The Rising Sea Page 9

  “Then you need to get your ears checked,” Rudi said. “The location you gave us is not just deep within Chinese territorial waters. In a section they’ve designated a special operations zone. It’s one of their naval testing grounds. They patrol the demarcation line relentlessly. Ships, aircraft, submarines. They even have a permanent line of tethered sonar buoys out there. Something like our SOSUS lines in the North Sea.”

  Kurt looked around at the others. After what they’d just been through, every one of them wanted to get a look at whatever Kenzo and his analog machines had found.

  Paul took the next crack at it. “Rudi, I’ve gone over what I know of Kenzo’s theory. Geologically speaking, there’s a reasonable chance he’s onto something. Considering the situation, there has to be some method of sneaking us in there.”

  “That’s not like you, Paul. How bad is Kurt twisting your arm?”

  “Only a minor sprain,” Paul said, tongue in cheek.

  “Help us and no one gets hurt,” Kurt joked.

  Joe offered a thought: “We could have a commercial vessel wander off course, break down and request our help. Maybe even stage a fire or some other urgent need. We’ve done it before. If we happen to be the closest vessel—”

  “Then you’d already be in Chinese waters,” Rudi said. “Look. It’s simple. The Chinese don’t need our help to rescue anyone that close to their own shoreline. And they’re not too keen on anyone ‘wandering’ into their waters or airspace. A few years ago, they crashed into one of our surveillance planes—and that flight was still technically in international airspace.”

  Kurt sat back. “What if we hitchhiked aboard one of the Navy’s new attack subs?” Kurt said. “I’ve heard they’re undetectable.”

  “Already asked,” Rudi replied. “So far, the only thing undetectable has been an official response to my request. Apparently, the Navy isn’t interested in sending their newest submarine into a shallow-water sea filled with China’s most sophisticated underwater listening posts. And I can’t blame them.”

  Kurt looked up. Had Rudi just given something away? “You’ve already asked the Navy for help? What gives?”

  The room went silent, and when Rudi spoke again, his voice was slightly less authoritative. “Would you believe, I’ve come to trust your judgment?”

  “Not in a million years.”

  Rudi sighed audibly. “Let’s put it this way. Our government hasn’t detected any of these Z-waves, like your new friend, but over the past two years both NUMA and the Navy have picked up subsurface reverberations coming from that very section of the East China Sea, where those Z-wave paths crossed. Putting two and two together, it raised the possibility of there being something worth investigating.”

  “So Kenzo was right,” Paul said. “There is something going on out there. What kind of noise are we picking up?”

  “It’s been impossible to classify,” Rudi told them. “Possibly deep-sea drilling, but there are enough differences in the acoustic signatures to make us wonder. Some of the Navy’s data has been identified as liquid movement within the continental plate itself.”

  “Oil?” Joe asked.

  “That’s one possibility,” Rudi said. “Both the East and South China seas are riddled with hydrocarbon deposits—and the Chinese have been very aggressive in staking their claim, especially in the South China Sea where they’ve drawn that infamous nine-dashed line. Except the location Kenzo identified is in the East China Sea. Far enough behind the established border that it’s unquestionably under Chinese control.”

  “No need to drill in secret if you’re drilling on your own territory,” Gamay said.

  “We looked at a subsurface drilling arrangement two years ago,” Paul said. “The geology team liked the idea. The accounting department had a different perspective. Nearly a hundred times as costly as setting up a normal rig. Makes no sense to do something like that where you don’t have to.”

  “Exactly,” Rudi replied. “Beyond that, the sonar recordings don’t match with any known drilling or extraction techniques. Some of the data indicates free-flowing liquid moving extremely fast, under intense pressure, much lighter and less viscous than crude oil. Meanwhile, a second set of echoes register something far thicker and slower. It’s also coming from far deeper. Down within the continental plate itself. Deeper than anyone has ever drilled.”

  Paul offered an explanation. “If it is subsurface magma, that might indicate a range of volcanic islands building out there. It could be exactly what we’re looking for.”

  “Except that we’re back at square one since we have no way of investigating,” Joe said.

  Gamay leaned forward. “I hate to be the voice of reason, but you guys seem intent on sneaking around and doing things the manly way. Why don’t we try a female perspective and a little cooperation? We could just ask the Chinese to let us take a look. We could give them the data on the sea-level rise. Explain that there’s a possibility that a new island chain is forming off their coast or that a bulge in the tectonic plate is occurring and ask them to share in our investigation. They might even appreciate it.”

  One thing Kurt had always liked was the team’s differing approaches to problem solving.

  “Good idea,” Kurt told her, “but not in this case. We were all viciously attacked last night and five of Kenzo’s people are dead. Kenzo is in the hospital, fighting for his life. For all his quirks, the only thing his research threatened was exposing something going on in Chinese waters. So until it’s proven otherwise, we have to assume the Chinese were behind the attack.”

  Gamay nodded.

  “They’re hiding something out there,” Kurt added. “Whatever it is, they’re not going to show it to us willingly. We’ll have to find another way.”

  “And I’m telling you it’s impossible,” Rudi said. “I’ll send you the data on the Chinese listening posts, sonar buoys and what we know about their patrol schedules and surveillance capabilities. You’ll see for yourself. It’s a very tight screen and there’s no way to get through. The last thing we need is an international incident that ends up with any of you rotting in a Chinese jail.”

  Kurt listened to every word and nodded at Joe. Message received.

  The sound of papers shuffling came next. “I have another meeting to attend,” Rudi added. “I’ll check back in a few hours.”

  Rudi signed off and Kurt stood. The others were yawning, but he was suddenly wide awake. A knock at the door followed. Kurt answered it and found the front desk manager standing there with a message in his hand.

  “What is it?”

  “Summons, of sorts,” Kurt said. “Our presence is requested at the district office of the Japanese Federal Police.”

  “I’m suddenly tired,” Joe quipped. “Think I’ll take a nap instead.”

  Kurt shook his head. “Sorry, amigo, but you’re the main attraction. They want to talk to you about the guy who escaped being a meal for the Komodo dragon. You’re the only one that got a look at him.”

  Joe stretched. “I suppose I could recount how I fought the great beast.”

  Kurt rolled his eyes as Gamay stood and yawned. “The long flight has caught up to me.”

  “Me, too,” Paul said. “We’ll rest while you talk to the police.”

  “Sorry,” Kurt said. “No rest for the weary. You need to start right now.”

  “Doing what?” Gamay asked.

  “Finding a way to sneak into the East China Sea.”

  Paul cocked his head to the side. Gamay’s eyebrows knitted together in a confused look.

  “But Rudi just told us not to try that,” Gamay replied.

  “I believe his exact words were ‘completely out of the question,’” Paul seconded.

  “His lips said no but his eyes said yes,” Kurt replied.

  “You couldn’t see his eyes.”

 
“I could imagine them,” Kurt insisted. “Why do you think he’s sending over all the data on the Chinese naval patrols and the information on the sonar buoys? He wants us to find a crack in the armor and exploit it.”

  Gamay folded her arms across her chest. “That is not what I got out of that conversation.”

  “There’s listening and then there’s understanding,” Kurt said. “This was an open line. Anyone could be eavesdropping. Check your encrypted email link in a few minutes. If there’s nothing from Rudi, feel free to nap the afternoon away. But I think you’ll be working.”

  Gamay and Paul rose wearily. Joe yawned again and stretched in an effort to shake off the drowsiness.

  Kurt opened the door and held it for him. “My long nap on the plane isn’t appearing so crazy now, is it?”

  11

  METRO POLICE STATION

  THE NOTE from Superintendent Nagano requested Kurt and Joe take an odd route to the police station. After riding two different trains, hailing a taxi and taking a short walk, they stood outside the prefecture building.

  “Not exactly the Twelfth Precinct,” Joe said.

  The structure was nothing like the typical American police station. The outer walls were painted in a rainbow of pastel colors, while an officer in full-dress uniform and white gloves stood at attention near the main entrance. He held a polished wooden staff firmly in his right hand and neither blinked nor seemed to breathe as people walked past.

  “Ritsuban,” Kurt said. “Standing guard. Letting the public know that the eyes of the police are always watching.”

  “That’s reassuring,” Joe said.

  “Apparently, not to Master Kenzo.”

  They entered the building and found themselves in a diamond-shaped room with two doors leading in and two leading back out to the street. Expecting a duty officer, Kurt and Joe found only screens and a computer voice talking in Japanese.

  Kurt stepped up to one of the flat-screens. It reminded him of the arrivals and departures monitors in the airport except everything was in Japanese. “Can’t read a thing.”

  Joe tapped a spot on the screen and was rewarded with the option to change languages. Two versions of English were listed. American and UK.

  Joe tapped on the American flag icon.

  “Welcome to the Yamana Police Station,” the computer voice said in English. “Please state your reason for arrival.”

  “We have a two o’clock meeting with Superintendent Nagano,” Kurt said.

  “Please state your name and nationality while looking at the camera.”

  “Kurt Austin, American.”

  “Joe Zavala, American.”

  Silence followed.

  “Hiram would love this,” Joe whispered. “He and Max could double-date out here.”

  Hiram Yaeger was NUMA’s resident computer genius. He’d designed some of the most advanced computer systems the world had ever seen. Max was his finest creation. Built on the fastest processors and operated by special programming Hiram had created himself, Max was a unique machine with true artificial intelligence, an active mind and even a sense of humor.

  * * *

  • • •

  A PLEASANT CHIME sounded and the door to the right of them opened. “Assistant Superintendent Nagano has confirmed your appointment. Please enter.”

  Kurt and Joe walked up three steps and found themselves in a bustling room filled with men and women watching screens and tapping away at computer consoles. The design was open and modern. Stainless steel accents and pinpoint lighting had been used to great effect. Kurt saw no dirt or grime, no tattered mug books, grimy fingerprint stations or crowded holding cells. Nor did he see any criminals. Which wasn’t a surprise, since Japan’s crime rate was the lowest in the industrialized world. Partly because the nation was so wealthy, partly due to effective policing, but mostly because the collective Japanese sense of order remained a pervasive influence.

  Aside from a few glances, the staff ignored them until a Japanese man wearing black slacks, a crisp white shirt and a thin gray tie came over to meet them.

  Tall, a highly trained triathlete, the man had a wide face, with a distinct line around his mouth and a cleft in his chin. His hair was short, thick and black.

  “I’m Superintendent Nagano,” the man said.

  Kurt bowed slightly, but Nagano shook his hand instead. His grip was solid steel.

  “It is an honor to meet both of you,” Nagano replied. “Please, follow me.”

  He led them back to a small office that was modern to a fault. At his urging, Kurt and Joe sat down.

  “This is easily the finest police station I’ve ever been in,” Joe said.

  “No, no,” Nagano replied. “It requires much work to bring it up to standards. But we’re doing the best we can.”

  Joe looked around, searching for a flaw. Kurt would explain later that the Japanese sense of humility required they not take a compliment unless they had achieved perfection.

  That said, Joe wasn’t wrong. The building was a work of art, the interior a high-tech wonderland. Every surface was polished and gleaming; even the rack of weapons they’d passed as they neared Nagano’s office had been lit like a display case at an upscale gun show.

  “Your foyer was interesting,” Kurt said. “Wouldn’t it be easier to have a receptionist or a duty officer?”

  “Easier, perhaps,” Nagano said, “but a waste of manpower. As you probably know, Japan’s population is shrinking. By automating the arrival phase, we avoid wasting an officer’s time that can be better spent elsewhere.”

  “What about the ritsuban?”

  Nagano shrugged at the contradiction. “That falls under the category of crime prevention,” he said, “though many stations are looking to end the practice or replace the guard with an automated mannequin.”

  “And the world will be all the poorer for it,” Kurt said.

  “At least your automated receptionist spoke different languages,” Joe said, still trying to be complimentary.

  “A necessity,” the superintendent replied. “As everyone knows, most of the crime in Japan is caused by foreigners.”

  Kurt noticed the slightest hint of a smile on Nagano’s face. An inside joke, most likely.

  Joe didn’t have an answer for that. “Anyway,” he said finally, “it’s a pleasure to be here.”

  “Thank you,” Nagano replied. “Now I must ask you to leave immediately.”

  “Excuse me?” Kurt replied.

  “You must leave Japan on the first flight out,” Nagano insisted. “We will escort you and your friends to the airport.”

  “Are you deporting us?” Kurt asked.

  “It’s for your own safety,” Nagano said. “We’ve identified the men who attacked your group last night. They were once Yakuza hit men. Heavies and assassins.”

  After hearing Joe’s description of the man who’d been mauled by the dragon, Kurt was not surprised. He knew the Yakuza favored wild tattoos. But he posed the obvious question. “Why would the Yakuza be interested in the research of an eccentric scientist?”

  “Former Yakuza,” Nagano reiterated. “A breakaway group.”

  “In other words,” Kurt said, “hired guns.”

  Nagano nodded. “Once, in our past there were ronin. That is the name for a Samurai without a lord. They lived as nomads. As warriors for hire. These men are similar. They are killers without a master, working for whom they please. They were once bonded to particular Yakuza organizations, but years ago we managed to break up many of the criminal networks. The leaders were sent to prison or killed, but the lower-level members were only scattered and left to their own devices. Now they answer to no one but themselves. In many ways, they’re more dangerous now than before.”

  “Any idea who they’re working for?”

  Nagano shook his head.
“No doubt, they were hired for a rather large fee; their number and the brazen method of attack suggest that much. But who paid them and why . . . we haven’t the slightest lead.”

  Kurt knew it had something to do with the East China Sea and the disturbance that Kenzo had detected there, but without more information, guessing was pointless.

  “The fact of the matter is,” Nagano continued, “you and your friends thwarted the attack. Retribution can be expected.”

  “From whoever paid these ronin,” Joe said.

  “Or from the hit men themselves,” Nagano said. “You’ve embarrassed them. Shamed them. They will want to save face.”

  “So much for foreigners committing all the crimes in Japan,” Kurt said.

  “Sadly, yes.”

  Nagano pushed a file folder toward Joe. “You’re the only person who got a close look at any of them. It would help us if you could look at these pictures.”

  Joe took the file folder and opened it up. Instead of mug shots or surveillance photos, he saw colorful designs drawn on the outline of a man’s back and shoulders.

  “Yakuza are known for extensively inking their skin,” Nagano said. “Certain groups use specific designs like a brand. Do you recognize any of these?”

  Kurt looked over Joe’s shoulder at the designs. Each tattoo was intricate and different. Some had wings and dragons, others fire and skulls. One was kaleidoscopes of color and bladed weapons.

  “Not this one,” Joe said, discarding the first sheet of paper. “Or these.”

  He leafed through several additional pages and then stopped. “This is the pattern,” he said. “A perfect match for the guy who escaped the dragon pit. Minus a good chunk of skin now.”

  Nagano took the paper. “As I thought,” he said. “Ushi-Oni: the Demon.”

  “The Demon?” Joe asked.

  “His real name is unknown,” Nagano said. “In our mythology, the word oni means demon. An Ushi-Oni is a particular monster with the head of a bull and fearsome horns. When he first began killing for hire, this man would draw a symbol representing that particular monster using the victim’s blood. Unlike most in the syndicates, he actually takes pleasure in killing. Pleasure and large sums of cash.”