The Sky is Falling td-63 Read online

  "Russia is not an enigma wrapped in a riddle. You are the enigma wrapped in the riddle so that simple imperial logic seems strange." Smith rarely understood the Master of Sinanju.

  Chiun, of course, did not approve of wars, cold or warm, because the art of the assassin in such a conflict was always replaced by hordes of amateurs. Wars were also unjust, especially the modern ones among conscripts, because "your eighteen year olds die instead of your kings and generals." The implication was that if an assassin were hired instead of an army, justice, not mass murder, would be done.

  What Chiun had seen so simply, and what had at last explained that the world had little time left, was the Russian manner of fighting. He had explained it in terms of ying and yang, fear and not-fear, strength and not-strength. It was, in brief, Oriental mishmash. Except Chiun always seemed to be able to tell what Russia would do when he was asked.

  So Smith himself had taken all Chiun's ideas on Russia and translated them into mathematics, a subject he knew well. It was called the Russian mode. He had done it for himself, and had once offered it to the government but was refused. Frankly, Smith couldn't blame them because many of the terms to feed into the formula were things like "face" and "spine."

  "Face" was what the Russians showed you and "spine" was what they were really doing. As in the body, the spine showed where everything was really going. The face could look anywhere. But the spine was where a person was. And so when this latest incident had begun, Smith had fed the moves of the "face" into the Russian mode designed from Chiun's mystical formulas. They actually weren't so mystical if you read everything as a never-ending fight for life. Sometimes the Russians were stupid. But more often than not they were brilliant.

  It was Chiun's formula that had first suggested a possible link between the opening of the ozone shield and the building of the irresponsibly dangerous new missiles. The link was fear. And every move America made only worsened that fear, because the Russians believed, had to believe, according to Chiun's explanation, that America had a weapon that could easily destroy them and was planning to use it.

  Chiun's formula said that when the Russians built their first-strike missiles they already felt that all other armor might be or was definitely useless.

  The trust of mutual terror that had kept the countries in a nuclear stalemate had been broken because Russia was sure that America was about to win it all. That's where Russia's spine really was.

  The face showed hostility. The spine showed fear. When the American special negotiator went to Russia with a gift of showing defenses as food faith, it had only confirmed that America had something so strong it would make ordinary Russian missiles useless. Spine.

  When Russia invited the special negotiator back, it wanted to show peace by its willingness now to share the reports on the damage done to Russian missiles by exposure of electronics to unfiltered sun. The face was reasonable. The spine, according to Chiun's formula, showed they had really decided on war.

  All of this became ice clear with the last Russian move, the suddenly reasonable face after hostility. The last Russian move unmistakably completed the entire formula. They were going to use those new missiles soon. A day maybe, two days, and they would be on their way.

  There was no way to explain this to a harried President because the unmathematical translation was that after strong bitterness, sudden sweet was the sign of the steel spine. America could not launch a nuclear war because Smith had seen a computer translate a mathematical formula back into a term called "steel spine."

  But if there was hopelessness on one hand, there was a chance on the other. If Chiun's understanding was correct, and Smith was sure it was, there was one way to show Russia that opening the ozone shield was not an American weapon.

  America had one slim chance before the missiles went, probably from both sides. The opportunity to prove that the machine that destroyed the ozone shield was not an American weapon was gone. What they had to do now was show they had a greater weapon that they did not use.

  To be brief and Western about it, America had to show the Russians that anytime they wanted to, they could take apart the Russian government, but had chosen not to do so.

  America's word was not good enough for that. America had to do it for the benefit of the person who really ran Russia. The negotiator had indicated that there was another person behind the Russian Premier because the Premier had run out of the room and come back with a different answer. This was not a surprise because the Premier was the face. It was the spine that was hidden. The spine ran Russia.

  When McDonald Pease had returned to Russia for the supposed cooperation, Smith had asked for and received permission to include a special message. It read:

  "To whoever really runs your defenses: We know we cannot prove to you that we do not open up the skies with a secret weapon. So be it. But know this as a sign of our intentions not to conquer you: at any time we wish, we could take apart your Politburo and make your leaders prisoners in their own land. But we have chosen not to do so. Why? Because we really do not wish to conquer you. The weapon is just one man." And then there was a brief description of Remo so they would know where all the hell came from, and that his was really a peace move, not a search-and-destroy mission in the heart of Moscow.

  Smith had told the Russians Remo was coming. He had taken away what was perhaps Remo's most valuable protection: surprise.

  And Remo accepted this with a wisecracking thanks. But Remo's signal was ringing now.

  "I can't take the Aeroflot," said Remo.

  "Why not?"

  "If you were expecting some sort of superweapon and you were willing to get thousands of your people killed just to win a war, wouldn't you shoot down the plane that brought him in?"

  "We'll fly you over at high altitude," said Smith. "But the parachute won't work from that far up."

  "I'll work it."

  "Remo, I know you know what this means. And you know I am not sentimental. But good luck."

  "You're going to get me killed and the big-deal emotional pitch is 'good luck'?" said Remo. "Don't break down in tears all at once."

  The last flight allowed to land at Moscow carried the American McDonald Pease. Shortly thereafter, the airdefense command received a strange order. No flight was allowed to land, including Russia's own civilian aircraft.

  Any flight that did not attempt to land was to be shot down immediately, no matter who was on board.

  In the whole tragic business, Alexei Zemyatin had one bright note.

  "They have finally showed us the flaw in the perfect enemy," he said, showing young General Ivanovich, KGB, the note from the American peace mission. The old field marshal knew this sharp young man whom he had been training to think had connected the major problem of war with the minor one of this single agent. That there was going to be a nuclear war within forty-eight hours he did not tell Ivanovich, who did not have to know about it at this point. The young general already had more facts than Zemyatin liked to trust any single person with. He showed Ivanovich the note brought by the special American envoy, McDonald Pease.

  "So the man himself was the awesome weapon. That explains it. So America means peace," said Ivanovich.

  "No, of course not. They want us to delay because they want to figure out a way to finish us off. Apparently someone over there has seen through our agreement to negotiate, and is willing to sacrifice this 'weapon.' "

  "Are you sure?"

  "As sure as I can be," said Zemyatin. They were in his apartment. Zemyatin had a cup of brandy and had poured one for the general. The bodyguard was asleep, snoring loudly.

  "They sacrifice the lesser weapon to protect the greater."

  "Unless, of course, what they say is true."

  "No. They have sent that man to his death. We know he has incredible speed. He has incredible strength. But he is one man. Maybe he can dodge one bullet, but he cannot dodge a thousand. He is one man and he has shown us his flaw. We have films of him. A sergeant could
figure out what to do," said Zemyatin.

  Ivanovich's face had lost its smoothness. His eyes narrowed. "Yes, we will kill him, because he is one man. But what is his flaw?"

  Zemyatin swirled the brandy around in the teacup. The years, the dead, the wars, had left him tired, tired beyond his years.

  "His flaw is his commanders. They have sent him to us on a platter. And if they are that kind, we will eat from it. There will be much death in the coming days. It would be nice, boychik, if the world were butlers and pantries, yes?"

  Then they toasted each other, draining the imported brandy and putting their cups down on the table. There was work to be done and the drinking was over.

  The bodyguard was awakened by a message from the Kremlin neizatiators that the American McDonald Pease had just discovered he was a prisoner, and that they were not really negotiating. Pease was giving them an alternative.

  "Shoot me or let me go. And you'd better shoot me because I'm leaving,"

  "All right," said Zemyatin. "Give him what he wants." A guard and an officer entered the negotiating chambers. The guard put a bullet into the brain of AMcDonald Pease and left him in the locked room with the Americans, who suddenly lost any possible hope that the Russians were interested in peace. Pease's body was left where it was to remind the Americans not to try to escape to their embassy.

  They all remembered what Pease had said on the plane coming over:

  "I long for the day when it will be a crime in the world to shoot an American. When people know they are going to be punished good if they mess us over."

  The Russian missile command spotted the American plane first, high above missile range. It was the familiar CIA recon plane, but this time it dropped a load-too small for a nuclear bomb, however. It appeared to be a stick, roughly six feet long, and two and a half feet wide. Five miles up, everyone at radar control realized it was a person.

  "That's the one," said a staff officer. "Got to be him." The whole defense structure of the city was waiting for him. No one knew, of course, why everyone should be so anxious to kill one person, but the rewards were going to be great. It was hoped, but not demanded, that his head would be intact for identification purposes.

  "Shoot when the parachute opens," came the order. KGB cars were dispatched to retrieve what was left of the corpse. As backups, local police units were also alerted to pick up the body. Both groups had orders, if the person was still alive, to finish him off carefully.

  At four miles up, the order to hold fire was given. At three, then two miles, there was muttering about firing so low in the city. He might slip out.

  At two hundred feet there was only a puzzled chuckle of contempt. There was no need to fire. The parachute wouldn't have time to open at the speed the man was falling. Hopefully, some skin would be left intact so that he could be identified.

  The radar did not pick up a sudden jerk of the body at 120 feet. Remo had pulled the ripcord.

  If he'd had time to think about it, he probably would have gotten himself killed. He never intended it to float him down like a normal chutist. That would have given him too much time up in the air being hung out for bullets.

  Remo simply broke his fall with the parachute. He did that by slowing his descent to the speed of a drop off a ten-story building. He met the earth with his center in control. He met the earth moving. He knew certain places in the city where the men he wanted would be.

  The parachute was found within four minutes of Remo's landing.

  General Ivanovich, in charge of this elimination, was informed immediately. He had bunkered down at 2 Dzerzhinsky Square in his old KGB office.

  There was no body attached to the chute. Ivanovich made a note: "Possible decoy?" If so, where was the body? On the other hand, he himself had seen what this man had done in Hanoi. It was possible that the American had such good control of his body that he could survive a fall that would kill others. Not, of course, a fall from five miles up. But a lesser one.

  "Was the parachute opened?" asked Ivanovich.

  "Yes, it was, Comrade General, but at two hundred feet . . ."

  Ivanovich hung up. All right, the American had landed alive. But they were ready for him. They had been given special orders for this very special single person. The blood faces had shown which tactics were useless. Now all personnel were told never to wait for a clear field of fire, but just to fire, filling the entire area with flame and bullets. One could not expect to hit this man aiming. Blanketing was the only answer.

  It was 11:15 P.M. Moscow time. By 11:30 there was a report from the Rossiya Hotel that the entire top floor of the building had been penetrated. The top floor was allocated to the director of state information, who was hysterical and accusatory.

  The Rossiya was the finest hotel in Moscow.

  "General. Your men attracted him. He got through your men. He got through my men. Stop him. This is Moscow. Stop him."

  "What did he do?"

  "He made a mockery of your men. Not a scratch on them or him."

  "Did he do anything to you?"

  "He created lies."

  "What lies?"

  "I am in charge of truth. I give no credence to anything Americans say."

  "So you spoke with him. You know he's an American. What lies are you talking about?"

  "Under duress I was forced to sign a statement which is an obvious lie."

  "What was the lie?"

  "That we are defenseless against him, and that I would be a dead man if I didn't sign. And you know, he was right. "

  "Thank you, director," said Ivanovich.

  At the apartment house atop Lenin Hills, overlooking Moscow on Verobyevskoye Way, the supreme commander of the KGB refused to sign any paper. He paid for it with his ribs. They were torn out of his body.

  Again, none of the officers or enlisted men guarding him was hurt.

  Report:

  "We only knew he was in the apartment complex when the body was discovered."

  Report:

  Dacha near Kaluga just outside of Moscow invaded. Again, none of the enlisted men injured. Admiral murdered for strangest reason. Did not write fast enough.

  Report:

  Minister of Defense crushed to death in the Kremlin complex while eating a light snack of cheese and crackers.

  And so on through the night. Through every secured place, into every trap. Occasionally the guards saw someone enter and got off a few rounds. It was hoped that by morning, this invader would be more vulnerable. But in the morning, the crushing truth came home.

  The Premier's complex had not only been successfully invaded in daylight, but the Premier had written out several prayers and promised, in writing, to build a shrine to the gods of a small fishing village in North Korea. The invader was now waiting to speak to "the guy who really runs things."

  "You win," said Ivanovich. He notified Zemyatin. They had failed. They had not found the flaw.

  "This person-this thing-has taken apart our government."

  "I will talk with him," said Zemyatin. "Tell him where I live."

  "Should I bring him to you?"

  "Boychik, this may surprise you, but I have never killed or ordered killed anyone I did not have to. And I am not going to start now. You stay there. Let's not lose anyone else to this crazy animal. Maybe America is telling the truth. Eh?"

  "Maybe we can slip someone close to him when he enters. Maybe we can use the North Koreans. They have something as awesome as . . ."

  "This front has collapsed, boychik. But I tell you, son, that you have done well. You will be a field marshal sooner than you think."

  "But we lost."

  "Both of us have seen that you can make the right decisions. That is the kind of man Mother Russia needs, not someone who is lucky because two hundred thousand men somewhere suddenly do something better than expected. I am ordering you now, young bureaucrat with the smooth face, to coordinate everything should I not live."

  And then, by hand messenger because he wanted t
o take the greatest precaution about the missiles, Zemyatin sent the message that could not be listened in on by American electronics to the young general who could think. The message explained about the simple, crude, and malevolently dangerous new Russian missiles now ready to fire.

  Ivan Ivanovich was going to replace the Great One as adviser to the leaders of Mother Russia, but strangely this young man with so much ambition did not rejoice in the promotion. Because he realized while working with the Great One, Field Marshal Alexei Zemyatin, that the thrill was not in wearing more buttons on one's shoulders, but in winning.

  Without being told, Ivanovich stationed men at a distance from the old man's apartment house and ordered them to do nothing. He was almost tempted to shoot one of the guards to wake them up. Zemyatin might have done that.

  Zemyatin did not see the guards and would not have cared about them anyway. He saw this young American stride into his apartment without knocking and began giving instructions.

  The American, strangely, could speak an old form of Russian dating back to Ivan the Terrible, but not too well. Zemyatin's English was rusty but better than the American's Russian. The American was under the impression that he had showed he could conquer Russia.

  "So you see you can trust us. We don't control that fluorocarbon thing, or whatever it is. So put down your new missiles, and let us work together in getting this beam thing."

  "Are you done?" said Zemyatin.

  "I guess," said Remo. "Do you want me to kill some more?"

  "No. You have done enough of that. You may even be able to destroy our government. But you alone cannot conquer Russia. You can kill but you cannot rule."

  "I don't want this dump. Nothing works right here."

  "You did not perform that demonstration around our capital because we don't have something that works." Remo glanced at the bodyguard. He was an old man, but there was a way he carried his body around the big pistol in his belt that showed he had used that weapon. It was obviously not an ornament.

  "You want to win an argument or do you want your gizzard on the floor?" asked Remo. He waved some of the signed statements in front of Lemyatin. The old man flipped through them, amused at who had buckled and who had not.