Greg Maple was in China searching desperately for any sign of Ito’s nanoweapon in cooperation with Chinese scientists. So far their luck was holding and he’d come up empty. The Chinese had restricted the area of the neutron bomb blast for miles in every direction and were calling it an accident at an underground nuclear energy lab. Of course, the world was suspicious that it was an atomic weapons factory but the fact that President Castilla was publicly backing the Chinese version of the story ensured that the controversy would blow over quickly.

The only matter left to deal with was Takahashi’s military. Prime Minister Sanetomi’s successor had provided the United States unlimited access, and the commanders of the self-defense forces had little choice but to cooperate. It would take years to sort out what had been done, how it had been done, and what it would mean to the balance of power going forward. What really mattered, though, was that Ito’s weapon appeared to be dead and gone. Smith was happy to let the details be handled by others. He and his people had already sacrificed enough.

Despite the cool weather, a sweat broke across Smith’s forehead and he felt his stomach start to roll over. It was a sensation that had become depressingly familiar and he had to concentrate to keep from vomiting. A few days ago, it was a battle he would have lost, but the intensity of the bouts was subsiding.

The ceremony wrapped up and Smith mixed in with the crowd as it dispersed, relying on his cane to keep him moving forward. The radiation sickness brought about by his exposure at Ito’s lab and at the neutron bomb detonation site had been one of the most miserable experiences of his life. He’d been assured, though, that the acute effects would be behind him in less than a month. Of course his chance of getting cancer as he aged had risen to near 100 percent, but he’d never really pictured a future of golf, rocking chairs, and sunny porches. A shallow grave and a bullet in the back of his head seemed a hell of a lot more likely.

That left the hole in his shoulder blade and his mending ribs. He’d been given a six-month leave to get his body back where it needed to be and had already started the slow, painful process. His physical therapist—an unflaggingly enthusiastic young woman who appeared to be well shy of her thirtieth birthday—had assured him that one day soon he’d be back putting the hurt on the Special Forces operatives he ran with on weekends.

Smith had to admit that he didn’t share her confidence, but in an effort to get her to stop referring to him as “Colonel Negativity” he’d decided to just follow her orders and try to enjoy the ride.