Encounter Group td-56

by Warren Murphy

  "Could be," the attendant said absently, running the hose to the car. "But I ain't one of 'em."

  "No? To hear some people tell it, the air is thick with flying saucers here."

  "Well, about the only funny thing I've seen lately was one of those jazzed-up vans come barreling down the road not twenty minutes back. Come to think of it, it had flyin' saucers and such stuff painted on the sides."

  "That so?" asked Thad, who decided that "Mystery Van Linked to Oklahoma UFO Sightings" might make an article. "Could you describe it?"

  "Well... it was brown, had one of them bubble tops, lots of doodads and the like. Goin' pretty darn fast, too."

  "That's interesting," Thad said as he tendered a $10 bill. "What's your name?"

  "Bill."

  "Okay, Bill. Thanks a lot."

  Thad drove off, dictating into the recorder: "While no one knows the true motives of the mystery van, a gas company official who fearfully declined to give his full name, described the vehicle as brown and covered with cryptic designs. More importantly, his description mysteriously lacked any references to wheels or the driver of this 'van,' which he claimed, in awestruck tones, was traveling unusually fast. Was this phantom really an earthly van, or could it have been a drone scouting craft disguised to resemble..."

  A roadblock interrupted his narrative. Thad had only to see the sawhorses and military vehicles and uniforms down the road before he hung a U-turn and went back the way he came. A detour brought him west of the roadblock, where trees were thick.

  Something tall and metallic glittered beyond those trees and, his curiosity aroused, Thad pulled over, dug out his high-powered binoculars, and clambered to the roof of his car.

  What he saw through those binoculars made him forget about Unidentified Flying Objects.

  Thad Screiber saw the sun reflecting off a giant crane, which held up what was left of a Titan II missile, while a team of men attempted to maneuver the burnt weapon into one end of a giant canister. The canister was part of an eight-wheeled truck, and Thad recognized it as the kind of truck they used to ferry rockets to launching pads for NASA. Except that this missile was being secretly handled in an Oklahoma wheat field and was shattered beyond repair. Whatever had happened here, Thad knew, the world should know about.

  ?Chapter Eleven

  "It's awful big," Martin Cannell said for the seventh or eighth time.

  "It's bigger than big," Ethel Sump breathed. "It's humongous!"

  "Shut up, both of you! I'm thinking."

  "Well, I hope you can think of a way to steal that missile without anyone being killed," Martin said ruefully. "Especially us. The tires on that missile-carrying thing are about as big as our whole van, Amanda."

  For hours, they had watched the missile-loading operation from a safe distance. They had known something was happening at the SAC base when they were turned away from a military roadblock, so they turned back, stashed the van in a clump of foliage, and infiltrated the cordoned-off area on foot. It had not been difficult because the government had simply blocked all approach routes to the base to discourage traffic. They hadn't expected foot traffic in such a sparsely populated area.

  Amanda had felt good about that, but now she was nervous, contemplating the task of commandeering something the size of a missile-carrier. But now, with the missile loaded and the carrier getting ready to trundle its cargo onto the highway, she was at a total loss for an idea that might work. The truck's diesel engine sounded like faraway thunder.

  "Look! It's leaving," Ethel said.

  Laboriously, the carrier got underway, its massive tires gouging and chewing the soft earth. A smaller truck followed in its wake, and was in turn tailed by an unobtrusive stepvan. The three vehicles joined up with a number of others on the main road and formed a slow column.

  "Wait a minute!" Martin said, grabbing Amanda's field glasses. "Let me— Hah! I was right. Look— on the side of the thing like a delivery truck."

  Amanda looked. "So? It's some symbol or some—"

  "That's the symbol for nuclear stuff. You see them on fallout shelters all the time."

  "So what?" Amanda snapped, pulling at her nose.

  "I'll bet the warhead is in that small truck! Sure, they wouldn't load the whole missile if the warhead was still attached. It would be too dangerous."

  "I think Martin is right, Amanda," Ethel said loudly. She was beginning to like Martin. And he was single.

  "Quiet," said Amanda, who didn't like the idea of Martin being right about something for the second time in two days. "Even if that's true, we're still going to have to take on that whole group of trucks and soldiers."

  But a moment later, they all saw the moving column divide, with the small truck that presumably bore the warhead taking another fork.

  "This is our chance, everyone!" Amanda shouted. "Back to the van. We're going to head that truck off."

  Even at a dead run, it took a while to return to the waiting van, which was outside the military cordon. Then they had to figure out where the truck was going in order to intercept it.

  "Go south, and take the second exit," Martin told Amanda. "That should take us exactly where we want to be. You know, I'll bet they deliberately sent the warhead off in another direction. You know, that missile truck is so big, it's bound to attract attention. But who's going to notice a dinky little truck?"

  Amanda pushed the accelerator to 80. "Maybe," she said.

  There was no sign of the truck in question when they reached the road where they expected it to show up. Amanda stopped, and swerved the van so it blocked the road.

  "Okay," she said. "Weapons at the ready. We'll just wait for it."

  "I've a better idea," Martin said.

  "I don't want to hear it," Amanda growled.

  "But what's to stop the truck from backing up and going the other way when they see us?"

  That made sense even to Amanda, who was doing a slow burn. Why were men such egotists, she asked herself. Always showing off and grabbing at the credit for everything.

  "We'll split up and hide on either side of the road," Amanda said quickly, before anyone could make another suggestion, "then jump out and surround them when they stop."

  "I was going to suggest that," Martin said.

  "I'll bet you were," Amanda said sarcastically. "C'mon, let's get to it."

  They got to it, and before long the stepvan with the black-circle-and-three-yellow-triangle symbol for nuclear energy rolled into sight. It stopped close to the gaudy FOES van, and the driver honked his horn twice sharply.

  When half a dozen armed commandos jumped out of the trees, he stopped honking and threw the gears into reverse. A bullet knocked the passenger window all over the cab, and he ceased that effort, too. He threw up his hands as the black-clad group surrounded him.

  "I'm unarmed," he called out, which was true. He noticed that most of his assailants were women, and at least two of them were on the chunky side. What the hell's going on? he thought, as he touched a floor button with his toe, causing a light to go on in the back of the truck, where it would alert a radiation-suited guard.

  "Out of the truck," Amanda ordered.

  The driver got out, and as he turned his back on her, Amanda clubbed him unconscious with a rifle butt.

  "See? No killing," Amanda said to all concerned, as they dragged the driver off to the roadside, where he would later be run over by a drunken motorist.

  That done, they tried to open the back of the truck. It was padlocked. Standing off to one side, Amanda fired three shots at the lock, two of which caused it to snap open.

  When they opened up the back, they found a scarred and blackened nuclear warhead. They also found a guard whose white plastic radiation garments were streaked with his own blood. He gurgled once, dropped his rifle, and then dropped dead.

  "Gee, Amanda," Ethel said, small-voiced. "You must have got him by accident."

  "I couldn't help it," Amanda complained. "They should buy them bullet-proof vests o
r something. Anyway, we've got the warhead. Let's get out of here."

  They shut up the truck. Amanda took the wheel. Ethel and the others returned to the van, and the two vehicles rapidly left the area.

  * * *

  At first, Thad Screiber was going to give his story to one of the wire services because they paid more than a newspaper would. But years of writing articles for Destiny magazine and Flying Saucer Factual had earned him plenty of money and little glory. So Thad decided to go for the glory and called the editor of the New York Times from the first pay phone he came across. After haggling for a minute, they struck an agreement, and Thad began dictating his eyewitness account of the salvage of a destroyed American nuclear missile, which would carry his actual byline— something that had not happened since his first reporting job on a hometown weekly.

  It was a good feeling, Thad reflected, as he returned to his car. Perhaps this was what writing was really all about. You write what you believe in and are proud enough to sign your right name to it. Maybe it was time to retire all those phony pen names and go back to real reporting.

  Then, just as he started his car, a brown van with a bubble roof and emblazoned with scenes right out of Thad's own articles sped past. It was followed by a stepvan plainly— but disturbingly— marked with the nuclear symbol.

  Some long-dormant reporter's sixth sense told him that he should follow them both. It was only a hunch, but something about what he'd seen made him wonder if there might not be a connection between UFO activity in Oklahoma and the mysterious nuclear accident that had incapacitated a Titan missile.

  Thad fell in behind the two trucks.

  ?Chapter Twelve

  It has been the worst two days of Remo Williams's life.

  Chiun had been mad at him before. Someone who didn't know the old Korean well could easily get the impression that Chiun was always mad at Remo, but that wasn't so. Chiun scolded Remo because that was Chiun's responsibility as Remo's teacher. To err might be human, but to err in Sinanju was to die. Chiun knew this and Remo knew this. And there had been a time or two when Remo had seriously offended Chiun. At those times, Chiun became a stranger, and Remo knew that his relationship with the man who was both father and teacher to him was in jeopardy. Usually, Remo's serious offenses were offenses against Sinanju and its traditions and not against Chiun himself. Not even Remo's close relationship with Chiun protected him there. But Remo, who respected Chiun and now belonged to Sinanju, never knowingly insulted Sinanju traditions and was always forgiven for what Chiun called his "unfortunate ignorance."

  But this time it was different. Seriously different.

  From the time the UFO had taken everyone except Chiun away, the Master of Sinanju had refused to speak to Remo. Remo had tried to convince Chiun to return to their hotel with him. Chiun had not refused. He had simply walked off. No abuse and no arguments. He just started walking in the general direction of Oklahoma City.

  Remo had followed him.

  "Don't tell me you intend to walk all the way back, Chiun," he said. "It's gotta be at least thirty miles. C'mon back to the car."

  Chiun walked along in stiff silence.

  "Look, if you want to be mad for some reason, you can be just as mad riding in the back seat as walking."

  A breeze stirred Chiun's sparse hair as he walked.

  "Then at least you can tell me what you're mad about."

  No answer.

  "Look, Chiun. I think you owe me an explanation at least," Remo said, touching Chiun's arm.

  No swirl of robes betrayed Chiun's intent, but the Master of Sinanju spun fully around without breaking stride, his right arm slashed once, and he continued on.

  "Begone, vile one," Chiun called back.

  Remo looked down at his chest where Chiun's deadly fingernail had laid open his T-shirt and created a thin pressure mark across his chest. A quarter-inch more and Remo would be leaking blood.

  In shocked silence, Remo returned to his car alone.

  It had been no better when, hours later, Chiun found his way back. Remo looked up as Chiun entered the hotel room, but the old man ignored him and walked to the telephone.

  "I wish to speak to someone in charge. Good. I have a complaint. There is someone in my room who does not belong. You will send someone to remove him? Thank you."

  "This has gone far enough, Little Father," Remo had said.

  "I am no one's father," Chiun retorted. He opened the door to the hall and waited.

  When the manager arrived, looking harried, Chiun leveled a trembling arm at Remo and cried, "I found this stranger in my room, and now he refuses to leave. I demand his removal."

  "Little Father..." Remo began, angrily.

  "See? He is claiming that I am his father. Anyone can see this is not so," Chiun shouted loudly enough to carry into the hall. A crowd collected at the door.

  "Well?" the manager asked Remo.

  "Aw, he's just ticked at me for some reason."

  "Are you this man's son?" the manager asked levelly. The crowd muttered their skepticism.

  "I'm registered in this room," Remo said. "You can check it out. Remo Williams."

  "He lies!" Chiun crowed. "He told me his name was Remo Greeley. This is proof of his deception."

  "This room is registered to a Remo Greeley," the manager pointed out.

  "Okay, okay," Remo said, throwing up his hands. "I'm leaving. This old coot is right. He's not my father. I don't have a father. And what's more, I never had a father."

  Remo pushed past the crowd, who roundly jeered at him. He registered in another hotel, angrier with Chiun than he'd ever been before. He didn't sleep that night, but by morning his anger had drained. He called Chiun's number, but when he said, "It's me," Chiun hung up without a word. It was not Chiun's way to be so brittle, and Remo felt a growing fear. Perhaps this time he had done something so unforgivable that Chiun really had disowned him. But what? And what did UFOs have to do with it?

  Remo wondered if Smith might know, and called him. But Smith was frantic.

  "Remo, my God! What have you done? Chiun told me he is resigning as your trainer. I couldn't talk him out of it."

  "Yeah, yeah, I know all that. But did he tell you what's pissed him off?"

  "No, he refused to discuss it." Pause. "You mean you don't know yourself?" Smith asked incredulously. "How could you be so irresponsible? How could—"

  Remo had hung up on Smith, angry again. For two days he had felt angry and scared and even lost by turns. He felt like an orphan again. He didn't know what to do. He had never been without Chiun for any length of time and was surprised at how much he had grown to depend upon the old Korean in small ways. What would happen to him now? Would he continue to develop along the path of Sinanju, or would he be frozen at this stage of development? And what about Chiun? Would he return to Korea?

  There were too many questions, and Remo had thought of them all. By the end of the second day, he still had no answers. The FOES office had been empty when he checked it the day before, but Remo decided to try again. If he could grab just one of those nuts, he might have something. And he was still on an assignment, even if he didn't feel like completing it.

  * * *

  A car pulled up alongside Remo as he walked down the street. It was growing dark now, and he was in a bad section of the city. Remo knew this because the one police car he had seen went through the area rapidly, its two officers staring straight ahead as if they didn't want to see anything that might require their attention.

  "Can you help me out, fella?" the driver called out to Remo.

  "You lost?" Remo asked, leaning on the car.

  "No," the driver said. He slid across to the passenger's window, showing the stubby nose of a Saturday night special. "I just need money. Yours."

  "Nice gun," Remo said conversationally. "How come you need money? Don't you work?"

  "This is my work. Hand over your wallet, or I'll blow your freaking brains out."

  "I think you should fi
nd a new line of work," Remo said.

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah," Remo said, bringing his left hand up to steady the gun while simultaneously batting the barrel with his right. The barrel snapped and clinked into the gutter. An incredulous expression spread over the gunman's round face.

  "Yeah," Remo repeated. "I'm in a bad mood."

  The gunman tried to fire anyway, but Remo's hand was a vise preventing the cylinder from turning. Then Remo took the gun and popped the cylinder out of its frame. He dropped the ruined weapon.

  That was enough for the gunman, who slid back across the seat and hit the gas. Remo swept out a leg and clipped the right rear tire with a toe as hard as a crowbar. The tire blew.

  The car kept going, however, but not as fast as its driver would have liked. The wrecked tire wobbled crazily and dragged. Turning a corner, the wheel rim sheared through the rubber.

  Remo caught up to the car and ran along with it.

  "Get away from me!" the driver yelled.

  "Tell you what," Remo said as he jogged beside him. "I could use some exercise. You're going to be the ball."

  Remo sped forward and cut in front of the car. Just for effect he took out the headlights with two quick jabs. Then he got to the other side and with a sharp kick made the left front tire let go. The car slowed considerably, and stopped altogether when Remo ruptured the right front tire.

  The gunman hastily rolled up his window as Remo sauntered back to the driver's side and took out the remaining tire. For good measure, he popped the trunk open with the flat of a palm and rolled out the spare. A finger thrust rendered the spare useless.

  There was a jack in the trunk, and it gave Remo an idea. He grabbed it and set it up under the chassis, taking a moment to methodically destroy all the locks on the doors so the driver could not escape, and then jacked one side of the car up as far as it would go.

  It was far enough so that Remo could take the chassis in both hands and, coming to his feet from a kneeling position, flip the car slowly onto its roof.

  The roof crumpled. The driver screamed.

  At that point a knot of pedestrians gathered.