Terminal Transmission td-93

by Warren Murphy

  "Those bastards! They can't bigfoot me like this!"

  "Now you know how it feels," came a groaning voice from the floor-Cheeta Ching, draped over her big own stomach and breathing through her mouth the Lamaze way.

  "You deserve to be bigfooted," Cooder growled. "If only your public could see you now. You look like a beached whale suffering from acute jaundice."

  "Somebody help Miss Ching," the floor manager called from the huddle around the monitor cluster. They were all tuned to KNNN. The volume was up.

  Don Cooder pushed into the huddle, fuming.

  "What are they saying?" he demanded.

  "Bare bones stuff. All broadcasting is black. Only the cable lines are getting through. No one's figured out why yet."

  "Damn. There goes all of prime time. We'll never recapture those viewers." His intensely blue eyes went to the line monitor where the mocking white letters, NO SIGNAL, showed mutely.

  He was reaching for the volume control when the line monitor blazed into life. The burst of light was so unexpected that Cooder blinked. When his sight cleared, a sight more blood-chilling than the Attica riots and the 1968 Democratic National Convention put together was framed on the screen.

  The sight of two stage hands helping a wobbly Cheeta Ching into the anchor chair. His Chair.

  Don Cooder's head snapped around. The number one camera tally light was a red eye pointed directly at Cheeta Ching.

  "We're live! We're back on!" he shouted, pitching across the news set.

  A cable snagged a boot heel before he got three feet. His face slammed into the carpet. For a moment, Don Cooder lay stunned.

  And floating to his ears came the hateful voice of his chief rival, her tones syrupy and triumphant, saying, "This is the BCN Evening News with Don Cooder. Cheeta Ching reporting. Don is off tonight."

  And as millions of Americans settled back into their seats, those who had patiently stayed with BCN heard above the treacly voice of Cheeta Ching a raging bellow of complaint.

  "Let me up! Let me up! I'm going to strangle that Korean air-hog if it's the last thing I do!"

  Chapter 2

  His name was Remo and all he wanted was to die.

  That was all. A simple thing. No big deal. People died every day. Remo knew that better than most. He had personally helped hundreds, if not thousands, of deserving people into the boneyard. And now it was his turn.

  So why did they have to make it so hard for him?

  He had been dialing the toll-free number all morning. The line was busy. Remo would hang up, wait a few moments and then stab the redial button. But all he got was a busy signal beeping in his ear.

  "Dammit," Remo said, hanging up.

  "What is wrong?" asked a squeaky voice.

  "I still can't get through."

  "You are not doing it properly," said the squeaky voice.

  "Yeah? Well, you try it for once."

  From the east-facing windows of the great square room which had windows on all sides, a tiny Buddhalike figure squatted on a reed mat. It was swathed in crimson silks that were trimmed in shimmery golds. The bald top of its head gleamed like a polished amber egg, framed by twin clouds of hair that concealed the tips of delicate ears.

  "It is not my burden," said the figure.

  "We're coequal partners. It's half your burden."

  "Only if you fail or die, which should be the same thing, otherwise the house will be shamed forever."

  Remo blinked. "The house would rather I die than fail?"

  "No. The house prefers success. But will accept your death with proper lamentations and vows of vengeance."

  "What about living to fight another day?"

  "This is my task in the event of your failure," the immobile figure sniffed.

  Remo pointed at the phone. "How can I fail if I can't get through?"

  "How can I meditate on the approaching day of joy with you banging two pieces of plastic together and pacing the floor?"

  "It stops the minute I get through."

  The tiny figure suddenly arose. It turned. The lavender, scarlet, and gold silks of its kimono rustled and settled as the frail-looking figure of Chiun, Reigning Master of Sinanju, padded on black sandals over to the telephone set on the only article of furniture in the great bare room, a low taboret.

  He was a tiny wisp of a man. His round head sat on a thin wattled neck like an orange on a pole. The face might have been molded of papyrus and kneaded around matched agate eyes.

  The Master of Sinanju floated to the taboret and lifted the receiver with a hand whose skin was shiny with age. He did not bring the instrument to either delicate ear, but instead held it at arm's length, as if it were a distasteful thing. With the other, he stabbed the one button and then the 800 area code.

  Remo started to say, "The rest of it is-"

  "I know the rest," snapped Chiun.

  And as Remo watched, the Master of Sinanju began tapping out the correct exchange.

  "How do you know the number?" Remo asked.

  "I am not deaf. I have been listening to the annoying chirps all morning."

  Remo looked startled, "You can tell the number by the chirps?"

  "As can any child," sniffed Chiun, tapping the first three numbers of the last group of digits. He paused, his long-nailed fingers hovering over the keypad.

  "Ah-hah," said Remo. "Stuck on the last number."

  "I am not!"

  "Then what are you waiting for?"

  "The proper moment."

  Remo watched. The Master of Sinanju stood frozen, the receiver in one hand, the other like an eagle's claw prepared to pounce on the tiny square eggs of the keypad.

  Remo folded his lean arms. Chiun was up to something. He wasn't sure what.

  "You're going to lose the call," Remo warned.

  Then the finger descended. The long colorless nail touched the five key and Remo's face quirked up. Five was the correct digit. Chiun had not been stuck after all.

  Then, with a disdainful toss, the Master of Sinanju put the receiver in Remo's hand and padded back to his floor mat and his meditation.

  Remo brought the receiver to his ear. The phone was ringing.

  "How did you do that?" he called over to Chiun, who had returned to his mat.

  "It is the correct method."

  "For what?"

  "For calling radio talk programs."

  "You been doing that?"

  "Thrush Limburger is very entertaining for a fat white with a loud voice."

  "When did you start listening to him?"

  "Since he speaks the truth about this lunatic land I serve."

  Then the ringing stopped and a crisp nursey-sounding voice was speaking.

  "This is the office of Dr. Mordaunt Gregorian," the nursey voice was saying. "If you are calling from a touch-tone phone, please press the correct option. If you are not calling from a touch-tone phone, please stay on the line and if possible someone will assist you. But do not count on it. We have many patients to process."

  "Wonderful," Remo growled. "I got his answering machine."

  "If you are a reporter calling to interview Dr. Gregorian, press one."

  Remo gave the one key a miss.

  "If you are a lawyer calling to sue Dr. Gregorian, press two."

  "I'll bet that's a busy line," Remo muttered.

  "If you are calling because you wish to die, press three."

  Remo pressed three.

  There was a long pause, then some musical chirping that made Remo think of tin crows, and a crusty male voice said sharply, "This is Dr. Gregorian. State your business."

  "I want to die," Remo said.

  There was a hesitation on the line. Then, "State your disease."

  "Leprosy. "

  Another hesitation. "State your prognosis."

  "I'm falling apart."

  The line hummed. Remo figured the man was writing everything down. At least he had gotten through to him.

  Then, "State your preferred manner of
crossing the River Styx. Barbituate pill. Lethal injection. Or suffocation."

  "I'll take the pill. Where do I show up?"

  The line hummed. Then, "State your sex."

  "Male. What do I sound like-Madonna?"

  The crusty voice didn't answer. There was a pause and Remo heard a relay click. Then, once more sharp, the voice said, "Your application has been rejected. Do not call again. Have a nice day."

  The line went dead.

  Remo slammed the phone down so hard the keypad 0-for-operator button bounced off the ceiling.

  "I was talking to a freaking machine!" he complained.

  "You could not tell?"

  "I thought it was the real Gregorian."

  "I do not believe there is any such person," said Chiun.

  "If I can just lay hands on the guy, there won't be. He makes me sick to my stomach."

  "A strange thing for an assassin to say."

  "Hey, I'm a professional. The guy is a ghoul."

  "A ghoul to some is a boon to others," Chiun said.

  A frown touched Remo's face. It was a strong face, dominated by deep-set dark eyes and pronounced cheekbones. The frown brought out the innate cruelty of his tension-compressed mouth.

  "He's out there snuffing people for money," Remo snapped.

  "And what is it we do, you and I? If not snuffing?"

  "That's different. We're professionals."

  "Sit."

  Still frowning, Remo toed a tatami mat into place before his mentor. Crossing his ankles, he scissored his legs downward until he had assumed the traditional lotus position, feet crossed, wrists on knees. Remo's wrists dwarfed his lower legs. They looked thick enough to conceal baby I-beam girders.

  The rest of him was lean enough for a diet commercial. There wasn't an ounce of extra fat on his exposed arms. His muscles were understated, but well-defined. He was dressed casually in black chinos and a fresh white T-shirt.

  "Life is cruel," intoned Chiun. "Many are born. Almost as many die before their prime. All die in their own time. One day I will die, as will you."

  "Nobody could kill you, Little Father," Remo said simply.

  Chiun lifted a finger in stern correction. "I did not say kill, I said die. Even the magnificence that is embodied in my awesome form must one day wither and expire like that of any lesser creature."

  Inwardly, Remo winced. This frail wisp of a Korean had come into his life more than twenty years ago, transforming him into the superbly trained human machine he was now. Chiun had not been young then. Now, even though he admitted to only eighty winters, Remo knew the old Korean had surpassed his one hundred year mark some time ago. He showed it in tiny ways. A faint fading of the bright hazel eyes. A thickening of the wrinkles that sweetened his parchment features. The color of his sparse beard and eyebrows in some lights seemed more of a smoky gray that the crisp white of days gone by. Remo shoved those thoughts into the furthest, darkest corner of his mind. He did not like to dwell on the future.

  "In my heart, you will never die," Remo said simply.

  Chiun nodded once. "Well spoken, but untrue." He raised a thin finger once more. "I do not know how many years lie unspent in this shell, especially without the powdered bones of a dragon to prolong my span."

  Here we go again, Remo thought. Since their last assignment, Chiun had been bemoaning his "sad fate." A Brontosaurus had been found living in the heart of equatorial Africa. The Master of Sinanju, under the impression that the creature was some unknown species of Africa dragon, had talked the head of the organization for which they both worked into letting them rescue the dinosaur from a terrorist group. Chiun had had an ulterior motive. He coveted a dinosaur bone because it was a traditional Oriental belief that the bones of a dragon, ground to powder and mixed in a potion, insured longevity. No amount of argument about the differences between dinosaurs and dragons could sway him. It was only when their superior had ordered them to see to it that the Brontosaurus was safety transported to America for study did Chiun finally, reluctantly, noisily give up on the idea of prolonging his life at the expense the last surviving Brontosaurus.

  Remo decided he didn't want to argue the point once again and simply let out a short sigh. Chiun seemed to get the hint-a major miracle.

  "But it is of no moment," he said dismissively. "I understand these things. Dragons are important. Old men who may have lived out their usefulness are not."

  "It's not like that at-"

  "Hush. I was speaking of death." Remo subsided. "I will tell you a story now," Chiun added.

  Remo shrugged. "Why not? Maybe it will help me think."

  "You would need a new brain for that."

  "Har de har har," said Remo, folding his lean arms.

  Chiun rearranged his skirts before speaking. "Many are the stories I have told you of my glorious village," he began, his voice deepening, "the pearl of the East, Sinanju, from which sprang the awesome line which you-a mere white-have been privileged to belong. How the village had the misfortune to perch on the coldest, grayest, most barren waters of the West Korea Bay. How the soil gave up no seedlings. How, in even the good times, the people suffered want and privation."

  "That part I know by heart," Remo grumbled.

  "Good. For one day, as the next in line, it will be your happy task to pass on the story of my ancestors to your pupil."

  "Yeah, and I'll tell them the truth."

  "Truth! What truth?" The Master of Sinanju spanked his hands together. "Quickly. Speak!"

  "I'll tell him how the villagers were so lax they ate the seeds instead of planting them," Remo said. "How they never went fishing because the waters were too cold and they couldn't be bothered to build boats. So the village leader was forced to hire himself and the strongest men of the village out as hired killers and mercenaries to support the lazy ones. Until the days of Hung, who died in his sleep before he could teach Wang, who left the village to meditate and fell asleep in a field, then woke up understanding the secrets of the universe. I still don't know how that worked, but anyway, Wang had discovered the sun source and he went back to the remaining mercenaries and cut them down because they weren't needed anymore. After that, Wang and his descendants had a lock on the title of Master of Sinanju."

  Remo paused to see how he was doing.

  The visage of the Master of Sinanju was frozen, its webby wrinkles deep with shock. The parchment yellow of his tiny features were slowly turning red, like Donald Duck in a particularly strenuous cartoon. His tiny mouth was a tight button. And as Remo watched, his cheeks began to bulge like Dizzy Gillespie blowing on his trumpet.

  When his breath exploded out of his mouth, the words of the Master of Sinanju came like a violent typhoon.

  "That is not how the legend goes, pale piece of pig's ear!" Chiun hissed. "You have everything wrong and nothing right!"

  "You forget I've been to Sinanju," Remo countered. "If you and I didn't send them CARE packages every year, they'd probably all move to Pyongyang and go on welfare."

  "An outrage! My people are country folk. They would not dwell in cities, as I am forced to."

  "Then again, North Korea doesn't have welfare," said Remo. "And what does this have to do with Dr. Gregorian?"

  "You have not only gotten it all wrong, you have left out the most important part," Chiun complained.

  Remo scrunched up his face in thought.

  "Oh, yeah. Every other martial art, from Karate to Kung Fu, was stolen from us. And nobody got it right either. Which is why if Bruce Lee were triplets and still alive, either one of us could take him with our big toe tied behind our back."

  "No! No! The babies! You forgot the babies."

  "Right. The babies," said Remo, wondering why if Chiun were telling him a story, how come he was doing all the work? "The first Master left the village because the food situation got so bad they had to drown the babies in the bay."

  Chiun lifted an admonishing finger.

  "First the females," Remo added, "because they we
ren't good for much except for making more babies, which might not be needed anyway, and then the males-but only if it was absolutely necessary."

  "And this is called?" Chiun prompted.

  " 'Sending the babies home to the sea,' " said Remo. "Another word for crap."

  "Crap?"

  "That's right, crap. They were drowning innocent infants. Calling it something fancy and talking about how they'd all be reborn in a better time doesn't change what it was."

  Chiun cocked his head like a curious chipmunk. "Which is?"

  "Murder, plain and simple."

  "No, it was necessity. Just as this Dr. Gregorian is performing a necessary service. Snuffing."

  "Crap."

  "And what would you do if those days were to return and you were Master, Remo?"

  "Me?" A cloud of confusion passed over Remo's face. What would he do? Of course, it was unlikely. Each year the United States sent a submarine crammed with gold to the village of Sinanju in payment for Chiun training Remo in the art of Sinanju. Hardly any of it was spent, either. The human race would probably die out before the gold ran out at the rate it was being spent. But that wasn't the point. Remo was being tested. His brow furrowed deeply.

  "I wouldn't drown any babies, that's for sure."

  "You would send them away?"

  "Probably."

  "To wander alone and unloved, to be eaten by wild animals-those who did not starve?"

  "I'd've put them up for adoption then," Remo said firmly.

  "And what of the piteous wailing of their mothers, who would not eat in the grief of not knowing the fate of their children, and without whom there could be no future generations?"

  "Okay, I wouldn't put them up for adoption. I'd. . ."

  "Yes?"

  Remo hesitated. He was on the spot. "I just wouldn't," he said flatly. "I'd find a way. Something would come to me. I wouldn't give up until-"

  "-until all had expired in the agony of their empty bellies," Chiun snapped. "You may be a Master of Sinanju, thanks to my indulgence, but you will never possess the grace and wisdom of a true Master. You have a white mind. It sees poetry and reduces it to garbage. Oh, I have tried to drill those traits out of you, Remo, but I can see the error in my ways." He shook his aged head ruefully. "It is very sad, but I have no choice."