Warren Murphy: Engines of Destruction

"Can't be the same Batsuka," said Remo.

"The Osaka Blowfish were sponsored by the Nishitsu company. And Nishitsu owns an interest in the Mariners. Remo, you follow baseball. Why didn't you recognize Batsuka's name?"

Remo grunted. "I haven't paid much attention since the strike."

"Ah-hah," said Chiun. "This explains the inexplicable."

"It does?" said Remo and Smith together.

"Yes. When I first encountered this fiend, he employed a fighting stance I did not recognize as Japanese."

"What stance?"

Chiun demonstrated by laying his katana blade across his shoulder and taking practice swings at an imaginary opponent.

"That's a batting stance, all right," said Remo.

"My God!" said Smith. "It all fits. I last tracked the ronin to Denver. That is where he is now. Signing autographs."

"That still doesn't explain what this is all about."

"I believe I have that answer, as well," said Smith.

They looked at him.

"For years now, the Japanese have wanted to sell the U.S. high-speed bullet and magnetic-levitation trains. But our rail systems are either incompatible or unsuitable for the conversion. It would all have to be replaced. From scratch. They're trying to convince us that our rail system is falling apart."

Chiun hissed, "The philistines! Let them tear up their own rails."

"They have. And now they enjoy bullet trains and maglev systems we can never hope to inaugurate as long as we cling to old steel-wheel technology."

"Well, that explains one thing that's been bothering me," said Remo.

Smith said, "Yes?"

"Now I know why K.C. left Melvis crying in his beer."

Smith looked confused.

"Never mind," said Remo. "Okay, I'll buy it. I guess we head to Denver, huh?"

"Yes," said Harold Smith in a grim, tight voice. "You go to Denver."

Chiun lifted a vengeful fist to the high ceiling. "The fiend will never harm our gracious engines again, O Emperor. Place your trust in us."

"Remo," said Smith.

"Yeah?"

"See that Batsuka is disposed of quietly. And make certain the Nishitsu people understand our deep displeasure with events."

A stricken expression crossed Chiun's wizened face. His beard trembled in shock. "They will be allowed to retain their heads?"

"Be discreet," repeated Smith.

"They get to keep their heads," said Remo. "Sorry."

Chapter 26

The International Rail Exposition for 1996 was destined to be the largest, most ambitious assemblage of railroad rolling stock ever put together in one spot.

An outdoor fairground in the high mountain air of Denver, Colorado, was the site. Trains old and new, ranging from museum pieces to factory-pristine prototypes had been trucked and airlifted in for the event.

Gleaming passenger diesel-electrics stood on static display beside mighty Hudson Locomotives. There were Big Boys and U-Boats and Alcos, Baldwin diesels and Budliners. Narrow-gauge curiosities dwarfed by Challenger 4-6-64s and other titans of the steam age.

Farther in the fenced-off fairground stood the prototypes and the late-model diesels on longer lengths of trackage. They shuttled back and forth, like dumb, throbbing beasts of burden. GM Big Macs. French TGV's. German ICE trains. Swedish X-2000s. Russian diesels and all the latest in bullet trains and magnetic-levitation technology, bright in stealth livery or manufacturer's colors.

Beyond that impressive array, candy-striped fleamarket tents were set up, displaying railroad paraphernalia ranging from massive coffee-table books to videotapes and memorabilia from lines lost to man but still remembered fondly by rail fans-all being snapped up by attendees, who milled about wearing the stunned, beatific expressions normally associated with religious fanatics.

Melvis O. Cupper wore one of those expressions. He was in hog heaven from the moment he paid his twenty-five dollar, one-day admission and walked through the wonderland of Mallets and Big Boys, taking his Stetson off in mute respect to the inert iron gods of steam he loved so dearly.

By the time he got to the dealers' area, he was primed to buy. And buy he did.

Three hours of picking over knicknack tables had filled his arms with treasure and emptied his wallet. He groaned under the weight of the two-place reproduction-Hiawatha table setting, the LeHigh Valley video collection, a Texas Eagle calendar and assorted plastic-model kits. He was happy; he was content. He had everything an honest rail fan could ever want.

Except one absent article.

K. C. Crockett.

Melvis had tried to shove K.C. out of his mind, but strain as he might, he couldn't uncouple her from his heart. That was the long and short of it.

Even with new derailments occurring hourly, and the NTSB shorthanded during this, the traditional vacation month, Melvis had reached his limit.

He'd called in sick, hopped a flight to Denver and practiced what he was going to say the next time he laid eyes on his heart's desire.

There was just one hitch in the rope.

There was no sign of K.C. anywhere. Lot of clues, though.

Whenever a flashbulb exploded, Melvis whirled, his eyes tracking the after-burn. Many times he barreled through the surging crowd, stepping on toes and muttering "Pardon me" until he felt like a weakbladdered penitent at a Baptist revival meet.

But no K.C. gal.

It was as hard to take as sand in the journal box. But Melvis had come a long way, and giving up wasn't in his nature.

"Sure hope she didn't take up with that fool Air Force major," he grumbled as he set down his booty and availed himself of some cool bottled water.

Fanning himself with his hat, Melvis scanned the sea of heads. His chest expanded to see so many rail fans gathered in one spot. These were God's people, he reflected. There weren't truer or more-natural souls trampling God's good green footstool.

"If only I can rope K.C.," he muttered, "I'll be content with my lot in life."

His eyes, scanning the giant outdoor pavilions, rested on the largest of them all. A banner was hung across the entrance: MAGLEV RIDE THE FUTURE OF RAIL NOW

"If she's here, she's in that heathen den of iniquity," Melvis muttered. He swallowed hard. "Guess I just gotta steel myself and sashay into the lion's den," he said, picking up his packages.

Melvis strode toward the sign, his knees growing weak, his heart starting to trip-hammer.

"Steel wheels are my life," he told himself. "But if I gotta eat a little cold crow to catch me a rail-friendly wife, well, I'm man enough to do that, I reckon."

AT THE RAIL Expo entrance, the Master of Sinanju refused to get in line.

"I am Reigning Master," he told Remo. "I will not stand in line with the common peasantry."

Remo looked at him. "So I have to?"

"No, you do not have to. But I will not stand in line."

"This is a co-equal partnership," Remo argued.

"If it is a co-equal partnership," Chiun retorted, "why I am burdened with these?" And he raised the pair of katana blades wrapped in butcher paper to disguise them.

"Because you insisted," Remo shot back.

In the end, Remo stood in line and, when the line finally reached the ticket booth, he waved Chiun to cut in front of him.

At Remo's back a commotion started up.

"Hey! That's not fair!" the customer behind him complained.

"I'm not with him," Remo said.

"You let him cut in front of you."

"No. He cut in front of me. I just didn't stop him."

When Chiun reached the head of the line, he came face-to-face with a slick-haired Japanese ticket taker in a tuxedo.

Their eyes met, and the ticket taker started to say something.

"Pay this Nihonjinwa, Remo," said Chiun, marching through the entrance gate.

Remo dug into a pocket.

"You are with him?" the ticket taker said thinly.