Spiral

Kitano said that the latest version of the Uzumaki was kept in a sealed hinoki box, in seven small brass cylinders. A cylinder each for the seven chosen Tokkō. When the order came, each member of this elite suicide squad would board a submarine headed for their target. They would ingest the Uzumaki. Once it had taken hold, they would infect everyone they came in contact with.

The last section of the report was an evaluation of the likely authenticity of Kitano’s testimony. There had been reports as far back as 1943 of a Japanese germ weapons program in Manchuria. Kitano’s statements accurately matched descriptions of Unit 731 beginning to emerge from China. Shiro Ishii’s testimony also dovetailed with Kitano’s. The Japanese general was still alive and free, in negotiations with the Americans. He had offered to trade immunity for any war crimes in exchange for the records from Unit 731. Ishii did not know that the Americans also had Kitano, yet so far their stories matched quite closely. Overall, the likelihood that Kitano was telling the truth was judged to be very high.

Liam was dumbfounded, barely able to speak, when Scilla returned.

“Have any of the six other submarines been found? Any of the cylinders?”

Scilla shook his head no. “No one really believed any of it until the Vanguard. Until they found Seigo Mori on the deck of that sub.”

“How do you know his name?”

“From Kitano. I interviewed him myself yesterday.”

“Wait. He’s on board?”

Scilla nodded. “Willoughby likes to keep him close. Kitano said Mori was plucked from the University of Tokyo, trained to be a torpedo kamikaze. But they changed plans on him. Sent him to Harbin, to Unit 731, to that psychopath Ishii. Said he was nineteen years old.”

“Why attack now? Six months after the end of the war?”

“Maybe they didn’t know it was over. Our best guess is that the sub had mechanical troubles, ran out of fuel. Kitano says it was headed to the Pacific coast, up near the Washington-Oregon border. Mori was going to blow himself up at a major water supply. Think about it, Connor. Instead of a boatload of people with the Uzumaki, there’d be a city full. Maybe the entire damn United States.”

SCILLA LED LIAM TO THE COMMANDING OFFICER’S QUARTERS. Four men were inside: the commander of the North Dakota, Admiral Seymour Arvo; Major General Charles Willoughby; and two others that Liam had not met before. Willoughby, looking like a cadaver, ran the show. Liam had heard that MacArthur called him “my pet Fascist.”

The other two men seemed familiar, but Liam couldn’t place them at first. Then he realized the one with a narrow face and regal features was J. Robert Oppenheimer. The other, with a round nose and probing eyes, was Hans Bethe. Two of the greatest physicists the Americans had. Both key players in the Manhattan Project.

The men were crammed around a small map table, the surface covered with papers haphazardly arranged. Liam noticed what looked to be equations on many of the sheets. He knew enough physics to recognize Bernoulli’s equation on one. Another had a sketch that looked like a shock wave.

Oppenheimer looked up. “This our fungal expert?”

“Liam Connor,” Scilla said. “From Porton.”

“Tell me,” the regal man said, “what is the maximum temperature a fungal spore can take and still be viable?”

“Depends on how long it’s hot,” Liam answered.

“Say a fraction of a second.”

“I’d say a hundred degrees.”

“A hundred degrees. You sure?”

“No, I’m not sure. It could be more. Why?”

“What about a shock wave?” asked Bethe. His accent was German. “Acceleration of, say, thirty g’s?”

“Probably wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t affect the spore at all.”

“What about radiation? Gamma rays?”

Liam realized what they had planned. “You’re going to blow up the Vanguard with an atomic bomb.”

“Unless you have a better idea,” Oppenheimer said.

HITOSHI KITANO WAS HELD IN A SMALL CABIN THAT NORMALLY served as officers’ quarters. Two sailors stood guard outside. Liam was accompanied by one of Willoughby’s aides, a major named Anderson. He said few words but paid close attention, taking notes in a little red notebook.

Liam’s nerves were on edge. Bethe and Oppenheimer had grilled him for an hour about fungi and spores, trying to decide if a nuclear blast would destroy the Uzumaki or merely launch its spores into the upper atmosphere, where the jet stream would spread them around the world. The odds favored destruction, but the verdict was still out. Liam, in turn, had warned them of the dangers of not acting. If, as he suspected, the culprit was a Fusarium fungus, there was a good chance it could spread around the world without the help of a nuclear blast. Many species of Fusarium could thrive inside the guts of migratory fowl. A bird could be infected and then be a thousand miles away in days. The feathers of birds were a huge risk. They were ideal for carrying spores.