?
"Don't worry, I'm not that kind of girl. And furthermore, I don't like seeing you suffering like this. I want to help, you don't need to suffer their abuse." She started wiping the floor. He was stunned by her compassion and will. He had never asked a girl out nor had any real interest in them. His was always his books and that was enough for him.
Megumi turned back to see him. "Don't just look at me like that. If we clean together, you might go home and hopefully, the sergeant won't catch us."
Nodding in agreement, both of them cleaned the drill hall floor and finished just in time. It was late in the day and they both went home together until they separate paths. It was the greatest day of his life. He looked forward to meeting her again. This willful, yet sweet girl had captured his imagination. This relationship blossomed into love and they both vowed one day to marry and start a family, away from all the hustle-and-bustle of city life.
The boy had the first real bright spot in his life. The girl had given him hope in his suffering during those terrible teen years. Political upheavals, the increasing tensions with the West, the military intrigues, the path to war, none of that bothered him as only his books and Megumi occupied his deepest thoughts. Soon, she loomed over that too.
1937. The call for conscription came and was left behind due to his weak health. Instead, he was assigned a clerkship in some government agency. He knew only the glory of his country and none of its terrible sins, but as the war grew longer and more desperate. Daily bombing drills, curfews, censorship, rationing, demonstrations and rallies in support of the troops, people leaving for the countryside and the silent hand of the secret police, marked his existence. Yet, he was unbothered as he never had to serve in the front lines, just doing his bit for his country in his current capacity was enough. Yet misgivings had bloomed, ones about why they have to go to war. Things are bad enough without having to pick a fight with others? Why not just talk it over? Those thoughts had been with him since his teen years, not ever partaking to the rallies and demonstrations due to his frail nature. They can't be serious, right?
Yet, he came to notice the growing squalor around him as rationing became more severe. Then the unthinkable happened: the first B-29 raids coming in from the Marianas, raining death. In spite all the preparations nothing steeled him for the horror that came. People burned in their homes, people out on the streets in despair, people trying to fight the fires in what proved to be a largely useless effort. The curfews were enforced even more, the production lines struggled to keep up and the shortages were becoming critical as days go by. Those he cannot ignore. He worried night and day about Megumi and the terror added to the tension of his existence. The propaganda became more desperate, fantastical, apocalyptic. There were people dying, he knew. If not around him, then somewhere else. He knew everything preached by the government, by the military was starting to sound like lies. And the whispers, the whispers of the truth where filtering back. Lost battles, horrendous casualties, to say nothing of the secret police who will not tolerate such subversive defeatism.
He heard of horrors committed by their armies against the peoples who they called their Asian brothers. Yet, he can't believe them. Wasn't it the West who commit such deeds? Didn't the propaganda get it right?
By then, things were becoming desperate. Men were recruited, to pledge their lives to die for their country. The Kamikaze was formed, a divine wind of steel and flesh, sent to die by slamming themselves against American warships. These desperate suicidal mindset spread throughout the country as the bombing raids intensified, the supplies dwindling slowly, and the army teaching even children to fight, with spears of bamboo, kitchen knives, crude grenades made of pottery. He worried about Megumi, now serving as a nurse, tending to the victims of the raids. By then Okinawa had fallen and everyone braced for the end - for the coming of the hated Gaijin and his ravenous thirst for blood to visit war upon the islands. They waited and waited... desperately... The fear and anticipation out them from inside as the bombers kept pounding.
Then it came...
In 8:15 a B-29 named for a Mrs. Enola Gay Tibbets of Miami, Florida appeared over the city of Hiroshima. It carried aboard a gun-type fission device set to airburst at 1900 feet, fired by a bullet fashioned from Uranium 235.
Its codename Little Boy.
The second sunrise came, the firestorm, and the black rain that came after. The death of an empire and the beginning of the atomic age. Of the arms race.
The leaders at first where perplexed. They did not believe one bomb can be capable of such destructive power. And because of their vanity, their haughty sense of honor, they opt for Ragnarok instead.
So in order to convince them, their people must suffer again. The punishment to be delivered by Bockscar, its was a plutonium device, Fat Man. It was ignited by implosion. Nagasaki was to accept the fury for what was meant for Kokura. The terrible pattern repeated again but this time, no firestorm. Instead, a malignant cancer appeared to those who survived, those were to mark as Hibakusha. The terrible ailments had convinced them of the horrid power of the United States has wielded. They looked east and saw the bear ready for depredation, hungering for vengeance over its chastisement in 1905. The change in the wind had come.
Japan surrendered.
The country was in chaos. Her cities in ruin. Her people in squalor, millions dead and more dying from malnourishment and disease. Her armies and fleets broken, scattered like dry bones across Asia. The victorious Allies dictated their terms. They accepted it as they realized they couldn't fight their fates. The sting of defeat was lessened by the terms dictated as the Allies were magnanimous towards their foe, one who fought a vicious savage war.
The landscape was bleak as people walked around, as though emerging from a frightful dream. They could not believe their eyes as they watched American troops marching in, their own marching towards them - to surrender. Many cannot believe but at the same time they were glad it was over. Still, they feared the worst as they watched their conquerors settle themselves in. The occupation had began.
He was on a bus, the first service in several weeks after the end. By then, he was used to seeing American troops by now. They weren't the ogres they feared would set foot upon the country. They helped the country back on its feet and the streets were bustling back to life again. He can see buildings being constructed to repair the damage wrought by the last years of the war.
He had to apply his papers before he can work on his father-in-law's factory. Well, future father-in-law. Megumi's father was kind to him and he needed a good man to manage the textile factory. It was hard for him to imagine the war had happened a few weeks ago - and that it ended at all. He was afraid for Megumi as they waited for the invasion but now he was glad to know she was still alive. Karasu was also thankful to be part of the rebuilding of the country. Her father was not a profiteer who sucked the life out of the weak but true pillar of the community. The factory benefited from American aid and contracts. It gave provided jobs that filled pockets and tables. It provide clothing people will need in the coming winter. In time, he hoped to raise enough money for college and a house for him and Megumi.
It was rather perplexing him to him that a powerful bomb would end the war. But the Americans had done that, just as they were able to summon vast armies from across the sea. His leaders say they can defeat the Americans as they were decadent sloths, barbarians only fit to be thrown away. Honestly, he could not see the difference between them and the leaders in terms of conduct. The bloodbath from less than ten years ago was evident of that. The bullying in school was something he remembered. The Americans here were a lot nicer, albeit reminding him of little children going to the zoo for the first time.
The bus stopped and he got off, deciding to walk the rest of his way. Walking, he noticed some soldiers standing guard and slinging their rifles. Those soldiers guarding the intersection don't look American. They hardly do. They were short, had slanted eyes like himself but dark skinned. They wore what look like fedoras. They had calm expression, as though as police duty was something they do everyday, not like the Americans who wore an slightly tense gaze and an alternatively outwardly bored expression as they did such duty.
He also notice instead of batons, they have some sort of knife in their belts. He gulped. It reminded him of the katanas wielded by officers of the old Imperial Army. He have heard of stories how they killed off Chinese soldiers like flies with those. The last thing he wanted to do was to provoke the men guarding into using their curved knives.
"Are you alright, sir?" one of them asked, his voice soft and English perfect in spite of his accent.
He looked at him and he realized that one of dark-skinned short men, the center one, was speaking to him. "Uh..." He did not how to answer in spite of his perfect English.
"Are you lost?" asked the soldier.
"Uh, no," he replied. "I was just on my way to the textile factory." And he did not know why but he added, "You look different from the other soldiers here."
The soldier looked curiously at him. "How so?"
"You're not American, or British."
His sleepy expression returned. "We are not but we served under the British. We are Gurkhas, from the land of Nepal. It is north of India."
"Must be a long way from home," he noted, never having heard of Nepal. "It's probably strange to be here."
"It is strange here indeed," agreed the Gurkha. "But it is not strange to be here."
The answer perplexed Karasu. "What makes you say that?"
The Gurkha looked calmly at him. "You brought us here."
The Gurkha calmly explained to him the horrors of the war in Southeast Asia, from the brutal jungle fighting in under the blistering sun and cold, wet rain, to the atrocities committed in its wake. Prisoners and civilians were not spared. Karasu listened to it in increasing horror and disbelief - he never really believed the brutality of the war will go that far.
And about Phantom Task.
In due time, Tabane.
He dazed as he listened to the Gurkha. Yet, it felt strange that he did not accuse him in anyway throughout. For some reason, these strange soldiers, especially the one he talked to was a harbinger of something he cannot point his finger on, yet deep inside he knew it.
"Would you like some assistance, sir?" asked the Gurkha.
"No, no, thank you anyway." He bowed and quickly left.
"You're welcome and good luck to you, sir." He just kept walking and walking, anything to put a distance between him and the strange soldiers from Nepal. He needed to work as he felt ill at ease with the revelations he had said.
He paused to take a breath, listening to the thuds of conflict from above, realizing that the UN was slowly but surely making headway now. "Karasu worked dilligently as he always did, working in the textile factory that in a translation error was called Ruined Country Weaving Industry. Yet, he had seen demonstrations and street fights, had bore witness to crime and corruption in ways both forward and subtle."
"Like the Sarashikis?" Tabane drew closer to the warmer. It was a miracle, she noted, that the power was still on.
"Yes, and more. One time, he saw a war criminal who was acquitted by the War Crimes Tribunal dining with American officers, likely the intelligence kind. The Yakuza made money from the black market and intimidating workers who have the temerity to ask for better conditions. He knew of..." He cleared his throat as he tried to say it. He never had a real infatuation with women, much like Karasu, the founder of Phantom Task. He did not know how to tell this topic to a woman who, in spite of his effort to egg himself on, was less and less his enemy than before. "Medical prostitution..."
Tabane's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, I know. Doctors pimping desperate young women to GIs after the war, for medical reasons they say." She scoffed ."I'm a woman too. I know what exploitation feels like though not that kind. Country's patriarchy will come up all kinds of bullshit to get their pleasures."
"Indeed." He stifled a sneeze. The cold must be getting through, he thought. Lots of holes being poked already. "Now where where we...?"
"Karasu," Tabane reminded him.
"Ah, yes. Karasu. Much as he tried, he cannot ignore the rot around him yet can't do anything about either. Then Megumi died. Tram she rode rammed into a bus, went out of control. He grieved the lose of the one thing thing he cared the most, the one thing that mattered in the world. The grief never left him, even as he worked at the factory and crammed himself to college, earning high marks. Then Megumi's father died, injuries caused by LeMay's raids sapping him of his health. With no living relatives left, Karasu became the owner of the factory which modestly expanded.
"He also became acquainted with the larger world and its ever-volatile nature. He went out with radicals from his college days and during a trip to buy raw cotton from India, he attended the Conference of Youth and Students of Southeast Asia Fighting for Freedom and Independence. It increased his interest in politics, especially of pacifism and internationalism. At home was a supporter of liberal causes and active social involvement such as helping atomic bomb survivors rehabilitate. And in 1949, he was invited by a German socialist to a conference in Switzerland. It was there that the seeds of Phantom Task was born."
"So, Phantom Task was born in Switzerland?"
"Not quite but this secret conference, called together by a high-ranking and heavily-decorated officer of the Royal Air Force, intimate to him the secrets of the atomic bombs and the nations that wield it, its implications, the ideological geopolitical conflict that was to be the Cold War, the realigning of the balance of power as empires made way for new nations, and how it will affect the future. The German acquainted to him of how his country would be divided by an iron curtain, of the toll the previous war had taken on them, and a precedent in the form of the Thirty Years War, which left Germany utterly devastated by in the 17th century and of the dirty secret of the Allies: Nazis, many of them war criminals, were secretly pardoned to work with the West. The butchers of peoples, looters of countries, madmen with dreams of a superior race, were allowed to go scot-free if they have something of value.
"It was revolting to him. But he was not convinced to take their side. He still believed in peace, in civility.
"1950s. Korea. The anti-communist hysteria fanned by Senator Joseph McCarthy. East-West tensions. Indo-China. He was to become more active, supporting the the Japanese Socialist Party. As consequence he was harassed by Yakuza, right-wingers and the police. Contracts dried but it did not deter him. His attendance at the first Asian Socialist Conference, first held in Rangoon in January 6-15, 1953. It reaffirmed his commitment to peace and liberty. Yet, people at home did not share his liberalism.
"The factory was burned down mysteriously while he was in attendance in during a stormy session over the 1956 Suez Crisis and of whether the Israeli party Mapai was to remain a member of ASC. He left the conference and flew back as soon as he could but he was only greeted at the airport by gunpoint, pushed into a car, beaten and stabbed before being thrown into Tokyo Bay. He was saved by fishermen and was nursed back to health in secret. As soon as he can walk on his feet, much of his old life was destroyed, left in cinders. All he had helped build gone, he was left a self-destructive drunk until in eearly 1961 he was found in jail after a bar brawl, visited none other than the RAF officer. He befriended him and revealed to him off the people who were responsible for his fall from grace: the Sarashikis. And he also revealed to him of his plan for a truly better world."
"How will they do that?" she asked.
Temedu pulled out an old-fashion tape player from his pocket. He inserted a tape that said THE FEW. He played the tape player.
In its scratchy-sounding audio began a voice in a British accent, "Humanity has recovered miraculously from the war and has advanced at an astonishing rate. Space exploration, jet travel, the polio vaccine. Yet, we persist in our self-destructive ways. In the wake of the atomic testings in New Mexico and Bikini Atoll, the world sits on a power keg once again. Nuclear weapons are widely available to the United States and the Soviet Union. This prevents them from waging war itself and in its stead a chess game using the countries in between. The evidence is clear: they will not survive World War III. They will not have the luxury of imparting their wisdom to the world as everyone will already be dead. Their warnings will fall on as national interests and paranoia takes precedence over the bigger picture: a united humanity in effort for a better future, to reach out to the stars."
Another voice came out. "I've heard of Sputnik. People have been saying the Soviets have been out to destroy the world and Sputnik's the latest in the line of attempts in that goal. But they put Yuri Gagarin in space and he was not lying about he saw up there."
"Indeed, such is an example of human endeavor achieving what was thought to be impossible but those efforts are subordinated to earth-bound parochial interest. More must be needed if the world has to change for the better."
"But how? We're more interested in killing and lording over each other than that."
"It's not perfect but we need to do something. We need to set up a phantom task force whose duty is keep the balance of power from being altered in the favor of one group, be it a nation of some secretive cabal and to steer others in the right direction. The belligerents in this shadow conflict is to put it simply, us and everyone."
"That, I already understood."
"I know that. But you were once a committed pacifist and reformer. I only need to tell you so you can think about it thoroughly."
"I already thought it through... In that bed where I lay after being in near-death, after I was beaten and stabbed to pulp by those hired thugs. While I tried to hide from my despair with alcohol. I've had my doubts about this but now I know: I want in."
"Ah... Very well. Rest for now. We will go to London tomorrow afternoon. This will be a long hard struggle but I'm confident we will win."
He stopped the player. "That he made good. He soon was running a small group and he made his bones by performing a feat of audacity and resourcefulness in long-distance planning and execution: March 16, 1962, Flying Tiger Flight 739, operating under USAF Military Air Transport Service charter carried eleven civilian crew and ninety-six military passengers: ninety-three Ranger-trained Army communication specialists sent to relieve personnel training Army of the Republic of Vietnam troops against the Vietcong and three ARVN officers, one of them is actually senior lieutenant of Sarashiki family covered as one of them. Sabotage done at Andersen Airforce Base; all hands died aboard en route to Clarke Air Force Base.
"He lead the branch of this phantom task force here in the Asia-Pacific region, fighting this shadow war. During the student protests of 1968, that malignant 'family' was once again set to snatch, torture, and bury the young men and women who protested against the Americans in Japan for Vietnam, he lead the pre-preemptive strike against them, using the very methods they used against their opponents: overt terror, silent murder, subversion, and black mail. He would fight this shadow war with distinction. Against the Sarashikis, against the CIA and KGB, against the pro-American dictatorships in South America and Asia, practically anyone who stood in their way of achieving their dream of a united humanity undivided by petty interests. It took a toll on him, becoming every bit as ruthless as his enemies, especially against the Sarashikis, who robbed him of his life. He cared not for the lives lost or left permanently altered in order to reach his goal.
"We had our triumphs: the Sarashikis were deprived of their chance to wield power in Japan during the 80's; we broke the back of Propaganda Due in Italy, otherwise they would have been posed to manipulate post-Cold War Europe; kept them from helping Colombian drug king Pablo Escobar from funding a civil war in Haiti. We prevented a rice blight plague in China and a war in the Korean peninsula from breaking out after the fall of the Soviet Union, we stopped poisoned shipments of food aid to the Philippines stricken by the Pinatubo eruption and prevented their agents from destabilizing the government. We kept their mercenaries out of Somalia and prevented them from delivering poison gas to warlord Mohamed Farrah Hassan Aidid, which would have turned the Black Hawk Down fiasco into something much worse.
"But we had our losses too - and our moments of darkness. The 1991 uprisings in Iraq were a failure as the Saudis and Turks denied us logistical support. They fear losing their power too. Pakistan ousted us for our assistance in Ahmad Shah Massoud's Northern Alliance and keeping us from destroying Gulbuddin Hekmatyar's fundamentalists, which lead to 9/11. Thailand was pressured to cut off their tender with us, allowing the junta of Myanmar to sweep us off the board in 90s and protecting the Sarashikis' drug profits. We encouraged the Algerian FIS to rebel against the government but we lost control of them. We've failed dismally at Libya as well as Qaddafi switched allegiances and called for Sarashiki assistance. We've done our share of buried bodies and ruined lives.
"Eventually Karasu took leadership of what is today Phantom Task at the moment the war became a stalemate. The War on Terror erupted and he lead Phantom Task with the same strategical mind, cunning, and rock-hard resolve which he since he started. We were both evenly matched. But the Sarashikis can afford the attrition, they have the ears of governments and organizations worldwide. Eventually, we whittled away little by little, our cause an ever distant pipe dream as the balance shifted against us. We thought we would lose and we were forced deeper underground once again.
"Until you brought to the world the Infinite Stratos system, a weapon that had altogether rendered most nuclear weapons and their platforms obsolete. You've reignited this war, Dr. Shinonono. Now we beheld at your works, ye mighty and despair."
A/N: The last quote was from the poem Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley. The subtitle The Few refers to the Allied airmen who served in the Royal Airforce during the Battle of Brain alluding to Churchill's speech in August 20, 1940, Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few,. This is due to the fact the RAF officer was based on the Grey Wings leader John Grey of Cold Winter. There were indeed Gurkhas, who were the scourge of the Japanese in the India-Burma theater of the war, who were deployed as peacekeepers in Japan, specifically 2nd Battalion of the 5th Royal Gurkha Rifles, part the British Commonwealth Occupation Force (BCOF) was the joint Australian, British, Indian and New Zealand military forces in occupied Japan, from 21 February 1946 until the end of occupation in 1952. At its peak, the BCOF comprised about 40,000 personnel, equal to about 25% of the number of US military personnel in Japan. In 1947, the BCOF began to wind down its presence in Japan. However, BCOF bases provided staging posts for Commonwealth forces deployed to the Korean War, from 1950 onwards. The BCOF was effectively wound-up in 1951, as control of Commonwealth forces in Japan was transferred to British Commonwealth Forces Korea. Hope you enjoyed this.
