Rain of Terror td-75

by Warren Murphy

  Koldunov walked up to the elevator door. He looked down. Al-Qaid's body lay atop a heap of other bodies. Some looked fresh. Others, however, seemed very, very old.

  "This isn't the elevator I rode up on," Yoldunov remarked pleasantly.

  "It is not," replied one of the guards. "It is a garbage disposal. Colonel Intifadah's personal garbage disposal." Then Yoklunov realized that the shaft contained no cage, no cables, no dial to indicate floors, and only one button. It was marked "Down." Obviously Colonel Intifadah had gutted an elevator shaft for this special purpose. "Well," Koldunov said happily, "shall I go in next?" The Green Guards looked at the Soviet scientist with undisguised stupefaction. The man was about to walk into a tiger pit and he acted as unconcerned as if he were about to stroll into a matinee.

  They did not have to escort him in by force as they had expected. He walked ahead of them as if eager to face Colonel Intifadah's wrath.

  Chapter 13

  After he had overthrown King Ardas of Lobynia, Colonel Hannibal Intifadah had taken possession of the royal palace. As a gesture to the new order, he had renamed it the People's Provisional Palace. Then he had had it painted green, inside and out, and decorated with the new Lobynian flag, which was also green. Blank green. For Colonel Intifadah claimed to despise all ornamental trappings of office.

  The official history of the new Lobynia, as chronicled by Colonel Hannibal Intifadah in a book he called The Green Precepts, had it that the Colonel had chosen green as the new Lobynian national color as a gesture of sympathy with the rest of the Islamic world, green being a color favored by Moslems.

  But the truth of the matter was that when the people of Lobynia learned via radio that yet another military usurper had engineered a coup against good King Ardas, they massed around the royal palace with the intent of bringing down this latest upstart in gold braid.

  Seeing the mob, Colonel Intifadah's cell of revolutionaries grew nervous. They were starting to lose their courage. So Colonel Intifadah personally shot them all to death. Then he went into the royal dining room and pulled a tablecloth off the king's dining table, shattering precious Waterford crystal goblets and fine china and, waving the makeshift flag before his unprotected chest, announced from the balcony that he had eliminated the usurpers. And then, proclaiming the new Islamic Republic of Lobynia, he ran the green tablecloth up the flagpole and proclaimed that if he were to fall in the defense of Allah, then so be it. Let the assassins have their way. Islam would live on without him.

  The crowd broke into spontaneous cheering.

  Colonel Intifadah raised his clenched hands above his head triumphantly, bestowed the crowd with a snaggletoothed smile, and tried to make the best of it. In truth, he was deeply disappointed.

  He hated green. The flag that he had personally designed for the new Lobynian republic was red and carried the hammer-and-sickle emblem of international Communism. But he comforted himself with the thought that on some days you initiate the tide of history and on others it carries you along. Either way was fine with Colonel Intifadah just so long as the tides of history eventually deposited him safely on shore. If he got a little wet in the process, that was okay too. Just as long as it wasn't his own blood soaking his uniform.

  Today, as it had been on so many other days since he had risen to power in the North African desert nation of Lobynia, the blood on the Colonel's uniform belonged to someone else.

  Colonel Intifadah looked down at the gleaming dark spots spattering his sleeves and blouse. They shone redly wet. He knew from experience that later the spots would brown into a rust color and finally cake and flake off. Al-Qaid's blood would be no different from that of the hundreds of others who had displeased him.

  Colonel Intifadah reached for a damp cloth, intending to rub some of the blood off. But he decided against it. Better to let the Russian see the spots, to know that this son of the desert stood so close to the kill.

  Colonel Intifadah went to his desk and stood behind it. In the floor-length mirror on one wall, he regarded himself critically. His middle-aged face had coarsened, the skin dark and large-pored. His mouth was cruel and arrogant, his eyes as black as the tight-curled hair that no comb would ever tame. Although it was early, the beard growth had already started to show.

  It was a face that intimidated weaker men. With that face, Colonel Intifadah would intimidate this Russian. Colonel Intifadah straightened out his uniform. It was green. He always wore green, even though he passionately hated the color. Even the gold braid coiled at his shoulder was greenish-gold.

  The door opened and Colonel Intifadah hastily let the green curtain fall over his personal mirror.

  "Leave us," Colonel Intifadah barked to his guards. The two men swiftly and gratefully withdrew.

  "Stand before me, comrade," Colonel Intifadah ordered. The pale Russian scientist Pyotr Koldunov stepped up to the dark green desk. In order to stand before the Colonel, he would have to walk through the sticky pool of blood in the middle of the floor.

  The Russian did so without showing a flicker of notice. Colonel Intifadah frowned darkly.

  "I am told that the device will not work," he said sullenly. He spoke Russian. Perfect Russian. He was also fluent in French and English, as well as his native Arabic. He enjoyed seeing the startled expressions on the faces of smug diplomats when he so casually discoursed with them, they who privately thought him a crazed nomad who had wrested power by brute cunning.

  "Da, Comrade Colonel," Koldunov replied in the same language. "The energy required for launch stripped the power rails and seriously damaged the carrier rails. As I told you would happen."

  "Are you criticizing me?" Colonel Intifadah shouted, his sidearm flashing from its holster.

  "I am merely reminding you that I cautioned you about this possibility. We should have waited."

  "Waited! I have waited three years for this revenge. Revenge upon the Americans, who bombed this very city!"

  "I am aware of your motivation," the Russian said with undisguised distaste.

  Crack! Crack! Crack!

  The Colonel fired at the ceiling in his rage.

  The Russian flinched at the sounds, but he did not react otherwise. Nor run for shelter. Colonel Intifadah threw his empty pistol onto the desk. It was a 9 mm Glisenti. The grips were carved jade.

  "You must be very brave, comrade. Some of my own officers think I am crazed."

  "Many Moslems fire into the air to express themselves. It is their way."

  "Out in the streets, yes. But not indoors. I know you send reports of my mental health back to the Kremlin. Do not deny this."

  "I report to my superiors every week. Just as I report to you. As I am reporting to you now."

  "You are a dog with two masters."

  "I serve my homeland with pride. I am obligated to report to you. It is part of my internationalist duty."

  "Do not speak to me of the Soviet internationalist duty. Where were your people when the American B-52's were raining death on Dapoli? Where?"

  "There was no warning of their attack."

  "No? Then why did your Soviet destroyers quietly leave this end of the Mediterranean before the bombers came? Your leaders knew. They knew everything. But rather than face the aggressor, they retreated to watch the carnage."

  "I am not a military man. You will have to ask the Kremlin that question."

  "I have. And you know what they told me? A coincidence. Bah! Pigs that slink from their friends. They sell me their weapons and call me their ally and sign a mutual-defense treaty and then they skulk from trouble at the first sign of American might."

  "We are helping you now," Koldunov asserted. Colonel Intifadah spat on his desk.

  "Years after the fact. Long after the world has forgotten. Only after I complained and complained. Do you know why your superiors compelled you to assemble your terrible invention under the Lobynian Desert?"

  "Yes, I was told it was our internationalist duty."

  "No. It was because I thre
atened to ally myself with the U.S. I said to your General Secretary: 'What good are Russian weapons if they cannot fend off an American attack, and of what use are Soviet promises if they crumble before the might of the U.S.?' They tried to reason with me. But I would have none of it. I desired revenge. And if pretending to be a friend of the U.S. would be my only recourse, then I would hold my nose and shake their bloody hands."

  An unhappy look crossed Pyotr Koldunov's tight face and Colonel Intifadah knew that he had struck a nerve.

  He knew the Russian resented the use his precious weapon was being put to.

  "So to keep me placated," Colonel Intifadah went on, "they offer me this weapon of yours. They make promises. More promises. 'Colonel Intifadah, it is the greatest invention ever devised by a human mind.' 'Colonel Intifadah, with it you can strike into the heart of America without fear of retaliation.' 'Colonel Intifadah, with this device, you can deliver a nuclear weapon to any point on the earth without fear of satellite detection.' "

  "All of this is true. My device can do exactly that."

  "And so they make me sign another agreement. And I have the weapon. I am a proud man again. I have been given new teeth for my mouth. I have a rod with which to smite my enemies. And when the weapon has been delivered and assembled, what do I learn?"

  "It works," Pyotr Koldunov said stubbornly.

  "Oh, it works. But where are the nuclear weapons? Where are the missiles for this glorious new missile-delivery system?"

  "No one promised Lobynia nuclear weapons."

  "You said that on the day the launcher was assembled. You also said that to strike America with nuclear weapons would be unthinkable. Do you remember telling me that?"

  "Clearly."

  "Clearly! Not as clearly as I!" thundered Colonel Intifadah. "I had visions of America reduced to a burning wasteland and I found that I had been given the pistol but no ammunition."

  "The device is still a prototype. It should be tested with less volatile projectiles. A malfunction at launch could possibly detonate a nuclear explosion on Lobynian soil."

  "I would have taken that risk! But did your country offer a choice?"

  "It was not in the agreement."

  "No," Colonel Intifadah said bitterly. "It was not in the agreement. No. Not at all." The Colonel paced back and forth behind his desk, his black eyes flashing like ebony buttons. He turned suddenly and pointed at the Russian with light green gloves.

  "When the U.S. bombed Dapoli, you know what was said? It was said that the Russians saw it as an opportunity to see how Soviet-made anti-aircraft-missile batteries would deal with American weapons under true battle conditions. That the Soviets saw the bombing of Dapoli as a mere test for their ordnance."

  "That may have been a by-product of the incident," Koldunov admitted coolly. He showed no fear. As loudly as he yelled, Colonel Intifadah could not get a rise out of him.

  "Yes, I am glad you admit that much. Because I believe it is happening once again."

  "I do not understand."

  "This!" Colonel Intifadah said, stabbing his desk with a finger. "This is another test. I am reduced to being a Soviet guinea pig. You have a new weapon. You dare not test it openly. You have stupid treaties with our mortal enemies, the Americans, too. But in me you have a way to test this fearsome device by proxy. Undetected by America. And if detected, who is it who gets bombed? Not Moscow. Not the Ukraine. But Lobynia!"

  "I must remind you of your own words, comrade. You demanded Soviet assistance. This weapon has been deployed on your soil at your request."

  "A trick! Another Russian trick. I am given a weapon of ultimate terror and I am reduced to flinging locomotives."

  "Both launches were successful."

  "Successful? Successful, comrade?" The Colonel jumped around his desk. His cruel face shoved into the Russian's own. "See that map?" he said, pointing to a global wall map.

  "Yes, of course."

  "Show me the targets I have destroyed."

  "You cannot expect accuracy with such projectiles."

  "I know that, you dog!"

  "A locomotive cannot be controlled in flight. As it is, the first launch was highly successful-if your U.S. spies are correct. The projectile missed the White House by the merest distance---considering the distance the projectile traveled."

  "It destroyed nothing!"

  "It came within a meaningful distance of the designated target. It is unprecedented."

  "The second one did not even strike Washington!"

  "The fault of the carrier rails. They had to be relaid to accommodate the narrow-gauge European engine. It weakened them. I explained to you that if you insisted upon using American locomotives, all subsequent launches would have to be done with American locomotives. European engines have shorter wheelbases. They do not fit the tracks as originally laid down. Had you waited until you secured another American engine, the second strike might have been on target."

  "Now you are blaming me!"

  "I am pointing out that I did not select either the intended targets or the projectiles. I can only control the weapon."

  "If you would give me one missile, I could accomplish my end. I do not need to rain death down on all of America. The destruction of Washington would be enough. It would satisfy me."

  "From the Soviet point of view, both launches were unqualified successes. With repairs and more adjustments, I feel confident that complete success will be inevitable!"

  "I do not want inevitable success! I want instant success. I have waited too long already. The Chinese promised me nuclear weapons, and U.S. pressure forced them to renege. The Iranians promised me poison gases, and even they balked when pressured by Washington. My terror agents have been rounded up in every capital. Everything I do, every scheme I hatch, the Americans chop off my hands before fruition comes. I will wait no longer."

  "You will wait at least a week. For repairs," Koldunov said firmly.

  The Colonel trembled in controlled rage. His eyes squeezed into thin slits.

  "I know what you are counting on, you and your Russian masters."

  Koldunov said nothing.

  "You are counting on my locomotives to do no real damage."

  "If they strike their target, the damage will be horrific."

  "No. You count on most of their mass burning up on reentry. What strikes the ground is just a part of the whole. "

  "That is not our fault. If you can provide us with engines that are impervious to reentry forces, that problem will be solved."

  "Do not look so smug, Koldunov. I may do exactly that. "

  In spite of himself, Pyotr Koldunov smiled thinly. The smile was erased at the Colonel's next words.

  "Go and repair your terror weapon. I am expecting the next locomotive today. And as soon as the gun is operational, you will send it to a target where, no matter how wide of the mark it falls, there will be tremendous casualties. For if I cannot have Washington, D.C., I will settle for raining death upon New York City."

  "One week," said Koldunov.

  "Go now."

  After the Russian had left, Colonel Intifadah hunkered down behind his desk. His big hairy hands shook with his anger. He had gotten a reaction. Koldunov understood. Washington, D.C., with its open spaces, was one thing, but Manhattan, densely packed with skyscrapers and people, was another entirely.

  Soon, Colonel Intifadah thought, America would feel the terrible fist of his wrath.

  The telephone shrilled and Colonel Intifadah picked up the receiver.

  "Yes? What is it?" he snapped.

  "Are we in a bad temper today?" a mellow voice inquired politely.

  The Colonel's brutish face relaxed. The telephone voice was so reassuring.

  "Hello, comrade."

  "Hello, Colonel. That is better. I have excellent news for you. "

  "Yes?" Colonel Intifadah said, gripping the receiver. "I have the carbon-carbon shipment."

  "That is excellent news. Many lives will be changed by your ski
ll. Yes, a great many lives," Colonel Intifadah said, looking at his global map.

  "I am happy to provide service. That is what I live for. You will of course see to it that the agreed-upon amount is deposited in my Zurich account before shipment."

  "Instantly."

  "A pleasure doing business with you. Will there be anything else?"

  "Yes, I am suddenly in the market for locomotives."

  "Specifications?"

  "I am interested in the largest European models available. They need not be in operating condition. Just so long as the wheels turn freely."

  "That is a strange request."

  "I know I can count on your absolute confidentiality in this matter."

  "Of course. I exist to fulfill the customer's needs. Now, how many do you require?"

  "As many as you can ship. I foresee my country having a serious locomotive shortfall for the next several years."

  "I will be back to you with specifications by the end of the business day, your time."

  "Thank you, Friend."

  Chapter 14

  It was nearly midnight when the taxi dropped off Remo and Chiun at the Folcroft gate.

  "Got change for a hundred-dollar bill?" Remo asked the cabbie.

  The driver turned his pugnacious face around and said in a surly voice, "Don't give me no crap here. I gave you a flat rate before we started. Fifty bucks, I said. You knew it was going to cost fifty when we started."

  "I would still your insolent tongue if I were you," Chiun sniffed.

  "And that goes for you too, buster. The fare is fifty bucks. And I don't carry that kind of change on me. I get robbed all the time."

  "What would you say the proper tip would be, Little Father?" Remo asked calmly.

  "I just gave him the proper tip," Chiun replied blandly. "And he would do well to heed it."

  "You have a point," Remo said pleasantly. He extracted a single hundred-dollar bill from his wallet, folded it in two, and then ripped the bill into equal halves. He handed the irate cabbie one half.

  "What's this crap?" the cabbie roared.

  "He must like that word, 'crap,' " Chiun pointed out. "It befits his loud mouth."

  "It's half of a hundred-dollar bill," Remo told the driver. "Fifty bucks." He smiled. "You can keep the change."