Satoru Nishihana, Governor General of the Virginia Prefecture, takes a quick sip from a steaming cup of tea as he walks through the French doors and onto a brick patio. He pays no attention to the fact that he is naked. No one lives close enough to matter, and even if they complained, he’d have them sent to a
reeducation camp. Satoru stands at the edge of the bricks, curling his toes around the edges. He revels in the rugged, sandy feeling of the material underneath. The air cools every part of his being. “What a day to be alive!”
Glancing to his left, he nods as a hot wind dances through a large plot of cherry trees, their flower blossoms beginning to decorate the ground with delicate, pink snowflakes. Nearby, a group of evergreens bends, which troubles him. Satoru pauses to acknowledge the spirits whispering through the trees. He is in constant negotiation with them, the ancestors and the demons whose dark breath fuels the
winds of change, and today, his conversation with them takes on a different voice.
The message he hears, spoken in the tongue of those elders from the past, hints at an uncertain future.
Hmmm, clouds gather, and wind brings transformation.
Construction noise from below deflects his attention. Finally, he lifts his cup towards the trees as they sway and respectfully yells, “I pray you are all wrong. I can’t have you right about everything, can I?”
To let the ancestors know who was in charge, he downed the rest of the tea in a way that might be considered dishonorable. Then, pivoting on his feet, he strides into his home, closing the ornate French doors behind him. Donning a kimono, Satoru moves to a desk against a wooden wall. He picks up a microphone, pushes the small button on the side of the device, and speaks.
“This is Satoru. Do you read me?”
Without much hesitation, a tired voice responds, “Hai! Mr. Young here, sir. I read you five by five.”
“Status report?”
“Sir, we are on schedule.”
“I will be there in ten minutes, and I expect to be dazzled by what has been achieved overnight. I do not need to remind you that the regional Shogun will be here in one week. He is not as kind as I am and expects more than I do. Therefore, for my sake and yours, you and your men better work harder than ever.”
“Hai, I strive to please you and my Shogun. If you are not pleased, my life is forfeit!”
“Yes, it is,” Satoru says as he ends the transmission.
Replacing the microphone, Satoru sits down heavily. He swivels the chair to look out a large picture window at the mountainous region, which brings memories of growing up in Hokkaido. Shaking his head, he tries to refocus on work, which is the only thing that should concern him. Though thoughts of his wife, Amiko, who still sleeps in their shared room, also flit through his mind.
She is just beginning to open up to me again, though it has been years since she was rescued from the internment camp across the line of conflict in what they used to call West Virginia. Still, her fears persist. Perhaps I should encourage her to seek out a Shinto priest.”
Clouds gather on the mountain across the way. Satoru shakes his head again, as if to toss off the thoughts associated with his wife. He has work to do and must not get distracted.
Their residence overlooks a small valley in the occupied territory once known as the American state of Virginia. On the other side of the mountain across the way, is enemy territory, though it won’t be for long, if the Shogun has his way. The irony is not lost on Satoru.
“Shenandoah. The Army of Northern Virginia under Jubal Early wasn’t strong enough to beat the Union, and its modern equivalent couldn’t stop our advances either.” Parroting a song once popular in the area, Satoru softly sings, “Oh, Shenandoah, I Long to See You . . .” Then he finishes forcefully with, “on your
knees as the Emperor foresaw!” He continues, though not precisely meeting the correct verbiage of the song, “Oh Shenandoah, the war is over, and you’ve lost your way again…”
Satoru ponders both the past and future as he hums the song, hoping it informs the ancestors of his success. Amid the chaos after the assassination of President Truman and his Vice President, the battle for America had been bloody. Using Empire submarines full of warriors, German sleeper agents, and the resources of sympathetic countries, the Axis powers had been able to push the American troops back to the Mississippi River. In the process, they captured many people and uncovered an almost unbelievable array of weapons. Even today, that fact shocks Satoru.
It took too many years to finally clean out the nests of resistance, though even the Shogun must admit that some fierce opposition remains. Nevertheless, I admire the Americans and their ability to shift from a frontal war to one in which they employ guerrilla tactics.
Looking in a mirror, he takes a comb and begins to work it though his thick, black hair. It catches his scalp and drops to the floor. This startles Satoru for all the wrong reasons. Combs are thought of as something sacred, so giving them away, dropping them, or picking up someone else’s is considered bad luck. But what is probably more compelling is the fact that the word for comb, “kushi,” sounds remarkably like the word that means “a painful death.” Satoru pauses momentarily, he’s had this particular comb for more than forty years. Standing immobile, he is unwilling to pick it up. Flashing through his mind is the troubling intelligence report he’d read last week. He quietly contemplates its significance, speaking softly to the spirits who continue to swirl through the evergreens. He ponders reporting it to the intelligence garrison in the local town of Mt. Surinami, formally known as Mt. Jackson. “The Americans were skillful at shifting tactics, but we have not suffered any attacks recently. Not on the rail lines, ammunition depots, military facilities, or camps. I must have our informers look into this before the Shogun arrives. It would not be very good if they attack while he is here . . .”
“Father?” Satoru’s introspection is interrupted by his sixteen-year-old son, Akira. “You dropped your comb,” he says, retrieving it from the floor.
“NO . . .” Satoru begins to yell, unable to speak faster than his son’s youthful reflexes. “Throw it in the trash,” he mumbles, praying silently that the spirits missed Akira’s action. “Yes, son, what is it you need?”
“I feel you should know something. Yesterday, the teacher allowed us to listen to American news programming.”
“What? She must know this has been forbidden! It borders on treason!”
“She said we need to know what the Americans are saying.”
Satoru momentarily considers this statement. “What did you learn?”
“They hate us. One report was that brilliant men who once had been Nazi scientists until they defected from Herr Hitler’s science directorate to America are working on some super weapon that they hope will end the war and push us from the land we hold.”
This causes Satoru to consider his son’s information. Yes, that was a terrible incident. A superweapon? Perhaps what the ancestors are whispering about today? I pray it isn’t true. Maybe this is why the attacks have stopped. It might be time to send Akira and his mother back to Japan.
Misinterpreting his father’s silence, Akira steps back and drops his head, believing he is about to be punished. In his mind, he is already planning how to punish his teacher. But his father surprises him.
“What they say does not matter, son. With Japan in control of most of the Eastern Seaboard, including shipping traffic in the Chesapeake Bay, the Hudson, the Ohio, and parts of the Mississippi Rivers, and Herr Hitler’s sons and daughters in control of Europe, the world is made anew! Make sure your teacher knows these two facts. Tell her you told me and see what her reaction is.”
“Hai! Thank you, Father!”
Watching his son jump into a confiscated VW van and leave for school, Satoru is glad Akira, the son of a highly placed ruling class member, is not eligible to be drafted and sent to the front lines. But he can’t help himself as his son disappears, the van sputtering as Akira misses second gear. “Hmmm. That vehicle is the result of German engineering. How can German scientists help the Americans? The report must be propaganda, designed to warp the minds of impressionable youth.
Still, there may be some truth to the report. Who knows,” he mutters. Frustrated with the conundrum of warfare, Satoru puts aside thoughts of an American super weapon and dresses quickly. He goes down to the resort at the bottom of the hill and parks near a large swimming pool site where a ‘lazy river’ is under
construction. Satoru believes anything with the word ‘lazy’ is too reminiscent of the Americans they conquered to occupy this place. However, this resort was not built for him or any other Japanese, so he kept his opinion unsaid. Finally, he finds the project manager and begins his day.
“Mr. Young, impress me. But remember, I am not the ultimate audience. You must also impress the Shogun.”
“Hai! First, yesterday, one of our men liberated an unopened bottle of Scotch from a home we’d never been in before.” Holding up the bottle of amber liquid, he continues. “This 12-year-old bottle was one of many he found there. Perhaps a gift for the Shogun?”
Taking the bottle, Satoru examines the label. Ah, this is a find. “This is an excellent idea; though the Shogun prefers Saki, he also loves Scotch and Bourbon. He will certainly be pleased.”
Returning to the building site, the project manager continues, “And, as you can see, we have started to pour the concrete into the pool area. You should notice we are using a new mixture whose tint matches that of the Chrysanthemum Throne of the Emperor.”
“Yes, I was going . . .”
Suddenly, the construction noise is overridden by an air raid horn; its tone changes as the pole on which it sits turns.
“An Air Raid? There was no mention by the military of a system test so early in the day.” Satoru checks his watch. “The horns are normally tested at noon each day. It is not noon.” He glances upward.
Every worker stops what they are doing and looks skyward, wondering why they hear something like thick paper being ripped in half.
Satoru has enough time left to ponder one last question.
Is this why the ancestors were so angry this morning?
A split second later, a series of bright lights and fireballs, each the equivalent of four times the temperature of the sun’s center, turn everything within two hundred miles into glass and smoke, courtesy of the German-inspired super weapons Akira had mentioned.
The resort, located in Shenandoah County, Virginia, and everything between it and what once was the seat of American power, Washington, DC, becomes the first occupied territory, a sacrificial lamb of sorts, to feel the wrath of the new era.
