Terror At Dawn

Chan offered both food and drink, and settled into the polite inquiries that were the normal preliminaries, even with the military, to serious discussions. The Korean refused both, responded to Chan’s first few questions abruptly, and then suddenly stood. “We don’t have time for this. I understand that you consider me a barbarian, a man completely without manners. I also know that you have dealt with us long enough to understand that here I am not considered so.” He bowed ever so slightly, softening the harsh words. “There is not much time. When can we expect our shipments to arrive?”

Chan kept his face impassive. There was an art to telling lies, and no one was better at it than he was. “That will depend on your own progress. You will also pardon my bluntness, but I do not see that your forces are yet ready for them.”

The Korean general started to protest, and Chan cut him off. “With my own eyes I have seen the problems. Until they are corrected, I cannot authorize further assistance.”

“We are in the positions you ordered.”

“Suggested. I do not order your troops.”

The Korean waved away the distinction. “We are at our staging areas, ready to move forward. Everything, as you well know, is predicated on your country providing the weapons as agreed. And it was you, if I recall, who insisted that there would be no problems, that we could trust you and your people.” The Korean lifted one eyebrow, a sardonic expression on his face. “So far, your words mean nothing.”

The arrogance. The sheer unthinking arrogance. He has been to China. He knows that compared to this squabbling little strip of land, China is so far advanced. And yet he presumes to talk to me as an equal, to demand — demand — answers of me.

Chan let the silence stretch out, waiting for the other man to become uncomfortable. He wouldn’t, though — he never did. He operated on a different plane from anyone Chan had ever dealt with, one grounded in the concrete rather than in the abstract. Political promises meant nothing to him, nor did solemn oaths of assistance and friendship. In the Korean’s mind, a friend was someone who showed up with ammunition or weapons. When Chan followed through on his part of the bargain, the Chinese would become a very, very special friend — but not until then.

“Two weeks,” Chan said, reaching a decision. “Fourteen days to improve your security forces, to make arrangements for the secure transport of these weapons. And for those components that you yourself are to supply to be here, waiting.”

“The components are ready.”

“Since when?”

“Since now. I received a call this morning before leaving my quarters.”

Yes. Two weeks. That had been the right decision. The security, the transport, none of that really mattered. What mattered was that the delicate assemblies that China was providing had to be housed in casings uniquely identifiable as Korean.

“And the submarines?” the Korean continued. “The repairs you promised would be completed have not been done. Under the circumstances, I will not authorize any more of your forces to enter our country. Not until all of our submarines are seaworthy.”

“Had the problems been dealt with early on,” Chan responded mildly, “your own technicians could have dealt with them.”

The Korean waved aside the objection. “Events have not permitted our forces to linger in port. Nor have your requirements.”

Time for this to end. “Two weeks, then,” Chan said, standing to indicate that the meeting was over. “I assure you that—”

The Korean reached across a desk and grabbed him by the throat before Chan realized what was happening. Black eyes, so black they were almost blue, stared into Chan’s dark brown ones. The Korean did not speak.

My God, he’s growling. It can’t be — but he is.

Chan considered struggling or trying to call on his mediocre martial arts skills, but quickly dismissed the idea. There was no dignity in trying. The Korean was a warrior, one of the physical types. Chan’s spirit was no less warlike, but his skills were in different areas. He dealt in strategy, the intricate maneuvering of people behind the scenes, the positioning of forces to create maximum dismay, the careful intrigues that preceded and accompanied bloodshed between nations.

Chan stood still, unflinching, never taking his gaze from the other. He let his eyes speak for him. Not today, my friend. Perhaps not tomorrow. But know, know with complete certainty, that you’ll pay for this. In time. My time.

Some part of his message must have gotten through. The Korean did not quail, but Chan saw a grudging respect in his eyes. Abruptly, he released the Chinese strategist. Chan caught himself before he staggered, maintaining his balance on the balls of his feet.

The Korean turned and stalked out of the room.

Once he was alone, Chan slid back into his chair, willing his muscles to relax, waiting while the adrenaline seeped out of his system. The Korean would pay for this. He would pay.

SIX

USS United States

1330 local (GMT +3)

The two doctors stood before Admiral Jette and Captain Arnot, waiting for a reaction. Both the captain and the admiral seemed frozen, as though to react to the news was to make it even more real that it might be. Finally, the captain cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Just how sure are you that this is what you think it is?” He avoided saying the names that ran like a litany of doom through his mind: black plague, Ebola, hemorrhagic fever.

Dr. Evan Bender, a captain and the senior medical officer on board United States, pursed his lips. “We’re not certain of anything at this point, Captain. The lab reports are inconclusive, not surprising with what we have to work with on board. It will take a full culture in level-four containment facilities to make sure.” He glanced over at the younger doctor to his side, Dr. Marcia Henning, and said, “And that could take a few days, couldn’t it?”

Dr. Henning was one of the more junior doctors aboard, but she had completed a one-semester work project with the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, and was the closest thing the ship had to an infectious disease specialist. “Maybe just forty-eight hours,” she said, “although it could be longer, depending on what they think they’re looking for. And if it’s a new strain that hasn’t been identified yet and this is the first time it’s popped up, some mutated organism of some sort — well, it could be longer. They’ll try to sequence the DNA and see if they can find out what family of diseases it belongs to first.”

“Until then,” Dr. Bender put in, “the first course of action for us is full isolation procedures. It could be that our young Marine is just suffering from a nasty case of the flu. But until we know more…” He spread his hands in front of him, palms up, and a look of helplessness spread across his face. “I can’t recommend we take any chances with this, sir. The potential for disaster…” Again, he left the sentence unfinished.

The captain, although he appeared to be looking at the doctors, was in reality mentally replaying a seminar from the Naval War College. The seminar had been part of an intelligence briefing, highly classified, restricted on a need-to-know basis. Every man and woman in the room had been headed for command. The intelligence officer from the CIA had seemed peculiarly uneasy, and with an unerring instinct born of years of command, the captain and everyone else in the room had known that he was holding something back. The CIA, they understood, had been extremely reluctant to provide any information on the topic of biochemical warfare, at least not at a level of specificity that would do anyone any good. Sure, there were plenty of unclassified briefings around, tons of material to study. But getting someone to put their ass on the line and say yes, this is something every one of you is going to face within the next few months — well, that was something else entirely.

The CIA officer had declined to give his name, introducing himself as Jim. He had sharply cut features, darkly tanned with a slight sunburn on his nose, eyes that had seen too much that he could never tell. Still, once Jim had