Genocide of One: A Thriller (39 page)

Kento enlarged the image. There was a line of cars, and around them a large number
of people with rifles. “Looks like an army.”

“How many people?”

“There are too many to count.”

Pierce was silent for a moment. “We’ll check it out on our end. Stand by.”

The Ibina River rushed by beyond the stand of trees. In the darkness of the jungle,
where the sun didn’t reach, Yeager and the others were cornered. There was an escape
route south if they could cross the river, but crossing the river meant being exposed
to Predator drones.

“The east is completely closed off. There’s about a thousand men there,” Pierce said,
looking up from the laptop computer. “If we head toward Beni we’ll run right into
them.”

Wary of the troops pushing down from the north, Mick said, “Crossing the river’s our
only hope.”

Yeager turned to Pierce. “Any word on the Predators?”

“Our Japanese ally is trying, but nothing yet. The drones are under a different chain
of command from Operation Nemesis.”

Yeager scanned the map again to confirm the hopeless situation. To the north and east
were enemy forces; to the south were Predators waiting to pounce. To the west the
meandering Ibina River was a wall blocking their way. Could there be any way out?
Yeager wondered, and his eyes met those of Akili, seated on the ground.

“Any good ideas?” he asked, but Akili’s expression remained frozen, and he didn’t
open his mouth. After all the life-threatening experiences the boy had gone through,
and after having lost his father, the strange-looking little child appeared to have
gone into emotional lockdown.

Pierce was staring at the computer screen. “Japan’s sent us a change of tactics,”
he said. “The route to the airfield in Beni is cut off. There’s someone standing by
in the south who’ll be sent north. We’ll head south, and after we meet up we’ll go
past a town called Rutshuru and get out of the country that way.”

Yeager traced the change of plans on the map. The route would take them into Uganda.
They’d given up on the first two plans, and their fate now lay in this final option.
“But what do we do right now? Cross the river?”

“If we wait here for a while, by tomorrow morning our safety will be assured.”

“Safety will be assured? What does that mean?”

“We’ll be able to chase away the Predators.”

The mercenaries looked doubtful. Meyers spoke for the group. “That’s impossible. Unless
you’ve got some surface-to-air missiles stashed away.”

“You have to trust our Japanese ally,” Pierce said sharply. His expression grew gloomy.
“But even if we get across the river safely, if the rebel force in the south starts
to advance we’ll clash head-on with them. That’s our final and most difficult obstacle.”

“Is the army in the south the LRA? The Lord’s Resistance Army?”

“I’m afraid so.”

The LRA was the largest and most feared fighting force in the region, an army that
had raped and slaughtered hundreds of thousands of people.

“We’re going to die here,” Mick said. “In this stinking jungle. What are we going
to do about wills?”

No one replied. Things were too desperate to waste their breath.

Pierce called to Yeager. “Come over here,” he said. “There’s somebody I’d like you
to meet.”

Meet somebody? In this jungle? What the hell? Yeager thought.

“Check out the computer.”

Yeager faced the small display, and Pierce touched a key. The satellite image vanished,
replaced by a young Asian man’s face.

“Kento,” Pierce said into the headset mike. “I’d like to introduce you to someone.”

A young man wearing small-framed glasses appeared on the screen. A skinny kid who
didn’t strike Yeager as someone he could count on.

“Who’s this? Our Japanese ally isn’t this kid, is it?”

“No. He’s a researcher, developing a new drug to treat PAECS.”

“Give me a break. This guy’s still in high school.”

“No. He’s twenty-four and in grad school in Tokyo. His name’s Kento Koga.”

Dubious, Yeager stared at the face of this researcher who was trying to save his son.

Kento felt overwhelmed by the brawny American who appeared on the screen. His face
was deeply scarred, the shoulders under his battle fatigues so thick and muscular
it looked like he was sheathed in armor. This was the soldier he’d caught glimpses
of on the computer when he talked with Pierce. The soldier’s sunken eyes glistened
as he silently stared at Kento.

“This is Jonathan Yeager,” Pierce said off camera. “He’s Justin’s father.”

His father? It’s
his
son I’m trying to save? As Kento recovered from his surprise, Pierce put the headset
on Yeager’s head.

“Kento?” Yeager asked in a low voice, and Kento hurriedly nodded.

“Are you really developing a drug?”

“Y-yes.”

Yeager’s expression remained stern. Kento realized the man didn’t trust him.

“Do you know anything about Justin’s condition?”

“Yes, I do. I just talked with your wife on the phone.”

“With Lydia? How is Justin? Tell me exactly what she said.”

Kento hesitated. “From the test results they say he has seventeen days left.”

Yeager glanced down for a brief moment, but when he looked up again his expression
was determined, combative even. “Will your drug be ready in time?”

Maybe, Kento was about to say, but then searched for other words. If he gave a vague
reply it felt like Yeager would reach right out through the screen and bash him in
the face. “Yes. It will be ready in time.”

Yeager looked relieved. His face looked more like a father’s now. One riddle had been
solved.

An American will show up at some point
.

“Are you trying to get to Japan?”

“Yeah, that’s the plan. But…” Yeager lowered his voice a notch. “We’re in a lot of
danger here. I don’t know if we’ll make it to Japan. I might not be able to see my
family again. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Jonathan Yeager was ready to die. “Yes,” Kento said.

“If it comes to that, would you tell my wife and son that I did everything I could
to save Justin?”

Kento studied the bloodied, muddy face of the soldier. It was obvious that as a father
Yeager was fighting with all he had to save his son. This realization surprised Kento,
and he asked a simple, naive question. If he were speaking in Japanese the question
would have sounded unnatural, but he had no problem asking it in English. “Do you
love your son?”

“Of course,” Yeager replied, shooting him a dubious look. “Why are you asking that?
Your father loves you, doesn’t he?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? What do you mean?”

Kento was stuck for a reply, and Yeager went on. “You don’t have a father?”

“He died not long ago,” Kento replied, and cursed his fate. His father died, and his
situation got desperate, to the point where his life was now in danger.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Yeager said, clearly concerned. “My life got messed up after
my parents split up. But somehow I’ve been able to make it.”

I’m not that strong a person, Kento wanted to tell him.

“I doubted my father’s love, too,” Yeager went on. “But since I had my own child I’ve
understood. A father loves his child and wants to protect him. No matter what.” He
gave a cynical laugh. “Not as much as a mother, though.”

Kento remembered how strong his wife, Lydia, had been, and he understood what a good
family Yeager had built.

“Anyway, I want to save my son. Please—hurry and develop that drug. I’m grateful for
all you’re doing.” Yeager handed the headset back to Pierce.

Pierce’s bearded face loomed onto the screen. “Can I ask you some questions?” Kento
said.

“Sure, for a couple of minutes,” Pierce said, and glanced at his watch. “The random
number sequence we use to encode video communication is used up pretty fast. So please
make it quick.”

“It’s about my father. Why was he involved?”

“We met here in the Congo nine years ago. That’s how I got to be a part of this.”

“Was my father trying to save evolved humans, too?”

“It ended up that way, yes. At first it was purely academic interest. But once he
knew we needed to develop a new drug, he took that on, well aware of the risks. He
really wanted to help sick children.”

Kento couldn’t believe his father had that kind of zeal. “Really?”

Pierce nodded. “It seems like you didn’t know your father very well. Dr. Koga was
very concerned because he wasn’t able to achieve much in his own field. So he leaped
at the chance to develop a new drug. He felt very deeply that a scientist’s mission
was to serve others.”

This was just the flip side of his inferiority complex, Kento thought spitefully.

“Your father realized he was in danger and chose you to carry on the work. He was
sure that his son would be able to accomplish it. Your father was very proud that
you were studying pharmacology.”

Kento still didn’t seem convinced, and Pierce continued. “Your father was an honest
scientist. The fact that you’re doing your best now to create the drug is proof of
that. You’ve inherited his passion.”

But there was something that kept Kento from accepting this praise of his father.

“Do you know a Japanese woman named Yuri Sakai?” he asked.

Pierce’s expression instantly changed, a sudden look of alarm in his eyes. “Yes—I
know her.”

“She was in the Congo nine years ago, wasn’t she? What kind of relationship did she
have with my father?”

“It’s best that you don’t know anything about Yuri Sakai. Getting close to her is
dangerous. Just leave her alone.”

“But why? I have a right to know about my father,” Kento persisted, but Pierce cut
him off.

“We have to end the transmission now. Go back to developing the new drug. If anything
happens, I’ll get in touch.”

The host computer remotely shut down his little laptop, and the room was suddenly
silent. Kento felt lonely, like the last person left on earth. But this wasn’t a new
feeling. He’d been left behind, forlorn and helpless, ever since the moment in the
hospital in Mitaka when he said farewell to his father.

His face reflected in the blacked-out monitor reminded him of his father. The story
wasn’t over just yet. The other computer his father had left him was still pursuing
the chemical structure of the new drug.

You’re the guardian now, his father was telling him. With science your only weapon,
protect the lives of one hundred thousand children.

This might be the final message he’d left his son. But what kind of person was his
father, anyway?

Andy Rockwell had
a secret hobby. It had started in high school, but he had lacked the money needed
to invest in it, and once he was in college he was too busy studying, so for years
he had to be content with the most basic equipment. Finally, after he was hired by
a bank in Sacramento and started getting a regular salary, he could freely use his
money to pursue his interest, and he dedicated a corner of his apartment to this hobby.

He purchased three high-speed computers with oversize screens, a joystick and rudder,
and a surround-sound system—an investment of ten thousand dollars. Afraid that people
would think him weird, he decided not to let his coworkers know about this interest.
Whenever he had a free moment, Andy was in the cockpit of a virtual fighter jet buzzing
around the world.

In less than a year he’d graduated from World War I biplanes to the latest passenger
jets, able to freely manipulate almost any aircraft. His favorite scenario was piloting
an F-16 in aerial combat, where he’d shot down countless Russian fighter jets. Simulation
technology software improved by the year, and when he watched the scenery on his multiple
monitors, he really did feel like he was master of the skies.

Just about the time he’d exhausted all the available software, he received an e-mail
ad from a site where he’d purchased a throttle lever.

Intrigued, Andy immediately accessed the site. He was mainly interested in what kind
of aircraft they used, but for some reason that fact wasn’t revealed. There was a
flight manual, however, which discussed the use of a “master arm,” so he knew it had
to be some sort of fighter aircraft. Probably an air raid mission to wipe out terrorists
on the ground, he mused. What was different about this game was that the takeoff time
was strictly preset. Eight thousand players had taken the challenge, it said, but
not a single one had completed the mission.

I’m the only one who can do it! Andy thought, suddenly filled with the desire to try.
He created a log-in password and prepared for the mission, which would take place
at a set time the following day.

At 1:00 p.m. the next day, Saturday, Andy was ensconced in the pilot’s seat in his
apartment. He logged in, and all three of his screens were filled with a runway spreading
out before him. The view from the cockpit. But the image disappointed him. Was this
what they meant by “ultrarealistic”? The computer graphics were poorly done. And when
the takeoff time arrived, the view changed on its own as the aircraft took off on
autopilot.

Andy kicked himself for being reeled in by this poor-quality site. He thought about
logging off but decided to see what happened. The picture quality might be poor, but
the movement of the aircraft as it took off was very realistic. Suddenly the screens
on the left and right changed to a different image. There was a command on the left-hand
screen:
Switch to manual when you reach 10,000 feet
. On the right-hand display was an image of the ground, probably taken by a camera
fixed to the underbelly of the aircraft. From the unclear monochrome imagery, the
aircraft seemed to be flying over a desert or savanna.

The left-hand monitor blinked on another command:
After switching to manual, quickly descend and maintain altitude below 500 feet.

Gradually Andy began to have hopes for the game. He realized that this game might
be ultrarealistic after all.

The aircraft continued to climb and reached ten thousand feet. Andy switched to manual,
following the instructions he’d studied the night before. He rapidly descended, all
the while keeping an eye on the altimeter. Visual information and the feel of the
joystick matched, and he felt as if he were flying an actual aircraft. It was a prop
plane. The body was light, and the ground speed was slow, only ninety knots, or 165
kilometers, per hour.

I’ve hit the jackpot! Andy thought excitedly. He was piloting an aircraft that had
never been used in online games before. This aircraft, flying ultralow to slip past
radar, had to be an unmanned Predator drone. The images in front and from below were
those of the infrared camera Predators are equipped with.

Andy was totally carried away by the game. Trying to resist the thrill of crashing,
he skimmed along just above the surface of the desert. After an hour he was instructed
to climb to seven thousand feet. Andy pulled the joystick toward him and brought the
nose up. After he leveled out he waggled the plane from side to side, adjusted the
throttle, getting a feel for how the plane handled. Two hours later the plane felt
like part of him, and he was confident he could handle it in any situation.

The monitor that gave him the flight path instructed him to descend to two thousand
feet. He pushed the joystick forward and lowered the nose toward the mass of mountains
below. Once he crossed the mountains the scenery abruptly changed, and he saw a modern
city ahead. Low-rise dwellings surrounded a central clump of high-rise buildings.
Where was this? The Middle East? Africa?

As the plane headed over the city the right-hand monitor showed a line of cars heading
down a road. A straight line of sixteen cars proceeding down what looked like a highway.

A short command shot up on the left-hand monitor.

Three long hours into the flight, and he finally had a target. Andy followed the line
of cars and went into attack mode. If this were a real Predator it would be the operator’s
job to fire the missile, not the pilot’s. But this was a game, and he’d have to handle
both tasks himself.

He took his left hand off the throttle lever and punched in numbers on the keyboard
to aim the missile. White crosshairs appeared on the right-hand monitor, centered
on the sixth limousine in the line. The long motorcade seemed to suddenly speed up,
but the crosshairs remained right on target. Andy drew a square frame around the black
body of the limousine. The laser-guided missile was ready to go.

Andy rested his right thumb on the trigger button on the joystick. Push his thumb
down a few millimeters, and the Hellfire antitank missile would blow the target to
bits.

The mission was just about accomplished. And he was the only one who could carry it
out, he proudly told himself. Andy started to press down on the trigger. And right
then a doubt struck him. The scene on his screen—wasn’t this in the United States?

Vice President Chamberlain had finished a campaign stop in Phoenix, Arizona, and was
on his way to Sky Harbor International Airport, riding in the sixth limousine in an
escorted motorcade.

His speech on human rights was far from a rousing success, but he had a different
aim in visiting this city. The chairman of the energy company Chamberlain used to
be CEO of had come to this region. The night before Chamberlain had met him secretly
at his hotel and received some excellent news about business conditions.

Since the start of the Iraq War this company’s stock had gone way up. After President
Burns declared victory, the reconstruction of Iraq had gotten up to speed, and companies
that contracted to rebuild the country’s infrastructure saw their stock continue to
skyrocket to unheard-of levels. With the prospect of massive government-backed investments,
and with the Defense Department putting in orders to the tune of seven billion dollars,
this company’s revenue was set to shoot up 80 percent. This was truly good news for
Chamberlain. The company’s political contributions were bound to increase.

Still, once he became a central figure in the military-industrial complex he was surprised
at the simplistic logic that lay behind the ability to control people. Fear was the
key. All policy makers who wanted to profit from war had to do was exaggerate the
threat from another country and promote this among the citizenry. As long as they
hid the basis for their decisions behind a wall of official secrecy, the mass media
would play along and spread the notion of grave peril to the nation. That’s all it
took to be able to shift a huge amount of tax revenue into the Defense Department
and to have the salaries of munitions companies’ executives soar. And this fear that
had been planted among US citizens also crossed borders, with other countries following
America’s lead and ramping up their defense budgets. Suspicion bred suspicion, and
tensions between countries mounted higher than the reality warranted. In some cases
war would even break out, creating a limitless source of funds that would profit a
targeted cadre of people. And politicians reaped an added benefit: an external threat
increasing their approval ratings.

Eisenhower foresaw this situation, and in his final speech as president he warned
the nation of the danger of the military-industrial complex, though the message fell
on deaf ears. As long as there are companies in every nation greedy to profit from
war, war will never disappear from this world.

Chamberlain, lost in thought, suddenly raised his head. The scenery outside, barely
visible through the five-inch-thick protective glass, seemed to be rushing by at a
tremendous speed. The armored limousine had suddenly sped up, though the completely
soundproof interior remained as quiet as ever. Chamberlain used the microphone to
speak to the Secret Service agent beyond the partition. “Why are we going so fast?”

“No need to worry, sir,” the voice on the speaker said. “We just should get to the
airport as soon as we can.”

“Did something happen?”

Just then the secure phone beside the rear seat rang. Chamberlain waved off the agent
next to him, and he picked it up himself.

“The Department of Homeland Security just got in touch with us,” his secretary back
in the White House said. “A Predator drone on a training mission from Creech Air Force
Base is missing.”

“What are you telling me?”

“Soon after an unmanned aircraft left its base they lost control of it, and it quickly
started to descend. They believe it crashed, but a search hasn’t located any wreckage.”

They should extend the range of their search, Chamberlain thought. “What does that
have to do with me?”

“The aircraft is armed. Radar also picked up a small aircraft that crossed over from
Nevada into Arizona.”

Creech Air Force Base was outside of Las Vegas, only three hundred miles from Phoenix.
Chamberlain unconsciously glanced up at the ceiling of the limo.

“But the flight path is the one filed for a Cessna owned by a private corporation,
so we think the chances that the aircraft on radar is the Predator are pretty low.”

“Did they try radioing the pilot of the Cessna?”

“They did, but he didn’t respond to air traffic control.”

Chamberlain was starting to get worried. Predators were very small and flew at high
altitude, and there was no way to confirm their presence even if they flew right over
you.

“You think the Predator was hijacked?” he asked. And right then, without warning,
an antitank missile pierced the roof of the limousine. For a split second, the missile
was in his lap, but before his brain could react, his whole body was blown to bits
by the explosion. Everything went black, and Chamberlain was dead. The missile was
well named, for hellfire incinerated everything, instantaneously vaporizing the huge
amount of blood that shot up. Right then a second missile hit. Chamberlain’s head,
already wrenched off his body, was pulverized. Everything from his nose on up became
charred bone, and it flew through the air, smashed into the bulletproof glass of the
limousine three cars back, then rolled onto the pavement.

The powerful man had lined his pockets with war profits. Now his corpse was mute testimony
to the superiority of American weaponry.

Rubens drove his rental car fast, over the speed limit, as he raced down the back
roads of southern Indiana. Around him were old electric poles, stands of dead trees,
and a few houses dotting the landscape. The upper half of his windshield showed a
cloudy sky.

After the news of Vice President Chamberlain’s death came in, Washington was in chaos.
President Burns took refuge in the White House emergency bunker, the Presidential
Emergency Operations Center, while his family was put under protection in a Secret
Service facility. All agencies connected to Homeland Security mobilized their staffs,
trying to ascertain exactly what had happened, but everyone was clearly in panic mode.
Before the facts were known, neocons in the administration demanded that a nuclear
strike be carried out on Islamic extremists’ sanctuaries.

At first Rubens, too, thought this latest terrorist attack was the work of Islamic
fundamentalists. But once he found out that all the unmanned drones deployed around
the world were grounded after the attack, he knew who had murdered the vice president.
Right this very minute, in central Africa, Nous and his group must have evaded the
eyes of any Predator and crossed the Ibina River to safety.

Rubens pulled his car off to the shoulder, looked in the rearview mirror, and waited
until the car behind him passed. No one seemed to be tailing him. He pulled out a
map and checked the location of the person he was visiting.

After Operation Nemesis commenced, two US citizens were put under tight surveillance.
One was the cultural anthropologist that Nigel Pierce had e-mailed with the news that
he’d discovered a superhuman. This person, Dennis Schaefer, was an old man under medical
care for liver damage. Both the NSA and CIA reported that there was nothing suspicious
about this elderly anthropologist.

The person Rubens was going to visit was the other one. He knew there were risks involved
in what he was doing, but he had no choice. The situation had gone dangerously downhill,
and there wasn’t a moment to spare. After Dr. Gardner was forced out as science adviser,
there was only one other person he could consult.