The Patriot Attack (20 page)

Outside Melbourne
Australia

P
resident Sam Adams Castilla stood at the massive window and looked out over the rows of vines stretching to the horizon. The sun had just set, casting long shadows across the landscape and obscuring all but one man patrolling the grounds with a German shepherd.

The house was on loan from an Australian manufacturing magnate whom he’d known since he was the governor of New Mexico. Its relative isolation made it easier for the Secret Service to secure as well as a more appealing venue for the negotiations he was hosting. Setting was more important than most people realized. Warm, comfortable, and serene. Those were things that put people in the mood to compromise.

A quick glance at his watch confirmed that it was time. As the president of the United States it was his prerogative to keep people waiting, but he sensed it would be a mistake in this case.

He walked across the expansive bedroom suite and into the long second-floor hallway. Two Secret Service men fell in behind, talking quietly into microphones hidden near their wrists to tell their team that he was on the move.

Normally he would have greeted them by name, but not today. Today he was lost in his own thoughts.

The direct talks between Prime Minister Sanetomi and President Yandong of China had been going surprisingly well. Or maybe it wasn’t so surprising. Both men had a nasty nationalistic streak, but both also seemed to understand that they had taken this particular drama a little too far. That it wouldn’t be long before the situation metastasized beyond anything that either country could handle.

It was only the first day of the summit and the six-hour meeting that had ended earlier that afternoon already was generating compromises from both sides. Of course, the question of the Senkaku Islands was still open, but Castilla was convinced that it could be resolved in principle over the next few days.

What he wasn’t sure of, though, was whether it mattered.

He continued around the corner, blind to the expensive artwork and historical pieces that normally would have caught his eye. Instead, he focused on a closed door at the end of the seemingly endless corridor. Were the prime minister of Japan and the president of China even relevant anymore? Or had the power to control this situation shifted into the hands of a single man? The man he was about to meet.

Castilla paused, taking a deep breath as his two guards took up positions along the wall. One of the surprisingly few meaningful benefits to being the president of the United States was that he was generally better informed than the people he met with. In this instance that edge had been lost. Badly.

Castilla pushed through the door and closed it behind him. A Japanese man in a dark-blue business suit immediately rose from one of two wingback chair set up in front of a fireplace. The electric lights had been dimmed and the flames gave off a warm glow, though it didn’t feel as tranquil as Castilla had hoped.

General Masao Takahashi gave a respectful bow, and Castilla strode across the room to offer his hand. The soldier’s grip was predictably firm and they locked eyes, neither man attempting to assert dominance, but neither willing to cede it.

“Please,” Castilla said, indicating the chair Takahashi had risen from.

The soldier sat after another short bow and the president took the chair next to him. “It’s my understanding that you have valuable information relating to the negotiations between your country and China,” Castilla said.

“I’m very grateful and honored that you agreed to see me,” Takahashi said. “I understand the demands on your time.”

The famous Japanese politeness. Castilla wanted to take the man by the throat and scream,
What the hell are you doing, you crazy son of a bitch! Trying to start World War Three?

Instead he smiled and reached for a pot on a table next to him. “Tea?”

“Thank you.”

Takahashi appraised the man in front of him as he poured two cups and held one out. Once again fate had smiled on him. Most politicians were dim and one-dimensional. Not so, Castilla. He was an extremely intelligent man who didn’t need to rely on others for knowledge of history, geopolitics, and economics. Even war. While he would resist, the man would at least be capable of understanding.

The Americans were an interesting people. While there was little doubt that they were inferior to the Japanese, their genetic impurity was in many ways their advantage. Originally America had attracted only those who had the ability to make the difficult ocean crossing and, perhaps more important, those who wanted to. Individuals who had the courage, mental capacity, and discipline to throw off the yoke of Europe’s repressive aristocracies and carve out a better life on their own.

The president didn’t seem inclined to speak further, so Takahashi decided to take the initiative. “I assume that Colonel Smith and his people have fully briefed you on Fukushima?”

“That you were using Reactor Four to develop a weapon based on molecular manufacturing?”

Takahashi nodded.

“They have. It’s my understanding that it can destabilize concrete, plastic, and steel—the building blocks of modern civilization. But it’s also my understanding that it will be almost impossible to control. And that if it should run wild…” Castilla’s voice trailed off.

“It’s been extensively tested with one hundred percent success,” Takahashi said. “We can control it.”

“By using the earth’s magnetic field to localize it and limiting its ability to reproduce,” Castilla said.

“You are indeed well informed.”

“The problem is that my people aren’t convinced. They believe there’s a big difference between a lab setting and the real world. The consequences of using this type of weapon go well beyond anything developed by humanity thus far. The only analogy I can come up with would be a full-scale nuclear war between the US and the Soviet Union.”

Takahashi took a sip of his tea. As formidable as this politician was, he was, at his core, a hypocrite. When it was the American people who were threatened, the United States threw its values of freedom, human rights, and privacy into the trash bin. It indiscriminately wiped out civilians via robotic drones. It imprisoned countless people without charge and then tortured them for information. It dropped atomic bombs. But when another country was in the crosshairs, the Americans were always the first to call for moderation and restraint.

“Our development efforts over the last decade have been quite varied, Mr. President. The nanotech is only one component.”

“And what are the other components?”

Takahashi didn’t respond, instead taking a sip of his tea.

“Surely, one of the benefits of having an incredible arsenal is letting your enemies know that it exists and that you’re willing to use it.”

“But we aren’t enemies, Mr. President. I’m here out of friendship.”

Castilla didn’t bother to hide his skepticism. “Japan is an island. Can I assume your first order of business was to control the sea?”

“Our first priority was in fact cyber warfare. Naval superiority was our second.”

“But your new battleship was sunk.”

“The battleship was a showpiece. Our defenses are based on self-cavitating torpedoes.”

“Like the Soviet Shkval?”

“In the same way as a computer is like a handheld calculator. Our units are significantly faster, have vastly greater range, and are artificially intelligent.”

“But that wouldn’t protect you from China’s missile batteries or air force.”

“We’ve developed an extremely effective air defense system based on electromagnetic pulses.”

Castilla’s brow furrowed. “Nuclear.”

“Yes. Our system creates a long-lasting radioactive cloud that destroys the electronics of anything moving into our airspace.”

“I would have thought that your history would make you understand the seriousness of that kind of weapon.”

“On an emotional level, yes. But on a logical level, it had the opposite effect. The casualties in Hiroshima and Nagasaki were much lower than most people realize. There are people who were within a few meters of ground zero who are still alive today. Obviously this isn’t an ideal solution, but my people tell me that America’s approach to missile intercept is ultimately a dead end.”

“If the Chinese were to see nuclear weapons detonated…” Castilla paused for a moment. “This could escalate into a full-scale nuclear war.”

“As you mentioned earlier, we would tell them about our missile defense network so that they don’t misinterpret it as an offensive strike. But if they choose to escalate, it’s unlikely any of their weapons would reach us.”

The president had gone noticeably pale, even in the warm light coming from the flames. A sensible response in Takahashi’s estimation. Again, Castilla proved that he was no fool.

“Biological?” the president said in a careful, even voice.

“We have significant stockpiles of a modified version of the SARS virus. Of course, this is a weapon that would be used only in the event of a significant ground force invasion. It’s extraordinarily contagious and fast acting, though not particularly deadly. The illness lasts two weeks on average. Quite incapacitating, I’m told.”

“Can I assume that your population is fully protected?”

“Of course. It was done quietly through our national vaccination program.” Takahashi waved a hand dismissively. “We also have armor that is thirty times lighter and nineteen times thinner than steel. Rocket fuel nine times more potent per kilogram than what you have access to. Computers that are an order of magnitude more powerful than those available to your NSA. The list goes on, but I assume you understand my point.”

Again the skepticism crept into the president’s expression.

“You think I’m exaggerating,” Takahashi said. “That even with double our public budget, we could have never gotten this far ahead of you. What you don’t understand is that it’s not about budget.”

“It’s not?”

Takahashi shook his head. “The problem you have is that the purpose of the US military isn’t to win wars.”

“I think that would come as a surprise to the Joint Chiefs.”

“You’ll have to excuse my English, Mr. President. Perhaps ‘purpose’ was the wrong word. Let me change it to ‘priority.’ First and foremost, the US military is used to bolster employment through active military, support personnel, and so on. It enriches defense contracting companies. It gets politicians reelected through the acquisition and protection of projects in their districts. And admittedly, it strokes the egos and nostalgia of aging generals like myself. With all due respect, sir, you’ve pumped trillions into a military that hasn’t been able to deliver a clear win since you defeated us. Afghanistan, Iraq, Vietnam, Korea, Somalia. Your soldiers are courageous and well trained, but the motto of the US military-industrial complex seems to be, ‘If it hasn’t worked in the past, make it more expensive.’”

“But that’s not your motto.”

Takahashi shrugged noncommittally. “The US completely destroyed my country’s military capability during World War Two. It created a blank slate for us to work from. You, though, had created a massive military by the end of that war and it was in many people’s best interest to maintain and grow it. Your F-35 program is an interesting example. A trillion dollars for a fighter that has no clear mission, is nothing more than an incremental improvement over prior planes, and is so complex that it doesn’t even reliably fly. And then there are the billions in weapons that go straight from the factory into long-term storage because your military has no use for them. I’m buffeted by no such winds.”

Castilla picked up his tea, warming hands that had gone cold while listening to the man across from him. “Can I assume you’ll be publicly announcing what you’ve just told me and perhaps giving the world a demonstration? I suspect that you’d see a very quick change in attitude from the Chinese. And that’s your goal, right? Peace?”

Takahashi watched the man in front of him drink from his cup. He was surprisingly formidable, this politician. A worthy ally. Or a very dangerous enemy. “I’m not sure that would be in my country’s best interest, Mr. President.”

Castilla had obviously been prepared for this response, and no emotion showed on his face. “You want this war.”

“That’s a gross overstatement. But I think you have to agree that the Chinese present numerous challenges to both Japan and the world. They steal other countries’ intellectual property. They manipulate their currency. They use de facto slave labor to take critical manufacturing jobs from places like the United States. They are creating border disputes with virtually every country in the region and are building a military to press those claims. They protect the North Koreans. Their environmental problems are scaling to the point that they’re causing damage outside their borders. And their demand for resources is becoming almost limitless. Obviously, I could go on, but the basic point is that they aren’t contributors to the world. They’re leeches. A billion tiny leeches.”

This time Castilla was unable to hide his feelings: the blood drained visibly from his face. Takahashi leaned forward, putting his cup on the table and meeting the eye of the man who had once been the most powerful in the world. “I tell you all this as a courtesy, Mr. President. Japan neither wants nor needs your protection. Finish your summit if you must, but pull your carrier groups back and stay out of this. It’s none of your affair.”

“What if the American people are unwilling to just stand by while you perpetrate genocide?”

Castilla expected Takahashi to take offense at his characterization and his horror grew when the soldier’s expression didn’t even flicker. “Make no mistake, Mr. President. I will protect my country’s interests at all costs. And against all enemies.”

Northeastern Japan

R
andi Russell ducked under the branches of a tree and continued upward toward the intermittent flashes of blue sky. The mountain was just one in the endless rolling carpet of green that covered this remote part of the island. The complete lack of trails was comforting from an anonymity standpoint, but not ideal for speed. The foliage was nearly as dense as she’d run into in Laos, though it wasn’t as hot, thank God.

She put her back against a tree and lifted the nozzle of her CamelBak to her mouth. Visibility was only about ten feet but she was confident she wasn’t being followed. In order to even approximate silence, someone would have to slow to a rate of no more than a couple hundred yards an hour, and that would have left them crawling along the canyon below.

She’d decided that plausible deniability was completely lost—no one was going to believe that an American bushwhacking toward a nuclear storage facility was a lost hiker. In light of that, Randi had equipped herself with ultralight hiking boots, fatigues dyed specifically for the environment, and a silenced Beretta with two spare clips. If anyone spotted her, there would be no doubt about her purpose, but at least there would be a reasonable chance for escape.

She started out again, weaving between trees and crawling under bushes as she made her way methodically to the summit. Hopefully, this one wouldn’t blow up like the last.

When the terrain started to level out, she dropped to her stomach and slid across the dead leaves and sticks, scanning for surveillance equipment and booby traps. Not that she really had any idea what to look for. Based on the latest from Fred Klein, goddamn space-based lasers and genetically modified, glow-in-the-dark rottweilers weren’t out of the question.

Randi slowed further, slithering through the tall grass until the slope turned downward. It took a few moments to mat down a hole sufficient to see though, but when she did, she was pleased to learn that her map-and-compass skills hadn’t entirely disappeared in the GPS era. Below, at a distance of about a mile, was exactly what she’d come to see.

It looked pretty much like the pictures she’d found on the Internet. The entrance was a natural cavern about twenty yards high and a bit less in width. According to the publicly available plans, it descended into the mountain for nearly two-thirds of a mile before dead-ending into a set of blast doors. Beyond those doors, the cavern was human made, leading into the main nuclear waste storage area.

There was one access road, paved to allow heavy trucks to travel along it safely. The entrance was ringed with a not particularly formidable-looking chain-link fence, creating a courtyard large enough for a semi to be unloaded in. Steel tracks were visible going into the cave entrance, but none of the transportation carts that traveled along them were in evidence. She guessed that they were stored just inside to keep them out of the weather. Other than that, there was nothing but a tiny guardhouse with a single guard.

Randi let out a long breath and retrieved her binoculars, studying the area in more detail. Even magnified, there wasn’t much to see. Or, more precisely, she was seeing exactly what someone would expect at this type of installation. Either Takahashi was as clever as he was given credit for or this really was nothing more than a radioactive trash heap.

Randi focused her lenses on the guard and felt a glimmer of hope for the first time in days. He looked too hard to be of the hourly variety. She waited for him to exit the guardhouse and watched as he walked the fence line, peering into trees that had been cut back about seventy-five yards. No gut hanging over his pants. No wheezing or waddling. He moved with graceful efficiency and was carrying a Belgian assault rifle. Not a particularly common weapon and one that she herself had taken a liking to a few years back.

Randi shifted her gaze back to the cavern entrance, but all she could see was darkness and shadow. Was Smith in there? Was he alive? And if so, what was his condition?

Her gut told her that this was it. Takahashi was all about efficiency and it was a hell of a lot more efficient to commandeer an existing facility than to build one from scratch. Case in point: Fukushima’s Reactor Four. Add to that the decidedly non-doughnut-eating guard and she had a reasonable leg to stand on. A thin, weak leg to be sure, but there weren’t a hell of a lot of other options at this point.

Based on what she was hearing from Klein and what she was reading in the papers, there wasn’t any more time for hand-wringing. The shit was about to hit the fan in Asia and it wasn’t clear whether even the full diplomatic and military might of the United States was going to be able to do anything about it.

So, that left her. A lone woman lying in soggy grass. Outstanding.

She pulled back slowly, covering about fifty yards before she stood and started back down the way she’d come. What wasn’t she seeing? What had Takahashi’s scientists been doing for the past three decades? Sure, the nanotech, torpedoes, EMPs, and germs. But that was just the big stuff. What kind of defenses had he set up around that entrance? Had he built things that she’d never even dreamed of, let alone trained for?

And what about the nanotech? If it was indeed being developed and stored inside, was it possible that an assault on the facility could release it? According to Greg Maple, that had the potential to be an end-of-days scenario.

Bottom line? She was screwed. Takahashi had won.

Randi jumped off a boulder, dropping to the dirt five feet below. When she landed, she shook her head violently and forced a few deep breaths of the mountain air.

This wasn’t the time to start feeling sorry for herself. Nothing was impossible.