Warren Murphy: Judgment Day

"Can do, sir," said Corbish in a phrase reminiscent of his brief Army career when everyone was talking about the problems of Vietnam and all the younger military men were saying "can do." It was the way captains became majors and majors became colonels. It was the way a vice president could become senior vice president in charge of policy planning before he was forty.

"You've got a lot of flying to do, Blake. Get to it," T.L. had said.

There were a couple of problems with Folcroft, but Corbish being a top-flight operations man, made sure his approach was secure and thorough. He didn't rush into Folcroft. Instead he sent people to repair computers, to examine bills, to attempt to sell new software and hardware, keeping himself out of the picture to see what Folcroft's corporate response would be.

Two programmers Corbish never saw again; a third was found with his chest crushed to jelly on a Long Island beach. The coroner had sent detectives to look for some huge hydraulic machine—he explained that only a machine like that could have performed such a body-splashing killing. But it was obvious the programmer had been killed on the beach and any machine capable of that sort of force would have left marks.

IDC dutifully paid death benefits to the families—IDC always took care of its own—and with the final death, Corbish had his point of operations bracketed. He focused his attention on a rather prim, middle-aged man, with a mind so addled he even refused a top executive position with IDC.

Dr. Harold Smith, director of Folcroft Sanitarium, was the man with the office that had the only computer terminal that took all the hookups from all the computers and unscrambled them. It was a brilliant system, Corbish thought. But the man running it was too stubborn. Perhaps that was a function of late middle age, another reason why IDC retired its executives before they became doddering, senile, and worst of all, stubborn.

There was no room in the corporate world for stubbornness. That was old-fashioned, outmoded, obsolete as the abacus. People became obsolete also. Too bad for Dr. Smith.

Corbish's landing at Westchester Airport was, as usual, perfect. He was a careful, impeccable flyer who, though he entertained no fear—not even in the most hazardous storms—never indulged in unnecessary risks. There were old pilots and bold pilots, he knew, but never any old bold pilots.

He supervised the refueling, discussed checking out the craft with one of the few mechanics he trusted, then drove away in his wife's station wagon which he had parked there two days before. He thought of phoning her to say hello, but decided against it. He did not want to waste the time. It would not hurt to be a few minutes early for his evening meeting with Dr. Smith. Better a few minutes early than a second late.

Corbish drove through the high gates of Folcroft with the rising brick walls that discreetly hid everything, and parked his station wagon alongside the administration building in the back. Only one light was on. It came from Smith's office with the one-way glass that emitted just a faint glimmer of light at night, but obscured any shapes. Within forty-eight hours, according to the best research on the subject, Corbish would see all he wanted about Folcroft. He would see everything with utmost clarity.

By happenstance, Corbish glanced into the clean dark night at the awesome array of stars whose distance and magnitude had remained mysterious before the advent of the computer. Seeing the eternity of space, Corbish, for reasons he did not know, thought of a perplexing readout from Folcroft. It had referred to The Destroyer, some kind of navy ship obviously, and to a little village in North Korea called Sinanju.

CHAPTER TWO

His name was Remo and he was making a polite visit to a Detroit suburb, a gracious large-lawned sprawling house in Grosse Pointe, miles from the inner city where people injected death into their arms or sniffed it or sold it in "protected" houses.

Those who used the product that provided the income that enabled this lawn to get a daily manicure, the house to receive daily cleaning by two maids, the swimming pool to remain heated and functioning—all winter—were not allowed in this neighborhood. If they were seen walking the streets after dark, policemen asked them what they were doing. Unless they could name a house where they were going to tend bar, make beds, or take out garbage, they were whisked away. They were very easy to spot in this neighborhood because black faces stood out very well.

Remo's face did not stand out. He had high cheekbones and dark eyes that seemed to go on for eternity and the paleness of a just lost tan. He was about six feet tall and, except for his large wrists, appeared almost lean. He rang the doorbell of the Jordan home, a name which had once been Giordano when Angelo Giordano was running numbers in downtown Detroit, before he had found the awesome profitability of bulk-supplying black pushers with the white powder that continued its fine sales despite a lack of advertising and the marketing handicaps, like fifteen years to life.

Arnold Jordan had so many broken links between himself and the final sale, that it was very unlikely that he would personally face these handicaps. That was for the little men.

A maid answered the door.

"Good evening," said Remo. 'I'm from the Grosse Pointe Homeowners' League and I would like to talk with Mr. Jordan."

"Is Mr. Jordan expecting you?"

"No," said Remo.

"If you would wait here, I'll see if Mr. Jordan is at home."

"Thank you," said Remo. He began to whistle somewhat nervously while he waited for a reply. He had an unusually busy schedule for the evening. Upstairs—where his orders came from—had become highly unreasonable recently, almost bordering on the worst of all possible sins, incompetence. It was this IDC thing. It had to be the IDC thing, although Remo had not even been formally notified that there was such a thing as an IDC thing. He had just been given the names and general whereabouts of three computer programmers. Disposing of the last one on a Long Island beach had taken fifteen seconds. Remo spent the first fourteen of them laughing as the man had assumed some sort of silly Kung Fu stance, which was fine for a martial arts school, but which left the chest as open as the ocean.

Remo did not know the name of the stance, because as the Master of Sinanju—Remo's trainer—had explained, one should not waste precious time cataloguing someone else's foolishness. Sinanju, unlike the known variations of the martial arts, was not an art but a working tool. Less and less could Remo fathom how people would want to make games out of daily work, even devoting leisure hours to it. But then there were even lawyers who mowed lawns for relaxation.

The maid, in starched white apron, returned with apologies that Mr. Jordan was unavailable.

"It will just take a minute. I'm really in a rush," said Remo, gliding around the maid who could have sworn she had a hand out there to stop him. She watched the visitor seem to slip through it as she stood there, hand upraised in empty air.

Arnold Jordan was having dinner with his family. He was poised with a forkful of blueberry pie when Remo entered the somewhat overfurnished dining room.

"I'm awfully sorry to bother you," said Remo. "This will only take a minute. Finish your pie. Go ahead. Don't let me bother you."

Jordan, a massive man with the strong rocklike face of a Roman legionnaire but the styled dry hair of a TV announcer, put down his fork.

"Go ahead, finish it," said Remo. "You like blueberry pie?"

"May I ask who you are?"

"Grosse Pointe Homeowners' League. It will only take a minute. I really don't have more than a minute for you anyhow."

"You can phone my secretary in the morning. I am eating now."