Warren Murphy: Terminal Transmission

"Saint Clare of Assisi. The patron saint of TV. That's how I figured it out. I've thrown a few thankyous her way in my time. This isn't some misplaced religious shrine. Dollars to doughnuts the antenna mast is jammed up the sister's skirts." Cooder lifted sheepish eyes to the rock ceiling. "Excuse my French, Saint Clare."

A videocam was trained on the two figures and when the light was blazing, the major removed the first helmet.

"I'll be danged!" Don Cooder said. "If it isn't Jed Burner. Captain Audacious himself!"

The second helmet revealed a head like a Pekinese that had been used to wipe up an abattoir floor.

"Haiphong Hannah Fondue," Cooder said. "She came to fame broadcasting for the North Vietnamese. Now she meets her maker trying to undermine capitalism's greatest, loudest voice---free TV."

"She has no face," said the major. "How do you know that is her?"

"I'm a trained network anchor. I know hair. That's Haiphong Hannah. Probably a wig."

The major pushed at the hair. It slipped loose. A wig.

"So who is this individual?" he asked, pointing to the sprawled figure in the anchor-emblazoned blue bodystocking.

Don Cooder put on a mournful face. "That, I deeply regret to say, is a colleague of mine. Frank Feldmeyer. He is-was-our science editor. And probably the brains of this insidious operation."

The major looked doubtful. "So which of them is this Captain Audion?"

"You call it and I'll broadcast it that way," Cooder said, winking.

A sudden shriek pierced every ear-long, ripping and bloodcurdling.

"What on earth was that?" said Don Cooder in a suddenly shocked-dead voice.

The Mounties seized him by his chains and pulled him along as they went in search of the horrible sound's source.

Remo Williams followed the Master of Sinanju into the cave mouth, where three RCMP cars sat, engines still radiating heat, amid piles of discarded car batteries.

His head straining forward, turtle-fashion, Chiun zipped up a set of spiral stairs like a careening black pinball.

"Cheeta, I am coming!"

"Wait up! Chiun! You don't know what you're walking into!"

Another shriek came, louder than before.

Remo skipped the too-narrow stairs and went up the circling rail like a monkey. He still reached the top a full second after the Master of Sinanju.

"Halt!" an authoritative voice cried. "Who goes there?"

"I am Chiun, Master of Sinanju and the man who stands between me and Cheeta Ching has seen his last sunrise!"

"I am Major Cartier of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and I will know your business here."

Remo got between the guns and Chiun and told the Mounties, "We're from the USA. Take it easy. We're looking for Cheeta Ching."

"Who is Cheeta Ching?"

Behind the Mounties, Don Cooder smiled with pleasure.

Then another shriek filled the cold stone corridor.

Remo could see it coming, but there was nothing he could do about it. The Master of Sinanju leaped for the sound. The Mounties brought their big revolvers tracking around. Fingers tightened on triggers.

And Remo, cursing under his breath, swept in and took them out.

He killed no one. But his hands snapped wrists, his feet exploded kneecaps, and pistols flew everywhere to land clattering and unfired.

Don Cooder backed away, his hands lifted in surrender and his shackles rattling nervously.

"What are you doing here?" Remo demanded.

"Don't be ridiculous. You know what this place is?"

"I have a good idea."

"Where there's news, there's Don Cooder."

Chiun's voice rose to a keen. "Cheeta, my beloved! What have they done to you?"

Grabbing at a hanging loop of chain, Remo raced to the sound, pulling a hopping Don Cooder with him.

There was an open door and the smell of fresh blood was coming out of it in warm metallic-tasting waves.

Remo put in his head-and the sight sickened him.

The Master of Sinanju was kneeling beside a bloodsoaked bed where Cheeta Ching, her face contorted in what looked like a permanent grimace of agony, lay in her own pooled blood. A flap of flesh lay open, exposing her internal organs. And lying beside her, red as if dipped in Mercurochrome, was a wriggling baby.

"The butchers!" Chiun shrieked. "They have killed Cheeta. "

"Urrr," gurgled Cheeta, only the whites of her eyes showing.

"Yet the child lives. My ancestors smile." The Master of Sinanju lifted the baby in gentle hands. From its stomach trailed a purplish pink umbilical cord. He severed it with a broad sweep of one flashing fingernail.

Then, holding the baby up, he spanked it once on the backside, producing a wail that made Remo want to cover his ears.

"Takes after its mother," Remo said.

"Son of perfection," Chiun intoned gravely, "I welcome you into the bitter world that has taken the life of your mother."

Then the eyes of the Master of Sinanju fell upon the baby's kicking legs.

"Aiieee!"

"What's wrong?" Remo asked, "Is it deformed?"

"Worse. It is a female."

"So?"

"I wanted a male," Chiun wailed. "This is a calamity! I have lost Cheeta, and her only offspring is unsuitable for Sinanju training."

"What is he talking about?" Don Cooder asked Remo.

"You stay out of this," Remo snapped.

Chiun, his voice dripping with distaste, said, "Take this whelp, Remo. I do not want it."

Remo backed away. "I don't want it."

"Neither do . . . I . . ." Cheeta Ching groaned.

Whirling, Chiun gasped, "Cheeta! You live!"

"Barely . . ."

"Name the ones who savaged you so cruelly and I will place their heads at your feet, my child."

"Frank . . . Feldmeyer . . . kidnapped me. The bastard."

"Frank's dead," Don Cooder said quickly. "I found him dead with the other two."

"Other two?" Remo asked.

"Jed Burner and Haiphong Hannah. They're in the control room yonder."

Chiun hovered over the bed. "You have been avenged, Cheeta. The evil ones who cut the child from your belly are no more."

"What are . . . you talking . . . about?" Cheeta groaned. "I . . . did that."

"You-?"

"I couldn't stand it-anymore-the endless labor-the contractions. I used a . . . jackknife."

One bloodied arm came up clutching the dripping blade.

Chiun nodded grimly. "Suicide. I understand. The pain must have been unendurable to drive you to this."

"No," Cheeta said weakly. "I gave . . . myself a. . . caesarian."

Chiun gasped.

Cheeta rolled her eyes up in her head and moaned, "I was magnificent. If only there had been a camera crew . . ."

The Master of Sinanju offered the baby to its mother, saying, "Fret not, Cheeta. Your child breathes. Here . . ."

"Get it away from me!" Cheeta shrieked.

Chiun stepped back, his face stunned. "What?"

"I carried that brat for ten long months, and what does he do? He can't wait until I'm rescued before kicking to be born. Two lousy days and I could have done this in prime time." A sob shook Cheeta's painwracked body. "The first self-induced caesarian in the history of womankind and no pictures."

Chiun only stared. His wispy beard shook uncontrollably.

"Come on, Little Father," Remo said. "Cheeta's just freaked out. She'll get over it."

Cheeta gasped. "Vino? Is that you?"

"Vino?" Remo and Chiun said together.

Cheeta smiled dreamily. "You're my wine . . ."

The Master of Sinanju laid the squalling infant on its mother's chest and backed from the room, his hazel eyes unreadable.

"Cheeta has gone mad . . . ." he breathed.

"In the business," Don Cooder said, "we call it ratings-induced dementia. Some people just can't take the pressure."

Remo closed the door after them.

The Master of Sinanju turned, his hands slipping into his sleeves. His gaze came to rest on the stiff face of Don Cooder.