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

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

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

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

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

“Smith and Russell survived? How?”

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

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

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

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

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

40

40

Over Norfolk, Virginia
USA

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

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