International Cooperation Project (2)
Unless the situation was truly unavoidable, I always made sure my subordinates' meals were packed with gourmet delights. There was no cheaper or more effective way to manage morale. But ever since crossing into Japan, most of our dinners had been simple affairs—prepackaged imports or ready-made processed foods hastily prepared. The reason was simple: I couldn't trust the local grub.
Ehime Prefecture, where we were, was one of the few places spared the worst of the Fukushima radiation fallout due to ocean currents. Still, in these worsening times with no sign of improvement, the local food industry was aggressively cutting costs, ignoring ingredient quality and origins. I'd confirmed it with my own eyes. Even at a landmark hotel in the city, I'd hoped for pricey but clean eats—yet the colors of information clinging to the pantry's supplies quietly dashed those hopes. Not dangerous enough to call hazardous, but the heavy radioactive taint was plenty to ruin the flavor.
From our room overlooking the city—and another landmark, the keep of an ancient Japanese castle—Kyung-tae polished off a full day's calories for an adult male and let out a booming laugh as he finished. "Hyungnim, seriously. Why sweat the small stuff?"
"It's not that it bothers me. I just don't like it."
"Same difference, right? Every time I feel hyungnim's big love like this, it chokes me up."
"...Yeah."
I'll just leave it at that. I turned to gaze out the window. The cityscape, backlit by the late sun, was a scene of deepening dusk and decay. Streets that should buzz in a bustling district were dotted with shuttered shops and sparsely peopled. The few pedestrians we spotted eyed each other warily in heavy silence. Over at a Nichiren Buddhist temple—the one spot with a decent crowd—a funeral was underway. Japanese Buddhism had long been renowned as death's caretaker, so in these days overrun by mortality and superstition, their traditional trade was booming.
Beyond the temple, squeezed between it and the sea, a small park teemed with homeless folk—rarer than you'd expect in this country. No doubt they'd struggled to claim spots in daylight under police and resident scrutiny. Hunched and shuffling aimlessly, they'd only relax into turf wars once full darkness fell.
Just tens of meters apart. On one side, gilded temple halls hosted million-yen funerals for prime burial plots; on the other, filthy wretches wondering if they'd scrounged even a few hundred yen's bread that day. How utterly human.
Across from the park, rusted fishing boats lined the pier. Some shoved into the breakwater's corner showed clear signs of long idleness. Better to seek other sucker bets than risk life on treacherous seas, their owners must have figured. Follow the coast north from here, and you'd hit a yacht marina's private dock—shuttered after failing to weather the marine tourism slump. Bordering Kurushima Strait, it was one of the secret backup moorings I'd snagged through ties to the Rokudaime Yamaguchi-gumi.
"Any new word from Captain Baek?"
Suyeon slowly shook her head at my question. "No. You worried?"
"A bit."
Baek Young-hoon—the asset I'd recruited after handling Dowonhui and her parents—was piloting our prototype smuggling sub from southern Kyushu toward the Geiyo Islands' north. The moment we'd secured the delayed engine, we'd rushed construction, burning through subordinates on a brutal schedule to commission her. Indonesia to southern Kyushu waters, our international ops smugglers had towed her via underwater chain—no issues there. But the swift Seto Inland Sea currents made that risky; collisions were inevitable. So she'd been riding rough seas solo for hours now, leaving us waiters antsy.
From Puerto Vallarta to Jambi, the effort I'd poured into this plan was immense. Sure, the crew had drilled a hundred dives and injuries in record time before commissioning—but Baek was still their only veteran. With the distance closing, I itched to meet them underwater myself. But I couldn't escort every trip till they were all pros. They'd navigate this route endlessly hereafter.
I steadied my cluttered mind with a deep breath.
No news is good news.
The last report, a couple hours back, said they'd stopped at a secret mooring off Yurishima near Matsuyama to fix a minor glitch, then pushed on. Just 72 kilometers to final destination Okunoshima—but the small sub's puny batteries limited speed. They'd drift on currents with engines off, switching to powered zigzag against the flow only upon reaching northern waters off our city. That way, they'd save fuel to return to base. Despite the short hop, Baek estimated nine hours. Results around midnight.
Any update before then spelled trouble, nine times out of ten.
Kyung-tae laughed again. "C'mon, don't stew. How 'bout a quick spin to clear your head and scout the hood? Way different from just looking down."
Scouting surroundings was hunter gospel—for prey and predator alike. I nodded after a beat, turning to Suyeon. "You?"
"Go ahead. I'll hold here."
"Got it."
What use was mental downtime for someone whose peak comfort was work? She was already remote-handling via laptop. The type to invent tasks if none existed—and every one she conjured held value.
She's something else.
These days, I felt my own resolve fraying under obsession with every second's worth—yet Suyeon hadn't wavered since kneeling before me that first time. I couldn't help admiring her anew each time.
"...?"
She touched her face at my stare, then tilted her head faintly. "Something to say?"
"Nah."
The old me would've scowled at this me. But prolonged tension had me leaning too hard on my two most loyal aides, feeding them undue trust sans doubt. Time for self-reflection.
A sentiment nearly voiced tickled my throat. I swallowed the uncharacteristic words, merely patting her shoulder. "Keep it up."
"Yes, sir."
Faint puzzlement crossed her face. But her observant gaze soon refocused on work. My chief secretary was back in the zone.
I toured the city's key spots by car with Kyung-tae. Imabari, northwestern Shikoku's tip, marked the south end of the Shimanami Kaido—bridging Seto Inland Sea isles. Ideal midpoint hub for ops spanning Honshu and Shikoku. Hence the Korean hunters dispatched here for "international cooperation"—explaining shops' clumsy Korean signs amid urban slump.
Pre-mana return, frosty Japan-Korea ties had thawed astonishingly under both governments' pragmatic pivot. Japan needed awakened foreign labor; Korea offloaded surplus into guilds for forex. Survival-driven realpolitik.
I recalled the new PM—ex-environment minister succeeding Abe late last year—his inauguration bit on Korea:
"Like with all nations, our government's top priority is citizen safety and livelihood stability. Korea is a neighbor we can help—and get help from—on this. Clinging to pride matches now would be unsexy. I promise you attractive, sexy diplomacy."
A young pol elevated to PM by default as others dodged the poison chalice in these thankless times.
"Sure, some Koreans are undereducated and rude. But they don't speak for all. We should coolly forgive—that's what advanced nations like Japan do. Advanced = cool; backward = not. You know this."
To me, the clownish speech rang like a vow to fulfill the fall-guy role. Short-term losses as jester, but long-term gains from the post at his age.
"I hear Koreans love me—say I'm super Fun Fun? Haha! Knowing my popularity aids ties fills me with pride. I can love this job. Love is good because it's love. I offer my love to you all."
This rookie PM played the brick wall masterfully, ramming through unpopular but essential policies amid public fury. Paving for his successor, essentially. His diplomacy drew fierce conservative backlash—at first. Now muted, thanks to Prizrak.
The Russia-China prowler had slipped via Sakhalin to Hokkaido. Given the man-eater's stealth, the whole archipelago was at risk.
Bzzz. My phone's buzz snapped reverie. Suyeon's text furrowed my brow lightly.
"Head back."
"Yessir."
Kyung-tae replied; the wheelman turned. Back at the hotel, Suyeon had prepped top-tier encrypted video link. I sat before the camera. "Connected?"
"Yes. They've been standing by."
Our counterparty: "Father of Beauty" Abu Al Qasim. The rude geezer who'd requested first, then ghosted till now. Not petty power play—the delay was too long, risking his own leverage. Circumstances, surely. But zero heads-up was straight foul.
I tested my altered voice on the well-trimmed beard in the test feed, signaled. A secretary aide patched to Pakistan's northwest.
Monitor filled with the elderly factory boss. I greeted with mild ire.
"Peace of Allah be upon you. First time, Abu Al Qasim."
"Call me Omar al-Bashir, Abu Al Qasim."
Omar: long-lived. Al-Bashir: all-seeing. Handy alias for Allah's faithful. The more covers, the better.
I met the blue-eyed gunsmith's gaze.