“Project 137?”
“Yes. And now the Project is playing its ace in the hole, Joe,” said Wetherspoon. “The Tojo Virus.”
BECAUSE WE CAN’T BE BEAT
U.S.A., 1951
Shiro Ishii shook his empty glass, and the crisp ice cubes rattled. A young American reached across the interior of the limousine and splashed two fingers of Bourbon into the glass. Ishii nodded. The Maryland countryside whisked past the window in a blur of green.
“Dr. Ishii,” said an older man, facing them, his back to the driver. “I’ve been meaning to ask you—how are your accommodations?”
Ishii took a deep drink, smacked his lips, shrugged.
“It is not like home,” he said, each English syllable taut. “But I am comfortable. There is whiskey. Women.”
The young man snickered, turned and saw his boss’ glare. Cringing, he slid the Bourbon bottle back in the limousine’s mini bar without another word.
“You left your wife back home in Japan, did you not?” said the man in charge.
“Yes, Mr. Stapleton. Too much work. Too much play. In America,” Ishii said, toasting them, then downing the rest of the liquor. He smiled at the two Americans.
The younger man grabbed the glass, started to refill it, but Stapleton lifted his hand an inch off his knee, shook his head once. The younger man nodded and stowed the glass away in the bar with the bottle. The Americans were in a clear disorder of rank. The younger one was a coward, the older one a fool. Ishii wiped at his mouth with the sleeve of his tweed jacket.
“And Dr. Ishii, we are looking forward to having you on the team at Fort Detrick,” Stapleton said, scratching at his jaw. “We could certainly use your expertise, now that the Chinese are across the Yalu River.”
“Yes, Mr. Stapleton,” Ishii said. “More of Chinese than of you.”
Glancing at the limo’s minibar, he shrugged and produced a flask from his jacket pocket.
“But we can make things…fair,” he said, unscrewing the cap. With a salute, he tipped it back to his open mouth.
The two Americans turned away, their eyes darting out the window. Ishii looked out at the passing landscape too, the trees and green fields, a split-rail fence zig-zagging alongside. He liked to watch the wide-open American spaces, the huge expanse of the land. It looked nothing like Japan. The rolling farms, the lazy river bordered by scrubby little trees to the east. Ishii capped the flask, and as the liquor slid down his throat he slapped a clumsy martial beat on his spread knees. The openness of America was enough to inspire hope in anything—even a new life, he knew.
Buildings appeared, blocking the river and the sky, and the highway entered a town. A right-hand turn off the road brought them into the heart of apartment blocks. They rolled up to a gated guardhouse. A sentry saluted, then waved them in. The limo circled through a few brick buildings, and then it pulled into a dark garage and stopped. The driver got out and opened the door for the three passengers.
The Americans shook hands, offered drinks, and inquired continuously about his health. They smiled at their esteemed guest. They were all fools—but they were hospitable and welcoming fools.
An hour later, a scientist stood next to Ishii. Both doctors stood with their arms crossed, looking up at a web of metal piping over their heads. The ducts all connected up to the great steel sphere above them. It was like nothing they had ever developed in Japan. Clearly, the Americans were serious about pushing the work forward, and Ishii nodded approvingly.
“Meet your specifications, doctor?” asked the scientist.
Ishii smiled, but shook his head.
“I need to see results, Dr. Olson.”
The American scientist smiled, shaking his own head, running a hand over the thin film of hair on his head, then reaching up and grabbing a pipe.
“We don’t have results yet, Dr. Ishii,” he said. “We’re still in the experimental phase.”
Ishii walked forward, putting a hand on the curving steel. It was cool on his fingertips.
“You have test group?”
“We have a test group,” Olson said, tapping the pipe. “It wasn’t easy, but we have one.”
Olson waved at a guard in the corner. On cue, a group of young men came through the door. Crew-cutted, shirtless, they shuffled on stiff legs, covered only with tiny briefs. They marched in a single line past the two doctors. Only a few glanced up. They rounded the sphere and stopped. Twelve of them, waiting, shifting from foot to foot with a nervous bounce. They reminded Ishii of nothing so much as a line of pitiful prisoners standing at attention in the yard back at Ping Fang, unwittingly waiting to serve the Emperor.
All these Americans stared straight ahead—except for one, whose almond eyes caught those of Ishii’s. Clearly of Asian descent—Korean, if not Japanese. The young man glanced away quickly.
“This is our test group,” said Olson.
Ishii walked around the sphere, inspecting the line, but keeping a wide berth away from the line of ragged patients. Their youth, their vitality, was fascinating. The file of young men curved around, seeming not to notice him, silent, just staring ahead. At the front of the line was an elevator, a helmeted man ushering the first three on board, then shutting the gate and taking them upward. Ishii stepped back, watching it ascend to the loft above, the three alighting, the elevator descending again to take up more. Ishii stepped back for a better view of the second floor: a loft surrounding the sphere. Strangely-shaped holes lined the steel surface. Each of them was fitted with a mask, with soft rubber and tight straps.
“I see,” Ishii said. “Very efficient operation.”
“Yes, Dr. Ishii, we were thinking about all the data that came from Japan, and it took us years to come up with our own way to further the work of your Unit,” Olson said.
“Where did you get prisoners?” Ishii asked.
“These subjects are all volunteers,” Olson responded.
Ishii’s brow furrowed.
“Why do subjects agree to tests?” said Ishii, watching another elevator of volunteers ascend.
“Seventh Day Adventists,” Olson said, arms folded, watching the elevator come back down. Ishii shook his head, uncomprehending. “Seventh Day Adventists, Dr. Ishii. A religious group. They believe the end of the world is coming. They think Russians will start dropping H-bombs any day now. They all would rather be part of our tests than get out there and fight.”
Ishii smiled, shook his head.
“We had kamikazes. Everyone wanted to defend the Emperor,” he said. “But we lost the war. I will never understand America, Dr. Olson. How you people win.”
Olson nudged the arm of his Japanese counterpart.
“Can-do spirit, Dr. Ishii. It’s what separates America from the rest of the world. We don’t believe in losing. It’s why we won the war. Because we can’t be beat.”
Ishii slowly drew back from Olson’s touch, as if he was contagious. The elevator ascended again to the second floor, and the final men, including the Asian runt who had to be Korean, were getting off. Three more helmeted soldiers spread out, delivering them to their stations around the sphere. Ishii ambled to the elevator, and Olson followed at his heels. The gate opened, they were taken up. As they stepped onto the loft, the volunteers sat on stools at each of the holes, their faces pressed into the portholes in the sphere. The helmeted men went from man to man, lashing straps on arms and legs, around necks. Ishii walked by them all. The subjects stiffened, grew still. The guards rustled around, making final checks.
“We’re all ready, Mac!” hollered one with markings on his breast pocket. “Turn it on!”
Nothing moved. Absolute silence for a moment. But then, from far off, a clanking came, rattling through the pipes as if a furnace had just kicked on. The sound grew louder, getting closer, and then entered the sphere. A hissing, just a whisper, replaced it in the surrounding silence. There were groans all around. Ishii looked across the line of volunteers and realized the sounds weren’t human—it was th
e leather straps straining, the wrenching of the materials as the subjects tensed silently, young wiry muscle and sinew struggling against the bonds. Ishii’s fingers trembled. No sounds came from the mens’ mouths, their chests, as the veins in their necks bulged. Olson squirmed a bit, turned away, and braced himself against the railing. The helmeted MPs stood ramrod straight, their hands clasped behind them. Ishii scratched at the razor burn on his upper lip, his eyes unblinking. A smile rippled across his mouth, as the bodies wiggled and shook. An MP checked his watch.
A minute passed. Ishii stepped forward. The helmeted soldiers glanced at him, then at Olson, who nodded in approval. Ishii walked along the lines of the convulsing soldiers. He felt twenty years younger, like a commanding general once again. As he walked, his smile widened. Like a leaf blown up in a strong wind, his hand fluttered off his hip and along the air, tracing along the quivering shoulders of the young men. He stopped behind the Korean, who was shaking more than the rest. Ishii grabbed the scruff of the neck. He held it there, squeezing the flesh.
One by one the men slumped forward in their bonds, their faces still pressed into the sphere. The Korean held on and seemed to be flex against Ishii’s grip, but he too crumpled after another thirty seconds of struggle. Ishii let go, wiped his palm against the leg of his pants, and backed toward Olson.
“Very good,” Ishii said. “When will we cut them open?”
The helmeted men’s mouths fell open. One gasped.
Olson yanked Ishii away from the line, to the elevator, pulled the gate down behind and pushed the down button. As it crept down, Ishii stared at his American colleague in puzzlement. What had gone wrong? Silence hung between the men. The elevator reached the bottom. Olson opened the gate, and pulled Ishii, who moved compliantly, like a leashed dog. Together they walked out. Ishii slowed underneath the pipe joints, touching the cool fittings and molds, but Olson urged him on with a gentle hand on his back.
Olson seemed to be a in a hurry. They walked down smooth gray hallways, under bare lightbulbs, to the outside. They pushed through a big heavy door with a hollow sound. Ishii turned on him, his arms folded in front of his chest.
“Don’t we need to witness experiments?” Ishii said. “We need to see results.”
Olson looked over his shoulder, up at the corners of the building, all around them. He shook his head, stopping to light a cigarette.
“Dr. Ishii, there’s nothing to see,” he said. “We will know the results once the reports are finished. They’re aerosol dispersion experiments—visual observation alone won’t tell us anything.”
They walked along a brick wall toward a line of bushes. Olson directed him around the corner of the brick wall. They were walking in a narrow space between trees and bushes, a dark space.
Suddenly Ishii was shoved against the wall. Olson’s face, eyes bloodshot and cheeks covered in sweat, was pressed close to his. Ishii turned his cheek, but he inhaled Olson’s cologne, the chemical stink of it. They were out of sight in the growth, invisible within the heart of Fort Detrick.
“You must understand, Doctor,” Olson said, cigarette flapping in his taut lips. “This is not Manchuria. This is America. There are rules. No vivisections. No amputations. No rape. And most of all—no talking.”
His face was twisted, sweaty. He scratched at his receding hairline, shook his head, and he seemed to calm himself.
“I know you remember the war, all the possibilities,” the American continued, running his hand over his head. “But you have to realize that this is completely different. We have to keep things secret.”
Ishii gave him a calm smile and nodded. This American was weak. Clearly, he had been appointed to be a middle-manager of the operations—a lackey, and nothing more. He would certainly have no say in the coming Projects. And he would be expendable, Ishii realized.
“Secrets,” Ishii said, reaching up to a branch, snapping off a green sprout of a twig. “I understand secrets. But it was understood America wanted my skills because of Manchukuo. Because of the advances we made. Because of the Russians, because of what’s coming. Because America needs me.”
Olson nodded. His mouth opened, then shut, and then he took a drag off his cigarette. He turned and walked out of the leafy canopy of the trees. Ishii snapped the twig in his hands, smelled the fresh scent between his fingers. It smelled different than the trees of Japan, of home. He dropped it on the ground, and followed the American back toward the laboratories, all of which were hard at work.
THE ORPHAN’S GIFT
U.S.A., 2087
“The Tojo Virus is not exactly a computer virus, and not exactly an organic hemorrhagic fever,” said Wetherspoon. “It’s both, and they’re spreading it through these Atmans you damned kids use all the time.”
But I was only half-listening—because I had stooped and was feeling for MacGruder’s jugular.
“Neal—George is dead,” I said.
“Not possible,” Wetherspoon said, kneeling beside me. Cursing, he tried feeling for the artery. Pulling away the towel on MacGruder’s forearm, he touched the device—and drew back his hand with a hiss. He stood, shaking out his burned finger.
“Jesus.”
“What is it?” I said.
“You’re right. He’s dead,” the Old Man said. “And it wasn’t blood loss. The Atman re-booted. They’ve developed new software.”
“Let’s get him to a hospital,” I said. I started thrusting down on MacGruder’s chest, but before I could place my mouth over MacGruder’s, Wetherspoon grabbed my shoulder. His hand was strong, a viselike grip suddenly like that of a man seventy or eighty years younger.
“The patient’s dead, Joe,” Wetherspoon said, pulling me up with a forceful yank. “There’s nothing we could do. Whatever they gave him already ran its course. I shut the damned thing off. It still killed him. It seems they’ve perfected the Tojo Virus far beyond anything I could have imagined.”
“What are we supposed to do with a body we mauled with home surgery?” I said. “This looks like we killed him.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Wetherspoon, slapping me on the back. “Leave it to me.”
The Old Man stooped and picked up both ends of the throw rug underneath the body. With two quick moves, the body was wrapped, like a burrito with bloody salsa spattered on top.
“Listen—I’ll take the body to a safe hospital,” the Old Man said. “I know people. I’ll make sure they hear what I have to say. You take my dossier and drive west. Keep going. Find a motel with Mary and wait to hear from me. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to come back. I can’t imagine you’ll be gone for more than a week.”
“Wait, Neal,” I said. “About those files.”
“What about those files?”
“About those files,” I said, rubbing my face with both hands. “About those goddamned files. Shit.”
“Oh, Christ,” Wetherspoon said. “You weren’t kidding. You lost them.”
“They were stolen while the reporter was dying in my arms.”
Silence. Wetherspoon’s eyes flickered to the corners of the room. Then his arms began flailing, curses echoed off the walls, words vaguely Germanic but not part of any earthly language. A lamp flew off a table, a vase sailed to the wall and exploded in shards. The Old Man grabbed a fire poker and speared the glowing TV screen, which sparked and flashed and died. I watched in silence as Wetherspoon reeled toward me, still seething.
“You took two decades of work,” the Old Man said, “and you threw it to the wolves… You took a carefully laid plan to end a war against the American people, and you threw it away in a single moment.”
“I didn’t know, Neal.”
“No, how could you have known,” the Old Man said, lip curling in a sneer. “How could the young hotshot physician with his whole life ahead of him realize there was everything to lose, including his own family?”
A moment of silence. What the hell was that supposed to mean? I shook my head.
“What do y
ou mean, lose my own family?” I said.
Wetherspoon recoiled. He shook his head. But he suddenly looked sad, as well as angry.
“You didn’t really believe that your parents died of food poisoning, did you?” he said.
Something in the Old Man’s eyes softened, his voice was muted.
“Joe, your parents didn’t die of food poisoning. It was the Tojo Virus.”
Just as those words started to make sense to me, the room whirled all around. I raised my arm to steady myself, but I found I was falling backward, and then Wetherspoon’s hands were guiding me downward onto the couch. Everything felt black, like I was that orphan in a chaotic hospital waiting room once again. But I was still awake.
“Listen to what I’m saying,” the Old Man said, his voice slow and distorted. “I thought you would have figured it out by now.
“It wasn’t an accident, Joe. It happened the night the Blackout started. The Project dispersed some of the Tojo agent,” Wetherspoon continued. “It wasn’t painful—they were dead before they knew what hit them. It was during one of the field trials I voted against. I only found out after the test was completed. They ate some of the Tojo samples served in the hors d’oeuvres at a restaurant. It was the salmon mousse. They were part of the experimental group.”
A moment of stillness, of silence. Then I lunged, grabbed the Old Man’s wrinkly throat. Anger blinded me. I saw nothing but the cold black abyss beyond the light.
“You…bastard,” I said.
My hands squeezed. The Old Man’s trachea clamped shut. His eyes bulged with the pressure.
“Just…understand…Joe… Not…coincidence…you at Almach… There was…reason you…got offer at the hospital… I made sure…you…survivor…someone who…could understand…the monstrosity…would be…on…my side…”
My hands loosened on the Old Man’s throat. I didn’t know why; I felt like they had decided on their own to try and murder my mentor, and then relented of their own volition. I stepped back, flexing the strange fingers that seemed so different from my own. Wetherspoon’s head rolled back with a thud on the hard back of the couch.
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