Part 2

Chimera Chapter 14

Japanese Imperial Submarine I-413 And NUMA Submersible Starfish June 4, 2007

Kyodongdo Island, South Korea At fifty-five meters in length, the steel-hulled Benetti yacht was impressive even by Monte Carlo affluent standards. The custom-built Italian yacht's lush interior featured an array of marble flooring, Persian carpets, and rare Chinese antiques, which filled the cabins and salons with warm elegance. A collection of fifteenth-century oil paintings by the Flemish master Hans Memling dotted the walls, adding to the eclectic feel. The glistening maroon-and-white exterior, which featured a wide band of wraparound dark-tinted windows, was given a more traditional appearance, with inlaid teak decking and brass fittings on the outside verandas. The entire effect was a tasteful mix of old-world charm combined with the speed and function of modern design and technology. Always turning heads as it roared by, the vessel was an admired fixture on the Han River in and about Seoul. To the local society crowd, an invitation aboard was a highly desired mark of prominence, providing the rare opportunity to mingle with the boat's enigmatic owner.

Dae-jong Kang was a leading icon of South Korean industry and seemed to have his hands in everything. Little was known of the mercurial leader's early background, aside from his sudden appearance during the economic boom of the nineties as the head of a regional construction company. But upon his taking over the reins, the low-tech firm became a corporate Pac-Man, gobbling up companies in the shipping, electronics, semiconductor, and telecommunications industries in a series of leveraged buyouts and hostile takeovers. The businesses were all rolled under the umbrella of Kang Enterprises, a privately held empire entirely controlled and directed by Kang himself. Unafraid of the public spotlight, Kang mixed freely with politicians and business leaders alike, wielding additional influence on the board of directors of South Korea's largest companies.

The fifty-year-old bachelor held a veil of mystery over his private life, however. Much of his time was spent sequestered at his large estate on a secluded section of Kyodongdo Island, a lush mountainous outpost near the mouth of the Han River on the western Korean coast. There he dabbled with a stable of Austrian show horses or worked on his golf game, according to the few who had been invited inside the private enclave. More carefully hidden was a dark secret about the iconoclastic businessman that would have completely shocked his corporate cronies and political patrons. Unknown to even his closest associates, Kang had operated for over twenty-five years as a sleeper agent for the Democratic People's Republic of Korea, or North Korea, as it was known by the rest of the world.

Kang was born in the Hwanghae Province of North Korea shortly after the Korean War. At the age of three, his parents were killed in a railroad derailment, blamed on South Korean insurgents, and the infant boy was adopted by his maternal uncle. The uncle, a founding member of the Korean Workers' Party in 1945, had fought with Kim Il Sung and his anti-Japanese guerrilla forces based in the Soviet Union during World War II. When Kim Il Sung later rose to power in North Korea, the uncle was richly rewarded with a series of provincial government appointments, brokering himself into ever more important spheres of influence until, ultimately, gaining a seat as an elite ruling member of the Central People's Committee, the top executive decision-making organization in North Korea.

During his uncle's ascension, Kang received a thorough indoctrination in the Korean Workers' Party dogma while obtaining the best state-sponsored education the fledgling country could offer. Recognized early as a fast learner who excelled at his studies, Kang was groomed as a foreign operative, with sponsorship from his uncle.

Blessed with a keen financial mind, commandlike leadership skills, and a ruthless heart, Kang was smuggled into South Korea at the age of twenty-two and set up as a laborer at a small construction company. With brutal efficiency, he quickly worked his way up to foreman, then arranged a series of "accidental" work site deaths that killed the firm's president and top managers. Forging a series of ownership transfer documents, Kang quickly took control of the business within two years of his arrival. With secret direction and capital infusion from Pyongyang, the young communist entrepreneur slowly expanded his network of commercial enterprises over the years, focusing on products and services most beneficial to the North. Kang's forays into telecommunications provided access to Western network communications hardware valuable to the military's command and control systems. His semiconductor plants secretly built chips for use in short-range missiles. And his fleet of cargo ships provided the means for covertly transferring defense technology to the government of his homeland. The profits from his corporate empire that were not smuggled north in the form of Western goods and technology were spent bribing key politicians for government contracts or utilized for the hostile acquisition of other companies. Yet Kang's zealous appropriation of power and technology was almost peripheral to his primary objective, set forth by his handlers so many years before. Kang's mission, in the simplest of provisions, was to promote the reunification of the two Korean countries, but on North Korea's terms.

The sleek Benetti yacht slowed its engines as it entered a narrow inlet off the Han River that wound snakelike into a protected cove. As the boat eased through the inlet, the pilot increased the throttle again, racing the boat smoothly across the calm waters of the interior lagoon. A yellow floating dock bobbed gently on the opposite side of the cove, which quickly grew larger in size as the yacht drew near. The big vessel stormed toward the dock, swinging parallel at just the last minute as its engines were cut. A pair of black-uniformed men grabbed the bow and stern lines and tied off the vessel as the pilot finessed her the last few feet to the dock. The shore crew quickly rolled a stepped platform against the yacht's side, the upper step matching the foot level of the first deck.

A cabin door popped open and three gray-looking men in dark blue suits stepped down onto the dock and instinctively peered up at the large stone structure perched above them. Jutting from a cliff that rose nearly vertically above the dock nestled an immense stone house that was half-carved into the crown of the bluff. Thick walls surrounded the house, lending a medieval look to the compound, although the house itself was clearly of Asian design, with a deep angular tiled roof capping the brown-stone walls. The entire structure sat two hundred feet above the water, accessible by a steep set of stairs carved into the rock on one side. The three men noted that twelve-foot-high stone walls ran all the way down to the water's edge, ensuring a high degree of privacy. A tight-lipped guard standing at the dock's footing with an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder ensured even more.

As the men in suits made their way along the dock, a door opened from a small structure near the landing and out walked their host to greet them. There was no question that Dae-jong Kang had an imposing air about him. At an even six feet tall and weighing two hundred pounds, his physical mass was large by Korean standards. But it was his stern face and penetrating eyes that indicated a willful presence. Under the right circumstances, his piercing glare could almost cut a man in two. A practiced but insincere smile helped break down barriers when he needed to, but an icy-cold aloofness always lingered over him like a cloud. He was a man who reeked of power and was not afraid to use it.

"Welcome, gentlemen," Kang said in a smooth voice. "I trust your voyage from Seoul was enjoyable?"

The three men, all leading party members in the South Korean National Assembly, nodded in unison. The senior member of the political trio, a balding man named Youngnok Rhee, replied for the group: "A trip down the Han River is a delight in such a beautiful boat."

"It is my preferred means of commuting to Seoul," Kang replied, implying the boredom he found flying in his private helicopter. "Right this way," he motioned toward the small building at the base of the cliff.

The politicians followed him obediently past a small security station and down a narrow passageway to a waiting elevator, the shaft of which had been carved directly into the cliff. The visitors admired an ancient painting of a tiger hung on the elevator's back wall as it rose rapidly to the main house. When the doors opened, the men stepped out into an expansive, ornately decorated dining room. Beyond an elegant mahogany dining table, floor-to-ceiling glass walls offered a breathtaking view of the Han River delta, where the grand river's waters emptied into the Yellow Sea. A sprinkling of worn sampans and small cargo boats dotted the horizon, fighting their way upriver toward Seoul with a supply of trade goods. Most of the boats clung to the south bank of the river, well away from the imaginary demarcation line with North Korea that ran down the river's center.

"An incredible view, Mr. Kang," offered the tallest of the three politicians, a man named Won Ho.

"I enjoy it, for the vista encompasses both our countries," Kang replied with intent. "Please be seated." He waved a hand as he spoke, then took a seat at the head of the table. A cadre of uniformed servants began shuttling in an array of fine wines and gourmet dishes, while the conversation among the seated men drifted toward politics. A medley of spicy fragrances filled the air as they dined on daiji-bulgogi, or pork marinated in a spicy garlic sauce, accompanied by yachae gui, an assortment of marinated vegetables. Kang played the gregarious host to his guests until they had comfortably imbibed, then he applied the knife.

"Gentlemen, it's high time we take seriously the effort to unify our two countries," he spoke slowly, for effect. "As a Korean, I know that we are one country in language, in culture, and in heart. As a businessman, I know how much stronger we could be economically in the global markets. The Sino-American threat, which has long justified the use of our countries as pawns to the superpowers, is no more. It is long past time that we throw off the shackles of foreign domination and do what is right for Korea. Our destiny is as one, and we should seize the opportunity now."

"The goal of unification beats strongly in all our hearts, but the reckless leadership and military juggernaut of North Korea mandates that we tread with caution," replied the third politician, a beady-eyed man named Kim.

Kang brushed aside the comment. "As you know, I recently toured North Korea as part of a fact-finding trip sponsored by the Ministry of Unification. We found their economy to be in a moribund state, with food shortages widespread and rampant. The depleted economic state has taken a toll on the North Korean military as well. The military forces we witnessed appeared ill-equipped and extremely low in morale," he lied.

"Yes, I can attest to their struggles," Won Ho replied. "But do you really think reunification would be a benefit to our own economy?"

"The northern provinces offer an abundance of cheap labor that is readily accessible. We would immediately become more competitive on the world markets, as our average labor costs would diminish substantially. I have assessed the impact to my own enterprises and make no secret of the fact that my profits could be boosted dramatically. In addition, the northern province economies would provide a new, untapped consumption market that South Korean business is poised to serve. No, gentlemen, there is no question that unification would provide an economic windfall to all of us in the south."

"There is still the issue of North Korea's hard-line contention in the matter," Won Ho stated. "We cannot simply achieve reunification unilaterally."

"Yes," Kim added. "They have repeatedly insisted that the United States military presence be removed from our soil before reunification can be considered."

"That is why," Kang continued calmly, "I am asking the three of you to support the resolution recently introduced in the National Assembly demanding the removal of all American military forces from South Korea."

A stunned silence fell over the room as the three politicians digested Kang's words. Kang had brought them there for a reason, they knew, but the politicians had figured the corporate giant was seeking legislative tax relief or some other aid to his business empire. Not one of them expected a demand so risky to their political careers. The elder statesman Rhee finally cleared his throat and spoke deliberately.

"That particular resolution was introduced by radical elements in the assembly. There is little chance it would ever pass a full vote."

"There is if the three of you came on record in support of it," Kang replied.

"That's impossible," Kim stammered. "I cannot support weakening our military defense for the asking while North Korea continues to consign all its resources toward boosting its military might."

"You can and you will. With the recent murder of the girl in Kunsan City by the American serviceman, there is a firestorm of animosity toward the American military from the mainstream populace. It is incumbent upon you to place pressure on our president to act and act now."

"But the American forces are essential for our security. There are over thirty-five thousand troops stationed in our defense," Kim argued before being cut off.

"May I remind you," Kang hissed, his face contorting into an evil smirk, "that I have paid and negotiated your way into the position that you hold today." The controlled rage glowed from his eyes like burning embers.

Rhee and Won Ho slumped back in their chairs and nodded gravely, knowing their political futures were finished if knowledge of their graft over the years was ever released to the press. "Yes, it will be done," Won Ho said meekly.

Kim, however, appeared oblivious to Kang's rage. Shaking his head, he replied firmly, "I'm sorry, but I cannot support placing our country at risk of military defeat. I will not vote in favor of the resolution." He turned and peered at his fellow politicians with a look of scorn.

The room fell silent again for several moments before the servants returned to clear away the dinner dishes. Kang leaned over and whispered something into the ear of one of the servants, who quickly paced back to the kitchen. Seconds later, a side door opened and two hulking security guards, attired in black from head to toe, entered the room. Without saying a word, they strode to either side of Kim's chair, grabbed his arms, and yanked the politician roughly to his feet.

"What is the meaning of this, Kang?" he cried.

"I will suffer your foolishness no more," Kang replied coldly. With a wave of his hand, the two thugs muscled Kim to a veranda door that opened onto an outside balcony. Flailing and struggling hopelessly against the stronger men, Kim was dragged outside and to the edge of the balcony wall, which jutted over the face of the rock cliff. Obscenities burst from his mouth as he demanded to be let go but his pleas were ignored. As Rhee and Won Ho looked on in horror, the two men in black hoisted Kim up off his feet, then unceremoniously pitched his thrashing body over the wall.

Kim's screaming voice could be heard trailing away for several seconds as he plunged down the cliff wall. A faint thud signaled that his body had struck the beach landing below and his screaming suddenly ceased. Rhee and Won Ho turned ashen white as the two thugs calmly returned to the dining hall. Kang sipped at a glass of wine, then spoke to the security men in a nonchalant tone.

"Retrieve the body and take it to Seoul. Plant him on a street near his residence and make it look like a hit-and-run traffic accident," he ordered.

As they left the room, Kang turned to the frightened politicians and asked with icy politeness, "You will stay for dessert, won't you?"

Kang peered out the dining hall window and watched as Rhee and Won Ho anxiously boarded his yacht below. Kim's body, wrapped in a brown blanket, had been crudely dumped on the boat's stern deck and covered with a tarp but was readily distinguishable to the two shaken men as they climbed aboard. Observing the yacht as it cast off and began its fifty-mile trek upriver to Seoul, Kang turned as a man entered the room and approached. He had a scrawny build and greased-back black hair, with pale skin that seldom saw the light of day. His blue suit was well worn, and his choice of tie dated, but his white shirt was starched crisp. What Kang's administrative assistant lacked in panache he made up for in thrift and efficiency.

"Your meeting was a success?" the man asked Kang, with a dose of subservience.

"Yes, Kwan. Rhee and Won Ho are going to promote our initiative for the removal of U. S. forces through the National Assembly. It was unfortunate that we had to eliminate Kim, but it was apparent that he had lost his loyalty to us. His death will send a strong message to the other two."

"A sensible decision. Sir, a courier from Yonan is arriving by boat this evening to receive the prototype missile guidance chip set that has passed final test at our semiconductor facility. Do you wish also to relay a briefing status?"

Like a foreign embassy in a hostile nation, Kang and his superiors in North Korea relied on couriers to funnel information, technology, and contraband out of the South. Although the Internet had become the spy's best friend when it came to dispatching information, there was still the need for one-on-one contact to transfer hard goods. An aged fisherman in a beat-up sampan, easily neglected by the Navy patrols, was the favored agent's disguise for crossing the DMZ to Kang's estate.

"Yes, we can report that a National Assembly vote will be brought forth on the expulsion resolution within the next several weeks, and that progress is being made on its passage. Our organized student protests are gaining momentum, and our media payoffs will ensure continued press attention and coverage of the U. S. serviceman murder incident," Kang said with a wry smile. "Our external disruption plan is proving to be most effective. What remains to be seen is whether we can implement the chimera project quickly enough to maximize the Americans' strife. What is the latest from the biochemical laboratory?"

"The news is most promising. The lab team has completed their study of the test results from the Aleutian Islands and verified that the virus was successfully rejuvenated during flight release. In addition, dispersion of the virus through the mock-up missile-borne vapor mechanism covered a ground path larger than anticipated. The program engineers are confident that the full-scale deployment system already built will be operationally successful."

"Providing we can generate sufficient quantities of the virus. It was most unfortunate that all but one of the canisters on the I-403 submarine was destroyed."

"An unforeseen circumstance. Since most of the recovered agent was utilized in the Aleutian test firing, very little was left available for laboratory growth purposes. Dr. Sarghov at the bio lab informs me it will take over three months to cultivate quantities necessitated by the program. For this reason, we have initiated your request to attempt recovery of the second Japanese armament stock."

"A second Japanese submarine," Kang muttered, picturing an Imperial Japanese submersible lying torpedoed on the ocean floor. "An amazing intelligence discovery that there was not one but two submarines destroyed carrying such a virulent cargo. How soon before recovery operations commence?"

"The submarine must be located first. We have the Baekje en route to Yokohama to pick up a leased submersible that will be required for the deep-water recovery operation. Once on-site, we expect the survey to take approximately two days, and the entire recovery operation to be completed within ten days."

"And Tongju?"

"He will meet up with the salvage ship in Yokohama and remain on board to lead security operations."

"Very good," Kang said, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. "Things are proceeding nicely, Kwan. The domestic pressures on the Americans will soon be very hot and the chimera project will be a sharp kick to their sides. We must soon prepare for the coming offensive and restoration of the country under our home flag."

"You will hold a place of high honor in the new Korea," Kwan stroked.

Kang looked again at the sweeping panorama to the north before him. The rolling hills of his native North Korea lay just across the Han River, stretching wide across the far horizon.

"It is time we regain our country," he muttered softly.

Kwan started to leave the room, then stopped and turned.

"Sir, there is one other item that has cropped up related to the chimera project."

Kang nodded at his assistant to proceed.

"The helicopter that was shot down in the Aleutians was operated by an American government research vessel from the National Underwater and Marine Agency. Our crew believed the pilot and crew were killed, which was initially confirmed by an Alaskan media report of a fatal helicopter crash. However, our U. S. field operations team monitoring the Americans' response to the test reported that the pilot, a special projects director named Pitt, and his copilot had in fact survived the crash."

"That is of little consequence," Kang replied irritably.

Kwan cleared his throat nervously. "Well, sir, I had our team track the pilot upon his return to home port in Seattle. Two days after their return, the NUMA men were seen in a small survey boat headed for the region where the I-403 is located."

"What? That's not possible," Kang belched with sudden anger, made visible by a large vein that throbbed on his forehead. "How would they have any knowledge of our activities?"

"I do not understand it, either. They are undersea professionals. Perhaps our recovery operation was witnessed by others and they were simply monitoring the I-403 for looters. Or perhaps it is just a coincidence. They may have been performing an engineering or archaeological assessment."

"Perhaps. But this is no time to compromise the project. Have them both taken care of," Kang directed.

"Yes, sir," Kwan replied, backpedaling out of the room quickly. "It will be handled at once."

Chapter 15

To the ancient Aztecs of central Mexico, it was known as the "Great Leprosy." The ghastly plague of death had appeared sometime after the arrival of Hernando Cortes and his troops in 1518. Some believe a rival conquistador named Narvaez, sailing from Cuba, had carried the scourge. Whoever the carrier, the results proved horrific. When Cortes entered Mexico City after a four-month siege against the forces of Montezuma in 1521, he was shocked at what he found. Stacks upon stacks of dead, decaying bodies were piled high in homes, on the streets, everywhere the eye could see throughout the city. No casualties of battle, the dead were all victims of disease.

No one knows the origins of Variola major, but the deadly virus, better known as "smallpox," has left an expansive path of tragedy around the globe. Though smallpox epidemics have been recorded in civilizations as far back as the ancient Egyptians, history knows the disease best as the scourge of the Americas, leaving its deadliest mark on the highly susceptible natives of the western continents. Introduced to the New World by the crews of Christopher Columbus, smallpox wreaked havoc throughout the entire West Indies and virtually decimated the original Carib Indians who greeted Columbus on his first voyage west.

The Cortes/Narvaez introduction of smallpox into Mexico is estimated to have killed nearly half of the three hundred thousand inhabitants of Mexico City in 1521. Cumulative deaths throughout the country from the highly contagious disease easily numbered in the millions. Similar devastation transpired in South America as well. When Pizarro landed in Peru in 1531 on his great quest for gold, the smallpox virus was already annihilating the Inca population. With his army of less than two hundred men, Pizarro would never have ransacked the Inca empire had the culture not been preoccupied with a chaotic struggle against the ravaging disease. More than five million Incas may have died from smallpox, which all but eradicated their entire civilization.

In North America, Native American tribes were not immune to the onslaught. Numerous tribes of river valley Mound Builders vanished altogether from smallpox, while the Massachusetts and Narragansett tribes were nearly wiped out. Estimates suggest that the population of the New World declined by ninety-five percent in the century following the arrival of Columbus, attributable primarily to smallpox.

The lethal virus didn't stop there, flaring up in sporadic epidemics that killed thousands more in Europe over the next two hundred years. Sinister military minds later made use of the disease as a tool of battle, to intentionally infect opposing forces. Historical allegations claim the British provided smallpox-infected blankets to warring Native American tribes in the 1760s, and employed similar tactics against American troops during the battle for Quebec during the Revolutionary War.

Primitive vaccinations were finally discovered in the early nineteenth century, using a related cowpox virus, which eventually provided some measure of control against the disease. Sporadic outbreaks and Cold War fears prompted routine smallpox vaccinations in the United States up until the nineteen seventies. In large part due to the World Health Organization's successful global battle against the disease, smallpox was declared completely eradicated in 1977. Save for a small research sample at the U. S. Centers for Disease Control, and an unknown quantity developed for military applications in the former Soviet Union, remaining worldwide stocks of the virus were completely destroyed. Smallpox was nearly a forgotten disease until the terrorist attacks in the early years of the new century raised the fear that a contagious virulent outbreak of any form was again a threat to be reckoned with.

The historical ravages of smallpox were of little concern to Irv Fowler at the moment. After mustering the strength to drive himself to the Alaska Regional Hospital emergency room, his only hopes were for a quiet room and an attractive nurse to help him recuperate from whatever form of killer flu was knocking him out. Even when a parade of somber-looking medical professionals kept marching by to have a look at him and then insisted he be wheeled into quarantine, he was feeling too weak to be alarmed. Only when a pair of masked doctors finally informed him that he had tested positive for smallpox did his mind begin to whir. Two thoughts came to mind before delirium washed over his brain again: Could he defy the thirty percent mortality rate? And who else had he infected?

Chapter 16

"Dirk, I have some terrifying news." The fear in Sarah's voice was palpable, even over the telephone.

"What's wrong?"

"It's Irv. He's sick in the hospital in Anchorage. The doctors say that he has contracted smallpox. I just can't believe it."

"Smallpox? I thought that had all but been eliminated."

"Practically speaking, it has. If the doctors are correct with the diagnosis, it will be the first documented case in the United States in thirty years. The medical authorities are keeping it quiet, though the CDC is rushing vaccination supplies to Alaska in case an outbreak develops."

"How's he holding up?"

"He's at a critical juncture," Sarah replied, nearly choking on the words. "The next two or three days will be crucial to his outcome. He's in quarantine at Alaska Regional Hospital in Anchorage, along with three other people he has had close contact with."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Dirk said with genuine concern in his voice. "Irv's a tough old bird, I'm sure he'll sail through without a hitch. Have you any idea how on earth he contracted smallpox?"

"Well," Sarah replied, swallowing hard, "the incubation period is approximately fourteen days. That would mean he became infected about the time we were on Yunaska ... and aboard the Deep Endeavor."

"He may have contracted it on our ship?" Dirk asked incredulously.

"I don't know. It was either on the ship or on the island, but it matters little now. The smallpox virus is remarkably contagious. We need to work fast to check everyone who was onboard the Deep Endeavor and isolate those infected. Time is critical."

"What about you and Sandy? You were working and living together with Irv. Are you all right?"

"As CDC employees, Sandy and I were both vaccinated two years ago after concerns were first raised about smallpox as a potential bioterrorist threat. Irv was on loan to us from the state of Alaska's Department of Epidemiology and had not yet received his vaccination."

"Can the crew of the Deep Endeavor still be vaccinated?"

"Unfortunately, it would do no good. The vaccine can be effective within a couple of days of exposure but becomes useless thereafter. It's a terrible disease, as once you've contracted it there is nothing that can be done to combat it until it has run its course."

"I'll contact Captain Burch and we'll check on all the crew members as soon as possible."

"I will be back from Spokane this evening. If you can assemble the crew, I can help the ship's doctor check each man for symptoms in the morning."

"Consider it done. Sarah, I could use another favor from you as well. Okay if I pick you up in the morning?"

"Sure, that would be fine. And, Dirk ... I pray that you are not infected."

"Don't you worry," he replied confidently. "There's way too much rum in my blood to keep any bugs alive."

Dirk immediately called Captain Burch, and, with Leo Delgado's help, quickly contacted each crew member who had sailed on the Deep Endeavor. To their relief, none of the men reported signs of illness, and all appeared at the NUMA field office the next morning.

As promised, Dirk picked up Sarah at her apartment early in the morning, electing to drive the big '58 Chrysler.

"My word, this is an enormous car," Sarah declared as she climbed into the finned behemoth.

"It's the original definition of heavy metal," Dirk grinned as he stoked the car out of the parking lot and drove toward the NUMA building.

Many of the Deep Endeavor's crew greeted Sarah warmly when she arrived before the assembled group, and she noted to herself how the entire crew behaved more like close family members than coworkers.

"It is great to see my NUMA friends again," she said, addressing the crew. "As you may know, my associate Irv Fowler, who was on the ship with us, has been diagnosed with smallpox. The smallpox virus is highly contagious and it is critical that those infected be quickly isolated. I will need to know if any of you have suffered from the following symptoms since Irv, Sandy, and I left the Deep Endeavor: fever, headache, backache, severe abdominal pain, malaise, delirium, or rashes on the face, arms, or legs."

One by one, she examined the apprehensive crew, taking temperatures and grilling each man or woman on signs of the deadly disease. Even Dirk and Captain Burch were subject to her checkup, after which Sarah gave a noticeable sigh of relief.

"Captain, just three of your crewmen are showing minor flulike signs of illness, which may or may not be preliminary symptoms of the virus. I request that these men remain isolated until we can complete their blood tests. Your remaining crew should avoid large public venues for at least a few more days. I would like to do a follow-up check at the end of the week, but it appears promising there has been no outbreak among the ship's crew."

"That is good news," Burch replied with audible relief. "Seems odd to me that the virus did not spread easily through a confined ship."

"Patients are most infectious after the onset of rash, which typically occurs twelve to fourteen days after exposure. Irv was well off the boat and working in Anchorage when he reached that stage, so it's possible that the virus had not spread while we were aboard. Captain, I would ensure that his stateroom on the Deep Endeavor is thoroughly sanitized, along with all linen and dining ware aboard the ship, just to be safe."

"I'll see that it's taken care of right away."

"It would appear that the source of the smallpox outbreak was on Yunaska," Dirk speculated.

"I think so," Sarah replied. "It's a wonder that you and Jack were not exposed when you picked us up off the island."

"Our protective gear may have saved us."

"Thank God," she said gratefully.

"It would seem that our mysterious friends on the fishing boat may have been dabbling with something even nastier than cyanide. Which reminds me ... the favor I asked?"

Dirk led Sarah to the Chrysler, where he popped open the large trunk lid. Inside was the porcelain bomb canister from the I-403, carefully wrapped inside a milk crate. Sarah inspected the item with a quizzical look on her face.

"Okay, I give up. What is it?"

Dirk briefly explained his trip to Fort Stevens and the dive on the Japanese submarine.

"Can you have your lab identify any remaining residue? I have a hunch there may be something to it."

Sarah stood silent a moment before speaking.

"Yes, we can have it examined," she said in a serious tone. "But it will cost you lunch," she said, finally breaking into a wry smile.

Chapter 17

Dirk drove Sarah to the state Public Health Lab on Fircrest Campus, where they carefully transferred the fragmented bomb casing into a small working lab room. After some chiding for bringing an explosive into the building, a jovial, slightly balding research scientist named Hal agreed to examine the fragment after the conclusion of a staff meeting.

"Looks like a long lunch is in order. Where shall we go?" Sarah asked.

"I know a quiet spot with a nice water view," Dirk replied with a mischievous grin.

"Then take me away in the green machine," she laughed, climbing into the turquoise Chrysler.

Dirk drove the car out of the laboratory's narrow parking lot, easing past a familiar-looking black Cadillac CTS that sat with its engine running. Exiting the campus grounds, he drove south past Seattle's bustling downtown, then turned west, following a road sign to Fauntleroy. Reaching the water's edge of Puget Sound, Dirk turned into the Fauntleroy Ferry Terminal, then steered the Chrysler up a loading ramp and onto the car deck of a waiting automobile ferry. As he parked the Chrysler amid several rows of tightly packed commuter cars, Sarah reached over and squeezed his hand tightly.

"A ferryboat snackbar? Donuts and coffee?" she inquired.

"I think we can do better than that. Let's go upstairs and look at the view."

Sarah followed him up a stairwell that emptied onto the open upper deck, where they found a vacant bench facing the northern expanse of Puget Sound. A loud blast from the ferry's horn and a gentle nudge beneath their feet told them they were on their way, as two 2,500-horsepower diesel engines gently pushed the 328-foot vessel away from the dock.

It was a crystal clear day on the Sound, the kind that reminded local residents of why they endure the long, drizzly Pacific Northwest winters to call the area home. In the distance, the Cascade and Olympic mountain ranges sparkled along the horizon, almost shimmering against an azure blue sky so intense it felt close enough to touch. The Seattle downtown cut the skyline in a brilliant reflection of steel and glass, with the landmark Space Needle rising like a futuristic monolith from a George Jetson cartoon. Dirk pointed out a half-dozen other ferries plying their human cargoes about the harbor and watched as they dodged large freighters that cruised along the international shipping lanes.

It was only a fifteen-minute ride to their destination of Vashon Island, and when the boat's captain began aligning the ferry to dock Dirk and Sarah made their way back down to the Chrysler. As he held the door open for Sarah to climb into the passenger seat, Dirk glanced down the row of cars parked behind him. Sitting four spaces behind them, a black Cadillac sedan caught his eye. The same black Cadillac that had been parked with the motor running at the Public Health Lab. And, he now recalled, the same Cadillac that he had seen during his drive around Fort Stevens.

"I think I see a friend parked behind us," Dirk said calmly to Sarah. "Think I'll go back and say hello. I'll be right back."

Strolling casually down the row of cars, he observed two Asian men sitting in the Cadillac staring directly at him. As he approached the driver's-side door, he suddenly leaned down and stuck his face into the open window.

"Excuse me, fellas, do you happen to know where the restroom is?" Dirk asked in a hick voice.

The driver, a heavyset goon with a bad crew cut, looked straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact, and slowly shook his head. Dirk looked for, and found, a slight protrusion under the man's coat near his left armpit, the telltale sign of a holstered weapon. Across the car's interior, the accomplice in the passenger seat showed none of the shyness of the driver. A skinny man with long hair and a stringy goatee glared back at Dirk with a menacing grin, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips. On the floorboard between his feet was a large leather case, which concealed something more than a calculator and cell phone, Dirk surmised.

"Find your friend?" Sarah asked when he returned to the Chrysler.

"No," Dirk replied, shaking his head. "I was quite mistaken."

A long blast from the ship's horn followed by two short blasts announced that the ferry was docking and moments later Dirk drove the Chrysler out of the covered car deck and into the bright sunshine. Crossing over the ferry ramp, he drove down a long pier, then turned out of the ferry complex and onto Vashon Island.

Situated on the lower end of Puget Sound, Vashon Island is a thirty-seven-square-mile scenic haven located just minutes from the congested hubbub of Seattle and Tacoma. Reachable only by boat, the island has maintained a quiet, rural tranquility far removed from its metropolitan neighbors. Strawberry and raspberry fields dot the lush wooded landscape, which is inhabited by a bohemian mix of farmers and computer intellectuals seeking a slower pace than that of city life.

Lowering the convertible top so that they could better enjoy the sights and smells of the landscape, Dirk drove south along the Vashon Highway, away from the ferry terminal at the northern tip of the island. Observing in his rearview mirror, he watched the black Cadillac exit the ferry terminal and fall in line behind him, maintaining a half-mile cushion behind the old car. They continued motoring south for several miles, past quaint cabins and farmhouses interspersed among thick groves of pine trees.

"This feels marvelous," Sarah gushed, stretching her arms above her head and feeling the cool wind rush through her fingers. Dirk smiled to himself, having known too many women who despised riding in a convertible because it mussed up their hair. For him, driving fast in a convertible was like riding a storm out at sea or diving on an unexplored wreck. It was a little added serving of adventure that made life more fun.

Spotting a road sign marked BURTON, Dirk slowed and turned east off the highway, backtracking a short distance on a small side road that led to the tiny hamlet. They meandered past a small group of houses until the road petered out at the drive of a quaint Victorian inn situated right on the water. Built as a summer estate for a Seattle newspaper tycoon at the turn of the century, the three-story structure was agleam in pastel shades of green and lavender. Bright flowers sprouted in large pots and flower boxes were wedged everywhere, throwing a vast array of colors to the eye.

"Dirk, it's beautiful here," Sarah beamed as he parked the car next to an ornate gazebo. "How did you discover this place?"

"One of our scientists has a summer home on the island. Claims they have the best king salmon in the state here and I aim to find out."

Dirk led Sarah to an intimate restaurant at one end of the lodge that continued the Victorian decor theme. Finding it nearly empty, they took a table next to a large picture window that faced east across the sound. After ordering a local Chardonnay, they admired the view across Quartermaster Harbor to a smaller island named Maury. To the southeast, they could see Mt. Rainier standing majestically in the distance.

"Reminds me a little of the Grand Tetons," Sarah said, fondly recalling the craggy peaks of northwest Wyoming. "I used to ride horses for miles around Lake Jackson at the base of the Tetons."

"I bet you're a pretty fair downhill skier as well," Dirk ventured.

"I banged up a few sets of skis growing up," she laughed. "How'd you know?"

"Jackson Hole is right around the corner. Skied it once a few years ago. Terrific snow."

"I love it there," Sarah gushed, her hazel eyes glistening. "But I am surprised to hear that you have been to Jackson. I didn't think that a NUMA special projects director was allowed to leave sight of the ocean."

It was Dirk's turn to laugh. "Only on my annual vacation. The Gobi Desert happened to be booked that year," he grinned. "So tell me, how did a nice girl from Wyoming end up working at the Centers for Disease Control?"

"It's because I am a nice girl from Wyoming," she cooed. "Growing up on my parents' ranch, I was always nursing a sick calf or mending a lame horse. My dad always said I was a softie, but I just loved being around animals and trying to help them. So I studied veterinary medicine in school, and, after bouncing around a few jobs, was able to snag the field epidemiologist job with the CDC. Now I travel the world preventing disease outbreaks and helping sick animals, and I even get paid for it," she smiled.

Dirk could tell her compassion was genuine. Sarah had a warm heart that seemed to resonate through her. If not employed by the CDC, she would probably be off running a dog shelter or helping a wildlife rescue, with or without a paycheck. With her gazing at Dirk with tender eyes, he was glad she was here with him now.

A waiter appeared to spoil their intimacy, but brought a gourmet meal to the table. Dirk enjoyed a mesquite-grilled king salmon filet, while Sarah dined on Alaskan weathervane scallops she deemed so tender they melted in her mouth. After sharing a fresh raspberry cheesecake for dessert, they took a short stroll hand in hand along the water's edge. Dirk kept an eye out for the two men in the Cadillac, whom he finally observed parked a few blocks away in Burton.

"It's gorgeous here, but I guess we should be getting back," Sarah said with disappointment. "We should have the blood test results on your sick crewmen by now, and Hal probably has your bomb canister analysis completed."

As they approached the car, she turned and hugged Dirk.

"Thanks for a lovely lunch," she whispered.

"Kidnapping beautiful women in the afternoon is a specialty of mine," he smiled, then took her in his arms and gave her a long, passionate kiss. She responded by wrapping her arms around him, squeezing the back of his waist tightly.

Easing the car out of the parking lot, Dirk meandered slowly down the one-lane thoroughfare of Burton. He glared as he drove by the Cadillac parked in a side alley, the two men waiting for them to pass. As he watched in the rearview mirror, he was somewhat surprised to see the black sedan turn and follow immediately behind him. There was no more pretense of an invisible tail, Dirk thought, which was not a good sign.

The Cadillac followed behind until they reached the intersection of the Vashon Highway. As he stopped to turn, Dirk glanced again in his mirror. He could see the passenger with the goatee reaching down at his feet and pulling something out of the leather case.

A sick feeling hit him in his stomach and, without an instant's hesitation, he mashed down on the accelerator. With tires squealing, the Chrysler whipped onto the highway and sped north.

"Dirk, what are you doing?" Sarah asked with a bewildered look as she was pushed back into the seat.

In an instant, the Cadillac screeched onto the highway behind them, sending a spray of gravel flying through the air. This time, the Cadillac was not intent on following behind the old Chrysler but nosed into the vacant oncoming traffic lane in order to pull alongside.

"Get down on the floor!" Dirk yelled at Sarah as he watched the black car approach in his side mirror. Confused but comprehending the tone in his voice, Sarah slipped down into the cavernous footwell of the Chrysler and rolled into a ball. Dirk eased off the accelerator and looked to his left as the Cadillac pulled rapidly alongside. The passenger window was rolled down and the young tough grinned sardonically at Dirk. Then he raised an Ingram Mac-10 submachine gun from his lap and leveled it at Dirk's head.

The gunman may have been younger but Dirk's reflexes were faster. By the time the killer's finger pulled the trigger, Dirk was already standing on the brakes. A short burst of fire ricocheted harmlessly across the hood of the Chrysler as it suddenly fell back of the speeding Cadillac in a cloud of burned rubber. The Chrysler's narrow tires screeched in protest as the wheels locked up for a moment before Dirk eased off the brakes. He paused a second, waiting for the Cadillac to react, then saw what he was waiting for. As the brake lights of the Cadillac lit up, he punched the push-button automatic transmission into second gear and stomped the accelerator to the floorboard.

A flood of raw gas charged down the throats of the Chrysler's twin four-barrel carburetors, spraying a gush of combustible fuel to the hungry 392-cubic-inch hemi motor. Packing over 380 horsepower, the Chrysler 300-D was the fastest and most powerful production car in the country in 1958. Showing no signs of its age, the big Chrysler got up and roared off down the road like a charging rhinoceros.

The would-be assassins were caught off guard by the suddenly accelerating Chrysler and swore at each other as the big green car shot by like an arrow. The gunman made an attempt to fire another burst but was too late with his aim, emptying the clip of the burp gun uselessly into the woods. With no oncoming traffic, Dirk cut to the left lane after passing the Cadillac, making it more difficult for the passenger-side gunman to aim his weapon.

"What's happening? Why are they shooting at us?" Sarah cried from the floor.

"Some relatives of our old pals in Alaska, I'm betting," Dirk yelled over the roar of the engine as he upshifted into third gear. "Been following us for some time now."

"Can we escape?" Sarah asked with fear in her voice.

"We can hold our own on the straightaways, but they'll gain on us in the curves. If we can get close to the ferry landing and more people, they should back off," he replied, hoping his words would hold true.

The Chrysler had opened a wide gap between the two cars, but the Cadillac was inching closer. A narrow bend in the road forced Dirk to ease off the gas slightly in order to keep the 4,500-pound colossus on the road, allowing the lighter and more nimble Cadillac to gain precious feet. The gunman, angry and undisciplined, began emptying a second clip in a rage, shooting wildly at the car. Most of the bullets zinged harmlessly into the Chrysler's trunk, creating a sievelike montage of small round holes. Dirk hunched low in the driver's seat and weaved the car randomly back and forth across the road to avoid presenting a stable target.

"How much farther?" Sarah asked, still hugging the carpeted floor.

"Just a couple of more miles. We'll make it," Dirk replied, throwing a confident wink toward her.

But internally, Dirk cursed himself. He cursed that he had placed Sarah in such a position of danger and had not called for help earlier when he knew he was being followed. And he cursed that he was unarmed, having no weapon at his disposal to fight back with other than a nearly fifty-year-old car.

Like a vulture stalking its prey, the black Cadillac mimicked every move of the Chrysler, trying desperately to close the gap between the two speeding vehicles. As the cars entered a long straight stretch of the Vashon Highway, Dirk looked down and saw the speedometer needle tickling 125 miles per hour. A blue pickup truck approached from the opposite direction and Dirk eased into the right lane, holding the accelerator firmly to the floor. The Cadillac's driver, unduly intent on overtaking the Chrysler, didn't notice the rapidly approaching truck at first and swerved harshly to the right at the last second, braking reflexively in the slight panic. The move allowed the Chrysler to gain a few more precious feet of pavement and elicited a stream of profanities from the frustrated gunman.

But Dirk's temporary dominance was about to expire. The Vashon Highway began a series of curves and bends at the northern end of the island before it dropped down to the ferry terminal and the racing advantage turned from speed to road handling. Coming hard off the long straightaway, Dirk braked hard into a sweeping left curve, fighting vigorously to keep the big convertible on the road. The more agile Cadillac easily made up lost ground and was soon within a few yards of Dirk's bumper. Once more, he heard the sputter of machine-gun fire and ducked his head down low. A burst of fire shattered into the windshield in front of him, turning the glass into a maze of pockmarked cracks and holes. One round came in low and Dirk could feel it nearly graze his cheek as it whizzed by before smashing into the dashboard.

"I already shaved once today, you bastards," he grumbled, his anger overcoming any feelings of fear. As he flung the Chrysler into the next turn, the old-fashioned bias-ply tires screeched loudly, leaving a smoking black trail along the roadway. The gunman, having already exhausted two clips, began firing more cautiously to conserve his remaining ammunition. Waiting until the Chrysler entered a right turn, he then peppered the car with quick, point-blank bursts. Foolishly neglecting to shoot out the tires, he maintained his aim on the car's cockpit.

Inside, Dirk and Sarah were showered with a continuous deluge of broken glass, plastic, and metal shards as streams of bullets ripped into the interior. Dirk did his best to guide the car down the center of the road, glancing repeatedly at his side mirrors to ensure the Cadillac didn't accelerate alongside for a better kill shot. Several times he veered the Chrysler sharply to one side, nearly smashing the front end of the Cadillac before its driver backed down and maintained a five-foot buffer off his tail.

Dirk felt like a boxer in the ring, ducking and weaving his head and body up, down, and side to side in order to see the road while avoiding a rain of lead. He cringed while sliding the car through a right turn as he watched a ribbon of holes appear in a neat line down the hood. The burst punctured the radiator, sending a white plume of steam hissing out the grille and hood. Time was short now, he realized. Without coolant, the engine would overheat and seize up. He and Sarah would then be easy pickings.

As they approached the northern tip of the island, he tried a last gambit. Approaching a narrow left turn ahead, Dirk eased into the center of the road and slowed slightly to pull the Cadillac in close. Then, with both feet on the pedal, he stomped on the brakes as hard as he could. Through the screaming tires and cloud of burned rubber, the Cadillac kissed the back of the Chrysler hard before its driver slammed on the brakes. But his gamble to decimate the front end of the Cadillac failed. The Chrysler's ancient drum brakes were no match for the Cadillac's four-wheel disc, antilock braking system, and the newer car nearly came to a stop while the big Chrysler was still skidding down the road. The Cadillac's driver realized the ploy and kept a healthy separation distance now. Dirk let off the brakes and jammed on the accelerator, hoping to keep making ground. There was little left he could do now.

The two cars had reached the top of the last rise on the northern section of the island. From there, the road gradually snaked downhill toward the water's edge, passing a few lanes of shops and houses before terminating at the ferry landing. Dirk noticed a small stream of cars beginning to dot the highway from the opposite direction, recent emigrants from a ferry stop, he surmised.

Despite the additional traffic on the road, the machine gun firing from behind continued. The assassins had crossed the line and were bent on killing Dirk and Sarah regardless of who got in their way. Dirk gave Sarah a quick glance and forced a grin. Her soft eyes showed a mixture of both fear and trust. Trust that he would somehow find a way to save them. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, more determined than ever to shield her from harm.

But there were only seconds to act. The old Chrysler, which now resembled the remains of a B-2 bomber target, was clearly on its last legs. Smoke billowed from under the hood, accompanied by a throbbing melody of knocks and groans from the nearly spent motor. Sparks flew from beneath the frame, where a broken exhaust pipe scraped the pavement with a torturous grind. Even the tires had generated flat spots from the hard braking and thumped out of round. The temperature gauge, Dirk noted, had been firmly pegged in the red for several minutes now.

Above the roar, he could hear the blast of a ferry horn just ahead as they wound closer to the water. From behind, the squeal of the Cadillac's tires and the peppering sound of machine-gun fire rattled in his ears. The big Chrysler suddenly lurched as the hemi engine began to mortally overheat. Dirk's eyes raced over the landscape, searching for a sheriff's car, a bank that might employ an armed guard, any sort of help he might solicit as a last means of defense. But all he saw were quaint little bayside homes with small flower gardens.

Then, looking down the hill toward the approaching ferry terminal, he had a thought. Highly improbable, he figured, but at this point they had nothing to lose.

Sarah looked up and noticed a look of confident resolve suddenly appear on his face.

"What is it, Dirk?" she yelled above the din.

"Sarah, my dear," he replied assuredly, "I think our ship has come in."

Chapter 18

Larry Hatala watched as the final car in line, a pea green 1968 Volkswagen microbus, chugged up the ramp and onto the ferry. A thirty-year veteran of the Washington State Department of Transportation, the grizzled Vashon Island terminal attendant shook his head and smiled at the driver of the old hippie car, a bearded man in bandana and granny glasses. Once the VW was safely aboard the ferry, Hatala lowered a wooden orange-and-white signal arm that halted any pending traffic at the end of the pier. His work complete until the next boat arrived in thirty minutes, Hatala removed a weathered baseball cap and wiped his forehead with a sleeve, then threw a cheerful wave of the cap to a fellow employee on the departing ferry. A young man in a gray jumpsuit finished yanking a guardrail across the stern of the ferry, then returned Hatala's wave with a mock military salute. As the pilot let loose a deep blast from the air horn, Hatala untied a safety docking line and tossed the loose end across to the ferry, where his coworker neatly coiled it for the next stop.

The blast from the ferry horn had barely ceased echoing across the water when Hatala's ears detected an unusual sound. It was the wail of tires screeching violently on asphalt. Peering up the road, he could detect only a periodic flash through the trees of two cars roaring down the hill. The whine of revving engines and squealing tires grew closer, punctuated by a popping sound Hatala recognized from his Navy days as gunfire. Finally, the cars broke free of the trees as they neared the terminal, and Hatala stared in astonishment.

The big green Chrysler looked like a galloping dragon, complete with fire-breathing smoke and steam belching out of its grille. A black-haired man, hunched low in the seat, deftly kept the smoking behemoth on the road at speeds clearly too high for its means. Thirty feet behind, a sleek black Cadillac sedan followed in hot pursuit, a young Asian man dangling out the passenger window wildly firing an automatic weapon that did more damage to the trees bordering the road than to his intended target. To Hatala's complete horror, the green convertible spun into the ferry landing entrance and headed onto the pier.

By all rights, the old Chrysler should have up and died long before. A withering rain of fire had plastered the car in lead, cutting through wires, hoses, and belts, in addition to pasting the body and interior with myriad holes. Burning oil mixed with radiator fluid spewed from the red-hot motor that was nearly drained of fluids. But with an apparent heart of its own, the old Chrysler was not quite ready to give up, offering one last gasp of power.

"Dirk, where are we now?" Sarah asked, unable to see from her spot on the floor. A rackety sound of tires on wood told her they were no longer traveling on the highway.

"We have a boat to catch," Dirk grimaced. "Hang on tight."

He could see a man waving his arms wildly at the end of the pier, some fifty yards ahead. Beyond the pier's edge, he could detect a churning in the water from the ferry's propellers as the boat began to pull away from the dock. It was going to be close.

Behind him, the Cadillac lost ground briefly, having nearly missed the turn when Dirk whipped onto the pier. The driver was doggedly determined to stay on Dirk's tail and accelerated hard, oblivious to the shortening pier and departure of the ferry. The gunman, too, was engrossed with the chase, intent on putting a bullet into the obstinate driver who had somehow avoided his previous blasts.

Dirk also kept his foot down hard on the accelerator, but for a different reason. He held his breath, hoping the Chrysler would hold together for just a few more seconds. Though the end of the pier was now just a few yards away, it seemed to take an eternity to reach it. Meanwhile, the ferry continued to inch farther into the sound.

A pair of boys bound for a fishing excursion at the end of the pier ran scrambling behind a piling as the two cars tore by, their poles sacrificed to the speeding machines when they jumped for cover. To Dirk's surprise, the man at the end of the pier stopped waving and raised the orange-and-white traffic barrier, apparently realizing the futility of trying to stop the barreling mass of Detroit iron that was charging his way. As he roared by, Dirk nodded thanks at Hatala and threw him a jaunty wave. Hatala simply stared back, dumbfounded.

The Chrysler's hefty V-8 engine was now knocking like a pounding sledgehammer, but the old beast hung on and gave Dirk every last ounce of energy it could muster. The big convertible stormed up the ramp at the end of the pier and burst into the air like a cannon shot. Dirk gripped the steering wheel hard and braced for the impact as he watched a forty-foot ribbon of blue water pass beneath the car. Screams filled the air as shocked passengers on the rear of the ferry scrambled to avoid the path of the green monstrosity hurtling through space toward them. The momentum of the car and the angle of the ramp sent the Chrysler sailing through the air in an almost picture-perfect arc before gravity took hold and pulled the nose of the car down fast. But they had cleared the open water and would plunge down onto the ferry.

Just a few feet inboard on the open stern, the Chrysler's front wheels slammed down onto the deck, the tires immediately bursting from the force with a bang. A split second later, the rear wheels dropped down, smashing through a low railing just inches from the stern edge. A section of the handrail kicked up into a wheel well, where it became wedged as the full weight of the car crashed down. It proved to be a lifesaver. Rather than skidding wildly into the rows of cars parked on the auto deck, the wedged railing dug into the wooden deck like an anchor. The massive old car bounded twice, then skidded slowly to a stop just twenty feet from where it struck the deck, lightly smacking the pea green Volkswagen bus.

The black Cadillac did not fare as well. Just a few seconds behind, its driver saw too late that the ferry had left the dock. Too panicked to try to stop, the driver kept his foot down on the accelerator and soared off the pier in tandem with the Chrysler. Only by now, the ferry had moved beyond its path.

With the gunman screaming a bloodcurdling cry, the Cadillac soared gracefully into the sky before nosing hard into the stern of the ferryboat with a thunderous crash. The front bumper kissed the painted letters of the ferryboat's name, Issaquah, just above the waterline before the entire car crumpled like an accordion. A large spray of water flew up as the mangled wreckage of the car plopped into the water and sank to forty feet, carrying its crushed occupants to a watery grave.

In the Chrysler, Dirk shook off the daze of the impact and assessed their injuries. He felt a sprained knee and sore hip on himself as he wiped away a flow of blood from his lower lip, gashed open on the steering wheel. But otherwise all parts seemed to be working. Sarah looked up from the floor in a twisted angle, where she forced a smile through a painful grimace.

"I think my right leg is broken," she said calmly, "but otherwise I'm okay."

Dirk lifted her out of the car and gently set her on the deck as a crowd of passengers crept in to offer assistance. In front of them, a door flung open on the VW bus and out popped its overage hippie driver, complete with ponytail and beer belly half-hidden under a tie-dyed Grateful Dead T-shirt. His eyes bulged as he surveyed the scene behind him. Smoke oozed from the smoldering wreckage of the Chrysler, tainting the air with the odor of burned oil and rubber. The car's metal skin was festooned with bullet holes from front to back, while broken glass and shreds of leather upholstery littered the interior. The front tires were splayed out from bursting on impact, while a metal guardrail poked out oddly from one of the rear wheel wells. A deep gash in the deck tailed back from the wreck like some sort of violent bread crumb trail. Dirk smiled weakly at the man as he wandered closer while surveying the scene.

Shaking his head, the old hippie finally quipped, "Far out, man. I sure hope you have insurance."

It took only a few hours for the authorities to commandeer a nearby work barge and position it off the ferry landing. Its twenty-ton crane easily hoisted the crushed Cadillac from the bottom and dumped it on the greasy deck of the old barge. A paramedic crew carefully extricated the mashed bodies from the vehicle and transferred them to the county morgue. Their cause of death was cited simply as blunt injury from motor vehicle accident.

At NUMA's request, the FBI interceded and opened a federal investigation into the incident. Initial attempts to identify the gunmen came up empty when no forms of ID were found on the bodies, and the Cadillac was discovered to be a stolen rental car. Immigration finally ascertained that the men were Japanese nationals who had entered the country illegally through Canada.

At the Seattle/King County morgue, the chief coroner shook his head in irritation as yet another investigator arrived to examine the bodies.

"Can't get any work done around here as long as we're holding these so-called Japanese gangsters," he grumbled to an underling, as yet another pair of Feds left the storage facility.

The assistant medical examiner, an ex-Army doctor who had once been stationed in Seoul for a year, nodded in agreement.

"We might as well install a revolving door on the ice room," he joked.

"I'll just be happy when the paperwork arrives to release them for transport back to Japan."

"I hope that's their right home," the assistant pathologist said, slowly sliding the bodies back into a refrigerated locker. "If you ask me, I still say they look like a couple of Koreans."

Chapter 19

After twelve hours at Sarah's hospital bedside, Dirk finally convinced the doctors at Seattle's Swedish Providence Medical Center to release Sarah the following morning. Though a broken leg didn't normally warrant an overnight stay, the cautious medical staff was concerned about trauma from the accident and kept her there for observation. She was fortunate in that the break to her tibia, or shinbone, did not require any rods or screws to align. The doctors wrapped her leg in a heavy plaster cast and pumped her full of painkillers, then signed her release.

"Guess I can't take you dancing anytime soon," Dirk joked as he pushed her out the hospital exit in a wheelchair.

"Not unless you want a black-and-blue foot," she replied, grimacing at the heavy cast around her lower leg.

Despite her insistance that she was well enough to work, Dirk took Sarah home to her stylish apartment in Seattle's Capitol Hill district. Gently carrying her to a leather couch, he propped her broken leg up on a large pillow.

"Afraid I've been called back to Washington," he said, stroking her silky hair as she adjusted the pillows behind her back. "Have to leave tonight. I'll make sure Sandy checks in on you."

"I probably won't be able to keep her away," she grinned. "But what about the sick crew members of the Deep Endeavor? We need to find out if they are all right," she said, struggling to rise from the couch. The drugs made her feel as if her mind and body were enshrouded in a coat of honey and she fought to remain lucid against the overwhelming desire to sleep.

"Okay," he said, gently pushing her back down and bringing a portable phone to her. "You get one phone call, then it's lights out for you."

As she called the Public Health Lab, he checked to see that her kitchen was stocked with groceries. Peering into a scantly filled refrigerator, he idly wondered why unmarried women always seemed to have less food in the house than the single men he knew.

"Great news," she called in a slurred voice after hanging up the phone. "The tests on the sick crewmen all came back negative. No sign of the smallpox virus."

"That is great news," Dirk said, returning to her side. "I'll let Captain Burch know before I leave for the airport."

"When will I see you again?" she asked, squeezing his hand.

"Just a quick trip to headquarters. I'll be back before you know it."

"You better," she replied, her eyelids drooping low. Dirk leaned over and brushed her hair aside, then kissed her gently on the forehead. As he stood up, he could see that she had already fallen asleep.

Dirk slept soundly on his cross-country red-eye flight, popping awake well rested as the wheels of the NUMA jet touched down at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport just after eight in the morning. An agency car was left waiting for him at the government terminal, and he drove himself out of the parking lot under a light drizzle. As he exited the airport, he cast a long glance toward a dilapidated-looking hangar situated off one of the runways. Though his father was out of the country, he still had the urge to visit the old man's hideout and tinker with one of his many antique autos stored there. Business before pleasure, he told himself, and wheeled the loaner car onto the highway.

Following the George Washington Memorial Parkway out of the airport, he drove north, passing the Pentagon on his left as he followed the banks of the Potomac River. A short distance later, he turned off the highway and angled toward a towering green glass building that housed the NUMA headquarters. Passing through an employee security gate, he pulled into an underground garage and parked. Opening the car trunk, he hoisted a large duffel bag over his shoulder, then rode the employees' elevator to the tenth floor, where the doors opened onto an elaborate maze of quietly humming computer hardware.

Established with a budget that would make a third world dictator whimper, the NUMA Ocean Data Center computer network was a marvel of state-of-the-art computer processing. Buried within its massive data storage banks was the finest collection of oceanographic resources in the world. Real-time inputs of weather, current, temperature, and biodiversity measurements were collected via satellite from hundreds of remote sea sites from around the world, giving a global snapshot of ocean conditions and trends at any given moment. Links to the leading research universities provided data on current investigations in geology, marine biology, and undersea flora and fauna research, as well as engineering and technology. NUMA's own historical reference library contained literally millions of data sources and was a constant reservoir of information for research institutes the world over.

Dirk found the maestro behind the vast computer network, sitting behind a horseshoe console munching a bear claw with one hand while tapping a keyboard with the other. To a stranger, Hiram Yaeger resembled a groupie from a Bob Dylan concert. His lean body was clad in faded Levi's and matching jeans jacket over a white T-shirt, complemented by a pair of scuffed cowboy boots on his feet. With his long gray hair tied in a ponytail, his appearance belied the fact that he lived in a high-end Maryland suburb with an ex-model wife and drove a BMW 7 Series. He caught sight of Dirk over a pair of granny glasses and smiled in greeting.

"Well, the young Mr. Pitt," he grinned warmly.

"Hiram, how are you?"

"Not having smashed my car, nor destroyed an agency helicopter, I'd have to say I'm doing quite well," he joked. "By the way, has our esteemed director been advised of the loss of one of NUMA's flying assets?"

"Yes. Fortunately, with Dad and Al still over in the Philippines the bite was tempered somewhat."

"They've had their hands full with a toxic spill they ran across near Mindanao, so your timing was good," Yaeger said. "So tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"Well," Dirk hesitated, "it's your daughters. I would like to go out with them."

The color drained from Yaeger's thin boyish face for a moment as he took Dirk's proposal seriously. Yaeger's twin daughters, finishing their last year of private high school, were his pride and joy. For seventeen years, he had successfully scared away any male suitors who had the remotest inkling of touching his girls. God forbid the giddiness they'd show over the rugged and charismatic Dirk.

"You so much as mention their names around me and I'll have you off the payroll with a ruined credit rating that will take five lifetimes to fix," Yaeger threatened.

It was Dirk's turn to laugh, chuckling loudly at Yaeger's vulnerable soft spot. The computer genius softened and grinned as well at Dirk's idle ploy.

"Okay, the girls are off-limits. But what I really want is a little time with you and Max before my meeting with Rudi later this morning."

"Now, that I can approve," Yaeger replied with a firm nod of the head. The bear claw now demolished, he applied both hands in a finger dance over the keyboard to conjure up his bionic confidante, Max.

No fellow computer programmer, Max was an artificial intelligence system with a virtual interface in the form of a holographic image. The brainchild of Yaeger to aid in researching voluminous databases, he had cleverly modeled the visual interface after his wife, Elsie, adding a sensual voice and saucy personality. On a platform opposite the horseshoe console, an attractive woman with auburn hair and topaz eyes suddenly appeared. She was dressed in a skimpy halter top that revealed her navel and a very short leather skirt.

"Good morning, gentlemen," the three-dimensional image murmured.

"Hi, Max. You remember the younger Dirk Pitt?"

"Of course. Nice to see you again, Dirk."

"You're looking good, Max."

"I'd look better if Hiram would stop dressing me in Britney Spears outfits," she replied with disdain, rolling her hands down her body.

"All right. Tomorrow it will be Prada," Yaeger promised.

"Thank you."

"Dirk, what is it that you'd like to ask Max?" Yaeger prompted.

"Max, what can you tell me about the Japanese efforts at chemical and biological warfare during World War Two?" Dirk asked, turning serious.

Max hesitated for a moment as the question generated a massive search through thousands of databases. Not just limiting it to oceanographic resources, Yaeger had wired the NUMA network into a diverse multitude of government and public information resources, ranging from the Library of Congress to the Securities and Exchange Commission. Sifting through the mass of information, Max consolidated the data points into a concisely summarized reply.

"The Japanese military conducted extensive research and experimentation into chemical and biological weaponry both during and preceding World War Two. Primary research and deployment occurred in Manchuria, under the direction of the occupying Japanese Imperial Army after they had seized control of northeast China in 1931. Numerous facilities were constructed throughout the region as test centers, under the guise of lumber mills or other false fronts. Inside the facilities, Chinese captives were subject to a wide variety of human experiments with germ and chemical compounds. The Qiqihar facility, under the command of Army Unit 516, was the largest Japanese chemical weapons research and test site, although chemical weapons manufacture actually took place on the Japanese mainland. Changchun, under Army Unit 100, and the sprawling Ping Fan facility, under Army Unit 731, were the major biological warfare research and test centers. The facilities were in fact large prisons, where local criminals and derelicts were sent and used as test subjects, though few of the captives would survive their incarceration."

"I've read about Unit 731," Dirk commented. "Some of their experiments made the Nazis look like Boy Scouts."

"Allegations of inhuman experiments performed by the Japanese, particularly in Unit 731, are nearly endless. Chinese prisoners, and even some Allied prisoners of war, were routinely injected with an assortment of deadly pathogens, as their captors sought to determine the appropriate lethal dosage. Biological bombs were dropped on prisoners staked to the ground in order to test delivery systems. Many experiments took place outside the walls of the facilities. Typhoid bacilli germs were intentionally released into local village wells, resulting in widespread outbreaks of fever and death. Rats carrying plague-infected fleas were released in congested urban areas as a test of the speed and ferocity of infection. Children were even considered an acceptable target. In one experiment, local village children were given chocolates filled with anthrax, which they gratefully devoured, with horrifying side effects."

"That's revolting," Yaeger said, shaking his head. "I hope the perpetrators paid for their crimes."

"For the most part, they did not," Max continued. "Nearly to a man, those in charge of the chemical and biological army units avoided prosecution as war criminals. The Japanese destroyed much of the documentation, and the camps themselves, before their surrender. American intelligence forces, unaware of the extent of horrors, or, in some cases, seeking to obtain the results of the ghastly experiments, looked the other way at the atrocities. Many of the Imperial Army medical professionals who worked in the death camps went on to become respected business leaders in Japan's postwar pharmaceutical industry."

"With blood on their hands," Dirk muttered.

"No one knows for sure, but experts estimate that at least two hundred thousand Chinese died as a result of Japanese chemical and biological warfare activity during the thirties and forties. A large percentage of the casualties were innocent civilians. It was a wartime tragedy that has only recently received much attention from historians and scholars."

"Man's inhumanity to man never ceases to amaze," Yaeger said solemnly.

"Max, exactly what pathogens and chemicals did the Japanese work with?" Dirk asked.

"It might be easier to ask which agents they didn't experiment with. Their known research in bacteria and viruses ranged from anthrax, cholera, and bubonic plague to glanders, smallpox, and typhus, with experiments conducted in pretty much everything else in between. Among the chemical agents employed in weaponry were phosgene, hydrogen cyanide, sulfur mustard, and lewisite. It is unknown how much was actually deployed in the field, again due to the fact that the Japanese destroyed most of their records as they retreated from China at the end of the war."

"How would these agents have been used on the battlefield?"

"Chemical agents, possessing a long shelf life, are perfectly suitable for munitions. The Japanese manufactured a large quantity of chemical munitions, mostly in the form of grenades, mortars, and a wide range of artillery shells. Thousands of these weapons were even left behind in Manchuria at the war's end. The Japanese biological delivery systems were less successful due to the sensitive nature of the arming agents. Development of a practical biological artillery shell proved difficult, so much of the Japanese effort at fabricating the release of biological agents was focused on aerial bombs. Known records seem to indicate that the Japanese scientists were never completely satisfied with the effectiveness of the bio bombs they developed."

"Max, are you aware of the use of porcelain as a bomb-casing material for these chemical or biological agents?"

"Why, yes, as a matter of fact. Steel bombs generated excessive heat upon explosion that would destroy the biological pathogens, so the Japanese turned to ceramics. It is known that a variety of porcelain bomb canisters were tested in China as aerial delivery systems for the biological agents."

Dirk felt a lump in his stomach. The I-403 had indeed been on a mission of death with its biological bombs back in 1945. Fortuitously, the submarine had been sunk, but was that, in fact, the last of its failed mission?

Yaeger broke his concentration. "Max, this is all new history to me. I had no idea the Japanese actually used chemical and biological weapons in battle. Were they ever employed outside of China, against American forces?"

"The Japanese deployment of chemical and biological weapons was primarily restricted to the Chinese theater of war. Limited instances of their usage were also reported in Burma, Thailand, and Malaysia. My data sources show no recorded use of bio/chemical agents in battle with Western Allied forces, perhaps due to Japanese fear of reprisal. It is suspected that chemical weapons would have been employed in defense of the homeland, had an invasion of Japan been necessary. Of course, your father's discovery proves that chemical munitions were to be stockpiled in the Philippines for possible deployment in defense of the islands."

"My father's discovery?" Dirk asked. "I don't understand."

"I'm sorry, Dirk, let me explain. I received a toxin assessment from the Mariana Explorer taken from an ordnance sample recovered by your father and Al Giordino."

"You've completed your database search on the arsenic sample already? I thought you said you wouldn't have that completed until after lunch," Yaeger asked the hologram.

"Sometimes, I can just be brutally efficient," she replied, throwing her nose in the air.

"What's the connection?" Dirk asked, still confused.

"Your father and Al traced a toxic arsenic leak to an old cargo ship that apparently sank on a coral reef near Mindanao during World War Two. The arsenic was leaking from a shipment of artillery shells carried in the ship's hold," Yaeger explained.

"One-hundred-five-millimeter shells, to be precise," Max added. "Ammunition for a common artillery gun used by the Japanese Imperial Army. Only the contents weren't arsenic, per se."

"What did you find?" Yaeger asked.

"The actual contents were a mixture of sulfur mustard and lewisite. A popular chemical munitions concentrate from the thirties, it acts as a fatal blistering agent when released as a gas. Lewisite is an arsenic derivative, which accounts for the toxic readings found in the Philippines. The Japanese produced thousands of mustard/lewisite shells in Manchuria, some of which were deployed against the Chinese. Some of these old buried chemical munitions are still being dug up today."

"Was the Japanese Navy connected with the deployment of these weapons?" Dirk asked.

"The Japanese Imperial Navy was actively involved with chemical weapons production at its Sagami Naval Yard, and was believed to have had four additional storage arsenals at Kure, Yokosuka, Hiroshima, and Sasebo. But the Navy possessed only a fraction of the estimated 1.7 million chemical bombs and shells produced during the war, and no records indicate they were ever used in any naval engagements. The biological weapons research was funded through the Imperial Army and, as I mentioned, centered in occupied China. A primary conduit for the research activity was the Army Medical School in Tokyo. It is unknown whether the Navy had any involvement through the medical school, as the college was destroyed by wartime bombing in 1945."

"So no wartime records exist that show chemical or biological weapons were ever assigned onboard Navy vessels?"

"None that were publicly released," Max said, shaking her holographic head. "The bulk of the captured Japanese wartime records, including those of the Navy Ministry, were consigned to the National Archives. As a gesture of goodwill, most of the documents were later returned to the Japanese government. Only a fraction of the records were copied, however, and even a smaller portion have ever been translated."

"Max, I'd like to explore the Naval Ministry records for information on the mission of a particular Japanese submarine, the I-403. Can you determine whether these records might still exist?"

"I'm sorry, Dirk, but I don't have access to that portion of the National Archives' data records."

Dirk turned to Yaeger with an arched brow and gave him a long, knowing look.

"The National Archives, eh? Well, that should be a lot less dangerous than tapping into Langley," Yaeger acceded with a shrug.

"That's the old Silicon Valley hacker I know and love," Dirk replied with a laugh.

"Give me a couple of hours and I'll see what I can do."

"Max," Dirk said, looking the transparent woman in the eye, "thank you for the information."

"My pleasure, Dirk," she replied seductively. "I'm happy to be at your service any time."

Then, in an instant, she vanished. Yaeger already had his nose against a computer monitor, fingers flying over a keyboard, completely engrossed in his subversive mission at hand.

At promptly ten o'clock, Dirk entered a plush executive conference room, still carrying the large duffel bag over his shoulder. Thick azure carpet under his feet complemented the dark cherrywood conference table and matching wood paneling on the walls, which were dotted with ancient oil paintings of American Revolutionary warships. A thick pane of glass stretched the length of one wall, offering a bird's-eye view of the Potomac River and the Washington Mall across the water. Seated at the table, two stone-faced men in dark suits listened attentively as a diminutive man in horn-rimmed glasses discussed the Deep Endeavor's recent events in the Aleutian Islands. Rudi Gunn stopped in midsentence and popped to his feet as Dirk entered the room.

"Dirk, good of you to return to Washington so quickly," he greeted warmly, his bright blue eyes beaming through the thick pair of eyeglasses. "Glad to see your ferry landing injuries were minor," he added, eyeing Dirk's swollen lip and bandaged cheek.

"My companion broke her leg, but I managed to escape with just a fat lip. We fared a little better than the other guys," he said with a smirk, "whoever they were. It's good to see you again, Rudi," he added, shaking the hand of NUMA's longtime assistant director.

Gunn escorted him over and introduced him to the other two men.

"Dirk, this is Jim Webster, Department of Homeland Security special assistant, Information Analysis and Infrastructure Protection," he said, waving a hand toward a pale-skinned man with cropped blond hair, "and Rob Jost, assistant director of Maritime and Land Security, Transportation Security Administration, under DHS." A rotund, bearish-looking man with a flush red nose nodded at Dirk without smiling.

"We were discussing Captain Burch's report of your rescue of the CDC team on Yunaska Island," Gunn continued.

"A fortunate thing we happened to be in the area. I'm just sorry we weren't able to reach the two Coast Guardsmen in time."

"Given the apparently high levels of toxins that were released near the station, they really didn't have much of a chance from the beginning," Webster said.

"You confirmed that they died from cyanide poisoning?" Dirk asked.

"Yes. How did you know? That information hasn't been made public."

"We recovered a dead sea lion from the island, which a CDC team in Seattle examined after we returned. They found that it had been killed by cyanide inhalation."

"That is consistent with the autopsy reports for the two Coast Guardsmen."

"Have you uncovered any information on the boat that fired at us, and presumably released the cyanide?"

After an uncomfortable pause, Webster replied, "No additional information has been obtained. Unfortunately, the description provided matches a thousand other fishing boats of its kind. It is not believed to have been a local vessel, and we are now working with the Japanese authorities to investigate leads in their country."

"So you believe there is a Japanese connection. Any ideas on why someone would launch a chemical attack on a remote weather station in the Aleutians?"

"Mr. Pitt," Jost interrupted, "did you know the men who tried to kill you in Seattle?"

"Never saw them before. They appeared to be semi-professionals, more than just a pair of hired street hoods."

Webster opened a file on the table before him and slid over a crinkled photograph in the form of a small postcard. Dirk silently looked at the black-and-white image of a hardened Japanese woman of fifty glaring violently into the camera lens.

"An homage card of Fusako Shigenobu, former revolutionary leader of the JRA," Webster continued. "Found it in the wallet of one of your would-be assassins after we fished them out of the sound."

"What's the JRA?" Dirk asked.

"The Japanese Red Army. An international terrorist cell that dates to the seventies. Believed to have been broken up with the arrest of Shigenobu in 2000, they appear to have staged a deadly resurgence in activity."

"I've read that the prolonged weakness in Japan's economy has spawned renewed interest in fringe cults by the Japanese youth," Gunn added.

"The JRA has attracted more than a few bored youths. They have claimed responsibility for the assassinations of our ambassador to Japan and deputy chief of mission, as well as the explosion at the SemCon plant in Chiba. These were all very professional hits. The public outrage, as you are no doubt aware, is straining our relations with Tokyo."

"We suspect the JRA may have been behind the cyanide attack on Yunaska, as a prelude to a more deadly strike in a major urban area," Jost added.

"And also behind the smallpox infection of the Yunaska scientist Irv Fowler," Dirk stated.

"We have not established that link," Webster countered. "Our analysts suspect that the scientist may have contracted the disease in Unalaska, from a local Aleut. Japanese authorities do not believe the JRA is sophisticated enough to obtain and disperse the smallpox virus."

"I might think otherwise," Dirk cautioned.

"Mr. Pitt, we are not here to gather your conspiracy theories," Jost remarked in a belittling tone. "We are just interested in learning what two JRA agents were doing in the country and why they tried to kill a NUMA diver."

"That's special projects director," Dirk replied as he hoisted the duffel bag up onto the conference table. Then, giving it a strong shove, he pushed the bag across the table in the direction of Jost. The arrogant transportation security director scrambled to hoist a cup of coffee out of the way before the bag slid up against his chest.

"Your answer is in there," Dirk stated brusquely.

Webster stood and unzipped the bag as Jost and Gunn looked on intently. Carefully wrapped in foam padding was a large section of the bomb canister that Dirk had recovered from the I-403. The silver-porcelain casing was split open, revealing a segmented interior, with several empty compartments positioned beneath a small nose tip component.

"What is it?" Gunn asked.

"A sixty-year-old dirty bomb," Dirk replied. He then retold the story of the World War II attack on Fort Stevens, his discovery of the submarine, and the retrieval of the bomb canister.

"An ingenious weapon," Dirk continued. "I had the epidemiology lab in Washington test for trace elements, to see what was armed in the payload section."

"It's made of porcelain," Webster noted.

"Used to protect biological agents. The nose cone had a simple timed explosive, designed to detonate at a pre-specified altitude to disperse the main payload armament. As you can see, it would have been a pretty small charge. Enough to shatter the porcelain casing but not damage the payload with undue heat or pressure."

Dirk pointed to the interior payload compartments, which were cigar-shaped and stretched nearly to the tail fins.

"It's not clear whether the payload agents were mixed together during flight or upon detonation. But the bomb could obviously carry multiple compounds. The contents might be one or more biological agents with a booster, or a combination of biological or chemical agents. The CDC lab was only able to find a trace chemical agent in one of the compartments on this particular bomb."

"Cyanide?" Gunn asked.

"None other," Dirk replied.

"But why utilize more than one payload?" Webster queried.

"To ensure a specific kill zone, and perhaps divert attention. Let's say cyanide was combined with a biological agent. The cyanide gas would have a high lethality in a concentrated area only, whereas the biological agent would create gradual problems over a larger region. Cyanide gas also dissipates quickly, so attack survivors would reenter the drop zone unaware of a secondary danger. But that's just speculation. It's possible the canister design was for a different intent, to strike with a mixture of several chemical agents or biological agents that would produce a higher lethality in combination."

"So what additional agents were on this bomb?" Gunn asked.

Dirk shook his head slowly. "That, we don't know. The lab technicians were unable to detect any remaining trace elements from the other compartments. We know that the reason for using porcelain was to house biological agents, but the Japanese experimented with all kinds of organisms, so it could be anything from bubonic plague to yellow fever."

"Or smallpox?" Gunn asked.

"Or smallpox," Dirk confirmed.

Jost's face glowed beet red. "This is a preposterous fantasy," he grumbled. "The history lesson is interesting but irrelevant. A modern terrorist group salvaging weapons off a World War Two submarine? A nice story, but how are your biological viruses going to survive under the sea for sixty years, Mr. Pitt? We know the Japanese Red Army. It's a small, tight-knit organization with limited sophistication. Political assassination and planted explosives are within their means. Deep-sea salvage and microbiology are not."

"I have to agree with Rob," Webster added in a muted tone. "Although the cyanide canister is an interesting coincidence with the Yunaska attack, the fact is that cyanide is a compound readily obtainable from many sources. You've admitted that there is no traceable evidence supporting the smallpox source. And we don't know for sure if the missing bomb canister on the sub was lost somewhere else on the vessel or was even loaded on board in the first place."

Dirk reached over to the duffel bag and unzipped a side pocket, pulling out the still-blinking digital timer he'd found in the torpedo room. "Maybe you can at least find out where this came from," he said, handing it to Webster.

"Could have been left behind by a sport diver," Jost noted.

"A sport diver with a possessive disposition, apparently," Dirk remarked drily. "I've been shot at twice now. I don't know who these characters are, but they take their game seriously."

"I assure you, we have a full investigation under way," Webster stated. "I'll have our lab in Quantico reanalyze the bomb casing and take a look at the timer. We will find the perpetrators who caused the death of the two Coast Guardsmen." The words were firm, but the hollow tone in his voice revealed his lack of confidence in the outcome.

"We can offer a safe house for you, Mr. Pitt, until we have made an apprehension," he added.

"No, thanks. If these people are who you say they are, then I should have nothing more to fear. After all, how many JRA operatives can they have in the country?" Dirk asked with a penetrating glare.

Webster and Jost looked at each other in unknowing silence. Gunn jumped in diplomatically.

"We appreciate your investigation into the loss of our helicopter," he said, gently ushering the men to the door. "Please keep us advised as to any new developments, and, of course, NUMA will be happy to assist in any way we can."

After they left the room, Dirk sat silently shaking his head.

"They've hushed up the Yunaska incident because they are getting so much flak for the unsolved assassinations in Japan," Gunn said. "Homeland Security and the FBI are stymied and are relying on the Japanese authorities to make a break in the case. The last thing they want to admit, on top of that, is that the smallpox case was part of the attack, with just one victim and no terrorists."

"The evidence may be weak, but there is no reason to foolishly ignore an attack on our own soil," Dirk stated.

"I'll speak to the admiral about it. The director of the FBI is an old tennis partner of his. He'll make sure it doesn't get brushed under the carpet."

They were interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by the lean face of Yaeger poking in.

"Sorry to intrude. Dirk, I have something for you."

"Come in, Hiram. Rudi and I were just plotting the overthrow of the government. Was Max able to access the National Archives' secure records?"

"Does McDonald's have golden arches?" Yaeger replied, feigning insult.

Gunn gave Dirk a sideways glance, then shook his head in amusement. "If you guys get caught on a security breach, do me a favor and blame it on your father, will you?"

Dirk laughed. "Sure, Rudi. What did you find, Hiram?"

"The Naval Ministry records were somewhat limited. It's a shame that most all of the original documents were returned to the Japanese government in the fifties. The available records in the archives are, of course, written in Japanese, using a variety of dialects, so I had to set up several translation programs before I could initiate a scan."

Yaeger paused and poured himself a cup of coffee from a large silver urn before continuing.

"As it is, you are in luck. I found a log of operations orders from the Japanese Sixth Fleet covering the last six months of 1944."

"Including the I-403?" Dirk asked.

"Yep. Its mission of December 1944 evidently had high importance. It was approved by the fleet admiral himself. The actual sailing order was short and sweet."

Yaeger pulled a sheet of paper from a thin folder and read aloud. " 'Proceed northerly route to Pacific West Coast, refueling Amchitka (Morioka). Initiate aerial strike with Makaze ordnance earliest practicable. Primary Target: Tacoma, Seattle, Vancouver, Victoria. Alternate Target: Alameda, Oakland, San Francisco. With the emperor's blessing.' "

"That's a pretty ambitious target list for just two planes," Gunn remarked.

"Think about it, though," Dirk said. "The cities are concentrated enough all to be reached on a single flyover. Two or three biological bombs per city would wreak deadly havoc, if that's in fact what they were. Hiram, you said the ordnance was referred to as Makaze. St. Julien Perlmutter found mention of the same term. Any information on what they were?"

"I was curious about that myself," Yaeger replied. "I found that the literal translation was 'evil wind' or 'black wind.' But there was no additional information in the official naval records."

Yaeger paused and sat back in his chair with a knowing look.

"Well, did you find anything else?" Gunn finally goaded.

"It was Max, actually," Yaeger replied proudly. "After exhausting the National Archives data, I had her search the public databases in the U. S. and Japan. In a Japanese genealogy database, she hit pay dirt, locating an obscure diary from a sailor who served aboard the I-403 during the war." Holding a printout up to his face, he continued. "Mechanic First Class Hiroshi Sakora, Imperial Navy Air Corps, was a lucky devil. He came down with appendicitis while the sub was crossing the Pacific on its fateful voyage in December of 1944 and was transferred off the boat and onto the refueling ship in the Aleutian Islands. All his shipmates, of course, went on to perish when the sub was sunk off Washington State."

"And he made mention of the I-403's mission?" Dirk asked.

"In vivid detail. It turns out that the young Mr. Sakora, in addition to his aircraft mechanic duties, was also in charge of aerial ordnance for the submarine's airplanes. He wrote that before they left port on their final voyage, an Army officer named Tanaka brought aboard an unusual type of aerial bomb that was to be used on the mission. The shipboard morale became very high, he added, when the crew learned they were to make an attack on the United States. But there was much mystery and speculation about the unknown weapon."

"Did he identify what it was?" Gunn pressed.

"He tried to, but working with the fellow Tanaka was difficult. 'A gloomy, overbearing, obstinate taskmaster,' he wrote about the officer. Typical Army-Navy rivalry, I suppose, plus the submariners didn't like his being a last-minute addition to the sailing crew. At any rate, he pressed Tanaka for information, but to no avail. Finally, just before he fell ill and was transferred off the sub in the Aleutians, he wriggled the information out of one of the pilots. The pilot, so the story goes, shared some sake with Tanaka and was able to pry the secret payload out of him. It was smallpox."

"Good God, so it's true!" Gunn exclaimed.

"Apparently so. He wrote that the payload was a freeze-dried virus, which was to be detonated and dispersed at altitude above the most concentrated population points of each city. Within two weeks, an outbreak of smallpox was expected all along the West Coast. With a thirty percent mortality rate, the deaths would have been staggering. The Japanese figured the resulting panic would allow them to negotiate a peace settlement on their terms."

"The threat of more smallpox bombs on our home soil might very well have changed the resolve of many people to finish the war," Gunn speculated.

An uneasiness crept over the room as the three considered how history may have played out differently had the I-403 successfully completed its mission. Their thoughts then turned to the possibility of a more current threat.

"You mentioned that the virus was freeze-dried. So they must have had the ability to store the virus for long periods and then rejuvenate it," Dirk commented.

"Necessary for a long sea voyage," Yaeger added. "According to Max, the Japanese had difficulty in keeping the viruses alive in their munitions for any length of time. They ultimately perfected a way of freeze-drying the virus, for easier handling and longer storage, until the need for activation when deployed. Insert a little H2O and you're in business."

"So the virus could still be a viable danger, even after sixty years at the bottom of the sea," Gunn remarked. "I guess that answers Jost's question."

"There's no reason the smallpox wouldn't survive in freeze-dried form if the canisters hadn't cracked during sinking. Since they're made of porcelain, the canisters could survive intact for centuries underwater," Dirk said. "Might also explain the various interior segments to the bomb. A compartment with water was needed to rejuvenate the virus."

"Perhaps it was more fortunate than we know that all but one of the canisters were demolished on the I-403," Gunn remarked.

"That still leaves one canister unaccounted for," Dirk replied.

"Yes, as well as the other mission ordnance," Yaeger added.

Dirk and Gunn looked at each other. "What other mission?" Gunn asked incredulously.

"The I-411."

Yaeger felt their eyes boring right through him.

"Didn't you know?" he asked. "There was a second submarine, the I-411. It, too, was armed with the Makaze ordnance and was sent to attack the eastern seaboard of the United States," Yaeger said quietly, realizing he had just dropped a bomb of his own.

Chapter 20

It had been a long day for Takeo Yoshida. A crane operator for the Yokohama Port Development Corporation, Yoshida had toiled since six in the morning loading an aged Iberian freighter with container after container of Japanese consumer electronics bound for export. He had just secured the last of the metal containers onto the ship's deck when a radio crackled in the crane's control cabin.

"Yoshida, this is Takagi," the deep voice of his foreman grumbled. "Report to Dock D-5 upon completion with San Sebastian. A single loading for the vessel Baekje. Takagi, out."

"Affirmed, Takagi-san," Yoshida answered, holding his disdain under his breath. Just twenty minutes to go on his shift and Takagi gives him a last-minute assignment across the shipyard. Securing the crane, Yoshida walked eight hundred yards across the Honmoku Port Terminal toward Dock D-5, cursing Takagi's name with each step he took. As he approached the end of the pier, he glanced beyond at the waters of the bustling port of Yokohama, where a constant stream of commercial ships jockeyed into position for loading and unloading.

With three hundred meters of waterfront, container terminal D-5 was big enough to handle the largest cargo ships afloat. Yoshida was surprised to find the vessel tied to the dock was not the typical jumbo containership awaiting a load of industrial cargo but a special-purpose cable ship. Yoshida even recognized the Baekje as having been built in the nearby Mitsubishi Heavy Industries shipyard. At 436 feet long and with a beam of 133 feet, the stout vessel was designed to lay fiber-optic cable on the seafloor while withstanding the turbulent seas of the North Pacific. With a modern-appearing superstructure and white paint that still glistened, Yoshida could tell that it had not been many years since the high-tech ship slid into Yokohama Bay for the first time. She sported a Korean flag above the bridge mast and a blue lightning bolt across the funnel, which Yoshida recalled was the signature of a Kang Enterprises vessel. Short on Korean history, the crane operator did not know that her name, Baekje, represented one of the early Korean tribal kingdoms that dominated the peninsula in the third century A. D.

A pair of dockworkers was securing cables beneath an oblong object on the bed of a large flatbed truck when one of the men turned and greeted Yoshida as he approached.

"Hey, Takeo, ever fly a submarine before?" the man yelled.

Yoshida returned a confused look before realizing that the object on the back of the truck was a small white submersible.

"Takagi says our shift is over once we get it aboard," the man continued, displaying a missing front tooth as he spoke. "Lay it aboard and let's go get some Sapporo's."

"Is she secure?" Yoshida asked, waving a hand at the submersible.

"All ready," the second man replied eagerly, a young kid of nineteen who Yoshida knew had just started work on the docks a few weeks before.

A few yards away, Yoshida noticed a stocky bald man with dark eyes surveying the scene near the ship's gangway. A menacing quality lingered over the man, Yoshida thought. He'd been in enough scrapes in the nearby shipyard bars to recognize which men were legitimate tough guys and which were pretenders. This man was no pretender, he judged.

Shifting thoughts to the taste of a cold Sapporo beer, Yoshida climbed up a high ladder into the cab of the adjacent container crane and fired up its diesel motor. Adeptly working the levers like a concert pianist tickling the ivories, he expertly adjusted the movable boom and sliding block until satisfied, then dropped the hook and block quickly toward the ground, halting it dead center a few inches above the submersible. The two dockworkers quickly slipped a pair of cables over the hoist hook and gave Yoshida the thumbs-up sign. Ever so gently, the crane operator pulled up on the hoist line, the thick cable drawing tight as it wrapped around a drum behind the cab. Slowly, Yoshida raised the twenty-four-ton submersible to a height of fifty feet, hesitating as he waited for its twisting motion to halt before swinging it over to a waiting pad on the Baekje's rear deck. But he never got the chance.

Before it could be seen, and almost before it physically started, Yoshida's experienced hands could feel something wrong through the controls. One of the cables had not been properly secured to the submersible and the tail suddenly slipped down and through a loop in the cable. In an instant, the rear of the sub lunged down and the white metal capsule hung vertically at a grotesque angle, clinging precariously to the single cable wrapped around its nose. Yoshida didn't breathe, and, for a moment, it looked like the dangling submersible would stabilize. But before he could move it an inch, a loud twang burst through the air as the lone securing cable snapped. Like a ton of bricks, the submersible dropped straight to the dock below, landing on its tail with an accordionlike smash before plopping over on its side in distress.

Yoshida grimaced, already thinking of the grief he would suffer at the hands of Takagai, as well as the reams of insurance paperwork he would be forced to fill out. Thankfully, no one was hurt on the dock. As he climbed down from the crane's cab to inspect the damage, Yoshida glanced at the bald man on the gangway, expecting to see a seething fury. Instead, the mysterious man looked back at him with a cold face of stone. The dark eyes, however, seemed to pierce right through him.

The Shinkai three-man submersible was heavily mashed on one end and clearly inoperable. It would be shipped back to its home at the Japanese Marine Science and Technology Center for three months' worth of repairs before it would be seaworthy again. The two dockworkers did not fare as well. Though not fired, Yoshida noticed that the two men did not show up for work the next day, and, in fact, were never seen or heard from again.

Twenty hours later and 250 miles farther to the southwest, an American commercial jetliner touched down at Osaka's modern Kansai International Airport and taxied to the international gate. Dirk stretched his six-foot-four frame as he exited the plane, relieved to be free from the cramped airline seating that only a jockey would find comfortable. Passing quickly through the customs checkpoint, he entered the busy main terminal crowded with businessmen hustling to catch their flights. Stopping briefly, it took just a momentary scan of the terminal before he picked out the woman he was looking for from the mass of humanity.

Standing nearly six feet tall with shoulder-length flaming red hair, Dirk's fraternal twin sister Summer towered like a beacon in a sea of black-haired Japanese. Her pearl gray eyes glistened and her soft mouth broke into a grin as she spotted her brother and waved him over to her.

"Welcome to Japan," she gushed, giving him a hug. "How was your flight?"

"Like riding in a sardine can with wings."

"Good, then you'll feel right at home in the cabin berth I scraped up for you on the Sea Rover," she laughed.

"I was afraid you wouldn't be here yet," Dirk remarked as he collected his luggage and they made their way to the parking lot.

"When Captain Morgan received word from Rudi that we were to terminate our study of pollutants along the eastern coast of Japan to assist in an emergency search-and-recovery mission, he wasted no time in responding. Fortunately, we were working not far off Shikoku when we got the call so were able to reach Osaka this morning."

Like her brother, Summer had possessed a deep love of the sea since childhood. After obtaining a master's degree in oceanography from the Scripps Institute, she'd joined her brother at NUMA following a uniting with their father, who now headed up the undersea organization. As headstrong and resourceful as her sibling, she'd gained respect in the field with her knowledge and hands-on abilities, while her attractive looks never failed to turn heads.

Leading Dirk past a row of parked cars, Summer suddenly stopped in front of a tiny orange Suzuki subcompact parked by itself.

"Oh, no, not another knee-crusher," Dirk laughed as he surveyed the tiny vehicle.

"A loaner from the Port Authority. You'll be surprised."

After carefully wedging his gear into the minuscule hatchback, Dirk opened the left-side door and prepared to pretzel himself into the passenger seat. To his amazement, the interior of the right-hand-drive car proved roomy, with a low sitting position creating ample head-room for the two six-footers. Summer jumped into the driver's seat and threaded their way out of the parking lot and onto the Hanshin Expressway. Heading north toward downtown Osaka, she accelerated the little Suzuki hard, zipping in and out of traffic, for the twelve-kilometer drive to the city's port terminal. Exiting the expressway, she turned the car into the Osaka South Port Intermodal Terminal and down a side dock before pulling up in front of the Sea Rover.

The NUMA research vessel was a slightly newer and larger version of the Deep Endeavor, complete with matching turquoise paint scheme. Dirk's eyes were drawn to the stern deck, where a bright orange submersible called the Starfish sat glistening like a setting sun.

"Welcome aboard, Dirk," boomed the deep voice of Robert Morgan, the master of the Sea Rover. A bearded bear of a man, Morgan resembled a muscular version of Burl Ives. The jovial captain held an amazing array of seagoing experience, having commanded everything from a Mississippi River tugboat to a Saudi Arabian oil tanker. Having salted away a healthy retirement sum from his commercial captain days, Morgan joined NUMA for the pure adventure of sailing to unique corners of the globe. Deeply admired by his crew, the skipper of the Sea Rover was a highly organized leader who possessed an acute attention to detail.

After storing Dirk's bags, the threesome adjourned to a starboard-side conference room whose porthole windows offered a serene view of Osaka Harbor. They were joined by First Officer Tim Ryan, a lanky man with ice blue eyes. Dirk grabbed a cup of coffee to regain alertness after his long flight while Morgan got down to business.

"Tell us about this urgent search-and-recovery mission. Gunn was rather vague with the details over the satellite phone."

Dirk recapped the Yunaska incident and the recovery of the I-403's bomb canister and what had been learned of the sub's failed mission.

"When HiramYaeger reviewed the Japanese naval records in the National Archives, he discovered a near-duplicate operations order that was issued to a second submarine, the I-411. It had the same mission, only to cross the Atlantic and strike New York and Philadelphia instead of the West Coast."

"What became of the I-411?" Summer asked.

"That's what we're here to find out. Yaeger was unable to uncover any definitive information on the I-411's final whereabouts, other than that she failed to appear for a refueling rendezvous near Singapore and was presumed lost in the South China Sea. I contacted St. Julien Perlmutter, who took it a step further and found an official Japanese naval inquiry which placed the loss in the middle of the East China Sea sometime during the first few weeks of 1945. Perlmutter noted that those facts matched up to a report from the American submarine Swordfish that she had engaged and sunk a large enemy submarine in that region during the same time frame. Unfortunately, the Swordfish was later destroyed on the same mission so the full accounting was never documented. Their radio report did provide an approximate coordinate of the sinking, however."

"So it's up to us to find the I-411," Morgan said matter-of-factly.

Dirk nodded. "We need to ensure that the biological bombs were destroyed when the submarine went down, or recover them if they are still intact."

Summer stared out one of the porthole windows at a skyscraper in distant downtown Osaka. "Dirk, Rudi Gunn briefed us about the Japanese Red Army. Could they have already recovered the biological weapons from the I-411?"

"Yes, that's a possibility. Homeland Security and the FBI don't seem to think the JRA has the resources to conduct a deep-water salvage operation and they're probably right. But, then, all it would take is money, and who's to say how well funded they, or an associate terrorist group, may be. Rudi agrees that we better make sure one way or the other."

The room fell silent as all minds visualized a cache of deadly biological bombs sitting deep below the ocean's surface and the consequence if they fell into the wrong hands.

"You've got the best ship and crew in NUMA at your disposal," Morgan finally said. "We'll get her done."

"Captain, we've got a pretty large search area on our hands. How soon can we be under way?" Dirk asked.

"We'll need to top off our fuel supplies, plus two or three of the crew are still ashore obtaining additional provisions. I expect we can be under way in six hours," Morgan said, glancing at a wall chronometer.

"Fine. I'll retrieve the search coordinates and provide them to the ship's navigator right away."

As they exited the conference room, Summer tugged at Dirk's elbow.

"So what did the data from Perlmutter cost you?" she chided, knowing the gourmet historian's penchant for culinary blackmail.

"Nothing much. Just a jar of pickled sea urchins and an eighty-year-old bottle of sake."

"You found those in Washington, D. C.?"

Dirk gave his sister a pleading look of helplessness.

"Well," she laughed, "we do have six more hours in port."

Chapter 21

"But, Dae-jong, opening the gates to the North is not going to provide me a usable, skilled labor pool," the CEO of South Korea's largest auto manufacturer asserted before taking a puff on a large Cuban cigar.

Sitting across a mahogany cocktail table, Dae-jong Kang shook his head politely as a long-legged waitress brought a second round of drinks to the table. Their conversation halted while the young Chaebel Club waitress placed their drinks in front of them. The club was a private enclave for Korea's super rich and powerful, a secure and neutral meeting place where huge deals were hammered out over kimchi and martinis. The aristocratic club was appropriately housed on the hundredth floor of the world's tallest building, the recently completed International Business Center Tower located in western Seoul.

"You must consider the lower labor wages. Retraining costs would be minor and recouped in no time. My staff has analyzed the prospects and told me I could save twenty million dollars a year in labor costs alone if we could draw on manpower from North Korea at their current equivalent wage rate. I can only imagine what your potential auto-manufacturing savings would be. Suppose instead of expanding your Ulsan manufacturing facility, you built an entirely new plant in the northern province of Yanggang. How would that improve your competitiveness on the world markets, not to mention open access to the northern consumers?"

"Yes, but it is not so easy for me. I have unions to contend with, as well as capital budget constraints. I certainly can't throw people out on the street at Ulsan and rehire workers from the North at half the price. Besides, there's a whole mind-set that we'll need to contend with if we bring on the northern worker. After all, no socialist state was ever admired for its devotion to quality output."

"Nothing that a dose of retraining and a taste of capitalistic wages wouldn't quickly solve," Kang countered.

"Perhaps. But, face it, there is no consumer market for automobiles in the North. The country is an economic mess, and the average man on the street is primarily concerned with putting a meal on the table. The disposable income just isn't there to aid my industry."

"Yes, but you are looking at the present, not the future. Our two countries are on an inescapable collision course toward unification, and those that are prepared today will reap the riches tomorrow. You had the vision to expand your manufacturing presence to India and the United States and now you are a major player in the auto industry. Have the vision of a unified Korea and help place our homeland at the forefront of world leadership."

The auto exec blew a large puff of blue cigar smoke toward the ceiling as he contemplated Kang's words. "I can see the wisdom in your thinking. I'll have my strategy office look into it, perhaps work up some contingencies. I'm not sure I have the stomach for dealing with the political issues and approvals, with both the North and South Korean governments, to establish a presence in the North just yet," he hedged.

Kang set down his vodka gimlet and smiled. "I have friends and influence in both governments that can come to your aid when the time is right," he replied with understatement.

"Most gracious of you. And there is something I can do for you, my good friend, in return?" the exec replied with a smirk.

"The resolution in the National Assembly to expel the U. S. military from our soil is gaining momentum," Kang answered. "Your support of the resolution would sway a good deal of political opinion."

"The embarrassing news incidents with the American military personnel are admittedly making things touchy in some areas of our business. However, I am not convinced the security concerns regarding an American force withdrawal are unfounded."

"Of course they are," Kang lied. "The American presence promotes aggression from the North. Their removal will only stabilize relations between our countries and allow our ultimate reunification."

"You really think it's the right thing to do?"

"It could make us very rich men, Song-woo," Kang replied.

"We already are," the auto executive laughed as he snuffed out his cigar in a porcelain ashtray. "We already are."

Kang shook hands good-bye with his fellow industrialist, then took a quick ear-popping elevator ride a hundred floors down to the lobby of the sprawling business center. An accompanying bodyguard attired in black spoke into a handheld radio, and, seconds later, a red Bentley Arnage RL limousine pulled up to the curb to collect them. As Kang rode silently in the leather-bound backseat, he allowed a sense of self-congratulations to overtake him.

The plan of events was going better than expected. The staged murder of a young girl by the American airman had caused widespread outrage across the country. Mothers were staging numerous protests outside of American military bases, while a mob of loud and riotous college students had marched on the U. S. embassy. Kang's corporate administrative staff had orchestrated an intense letter-writing campaign that bombarded a score of local politicians with demands to oust the foreign armed forces. And Kang's extortion of several National Assembly leaders had initiated the political resolution that South Korea's president would soon have to contend with. Now he was working the business leadership community, which had the real clout with both the media and the members of the National Assembly.

The North Korean leadership in Pyongyang was doing their part in the deception by talking up reunification on every public front. As a goodwill gesture signaling improved relations, they temporarily lifted a majority of the travel restrictions to the north. With additional fanfare, they announced that an army armored division was being pulled back from the DMZ in a peaceful move, though failed to admit that they were just being repositioned a short distance away. Facts to the contrary, a peaceful and friendly front was being promoted in the spirit that a Madison Avenue ad exec would admire.

The Bentley drove into downtown Seoul, turning through the gates of a nondescript low-rise glass building marked with a small sign, stating simply: KANG ENTERPRISES - SEMICONDUCTOR DIVISION. The luxury car continued past a crowded parking lot, then down a small alleyway that led to the back of the building and the shoreline of the Han River. The driver stopped in front of a private dock, where Kang's Italian motor yacht was tied up. A servant welcomed Kang and his bodyguard aboard as the engines were started, and, before he had entered the main cabin, the yacht was cast off for its commute back to Kang's estate.

Kang's assistant, Kwan, bowed as the tycoon entered a small interior cabin he used as a working office aboard the boat. As was his tradition, Kwan provided daily briefings to his boss, either on board the yacht or at the estate, at the end of each workday. A pile of two-page briefing reports that bested the intelligence reports of many Western leaders lay stacked on the table. Kang quickly scanned the assorted briefings, which detailed everything from forecast quarterly earnings at his telecom subsidiary, to military exercises of the South Korean army, to personal profiles of which politician was cheating on his wife. Items related to subversive activities or from protected sources were printed on a special orange paper that dissolved when immersed in water and were destroyed immediately after Kang's viewing.

After addressing a number of business issues, Kang rubbed his eyes and asked, "What have we heard from Tongju on the Baekje?"

Kwan's face visibly paled. "We have a problem with the marine equipment for the recovery operation," he replied tentatively. "The Japanese submersible we leased was damaged while being transported to the Baekje. It was the fault of some careless dockworkers."

Kwan watched as a vein stood out on Kang's temple and began throbbing violently. The anger rose quickly in the man but came out in a controlled hiss.

"This bungling must stop! First we lose two of our agents in America on a simple assassination attempt and now this. How long before repairs to the damage can be completed?"

"At least three months. The Shinkai is out," Kwan said quietly.

"We have a timetable to adhere to," Kang replied with agitation. "We're talking days, not months."

"I have initiated a complete search of available submersibles in the region. The other potential Japanese deep-water submersible is undergoing a refit, and all the Russian vessels are currently operating in Western waters. The nearest available submersible that is suitable for the recovery is a Ukrainian vessel currently operating in the Indian Ocean. It will take three weeks to have her on-site, however."

"That is too late," Kang mumbled. "The momentum we have built in the National Assembly for the referendum is peaking. There will be a forced vote within a few weeks. We must act before then. I need not remind you that we had committed to strike during the G8 assemblage," he said, his eyes simmering with anger.

An anguished silence filled the room. Then Kwan ventured to speak.

"Sir, there may be another option. We were told that an American scientific research vessel has been operating in Japanese waters with a deep-sea submersible. I was able to track the vessel down earlier today as it was taking on fuel in Osaka. It is a NUMA ship, fully capable of deep-water recovery."

"NUMA again?" Kang mused. His face pinched up as he contemplated the successful foundation he had laid for the project and the potential risk of delay. Finally, he nodded his head at Kwan.

"It is imperative that we initiate the recovery as soon as possible. Obtain the American submersible, but do it quietly and without incident."

"Tongju is there to lead the operation," Kwan replied confidently. "At your instructions, he will proceed. He will not fail us."

"See to it," Kang replied, his dark eyes boring through Kwan with seething intolerance.

Chapter 22

Six-foot swells carrying caps of white foam atop their shoulders pushed and prodded at the Sea Rover, causing her decks to roll gently with the undulating seas. A high-pressure front was slowly moving out of the East China Sea, and Captain Morgan noted with satisfaction that the strong southerly winds had gradually softened since they had entered the sea located southeast of the Japanese mainland the night before. As Morgan watched from the bridge, a gray dawn slowly washed the research ship in a bath of muted light. Near the rising and falling bow, he spotted a solitary figure standing at the rail scanning the horizon. A wavy patch of black hair could be seen fluttering in the wind above the upturned collar of his navy blue foul-weather jacket.

Dirk breathed in a deep lungful of the sea air, tasting the damp saltiness of it on his tongue. The ocean always invigorated him, both physically and mentally, the blue vastness providing a tranquil tonic that allowed him to think and act more clearly. Not one capable of working behind a desk, he was addicted to the outdoors, flourishing when at one with what Mother Nature had to offer.

After watching a pair of gulls arc lazily above the ship in search of a morning meal, he made his way aft and climbed up to the elevated bridge. Morgan thrust a steaming mug of coffee into his hand as he entered the ship's control room.

"You're up early," the captain boomed, a jovial grin on his face even at the early hour of the day.

"Didn't want to miss out on any of the fun," Dirk replied, taking a long draw at the coffee. "I figured we would be approaching the search area shortly after dawn."

"Pretty near," Morgan said. "We're about forty minutes from the Swordfish's reported position where she sank the Japanese sub."

"What's the depth here?"

A young helmsman in a blue jumpsuit eyed the depth monitor and crisply announced, "Depth 920 feet, sir."

"Looks like territory for a deep-water AUV search," Dirk said.

"I'll have Summer wake up Audry and get her ready for work," Morgan replied with a grin.

Audry was the variant of an Autonomous Underwater Vehicle, which the NUMA scientists who built her had instead dubbed "Autonomous Underwater Data Recovery Vehicle." A state-of-the-art self-propelled sensing unit, Audry contained a side-scan sonar, a magnetometer, and a sub-bottom profiler, all packaged into a torpedo-shaped casing that was simply dropped over the side of the ship. The combined sensors provided the capability to seismically map the seafloor for natural or man-made objects, as well as peer beneath the seabed for buried anomalies. The fish-shaped sensor could skim above the seafloor at a depth of five thousand feet, propelled by a powerful battery pack, which eliminated the need for a lengthy and cumbersome tow cable.

As the Sea Rover approached the search area, Dirk assisted Summer in downloading the search parameters into Audry's navigation computer.

"We'll use the side-scan sonar only so we can run wider search lanes," Dirk instructed. "If the I-411 is out there, we ought to be able to see her sitting up off the bottom."

"How large a search grid?" Summer asked as she tapped instructions into a laptop computer.

"We have only a rough fix from the Swordfish, so we'll likely have plenty of ground to cover. Let's set the initial search grid at five by five miles."

"That's still within range of the data relay system. I'll do a quick systems check, then we should be ready to deploy."

As Audry's software program was reconfigured, the Sea Rover dropped a pair of self-positioning transducers into the water at either end of the search grid. With built-in GPS satellite receivers, the transducers would relay underwater navigational guidance to Audry that would enable the vehicle to run a precise back-and-forth grid pattern several dozen feet above the seafloor. Audry in return would upload packets of data to the transducers at periodic intervals, detailing the sonar's search results.

"Ready with the winch," a crewman's voice shouted.

Dirk gave the thumbs-up signal, then he and Summer watched as the eight-foot-long, lemon-colored survey vehicle was lifted out of a rack on the rear deck and lowered over the side railing into the water. A white plume of spray from the tail indicated that Audry's small propeller was churning, then the grips from the winch were let go. Lunging like a thoroughbred out of the gates at Santa Anita, the torpedo-shaped vehicle surged down the length of the Sea Rover before submerging under a wave and into the depths.

"Audry has some legs on her," Dirk noted.

"She's undergone a recent modification and is now capable of running her surveys at a speed of 9 knots."

"At that pace, she may not give me much time for my favorite part of the search."

"What's that?" Summer asked, a quizzical look on her face.

"Why, having a beer and a peanut butter sandwich while waiting for the results," he grinned.

While Audry motored back and forth down neat imaginary lanes a hundred feet above the seafloor, Summer monitored the vehicle's progress on a computer display aboard the Sea Rover. At twenty-minute intervals, a digital data upload was wirelessly transmitted from the transducers to the ship, where further electronic processing converted the binary data bits into a graphical image of the sonar readings. Dirk and Summer took turns scanning through the images of the seabed, searching for linear or angular shapes that might signify a shipwreck.

"Looks like a pepperoni pizza," Dirk mused as he studied the rock-strewn bottom, seeing odd-shaped boulders that threw off round shadows against the flat backdrop.

"Don't tell me you're hungry again," Summer replied, shaking her head.

"No, but I bet Audry is. What kind of mileage does she get on a tank of battery acid?"

"The batteries for high-speed operation are only designed to last eight hours. We never run her past seven hours, though, to make sure she has enough juice to propel herself from deep water to the surface. She's been in the water now about six hours," Summer said, glancing at her watch, "so we'll need to call her back for a battery change within the next hour."

A pop-up window suddenly appeared on the computer screen, signaling receipt of the latest data upload.

"Only one more file to go till we've covered the first search box," Dirk remarked, standing up from his computer console chair and stretching his arms. "I better identify the boundaries of the next search grid. Can you take a look at the next data feed?"

"Sure, I'll just go ahead and find it for you," Summer joked as she took his seat and typed a string of commands into the keyboard. A new set of images appeared on the screen, a five-hundred-meter swath of ocean bottom scrolling from top to bottom, which resembled the aerial view of a hard-packed dirt road through the desert. Summer had adjusted the color images in a golden hue so that the occasional rock or mound on the bottom cast a brown-tinted shadow. She studied the monitor closely, watching the same monotonous sea bottom glide by. Suddenly, a dark smudge appeared on the top right side of the screen and grew larger as the readings rolled down. The smudge was a shadow, she quickly realized, created by a long tubular shape that was crisply defined in a dark shade of russet.

"My word, there it is!" she squealed, surprised at her own voice.

A small crowd gathered around Summer as she replayed the image at a slow speed several times. The distinct outline of a submarine was clearly evident, complete with an upright conning tower that cast a long shadow to one side. The image roughened near one end of the vessel, but Summer measured the object at well over three hundred feet.

"Sure looks like a submarine, and a big one," she said, not sure whether to trust her eyes.

"That's our baby," Dirk said confidently. "Looks just like the image we scanned of the I-403."

"Nice work, Summer," Morgan offered as he approached the commotion.

"Thanks, Captain, but Audry did all the work. We better pull her aboard before she makes her way to China."

Summer typed in a new handful of commands and a signal was relayed from the transducers to the underwater vehicle. In a matter of seconds, Audry terminated the search pattern and propelled herself upward, where she broke the water's surface a quarter mile away from the Sea Rover. Summer, Dirk, and Morgan watched as a retrieval team in a rubber Zodiac scooted over to the idling yellow sensor and clamped it to the gunwale. The team slowly made their way back alongside the research ship, where Audry was hoisted out of the water and replaced in her cradle on the stern deck.

As the second of the two transducers was hoisted back aboard, Dirk admired a large exploration vessel that was inching past them a mile away, a Japanese flag wafting off its high bow platform.

"Cable-laying ship," Morgan said, catching Dirk's gaze. "She followed us out of the Inland Sea."

"She's a beauty. Doesn't appear to be in any hurry," Dirk said, noting the vessel's slow speed.

"Must be operating under a daily billing rate contract," Morgan laughed, then turned his attention to ensuring the transducers were securely aboard.

"Maybe," Dirk replied, smiling, but a vague caution tugged at the recesses of his mind. He shook off the feeling and refocused his thoughts on the task at hand. It was time to take a look at the I-411 up close and personal.

Chapter 23

The crew of the Sea Rover wasted no time in making preparations to investigate the submerged target. Captain Morgan brought the ship around and positioned it directly above the target, using the GPS coordinates identified by Audry. Computerized side thrusters on the research vessel were activated and the Sea Rover was parked in place, constantly self-adjusting its position against the wind and current with the thrusters to remain fixed within a few inches of the designated mark.

On the aft deck, Dirk, Summer, and First Officer Ryan carefully walked through a predive checklist for the Starfish. Specifically designed for deep-water scientific exploration, the Starfish was a high-tech submersible capable of operating in depths up to two thousand meters. Resembling a giant translucent ball on a forklift, the Starfish carried two operators in a six-inch-thick reinforced acrylic bubble that offered a panoramic view of the sea. Wedged into a bright orange supporting buttress, the see-through sphere was filled with a myriad of sensors, still and video cameras, and coring devices. Four sets of adjustable thrusters were mounted behind and beneath the bubble, which provided the sub with a high degree of maneuverability. Adding to the functionality were a pair of steel articulating arms mounted on either side of the bubble, which could be used for collecting samples and manipulating the multiple data analysis devices. Since the right mechanical arm was larger in size than the left, the whole submersible took on a crablike appearance when operating on the seafloor.

"I think we're set," Summer said, eyeing the last item on her clipboard. "You ready to get wet?"

"Only if I get to drive," Dirk grinned back.

Clad in aqua-colored NUMA jumpsuits, the two siblings threaded their way into the tiny chamber through a hatch in the rear. Though cramped inside, Dirk and Summer sat comfortably in a pair of padded captain's chairs, which faced out the front of the acrylic bubble. Dirk slipped on a communications headset and spoke to First Officer Ryan.

"This is Starfish," he said, checking the system. "Ready when you are, Tim."

"Prepare for deployment," Ryan's voice rang back.

An overhead boom reeled up a thick cable attached to the submersible by a pair of eyelets, raising the underwater vessel straight into the air and suspending her three feet above the deck. As the Starfish hung floating in the air, Ryan pushed a button on a side console and the deck suddenly split open beneath the submersible, sliding on rollers to either side of the deck. Exposed beneath the dangling submersible was the pale green water of the East China Sea. Ryan hit another switch and a circular band of underwater floodlights burst on, outlining the perimeter of the large moon pool cut into the Sea Rover's rear hull section. A large meandering grouper was caught illuminated by the sudden flash of light and quickly bolted from beneath the odd hole in the ship's hull. The orange submersible was slowly dropped through the hole and into the water, the lifting cable released after Dirk confirmed that all systems were operational aboard the Starfish.

"Cable is released," Ryan's voice announced over Dirk's headset. "You are free to swim. Happy hunting, guys."

"Thanks for the drop," Dirk answered. "I'll honk the horn when we get back from the store."

Dirk tested the thrusters one last time as Summer opened a ballast tank, allowing a flood of salt water to fill the chamber. Negative buoyancy was quickly achieved and the submersible began slowly dropping into the depths.

The pale green water gradually dissolved to brown, then faded to an inky black as the Starfish sank deeper. Summer flicked on a switch and a powerful bank of xenon arc lights illuminated their path, though there was little to see in the murky water. Dependent on gravity to reach the bottom, it took about fifteen minutes to make the nearly thousand-foot descent to the seafloor. Despite the frigid water temperatures outside, the occupants soon became warm from the electronic equipment churning about them in the insulated acrylic and Summer finally turned on an air-conditioning unit to keep them cool. Attempting to make the time go faster, Dirk rehashed a few of Jack Dahlgren's stale jokes while Summer brought her brother up to date on the sea pollutant survey taken off Japan's eastern coast.

At nine hundred feet, Summer began tweaking the buoyancy level to slow their descent and avoid smacking hard on the bottom. Dirk noticed the water visibility had cleared, though the seas were devoid of much life at that depth. Gradually, through the murk, he eyed a familiar dark shape looming up beneath them.

"There she is. We're right on her."

The shadowy black superstructure of the I-411's conning tower reached out to them like a tiny skyscraper as the Starfish descended amidships of the giant submarine. Much like he had found with the I-403, Dirk observed that the I-411 was sitting upright on the bottom, tilted at just a fifteen-degree angle. Surface encrustation was much less severe than on the I-403 and the big sub looked as if she had been underwater only a few months, not years. Dirk activated the Starfish's thrusters and backed away slightly from the approaching vessel while Summer adjusted their buoyancy to remain neutral at 960 feet, just even with the submarine's deck.

"She's enormous!" Summer exclaimed as her eyes took in the sub's huge girth. Even with Starfish's bright lights, she could see only a portion of the entire vessel.

"Definitely not your run-of-the-mill World War Two U-boat," he replied. "Let's see where she got hit."

Maneuvering the thrusters, Dirk propelled the submersible along a path down the starboard flank of the submarine, gliding just a few feet above its rounded topsides. Circling around the stern, Summer pointed out the tips of the I-411's two giant bronze propellers poking out of the muddy bottom. Moving forward along the port side, they traveled about fifty feet before a huge gash appeared at the waterline.

"Torpedo hit number one," Dirk called out, eyeing the fatal impact from one of the Swordfish's torpedoes. He positioned the Starfish so that its lights shined into the irregular opening. Inside, a circular mass of twisted and jagged metal shined back at them, like the open jaws of an iron-toothed shark. Turning and moving forward again, the submersible crept along the silent wreck another thirty feet before a second opening appeared.

"Torpedo hit number two," Dirk said.

Unlike the first gash on the port flank, the second hole was oddly centered higher up, along the edge of the topside deck, almost as if the explosive force had been delivered from above.

"You're right, this must have been the second torpedo impact," Summer speculated. "The stern must have already dropped under from the first hit, and the sub rolled back from the initial recoil when the second torpedo hit her here."

"Pretty good firing from the Swordfish. They must have caught her at night, while she was running on the surface."

"Is that the aircraft hangar?" Summer asked, pointing to a large tubular appendage that ran lengthwise along the rear deck to the conning tower.

"Yes. Looks like it was blasted open in the explosion," he said as they glided over toward the opening. A twenty-foot section of the hangar adjacent to the deck had simply disappeared in the carnage. Under the beam of the floodlights, they could see a three-bladed aircraft propeller mounted on the backside of the hangar wall as they floated outside peering in. Applying power to the thrusters, Dirk turned the vehicle and zoomed forward, gliding past the I-411's conning tower with its multiple gun platforms still in place. The Starfish proceeded down the forward deck before turning and hovering off the bow near one of the large diving planes, which sprouted off the submarine like a giant wing.

"That concludes the scenic portion of the tour," Dirk said. "Let's see if we can find out what she carried."

"We better check in with the gang upstairs first," Summer said, slipping on her communications headset and pushing the TRANSMIT button.

"Sea Rover, this is Starfish. We've found the Easter Bunny and are proceeding to hunt for the eggs."

"Roger," Ryan's voice crackled back. "Be careful with the basket."

"I think he's more concerned about his submersible than he is about us," Dirk deadpanned.

"A typical man," Summer mused, shaking her head. "Places emotional feelings on inanimate mechanical objects."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Dirk replied facetiously.

As he spoke, he gently guided the Starfish above the submarine's bow section, studying the forward deck. After several minutes, he spotted what he was looking for.

"There's the forward hatch to the upper torpedo room. If they followed suit with the I-403, that's where the biological ordnance would have been loaded and stored."

Dirk maneuvered the Starfish in front of the hatch before setting the submersible down onto the deck of the I-411 and killing the thrusters.

"How's your breaking and entering skills?" he asked of Summer.

Unlike on the I-403, the forward hatch was closed and battened tight by a flush-mounted wheel. Summer activated a joystick control hidden in the armrest of her chair and powered the hydraulics to the submersible's right retractable arm. As she manipulated the controls, the metal appendage sprang from the side of Starfish and extended forward in a clumsy stretch. Slowly she dropped the arm down toward the hatch, adjusting the toggle control with short flips to maneuver the device. With the precision of a surgeon, she opened the clawlike hand and dropped it down to the hatch, wedging the fingers into the open slots of the hatch wheel on the first attempt.

"Nicely done," Dirk admired.

"Now, if she'll just open," Summer replied. With the flick of a second toggle control, the articulated grip of the mechanical claw began to twist. Dirk and Summer both pressed their faces to the bubble window, intent on seeing the wheel turn. But the seal that had been locked for sixty years didn't budge. Summer tried toggling the grip back and forth a half-dozen more times but to no avail.

"So much for my hydraulic grip," she finally muttered.

"Keep a hold on the wheel," Dirk instructed. "We'll try a little leverage."

In an instant, he powered up the thrusters and lifted the Starfish a few inches off the deck. With Summer gripping the hatch wheel with the claw, Dirk applied full reverse thrust and tried to break the seal with the momentum of the entire submersible. The wheel held tight, so he began rocking the Starfish forward and backward, trying to get a quick burst of leverage against the hatch.

"I think you're going to rip the arm off," Summer cautioned.

With silent determination, he kept trying. On the next tug, he observed a barely perceptible movement in the wheel. Another blast and the seal broke at last, the wheel jerking a quarter spin.

"That's showing it who's boss," Summer said.

"Just don't tell Ryan that his baby's right arm is now a few inches longer than it used to be," Dirk smiled.

Hovering over the hatch, Summer was quickly able to spin the locking wheel to its stops with the articulated claw. Dirk then backed the Starfish away, and, with Summer holding on, the hatch finally swung up and open. Repositioning the submersible in front of the opening, they peered into the hole but could see nothing but a black void.

"I guess this is a job for Snoopy. You have the controls," Summer said.

Dirk pulled out a laptop control module and pressed the POWER ON button. A row of lights lit up green as the unit was activated. "Ready, go fetch," he murmured while pressing a toggle switch that engaged a tiny thruster.

From an external cradle tucked beneath the acrylic bubble popped out a small tethered Remote Operated Vehicle. No larger than an attache case, the tiny ROV was little more than a self-illuminated video camera wedged against a small set of electronic thrusters. Able to probe and prod into tight spaces, Snoopy was an ideal tool for exploring the deep and dangerous niches of a submerged wreck.

Summer watched as Snoopy sprang into view and quickly ducked into the open hatch amid a spray of small bubbles. Dirk punched another console button and a live video feed from the ROV appeared on a color monitor. Watching the monitor to steer, he guided the vehicle around the now-familiar torpedo room. Snoopy skirted down one row of torpedoes, where the camera showed all five of the huge steel fish still resting in their racks. Circling to the other side of the bay, a duplicate scene was replayed on the opposite side of the torpedo room. The I-411 was clearly not anticipating battle when the Swordfish surprised and sank her.

But Dirk wasn't interested in torpedoes. Methodically, he drove Snoopy to the prow of the torpedo room, then systematically swept the ROV back and forth across the bay, slipping a few feet toward the stern with each pass until he was satisfied that every square foot had been viewed.

"No sign of the canisters or their crates. But there is a second torpedo room below where they could have been stored."

"Can you get Snoopy down there?" Summer asked.

"There's a floor hatch for loading the torpedoes, but I don't think Snoopy is going to lift that open. I may know of another route."

Scanning the room with Snoopy's camera lens eye, he spotted the rear hatch door that led to the chief's quarters. The hatch door was still open and Dirk maneuvered the ROV through it a few seconds later.

"Over there," Summer said, motioning to a corner of the monitor. "There's a ladder that looks like it leads to the deck below."

Dirk danced the ROV around a mass of debris and down an open hatchway in the floor. Dropping down to the deck below, Snoopy sniffed out the doorway to the lower torpedo room and entered the second bay of warheads. Though slightly smaller due to the more tapered sides of the submarine's hull, the bay was an exact duplicate of the torpedo room above it. And just as they had seen once before, the camera showed all ten of the deadly Type 95 torpedoes resting peacefully in their racks. Though near the limit of the self-coiling tether that provided Snoopy its power, Dirk carefully maneuvered the ROV around the full confines of the room. The camera showed a full complement of torpedoes in the bay but nothing else. The empty room glared back at them vacantly.

"It would appear," Summer said, shaking her head with disappointment, "that there are no eggs to be had."

Chapter 24

As Dirk carefully guided the small ROV back to the Starfish, he began whistling the old Stephen Foster standard "Swanee River." Summer looked at her brother with abashed curiosity.

"You seem awfully happy, given that the biological bombs are missing in action," she said.

"Sister, we may not know where they are, but we sure know where they ain't. Now, if it was me, I'd want to keep those eggs close to the hen."

Summer took a second to digest the comments, then her face brightened slightly.

"The deck hangar? Where the aircraft are stored?"

"The deck hangar," Dirk replied. "And the Swordfish was even kind enough to leave the door open for us."

Once Snoopy was secure in its cradle, Dirk activated the main thrusters and the Starfish shot off down the deck of the submarine toward the second torpedo blast. The detonation hole was easily large enough to allow the Starfish to drop into the interior, but the 11.5-foot diameter of the hangar was just fractionally too tight to allow any room for the submersible to maneuver any farther. Dirk studied the gash in the aircraft hangar before inching the Starfish into the opening. The deck had been blasted away in pockmarked sections, leaving step-through holes that led into the dank bowels of the submarine. Dirk slowly guided the Starfish lower until he spied firm decking near the forward edge of the gap that was large enough to support the submersible. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the airplane propeller they detected earlier was hanging just to his right. He gently eased lower until the Starfish's supporting skids tapped onto solid decking.

As he powered off the Starfish's thrusters, a momentary silence filled the submersible. Together, they peered down the enclosed hangar that stretched in front of them like an endless tunnel. Then the quiet was broken by a muffled metallic clunk than rang through the water.

"Dirk, the propeller!" Summer shouted, pointing out the bubble window toward the right.

The mounting bracket that held the spare three-bladed Seiran bomber propeller had long ago corroded in the salt water yet against all reason had somehow maintained sufficient integrity to hold the heavy blade onto the wall for sixty years. Not until the stirred waters from the Starfish's thrusters blasted against it did it decide to give up its mission and crumble from the wall in a rusty glob of dust. As the bracket fell away, the heavy propeller dropped straight to the deck, landing on the tips of its lower two blades with a clang.

But the show wasn't over. They watched in helpless fascination as the propeller fell forward, its upper blade skimming just in front of the Starfish's bubble window, inches from Summer's face. It appeared to move in slow motion as the force of the water suspended the movement of the steel blades. A secondary clang echoed through the water as the blade and nosepiece hit home, the entire assembly dragging across the submersible's right robotic arm and falling onto the front skid plates. A cloud of brown sediment rose and obscured their vision for a moment, then, as the water cleared, Summer noticed a small trail of dark fluid rising up in front of them, as if the Starfish were bleeding.

"We're pinned," Summer gasped, eyeing the heavy propeller lying across the front skids.

"Try the right arm. See if you can lift the blade up and I'll try and back us out," Dirk directed as he powered up the thrusters.

Summer grasped the joystick and toggled it back to raise the arm. The metallic appendage began to rise briefly, then fell away limp. She repeatedly toggled the joystick control back and forth but there was no response.

"No good," she said calmly. "The blade must have cut the hydraulics. The right arm is as good as amputated."

"That must have been the fluid we saw. Try the left arm," Dirk replied.

Summer configured a second joystick and applied power to the submersible's left mechanical arm. Working the controls, she tried stretching the arm across the viewing window and down to the fallen propeller. Since the left arm was both smaller and shorter than the right arm, it allowed for less maneuverability. After several minutes of bending and twisting the arm in various configurations, she finally worked the claw to a position where she could grab the edge of the propeller blade.

"I've got a grip, but it's at an awkward angle. I don't think I'll be able to exert enough pressure," she said.

Pushing at the controls, her words fell true. The arm attempted to pull the propeller up but nothing budged. Several further attempts met with the same result.

"Guess we'll have to barge our way out," Dirk replied, gritting his teeth.

Applying full-throttle power to the thrusters, he tried to elevate the Starfish and slip back and away from the fallen propeller. The electronic thrusters hummed and vibrated violently as they clawed at the water with all their might, but the weight of the propeller was just too great. The submersible sat still as a rock while its thrusters beat the water madly, kicking up a dirty cloud of silt around them. He adjusted the thrusters forward and backward, trying to rock their way out, but it was no use. After several fruitless attempts, Dirk shut off the thrusters and waited for the brown cloud to settle.

"We'll just needlessly burn up our batteries if we continue to try and slide out," he said dejectedly. "We just don't have enough thrust to pull ourselves away from the prop."

Summer could see the wheels churning in her brother's head. It wasn't the first time she had been trapped underwater with Dirk and she felt reassurance knowing that he was with her. Just months before, they had nearly died together off Navidad Bank when their undersea research habitat had rolled into a crevasse from the force of a killer hurricane. Only the last-second arrival by her father and Al Giordino had saved them from a slow death by asphyxiation. But this time, her father and Giordino were a thousand miles away.

Out of the murky darkness, voices of the past began to whisper. The long-dead crew of the I-411 seemed to call out to Dirk and Summer to join them in a cold, watery grave a thousand feet under the sea. The silent black sub exuded a morbid sense that sent a shiver up Summer's spine. The stirred waters around them calmed and they could peer again into the depths of the hangar. She could not help but dwell on the fact that they were lodged in an iron tomb for dozens of brave Imperial Navy sailors. Forcing the macabre image from her mind, she tried to refocus her attention on the logical demands of their situation.

"How much time do we have left?" Summer asked, the desperation of their situation beginning to sink in.

Dirk glanced at a row of gauges to his side. "We're fine until the scrubbers give way to the loss of battery power. It'll be lights out in about three hours, then another hour or so for the air to go. We better contact the Sea Rover." His voice was muted but matter-of-fact.

Summer activated the communication system and called Ryan on the Sea Rover but was met with silence in return. After several additional attempts, the receiver crackled in her earpiece.

"Starfish, this is Sea Rover. We do not copy, please repeat, over," came a faint and fuzzy call from Ryan.

"Our com signal must be blocked by the submarine's bulkheads," Dirk said. "We can hear them, but they can't hear us."

"I'll keep trying in case they can pick up sporadic signals."

Summer continued calling for another ten minutes, speaking in a loud, clear voice, but received only the same frustrating reply from Ryan.

"It's no use. They can't hear us. We're on our own," Summer finally conceded.

Dirk began flipping switches on the console, shutting down all nonessential electronics in order to conserve battery power. His hand came to the controls that powered Snoopy and he hesitated.

"Any objection to taking Snoopy for a walk?"

"We came here to explore the hangar, so we might as well finish the job. We still need to determine if the biological weapons are aboard or if there's any evidence they've been removed."

"My thoughts exactly," Dirk said as he powered up the tiny ROV. Grasping the controls, he worked the vehicle out of its cradle and over the fallen propeller, then elevated it to eye level in front of the Starfish. Ahead lay the long dark shaft of the hangar stretching into the gloom toward the conning tower. He quickly toggled the ROV's thrusters forward and Snoopy sailed into the darkened hangar.

Both their eyes shifted from observing the illuminated ROV out the viewing bubble to watching Snoopy's field of vision on the color monitor as it moved away from the submersible. The hangar appeared empty at first, but, as Snoopy moved forward, silt-covered objects began to materialize. The camera lens glided up to a large encrusted mound positioned on a platform to one side, beyond which several large cabinets protruded from the hangar walls.

"A spare aircraft engine," Dirk remarked as he aimed Snoopy's eyes at the long metal block.

"I'll bet those are storage bins for other spare parts and mechanic's tools," Summer added, pointing at the image of the cabinets.

"No doubt there's a floor jack in there somewhere," Dirk lamented, knowing there was no way of retrieving any tools that might aid their escape.

Slowly he led Snoopy down the cavernous hangar before nearly driving the ROV into a grouping of thin metal sheets hanging vertically. Backing up the camera, Dirk identified the structure as the tail assembly of an airplane, with the tip of the vertical stabilizer folded down, as well as both horizontal stabilizers. Swinging Snoopy ahead and to the side, they could clearly see it was part of the fuselage of an Aichi M6A1 Seiran floatplane.

"Wow," Summer murmured, impressed by both the size and condition of the twin-seat bomber. "Hard to believe they could fold up a plane and slide it in here."

Dirk led Snoopy alongside the fuselage for a side view of the craft. The camera showed that the wings were still attached to the fuselage but folded back toward the tail like the wings on a duck. Faintly visible beneath the silt, they could still make out the familiar red Japanese "meat-ball" insignia painted on the wingtips.

"It's still amazing to me that they could store, launch, and retrieve aircraft from a submarine," Summer pondered.

"Just roll the fuselage out onto the forward deck, raise the tail stabilizers, bolt on the wings and floats, and launch it off the catapult. A trained crew of four men were capable of assembling and launching a plane in under thirty minutes."

"I guess it's a good thing these big Sen Toku boats weren't around earlier in the war," Summer replied.

Dirk kept Snoopy nosing forward through the hangar. Gliding past the fuselage, the cameras revealed a pair of the plane's giant pontoons strapped to a wooden pallet on the deck. A blast from the ROV's thrusters dusted a layer of silt and mud off one of the pontoons, exposing a forest green paint scheme on the topsides and a shark gray tone on the pontoon's belly. A similar camouflage paint pattern would be found on the wings and fuselage.

Once past the pontoons, the hangar grew empty for several feet as the ROV passed through a separate open compartment. Like its beagle namesake, Snoopy sniffed along, gingerly examining each silt-covered object or debris item carefully via the touch of Dirk's fingers. A set of low-slung racks gradually grew out of the darkness on either side of the hangar holding what Dirk immediately recognized as torpedoes. Four of the metallic fish rested in each rack, aerial torpedoes that at thirteen hundred pounds each were much smaller than the massive submarine-launched torpedoes found belowdecks.

Dirk and Summer stared at the monitor, straining to see evidence of additional armament. But no other weaponry was visible. Dirk turned and noticed Summer peering at her watch, grimly cognizant of each minute that passed.

"Let's keep going. There should be at least one more plane in here," Dirk said, trying to keep her mind off the inevitable. The ROV again moved through a vacant compartment before emerging into the next hangar section. Seconds later, the tail and fuselage of a second Seiran bomber emerged into view, complete with folded wings. Just beyond was its matching pair of floats, strapped to the deck by cables. An assortment of wall-mounted tool bins followed and then twenty feet of empty space. Snoopy finally bumped up against the giant round hatch door that led to the submarine's forward deck.

"Well, that's it," Dirk said solemnly. "We've covered the length of the hangar and no sign of any aerial bombs other than the torpedoes."

Summer said nothing for a moment, subconsciously biting her lower lip in dejection. "Well ... there was no indication of a forced entry anywhere, nor did the silt appear to have been disturbed anytime recently. Perhaps they were destroyed in the torpedo blast?"

"Could be. There's still a small section of hangar behind us we could take a look at."

Dirk quietly steered Snoopy back toward the submersible, reeling in its dangling electronic power cable while it progressed. The cockpit fell silent as brother and sister contemplated their predicament. Dirk silently cursed their bad luck and failure to locate the aerial bombs. As the ROV passed the second plane's fuselage and approached the first plane's set of pontoons, a quizzical look fell over Summer's face.

"Dirk, hold it there for a second," she said quietly, focusing on the monitor.

"What is it?" he asked while neutralizing the position of the ROV.

"Look at the pontoons. Do you notice anything different?"

Dirk studied the monitor for a moment, then shook his head.

"The pair at the end of the hangar were cabled directly to the deck," Summer said. "But these two have a platform under each of them."

He looked at the images and his brow furrowed. Each of the pontoons sat balanced on a square-shaped platform roughly two feet high.

Dirk eased the ROV around and alongside the base of one of the pontoons, then positioned it next to the platform. Spinning the ROV around, he applied the thrusters hard for a few seconds to try and blow away the encrusted sediment. He repositioned the ROV, then waited for the resulting cloud of sediment to subside. Peering through the murk, they could clearly see an exposed section of the platform. It was a hardwood crate built from what appeared to be mahogany. Dirk carefully studied the entire platform.

"By God, that's got to be it."

"Are you sure?" Summer questioned.

"Well, I can't say what's inside, but the exterior is the same construction and dimension as the bomb canister crates that I found smashed open on the I-403."

Dirk surveyed the crate from all angles, then confirmed that a matching crate was wedged beneath the second pontoon. Summer made a notation on the video files, documenting the exact location in the hangar where the crates were found. Pitt observed that each crate appeared to be held in place by the force of the pontoon, which was securely tied to the hangar deck by a half-dozen thick steel cables that crisscrossed the top of each float.

"Nice eye, Summer. You get a beer for that catch."

"Make mine a bottle of Martin Ray Chardonnay," she replied with a half smile. "I'm just glad we know where they are now."

"It's going to take someone a little more doing to get these out of here."

"Us too, for that matter," Summer replied glumly.

The wheels in Dirk's mind were still churning to compute an escape plan as he guided the ROV back toward the submersible. He lost concentration when Snoopy's bright underwater lights approached and shined brilliantly into the submersible's cockpit. Blinded in the glare, he instinctively steered the ROV down toward the hangar deck as he brought it closer to the Starfish. But as it approached, the ROV suddenly hung suspended, failing to move the last few feet to its cradle.

"Dirk, Snoopy's umbilical is caught on something," Summer noticed, pointing out the bubble window.

Dirk followed her guide and could see in the murkiness that the ROV's cable had snagged on some sort of debris lying on the hangar deck, about twenty feet in front of them.

"I'm surprised we even made it so far through this obstacle course," he replied.

Reversing direction, he backed up the ROV until the cable straightened from its grasp around what looked to be a small engine sitting in a tubular frame three feet off the ground.

"A gas-powered compressor, I bet," he said, noticing a pair of decayed hoses connected to one end of the motor.

"What's with the big handle?" Summer asked, eyeing a large metal rod protruding from one side of the block. A round, shovel-type grip was attached to the end.

"It has an old mechanical starter. Kind of like pulling the rope on a lawn mower, only pumping the handle cranks the motor over. I saw a Swiss-made compressor on a dive boat once that had the same setup." Dirk stared at the handle for a moment, not moving the ROV.

"You're going to bring Snoopy home?" Summer finally asked.

"Yes," he replied with a sudden gleam in his eye. "But first he's going to help get us out of here."

On board the Sea Rover, nervous apprehension was creeping over the captain and crew. It had been nearly ninety minutes since they last communicated with the Starfish and Morgan was anxiously preparing to call in an emergency rescue. The Sea Rover was not carrying a backup submersible, and the nearest NUMA submersible was at least twelve hours away.

"Ryan, let's contact the Navy's Deep Submergence Unit. Notify them of our situation and request the ETA on a deep-water rescue vehicle," Morgan barked, silently dreading the thought.

If Dirk and Summer were in real trouble, he knew they had only a matter of minutes, not hours. Their chances of rescue would be as slim as a dime.

Chapter 25

"Okay, Summer, hold the take-up reel."

Dirk had positioned Snoopy near the top of the hangar ceiling a few feet past the compressor when he gave the command to Summer. She pressed a button on the console that stopped an automatic spool from reeling in the ROV's power cable. Dirk gently moved the ROV back toward the compressor, watching the cable slacken beneath it. Like an anaconda coiling about its prey, he carefully manipulated the ROV in a circular motion above the compressor, letting the slack cable wrap loosely around the protruding handle. After dancing the ROV around and around several times, he successfully engineered five loops about the handle, which he tightened by drawing the ROV up and away.

"Okay, activate the take-up spool and I'll pull with Snoopy."

"That compressor must weigh three hundred pounds. Even underwater, you'll never budge it," Summer replied, wondering if her brother had lost his mind.

"It's not the compressor I'm after, it's the handle."

Toggling the ROV's controls, he increased the power to Snoopy, now pointed in the direction of the submersible. The ROV surged forward until its power cord tightened around the metal handle. Its small thrusters churning the water, the little ROV fought to move forward but could not muster enough force to budge the handle. Then Summer joined in, reeling in the other end of the cable with the automatic take-up spool until the cord went taut around the base of the handle. Though both ends of the handle were now being yanked at, it was the lower end snagged by Summer that did the trick. The boxed end of the metal bar slid off the sprocketed knuckle that turned the flywheel and the whole handle slipped free of the compressor, gliding through the water toward the Starfish. Dirk carefully dragged it in a horizontal position, so as not to lose his coiled grip, and gently tugged it to the front of the submersible.

"I don't think Ryan is going to appreciate how you're treating his ROV," Summer said with feigned concern.

"I'll buy him a new one if this works."

"And what exactly is it that you have in mind?" Summer asked, still not sure of his intent.

"Why, just a little bit of leverage, my dear sister. If you'd be so kind as to grab my newfound crowbar with the left mechanical arm, you'll see what I mean."

Dirk guided the ROV close to the left side of the Starfish, towing the handle with it. Summer then activated the controls of the left mechanical arm and opened its clawlike hand. Working in unison, they brought the two devices together until Summer could securely snatch one end of the handle with the vise-strong claw. Dirk then slackened the ROV cable and slowly backed Snoopy away, unraveling the cable off the free end of the bar. Once clear, he activated the cable spool up and returned Snoopy to the Starfish, securing the ROV in its cradle.

"For a beagle, Snoopy makes for a pretty good retriever," Summer remarked.

"Let's see now if our mechanical arm can make for a good floor jack," Dirk replied.

His eyes studied a row of battery ampere gauges on the submarine's control panel. They had spent more than an hour operating the ROV and their power level had been drained to barely thirty percent. Time was running short if they were to have any hope of making it back to the surface on their own.

"Let's do this on one try. Purging tanks," he said, pushing a pair of buttons that pumped water out of the ballast tank in order to increase buoyancy. He then powered up the main thrusters to the submersible. Summer had meanwhile brought the mechanical arm around the front of the Starfish to its full dexterity and studied the position of the wedged propeller. It would have to be lifted and pushed forward slightly for them to pry themselves away, but there was little space to work the handle in. After leaning the handle against one of the skids and shortening her grip, she was able to work eight inches of the metal bar under the tip of the fallen propeller.

"Ready," she said tentatively, wiping a sweaty palm on her pant leg. Dirk was also sweating profusely, as the cramped cockpit had grown hot once the air-conditioning was shut down to conserve power.

"Pry us out of here," Dirk said, his hand at the ready on the thruster controls. With tense anticipation, Summer gently shifted the controls that raised the mechanical arm. Where the hydraulic power of the arm was insufficient to lift the arm on its own, the added leverage of the metal handle prying against the deck was just enough to budge it. Creeping ever so slowly, the propeller blade rose an inch, then two, then a few more. Dirk could feel the rear of the submersible tilt off the deck slightly from the added buoyancy. When Summer had safely jimmied the blade above the height of the front skids, he slammed the power controls to maximum reverse thrust.

There was no immediate blast of power or skyrocketing acceleration by the Starfish but rather just a slight jerk as it backed tail first off the deck. The submersible slid up and away from the grasp of the propeller as the blade slipped down the compressor handle and clanged back to the hangar deck just inches in front of the Starfish's skids.

"Nicely done, sis. What do you say we go get some fresh air?" Dirk said, adjusting the thrusters to raise the Starfish up and out of I-411's hangar.

"I'm with you," Summer replied with obvious relief.

Almost the second they cleared the walls of the hangar deck, the deep voice of Ryan blew loudly through communication earphones.

"Starfish, this is Sea Rover. Do you read, over," came a monotonous tone that had obviously been repeating the phrase a thousand times over in the last few hours.

"This is Starfish," Summer responded. "We read you loud and clear. Have initiated ascent, please stand by for recovery."

"Roger, Starfish," Ryan replied in a suddenly excited pitch. "You have some folks worried up here. Do you need assistance?"

"Negative. We just stubbed our toe down here. All is well; we'll be topside shortly."