Dragon (36 page)

“I can’t argue with you,” conceded the President. “Few of our past and present business leaders will ever qualify for sainthood.”

“Congress and the European Market countries are on an anti-Japanese business kick. If they vote for trade embargoes and nationalization of Japanese corporations, Tokyo will attempt to negotiate, but Suma and his cronies are dead set on retaliation.”

“But to threaten nuclear death and destruction…”

“They’re playing for time,” explained Jordan. “Their worldwide commercial thrust is only part of a broader plan. The Japanese live under terrible conditions of high density. A hundred and twenty-five million people on a land mass the size of California, with most of it too mountainous to live on. Their unadvertised long-range goal is to export millions of their best-educated people into other countries and form colonies while maintaining loyalty and strong ties to Japan. Brazil is a case in point, and so is the United States when you consider their mass immigration into Hawaii and California. The Japanese are obsessed with survival, and unlike us, they plan decades into the future. Through economic trade they’re building a vast economic global society with Japanese traditions and culture as the hub. What even they don’t realize is that Suma intends to set himself up as executive director.”

The President glanced at the open file again. “And he protects his criminal empire by strategically placing nuclear bombs in other nations.”

“We can’t blame the Japanese government or the great mass of their people,” Jordan qualified. “I’m firmly convinced Prime Minister Junshiro was misled and duped by Hideki Suma and his cartel of industrialists, financiers, and underworld leaders who secretly built a nuclear arsenal and expanded it into the Kaiten Project.”

The President opened his hands. “Perhaps I should set a meeting with Junshiro and inform him of our intelligence revelations.”

Jordan shook his head. “I don’t recommend it just yet, sir. Not until we have a chance at cutting off the Kaiten Project at its head.”

“When last we met, you didn’t have the location of the command center.”

“New information has put us in the neighborhood.”

The President looked at Jordan with renewed respect. He understood his chief intelligence gatherer, the dedication to his country, the many years of service beginning when he was still a few years shy of high school and already entered into training for the intelligence fieldwork. The President also saw the toll that years of incredible stress had taken. Jordan consumed a steady stream of Maalox tablets as if they were popcorn.

“Do you know yet where the car bombs are to be placed for detonation?”

Kern answered. “Yes, sir, one of our teams discovered the plan while tracking a shipment of the cars. Suma’s engineers have created a diabolic and well-contrived disaster.”

“I assume they’ll be parked in densely populated areas to slaughter the largest number of American citizens possible.”

“Dead wrong, Mr. President. They will be strategically located for a minimal loss of life.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Throughout the United States and the industrialized world,” Kern briefed, “the cars will be staged in systematic grids in deserted areas so their synchronized explosions will set off an electromagnetic pulse on the ground that rises into the atmosphere. This will create an umbrellalike chain reaction that shuts down uplinks to worldwide satellite communications systems.”

“All radio, television, and phone networks simply cease to exist,” added Jordan. “Federal and local governments, military commands, police and sheriff departments, fire departments, ambulances, and all transportation will roll to a halt because they can’t operate deaf.”

“A world without communication,” murmured the President. “It’s unimaginable.”

“The picture gets worse,” Kern continued ominously. “Much worse. You know, of course, Mr. President, what happens when you wave a magnet near a computer disk or a cassette tape.”

“They’re erased.”

Kern nodded slowly. “The electromagnetic pulse from the nuclear explosions would do the same thing. For hundreds of miles around each explosion the memories of every computer would be totally erased. Silicon chips and transistors, the backbone of our modern computerized world, are defenseless against a pulse running through electrical and telephone circuits and aerials. Anything made of metal would carry the pulse from pipes to rails to microwave towers and steel supports inside of buildings.”

The President stared at Kern with unbelieving eyes. “We’re talking total chaos.”

“Yes, sir, a complete national breakdown with catastrophic results that are beyond recovery. Any and every record ever programmed into a computer by banks, insurance companies, giant corporations, small businesses, hospitals, supermarkets, department stores—the list is endless—would vanish, along with all stored scientific and engineering data.”

“Every disk, every tape?”

“In every home and office,” said Jordan.

Kern kept his eyes on the President to reinforce his dire commentary. “Any computer electronics that runs on memory, and that includes ignition and carburetion on modern autos, operation of diesel train engines, and controls on aircraft in flight, would stop functioning. The aircraft especially could suffer horrible consequences, since many would fall to the ground before their crews could take manual command.”

“And there are also the mundane everyday devices we take for granted,” said Jordan, “that would also be affected, such as microwave ovens, video cassette recorders, and security systems. We’ve come to rely so heavily on computer chips that we’ve never considered how vulnerable they are.”

The President picked up a pen and tapped it nervously on the desk. His face was drawn, his expression distraught. “I cannot allow that curse to paralyze the American people well into the next century,” he stated flatly. “I have to seriously consider a strike, nuclear if necessary, on their warhead arsenal and detonation command center.”

“I advise against it, Mr. President, said Jordan with quiet conviction, “except as a last resort.”

The President looked at him. “What’s your angle, Ray?”

“Suma’s installation won’t be on-line for another week. Let us try to devise a penetration plan to destroy it from within. If successful, it will save you enormous fallout from a hailstorm of international condemnation for what will be looked upon as an unprovoked attack on a friendly nation.”

The President was silent, a thoughtful look on his face. Then he said slowly, “You’re right, I’d be forced into making excuses no one would believe.”

“Time is on our side as long as no one but our MAIT team and the three of us knows what’s going down,” Jordan continued.

“Good thing,” Kern muttered. “If the Russians knew their landscape was littered with foreign warheads, they wouldn’t hesitate to threaten a full-scale invasion of Japan.”

“And we don’t need that,” the President said quietly.

“Nor do the innocent Japanese, who have no idea of Suma’s insane threat,” said Jordan, hammering in another nail.

The President came to his feet, ending the briefing. “Four days, gentlemen. You have ninety-six hours.”

Jordan and Kern exchanged tight smiles.

The assault on Suma had been planned before they walked into the Oval Office. All it took was a phone call to set it in motion.

39

A
T FOUR O’CLOCK
in the morning the small landing strip on a government reservation near Woodmoor, Maryland, looked to be deserted. There were no lights bordering the narrow band of asphalt. The only guide to a pilot making a night landing was a triangle of blue mercury vapor streetlights arched over an intersection of two dirt roads that pointed to the south end of the runway.

Then the early morning stillness was broken as the whine of throttled-back jet engines cut the still air. A pair of headlights flashed on, their beams falling across the center of the landing strip. The Gulfstream jet transport with
CIRCLEARTH AIRLINES
painted across the top of the fuselage touched down and taxied to a stop beside a Jeep Grand Wagoneer station wagon.

Less than three minutes after the passenger door opened and two men and their luggage were on the ground, the plane rolled toward the end of the runway and was airborne again. As the roar faded in the black sky, Admiral Sandecker shook hands with Pitt and Giordino.

“Congratulations,” he said warmly, “on a very successful operation.”

“We haven’t heard the results,” said Pitt. “Did the photos of the painting Mancuso transmitted match an existing island?”

“Right on the money,” replied Sandecker. “Turns out the island was called Ajima by fishermen after one of them became stranded on it in the seventeen-hundreds. But it remained on the charts as Soseki Island. And like many geographical sites connected with local folklore, the name Ajima was eventually lost.”

“Where’s the location?” asked Giordino.

“About sixty kilometers off the coast due east of Edo City.”

Pitt’s face suddenly became etched with anxious concern. “What word of Loren?”

Sandecker shook his head. “Only that she and Diaz are alive and hidden in a secret location.”

“That’s it?” Pitt said, irritated. “No investigation, no operation to free them?”

“Until the bomb-car threat is eliminated, the President’s hands are tied.”

“Bed,” mumbled Giordino, cagily changing the subject to cool Pitt down. “Take me to my bed.”

Pitt dipped his head at the little Italian. “Get him. His eyes haven’t been open since we left Germany.”

“You made good time,” said Sandecker. “Have a pleasant flight?”

“Slept most of it. And with the jet lag working in our favor flying west, I’m wide awake.”

“Frank Mancuso remained with the art objects’?” Sandecker inquired.

Pitt nodded. “Just before we took off, he received a message from Kern ordering him to pack up the Japanese embassy art and fly it to Tokyo.”

“A smoke screen to pacify the Germans.” Sandecker smiled. “The art is actually going to a vault in San Francisco. When the time is ripe, the President will present it to the Japanese people as a goodwill gesture.” He gestured to the seats of the Jeep. “Get in. Since you’re so bright and bushy-tailed, I’ll let you drive.”

“Fine by me,” Pitt said agreeably.

After they threw their bags in the luggage compartment, Pitt slid behind the steering wheel as the admiral and Giordino entered from the opposite side. Sandecker took the front passenger seat, Giordino the back. Pitt shifted the running engine into drive and wheeled the Jeep down a dark road to a gatehouse that stood hidden in a grove of trees. A uniformed security guard stepped out, peered inside the car a moment, then saluted Sandecker and waved them through to a back-country highway.

Three kilometers later, Pitt turned the Jeep onto the Capital Beltway and headed toward the lights of Washington. Traffic at that time of morning was almost nonexistent. He set the cruise control on 110 kilometers and sat back as the big four-wheel-drive rolled effortlessly over the pavement.

They drove in silence for several minutes. Sandecker stared absently through the windshield. Pitt didn’t need a strong imagination to know the admiral didn’t leave a warm bed to meet them without a good reason. The huge Havana was strangely missing from his mouth, and his hands were clasped across his chest, sure signs of inner tension. His eyes were like ice cubes. He definitely had something heavy on his mind.

Pitt decided to give him an opening. “Where do we go from here?” he asked.

“Say again,” Sandecker mumbled in mock distraction.

“What does the great eagle have in store for us next? A nice week’s vacation, I hope.”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Probably not, but you’re going to tell me, right?”

Sandecker yawned to prolong the agony. “Well, I’m afraid you two are off on another airplane ride again.”

“Where?”

“The Pacific.”

“Where exactly in the Pacific?”

“Palau. The team, or what’s left of it, is to assemble at the Information Gathering and Collection Point for new instructions from the Director of Field Operations.”

“Without the bureaucratic title crap, what you’re saying is we’re meeting with Mel Penner.”

Sandecker smiled, and his eyes softened considerably. “You have a deft manner of slicing to the gut of the matter.”

Pitt was wary. He could see the axe was about to fall. “When?” he asked quickly.

“In precisely one hour and fifty minutes. You’re taking a commercial airline out of Dulles.”

“A pity we didn’t land there,” Pitt said sourly, “and saved you the drive.”

“Security reasons. Kern thought it best if you arrive at the terminal by car, pick up the tickets, and board like any other tourists flying to the South Seas.”

“We could use a change of clothes.”

“Kern sent a man to pack clean things in suitcases. They’ve already been checked through.”

“Very thoughtful of him. I must remind myself to change my security alarms when I return—”

Pitt broke off and studied the reflection in his rearview mirror. The same pair of headlights had been on the Jeep’s tail since they swung onto the beltway. For the last several kilometers they had maintained an exact distance. He punched off the cruise control and increased speed slightly. The lights dropped back and moved forward again.

“Something wrong?” asked Sandecker.

“We’ve picked up a tail.”

Giordino turned and peered through the big rear window. “More than one. I make out three vans in a convoy.”

Pitt stared thoughtfully into the mirror. The beginning of a grin drew across his face. “Whoever is after us isn’t taking any chances. They’ve sent a full platoon.”

Sandecker snatched a car phone and dialed the MAIT team safe line. “This is Admiral Sandecker!” he snapped, ignoring any attempt at procedural codes. “I’m on the Capital Beltway heading south near Morningside. We are being followed—” 

“Make that pursued,” Pitt interrupted him. “They’re closing fast.”

Suddenly a burst of gunfire tore through the roof of the Jeep just above their heads. “Correction,” Giordino said in utter calm. “Change pursued to attacked.”