How the Vietcong Cracked Kusari’s Lunar Fortress. Part 1

Port Izumi Industrial Complex | Izumi

The first of the assaulting starships to land on the tarmac was an immense cruiser, larger even than many of the heavy corporate transports—some of which still burned amid the wreckage on the runways. Just a few hundred meters away, a state-of-the-art railgun emplacement stood inactive and unmanned, its barrel pointing uselessly into the empty sky. It was a stark example of stunning security failures, rooted in overconfidence, that left a premier installation of the powerful Kusari corporation the latest casualty of the Vietcong.

Japanese reserves will be more than enough to absorb the economic impact, but it’s an especially inglorious setback to a project rooted in the Empire’s broader ambitions. Completed in 2271 on a habitable moon in the Hirakubo system, Port Izumi was lauded as one of the most advanced industrial facilities in the entire Orinoco Spur. It served as the star system’s primary transshipment hub and refinery complex, a massive logistical node processing and distributing vast quantities of raw materials. Each day, it received hundreds of freighters from the surrounding moons, their parent gas giant, and the multitude of smaller facilities operated by the Sphere throughout the Hirakubo system.

“Japanese reserves will be more than enough to absorb the economic impact, but it’s an especially inglorious setback to a project rooted in the Empire’s broader ambitions. ”

On the lunar surface, Port Izumi occupied over ninety-one acres. Its primary facilities were supported by manufacturing and allied services, utilities, off-sites, port-infrastructure and a colonial township that provided housing to its forty-five thousand employees. An industrial grade orbital lift linked the terrestrial half of the facility to a modern starport in a low geosynchronous orbit, at the center of a sizable district of additional freight yards, cargo terminals and anchorages.

Across its terrestrial facilities and orbital infrastructure, the complex was defended by what, on paper, should have been a formidable force. The Kusari Group—a sprawling zaibatsu with deep ties to the Japanese Army—had heavily militarized Port Izumi, integrating anti-starship emplacements, point-defense batteries, and electronic countermeasures. In orbit, many stations were armed and supported by a network of advanced sensors and early warning posts spread throughout the surrounding space.

Byakko Logistics, one of Kusari’s in-house PMCs, operated these systems. Payroll records leaked in 2283 indicated that over five thousand mercenaries and support personnel were stationed across the Hirakubo system. On Izumi, Byakko fielded armored vehicles, dropships, and aerospace craft. In orbit, an aging but capable scout destroyer and two frigates—Japanese-built but in Byakko livery—maintained patrol.

Within its first three years of operation, the complex was assessed by many as competitive with the immense industrial combines of the Soviet Union and others—yet a fraction of their size and built in half the time. To the Orion Treaty Organization, already wary of Japanese efforts to industrialize the strategic Orinoco Spur, Port Izumi was interpreted by some as a thinly veiled shot across the bow. Western officials, both military and civilian, cited the facility repeatedly, in policy briefings and assessments, all part of broader concerns over Japan’s expanding presence in the region.

“To the Orion Treaty Organization, already wary of Japanese efforts to industrialize the strategic Orinoco Spur, Port Izumi was interpreted by some as a thinly veiled shot across the bow. ”

This would seem to explain, then, why narratives alleging Western involvement in Port Izumi’s destruction have been so readily accepted within the Co-Prosperity Sphere. Yet even the most provocative claims —American or French special forces fighting in Vietcong uniforms, orbital bombardment by hidden stealth ships, and many others—fail to account for the humiliating performance of Izumi’s corporate security. Instead, as footage and details continue to circulate, the evidence points to a meticulously planned and executed operation spearheaded by the Vietcong themselves.

The attack likely began days or even weeks before the first tanks rolled off the ramps of the landing ships. The Vietcong fleet, consisting of less than a dozen rated warships with maybe twice as many converted civilian transports and freighters, slipped unnoticed into the steady stream of both Sphere and independant traffic passing throughout the system. Forged transponder signals allowed these vessels to close much of the distance without drawing suspicion, disguised within the mining fleets and convoys that routinely operated in the vicinity of Port Izumi.

How precisely the approaching fleet bypassed the more sophisticated detection methods throughout the star system is a question that will be intensely studied over the following weeks and months, but corruption seems the obvious culprit. Footage recorded and released by the Vietcong, appeared to show security stations undermanned, systems offline or in maintenance, and equipment necessary for the security of the station simply missing. Significant attention has also been given to a series of posts uncovered on public networks, the latest from just six weeks ago, in which employees of Byakko Logistics complained of procurement issues, delays, and cost-cutting measures. 

For an organization like the Vietcong, whose recent successes have been built on exploiting complacency, Port Izumi increasingly seems to have been the perfect target. It was not until the first shots were fired that the complex seemed to have realized it was under attack. 

This report was originally prepared for the Centauri Sentinel. Published here in full with additional context.

A detailed account of the assault on Port Izumi and its broader implications will follow in Part II.