The guard recoiled, his flashlight searching out the beast. "Hey, it's going crazy!"
"No, Chiun said. "It is merely annoyed. But do not worry, I know elephants very well. I can control him."
"Just keep him calm, okay?"
"Oh, I can do more than keep him calm. I can return him to his rightful place."
"No way, Little Father," Remo snapped. "We're not taking him all the way back to Fol- Ouch!"
"Back where?" the guard asked,.
"Foley's Circus," Chiun put in, eyeing Remo."We are with Foley's Circus. Our own elephant died and we needed a new one quickly. But now that we have been caught stealing yours, we have no choice but to abandon our foolish enterprise."
"That's smart. Stealing an elephant is no small matter."
"We see that now. But if you will agree to let us go, we will be happy to restore this beast to his fellows-who are no doubt already lonesome for him."
"I can't make any promises, but if you put him back, I'll ask that they go easy on you."
"But we didn't-Yeow!" Remo howled, grabbing his ankle.
"What this clown is trying to say is that we meant no harm," Chiun said. "We will be only too happy to restore this beast and throw ourselves upon your infinite mercy."
The guard swallowed uncomfortably. Rambo towered over him.
"Okay, it's a deal. Just put him back."
"Of course," said Chiun, bowing. "You lead."
"Clown?" whispered Remo as Chiun led Rambo between the darkened cages.
"We are with the circus, remember?" Chiun shot back.
"If I'm supposed to be a clown, what are you?"
"The ringmaster, of course."
"Why do you always have to be top dog?"
"Because you are bottom dog," Chiun said. "If I had left it up to you, we would still be stuck with this smelly beast."
"What's that you're saying back there?" the guard asked suspiciously.
"I was saying to my top clown that we are fortunate to have encountered such a wise man as yourself," Chiun said loudly.
Rambo trumpted as if in agreement.
"Here it is," the guard said, stopping at an enormous cage. Keys rattled. "We really should have a trainer here, but I can't take the chance that thing will run amok."
"Oh, he will be good, I promise," said Chiun. When the gate opened, he led Rambo into the cage. At the other end, three large elephants stood unmoving. Their ears flapped sleepily. They did not react to the new visitor.
"Good-bye, Rambo," Chiun said, patting the elephant on the head.
The Master of Sinanju exited the cage without a backward glance. When he was out, the guard hurriedly slammed the gate and locked it. It took him only a few seconds, but when he turned around to deal with the two elephant poachers, they were nowhere in view.
Back at the truck, Remo got behind the wheel, smiling. "That was pretty smart, Little Father," he said.
"Thank you," said Chiun, closing the passenger door.
"Uh-oh," Remo groaned, looking at the missing steering wheel. "I forgot about this."
"Do your best. He will be searching for us and this vehicle is rented to Folcroft."
"Right," said Remo, starting the engine. He released the brake and took the steering column in both hands. Grimacing with effort, he got the front wheels to turn as the truck went rumbling down the road.
Remo wrestled the steering column until they got to the center of town. There they abandoned the truck and hailed a taxi.
"I'm never going to forget this night," Remo sighed as he settled into the cab's back seat.
"Exactly the point," Chiun said with pleasure as he arranged his kimono skirts.
Chapter 9
For General Martin S. Leiber, the universe had shattered and the sky was falling all around him.
For as long as he had served as a Pentagon procurement officer, he had operated by one simple rule: there were no rules. If he could rig a defense contract, he did. If he had to juggle progress payments, he did. Lying to Congress? Standard operating procedure. Absurd markups of defense items were his stock in trade. It was General Leiber who personally approved critical circuit boards that kept twenty percent of America's Minuteman missiles nonoperational at a given moment. The Air Force's top-of-the-line attack helicopter was plated with substandard armor and held together by inexpensive bolts he had purchased on the cheap, knowing that under combat stress they would shear like breadsticks.
General Leiber never expected his defective Minutemen to be launched. And if an attack helicopter lost a rotor during training, the manufacturer always caught the flak. General Leiber expected to slide into the obscurity of retirement with a fat bank account and zero accountabilty.
He had gambled on the one constant of superpower relations: the balance of power.
General Leiber was a reasonable man. He knew the military mind. Some dismissed the military as mad bombers, but they were actually quite sensible. They were always prepared to spend as many conscript lives as necessary to achieve a reasonable military objective. That was what war was all about, assets and expenditures. The country with the greatest assets was the one to be feared the most. In this hemisphere; that was the United States, God bless her.
But no general would provoke a conflict that was certain to cost him personally. Leaders led. They didn't squander their own lives. Not since World War II, and that was ancient history as far as General Leiber was concerned.
There was no way, no earthly way, that either the U.S. or the USSR, or China for that matter-and everyone knew how crazy they were-was going to provoke a thermonuclear exchange and risk everything. Including their summer homes.
General Leiber had counted on that. It was his sole rationale. No realistic threat of a world war existed in the nuclear age, and therefore America's military might was so much window dressing. And given that assumption, who the hell cared if a nuclear missile couldn't get out of its silo or the occasional aircraft fell out of the sky? It was all for show.
Until exactly 3:13 this morning, when a steam locomotive struck within yards of the White House. Now the entire nuclear force was on Defcon Two. If the Soviets so much as got wind of that, then they would go to their defense condition two-or whatever they called it over there. And if the Russkies went to red alert, so would the Chinese. Itchy fingers would hover over missile-firing keys and all it would take to ignite global conflagration would be a sea gull showing up on some idiot's radar at the wrong moment.
General Leiber cleared his Pentagon desk of the cold remnants of his lobster meal with a swipe of one uniformed arm. He moved his telephone to the bare center of his desk. Beside it he placed a yellow legal pad and two number-three pencils.
He was going to have to deal with this matter. Forget profit. It was time to worry about his ass.
First he would have to figure out what to tell the President. He couldn't tell him the truth. Not without looking like a total fool. They would laugh at him, the general who ordered a high state of alert over a falling locomotive. Never mind the very real nature of the crisis. The press boys wouldn't address that. They'd go with the lighter side of the story. In no time, General Leiber knew, he would be reduced in rank. Probably to one-star. Maybe worse. He tried to remember what rank was right below general. He could not. He'd been with the Pentagon so long he had blotted out his pre-general days.
"What I need is a better fix on the threat factor," he said, sitting up. He began dialing. He knew a guy at NASA who might give a reading on this thing. A blinking red button indicated an incoming call. Annoyed, General Leiber transferred to the incoming call.
"General Leiber," he said crisply.
"This is the President, General," a stern voice said. "I'm still working on it, Mr. President."
"I can't stay down here any longer," the President said. "I've just been looking at teletype reports. The media want to know where I am."
"Let me suggest that you put out a press release, sir."
"Press release! Ar
e you serious? You don't cover firstday absenteeism with a press release. I have to put in an appearance."
Mr President, let me tell you why you don't want to do that."
"What is it?"
"I didn't want to tell you this until we have more information, but we have a tentative ID on the hostile."
"Hostile? Hostile what?" the President wanted to know.
"It's just an expression, sir."
"Oh. Go ahead."
"Well, Mr. President, I don't know how to break this to you-"
"I have to know. I'm President now."
"Yes, Mr. President," said General Martin S. Leiber, taking a deep breath. He plunged in. "The hostile is what we military call a Kinetic Kill Vehicle, or KKV for short."
"Good grief I never heard of the KKV."
"With all due respect, Mr. President, you are new at this."
"Yes, but I thought I'd been thoroughly briefed by my predecessor."
"It's a complicated world, Mr. President. Perhaps he overlooked KKV's. They've just been deployed for the first time."
"Still, I must return to the Oval Office."
"We could be just minutes away from a second strike, sir. "
"You've been saying that for hours. Everyone's been saying that. Look, this is day one of my administration."
"It's already evening, sir. Almost nine o'clock. Why don't you get some rest and we can discuss this in the morning? When you're fresh."
"I've made my decision. I'm coming up. I want you in the White House immediately for a complete briefing. Everything you know, General."
"Yes, sir, Mr. President," General Leiber said reluctantly. "Will there be anything else?"
"Um, I left you in charge, correct?"
"Yes. "
"I'm going to hand the telephone to my senior Secret Service bodyguard. He won't take orders from me."
"Wait a minute. I can't do that. He's a civilian. I'm military. I don't have any authority over him."
"Maybe he doesn't know that. Talk to him."
"Yes, sir," General Leiber said as the Secret Service agent came on the line.
"I'm afraid I can't recognize your authority, General," the agent said politely.
"Good for you. Try to keep him down there as long as you can. The situation up here isn't stable."
The President came back on the line.
"It didn't sound as if you tried very hard," he complained.
"He's a good man, Mr. President. Stubborn, but good."
"There's got to be a way."
"If there is, I'm not familiar with it."
"There must be. This is an emergency." There was a pause on the line as the President considered. He was obviously thinking. That was a bad sign. General Leiber hated dealing with people who thought. He would much rather have a salute and instant obedience.
Finally the President spoke up.
"I am the Commander in Chief," he said.
"Yes, you are," General Leiber admitted after some hesitation.
"And I have designated you as my surrogate."
"Yes, sir." He didn't like where this was going. It smacked of initiative.
"Therefore, I am ordering you to order me to the Oval Office to assure the nation that I am in command."
"I...er . . . but"
"Do it!"
"Yes sir. As your surrogate, I am ordering you to the Oval Office immediately."
"Don't tell me. Tell the Secret Service." General Leiber heard the phone change hands.
"I have just ordered the President to the Oval Office."
"I don't have the authority to override you, General," the Secret Service agent admitted.
"I wish you hadn't said that," General Leiber said in a dull voice.
Like a man about to walk the last mile, General Martin S. Leiber hung up the phone and got to his feet. Woodenly he placed his service cap on his head and straightened his tie.
There was no avoiding the moment of truth now.
The first thing the President of the United States did upon reaching the first-floor level of the White House was to head for his bedroom. His wife, clutching her negligee, trailed after him. Three Secret Service agents brought up the rear.
Upon reaching the bedroom, the President slammed the door in their faces.
"But I'm not dressed," his wife complained.
There came rummaging sounds, and the door opened a crack.
"Here," the President said, handing out a bundle of clothes.
The First Lady picked the bundle apart with her eyes. "But none of these match!" she yelled.
The President did not respond. He was too busy. He picked up the direct line to CURE. It was the first time he had had to do so. The previous President had explained all about CURE. Its mandate, its operational parameters. How, as President, he could not order CURE into action. He could only suggest missions. Well, he sure was going to suggest a mission this time.
"Mr. President." It was the voice of Dr. Harold W. Smith. The President did not know that for a fact. He assumed it. Only Dr. Smith was sanctioned to use the dedicated CURE line.
"Smith?"
"Of course," Smith said calmly. "Are you well?"
"I think I'm catching a cold from standing around in my pajamas and bare feet. You know, they didn't even have any of my clothes down there."
"Where is 'there,' sir? And please try to speak more slowly. I'm having trouble following you."
"Down in the White House fallout shelter-or whatever they call it."
"I see. What is the situation?"
"No one seems to know. General Leiber is on his way to brief me."
"Leiber? Oh, yes," said Smith, remembering the name from his intercepts.
"Smith, your job is national security, isn't it?"
"In the broadest sense of the phrase, yes."
"Then where were you?"
"Sir?"
"Washington took a first strike from a KKV and we didn't see it coming."
"I understand NORAD relayed warning of a ... What did you call it, sir?"
"KKV. Don't tell me you don't know what a KKV is. Well, you couldn't. Apparently they're new. It stands for Kinetic Kill Vehicle."
"Kinetic," Smith said slowly.
"Yes, one landed in Lafayette Park. Fortunately it didn't detonate. But that might have been a fluke."
"I see," Smith said, recalling the fire in Lafayette Park. It was starting to come together. But what was a Kinetic Kill Vehicle? As Smith listened to the President, he called up his Jane's Aircraft data base. No doubt it was listed there.
"Smith, your mandate is to monitor potential security situations and nip them in the bud."
"Well, yes. But normally our monitoring capabilities are domestic in nature. My computers aren't terribly effective on a global scale."
"And why not, might I ask?"
"Because, Mr. President, it would be virtually impossible for one man to monitor all the computer traffic around the world. Domestically it is difficult enough. And there is the language-barrier problem. As it is, I'm at my terminal up to fifteen hours a day. As you know, CURE must be a one-man operation in order to maintain absolute security. We operate outside of constitutional restrictions, and if the press ever-"
"So what you're telling me is that even in a best-case scenario, you couldn't have foreseen this attack?"
"Without more information, I cannot respond to that," Smith said, glancing at the flashing message on his computer screen. It was telling him the Jane's data base had no listing for a Kinetic Kill Vehicle. How odd. Obviously he would have to update the file.
"And what about your people? Why weren't they here to deal with this?"
"Well, Mr. President, my enforcement arm has always been an option of last resort. I keep him in reserve until needed."
"He should have been down here!" the President barked.
"With all due respect, sir, even if he had been on station, what could he have done? He's good. But not good enough to catch an incoming Kineti
c Kill Vehicle. We are talking about a man with extraordinary abilities. But not Superman. He does not wear a cape or fly."
"Smith, this was supposed to be my first day in office and I spent it cowering in a hole."
"Yes." Smith's voice was noncommittal.
"This is intolerable. I want your people down here at once."
"Er, I'm afraid that is impossible."
"What are you saying?"
"They are unavailable. On another ... er ... assignment. I am sorry."
"Pull them off it. We are anticipating another attack at any moment."
"I would like to comply, Mr. President. But until they complete their mission, I will be unable to reach them."
"That's absurd. Don't they even check in?"
"Well, sometimes. Our enforcement arm usually does that, but he often has trouble with the security codes. His trainer, the older one, will use the telephone only as a last resort. "
"Don't they carry communicators? Walkie-talkies? Anything? They are needed in Washington, Smith."
"As soon as they report in, I will order them to Washington, I assure you."
"That's wonderful," the President said acidly. "If they arrive after the capital has been reduced to hot, sifting ash, be certain to thank them for me, won't you?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. President," Smith said lamely.
"When this is over, there will be some changes made, Smith. Mark my words. Your organization sounds like it belongs back in the nineteenth century. Do you know I had no way to reach you from down in the shelter?"
"Security demands that we have a minimum of technical equipment, Mr. President. That means one phone at each end of our special line. CURE has functioned this way for twenty years now."
"From where I'm sitting, it's not worth snot," said the President, hanging up.
At the other end, Smith replaced his receiver. He took off his rimless glasses and rubbed tired gray eyes. It was a terrible way to start a working relationship with a new administration, but how could he tell the President that Washington must stand naked before foreign aggression until its secret enforcement arm found a new home for an unwanted elephant?
Smith returned to his screen, typing in the words "Kinetic Kill Vehicle" and initiating a global search through the CURE system's massive memory banks. Then he settled back in his chair. Even with massive sort and memory capabilities, the computer would take several minutes to isolate an answer.
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