"And it was the Americans who would have paid the price if the Japanese had managed to make their weapons program effective. They planned to use balloon bombs to carry diseases to America. In 1945 they made a plan to use kamikaze pilots to dump plague-infected fleas on San Diego. There was another plan to send cattle plague in grain smut to affect the American economy. As the war wound down, Ishii came up with his most daring plan, which he named 'Cherry Blossoms at Night': use kamikaze pilots to hit the entire coast of California with plague. A sort of reverse of the Doolittle raid.
"Submarines were to take pilots and planes off the western coast of the United States. The submarines would surface and the planes would be launched. The date scheduled for this attack was September twenty-second, 1945. Fortunately for the Americans, the Japanese high command interceded and the submarines were diverted to be used against a closer threat: the American fleet at Ulith. All the Japanese managed to do was launch nine thousand incendiary bombs attached to balloons in the hopes that the jet stream would carry them across the ocean to America. They hoped to cause forest fires and terror. Several bombs made it, and one unfortunate woman was killed, but that was it."
"So 731 was a failure," Fatima said.
"For the Japanese," Abayon said.
"What do you mean?"
Abayon sighed.
"Let me finish my story and you judge for yourself. The war was coming to a close, but still Ishii ran his experiments. Then came my day. I was taken out to the field. Tied to a stake. To my right was the American, Martin. We waited, and then the plane came flying by, releasing something from the tanks under its wings. We knew we were dead men. Finally Martin told me his story.
"He had been recruited into the OSS – Office of Strategic Services – the American precursor to the CIA. He had been briefed that his team's mission was to parachute into Japan and make their way to a university where Japan's only cyclotron was located. It's a device that is needed to develop atomic weapons."
"But that wasn't their real mission," Fatima said, once more jumping a step ahead of the story.
Abayon nodded.
"Correct, it wasn't, as Martin found out, to his shock. They were picked up by the Kempetai on the drop zone, as if the Japanese were waiting for them and knew exactly when and where they would be jumping."
Abayon paused, then gestured.
"Could you get me some water?"
"That will take a while," Fatima said, knowing how far away the nearest room where she could fulfill his request was.
"We have time," Abayon said.
"Talking has made me parched. And I need a little time to collect my thoughts before I continue."
When Fatima left the observation point, Abayon checked his watch. It would begin soon. Very soon.
"Six minutes," the crew chief warned Vaughn.
Vaughn repeated the warning to Tai. They were standing next to the oxygen console. Vaughn made a twisting motion as he gave the next command.
"Go on personal oxygen."
They both unscrewed their oxygen hoses from the console and connected them to the small tanks strapped to their chests. Vaughn took a few breaths to make sure the tank was feeding properly. Everything was working perfectly so far.
"Depressurizing begun," the crew chief announced.
Both Vaughn and Tai swallowed as air began to leak out of the cargo bay so they could equalize with thin air outside at 25,000 feet.
The room was on the top floor of one of the tallest buildings in Hong Kong. To be allowed access, the half-dozen occupants had to suffer through a tedious two-hour security check. And these were not people who submitted easily to such checks. But the lure that had been dangled in front of them about what was to occur in this room at this late hour was more than enough to convince them to put aside their pride.
The half dozen were seated in comfortable chairs arranged in a semicircle facing a small stage with a podium on the right side. A curtain hid whatever was on the stage.
Ruiz stepped from behind the curtain and walked to the podium with a black three-ring binder in his hands. He set the binder down, then checked his watch.
"Gentlemen, and lady," he added, acknowledging the jewel-bedecked older woman seated in one of the chairs, "the first item will be up for bid in five minutes."
"The recon team is just about on target for drop."
The man who announced this wore black combat fatigues, unmarked by any rank, insignia, or patch. He sported a pistol in a quick draw holster on his right hip. A fighting knife hung in a sheath on his left hip. He was addressing three other men, all dressed in black fatigues, all armed in one form or another. He had a satellite phone pressed to one ear.
"A fucking chick on a bloody mission," one of the men said with disgust.
The man who had made the announcement turned to the board near his right rear. Pictures of all six members of Section 8 were tacked there. He reached out with his free hand and ran his fingers over Tai's image, almost a caress.
"She's supposed to be a badass," he noted.
"That's what her file says."
"File," the second man snorted.
"I'll show her a fucking file."
The team leader gave a cold smile.
"I don't think she's going to be around for our reckoning with these fellows."
He was a tall man, head shaved completely bald. A jagged scar ran across his forehead. On top of the scar a barbed-wire tattoo had been laid, making it seem part of the artwork. His accent indicated he was from South Africa, with the trace of Afrikaaner showing through.
The other man who had spoken had an Australian accent. The third man, Sicilian, had a swarthy complexion, and was tumbling a throwing knife through the fingers of his right hand seemingly without paying attention. The fourth man was black and huge, his chest as wide as a barrel, his head also shaved, and gleaming under the fluorescent lights in the operations room they occupied.
The black man stirred uncomfortably.
"You have a link into their commo?" he asked.
The team leader nodded.
"We get copied on everything that goes on inside the team and that comes out of the isolation."
The black man frowned.
"Ever occur to you that they could be doing that to us also?"
"Who the fuck knows who they are," the Australian noted.
"What the hell are you talking about?" the team leader demanded.
"Well," the black man noted, "if we're spying on them, how do we know there's not a team spying on us?"
"A little paranoid, aren't you?" the team leader asked.
"Occupational hazard," the black man said.
The team leader stared at him.
"Just focus on your job, all right? Don't get to be thinking beyond what you're capable of."
The muscles on the black man's face tightened, but he said nothing.
Everyone was startled when, with a solid thud, the throwing knife slammed into the wall, dead center on Tai's face. The man who had been playing with it slowly got up, walked to the wall, and pulled it out.
The pressure equalized. With a hiss, the back ramp began to open, revealing a sliver of night sky. Vaughn focused on his breathing, making sure it was slow and steady. He had never liked being on oxygen. It made him very aware how hostile the environment around him was. A chill was already settling into his bones from the freezing air swirling into the cargo bay, easily overwhelming the plane's heaters.