Chapter 789: , rice stones smash feet! (6000-word double chapter!)

PS: I lost track of time watching the game, so I might as well just dump both chapters—6000 words in one go. Hehehe.

At 6:30 a. m., on the road from Kanagawa Prefecture to Tokyo, several black luxury cars were driving along.

"Well done, Mr. Sawada." Munetake Uesugi said over the walkie-talkie.

"When you need help, you know where to find us." Sawada Sumiko said with a hint of pride.

"Trouble you to take Chief Shinjo to the hospital."

"It's part of the job."

Munetake Uesugi contacted the U. S. Forces Japan command through Professor Ken and Professor William Edwards at MIT, but the entire setup was arranged by Sawada Sumiko. Munetake Uesugi never expected Morant to actually dare to fire a gun. However, as the famous German founding general once said, no plan survives contact with the enemy. After months of planning, the moment hostilities began, half of the pre-war plans were immediately scrapped, and the other half had to be adjusted on the fly.

"Mr. Uesugi, I still don't get it." Date Chōsō couldn't help but say: "Morant is just a U. S. Army major—his monthly take-home pay is $7,000, plus other allowances bringing it to $8,000–$9,000, so at least $100,000 a year, and yet…"

"You mean why he'd risk doing this?" Munetake Uesugi laughed.

"Yes." Date Chōsō still couldn't figure it out.

"Because it's a hobby." Munetake Uesugi said solemnly: "Humans are the kind of species that would give everything for XP." "Just because of a hobby?" Keisuke Kai said, crossing his arms: "Besides, as a U. S. Army major, you could just skim a little here and there—over ten years, you'd easily make more than $200,000."

"Huh? Then let me tell you—you're overthinking it." Munetake Uesugi chuckled, shaking his head: "You think a U. S. Army major is what, exactly? U. S. Forces Japan has no actual combat missions, and every piece of equipment undergoes extremely strict scrutiny. You think this is Lucia? That a Russian general could just sign a form and haul truckloads of gear out of the warehouse to sell?"

"In the U. S. military, a major is a mid-level officer—many battalion staff and company commanders hold this rank, and their opportunities for graft are actually quite small. Every rifle, every pistol, has a unique serial number in the Defense Logistics Agency (DLA) database, tracked from manufacture to disposal. U. S. material accountability and audits are among the strictest in the world—you can even see how many Boston lobsters they bought for Thanksgiving dinner."

Munetake Uesugi concluded: "This rank is actually the hardest to extract graft from. If you go lower—frontline soldiers and NCOs—there are plenty of such cases. Iraq and Afghanistan have seen numerous scandals of U. S. frontline troops stealing and selling fuel, night vision devices, and firearm parts."

Once actual combat operations or field duties are involved, military control over lower ranks weakens, and lower-enlisted soldiers and NCOs are the ones who can exploit this for profit.

"But I heard many of the guns here come from U. S. Forces Japan bases?" Date Chōsō still wasn't convinced.

"Yes, but this kind of thing requires at least a brigadier general or higher—for example, U. S. Forces Japan periodically transfers large amounts of weapons and equipment to allied nations. As commander of U. S. Forces Japan, General Zachary could exploit procedural loopholes in certain non-sensitive contracts to make a fortune. And this… this couldn't possibly be limited to just $10,000–$20,000 over ten years." Munetake Uesugi scoffed: "Is he sick? For this kind of money, he'd face a court-martial, decades in prison, loss of rank and pension, plus violations of arms export controls and possibly additional federal charges?" "Damn Americans!" Date Chōsō clenched his fists: "Wear the soul of Shanghai, parachute into Los Angeles! Every man gets a Hollywood beauty to help her dodge the kill list! I could take two—Taylor Swift and Elizabeth Olsen, please!"

"Hahahahahahahaha~" A light laugh came from inside the car.

6:40 a. m., Tokyo, Metropolitan Police Department, Sakuradamon Headquarters.

When Munetake Uesugi's car pulled up to the main gate of the Metropolitan Police Department, the sky was already fully bright.

The late May sun was already quite strong, shining on the glass curtain wall of the police headquarters, reflecting a cold white light.

He opened the car door, and the morning breeze rushed in through his collar, carrying the fresh, crisp scent unique to early summer.

Munetake Minami waited on the steps, impeccably dressed in a sharp suit, her hair perfectly in place, but the fatigue in her eyes betrayed the fact that she hadn't slept all night—she'd been dragging people around at the Kanagawa Prefectural Police Headquarters without closing her eyes.

"Munetake, I don't have time to write the report." Minami greeted him, her voice slightly hoarse: "My dad said to just go straight to him in Nagatacho." Munetake Uesugi nodded.

He'd anticipated this. He only got the full evidence chain after 5 a. m., returned to police headquarters by 6:40 a. m., and had to report to the Prime Minister's Office by 7 a. m. —this kind of timeline leaves no room for polished reports.

What they wanted was human testimony—living witnesses who could speak firsthand about what happened that night.

Watanabe Eiji walked out of the building. He'd changed clothes—no longer the wrinkled suit from earlier, but a neatly pressed dark navy uniform, the insignia of the Metropolitan Police Chief glinting gold in the morning light.

Four stars, just like General Zachary's shoulder boards.

But even the sharpest uniform couldn't hide the bloodshot eyes or the fatigue lines at the corners of his mouth.

Watanabe Eiji saw Munetake Uesugi, nodded, and gave his shoulder a firm pat—saying nothing.

My good son! Our family's thousand-mile steed is here!

The three of them got into a black government car, drove out of the police headquarters gate, and turned onto the road toward Nagatacho.

Tokyo's morning rush hour had just begun—traffic was slow, but their vehicle flashed its hazard lights, occasionally honked, and made its way through.

Munetake Uesugi closed his eyes, feeling the privilege of moving through traffic under dual-flashing lights.

The taste of power is always so intoxicating… and so dangerous.

I walk down the long street, listening to the actor sing of the capital city…

The leisurely morning breeze, watching the beauty sit in the police car…

How will Prime Minister Ōwada ask? Will he start with details or conclusions? Will Deputy Chief Cabinet Secretary Ōnoda pursue the question of "why wasn't this reported earlier"? Will Committee Chair Kōtarō Minami seize the opportunity to challenge, turning his criticism toward the police department?

And what about the foreign and defense ministers—they don't care about the truth, only whether the U. S. -Japan alliance has been damaged.

When the car stopped in front of the Prime Minister's residence, it was exactly 6:55 a. m.

The meeting room was already full of people.

The head of the long table was empty—that was Prime Minister Ōwada's seat.

On the left sat Cabinet Secretary Ōnoda Kōshū—suit and tie, stern expression, notebook and several documents spread before him. On the right was Foreign Minister Isayama, in his early fifties, round-faced, gold-rimmed glasses, fingers lightly tapping the table.

Defense Minister Watari sat beside him—somewhat younger, athletic build, handsome features, like someone who came from sports—now staring at his phone, brow furrowed.

Committee Chair Kōtarō Minami sat opposite, his tie loosened, shirt collar unbuttoned at the top, an ashtray before him filled with cigarette butts—clearly he'd arrived earlier than anyone else.

When Watanabe Eiji and Munetake Uesugi entered, everyone's eyes turned to them—more precisely, to Munetake Uesugi standing behind Watanabe.

"Sit." Prime Minister Ōwada's voice came from the doorway.

He walked in—suit immaculate, hair perfectly in place, looking nothing like someone who'd been dragged out of bed in the middle of the night.

But when he sat down, Munetake Uesugi noticed his hand tremble slightly—nervous, angry, or perhaps stirred by something deeper. The Prime Minister's gaze swept over Watanabe Eiji and settled on Munetake Uesugi: "You came yourself?"

"Yes, Prime Minister Ōwada—time is short, and I thought it better to speak directly."

"You never fail to disappoint the nation—truly, you are Japan's ultimate weapon!" Prime Minister Ōwada nodded: "Go on. Start from the beginning."

Munetake Uesugi stood up.

He spoke for nearly twenty minutes—from the midnight phone call, to splitting into two teams, to Ōnoda's testimony, to the leads from Tanabe at the crematorium, to Shinjo Shigeaki's obstruction, to Morant's appearance, to FBI data, to Shinjo drawing his gun, to Morant firing, to General Zachary appearing in person—he described it all in detail, but with restraint, no embellishment, no emotional manipulation, like a forensic pathologist reporting autopsy findings—calm and clinical. The meeting room fell so silent you could hear the wall clock ticking.

When Munetake Uesugi said Morant fired at Shinjo Shigeaki, who then collapsed from the wound, Foreign Minister Isayama sucked in a sharp breath. When he mentioned the AFP photographer who recorded everything, everyone stopped tapping their fingers on the table.

When he said General Zachary apologized on camera, Deputy Chief Cabinet Secretary Ōnoda took off his glasses, rubbed his temples, and the entire cabinet seemed to exhale in relief.

Prime Minister Ōwada was the first to speak. He looked at Munetake Uesugi, his eyes complex—scrutinizing, wary, and something else he couldn't name. "Mr. Munetake." He began slowly, as if weighing each word: "You said you brought General Ulan here? How did you manage to convince him?"

The Japanese pronunciation of "Ulan" bears little resemblance to "Roy"—it looks like someone forced a Japanese phonetic rendering—but those who know understand that the French-style pronunciation of "Roy" is indeed "Ulan."

Munetake Uesugi's reply was brief: "I'd previously met Professor Ken and Professor Edwards at MIT, and through them…" Prime Minister Ōwada's lips twitched—not a smile, but something between admiration and apprehension.

A man under thirty, a forensic pathology PhD, a police officer—actually bypassing the Foreign Ministry, the Defense Ministry, every official channel, directly summoning the commander of U. S. Forces Japan to a rundown meeting room in Yokohama, making him apologize before the whole world. Such a person, if placed fifty years ago, would either be hailed as a hero and enshrined…

…or treated as a threat and eliminated.

But now is not fifty years ago, nor is it that era where people would commit seppuku at the drop of a hat.

The most troublesome part is that Uesugi Muneyuki has already established contact with the U. S. Forces Japan command through this matter, and General Zakari even owes him a favor! That is none other than the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff of the Japan Self-Defense Forces, a full general whose very existence makes even those of his rank nod and bow with trepidation!

Uesugi's current power is terrifying indeed!

"I understand." Prime Minister Oowada's voice regained that politician-specific steadiness: "You did very well on this matter. The Special Mission Division did very well. The Metropolitan Police Department did very well."

He paused: "But"

"But, this matter ends here." Prime Minister Oowada's gaze swept over everyone present: "The investigation report must be written, but its scope must be controlled. As for the media, the Chief Cabinet Secretary will handle it uniformly, and as for the U. S., one"

He turned to Foreign Minister Isayama: "The Ministry of Foreign Affairs will be responsible for communication."

Foreign Minister Isayama nodded, the suppressed joy on his face almost spilling over: "Prime Minister, although this matter was perilous, the outcome is good. General Uuran thanked the Japanese police in front of the reporters and promised full cooperation in the investigation—one by one, this is actually a plus in publicity. The Japan-U. S. alliance has not only not been damaged, but has been strengthened precisely because of 'jointly cracking down on corruption'."

He paused, his voice carrying a hint of smugness: "Americans eat this up—face may be lost, but the facade remains. As long as we say this is 'Japan-U. S. joint anti-corruption,' they can explain it domestically!"

Foreign Minister Isayama had just taken office, his position unstable, when Uesugi sent him a "diplomatic gift package."

Hell yeah!! Being able to make Americans bow their heads—who said I, this foreign minister, am no good? I, this foreign minister, am too awesome!

Defense Minister Watari also nodded, his expression much more relaxed than before: "As for the Self-Defense Forces side, I will handle it well. The U. S. military has agreed to handle the personnel involved in the case at Hōkō Base on their own, without involving extradition, thus avoiding the worst-case scenario."

Committee Chairman Nankōtarō stubbed out the cigarette in his hand, looked at Uesugi Muneyuki, and his eyes held the kind of relief an elder feels toward a junior: "Uesugi-kun, you are the pride of the Japanese police. Had anyone else handled this matter, it would have been impossible to do better."

Prime Minister Oowada gave a few instructions, then gestured for everyone to take their seats, and they departed one after another, the first to leave being Minami, who had to return immediately to begin writing the report, while Uesugi Muneyuki, on the contrary, had nothing to do.

Wait a minute!

Where's my reward?

Uesugi Muneyuki muttered in his heart: TMD these politicians, dragging me out of bed in the middle of the night, and now that I've resolved the matter, where's my reward? Damn it!

I used to say not to let heroes bleed and weep, but now it's my turn to catch this boomerang with my own face!

Only Uesugi Muneyuki and Watanabe Eiji remained in the conference room.

Watanabe Eiji stood there, gazing at the closed door, silent for a long time.

"Muneyuki." He finally spoke, using the son-in-law's name rather than his title: "Do you know why the Prime Minister only gave verbal praise?" Uesugi Muneyuki thought for a moment: "Because he fears me."

Watanabe Eiji nodded: "You can summon the U. S. military general and make him bow before Agence France-Presse. No one else could have done this, but you did."

"What Prime Minister Oowada fears is not this matter itself, but the way you accomplished it—you bypassed everyone. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Defense Ministry, the Cabinet—you went through none of them, directly connecting with the Americans." He paused: "In politicians' eyes, this ability is more frightening than crime." "Make them wary, as long as they fear." Uesugi Muneyuki said with a smile.

Hang the Doge of Venice!!!

Watanabe Eiji sighed, this son-in-law of his now even he feels a bit afraid of.

"However, in this matter, your greatest gain is winning the friendship of the U. S. Forces Japan." Watanabe Eiji walked to the window, gazing outside: "This is truly our father-son greatest reward."

"Thank you, Father."

Watanabe Eiji did not turn back, but the lines of his shoulders softened somewhat.

"Come on," he said with a smile: "Let's go home. Minami is still waiting for you."

Humph, I Watanabe Eiji not only have Uesugi Muneyuki, but also Uesugi Minami!

At 7:20 a. m., in the office of the Chief Cabinet Secretary, Onoda Kimiaki dialed the White House phone.

The call was transferred twice, and finally picked up by a voice with a Midwest American Irish worker accent—U. S. Vice President Zakari-D-Heor.

"Mr. Onoda," Zakari's voice was very steady, but beneath that steadiness lay something pressed down: "Has your investigation report come out?"

"It has." Onoda Kimiaki concisely reiterated the content reported by Muneyuki, his wording very diplomatic, very restrained, yet every sentence pointed to the same fact: the implicated personnel included U. S. military officers, systemic corruption existed within the U. S. Forces Japan, and the Japanese police—precisely speaking, it was Muneyuki of the Special Mission Division—who had unearthed this tumor.

The other end of the phone fell silent for a long time.

"S0?" Vice President Zakari finally spoke, his voice somewhat lower than before: "You've found our hitogata." Onoda Kimiaki said nothing.

Otherwise?

fGoooooods!" Zakari's "0" dragged out a long ending tone, as if reluctantly spitting out something: Welldone, goodjob! incredible! Unimaginable!!! The phone was hung up.

White House-Oval Office

When Vice President Zakari-D-Heor entered the office, President Talhar-Temur was already sitting behind the Resolute desk, a briefing spread before him, his face flushed crimson—not from anger, but from some more complex emotion.

He had long learned to mask everything with anger, but this time, he couldn't even be bothered to disguise it.

"So," the voice of the U. S. President rolled out from his throat, carrying that signature, drawn-out vowel: "The Japanese are helping us investigate corruption. The Japanese. Investigating our military. You tell me, what is this?"

Zakari knew President Temur was about to explode, and at this moment he could only remain silent.

"I told them!" Temur's fingers tapped the desk: "I told those Japanese people, I said you investigate, investigate well, investigate thoroughly. The result? They investigated us."

His voice grew louder and louder: "This is wrong. This should not be happening. It should be us investigating them, not them investigating us. No one understands this better than I—I've spoken of it at the United Nations, I've spoken of it at the G7, I've told everyone. Americans will not be investigated by others. This is the rule." He stood up, walked to the window. Outside was the White House lawn, trimmed to perfection.

"But." He paused, his voice suddenly dropping: "They have evidence. Right? They filmed it. Agence France-Presse. French people." When he said "French people" three times, his tone sounded like he was telling an unfunny cold joke: "French people always think they're who? Enlightenment? Declaration of the Rights of Man? I've told them, I've said you French people just love meddling. He doesn't listen. He always smiles indulgently, but he listens to nothing."

"Damn Macron, damn French people, damn British, Japanese, Germans, damn them!"

He turned around, looking at the Vice President.

"So what now? They have evidence, they have footage, they have that……that Japanese forensic pathologist……what's his name again?":"Uesugi Muneyuki."

"Yes, Uesugi Muneyuki. A forensic pathologist. A forensic pathologist who caught our people. A forensic pathologist who is more formidable than our entire CID." His mouth twitched once, an expression between self-mockery and anger: "I tell you, this is bad. This is abnormal. But one"

He walked back to the desk, sat down.

"But evidence is evidence. Footage is footage. Right? We must admit. We must say 'well done.' Because if we don't admit, they'll just put the footage on TV, on CNN, on Fox News. Then everyone will say 'Temur shields corrupt military personnel.' This cannot happen, I cannot let this happen."

He looked at the Vice President.

"So you tell the Japanese 'well done'.

Say we will cooperate with the investigation. Say the Japan-U. S. alliance is stronger than ever. These words must be spoken, must be spoken pleasantly. And then……" Temur paused, his eyes narrowing, that expression being the kind that appears only at the negotiation table.

"Then you tell the Japanese, this matter ends here. The investigation report must be written cleanly, without too many details. The implicated personnel we will handle internally, not take to court. This is a military matter, the military will settle it themselves. You tell them, this is the best outcome. For everyone's benefit." He leaned back in his chair, hands crossed over his chest, took a deep breath, shook his head: "No problem. I can handle it. I've always been able to handle it. No one understands how to handle this better than I."

He picked up the phone on the desk: "Get me the Japanese Prime Minister. Yes, now. I want to speak to him personally."

When the call connected, President Temur's voice suddenly became enthusiastic, as if he had become a different person.

"Prime Minister! Good news! We've seen your investigation results, they were exceptionally outstanding! I told Zakari, this is a model of Japan-U. S. cooperation! That forensic pathologist of yours, Doctor Uesugi—he is too formidable! I tell you, we Americans also need such people!"

On the other end of the phone, Prime Minister Oowada's voice was very calm.

"Thank you, Mr. President."

"Of course, of course!" Temür's voice rose several degrees higher, "This matter we will handle strictly internally. You can rest assured, none of those people will escape, no one understands the problems within the US military better than I do, I am fully aware, the Japan-US alliance— I tell you— is stronger than ever! We are the best of friends! Forever!"

Dalahan-Temür hung up the phone, the smile vanished from his face.

He looked at Zhamuq He.

"Tell the Japanese, this must not happen again, tell Roy Uuran, he reacted quickly this time, did well, but do not let such things happen again! Otherwise, next time I will transfer him to the Philippines!"

"Emergency police affirmation!"