By Eminent Domain td-124

by Warren Murphy

  Stepping cautiously through the pool of crude oil, Major Fordell squatted near a pair of bodies.

  Joe Abady was flat on his stomach, his chin resting on the black ground. Almost as black as crude oil, blood had frozen to the hole in his forehead. Near the APSC foreman, Brian Turski lay on his side, his head gaping wide from a single, point-blank gunshot. Wordlessly, Major Fordell stood.

  There was no sign of anyone else in the area. They'd detected no other vehicles on the flight up. Snowfall had been too low this winter for snowmobiles. The chopper was searching now in the other direction. If the pilot could turn up nothing from a visual sweep, that left only two possibilities. The hostiles had either been airlifted out, or they were still in the area.

  The ASDF men were looking everywhere, clustered tightly around Fordell, their rifle barrels fanned out. "This was an ambush," the Major said with certainty. He kept his voice low. "We're looking for foxholes, burrows, trapdoors. Stay alert. Let's move." Swallowing their fear, the men spread out across the narrow valley floor. Their eyes trained on the ground, they began moving south.

  Major Fordell studied not just the ground. Every now and then his eyes flicked up to the pipeline. It hung above their heads, big and menacing.

  A few hundred yards from the massacre they found nothing. Some of the men were allowing the first slip of relief to hiss from between their chapped lips. Major Fordell remained tense. As he walked along the frozen ground, his eyes and ears were alert to everything around him.

  There was no doubt in his mind this had been an ambush. The hole in the pipe back there was manmade, designed to lure the pipeline workers into a trap.

  Could be whacked-out environmentalists trying to shut down the pipe. Hell, maybe it was agents of OPEC trying to screw with domestic oil production. No matter who it was, there was no way they were going to get past Major Race Fordell.

  A flash of movement to his left drew the Major's attention. For an instant the air seemed to gel into a fuzzy solid. The instant it did, Major Fordell felt a rough tug at his hands.

  His gun disappeared.

  Just like that. Disappeared. Vanished as if sucked into a parallel dimension.

  His fingers clenched empty air.

  Panic flooded his hollow belly. Before he could even give voice to his shock, before he could alert his men, Fordell felt a blinding pain crack the side of his head.

  He dropped to the seat of his pants, stunned. When he grabbed at the injured area, his gloved fingers returned slick with blood.

  "Major, what happened?" a nearby ASDF soldier asked worriedly. His young voice suddenly dropped low. "Oh, God."

  Nursing shock, Fordell looked up woodenly.

  His gun had reappeared. It was clutched in the hands of a swirling figure. The barrel was aimed at Major Fordell.

  The Major tried to blink the figure into focus. He wasn't sure if it was head trauma or something else, but it seemed impossible to see the man clearly. Then all at once the intruder seemed to snap into reality.

  The strange figure wore winter combat fatigues. A matching ski mask covered his face. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of black goggles. The gun aimed at Fordell's face never wavered.

  Whoever he was, his intentions seemed clear enough. Race Fordell wasn't taking any chances. "Shoot him!" the Major yelled.

  His men ignored the order.

  Still sitting on the ground and staring down the barrel of his own rifle, Major Fordell glanced at his men. What he saw made his heart freeze in his chest.

  There were more of the commandos. All around. Dozens of them. They had somehow stepped out of the air to ambush Major Race Fordell and his ASDF weekend warriors.

  "Oh, God," repeated the young soldier nearest Race. He was frozen in place. Three commandos stood like somber sentries before him, their guns leveled at his chest.

  A twitch of movement came from the commando standing before him. Eyes darting, Race Fordell saw a gloved finger tighten over a trigger. His trigger. His own damn gun was about to kill him. Cold fury flooded his blood-streaked face.

  "Shoot them, dammit!" Major Fordell ordered an instant before a bullet from his own gun ended his life.

  As the Major fell, the rest of the commandos opened fire. Guns crackled. One by one the ASDF men fell.

  Panicking, some men threw down their weapons and flung up their hands. They were slaughtered where they stood.

  The few Alaska State Defense Force men who tried to defend themselves found their targets impossible to track. They always seemed to be everywhere other than the path of the bullets.

  The commandos disappeared and reappeared. Some abandoned guns for knives, materializing next to a terrified ASDF man just long enough to slit his throat.

  When there was only one ASDF man left standing, the slaughter abruptly ceased.

  The Alaska State Defense soldier had already thrown down his gun. He stood whimpering and defenseless, as the crowd of masked men formed a circle around him. He didn't even hear the hushed words from the commandos. Didn't see the crowd part. Didn't notice the lone man who strode into their midst.

  The last arrival was dressed like the others, save one distinction. He wore no mask.

  His features were delicate enough to be considered pretty. His eyes were powdery brown mixed with flecks of red. Although he was young, his closecropped hair was prematurely white. He had the confident, graceful stride of a gymnast. With a perfect economy of motion, he stepped up to the last ASDF man.

  The soldier was babbling incoherently. His eyes were unfocused as he stared blankly at the ground. The white-haired commando paused before the man. He cast one pale eye around the circle of faceless soldiers.

  All at once, his hand shot out. So fast did it move, most there could not even follow it.

  The side of the white-haired man's flattened palm met the Adam's apple of the last soldier. There was a wet thwack as the ASDF man's head left his neck.

  With a thud the head hit the ground. The body joined it a split second later.

  The white-haired commando gave the decapitated body a single look of disdain. A sneer still on his delicate lips, he turned.

  The others parted in quiet reverence.

  As the lone commando walked away, a single word muttered by one of the masked men trailed behind him.

  "Mactep," a man in the crowd said in awe.

  And as if in response, the white-haired man vanished from sight.

  Chapter 4

  Remo drove aimlessly the remainder of the night, arriving back in Rye a little after seven in the morning. The lone guard at the security shed didn't even glance up as Remo steered his leased car through the main gates of Folcroft Sanitarium. He drove up the gravel drive and parked in the employee lot next to the rusty old station wagon of his boss, Harold W. Smith. He was heading for the side door of the ivycovered brick building when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye.

  Folcroft's rear lawn rolled down to the rimy shore of Long Island Sound. An old boat dock extended into the water. On the most distant plank stood a solitary figure.

  The old man was so frail it seemed as if the gentlest breeze would send him spinning like a colorful pinwheel into the cold water. But despite the buffeting gusts that blew in from the Sound, the wizened figure remained fixed in place. His back to the shore, he stared out across the water.

  Pausing in the parking lot, Remo studied the tiny figure on the dock for the briefest of moments.

  "Do I want to open myself up to this or do I sneak inside?" he said under his breath.

  Since he knew he'd been heard arriving-in spite of the seeming disinterest of the old man on the dock-he decided against ducking inside. On sure feet he glided down the gentle back hill and onto the dock. At the far end he paused next to the tiny figure.

  "This a private party or is everyone invited?" Remo asked Chiun, his teacher and Reigning Master of Sinanju.

  The elderly Korean continued to study the whitecapped waves. "It is a free country," h
e replied, his singsong voice uninterested. "Stand wherever you like."

  At only five feet tall, the old Asian's head barely reached Remo's shoulder. He wore a simple gold kimono that flapped like a wind sock around his bare ankles. His hands were tucked far inside his voluminous sleeves.

  Two tufts of yellowing white hair clutched to a spot above each shell-like ear. His age-speckled head was otherwise bald. The skin was like tan rice paper left to dry on his ancient skull. Fine veins showed like a map of crisscrossing blue roads beneath the delicate surface.

  The two men stood staring at the water for a few long minutes. Remo's thoughts were of his California trip and the lost thought his mind could not seem to retrieve.

  Beside him, the Master of Sinanju sensed his pupil's frustration. He turned his birdlike head to Remo.

  "You have had no luck remembering that which you have forgotten?" Chiun asked quietly.

  Remo seemed surprised by the question. He looked down into his teacher's upturned face.

  "How'd you know?" he asked.

  "Please, Remo," Chiun clucked dismissively. "You always wear whatever you are thinking on that sandwich board you call a face. I have been tempted at times to stand you out beside the highway and rent it for advertising to that cowburger-frying clown. Now, what is it that troubles you?"

  Remo bit his lip thoughtfully. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "You ever go in a room looking for something and then when you get there you forget what it is, you were going in there for? That's what I feel like right now."

  A bony hand appeared from the Master of Sinanju's kimono sleeve. With the tips of his long fingernails he stroked the thread of beard that extended from his pointed chin.

  "Hmm," he mused softly. His youthful hazel eyes turned back to the water. He said nothing more.

  "That's the best you can do?" Remo asked. "Hmm?"

  "It is all I can do," Chiun said. "The path you are on must be walked alone."

  Remo's face grew troubled. "What do you mean?" he asked cautiously. "Do you know what this is all about?"

  Chiun appeared insulted by the question. "Of course," he sniffed. "I am the Master of Sinanju. What is more, you know what it is about, as well." The old man's tone was ominous. Remo had heard that same tone before. He whirled on his teacher.

  "Oh, cripes, not again," Remo said, his face sagging. "Is this the start of some new ditfrimmy Sinanju ritual? 'Cause if it is, I'm throwing in the towel before it even starts."

  "Too late," Chiun said. A stiff wind caught his thin wisps of hair. "It has already begun."

  Remo shook his head. "I don't believe this," he muttered. "The worse thing is, every time one of these cockamamie things comes up, you tell me it's the last one and I believe you. I'm like Charlie Brown and you keep pulling away that goddamn football every time. So what do I have to do this time? Journey to the center of the Earth and battle the mole people? Go for a swim in the Big Dipper? What?"

  "Nothing so difficult or so easy," Chiun replied. He held up a hand, halting further questions from his pupil. "And now is not the time."

  "That's easy for you to say. You don't have some melting-ice-cube-of-a-thought slipping around your head."

  Chiun's face softened. "Do not try so hard, my son. Put it aside. When it is time, it will come."

  Beside the old man, Remo rolled his thick wrists in frustration. The advice his teacher was giving him seemed impossible to follow. His body, his spirit, everything seemed to be screaming something at him. He didn't know how to ignore it. Yet he trusted the Master of Sinanju more than anyone else he'd ever known. If Chiun said to put it aside, the old Asian had to be certain it was the right thing to do.

  With great effort of will, Remo forced the troubling thoughts from his mind.

  The tension slipped slowly from his shoulders. Chiun noted the change in his pupil's bearing with a nod of approval.

  "Now, on to more-pressing matters," the tiny Korean said, his voice growing serious. "I assume by your hesitation before entering Fortress Folcroft that you have spoken to Smith?"

  Remo frowned. "Not since I called him from London on our way back from Russia. Why, is something up?"

  Chiun pursed his wrinkled lips. Troubled eyes gazed out upon the icy waters.

  "That is for the Emperor to say, not his assassin." Remo's brow furrowed.

  "Great. More intrigue. I'll go see him now. You coming with?" He was turning to go when he felt a bony hand press his wrist.

  "You say you have not spoken to Smith since before you bundled me in a taxi like some nuisance fishwife and headed off to sulk alone?" Chiun asked quizzically.

  "Yeah," Remo admitted cautiously.

  "If you did not know why you should hesitate before entering Smith's palace, then why did you hesitate at all?" His hazel eyes had grown accusing.

  Remo exhaled a heavy sigh. Though the air was cold, his warm breath was invisible as it slipped from between his tightly parted lips.

  "It's just-" He paused, gathering strength. "It's just you looked like you might be in a mood, that's all," he said. "You were standing all alone back here in that me-against-the-world pose. I figured it might be safer to tiptoe inside and hide under the bed." He held up his hands. "But it's okay. I assumed wrong. Mea culpa. Now, let's go see what Smitty wants."

  This time when he turned to go, the hand that latched on to his wrist was less gentle.

  "Mea culpa," the Master of Sinanju echoed. "How appropriate you should use that phrase, given your recent association with the hooligans of Rome."

  Oh, God, why did I even open my mouth? Remo asked himself. Aloud, he said, "Good one, Little Father. Ouch. You zinged me but good. Come on, I'll race you inside."

  "Why?" Chiun asked, his voice growing pitiful. "Is it garbage-collecting day? Are you in a hurry to throw my meager belongings into the refuse? I beg you in advance to please spare me the lash, Remo, for I am old and frail. It will take me some time to haul my trunks out to the curb."

  "Okay, couple of things wrong with that. For one, you're as frail as an avalanche. On top of that, I'm the one who's always had to lug those trunks of yours around. Until a couple of weeks ago, I didn't even think you knew where the handles were."

  Chiun held a weak hand to his heart. "As usual I suffer your abuse in silence."

  Remo raised a skeptical brow. "For the amount of abuse you claim I dump on you, I'm surprised the Department of Social Services isn't kicking in the door and trying to stick you in a foster home."

  The Master of Sinanju shook his head morosely. "I will not be taken in again by your false promises, Remo. When you said recently that others would give me a home to replace the one I lost, I, in my innocence, believed you. I know better than this now. Whoever these Fosters are, they will not put a roof over my aged head. And at the risk of being flogged for my insolence, I find it exceedingly cruel that you would test my trusting nature with the same lie twice."

  On their recent trip to California, they had briefly visited a charity event that was being held to raise money for the homeless. The Master of Sinanju had decided that, since he was currently without a residence of his own, the first deed passed out should go to him. Things had not worked out the way he wanted them to, and he had returned to the East Coast emptyhanded.

  "I never told you anyone was giving you anything," Remo said firmly. "In fact, I'm the one who told you they wouldn't give you a house."

  Chiun raised his button nose in the air. "That is not how I remember it," he said with certainty.

  "Big surprise there," Remo said, rolling his eyes.

  "I suppose you will next tell me that someone else is to blame," said Chiun. "You have been doing much of this passing of the puck lately. Ever since you and your Roman playmates set fire to Castle Sinanju."

  "Oh, boy, here it comes. I did not burn down our house," Remo insisted. "Those Mafia guys did it all by themselves. I've even got an airtight alibi, for chrissakes. I was out eating supper with you."

  "Yes, dining while the Ro
mans burned," Chiun droned. "However, that does not erase the fact that you have admitted your own foolishness led them there."

  Remo had heard this one before. Unlike in the past, this time he had a response.

  "I've copped to that one," Remo nodded. "But I've been doing some thinking about that night. If you hadn't tried tipping that waitress with counterfeit money, we might have gotten home in time to stop them."

  Chiun's eyes saucered. His hands clenched to knots of ivory bone. The very air around him stilled. "Are you now saying it is somehow my fault?" he demanded coldly.

  "No," Remo insisted quickly. "What I'm saying is it's the fault of whoever programmed the traffic lights that kept us from getting home faster. It's the chef's fault for being too slow in the kitchen. It's as much anyone else's fault as it is mine. I did not burn down our house. End of story."

  As quickly as it came, the fight drained from Chiun. "Of course you are right. You are always right." His fragile shoulders rose and sank pitifully.

  Remo had known the old con artist long enough to recognize the pose he now struck. He had guessed it as soon as he'd spotted the Master of Sinanju from the parking lot. Chiun was angling for something.

  "Why the shift to self-pity mode?" Remo asked warily.

  "I am attempting to cope with my great loss," the wizened Asian said. Cold mist from the Sound kissed his leathery cheeks. "There are stages to such a thing, Remo. The first is fear, which neither you nor I experience. The next is denial." His voice dropped low. "You are steeped in that at the moment," he confided.

  "I'm not denying anything," Remo sighed.

  "Thank you for making my case," Chiun said. "As for the rest, they are unimportant. I have reached the final phase. Bitter acceptance." A pathetic sigh seeped from wrinkled lips, and his shoulders rose and fell once more.

  Remo shook his head knowingly. "I know how this game is played," he said. "You haven't accepted diddly. You're up to the bargaining phase, and you know you can catch more flies with moping. So what do you want? And I'm warning you ahead of time, if it's a house you're after we're not getting an eye-sore like the last one."