the moment, though; while nearly two dozen army and navy officers lay dying in the waiting room, no less than seventeen surgeons were praying over High General Wakisaki.
The general had been hurt in the attack on Callao Beach. Not by enemy action per se—the reviewing stand under which he and many others fled at first sight of the bombers had collapsed, giving the general a slight cut on his nose.
The wound required not even half a dozen stitches, but still the top doctors in New Lima were working on closing the cut, and trying their best to reassure the general that no scar would remain, or if one did, it would look rather “manly.”
But Wakisaki wasn’t really listening to them at the moment. Laid out on the operating table, lights and masked faces staring down at him, he was simply too busy crying.
The tears had been flowing for almost an hour now. They’d started soon after the mysterious bombers had left New Lima ablaze, and had continued unabated through the general’s evacuation to the basement hospital.
The very unmanly waterworks had little to do with the general’s nose wound, though it did sting anytime his salty tears found their way into the cut. No, the majority of tears were the result of shame— his shame—and from his hurt feelings.
He just couldn’t understand what had happened. Why would anyone want to bomb New Lima? Or his troops? Or his ships offshore? What was the point of it?
For his army and navy to be attacked was an affront to his own personal honor, and no blade could go deeper into Wakisaki than a disgrace of his good name. That’s why what happened to the general this day became a scar that would last much longer than the cut on his nose. This day, he knew, would live on inside him and haunt him right to the core.
Such a compulsive obsession was a result of his psychological makeup. Unbeknownst to anyone, Wakisaki actually regarded his occupation of South America not so much as a conquest, but as a thing of beauty. Like a pearl vase or a sculpture, he’d shaped it, he’d executed it, he’d dreamed of its every detail. And for the first six months, this thing of beauty had grown, had been nurtured by him. Had taken on an extra beauty. In his hands, he’d crafted no less than a new kind of culture. He had projected the Asian way of life to another continent, half a world away. They might as well have been on another planet!
And now, this thing had been ruined, had been fouled.
Why?
This was why there were tears rolling down his cheeks and sometimes getting into his nose wound. His perfect record had been besmirched. His pure white soul was now stained. His heart was now ringed with filth.
But the real question ran even deeper than why. The real question was who. Who could have done this?
And just as these words were on his lips, there was a knock at the treatment room door. A very shaky officer in a very sweaty uniform stepped in. He was not a military officer, rather he was the police chief for New Lima, a sacrificial lamb if there ever was one. In his trembling right hand was the report on the action from the bomber crash site; in his left hand, a small pistol with one bullet in it.
The police chief handed the report to the high general, who was eating him alive with his teary eyes. Then, calmly, the police chief raised the pistol to his own head and pulled the trigger. There was a crack, a splash of cranial matter hit the far wall, and the man slumped to the floor, bleeding profusely. The seventeen doctors ignored him, of course. They were too busy tending to the last stitch on Wakisaki’s wounded nose.
The report was stark in its details. Twenty tanks and 189 men had been lost to enemy action in attempting to reach the bomber crash site. All survivors of the bomber had been rescued; even the bodies of those killed in the crash had been carried away. The wreckage had by now burned away to nothing, destroyed by time-delayed magnesium bombs left behind by the
The general had been hurt in the attack on Callao Beach. Not by enemy action per se—the reviewing stand under which he and many others fled at first sight of the bombers had collapsed, giving the general a slight cut on his nose.
The wound required not even half a dozen stitches, but still the top doctors in New Lima were working on closing the cut, and trying their best to reassure the general that no scar would remain, or if one did, it would look rather “manly.”
But Wakisaki wasn’t really listening to them at the moment. Laid out on the operating table, lights and masked faces staring down at him, he was simply too busy crying.
The tears had been flowing for almost an hour now. They’d started soon after the mysterious bombers had left New Lima ablaze, and had continued unabated through the general’s evacuation to the basement hospital.
The very unmanly waterworks had little to do with the general’s nose wound, though it did sting anytime his salty tears found their way into the cut. No, the majority of tears were the result of shame— his shame—and from his hurt feelings.
He just couldn’t understand what had happened. Why would anyone want to bomb New Lima? Or his troops? Or his ships offshore? What was the point of it?
For his army and navy to be attacked was an affront to his own personal honor, and no blade could go deeper into Wakisaki than a disgrace of his good name. That’s why what happened to the general this day became a scar that would last much longer than the cut on his nose. This day, he knew, would live on inside him and haunt him right to the core.
Such a compulsive obsession was a result of his psychological makeup. Unbeknownst to anyone, Wakisaki actually regarded his occupation of South America not so much as a conquest, but as a thing of beauty. Like a pearl vase or a sculpture, he’d shaped it, he’d executed it, he’d dreamed of its every detail. And for the first six months, this thing of beauty had grown, had been nurtured by him. Had taken on an extra beauty. In his hands, he’d crafted no less than a new kind of culture. He had projected the Asian way of life to another continent, half a world away. They might as well have been on another planet!
And now, this thing had been ruined, had been fouled.
Why?
This was why there were tears rolling down his cheeks and sometimes getting into his nose wound. His perfect record had been besmirched. His pure white soul was now stained. His heart was now ringed with filth.
But the real question ran even deeper than why. The real question was who. Who could have done this?
And just as these words were on his lips, there was a knock at the treatment room door. A very shaky officer in a very sweaty uniform stepped in. He was not a military officer, rather he was the police chief for New Lima, a sacrificial lamb if there ever was one. In his trembling right hand was the report on the action from the bomber crash site; in his left hand, a small pistol with one bullet in it.
The police chief handed the report to the high general, who was eating him alive with his teary eyes. Then, calmly, the police chief raised the pistol to his own head and pulled the trigger. There was a crack, a splash of cranial matter hit the far wall, and the man slumped to the floor, bleeding profusely. The seventeen doctors ignored him, of course. They were too busy tending to the last stitch on Wakisaki’s wounded nose.
The report was stark in its details. Twenty tanks and 189 men had been lost to enemy action in attempting to reach the bomber crash site. All survivors of the bomber had been rescued; even the bodies of those killed in the crash had been carried away. The wreckage had by now burned away to nothing, destroyed by time-delayed magnesium bombs left behind by the
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