Warren Murphy: Terminal Transmission

"I guess so," said the director, who never understood his star anchor's homespun aphorisms.

"I'm not waiting for the air to break. I'm breaking this story here, now and first. And all of you are my witnesses."

"What are you going to do, Don?"

Without answering, leaving the carefully prepared script on his desk and the teleprompters standing frozen in time, Don Cooder, the highest paid news anchor in human history, strode from the Bridge to the nearest outside office. He threw up a window sash, stuck out his head and broad shoulders, and in a voice loud enough to startle the pigeons roosting on nearby Times Square buildings, proclaimed, "This is a BCN Evening News Special Report. Don Cooder reporting. All over the continental United States, broadcast television was blacked out at the start of the first national news feeds. The mysterious force responsible for this tragedy has yet to be identified, but for now, in this slice of time, for the first time in the over forty-year history of television, America is staring into a blackness more terrible than the Great Blackout of 1965. And the blackness is staring back. Who will blink first? That is the question of the hour."

The producer tapped him on the shoulder. "Forget it, Don."

"Shut up! I'm broadcasting. The old-fashioned way."

"KNNN is on the air."

Don Cooder straightened so fast he bumped his intensely black hair against the window sash. He wheeled, leaving sticky strands of hair adhering to the wood. "What!"

"It's true. They're been broadcasting uninterrupted all along."

"Damn! Did they scoop me?"

"Afraid so."

"Damn."

Cooder strode into the control room, where a monitor showed a calm anchor speaking in a flat voice under the worldfamous Kable Newsworthy News Network logo-a nautical anchor.

"Those bastards! They can't bigfoot me like this!"

"Now you know how it feels," came a groaning voice from the floor-Cheeta Ching, draped over her big own stomach and breathing through her mouth the Lamaze way.

"You deserve to be bigfooted," Cooder growled. "If only your public could see you now. You look like a beached whale suffering from acute jaundice."

"Somebody help Miss Ching," the floor manager called from the huddle around the monitor cluster. They were all tuned to KNNN. The volume was up.

Don Cooder pushed into the huddle, fuming.

"What are they saying?" he demanded.

"Bare bones stuff. All broadcasting is black. Only the cable lines are getting through. No one's figured out why yet."

"Damn. There goes all of prime time. We'll never recapture those viewers." His intensely blue eyes went to the line monitor where the mocking white letters, NO SIGNAL, showed mutely.

He was reaching for the volume control when the line monitor blazed into life. The burst of light was so unexpected that Cooder blinked. When his sight cleared, a sight more blood-chilling than the Attica riots and the 1968 Democratic National Convention put together was framed on the screen.

The sight of two stage hands helping a wobbly Cheeta Ching into the anchor chair. His Chair.

Don Cooder's head snapped around. The number one camera tally light was a red eye pointed directly at Cheeta Ching.

"We're live! We're back on!" he shouted, pitching across the news set.

A cable snagged a boot heel before he got three feet. His face slammed into the carpet. For a moment, Don Cooder lay stunned.

And floating to his ears came the hateful voice of his chief rival, her tones syrupy and triumphant, saying, "This is the BCN Evening News with Don Cooder. Cheeta Ching reporting. Don is off tonight."

And as millions of Americans settled back into their seats, those who had patiently stayed with BCN heard above the treacly voice of Cheeta Ching a raging bellow of complaint.

"Let me up! Let me up! I'm going to strangle that Korean air-hog if it's the last thing I do!"

Chapter 2

His name was Remo and all he wanted was to die.

That was all. A simple thing. No big deal. People died every day. Remo knew that better than most. He had personally helped hundreds, if not thousands, of deserving people into the boneyard. And now it was his turn.

So why did they have to make it so hard for him?

He had been dialing the toll-free number all morning. The line was busy. Remo would hang up, wait a few moments and then stab the redial button. But all he got was a busy signal beeping in his ear.

"Dammit," Remo said, hanging up.

"What is wrong?" asked a squeaky voice.

"I still can't get through."

"You are not doing it properly," said the squeaky voice.

"Yeah? Well, you try it for once."

From the east-facing windows of the great square room which had windows on all sides, a tiny Buddhalike figure squatted on a reed mat. It was swathed in crimson silks that were trimmed in shimmery golds. The bald top of its head gleamed like a polished amber egg, framed by twin clouds of hair that concealed the tips of delicate ears.

"It is not my burden," said the figure.

"We're coequal partners. It's half your burden."

"Only if you fail or die, which should be the same thing, otherwise the house will be shamed forever."

Remo blinked. "The house would rather I die than fail?"

"No. The house prefers success. But will accept your death with proper lamentations and vows of vengeance."

"What about living to fight another day?"

"This is my task in the event of your failure," the immobile figure sniffed.

Remo pointed at the phone. "How can I fail if I can't get through?"

"How can I meditate on the approaching day of joy with you banging two pieces of plastic together and pacing the floor?"

"It stops the minute I get through."

The tiny figure suddenly arose. It turned. The lavender, scarlet, and gold silks of its kimono rustled and settled as the frail-looking figure of Chiun, Reigning Master of Sinanju, padded on black sandals over to the telephone set on the only article of furniture in the great bare room, a low taboret.

He was a tiny wisp of a man. His round head sat on a thin wattled neck like an orange on a pole. The face might have been molded of papyrus and kneaded around matched agate eyes.

The Master of Sinanju floated to the taboret and lifted the receiver with a hand whose skin was shiny with age. He did not bring the instrument to either delicate ear, but instead held it at arm's length, as if it were a distasteful thing. With the other, he stabbed the one button and then the 800 area code.

Remo started to say, "The rest of it is-"

"I know the rest," snapped Chiun.

And as Remo watched, the Master of Sinanju began tapping out the correct exchange.

"How do you know the number?" Remo asked.

"I am not deaf. I have been listening to the annoying chirps all morning."

Remo looked startled, "You can tell the number by the chirps?"

"As can any child," sniffed Chiun, tapping the first three numbers of the last group of digits. He paused, his long-nailed fingers hovering over the keypad.

"Ah-hah," said Remo. "Stuck on the last number."

"I am not!"

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"The proper moment."

Remo watched. The Master of Sinanju stood frozen, the receiver in one hand, the other like an eagle's claw prepared to pounce on the tiny square eggs of the keypad.

Remo folded his lean arms. Chiun was up to something. He wasn't sure what.

"You're going to lose the call," Remo warned.

Then the finger descended. The long colorless nail touched the five key and Remo's face quirked up. Five was the correct digit. Chiun had not been stuck after all.

Then, with a disdainful toss, the Master of Sinanju put the receiver in Remo's hand and padded back to his floor mat and his meditation.

Remo brought the receiver to his ear. The phone was ringing.