Disloyal Opposition td-123 Page 5

  "What's with answering on the third ring?" Remo's voice said by way of greeting. "You slowing down in your old age, Smitty?"

  "I was otherwise occupied," the CURE director replied. "There is a potential problem with one of our patients. I fear the Dutchman is beginning to regain consciousness."

  Remo was instantly wary. "Purcell?" he asked. "Why, is he making people hallucinate there again?"

  "No, nothing so extreme yet," Smith said. "It has the potential to be worse, however. He appears to be growing stronger physically, and there is some suggestion of cognitive ability. I have increased the dosage on his sedatives, but I want you and Chiun to examine him on your return."

  "That's why I was calling," Remo said. "We're ready to leave now. If I run every red light, we should be back home in a couple of hours."

  "I don't believe it's necessary to hurry," Smith said. "But do not dawdle."

  As he spoke, habit drew his eyes to his computer. He found that the CURE mainframes had pulled an article in his absence. When he read what it was, he frowned.

  "Can do, Smitty," Remo said. "See you in a few."

  He broke the connection.

  At his desk, Smith absently hung up the phone.

  An expression like that of a curious squeezed lemon had formed on his angular gray face.

  Assuming his earlier haste had caused him to err, he checked to see if he had inadvertently pulled the file from elsewhere in the system.

  He found that he had not. The mainframes were functioning properly. And yet, there was the article staring up at him from the glowing depths of his black desk.

  It was the same story he had read-just before being called down to Jeremiah Purcell's room. The article about the Every4 rocket explosion.

  Coupled with the story was another article pulled from the electronic netherworld by CURE's basement mainframes. Apparently a three-year-old NWS satellite that had been put in place to study hurricane formation over the Atlantic Ocean had malfunctioned. For reasons unknown at the present time, the satellite had abruptly gone dead.

  Other than the fact that the payload of the French rocket had been a similar weather satellite, Smith saw no connection between the two stories. But he had learned long ago to trust the rigid data analysis of the Folcroft Four.

  Forgetting all else, Smith turned his full attention to his computer. If there was something larger at work here, perhaps he would have uncovered whatever it was by the time Remo and Chiun returned from Massachusetts.

  Chapter 6

  One hundred miles above the windswept New England coast, a slender object raced silently through the limitless void of space. Though night was fast approaching the easternmost shores of the continent far below, unfiltered light from the star Sol glinted starkly off the lazily spiraling object's sleek black exterior.

  Though its movement appeared slow, the boomerang-shaped object rocketed with a speed surpassed only by the rotation of the planet far below.

  Few nations on Earth possessed the ability to even detect, let alone track the object. Not that very many would have been interested in seeing it even if they were technologically able.

  For even though the object that grabbed glimmers of white sunlight was man-made and streaked across the heavens at breathtaking speeds, it was only four inches long.

  The small titanium securing bracket had been used in the repairs of the Hubble telescope. Accidentally released by one of the mission astronauts, the right-angled metal wedge had joined the thousands of other bits and pieces of junk that had been dumped into orbit around the planet in more than forty years of space exploration.

  It was assumed that all of the orbiting garbage would eventually approach the Earth's atmosphere, finally burning up on reentry. And though a few voiced complaints about this sort of dumping, most experts agreed that the only real problem posed by space junk was to those who worked there. Since spacecraft and astronauts were at high risk if they were to come in contact with any debris, every piece of material abandoned in orbit was carefully logged and monitored by space-faring nations. Including the seemingly harmless metal bracket.

  Named 0.440B, the bracket's orbit occasionally brought it alarmingly close to an expensive CableSys commercial satellite in geosynchronous orbit above the east coast of North America.

  The cable company had balked when it learned of the existence of 0.440B. However, CableSys had been assured that, although their orbits sometimes made them stellar neighbors, the two objects would never, ever intersect. Since 0.440B's orbit was deteriorating, it would only grow farther away. The satellite, CableSys executives had been assured, was in no danger whatsoever.

  As usual, this day the wedge of metal had drawn within yards of the CableSys satellite-two cold strangers in the silent void of space. On its lower orbit, 0.440B had pulled abreast and was about to draw past the bigger object when something unexpected happened.

  0.440B hopped.

  It happened in the wink of an eye. The bracket suddenly veered violently off course and shot sharply upward, tearing out of its decaying orbit.

  Firing at an impossible velocity, the curved metal tore through the shell of the communications satellite. The satellite's delicate exterior buckled as the alien missile ripped a deep gash into the interior.

  The ensuing sparking explosion was consumed by the vacuum of space.

  A backup computer failed as 0.440B tore an angry path of destruction through the center of the satellite. By the time it punched through the far side, circuitry was already collapsing. Wires flamed out and died.

  Critically wounded, the CableSys satellite listed and grew still. A gaping hole through its middle revealed the distant white specks of billion-year-old stars.

  And somewhere in that endless black sea, the melted lump of metal that had been insignificant little 0.440B continued to rocket like a furious comet, trailing a tail of charge particles.

  "YOU MISSED," Zen Bower complained.

  "The target was acquired," General Boris Feyodov replied tersely. But in spite of the words, his fleshy face was drawn in a look of calculated displeasure.

  "By mistake," Zen insisted, angrily noting the general's own seeming disappointment. "You hit that other-" he waggled a disapproving finger "-doohickey thingamajig and banked it into the satellite."

  They were both standing in the cramped interior of the supreme defense bunker, the secure haven built for the ruling council deep below the potholed streets of Barkley.

  A few men worked around the rocky tunnel. Most were Americans from Barkley University. Only a small number of Russians had been imported for this project.

  Old Soviet-era equipment lined two walls, augmented by newer American computers. One of the new Packard Bells had just finished interpreting the telemetry from space. A slow-motion simulation reenacted the collision of the piece of floating space junk with the CableSys satellite.

  "I explained to you that punching through the atmosphere might warp the signal," Feyodov said as the computer-generated version of 0.440B tore through the far side of the communications satellite. Represented on the screen as a simple caret shape, the small fragment of space junk raced off the edge of the monitor and was gone forever.

  "I figured you were just being cautious," Zen pouted.

  "I am that as much as possible," Feyodov replied. "But I am also realistic. Our tests many years ago demonstrated limitations with the device. Targets within the atmosphere can be acquired only if we are given a narrow enough window. Space launches are excellent test objects, for they originate from specific locations at predetermined times. That is how we could destroy that French rocket with such ease. There are problems, however, once we leave the atmosphere."

  "Satellites are locked in orbit," Zen argued. "They should be easy for you to lock on to."

  The Russian general took a deep breath. The buttons on his old Red Army uniform strained against his protruding belly. A few moth holes were visible in the dark wool.

  "'Lock on to' is an inaccur
ate term," Feyodov insisted. "Understand, it is like aiming a big, cumbersome gun. Rapid aiming and precise target acquisition are not possible, which is part of the reason why the research was discontinued. It was originally hoped the device could be employed to stop incoming nuclear missiles. But due to speed, randomness and unknown launch locations, at the time of its development the weapon could not be applied to hostile enemy missiles."

  "So you're saying not only can we not get the satellites like you promised, but Barkley might get nuked?" Zen complained. He put his hands on his hips. "Well, that's just perfect."

  "America will not drop a bomb on California," General Feyodov muttered dismissively.

  "Easy for you to say," Zen insisted. "You grew up in a socialist paradise. I've had to spend my entire life in this bourgeois capitalist wasteland. Genocide, imperialism, threats to cut funding to the NEA. Goddamn hostile takeovers that steal the ice cream empire you built with your own two hands right out from under you. I know what those Wall Street fat cats and their Washington cronies are capable of." The general was not convinced.

  "There are forces to fear that have nothing to do with your government," Boris Feyodov said ominously.

  Unconsciously, the Russian's dark brown eyes flickered from side to side, as if searching for ghosts in the shadows. Zen had noticed this peculiar habit of his supreme commander ever since he'd brought the general to America.

  "What the hell are you doing?" Zen demanded. Feyodov's eyes skipped back from the darkest corner of the room. "Hmm?" Feyodov asked. "That thing you always do-looking around when there's nobody there. What's with that?"

  It was a habit Feyodov had developed only since the start of this enterprise. He hadn't been aware that anyone had noticed him doing it. Spine straightening, he locked his eyes on the retired ice cream man.

  "There is a piece of hardware that will help us to overcome our displaced targeting problem," the general said, distracting Zen from his question.

  Zen frowned. "I thought you said we couldn't do it."

  "Not with the current equipment we are using here, no," General Feyodov agreed. "But the technology I refer to was developed by our space program for independent reasons after the funding was pulled from this project. It could enhance our systems. However, it is in Russia and as you know, items of this kind are not easily procured." His eyes lowered. "With the proper motivations I could get it for you."

  It was a pitch the ice cream man had heard far too much lately. Zen crossed his arms. "How much?" he asked.

  "Three million," Feyodov replied. "American dollars, as usual."

  The ice cream maker scowled at the general's favorite choice of currency.

  "Why can't you ever be a good people's general and ask for rubles?" he said. "Better yet, be a purist and do it for the Revolution?"

  The Russian bristled. "There is always another promised revolution on the horizon," General Feyodov said coldly. "And from revolution to revolution, we must still eat." The hint of anger that pinched his sagging face was lost on Zen.

  "Yeah, yeah," Zen said.

  He was thinking about how to get the money. His source wasn't tapped out; that was certain. But given his distaste of all things capitalist, Zen tried as much as possible to limit contact with his backer. Plus, there was his own stock portfolio to think of. At this point in the game he didn't want to upset the applecart.

  "I'll see what I can scrape up," Zen said. Turning from the general, he marched down the long corridor of hollowed-out rock. His sneakers squeaked once on the raised metal catwalk, then he was gone.

  Feyodov shook his head at the ease with which he had just upped his payment. Of course the CableSys satellite in its lazy orbit had been a fat, easy target. The old Soviet equipment hadn't been capable of such a feat, but thanks to the computer advances of the intervening decade, a single PC with the right programming made such precision effortless. He had just made a deal to purchase yet another shiny, worthless bauble for these fool Americans.

  More money for Boris Feyodov. More wealth to corrupt his already hopelessly tainted soul.

  In the hollow center of his gutted heart, he felt sick at what he had become. But that would all change soon. Soon he would have his revenge. And when the day of reckoning at last came, the very ground would boil.

  Until that time, he was a prostitute.

  With morose eyes Feyodov looked down at the monitor.

  Although the screen was new, it was the same station at which he had watched the Challenger explode fifteen years ago. The digitally-enhanced contours of the CableSys satellite continued to roll in dead orbit around the planet.

  The general shook his head. "The whore will have his day," he vowed softly. Dropping into a chair, Feyodov unfastened some of the more uncomfortable buttons on his uniform jacket.

  Chapter 7

  With troubled eyes of flinty gray, Harold Smith scanned the data that slipped across his computer screen.

  The explosion of the Every4 rocket had been followed too quickly by the malfunctioning weather satellite. Linking those two events, the Folcroft mainframes had identified something as a potential problem. But it remained only a possibility. Given an absence of further information, the basement computers could not make a positive connection between those two separate incidents.

  At first. That had changed a few hours ago. Two had now become three.

  Smith had learned that a satellite for the company CableSys had gone black for no apparent reason. Harold W. Smith was not a man who ordinarily trusted instinct, far preferring to truck in cold, hard facts. But he had to admit there were times in his life when his gut was a far better barometer than even his trusted computers. And at the moment he could not help but feel there was something larger going on here than three coincidental malfunctions. Still, there was not enough yet to commit CURE's resources. In the privacy of his tomb-silent office, Smith was looking for the link that would connect these three events.

  So engrossed was he with the scrolling information on his monitor that he failed to hear the sound of a vehicle slowing to a stop behind the sanitarium. Only when the horn honked was he shaken from his worried thoughts.

  Smith leaned back in his chair, the better to see the loading dock that extended from the back of the sanitarium.

  Twilight had begun to crawl up from the Sound, settling like a velvet cape among the barren winter trees. In the wan gray light, Smith saw a minivan parked near the main delivery entrance. Remo hung out the window, waving him down.

  The CURE director twisted from the window. Smith quickly backed out of his system, shutting off his computer with a hidden stud. When he hustled out of the office a moment later, his secretary exhaled great relief.

  "Oh, Dr. Smith," Mrs. Mikulka said. Her full face was flushed with mild tension. "You just missed him." Her troubled eyes glanced to the hallway door.

  Smith frowned. "Who?" he asked.

  "That supplies salesman," Mrs. Mikulka explained. "The one you said you'd meet with? He's been waiting out here for hours. I know how you don't like to be disturbed, so I didn't buzz you all afternoon. I figured you'd let me know when you wanted to see him. Should I have interrupted?"

  Face troubled, she bit her lip.

  Smith had completely forgotten about the salesman.

  "No," he said. "I was otherwise occupied."

  "That's what I assumed," Eileen Mikulka said. "Well, he'll be very happy that you're finally available. He just stepped out for a moment to use the rest room. I must admit, he's a very patient young man."

  "He will have to be more patient," Smith said, edging for the door. "I don't have time for him now."

  "Oh..." Mrs. Mikulka said hesitantly. "Very well." She seemed unsure what to do.

  "Please ask him to return tomorrow morning," Smith said. "And this time please set up a proper appointment for him."

  Turning crisply, he hurried from the room.

  Mrs. Mikulka seemed uncomfortable with the order. After all, in her opinion, the young
man had displayed a patience that was almost unheard of for anyone of his generation. Still, it was not her place to question Dr. Smith.

  She pulled out her employer's appointment book. Although it was early February, there were no marks yet visible in the binder. Like most of the ones she'd purchased since coming to work for Dr. Smith, she assumed the crisp white lines would remain virtually blank for the bulk of the coming year. Dr. Smith rarely had appointments.

  With a blue Bic disposable, she dutifully began to log the Folcroft director's first meeting of the new year.

  SMITH QUICKLY UNLOCKED the big garage door and rolled the sheet of corrugated steel upward.

  Remo and Chiun stood on the rust-smeared concrete delivery platform on the other side. Remo's rented van was backed up to the dock. The younger Sinanju Master's face was troubled, while the older's was grave.

  "Emperor Smith." Chiun bowed tightly.

  "Hey, Smitty," Remo echoed, ducking under the door even before it had rolled all the way up. "Any problems while we were on the road?" Chiun padded in after him.

  Smith shook his head, slipping his key ring back into his pocket. "None," he replied. "I instructed the attending doctor to call me directly every half hour if there was any change. The sedatives appear to be working."

  "I must see him," the Master of Sinanju pronounced.

  "Of course," Smith nodded.

  The CURE director pulled the garage door back down, locking it securely. Taking the lead, he brought the two men back through the cellar. A short hallway led to another locked door, which, in turn, fed into the basement corridor where Remo and Chiun shared quarters. Passing through a pair of fire doors, the three men climbed one flight of stairs to the secure wing. Smith's security code gained them access.

  When they entered Purcell's room, the Folcroft doctor looked up sharply. At Smith's order, he had been sitting at the patient's bedside the entire afternoon.

  To Remo, Purcell looked as he had the last time Remo had seen him. His pale face was at peace. Soft blond hair spread like a nimbus around his head.

  "Dismiss your quacksalver, Emperor," Chiun commanded as he swept to the bedside. "I would examine the Dutchman without the intrusion of prying Western eyes."