Rain of Terror td-75 Read online

  "I can't spend this!"

  "How do you know if you don't try?" Remo asked lightly as he stepped out of the cab.

  The cabbie started to climb out after him. Chiun gave the door a light shove. The driver flew back in. His head hit the meter. Bellowing, he kicked at the door. Chiun held it shut with his little finger while Remo got behind the cab and gave it a gentle push.

  The cab careened down the road. The driver grabbed for the wheel just as it went around a bend in the road. The engine started and its roar picked up speed.

  "Let's go, Little Father," Remo told Chiun. "I've had a long day. Uh-oh," he added, looking at the darkened shape of Folcroft Sanitarium.

  "Ah," Chiun said, following his gaze. "Emperor Smith still holds forth, although it is late."

  With the taxi's engine fading behind them, Remo and Chiun slipped through the gate. Over by the docks, a squat shape sat like a sleeping insect. A military helicopter.

  "I think that chopper is waiting for us," Remo pointed out. "So much for our evening of rest."

  "Come on," Remo said in a tired voice. "No sense in delaying the inevitable. Let's go see what's doing."

  They found Dr. Harold W. Smith at his desk. Smith's face was drawn. That fact in itself was not unusual. Stripped of his glasses, Smith could have sat for a portrait of a man in the final stages of starvation. But what Smith was doing alarmed Remo.

  Smith was spraying foam antacid into his open mouth. A lot of it. He stopped from time to time to swallow, then continued squirting. The nozzle soon sputtered and fizzled noisily. Smith shook the canister, and getting nothing, started to suck the nozzle like a baby with a bottle.

  He did not notice Remo and Chiun until Remo cleared his throat.

  "Ahem," Smith said, dropping the can. It rolled off his desk and Smith reached for it. He missed. "No matter, it was empty," he said sheepishly. He adjusted his Dartmouth tie self-consciously.

  "What's up, Smitty? We got rid of Rambo, by the way."

  "Who? Oh," Smith said. His voice was strained. "Yes, the elephant. Good. Thank goodness you are back. We have a situation."

  "I know."

  "You do?"

  "The helicopter. It was a major clue."

  "Oh, yes. I ordered it to stand by. I've been frantic, Remo, waiting for your return."

  "So we're back," Remo said casually. "What is it this time?"

  "Hush, Remo," Chiun warned. "Do not rush your emperor. Obviously, a serious matter has developed. Speak to me, O Emperor. And do not concern yourself with my unruly pupil. He has had a trying day, but he has learned a valuable lesson which will enable him to serve you better in the future."

  "Yes, good. But a matter of grave international concern broke while you were away."

  Chiun's wispy chin lifted in interest. Matters of grave international concern interested him. The more of Smith's grave matters of international concern the Master of Sinanju dealt with, the more Chiun would ask for at the next contract negotiation.

  "Yes," Smith said. "Washington has been attacked. It's happened twice in the last few hours."

  "Attacked!" Remo said.

  "Some new form of offensive ballistic weapon called the Kinetic Kill Vehicle. The President just informed me that it was fired by an electromagnetic launching system of some kind which defies early-warning detection. The first KKV landed within yards of the White House. The second impacted in Maryland. Fortunately neither hit anything crucial, nor did they detonate. There have been no casualties."

  "Just what the world needs," Remo said. "Another new offensive weapon."

  "All weapons are offensive," Chiun said firmly.

  "So what do we do, Smitty?"

  "Do not be foolish, Remo," Chiun interjected. "It is obvious what we do. We will go to the hurlers of these KKV's and eliminate them, thus saving the republic."

  "Not exactly," Smith put in.

  "No?" asked Chiun.

  "What do you mean, no?" Remo added.

  "The Pentagon is still trying to pinpoint the source of these attacks. We can be certain it is a foreign power, but who or what or why has yet to be determined. The President wants you in Washington immediately. He's very upset with us all. He thinks we should have somehow foreseen these attacks."

  "He's got a short memory," Remo complained. "After we saved his life during the campaign."

  "I knew he was an ingrate the moment I laid eyes upon him," Chiun spat. "I voted for the other one," he added smugly.

  "You, Master Chiun?" Smith asked. "But you are not a U.S. citizen."

  "They could not stop me. Besides, I only wished to cancel Remo's vote."

  Remo sighed audibly. "So what are we supposed to do in Washington?" he asked Smith.

  "I am uncertain. But I do think it would be good if you were at the President's side to reassure him. He hasn't yet gotten his cabinet assembled and seems completely at sea."

  "He doesn't expect us to baby-sit him, does he?" Remo asked.

  ''I'm afraid that's what it comes down to. In the meanwhile, our entire military command structure is on full alert. The world is poised on the brink of something, but no one knows what."

  "What happens if there's another attack when we're down there?" Remo wanted to know.

  Smith said nothing for a long moment. Finally he admitted, "I do not know."

  "I know," Chiun said brightly.

  Remo and Smith turned to look at his beaming countenance.

  "What?" Remo wanted to know.

  "Yes, tell us," Smith prompted.

  "Nothing," Chiun said.

  "How do you know that?" Smith asked.

  "Because this is always the way with these things."

  "What things?" Remo and Smith spoke together. Their blending voices harmonized like a flute and a can opener. "Sieges."

  "What do you mean?" This from Smith.

  "It is very simple," Chiun said, placing his long-nailed fingers into his ballooning sleeves. "Two stones have fallen."

  "Stones. Where do you get 'stones'?" Remo demanded.

  "They did not go boom, correct?"

  "True," Smith admitted slowly.

  "Then they are stones. Or might as well be stones. They are certainly not anything dangerous, or they would have exploded."

  "Keep talking," Smith prompted.

  "What we are witnessing is a form of warfare not seen in many centuries. The siege engine."

  "Never heard of it," Remo said.

  "I think he means the catapult."

  "Yes, exactly. That is the other name for it. The Romans used it often. It was sometimes successful, but more often not. It worked in this fashion. An army encircles a fort or city, cutting off supplies. The besiegers then bring up the siege engines. They load them first with big stones and try to knock down the walls. Sometimes they send many smaller stones into the city itself to dishearten the population. Once in a while, they strike something, a person or a house. But rarely does this happen. Europeans used the siege engine to terrify, not to destroy. Much like your present-day atomic missiles."

  "I've never thought of it quite in those terms," Smith said. "But who would do this? And where is their encircling army?"

  "Wait a minute!" Remo said. "I don't buy this. Catapults. From where?"

  "Our information is that the KKV came in from over the Atlantic. That makes any nation from Great Britain to Russia a suspect."

  "No catapult could lob a rock over the Atlantic."

  "True," Smith admitted. "But Master Chiun's comparison is basically sound. I would like him to continue." Remo folded his arms. Grinning with satisfaction, Chiun continued. His voice grew deep and resonant. He enjoyed counseling his emperor.

  "I do not know where the army is. Perhaps it is in transit. Perhaps it will not be sent until the siege is fully under way. But I do know this. The method is the method of the siege. The purpose to demoralize. And the reality, that few if any of these projectiles will hit their intended target-or anything of consequence at all. For Europeans are th
e architects of the siege and there is one thing that is always true of Europeans."

  Smith leaned forward eagerly. "Yes?"

  Chiun raised a wise finger. "They are terrible shots."

  Smith blinked rapidly. His dryish face wrinkling in disappointment, he settled back in his chair.

  "We cannot count on these KKV's continuing to miss their targets," he said seriously.

  "No. They will first run out of big rocks. Then little stones. Then they will be reduced to pebble flinging. Then they will go away."

  "So what are we supposed to do in Washington, Smitty? Stand around with our hands in our pockets? Or maybe we raise our arms to catch the next one when it falls? I think we should be looking for the people behind this instead."

  "That should not be difficult," Chiun said with assurance. They looked at him again.

  "Go on," Smith said, hope dawning again on his face.

  "Whom has your government annoyed recently?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Nations do not lay siege to achieve conquest or to make war. They lay siege to punish, as I have said. Look for a jealous prince who believes that he has reason to vent his wrath upon your President."

  "That's a long list," Remo said. "Every third country in the world hates us-with or without good reason."

  "Such anger as is evidenced in these two attacks is motivated by passion. Look for a man with passion."

  "And no sense. He's obviously forgetting that he's lobbing rocks at the only nation in history ever to nuke another in anger."

  "Without any way to trace the origin of these KKV's, the perpetrator is relatively safe," Smith admitted. "I think you are correct, Remo. Your job should be to seek out and eliminate this threat at the source. But until we have a fix on that source, I want you both in Washington. Perhaps you and Chiun could examine the impact sites. Maybe you can learn something of value."

  "Not me," Remo said firmly. "One rock looks like another to me."

  "Including the one that sits on your shoulders," Chiun said with disdain.

  Chapter 15

  Over the objections of his top advisers, the President of the United States went on the air to reassure the nation. "The situation is under control," the President said from the podium in the East Room of the White House. Representatives from all the major networks were seated in front of him. The room was packed. The glare of television cameras was intense. The very air smelled hot. It was the first news conference of the new administration. For that reason alone, it would have been covered with intense scrutiny. But the fact that the President had been absent from the Oval Office the previous day, his first in office, had sparked a wave of rumors.

  "What situation?" asked a reporter.

  The President was aghast. He had spoken only the first sentence of what was to have been a ten-minute prepared text, and already they were flinging questions at him. He wondered if he should hush the man or just keep reading. "Yes, what situation?" seconded another reporter.

  The President decided to dispense with the prepared text.

  "The current situation," he said. The press looked at him blankly.

  "Mr. President," a woman reporter asked, "would you care to comment on your alleged drinking problem?" Horror rode the President's face.

  "What drinking problem?" he demanded.

  The lady journalist did not reply. She was too busy writing his answer.

  "What drinking problem?" the President repeated.

  No one answered him. They were too busy writing that down too.

  "Can we get back to the crisis?" a reporter piped up.

  "I did not say there was a crisis," the President said.

  "Then you are denying the existence of a crisis?"

  "Well, no. But I cannot categorize the current situation as a crisis."

  "Then what would you call it? After all, you go to your inaugural ball, retire for the evening, and disappear for an entire day. Everyone saw you drink that second glass of champagne."

  "Second-"

  "Does the First Lady know where you were last night?" another reporter wanted to know.

  "Of course. She was with me," the President said indignantly.

  The press corps busily wrote the President's words down as if they were very important. Pencils scratched loudly, against notepads. Numerous hand-held tape recorders hummed. The heat of the glaring lights made the President feel light-headed. All he had intended to do was tell the nation that a sudden emergency had occupied the first day of this term. For national security reasons, he could not comment on the emergency, but he believed it was on its way to being under control. Instead, they were fishing into his private life. Having been happily married for most of his adult life, and having been a professional politician even longer, the President was of the opinion that he didn't have a private life. As such.

  "Mr. President, we have a report that the Strategic Air Command has moved every B-52 bomber wing to combat-readiness status. Are we preparing for an invasion?"

  "No," the President said flatly. "Nonsense."

  "Then can you explain that movement of SAC aircraft on your first day?"

  "A routine training exercise," the President said. He hated to lie like that, but he had come on television to reassure the nation, not to panic it.

  "Then it is not related to this alleged emergency?"

  "The emergency is not alleged. It is quite real. It is very serious."

  "If it is that serious, then why won't you specifically describe it for the people? Don't you feel you owe it to those who voted you into office to level with them?"

  "I am leveling with them," the President said hotly.

  "Mr. President, can we get back to your drinking problem?"

  "What drinking problem?" the President roared.

  "That is the third time you've said that," suggested another reporter. "Does that mean you are categorically denying that you have a drinking problem as a result of overindulging during the inaugural ball?"

  "I do so deny it."

  The Washington press corps began busily to scribble onto their notepads again and the President thought with sick horror of the evening headlines: "PRESIDENT DENIES DRINKING PROBLEM."

  "Now, listen," the President said quickly. "I just want to assure the nation that the situation is under control. There is no need to be alarmed. Right at this moment one of the finest military minds in the Pentagon is dealing with the problem."

  "Military? Are we expecting an attack?"

  The President hesitated. He did not want to lie. And this would be an awfully big lie. Especially if another attack were to come.

  A reporter jumped into the gap. "What about the fire in Lafayette Park? And the golf-course explosion in Bethesda? Are these in any way connected?"

  The question gave the President no choice. He would have to fib.

  "I'm told Bethesda was a meteor fall. The fire in the park was just a fire."

  No one challenged that, to the President's surprised relief.

  "I can tell you this," he added. "A certain foreign nation has been rattling its sabers at us. We know who this nation is and what they are up to. And I want to assure the people of America that we have the matter well in hand, and furthermore, I want to put this foreign nation on notice that the next move on their part will result in severe sanctions."

  "Military sanctions, Mr. President?"

  "I. . . No comment," the President said quickly. Damn, he thought. They mouse-trapped me.

  The President's press secretary quickly moved in.

  "That will be all gentlemen," he said, pulling the President away from the podium.

  "But I'm not finished!" the President hissed.

  "Yes you are, Mr. President. They're eating you alive. Please come with me. We'll have your damage-control people handle this."

  Reluctantly the President of the United States shot the press corps a stiff farewell wave. He would much rather have shot them the bird. But it would have gone over the airwaves, follow
ed by a twenty-minute critical analysis of the meaning of the President's gesture and its far-reaching political implications.

  As he walked down the luxuriously carpeted hall, he wondered what gave his press secretary the idea that he could overrule the Commander in Chief at his own press conference. Who did the man think he was-a Secret Service agent?

  In his Pentagon office, General Martin S. Leiber turned off the television and heaved a sigh of relief.

  The President had blown his news conference. What the hell, he thought. The poor bastard was as green as grass. He'd get better at it. And the press were sharks. You could never win where they were concerned. But the important thing was that he hadn't blown General Leiber's career. Which is exactly what would have happened had he mentioned exactly who "the finest military mind in the Pentagon" was.

  The press would have been all over General Leiber like polish on a boot. They'd have wanted his plans, his life story, and most of all, a day-by-day history of his military career.

  It would have made juicy reading. General Martin S. Leiber had been a minor rear-echelon officer during the Korean war. He was totally incompetent in battle, in leadership, and in every other trait important to military service. But when a lucky North Korean artillery shell took out the officers' club two days before the annual Christmas party, taking with it the Air Force's precious store of liquor, it fell on then Master Sergeant Martin S. Leiber to replenish the base supply.

  There was no liquor to be had. Sergeant Leiber saw himself about to be busted down to private, when he came upon an Army tank that had been left standing by the side of a road while its crew were off whoring. Believing the Army to be simply a less hostile form of enemy, Sergeant Leiber rode off with the tank, which he traded to a ROK unit for several cases of good rice wine. Anyone else would have been satisfied to pull his own bacon from the fire so easily. Not Master Sergeant Martin S. Leiber. He then watered the wine down; to double the six cases to twelve, and returned triumphantly to the base.

  A week later, after he sobered up, he traded the remaining six cases for a two-week leave in Tokyo, where he purchased a year's supply of fake North Korean souvenirs, and priced them to sell as genuine.