Terminal Transmission td-93

by Warren Murphy

  The chopper made crazy circles while the pilot attempted to being the ungainly bird under control.

  The third chopper pilot, seeing his comrades in distress but not what was causing it, orbited the tower warily.

  At the roof edge, Remo gave the dish a flip. His motion was short and economical, but the twenty-foot dish flipped out into space, hanging emitter side down like an umbrella with a snapped-short handle.

  Remo leaped into space and grabbed the emitter in both hands. The dish, which had been hesitating in midair, began to slide downward.

  It was not as good as a parachute, but it had nice gliding characteristics. Remo swung his feet, slipping a little air and the dish skipped past a nearby office tower.

  People in the lighted office windows waved to him. Remo ignored them. He was focused on his breathing. It took a lot of concentration to think like a feather.

  As the SWAT helicopters gingerly settled to the roof helipad on bent skids, Remo rode the dish over a mile outside the city, steering it toward the scent of fresh water that promised a safe landing. When he spotted the glint of moonlight on water, he dropped toward a soft, if wet, landing.

  When a caterwauling contingent of the Atlanta Metro Police arrived, all they found was the bent dish, floating in East Lake.

  Remo Williams floated beneath the cool water, holding his breath, untouched by crisscrossing police helicopter searchlights, and wondered what the Master of Sinanju would say to him when he learned that Remo had allowed kidnappers to abduct the mother of his child when she was about to give birth.

  As he waited for the helicopters to give him up for dead, Remo's lean body gave a great shudder that had nothing to do with the deep chill of the lake water and everything to do with the cold thoughts in his brain.

  Chapter 14

  News moves instantly in the age of satellite communications.

  In New York, the three major broadcast networks learned of KNNN's loss of signal at exactly the same time.

  So much had KNNN changed the way the world got its news that in every control room of each network there was a man whose job it was to monitor KNNN round the clock for breaking news. They were on the payrolls as "market research monitors."

  At MBC, the monitor saw his KNNN satellite feed go down.

  At BCN, the monitor gasped as the pair of KNNN anchors became a black square with the words NO SIGNAL in the upper right-hand corner.

  At ANC, they saw the same thing.

  At the three majors, the cry was the same.

  "It's happening again!"

  But it wasn't. Line monitors were checked. And rechecked. All other transmissions were up.

  "It's just KNNN," the news director at BCN said, relief washing along his vocal cords.

  Then it struck him.

  "Get a team down to Atlanta. This is news!"

  Planes were charted. Equipment was hastily rushed to waiting hangers. Flyaway satellite dishes were hauled out of storage.

  And in less than an hour, with a full Georgia moon washing West Peachtree Avenue, the remote microwave vans started pulling up. Masts were erected. And videocams were busily recording the sight of two mighty satellite dishes lying in the street as the KNNN anchor teams milled about, dazed expressions on their faces as they interviewed themselves on tape for later broadcast.

  The first to arrive was Don Cooder of BCN News. He stormed into the crowd wearing his lucky safari jacket. Usually, it was something he saved for reporting coups and civil wars, but since this was, professionally speaking, enemy territory, he thought wearing it was a good idea.

  "I'm looking for Jed Burner," he said, biting out his words.

  "No one's seen him."

  "A KNNN anchor, then. Is there an anchor who hasn't been interviewed yet? I'm offering a BCN exclusive!"

  From the crowd, a half dozen hands jumped into the air.

  "Me! Me! I haven't been on the air in three hours!"

  "No, me. I'm more photogenic!"

  "One at a time! One at a time," Cooder said hastily. "Everybody will get his or her chance." Cooder stopped, turned to the videocam and pitched his voice an octave deeper.

  "This is Don Cooder, speaking to you from in front of KNNN Headquarters here in Augusta, Georgia."

  "It's Atlanta!" a voice called out.

  As if he hadn't heard, Cooder pushed on. "For those just tuning in, here are the facts as we understand them to be: Hours after broadcast TV is blacked out from the Manitoba to Monterrey, calamity befell Kable Newsworthy News Network's once great empire-"

  "What do you mean 'once great?'" a voice snapped.

  "You're off the air," Cooder snarled.

  "But we'll be back."

  Cooder whirled. "Do you mind?"

  "Hey, Mom!" someone yelled, waving past Cooder's turned back. "I'm fine! Don't worry about me. It was just the satellite dishes."

  "Who's doing this stand-up, you or me?" Cooder snarled.

  It was the wrong thing to say. KNNN anchors exchanged glances and suddenly Hurricane Don Cooder, veteran of the natural disasters, civil rights coverage, Vietnam, and Tiananmen Square, was fighting for his own microphone in full view of his faithful audience.

  "Let go of my mike or I'll brain you with it!" he snarled.

  "Cut Cut!" the remote producer yelled frantically.

  Hearing the sound of his colleague in distress, Dieter Banning came running to the rescue, his London Fog trenchcoat skirts slapping at his legs.

  "Get that fucking camera on him!" he yelled to his cameraman.

  "What about you?"

  "Never fucking mind me! I'll do a damn voiceover."

  The videocam light blazed into life, and Dieter Banning's frantic voice was suddenly crisp, cool, and mannered as that of an English valet.

  "The scene here in Atlanta tonight is reminiscent of Beirut," he said as Don Cooder, gaining the upper hand, proceeded to pummel his rival into submission. "As so often happens in the wake of such things, the fabric of ordinary society quickly breaks down. To American viewers this may seem like nothing more than a boisterous argument, but I assure in the more civilized corners of the world, say, London, or Ottowa, the sight you are now watching would be met with anguish, shock and utter shame . . . ."

  Tim Macaw was trying to get the facts. That was all he wanted-the facts. Without facts, he had no story. It was good to have pictures, essential in this age of electronic journalism, but if you don't have the facts, pictures were so much electronic confetti.

  "Does anyone know what happened here?" he cried out, pushing into the crowd.

  "KNNN is down."

  "Can anyone confirm that?"

  "Sure. Me," said a helpful voice.

  "Me, too," said another voice.

  "Good. Good. What caused it?"

  "Someone ripped the satellite dishes off the roof."

  "Who?" Macaw asked.

  "Nobody knows."

  "What is this all about?"

  "Nobody knows."

  "Where is Jed Burner? Has anybody seen Jed Burner?"

  "He disappeared just before it happened."

  "Oh. Does anyone else know this?"

  "Search me."

  Tim Macaw, sensing a story, turned to his remote producer.

  "They're saying Jed Burner has disappeared. Has anyone broken the story yet?"

  "No, Tim."

  "Well, can we confirm it independently?"

  "How? Usually we confirm these things by turning on KNNN. Can't now."

  "Right. Damn. What do we do?"

  "If we air and it's wrong, we look stupid."

  "But if it's right, and we don't get it out there, one of the other networks will own the story."

  "It's your call, Tim."

  Shoulders slumping in defeat, Tim Macaw moaned, "What do print guys do in situations like this? Damn."

  On one corner a black man in black Cons and a backward cap was doing a rap before the TV cameras.

  KNNN is out of shout, Global.news is down for the cou
nt. Nobody knew who knocked it flat, Check it out-Vox TV is where it's at.

  Shifting into a mellow announcer's voice, he added, "This is Vox TV's Rap News. First with the news that today's young people can understand. Now we return to The Stilsons. Tonight, Fart microwaves baby Sue and Gomer mistakes her for . . ."

  In his Folcroft office Harold W. Smith changed channels the old-fashioned way. By hand.

  It was total chaos down in Atlanta. The media had jumped on the least important part of the story-the disabling of KNNN's broadcast ability. The abduction of Cheeta Ching, ostensibly by Jed Burner, Layne Fondue, and an unknown confederate, had yet to break.

  With luck, the news would not air until Remo had broken the bad news to the Master of Sinanju.

  As for the mysterious Captain Audion, Harold Smith knew that whatever his carefully laid plans had been, Remo had thrown a monkey wrench into them by disabling KNNN.

  He turned down the sound and went back to his computer, from which he was monitoring the land, sea, and air search for the missing KNNN Superpuma helicopter, initiated in utter secrecy by the President of the United States himself. The new chief executive was only too happy to pitch in and do his part.

  He had been watching KNNN when it went down-and Harold Smith was the first person he called.

  Chapter 15

  Remo Williams didn't know what to do.

  After he had eluded the Atlanta police, he had checked into a Decatur motel, showered, and walked the floor with the TV on.

  Like a pack of sharks smelling blood in the water, the networks were providing continuous coverage of "The KNNN Knockdown," as BCN was calling it. Anchors interviewed anchors, who returned the favor. It was a feeding frenzy of interviews, and nowhere was the opinion of an ordinary citizen heard.

  A Martian would have thought a religious temple had been desecrated.

  There were standups, two-shots, and endlessly repeated film clips of the downed satellite dishes, frightened KNNN staffers, not to mention assorted fistfights. Interspersed with commercials that were three times more interesting than the coverage itself.

  Remo had enjoyed none of it. Except the footage of Don Cooder and a nameless KNNN anchor wrestling for possession of a live mike.

  The spectacle of Don Cooder under great stress reminded Remo of the time two years back when Cooder had talked a dippy physics student into building a live neutron bomb for a segment of 24 Hours, ostensibly on the easy availability of nuclear technology, but actually as a gigantic ratings ploy. Someone had stolen the bomb and detonated it. Chiun had been on ground zero when it happened, with Remo a helpless witness.

  Chiun had survived. A miracle. The Master of Sinanju had burrowed underground to safety, but no one knew it. Not even Remo, who had mourned his Master for many long months, until Harold Smith had located the comatose old Korean under a California desert and resuscitated him.

  In the aftermath of the incident, Remo had begged Smith to let him take down Don Cooder. Smith had refused. Remo had never been satisfied with his reasoning. So the sight of Cooder making a fool of himself on live television gave Remo a little solace. But not much.

  As he paced, switching channels in the hope of getting some word of Cheeta Ching's whereabouts, Remo wrestled with what he would tell Chiun if the worst came to pass.

  For nine months, the impending birth of the baby had haunted Remo. Chiun's insistence that Cheeta and the baby come to live with them threatened their long association. Now this.

  There was no way Remo could tell Chiun the truth without destroying their relationship.

  In the blackest part of the night Remo had called Harold Smith.

  "Smitty. Any news on Cheeta?"

  "A full-scale search has turned up nothing."

  "What are they doing," Remo said heatedly, "playing with themselves? Tell them to get on it."

  "Remo, it is the middle of the night, Georgia is very big and the helicopter is very small. It could have set down anywhere."

  "Or crashed," Remo said dully.

  "Or crashed," Smith agreed.

  "I never thought I'd see the day I cared whether Cheeta Ching would live or die. This is a mess."

  "Perhaps."

  "What do you mean, perhaps?"

  "You have knocked KNNN off the air. Jed Burner has fled for parts unknown. It may be the end of the crisis."

  "Not my crisis. I'm holed up in a motel room and I'm thinking of staying here until this blows over."

  "You might as well go home, Remo. There is nothing more to be done in Atlanta."

  "So what do I tell Chiun?"

  "The truth."

  "He'll kill me."

  "I rather doubt that," Smith said dryly. "The bond between the two of you is very strong."

  "Yeah, well I definitely noticed it getting looser and looser the closer Cheeta got to her due date."

  "Remo, your face was seen by unknown numbers of KNNN staffers. I would prefer you out of Atlanta and where I can reach you."

  "I'll think about it," Remo said, hanging up.

  A lot Smith knew. For twenty years, Remo had worked for the old skinflint. There were times when Remo thought he understood Smith, and there were times he despised the man. These days, their relationship was neutral. But Smith didn't appreciate the elemental moods of the Master of Sinanju, how he could turn on Remo over matters of honor or pride.

  Remo Williams, the second greatest assassin on the face of the earth, was normally without fear. As he checked out of his motel, he was afraid for his future and desperately trying to come up with a convincing lie that would salvage it.

  And as he inserted the key into his front door lock, two and a half hours later in Massachusetts, he was still wracking his brain.

  Maybe, he thought, I'll tell him Smitty wants us to fly to Peru and dismember Maoists. Chiun would like that.

  The Master of Sinanju was in the kitchen when Remo stepped in. He was making tea. He was humming. This was going to be rough, Remo knew.

  Remo stepped in, and Chiun looked up.

  The Trinitron stood on its island, black and mute.

  Momentary relief washed over Remo. Chiun couldn't have gotten the news.

  Remo opened his mouth, trusting to the first lie that emerged.

  Instead, he found himself speaking the truth.

  "I blew it, Little Father," he said contritely. "I'm sorry."

  "This is understandable," Chiun said, setting out a celadon cup.

  "It is?"

  "You did not have your teacher to guide you to success. "

  Remo blinked. "That's right, I didn't, did I?" It hadn't occurred to him. But there it was. An escape hatch.

  "Have you broken the news to Smith?" Chiun asked, taking a second cup from the cupboard.

  "Yeah."

  "He is angered?"

  "Actually, he thinks I solved the TV problem even if the bad guys got away."

  "A partial success whispers of completeness in a coming hour," said Chiun, pouring the tea into both cups.

  "Smith has practically the entire Air Force, Coast Guard and Navy looking for the guy now."

  Chiun frowned. "He swam from you?"

  Remo shook his head no. "Helicopter."

  "Ah. Then you have an acceptable excuse, for we do not fly after helicopters. It is not in our job description."

  "Yeah, yeah. Right. Maybe we should turn on the TV now," he added, thinking maybe it would sound better coming from someone Chiun couldn't reach out and strangle.

  Chiun frowned. "The squawking of rude readers of the alleged news of this province would spoil such a morning as this."

  "There might be news of Cheeta, you know?"

  Chiun's wrinkled features quirked. "Is it not too early for the heads that talk?"

  "When I left Atlanta, they were all over every channel. They think KNNN going down is big news."

  "Then by all means, Remo. Turn on the television device. I have poured you a cup of tea."

  "Thanks," said Remo, hitting the on
button. The set warmed up, and Remo felt his heart climb into his throat. The last time he had left Chiun, he felt angry and hurt. Now all he wanted was not to be the one to break the bad news-whatever it was.

  The set winked into life. And almost immediately winked out again.

  "What's wrong with this piece of junk?" Remo said, giving it a whack.

  "I do not know."

  "Have you been playing with the contrast knob again?"

  "You make the pictures too light," Chiun sniffed. "It is bad for the eyes if they are not made to work."

  "Well, I don't like it dark," said Remo, turning the contrast knob. The picture lightened. In one corner. There, emerging from the shifting from high contrast to lower contrast, were two mocking white letters:

  NO SIGNAL.

  "Damn!" said Remo.

  Chiun looked up from his tea. He frowned.

  "I thought you rendered the fiends impotent," he said.

  "I did. I thought I did. Wait a minute, maybe this is a recap of the blackout footage." Remo changed the channel. The other channels were also black. They weren't hooked up to cable, so there was no way to tell what was happening there.

  "Not now!" Remo moaned.

  Chiun padded up to the screen, his tea forgotten. His facial wrinkles were gathering like storm clouds.

  "Is it not a rerun?" he muttered darkly.

  "Well, it is and it isn't," said Remo, running up and down the stations. "The out-of-state stations were just as black."

  Then the telephone was ringing. Remo took it.

  "Remo," said Harold Smith. "It has begun again."

  "Yeah, and the timing couldn't be worse. I just turned on TV so Chiun and I could catch up on breaking news and the screen went dead."

  "Remo, it is clear that Jed Burner's KNNN broadcast equipment is not responsible for this."

  "Maybe not. But he's involved in this somehow, he and Haiphong Hannah. He's gotta be."

  "That remains to be seen," said Smith.

  "If he isn't, who else could it be?"

  Suddenly, the TV began speaking in an electronically filtered voice.

  "Do not adjust your set. The networks have refused to accede to my modest demands. So I am declaring a moratorium on all TV for the next seven hours. Or until my demands are met. I now return you to the Electronic Dark Age of"-an echo chamber effect cut in-"Captain Audioooonnnn. "

  Then with Remo watching, the Master of Sinanju turned and hissed, "This is all your fault!"