Dragon

by Clive Cussler

  Kamatori's eyes squinted. "The names are not familiar to me."

  "You've never read The Most Dangerous Game by Richard Connell? It's a classic story of a man who hunts his fellow man for sport."

  "I do not taint my mind by reading Western literature."

  "Glad to hear it," Pitt said, mentally adding a slight edge to his chances of staying alive.

  Kamatori pointed toward the door. "The time has come."

  Pitt held his mark. "You haven't explained the ground rules."

  "There are no ground rules, Mr. Pitt. I generously give you an hour's start. Then I begin to hunt you armed only with my sword, an ancestral weapon that has been in my family for several generations and has seen much enemy blood."

  "Your samurai ancestors must be real proud of a descendant who stains their honor by murdering unarmed and defenseless

  Kamatori knew Pitt was deliberately provoking him, but he could not contain his growing rage with the American who showed no trace of fear. "There is the door," he hissed. "I begin the pursuit in one hour."

  The act of uncaring indifference was shaken off the minute Pitt cleared the gate through the electrified fence. Ungoverned fury swept him as he ran past the line of trees surrounding the resort and into the shadows of the stark, barren rocks. He became a man outside himself, cold and cunning, his perceptions abnormally heightened, driven by one overpowering thought.

  He had to save himself to save the others.

  The gamble on running free in his stocking feet rather than the heavy boots he'd worn when flying off the deck of the Ralph R. Bennett was paying off. Thankfully the rocky ground was covered with several centimeters of damp soil eroded over the centuries from the lava rock.

  He ran with deadly purpose, spurred on by anger and fear he might fail. His plan was simple enough, ridiculously simple, though the chance of pulling the wool over Kamatori's eyes seemed slightly less than impossible. But he was dead certain the ploy had not been tried by the other hunted men. The unexpected was on his side. The others had only tried to put as much distance between them and the resort as possible before frantically finding a hiding place to stall off discovery. Desperation breeds genius, but they had all failed, and with gruesome finality. Pitt was about to attempt a new wrinkle in the escape game that was just crazy enough to work.

  He also had another advantage over those who had gone before. Thanks to Penner's detailed model of the island, Pitt was familiar with the general landscape. He recalled in his mind the dimensions and heights with exacting clarity, knowing precisely where he had to go, and it was not toward the highest point on the island.

  People who run in terror during a chase inexplicably head upward, up stairs in a building, up a tree to hide, up to the rocks crowning the summit of a hill. All dead ends with no possibility of successful escape.

  Pitt branched off and descended toward the eastern shoreline, executing a meandering trail as if he was undecided which way to turn, occasionally doubling back to make his pursuer think he was wandering lost in circles. The uneven moonlike ground and the dim light hindered any sharp sense of direction, but the stars had yet to fade, and he could still read north from Polaris. He stopped for a few minutes, resting to conserve his strength, and took stock.

  He realized that Kamatori, tracking his victims in sandals, could never have brought them to bay in only eight hours. An amateur woodsman, with a small amount of luck, should have avoided capture for one or two days, even if tracked by dogs. . . unless his trail was followed by someone with the advantage of electronic body sensors. There was no question in Pitt's mind that he was being hunted by a robot festooned with sensors. He moved off again, still cold but feeling no strain or exhaustion.

  The end of the hour found Pitt skirting the cliffs above the sea. The scattered trees and underbrush grew to the very edge of the palisades. He had slowed to an easy jog as he searched for a break in the surf-pounded rocks nearly twenty meters below. At last he came to a small clearing sheltered by large rocks. A small pine with several of its roots exposed by erosion hung precariously over the restless water far below.

  His eyes intently searched the nearby area for signs of a video camera or body heat sensors and came up empty.

  Reasonably certain he was unobserved, he tested the trunk of the tree with his weight. It sagged, and the pine-needled top leaned another five centimeters outward and down. He calculated that if he climbed far enough into its branches, his added weight would pull the bare root system from the earth, sending both Pitt and the tree hurtling down the side of the cliff and into the sea.

  Then he studied the dark and swirling water as do the divers atop the cliffs at Acapulco. He judged the depth of a narrow slot between the rocks at three meters in depth, four when a breaker roared in. No one in their right mind would consider the thought churning in Pitt's brain as he examined the backwash and the directional sweep of the current. Without either a dry or a wet suit, a swimmer wouldn't survive twenty minutes in the cold water before hypothermia set in, providing he survived the fall.

  He sat down on a rock and removed the plastic blood bag from under the waistband of his shorts and laid it on the ground at his feet. He extended his left arm and squeezed his fist, probing with his right hand until he located the vein in the fiat opposite the elbow. He paused a few moments, fixing the vein in his mind, picturing it as a hose. Then he took the needle that was attached to the blood bag's hose and pushed it into the vein on an angle.

  He missed and had to try again. It finally slipped inside the vein on the third try. Now he sat there and relaxed as his blood flowed into the bag.

  A dog's faint howl in the distance caught his ear. What seemed an obvious truth at the moment struck him with numbing force. He couldn't believe how he'd overestimated Kamatori. He didn't speculate, didn't guess he'd be tracked by a flesh and blood hound. He'd blindly accepted as fact his pursuer would use electronic or robotic means to discover his prey. He could only imagine the leering face of the cutthroat samurai as he found Pitt treed by a vicious dog.

  With incredible patience, Pitt sat and waited for his blood to fill the plastic bag as he listened to the yelping draw closer. The dog was hard on his trail and less than two hundred meters away when the blood volume reached 450 milliliters, and Pitt jerked the needle from his arm. He quickly stuffed the blood-filled bag under a pile of rock, covering all sight of it with loose dirt.

  Most of the men decapitated by Kamatori, ravaged by terror and panic, had foolishly tried to outrun the hound until dropping from exhaustion and being run to ground. Only the braver ones had stopped and attempted to fight off the dog with whatever weapon they could lay a hand on, in most cases a heavy stick. Still unaware of the surprise about to pounce on him, Pitt went one step further. He found a long, thick tree limb but also collected two heavy rocks. As a final defense, he threw his meager weapons on top of a large rock and then climbed up.

  His feet had only barely left the ground when the baying hound dashed through the trees and onto the cliff edge.

  Pitt stared in dumb astonishment. The pursuit dog wasn't the furry kind at all. It had to be the weirdest nightmare of a robot Pitt had laid eyes on.

  The Japanese engineers at Hideki Suma's robotic laboratories had outdone themselves on this one.

  The tail, standing straight into the air, was an antenna, and the legs rotated like spokes of a wheel with the ends bent on a ninety-degree angle to grip the ground. The body was a complex of electronics clustered around an ultrasonic ranging sensor. It was the ultimate in tracking machines, able to detect human scent, heat, and sweat, and able to navigate around or over obstacles at a rate of speed matching a Doberman pinscher.

  The only similarity between a real dog and the robomutt, if Pitt stretched his imagination and ignored the recorded howls, was a nasty jaw system with teeth that circulated instead of gnashed. Pitt shoved one end of his tree limb at the metallic snout only to have it torn out of his hands and shredded in a cloud of splinters.
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  It was a wonder any bodily members of Kamatori's victims were left to mount on a wall after this monstrosity got through with them, Pitt thought. But the artificial dog made no effort to move in for the kill. It partially climbed the rock Pitt stood on and kept its distance, the miniature video camera recording Pitt's movements and location. Its purpose, Pitt recognized, was to corner and locate the quarry so Kamatori could home in and perform the ritual murder.

  Pitt lifted one of the rocks over his head and threw it. The robomutt was too agile, it easily leaped to its right as the rock missed and struck the ground several centimeters away.

  Pitt raised the other rock, the only weapon left to him, and made as if to hurl it, but he stopped in midlaunch and observed the dog again jump to his right. Then, as if he was a bombardier, he made an adjustment and let fly. The timing was good and his aim true. The dog, apparently programmed only to veer on a starboard tack during an assault, dodged directly beneath the falling rock.

  There was no bark or whine, no sizzle of shorted electronics or sparks. The mechanical canine just sort of sagged sluggishly on its spoke legs without falling over, its computer and monitoring systems smashed. Pitt almost felt sorry for it as it slowly went inert like a mobile toy whose batteries faded and died-- but not too sorry. He came down off his rock and kicked the thing in its electronic gut, knocking it over on its side. Pitt made certain the video camera was nonfunctioning, and then he retrieved the blood bag from under its cover of rotted wood and leaves.

  He fervently hoped the blood he'd drained from his vein had not weakened his system. He was going to need every bit of his strength for the job ahead.

  Kamatori became apprehensive when the image on his tiny wrist TV monitor suddenly faded. His last reading from the robot-tracking dog's sensor put Pitt approximately a hundred and seventy-five meters in a southeasterly direction toward the palisades along the shore. He was amazed that Pitt had allowed himself to be cornered so early in the hunt. He hurried in that direction, initially thinking the system had suffered an electronic malfunction. As he rushed toward the final contact position, it began to seep into his brain that possibly the quarry was the cause of the problem.

  This had never happened with the earlier prey. None of them came close to defeating the robot or inflicting any damage. If Pitt had managed to do what the others couldn't, Kamatori decided he must be very cautious in his approach. He slowed his pace, no longer concerned with speed. Time was a commodity he could easily afford.

  He used nearly twenty minutes to close the gap and arrived at the small clearing above the cliffs. He vaguely saw the outline of the robodog through the underbrush. He feared the worst as he realized it was lying on its side.

  Staying in the trees, he made a wide sweep around the open pile of rocks. Cautiously, Kamatori crept toward the dog that lay still and motionless. He drew his sword and lifted it high above his head, the hilt clutched in both hands.

  A practiced user of kiai, with the motive power to raise himself to a fighting fury, and a fiery resolve to overwhelm his opponent, Kamatori deeply inhaled a breath, gave a bansheelike cry, and leaped, hoping to fall upon his hated foe at the exact moment Pitt exhaled his breath.

  But there was no Pitt.

  The small clearing looked like the aftermath of a massacre. Blood was splattered everywhere, on the robodog, the rocks, and tiny splotches ran down the cliff face. He studied the ground. Pitt's footprints were deep and scattered in convulsive disorder, yet no drenched trail of blood led away from the clearing. He peered down at the sea and rocks below and saw a tree pulled out by the receding water only to be swept in again by an incoming wave and thrown onto the rocks. He also studied the ragged hole and torn root system on the edge of the drop.

  For several minutes he regarded the scene, examining the chewed tree limb, the rock lying next to the tracking robot. The robodog was not designed to destroy, only to pursue and locate. Pitt must have turned and fought, damaging his pursuer and somehow altering its computer programming and turning it into a vicious killer.

  The robodog had then gone on the attack and savagely slashed at Pitt's flesh. With nowhere to run and no way to fight the horror, Pitt must have tried to escape by climbing out on the tree. But his weight was too much and together they fell onto the rocks below. There was no sign of Pitt's body, but no man could have survived. He had either been swept away by an undertow or finished by sharks attracted to the bleeding body.

  Kamatori exploded in blind rage. He picked up the mechanical dog and flung it over the cliff. Pitt had defeated him. The adventurer's head would not be mounted on the walls with the other grisly trophies.

  The samurai butcher felt shame at being cheated. No one had ever escaped his sword.

  He would take his revenge on the other American hostages. He decided Stacy was to be his next prey, imagining with great delight the horrified faces of Giordino, Weatherhill, and Mancuso as they viewed him hacking her to pieces in vivid color.

  He held his sword blade up in front of his eyes, experiencing a feeling of euphoria as the new sun glinted on the blade. Then he flourished it over his head in a circle and slipped it into its scabbard in one smooth instantaneous motion.

  Still angered and disappointed at losing the one man he desperately hoped to kill, he headed back into the craggy landscape toward the resort, his mind already relishing the next chase.

  <<50>>

  The President stood on the green grass of the Congressional Country Club engaged in a late afternoon round of golf. "You're sure about this? There is no mistake?"

  Jordan nodded. He sat in a golf cart watching as the President studied a fairway from the fourteenth tee. "The bad news is confirmed by the fact the team is four hours behind their scheduled contact time."

  The President took an offered five iron from his caddie, who rude in another cart with a Secret Service agent. "Could they have been killed?"

  "The only word we have from the British agent inside the Dragon Center is that they were captured soon after exiting the undersea tunnel into the command center installation."

  "What went wrong?"

  "We didn't take into consideration Suma's army of robotic security forces. Without the budget to place intelligence operatives in Japan, we were ignorant of their advancement in robotics. Their technology in developing mechanical systems with human intelligence, vision, and superphysical movement came as a surprise."

  The President addressed the ball, swung, and stroked it to the edge of the green. Then he looked up at Jordan. He found it difficult if not impossible to comprehend a mechanical security force. "Actual robots that walk and talk?"

  "Yes, sir, fully automated and highly mobile and armed to the teeth."

  "You said your people could walk through walls."

  "There are none better at what they do. Until now there was no such thing as a foolproof security system. But Suma's vast technology created one. Our people met a computerized intelligence they weren't trained to bypass, that no operative in the world is trained to overcome."

  The President slipped behind the wheel of the cart and pressed the accelerator pedal. "Any hope of a rescue mission to save your people?"

  There was a moment's silence as Jordan hesitated before continuing. "Doubtful. We have reason to believe Suma intends to execute them."

  The President felt a wave of pity for Jordan. It had to be a bitter pill for him to swallow, losing almost an entire MAIT team. No operation in national security history had suffered from such incredibly rotten luck.

  "There'll be hell to pay when Jim Sandecker hears that Pitt and Giordino are going down."

  "I don't look forward to briefing him."

  "Then we must blow that damn island under the sea, and the Dragon Center with it."

  "We both know, Mr. President, the American public and world opinion would come down on you like a ton of bricks despite your attempt to stop a nuclear disaster in the making."

  "Then we send in our Delta Forces, and quick
."

  "Delta Force teams are already standing by their aircraft at Anderson Air Force Base on Guam. But I advise we wait. We still have time for my people to accomplish their planned mission."

  "How, if they have no hope of escape?"

  "They're still the best, Mr. President. I don't think we should write them off just yet."

  The President stopped his cart beside the ball that sat only a few centimeters from the green. The caddie ran up with a nine iron. The President looked at him and shook his head. "I can putt better than I can chip. You better let me have a putter."

  Two putts later the ball dropped in the cup. "I wish I had the patience for golf," said Jordan as the President returned to the cart. "But I keep thinking there are more important things to devote my time to."

  "No man can go continuously without recharging his batteries," said the President. He glanced at Jordan as he drove to the next tee. "What do you want from me, Ray?"

  "Another eight hours, Mr. President, before you order in the Delta Forces."

  "You really think your people can still pull it off."

  "I think they should be given the chance." Jordan paused. "And then there are two other considerations."

  "Such as?"

  "The possibility Suma's robots might cut our Delta Forces team to pieces before they could reach the command center."

  The President grinned dryly. "A robot may not go down under the assault of a martial arts expert, but they're hardly immune to heavy weapons fire."

  "I give you that, sir, but they can lose an arm and still come at you, and they don't bleed either."

  "And the other consideration?"

  "We have been unable to uncover the whereabouts of Congresswoman Smith and Senator Diaz. We suspect there is a strong case to be made for them being held at Suma's retreat on Soseki Island."

  "You're stroking me, Ray. Brogan over at Langley is certain Smith and Diaz are under guard in Edo City. They were seen and identified at Suma's guest quarters." There was a long pause. "You know damned well I can't afford to give you eight hours. If your team hasn't resurfaced and completed their operation in four, I'm sending in the Delta Forces."