The Patriot Attack (17 page)

Northeastern Japan

D
octor? The general is on a secure line for you. He says it’s urgent.”

Hideki Ito looked up from the computer terminal and saw the guard standing in the doorway. “I’m sorry. Did you say the general?”

The man nodded. “If you could follow me, please.”

Ito stood and walked nervously down the corridor behind the man. Takahashi was a fanatic about security, particularly when it came to their primary research facility. He rarely came to the retasked nuclear waste dump and he
never
called there. The vulnerability of electronic communications had been made crystal clear to the old soldier.

What could have happened that would prompt Takahashi to ignore his own security protocols? Had the Chinese retreated in the face of world pressure? Ito began to sweat despite the cold emanating from the earthen walls. Had they attacked?

There were almost no connections to the outside world in this place—a lack of distraction that he normally appreciated. But he was beginning to ask himself if the general was taking advantage of his propensity to submerge himself in his work. Ito had always known he was a pawn in Takahashi’s grand plans. An important one, of course, but a pawn nonetheless. Now, though, he was wondering if he had allowed himself to become a prisoner.

“Through here, please, sir,” the guard leading him said, indicating a door cut into the wall.

The communications room was understandably small and sparse. In his entire time working at the facility, this was the first time Ito had ever seen it open.

A lone computer screen was flashing a message requesting his password. He typed it in and slid a headset over the damaged skin stretched across his scalp.

“Hello? General?”

“We need to access the Fujiyama files,” Takahashi said by way of greeting. The normally disciplined voice had an angry timbre that caused Ito’s stomach to clench.

Eric Fujiyama had stored a series of paper files in an extremely clever lockbox that he’d buried in the American West. Takahashi had discovered its location and transported the box there, but accessing it had proved far more difficult than anyone would have expected. A careful examination using various advanced imaging systems had revealed a complex series of interlaced mechanisms measuring such things as vibration, changes in air pressure, and temperature fluctuation. Inside was a vial that spectrum analysis suggested was full of acid that would destroy the fragile paper the moment anyone attempted to breach the box.

“I’m not certain that they’re accessible, General. One error and—”

“Just get them! You said you could use the nanotech.”

“I said it was
possible
that the bots could weaken the structure sufficiently to safely open it, but there’s no way to guarantee that it won’t trigger—”

“Fujiyama talked with Smith and Russell. We don’t know what he said, but it’s likely that he gave them information that’s in those files. We need to find out what he suspects so that we can anticipate their next move.”

“Smith and Russell survived? How?”

While he had never been told directly, Ito had inferred that Takahashi had replaced the strongbox with a powerful mine.

“That’s not your concern, Doctor. Your only concern is to retrieve those files without damaging them. I want to be clear that you’re not to work on anything else until you’ve succeeded. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Ito said reluctantly. What choice did he have?

The line went dead and he removed the headset before lowering himself unsteadily into the only chair in the room.

What if he failed? What if the files were destroyed in the process of trying to access them? Even isolated for so long, Ito could feel the change in Takahashi and the security men who prowled the facility. A storm was coming—one he himself had been unknowingly instrumental in creating. And when that tempest finally made landfall, it would consume them all.

Over Norfolk, Virginia
USA

J
on Smith eased into the thick leather seat and looked out the window as Covert-One’s G5 climbed out of the Norfolk airport. He and Randi had rendezvoused there in order to pick up the jet Fred Klein had sent for them. It seemed that the fake IDs, baseball hats, new clothes, and sunglasses had thrown off whoever had been tracking them. Most likely, General Masao Takahashi.

Randi fell into the facing seat, sliding a bottle of Tylenol and a can of Budweiser across the narrow table between them. “No microbrews in the fridge, but I thought Bud would still be better than water.”

He used the beer to wash down a few pills before reclining and closing his eyes. The episode in the parking lot combined with hours of crisscrossing the country in the relative anonymity of economy class hadn’t done his back any good. At least he’d stopped coughing up blood.

“Get some sleep, Jon. It’s a long flight to Okinawa. Fred’s cleared us for a nice quiet landing at our Kadena Air Base there, and then we can make our way to mainland Japan. I need you firing on all cylinders. Right now you look about a hundred years old.”

“It’s not the years,” he said, not bothering to open his eyes. “It’s the mileage.”

She didn’t respond immediately, but when she did she sounded unusually contrite. “Thanks back there. If it weren’t for you, I’d have shot an innocent woman and gotten crushed by a jacked-up Nissan. Not the way I want to go out.”

He smiled thinly. “I remembered what Fujiyama said about cars. He insisted we drive an old one.”

“Sure, but I thought that was because modern ones can be tracked by satellite. I still don’t understand what happened back there, Jon. How were those cars being controlled? It seems—”

The sound of insane laughter cut her off and forced Smith to look down at his phone. The extremely appropriate ringtone belonged to Marty Zellerbach, a high school friend of his who’d grown up to be a technological wizard and one of the world’s top hackers. Occasionally very useful, he could also be incredibly exhausting. Zellerbach suffered from Asperger’s syndrome and had a love-hate relationship with his medications that created wild pendulums in his mood.

“Are you going to pick up?” Randi asked.

“No.”

“You know what he’s calling about, Jon. And you know we’re going to need to talk to him eventually.”

“Eventually sounds good.”

She flicked a hand out, putting his phone on speaker before he could intercept. “Marty. Sweetheart. How are you?”

“Randi? The question is, how are
you
?”

“I’m good, thank you.”

“I noticed you’re as gorgeous as ever. I’m glad to hear the arm wasn’t serious.”

Smith frowned. By the time he’d made it to Chicago, CNN was already running shaky cell phone footage of what had happened in Portland. He and Randi had both been vaguely recognizable, but in the chaos it was doubtful that anyone would come to the conclusion that they were the target of the attack. Or even that it was an attack at all.

“Jon? Are you there? Are you all right? You looked a little slow out there.”

“I’m fine, Marty.”

“Can I assume those cars were after the two of you and not the woman with the Baby Jogger?”

Randi looked down at the phone’s screen and confirmed that the call was encrypted. Not that Marty was in the habit of talking on open lines. He was extremely suspicious of the NSA and lately had become concerned about space aliens.

“I think that’s safe to say,” she responded. “What the hell happened out there, Marty? How were those cars being controlled?”

“It’s really not all that hard. Modern cars don’t have mechanical linkages anymore. They’re computer controlled. All you have to do is get into the onboard system. You know that asshole neighbor I have who keeps calling the cops on me? I got into his Lexus through the tire pressure sensor. Now his heat is on full blast all summer and his AC runs all winter. If I wanted to, I could take control and make him drive through his garage door. In fact, that’s not a bad idea…”

“Okay,” Smith said before Zellerbach could embark on one of his legendary tangents. “But you had physical access to the car. You plugged your laptop into it and if you wanted to drive it remotely you’d have to have either a cable connected or some kind of a radio controller, right?”

There was a long pause. “That’s true. Yes.”

“There’s no way someone could have gotten to all those cars to hack them, Marty. And I’d be willing to bet there was no one within radio controller distance either. Explain that.”

Silence. Clearly, this was a problem he couldn’t entirely figure out. And if there was one thing that Zellerbach couldn’t stand, it was a technological issue on which he couldn’t pontificate endlessly.

“Maybe someone got access during the manufacturing process. Radio control could be handled by hijacking cell towers or even satellites. The airport would be an ideal location—lots of security cameras to tie in to so you could see what you were doing.”

“They were different makes and models,” Randi said.

“Yeah, but parts for those cars are built all over the world. It doesn’t matter who upholstered the seats and made the shift knob. What you need to know is who made the engine control unit.”

“So how hard would this be, Marty?”

“That’s kind of a vague question. It would depend on—”

“Okay, let me rephrase. How much would it cost me to hire you to do it?”

“I’d probably ask for a fifty-million-dollar retainer and five years. No guarantees, though. I mean, I’d have to infiltrate the manufacturing and design companies that make the ECUs and figure out how to hide some very sophisticated software in their systems. Then I’d have to figure out a way to communicate with it…” His voice faded as he became lost in thought.

“You know all these guys,” Smith said. “Who do you think did it? Give me some names.”

“I doubt we’re talking about an individual hacker,” Zellerbach admitted. “Or even a group like Anonymous. I think we’re talking about a government.”

Smith and Randi looked at each other, clearly thinking the same thing: The Japanese did a lot of design and manufacture work for the auto industry. And they’d have the technological ability to hijack cell towers and satellite networks.

“Okay,” Smith said. “Thanks, Marty.”

“Do you want me to dig into this?”

“Absolutely not,” Randi said. “We don’t know what we’re into here, but whatever it is, it’s dangerous. We can’t scrape up enough of the last guy who helped us to fill a shoe box.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“We know,” Smith said. “But you’ve already given us what we were looking for. We’ll call you if we need more. Talk later…”

He reached over and cut off the phone, then closed his eyes again to the sound of Randi tapping on her laptop. He was just about to drift off when she spoke.

“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.

Northeastern Japan

S
tatus 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.