Black Wind

“I understand that you will see things through from Inchon?”

“The telecommunications lab is in constant communications with the Koguryo and will be monitoring the launch live. We of course will be advising the shipboard crew during the countdown preparations. I trust that you will be able to join us in viewing the launch?”

Kang nodded. “As my schedule permits. You have done exceptional work. Bring the mission to success and you will bring high honor to the Central People's Committee.”

Kang nodded again, indicating that the briefing was over. The two engineers glanced at each other, then bowed to Kang and quietly shuffled out of the study. Tongju rose from his seat and stepped to the front of the large mahogany desk.

“Your assault team is in place?” Kang asked his quiet enforcer.

"Yes, they remained aboard ship in Inchon. With your indulgence,

I have arranged for a company jet to fly me to an abandoned Japanese airstrip in the Ogasawara Islands, where I will rejoin the vessel for the operation."

“Yes, I expect you to lead the assault phase.” Kang paused for a moment. “We have come a long way in implementing our plan of deception to risk failure now,” he said sternly. “I will hold you responsible for the continued secrecy of our operation.”

“The two Americans ... they surely drowned in the river,” Tongju replied in a hushed tone, catching Kang's drift.

“There is little they know or could prove even if they somehow survived. The difficulty lies in maintaining the deception once the mission succeeds. The Japanese must be painted as the responsible party, with no recourse.”

“Once the strike is made, the only physical evidence will be aboard the Koguryo!”

“Precisely. Which is why you must destroy the ship after the launch.” Kang spoke as if he were asking for a napkin at a cocktail party.

Tongju arched a brow. “My assault team will be on the ship, as well as your many satellite telecommunications experts?” he questioned.

“Regrettably, your team is expendable. And I have already ensured that my top satellite engineers are remaining in Inchon during the operation. It is the way it must be, Tongju,” Kang said, showing a rare hint of empathy.

“It will be done.”

“Take these coordinates,” Kang said, passing an envelope across the desk. “One of my freighters bound for Chile will be waiting at that position. Once the launch is initiated, have the captain sail the Koguryo to within sight of the freighter and scuttle her. Take the captain and two or three men, if you wish, and make your way to the freighter. Under no condition must the Koguryo be apprehended with the crew aboard.”

Tongju nodded in silence, accepting the mass murder assignment without question.

“Good luck,” Kang said, rising and escorting him to the door. “Our homeland is counting on you.”

After he left, Kang returned to his desk and stared up at the ceiling for a long while. The wheels were in motion now. There was nothing more he could do but wait for the results. Eventually, he pulled out a file of financial reports and began methodically calculating his next quarter's expected profit.

The G8 Summit meeting is a forum that was created by former French president Giscard d'Estaing in 1975. Designed as a conference for the leaders of the major industrialized nations to come together and discuss global economic issues of the day, the summit is by tradition restricted to heads of state only. No controlling advisers or staff members are allowed, just the top world leaders thrown together once a year in a private and informal setting. Though the meetings occasionally result in little more than a prized photo op, the agendas have expanded beyond global economics over the years to include issues of world health, the environment, and combating terrorism.

Having recently passed a major global warming legislative package, the president of the United States was anxious to promote his environmental protection initiatives on a world stage as host of the next summit. Following in the tradition of recent nation hosts, President Ward had selected the scenic and tranquil setting of Yosemite National Park as the site of the summit. The remote location, he knew, would deter the usual throng of urban protesters. But in an out-of-character bow to the worldwide amour with Hollywood, he had agreed to host a pre-summit reception at a posh Beverly Hills hotel the day before, to be attended by the current crop of top movie actors and film industry moguls. Not surprisingly, the invitation was accepted by each of the leaders of Japan, Italy, France, Germany, Russia, Canada, and the United Kingdom, rounding out the complete G8 membership ranks.

What the president and his security advisers had no way of knowing was that the G8 reception in Beverly Hills was ground zero for Kang's missile payload.

Adverse weather, unforeseen mechanical problems, a thousand and one things could throw off the timetable, Kang knew. But the goal was set. Make a successful strike while the major leaders of the free world were assembled and the shock value would be incalculable. Even without striking the assembled G8 leaders, the terror from the planned attack would rock the world.

Arcing across the sky from an unseen launch position in the Pacific Ocean, the aerosol dispenser would be timed to activate as the pay-load crossed landfall. Commencing its release over the beachfront of Santa Monica, the payload would dump its deadly agent in a swath across northern Los Angeles, streaking over the mansions of Beverly Hills, the film studios of Hollywood, and on past the suburban enclaves of Glendale and Pasadena. Passing over the Rose Bowl, the viral canisters would finally run dry and the empty payload would plunge to an obliterating impact somewhere in the San Gabriel Mountains.

The light mist settling to the ground would be innocuous to the people on the street. Yet over the next twenty-four hours, the dispersed viruses would remain alive and highly contagious, even in its low concentrated dose. Through the hustle and bustle of LAs main tourist corridor, the unseen viruses would latch onto unsuspecting victims, without discriminating among men, women, or children. Rejuvenated by their living hosts, the viruses would silently launch their internal cellular attacks. Like a quietly ticking time bomb, there would be no initial clues or symptoms of infection during the following two-week incubation period. Then, suddenly, a frightening horror would strike.

At first, it would appear as a small trickle of people staggering to their doctor's office complaining of fever and body aches. Quickly, the numbers would swell, soon swamping hospital emergency rooms throughout Los Angeles County. With the disease having been eradicated for over thirty years, health professionals would be slow to identify the culprit. When the diagnosis of smallpox was finally made and the extent of the outbreak realized, pandemonium would ensue. A frenzied media would fan the hysteria as more and more cases were diagnosed. County hospitals would be mobbed by the thousands as every hypochondriac with a headache or elevated fever rushed to see a physician. But that would be just the tip of the iceberg for health officials. As thousands of new smallpox cases suddenly appeared, the health facilities would be woefully unprepared to provide the primary treatment for smallpox victims: quarantine. Without an adequate ability to isolate confirmed cases, the epidemic would grow exponentially. Kang's scientists had conservatively estimated that twenty percent of the people exposed to the released vapor would succumb to infection. With over eighteen million people in the Los Angeles metropolitan area, even the narrow swath of the payload's flight path would expose two hundred thousand people to the germ, infecting some forty thousand. The real expansion would come two weeks later, as those initially infected would have spread the contagious germs unknowingly during their first few days of illness. Medical experts had modeled a tenfold explosion in smallpox cases from those first exposed. In a month's time, nearly half a million people in Southern California would be fighting the lethal disease.

Fear would spread faster than the smallpox infection itself, made more shocking by the vision of the president and other G8 world leaders fighting the lethal disease. As the epidemic gained strength, cries of help from citizens, health care workers, and the media would quickly overwhelm the federal government. Federal authorities would assure the nation that all would be safe, as sufficient smallpox vaccinations were on hand to inoculate the entire national population. The Centers for Disease Control would deliver the vaccinations to local health authorities to quickly counter the spreading scourge. But to those already exposed to the virus, the vaccinations would come too late to be of any help. And to many who received the vaccination, it would turn out to be useless as well.

For to the horror of health care and public officials, the veracity of the chimera virus would suddenly come to life. By virtue of its re-combinant strength, the killer bug would prove itself largely immune to the U.S. stockpiled smallpox vaccinations. With the death toll mounting, distressed health officials and scientists would scramble to develop an effective vaccination that could be mass-produced, but that would take months. In the meantime, the viral plague would begin sweeping across the country like a tidal wave. Tourists and travelers from Los Angeles would unknowingly carry the live virus to points all over the nation, sparking new outbreaks in a thousand different cities. As the vaccinations were found to be ineffective, authorities would resort to the last available means of stopping the epidemic: mass quarantine. Public assemblies and gatherings would be banned in a desperate attempt to halt the viral storm. Airports would close, subways halted, and buses parked as mandatory travel restrictions would be imposed. Businesses would be forced to furlough employees while local governments curtailed their services to avoid debilitating their entire workforce. Rock concerts, baseball games, and even church gatherings would all be canceled in fear of sparking new outbreaks. Those who would venture out for food or medicine would only do so clad in rubber gloves and surgical masks.

The economic impact to the country would be devastating. Whole sale industries would be forced to shut down overnight. Furloughed and laid-off workers would spike unemployment rates to double that of the Great Depression. The government would teeter on insolvency as tax revenues would dry up while the demand for food, medical, and social services would explode. In a few short weeks, the national output would fall to the level of a third world country.

A further crisis would ensue in defending the national security. The highly contagious disease would rip through the armed forces, infecting thousands of soldiers and sailors living in close quarters. Entire army divisions, air wings, and even naval fleets would be incapacitated, reducing the effective military force to a paper tiger. For the first time in nearly two centuries, the country's ability to defend itself would be seriously endangered.

In the civilian population, health facilities and morgues would be stretched beyond their breaking point. The number of sick and dying would quickly reach a critical mass, overwhelming available resources. Despite operating around the clock, the country's available crematories would rapidly be overrun with the dead. Like a scene from Mexico City at the conquest of Cortes, stacks of dead bodies would accumulate in overwhelming numbers. Makeshift crematories would hastily be assembled to burn the dead in mass, reproducing the ancient funeral pyres of old.

In homes and apartments, citizens would be forced to live like incarcerated prisoners, afraid to mingle with neighbors, friends, or even close relatives for fear of risking infection. Rural inhabitants would fare best, but in the major cities few families would be spared the affliction. The diseased would be carefully quarantined while family members burned sheets, towels, clothing, furniture, and anything else that might have caught an ambient germ.

The lethal virus would take a deadly toll across all ages and races. But hardest hit would be working adults, forced to expose themselves to greater risk of infection in order to provide food for their families. With millions of adults lying dead, the raging disease would create an immense class of orphaned children across the land. In a terrible replay of Western Europe after World War I, an entire generation would nearly be lost, vanished in just a few months' time. Only a SARS-like containment of infected travelers, after being alerted by the initial U.S. outbreaks, would prevent the scourge from decimating other countries in a similar fashion.

To those infected, the disease would wreak a rapid and horrifying progression of agony. Following the two-week incubation period, a burning rash would emerge on the infected after the initial onset of fever, starting in the mouth and spreading to the face and body. The stricken would be highly contagious at this stage, where face-to-face contact, or even shared clothes and bedding, would easily spread the disease. Over the course of three or four days, the rash would expand and painfully develop into hard raised bumps. The mass of horrid-looking skin lesions, produced with the sensation of a hot torch to the skin, would then gradually dry and scab over. For two to three more weeks, the afflicted would battle the body-morphing disease until all of the scabs had fallen away and the last risk of transmission subsided. All the while, the sick would be forced to fight it alone, as smallpox has no cure once the virus is unleashed in the body.

The survivors, if lucky, would be left with just the telltale pitted scars on their skin as a constant reminder of their ordeal. Less fortunate survivors would end up blind as well. The one-third of infected persons who lost the fight would die a painful death, as their lungs and kidneys slowly shut down under the viral onslaught.

But the horror would not end there. For still hidden in the smallpox outburst was the specter of HIV. Slower acting and less detectable but all the more deadly, the HIV attributes not only made the chimera virus resistant to the smallpox vaccine but continued a viral path of destruction in the surviving victims. Thriving in an already weakened immune system, the virus would surge through the victims, destroying and altering cells in a barbaric invasion. While most HIV victims succumb to its debilitating effects in the course of a decade, the chimera would attain lethality in just two to three years. Like a satanic roller coaster, yet another wave of death would surge across the country, striking down the poor souls who had overcome the initial bout with smallpox. While the smallpox pandemic would claim a thirty percent mortality rate, the HIV death rate would hover near ninety percent. An already shocked and numbed nation would face a death pall the likes of which had never been seen in its history before.

By the time the chimera ran its course, tens of millions would lie dead in the U.S." with untold more around the world. Not a family would go unscathed by its black touch and not a soul would live free from the fear of a lethal biological shadow in the doorway. Amid the initial unfolding of the scourge, few would pay concern to political disturbances around the world. And, on the far side of the globe, when the old ally of South Korea was overrun by its totalitarian neighbor to the north there would be little response from the devastated nation aside from a feeble cry of protest.

The Chinese junk looked like an antiquated relic amid the modern freighters and containerships swarming about Inchon Harbor. Cussler carefully threaded the high-sterned sailing vessel through a maze of midmorning commercial traffic before easing into a small public marina that was nestled between two large cargo docks. An odd assortment of beat-up sampans and expensive weekend sailboats encircled the marina as he motored the teak junk to a transit dock and tied up. He gave a quick knock on the spare cabin door to wake its slumbering occupants, then brewed a large pot of coffee in the galley as a marina employee refilled the junk's fuel tank.

Summer staggered out into the sunshine of the aft deck holding the dachshund in her arms as Dirk followed a few steps behind, trying to suppress a yawn. Cussler threw a mug of coffee in their hands, then ducked belowdecks for a moment before emerging with a hacksaw in his grip.

“Might be a good idea to off-load those handcuffs before going ashore,” he grinned.

“I'll be only too happy to dispose of these bracelets,” Summer concurred, rubbing her wrists.

Dirk peered around the neighboring boats, then turned to Cussler. “Anybody follow us in?” he asked.

“No, I'm quite sure we arrived alone. I kept a keen watch, and zigzagged our course a few times just to be sure. Nobody seemed intent on following us. I bet those boys are still cruising up and down the Han River looking for you two,” he laughed.

“I sure hope so,” Summer said with a shudder, stroking the small dog's ears for comfort.

Dirk picked up the hacksaw and began cutting into the shackle on Summer's left wrist. “You saved our lives back there. Is there anything we can do to repay you?” he asked while gliding the saw blade evenly across an edge of the handcuff.

“You don't owe me anything,” he replied warmly. “Just stay out of any more trouble and let the government take care of those hoodlums.”

“Can do,” Dirk replied. After efficiently sawing through both of Summer's shackles, he relaxed while she and Cussler took turns cutting through his handcuffs. When the last shackle fell free, he sat up and downed the last of his coffee.

“There's a phone in the marina restaurant you can use to call the American embassy, if you like. Here, take some Korean won. You can use it to make the call and buy a bowl of kimchi,” Cussler said, passing Summer a few purple-colored bills of the national currency.

“Thanks, Mr. Cussler. And good luck on your voyage,” Dirk said, shaking the man's hand. Summer leaned over and kissed the old sailor on the cheek. “Your kindness was overwhelming,” she gushed, then patted the dog good-bye.

“You kids take care. Be seeing you.”

Dirk and Summer stood on the dock and waved good-bye as the junk eased out into the harbor, smiling as Mauser barked a final farewell from the bow deck. They made their way up a set of well-worn concrete steps and entered a faded yellow building that was a combination marina office, sundry store, and restaurant. The walls were draped in the traditional lobster trap and fishing net motif that sufficed for interior decorating in a thousand seafood restaurants around the world. Only, this one smelled like the nets were hung up while still dripping wet with salt water.

Dirk found a phone on the wall in back and, after several failed attempts, completed a connection to NUMA headquarters in Washington. The NUMA operator required only minimal convincing before patching the call through to Rudi Gunn's home line, despite the late hour on the East Coast. Gunn had just dropped off to sleep but answered the phone on the second ring and nearly flew out of bed when he heard Dirk's voice. After several minutes of animated conversation, Dirk hung up the phone.

“Well?” Summer asked.

Dirk glanced toward the smelly restaurant with a look of adventure. “I'm afraid it's time to take the man up and sample some kimchi while we wait for a ride,” he replied, rubbing his stomach with hunger.

The hungry pair downed a Korean breakfast of hot soup, rice, tofu flavored with dried seaweed, and the omnipresent side dish of fermented vegetables, kimchi, which nearly blew smoke out of their ears from the spiciness. As they finished their meal, a bulky pair of U.S. Air Force security police strode sternly into the restaurant. Summer waved the two men over and the senior of the two men confirmed their identity.

“I'm First Sergeant Bimson, Fifty-first Fighter Wing Security Forces. This is Staff Sergeant Rodgers,“ he continued, nodding to his partner. ”We have orders to escort you to Osan Air Base without delay.”

“The pleasure will be all ours,” Summer assured him as they stood and left the marina restaurant, following the airmen to a government sedan parked outside.

Though Seoul was actually a shorter distance to Inchon than Osan Air Base, Gunn had elected to take no chances with their safety, ordering their transport to the nearest military base. The airmen drove south from Inchon, winding through mountainous hills and past flooded rice paddies before entering the sprawling complex of Osan, which started life as a lone airfield constructed during the Korean War. The modern base now hosted a large contingent of combat-ready F-16 fighter jets and A-10 Thunderbolt II attack planes, deployed in the forward defense of South Korea.

Entering the main gate, they traveled a short distance to the base hospital, where a fast-talking colonel greeted Dirk and Summer and led them to a medical examination room. After a brief checkup and treatment of Dirk's wounds, they were allowed to clean up and then given a fresh set of clothes. Summer laughed that the baggy military fatigues provided did nothing for her figure.

“What's our travel situation?” Dirk asked of the colonel. “There's an Air Mobility Command C-141 bound for McChord Air Force Base leaving in a few hours that I'm holding a pair of first-class seats on. Your NUMA people have arranged a government aircraft to transport you from McChord to Washington, DC, after you arrive. In the meantime, you are welcome to rest here for a bit, then I'll take you by the officers' club, where you can grab a hot meal before jumping on that twenty-hour plane ride stateside.”

“Colonel, if we have the time I'd like to contact an in-country Special Ops unit, preferably Navy, if that's at all possible. And I'd like to make a phone call to Washington.”

The Air Force colonel's face turned up indignantly at Dirk's mention of the word Navy. “There's only one Navy base in the country and that's just a small operations support facility in Chinhae near Pusan. I'll send over one of our Air Force S.O. captains. As I think about it, there are SEALs and UDTs running in and out of here all the time. He ought to be able to help you out.”

Two hours later, Dirk and Summer climbed aboard a gray Air Force C-141B Starlifter with a large contingent of GIs headed stateside. As they settled into their seats in the windowless transport jet, Dirk found an eye mask and a pair of earplugs in the seat back in front of him. Donning the sleep aids, he turned to Summer and said, “Please don't wake me till we're over land. Preferably, land where they don't serve seaweed for breakfast.”

He then pulled down the eye mask, stretched out flat in the seat, and promptly fell fast asleep.

The fire was minuscule by most arson standards, burning less than twenty minutes before it was brought under control. Yet the targeted damage had been carefully calculated with a precise outcome in mind.

It was two in the morning when the fire bells sounded aboard the Sea Launch Commander, jolting Christiano from a deep sleep in his captain's cabin. In an instant he was on the bridge, alertly checking the ship's fire control monitors. A graphic image of the ship showed a single red light on the ship's lower topside deck.

“Conduit room on the shelter deck, just forward of the launch control center,” reported a dark-haired crewman manning the bridge watch. “Automated water mist system has been activated.”

“Cut all electrical power except for emergency systems to that part of the ship,” Christiano ordered. “Notify the port fire station that we require assistance.”

“Yes, sir. I have two men en route to the conduit room and am awaiting their report.”

While at port, the Commander carried only a skeleton marine crew aboard around the clock, few of whom had any degree of firefighting training. A rapidly spreading fire could easily gut the ship before sufficient help arrived, Christiano knew. The captain looked out a bridge window, half-expecting to see smoke and flames erupting from the ship but there were none. The only indication of fire was the acrid odor of burned electrical components that wafted through his nostrils and the distant shriek of a port fire truck rumbling toward the pier. His attention turned toward a handheld radio clipped to the crewman's belt as a deep voice suddenly rasped through the bridge.

“Briggs here,” the radio crackled. “The fire is burning in the conduit room but does not appear to have spread. The computer hardware bay is okay, and the FM-200 gas system has been activated there to prevent combustion. It doesn't look like the fire suppression system was triggered in the conduit room, but if we can get some extinguishers on her before she spreads I think we can contain it.”

Christiano grabbed the radio. “Do what you can, Briggs, help is on the way. Bridge out.”

Briggs and a fellow mechanic he had pressed into fire duty found a smoking rage billowing from the conduit room. No bigger than a large walk-in closet, the room housed power connections between the ship's electrical generator output and the myriad computers aboard the vessel that supported payload processing and launch operations. Briggs leaned into the bay and quickly emptied two fire extinguishers, then stood back a moment to see if the smoke would lessen. A cloud of acrid blue haze rolled out of the room, the noxious fumes it carried filtered by Briggs's respirator. His assistant passed him a third fire extinguisher and this time Briggs burst into the fiery room, directing the carbon dioxide spray at the remaining flames he could see flickering through the billows of dark smoke. His extinguisher empty, he quickly danced out of the room and caught his breath before peering in again. The room was pitch-black, with the beam of his flashlight reflecting only smoke. Satisfied that the flames were doused and not likely to reignite, he stepped into a side hallway and radioed the bridge.

“The fire is extinguished. Briggs out.”

Though the flames were extinguished, the damage had been done. It would take another two hours before the melted mass of wire, cabling, and connectors stopped smoldering and the Port of Long Beach Fire Department declared the ship safe. The pungent smell of an electrical fire hung over the ship like a cloud, refusing to go away for days. Danny Stamp arrived at the ship shortly after the fire crew left, the launch director having been summoned by Christiana Sitting with the captain in the adjacent launch control center, he shook his head as he listened to the damage assessment from the Sea Launch Commander's computer operations manager.

“You couldn't have picked a worse place for a fire to break out,” the systems man said, his face tinted red in frustration. “Literally every launch ops computer on the ship runs through that room, as well as most of the test and tracking monitors. We'll have to rewire the whole works. It's a complete nightmare,” he said, shaking his head.

“What about the actual hardware?” asked Stamp.

“Well, if you want to call that the good news, there was no damage to any of our hardware resources. I was really concerned with the potential for water damage, but, thankfully, our own crew put down the flames before any hoses were let loose on board.”

“In order to go operational, then, we're just talking about restringing the hardware. How long will that take?”

“Oh, man. We've got to rebuild the conduit room, order and obtain a couple miles of cable, some of it custom application, and re string the whole system. That would take three or four weeks at best under normal circumstances.”

“Our circumstances are a pending launch with significant delay penalties. You've got eight days,” Stamp replied, staring hard into the eyes of the computer manager.

The frazzled man nodded his head slowly, then got up to leave the room. “Guess I've got to get a few people out of bed,” he muttered while slipping out through a side door.

“Do you think he can do it?” Christiano asked once the door had closed shut.

“If it can be done, then he'll get us close.”

“What about the Odyssey} Do we hold her in port until the damage to the Commander'is repaired?”

“No,” Stamp said after mulling over the question. “The Zenit is loaded and secured aboard the Odyssey, so we'll send her out as planned. We can still make the equator with the Commanderin half the time the platform will take to get there. And there's no harm in having the Odyssey wait on station a few days if we're a little late getting out. That's just more opportunity for the platform crew to prep for the launch.”

Christiano nodded, then sat silently in thought.

“I'll notify the customer of our revised plans,” Stamp continued. “I'm sure I'll have to do a Kabuki dance to keep them calm. Do we know the cause of the fire yet?”

“The fire inspector will take a look first thing in the morning. Everything points to a short, probably some defective cable couplings.”

Stamp nodded silently. What next? he wondered.

The Long Beach fire inspector stepped aboard the Sea Launch Commander promptly at 8 A.M. After performing a cursory examination of the charred conduit room, he proceeded to interview the fire response team and other crewmen on duty when the fire started. He | then returned to the site of the blaze and methodically examined the burn damage, taking photographs of the blackened room and making notes. After carefully scrutinizing the charred cables and melted fittings for nearly an hour, he satisfied himself that there was no evidence present indicating arson.

It would have taken an excruciatingly attentive analysis to detect the proof. But beneath his soot-covered boots, there were the peculiar minuscule remains of a frozen orange juice container. A chemical analysis of the container would show that a homemade napalm mixture of gasoline and Styrofoam chunks had been mixed and stored in the small container. Planted by one of Kang's men days before and ignited by a small timer, the tiny fire bomb had splattered its flaming goo about the conduit room in a rain of fire, quickly incinerating its contents. With the overhead sprinkler system sabotaged to appear faulty, the damage was assured, as scripted. Enough damage to delay the Sea Launch Commander from sailing for several days, but not enough to raise suspicions that the cause was anything but accidental.

Stepping past the charred and indistinguishable juice container, the inspector paused outside the conduit room as he completed his fire assessment. “Electrical short due to faulty wiring or improper grounding,” he wrote in a small notebook, then stuck his pen in his shirt pocket and made his way off the ship past a gang of oncoming construction workmen.

A slow gray drizzle was falling at McChord Air Force Base south of Tacoma when the C-141 lumbered in from its transpacific flight. The big jet's tires screeched on the damp runway before the aircraft rolled to a stop in front of a transit terminal, where its engines were shut down and the large rear cargo door lowered to the tarmac.

Holding true to his word, Dirk had slept nearly the entire flight and exited the ramp feeling refreshed but hungry. Summer followed behind in a groggier state, having slept unevenly in the noisy aircraft. An air transit lieutenant located the pair and escorted them to the base officers' club for a quick hamburger before returning them to the flight line. Spotting a phone booth, Dirk eagerly dialed a local number.

“Dirk, you're all right!” Sarah answered with obvious relief.

“Still kicking,” he chimed.

“Captain Burch told me you were aboard the NUMA ship that sank in the East China Sea. I've been worried sick about you.”

Dirk beamed to himself, then proceeded to tell her an abbreviated version of events since flying to Japan.

“My gosh, the same people that released the cyanide in the Aleutians intend to launch a larger attack?”

“It appears that way. We hope to find out more when we get back to D.C.”

“Well, keep your friends at the CDC informed. We have a terrorism emergency response team in place to combat sudden chemical or biological outbreaks.”

“You'll be the first one I call. By the way, how's the leg?” “Fine, though I'm still getting used to these blasted crutches. When are you going to autograph my cast?”

Dirk suddenly noticed Summer waving him toward a small jet parked on the runway.

“When I take you to dinner.”

“I'm off to Los Angeles tomorrow for a weeklong conference on environmental toxins,” she said with disappointment. “It will have to be the following week.” “Consider it a date.”

Dirk barely had time to sprint to the Gulfstream V jet that was warming its engines on the tarmac. Climbing aboard, he was chagrined to find Summer sitting at the center of attention, surrounded by a small group of Pentagon colonels and generals on the jet bound for Andrews Air Force Base.

The large executive jet buzzed over the Jefferson Memorial at six the next morning en route to landing at the Air Force base located just southeast of the nation's capital. A NUMA van was waiting for the pair and whisked them through the light early morning traffic to the headquarters building, where Rudi Gunn greeted them in his office.

“Thank God you're safe,” Gunn gushed. “We were turning Japan upside down looking for you and that cable ship.”

“Nice idea but wrong country,” Summer said with a gibe. “There's some folks here who'd like to hear about your ordeal first hand,“ Gunn continued, hardly giving Dirk and Summer a chance to relax. ”Let's go to the admiral's office.”

They followed Gunn as he led them around the bay to a large corner office overlooking the Potomac River. Though Admiral Sandecker was no longer the director of NUMA, Gunn subconsciously refused to acknowledge the fact. The door to the office was open and they walked in.

Two men were seated at a side couch discussing coastal port security, while Homeland Security Special Assistant Webster sat in a chair across from them, studiously reviewing a file folder.

“Dirk, Summer, you remember Jim Webster from Homeland Security. This is Special Agent Peterson and Special Agent Burroughs, with the FBI's Counterterrorism Division,” Gunn said, motioning a hand toward the two men on the couch. “They've met with Bob Morgan already and are very interested to know what happened to you after the Sea Rover was sunk.”

Dirk and Summer settled into a pair of wingback chairs and proceeded to describe the entire course of events, from their imprisonment on board the Baekje to their escape on the Chinese junk. Summer was surprised to note that three hours rolled by on an antique ship's clock mounted on the wall by the time they finished their saga. The homeland security administrator, she noted, appeared to turn whiter shades of pale as their report progressed.

“I just can't believe it,” he finally muttered. “Every shred of evidence we had pointed to a Japanese conspiracy. Our whole investigative focus has been centered on Japan,” he said, shaking his head.

“A well-designed deception,” Dirk stated. “Kang is a powerful man with considerable resources at his disposal. His means and abilities should not be underestimated.”

“You are certain he aims to target the United States with a biological attack?” asked Peterson.

“That's what he insinuated and I don't believe he was bluffing. The incident in the Aleutians would seem to have been a test application of their technology to disperse a bio weapon into the air. Only now they have boosted the strength of their smallpox virus to a much more virulent form.”

“Not unlike stories I've heard that the Russians may have created a vaccine-resistant strain of smallpox back in the nineties,” Gunn added.

“Only this one's a chimera. A deadly combination of more than one virus that takes on the lethal elements of each,” Summer said.

“If the strain is immune to our vaccines, an outbreak could kill millions,” Peterson muttered, shaking his head. The room fell silent for a moment as the occupants considered the horrifying prospect.

“The attack in the Aleutian Islands proves that they have the means to disperse the virus. The question becomes, where would they target a strike?” Gunn asked.

“If we can stop them before they have the chance to strike, then it doesn't matter. We should be raiding Kang's palace, and his shipyard, and his other sham businesses, and we should be raiding them right now,” Summer said, slapping a hand on her leg for emphasis.

“She's right,” Dirk said. “For all we know, the weapons are still on board the vessel at the Inchon Shipyard and the story can end there.”

“We'll need to assemble more evidence,” the homeland security man said flatly. “The Korean authorities will have to be convinced of the risk before we can assemble a joint investigative force.”

Gunn quietly cleared his throat. “We may be on the verge of providing the necessary evidence,” he said as all eyes shifted his way. “Dirk and Summer had the foresight to contact Navy Special Forces before leaving Korea and briefed them on Kang's enclosed dock facility at Inchon.”

“We couldn't authorize them to act, but a well-placed call by Rudi got them to at least listen to what we had to say,” Summer grinned toward Gunn.

“It's well beyond that now,” Gunn explained. “After you and Dirk departed Osan, we formally requested an underwater special ops reconnaissance mission. Vice President Sandecker went out on a limb to obtain executive approval in hopes we'll be able to locate a smoking gun. Unfortunately, with the ruckus over our military deployment in Korea it's a sensitive time to be nosing around our ally's backyard.”

“All they need to do is snap a picture of the Baekje sitting at Kang's dock and we've got proof positive,” Dirk said.

“That would certainly boost our case. When are they going in?” Webster asked.

Gunn looked at his watch, then mentally calculated the fourteen-hour time difference between Washington and Seoul. “The team will be deployed in about two hours. We should know something early this evening.”

Webster silently gathered his papers, then stood up. “I'll be back after dinner for a full debriefing,” he grumbled, then made his way toward the door. As he left the room, the others could hear just a single word being muttered repeatedly from his lips as he vanished down the hall: “Korea.”

Commander Bruce McCasland looked up at the Korean night sky and grimaced. A heavy bank of low rain clouds had drifted in over Inchon, obscuring the earlier clear skies. With the low clouds came illumination, the optical boomerang of light waves from thousands of the port city's streetlamps, residences, and billboards. Refracting off the clouds, the lights brightened the midnight hour with a fuzzy radiance. For a man whose livelihood depended on stealth, the dark of night was his best friend, the arrival of clouds a curse. Perhaps it will rain, he thought hopefully, which would improve their cover. But the dark clouds silently rolled by, holding their moisture with taunting stubbornness.

The Navy SEAL from Bend, Oregon, hunched back down in the rickety sampan and glanced at the three men lying low under the gunwale besides him. Like McCasland, they were clad in black underwater wet suits, with matching fins, mask, and backpack. As their mission was one of reconnaissance, they were armed for only minimal close quarters combat, each carrying a compact Heckler & Koch MP5K 9mm submachine gun. Clipped to their vests were an assorted mix of miniature still and video cameras, as well as a pair of night vision goggles.

The weathered boat putted past the commercial docks of Inchon, trailing a pall of blue smoke from its sputtering outboard motor. To the casual eye, the sampan appeared like a thousand others in the region used by merchants and tradesmen up and down the coastal Korean waters as a common mode of transport. Hidden beneath its aged-appearing exterior, however, was a fiberglass-hulled assault craft. With a high-speed inboard motor, the covert boat was specially built to launch and retrieve small teams of underwater special forces.

Meandering through the quiet north corner of the harbor, the sampan approached within two hundred meters of the Kang Marine Services entry channel. Exactly on cue, the twenty-two-foot boat's motor sputtered and coughed several times, then died. Two SEALs, disguised as a pair of derelict fishermen, began swearing loudly at each other in Korean. While one of the men tugged at the outboard motor to restart it, the other made a loud show of grabbing an oar and splashing it in the water in a clumsy attempt to row them toward shore.

McCasland peered over the gunwale with a pair of night vision binoculars trained on the sentry post at the mouth of the channel. Two men looked back from the interior of their guard hut but made no move toward a black speedboat tied up a few feet away. Satisfied the guards were too lazy to investigate further, he called quietly to the three men beside him.

“In the water. Now.”

With the gracefulness of a Persian cat leaping from a settee, the three men slipped quietly over the side and into the water with barely a gurgle. McCasland adjusted his faceplate, gave a thumbs-up to the two “fishermen,” then followed the frogmen over the side. Having grown hot in the boat wearing the insulated wet suit, he was refreshed by the cool water as it seeped against his skin. Clearing his ears, he submerged to a depth of twenty feet, then leveled off, peering around into the black gloomy murk. The dank polluted harbor water offered only a few feet of visibility, which fell to zero at night without a flashlight. McCasland ignored the blind diving conditions and spoke into a wireless underwater communication system attached to his face mask.

“Audio and nav check,” he barked.

“Bravo here. Nav confirmed. Out,” came one voice.

“Charlie here. Nav confirmed. Out,” followed a second voice, this one with a slight Georgia twang.

“Delta here. Nav confirmed. Out,” the third diver's voice copied.

“Roger, stand by,” McCasland replied.

Above them, the two SEALs in the sampan had beached the boat next to a battered and abandoned pier within sight of Kang's security men. Making a show of repairing the boat, the two men clanged tools together and cursed loudly as they pretended to fumble with the motor while the men in the water carried out their mission.

Below the surface, McCasland activated his Miniature Underwater GPS Receiver (MUGR), or “Mugger” as it was nicknamed. No larger than a Palm Pilot, the small device contained a navigation system that was calibrated by signals from the GPS satellite system. McCasland briefly kicked up to a depth of ten feet, where the underwater receiver could pick up the GPS signal and establish a fixed base point. A muted green display screen popped on, displaying an animated trail that zigzagged through and around a series of obstacles. Based on aerial survey photographs and the description provided by Dirk and Summer, McCasland had programmed a series of GPS way points into the Mugger. The aggregate points created a path to the covered dock entrance they could follow while completely submerged. All four divers held one of the devices, which also showed one another's relative position with a tiny flashing light. Swimming in complete darkness, they could follow the path to the covered dock while staying within just a few feet of one another.

“Okay, let's move,” he spoke into his faceplate after descending again.

With a deep thrust of his fins, McCasland kicked forward into the inky water, his eyes glued to the electronic compass and depth gauge, which he ensured never wavered from the twenty-foot mark. Reaching the entrance to the private ship channel, he turned and swam into the narrow inlet, passing almost directly beneath the security guards' speedboat, which bobbed on the surface well above him. Over McCasland's shoulder, the three other SEALs followed in a triangular pattern a few feet behind.

Day or night, the SEAL divers would have been nearly impossible to detect due to their use of rebreathers. Forgoing the standard dive tank of compressed air, which generates telltale exhaust bubbles visible on the surface, the Navy divers utilized a Carleton Technologies VIPER system for their air supply. Embedded within a sleek-looking backpack, the VIPER rebreather provided pure oxygen to the divers that was recirculated through a chemical scrubber, which removed harmful carbon dioxide while dispelling only a minute amount of exhaust. The streamlined system could enable the divers to remain underwater for up to four hours should the need arise. But with no visible exhaust bubbles rising to the surface, their whereabouts were safely concealed from the naked eye.

Following the Mugger's imaginary trail, the four divers swam through the winding inlet, kicking through the black water until they approached the entrance to the enclosed dock. The quarter-mile submerged swim would have exhausted most sport divers, but years of demanding physical training made it seem like crossing the street to the hardened SEALs. Their heartbeats thumped just above resting as they regrouped in front of the massive door to the enclosed dock. McCasland then swam in a circular pattern until his hands found a pylon that supported one side of the entrance. Following the pylon up, he ascended slowly until finding the lower edge of the sliding door, which hung three feet beneath the water's surface. Confident he was at the proper location, he descended again to the depth of the other divers.

“Proceed with preliminary recon. Regroup this position in three-zero. Out.”

From this point on, each diver had a different trail to follow inside the covered dockyard. Dirk and Summer had drawn a detailed map of the dock layout from memory, which was used to establish a different reconnaissance point for each diver. McCasland had the farthest and most dangerous assignment, to swim to the land's-end side of the dockyard for a frontal view of the facility. Two other divers would reconnoiter the main dock to verify and film the Baekje, while the fourth diver would stand by as backup near the entrance door.

The bright overhead lights of the hangar illuminated the upper water shallows, casting a dark shadow from the dock's supporting concrete pilings. McCasland found that at a depth of fifteen feet, he could just make out the dark outline of the pilings in the water ahead of him. He held the Mugger to his chest and kicked harder, using his vision to guide him quickly down the length of the dock. After passing dozens of pilings, a solid wall of concrete suddenly rose up before him and he knew that he had reached the end of the pier. Resting against a pylon, he readied a digital camcorder and prepared to surface, fighting back an uneasy feeling of defeat. He had felt a strange void while swimming beneath the pier, sensing an absence of the mass he thought he should feel nearby even though it was out of sight.

Quietly breaking the water's surface beneath the edge of the dock, his eyes confirmed the empty feeling in his stomach. The giant covered dockyard was bare. There was no four-hundred-foot cable ship tied up in front of him. In fact, the main dock was completely empty. McCasland silently scanned the facility with his camera, finding only one vessel in the entire structure, a beat-up tugboat perched on a dry-dock. Nearby, a group of bored dockworkers on the graveyard shift were chasing each other around in a forklift, the only signs of life in the massive structure.

His filming complete, McCasland ducked underwater and kicked back along the dock toward the main entrance door. Reaching the support pylon, he pulled up the Mugger and saw that the other three divers had already returned and were waiting in the surrounding waters a few feet away.

“Mission complete,” he said curtly, then swam off into the inlet.

The four SEALs made their way back to the beached sampan and silently crawled inside. The mock fishermen suddenly found the cure to the ailing motor and restarted the outboard engine. With more vocal cursing, they cruised past Kang's inlet and motored off into the night.

Once out of sight, McCasland sat up and took off his faceplate, taking a breath full of the dank port air while staring at the twinkling waterfront lights. A drop of rain struck him on the face, then another and another. Shaking his head, he sat silently while a healthy deluge opened up from the skies on the frustrated commando.

Webster, Peterson, and Burroughs returned to the NUMA headquarters building at exactly six o'clock and found a subdued scene when they arrived at Gunn's office. The results of the SEAL team's reconnaissance mission had just been received, and Gunn, Dirk, and Summer sat morosely discussing the report.

“Disappointing news, I'm afraid,” Gunn said. “The cable ship wasn't there.”

“How could it come and go without being seen?” Webster wondered. “We've got Interpol and customs authorities on the lookout for that vessel all throughout Asia Pacific.”

“Perhaps a few of them are on Kang's payroll,” Summer said.

Webster brushed aside the suggestion. “We're certain the reconnaissance team didn't misidentify anything?”

“There apparently was nothing in the enclosed dock to see. A video feed of the surveillance is being sent by satellite right now. We can take a look for ourselves on the admiral's viewing monitor,” Gunn replied.

For the second time that day, he led a procession to the admiral's former office. As he approached the corner suite, he was surprised to hear a familiar laugh emanating from the office as a hazy cloud of smoke drifted out the open door.

Entering the threshold, Gunn was shocked to find Al Giordino sitting on the couch. With a wild wave of his dark curly hair askew, the newly appointed NUMA director of underwater technology sat reclining with his legs up on the coffee table, a stubby cigar dangling from his lips. He was dressed in a worn NUMA jumpsuit and looked like he just stepped off a boat.

“Rudi, my boy, here flogging the crew a little late tonight, aren't we?” Giordino asked before blowing a puff of smoke from the cigar skyward.

“Somebody's got to mind the store while you're out basking on a warm tropical beach.”

Dirk and Summer grinned as they entered the room and spotted Giordino, who was like a favorite uncle to them. They didn't immediately see their father, who stood at the opposite end of the office gazing at the lights across the Potomac. His six-foot-three frame stood tall against the window, having lost little of its younger muscular leanness. A touch of gray at the temples and a few slight wrinkles around the eyes hinted at his age. The weathered, tan face of Dirk Pitt, the legendary special projects director and now head of NUMA, broke into a broad grin at the sight of his children.