Black Wind

Dirk also kept his foot down hard on the accelerator, but for a different reason. He held his breath, hoping the Chrysler would hold together for just a few more seconds. Though the end of the pier was now just a few yards away, it seemed to take an eternity to reach it. Meanwhile, the ferry continued to inch farther into the sound.

A pair of boys bound for a fishing excursion at the end of the pier ran scrambling behind a piling as the two cars tore by, their poles sacrificed to the speeding machines when they jumped for cover. To Dirk's surprise, the man at the end of the pier stopped waving and raised the orange-and-white traffic barrier, apparently realizing the futility of trying to stop the barreling mass of Detroit iron that was charging his way. As he roared by, Dirk nodded thanks at Hatala and threw him a jaunty wave. Hatala simply stared back, dumbfounded.

The Chrysler's hefty V-8 engine was now knocking like a pounding sledgehammer, but the old beast hung on and gave Dirk every last ounce of energy it could muster. The big convertible stormed up the ramp at the end of the pier and burst into the air like a cannon shot. Dirk gripped the steering wheel hard and braced for the impact as he watched a forty-foot ribbon of blue water pass beneath the car. Screams filled the air as shocked passengers on the rear of the ferry scrambled to avoid the path of the green monstrosity hurtling through space toward them. The momentum of the car and the angle of the ramp sent the Chrysler sailing through the air in an almost picture-perfect arc before gravity took hold and pulled the nose of the car down fast. But they had cleared the open water and would plunge down onto the ferry.

Just a few feet inboard on the open stern, the Chrysler's front wheels slammed down onto the deck, the tires immediately bursting from the force with a bang. A split second later, the rear wheels dropped down, smashing through a low railing just inches from the stern edge. A section of the handrail kicked up into a wheel well, where it became wedged as the full weight of the car crashed down. It proved to be a lifesaver. Rather than skidding wildly into the rows of cars parked on the auto deck, the wedged railing dug into the wooden deck like an anchor. The massive old car bounded twice, then skidded slowly to a stop just twenty feet from where it struck the deck, lightly smacking the pea green Volkswagen bus.

The black Cadillac did not fare as well. Just a few seconds behind, its driver saw too late that the ferry had left the dock. Too panicked to try to stop, the driver kept his foot down on the accelerator and soared off the pier in tandem with the Chrysler. Only by now, the ferry had moved beyond its path.

With the gunman screaming a bloodcurdling cry, the Cadillac soared gracefully into the sky before nosing hard into the stern of the ferryboat with a thunderous crash. The front bumper kissed the painted letters of the ferryboat's name, Issaquah, just above the waterline before the entire car crumpled like an accordion. A large spray of water flew up as the mangled wreckage of the car plopped into the water and sank to forty feet, carrying its crushed occupants to a watery grave.

In the Chrysler, Dirk shook off the daze of the impact and assessed their injuries. He felt a sprained knee and sore hip on himself as he wiped away a flow of blood from his lower lip, gashed open on the steering wheel. But otherwise all parts seemed to be working. Sarah looked up from the floor in a twisted angle, where she forced a smile through a painful grimace.

“I think my right leg is broken,” she said calmly, “ but otherwise I'm okay.”

Dirk lifted her out of the car and gently set her on the deck as a crowd of passengers crept in to offer assistance. In front of them, a door flung open on the VW bus and out popped its overage hippie driver, complete with ponytail and beer belly half-hidden under a tie-dyed Grateful Dead T-shirt. His eyes bulged as he surveyed the scene behind him. Smoke oozed from the smoldering wreckage of the Chrysler, tainting the air with the odor of burned oil and rubber. The car's metal skin was festooned with bullet holes from front to back, while broken glass and shreds of leather upholstery littered the interior. The front tires were splayed out from bursting on impact, while a metal guardrail poked out oddly from one of the rear wheel wells. A deep gash in the deck tailed back from the wreck like some sort of violent bread crumb trail. Dirk smiled weakly at the man as he wandered closer while surveying the scene.

Shaking his head, the old hippie finally quipped, “Far out, man. I sure hope you have insurance.”

It took only a few hours for the authorities to commandeer a nearby work barge and position it off the ferry landing. Its twenty-ton crane easily hoisted the crushed Cadillac from the bottom and dumped it on the greasy deck of the old barge. A paramedic crew carefully extricated the mashed bodies from the vehicle and transferred them to the county morgue. Their cause of death was cited simply as blunt injury from motor vehicle accident.

At NUMA's request, the FBI interceded and opened a federal investigation into the incident. Initial attempts to identify the gunmen came up empty when no forms of ID were found on the bodies, and the Cadillac was discovered to be a stolen rental car. Immigration finally ascertained that the men were Japanese nationals who had entered the country illegally through Canada.

At the Seattle/ King County morgue, the chief coroner shook his head in irritation as yet another investigator arrived to examine the bodies.

“Can't get any work done around here as long as we're holding these so-called Japanese gangsters,” he grumbled to an underling, as yet another pair of Feds left the storage facility.

The assistant medical examiner, an ex-Army doctor who had once been stationed in Seoul for a year, nodded in agreement.

“We might as well install a revolving door on the ice room,” he joked.

“I'll just be happy when the paperwork arrives to release them for transport back to Japan.”

“I hope that's their right home,” the assistant pathologist said, slowly sliding the bodies back into a refrigerated locker. “If you ask me, I still say they look like a couple of Koreans.”

After twelve hours at Sarah's hospital bedside, Dirk finally convinced the doctors at Seattle's Swedish Providence Medical Center to release Sarah the following morning. Though a broken leg didn't normally warrant an overnight stay, the cautious medical staff was concerned about trauma from the accident and kept her there for observation. She was fortunate in that the break to her tibia, or shin-bone, did not require any rods or screws to align. The doctors wrapped her leg in a heavy plaster cast and pumped her full of painkillers, then signed her release.

“Guess I can't take you dancing anytime soon,” Dirk joked as he pushed her out the hospital exit in a wheelchair.

“Not unless you want a black-and-blue foot,” she replied, grimacing at the heavy cast around her lower leg.

Despite insisting that she was well enough to work, Dirk took Sarah home to her stylish apartment in Seattle's Capitol Hill district. Gently assisting her to a leather couch, he propped her broken leg up on a large pillow.

“Afraid I've been called back to Washington,” he said, stroking her silky hair as she adjusted the pillows behind her back. “Have to leave tonight. I'll make sure Sandy checks in on you.”

“I probably won't be able to keep her away,” she grinned. “But what about the sick crew members of the Deep Endeavor? We need to find out if they are all right,” she said, struggling to rise from the couch. The drugs made her feel as if her mind and body were enshrouded in a coat of honey and she fought to remain lucid against the overwhelming desire to sleep.

“Okay,” he said, gently pushing her back down and bringing a portable phone to her. “You get one phone call, then it's lights out for you.”

As she called the Public Health Lab, he checked to see that her kitchen was stocked with groceries. Peering into a scantly filled refrigerator, he idly wondered why unmarried women always seemed to have less food in the house than the single men he knew.

“Great news,” she called in a slurred voice after hanging up the phone. “The tests on the sick crewmen all came back negative. No sign of the smallpox virus.”

“That is great news,” Dirk said, returning to her side. “I'll let Captain Burch know before I leave for the airport.”

“When will I see you again?” she asked, squeezing his hand.

“Just a quick trip to headquarters. I'll be back before you know it.”

“You better,” she replied, her eyelids drooping low. Dirk leaned over and brushed her hair aside, then kissed her gently on the forehead. As he stood up, he could see that she had already fallen asleep.

He slept soundly on his cross-country red-eye flight, popping awake well rested as the wheels of the NUMA jet touched down at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport just after eight in the morning. An agency car was left waiting for him at the government terminal, and he drove himself out of the parking lot under a light drizzle. As he exited the airport, he cast a long glance toward a dilapidated-looking hangar situated off one of the runways. Though his father was out of the country, he still had the urge to visit the old man's hideout and tinker with one of his many antique autos stored there. Business before pleasure, he told himself, and wheeled the loaner car onto the highway.

Following the George Washington Memorial Parkway out of the airport, he drove north, passing the Pentagon on his left as he followed the banks of the Potomac River. A short distance later, he turned off the highway and angled toward a towering green glass building that housed the NUMA headquarters. Passing through an employee security gate, he pulled into an underground garage and parked. Opening the car trunk, he hoisted a large duffel bag over his shoulder, then rode the employees' elevator to the tenth floor, where the doors opened onto an elaborate maze of quietly humming computer hardware.

Established with a budget that would make a third world dictator whimper, the NUMA Ocean Data Center computer network was a marvel of state-of-the-art computer processing. Buried within its massive data storage banks was the finest collection of oceanographic resources in the world. Real-time inputs of weather, current, temperature, and bio diversity measurements were collected via satellite from hundreds of remote sea sites from around the world, giving a global snapshot of ocean conditions and trends at any given moment. Links to the leading research universities provided data on current investigations in geology, marine biology, and undersea flora and fauna research, as well as engineering and technology. NUMA's own historical reference library contained literally millions of data sources and was a constant reservoir of information for research institutes the world over.

Dirk found the maestro behind the vast computer network, sitting behind a horseshoe console munching a bear claw with one hand while tapping a keyboard with the other. To a stranger, Hiram Yaeger resembled a groupie from a Bob Dylan concert. His lean body was clad in faded Levi's and matching jeans jacket over a white T-shirt, complemented by a pair of scuffed cowboy boots on his feet. With his long gray hair tied in a ponytail, his appearance belied the fact that he lived in a high-end Maryland suburb with an ex-model wife and drove a BMW 7 Series. He caught sight of Dirk over a pair of granny glasses and smiled in greeting.

“Well, the young Mr. Pitt,” he grinned warmly.

“Hiram, how are you?”

“Not having smashed my car, nor destroyed an agency helicopter, I'd have to say I'm doing quite well,” he joked. “By the way, has our esteemed director been advised of the loss of one of NUMA's flying assets?”

“Yes. Fortunately, with Dad and Al still over in the Philippines the bite was tempered somewhat.”

“They've had their hands full with a toxic spill they ran across near Mindanao, so your timing was good,” Yaeger said. “So tell-me, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“Well,” Dirk hesitated, “it's your daughters. I would like to go out with them.”

The color drained from Yaeger's thin boyish face for a moment as he took Dirk's proposal seriously. Yaeger's twin daughters, finishing their last year of private high school, were his pride and joy. For seventeen years, he had successfully scared away any male suitors who had the remotest inkling of touching his girls. God forbid the giddiness they'd show over the rugged and charismatic Dirk.

"You so much as mention their names around me and I'll have you off the payroll with a ruined credit rating that will take five lifetimes to fix' Yaeger threatened.

It was Dirk's turn to laugh, chuckling loudly at Yaeger's vulnerable soft spot. The computer genius softened and grinned as well at Dirk's idle ploy.

“Okay, the girls are off-limits. But what I really want is a little time with you and Max before my meeting with Rudi later this morning.”

“Now, that I can approve,” Yaeger replied with a firm nod of the head. The bear claw now demolished, he applied both hands in a finger dance over the keyboard to conjure up his bionic confidante, Max.

No fellow computer programmer, Max was an artificial intelligence system with a virtual interface in the form of a holographic image. The brainchild of Yaeger to aid in researching voluminous databases, he had cleverly modeled the visual interface after his wife, Elsie, adding a sensual voice and saucy personality. On a platform opposite the horseshoe console, an attractive woman with auburn hair and topaz eyes suddenly appeared. She was dressed in a skimpy halter top that revealed her navel and a very short leather skirt.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” the three-dimensional image murmured.

“Hi, Max. You remember the younger Dirk Pitt?”

“Of course. Nice to see you again, Dirk.”

“You're looking good, Max.”

“I'd look better if Hiram would stop dressing me in Britney Spears outfits,” she replied with disdain, rolling her hands down her body.

“All right. Tomorrow it will be Prada,” Yaeger promised.

“Thank you.”

“Dirk, what is it that you'd like to ask Max?” Yaeger prompted.

“Max, what can you tell me about the Japanese efforts at chemical and biological warfare during World War Two?” Dirk asked, turning serious.

Max hesitated for a moment as the question generated a massive search through thousands of databases. Not just limiting it to oceanographic resources, Yaeger had wired the NUMA network into a diverse multitude of government and public information resources, ranging from the Library of Congress to the Securities and Exchange Commission. Sifting through the mass of information, Max consolidated the data points into a concisely summarized reply.

“The Japanese military conducted extensive research and experimentation into chemical and biological weaponry both during and preceding World War Two. Primary research and deployment occurred in Manchuria, under the direction of the occupying Japanese Imperial Army after they had seized control of northeast China in 1931. Numerous facilities were constructed throughout the region as test centers, under the guise of lumber mills or other false fronts. Inside the facilities, Chinese captives were subject to a wide variety of human experiments with germ and chemical compounds. The Qiqihar facility, under the command of Army Unit 516, was the largest Japanese chemical weapons research and test site, although chemical weapons manufacture actually took place on the Japanese mainland. Changchun, under Army Unit 100, and the sprawling Ping Fan facility, under \my Unit 731, were the major biological warfare research and test centers. The facilities were in fact large prisons, where local criminals and derelicts were sent and used as test subjects, though few of the captives would survive their incarceration.”

“I've read about Unit 731,” Dirk commented. “Some of their experiments made the Nazis look like Boy Scouts.”

“Allegations of inhuman experiments performed by the Japanese, particularly in Unit 731, are nearly endless. Chinese prisoners, and even some Allied prisoners of war, were routinely injected with an assortment of deadly pathogens, as their captors sought to determine the appropriate lethal dosage. Biological bombs were dropped on prisoners staked to the ground in order to test delivery systems. Many experiments took place outside the walls of the facilities. Typhoid bacilli germs were intentionally released into local village wells, resulting in widespread outbreaks of fever and death. Rats carrying plague-infected fleas were released in congested urban areas as a test of the speed and ferocity of infection. Children were even considered an acceptable target. In one experiment, local village children were given chocolates filled with anthrax, which they gratefully devoured, with horrifying side effects.”

“That's revolting,” Yaeger said, shaking his head. “I hope the perpetrators paid for their crimes.”

“For the most part, they did not,” Max continued. “Nearly to a man, those in charge of the chemical and biological army units avoided prosecution as war criminals. The Japanese destroyed much of the documentation, and the camps themselves, before their surrender. American intelligence forces, unaware of the extent of horrors, or, in some cases, seeking to obtain the results of the ghastly experiments, looked the other way at the atrocities. Many of the Imperial Army medical professionals who worked in the death camps went on to become respected business leaders in Japan's postwar pharmaceutical industry.”

“With blood on their hands,” Dirk muttered.

“No one knows for sure, but experts estimate that at least two hundred thousand Chinese died as a result of Japanese chemical and biological warfare activity during the thirties and forties. A large percentage of the casualties were innocent civilians. It was a wartime tragedy that has only recently received much attention from historians and scholars.”

“Man's inhumanity to man never ceases to amaze,” Yaeger said solemnly.

“Max, exactly what pathogens and chemicals did the Japanese work with?” Dirk asked.

“It might be easier to ask which agents they didn't experiment with. Their known research in bacteria and viruses ranged from anthrax, cholera, and bubonic plague to glanders, smallpox, and typhus, with experiments conducted in pretty much everything else in between. Among the chemical agents employed in weaponry were phosgene, hydrogen cyanide, sulfur mustard, and lewisite. It is unknown how much was actually deployed in the field, again due to the fact that the Japanese destroyed most of their records as they retreated from China at the end of the war.”

“How would these agents have been used on the battlefield?”

“Chemical agents, possessing a long shelf life, are perfectly suitable for munitions. The Japanese manufactured a large quantity of chemical munitions, mostly in the form of grenades, mortars, and a wide range of artillery shells. Thousands of these weapons were even left behind in Manchuria at the war's end. The Japanese biological delivery systems were less successful due to the sensitive nature of the arming agents. Development of a practical biological artillery shell proved difficult, so much of the Japanese effort at fabricating the release of biological agents was focused on aerial bombs. Known records seem to indicate that the Japanese scientists were never completely satisfied with the effectiveness of the bio bombs they developed.”

“Max, are you aware of the use of porcelain as a bomb-casing material for these chemical or biological agents?”

“Why, yes, as a matter of fact. Steel bombs generated excessive heat upon explosion that would destroy the biological pathogens, so the Japanese turned to ceramics. It is known that a variety of porcelain bomb canisters were tested in China as aerial delivery systems for the biological agents.”

Dirk felt a lump in his stomach. The I-403 had indeed been on a mission of death with its biological bombs back in 1945. Fortuitously, the submarine had been sunk, but was that, in fact, the last of its failed mission?

Yaeger broke his concentration. “Max, this is all new history to me. I had no idea the Japanese actually used chemical and biological weapons in battle. Were they ever employed outside of China, against American forces?”

“The Japanese deployment of chemical and biological weapons was primarily restricted to the Chinese theater of war. Limited instances of their usage were also reported in Burma, Thailand, and Malaysia. My data sources show no recorded use of biochemical agents in battle with Western Allied forces, perhaps due to Japanese fear of reprisal. It is suspected that chemical weapons would have been employed in defense of the homeland, had an invasion of Japan been necessary. Of course, your father's discovery proves that chemical munitions were to be stockpiled in the Philippines for possible deployment in defense of the islands.”

“My father's discovery?” Dirk asked. “I don't understand.”

“I'm sorry, Dirk, let me explain. I received a toxin assessment from the Mariana Explorer taken from an ordnance sample recovered by | your father and Al Giordino.”

“You've completed your database search on the arsenic sample already? I thought you said you wouldn't have that completed until after lunch,” Yaeger asked the hologram.

“Sometimes, I can just be brutally efficient,” she replied, throwing her nose in the air.

“What's the connection?” Dirk asked, still confused. “Your father and Al traced a toxic arsenic leak to an old cargo ship that apparently sank on a coral reef near Mindanao during World War Two. The arsenic was leaking from a shipment of artillery shells carried in the ship's hold,” Yaeger explained.

“One-hundred-five-millimeter shells, to be precise,” Max added. “Ammunition for a common artillery gun used by the Japanese Imperial Army. Only the contents weren't arsenic, per se.” “What did you find?” Yaeger asked.

"The actual contents were a mixture of sulfur mustard and lewisite. A popular chemical munitions concentrate from the thirties, it acts as a fatal blistering agent when released as a gas. Lewisite is an arsenic derivative, which accounts for the toxic readings found in the Philippines. The Japanese produced thousands of mustard lewisite shells in Manchuria, some of which were deployed against the Chinese. Some of these old buried chemical munitions are still being dug up today.

“Was the Japanese Navy connected with the deployment of these weapons?” Dirk asked.

“The Japanese Imperial Navy was actively involved with chemical weapons production at its Sagami Naval Yard, and was believed to have had four additional storage arsenals at Kure, Yokosuka, Hiroshima, and Sasebo. But the Navy possessed only a fraction of the estimated 1.7 million chemical bombs and shells produced during the war, and no records indicate they were ever used in any naval engagements. The biological weapons research was funded through the Imperial Army and, as I mentioned, centered in occupied China. A primary conduit for the research activity was the Army Medical School in Tokyo. It is unknown whether the Navy had any involvement through the medical school, as the college was destroyed by wartime bombing in 1945.”

“So no wartime records exist that show chemical or biological weapons were ever assigned onboard Navy vessels?”

“None that were publicly released,” Max said, shaking her holographic head. “The bulk of the captured Japanese wartime records, including those of the Navy Ministry, were consigned to the National Archives. As a gesture of goodwill, most of the documents were later returned to the Japanese government. Only a fraction of the records were copied, however, and even a smaller portion have ever been translated.”

“Max, I'd like to explore the Naval Ministry records for information on the mission of a particular Japanese submarine, the I-403. Can you determine whether these records might still exist?”

“I'm sorry, Dirk, but I don't have access to that portion of the National Archives' data records.”

Dirk turned to Yaeger with an arched brow and gave him a long, knowing look.

“The National Archives, eh? Well, that should be a lot less dangerous than tapping into Langley,” Yaeger acceded with a shrug.

“That's the old Silicon Valley hacker I know and love,” Dirk replied with a laugh.

“Give me a couple of hours and I'll see what I can do.”

“Max,” Dirk said, looking at the transparent woman in the eye, thank you for the information."

“My pleasure, Dirk,” she replied seductively. “I'm happy to be at your service any time.”

Then, in an instant, she vanished. Yaeger already had his nose against a computer monitor, fingers flying over a keyboard, completely engrossed in his subversive mission at hand.

At promptly ten o'clock, Dirk entered a plush executive conference room, still carrying the large duffel bag over his shoulder. Thick azure carpet under his feet complemented the dark cherrywood conference table and matching wood paneling on the walls, which were dotted with ancient oil paintings of American Revolutionary warships. A thick pane of glass stretched the length of one wall, offering a bird's-eye view of the Potomac River and the Washington Mall across the water. Seated at the table, two stone-faced men in dark suits listened attentively as a diminutive man in horn-rimmed glasses discussed the Deep Endeavor's recent events in the Aleutian Islands. Rudi Gunn stopped in mid-sentence and popped to his feet as Dirk entered the room.

“Dirk, good of you to return to Washington so quickly,” he greeted warmly, his bright blue eyes beaming through the thick pair of eyeglasses. “Glad to see your ferry landing injuries were minor,” he added, eyeing Dirk's swollen lip and bandaged cheek.

“My companion broke her leg, but I managed to escape with just a fat lip. We fared a little better than the other guys,” he said with a smirk, “whoever they were. It's good to see you again, Rudi,” he added, shaking the hand of NUMA's longtime assistant director.

Gunn escorted him over and introduced him to the other two men.

“Dirk, this is Jim Webster, Department of Homeland Security special assistant, Information Analysis and Infrastructure Protection,” he said, waving a hand toward a pale-skinned man with cropped blond hair, "and Rob Jost, assistant director of Maritime and Land Security)

Transportation Security Administration, under DHS.“ A rotund, bearish-looking man with a flush red nose nodded at Dirk without smiling ”We were discussing Captain Burch's report of your rescue of the CDC team on Yunaska Island," Gunn continued.

“A fortunate thing we happened to be in the area. I'm just sorry we weren't able to reach the two Coast Guardsmen in time.”

“Given the apparently high levels of toxins that were released near the station, they really didn't have much of a chance from the beginning,” Webster said.

“You confirmed that they died from cyanide poisoning?” Dirk asked.

“Yes. How did you know? That information hasn't been made public.”

“We recovered a dead sea lion from the island, which a CDC team in Seattle examined after we returned. They found that it had been killed by cyanide inhalation.”

“That is consistent with the autopsy reports for the two Coast Guardsmen.”

“Have you uncovered any information on the boat that fired at us, and presumably released the cyanide?”

After an uncomfortable pause, Webster replied, “No additional information has been obtained. Unfortunately, the description provided matches a thousand other fishing boats of its kind. It is not believed to have been a local vessel, and we are now working with the Japanese authorities to investigate leads in their country.”

“So you believe there is a Japanese connection. Any ideas on why someone would launch a chemical attack on a remote weather station in the Aleutians?”

“Mr. Pitt,” Jost interrupted, “did you know the men who tried to kill you in Seattle?”

“Never saw them before. They appeared to be semiprofessionals, more than just a pair of hired street hoods.”

Webster opened a file on the table before him and slid over a crinkled photograph in the form of a small postcard. Dirk silently looked at the black-and-white image of a hardened Japanese woman of fifty glaring violently into the camera lens.

“An homage card of Fusako Shigenobu, former revolutionary leader of the JRA,” Webster continued. “Found it in the wallet of one of your would-be assassins after we fished them out of the sound.”

“What's the JRA?” Dirk asked.

“The Japanese Red Army. An international terrorist cell that dates to the seventies. Believed to have been broken up with the arrest of Shigenobu in 2000, they appear to have staged a deadly resurgence in activity.”

“I've read that the prolonged weakness in Japan's economy has spawned renewed interest in fringe cults by the Japanese youth,” Gunn added.

“The JRA has attracted more than a few bored youths. They have claimed responsibility for the assassinations of our ambassador to Japan and deputy chief of mission, as well as the explosion at the SemCon plant in Chiba. These were all very professional hits. The public outrage, as you are no doubt aware, is straining our relations with Tokyo.”

“We suspect the JRA may have been behind the cyanide attack on Yunaska, as a prelude to a more deadly strike in a major urban area,” Jost added.

“And also behind the smallpox infection of the Yunaska scientist Irv Fowler,” Dirk stated.

“We have not established that link,” Webster countered. “Our analysts suspect that the scientist may have contracted the disease in Un-alaska, from a local Aleut. Japanese authorities do not believe the JRA is sophisticated enough to obtain and disperse the smallpox virus.”

“I might think otherwise,” Dirk cautioned.

“Mr. Pitt, we are not here to gather your conspiracy theories,” Jost remarked in a belittling tone. “We are just interested in learning what ^ JRA agents were doing in the country and why they tried to kill a Iv[UMA diver.”

“That's special projects director,” Dirk replied as he hoisted the duffel bag up onto the conference table. Then, giving it a strong shove, he pushed the bag across the table in the direction of Jost. The arrogant transportation security director scrambled to hoist a cup of coffee out of the way before the bag slid up against his chest.

“Your answer is in there,” Dirk stated brusquely.

Webster stood and unzipped the bag as Jost and Gunn looked on intently. Carefully wrapped in foam padding was a large section of the bomb canister that Dirk had recovered from the I-403. The silver-porcelain casing was split open, revealing a segmented interior, with several empty compartments positioned beneath a small nose tip component.

“What is it?” Gunn asked.

“A sixty-year-old dirty bomb,” Dirk replied. He then retold the story of the World War II attack on Fort Stevens, his discovery of the submarine, and the retrieval of the bomb canister.

“An ingenious weapon,” Dirk continued. “I had the epidemiology lab in Washington test for trace elements, to see what was armed in the payload section.”

“It's made of porcelain,” Webster noted.

“Used to protect biological agents. The nose cone had a simple timed explosive, designed to detonate at a pre specified altitude to disperse the main payload armament. As you can see, it would have been a pretty small charge. Enough to shatter the porcelain casing but not damage the payload with undue heat or pressure.”

Dirk pointed to the interior payload compartments, which were cigar-shaped and stretched nearly to the tail fins.

“It's not clear whether the payload agents were mixed together during flight or upon detonation. But the bomb could obviously carry multiple compounds. The contents might be one or more biological agents with a booster, or a combination of biological or chemical agents. The CDC lab was only able to find a trace chemical agent in one of the compartments on this particular bomb.” '

“Cyanide?” Gunn asked. “None other,” Dirk replied.

“But why utilize more than one payload?” Webster queried. “To ensure a specific kill zone, and perhaps divert attention. Let's say cyanide was combined with a biological agent. The cyanide gas would have a high lethality in a concentrated area only, whereas the biological agent would create gradual problems over a larger region. Cyanide gas also dissipates quickly, so attack survivors would reenter the drop zone unaware of a secondary danger. But that's just speculation. It's possible the canister design was for a different intent, to strike with a mixture of several chemical agents or biological agents that would produce a higher lethality in combination.”

“So what additional agents were on this bomb?” Gunn asked. Dirk shook his head slowly. “That, we don't know. The lab technicians were unable to detect any remaining trace elements from the other compartments. We know that the reason for using porcelain was to house biological agents, but the Japanese experimented with all kinds of organisms, so it could be anything from bubonic plague to yellow fever.”

“Or smallpox?” Gunn asked. “Or smallpox,” Dirk confirmed.

Jost's face glowed beet red. “This is a preposterous fantasy,” he grumbled. “The history lesson is interesting but irrelevant. A modern terrorist group salvaging weapons off a World War Two submarine? A nice story, but how are your biological viruses going to survive under the sea for sixty years, Mr. Pitt? We know the Japanese Red Army. It's a small, tight-knit organization with limited sophistication. Political assassination and planted explosives are within their means. Deep-sea salvage and microbiology are not.”

“I have to agree with Rob,” Webster added in a muted tone. “Although the cyanide canister is an interesting coincidence with the Yunaska attack, the fact is that cyanide is a compound readily obtainable from many sources. You've admitted that there is no traceable evidence supporting the smallpox source. And we don't know for sure if the missing bomb canister on the sub was lost somewhere else on the vessel or was even loaded on board in the first place.”

Dirk reached over to the duffel bag and unzipped a side pocket, pulling out the still-blinking digital timer he'd found in the torpedo room. “Maybe you can at least find out where this came from,” he said, handing it to Webster.

“Could have been left behind by a sport diver,” Jost noted.

“A sport diver with a possessive disposition, apparently,” Dirk remarked drily. “I've been shot at twice now. I don't know who these characters are, but they take their game seriously.”

“I assure you, we have a full investigation under way,” Webster stated. “I'll have our lab in Quantico reanalyze the bomb casing and take a look at the timer. We will find the perpetrators who caused the death of the two Coast Guardsmen.” The words were firm, but the hollow tone in his voice revealed his lack of confidence in the outcome.

“We can offer a safe house for you, Mr. Pitt, until we have made an apprehension,” he added.

“No, thanks. If these people are who you say they are, then I should have nothing more to fear. After all, how many JRA operatives can they have in the country?” Dirk asked with a penetrating glare.

Webster and Jost looked at each other in unknowing silence. Gunn jumped in diplomatically.

“We appreciate your investigation into the loss of our helicopter,” he said, gently ushering the men to the door. “Please keep us advised as to any new developments, and, of course, NUMA will be happy to assist in any way we can.”

After they left the room, Dirk sat silently shaking his head.

“They've hushed up the Yunaska incident because they are getting so much flak for the unsolved assassinations in Japan,” Gunn said.

Homeland Security and the FBI are stymied and are relying on the Japanese authorities to make a break in the case. The last thing they want to admit, on top of that, is that the smallpox case was part of the attack, with just one victim and no terrorists."

“The evidence may be weak, but there is no reason to foolishly ignore an attack on our own soil,” Dirk stated.

“I'll speak to the admiral about it. The director of the FBI is an old tennis partner of his. He'll make sure it doesn't get brushed under the carpet.”

They were interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by the lean face of Yaeger poking in.

“Sorry to intrude. Dirk, I have something for you.”

“Come in, Hiram. Rudi and I were just plotting the overthrow of the government. Was Max able to access the National Archives' secure records?”

“Does McDonald's have golden arches?” Yaeger replied, feigning insult.

Gunn gave Dirk a sideways glance, then shook his head in amusement. “If you guys get caught on a security breach, do me a favor and blame it on your father, will you?”

Dirk laughed. “Sure, Rudi. What did you find, Hiram?”

“The Naval Ministry records were somewhat limited. It's a shame that most all of the original documents were returned to the Japanese government in the fifties. The available records in the archives are, of course, written in Japanese, using a variety of dialects, so I had to set up several translation programs before I could initiate a scan.”

Yaeger paused and poured himself a cup of coffee from a large silver urn before continuing.

“As it is, you are in luck. I found a log of operations orders from the Japanese Sixth Fleet covering the last six months of 1944.”

“Including the I-403?” Dirk asked.

“Yep. Its mission of December 1944 evidently had high importance. It was approved by the fleet admiral himself. The actual sailing order was short and sweet.”

Yaeger pulled a sheet of paper from a thin folder and read aloud. “”Proceed northerly route to Pacific West Coast, refueling Amchitka (Moriokd). Initiate aerial strike with Maka^e ordnance earliest practicable. Primary Target: Tacoma, Seattle, Vancouver, Victoria. Alternate Target: Alameda, Oakland, San Francisco. With the emperor's blessing.“ ”

“That's a pretty ambitious target list for just two planes,” Gunn remarked.

“Think about it, though,” Dirk said. “The cities are concentrated enough all to be reached on a single flyover. Two or three biological bombs per city would wreak deadly havoc, if that's in fact what they were. Hiram, you said the ordnance was referred to as Maka^e. St. Julien Perlmutter found mention of the same term. Any information on what they were?”

“I was curious about that myself,” Yaeger replied. “I found that the 'iferal translation was 'evil wind' or 'black wind.” But there was no additional information in the official naval records."

Yaeger paused and sat back in his chair with a knowing, look.

“Well, did you find anything else?” Gunn finally goaded.

“It was Max, actually,” Yaeger replied proudly. “After exhausting the National Archives data, I had her search the public databases in the U.S. and Japan. In a Japanese genealogy database, she hit pay dirt, locating an obscure diary from a sailor who served aboard the I-403 during the war.” Holding a printout up to his face, he continued. “Mechanic First Class Hiroshi Sakora, Imperial Navy Air Corps, was a lucky devil. He came down with appendicitis while the sub was crossing the Pacific on its fateful voyage in December of 1944 and was transferred off the boat and onto the refueling ship in the Aleutian Islands. All his shipmates, of course, went on to perish when the sub was sunk off Washington State.”

“And he made mention of the I-403's mission?” Dirk asked.

“In vivid detail. It turns out that the young Mr. Sakora, in addition to his aircraft mechanic duties, was also in charge of aerial ordnance for the submarine's airplanes. He wrote that before they left port on their final voyage, an Army officer named Tanaka brought aboard an unusual type of aerial bomb that was to be used on the mission. The shipboard morale became very high, he added, when the crew learned they were to make an attack on the United States. But there was much mystery and speculation about the unknown weapon.”

“Did he identify what it was?” Gunn pressed.

“He tried to, but working with the fellow Tanaka was difficult. ”A gloomy, overbearing, obstinate taskmaster," he wrote about the officer.

Typical Army-Navy rivalry, I suppose, plus the submariners didn't like his being a last-minute addition to the sailing crew. At any rate, he pressed Tanaka for information, but to no avail. Finally, just before he fell ill and was transferred off the sub in the Aleutians, he wriggled the information out of one of the pilots. The pilot, so the story goes,

shared some sake with Tanaka and was able to pry the secret payload out of him. It was smallpox."

“Good God, so it's true!” Gunn exclaimed.

“Apparently so. He wrote that the payload was a freeze-dried virus, which was to be detonated and dispersed at altitude above the most concentrated population points of each city. Within two weeks, an outbreak of smallpox was expected all along the West Coast. With a thirty percent mortality rate, the deaths would have been staggering. The Japanese figured the resulting panic would allow them to negotiate a peace settlement on their terms.”

"The threat of more smallpox bombs on our home soil might very well have changed the resolve of many people to finish the war, Gunn speculated.

An uneasiness crept over the room as the three considered how history may have played out differently had the I-403 successfully completed its mission. Their thoughts then turned to the possibility of a more current threat.

“You mentioned that the virus was freeze-dried. So they must have had the ability to store the virus for long periods and then rejuvenate it,” Dirk commented.

“Necessary for a long sea voyage,” Yaeger added. “According to Max the Japanese had difficulty in keeping the viruses alive in their munitions for any length of time. They ultimately perfected a way of freeze-drying the virus, for easier handling and longer storage, until the need for activation when deployed. Insert a little H2O and you're in business.”

“So the virus could still be a viable danger, even after sixty years at the bottom of the sea,” Gunn remarked. “I guess that answers Jost's question.”

“There's no reason the smallpox wouldn't survive in freeze-dried form if the canisters hadn't cracked during sinking. Since they're made of porcelain, the canisters could survive intact for centuries underwater,” Dirk said. “Might also explain the various interior segments to the bomb. A compartment with water was needed to rejuvenate the virus.”

“Perhaps it was more fortunate than we know that all but one of the canisters were demolished on the I-403,” Gunn remarked.

“That still leaves one canister unaccounted for,” Dirk replied.

“Yes, as well as the other mission ordnance,” Yaeger added.

Dirk and Gunn looked at each other. “What other mission?” Gunn asked incredulously.

“The I-411.”

Yaeger felt their eyes boring right through him.

“Didn't you know?” he asked. “There was a second submarine, the I-411. It, too, was armed with the Maka^e ordnance and was sent to attack the eastern seaboard of the United States,” Yaeger said quietly, realizing he had just dropped a bomb of his own.

It had been a long day for Takeo Yoshida. A crane operator for the Yokohama Port Development Corporation, Yoshida had toiled since six in the morning loading an aged Iberian freighter with container after container of Japanese consumer electronics bound for export. He had just secured the last of the metal containers onto the ship's deck when a radio crackled in the crane's control cabin.

“Yoshida, this is Takagi,” the deep voice of his foreman grumbled. “Report to Dock D-5 upon completion with San Sebastian. A single loading for the vessel Baekje. Takagi, out.”

“Affirmed, Takagi-san,” Yoshida answered, holding his disdain under his breath. Just twenty minutes to go on his shift and Takagi gives him a last-minute assignment across the shipyard. Securing the crane, Yoshida walked eight hundred yards across the Honmoku Port Terminal toward Dock D-5, cursing Takagi's name with each step he took. As he approached the end of the pier, he glanced beyond at the waters of the bustling port of Yokohama, where a constant stream of commercial ships jockeyed into position for loading and unloading.

With three hundred meters of waterfront, container terminal D-5 was big enough to handle the largest cargo ships afloat. Yoshida was surprised to find the vessel tied to the dock was not the typical jumbo containership awaiting a load of industrial cargo but a special-purpose cable ship. Yoshida even recognized the Baekje as having been built in the nearby Mitsubishi Heavy Industries shipyard. At 436 feet long and with a beam of 133 feet, the stout vessel was designed to lay fiber-optic cable on the seafloor while withstanding the turbulent seas of the North Pacific. With a modern-appearing superstructure and white paint that still glistened, Yoshida could tell that it had not been many years since the high-tech ship slid into Yokohama Bay for the first time. She sported a Korean flag above the bridge mast and a blue lightning bolt across the funnel, which Yoshida recalled was the signature of a Kang Enterprises vessel. Short on Korean history, the crane operator did not know that her name, Baekje, represented one or the early Korean tribal kingdoms that dominated the peninsula in the third century a.d.

A pair of dockworkers was securing cables beneath an oblong object on the bed of a large flatbed truck when one of the men turned and greeted Yoshida as he approached.

“Hey, Takeo, ever fly a submarine before?” the man yelled.

Yoshida returned a confused look before realizing that the object on the back of the truck was a small white submersible.

“Takagi says our shift is over once we get it aboard,” the man continued, displaying a missing front tooth as he spoke. “Lay it aboard and let's go get some Sapporo's.”

“Is she secure?” Yoshida asked, waving a hand at the submersible.

“All ready,” the second man replied eagerly, a young kid of nineteen ^ho Yoshida knew had just started work on the docks a few weeks before.

A few yards away, Yoshida noticed a stocky bald man with dark eyes surveying the scene near the ship's gangway. A menacing quality lingered over the man, Yoshida thought. He'd been in enough scrapes in the nearby shipyard bars to recognize which men were legitimate tough guys and which were pretenders. This man was no pretender, he judged.

Shifting thoughts to the taste of a cold Sapporo beer, Yoshida climbed up a high ladder into the cab of the adjacent container crane and fired up its diesel motor. Adeptly working the levers like a concert pianist tickling the ivories, he expertly adjusted the movable boom and sliding block until satisfied, then dropped the hook and block quickly toward the ground, halting it dead center a few inches above the submersible. The two dockworkers quickly slipped a pair of cables over the hoist hook and gave Yoshida the thumbs-up sign. Ever so gently, the crane operator pulled up on the hoist line, the thick cable drawing tight as it wrapped around a drum behind the cab. Slowly, Yoshida raised the twenty-four-ton submersible to a height of fifty feet, hesitating as he waited for its twisting motion to halt before swinging it over to a waiting pad on the Baekje's rear deck. But he never got the chance.

Before it could be seen, and almost before it physically started, Yoshida's experienced hands could feel something wrong through the controls. One of the cables had not been properly secured to the submersible and the tail suddenly slipped down and through a loop in the cable. In an instant, the rear of the sub lunged down and the white metal capsule hung vertically at a grotesque angle, clinging precariously to the single cable wrapped around its nose. Yoshida didn't breathe, and, for a moment, it looked like the dangling submersible would stabilize. But before he could move it an inch, a loud twang burst through the air as the lone securing cable snapped. Like a toon of bricks, the submersible dropped straight to the dock below, landing on its tail with an accordion like smash before plopping over on its side in distress.

Yoshida grimaced, already thinking of the grief he would suffer at the hands of Takagai, as well as the reams of insurance paperwork he would be forced to fill out. Thankfully, no one was hurt on the dock. As he climbed down from the crane's cab to inspect the damage, Yoshida glanced at the bald man on the gangway, expecting to see a seething fury. Instead, the mysterious man looked back at him with a cold face of stone. The dark eyes, however, seemed to pierce right through him.

The Shinkai three-man submersible was heavily mashed on one end and clearly inoperable. It would be shipped back to its home at the Japanese Marine Science and Technology Center for three months' worth of repairs before it would be seaworthy again. The two dock-workers did not fare as well. Though not fired, Yoshida noticed that the two men did not show up for work the next day, and, in fact, were never seen or heard from again.

Twenty hours later and 250 miles farther to the southwest, an American commercial jetliner touched down at Osaka's modern Kan-sai International Airport and taxied to the international gate. Dirk stretched his six-foot-four frame as he exited the plane, relieved to be free from the cramped airline seating that only a jockey would find comfortable. Passing quickly through the customs checkpoint, he entered the busy main terminal crowded with businessmen hustling to catch their flights. Stopping briefly, it took just a momentary scan of the terminal before he picked out the woman he was looking for from the mass of humanity.

Standing nearly six feet tall with shoulder-length flaming red hair, his fraternal twin sister Summer towered like a beacon in a sea of black-haired Japanese. Her pearl gray eyes glistened and her soft mouth broke into a grin as she spotted her brother and waved him over to her.

“Welcome to Japan,” she gushed, giving him a hug. “How was your flight?”

“Like riding in a sardine can with wings.”

“Good, then you'll feel right at home in the cabin berth I scraped up for you on the Sea Rover” she laughed.

“I was afraid you wouldn't be here yet,” Dirk remarked as he collected his luggage and they made their way to the parking lot.

“When Captain Morgan received word from Rudi that we were to terminate our study of pollutants along the eastern coast of Japan to assist in an emergency search-and-recovery mission, he wasted no time in responding. Fortunately, we were working not far off Shikoku when we got the call so were able to reach Osaka this morning.”