Warren Murphy - Rain of Terror

Barbecue grills? Smith wondered. It must be an open code. He asked the computer to identify the source of the incoming call.

The computer told him Andrews Air Force Base. Smith remembered that he had indications of strange activity at Andrews.

General Leiber's response to the complaining call was to ask what the hell did the caller need.

The caller needed brick ovens. And bellows. Lots of bellows.

General Leiber promised the caller immediate delivery on several high-temperature organic kiln-constructs and dynamic exhaust oxygenators, and then hung up.

Smith wondered what had happened to the requested ovens and bellows.

"Code," he mutterd. "This must be a code."

He saved the phone intercept in memory and ordered the computer's decrypting software to attack the text. After five minutes of listening to the program hum, an error message flashed on the screen.

"EXPLAIN ERROR," Smith keyed.

"OPTIONS FOLLOW," the computer told him. "OPTION I: CODE UNDECIPHERABLE.

"OPTION 2: INSUFFICIENT TEXT TO EXECUTE PROGRAM.

"OPTION 3: TEXT IS NOT IN CODE."

"It must be," Smith muttered. "Washington has been virtually abandoned. No one in his right mind would be procuring ovens at such a time."

Smith switched back to the tap on General Leiber's phone. It had saved the last ten minutes of intercepts. As it played back, Smith's jaw fell. The idiot was ordering ovens. And bellows. They were being requisitioned for immediate shipment to Andrews.

"This makes no sense," Smith said in frustration. But because he believed that his computers could crack any problem, he attacked the puzzle again. Somewhere in the miles and miles of data transferring between the nation's computer networks, there was an explanation for all this. All Smith had to do was find it.

He wondered again what had happened to the President.

The President was very much alive. He was doing his best to be presidential. It was very difficult. Especially when one was stuck under nearly a mile of rock in one's pajamas.

"I'm the leader of the free world," the President said in anguish. "I should be up there leading."

"I'm sorry, Mr. President," the senior Secret Service agent said. "We have to wait for the all-clear."

"What if it doesn't come?"

"Then we'd all better try to get along. Because we are stuck here until the fallout radiation drops to survivable levels."

"That could take weeks."

"Months, actually."

"But no one has said anything about radiation. There hasn't even been an explosion."

"Yet," the Secret Service agent pointed out.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist," the President said in a stern voice.

"I'm sorry, Mr. President. I have my orders."

"From whom? I'm the Commander in Chief!"

"I know that, sir," the Secret Service man said politely, "but I do not take my orders from you, but rather from my superior. "

"Since when?" the President barked.

"It's our prime directive. Your security is more important than any other factor, including your demands and wishes. In short, the Secret Service will do everything in its power to safeguard your life, whether you want it or not. "

The President looked at the Secret Service man in stunned silence.

"I'm sorry, Mr. President," the man told him. "That's how it is. Don't you think you should be watching the tactical displays?"

The President nodded numbly. Being President, he was discovering, wasn't all it was cracked up to be. For one thing, there wasn't anything near the absolute power he had envisioned. Everyone else seemed to have his own agenda.

The President found a set and joined the grim-faced Secret Service agents as they watched the tactical feeds from NORAD. Every screen was on Threat Tube Display, searching for incoming unknowns.

Not for the first time, the President wished the direct line to CURE had a duplicate down here. Right now, Dr. Harold W. Smith was the only person he trusted. Perhaps, the President hoped, Smith would set his own people into motion when he learned what was going on.

Dr. Harold W. Smith could no longer delay his decision. It was growing dark. The evening news programs were leading with the vague but ominous story that on his first day in the Oval Office, the new President of the United States had not yet put in an appearance. The reporters claimed that a cloud of low-level apprehension had settled over the nation's capital.

By the time the media were through, Smith realized grimly, the so-called low-level apprehension would be full-blown panic. Still, Smith had to admit, the press did have a story. They just didn't have any facts to back it up.

It was time to bring in Remo and Chiun. He buzzed his secretary to have them summoned to his office.

"I believe they've just left," Smith's secretary replied crisply.

"Left! Left for where?"

"I'm not certain, but they had me sign a requisition form for a truck rental."

"Oh, God," Smith said in a husky voice. "That damned elephant."

Chapter 6

Remo backed the rental truck up to the shed. He got out and, undoing the restraining chains, let the steel ramp down.

The black maw of the truck faced the shed. Only two feet of clearance stood between the open truck and the shed door. No way was Rambo going to squeeze past the truck. Once he opened the shed, Remo reasoned, it should be a breeze.

Remo took off the padlock with a quick wrench of his hand. He knew Chiun had the key but he would be damned if he was going to ask the Master of Sinanju for any favors. Especially after this latest stunt.

Remo opened the sliding door. Inside the shed, illuminated by a single bare lightbulb, Rambo the elephant sat on a pile of hay. His trunk lifted in greeting.

"Up yours," Remo said back. He stepped in and walked around the elephant. Remo clapped his hands once sharply. The sound brought dust spilling off the rafters.

"C'mon. Up! Let's go," Remo barked. Rambo fluttered his ears unconcernedly.

"Before, I couldn't get you to stay still," Remo said accusingly.

He tugged on the elephant's ropy tail, not hard, but enough to motivate the beast. Rambo's trunk curled around a swatch of hay and flung it back over his head.

Remo's face wore an annoyed expression as hay fell all over him.

"I'm willing to do this the hard way," Remo said, leaning one shoulder into the elephant's rump. He pushed. The elephant's tail swiped at him without effect. Remo pushed harder. He felt the elephant move.

Great, thought Remo, pushing some more. Slowly, inexorably, he shoved the large gray hulk out of the shed and to the ramp. The hay made it easier. Rambo slid on top of it like a sled.

But when Remo stopped to figure out how to make the elephant mount the ramp, he saw that his problem was far from solved.

Rambo climbed to his feet and walked back into the shed. He got down on his stomach again. His tiny piglike eyes regarded Remo with infinite sadness.

"Ohhhh," a sgueaky voice said sorrowfully, "he knows what you intend."

Remo turned. Chiun was standing there. He had changed into a severe gray kimono. His face was unhappy.

"No, he doesn't," Remo snapped back. "If he knew what I was thinking right at this minute, he'd head for the hills."

"You never liked him. He recognized that."

"Tough. I've done enough for him."

"Where do you intend to take him, assuming you succeed in tricking him into this conveyance?"

"I was hoping a zoo would take him."

"Ah," said Chiun. "A zoo. He would be happy in a zoo. There would be others of his kind in a zoo. Yes, I think a zoo would be an excellent place for him."

"I wish someone would tell him that."

"I will try."

"Don't do me any favors," Remo said sourly.

"Do not fear, I will not," said Chiun, marching up to the elephant. With delicate fingers he pulled back one of Rambo's fan-shaped ears and whispered softly. Remo strained to hear what was being said. Chiun's words seemed to be in Korean, but Remo couldn't make them out.