Warren Murphy: Terminal Transmission

Television had become a social sedative, without which certain elements, having too much time on its hands, got into more trouble than usual. But beyond that there was a deeper psychological warning. People had come to depend on TV as their chief source of news and main connection with the world beyond their neighborhoods. Deprived of the electronic window on the world, they quickly became uneasy, restless, disconnected, and worried. In these scattered events there was the shadow of a darker menace-widespread civil unrest, if not panic.

Smith had foreseen this even before the President. What he had not foreseen he saw as he scanned the inner pages, was the international ramifications of the problem. Mexico and Canada had also ceased broadcasting over the air. In those countries, cable stations continued carrying signals. That told Smith that Captain Audion was targeting U.S. networks primarily, and the spillover was due to the enormous scope of the broadcast null zone.

Still, the government of Mexico and Canada did not grasp this. They saw only that their airwaves were being disrupted. There was growing instability in Mexico. But the greater problem lay to the north. The Canadian government was threatening to close its borders with the U.S. if the interference did not cease.

As Smith turned into the gates of Folcroft Sanitarium, he promised himself that he would hunt down Captain Audion before the situation could escalate further.

But how to do that? Until Audion resumed jamming, there was no way to trace his transmitter. And Smith had seen to it that Audion would not dare to carry through on this threat.

Remo Williams greeted him when Harold Smith, bent almost double by the weight of his morning newspaper, stepped off the elevator.

"Here, let me get that," Remo said, taking the bundle of newsprint from Smith's thin arms. Seeing the size of the edition, Remo looked puzzled. "Is it Sunday already?"

"No, the blackout has panicked advertisers into taking out newspaper ads in anticipation of Captain Audion's next attack."

Remo's dark eyes lifted hopefully. "Does that mean they've doubled the size of the comics page, too?"

"I have not looked."

Smith unlocked his office, saying, "Where is Master Chiun?"

"In his room. I don't think he slept. I could hear him pacing all night. He's worried sick about Cheeta, and he's not talking to me."

Smith laid the newspaper and briefcase on his desk, took his seat, and touched the concealed stud that brought his CURE terminal humming out of its hidden desk reservoir. Smith logged on.

Remo turned on the tiny TV and checked every channel. All stations were broadcasting normally, and he settled on KNNN.

"When did KNNN come back on?" he asked Smith.

"Last night," said Smith, not looking up from his scan of the morning news digests. Smith preferred to get his news in digest form. Commentators only diluted the facts with their personal prejudices, he felt. Smith's computers continually scanned wire services feeds, gathering and summarizing events according to a program Smith had long ago set up.

Remo abruptly snapped his finger. "Hey! I just remembered something."

"Yes?"

"When we were at Cooder's office, Chiun impressed Cooder by quoting from the Bible."

"How so?"

"Chiun's name was in it."

"Really? Do you recall the citation?"

"No."

Smith pulled up his Bible concordance, input the name Chiun, then depressed the Search key.

"There is only one reference to a Biblical Chiun," he told Remo. "But in context, I do not understand it."

"Neither do I. Chiun gave me a cock-and-bull story about one of his ancestors. Chiun the First. But he wasn't exactly generous with details."

"According to this footnote," Smith added, "Chiun is a transliteration of the Hebrew Kaiwan, a name that goes back to the Babylonia word, Kayamanu, which has been identified with the planet Saturn, which in turn can be equated with certain obscure Babylonian deities, such as Ninurta and Rentham, whom the Hebrew people worshipped during their desert exile."

"That tells me a lot," Remo said dryly. "Anything else?"

"Kayamanu, or Saturn, was called 'the star of right and justice.' But we could be here days backtracking obscure references," said Smith, abruptly logging off his Bible database. "We must unmask Captain Audion before the deadline."

"I don't see what the big deal is."

"Read the front page," Smith suggested.

Remo did. People had been killed over satellite dishes. Stores reported massive dropoffs in sales-apparently because without commercials to motivate the average citizen, he held onto his money. The economy was taking a further beating. "All this because of no TV for a crummy five hours?" he complained.

"Try to imagine the consequences of the seven-day blackout-sports riots, domestic strife."

"Maybe the networks will pay up."

"They might. But it would not solve the basic problem."

The red telephone rang and Smith said, "Excuse me. That is the President."

"Give him a message for me."

"What?"

"Drown the Vice President."

Smith frowned and put the receiver to his ear.

"Yes, Mr. President?"

"I have some news. I just spoke with the prime minister of Canada. His CRTC was tracing the pirate transmitter until the signal went off the air."

"Did they get a fix?"

"Not exactly. The prime minister tells me he has the longitude line."

"And we have the latitude."

"I offered to exchange data, organize a joint assault operation on the transmitter, but he refused and demanded I surrender the latitude coordinates as a good faith gesture to demonstrate U.S. noninvolvement."

"You, of course, declined?"

"Damn straight. I wasn't about to let them swoop down on this transmitter, grab the bad guys and phoney up a scenario implicating a U.S. citizen or his government."

"You did right," said Smith, "We have to be prepared for the probability that U.S. citizens are behind this plot."

"I know," sighed the President. "And here is something else: I've spoken with the heads of the major networks. They say they can't afford a seven-day blackout. It would break them. They're losing millions in advertising money to newspapers and magazines already. You should see my Washington Post this morning. The Secret Service thought it was a bomb and detonated it."

"Capitulation to terrorism is always a mistake."

"I know. But I have no control over what the networks do. Civil unrest could explode if TV is blacked out again. And the economy is hurting. I had no idea how much spending was motivated by TV commercials."

"Can you convince the networks to give us twenty-four hours?"

"I can try. But they sound ready to wire the ransom into the numbered Swiss account today."

"Do your best, Mr. President," said Smith, hanging up. He looked to Remo.

"The networks are prepared to pay the ransom."

"Damn. I couldn't care less about the networks, but I can't stand the idea of this nut getting away with this crap. Once he's paid off, he can vanish and we'll never find him."

Smith was staring at the greenish field of commands on his terminal screen.

"There must be some clue," he said, "some lead. We know that the transmitter is in Northern Canada. But where?"

"Let's put our heads together."

Smith's prim mouth tightened. "How do you mean?"

"You work your computer . . ."

"Yes?"

"And I'll pull up a chair and watch KNNN."

"Why KNNN?"

Remo grinned. "Because they always break stuff first."

"It is worth a try," Smith said without enthusiasm.

Hours later, a bleary-eyed Harold Smith looked up from his screen and began polishing his glasses with a handkerchief.

"Anything?" asked Remo, looking away from the TV. He had the newspaper spread out over his end of the desk.