Re: Blood and Iron - Chapter 733: Wardens of the Pacific
Chapter 733: Wardens of the Pacific
The flight from Berlin to Tokyo took twenty-three hours with a refueling stop in Novosibirsk.
Below, the endless steppes of Siberia stretched like a frozen continent of silence.
He had not been to Japan since the end of the German-Japanese War nearly a decade prior.
Back then he had turned multiple cities into black husks. All burned by the kind of fire that left no bones, only shadows.
German thermobaric bombardment had broken the Japanese will faster than any invasion could.
Afterwards came the reconstruction: German engineers, German police, German advisors, brick by brick, Japan rebuilt under the eye of its conqueror.
Now, through the oval window, Bruno saw the archipelago again: neat as clockwork, the rebuilt lights of Tokyo forming perfect grids along the bay.
It was beautiful in the way order always is when purchased by ruin.
When the aircraft landed at Haneda Field, the honor guard was waiting:
Rows of Imperial soldiers in grey-white uniforms, bayonets fixed, their faces expressionless behind ceremonial masks reminiscent of kendo visors.
Behind them, banners bearing the insignia of the German East Asia Command fluttered beside the rising sun.
Two empires, one victorious, one preserved only by grace.
The press cameras clicked once, twice, then stopped. The Japanese had learned discretion.
Bruno stepped down the gangway. Waiting at the bottom of the steps was General Kuroda, head of the Metropolitan Security Bureau, Japan’s new internal army, raised and trained by German instructors.
“Reichsmarschall von Zehntner,” Kuroda said, bowing low. “The Emperor awaits at the Imperial Palace. Your quarters have been prepared at the German Embassy.”
Bruno nodded. “Straight to the palace.”
Kuroda hesitated a heartbeat before answering. “As you wish.”
—
The motorcade crawled through Tokyo’s central district under the escort of armored motorcycles.
On either side of the street, citizens paused their errands to stare, quietly, carefully.
No one cheered. No one protested. The occupation had lasted long enough that both gratitude and hatred had hardened into routine.
Bruno watched through the tinted glass: rebuilt factories, German signage, children in identical grey school uniforms carrying hymnbooks printed in both languages.
Efficiency everywhere, but no joy. Japan was functioning, perhaps too well.
“They obey,” he said softly.
Kuroda’s reflection in the window barely moved. “They remember what happened to those who didn’t.”
—
The Imperial Palace had survived the war only because Bruno himself had ordered it spared.
Now it was half-museum, half-embassy, an exquisite mausoleum of sovereignty.
The Emperor waited in the Chrysanthemum Hall, flanked by two silent guards in ceremonial armor.
He was older than Bruno remembered, grey at the temples, his bearing still imperial but his eyes hollow with knowing.
Emperor Nobuhito, the younger brother of the late Hirohito, rose from the throne and bowed slightly, enough to be polite, not enough to seem subservient.
His German was formal, practiced.
“Reichsmarschall. You honor us.”
Bruno stood firmly in turn. His refusal to bow was no accident.
It was the same gesture that had once ended the friendship between their empires, when Berlin no longer cared to pretend that other thrones mattered.
“Majesty. It is the Empire of Japan that honors me by receiving this visit on such short notice.”
They sat opposite one another. A servant poured tea in silence; the porcelain was older than both men combined.
After the ritual pleasantries, the Emperor dismissed the attendants. The doors shut with a sound like sealing stone.
“I was informed,” Nobuhito began, “that your satellites have observed American aircraft entering Philippine airspace.”
“They have,” Bruno said. “Envoys, troops, advisors. The United States intends to rearm the islands. We have already seen negotiations begin with the Transitional Council.”
The Emperor’s expression did not change. “So another war begins. Not here, I hope.”
“Wars begin where the supply lines demand,” Bruno said. “But the Pacific remains an open board. We cannot allow another power to fortify its flank within reach of our sea lanes.”
Nobuhito folded his hands. “You speak as though Japan still commands the Pacific.”
Bruno met his eyes. “Japan commands what Germany allows it to command.”
The silence that followed was sharp.
The Emperor did not flinch, but something passed behind his face, a flicker of ancient pride, quickly buried.
“You rebuilt us,” Nobuhito said after a moment. “You saved us from anarchy. But you also made us your mirror. Our police wear your uniforms, our schools teach your methods. Even our anthem plays under your direction at state events. Tell me, Reichsmarschall, does Germany wish to make us Europeans, or servants?”
Bruno leaned forward slightly. “Neither. Germany wishes Japan to remain useful.”
“And if we grow tired of being useful?”
“Then you will be replaced. Just as empires replace dynasties. Need I remind you that the Thai have been more than eager to grow under our instruction?”
The Emperor’s jaw tightened. “You speak plainly.”
“I find it best when speaking to intelligent men,” Bruno said. “You know as well as I do that your throne survives because it provides stability. Japan’s people obey the chrysanthemum. If you wish to remain sovereign, then help me maintain the balance that keeps both.”
Nobuhito stared into his tea. “And what balance is that?”
“That no nation east of India can project power without our consent,” Bruno said. “That includes the United States. Germany rebuilt Japan so that Japan could act as our guard over the Pacific, not as a master, but as a warden.”
The Emperor gave a faint smile. “A beautiful word for a prison keeper.”
“Prisons keep order,” Bruno said evenly. “Without them, there is chaos. You saw what chaos looked like in your own streets when the bombs fell.”
The conversation hung in the air like smoke. Outside, the wind pressed faintly against the paper screens.
Finally, the Emperor spoke again, softer now. “You ask us to watch the Americans. To report. Perhaps even to hinder.”
“I ask you,” Bruno corrected, “to remember who rebuilt your cities, who guards your borders, who keeps your factories running when the world still resents your flag. If the Americans establish themselves in Manila, the Pacific becomes their staging ground. Germany will not allow it.”
The Emperor nodded once, his face unreadable. “And if Japan refuses?”
Bruno’s tone did not change. “Then we will remind Japan of what happens when they raise their bayonets towards Berlin….”
Nobuhito closed his eyes briefly… just long enough to hide the storm inside them.
When he opened them, he was Emperor again, serene and unyielding.
“Then I will instruct my Prime Minister to cooperate with your embassy. Japanese intelligence will monitor the Philippine situation. You will have our reports.”
Bruno rose. “That is all I ask.”
The Emperor stood as well. “And what does Germany offer in return?”
Bruno paused, considering. “Continuation. Peace. The chance for Japan to remain itself, even as the world changes again.”
Nobuhito gave a dry smile. “Peace, then. Another word for obedience.”
Bruno inclined his head. “You act as if you have ever lived without it. Every man must answer to some master or another. Even I have to answer to the Kaiser, and he to our father in heaven.”
The words rang throughout the hall, despite the deafening silence that followed them.
