The Rising Sea

by Clive Cussler

Han watched the throng assemble. It would all be over in a few minutes. He would be on his way back to China and glory. He found his heart racing in anticipation.

  Finally, the Japanese Prime Minister and the Chinese Ambassador arrived.

  Their handshake lasted a full thirty seconds so everyone could capture the image in just the right way. Flashes went off in a dizzying, almost hypnotic display.

  The Ambassador stepped to the podium and offered a short statement. He gave way to the Prime Minister, who spoke at some length. Han stood proudly behind them, along with a few others who’d helped make this moment a reality.

  While everyone else watched the politicians, Han squinted against the glare of the lights, looking for the facsimile of Austin. The three robots were on autonomous mode now, with Austin’s machine programmed to make its angry declaration and shoot as the last copy of the agreement was being signed.

  The Nagano facsimile would be waiting down a back hallway, guarding the way out. While the Zavala facsimile had made only a brief appearance—to assure it was seen by the cameras—and then returned to the getaway vehicle. Which, in a delicious twist, was Nagano’s unmarked police car, taken by Ushi-Oni when he abducted Nagano from the Shinto temple in the mountains.

  Everything was in place. The plan was perfect.

  58

  FRIENDSHIP PAVILION

  THE NAGANO facsimile stood in a vacant hall near the back of the building. It had no true thoughts, as such; its processors had simply determined that this door was the most likely to be blocked by security once the event occurred.

  It would remain here until the next phase of the operation began, ensuring access to the outside parking lot. When the Austin facsimile unit appeared, both units would leave the building together. Pacing to be determined by threat activity.

  Until then, it would continue to run its human mimicry program and ensure that the door remain unlocked.

  Its optical processors detected the approach of two maintenance workers, identifying them by uniform. A secondary routine built into its programming determined they were not a threat, while a third routine caused it to smile and offer a slight bow.

  At the same time, a different algorithm designed to scan faces and make a recognition, if possible, failed to operate. This occurred not because the function was off-line but because the men approaching had their caps pulled down far enough to block most of their features.

  Still, absent a threat determination, the machine remained in a passive state and the human mimicry program continued as the priority function.

  A subroutine of that program limited the amount of time the unit could stand still and stare—two obvious giveaways in robotic performance. After three seconds of watching the subjects’ approach, the Nagano facsimile looked away, raised its left arm in a crook and used its right hand to pull the cuff of its sleeve back.

  At the same time, it directed its optical sensors toward the watch on its left wrist. It did not record the time—time was kept perfectly within its CPU—nor did it have any understanding of what it was doing. The act was merely part of its program.

  Behavior mimicked successfully, its next directive was to fold its arms, exhale and look out the small window in the door.

  Damage detected.

  Its internal sensors reacted to sharp impact in its lower back. The outer padding had been punctured. Self-protection routine kicked in and the machine spun, reaching for its weapon. But before it completed its turn, all processing ceased.

  * * *

  • • •

  KURT REMOVED the sharpened metal rod from the replica’s back and held it cautiously in rubber-gloved hands. A bare copper wire was visible wrapped around the length of the rod in tight coils. It led back to the rubber sheathing of a hundred-foot extension cord. That cord led to Joe, who crouched beside the wall socket he’d plugged it into.

  Kurt had plunged the metal spike through the artificial flesh and padding of the replica. The hundred-volt current of the Japanese electrical system did the rest, creating a cycling electromagnetic field and a power surge in the robot at the same time. In the blink of an eye, it disrupted the robot’s CPU and erased its programming.

  The Nagano facsimile didn’t cry out in pain or react in any outward way. No sparks flew. No mechanical seizures. It just turned slightly to the right and shut down. Now it stood as still as any mannequin.

  Kurt waved a hand in front of its eyes.

  Nothing.

  Joe came running up, gathering the extension cord in loops as he approached. “What did I tell you?”

  “You’re a genius,” Kurt said. “Are you sure this thing isn’t going to wake back up?”

  “Not after that shock,” Joe said. “Even it did come back online, it won’t have any programming files. It won’t know what to do. It’ll just stand there.”

  “One down, two to go,” Kurt said. “Let’s lock this thing in that broom closet where we found these uniforms and get moving.”

  * * *

  • • •

  HAN WAITED as the Prime Minister finished his lengthy speech. Finally, he thought.

  The ceremonial pens were handed out. Six copies of the agreement placed on the desk. The first copy was signed and the pens placed aside. New pens appeared for the second copy. And so on.

  As the fifth copy was being autographed, the Ambassador accidentally dropped his pen. It fell off the table and rolled onto the floor. Both men picked it up together.

  “Cooperation,” the Prime Minister said.

  Everyone laughed. The final copy was placed on the table. Han could barely handle the adrenaline.

  He looked out into the crowd once more to reassure himself. The Austin facsimile was creeping closer, pushing confidently through the crowd, toward the front of the photographer’s row. It looked ready to draw its weapon and open fire. But something was wrong.

  “No,” Han whispered. “No.”

  Pen was put to paper. The facsimile burst forward, throwing a photographer aside. “Japan will never be an ally of China!”

  The machine raised a pistol and was tackled as it opened fire—not by members of the security detail but by the real Kurt Austin. Four shots rang out. The bullets flew low, drilling the platform and little else. The crowd shrieked in unison and began to scatter.

  Han could hardly believe his eyes. He stood motionless for a second, stunned. And then he fled.

  * * *

  • • •

  KURT TACKLED the machine and plunged the metal rod into its back, but aside from a moment of stiffness, the machine hadn’t been affected. It functioned without restraint and threw Kurt off with a violent jerk of its arm.

  Kurt flew several feet and knocked over a group of vacant chairs as the machine stood and opened fire again. The shots hit members of the Prime Minister’s security detail, who’d formed up around him and were trying to get him out of the room. Three men went down in rapid succession. A fourth fired back before he, too, was gunned down by the robot.

  Kurt looked at the rod in his hands as if it had betrayed him, but the truth was simpler than that. Someone in the fleeing crowd had tripped over the cord and pulled it from the socket.

  Kurt grabbed a chair and smashed it over the back of the machine.

  The robot was knocked off balance, but it didn’t fall. It turned and belted Kurt, knocking him over a camera dolly.

  With Kurt knocked aside, the facsimile took one more shot. This time, the Prime Minister was protected by a civilian, who tackled him from the side, taking a bullet in the process.

  Kurt knew he couldn’t overpower the robot. He grabbed the power cord, whipped it toward him and plugged it into an outlet beside the TV camera.

  As the replica moved forward, looking for a kill shot, Kurt rushed the stage and plunged the metal spike into the spine of his mechanical twin.

 
The facsimile froze in an awkward position and toppled forward. Kurt held the machine down, pulled the spike out and plunged it in once more just to be sure.

  By now, police and paramilitary units were rushing into the room. They surrounded Kurt and pulled him off the robot. Turning the machine over, they froze at the odd discovery. Their collective gaze going from the attacker to the Good Samaritan who’d stopped it and back again.

  Kurt didn’t have time to explain. He used the sharpened spike to cut into the skin on the replica’s neck. Peeling it back, he revealed the automated mask of the machine’s face.

  The hydraulics twitched as spare signals came and went. The glass eyes stared blankly into the distance.

  It was the last Kurt saw of the machine. With an abundance of caution, the police dragged him away.

  “Leave him,” a voice ordered.

  Kurt looked up. To his surprise, he saw Nagano limping into the room. The superintendent looked like death warmed over, but he wore an official police jacket.

  “If you didn’t look so beaten up, I might think you were a machine,” Kurt said.

  “I’d be in a lot less pain if I was,” Nagano said.

  Kurt laughed. “When did you get here?”

  “A moment too late, it seems.”

  Nagano helped Kurt up and they climbed onto the stage. The Prime Minister was being ushered out of the room while paramedics tended to his security team and the civilian who’d intervened on his behalf.

  “Akiko,” Kurt said, crouching beside her. She’d taken a bullet in the back, diving in front of the Prime Minister.

  “I told you I’m good in a fight,” she whispered.

  “She has a punctured lung,” the paramedic explained. “She should be okay. But we need to get her to the hospital.”

  “Go,” Nagano said.

  Kurt squeezed Akiko’s hand as she was lifted onto a stretcher and whisked away.

  “I’m guessing you didn’t swim,” Kurt said.

  “We flagged down a fishing boat shortly after dawn,” Nagano explained. “We got here as soon as we could. But as you can imagine, without ID, and looking like we did, it was hard to explain who we really were. By the time I found someone to listen, the shooting had already begun. So we ran up here. Akiko ran faster than any of us.”

  “She’s a hero.” Kurt said. “She pledged to defend Kenzo. Promised to do the same for me and wound up saving the Prime Minister.”

  “Sounds like a promotion.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Kurt said.

  Nagano smiled. “I’m afraid we still have Han to deal with. He seems to have gotten away. If he gets back to China, we’ll never extradite him.”

  “Don’t worry,” Kurt said. “He won’t make it that far.”

  59

  HAN RAN when the shooting started, just like everyone else. But he ran for other reasons. And he ran in a different direction. He charged through the back of the pavilion and raced down the access stairs. Several policemen passed him, rushing in the opposite direction and not giving him a second glance.

  He reached the bottom floor and the door that Nagano’s facsimile was supposed to be guarding. The machine was nowhere in sight and Han didn’t bother looking for it. He pushed the door open and raced outside.

  His limousine was parked in the VIP lot, around the side. He marched toward it and then stopped cold. The police had the limo surrounded. As Han watched, they pulled the door open, dragged his chauffeur out and forced him to lie on the ground.

  Han turned and walked the other way. He was caught. Trapped. With no way out. Then it came to him. The Nagano and Zavala robots would be waiting for Austin’s facsimile.

  Han could override their orders with a voice command. He looked for the getaway car. It was there, waiting near the exit. It even sported a temporary blue police light, blinking on top. A brilliant touch.

  He walked calmly now. No need to draw attention to himself. He opened the door and glanced inside. The Zavala replica was at the wheel just as he was supposed to be, but Nagano’s facsimile was nowhere to be found. Too bad.

  Han climbed in and shut the door. “Drive us out of the parking lot and directly to the factory.”

  If he could get to the helicopter, he would be out of Japanese airspace in less than an hour.

  The Zavala robot put the car in gear, drove a few feet and then stopped. “Will this be cash or credit?”

  “What?”

  “Transportation program requires the use of currency.”

  Han thought he was hearing things. The voice sounded more robotic than anything he would have approved. What the hell kind of accent had Gao downloaded anyway? “Override all programs and drive me to the CNR factory,” he ordered. “Immediately.”

  The answer sounded like an old machine from sixties television. “Instruction error . . . Does not compute . . . Instruction error . . . Does not compute . . .”

  “I’m Walter Han,” he bellowed. “And I’m giving you a direct command!”

  At this, the figure in the front seat turned toward him. It held a pistol and grinned at him with a wicked smile. “And I’m Joe Zavala,” it said, the voice suddenly normal. “And you are not the boss of me.”

  The childish joke was enough for Han to see the truth. He grabbed for the door, but it swung open before he could touch the handle.

  Austin, Nagano and a squad of policemen stood there. Austin reached in, grabbed him by the lapels and dragged him out. Holding him up against the car, Austin grinned smugly. “Humans: three,” he said. “Robots: one. Game over.”

  60

  SHANGHAI

  AT THE OFFICE in Shanghai, Wen Li and General Zhang watched the incident unfold live. Replays and descriptions ran in an endless loop. Commentators spoke in breathless tones. But nothing compared to the filmed unmasking of Han’s mechanical assassin.

  General Zhang had seen enough. “It appears your play for dominance has been cut off.”

  On the screen, aerial shots from a helicopter showed hundreds of police and military units swarming the prefecture building, surrounding it in layers three and four deep. Han could never hope to escape it.

  “No room for liberty,” Wen said cryptically. “Side one cannot live.”

  “But China will,” Zhang replied. “This is not the fault of our nation or our system. These are the acts of a madman. He will be sacrificed, of course.”

  Wen looked over at Zhang. “You’ve found a way to save face.”

  “I have,” Zhang said. “I will need everything you possess on the seafloor mining operation. And on Walter Han.”

  “It will be delivered,” Wen said. He turned back to the screen and chose not to rise from his seat. “Please leave me now.”

  Zhang turned and opened the door. Standing in the doorway, he spoke to the guards. “The Lao-shi is not to be disturbed. Consider him under house arrest. No one is to see him and he is not to leave the room.”

  The soldiers answered in unison and stood at rigid attention. Zhang looked back into the office before closing the door. Wen appeared strangely peaceful and content. The weight of the burden was gone from his shoulders. The long struggle was over.

  61

  EAST CHINA SEA

  THREE WEEKS LATER

  KURT AUSTIN stood on the deck of the Chinese fleet tender Giashu as a hook was lowered from a deck crane and guided toward the last of four NUMA submersibles that had been brought aboard the ship.

  NUMA, the Chinese government and the JMSDF (Japanese Maritime Self-Defense Force) were cooperating in the investigation of the anomalies at the bottom of the East China Sea.

  A Chinese sailor guided the hook into position and ensured a solid coupling. He gave Kurt a thumbs-up. Kurt returned the gesture.

  “Much has changed in just a few weeks,” a voice said from behind him.

&
nbsp; Kurt turned to see a man in uniform standing behind him. “I thought generals spent their time on land.”

  “We prefer to,” General Zhang said, “but I wanted to meet you in person. To see if you’re real. You’ve made quite an impression on us over these last two years. Now, here you are, standing on the deck of a Chinese ship as an invited guest. Something tells me the next time you’re aboard one, it will either be without permission or as a prisoner.”

  The General offered a wry smile. Kurt returned it. “You’re probably right,” he said. “Then again, like you said, things can change.”

  “Unfortunately, the rise in sea levels hasn’t slowed.”

  “We’ll get to the bottom of it,” Kurt said, tongue firmly in cheek. “The worst of the debris has been cleared away and a new docking collar has been fitted to the surviving part of the station. Ingenious, building most of it into the rock. Our sonar scans indicate the interior environment was not compromised.”

  “Walter Han’s idea,” Zhang said. “He should have plenty of time to think up new ideas in prison.”

  Kurt figured a deal would be cut sooner or later, but the fact that Han was not clamoring to get back to China suggested he was better off in a Japanese prison.

  Another sailor approached, carrying a satellite phone. “You have a call, Mr. Austin.”

  Kurt took the phone and extended a hand toward General Zhang. “Until we meet again . . .”

  Zhang shook Kurt’s hand firmly. “May the circumstances be as pleasant as they are today.”

  As Zhang walked off, Kurt put the phone to his ear. “This is Austin.”

  “I’m glad I caught you,” Superintendent Nagano said. “You were missed at the ceremony today.”

  “Sorry,” Kurt said. “I prefer to avoid the limelight. How did it go?”

  “Perfectly,” Nagano said. “Akiko was given the honor of presenting the Honjo Masamune to the Prime Minister and the people of Japan. In return, she was given a medal and officially accepted into the Federal Police training program.”