Engines of Destruction td-103 Read online

It wasn't that he'd never seen an armored personnel carrier barrel by. A lot of military traffic convoyed up and down 95. Usually they were spattered green and brown. Sandy colored during the Gulf War.

  This particular APC was a smoldering red in the predawn light. And it was going like a bat out of Hades down the highspeed-breakdown lane.

  Slattery pulled out from behind the Burger Triumph billboard and fell in behind it.

  The license plate reflected his headlight glow. Not a military plate. Massachusetts. That was interesting. Some of the most certifiable drivers ever to blow through Slattery's life were from the Bay State. It was said there was a lot of inbreeding up there.

  Punching up his on-board LEAPS computer, Slattery ran wants and warrants. The plate came back redhot. Seemed the very same vehicle had rolled over a Rhode Island State cruiser earlier in the evening. Literally rolled over, mashing it as flat as Ohio.

  Slattery called it in. "Dispatch. Fifty-five pursuing fire-engine red armored personnel carrier south on 95. Mass plate 334-E. Vehicle conies back wanted in Rhode Island."

  "Proceed with caution, fifty-five."

  "You bet your sweet life," Slattery muttered, replacing the dash mike. He lit up his light bar and made the siren keen.

  The APC probably would have accelerated, but it appeared to be pushing the envelope. It was too heavy to have much pickup, Slattery figured. And it was already doing seventy-five.

  Hanging on its tail, Slattery let the strobing light bar and wailing sirens work on the suspect's nerves.

  Trouble was the suspect appeared not to have any. He held the road at a rock-steady rate of speed.

  Tiring of this, Slattery roared into the opposite lane and began pacing the other machine.

  He got his second big shock of the night.

  The driver of the fire-engine red APC was tricked out like a full-dress samurai.

  Now, Slattery had seen a lot of weird stuff on I-95. Not once, not twice but on three distinct occasions, he arrested Batman in full leather flying down the road. Each time he arrested him, there was a different guy under the cowl.

  None of this was on Halloween, mind you.

  But this guy looked serious. His black armor looked serious. In fact, it looked like real armor. And with the light bar slashing crazy shards of multicolored illumination into the APC interior, the samurai glanced over briefly like a bored robot, then turned his attention back to the road as if a pacing state cruiser were no more of concern than a buzzing yellow jacket.

  "Have it your way," Slattery muttered. Flooring it, he roared ahead of the APC and cut in front. He wasn't fool enough to stop dead. Visions of being the meat in a crushed-car sandwich came vividly to mind.

  Instead, he eased up on the gas just enough to make the APC slow. It tried to scoot into the next lane. But the big red machine wasn't built for scooting. Slattery stayed ahead of him every mile of the way.

  "Gotcha," he muttered.

  After a while the APC engine began to sputter and miss. Slattery began thinking it was his lucky day.

  The APC rolled to a gradual stop, engine sputtering.

  When it was hung up on the soft shoulder on the road, Slattery brought the cruiser circling back. He parked it nose to nose with the APC, his high beams blazing into the APC interior.

  The samurai sat rigidly behind the wheel, as if he had no eyes to be blinded with.

  In the brief seconds as he apprised dispatch of the situation, Slattery got a good look at the samurai's face.

  He hadn't any.

  A flat black shield reflected his beams. That was all. It was creepy. But Francis X. Slattery had a job to do.

  "Assistance en route," dispatch advised.

  "Affirm," he said, hanging up the dash mike. Unholstering his SIG-Sauer, Slattery stepped out of his vehicle. He was on the wrong side of the road, but when dealing with samurai, it might pay to resort to the unexpected.

  Slowly, to show he wasn't afraid, Slattery walked up to the passenger side of the APC. He saw that that side was marred by meaningless graffiti. Unless it was Japanese graffiti. Who could tell?

  With one big hand, he rapped on the passenger-side window. "Roll it down, sir," he said with just the right amount of steel in his voice.

  The samurai stayed put. His head rotated on his neck until he was looking at Slattery-if that black, featureless regard could be called looking.

  "Right now," Slattery ordered. "License and registration."

  A lot of years on the job told Slattery never to show fear or concern. He had his side arm in hand, but kept it below the samurai's line of sight. That way, he was within policy.

  But the samurai showed no inclination to play by the rules. He stayed put.

  So much for by-the-book. Now it was time to get serious.

  Slattery snapped the weapon up. "Out of the vehicle! Now!"

  Without any bullshit, the samurai obeyed him. He stepped out of the APC. It happened so fast Slattery had trouble taking it in.

  The driver's-side door didn't open. The samurai just stepped out. He was suddenly just ...there. Standing. Then he was coming around to Slattery's position, the loose, ebony plates of his armor jumping with every assured step.

  "Hold it."

  The samurai advanced. He was walking toward him as if the pistol Slattery held in a firm Weaver's grip was meaningless.

  "Stand or I will shoot. I mean it."

  The samurai kept coming. He strode into the high beams, his gleaming body resembling an upright black beetle balanced on its hind legs. He had a very confident walk.

  Slattery discharged his weapon.

  He squeezed off two quick shots, held fire and saw to his consternation the samurai was still coming. Shooting for the head this time, he snapped out three rounds. The weapon bucked and convulsed in Slattery's hands as he emptied the clip.

  The damn samurai walked on, calm, cool and collected like the monster in an old horror flick. Impersonal. Unconcerned. Unstoppable.

  Slattery retreated to the guardrail, dropped his clip and shot a fresh one home. Bringing the weapon up, he resumed fire.

  The SIG roared and danced, casting angry gun flashes on everything. Including the short black sword that was suddenly in the samurai's hands and swinging back to take a swipe at him.

  The blade swung up and over, weaving in midair as if the samurai was toying with him.

  Slattery's SIG fell silent. He thumbed the clip out.

  And the hovering blade came down with a sudden sharp chop-to bite into his shoulder at a diagonal and remove Francis X. Slattery's entire right shoulder from his torso.

  It jumped off his body like a side of ham.

  Slattery's horror-filled eyes followed it down.

  It lay in the ground like a giant chicken leg, dressed in red-spattered Connecticut State trooper khaki.

  The disconnected hand clutched the SIG, and his finger kept squeezing the trigger in some feeble nervous reflex. But it had no strength left. It was dead but didn't know it yet.

  Then, legs buckling, Slattery fell atop it.

  Francis X. Slattery had seen many weird sights on the job. Now he watched helplessly a black armored samurai climb behind the wheel of his cruiser and go roaring away.

  Then he saw no more. He was dead.

  That was how the backup cruiser found him.

  AN APB WENT out and within the hour, Slattery's cruiser was found abandoned. Beside the vehicle lay the body of a local teenager. Bifurcated as if a guillotine had missed his neck and chopped him clean in two across the waistline.

  They found his missing Camry in Pennsylvania, not far from the Amtrak station at Reading. No one connected the samurai with the Reading train station. Local authorities assumed he had stolen another car. But without a dead body to connect to another missing vehicle, they had no clue what car he'd be driving, if any.

  All anyone found was a pay phone beside the abandoned vehicle, the receiver dangling.

  No one connected it with the missing samurai, ei
ther.

  There the trail ended.

  Chapter 10

  When they returned home, Chiun insisted that Remo circle Castle Sinanju three times before parking.

  "I think the coast looks clear," Remo said dryly as he completed the third pass.

  "You can never tell with ronin, who are more sneaky than ninja," Chiun said bitterly.

  Remo shot the rental car into one of the parking slots. Chiun got out first. He examined the windows of the house. A few upper ones were open for ventilation.

  He examined both doors before allowing Remo to use his key.

  Even then he insisted they hang back, with both doors open.

  Their ears searched the interior. Hearing no heartbeat or other telltale signs, Chiun entered first.

  Splitting up, they combed the building.

  When every room had been checked, they rendezvoused as agreed in the bell-tower meditation room.

  "Look, Remo."

  Chiun was pointing to the telephone on a low taboret. It was hooked up to a message machine. The red light was blinking.

  "Must be Smith," Remo said, starting across the room.

  Chiun intercepted him with his tiny body. "Are you mad? Smith is dead."

  "Oh, right. I forgot. Who could it be? We don't know anyone else."

  "It is the ronin, checking to see if we are home. Do not fall into his cunning snare, Remo."

  "A ghost using the telephone?"

  "He absconded with your dragon. If he can drive one infernal white device, he can dial another."

  "How would he know our number?"

  "How would he know to find us where he found us in the first place?" Chiun retorted. "Ghosts know all manner of dark secrets. That is one privilege of being a ghost. They lurk invisible. They spy unsuspected. There is no defense against their vaporous wiles."

  "Seems to me a ghost smart enough to use telephones and cars wouldn't take a zillion years to walk across the Atlantic."

  "Ronin are inconsistent. No doubt he is crazed from harboring centuries of grief and shame."

  Remo's eyes were on the monotonously blinking light.

  "Maybe Smith called us before the wreck."

  "From a train? Do not be ridiculous, Remo."

  "They have rail phones now. Just like on airplanes."

  "It is the ronin, " Chiun hissed. "He is very clever."

  "For a guy who walked the wrong way to America," Remo said dryly.

  Chiun eyed Remo thoughtfully. "You cannot let go of your emperor. That is your problem."

  "I still can't believe Smitty's dead."

  "He will never die in our hearts. Even if his noble bones have been consigned to the cold clay, we will remember him always. Now, cast him out of your mind. We must pack."

  And because he knew the Master of Sinanju was right, Remo allowed Chiun to chase him from the room.

  THE SUN WAS COMING UP as Chiun was going through his steamer trunks some twenty minutes later.

  Upstairs the telephone rang and rang.

  Standing up, Chiun raised his voice. "Do not dare climb the tower stairs, Remo. I know what you are thinking."

  Remo's voice came from down the hall. "I'm in the bathroom, Chiun."

  "Stay there. I am still about my packing. Answer no telephones."

  "Who would be calling us at this hour?" Remo called back.

  "A houseless ghost knows no rest. We will ignore the fingerless fiend."

  But the phone rang and rang and rang. It stopped after nearly fifty rings. Almost at once it rang again. And kept ringing.

  Remo came out of the bathroom dripping from a cold shower. He wore a towel around his waist. Except for his freakishly thick wrists, he looked as ordinary as soap.

  He poked his head into the room where Chiun was busy packing.

  "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" he asked.

  Chiun did not look up from folding kimonos. "You are thinking wrong."

  "Harold Smith is the only guy I know who would flog a telephone line like that. Then hang up and go round all over again."

  "It is the ronin. In the days of Kang, they would knock on any door for hours until given food."

  Remo cocked an ear ceilingward. "Sound's like Smith's ring to me."

  "You are imagining things."

  "Maybe the ronin's leaving a message. Think I'll mosey upstairs and eavesdrop."

  Chiun leaped to his feet. "You will do nothing of the sort!" he said, pointing with a threatening finger. Realizing it was his blunted index finger, Chiun hastily made a fist and shook it at Remo.

  Remo said, "I won't pick up the phone, I promise."

  "The ronin will hear you eavesdropping. They are like that."

  "Oh, get off it, Chiun."

  "Remo!"

  But Remo had floated up the stairs.

  In the bell tower the phone kept ringing. And ringing. Oddly the message machine wasn't picking up.

  Remo saw why when he looked more closely. The tape was used up.

  Rewinding, Remo set it at the beginning and hit Playback.

  A weak voice croaked, "Remo. Smith. Call me. Urgent."

  Beep.

  "Remo. This is Harold Smith. As soon as you are back, contact me the usual way."

  The voice was stronger now.

  Six messages later the voice of Harold Smith was quite strong. And very annoyed.

  The Master of Sinanju had entered by this point.

  "Sounds like Smith to me," Remo told him.

  "Yes, it does sound like Smith," Chiun admitted.

  "Sounds like he's still with us."

  "The ronin," said Chiun, shaking his head. "It only sounds like Smith. He has disguised his voice."

  Beep.

  "Call me at Folcroft. Please."

  "How many 1's in that message?" Remo asked Chiun.

  "Four."

  "Japanese have trouble with their 1's. Don't tell me different. That's Harold Smith."

  Chiun's face puckered up. His eyes narrowed. His fingers clenched and unclenched. All except the right index finger, which he kept curled.

  "Go outside," he spit. "Call Fortress Folcroft from a pay telephone. If he lives, say nothing of the ronin to him. If it is a trick, you will know it because the answering voice will say 'moshi moshi.'"

  "What is a moshi moshi?" Remo asked.

  "A Japanese hello."

  "I'll be back," said Remo, popping down the stairs.

  Chiun called after him, "If you are ambushed, at least you have no fingernails to lose. But mind that you retain your fingers. If you lose one, I will never speak to you again."

  "What if he throws a finger in my face?"

  "Better you lose a finger than allow the House to be doubly shamed. If you lose a finger, throw it back in his face, Remo."

  "Do thumbs count?" Remo wondered aloud.

  "Mine, yes. Yours, not at all. Now go."

  Remo went out the rear entrance and crossed the street to the Oriental market at the intersection of three streets. There was a pay phone bolted to the brick building. Slipping a dime into the slot-Massachusetts had to be the last state in the Union where the pay phones took dimes-Remo leaned on the 1 button.

  He waited for the automatic connection.

  The phone never rang. Instead, Smith's lemony voice said, "Remo?"

  "I didn't hear it ring," Remo said suspiciously.

  "That sometimes happens."

  "How can you pick up a phone before it rings?" Remo asked, all the time matching the lemony voice against his memories of Harold Smith's distinctive voice.

  "It did ring. On this end. The phone company has instituted a policy of dissynchronous rings. The ring you hear on your end of the line is not the ringing on this end."

  "Why would they do that?" Remo asked, thinking it sure sounded like Harold Smith. Right down to the constipated consonants.

  "It is to foil persons calling relatives long-distance and hanging up after one or two rings as a signal they have arrived safely. The phone company's l
ines were being used without charge."

  "They sound as cheap as you," Remo said.

  Harold Smith cleared his throat. "Actually it is very thrifty of them."

  "It is you, Smitty!" Remo exploded.

  "Who else would it be?" Smith asked querulously.

  "We heard about the train wreck and went bombing down. Three different people said you died."

  "A man named Howard Smith was killed. Coincidence."

  "Well that coincidence cost me my Dragoon. Someone stole it while we were combing the wreckage."

  Smith groaned. Then he said, "I must ask you to return to the wreck."

  "Why?"

  "My briefcase was, er, left behind."

  "I know. I salvaged it."

  "You have it!" Smith's voice skittered on the dangerous edge of sounding pleased, and Remo's suspicions flared up again.

  "Yep. Figured I couldn't let it fall into innocent hands."

  "Its secrets are invaluable."

  "Actually it's as wet as a drowned cat. I was thinking of the rescue workers who would've been maimed if they tried to pick the lock."

  "It would have served them right," Smith said flatly.

  "Spoken like a man with a new lease on life. You know, Smitty, I hear about people having close shaves who see the world differently afterward. I guess we can't add you to that happy list."

  "I had a near-miss. Near-misses do not count. The world has not changed in my absence."

  "Well, Chiun and I thought you were dead."

  "I am not dead. And I have an assignment for you."

  "What's that?"

  "These train derailments. It is time we looked into them."

  "Just because you nearly died in one? Aren't we a little behind the curve?"

  "I have been following them for over a year. I suspect sabotage."

  "I suspect mismanagement. Didn't the government get involved in Amtrak years ago?"

  "It is a quasi-governmental agency."

  "Isn't that kinda like being semipregnant?"

  "Freight lines are suffering, as well. There was a derailment in Texarkana the night before last. I want you and Chiun to go there."

  "What are we looking for?"

  "According to the preliminary NTSB report, they cite human failure on the part of the engineer. The report hadn't been released to the public, but I would like you two to look into it. You will be Department of Transportation agents. Liaise with the NTSB chief investigator. He was very quick to cite drugs. Too quick. I would like to know more."