Warren Murphy: Terminal Transmission

Professional sports was at a standstill. The commissioner of baseball instituted an emergency moratorium on all games, pending the resumption of commercial broadcasting.

Irate fans, egged on by ringleaders later identified as bookies, picketed TV stations in all major cities.

They had to fight for sidewalk space. Angry soap opera addicts-mostly housewives-usually got there first.

In most cities, the soap opera addicts forced the sports fans to retreat behind police lines, where they felt safe.

National Guard units had been activated in eight states to help keep order. The President was considering federalizing guard elsewhere.

It was, Smith knew, just the beginning. Unless Remo and Chiun could come through for America.

Chapter 35

The Master of Sinanju looked up, tension on his face, as the American captain stomped clod-footed into the rear of the bomber.

"We've spotted it!" he exclaimed.

"Great," said Remo.

"Land," said Chiun.

"We can't land. You two are supposed to be airdropped. Those were my instructions."

The Master of Sinanju arose from his place in the center of the great bomb bay. He padded up to the captain who, although young, towered over him.

Chiun reached up as if to take a speck of fluff from the callow one's chin. The movement was swift and it brought swift results.

"Ow ow ow!" said the captain, dropping to his knees as the exquisite sharpness of Sinanju-hardened fingernails met with his earlobe caught between them.

"Better change your mind," Remo said. "I saw him do that for three hours straight once. The guy had to be committed afterward."

"Okay, okay! We'll land."

Chiun released the young captain. "Thank you," he said and returned to his place on the floor.

Soon, soon, he would find Cheeta Ching. If only it was not too late . . .

Harold Smith's hand seized the red telephone before the first ring had stopped.

"Yes, Mr. President?"

"The Secret Service has finished interrogating an ANC employee they caught sabotaging one of their microwave relay towers. He's given up his employer."

"Who is it?"

"A man I've never heard of. Frank Feldmeyer."

"Frank Feldmeyer is the science editor for the Broadcast Corporation of North America," Smith said grimly. "He would have the technical background to engineer this operation."

"This is like a bad mystery story. The villain is someone no one would have suspected."

"We have not yet determined that he is Captain Audion. He may be a lieutenant."

"Maybe there isn't a Captain Audion. This guy on my set looks like a cross between Don Cooder and Max Headroom's second cousin."

"I'm sorry. Mr. President. I do not understand the reference."

The President started to explain, and when Smith realized it was some irrelevant trivia, he cut him off.

"Does the Secret Service have a line on Frank Feldmeyer?" Smith asked.

"No. BCN management tell me he's on vacation."

"Where?"

"Quebec is all they have."

"Thank you, Mr. President. Keep me informed and I will do the same."

Smith returned to his computer, his dry features concerned. It was going to be difficult working with a president who had no foreign experience and watched pointless popular television programs.

He returned to his prowling of BCN employee records. One by one he had been identifying those who had been placed in other networks and alerting the Secret Service to pick them up. A number had already confessed . . .

The RCMP cars had been trundling south of Fort Chimo for three hours. They had flown up from Montreal in an official De Havilland Otter and transferred to RCMP cars.

In the back of the lead car, shackled hand and foot, Don Cooder sat ramrod straight, unflinching, unafraid.

"This," he said, "is going to be the biggest story since Hurricane Andrew. That will go down in broadcast history as one of Don Cooder's finest hours. Makes me feel young again. Like Hurricane Carla, back in '61. I cut my teeth on that blow. But this is bigger than any old hurricane."

The RCMP guards were growing bored. One yawned.

"Are there any trees around these parts?" Don Cooder asked suddenly.

"Why do you ask, Yank?" asked the major in charge of the search. His voice was guttural in its French accent.

"Even an anchor has to take a leak from time to time."

The Mounties broke out into peals of rough-hewn laughter.

Don Cooder smiled sheepishly.

He was still smiling when they escorted him to a gully, their .38 caliber Smith volvers holstered and flapped at their sides.

Stopping to unzip, Cooder said, "Mind turning your backs? Bashful kidney."

"Eh?"

"I can't piss when people are looking."

That brought another laugh and the Mounties turned their brown serge backs.

Because he really did have to urinate, Don Cooder did so at great length. When the sound stopped the Mounties waited politely for the sound of his zipper.

Instead, they caught a long length of chain in the sides of their heads and went down, sidearms still flapped and undrawn.

Cooder made a dash for the lead RMCP car.

His driver was on the other side of the road relieving himself. A number of the others were similarly preoccupied.

They turned around at the sound of the idling car engine racing into life.

"Sacremont! The American is escaping!"

Don Cooder flipped them the bird and floored the gas.

Some of them ran, holding on to themselves and peeing all over their limping legs. Others finished their business, cursing fluently.

Either way, he had a head start. And a head start was all Don Cooder ever needed to be the first to break a breaking story.

"This," he chortled, pulling a .38 from the glove compartment, "is going to be bigger than Dallas, 1963!"

Captain Nodell was making a preliminary pass, dragging the landing area for stones and muskeg patches when he saw the black-and-white car scoot out of nowhere.

"Uh-oh," he told his copilot.

"Think he saw us?"

"Dunno. Is it a police car?"

"Well, it's got a roof flasher and there's some kind of letters stenciled on the door panel. Begins with R."

"RCMP?"

"Maybe."

"Mounties," said Captain Nodell.

"They still got those up here?"

"Looks like." He pulled up and sent the Stealth fighter sweeping around.

And got a clear view of the speedy little car, distantly pursued by two others, racing toward the mountain that supported the 200-foot statue of a nun-and disappearing into it.

"Must be a cave or something in the base . . ."

"Do we still land?" asked the nervous copilot.

"No choice," said Nodell, feeling his tender earlobe. It felt hot, like a cooked piece of steak.

Frank Feldmeyer was shivering in his blue Captain Audion bodysuit in the great control room under the mountain when he saw the red warning light go off and swore under his breath.

Bolting from the control room, he grabbed up a pistol from a rack by the door.

From down the corridor cut from rough stone, shrieks and wails of pain were coming. He shut them out.

Moving to the spiral stainless-steel steps, he ran down, weapon at the ready, prepared to defend his post.

A familiar voice called up. "Psst, Frank!"

"Don. Is that you?"

Don Cooder, shackled and holding a .38 revolver, stomped up the stairs on his ostrich-skin cowboy boots.

"Yeah," he said, his breath steaming. "Are we still on the air?"

Frank Feldmeyer wiped the cold sweat off his brow and said, "Yeah. But power's getting low. How long do you expect me to keep this up?"

"It's time to wrap this up."

"Great. Let's get out of here."

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"Mounties are on my trail like a pack of redbone foxhounds in heat."

"Mounties! What the hell do we do?"