The Tree of Knowledge, Daniel Miller [unputdownable books txt] 📗

Roosevelt gave MacArthur total authority over Japan in 1948, and by 1951, the Japanese had a new constitution and a democratic government. And land that had been previously held by the emperor and his cronies was distributed to the folks who farmed it. The army had been completely disbanded, and the constitution committed the country to peace. In addition, a whole industrial machinery was created that paved the way for Japan to become an economic power. None of that could have been done without MacArthur having full control over the Japanese government.”

When the general spoke, he emanated a polished authority that gave the listener the sense that what they were hearing was an indisputable fact, regardless of whether that was the case. His colleagues used to whisper behind his back that the general could say that the sky was purple while you were staring at it, and you’d start to question yourself.

Seeing a potential opening, a reporter from the Times followed up. “That’s interesting. And how has MacArthur’s experience affected your career?”

“It’s quite simple,” said the general with quiet condescension. “In every military situation I’ve been placed in, whether it was reconstruction in Haiti or the war in Iraq, I’ve made sure that we had full control over all the machinery of power, not just the military. Because if you’re an occupying force, it’s not enough to just scare people with guns; you’ve got to show them that you can make a real difference in their lives. You’ve got to build schools, pave roads, give people clean drinking water, keep them safe. That’s what MacArthur did in Japan, and that’s what I’ve done in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

The reporter scoffed. “Of course, MacArthur was derisively called ‘Gaijin Shogun’ or ‘foreign military ruler’ by the Japanese, and you have been called ‘King Isaac’ by the Iraqis, haven’t you?”

The general’s face reddened, and a vein began to creep out of his large, weathered forehead. He leaned forward over the lectern, and his body appeared to gain several inches in height. He extended his long, bony, pale pointer finger.

“I agree with you that they have used those names. But I disagree that it was derisive.” His voice dropped to a raspy whisper. “I think if you spoke with any Iraqi or Japanese person from those particular eras, they would be thankful for the work that General MacArthur and I did.”

Silence permeated the room, and the enterprising reporter quietly returned to his seat.

Over the next half hour, the assembled media continued to offer up inane backward-looking questions. “What was your most memorable moment? What was your most difficult campaign?”

When the general thought he could stand it no more, he turned to his left and pointed to a newsman who had written favorably about him in the past and snarled, “Last question,” hoping to close on a positive note.

The reporter obliged. “General Moloch, your career has been a seemingly endless string of awards and honors. Upon graduating from West Point military academy you became an army ranger, the army’s most elite unit, and were a distinguished honor graduate. After graduating with a PhD, you commanded missions in Bosnia, Iraq, and Afghanistan, along the way earning the Bronze Star, the Defense Distinguished Service Medal, and the NATO Meritorious Service Medal, not to mention becoming a four-star general. Your ‘surge’ in Iraq is widely credited with winning the war—”

“Do you have a question or are you just reading my resume?” interrupted the general with a wry smile.

“My question to you is this . . . what’s next? There are rumors that you may be a candidate for president.”

The general paused and grinned, his yellow teeth flashing coyly.

“No, I’m afraid that I wouldn’t be much of a politician. But, I’ll tell you what . . . there’s a lady running for governor out there in California whom I’m awfully excited about. I might just join her team.”

And with that, the press conference was adjourned.

Chapter 5

As the hollow desert sun dropped beneath the taupe horizon line, Albert’s mind began to clear. The raw minimalism and crisp air of the desert gave him peace. He listened to the quiet crunch of sand and rock beneath his feet as he sipped a burnt motel coffee, nibbled on his Clif Bar, and meditated on the past few days.

Turner’s army had driven nonstop for forty-eight hours after their run-in with the feds and had finally taken refuge at the aptly named Desert Motel outside of Barstow, California. During that time, Turner and Brick had come to the unpleasant conclusion that training time was over and that the team had no other choice but to go on the offensive. They needed to see what exactly Eva was planning, and they hoped to clear their names.

Albert doubted that this was the right choice.

He wasn’t naïve about the danger inherent in his situation. He could still visualize the cold end of the FBI agent’s pistol pointed at his head and the shrill pangs of bullets glancing off the shield as he and Ying had escaped. Rather, it was the absence of reason in it all that shook him.

I know Eva. There must be a way to reason with her.

Albert watched flustered families packing up their station wagons and SUVs for the next leg of their road trips and thought back to his encounter with her in the parking lot back home. It seemed so long ago. He remembered looking into those gunmetal eyes. They weren’t the eyes of a madwoman. They were the eyes of a woman of logic, a woman with whom one could reason.

If I could talk to her . . . one more time.

“Mmmmm . . . that coffee smells goooood. Whatchya doin’?” said Ying as she shuffled up next to Albert. Her oversized glasses were sliding down her nose, and her floral tank top fluttered in the wind. The long road trip had produced a fierce sunburn on one of her arms.

“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about Eva.”

“Oh boy.” She rolled her eyes. “What is