Robert Ludlum's (TM) the Patriot Attack

by Kyle Mills

  “Star got the names we asked for, Jon. Odd woman, but you have to respect the skills.”

  “And?”

  “We were close. The rocket fuel guy is Akito Maki with a t, not a d. The materials guy is Genjiro Ueda. Both are still alive and both work as private consultants. We’ve got life stories, tax returns, home addresses, phone numbers, you name it.”

  Smith let out a long breath. “If they knew enough to blow the top off that mountain, we have to assume they’ve got Fujiyama’s files. They’ll circle their wagons around anyone who was mentioned in them.”

  “I don’t see that we have much of a choice. We’re talking about Japan spending the last thirty years building a clandestine military and now purposely courting a war with China. The president can’t march into the UN with a bunch of conjecture. We need something concrete.”

  Smith just couldn’t stay awake anymore. His body was draining his normally limitless reserves to heal itself and it wouldn’t be denied any longer. As he started to drift off, his mind began to project images of war. He’d been through too many. Seen too much. But what he’d experienced was nothing compared with the scale of a confrontation between the two Asian giants.

  What would that look like?

  Not anything anyone had seen before. Takahashi was too smart to let China overwhelm him with its superior numbers and the sheer weight of its hardware. No, much more likely the first shots fired in this conflict would be silent. Takahashi would simply have a handful of men fly to China and deploy his nanoscale weapon. The country would quietly rot from within. Eventually, the power grid would falter, machinery would crumble, buildings would collapse.

  By the time the Chinese figured out what was happening, they’d be living in the Stone Age. No food, no transportation, no heat. Not even help from the outside because any relief effort would be attacked by the same nanotech that had destroyed China.

  And in truth, that was a best-case scenario. Based on what he’d seen of Takahashi’s technology, Smith wasn’t confident that it could be controlled. A few minor mutations and it could run amok, spreading across the planet and destroying everything in its path.

  41

  Northeastern Japan

  Status report,” General Takahashi said as he entered the expansive lab.

  Dr. Hideki Ito was standing in front of a thick glass wall using a set of mechanical hands to pry open a metal box on the other side.

  The scientist started to turn, but Takahashi motioned toward the glass. “Continue what you’re doing.”

  After an awkward bow, he returned his attention to the box. “The nanobots have significantly weakened the structure of the safe, General, and we’ve confirmed that they have fully penetrated. The vial that we believe contains acid is made of glass so it’s still intact. The papers are unharmed for the same reason—paper can’t be used as fuel.”

  “But you’re not in yet.”

  “No. These arms were designed for structural testing, not trying to perform delicate operations like this. It’s a slow process.”

  “Then why not go inside and use conventional tools?” Takahashi said impatiently.

  “The safe has been irradiated to destroy the bots. Levels are above safety thresholds, even for someone in a suit.”

  Takahashi’s jaw tightened as he watched Ito’s clumsy attempts to get a firm grip on the lockbox’s combination dial. His people had lost contact with Smith and Russell in the Portland airport and so far had been unable to reacquire them.

  What did they know?

  It seemed likely that they were on their way to Japan via either private or military aircraft, and he had to assume that Fujiyama had discussed what was in his files to some extent. Perhaps he’d relayed only general suspicions, but he could just as well have given them specific names, projects, and locations. There was no way to know, and Takahashi didn’t have enough men he trusted to cover every possibility.

  The mechanical hand slipped off the dial and Ito let out a frustrated grunt before lining up again.

  “How much longer, Doctor?”

  “It’s impossible to say, General. Even if the arms had been designed for this, I’d have to go slowly. There’s no way to be certain that the linkages connecting the acid to the triggers have weakened enough. I—”

  “Open the enclosure.”

  Ito turned toward him, obviously not sure he’d heard correctly. “Sir?”

  Takahashi went to the far side of the lab and began putting on the radiation suit hanging on the wall. “Open it.”

  “General, the levels are far beyond what that suit was designed to handle. I—”

  “Your objections are duly noted,” Takahashi said.

  Fear was etched deep in the scientist’s ravaged face. After what had happened to him at Fukushima it wasn’t difficult to determine why.

  “Enter your access code to open the enclosure and leave the laboratory,” Takahashi ordered.

  “But, General. You ca—”

  “Do it now!”

  Ito stood frozen as Takahashi put the headgear on and linked to a small air tank.

  Finally, the scientist punched his code into a keypad next to the air lock and then hurried for the exit.

  Takahashi passed through the air lock and walked directly to the box centered in the enclosure. There were a number of tools designed to be used with the mechanical arms and he picked up the heaviest, struggling to control it in the thick gloves. His breath fogged the suit’s faceplate as he swung the instrument repeatedly into the combination dial. On the fifth try, it shattered and pieces of it scattered across the stone floor. Selecting a more delicate tool, he dug into the exposed mechanism, carefully breaking off the various linkages and wires.

  He tried to push back memories of the radiation victims the Americans had left in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but was unable to keep them fully at bay. He’d been only a small child when he’d first seen the burns—similar to Ito’s, but fundamentally different from the war injuries that had been so common at the time. A number of years had passed before the cancers had set in, but he could remember occasionally glimpsing people shamed by massive tumors and hearing tales of their slow, agonizing deaths.

  With the last of the latches crumbling, Takahashi used a carbon fiber screwdriver to pry at the lockbox’s seams. He couldn’t hear anything beyond his own breathing, but felt the steel beginning to give as he drove the tool deeper. Sweat was stinging his eyes now and he tried to blink it away as the door finally released.

  The documents were intact.

  The tension in his shoulders and back relaxed somewhat and he carefully removed the thick stack of manila files.

  Fate, it seemed, was once again favoring the Japanese people.

  42

  Outside Yaita

  Japan

  Jon Smith eased the car along the suburban Japanese street at precisely the speed limit. The houses on either side were a mix of styles, a bit more colorful than he’d expected and all borrowing to some extent from traditional Asian architecture. Most lots were at least an acre, and the overall landscape was too wide open to offer much cover.

  He’d managed to find a rental car with tinted windows that, combined with his dark hair and complexion, would prevent him from attracting too much attention. Not that the neighborhood was exactly awash with pedestrians. He’d seen a group of kids playing soccer in a school playground about two miles back, but beyond that the area looked almost deserted. Everyone was still at work.

  His target, the materials engineer Genjiro Ueda, lived directly ahead on a wooded hill rising a few hundred feet into the overcast sky. Sun glinted from the windows of widely spaced houses, and a narrow road was intermittently visible through the trees. It was a much more workable setting for what he was there to do. The lots expanded to an even more generous three acres and the foliage grew in density with elevation. The question was whether to go now or to wait for darkness.

  It didn’t take long to arrive at a decision. When he and R
andi had split up so she could go after Akito Maki, they’d agreed that speed would have to take precedence over discretion. If they were right about Takahashi, he’d be circling the wagons around his people as fast as he could.

  Smith kept a close watch on his rearview mirror as he ran through the details Star had uncovered about his target. Ueda was in his late forties and a little thinner and more fit than Smith would have preferred. He’d been a postdoc at the Tokyo Institute of Technology studying carbon fiber technology when he’d suddenly left to start his own firm. He made a good wage—the equivalent of low four hundreds in US dollars—but even the inestimable Star had been unable to get a good bead on who his clients were.

  Satellite photos and a few street views from Google showed an elegant two-story house with a fence that was more form than function and lacked a gate. Star had been able to find no evidence that Ueda and his wife of fifteen years had any kind of security system. Also, no kids, no pets, and no neighbors within view. The engineer seemed to work largely out of an office in his house, and his wife didn’t have a job. So the hope was that he’d be there. Smith wasn’t particularly anxious to have to sit around and wait.

  The grade of the road started to steepen and he maintained his speed, counting driveways as he went up. The idyllic neighborhood wasn’t exactly Afghanistan but that didn’t stop the adrenaline from pumping. Normally, Covert-One ops were planned to the very last detail. By comparison, this one felt hopelessly half-assed. He was still suffering badly from his injuries and probably only functioning at 60 percent of peak. There had been no time to insert a surveillance team to recon the area, he had no backup, and the sum total of his operational experience in Japan consisted of getting shot in the back with a crossbow bolt.

  Smith reached for a compact Taser lying in the passenger seat as he turned into Ueda’s driveway. The plan was to shock him, stuff him in the trunk, and get the hell out of there. Three minutes tops, depending on the situation with his wife. As Randi was fond of saying, what could possibly go wrong?

  Smith’s normal bias would be to park down the road and go quietly over the wall, but someone was bound to notice a six-foot American wandering around the neighborhood. Particularly when he started climbing fences in broad daylight. Better to try to stay a little closer to the natural rhythms of the area.

  He parked behind a Toyota SUV and slipped the Taser into his pocket before stepping from the car. Nice house, nice yard. Nothing out of place.

  Not that appearances meant much. If he’d been fighting for the other side, he’d make sure everything looked as normal as possible to draw his opponent in.

  There was no bell in evidence next to the door, so Smith gave it a few hard raps with one hand, keeping the other wrapped around the Taser in his jacket.

  When footsteps became audible on the other side, he moved back a pace and checked behind him again. A moment later the door was opened by an attractive Japanese woman who looked to be in her midthirties. She seemed genuinely surprised to see an American on her porch, and Smith cautiously took it as a good sign.

  According to Star, she’d taken five years of English in secondary school. Based on her grades, though, he decided to enunciate carefully.

  “Hello. I’m Professor Jon Richards from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Is your husband at home?”

  Her brow knitted a bit but she seemed to understand. “Please come in. He is here. He is in his…office.”

  Smith smiled easily and stepped across the threshold, closing the door behind him.

  “Please stay,” she said deliberately, then started toward the back of the house.

  He waited for her to disappear and then followed silently, still clutching the Taser. It would have been preferable for her not to be home, but that had probably been too much to hope for. Nothing a little duct tape couldn’t solve.

  He saw her pass through a doorway at the back and decided this was his best chance. According to the architectural plans, there was only one way in and out of the room. They’d be easier to control in the confined space.

  He could hear Genjiro’s voice, slightly elevated in volume but completely unintelligible.

  “Good afternoon,” Smith said, trying to sound cheerful as he entered the medium-sized home office.

  “Who are you?” Genjiro said, standing up from behind his desk. His English was solid and so was his body. According to Star, he’d been involved in the martial arts since he was five years old.

  “I’m an engineer with MIT,” Smith said with another disarming smile. “I was in the neighborhood and Bob Darren said I should come by and introduce myself.”

  He maintained eye contact with Genjiro, making certain that he wasn’t looking toward the Taser sliding out of Smith’s pocket. Unfortunately, his wife was paying more attention.

  Instead of running or shouting, though, she whipped around and aimed an extremely well-executed spinning back kick right at Smith’s head. He ducked, feeling her foot pass through the top of his hair as her husband leaped across his desk.

  If he lived through this, Star was going to get a serious ass chewing for missing the woman’s fighting skills.

  There was no question that he was losing control of the situation, and he had only a few seconds to get it back. The woman recovered quickly and transitioned smoothly into a front kick aimed directly at his testicles. If he was 100 percent, he’d have foot-swept her, Tasered her husband, and been on his way. But those days were over for a while.

  There was no choice but to use the Taser on her. She stiffened and dropped like a stone just as Genjiro launched a brutal side kick. His background was in tae kwon do, so he’d be heavy on foot techniques—a game Smith had no interest in playing. He slipped the kick and grabbed hold of the man, going for his neck, but mostly trying to stay close enough to shut down his offense.

  Genjiro managed to swing an elbow, but Smith moved even closer and was struck by the man’s triceps. He took a vicious stomp to his right foot, but the light hiking boots he was wearing absorbed the brunt of it and gave him time to snake an arm around the engineer’s throat.

  After decades of training, though, Genjiro wasn’t going to make it that easy. He went for Smith’s fingers and almost got hold of one before Smith could close his fist. The Japanese was off balance and Smith managed to spin him to the ground, landing hard on his back with both knees. That dazed the man enough for Smith to sink the choke hold deeper and tighten it as much as his injured back would allow. Genjiro clawed blindly behind him and Smith buried his face into the man’s back to protect his eyes. After thirty seconds the engineer started to weaken. Smith kept the pressure on, not easing off until Genjiro was on the verge of slipping into unconsciousness.

  When Smith rolled the man over, he reached out weakly but stopped when he felt the suppressor of Smith’s Sig Sauer pressed up under his chin.

  “We can all walk away from this no worse for the wear, Genjiro. I just want to talk to you about your work.”

  “I’m a consultant. I—”

  “You work for Masao Takahashi.”

  Smith realized he’d been hoping that Genjiro wouldn’t have any idea what he was talking about—that he and Randi were wrong about all this. It was clear from the man’s eyes, though, that he knew exactly what was being asked.

  “Who?” the Japanese said, obviously too panicked and oxygen deprived to come up with a more elaborate denial.

  “You’re telling me you don’t know who Takahashi is?”

  “I…of course. But—”

  “Your country’s on the brink of war, Genjiro. And Takahashi’s doing everything he can to make sure it happens.”

  “Make sure it happens?” the man said as his head cleared. “The Chinese attack our ships, they try to kill him. We have a right to defend ourselves!”

  “What if I tell you that I think Takahashi sank the Izumo? That he wants this war.”

  “Impossible! We can’t defeat China. The Americans would get involved and we would
end up in a bloody stalemate that serves no one. Takahashi knows this better than anyone.”

  Smith nodded imperceptibly. Of course Genjiro wouldn’t have the big picture. He was just a soldier. A brilliant one, but a soldier nonetheless.

  “Do you think you’re the only one he recruited? What about Japan’s other geniuses? The ones who used to make your country the world’s technological capital. Where is Hideki Ito? Where is Akito Maki?”

  Genjiro didn’t respond, considering what he’d just heard.

  “Takahashi has an army of men like you designing weapons for him,” Smith pressed. “But you’ve done too good a job. Mutual assured destruction no longer applies. Takahashi thinks he can win.”

  Genjiro opened his mouth to speak but whatever he said was drowned out by the sound of shattering glass.

  Smith dropped and rolled to his side with his pistol held out in front of him. A large projectile had come through the east window and slammed into the back wall. It shattered on impact, sending what looked like a bunch of finned .50-caliber rounds cascading to the floor.

  Genjiro used the confusion to pull away and struggle to his feet amid a sound that reminded Smith of the Independence Day bottle rockets his father used to buy on the black market.

  “Get your ass down!” Smith shouted as tiny jets of flame erupted from the backs of the objects lying around the room. A moment later they began to skitter across the floor and take to the air.

  Smith managed to grab Genjiro’s ankle but it was too late. One of the projectiles hit him in the right side, puncturing his heart and both his lungs before erupting from his back in a spray of blood, tissue, and bone. It cartwheeled out of control, finally hitting a wall and going dead.

  Most of the others hadn’t gotten off the ground yet and Smith stayed low, going for Genjiro’s wife. He had no idea what the hell these things were or what their capabilities were. Did they have a targeting system or did they just fly at random and cut down everything in range? Either way, he wasn’t planning on hanging around to find out.