Chapter 2

Though diminutive in physical stature, the man wields unprecedented power that few world leaders will ever know or can even imagine.

He leans back in his plush, high-back leather chair, fingers interlaced and lying on his mid-section, and gazes out the window to a spot just beyond the ornamental gardens. His focus finally coming to rest on the majestic image of his country's flag as it waves and flutters in the Tokyo breeze.

And he thinks... It's a beautiful day.

In his mind, the decision was not optional. Not really, given his country's culture and long history of national and racial pride. It was, instead, a mandate of sorts. A mandate that fell squarely in his lap, and his lap alone.

He spins the chair to face the desk and pushes the phone’s intercom button. A distinguished, mannerly voice answers…

''Yes, your Imperial Majesty.''

''Rum rear, I wee wu.''

A moment later, the door opens, and a man dressed in contemporary, political dark suit attire enters the room. There is a red satin sash wrapped around his waist, indicating that he is a person of significant diplomatic importance.

He stands erect and bows to the man behind the desk.

''How may I serve Your Majesty today?''

''I wee wone wook!''

''We have several, your Majesty. I need to know who it is you wish to call in order to select the correct one.''

''Wesident Woonited Rates!''

''Yes, your Majesty.''

The man then departs in the same manner in which he arrived: bowing first before making his exit. A few minutes later, he returns, phone book in hand, and again bows before handing it to the emperor. It is a phone book covering the Washington D.C. area.

The emperor sets the book on his desk and begins rifling through the pages until he finds what he's looking for: the Rs. His index finger travels down the list of names, column by column, flipping pages as needed, as he searches for the information he seeks…

Radner

Ratcliff

Randall

REAGAN!

Donald

Eric

Frank

George

Jack

Kerry

RONALD!

He begins stabbing the name with a pointed index finger…

''Rats wim! Rats wim! Wu caw! Ransrate fo we!''

He spins the phone book around, careful to maintain his finger on the correct spot.

''Yes, your Majesty.''

And with that, the diplomat spins the outdated rotary dial of the desk phone the requisite number of times until finally, after a considerable delay, it begins to ring…

''Good afternoon, the White House. How may I direct your call?''

''We wish to speak to President Reagan, please.''

''Who may I say is calling?''

''The Emperor of the Empire of Japan.''

''One moment, please, while I connect you.''

A brief pause, some clicking sounds, and then a ring. The call’s answered on the first one.

''Ronnie, here.''

''Good afternoon, Mr. President. I'm calling on behalf of Emperor Ito.''

The diplomat routes the call to the speaker sitting on the desk next to the phone. The President continues in his usual upbeat, boisterous manner...

''ITO! How is the old sod? Say, did he get the cowboy boots and hat I sent him? Quite a few hard-earned tax dollars went into those puppies, ya know!''

''RUCK WOW WOY WIT! WOED UM IN GAWEEGE!''

The diplomat continues…

''The emperor wholeheartedly thanks you for such fine, exquisite gifts and wishes you to know that he is wearing them even as we speak.''

'Outstanding! Now, what can ole Ronnie here do for you folks today? You guys want me to send you a couple of Buicks so you got a real car to drive instead of those tiny toys you wanna send over here? Hell, I could have them there in an hour. Nice, big Buick Electras with A/C, AM/FM radio, and that fake leather stuff. Naugahyde, I think they call it.''

''RUCK WIM AN WIS WUNKY CAWS!'', the emperor scowls. The diplomat continues...

''That is most generous of you, Mr. President, but I'm afraid that the emperor must decline your gracious offer due to the fact that there is not enough gasoline in all of Japan to keep the automobiles properly fueled.''

The president rubs his chin and recalls Japan's almost complete lack of oil production…

''Yeah, well, I suppose that could be a problem. Damn, things only get two miles to the gallon, and that's going downhill with a stiff tailwind. Well, anyway, what else can the President of the United States do for your king?''

''WUPID RUDER RUCKER!''

''That's ‘emperor’, Mr. President. We don't have kings.''

''No kings, huh. Well, jus’ tie this ole cowpoke up and whip him like a prairie dog! My bad. The closest I ever get to the Orient is that Chinese takeout place Nancy likes. Kung Fu Dragon, or something like that.''

''I understand, Mr. President.''

The emperor is tugging on the diplomat's sleeve. He's becoming impatient and wants to get to the reason for the call. The diplomat nods and returns his attention to the phone...

''One moment, please, Mr. President.''

He places a hand over the mouthpiece…

''What should I tell him, exactly, your Majesty?''

''FOWY WEAH ANUWUSSAWEE WUMIN WUP WEX WEEK! ATOWIC WOMB ATTACK! WAPAN WEMANDS FOWMUHL APOWOGY FWUM WOONITED RATES!''

The emperor slams his fist on the desk to emphasize the importance of the request.

''Yes, your Majesty.''

The diplomat again bows and then returns his attention to the phone call…

''His Majesty would like to remind the President that this coming week will mark the fortieth anniversary of the United States’ brutal and unwarranted nuclear attack upon the innocent, defenseless cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And, in accordance with international protocol, and in the spirit of global world peace, his majesty wishes to request a written, formal apology from you on behalf of your country and its citizens for these barbaric acts.''

Reagan jerks the receiver from his head as if it just farted and stares at it in utter disbelief, wondering if he actually heard what he thinks he did. He looks down at Jojo, his pet cocker spaniel resting peacefully at his feet, and asks…

''Did he really just say that?''

The dog, without moving, rolls his eyes upward in reply. It, too, unable to wrap its mind around the sheer audacity of the request. Reagan nods his head in agreement with his best friend and then returns the phone to his head...

''Help me out here, cowboy. This IS Japan calling, is it not?''

''Yes, Mr. President, it is.''

''Thought so. Humor me and refresh my memory here, if you don't mind. This IS the same country that, on December 7, 1941, launched three hundred and fifty warplanes in a cowardly, unannounced, and completely unprovoked attack on this country's naval base located in Pearl Harbor, sinking or damaging almost twenty naval vessels, destroying over three hundred military aircraft, and killing over twenty-four hundred American servicemen, while at the same time, wounding an additional thousand? I do have that right, do I not?''

''Yes, Mr. President. I do believe your facts to be in order.''

''Hhhmmm. Thought so. And now, if I understand you correctly, you're demanding an apology from this country for having toasted two of your cities as a result of military action your country forced upon us in our effort to end the war and restore global peace?''

''Yes, sir, Mr. President. That would be one way to interpret our request, I suppose.''

''Yeah, well, you know what? I think I can accommodate you on this one, ranch hand. In fact, I know I can. You can bank on it, or my name ain't Ronald A. Reagan! Of course, I’m going to need to consult with my advisors and experts on foreign policy, but that's just formalities. We'll get this done toot sweet, my friend. You can bet on it!''

''Excellent, Mr. President. On behalf of his majesty, the Emperor, the country of Japan and its constituents, I extend my most sincere, heartfelt gratitude, sir. Thank you.''

''Not a problem, Kemosabe. It's what I'm here for. But I gotta tell ya, it's gonna cost. I want something in return.''

''And what might that be, if I may ask?''

''Well, you know those little egg roll thingies, shaped like little squares? You know, the kind you can pop in the microwave and serve at parties?''

''I believe I do, yes.''

''Well, Nancy and I like the hell outta those rascals. We'd be much obliged if you could see your way to sending us a box or two. So, how 'bout it, chief, we got ourselves a pow wow here?''

''Pow wow, sir?''

''DEAL, MAN. DEAL! We got ourselves a deal?''

''I think we do indeed, Mr. President. Is there anything else that I can do for you?''

''Nope, that's about it. But I gotta tell ya, once I tell Nancy about the egg roll thingies, she's gonna be chomping at the bit just itching to get her hands on the little devils. That's the way she is. So here's what I'm gonna do. As soon as I hang up, I'm gonna send one of our Blackbirds to your palace airstrip to pick ‘em up, and as fast as those buzzards fly, you should be looking at it in…oh, I'd say (lifts his arm and checks his Rolex, Presidential model) in about twenty minutes or so, give or take. So, if you could have somebody on the runway waiting for it, why, I'd appreciate the hell out of it. Just have them hand ‘em to the pilot if you don't mind.''

''Yes, sir. It would be my privilege and honor to do so.''

''Great! Anything else ole Ronnie here can do for you today? Sure, I can't send you a couple of Buicks? I could send ‘em with the Blackbird. They gotta way to attach payloads to the bottom, you know. Amazing stuff, those spy planes.''

''WUPID RUDER RUCKER! RUCK WIM!'', the emperor chimes in.

''Your gracious generosity overwhelms us, sir, but we must again decline the offer based on the reasons previously mentioned.''

''Understood.''

The diplomat adds…

''And one last thing. The emperor asks that I convey his utmost admiration for the many fine films you've made. He is a big fan and suggests that perhaps you should make more.''

''Fat chance, honcho. No time. Hell, I can't even find enough time to walk my own dog, Jojo. Got one of those creepy secret agent guys with wires in his ears does it for me.''

''I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. President. The world's loss, no doubt. I will inform the emperor of the unfortunate situation. Again, we extend our gratitude to you.''

''So not a problem. You just have those egg roll thingies waiting on the runway.''

''Yes, sir.''

''Oh yeah, while I'm thinking about it. How 'bout giving me your direct number so's I can call and let you know when you can expect the apology.''

''Certainly. My name is Minister of Interior Osmo Harada, and my direct line is 11-00-474-39.''

''Mucho gracias, Osmosis. Should be hearing from me in about (checks his Rolex again), oh, I'd say two hours, give or take.''

''Yes, Mr. President. I will be anxiously awaiting your call.''

''Good enough. You have a blessed day, now.''

''Yes, sir. You as well.''

They hang up.

The time is 10:05 am.

Chapter 3

Much larger in physical stature than his Japanese counterpart, the power he wields, being the most powerful man in the world, is disproportionately larger. To the point of being exponential, even. Power on a scale no other world leader has ever seen or can even imagine.

He is POTUS, President of the United States.

He gazes out at the stately grounds of the White House, the president does, until his focus comes to rest on the majestic image of his beloved country's flag as it flutters and waves in the brisk Washington D.C. breeze.

And he thinks... It's a beautiful day.

In his mind, the decision was not optional. Not really, given his country's sense of patriotism and national pride. It was, instead, a mandate of sorts. A mandate that fell squarely in his lap, and his lap alone.

Jojo remains comfortably catatonic, curled in the president's lap, as Reagan strokes the dog’s head and gazes out the window. He watches the huge American flag as it flutters and contemplates the gravity of his next actions. He peers down at his beloved pet...

''Whacha think, Jojo? Should I do it?''

The dog rolls its eyes in reply, its answer clear and understood. The president clenches his lips and nods in return. He continues the one-sided conversation, still looking down at his trusted confidante and companion...

''Can you believe the nerve of those rice-eating midgets? It's bad enough they want us to buy their stupid circus clown cars, but this?''

He shakes his head in disbelief. He massages his forehead with a thumb and forefinger, as if trying to ward off an oncoming headache, and then continues...

''And another thing - what kinda people live on rice? Maybe if they'd eat a steak and potato every once in a while, they might grow big enough to drive a real car, like a good ole American made Buick. You know, one with A/C, AM/FM radio, and that fake leather stuff? Naugahyde, or whatever the hell they call it?''

He gently lowers the animal to its previous spot on the floor and then pats its head before returning upright in the chair. He swivels the high back to face his desk and says to no one but himself...

''Welp, time to roll the ol’ sleeves up and earn my keep around here. Nancy'll be showing up for lunch any ole time now.''

He presses the first speed dial button on the presidential 'bat' phone, and instantly, the direct line to CIA Director William Casey begins to ring…

“Casey speaking.''

“Bill, Ronnie. Look, you got that emergency Blackbird ready to go?''

''Always. 24/7, Mr. President…''

''What's its status?''

''Sitting on the tarmac, fueled, pilot and REO sitting in their seats awaiting orders to fly.''

''Outstanding. Do it.''

''Where to, if I might be so bold as to ask?''

''Oh yeah, sorry. Landing strip behind the imperial palace.''

''Mission?''

''Japanese takeout.''

''Excuse me?''

''I'll explain later. Should be someone on the runway waiting with a couple a boxes of those little egg roll thingies Nancy likes, the little square ones they serve at parties. You can microwave those things, you know.''

''You don't say.''

''Also, you might wanna get your people outta Japan within the next hour or so.''

''Operation Samurai Sword?''

''Yep. They just gave me the excuse I've been waiting for.''

''Outstanding, Mr. President. They want us to import those tiny clown cars?''

''Yeah, they do, but that's not it. Something better than that, even. Tell ya all about it over lunch tomorrow.''

''I'll be there.''

(click)

Next, he pushes the intercom button.

''Yes, Mr. President.''

''Sally, we've known each other for what? Six years now?''

''About.''

''How many times have I told you to call me Ronnie, for Pete's sake!?''

''Sorry, sir...er, Ronnie.''

''Much better. Look, get me Rickover on the phone, and don't spare the gas.''

''Spare the…''

''FAST! GET HIM FAST, WOMAN! I'm in a hellfire hurry here!''

''Just a moment.''

The phone rings. Once.

''Rickover here.''

''Jimmy, Ronnie.''

''Yes, Mr. President.''

''OK, tell me again. We got what, fourteen Ohio class subs?''

''Yes, sir.''

''Status?''

''Thirteen on active patrol and one in port for routine maintenance and crew change.

''The one in port, can it still launch?''

''I don't see why not.''

“So that gives us what? Three hundred ICBMs?

“Three hundred and thirty-six, to be exact.”

''Outstanding. Here's what I want you to do. Have your people re-target the warheads to form an evenly spaced grid spanning the entire Japanese mainland.''

''But Mr. President, you realize...''

Reagan cuts him off, abruptly. He's had it with this utterly pompous, insolent, self-righteous ass ache. He bolts to his feet, stabbing an angry finger in the air at an imaginary Rickover standing in front of him...

''DAMMIT, MAN! Do you not understand that I am the Commander in Chief here, for God's sake? In other words, YOUR BOSS. And as your boss, I'm asking you - no, I'M TELLING YOU - for once, as a public servant to this country, DO - YOUR - JOB! Which means do what the hell I tell you to without all the usual bull crap you always seem to want to hand me. AM I MAKING MYSELF CLEAR?''

Crystal, Mr. President.''

''Good!''

He calms himself, runs his hand through his hair, re-tightens his tie knot, and sits back down…

''And something else. Get someone on each sub to get a can of white paint and, in big ass letters - and I do mean BIG ASS - write 'WE SAWWEE' down the side of each missile. I want the letters as big as you can make em.''

''How do you spell that?''

''We, W-E. Sawwee, S-A-W-W-E-E. Got that?''

''Yes, Sir. Anything else?''

''Yeah. I want you to stagger the launch times so that each missile arrives on target at precisely 12:10 our time. What I want is to see one enormous mushroom cloud, Jimmy. Just one, that's all. Not two, not three, not five, just one. One big one. You got that?''

''Got it, Mr. President.''

Reagan pauses for a moment and then adds...

''And Jimmy, get this one right, and I'll approve your proposal for the four new subs you've been pestering me about. We got us a deal?''

''Absolutely, Mr. President.''

''Good. Remember - 12:10, precisely.''

''Yes, Mr. President.''

(click)

He reaches down and strokes the head of the still dormant pet…

''Well, old buddy, we did it. You, me, and some three hundred angry, rice-toasting warheads.''

He sits back up and checks the time…

''Guess I'd better get a little shut-eye while I can.''

He presses the intercom button again.

''Yes, Mr...er, Ronnie.''

''Sally, I'm gonna take a short nap. Gonna have a press conference in a bit and wanna be at my best. How about give me a wake-up buzz in, oh (consults the Rolex), say, an hour? Also, call Tom and have him standing by in the press room about that time. Tell him NO media. I repeat, NO media. You got that?''

''Yes, Ronnie. I got it.''

''That's my girl.'' 

He clicks the intercom off.

The time is now 11:01 am.

He leans back in the presidential high back, fingers laced and resting on his stomach, and slowly lets his eyes drift shut. He takes a deep breath, relaxes, and lets his mind wander back to the good 'ol days. To a time when he once rode tall in the saddle of his favorite horse, Shadow Dancer, and galloped off into a beautiful, golden-rust red sunset.

Yeah. The good ol’ days.

And with that fond memory in mind, he gently slips off into a peaceful, presidential slumber.