Rain of Terror

Destroyer 75: Rain of Terror

By Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir

Introduction

"For an attic on Garfield Avenue and bologna sandwiches on cheap white bread and Pathmark gin and rolling inner tubes across backyard pools ... when all the world made sense and even dreams had right sizes."

That was Dick Sapir being nostalgic in a Destroyer dedication a couple or three dozen books back. And why not a little nostalgia? We had written a book that nobody would buy for eight years and then we were "overnight" successes. Nostalg away, Dick. You earned it.

And now Destroyer Number 75.

Seventy-five books in seventeen years. Almost five million published words. And still at it, still trying to get it right.

Five million words. Maybe you'll understand better how many that is if you remember that Arthur Conan Doyle wrote about five per cent that many about Sherlock Holmes before he got tired of him and tried to kill him off.

Five million words. As many memories. As many laughs. This wasn't one of them: "Before tackling a novel you ought to try writing short stories." That was the first agent we sent the Destroyer manuscript to.

And the second agent. This genius, after cashing our check for reading fees, suggested we end the book by killing off the hero, Remo Williams. "You wrote this like a series book," he told us, "and nobody publishes series books."

Nothing's more stupid than the conventional wisdom, so we sat on the sidelines and waited and eight years later, in 1971, got published-thanks to Dick's father, the dentist, and a publishing secretary with papier-mache teeth-and after our series had sold its first million copies, Sapir sent both agents a telegram-ten years later now-and said, "Go to hell." He never forgot; he never forgave.

Five million words. About one argument every million words.

One screamer. In Destroyer 5, Dr. Quake, Sapir kills Chiun, the old Oriental assassin around whom the series revolves.

"Can't do this," Murphy says. "Can't kill Chiun."

"It's a great scene," Sapir says. "Why can't I kill him?"

"Because everybody will stop reading the books and we'll have to go back to work at the car wash."

"Well, if you're going to nitpick everything I try to do . . ." Sapir says.

Chiun survived. So did the books. In America. Then in Europe. Eventually all over the world. Twelve languages. Twenty-five million copies.

Five million words.

A telegram arrives. It reads: "Murphy, you're done. Partnership is over. Contact my lawyer. Richard Sapir." An hour later, another telegram. "Dear Warren. Ignore previous telegram. Some dastard has stolen my Western Union credit card and is offending all the people I hold most dear. Your friend, Dick."

It was never brought up again. Never knew what it was about.

Five million words.

Sometimes it's good not to think too much about what you're doing and just go ahead and do it.

If we knew that what we were writing was a satire on the whole men's adventure genre, maybe we would have started taking ourselves seriously.

And then maybe we would have missed out on seizing that radio station the day Dick bought the bad gin and we got away with doing fifteen minutes of Radio Free Hoboken until they got the door open and threw us out.

Maybe if we had known we were promulgating one of the most enduring myths in all pop fiction-the brash young Westerner trained in the secret arts by a wily aged Oriental-maybe it would not have been so much fun. Maybe we couldn't have kept boa constrictors in that ratty hotel room in Jersey City or thrown pizza dough at the opera singer.

Five million words and maybe if we had thought they were important, maybe we wouldn't have overturned the boat and had to swim for it. Maybe Dick would remember where and when he totalled Murphy's new car before delivering it back with two flat tires, a ripped-off door and a red presentation ribbon on the hood.

Maybe we never would have had that football game in the hotel hallway in Atlantic City.

Maybe we wouldn't have liked each other.

But it was a long time ago and we didn't know any better and dreams still had right sizes.

Five million words. Seventy-five books. Not as good as we wanted, because nothing ever is, but a lot better than those early covers would lead you to believe.

Sapir went off on a separate career and wrote a handful of wonderful, enduring books, like The Far Arena, The Body, Quest, masterworks of myth that belatedly started to get him the critical attention something called The Destroyer series never could.

But he never gave up The Destroyer, and in many of these books are a lot of people he met and liked and a lot more he met and hated and things he appreciated and things that annoyed him, including, often, his partner.

Five million words and now book number 75. And not so much fun anymore.

Richard Ben Sapir died in January 1987, in the sunny afternoon of his life, in full control of his wonderful talent; in the warm surrounds of his loving family and friends. A lot of words have been written about him since then, some look-Ma-I'm-writing encomiums from people whose warm words would have been appreciated more while he was living.

But he never needed anybody else's words and he still doesn't, even in a valedictory. In a big piece of almost five million words he wrote his own.

Asked once how he could equate his career as a serious novelist with his other career doing The Destroyer, Dick Sapir said: "The Destroyer is what it is. It is good. And that's enough. There are not many good things in this world and Warren and I are part of one."

Amen, brother. We keep trying.

-Warren Murphy

Chapter 1

Captain Claiborne Grimm was not at his command post when the Sonalert started beeping.

Although he was missile warning and control officer at the PAVE PAWS radar tower at the far end of Georgia's Robbins Air Force Base, national security did not preclude a trip to the john. And there was nothing in Air Force regs about bringing along a book to pass the time.

There was a lot of time to pass in the ten-story PAVE PAWS complex. Especially at three o'clock in the morning with an unheeding moon silvering the wedge-shaped blue building. The entire structure was run by computer. From the Modcomp system steering the phased array of 2,677 radiating elements that were shielded behind the building's eastern face to the twin CDC Cyber 174 data processors, there was little need for human beings at the console screens.

One of four identical sites scattered throughout the United States, the PAVE PAWS radar system's primary task was to detect the launching of submarine-based ballistic missiles. It was the last line of detection in the event of global war. Conventional wisdom had it that World War III would begin with massive land-based launches targeted at opposing land-based launch sites. NORAD's Spacetrack satellite system was responsible for detecting those first-strike launchings. If anyone survived to give orders for a second strike, America's submarine fleet would presumably still be intact to discharge that mission. By that time, Captain Grimm reasoned, the PAVE PAWS network designed to detect enemy submarine launchings would be so many floating particles-and never mind the Pentagon's crap about survivable mission-critical circuits.

So when the alarm beeped, warning of a possible submarine launch, Captain Grimm turned the page of his book. He was at a really good part. The blond with the big knockers was about to go down on the hero. Besides, the system had probably just picked up another satellite decaying out of orbit. But because he was a trained Air Force officer, Grimm kept an ear cocked for the status officer to hit the reset button, indicating a nonthreat situation.

When the beeper finally cut out, Grimm relaxed.

Then from the tactical operations room came a fearful cry.

"An event, sir!"

Captain Grimrn stumbled out of the john, his feet tripping over his lowered trousers. He did not pull them up even after he found his post among the bank of six consoles. If this was real, there would be less than fifteen minutes from launch to impact.

Grimm shot a hard glance at the Global Display screen. Outlined in luminous green was the continental United States, centered between Europe and Asia.

Over the black space that represented the Atlantic Ocean floated a green tracking symbol that he'd seen only in training exercises. A glowing letter U. The U stood for "Unknown."

"Satellite?" he demanded of the status officer.

"The software says no."

"Then it's gotta be an air-breather."

"Negative, sir. Software confirms that it's not a conventional aircraft."

"Can't you-I mean it-identify it?" Captain Grimm shouted.

"Mission software refuses to sort it, sir!" the status officer, a lieutenant, said sharply.

Still in his shorts, Captain Grimm got behind a second console. According to his Global Display, the unknown object was approaching the apogee of its trajectory. He touched the glowing U with his lightpen and hit a console key. The U was magnified by a factor of two. Tiny jaggededged boxes suddenly became visible as they flew off from the U symbol.

"It's shedding fragments," Captain Grimm said in a relieved voice. "It may be breaking up." But then he saw the speed of the thing. It was very fast. Faster than any known missile.

"It should be dropping its final stage at this point," the lieutenant said worriedly.

"No," Captain Grimm said. "No stages. Nothing."

"It has to. Maybe you're reading a tank box for a fragment. "

Hitting a key, Captain Grimm deleted the fragments from the display. Only the U symbol remained.

"Damn," said the lieutenant, fervently cursing the automated system that made the operator as redundant as the backup console. "What have we got here?"

"A drill. It's gotta be a drill," said Grimm, reaching for a phone.

"Maintainance, we in a test mode?" he barked into the receiver.

The reply was surreally flat. "No, sir."

"Training mode, then?"

"No. Everything's up. Everything's running."

Captain Grimm lowered the phone with a trembling hand.

"It's gotta be a glitch in the software," he said.

"Sir, the software confirms that the unknown is ballistic."

"Oh, my God! Launch point?"

"The system can't pinpoint, sir. It's a ground launch. Point of origin beyond our operating parameters."

"Ground! Then why are we dealing with it? Where's Spacetrack? This is their responsibility. They should already have this thing in inventory and be feeding it to us."

"I don't know, sir," said the lieutenant, looking at the Object Table display. "But it's heading for the east coast."

"We gotta call it. High, medium, or low?"

"We can't go low. There's definitely something up there."

"Threat or nonthreat?"

"It's not a known missile, but it's ballistic. I'd go high."

"High it is," said Captain Grimm, hitting the high-confidence button that alerted the entire complex that they had a real situation. He tapped a key, touched the screen with his lightpen, and an expanded outline of the U.S. filled his screen. On the lower east coast a glowing green circle encompassed an area from North Carolina to New York City. As the inexorably moving U on the other screen inched across the Atlantic, and the software steadily computed the probable impact point, the circle shrank. "Could be Washington," the lieutenant said in a shaky voice.

"There's only one object. It has to be Washington," Grimm rasped. "They must be crazy to launch only one object." He reached for the direct line to NORAD.

Deep in the North American Air Defense Command's Cheyenne Mountain complex, the Air Force general designated as CINCNORAD put down his red telephone. He looked out the Plexiglas of his command booth at status officers hunched over computer consoles like space-age scriveners. On the huge status panel overlooking the room, a blinking green object showed above a simulated horizon. It was larger than a warhead but smaller than a missile. And it was coming down fast. There was no time to think, never mind identify the unknown. Trembling, he picked up the White House hot line and asked for the President.

The President of the United States snored happily. It had been one of the great days in his life. He could hardly wait to get up the next morning to tackle the challenge of the Oval Office. But even an eager new President had to sleep, and so he slept.

He did not sleep long.

Two Secret Service agents burst into the room.

The President's wife bolted up from her pillows the instant the light clicked on. She reached for a dressing gown. Her fingertips grazed the pink chiffon briefly, and then one of the grim-faced Secret Service agents literally pulled her out of bed and hustled her out the door to a waiting elevator.

The First Lady screamed.

That woke the President. Seeing a hulking man looming over him, he asked a natural question.

"What is it? What's happening?"

"No time," the agent snapped. "It's for your own good, sir. Now, come with me, please."

The President reached for the nightstand drawer, where a red telephone lay. The Secret Service agent plucked the receiver from his hand and picked him up bodily. The chief executive was carried out of his bedroom, his eyes on the red telephone as if it were water and he was lost in the Gobi Desert.

The President was not set down until he was in the elevator. He stood in candy-cane pajamas, blinking rapidly. The Secret Service agents had faces that resembled cut stone. But they looked healthy compared to the face of the man carrying the aluminum suitcase. Sleepily the President tried to remember who the third man was. He could not. But he did remember the briefing when they had told him that the aluminum suitcase was called the "football" and it contained the special codes needed to launch America's nuclear arsenal.

Then it dawned on the President that the elevator had passed the White House basement and kept on going-deep, deep into the sub-sub-sub-basement nearly a mile under impenetrable bedrock and lead radiation shielding, And he knew.

"It's not fair," the President of the United States moaned. "This was going to be my first day in office!"

At the PAVE PAWS station at Robbins Air Force Base, Captain Grimm watched as the green circle shrank remorselessly, like a closing noose. It became the size of a half-dollar. Then a quarter. Then a nickel. Before it irised down to the size of a dime, a letter I appeared directly over Washington, D. C.-and then there could be no question about the point of impact.

The green circle squeezed into a dot and froze like a dead man's pupil.

"That's it," Grimm said huskily. "Washington is gone." He felt drained. Then he remembered to pull up his pants.

The precise point of impact was Lafayette Park, directly in front of the White House. The naked trees were rimed with late-January ice. It was exactly 3:13 A.M., so the park was deserted.

Washington, D.C. woke up to a sonic boom mixed with a noise like a tape of a car-crashing machine being played back at high speed. The ground jumped. The tremors were felt as far away as Alexandria, Virginia.

White steam hung over the hole in Lafayette Park. It was not a large hole, perhaps fifteen feet in diameter. But the superheated air escaping from the pit instantly melted the ice off the trees and turned the hard-frozen ground into the consistency of oatmeal and created billows of steam.

First on the scene was a police cruiser. It pulled up and two patrolmen spilled out. They approached the hole, which glowed cherry red, but the heat beat them back. After some discussion, they called it in as a brush fire. That brought the fire department.

Firemen lugged hoses as close as they could and poured water down the hole. That was a mistake. The water turned to steam. Those closest to the pit were scalded and had to be rushed to the hospital. The hoses were dragged back and, from a safer distance, the firemen tried again.

The next jets of water brought more steam. From deep within the hole there came loud snapping and hissing like water on a skillet magnified a thousand times. For several hours the Washington fire department sprayed water into the hole. Every hour, there was less steam. Gradually the cherry glow turned dull orange, then yellow. Finally it faded altogether.

The fire chief put on an oxygen mask and, carrying a heavy flashlight, approached the edge of the pit. He lay on his stomach and peered down. The rising air hit his exposed brow with tropical humidity. He turned on the flashlight.

The hole was much deeper than he'd expected. Whatever had hit, it had impacted with incredible force. The bottom of the pit was very black and buried under a foot of water. There was no way to discern what lay under the water, although the fire chief spent the better part of twenty minutes trying. He gave up when he leaned over too far and the flashlight jerked from his hand. It disappeared in the water.

It was nearly dawn by the time an Air Force investigation team arrived. They wore white anti-contamination suits and raced around the now-quiescent hole with clicking Geiger counters. The counters picked up only normal background radiation. The suits came off and heavy equipment was brought up as the firemen were ordered to vacate the site by a two-star general.

General Martin S. Leiber kept his suit on. He was a senior procurement officer with the Pentagon. No way was he going to get a face full of radiation. In fact, he wouldn't be here at all, but he happened to be senior officer at the Pentagon when word came from the White House. The President wanted to know if Washington was still standing. General Martin S. Leiber promised the President of the United States that he would look into the situation and get back to him within a few days. The fact that Washington looked perfectly normal from his office window was of little consequence. General Leiber was only five years from retirement. No way was he going to get his ass in a sling this close to the jackpot. Especially with a new President.

General Leiber had returned to his poker game, looked at his hand, and decided to play it out. A major beat his two pairs with a royal flush. General Leiber called the game and ordered the major to get the poop on the Washington survivability question. That would teach the bastard.

When the major returned with word of the possible missile strike on Lafayette Park, General Leiber saw stars. Specifically, one more on each shoulder. Although it was against his best bureaucratic instincts, he personally led the Air Force team to Lafayette Park. But just to make sure, he put Major Royal Flush in operational command.

Now, with the sun climbing toward noon, the general walked up to the major, a serious expression on his gruff face.

"What do you think this sucker is?" he demanded.

"We have unusually high levels of magnetism," the major said. "But no radiation or other lethal agents. I think we should fish for a piece of whatever's down there."

It sounded noncontroversial, so General Leiber said, "Do it!"

A derrick was driven onto the dead grass. Its treads sank into the mushy ground at the edge of the hole. It looked as if it would tip into the pit, but eventually it stabilized.

The steel jaws descended into the hole. And got stuck.

They finally came up with a jagged swatch of metal that dripped water. The metal was black and pitted. The derrick deposited it on a white tarp that had been laid on the ground.

The Air Force team swiftly surrounded it. The major tapped it with a retractable ball-point pen. The pen stuck too.

"I don't understand," he said softly.

"What's that?" General Leiber asked.

"Iron. This appears to be solid iron."

"I never heard of a nuclear missile with iron parts."

"We don't know that this is any such thing," the major pointed out. "Could be a meteor. They contain a lot of iron."

"Bull," said General Leiber. "NORAD picked it up at apogee. It was ballistic. What else could it be, if not a missile?"

"Let's find out," the major suggested. "Bring up another piece."

The next piece was iron too. Cast iron. So was the third. General Leiber began to feel very strange.

Then the derrick brought up a crushed and charred object that was somehow attached to a pitted iron stanchion. Everyone took turns examining the object.

"I'd say this crushed part is not iron," the major said, scraping at the charred surface with a thumbnail. He exposed a line of shiny brownish-yellow metal. "Looks like it was hollow and the impact compressed it. See this lip here? Some kind of opening or mouth."

"What's that thing sticking out, then?" General Leiber asked. "A tongue?"

The major looked. Out of the flattened mouth protruded a tiny ball of metal on the end of a rod. His brow wrinkled doubtfully.

"This thing looks familiar. I can't place it. Anyone?" The object was passed from hand to hand.

Finally someone offered a suggestion.

"I don't know if this is possible, but I think this was a bell."

"A what?" asked General Leiber.

"A bell. A brass bell. You know, like you would hang in a church steeple."

Then everyone looked at everyone else with the expression of children who had wandered into a very wrong place.

"Let's get it out of the hole," General Leiber said swiftly. "All of it. Every piece. I'll requisition an empty hangar at Andrews. You boys can reconstruct it there."

"It may not be that simple," the major said reasonably. "It's badly compressed and fused. We don't know what it might be. Where would we start?"

"Here," General Leiber, said, slapping the crushed blob of brass into his open hands. "Start with this. If that thing in the hole is some new kind of enemy weapon, the future of your country may depend on learning what it is and what it was supposed to do."

"What if we end up with a church steeple?" the major joked.

"Then you better get down on your knees, son. Because if the Russkies have turned God Almighty to their side, America doesn't have a prayer."

The major started to laugh. He swallowed his mirth. The general was not smiling. In fact, he looked serious. Dead serious. The major hurried off to carry out the general's orders.

Chapter 2

His name was Remo and he couldn't remember ever being in this much trouble before.

As he ran down the wooded road, his deep-set eyes searching the trees on either side, Remo Williams did not look like a man in trouble. He looked like a jogger. Except that he wore shoes of excellent Italian leather, gray chinos and, even though the temperature was hovering just under the freezing mark, a fresh white T-shirt.

He clutched a coil of rope in one fist. The skin was drawn tight over his high cheekbones. His dark eyes looked stricken.

A sporty red Corvette zipped past him and Remo broke into a floating run. Showing no apparent effort, he caught up with the Corvette and, checking the two-lane road to see that no cars were coming at him from the opposite direction, he drew alongside the driver's side of the car.

The car was doing a decorous forty-five miles an hour. Remo knocked on the driver's window.

The window hummed down and a blue-eyed woman with mahogany hair looked him up and down with a dreamy expression.

"I'll bet you could go all night, too," she said. She didn't seem surprised to see a man keeping pace with a speeding automobile. Remo looked so ordinary that some people refused to accept the evidence of their eyes when they saw him perform the impossible.

"Have you seen an elephant walking along this road?" Remo asked. There was no pleasure in his eyes.

The woman raised an ironic eyebrow. Her smile broadened. "Maybe you could describe him," she suggested.

"He's an elephant. Gray. Wrinkled skin. Small for an elephant. No tusks."

"A lot of elephants fit that description," the woman said breathily. "Could you be more specific?"

"Lady, I guarantee you he's the only elephant in the neighborhood. Now, have you seen him?"

"I'm trying to think," she said slowly. "It's possible. Maybe if you drew me a picture. I have some crayons back at my apartment."

"No time," Remo said, and pulled away.

The woman frowned, and deciding that the conversation had ended prematurely, hit the accelerator. The needle jumped to seventy and clawed at seventy-five. But try as she might, the Corvette kept losing ground at each whipsaw turn in the road.

The turns didn't seem to stop the man in the white T-shirt. She lost sight of him after he topped a rise in the road and never caught up. She decided to drive down this road every day at this time until she encountered him again. It was crazy, of course. But there was something about the guy. She just couldn't put her finger on it....

Remo was close to panic. There was no way he was returning without the elephant. Chiun would kill him. Not literally, of course. Although Chiun was the head of an ancient line of assassins and could snuff out a man's life with a casual gesture, he wouldn't kill Remo. That would be too merciful. Instead, the Master of Sinanju would make Remo's life miserable. He knew many ways of doing that, most of them verbal.

Seeing no sign of an elephant on the long stretch of open road before him, Remo plunged into the woods. For the thousandth time he wished he hadn't left the gate open.

It had been Remo's turn to water Chiun's pet elephant. Remo had led the pachyderm out of the shed where he was kept, and had gone to find the hose. The gardener of Folcroft Sanitarium where Remo and Chiun currently resided-had walked off with it. By the time Remo had talked the man out of the hose, the elephant, whose name was Rambo, had strolled out the opened gate of Folcroft.

Remo had unlocked the gate earlier. After he had hosed Rambo down, he intended to take him for a walk. Opening the gate first was meant to make Remo's job easier. It was Remo's turn to walk the elephant, too.

Remo had run out immediately, but the elephant had already melted out of sight. Remo hesitated near the gate, and decided two searchers would be infinitely better than one. He hurried to find Chiun, who would certainly understand when Remo explained the accident.

Remo found Chiun doing his morning exercises. He sat in a lotus position on the Folcroft gymnasium floor, tapping a bar of chilled steel suspended between two uprights with his long fingernails. He was a happy little mummy of a Korean gentleman, with pleasantly wrinkled features and the merest wisp of hair on his chin. He wore a canary-yellow kimono. He looked frail enough to snap in a stiff wind.

But when Remo blurted out, "I'm sorry, Little Father, but Rambo ran away," Chiun paused in mid-stroke. Then one fingernail continued down to sever the half-inch bar. It clattered to the pinewood floor in two neat sections.

Chiun got to his feet, his venerable face turning to granite.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I was only gone a minute," Remo repeated.

"Find him." Chiun's normally squeaky voice was like chopsticks breaking.

"I thought two heads would be better than one," Remo said meekly.

"You thought wrong," said Chiun. "Why should I expend precious moments of my declining years cleaning up after your mistakes?"

"It's your elephant."

"Entrusted to you. And misplaced by you."

"He walked off. It was his own idea."

"And if he is now lying in some filthy ditch after being struck by a careless motor-carriage driver, I suppose that would be his fault too?"

Remo started to get angry. He checked himself. "C'mon, Little Father. You can at least help out."

"I will."

"Good."

"I will give you an additional impetus to search faster."

"Huh?"

"I will hold my breath until my precious baby is restored to me."

And Chiun inhaled mightily. His cheeks puffed out like a blowfish. He stopped breathing.

"Awww, no, you don't have to do that."

When Chiun's cheeks puffed out further, Remo threw up placating hands.

"Okay, okay. I'll find him. Stay right here."

Remo ran out of Foleroft and down the road, knowing that Chiun was not bluffing. He would stubbornly hold his breath until Remo returned with the Master of Sinanju's "baby," no matter how long it took.

Already it had been half an hour and Remo had found no trace of Rambo. He had no idea how long Chiun could hold his breath without exhaling. Chiun was a Master of Sinanju, the sun source of the martial arts. Masters of Sinanju were capable of incredible discipline. Remo was a Master too, and had once tried to test his own ability at holding his breath. He went exactly thirty-seven minutes before he got bored. Chiun, having trained Remo in Sinanju, was probably good for an hour. At least.

So Chiun was in no immediate danger. But he would make Remo pay for every breath not taken.

Remo found no tracks in the forest. He stopped in the middle of a stand of poplars, their dead, frozen leaves making no sound under his careful feet. He went up a tree to get a better view.

Back the way he had come, Remo spotted a police car pulled over to the side of the road, its light bar painting the surroundings a washed-out blue. Two cops stepped gingerly from each door with guns drawn.

They advanced carefully on a small elephant who looked like a corrugated gray medicine ball balanced on stubby feet.

"Oh, hell!" Remo said, sliding down the tree. He flashed through the woods like an arrow.

Remo skidded to a stop beside the police cruiser. "Hey, fellas, hold up," Remo called.

The cops turned in unison. Behind them, the elephant regarded the scene with tiny dull eyes. His trunk seemed to wave to Remo.

"Don't shoot him!" Remo pleaded.

One cop jerked his thumb at Rambo. "Yours?" he asked.

"Not exactly."

Uncertain how to handle an elephant, the cops turned their attention to Remo, their weapons dropping into their holsters. They were in their mid-forties, with hulking shoulders and meaty faces. They wore nearly identical expressions, like clones. Remo decided they were typical for cops who had seen too much and liked so little of it that they had shut down emotionally long ago. Remo knew how it was. A long time ago, he had been a cop too. Back before he had been framed for a crime he didn't do and executed in an electric chair that didn't work.

"Whose is it, then?" asked the first cop. Remo thought of him as the first cop because his nose hadn't yet been discolored by burst capillaries.

"A friend of mine. And he's very anxious to get him back."

"This friend. He have a permit to keep an elephant?" This from the second cop. The one with the Santa Clausred nose.

"I don't think he's gotten around to it yet. The elephant's only been in this country a month. But I'll be sure to bring it up."

"Is that a leash?"

"This?" Remo asked, hefting the coil of rope. "Yeah."

"Can you control this animal?"

"He'll come with me if I approach him right."

"In that case, we're going to ask you to leash the elephant and follow us to the station."

"Why?"

"You've allowed him to roam a major road, where he could be injured by a car. That's reckless endangerment of an animal."

"He ran away on his own."

"We'll look into that too. And you may have to prove ownership."

Remo's shoulders sagged. He could neutralize these two faster than they could blink, but they were cops. And they were only doing their jobs.

Then Remo suddenly had a vision of Chiun's face. It was red, on its way to turning purple.

"I'll put the leash on him," Remo said, and started to approach the elephant.

Rambo saw the rope in Remo's hand and reared up. His trunk waved like a wrinkled python. He trumpeted in warning. The two cops pulled their service revolvers just as two blunt forefeet came down on the hood of the cruiser.

"Oh, no!" Remo groaned as Rambo smacked the light bar with his trunk. The light bar abruptly shut down. Then the elephant stepped off the hood. The hood bore a shallow dent.

The first cop turned to Remo and said, "That's destruction of police property, buddy, and you're under arrest." The red-nosed cop took aim on the elephant's head and Remo knew that choice no longer entered into the picture. He disarmed the first cop in the simplest manner. He grabbed at the buckle of his gunbelt and tugged sharply. The gunbelt ended up in Remo's hand. He threw it into the woods. Then Remo tapped the cop in the exact center of his forehead. The man's bloodshot eyes rolled up in his head and he fell like a slab of beef.

The other cop was about to shoot. Remo chopped at the side of his neck and the man fell into his waiting arms. Remo made a quick noose of the rope and snared the elephant's trunk. But Rambo threw off the noose and reared up on his hind legs.

"Don't make this any harder than it has to be," Remo muttered.

Rambo started to drop back to all fours. The way his trunk flayed the air told Remo he was upset. He would run the moment his feet touched ground. Remo moved in first.

When the front feet came down, Remo was there to catch them. He pushed at the elephant's padded feet with both hands. Rambo trumpeted angrily. He pushed harder, his entire wrinkled weight leaning against Remo.

Remo kept the stumpy forefeet above the ground. Seeming to exert no effort, he kept Rambo off balance. When the elephant tried to step back, Remo stepped forward, still pushing.

Anyone who had driven down the road would have been treated to the sight of a rail-thin man doing the minuet with an Asian elephant. And the man was leading. Remo kept the elephant off balance until the pachyderm began to tire. When he sensed that moment had come, he stepped back. Rambo's forefeet struck the ground. Remo lassoed the knobby head with a quick, easy motion. He tugged Rambo over to the side of the road and tethered him to a tree.

"Stay," Remo said firmly.

Then Remo hurried back to the prowl car. He dug into the glove compartment and found, as he expected, a flask. He uncapped it and poured a mouthful down the throat of each recumbent cop, kneading their larynxes so that they swallowed safely. Then he placed one behind the wheel and the other in the seat beside him.

Before untying Rambo, Remo popped the hood and, balancing on the front fender, flattened out the dent with the palms of his hands. He looked like a cook kneading pizza dough.

When he closed the hood, the car looked as good as new. And when the two cops woke up and realized that they had been drinking-even if they couldn't remember tasting a drop-they would dismiss what they'd seen as a hallucination.

The Master of Sinanju wasn't purple when Remo found him. His face was blue. Light blue. Kind of a robin's-egg blue. But he was definitely blue.

Remo figured he had been gone not quite two hours. "I found him," Remo said hastily. "He's outside."

The Master of Sinanju folded his arms stubbornly. His cheeks still puffed out defiantly.

"Look for yourself if you don't believe me," Remo said. Chiun shook his head, which was bald but for tufts of hair over each ear.

"You want something else?" Remo asked frantically. Chiun nodded.

"What?"

Chiun did not say. His hazel eyes regarded Remo pointedly.

"I already apologized," Remo said. Chiun nodded.

"It won't happen again."

Chiun nodded as if in agreement. "You want more?"

Chiun raised a long-nailed finger in assent.

"Look, if you want to stick me with some punishment, okay, but do you have to make me work for it too?" Chiun's eyes brightened. Remo was starting to get the idea.

"We walk him every day. No more taking turns." Chiun's upraised finger indicated acceptance of Remo's offer. But he still did not draw breath.

"And hose him down daily."

A second finger joined the upraised one.

"Twice daily. Okay! Twice daily. Now, come on. You're turning bright blue."

Chiun made sweeping motions with both hands.

"No, not that. I'm not cleaning up after him. No way." Chiun folded his arms, and deep inside him, he coughed. But he refused to let the cough escape his lips. He seemed to shrink. The bluish cast to his face darkened and he suddenly clutched at his thin breast.

"Okay, okay! You win. I'll clean up after him too. Anything else?"

Chiun released his breath in a long, gusty exhalation. "How should I know?" he squeaked. "You are doing all the negotiating."

And then he floated out of the room like a happy elf. Remo stood in the middle of Folcroft Sanitarium, his teeth clenched and his face slowly turning red.

Dr. Harold W. Smith picked that moment to enter the room, peering owlishly at Remo through rimless glasses. "Could I see you one moment?" Smith said in a serious tone. "It's about your elephant."

Chapter 3

"It's not my elephant," Remo said in a defensive voice. He had followed Dr. Harold W. Smith up to Smith's Spartan office. Smith closed the door after them and retreated to the security of his shabby desk.

"You brought it back from Vietnam," Smith said flatly.

"Chiun made me. It was his idea. I wanted no part of this. If you want to get rid of the elephant, you have my total, unconditional moral support. Just don't quote me."

"We can't have an unlicensed animal like that on the grounds. This is supposed to be a private hospital. On that basis alone, I'm risking health-code violations and problems with AMA recertification." Just the thought of those bureaucratic hassles brought that old, haggard look to Smith's gaunt, lemony face. Smith reached into a desk drawer and Remo made a mental bet with himself that out would come the aspirin. Smith's haggard look suggested aspirin. His sour look usually signaled a liquid antacid binge. On occasion, it would be Alka-Seltzer. Smith was not wearing his Alka-Seltzer face today, so Remo was dead certain it would be aspirin.

"Talk to Chiun," Remo said exasperatedly. "You have good security reasons. Just give him the chapter and verse."

"The health-code matter of course is not uppermost," Smith told him. "Folcroft is a secret government installation. Security must be our primary concern at all times. An elephant is bound to attract attention."

"Save it for Chiun, Smitty. It's out of my hands."

Out of the desk drawer came a paper cup, and a worried notch appeared between Remo's eyes. A paper cup usually meant aspirin, but Smith always took his aspirin with water from the office dispenser. Why would Smith have a paper cup in the desk when they were racked next to the bottled mineral water?

"I hold you responsible for this elephant situation," Smith said, digging around in the drawer.

"Why me? I told you it was Chiun's idea."

"Which he wouldn't have gotten had he not been forced to follow you to Vietnam. Need I remind you that you were in that country despite my strict orders?"

"I don't want to rehash that mission."

"It was not a mission," said Smith. "It was a renegade action on your part."

"Rub it in, why don't you?" Remo slouched onto the office couch. Why was everyone on his case today?

"I am not even mentioning the expense to the taxpayers of having the elephant shipped to Folcroft. I'm sure there are naval officers who are still trying to learn how an Asian elephant came to be on a United States submarine. By the way, how did you get the animal into the sub in the first place?"

"Through the weapons-shipping hatch," Remo said sourly. "I told Chiun he wouldn't go down the conning tower, but it didn't discourage him. The sub captain tried to bluff Chiun too, but Chiun's been on too many subs in the past. He knew about the big hatch. He made them open it and Chiun prodded Rambo inside."

"Hmmm," said Smith absently. He pulled out an aerosol can, on which the words "FREE SAMPLE" were marked in red. Remo had never heard of aerosol aspirin, and he wondered if Smith was going to fool him and shave instead. But Smith's jaw looked as if it had seen a straight razor in the last hour.

Remo watched with growing puzzlement. Smith's odd New England habits fascinated Remo in a peculiar way. For many years Remo had resented the cold Smith. It was Smith who had set Remo up, so that his faked execution wiped away all traces of Remo's existence. It wasn't done out of malice, but because Smith had been charged with running a supersecret government agency called CURE. It was set up to deal with national-security problems in an off-the-books manner. Officially, it didn't exist. So its single agent, the former Remo Williams, could not exist either. Twenty years and countless operations later, the bitter edge of their working relationship had softened. And so Remo watched with faint amusement as Smith upended the tiny aerosol can and squirted a white, foamy substance into the paper cup. It was not shaving cream. It lacked the pungent medicinal smell--although there was a faint lime scent.

"Free sample, huh?" Remo said to fill the lull in the conversation.

Smith nodded and brought the cup to his lips. His skinny Adam's apple didn't bob as it usually did when Smith drank something. He tilted his white-haired head back further. Smith looked very uncomfortable. Maybe it was whipped cream, Remo thought.

"Can I get you a cupcake or something?" Remo offered. Smith's head came back down and the cup dropped from his face. His expression was especially sour, and annoyed. There was a dab of the white stuff on the tip of his nose.

"I must be doing something wrong," Smith muttered. He turned the can around in his hand as if looking for directions.

"Try squirting it directly into your mouth," Remo suggested in a pleasant voice.

Smith considered Remo's suggestion with a serious expression. Remo hadn't been serious. He leaned forward, anticipating Smith's next move.

But instead of squirting the stuff into his mouth, Smith dipped a finger into the cup and brought the foam-laden digit to his lips. He licked the finger clean, and went back for more.

"This is very inconvenient," Smith said to himself.

"Use your tongue," Remo prompted.

Much to Remo's surprise, Smith did. He scoured the bottom of the cup, getting more foam on his nose. Some of it collected at the corners of his mouth too. Remo decided not to bring it to his attention.

Finishing up, Smith capped the can and returned it to his desk. He looked at the cup as if considering its reuse. Reluctantly he threw it into a green wastebasket that Remo happened to know was purchased used from a grammar school that had been forced to close down. Smith had sat through a three-hour auction to get it, thereby saving forty-seven cents.

Smith looked up, his face businesslike except for the dabs of white substance.

"When did you become a whipped-cream fiend?" Rema asked with a straight face.

"Never," Smith said humorlessly. "That was an antacid product."

"Aerosol?"

"It's new. Supposed to be easier to take, but I didn't think so."

"I'll bet you go back for more anyway."

"Can we get back to the matter at hand?"

"Talk to Chiun. It's his elephant."

"I will need your assistance, Remo. I sometimes think the Master of Sinanju does not understand my concerns. He seems to listen, and gives positive answers, but then he forgets our conversations ten minutes later."

"Chiun understands more than you think. If he doesn't understand something, it's because he doesn't want to. He loves that elephant. I know. He's got me trained to see to its every need. You tell him he has to get rid of it and I guarantee you he will not understand a word you say."

"I have to try. Every day that elephant remains at Folcroft places us at risk."

"So talk to Chiun. I'm not stopping you."

"I would like you to back me up. Help me get through to him."

Remo sighed. "Normally, I'd say no way. But I'm facing a lifetime of stable cleaning if Rambo doesn't go. I guess it can't hurt to try. Chiun can't get any madder at me than he already is."

"Good," said Smith, buzzing his secretary.

"But I'm telling you right now, it won't work."

The Master of Sinanju arrived moments later. He ignored Remo and bowed politely before Smith.

"A thousand greetings of the morning, O Emperor Smith," he said roundly. "Your servant informed me that my presence was required, and my sandaled feet flew with wide-eyed anticipation to your sanctum sanetorum."

"Er, thank you, Master Chiun," Smith said uncomfortably.

Chiun beamed at his emperor.

Smith cleared his throat. He cleared it a second time. Chiun cocked his head to one side inquisitively.

"I ... I crave a ... a boon," Smith said at last. He fidgeted with a pencil.

"A boon?" asked Chiun, who had never before heard Smith use such kingly words. It was good at last to see Smith embrace his true state in life. Although Chiun knew that Smith did not exactly rule America, he understood that Smith wielded power second only to the President. And for centuries Chiun's ancestors had worked for royalty of all nations. Therefore Smith was royalty of a sort.

"What boon?" Chiun asked in a delighted voice. "Merely state it and I will consider it my duty."

Smith hesitated. He looked at Remo helplessly.

On the couch, Remo tensed. "Here it comes," he said, bracing himself for the explosion.

"I wish . . . that is, I request ... I mean, for security reasons your pet elephant presents serious problems." Chiun clapped his hands suddenly. The sound was so loud Smith jumped in his cracked leather chair. Even Remo was taken by surprise. He wisely started to inch toward the door.

"Say no more," proclaimed the Master of Sinanju in a loud voice. Loud, but not angry. Remo hesitated with his hand on the doorknob.

"But I-" Smith began.

Chiun lifted a quelling hand imperiously.

"I had not planned for this so soon," said Chiun, "but so be it. Be so good, Emperor, as to gaze out yon window." Uncertainly Smith swiveled his seat around. He stared out the big picture window overlooking Long Island Sound. There, by the docks, Rambo grazed contentedly. "Your elephant?" Smith said hesitantly.

"No, O Emperor," Chiun corrected. "Not my elephant."

"It's not mine," Remo said quickly.

"Of course not," Chiun said. "It is the Emperor Smith's elephant. His royal elephant, to do with as he pleases."

"As I please?" Smith asked unsteadily.

"Yes, did you think I have had Remo training him all these weeks for my own pleasure? No. As a Master of Sinanju, I must be ready at a moment's notice to travel to any corner of the globe to do your bidding. As much as I love pets, I cannot be so encumbered. I knew this when I rescued the poor beast from the cruel Vietnamese. I knew that you were a lover of pets, and would therefore delight in owning him. Consider it a token of my esteem for long years of fruitful employment."

"Smith?" Remo said incredulously. "A lover of pets?" Behind his own back, Chiun made quieting gestures at Remo.

"I ... I had a pet turtle once," Smith muttered. "That was a long time ago. It died."

"The loss still marks your kingly visage," Chiun announced. "But now you have many years of joyous pleasure to catch up on and I will not take up any more of our valuable time."

Without another word, the Master of Sinanju floated out the door. As he brushed past Remo, there was a mischievous gleam in Chiun's bright eyes that Remo had seen before. He grabbed for the doorknob as Chiun closed the door behind him. But it would not budge. Remo strained. The doorknob came off in his hands and it was then that Remo knew he had fallen into a trap. Chiun was holding the door closed from the other side. Chiun, who knew Smith's next words before Remo heard them. Probably even before Smith himself formulated them in his mind.

"Remo," Smith said, "I must ask you to find a home for that creature. Keeping him is of course out of the question." Remo said nothing. His groan was eloquent enough. After Remo had left, Smith touched a concealed stud that brought his CURE operations-desk terminal rising out of its desktop recess. From this terminal, which was connected to a bank of mainframe computers concealed in Folcroft's basement, Smith had instant access to virtually all nationwide data links. The CURE computers were the heart of his day-to-day operation. Through them, his ability to correlate endless, seemingly unrelated trivia alerted Smith to domestic problems before they exploded into full-blown crises. Through his computers, Smith anonymously tipped off normal law-enforcement agencies to these problems. Only when a crisis did occur, would Smith unleash Remo and Chiun.

As he scanned news digests of the evening, Smith found only the usual situations. One oddity was a sketchy report of a fire in Lafayette park in the District of Columbia. The CURE software had flagged it only because of its proximity to the White House. But it appeared to be a routine matter.

But when Smith switched over to monitor message traffic between the various branches of the government and the military, he suddenly sat up in his chair. Milnet and Arpanet traffic were virtually nonexistent. The systems were up. But no one was passing data. It was as if there was a blackout or a paralysis of communications.

It was very puzzling, but it seemed to be centered in the Washington, D.C., area. That might have been because Washington was the home of most government agencies. But even on a dull day, CIA message traffic was not this light. And the intermilitary lines were unusually quiet too.

Nothing was happening. The few messages Smith did intercept were so routine as to border on trivia. It was as if even though these computer links were considered secure, the government had clamped down on their use so that even in the upper levels of the U.S. government, there were no leaks.

Fascinated, Smith switched over to other information-gathering sources. Everyone was acting as if nothing was happening. That alone was suspicious: In the government, something was always happening. And Smith was determined to discover just what it was.

He hunched over his terminal, his gray eyes coming to life. Interfacing with his system, Dr. Harold W. Smith was in his element. Something close to a smile of satisfaction hovered at the edges of his dry lips. Absently he licked the remnants of the aerosol antacid from their corners. He was so deep in thought, the chalky taste did not even register.

Chapter 4

General Martin S. Leiber finished shoving his desk over so that it blocked the door to his Pentagon office. He had sent his secretary home. He pulled down the window shades and turned on all the lights even though it was barely noon.

Tough times called for tough measures. He got behind his desk and laid a hand on the telephone. He waited. Every minute increased the risk. If the Joint Chiefs of Staff wanted him, they would have to come for him. The longer they held off, the better his chances improved. He could almost feel the weight of those extra stars on his shoulder epaulets. Never mind the extra perks; they meant a stiff ten thousand dollars a year in retirement benefits.

If he could stall the Joint Chiefs just a little longer. They were calling for answers. General Leiber had put them off with some military double-talk. He had already fielded one call from the President of the United States this morning. The President was concerned.

"Is it safe to come out?" the President had asked.

"Negative, Mr. President," General Leiber told him. "We have not yet identified the threat."

"But Washington has not been destroyed?"

"It would be premature for me to comment on that, Mr. President."

"Premature!" The President's voice skittered dangerously toward falsetto. "The nation's capital is either standing or it isn't. Which is it?"

"It's not that simple, Mr. President," General Leiber went on, sweat gathering under his iron-gray toupee. "The city has experienced an attack of unknown origin."

"But it failed."

"The first strike may have failed. But it may not. Mr. President, I will be frank. We do not know the meaning of this attack. That is bad enough. But we are desperately attempting to establish the nature of the weapon itself."

"I was told that it was a missile."

"You have been misinformed, sir. We know no such thing. At present, the threat object is unclassifiable. It's true there was no explosion or release of radiation, but in the absence of knowing what this thing was supposed to do, we can't rule out the possibility that it won't develop into a threat situation. "

"I don't understand. The thing was a dud, right?"

"We don't know that. In fact, we know so little that any conclusion or action we might contemplate would be premature-even downright dangerous. I strongly advise you to stay underground until we know that it is safe to come up. Even if this object which is now being evaluated by the brightest minds in the Air Force-is a nonthreat, we cannot assume that a second strike might not be imminent."

"Maybe I should be talking to the joint Chiefs. What do they say?"

''I have already spoken with them and we are in complete ... um"-General Leiber searched for an apt word that was not exactly a lie and, he hoped, not in the President's vocabulary-"equanimity about the situation," he said. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought.

"Well, if they think that's the best course, I guess I could stay down here another few hours. But dammit, this is my first day in office. I'm anxious to get up there and lead."

"I understand, sir. But your security is top priority. And please, do not call again. We don't know if those phones are tapped. We don't want the enemy to know where you are. "

"Yes, I see," said the President vaguely. "I appreciate your patriotism. It was fortunate a man of your caliber was on duty when this thing happened. I hope you will continue to act as my surrogate in this crisis."

"Don't worry, Mr. President, I'm on top of it." General Leiber hung up. His eyes were bright. If this didn't work exactly right, he could kiss his pension adios and be up for high treason to boot. If only that fool of a major would call. How long could it take them to analyze that thing?

The phone rang and General Leiber reached for it eagerly. He hesitated, scratching absently at his mustache. Might be the joint Chiefs. Carefully he picked up the phone but said nothing. If it was the joint Chiefs, he'd crackle some paper against the receiver and try to bluff it out as a bad connection.

Finally a voice asked, "Hello?"

"That you, Major Cheek?"

"Yes, General. You said you wanted to hear the minute we confirmed anything."

"Yes," said General Leiber. "But speak carefully, man. This line may be tapped."

"Yessir, General," Major Cheek said. "Now, what have you got?"

"Confirmation, sir."

"Outstanding! Outstanding, Major. Confirmation of what?"

"The object we discussed, sir."

"Yes, yes, I know. But what is it? Come on, out with it. "

"A bell."

"A what?"

"I can confirm that the mashed brass object is definitely a bell."

General Leiber looked at the receiver clutched in his whitening hand and his eyes got sick. His mouth moved, but nothing came out. Finally he got control of himself.

"A bell?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

"Total confirmation. We even got it to ring. Listen." From the background came a discordant sound like a sick buoy.

"A bell," General Leiber repeated. "You've been at it half the day and all you have is a bell. What about the zillion tons of scrap you pulled out of that hole, mister?"

Mostly iron, sir. Scorched and pitted. Some of it has fused into slag. We do have several less-damaged sections we are still analyzing, but they're a real mess. This could take days."

"Days," General Leiber said. His voice cracked. Then he pulled himself together. His voice became tight. "We don't have days, mister. The security of the United States of America is at stake here. Do you understand the seriousness of this situation?"

"I think I do, General."

"Think! I know! I know how damn serious it is!"

"We'll need better equipment."

"Anything. I can procure anything you need. What? Name it. Spectroscopic analyzers. Metallurgic equipment. I can probably rustle up an electron telescope if necessary."

"I think you mean microscope, General. There's no such thing as an electron telescope."

"Don't split hairs with me. Just give me a list."

"First we'll need anvils."

"ANVILS, right." General Lieber started a list. "Refresh my memory. That's an acronym for what?"

"Nothing, sir. An anvil is a block blacksmiths use to hammer metal on. We've got a lot of mangled iron here. The only way to deal with it is to heat it up and try to restore the parts to their original forms."

"I understand, but we won't call them anvils. Well call them Metallurgical Component Restoration Bases."

"With all due respect, General, I think you could get them faster if you simply asked for anvils."

"How much would you guestimate an anvil would cost?"

"Oh, less than a hundred dollars each."

"If we call them Metallurgical Component Restoration Bases, I can add an extra zero to the end of that figure."

The major sighed. "I understand perfectly, sir."

"Now, what else?"

"Hammers."

"High-Impact Reshaping Implements. Hi-Rimps for short."

"Something to heat the metal pieces for reforming. I don't know what they call those things."

"Free-Standing Tripodal Heating Stations," the general said, thinking of a blue-tag special on barbecue grills he had seen at a hardware store. He could buy those himself, jack up the price, and pocket the difference. He wrote it down.

"Tongs."

"Manual Securing Tools," said General Leiber, adding Mansees to the list. "Anything else?"

"The work would go a lot faster if we had experienced blacksmiths. "

"Metallurgical Consultants!" the general shouted, his eyes lighting up. "Now you're talking! Consultants are a big budget item."

"Yes, sir," said the major, who wondered where national security fit into all of this.

"You'll have all this stuff by midday." And the general hung up. He quickly made a series of phone calls. His years of wheeling and dealing as a procurement officer had built up a network of contacts and suppliers. If it could be bought or bartered, General Leiber could get it.

An hour later, he had everything but the blacksmiths and the barbecue grills. The latter items he intended to pick up himself. But the blacksmiths were tough. His regular network of suppliers did not deal in such people. There wasn't even a listing for blacksmiths in the yellow pages. They were hard to track down.

This called for extraordinary assistance, General Leiber told himself. He asked the Pentagon operator to put in an overseas call to Zurich, Switzerland.

A flat, emotionless voice answered in the middle of the first ring.

"Friendship, International," it said.

"Hello, Friend."

"Hello, General Leiber. It is good of you to call."

"I didn't think you'd remember me, Friend," General Leiber said.

"Your voice registered instantly. I never forget a customer."

"I have something more urgent than our last deal."

"I trust the Cuban cigars were satisfactory."

"I'm down to my last box. But we can chew that over later. I need something special and you're the only guy I know who might be able to help."

"How may I help?"

"Blacksmiths. I need maybe twenty of them. But we can't call them blacksmiths. We'll have to put them down as Metallurgical Consultants.''

"I can supply. For the right price."

"I can offer seven hundred dollars an hour. Plus meals. But they have to be on a plane to Washington within an hour."

"Feasible. But your price is too low."

"For crying out loud, they're only blacksmiths."

"Metallurgical Consultants," the other voice corrected. "Okay, one thousand dollars an hour. And I'll put them up in the best hotels for the duration of the assignment."

"I would prefer to barter. Like the last time."

"I don't know about that. I almost got-caught last time."

"I do not require any more shoulder-fired missiles. My shoulder-fired-missile stock is satisfactory. I have another client who requires something special. Something you may be in a position to supply."

'What?"

"A substance called carbon-carbon."

"Never heard of it."

"It is a filament substance used to coat the nose cones of missiles to protect them against reentry burnup. It is very expensive and very difficult to secure. I need thirty miles of it."

"Sounds like NASA stuff," the general said. "I can't make any promises, but I can look into it."

"Look into it. I will have your Metallurgical Consultants assembled by the time you call back."

"Gotcha," said General Leiber, hanging up. He dialed another number, thinking that he should have thought of Friendship, International sooner. That funny-voiced guy had always come through in the past. If only he didn't always ask for the moon....

By three P.M., exactly twelve hours after the unknown object had impacted on United States soil, the carbon-carbon spools were on their way to Zurich and the Metallurgical Consultants were en route to Washington. General Leiber had even found time to get the barbecue grills. He had them delivered to a roped-off aircraft hangar at Andrews Air Force Base while he returned to his coveted window office in the outer ring of the Pentagon.

But when he stepped into his office, he knew that the joint Chiefs of Staff could no longer be denied. They were there, waiting for him. They were also rummaging through his desk.

General Leiber gave them a snappy salute. The Joint Chiefs, representing the highest officers of the combined United States military, returned his salute. Their faces were stern.

"General Leiber, we demand to know what is going on."

"I have the situation in hand," General Leiber said. He chewed his mustache concernedly.

"The President won't take our calls. We understand he has delegated all crisis-management responsibility to you."

"I happened to be on duty when the threat object impacted. I am the only one with operational knowledge of the situation."

"For God's sake, you're only a two-starrer."

"Not my fault, sir. I was passed over last time."

"That's not what he means and you know it," said an Army general. General Leiber declined to reply. He did not deal with the Army. Even if the Army general did outrank him by two stars.

"Where is this threat object?" an Air Force general asked. General Leiber had to answer him.

"In a secure area being analyzed, General."

"Where?"

"I cannot tell you that."

"Cannot? Why not?" the general roared.

"Because if I reveal its location, you very important officers will rush to inspect it."

"That's our damn job."

"And expose yourselves to unknown risks. As the President's surrogate, I would be derelict in my duty if I allowed you to expose yourselves to possible death."

"Death? Then the object is armed?"

"My team is attempting to confirm that."

"Is Washington still in danger?"

"My people are unable to say at this time. They are trying to identify the nature of the KKV."

"KKV?"

"Kinetic Kill Vehicle," said General Leiber.

An involuntary gasp came from the joint Chiefs. They sounded like spinsters who had stumbled into a massage parlor.

"That is what I have designated the unknown. Until we know its mission and capabilities, I am assuming it is hostile."

"Then it's not a dud missile."

"I can safely say that its constitutional elements give a strong indication of belonging to an offensive weapon hitherto unknown to the global stage."

The Joint Chiefs looked edgy. And General Leiber knew he had them right where he wanted them.

"Sirs, I realize I may be overstepping my authority, but it is my professional opinion as an officer that we face two scenarios here."

"Go on."

"Scenario one: we have been attacked by an unknown weapon launched by an unknown power. The double nature of the unknownness clearly indicates that none of our normal tactical responses are necessarily viable."

"What does that mean, exactly?"

"That we would be foolish to assume that just because the KKV has not gone off on impact that it was designed to go off on impact. It may be a delayed-reaction device of some kind."

"Yes. It's possible. Good thinking."

"Scenario two," General Leiber went on, feeling the mood shift in his favor. "It was a misfire. The KKV failed in its primary mission."

"In that case, Washington may be in no immediate danger. "

"Wrong. The danger is just as great. Even greater. Whoever launched the KKV knows by now their first strike failed. They are right now evaluating the situation. They must assume that we are analyzing their weapon. Once we succeed, we should be able to identify its origin. And when we do that, we have no choice but to take retaliatory measures."

The Joint Chiefs nodded. The general was absolutely correct. Once they identified the aggressor, they would have to take retaliatory action or risk showing weakness in the face of a brazen attack.

"Therefore," General Leiber said quickly, "it is incumbent upon this enemy to launch a second strike. To take out our command structure before we can identify and retaliate. Every minute that ticks by brings us closer to a second strike."

The Joint Chiefs looked at one another. General Leiber had analyzed the situation with terrifying clarity. Either way it stacked up, they were standing on ground zero.

"Well," said the Air Force general, clearing his throat. "If the President has designated you as surrogate, I don't feel we are in a position to second-guess him. What do you gentlemen think?"

There was a chorus of agreement. A ribbon-bedecked admiral turned to General Leiber.

"General, if this great nation is facing a crisis of such vast proportions as you describe, it is incumbent upon us to advance to a position of command. If Washington goes, someone will have to manage the next phase."

"Yes, sir," said General Leiber.

"If you want us, we'll be down in the Tank. Carry on." General Lener saluted snappily. Sweat trickled down the gully of his spine. It was as cold as day-old dishwater. And after the Joint Chiefs had marched out of the room, he sank into his chair trembling.

It was a hell of a gamble, but it had worked. The Joint Chiefs were riding a high-speed elevator down to the nuke-proof command bunker under the Pentagon. They wouldn't dare stir until he gave the all-clear signal.

And General Martin S. Leiber wasn't about to give the all-clear until General Leiber was in the damned clear. He grabbed the telephone and got down to the high-risk business of career advancement.

Chapter 5

Something was definitely wrong.

Dr. Harold W. Smith's ordinarily pale face was greenish from the backglow of his CURE terminal. If he leaned any closer to the CRT tube, he would bump it with his nose.

Official Washington seemed to be operating under a blanket of secrecy tighter than anything Smith had ever seen before. It was ominous. In the past, no matter how grave the crisis, there was a storm of leaks and rumors. Not this time. This time the routine political games were not being played. It was as if the situation was so grave everyone from the CIA to the Pentagon had decided to work as if they were on the same team, which of course they were.

Smith paged through his on-screen interceptions. There was unusual activity at Andrews Air Force Base. Movements of classified individuals and materiel. The Joint Chiefs of Staff had abruptly left their offices. Among the NORAD and Spacetrack early-warning systems, every unit had been quietly ordered to narrow its field of focus on a certain segment of the sky over the Atlantic Ocean. They were searching for something. Or they expected something. An attack.

As usual, it was the press who first noticed something was amiss. The media did not have a news story, per se. In fact, it was the absence of a story that started the rumor mills buzzing.

Specifically, where was the President of the United States?

The Washington press corps had expected a round of photo opportunities today. After all, it was the first working day for the new President. But the press corps was turned away by a nervous press secretary with the explanation that the President was "indisposed."

Smith frowned when that item greeted his eyes. He punched up the whereabouts of the Vice-President. The Vice-President was not in Washington either. He had returned to his home state very suddenly. The whereabouts of the Acting Secretary of Defense was unknown. And Congress wasn't due to reconvene for another week.

Smith made a series of untraceable phone calls. Pretending to be a wire-service reporter, he tried calling the heads of the CIA, the FBI, and other intelligence services. They were all out of town for the day, he was told.

When Smith hung up the phone, he was trembling slightly. The President had apparently disappeared and everyone else had left town. What the hell was going on? Who was in charge down there?

Smith picked up the dialless red telephone that was direct line to an identical phone tucked away in the nightstand in the President's bedroom. He listened to the ringing at the other end. One ring. Then two. Then three. It was a new President, so there was no telling how long he would take to get to the phone. The last President usually took six rings.

After twenty rings, Smith replaced the receiver, his face gray. The President was not going to answer. Smith was forced to conclude that he could not answer. The President was either not in the White House or no longer among the living.

Smith ordered the CURE computer to scan all official Washington phone lines for high activity. But even the phones were quiet. Small wonder. There was no one down there to man them.

With one exception. A single phone in the Pentagon showed constant use. Smith called up an identification code and instantly the computer relayed the information that the line emanated from the office of General Martin S. Leiber. Smith punched up the file on Leiber. It was brief. The man was a two-star general with an undistinguished field record and a flair for procurement. Some of his methods were unorthodox and there was some question about cost overruns in projects under his control. Smith's fingers went to work. In a flurry of keystrokes he instituted a tap on General Leiber's line. Instantly the computer converted the audio feed into an on-screen display.

Someone was complaining to the general. Something about barbecue grills. They weren't hot enough to do the job.

Barbecue grills? Smith wondered. It must be an open code. He asked the computer to identify the source of the incoming call.

The computer told him Andrews Air Force Base. Smith remembered that he had indications of strange activity at Andrews.

General Leiber's response to the complaining call was to ask what the hell did the caller need.

The caller needed brick ovens. And bellows. Lots of bellows.

General Leiber promised the caller immediate delivery on several high-temperature organic kiln-constructs and dynamic exhaust oxygenators, and then hung up.

Smith wondered what had happened to the requested ovens and bellows.

"Code," he mutterd. "This must be a code."

He saved the phone intercept in memory and ordered the computer's decrypting software to attack the text. After five minutes of listening to the program hum, an error message flashed on the screen.

"EXPLAIN ERROR," Smith keyed.

"OPTIONS FOLLOW," the computer told him. "OPTION I: CODE UNDECIPHERABLE.

"OPTION 2: INSUFFICIENT TEXT TO EXECUTE PROGRAM.

"OPTION 3: TEXT IS NOT IN CODE."

"It must be," Smith muttered. "Washington has been virtually abandoned. No one in his right mind would be procuring ovens at such a time."

Smith switched back to the tap on General Leiber's phone. It had saved the last ten minutes of intercepts. As it played back, Smith's jaw fell. The idiot was ordering ovens. And bellows. They were being requisitioned for immediate shipment to Andrews.

"This makes no sense," Smith said in frustration. But because he believed that his computers could crack any problem, he attacked the puzzle again. Somewhere in the miles and miles of data transferring between the nation's computer networks, there was an explanation for all this. All Smith had to do was find it.

He wondered again what had happened to the President.

The President was very much alive. He was doing his best to be presidential. It was very difficult. Especially when one was stuck under nearly a mile of rock in one's pajamas.

"I'm the leader of the free world," the President said in anguish. "I should be up there leading."

"I'm sorry, Mr. President," the senior Secret Service agent said. "We have to wait for the all-clear."

"What if it doesn't come?"

"Then we'd all better try to get along. Because we are stuck here until the fallout radiation drops to survivable levels."

"That could take weeks."

"Months, actually."

"But no one has said anything about radiation. There hasn't even been an explosion."

"Yet," the Secret Service agent pointed out.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist," the President said in a stern voice.

"I'm sorry, Mr. President. I have my orders."

"From whom? I'm the Commander in Chief!"

"I know that, sir," the Secret Service man said politely, "but I do not take my orders from you, but rather from my superior. "

"Since when?" the President barked.

"It's our prime directive. Your security is more important than any other factor, including your demands and wishes. In short, the Secret Service will do everything in its power to safeguard your life, whether you want it or not. "

The President looked at the Secret Service man in stunned silence.

"I'm sorry, Mr. President," the man told him. "That's how it is. Don't you think you should be watching the tactical displays?"

The President nodded numbly. Being President, he was discovering, wasn't all it was cracked up to be. For one thing, there wasn't anything near the absolute power he had envisioned. Everyone else seemed to have his own agenda.

The President found a set and joined the grim-faced Secret Service agents as they watched the tactical feeds from NORAD. Every screen was on Threat Tube Display, searching for incoming unknowns.

Not for the first time, the President wished the direct line to CURE had a duplicate down here. Right now, Dr. Harold W. Smith was the only person he trusted. Perhaps, the President hoped, Smith would set his own people into motion when he learned what was going on.

Dr. Harold W. Smith could no longer delay his decision. It was growing dark. The evening news programs were leading with the vague but ominous story that on his first day in the Oval Office, the new President of the United States had not yet put in an appearance. The reporters claimed that a cloud of low-level apprehension had settled over the nation's capital.

By the time the media were through, Smith realized grimly, the so-called low-level apprehension would be full-blown panic. Still, Smith had to admit, the press did have a story. They just didn't have any facts to back it up.

It was time to bring in Remo and Chiun. He buzzed his secretary to have them summoned to his office.

"I believe they've just left," Smith's secretary replied crisply.

"Left! Left for where?"

"I'm not certain, but they had me sign a requisition form for a truck rental."

"Oh, God," Smith said in a husky voice. "That damned elephant."

Chapter 6

Remo backed the rental truck up to the shed. He got out and, undoing the restraining chains, let the steel ramp down.

The black maw of the truck faced the shed. Only two feet of clearance stood between the open truck and the shed door. No way was Rambo going to squeeze past the truck. Once he opened the shed, Remo reasoned, it should be a breeze.

Remo took off the padlock with a quick wrench of his hand. He knew Chiun had the key but he would be damned if he was going to ask the Master of Sinanju for any favors. Especially after this latest stunt.

Remo opened the sliding door. Inside the shed, illuminated by a single bare lightbulb, Rambo the elephant sat on a pile of hay. His trunk lifted in greeting.

"Up yours," Remo said back. He stepped in and walked around the elephant. Remo clapped his hands once sharply. The sound brought dust spilling off the rafters.

"C'mon. Up! Let's go," Remo barked. Rambo fluttered his ears unconcernedly.

"Before, I couldn't get you to stay still," Remo said accusingly.

He tugged on the elephant's ropy tail, not hard, but enough to motivate the beast. Rambo's trunk curled around a swatch of hay and flung it back over his head.

Remo's face wore an annoyed expression as hay fell all over him.

"I'm willing to do this the hard way," Remo said, leaning one shoulder into the elephant's rump. He pushed. The elephant's tail swiped at him without effect. Remo pushed harder. He felt the elephant move.

Great, thought Remo, pushing some more. Slowly, inexorably, he shoved the large gray hulk out of the shed and to the ramp. The hay made it easier. Rambo slid on top of it like a sled.

But when Remo stopped to figure out how to make the elephant mount the ramp, he saw that his problem was far from solved.

Rambo climbed to his feet and walked back into the shed. He got down on his stomach again. His tiny piglike eyes regarded Remo with infinite sadness.

"Ohhhh," a sgueaky voice said sorrowfully, "he knows what you intend."

Remo turned. Chiun was standing there. He had changed into a severe gray kimono. His face was unhappy.

"No, he doesn't," Remo snapped back. "If he knew what I was thinking right at this minute, he'd head for the hills."

"You never liked him. He recognized that."

"Tough. I've done enough for him."

"Where do you intend to take him, assuming you succeed in tricking him into this conveyance?"

"I was hoping a zoo would take him."

"Ah," said Chiun. "A zoo. He would be happy in a zoo. There would be others of his kind in a zoo. Yes, I think a zoo would be an excellent place for him."

"I wish someone would tell him that."

"I will try."

"Don't do me any favors," Remo said sourly.

"Do not fear, I will not," said Chiun, marching up to the elephant. With delicate fingers he pulled back one of Rambo's fan-shaped ears and whispered softly. Remo strained to hear what was being said. Chiun's words seemed to be in Korean, but Remo couldn't make them out.

Abruptly Rambo climbed to his feet. His trunk swaying from side to side, he stepped up to the ramp and walked into the truck's container section. He stood patiently, his tail hanging docilely.

"What are you waiting for?" Chiun asked. "Close the door."

Remo rushed to shove the ramp back into place. He slammed the doors shut and threw the locking lever. "Thanks, Little Father," Remo said grudgingly.

"Thank me by allowing me to accompany you."

"Why do you want to do that?"

"So that I may say a proper good-bye to my faithful steed. "

"Then let's go before Rambo changes his mind," Remo said, climbing behind the wheel. Chiun settled into the passenger seat and Remo got the truck in gear and headed for the Folcroft gate.

"Oh, he will not change his mind. I explained everything to him."

"You did, huh?" Remo said skeptically. "I didn't know you spoke elephant."

"I do not. I spoke truth. Even elephants understand the truth."

"Right," said Remo, and piloted the truck down the road. He wondered where the nearest zoo was. He would have to ask at the first gas station.

As the gates of Folcroft Sanitarium receded in the rearview mirror, Remo noticed a frantic figure in gray running after them and waving his arms. Smith. He probably wanted to say good-bye to the elephant too. Remo decided to pretend he didn't see him. He hit the accelerator, knowing that Smith's ancient car would never catch up. No way was he going to stop until he found a zoo.

Chapter 7

General Martin S. Leiber was beginning to enjoy himself. He was senior officer at the Pentagon now. When he spoke, other officers jumped. Word had gotten around that the President had left him in charge during the crisis. No one knew what the crisis was and General Leiber wasn't about to tell anyone, except to hint that it was very, very dire.

When he realized how much power he wielded, he sent out for lobster. Might as well grab the perks while he could. He was cracking the last claw when the phone rang.

"General Leiber," he said through a mouthful of lobster meat. Melted butter ran down his chin.

"General, this is CINCNORAD."

"Who?" asked Leiber. He fumbled through a Pentagon directory. He knew what NORAD was, sort of. But what the hell was a CINC?

"I've been in touch with the joint Chiefs and they tell me you're in charge out there."

"That's right. Who did you say you were again?"

"Commander in chief of NORAD. You mean you don't recognize my designation?"

"It's starting to come back to me," said General Leiber, who usually didn't associate with real military types. He was more at home among lobbyists and defense contractors. Where the true power lay.

"Under orders from the joint Chiefs, we've completed our tactical search. I thought you should have the results as soon as possible."

"Shoot," said General Leiber, wondering what the heck he was talking about.

"We've been over our logs and satellite reconnaissance photos a dozen times. We find no evidence of any hotspots or launch blowoffs."

"Is that good or bad?" asked General Leiber, wondering what a blowoff was.

"I'm not sure," said the other man. "It's very strange. We've been assuming a ground launch, but our recon photos show that all Soviet missile silos are on standdown. So are the Chinese launch sites. There have been no ground launches from any known missile sites we monitor."

"Then it's a submarine launch, right?"

"That would be a logical guess, but Spacetrack would have detected it before PAVE PAWS. They didn't. In fact, Spacetrack inventory lists nothing going up. Nothing at all."

"Well, it didn't drop out of deep space."

"I don't think we should discount that possibility," said CINCNORAD.

"Correct me if I'm off base here, but we don't currently have a defense against extraterrestrial hostiles, do we?"

"No, General, we do not."

"What do I tell the President?"

"If I were you, I'd advise him to lie low until we have the straight skinny on this incident."

General Leiber hung up the phone, trying to decide if it would be better to call the President now or after he heard back from Andrews. He decided to polish off the last lobster claw first. If he ended up in the stockcade, it would be a long time before he tasted hot melted butter again. Maybe never.

But the last lobster claw went uncracked. The phone rang again. Leiber picked it up. It was Major Cheek. "What have you got for me?" he barked.

"Progress, sir," Major Cheek said crisply.

"I don't give a hang about progress. Can you identify the hostile?"

"We can narrow it down to a limited number of possibilities."

"Good. Then it's a known threat."

"Well, yes and no," the major said unhappily.

"What do you mean-yes and no?"

"Well, sir, I think we can determine exactly what the object is, but the threat factor may be up to others to evaluate. We may know more after we go through some reference books. I've sent a man out to buy some."

"Buy? You don't have one lousy copy of Jane's at Andrews?"

"Jane's Aircraft won't help us here, sir. The object is definitely-repeat-definitely not found in Jane's."

"Goddammit, man, stop talking in circles. Spit it out."

"It's like this, sir. Once we had the brick ovens-"

"High-Temperature Organic Kiln Constructs. Remember that if we're questioned later. No way will the taxpayers pay three hundred and fifty thousand dollars for ordinary brick ovens."

"Yessir. In any case, we isolated the pieces and restored what we could to their original shapes. A lot of it was slag, of course, from reentry heat, but we estimate only the leading third of the object was incinerated. The back two-thirds was intact right up until impact."

"Go on, man."

"Well," the major said hesitantly, "fortunately, several sections of what I guess you'd call the propulsion system survived. I had the smiths-excuse me, the Metallurgical Consultants-I had them try to weld what they could of it together. The propulsion system told us a lot."

"Look, I don't care about how it got here. I want to know about its offensive system. How many kilotons? What's the yield, man, what's the yield?"

"It doesn't have a yield. Exactly."

"Exactly what does it have?" the general asked, touching the remaining lobster claw with his thumb. It felt cool. He couldn't eat it now.

"Um, as I was saying, General, when we put together the propulsion system, we were able to measure one of the rods. By that time we had a fair idea of what we were dealing with. The gauge turned out to be four feet, eight and a half inches. That's very important. It told us right away the object was American-made. Because the rods in the European versions are usually three feet, six inches."

"It's American-made," General Leiber said angrily. "What kind of traitor would sell out his own government?" Then he wondered if he had sold any nuclear missiles lately. He couldn't remember having sold anything that big. "Give me specifics, will you? I'm writing this down."

Major Cheek vented a hot sigh. "We estimate the object to weigh approximately five hundred tons at ... er ... launch."

"God, I've never heard of a missile with that kind of throw weight. Thank God it didn't detonate."

"Actually, there was no danger of that, General."

"Why not?"

"It couldn't. I mean, it's not possible."

"It wasn't armed?"

"No, sir. I can safely say that it was not armed."

"If it wasn't armed, then what the hell was it supposed to do?"

"As near as I can tell, sir, it was meant to impact with maximum damage."

"Well, of course, you idiot."

"But it's neither explosive, nor nuclear, nor chemical in nature."

"I'm not following you."

"Sir, perhaps you should come down here yourself. I don't think trying to explain this over the phone can really do the situation justice."

"I'll be right over," said General Martin S. Leiber. General Leiber was allowed through the Andrews gates only after he shouted down the guards. They tried to tell him the base had been declared off limits except to cleared personnel.

"I know, you noncommissioned jerk," Leiber shouted, flashing his Pentagon ID. "I'm the man who ordered it." They waved him through.

General Leiber drove to the hangar. He hadn't been there before. It was simple prudence. No way was he going near that thing. It might go off. But the major had assured him the device was no longer a threat. On the other hand, the major was stupid enough to raise his bid and then lay down a royal flush in the face of a superior officer. A man that foolhardy was capable of any imbecility.

As he was let in through a side door, the general thought the major had just better be correct. If anything happened to him, the President would be stuck underground for a long, long time.

Inside the cavernous hangar, light was furnished by banks of fluorescent tubes. It was hot. At one end, the orange glow of the kilns flared angrily. They were surrounded by an assortment of heavy anvils. Tools lay on the concrete floor. But there was no sign of the blacksmiths.

Major Cheek came running up. He was in his shirtsleeves and sweating.

"Where are my blacksmiths?" General Leiber snapped. "I hope they're not goofing off. They cost the government plenty."

"I sent them to a secure area, General. Their job is done and I thought it was better that they not be privy to the evaluation process."

"Harumph. Good thinking. Now, let's have the poop on this thing."

"This way, General."

General Leiber followed as he unknotted his tie. "Blasted hot in here," he muttered.

"It takes a lot of heat to make iron malleable," the major said. "That's why your barbecue grills weren't enough. We needed extremely high temperatures."

"Blacksmiths on TV westerns always used stuff that looked like barbecue grills to me. How was I to know the difference?"

At the far end of the hangar there were no lights. Major Cheek started speaking as he began hitting switches, illuminating one section of the floor at a time.

"In a way, you were right, General," he said. "The bell was a good starting point. But even so, we would have had a hard time working from there. It was really superfluous."

As the general watched, piles of twisted metal came into view. Closest to him were simple jumbles of blackened slag. Beyond them were the unfused pieces. They lay about in neat groups. It reminded General Leiber of photos of the destroyed space shuttle Challenger after the pieces had been recovered and laid out for inspection. There were a lot of pieces. Leiber saw bent metal bars, strange constructs, and in a corner pile, huge round flat things that reminded him of impossibly large gears.

"As I said," the major went on, "when we assembled one of the propulsion units, it dawned on us what this thing was. But even then, I doubt if I would have recognized what we had if my son hadn't been into HO models."

"HO?" asked General Leiber clutching at his cigar for support. "My God, are we talking about hydrogen ordnance?"

"Why, no. I've never heard of hydrogen ordnance."

"Never mind," said Leiber. "I thought you said this thing was safe."

"It is. Now. Please come with me."

General Leiber followed the major through the aisles between the debris. Although many of the pieces had been restored from their impact-mangled states, they were not perfect. Exteriors were blackened and pitted and many of the pieces only approximated the original parts. They had been too badly compressed to be completely reconstructed.

"This is the heart of it," Major Cheek said, gesturing to a huge black cylinder set on a wooden frame. It lay open and half-melted at one end.

The general poked his head in. The open end was easily seven feet in diameter and very black both inside and out. It smelled of scorched metal--like an old cast-iron stove. He ran his fingers along the outer skin, which was still warm from being welded.

"From the pieces, we were able to reconstruct this portion."

"The fuel system?"

"You might say that, General."

"Then it is a missile."

"Uh, yes and no."

"Don't 'yes-and-no' me again. Out with it! It is or it isn't. "

"It's not a conventional missile. But it acted like one in flight. In other words, it was ballistic."

"That makes it a missile," General Leiber said decisively.

"No," said the major. "A missile is a fuel-propelled rocket. This is no such thing."

"No? Then how did it get to Washington? By slingshot?"

"That's the part of this I can't answer, General. We haven't a clue there."

The general stubbed his cigar into his mouth. He tilted his service cap off his lined forehead and his hands went on his hips.

"If you know what it is, you oughta be able to tell me what its motive power was."

"That I can tell you," the major said, patting the long drumlike cylinder affectionately. "They usually run on kerosene or coal."

The general blinked. "Say again."

"Kerosene or coal. That's the fuel. But the propulsion system is a by-product."

"What?"

"Steam."

"Steam." The general's cigar dropped to the floor, shedding sparks. "My God. Do you realize how serious this is? Steam. Every ratass little nation in the world possesses steam technology. If this is true, we could be facing a terrible new era of steam missiles."

"That's the bad news, General. Every nation on earth already possesses these devices."

"They do?"

"General, I don't quite know how to tell you this, but the object we dug out of that pit is a locomotive."

The general looked blank. "A what?" he asked quietly.

"A steam locomotive. See this wheeled section? It's part of the propulsion system."

The general looked. Beside the big cylinder was a distorted truck sitting low to the ground. It sat on heavy flanged wheels.

"Locomotive. As in choo-choo? As in the little engine that could? Are we talking about that kind of locomotive?"

"I'm afraid we are, sir."

"That's preposterous," the general sputtered.

"I agree."

"A steam locomotive runs on rails. It doesn't have a propulsion system."

"Not for flight, anyway."

"Steam locomotives don't have guidance systems."

"Exactly. And neither did this one."

"They don't have warheads."

"This one is perfectly harmless. Unless it fell on top of you."

"Then what the hell was it doing falling out of the sky if it was so goddamned harmless?"

"Well, had it landed another hundred yards to the north, it would have demolished the White House."

"That's a hell of a small target to take out for the throw weight involved. Only an imbecile would attempt such a thing. "

"I can't explain it."

"How the hell did it get airborne? You can at least explain that, can't you?"

"I wish I could. I have no idea. The front end is fused from reentery and the rear end, where you'd expect to find a propulsion system, is ... just the rear end of a locomotive."

"There's got to be something more. Something you've overlooked."

"There is one other phenomenon."

"Yes?"

"The individual pieces. As you can see, we've kept them well-separated. Watch what happens when I push them closer."

The general watched as the major walked over to an isolated fragment. With his shoe, he nudged the piece across the floor until it neared the wheeled truck. Suddenly the smaller fragment jumped across the concrete and hit the truck with a bang.

"Magnetic," the major said. "Every bit of it is magnetically charged."

"We knew that at Lafayette park. It was one of the first things we discovered."

"Highly magnetic. Unusually magnetic. It must have taken an incredible application of electricity to magnetize a five-hundred-ton locomotive."

"That's it?"

Major Cheek shrugged. "It's all we have."

General Martin S. Leiber looked at the chunks of blackened iron surrounding him. He looked at the major. He felt suddenly very small, as if he were surrounded, not by the pieces of a demolished locomotive, but by dinosaurs which had come to life with ravenous appetites. And he was the only piece of meat in sight.

"How am I going to explain this to the President?" he said in a shaken voice.

The major shrugged again. "I think you should tell him exactly what we've discovered. It's disturbing, but it's not as if we've had a dud nuke dropped on us."

"Dud nuke!" the general roared. "Dud nuke! A dud nuke we can handle. With a dud nuke we could read the serial numbers and identify the aggressor nation. Can you tell me who's responsible for this?"

"Once the reference books on locomotives arrive, we might."

"Can you tell me how it was launched?"

"Not from a book," the major admitted.

"No, of course not."

"I don't see the problem. Even if one of these hits a critical target and I don't see how, without internal guidance systems-the damage on the ground would be very limited."

"On the ground! You don't win wars on the ground anymore. You win 'em in the back rooms. At cocktail parties. This is the fucking twentieth century. Do you think America and Russia haven't had a major war this century because neither side thinks it can win a ground situation? Hell, no."

"I'm aware of the balance of power, General. But this thing doesn't figure in. It's nonnuclear."

"This one was. But what about the next one?"

"We don't know that there will be a next one."

"Do you want to tell the President that there won't be a next one? Do you, soldier?"

"No, sir," the major said hastily.

"Let me explain something to you, son. There are two absolutes in national defense. Our ability to detect and intercept an incoming threat. And our ability to retaliate in the event of an attack. We have no defense against this thing. It went up so fast our satellites couldn't read it. Hell, we barely had time to get the President into deep cover before it hit. But more important, we don't know where the bastard came from. We can't admit it hit sovereign territory without admitting weakness. Therefore, we can't warn the world that it had better not happen again. And if it does happen again, chances are we'll just have enough time to kiss our fat, contented assess goodbye. "

"I think you may be exaggerating, sir."

"We're sitting ducks. Do you know how many steam locomotives there are in Russia? In China? In the third world? Thousands. Maybe tens of thousands. And every one of them a potential threat. How are we going to defend ourselves? Nuke the rest of the world and hope we get the enemy?"

"There may not be a next one," Major Cheek said stubbornly.

"I want total security on this. Who knows that this is a locomotive?"

"You and I. And three of my men."

"Confine them. They are not to breathe a word of this. No one talks about trains or locomotives or any of it. I'll figure out what to tell the President. In the meanwhile, you get your shiny nose into those reference books. I want to know when this thing was built, who built it, how many more of them are out there, and I want the answers tonight. You got that, soldier?"

"Yes, sir, General."

"I'll be at my office trying to hold this country together. Don't let me down."

And General Martin S. Leiber turned on his heel and stormed out of the overheated hangar. When he got outside, the rush of cold air made him shiver and frosted his mustache. He wiped the sweat off his face with a handkerchief and got into his car.

He was still sweating when he reached the Pentagon.

Chapter 8

"You don't seem very broken up, Little Father," Remo said as he tooled the lumbering truck through darkened city streets.

"I am not broken at all," sniffed Chiun.

"I didn't mean literally broken," Remo said. "I meant unhappy. As in heartbroken."

"Why should I be unhappy? It is true that I agreed to accompany you on what should have been a short pleasure ride but has turned into an expedition second only to Odysseus' voyage home from the Trojan Wars. But I am not grief-sticken."

"How was I to know that the first three zoos we'd try would refuse to accept Rambo?"

"You could have called ahead."

"I was in a hurry. I want this albatross off my neck."

"Albatross? What albatross?" Chiun asked, looking around.

"Never mind," fumed Remo.

"I wasn't going to mention this, but this is all your fault."

Remo braked the truck in anger. It skidded and he had to wrestle the wheel to the left to avoid hitting a mailbox. He succeeded. He hit a fireplug instead.

"How odd," said Chiun when the truck jounced to a halt. "It is raining, yet there are no clouds."

Remo threw the truck into reverse and backed off the hydrant so the engine would not be flooded. Wordlessly he got out of the truck.

The fireplug was cracked at its base. Water gushed up from the shattered main. Because Remo was upset, he did not approach the problem logically. He kicked the hydrant. The casing flew into a wall. Without the hydrant to cap it, the water geysered upward.

Remo was instantly soaked, which did not improve his mood.

Seeing no other alternative, he plunged into the geyser. Eyes clamped shut to the overpowering column of water, he felt for the sharp, broken water-main mouth. When his fingers found it, he began working the metal. Shrill metallic squeals emanated from the main.

Slowly, as Remo squeezed the water main shut, the torrent turned to a gush and then dropped off to a spastic trickle.

When Remo stood up, only a little water still stubbornly bubbled up. Remo stamped on the source, and the water stopped.

Soaking wet, he climbed back into the cab and tried the ignition. It caught after several tries and he backed the truck off the sidewalk.

A beat cop stood watching the truck depart. He hadn't seen the accident, only the sight of a thin man with unusually thick wrists angrily beating a water main into submission. He decided he hadn't seen enough to warrant questioning the man. If anyone asked, he had no idea what had happened to the hydrant.

"How is it my fault?" Remo asked bitterly after several blocks. He blew water off his lips. It kept rilling down his face. He tried wringing it out of his hair with his fingers.

"We would not now be having this problem had it not been for your rashness," Chiun told him evenly.

"I think we've had this conversation before," Remo said. "Is this the one that starts with: if I hadn't gone back to Vietnam, none of this would have happened?"

"No, this is the one that ends with my humiliation at your hands."

"I think I walked out before we got to that part last time. "

"That is why I bring it up now."

"You can get off here if you want."

"Nonsense. You drive. I will talk. Hopefully, you will listen in spite of your stubbornness. It was your stubbornness that created my dilemma."

"What dilemma is that?" Remo asked in spite of himself.

"Smith ordered you not to go to Vietnam."

"So I went anyway. I had an obligation. American POW's. It's about something you can't seem to understand. Loyalty. "

"I understand loyalty. I also understand higher obligations. My obligation to Smith. Your obligation to Smith."

"Sometimes I don't give a rat's ass about Smith."

"Ordinarily I would give even less. But emperors are hard to find in the modern world. Especially emperors with vast stores of gold. I may not value Smith, but I value his gold. It supports my village. Your village, now."

"So what's the beef?"

"The beef is that while I may turn a blind eye to your disobedience toward Smith, you have a deeper obligation to me. I gave Smith my word you would not go to Vietnam, and you did."

"I don't know what came over me," Remo said vaguely. "Must have been those flashbacks I was having."

"A convenient excuse," Chiun sniffed. "But I will continue my tale. I cannot have you disobeying me."

"It was a special case. It won't happen again."

"So you say. Your word was not good enough before. I cannot trust it now."

"Where is this leading? I'd like to take a shortcut."

"Impatient white," Chiun snapped. "We will probably be driving about all night and you do not even wish to converse. Very well. This is where this is leading: you asked me why I did not shed tears for the giving up of my elephant and I will tell you. He is a nice elephant, but truly I have no interest in him. He was merely a tool."

"To do what?"

"To educate."

"I get it," Remo said."As a Master of Sinanju I'm supposed to learn all there is to learn about elephants because your ancestors had to. Is that right?"

"No, it is not right. You disobeyed me and I had to teach you. Rambo was my choice to teach you a lesson."

"Whaaat!" Remo said, open mouthed.

"I made you wash him, feed him, and walk him so that you would learn the consequences of your actions."

"Wait a minute. You told me he was being abused. Then you tricked me into getting him aboard the sub. When did it occur to you to use him like that?"

"Before then. When I first came upon him."

"I thought he was your transportation through the freaking jungle.

"He was," Chiun said brightly. "He is a dual-purpose elephant."

"You mean to tell me," Remo shouted, "that the only reason you dragged that bag of wrinkled meat back to America was to stick it to me?"

"Hush, Remo," Chiun warned. "Rambo will hear you. He is sensitive."

From the rear of the trunk came a low, forlorn trumpeting. "See?" said Chiun.

"Yeah, I see. I see a lot. You're really something, you know that?"

"Yes," Chiun said happily. "I am something special."

"I don't believe this," Remo said under his breath. "All this because you wanted to teach me a lesson."

"Not just a lesson. Something more. Responsibility. Someday you will take over the village of Sinanju. Someday I will not be here to guide you through the thorny paths of life. I will not be at your side, but my teachings will stay with you. Especially this one. The next time you consider embarrassing me in front of my emperor, you will think of Rambo. And you will hesitate. Perhaps even reconsider. It is too much to hope you will refrain from your headstrong ways, but after a few additional experiences such as this, you may learn. It is enough to give me hope. "

"It is enough to give me a headache. I can't believe you've put me through all this just to make a point."

"An important point," Chiun corrected.

Remo said nothing. He came to a cross street. The sign said "Tower Avenue." Back at the last gas station they'd told him the Stonebrook Zoo was off Tower Avenue. But they hadn't said right or left. Remo decided to go left.

After three-quarters of a mile they came to a stone-rimmed gate that said "Stonebrook Zoo" in wrought-iron letters. A steel sign added that it was "Closed for the Season."

"Damn," Remo said, slapping the steering wheel in frustration. It shattered into three sections, leaving only the post.

"Now we are stuck," Chiun complained.

"No, we're not," Remo said grimly. "They may be closed, but not to us." He stepped out of the cab. Chiun followed.

"What do you plan, O determined one?" Chiun asked as Remo rattled the padlocked chain on the gate.

"I made a mistake last time," Remo said, testing various links in the chain. When he found one that seemed right, he pulled it apart with both hands. The link snapped. The chain rattled to the ground and Remo shoved open the gate.

"You make a mistake every time," Chiun said.

"Last time," Remo went on, ignoring him, "we offered to donate Rambo. Mistake. Nobody wants him. This time the donation will be anonymous."

Remo opened the back of the truck and pulled down the ramp. He did it with one hand. Normally it took two men. Rambo backed out of the truck and stood docilely. Chiun patted him on the cheek and said to Remo, "Lead, and Rambo and I will follow."

"Come on," Remo said. Chiun tugged on one of the elephant's saillike ears and Rambo padded alongside him. They walked through the open zoo gates.

"All we have to do is find the elephant house and we're home free," Remo whispered.

"I understand," Chiun said. "When we find it, we will open it and place Rambo within. Then we will take our leave. No one will be any the wiser."

"It should work."

"Yes," said Chiun. "It is a good plan."

"All we have to do is find the elephant house."

"Hold it right there," a hard voice warned. Suddenly they were transfixed in the glow of a flashlight. A uniformed man advanced on them, flashlight in one hand and a revolver in the other. He was a silhouette in the darkness, but beyond the flashlight's glare Remo made out the outline of his peaked cap and gunbelt.

"Oh-oh," Remo whispered. "A guard."

"Don't move a muscle," the guard said, coming to a stop. He was very careful not to get closer.

"You're both under arrest," he said, looking them over.

"Arrest! For what?" Remo demanded.

"Elephant poaching."

"Elephant . . ." Remo sputtered. "Now, wait a minute. We're not-"

Chiun kicked Remo in the ankle.

"Oh, please, Mr. Policeman," the Master of Sinanju said in a pitiful voice. "Please do not shoot us."

"I won't if you don't make any funny moves."

"Not us," Remo said, wishing he could reach down and massage his aching ankle.

"We are very sorry for this intrusion," Chiun went on, his voice quavering. "If you will show mercy, we will attempt to atone for our terrible crime."

"That'll be up to a judge."

"But there is no judge to be seen," Chiun pointed out, "and we are alone in the dark, just the three of us. And this elephant." Chiun tugged on Rambo's ear. His trunk shot up and he let out a cry of anguish.

The guard recoiled, his flashlight searching out the beast. "Hey, it's going crazy!"

"No, Chiun said. "It is merely annoyed. But do not worry, I know elephants very well. I can control him."

"Just keep him calm, okay?"

"Oh, I can do more than keep him calm. I can return him to his rightful place."

"No way, Little Father," Remo snapped. "We're not taking him all the way back to Fol- Ouch!"

"Back where?" the guard asked,.

"Foley's Circus," Chiun put in, eyeing Remo."We are with Foley's Circus. Our own elephant died and we needed a new one quickly. But now that we have been caught stealing yours, we have no choice but to abandon our foolish enterprise."

"That's smart. Stealing an elephant is no small matter."

"We see that now. But if you will agree to let us go, we will be happy to restore this beast to his fellows-who are no doubt already lonesome for him."

"I can't make any promises, but if you put him back, I'll ask that they go easy on you."

"But we didn't-Yeow!" Remo howled, grabbing his ankle.

"What this clown is trying to say is that we meant no harm," Chiun said. "We will be only too happy to restore this beast and throw ourselves upon your infinite mercy."

The guard swallowed uncomfortably. Rambo towered over him.

"Okay, it's a deal. Just put him back."

"Of course," said Chiun, bowing. "You lead."

"Clown?" whispered Remo as Chiun led Rambo between the darkened cages.

"We are with the circus, remember?" Chiun shot back.

"If I'm supposed to be a clown, what are you?"

"The ringmaster, of course."

"Why do you always have to be top dog?"

"Because you are bottom dog," Chiun said. "If I had left it up to you, we would still be stuck with this smelly beast."

"What's that you're saying back there?" the guard asked suspiciously.

"I was saying to my top clown that we are fortunate to have encountered such a wise man as yourself," Chiun said loudly.

Rambo trumpted as if in agreement.

"Here it is," the guard said, stopping at an enormous cage. Keys rattled. "We really should have a trainer here, but I can't take the chance that thing will run amok."

"Oh, he will be good, I promise," said Chiun. When the gate opened, he led Rambo into the cage. At the other end, three large elephants stood unmoving. Their ears flapped sleepily. They did not react to the new visitor.

"Good-bye, Rambo," Chiun said, patting the elephant on the head.

The Master of Sinanju exited the cage without a backward glance. When he was out, the guard hurriedly slammed the gate and locked it. It took him only a few seconds, but when he turned around to deal with the two elephant poachers, they were nowhere in view.

Back at the truck, Remo got behind the wheel, smiling. "That was pretty smart, Little Father," he said.

"Thank you," said Chiun, closing the passenger door.

"Uh-oh," Remo groaned, looking at the missing steering wheel. "I forgot about this."

"Do your best. He will be searching for us and this vehicle is rented to Folcroft."

"Right," said Remo, starting the engine. He released the brake and took the steering column in both hands. Grimacing with effort, he got the front wheels to turn as the truck went rumbling down the road.

Remo wrestled the steering column until they got to the center of town. There they abandoned the truck and hailed a taxi.

"I'm never going to forget this night," Remo sighed as he settled into the cab's back seat.

"Exactly the point," Chiun said with pleasure as he arranged his kimono skirts.

Chapter 9

For General Martin S. Leiber, the universe had shattered and the sky was falling all around him.

For as long as he had served as a Pentagon procurement officer, he had operated by one simple rule: there were no rules. If he could rig a defense contract, he did. If he had to juggle progress payments, he did. Lying to Congress? Standard operating procedure. Absurd markups of defense items were his stock in trade. It was General Leiber who personally approved critical circuit boards that kept twenty percent of America's Minuteman missiles nonoperational at a given moment. The Air Force's top-of-the-line attack helicopter was plated with substandard armor and held together by inexpensive bolts he had purchased on the cheap, knowing that under combat stress they would shear like breadsticks.

General Leiber never expected his defective Minutemen to be launched. And if an attack helicopter lost a rotor during training, the manufacturer always caught the flak. General Leiber expected to slide into the obscurity of retirement with a fat bank account and zero accountabilty.

He had gambled on the one constant of superpower relations: the balance of power.

General Leiber was a reasonable man. He knew the military mind. Some dismissed the military as mad bombers, but they were actually quite sensible. They were always prepared to spend as many conscript lives as necessary to achieve a reasonable military objective. That was what war was all about, assets and expenditures. The country with the greatest assets was the one to be feared the most. In this hemisphere; that was the United States, God bless her.

But no general would provoke a conflict that was certain to cost him personally. Leaders led. They didn't squander their own lives. Not since World War II, and that was ancient history as far as General Leiber was concerned.

There was no way, no earthly way, that either the U.S. or the USSR, or China for that matter-and everyone knew how crazy they were-was going to provoke a thermonuclear exchange and risk everything. Including their summer homes.

General Leiber had counted on that. It was his sole rationale. No realistic threat of a world war existed in the nuclear age, and therefore America's military might was so much window dressing. And given that assumption, who the hell cared if a nuclear missile couldn't get out of its silo or the occasional aircraft fell out of the sky? It was all for show.

Until exactly 3:13 this morning, when a steam locomotive struck within yards of the White House. Now the entire nuclear force was on Defcon Two. If the Soviets so much as got wind of that, then they would go to their defense condition two-or whatever they called it over there. And if the Russkies went to red alert, so would the Chinese. Itchy fingers would hover over missile-firing keys and all it would take to ignite global conflagration would be a sea gull showing up on some idiot's radar at the wrong moment.

General Leiber cleared his Pentagon desk of the cold remnants of his lobster meal with a swipe of one uniformed arm. He moved his telephone to the bare center of his desk. Beside it he placed a yellow legal pad and two number-three pencils.

He was going to have to deal with this matter. Forget profit. It was time to worry about his ass.

First he would have to figure out what to tell the President. He couldn't tell him the truth. Not without looking like a total fool. They would laugh at him, the general who ordered a high state of alert over a falling locomotive. Never mind the very real nature of the crisis. The press boys wouldn't address that. They'd go with the lighter side of the story. In no time, General Leiber knew, he would be reduced in rank. Probably to one-star. Maybe worse. He tried to remember what rank was right below general. He could not. He'd been with the Pentagon so long he had blotted out his pre-general days.

"What I need is a better fix on the threat factor," he said, sitting up. He began dialing. He knew a guy at NASA who might give a reading on this thing. A blinking red button indicated an incoming call. Annoyed, General Leiber transferred to the incoming call.

"General Leiber," he said crisply.

"This is the President, General," a stern voice said. "I'm still working on it, Mr. President."

"I can't stay down here any longer," the President said. "I've just been looking at teletype reports. The media want to know where I am."

"Let me suggest that you put out a press release, sir."

"Press release! Are you serious? You don't cover firstday absenteeism with a press release. I have to put in an appearance."

Mr President, let me tell you why you don't want to do that."

"What is it?"

"I didn't want to tell you this until we have more information, but we have a tentative ID on the hostile."

"Hostile? Hostile what?" the President wanted to know.

"It's just an expression, sir."

"Oh. Go ahead."

"Well, Mr. President, I don't know how to break this to you-"

"I have to know. I'm President now."

"Yes, Mr. President," said General Martin S. Leiber, taking a deep breath. He plunged in. "The hostile is what we military call a Kinetic Kill Vehicle, or KKV for short."

"Good grief I never heard of the KKV."

"With all due respect, Mr. President, you are new at this."

"Yes, but I thought I'd been thoroughly briefed by my predecessor."

"It's a complicated world, Mr. President. Perhaps he overlooked KKV's. They've just been deployed for the first time."

"Still, I must return to the Oval Office."

"We could be just minutes away from a second strike, sir. "

"You've been saying that for hours. Everyone's been saying that. Look, this is day one of my administration."

"It's already evening, sir. Almost nine o'clock. Why don't you get some rest and we can discuss this in the morning? When you're fresh."

"I've made my decision. I'm coming up. I want you in the White House immediately for a complete briefing. Everything you know, General."

"Yes, sir, Mr. President," General Leiber said reluctantly. "Will there be anything else?"

"Um, I left you in charge, correct?"

"Yes. "

"I'm going to hand the telephone to my senior Secret Service bodyguard. He won't take orders from me."

"Wait a minute. I can't do that. He's a civilian. I'm military. I don't have any authority over him."

"Maybe he doesn't know that. Talk to him."

"Yes, sir," General Leiber said as the Secret Service agent came on the line.

"I'm afraid I can't recognize your authority, General," the agent said politely.

"Good for you. Try to keep him down there as long as you can. The situation up here isn't stable."

The President came back on the line.

"It didn't sound as if you tried very hard," he complained.

"He's a good man, Mr. President. Stubborn, but good."

"There's got to be a way."

"If there is, I'm not familiar with it."

"There must be. This is an emergency." There was a pause on the line as the President considered. He was obviously thinking. That was a bad sign. General Leiber hated dealing with people who thought. He would much rather have a salute and instant obedience.

Finally the President spoke up.

"I am the Commander in Chief," he said.

"Yes, you are," General Leiber admitted after some hesitation.

"And I have designated you as my surrogate."

"Yes, sir." He didn't like where this was going. It smacked of initiative.

"Therefore, I am ordering you to order me to the Oval Office to assure the nation that I am in command."

"I...er . . . but"

"Do it!"

"Yes sir. As your surrogate, I am ordering you to the Oval Office immediately."

"Don't tell me. Tell the Secret Service." General Leiber heard the phone change hands.

"I have just ordered the President to the Oval Office."

"I don't have the authority to override you, General," the Secret Service agent admitted.

"I wish you hadn't said that," General Leiber said in a dull voice.

Like a man about to walk the last mile, General Martin S. Leiber hung up the phone and got to his feet. Woodenly he placed his service cap on his head and straightened his tie.

There was no avoiding the moment of truth now.

The first thing the President of the United States did upon reaching the first-floor level of the White House was to head for his bedroom. His wife, clutching her negligee, trailed after him. Three Secret Service agents brought up the rear.

Upon reaching the bedroom, the President slammed the door in their faces.

"But I'm not dressed," his wife complained.

There came rummaging sounds, and the door opened a crack.

"Here," the President said, handing out a bundle of clothes.

The First Lady picked the bundle apart with her eyes. "But none of these match!" she yelled.

The President did not respond. He was too busy. He picked up the direct line to CURE. It was the first time he had had to do so. The previous President had explained all about CURE. Its mandate, its operational parameters. How, as President, he could not order CURE into action. He could only suggest missions. Well, he sure was going to suggest a mission this time.

"Mr. President." It was the voice of Dr. Harold W. Smith. The President did not know that for a fact. He assumed it. Only Dr. Smith was sanctioned to use the dedicated CURE line.

"Smith?"

"Of course," Smith said calmly. "Are you well?"

"I think I'm catching a cold from standing around in my pajamas and bare feet. You know, they didn't even have any of my clothes down there."

"Where is 'there,' sir? And please try to speak more slowly. I'm having trouble following you."

"Down in the White House fallout shelter-or whatever they call it."

"I see. What is the situation?"

"No one seems to know. General Leiber is on his way to brief me."

"Leiber? Oh, yes," said Smith, remembering the name from his intercepts.

"Smith, your job is national security, isn't it?"

"In the broadest sense of the phrase, yes."

"Then where were you?"

"Sir?"

"Washington took a first strike from a KKV and we didn't see it coming."

"I understand NORAD relayed warning of a ... What did you call it, sir?"

"KKV. Don't tell me you don't know what a KKV is. Well, you couldn't. Apparently they're new. It stands for Kinetic Kill Vehicle."

"Kinetic," Smith said slowly.

"Yes, one landed in Lafayette Park. Fortunately it didn't detonate. But that might have been a fluke."

"I see," Smith said, recalling the fire in Lafayette Park. It was starting to come together. But what was a Kinetic Kill Vehicle? As Smith listened to the President, he called up his Jane's Aircraft data base. No doubt it was listed there.

"Smith, your mandate is to monitor potential security situations and nip them in the bud."

"Well, yes. But normally our monitoring capabilities are domestic in nature. My computers aren't terribly effective on a global scale."

"And why not, might I ask?"

"Because, Mr. President, it would be virtually impossible for one man to monitor all the computer traffic around the world. Domestically it is difficult enough. And there is the language-barrier problem. As it is, I'm at my terminal up to fifteen hours a day. As you know, CURE must be a one-man operation in order to maintain absolute security. We operate outside of constitutional restrictions, and if the press ever-"

"So what you're telling me is that even in a best-case scenario, you couldn't have foreseen this attack?"

"Without more information, I cannot respond to that," Smith said, glancing at the flashing message on his computer screen. It was telling him the Jane's data base had no listing for a Kinetic Kill Vehicle. How odd. Obviously he would have to update the file.

"And what about your people? Why weren't they here to deal with this?"

"Well, Mr. President, my enforcement arm has always been an option of last resort. I keep him in reserve until needed."

"He should have been down here!" the President barked.

"With all due respect, sir, even if he had been on station, what could he have done? He's good. But not good enough to catch an incoming Kinetic Kill Vehicle. We are talking about a man with extraordinary abilities. But not Superman. He does not wear a cape or fly."

"Smith, this was supposed to be my first day in office and I spent it cowering in a hole."

"Yes." Smith's voice was noncommittal.

"This is intolerable. I want your people down here at once."

"Er, I'm afraid that is impossible."

"What are you saying?"

"They are unavailable. On another ... er ... assignment. I am sorry."

"Pull them off it. We are anticipating another attack at any moment."

"I would like to comply, Mr. President. But until they complete their mission, I will be unable to reach them."

"That's absurd. Don't they even check in?"

"Well, sometimes. Our enforcement arm usually does that, but he often has trouble with the security codes. His trainer, the older one, will use the telephone only as a last resort. "

"Don't they carry communicators? Walkie-talkies? Anything? They are needed in Washington, Smith."

"As soon as they report in, I will order them to Washington, I assure you."

"That's wonderful," the President said acidly. "If they arrive after the capital has been reduced to hot, sifting ash, be certain to thank them for me, won't you?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. President," Smith said lamely.

"When this is over, there will be some changes made, Smith. Mark my words. Your organization sounds like it belongs back in the nineteenth century. Do you know I had no way to reach you from down in the shelter?"

"Security demands that we have a minimum of technical equipment, Mr. President. That means one phone at each end of our special line. CURE has functioned this way for twenty years now."

"From where I'm sitting, it's not worth snot," said the President, hanging up.

At the other end, Smith replaced his receiver. He took off his rimless glasses and rubbed tired gray eyes. It was a terrible way to start a working relationship with a new administration, but how could he tell the President that Washington must stand naked before foreign aggression until its secret enforcement arm found a new home for an unwanted elephant?

Smith returned to his screen, typing in the words "Kinetic Kill Vehicle" and initiating a global search through the CURE system's massive memory banks. Then he settled back in his chair. Even with massive sort and memory capabilities, the computer would take several minutes to isolate an answer.

Perhaps the President had a point, Smith mused. Perhaps CURE's mission had become too big to manage effectively. Or maybe it was just that the world had become too complicated.

Chapter 10

As General Leiber was on his way to the White House, his car phone buzzed. He picked it up.

"Yeah," he said sourly.

"Major Cheek here, General."

"What is it?"

"We have a positive ID on the hostile object."

The general sat up straight. His hand tightened on the wheel. "Give it to me," he barked.

"Bad news."

"I can take it."

"It's one of ours, for sure."

"Ours?"

"Absolutely. It's an Alco Big Boy, vintage 1941. They used to haul cargo on the defunct Wyoming Division of the Union Pacific line. It's a real monster, sir. One of the most powerful steam engines ever devised. Listen to this: length 132 feet, weight 537 tons, tractive effort of 135,375 pounds. This means it could pull that weight, sir. It had sixteen driving wheels and-"

"Never mind that crap. Can you trace it to anyone?"

"Not without knowing its running number, General. And we've found no identifying marks."

"Are you absolutely, positively certain of your information?"

"Yes. I've researched it thoroughly. The reference books are wonderful, sir. I wish I had had them before. They would have saved a lot of time. For instance, the bell turns out to have been very important. American locomotives always had them because they rode through wild country where buffalo and horses ran free. In Europe, trains don't have bells.They don't have cowcatchers either. Instead, they have these two bumper rods sticking out in front. It's really quite fascinating, General."

"I'm sure the President will agree when I tell him," General Leiber said bitterly. "I'm on my way to the White House right now. He expects a full briefing."

"Good luck, General."

"You're a big help," the general muttered, hanging up. "The bastard. I think he enjoys watching the crap rain down on me."

Frowning, the general abruptly swung his car around. He pulled up in front of a hobby store.

Inside, he went to the section devoted to model trains. "Can I help you, sir?" a clerk asked him.

"You can help not only me but also your country."

"Glad to." The clerk stiffened.

"Fine. Hang loose, civilian. I need a model of an Alco Big Boy locomotive. Right now. Can you oblige your country?"

"Yes, over here." The clerk searched a shelf of colorful boxes. He straightened. "Ah, here."

"Outstanding," the general said, ripping off the cellophane and opening the box. Inside, there were a hundred tiny plastic pieces attached to plastic trees.

"It's in pieces." The general's voice was disappointed.

"You have to assemble it."

"No time. Don't you have one that's in one piece?"

"Not that model. We do have HO scale versions of more recent trains. if you'd rather have one of those."

"It's gotta be this one," the general insisted.

"They assemble quite easily. An hour or less."

"How fast could you put one of these together?"

"Oh, perhaps twenty minutes-if I don't get a sudden rush of customers."

The general slapped the box in the clerk's hands. "Do it. For your country."

"But "

"No buts. The President of the United States is waiting for me. For this. Do it. The government will not only be eternally in your debt, but I think I can get you a consultant's fee."

"Well, business is slow-"

"Then face front and hop to it!" General Leiber barked. Twenty minutes later, when General Leiber was on his third cigar, the clerk handed him a perfect replica of an Alco Big Boy steam engine. It was redolent of plastic cement.

"Remarkable machine, isn't it?" the clerk said admiringly. "So streamlined, so powerful."

"You'd think different if one was pointed at you," the general said, pulling out a requisition form. He scribbled on it, then said, "Sign here."

The clerk signed.

"Your check will be in the mail."

Back in his car, the general put the sheet away for safekeeping. The clerk would receive $250 for emergency situational model prototype assembling. General Leiber put another zero at the end. If he survived, he would skim a cool $2,250 from the deal. If not, it wouldn't matter.

The general drove his car up to the White House gate. The guard waved him through. He drove up to the side entrance, where a Marine guard in a snappy blue dress uniform saluted him as he opened the door.

The President greeted General Leiber with a firm handshake. His sober face looked like a thundercloud. "General, step into my office."

"Yes, sir," said General Leiber, following him in and taking a seat in an empty chair. He clutched the model train, wrapped in a paper bag, in one beefy fist. The fist perspired.

"General, I want everything you have on the KKV threat," the President said evenly.

"I won't mince words," General Leiber shot back. "We're facing a threat beside which conventional nuclear weapons pale into insignificance."

"It's that bad?"

"Worse. Only a handful of nations belong to the so-called nuclear club. Of them, only three-the U.S., USSR, and China-possess intercontinental delivery systems. The KKV threat is as dire as it is because virtually every nation on earth possesses a stockpile. They are cheap. They are effective. And once they are perfected, I don't doubt that every lousy border skirmish will turn into an excuse to deploy them."

The anger in the President's face seeped away like ground water. His composed features slackened. His eyes grew tired.

"It sounds like the end of civilization as we know it," he said wearily.

"That would not be an exaggeration," General Leiber said firmly. He clutched the package tighter. He felt a piece break off under the pressure of a thumb. But that didn't matter. The President was buying it. Leiber decided to lay it on a little thicker. Maybe he wouldn't have to unwrap the locomotive. No sense in taking any chances.

"Who fired it?"

"My people are still working on that question."

"Then we cannot retaliate or threaten, can we?"

"Not with accuracy. But the retaliation option is not entirely closed."

"No? Please explain."

"Sir, at this moment, our enemy is waiting for a response. I say we give them one."

"Such as?"

"We nuke someone at random."

"Great grief! Are you serious?"

"Consider the psychological effect. If we nuke another country, the aggressor can't help but notice. It will bring him up short. He might hesitate to strike again."

"It sounds very dubious, General."

"Well, Mr. President, once you're acclimated in office, you'll find that tactics such as this are really quite sound. Call it a preemptive warning."

"And whom do you suggest we nuke?" the President asked slowly.

"Obviously, none of the other superpowers. They would only complicate the situation. I would suggest Vietnam, but it would only piss off the Chinese, and there's no telling what they would do. Eastern Europe is out for the same reason. The Russians can be touchy about stuff like that. I was thinking of someone safe, like Australia or Canada."

"But they're our friends."

"Mr. President, on the level we're operating on, we don't have friends. Only temporary allies. Besides, we want to take care to hit someone who can't hit back."

"No. I can't countenance bombing an ally."

"How about Japan? We've already nuked them once and they didn't do squat about it. In fact, they're in better economic shape than we are right now. It might be we'd be doing them a favor. Public sentiment would probably be on our side."

"The Japanese are still our friends."

"That's the beauty of it, Mr. President. Imagine the impact that nuking an ally would have on this aggressor nation. If we nuke a friendly country, they'll be soiling their shorts wondering what we might do to them. They'll think twice, I guarantee it."

"No," the President said firmly. "Even if I could agree with you, I won't do it. Not on my first day in office. It would set a bad precedent."

"It's your decision, sir."

"You'll continue your search for the aggressor nation. In the meantime, I want a complete briefing on the KKV threat. What exactly are they and what do they do?"

"Well," said General Martin S. Leiber, steeling himself, "I kinda figured you were going to ask me that, so, I took the liberty of having a prototype model constructed."

"Good," said the President. "Let me see it."

General Leiber stood up and set the paper-wrapped model on the President's gleaming desk. He took a deep breath. He started to tear off the wrapping. He hoped the President had a sense of humor.

General Leiber never found out, because before the KKV model was exposed, Secret Service agents burst into the room.

"What is it?" the President asked fearfully.

"I'm sorry, Mr. President. NORAD has picked up another bird heading this way. Come with us."

"General, follow me," the President said, hurrying from the room.

Clutching the model, General Leiber trotted after the President, his eyes wide in fear. Other agents converged on the special elevator, the First Lady running whitefaced between them.

"General," the President said from the open elevator, "I want you down there with me."

General Leiber hesitated. A Secret Service agent yanked him aboard. The cage sank. It ran very fast.

"Can you manage your people from my phones?"

"Yes, sir. Most of my best work is done over the phone."

"Good. Let's hope that someone survives to take your calls."

"Yes, sir," said General Leiber, hiding the paper-wrapped model behind his back. No way was he going to let the President see it now. Down under bedrock, there would be no place to hide. Who knew, the President might even declare martial law and stand him before a firing squad. There was no telling what a civilian would do in a crisis situation. They were all crazy.

Chapter 11

This time, NORAD's BMEWS radar station at Fylingsdale, England, picked up the object shortly after launch.

The Air Force general designated CINCNORAD considered this a vindication of the Spacetrack system, which was a series of satellite and ground stations so sophisticated that they could detect a soccer ball over the British Isles.

"Excellent," he said as he moved between the consoles at the main command post deep within the hollows of Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado. The lights were dim. The greenish backglow of the radar screen created a sickly atmosphere. Except for the scurrying uniformed personnel and the giant wall displays, the command post might have been a small brokerage office.

"Sir, we've computed a trajectory that will deposit the hostile in the vicinity of Washington." There was a note in the status officer's voice that begged a question.

"We might not be able to save Washington, but we're sure going to know where it came from," CINCNORAD assured him.

"I'm not certain of that, sir,." ..What?"

"We picked it up at apogee."

"What do the computers say?"

"It's an unknown, sir. The computers can't identify."

"Damn," said the general fervently. He yearned for the old days before all this computer horseshit. Back in the days of the 440-L radar system, status officers were worth something. They were trained to read the radar signatures bouncing off the ionosphere. A top man could tell from the squiggle whether he was dealing with an SS-18 or an SS-N-8. Nowadays, if the software couldn't recognize it, they all sat there and chewed their cuds.

"Why didn't the system pick it up at liftoff?"

"I think because it went up too fast to get a reading."

"Too fast! What the hell could be faster than a missile at launch?"

"This thing is, sir," returned the status officer.

The general stared at the huge overhead situation display. The hostile was shown as a code-tagged green triangle dropping onto a wire-frame simulation of the earth's surface. The projected impact point-indicated by a green letter I-was Washington, D. C. In all the simulated drills the general had ever taken part in, nothing had moved as fast as this object.

"If we have an impact fix," the general said confidently, "we gotta have a launch point."

"No, sir. Just a broad area of probability."

"What? Where? What area?"

"Africa, sir."

"Damn. Where in Africa?"

"That's it. Africa. "

"Why the hell can't the blasted computer pinpoint better than that?"

"Because, sir, the object appears to be tumbling. Its course is erratic. See, the impact site keeps shifting." The general looked. On the overhead screen, the I-for-Impact symbol kept jumping. One moment, it was D.C. Then it was over in Virginia. Then it was in Maryland. "Dammit, we've got to do better than this. If we lose Washington, we must repeat, must-retaliate. We can't nuke the whole of Africa."

"I'm sorry, sir. The system has never encountered anything like this."

And then all eyes turned to the overhead screen. The green coded triangle descended upon the Washington area and merged with the impact symbol.

The two symbols flared and died like a faraway candle burning out. A hush fell over the room:

"Maybe the satellite photos will tell us something," the general muttered weakly.

The first photos were beamed down from an orbiting KH-11 reconnaissance satellite. A uniformed clerk handed the initial batch to the general without comment. He started to walk away hurriedly.

The general flipped through the first several photos. They were high-resolution images, of unusual clarity, and showed the European and African landmasses. The bottom photos had been taken over water. The Atlantic. The general noticed a dark lump like a beetle on one of them. It floated over wrinkled water. He turned to the next photo. The object was there, only bigger. It was not distinguishable. But the third and final photo showed the object clearly.

"Clerk!" the general yelled. Every status officer in the complex jumped at his station.

The clerk came back. His expression was sheepish. "What the hell is this?" The general screamed, waving the bottom photo in the clerk's reddening face.

"It's one of the recon photos you asked for, sir," the clerk said, deciding that this was a perfect time to take everything literally.

"I know that. I meant this object."

"Sir, it appears to be a train."

"It's a locomotive!"

The clerk pretended to look more closely.

"Yes, sir. I believe the general is correct, sir. It does appear to be a locomotive."

"What's it doing there? Is this a joke?"

"No, sir. Those are the raw transmission photos."

"You looked at them before handing them to me?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you didn't mention this."

"What would I have said, sir?"

CINCNORAD looked at the clerk. He fumed. His face reddened. The clerk stood perfectly straight. He held his breath.

"You could have warned me! Damn! Now what am I supposed to tell the White House-assuming it's still standing?"

"I don't know, sir," the clerk protested.

"Son, let me give you a piece of advice. Never-I repeat, never-hand a superior officer a hot potato like this."

"What should I have done, sir?"

"I don't know what you should have done, but if I were you, I would have lost this photo. The other two are fine. You can't tell what the hell the hostile is. But this one distinctly shows a locomotive."

"You wanted the hostile identified, sir."

"I wanted a reasonable explanation. Something I could kick upstairs with confidence. How am I going to explain this?"

"Recon photos don't lie, sir."

Just then, someone came up to the general. "The White House on the hot line, sir."

The general looked at the clerk like a drunk seeing an old enemy coming out of a bad bottle.

"I'll deal with you later," CINCNORAD said, accepting the red receiver and thinking wistfully that if the damn hostile had only been a nuke, he wouldn't now be in this ridiculous position.

The object did not impact on Washington, D.C.

It came down in Bethesda, Maryland, just outside the District of Columbia. It impacted on a golf course, which was itself not unusual. It would have been more unusual had it struck in the Bethesda area and not hit a golf course. Most of official Washington played golf in Bethesda.

The object totally obliterated a sandtrap at the eleventh hole and pulverized several nearby trees. Scorched grass continued to smoke even after an Air Force team led by Major Cheek reached the scene less than an hour later.

After surveying the site and ascertaining no presence of radiation or other lethal agents, Major Cheek called the White House, where a nervous switchboard operator put him through to General Martin S. Leiber.

Before taking the call, General Leiber looked over his shoulder. The President was busy at another phone, trying to learn if Washington had sustained any significant damage. General Leiber turned his attention back to his call. "Give it to me straight."

"It looks like another one, General."

"Can you tell for sure?" General Leiber demanded. He shifted in his seat. He kept the paper-bag-wrapped steam-engine model between his thick thighs, holding it with one hand like a little boy who has to pee but is afraid to ask the teacher if he can be excused.

"I can't, but all the signs are the same. What do we do?"

"Haul it off. Make sure. I want a report as soon as possible. You still have the Metallurgical Consultants on hand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Use 'em. I gotta go."

Sweating, the general put in another call. He was going crazy. He needed answers. Real answers. Serious, scientific answers. Anything. As soon as the President had a handle on the situation upstairs, he was going to remember the package. And General Leiber would have to have a lot more than a plastic steam engine when the President asked.

A man finally picked up the line. "Hello?"

"Bob, this is Marty."

"Marty! Hello. Uh, there's no problem with that last batch of stuff, is there?"

"No, the carbon-carbon was fine. Listen, you're with NASA. You know a lot of scientific space crap.

"I stay informed."

"I got a hypothetical for you."

"Shoot."

"Suppose-just suppose -I wanted to launch something across the Atlantic. Something big."

"How big?"

"Oh, four, five hundred tons."

"That's a lot of throw weight."

"That's what I've been saying."

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing. This is strictly theoretical. I want to launch this thing, but I can't have any on-board propulsion. What would do it?"

"Hmmm. Nothing we have at the moment."

"Speculate. There's gotta be some blue-sky launch system that could move that kind of tonnage."

"Well, in another decade or so, we could be launching satellites without rockets. That's the talk."

"Using what?"

"Well, they're just in the theoretical stage. There's a lot of talk that the latest superconductor breakthroughs might be the key. They've got them working on a small scale. They're basically peashooters using magnetic propulsion."

"Magnetic!" the general said excitedly, scribbling on a pad.

"Right. Imagine a rifle that fires a bullet without using gunpowder."

"Yeah!" the general said, writing that down too.

"Those we have. Now imagine one a thousand times bigger. "

"I can see it clear as day," the general said loudly. "That's the next generation of satellite launcher."

"This thing you're talking about. Could it launch a warhead?"

"No problem. You wouldn't need boosters or fuel or anything of that sort. Just load it and press the button."

"How about a locomotive?"

"Come again, General?"

"Could it launch a steam engine? I'm being theoretical here. "

"Into orbit?"

"Maybe. Not necessarily," General Leiber said guardedly. "If someone could build a prototype launcher large enough, sure. But it would have to be nearly a quarter of a mile long."

"Yeah?" the general said, writing the figure down. "How come?"

"To build up the power to throw it. The device I'm talking about would be electromagnetic."

"Electromagnetic!" the general said enthusiastically, writing the word down. After a pause he added the prefix "hyper."

"Hyperelectromagnetic," he said under his breath.

"What's that, General?"

"Nothing," said the general, his pencil poised to write the NASA man's next words after "hyperelectromagnetic." This was great. He didn't need to show the model after all.

"Now, what do they call one of these babies?"

"A rail gun."

The general's pencil lead snapped at the tail of the letter R.

"A what?" he croaked.

"A rail gun."

"You said 'rail'?"

"Yeah, rail. Why? You sound funny."

General Leiber turned to see what the President was doing. The President was coming toward him. He wore a strange expression on his face. It was half-scowl, half-confusion.

"Quick," he whispered. "Give me all the scientific theory you can as fast as you can."

General Leiber scribbled furiously. "I gotta go now, Bob," he said hastily, and hung up. He put on his best smile and turned to face the President. He shifted on his seat and managed to slip the locomotive under him. Another part snapped under his shifting weight and he winced as something-it felt like the cowcatcher-dug into his scrotum.

"You have something for me, Mr. President?"

"NORAD just transmitted these satellite photos." Hesitantly General Leiber accepted the photographs from his Commander in Chief. He looked at the blurred black smear floating above the blue of the Atlantic on the first photo.

"NORAD believes that's your KKV," the President said.

"Mean-looking brute, isn't it?" the general said, flipping to the second photo. It too showed an indistinct blot. The general began to let out his pent breath-then he saw the third photo. He started coughing.

"Have you an explanation for this, General?" the President asked bitingly.

The general got control over his cough.

"Oh!" he said suddenly, jumping to his feet. "I nearly forgot. I was going to show you the KKV model." He presented the President of the United States with the paper-bag-wrapped package.

The President took the package. He tore away the paper with careful fingers. The paper fell to the floor and the President held in both hands a model of a steam locomotive with the cowcatcher askew.

"This is a locomotive," the President said quietly. "Actually, that's the civilian term for it, sir. We in the military prefer to call it a KKV, because, sir, as you can see, sir, while it appears to be a steam locomotive and may well have been built for that purpose, these photographs show conclusively that some dastardly outlaw nation has perverted the designer's original intent. It's a Kinetic Kill Vehicle now. Sir."

"I have one question for you, General."

"Sir?"

"How?"

"As a matter of fact, sir, I have just completed my task analysis of the problem. Obviously the Soviets have beaten us in the rail-gun race."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Rail gun, sir. Don't tell me you've never heard of it?"

The President's face hardened. "No."

"Well, you're new, sir. I suppose you haven't been briefed."

"Stop telling me I'm new, dammit!" the President yelled suddenly, his voice no longer under control. "My first day on the job and I'm hiding a mile underground because you tell me it's suddenly raining steam engines!"

"Sorry, sir. But I think you're underestimating the threat factor."

"I am not underestimating the threat factor. I'm not sure what the threat factor is."

"Allow me to explain the principle behind the rail gun, sir."

"Do so." The President folded his arms.

"We've been working on them for more than a decade. They're the ultimate satellite delivery system. We can throw out the shuttle, and all our rockets and missiles. This baby works on magnetic propulsion principles. What we do is, we build a tube large enough to do the job and stick a magnetically charged rail on either side of the tube. Step up the power with maybe a zillion gigawatts. And zoom! Whatever we stick in one end is propelled out the other so fast your head would spin. Sir. Mr. President. Sir. "

"Rail gun?"

"The baby that shot that thing into orbit would have to be as long as the Holland Tunnel, sir. Of course, the more accepted term for it is electromagnetic cannon, or EM cannon. But the techies, they like to call it a rail gun."

"Rail?" asked the President, looking at the model in his hand.

"Rail. Obviously the Russians took the rail part a tad literally." The general cracked a weak, lopsided smile.

"There's only one thing wrong with your Russian-railgun theory."

"Respectfully, Mr. President, I believe my theory is sound."

"The second KKV was not launched from Russia."

"Sir?"

"NORAD says it lifted off from Africa."

"That's absurd, Mr. President. The Africans can't possibly have a rail gun. Hell, even we don't have a full-scale version."

"It came from Africa," the President repeated firmly.

"If you say so, sir."

"We're going up, General. To the surface."

"Glad to hear it, sir."

"When we get upstairs, I'm going to brief the press on this entire matter."

"Sir, I don't think that would be a good idea ... sir."

"But I do. And I am your Commander in Chief."

"As your surrogate, Mr. President-"

"Forget that surrogate stuff. From now on, I'm going to do my job. And so are you."

"Yes, sir," General Martin S. Leiber said miserably, accepting the plastic locomotive model the President thrust into his hands.

Chapter 12

Pyotr Koldunov threw the cutoff switches himself. It was a job for a lowly technician, not for one of the top scientists of the Soviet Ministry of Science. But he was not in Soviet Russia now and he didn't trust even the most intelligent of his Lobynian assistants not to accidentally bump the controls and trigger the launch sequence while he was inside the Electromagnetic Launch Accelerator, hurling him into orbit like a bug blown through a straw.

With all available power no longer diverted to the EM Accelerator, the overhead lights automatically brightened. The strong illumination seemed to take the curse off the underground complex. Months of dwelling under the Lobynian Desert with only the swarthy Lobynian technicians for company and no sunlight had reduced Pyotr Koldunov to a state of perpetual gloom.

As he stepped to the massive round chamber hatch, more like a bank-deposit vault than what it really was-the breech of the most powerful weapon ever created-Koldunov wondered if he were one of those people who suffer from light-deprivation mood swings. He made a mental note to check with a Moscow specialist if he ever got out of this sand burrow with his mind intact. Bitterly he punched out the access code on the wall-mounted keypad, carefully blocking the device so that none of the Lobynians could see the combination.

The light mounted over the keypad turned red, indicating acceptance of the access code. Koldunov turned quickly. The black-eyed Lobynians in their stupid green smocks were watching him avidly. The disappointment visible on their dark faces told him they had not gleaned the combination.

The final step was to hit the hydraulics button. He punched it angrily and waited. He was sick of the incessant Lobynian spying. Lobynia was supposed to be a Soviet client state, but their leader was a madman. As a rational, patriotic scientist, it sickened Pyotr Koldunov to be made subservient to the Lobynian dictator, Colonel Hannibal Intifadah. As a man, it infuriated him to know that if he slipped up, the Lobynians would slit his throat and take control of the EM Accelerator.

The huge hatch rolled aside and the square, tunnellike maw of the device gaped as black as a capitalist's heart, Koldunov thought morosely. The odor was worse than the last time. The ozone stink was nearly overwhelmed by the bitter stench of seared metal. Black. It smelled black. As black as it looked. Black as a Lobynian's soul, he thought with grim humor. Yes, it was that black.

Koldunov clicked on his powerful argon flashlight and stepped in. He breathed through his mouth. He wanted to gag. The light splashed along the walls of the tunnel. It was more than twenty feet high and inclined at a shallow upward angle. Not for the first time, Koldunov thought it was like walking into a serpent's belly.

The tunnel was constructed of four thick walls held together with massive external bolts. Mounted on each side wall was a flat copper rail. These were the power rails. Electricity pumped through them provided the magnetic pulse that could in theory propel a skyscraper into orbit.

The flashlight revealed that the left-hand rail had been damaged by the last launch. The copper surfaces were gouged and melted as if the powerful electric forces had boiled off the outer skin. The right rail was less damaged. But as he stepped further along, picking his way carefully as the incline grew steeper, he saw that the true damage was to the right rail. It had cracked at a joint. No wonder Soviet tracking systems had reported that the second projectile had tumbled in flight. Koldunov sighed. Both rails would have to be replaced.

Colonel Intifadah would not like this. Not at all.

The carrier rails were in worse shape. Mounted side by side on the launcher's flat floor, they were simply a section of the People's Lobynian Railroad System diverted underground through the complex and into the launcher itself.

The tracks ran up to the very mouth of the gun, a quarter of a mile away, where it poked out at ground level. These rails were twisted off their ties. He had half-expected that. They had been relaid after the first test and that had weakened them. He had told Colonel Intifadah exactly what would happen. But Colonel Intifadah had screamed at him for a straight twenty minutes until Koldunov had, in exasperation, stopped trying to make his case.

Now he would have to face Colonel Intifadah with the unhappy news that not only did the carrier rails have to be relaid once again, but also the power rails would probably have to be changed after each launch as a matter of routine maintenance. That would throw the Colonel's schedule completely off. It also meant that Pyotr Koldunov would be stuck in Lobynia far longer than he had planned.

Shaking his head, he left the breech and closed the hatch. He entered the sealing code, careful to shield that too. As long as only he knew those codes, the Lobynians dared not kill him. Even Colonel Intifadah was sane enough to know that.

Exiting the machine, he carefully stepped over the tracks leading into the hatch and mounted the concrete steps to the shielded control booth overlooking the launch-preparation area. He picked up the green-telephone hot line.

"Why do you not restore power to the device?" asked Musa Al-Qaid. Even in the air-conditioned chill of the underground complex, Al-Qaid's face had that greasy sheen of perpetual sweat. Probably it was fear.

"There is no need," Koldunov told him curtly.

"But our people will soon deliver the next revenge vehicle. Our glorious leader has decreed that it will be launched on schedule."

"Your glorious leader should have listened to me if he wished to maintain his precious schedule," Koldunov told him. "The device is inoperable."

"Then our glorious leader must be so informed immediately."

Koldunov shrugged, waited for the first ring, and quickly handed the phone to the other man.

"Be my guest. I was in the process of doing exactly that."

Al-Qaid took the receiver without thinking. Placing it to his ear, he got the switchboard of the People's Provisional Palace in the Lobynian capital.

"I . . . that is, this is Musa Al-Qaid. I am calling on a matter of utmost importance for our glorious leader." He stared daggers at Koldunov's white-smocked back.

Pretending to examine the control console, Pyotr Koldunov smiled tightly. That would fix the officious bastard, he thought.

"Yes, Brother Colonel," Al-Qaid said quickly. "A problem, Brother Colonel. He will not say, Brother Colonel. No, sir. Yes, sir. At once, Brother Colonel."

Al-Qaid hung up the phone and addressed Koldunov in a stiff voice.

"Our glorious leader demands your immediate presence in the capital."

"Good," said Koldunov.

"Good?" sputtered the Lobynian. "Many who are summoned to his office do not return alive."

"I am not concerned ... for myself," Koldunov said simply.

"It was your device. Your failure."

"Yes, exactly. My device. My access codes. My everything. On loan to your government as a gesture of solidarity from my government. I am hardly expendable. Can you say the same, Al-Qaid?"

Musa Al-Qaid blinked as if a thought had just occurred to him. "Colonel Intifadah directed that you be brought before him immediately," he countered.

"And who did he say would perform that errand?"

"I have that privilege."

"You? Not a flunky, but the senior Lobynian adviser on this project?" "

"Colonel Intifadah obviously thinks highly of me."

"On the other hand, it was you who gave him the bad news. And we all know how Colonel Intifadah reacts to bad news."

Al-Qaid had no answer to that. The Lobynian swallowed tightly. He kept on swallowing all the way up the bucket elevator to the surface and to the green helicopter waiting on the pad.

The ride to the Lobynian capital of Dapoli was pleasant. The sun was high in the desert sky. It was a cruel sun, but it brightened Pyotr Koldunov's mood. The thought that Colonel Intifadah might become extremely irate upon being told that his revenge weapon was temporarily inoperative did not lessen his improving humor. In fact, it added to it. Perhaps Colonel Intifadah might become so upset that he would shoot someone.

Koldunov turned to look at his pilot. Al-Qaid. Koldunov smiled. Al-Qaid looked at him quizzically.

Yes, life would be more pleasant without Al-Qaid. The man smelled of fear and constant perspiration. And his Russian was atrocious. He mangled the language worse than the conscripts from Urkutsk and Tashkent with whom Koldunov had been forced, in his long-ago youth, to serve in the Red Army. He hated them too-and their backward ways. Besides, Al-Qaid was next to useless as a technician. Koldunov suspected that he was a CID spy. Koldunov suspected half his technical staff were in the employ of Colonel Intifadah's Green Intelligence Directorate. Even Lobynian technicians could not be so incompetent.

Yes, it would be pleasant if Colonel Intifadah had Al-Qaid shot.

Pyotr Koldunov settled back in his seat as the many-towered capital of Lobynia loomed ahead, confident that he was not expendable.

The helicopter landed in the palace courtyard. From the air it looked as if the courtyard was green with welltended grass. In fact it was concrete painted green. The helipad was a lighter shade of green.

The door to Colonel Intifadah's office was also green. The guards on either side of the door carried green rifles and wore green uniforms. They belonged to Colonel Intifadah's elite Green Guard. They pushed Koldunov back from the door and, taking Al-Qaid by the arms, escorted him into the Colonel's office. The green door slammed shut and Pyotr Koldunov found a seat on a long leather divan. It matched the walls, which were chartreuse.

When fifteen minutes had passed and no sound of gunshots came from behind the green door, Pyotr Koldunov decided that Colonel Intifadah was not going to execute Al-Qaid. Koldunov frowned.

Then the green door opened and the two Green Guards carried out the limp body of Al-Qaid. His green smock was almost black with blood. His head hung slack-jawed from his scrawny neck.

Al-Qaid looked as if he had been methodically beaten to death. The splintered and stained rifle butts of the guards told Pyotr Koldunov that his guess was probably correct.

Koldunov smiled as the guards carried the scientist to a green elevator door. They pressed a button. The doors slid instantly apart and the guards heaved the body in.

The thud of it landing came loudly even though the body had obviously fallen several floors.

Koldunov walked up to the elevator door. He looked down. Al-Qaid's body lay atop a heap of other bodies. Some looked fresh. Others, however, seemed very, very old.

"This isn't the elevator I rode up on," Yoldunov remarked pleasantly.

"It is not," replied one of the guards. "It is a garbage disposal. Colonel Intifadah's personal garbage disposal." Then Yoklunov realized that the shaft contained no cage, no cables, no dial to indicate floors, and only one button. It was marked "Down." Obviously Colonel Intifadah had gutted an elevator shaft for this special purpose. "Well," Koldunov said happily, "shall I go in next?" The Green Guards looked at the Soviet scientist with undisguised stupefaction. The man was about to walk into a tiger pit and he acted as unconcerned as if he were about to stroll into a matinee.

They did not have to escort him in by force as they had expected. He walked ahead of them as if eager to face Colonel Intifadah's wrath.

Chapter 13

After he had overthrown King Ardas of Lobynia, Colonel Hannibal Intifadah had taken possession of the royal palace. As a gesture to the new order, he had renamed it the People's Provisional Palace. Then he had had it painted green, inside and out, and decorated with the new Lobynian flag, which was also green. Blank green. For Colonel Intifadah claimed to despise all ornamental trappings of office.

The official history of the new Lobynia, as chronicled by Colonel Hannibal Intifadah in a book he called The Green Precepts, had it that the Colonel had chosen green as the new Lobynian national color as a gesture of sympathy with the rest of the Islamic world, green being a color favored by Moslems.

But the truth of the matter was that when the people of Lobynia learned via radio that yet another military usurper had engineered a coup against good King Ardas, they massed around the royal palace with the intent of bringing down this latest upstart in gold braid.

Seeing the mob, Colonel Intifadah's cell of revolutionaries grew nervous. They were starting to lose their courage. So Colonel Intifadah personally shot them all to death. Then he went into the royal dining room and pulled a tablecloth off the king's dining table, shattering precious Waterford crystal goblets and fine china and, waving the makeshift flag before his unprotected chest, announced from the balcony that he had eliminated the usurpers. And then, proclaiming the new Islamic Republic of Lobynia, he ran the green tablecloth up the flagpole and proclaimed that if he were to fall in the defense of Allah, then so be it. Let the assassins have their way. Islam would live on without him.

The crowd broke into spontaneous cheering.

Colonel Intifadah raised his clenched hands above his head triumphantly, bestowed the crowd with a snaggletoothed smile, and tried to make the best of it. In truth, he was deeply disappointed.

He hated green. The flag that he had personally designed for the new Lobynian republic was red and carried the hammer-and-sickle emblem of international Communism. But he comforted himself with the thought that on some days you initiate the tide of history and on others it carries you along. Either way was fine with Colonel Intifadah just so long as the tides of history eventually deposited him safely on shore. If he got a little wet in the process, that was okay too. Just as long as it wasn't his own blood soaking his uniform.

Today, as it had been on so many other days since he had risen to power in the North African desert nation of Lobynia, the blood on the Colonel's uniform belonged to someone else.

Colonel Intifadah looked down at the gleaming dark spots spattering his sleeves and blouse. They shone redly wet. He knew from experience that later the spots would brown into a rust color and finally cake and flake off. Al-Qaid's blood would be no different from that of the hundreds of others who had displeased him.

Colonel Intifadah reached for a damp cloth, intending to rub some of the blood off. But he decided against it. Better to let the Russian see the spots, to know that this son of the desert stood so close to the kill.

Colonel Intifadah went to his desk and stood behind it. In the floor-length mirror on one wall, he regarded himself critically. His middle-aged face had coarsened, the skin dark and large-pored. His mouth was cruel and arrogant, his eyes as black as the tight-curled hair that no comb would ever tame. Although it was early, the beard growth had already started to show.

It was a face that intimidated weaker men. With that face, Colonel Intifadah would intimidate this Russian. Colonel Intifadah straightened out his uniform. It was green. He always wore green, even though he passionately hated the color. Even the gold braid coiled at his shoulder was greenish-gold.

The door opened and Colonel Intifadah hastily let the green curtain fall over his personal mirror.

"Leave us," Colonel Intifadah barked to his guards. The two men swiftly and gratefully withdrew.

"Stand before me, comrade," Colonel Intifadah ordered. The pale Russian scientist Pyotr Koldunov stepped up to the dark green desk. In order to stand before the Colonel, he would have to walk through the sticky pool of blood in the middle of the floor.

The Russian did so without showing a flicker of notice. Colonel Intifadah frowned darkly.

"I am told that the device will not work," he said sullenly. He spoke Russian. Perfect Russian. He was also fluent in French and English, as well as his native Arabic. He enjoyed seeing the startled expressions on the faces of smug diplomats when he so casually discoursed with them, they who privately thought him a crazed nomad who had wrested power by brute cunning.

"Da, Comrade Colonel," Koldunov replied in the same language. "The energy required for launch stripped the power rails and seriously damaged the carrier rails. As I told you would happen."

"Are you criticizing me?" Colonel Intifadah shouted, his sidearm flashing from its holster.

"I am merely reminding you that I cautioned you about this possibility. We should have waited."

"Waited! I have waited three years for this revenge. Revenge upon the Americans, who bombed this very city!"

"I am aware of your motivation," the Russian said with undisguised distaste.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

The Colonel fired at the ceiling in his rage.

The Russian flinched at the sounds, but he did not react otherwise. Nor run for shelter. Colonel Intifadah threw his empty pistol onto the desk. It was a 9 mm Glisenti. The grips were carved jade.

"You must be very brave, comrade. Some of my own officers think I am crazed."

"Many Moslems fire into the air to express themselves. It is their way."

"Out in the streets, yes. But not indoors. I know you send reports of my mental health back to the Kremlin. Do not deny this."

"I report to my superiors every week. Just as I report to you. As I am reporting to you now."

"You are a dog with two masters."

"I serve my homeland with pride. I am obligated to report to you. It is part of my internationalist duty."

"Do not speak to me of the Soviet internationalist duty. Where were your people when the American B-52's were raining death on Dapoli? Where?"

"There was no warning of their attack."

"No? Then why did your Soviet destroyers quietly leave this end of the Mediterranean before the bombers came? Your leaders knew. They knew everything. But rather than face the aggressor, they retreated to watch the carnage."

"I am not a military man. You will have to ask the Kremlin that question."

"I have. And you know what they told me? A coincidence. Bah! Pigs that slink from their friends. They sell me their weapons and call me their ally and sign a mutual-defense treaty and then they skulk from trouble at the first sign of American might."

"We are helping you now," Koldunov asserted. Colonel Intifadah spat on his desk.

"Years after the fact. Long after the world has forgotten. Only after I complained and complained. Do you know why your superiors compelled you to assemble your terrible invention under the Lobynian Desert?"

"Yes, I was told it was our internationalist duty."

"No. It was because I threatened to ally myself with the U.S. I said to your General Secretary: 'What good are Russian weapons if they cannot fend off an American attack, and of what use are Soviet promises if they crumble before the might of the U.S.?' They tried to reason with me. But I would have none of it. I desired revenge. And if pretending to be a friend of the U.S. would be my only recourse, then I would hold my nose and shake their bloody hands."

An unhappy look crossed Pyotr Koldunov's tight face and Colonel Intifadah knew that he had struck a nerve.

He knew the Russian resented the use his precious weapon was being put to.

"So to keep me placated," Colonel Intifadah went on, "they offer me this weapon of yours. They make promises. More promises. 'Colonel Intifadah, it is the greatest invention ever devised by a human mind.' 'Colonel Intifadah, with it you can strike into the heart of America without fear of retaliation.' 'Colonel Intifadah, with this device, you can deliver a nuclear weapon to any point on the earth without fear of satellite detection.' "

"All of this is true. My device can do exactly that."

"And so they make me sign another agreement. And I have the weapon. I am a proud man again. I have been given new teeth for my mouth. I have a rod with which to smite my enemies. And when the weapon has been delivered and assembled, what do I learn?"

"It works," Pyotr Koldunov said stubbornly.

"Oh, it works. But where are the nuclear weapons? Where are the missiles for this glorious new missile-delivery system?"

"No one promised Lobynia nuclear weapons."

"You said that on the day the launcher was assembled. You also said that to strike America with nuclear weapons would be unthinkable. Do you remember telling me that?"

"Clearly."

"Clearly! Not as clearly as I!" thundered Colonel Intifadah. "I had visions of America reduced to a burning wasteland and I found that I had been given the pistol but no ammunition."

"The device is still a prototype. It should be tested with less volatile projectiles. A malfunction at launch could possibly detonate a nuclear explosion on Lobynian soil."

"I would have taken that risk! But did your country offer a choice?"

"It was not in the agreement."

"No," Colonel Intifadah said bitterly. "It was not in the agreement. No. Not at all." The Colonel paced back and forth behind his desk, his black eyes flashing like ebony buttons. He turned suddenly and pointed at the Russian with light green gloves.

"When the U.S. bombed Dapoli, you know what was said? It was said that the Russians saw it as an opportunity to see how Soviet-made anti-aircraft-missile batteries would deal with American weapons under true battle conditions. That the Soviets saw the bombing of Dapoli as a mere test for their ordnance."

"That may have been a by-product of the incident," Koldunov admitted coolly. He showed no fear. As loudly as he yelled, Colonel Intifadah could not get a rise out of him.

"Yes, I am glad you admit that much. Because I believe it is happening once again."

"I do not understand."

"This!" Colonel Intifadah said, stabbing his desk with a finger. "This is another test. I am reduced to being a Soviet guinea pig. You have a new weapon. You dare not test it openly. You have stupid treaties with our mortal enemies, the Americans, too. But in me you have a way to test this fearsome device by proxy. Undetected by America. And if detected, who is it who gets bombed? Not Moscow. Not the Ukraine. But Lobynia!"

"I must remind you of your own words, comrade. You demanded Soviet assistance. This weapon has been deployed on your soil at your request."

"A trick! Another Russian trick. I am given a weapon of ultimate terror and I am reduced to flinging locomotives."

"Both launches were successful."

"Successful? Successful, comrade?" The Colonel jumped around his desk. His cruel face shoved into the Russian's own. "See that map?" he said, pointing to a global wall map.

"Yes, of course."

"Show me the targets I have destroyed."

"You cannot expect accuracy with such projectiles."

"I know that, you dog!"

"A locomotive cannot be controlled in flight. As it is, the first launch was highly successful-if your U.S. spies are correct. The projectile missed the White House by the merest distance---considering the distance the projectile traveled."

"It destroyed nothing!"

"It came within a meaningful distance of the designated target. It is unprecedented."

"The second one did not even strike Washington!"

"The fault of the carrier rails. They had to be relaid to accommodate the narrow-gauge European engine. It weakened them. I explained to you that if you insisted upon using American locomotives, all subsequent launches would have to be done with American locomotives. European engines have shorter wheelbases. They do not fit the tracks as originally laid down. Had you waited until you secured another American engine, the second strike might have been on target."

"Now you are blaming me!"

"I am pointing out that I did not select either the intended targets or the projectiles. I can only control the weapon."

"If you would give me one missile, I could accomplish my end. I do not need to rain death down on all of America. The destruction of Washington would be enough. It would satisfy me."

"From the Soviet point of view, both launches were unqualified successes. With repairs and more adjustments, I feel confident that complete success will be inevitable!"

"I do not want inevitable success! I want instant success. I have waited too long already. The Chinese promised me nuclear weapons, and U.S. pressure forced them to renege. The Iranians promised me poison gases, and even they balked when pressured by Washington. My terror agents have been rounded up in every capital. Everything I do, every scheme I hatch, the Americans chop off my hands before fruition comes. I will wait no longer."

"You will wait at least a week. For repairs," Koldunov said firmly.

The Colonel trembled in controlled rage. His eyes squeezed into thin slits.

"I know what you are counting on, you and your Russian masters."

Koldunov said nothing.

"You are counting on my locomotives to do no real damage."

"If they strike their target, the damage will be horrific."

"No. You count on most of their mass burning up on reentry. What strikes the ground is just a part of the whole. "

"That is not our fault. If you can provide us with engines that are impervious to reentry forces, that problem will be solved."

"Do not look so smug, Koldunov. I may do exactly that. "

In spite of himself, Pyotr Koldunov smiled thinly. The smile was erased at the Colonel's next words.

"Go and repair your terror weapon. I am expecting the next locomotive today. And as soon as the gun is operational, you will send it to a target where, no matter how wide of the mark it falls, there will be tremendous casualties. For if I cannot have Washington, D.C., I will settle for raining death upon New York City."

"One week," said Koldunov.

"Go now."

After the Russian had left, Colonel Intifadah hunkered down behind his desk. His big hairy hands shook with his anger. He had gotten a reaction. Koldunov understood. Washington, D.C., with its open spaces, was one thing, but Manhattan, densely packed with skyscrapers and people, was another entirely.

Soon, Colonel Intifadah thought, America would feel the terrible fist of his wrath.

The telephone shrilled and Colonel Intifadah picked up the receiver.

"Yes? What is it?" he snapped.

"Are we in a bad temper today?" a mellow voice inquired politely.

The Colonel's brutish face relaxed. The telephone voice was so reassuring.

"Hello, comrade."

"Hello, Colonel. That is better. I have excellent news for you. "

"Yes?" Colonel Intifadah said, gripping the receiver. "I have the carbon-carbon shipment."

"That is excellent news. Many lives will be changed by your skill. Yes, a great many lives," Colonel Intifadah said, looking at his global map.

"I am happy to provide service. That is what I live for. You will of course see to it that the agreed-upon amount is deposited in my Zurich account before shipment."

"Instantly."

"A pleasure doing business with you. Will there be anything else?"

"Yes, I am suddenly in the market for locomotives."

"Specifications?"

"I am interested in the largest European models available. They need not be in operating condition. Just so long as the wheels turn freely."

"That is a strange request."

"I know I can count on your absolute confidentiality in this matter."

"Of course. I exist to fulfill the customer's needs. Now, how many do you require?"

"As many as you can ship. I foresee my country having a serious locomotive shortfall for the next several years."

"I will be back to you with specifications by the end of the business day, your time."

"Thank you, Friend."

Chapter 14

It was nearly midnight when the taxi dropped off Remo and Chiun at the Folcroft gate.

"Got change for a hundred-dollar bill?" Remo asked the cabbie.

The driver turned his pugnacious face around and said in a surly voice, "Don't give me no crap here. I gave you a flat rate before we started. Fifty bucks, I said. You knew it was going to cost fifty when we started."

"I would still your insolent tongue if I were you," Chiun sniffed.

"And that goes for you too, buster. The fare is fifty bucks. And I don't carry that kind of change on me. I get robbed all the time."

"What would you say the proper tip would be, Little Father?" Remo asked calmly.

"I just gave him the proper tip," Chiun replied blandly. "And he would do well to heed it."

"You have a point," Remo said pleasantly. He extracted a single hundred-dollar bill from his wallet, folded it in two, and then ripped the bill into equal halves. He handed the irate cabbie one half.

"What's this crap?" the cabbie roared.

"He must like that word, 'crap,' " Chiun pointed out. "It befits his loud mouth."

"It's half of a hundred-dollar bill," Remo told the driver. "Fifty bucks." He smiled. "You can keep the change."

"I can't spend this!"

"How do you know if you don't try?" Remo asked lightly as he stepped out of the cab.

The cabbie started to climb out after him. Chiun gave the door a light shove. The driver flew back in. His head hit the meter. Bellowing, he kicked at the door. Chiun held it shut with his little finger while Remo got behind the cab and gave it a gentle push.

The cab careened down the road. The driver grabbed for the wheel just as it went around a bend in the road. The engine started and its roar picked up speed.

"Let's go, Little Father," Remo told Chiun. "I've had a long day. Uh-oh," he added, looking at the darkened shape of Folcroft Sanitarium.

"Ah," Chiun said, following his gaze. "Emperor Smith still holds forth, although it is late."

With the taxi's engine fading behind them, Remo and Chiun slipped through the gate. Over by the docks, a squat shape sat like a sleeping insect. A military helicopter.

"I think that chopper is waiting for us," Remo pointed out. "So much for our evening of rest."

"Come on," Remo said in a tired voice. "No sense in delaying the inevitable. Let's go see what's doing."

They found Dr. Harold W. Smith at his desk. Smith's face was drawn. That fact in itself was not unusual. Stripped of his glasses, Smith could have sat for a portrait of a man in the final stages of starvation. But what Smith was doing alarmed Remo.

Smith was spraying foam antacid into his open mouth. A lot of it. He stopped from time to time to swallow, then continued squirting. The nozzle soon sputtered and fizzled noisily. Smith shook the canister, and getting nothing, started to suck the nozzle like a baby with a bottle.

He did not notice Remo and Chiun until Remo cleared his throat.

"Ahem," Smith said, dropping the can. It rolled off his desk and Smith reached for it. He missed. "No matter, it was empty," he said sheepishly. He adjusted his Dartmouth tie self-consciously.

"What's up, Smitty? We got rid of Rambo, by the way."

"Who? Oh," Smith said. His voice was strained. "Yes, the elephant. Good. Thank goodness you are back. We have a situation."

"I know."

"You do?"

"The helicopter. It was a major clue."

"Oh, yes. I ordered it to stand by. I've been frantic, Remo, waiting for your return."

"So we're back," Remo said casually. "What is it this time?"

"Hush, Remo," Chiun warned. "Do not rush your emperor. Obviously, a serious matter has developed. Speak to me, O Emperor. And do not concern yourself with my unruly pupil. He has had a trying day, but he has learned a valuable lesson which will enable him to serve you better in the future."

"Yes, good. But a matter of grave international concern broke while you were away."

Chiun's wispy chin lifted in interest. Matters of grave international concern interested him. The more of Smith's grave matters of international concern the Master of Sinanju dealt with, the more Chiun would ask for at the next contract negotiation.

"Yes," Smith said. "Washington has been attacked. It's happened twice in the last few hours."

"Attacked!" Remo said.

"Some new form of offensive ballistic weapon called the Kinetic Kill Vehicle. The President just informed me that it was fired by an electromagnetic launching system of some kind which defies early-warning detection. The first KKV landed within yards of the White House. The second impacted in Maryland. Fortunately neither hit anything crucial, nor did they detonate. There have been no casualties."

"Just what the world needs," Remo said. "Another new offensive weapon."

"All weapons are offensive," Chiun said firmly.

"So what do we do, Smitty?"

"Do not be foolish, Remo," Chiun interjected. "It is obvious what we do. We will go to the hurlers of these KKV's and eliminate them, thus saving the republic."

"Not exactly," Smith put in.

"No?" asked Chiun.

"What do you mean, no?" Remo added.

"The Pentagon is still trying to pinpoint the source of these attacks. We can be certain it is a foreign power, but who or what or why has yet to be determined. The President wants you in Washington immediately. He's very upset with us all. He thinks we should have somehow foreseen these attacks."

"He's got a short memory," Remo complained. "After we saved his life during the campaign."

"I knew he was an ingrate the moment I laid eyes upon him," Chiun spat. "I voted for the other one," he added smugly.

"You, Master Chiun?" Smith asked. "But you are not a U.S. citizen."

"They could not stop me. Besides, I only wished to cancel Remo's vote."

Remo sighed audibly. "So what are we supposed to do in Washington?" he asked Smith.

"I am uncertain. But I do think it would be good if you were at the President's side to reassure him. He hasn't yet gotten his cabinet assembled and seems completely at sea."

"He doesn't expect us to baby-sit him, does he?" Remo asked.

''I'm afraid that's what it comes down to. In the meanwhile, our entire military command structure is on full alert. The world is poised on the brink of something, but no one knows what."

"What happens if there's another attack when we're down there?" Remo wanted to know.

Smith said nothing for a long moment. Finally he admitted, "I do not know."

"I know," Chiun said brightly.

Remo and Smith turned to look at his beaming countenance.

"What?" Remo wanted to know.

"Yes, tell us," Smith prompted.

"Nothing," Chiun said.

"How do you know that?" Smith asked.

"Because this is always the way with these things."

"What things?" Remo and Smith spoke together. Their blending voices harmonized like a flute and a can opener. "Sieges."

"What do you mean?" This from Smith.

"It is very simple," Chiun said, placing his long-nailed fingers into his ballooning sleeves. "Two stones have fallen."

"Stones. Where do you get 'stones'?" Remo demanded.

"They did not go boom, correct?"

"True," Smith admitted slowly.

"Then they are stones. Or might as well be stones. They are certainly not anything dangerous, or they would have exploded."

"Keep talking," Smith prompted.

"What we are witnessing is a form of warfare not seen in many centuries. The siege engine."

"Never heard of it," Remo said.

"I think he means the catapult."

"Yes, exactly. That is the other name for it. The Romans used it often. It was sometimes successful, but more often not. It worked in this fashion. An army encircles a fort or city, cutting off supplies. The besiegers then bring up the siege engines. They load them first with big stones and try to knock down the walls. Sometimes they send many smaller stones into the city itself to dishearten the population. Once in a while, they strike something, a person or a house. But rarely does this happen. Europeans used the siege engine to terrify, not to destroy. Much like your present-day atomic missiles."

"I've never thought of it quite in those terms," Smith said. "But who would do this? And where is their encircling army?"

"Wait a minute!" Remo said. "I don't buy this. Catapults. From where?"

"Our information is that the KKV came in from over the Atlantic. That makes any nation from Great Britain to Russia a suspect."

"No catapult could lob a rock over the Atlantic."

"True," Smith admitted. "But Master Chiun's comparison is basically sound. I would like him to continue." Remo folded his arms. Grinning with satisfaction, Chiun continued. His voice grew deep and resonant. He enjoyed counseling his emperor.

"I do not know where the army is. Perhaps it is in transit. Perhaps it will not be sent until the siege is fully under way. But I do know this. The method is the method of the siege. The purpose to demoralize. And the reality, that few if any of these projectiles will hit their intended target-or anything of consequence at all. For Europeans are the architects of the siege and there is one thing that is always true of Europeans."