She lay like that for a few more minutes, trying to find any sign of the things that had killed Vanya and chased her into the canyon. Soon, though, thoughts of her team and Wilson’s students began to overwhelm her. What had happened to them? Were any still alive? Did they need her help?
Lying there was pointless, she concluded. She didn’t know anything about the weapon that had been used against her. It might key on motion, but it could just as easily track heat or the shape of human outlines. The more interesting question was, did it just search for targets until it ran out of fuel or could it power down and lie in wait?
In the end, there was only one way to find out.
Randi grabbed a tree branch and used it to pull herself into a sitting position. She was in no condition to run and there was nowhere to go anyway, so she just sat there for a moment, waiting.
Nothing.
“Report,” she said into her throat mike but got no response.
Finally she risked standing. Miraculously, the damage to her body was limited to countless scrapes and gashes peeking out from tears in her clothing. Most of them had clotted and the shadows were lengthening, suggesting she’d been unconscious for the better part of an hour. Too long.
Randi started back up the slope, using trees and bushes to help propel her along the steep grade. Her progress was uncharacteristically slow but her balance was way off and the fact that she couldn’t hear much was making it worse.
It took fifteen minutes to cover the ground she’d careened down in only a few seconds, and she finally stopped just below the canyon’s lip. Crouched beneath a tree, she looked for any sign of danger or life. There was nothing, though. Just a light breeze rattling the leaves.
“Randi.”
She spun, snatching a rock from the ground since she hadn’t been able to find the gun she’d dropped.
“Stop! It’s me!”
Eric Ivers had prudently chosen to put a solid five feet between them before calling out. Now he crawled up next to her. “What the hell’s wrong with you? I’ve been trying to get your attention for the last five minutes.”
She pointed to her ear and he nodded his understanding.
“You okay?” he said, bringing his mouth close to the side of her head in order to be heard.
“Yeah. You?”
“I’ve been better but I’m still breathing.”
“Have you ever seen anything like those things?”
“I’ve never even heard of anything like those things.”
“Why aren’t we dead?”
“I think I can answer that,” he said. “I rolled about halfway down the canyon and when I stopped, one of those goddamn things had me dead to rights. Nothing I could do, so I just laid there. Then the contrail disappeared and it started to lose altitude.”
“It ran out of gas?”
“That’s what it looked like to me.”
“Did you pick it up? Do you have it?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” he said, pointing down. The projectile was lodged in his shin.
“Shit,” Randi said. “Can we get it out?”
“I tried. It’s barbed. The goddamn Japanese think of everything.”
“Okay. You wait here,” Randi said. “Let me go scope things out.”
“Fuck that.”
She’d anticipated his response and wasn’t prepared to argue. His wife was up there and she wasn’t responding to the radio.
Randi crept forward with Ivers right behind. Normal tactics seemed pointless—there was no way to provide each other cover from those things. Better to stay close and maybe one of them could draw fire while the other went for another ride down the canyon.
She came over the crest in first position and still there was nothing but empty wilderness. They angled left, stopping every few seconds for Ivers to listen for the telltale hiss of the projectiles’ engines.
Finally they came upon the digger and Randi felt the breath catch in her chest.
She’d lost people before. More than she wanted to remember. The difference was that they were all pros who had signed on of their own free will. This was very different.
She stood straight and walked toward the shredded bodies of Wilson and his students. Not a single one was even worth crouching down and checking for a pulse. Their dead eyes stared accusingly at her, and the weight of those stares left her bracing herself against the blood-spattered tunneling machine.
After a few moments, Randi started in the direction Ivers had gone, no longer concerned about the projectiles or anything else Takahashi could throw at her. The team she’d put together was down, a bunch of innocent kids were dead, and pretty soon that genocidal maniac was going to go on a rampage through the most populous country in the world.
Yet she kept on breathing. It was her greatest talent. Sometimes she wondered if it was her only talent.
Reiji was lying facedown, penetrated by no fewer than four of Takahashi’s projectiles. Ivers was up another twenty yards, kneeling over his dead wife. Randi gave him a wide berth. What could she possibly do? What could she say?
Instead she headed for the table they’d been using as a command center. The secure satellite link was undamaged and she put the headset on, opening an encrypted channel to Fred Klein.
“Go ahead,” said the familiar voice.
“We’re shut down.”
“Casualties?”
“Two survivors including me.”
“The professor and his stu—”
“Gone.”
“Understood. I have an extraction team on alert at the Okinawa air base. They’ll be in the air in—”
“No. I don’t know what we’re dealing with and I’m not going to put any more of our people in the line of fire. Eric and I will find our way home by ourselves.”
61
Outside Tokyo
Japan
General Masao Takahashi sat silently in the back of the limousine as his driver weaved through the small, private airport. It had been three hours since he’d been chased from his own facility by the American and the traitor Hideki Ito. Communications had been lost and according to the team he’d sent to the site, the blast doors were sealed. With no sign of life inside and exterior radiation levels well above normal, it appeared that the emergency sterilization protocol had been carried out.
Takahashi glanced down at his briefcase, confirming once again that it was resting safely on the seat next to him. The two canisters inside were all that was left of the weapon. Its creator was dead, the development facility would be uninhabitable for a thousand years, and the fourteen other canisters had been irradiated.
It didn’t matter, though. Ito and the American had failed. While the destruction of China’s infrastructure would be slower and more haphazard than he had planned, it would be just as complete. That was the genius of the weapon. It had a life of its own.
The private jet ahead was the only one in view on the tarmac and was surrounded by Sanetomi’s security detail. The prime minister’s impending visit to China had been widely publicized, but turned out to be less popular than the politician’s advisers had calculated. The remote airport had been chosen to avoid the inevitable protests by Japanese citizens opposed to further appeasement of their enemy to the west. Patriots who were willing to rise up and defend the honor of their homeland while self-serving cowards like Fumio Sanetomi cowered.
The limousine glided to a stop and Takahashi stepped out with his briefcase gripped firmly in his hand. The prime minister’s men watched through dark glasses as he approached the steps leading into the plane, finally moving to block his path.
“Are you armed, General?” one asked.
“Of course not.”
“You’ll excuse us if we check.”
The man was understandably nervous. Normally, Takahashi wouldn’t take this intentional insult so easily. But today he held his arms out at his sides with a smile, letting the man use his metal detector as Sanetomi watched from one of the jet’s windows.
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They didn’t bother to check the briefcase because this had nothing to do with security and everything to do with putting him in his place. Of course, the prime minister had no idea what that place was.
When the infantile display of power was over, Takahashi entered the plane and walked immediately to the back.
“Sit,” Prime Minister Sanetomi said.
The old soldier took a place across a small table and laid his briefcase on top of it.
“In a few hours we’ll be landing at President Yandong’s retreat,” Sanetomi said. “During our time there, you will speak only when spoken to and your responses will be short, respectful, and contrite. You do not represent Japan and you will not take part in any discussions of policy or our relationship with the Chinese. Am I understood?”
“Very clearly,” Takahashi said. “But if this is the case, may I ask why I’m being included on this excursion?”
“In order to publicly apologize for your aggressive behavior and to offer your resignation as head of our self-defense forces.”
“I see,” Takahashi said, looking out the window as they taxied toward the runway. The security detail was already packing up and moving toward an SUV parked nearby. Four more guards were on the plane, one sitting near the cockpit and three more strapped in midfuselage. Apparently, Sanetomi’s negotiating team had taken a commercial flight earlier that day.
“And who will be accepting my resignation, Prime Minister? You or your Chinese master?”
The politician suffered a rare moment of visible anger as his face reddened and the muscles in his jaw tensed.
“You’ve always been a twisted man, General—obsessed with a world that’s been gone for more than half a century. I should never have let you remain in a position of responsibility. I and my predecessors believed that it was time to relieve the Americans of their responsibilities toward us and to create a Japan that could be a positive force in the world. But it’s clear that you see things very differently and that we allowed you to drain money from our economy for too long. You seem to believe that we can actually win a war with China. That is a delusion, General. Even with the weapons you’ve developed and the help of the Americans, our country would be decimated. Millions would die on both sides to achieve an even more acrimonious stalemate. The time for war—the time for men like you—is past.”
“And so we’re left with men like you. Men who will give away our country piece by piece. First to be run from Washington and now to be run from Beijing. Men who will turn our people into slaves in order to cling to their own false sense of power and prestige.”
“This conversation is over!” Sanetomi said, the volume of his voice rising. “You will—”
“I will do nothing!” Takahashi responded, slamming a hand down on the table hard enough to turn the heads of the security men on the jet. “You are an arrogant and stupid child. You think I’ve told you and the pitiful men who preceded you the full extent of what I’ve accomplished? You think I would trust the future of my country to speech makers and whores?”
Sanetomi shrank back in his seat. Takahashi was, at his core, a man of violence. But on the surface he had always been careful to maintain the appearance of placidity.
“We will not fly to your ally Yandong’s retreat,” Takahashi continued. “Nor will I be resigning my commission. We will fly to Chengdu where I will release the weapon I have in my briefcase. And then either you will decide to preside over a victorious Japan or you will be tried and executed as a traitor.”
Sanetomi looked at the black leather briefcase, and then back to Takahashi. “You…you brought a nuclear weapon on board this plane?”
The soldier laughed. “Nothing so crude, Prime Minister. What I have inside is a nanoscale weapon that will take hold in Chengdu and then spread throughout China, quietly destroying everything in its path. All you have to do is continue to be convincing in the role of frightened appeaser. By the time the Chinese understand what’s happening and who’s responsible, it will be too late.”
Sanetomi just stared at him, frozen. He was aware of Hideki Ito’s early experiments and their military potential, but his predecessor had seen the almost infinite danger of this class of weapon and shut down the program. Sanetomi himself had reaffirmed that decision when he’d taken office.
“Ito…” he stammered. “Ito succeeded?”
Takahashi nodded.
“That weapon isn’t a weapon of war,” Sanetomi said, licking his lips nervously. “It’s a weapon of extermination. And not just of an opposing force. Of women and children. Millions of them.”
“Chinese children grow into adults, Prime Minister. And Chinese women breed like stray dogs.”
Sanetomi’s mouth hung open for a moment, and then his eyes shifted past his military commander. “Guards! Take the general into custody immediately!”
Takahashi looked behind him at the four men rushing in their direction. They surrounded him and the prime minister, hands hidden suggestively in their jackets.
“Take the general to the front of the plane and subdue him,” Sanetomi said and then looked at the briefcase on the table between them. He didn’t understand the full capabilities of the weapon inside, nor was he confident that he understood his position in Tokyo anymore. Clearly Takahashi had been able to create this monstrosity without his knowledge, but it was impossible that he had been able to hide it from everyone. There was no question that other high-level officials had been involved in its development, funding, and testing. Who were those people? Certainly key military leaders, but what about other politicians? Sanetomi was a proud patriot but had always been careful not to cross the line into full-fledged nationalism. Many in his government weren’t as cautious. Whom could he trust?
In the end, there was only one choice.
“Tell the pilot to turn around. He’s to set a course for the American base on Okinawa. Get President Castilla’s office on the phone. Tell them it’s critical that I speak to him immediately.”
The Americans had found evidence of this weapon at Fukushima and had top people studying it. More important, he was confident that there was no one in their government who had any desire to see Asia descend into a genocidal war.
The guards just stared at him, apparently uncertain that they’d heard their orders correctly. Takahashi had been a fixture in the self-defense forces for decades and was increasingly a symbol of Japanese sovereignty and strength.
“You heard me,” Sanetomi growled. “Do it now!”
The security man next to him seemed to wake from his stupor and pulled a gun from his jacket.
Probably unnecessary in light of their superior numbers and Takahashi’s age, but it would be hard not to take pleasure in seeing the man secured to a seat with a gun to his head.
The guard moved his pistol toward an almost preternaturally calm Takahashi but at the last moment, swung it in the direction of the guard next to him. The sound of the shot was deafening in the confines of the small jet and warm blood was flung across Sanetomi’s cheek. He clawed at the buckle of his seat belt in an effort to get to his feet but was stopped when one of his remaining guards grabbed his wrist in a vise-like grip.
The security man closest to the cockpit broke away and ran toward it. A moment later two more shots rang out and Sanetomi saw the body of the copilot sag over the edge of his seat.
“Takahashi! What is this?” he heard himself say. But he knew quite well.
“It seems that the former soldiers you use in your security detail aren’t as loyal to you as you thought.”
“Stop this, General. There’s still time. You can’t—”
Sanetomi was silenced when a clear plastic bag was pulled over his head. He thrashed wildly, but there was no way to overcome the strength of the guards and the seat belt pulled tight across his lap. Finally, he went still, staring at Takahashi through the fogging plastic as his vision began to swim from lack of oxygen.
Takahashi returned his stare for a moment before
twisting in his seat to shout to the guard who had taken control of the plane. “Contact the Chinese and tell them that we believe the prime minister has had a heart attack and request permission to divert to Chengdu in order to get him medical attention.”
The world around Sanetomi began to go dark but he wouldn’t allow himself to start fighting again. It would be futile and he refused to give the man casually watching him die the satisfaction. He forced his expression into a mask, giving away none of the fear he felt—for the Japanese people, for his family. For the horrors that Takahashi would soon unleash on China and the world.
It was his responsibility. His fault for not seeing what was happening in time to stop it. And for that, he deserved to die.
62
Kadena Air Base
Okinawa
The helicopter touched down about twenty-five yards from the hangar. Jon Smith immediately jumped out, running crouched toward the base commander, who was trying to stay clear of the powerful rotor wash.
“Colonel Smith,” he yelled in a heavy Southern drawl as they shook hands. “Steve Baron.”
“Nice to meet you, sir. Have you been briefed?”
Baron put a hand on his back and led him toward the hangar as the chopper started to lift off again. “I’m not sure I’d call it a briefing, but we’re ready for you. And I’m real anxious to hear what the hell all this is about.”
When they entered through the massive doors, Smith found a group of men sitting in front of an easel containing a map of China. Next to the easel was something much more intriguing—a warhead about a foot and a half in diameter and a yard long resting on a wheeled cart. It had a new coat of paint, though beneath it bubbles suggesting rust could be seen. Not surprising for a weapon that had been retired when he was still in grade school.