Terminal Transmission td-93

by Warren Murphy

  "Huh?"

  "You have failed," Chiun said loudly. "And because of your failure, I am deprived of all tidings of Cheeta Ching. "

  "I'm sorry, Little Father. Maybe Smith can point us in the direction of the problem. You and I working together, we can probably solve this in a day."

  "No. My place is at Cheeta's side. I must go to her at once."

  "Oh no," Remo groaned, watching the Master of Sinanju hurry from the kitchen and float up the stairs to pack.

  "Smitty," Remo hissed into the receiver. "You hear that?"

  "I did."

  "What do we do?"

  "I do not know," Harold Smith said in a hollow voice. "But you must stay with Master Chiun and keep him from coming into contact with Don Cooder. The results could be catastrophic."

  "They could be worse than that," Remo muttered, thinking that if there was anyone on earth the Master of Sinanju would like to snuff, it was Don Cooder.

  Chapter 16

  Don Cooder entered the newsroom of BCN's New York headquarters, bloodied but unbowed. He was holding a raw steak over one eye. London broil.

  "Admiral on the bridge!" the floor manager called, after giving a sharp blast in the bosun's whistle.

  "Let no one doubt Don Cooder's manhood after this day," Don Cooder said.

  "Don!" the news director called, white-faced.

  "No matter the danger, no matter the risks, if it needs reporting, Hurricane Don Cooder will report it," said Don Cooder.

  "But Don."

  "No buts! I know what you're going to say. Stow it. I may be head anchor, but in these veins flows the blood of a natural-born reporter. I can't help it. At times like these, I'm like a hound dog with a treed coon under a full moon. Call me country, but country is what made Don Cooder the knight of the remote newscast that he is."

  With that, Don Cooder stormed in the direction of his office.

  The news director was holding his arm leveled at the line monitor, where the tiny white letters No SIGNAL glowed faintly against the blacked-out screen.

  "Does anybody want to tell him?" he said in a dispirited voice.

  "What's the use? Until we're up again, what's the use?"

  "What if we don't come up again?"

  "I don't want to think about it," said the news director, his eyes dull and defeated.

  "Hey, check this out. MTV is putting on a news bulletin."

  Every man in the newsroom rushed to the bank of monitors.

  A young girl in purple and silver hair was speaking in a spritely voice.

  "Can you, like, stand it?" she was saying. "The networks are, like, having really, really major technical difficulties again. But chill out. You still have your MTV. So here's Fed Leppar with Petaluma."

  On came a music video that compressed more scenes than War and Peace contains into 120 seconds of quick-cut disconnected plotiessness.

  The news director snapped. "That's it! Nothing about the ransom demands? What kind of news bulletin is that?"

  "Right now, the only game in town," said the floor manager, his eyes flicking along the other monitors.

  Chapter 17

  As the cab whisked them from Newark Airport to the BCN studios in the heart of Times Square, Remo Williams grew worried.

  What would Chiun say when he found out the truth? Would he fly off the handle? Would he blame Remo? It was impossible to tell. Remo had seen the Master of Sinanju under every conceivable situation during their long association. But this-this was different.

  Remo decided he would have to get control of the situation before it got out of control.

  "Look," Remo told Chiun as Seventh Avenue flashed past. "We can't just barge in on Cheeta."

  "Why not? She will be pleased to see me."

  "Last time, she kept asking after me, remember?"

  Chiun sniffed disdainfully and stared out the cab window. It was a sore spot with the Master of Sinanju. His infatuation with Cheeta Ching, even after her pregnancy, had not been completely reciprocated. On the few occasions when their paths had crossed, Cheeta had shown a strong interest in Remo-although she seemed unable to get his name right. Remo had chalked those incidents up to the supercharged pheromones his Sinanju-trained body constantly released. Still, for a woman carrying Chiun's child, her behavior was bizarre.

  "And we're on assignment," Remo added.

  "You are on assignment," Chiun sniffed. "I am on maternity leave."

  "In your case, it's paternity leave, and did you clear this with Smith?"

  "Emperor Smith understands these matters," Chiun said loftily. "He too is a father."

  "In that case," Remo growled, "he understands a heck of a lot more than me. Anyway, we gotta treat this like an assignment. We can't blow it."

  "I am not the blower of assignments in this vehicle," Chiun said.

  "I won't argue with that-"

  "Because you cannot," Chiun snapped.

  "Okay, but chances are we're going to bump into Don Cooder."

  Chiun's eyes narrowed and a slow hissing escaped his lips.

  Remo said, "He's off-limits. Smitty said so."

  "I will do what I must," Chiun said stiffly.

  Inwardly, Remo groaned. His palms were actually sweating. He couldn't remember the last time they had done that.

  The cab dropped them off at the studio entrance, and Remo got out first. He took the lead, Chiun following closely behind, his footsteps more quick than they normally were.

  As they approached the security desk, Chiun called out, "What news of Cheeta?"

  Remo's heart sank.

  The answer came back. "None."

  Chiun's features brightened. "Good. Then I am not too late for the joyous event."

  Remo pulled a card out of a wallet that was stuffed with them. "Remo Neilson, FCC," he told the security guard. "I'm here about the blackout."

  "That so? Any idea what's causing it?"

  "We think it has something to do with hairspray buildup in the transmission equipment," Remo said with a straight face.

  "Wow! Does that mean the anchors will have to shave their heads?"

  "That's up to Congress," said Remo. "Point us to the guy in charge."

  "You mean Don Cooder?"

  "Who put him in charge?" Remo demanded.

  "His agent." The security guard pointed. "Down the hall, take a right. then another right, then another right and again a right-"

  "That's four rights, right?"

  "Right. All the offices are strung around the newsroom. It's screwy, but that's the news."

  Remo said, "Let's go, Little Father."

  The guard looked at Chiun uncertainly, "He with the FCC too?"

  "Korean version. We think this has international ramifications."

  "No kidding? Damn shame they can't put the story out over the air."

  The security guard allowed them to pass and Chiun got in front, his clenched hands held before him like an anxious hen.

  "Cheeta will be overjoyed to see me," he squeaked.

  Remo caught up and whispered, "Remember-let me do all the talking."

  There was a palpable aura of depression in the corridors. Normally, Remo knew, a news operation was a bustling place. Here, staff moved slowly, faces white, eyes dispirited.

  They passed the newsroom, visible through a curving pane of glass. It was dark, lit only by a handful of TV monitors. Only a few were working. A bunch of people were watching one in particular. Remo recognized the MTV logo up in one corner.

  A man with rolled-up shirtsleeves ran in, waving wire service copy.

  "Three more people have died of that new HELP virus out in California!" he shouted.

  "So what?" a colorless voice shot back.

  "But it's news!"

  "If we can't put it out, it's trivia."

  Remo and Chiun moved on.

  A young woman in Levi's stepped out of an office, hugging a sheaf of papers to her chest.

  The Master of Sinanju beamed. "Direct us, O television person, to th
e illustrious Cheeta Ching."

  "I don't know where she is," the woman said. "Please excuse me. I have to get these to Don Cooder. It's his overnight ratings."

  "We're going that way," Remo said helpfully. "We'll take it."

  The girl hesitated and clutched her rating reports more tightly.

  Remo smiled his disarming best and flashed his FCC card.

  "It's okay. I know the numbers before anyone does."

  "I guess it's all right . . ."

  Remo took the reports and asked, "Which way to Cooder's office?"

  The girl pointed down the corridor. "Take a left, then another left, then-"

  Remove rolled his eyes. "Just give me a number."

  The girl raised four fingers and said, "Five."

  "His name on the door?"

  "Of course," she said, walking off. "It's in Mr. Cooder's contract."

  Remo took the lead, wondering what was going on. No one seemed aware that Cheeta Ching had been kidnapped. As he tried to figure out if this was good or bad, he began counting lefts.

  The door marked DON COODER was at the fifth left, There was a star on it.

  Beside it was a door marked CHEETA CHING. It had a star on it too-a smaller star.

  The door was locked. As the Master of Sinanju cleared his throat nervously, Remo knocked.

  There was no answer. Chiun put an ear to the panel, face collapsing.

  "Guess she's hasn't shown up for the day," Remo said innocently.

  Chiun stood looking at the door, frowning.

  "She is an early riser. Why is she not here . . . ?"

  "Maybe Cooder can tell us," Remo said quickly, thinking any port in a storm. He rapped on Cooder's door. "Remember, behave."

  "I have given my promise . . ." Chiun said thinly.

  "Get lost!" a voice snarled from behind the door.

  "Ratings reports," Remo shouted. "Get 'em while they're hot."

  The door flew open and the wild-eyed face of Don Cooder appeared. "How'd I do on the flyover?" he asked, reaching out like a starving man to snag the reports. Remo backpedaled, simultaneously flashing his FCC ID card.

  "In the tank," he said, holding the ratings out of Cooder's clutching grasp. "Gotta talk to you about this TV blackout."

  Don Cooder flashed his trademark smile. It looked as if every muscle in his body except his lips were concentrated on forming that thin-upped grimace. "Is it important? I'm powerful busy."

  "How important is the fact that all TV is blacked out?"

  "It is?"

  "Don't you know?" Remo asked.

  "Right now, it doesn't matter."

  "Why not?"

  Cooder checked his watch. "I don't go on until 6:30."

  "That's one way of looking at it. Look, we want to talk to you about this blackout thing."

  "All right. As long as it's off the record. I hate being interviewed. People always ask me about my ego-make that alleged ego."

  They stepped into an office that made Remo think of an overgrown child's den. The wall were covered with posters of famous movie cowboys. Remo recognized one. It showed Tom Mix, six feet tall and all his bodily wounds marked and labeled.

  On a long table sat a battered old typewriter side by side with an amber-screened computer terminal. There was a tiny brass plaque under the typewriter which said, Don Cooder's First Typewriter. Attached to the terminal was a silver foil sticker that said, WE HANG DATA THIEVES IN THESE PARTS.

  Beside this stood a pedestal on which a copy of the Bible lay open.

  Cooder took a seat behind his desk and adjusted on his smile. It still didn't fit.

  "What can I tell you, Mr.-?"

  "Neilson. Remo Neilson."

  "And I am Chiun," said the Master of Sinanju in an arid voice.

  Cooder blinked. "Chiun, Chiun, Chiun. Where have I heard that name before?"

  "One hears the name Chiun in many places," the Master of Sinanju returned coolly.

  Cooder crossed one leg over the other and took hold of a dangling boot. "I'm sure one does, but for some reason, I know that name."

  The Master of Sinanju lifted a finger and pointed the long colorless nail at the open copy of the Bible.

  "Amos 5:26. You may look it up."

  "No need. I know the Bible by heart, practically. Let me see . . ." Cooder closed his eyes. " 'But ye have borne the tabernacle of your Moloch and Chiun, your images, the star of your god, which ye made to your selves.' "

  "Huh?" Remo said. "That's from the Bible?"

  "You may look it up if you wish," Chiun said blandly.

  "I will," said Remo, going to the pedestal. He flipped pages until he got to the Book of Amos and read along, a frown came to his strong face.

  "Hey! It's here!"

  "Of course," said Chiun, eying Cooder coldly.

  "Your name! It's in the Bible. How did it get there?"

  "It was put there," said Chiun, eyes still locked with those of Don Cooder, "by the first of my ancestors who bore the proud name of Chiun."

  Cooder was looking visibly impressed.

  "I'm a religious man," he said. "Not many know it, but it's true. Happy to talk to someone with a name out of the Good Book." His squinty eyes flicked to Remo. "What did you say your name was?"

  "Remo," said Remo, looking away from the Bible.

  "Well, not all the good names found their way into the Good Book," and he laughed like a nervous spinster. "Now how can I help you God-fearing folks?"

  "We're looking into the blackout situation," said Remo, stepping away from the Bible.

  "Why ask me? I just read news."

  Chiun interrupted. "What is that?" he asked, pointing to a carved wood statuette that occupied a prominent spot on Cooder's desk. It was of a woman in a long concealing garment and head covering.

  "That? That's an embarrassing question to ask a Texas Baptist like myself. It just happens to be a saint."

  "Looks like a nun," said Remo.

  "That's right. You must be a Catholic boy."

  Remo said nothing.

  "This here's Saint Clare of Assisi," Cooder explained. "Probably kin to Saint Francis. Saint Clare is the patron saint of television, believe it or not. So designated by Pope Pius XII back in '58. I did a feature on her once. The Pope, God rest his soul, up and decided television was too powerful not be watched over from above." Cooder frowned. "Saint Clare must have been looking the other way when the FCC gave Jed Burner his broadcast license."

  "You think Burner is behind this?" Remo demanded.

  "Sure. He's got the most to gain. People can't watch free TV, they have to get cable. Makes sense, doesn't it?"

  "It did until KNNN went down," Remo pointed out. "They're off the air and so are you."

  "Don't ever go into journalism, friend. You wouldn't last a minute in this man's game. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see that Burner has his jamming equipment tucked away somewhere."

  "Yeah. Well, I know enough to know that the jamming isn't coming out of Middle America."

  "No?"

  "It's coming out of Canada."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "That graph you showed last night. The center is Canada, not the U.S."

  "You sure about that?" said Cooder, absently picking up the statuette of Saint Clare and rubbing her wimple with his thumb.

  "Positive."

  "You know, I'm glad you told me that."

  "Why?"

  "It kinda points me toward tall cotton."

  "Huh?"

  "Meaning I think I know who might be back of this jamming jamboree."

  They waited for him to say it, and why he didn't, Remo asked, "Let's hear it."

  "Can't. I have to protect my sources."

  "Sources?" Remo said hotly. "I just gave you the major clue. You just said so."

  "And I'm protecting you."

  The Master of Sinanju slipped up to Don Cooder and, without exerting his frail-looking form, extracted the statuette of Saint Clare from Cooder's strong finge
rs. He held it up.

  "The workmanship is good," Chiun said absently.

  "Hand-carved. Did it myself," Cooder said proudly. "I used to whittle some in my short-pants days."

  Then the Master of Sinanju closed both thin hands over the statuette and began squeezing. The statuette was of hickory. It made cracking and splintering sounds. The head of Saint Clare popped off and landed in Cooder's astonished mouth.

  By the time he spit it to the floor like a hard plug of tobacco, the Master of Sinanju was pouring the remains onto the desk. It slipped from his fingers like sawdust. It was sawdust.

  "I know that old trick," Cooder said, regaining his composure. "You slipped the real one up your sleeve."

  "Uh-uh," said Remo. "What you see is what you get.

  "I don't cotton to being threatened."

  Remo folded his arms. "Cotton to it."

  "Well," Cooder drawled, "since you two have highcarded me, I guess I can let slip a whisper." He lifted his hands. "As long as it doesn't go any further now."

  Remo and Chiun glared and said nothing.

  "I'll take your silence as acquiescence," Cooder said quickly. "The Canadians are back of this."

  Remo blinked. "How do you figure that?"

  "Ever been up there? They hate our TV. Always have. Spend half their days complaining about U.S. TV signals getting up there and polluting their culture. You want my advice? Start with Canada. But don't quote me."

  "That's ridiculous," Remo said.

  "Or," added Cooder, "you might check out own front yard for saboteurs."

  "Meaning?"

  Cooder dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I hate to speak ill of a fellow colleague, but war is war. Dieter Banning is as Canadian as, they come."

  "Banning? His network is off the air too."

  "I'm not blaming my good friends over at ANC, mind you. I'm saying that they may have a skunk in their woodpile. Catch my drift?"

  "Skunks stink," said Chiun.

  "That's it exactly. You two follow the smell and you'll break this plot as wide open as all outdoors. One thing though."

  "Yeah?"

  "If you crack it, I get an exclusive."

  "No," said Remo.

  Cooder lost his smile. "Not very neighborly of you," he muttered.

  "Write a letter to the FCC."

  "Count on it."

  "Come on, Chiun."

  "One question I would ask this man," Chiun said.