Rain of Terror td-75

by Warren Murphy

  There, his workers were carefully readying another engine.

  Pyotr Koldunov woke up slowly. He could not move his arms. They felt numb. When his vision focused, he understood why.

  He was strung up like a plucked chicken. Wire hawsers kept his arms raised above his head. He was on his knees.

  The floor felt cold. And in front of him a black hatch lay open to a deeper blackness. It was surrounded by a maze of pipes and gauges and dials.

  "What?" he groaned.

  "Surely you recognize it," Colonel Intifadah's voice asked. Pyotr Koldunov turned his stiff neck around.

  Colonel Intifadah was looking up at him, resplendent in a pea-green uniform.

  "Look again, comrade," he suggested.

  Pyotr Koldunov looked. And understood. He was staring at the open firebox of a boiler. His arms hung from the maze of pipes overhead. He was in the cab of a vintage steam engine.

  "Oh, no. No, Brother Colonel."

  "I do not need you, Koldunov," Colonel Intifada said. "But it will please you to know that you will do me a great service in your last hours."

  "No, please."

  "We have just filled a locomotive with nerve gas. Fully loaded, it weighs the same as this engine-plus one hundred and fifty pounds."

  "I do not understand."

  "I will make it clear to you, Russian," said Colonel Intifadah. "You know better than I that the weight of one of these brutes affects where it will land. I need to know where this locomotive will impact before I send its brother aloft. Just in case this one goes into the ocean, where it will kill only fishes. If so, then I will correct the launcher's aim. But I need that additional one hundred and fifty pounds of ballast. And I do not need you."

  Colonel Intifadah threw his head back and laughed like a hyena.

  Pyotr Koldunov hung his head. He did not plead for his life. The Colonel's crazed laugh told him it was useless to do so. Instead, he closed his eyes and heard the sounds as Colonel Intifadah exhorted his men to load the engine into the breech.

  The great machine lumbered into the breech. The burnt-metal stink awakened bitter memories in Pyotr Koldunov's mind. He had built this thing. It had stunk like this since the first test firing.

  The light seeping through his eyelids shut off. The breech hatch had hummed shut. There was no escape now. But there had never been any escape for Pyotr Koldunov. Not since that day he had left Mother Russia with the Accelerator's crated components.

  The silence lasted several minutes. And then the humming began. The hairs on Pyotr Koldunov's arms and legs and head shot up as the primary electric charge filled the tinny air.

  And then there was a burst of blue-white light so intense it burned through Pyotr Koldunovs's closed eyelids and he seemed to see the black muzzle of the EM Accelerator hurtle at him at incredible speed. And his head was snapped back so quickly, his neck broke.

  Pyotr Koldunov was dead before the steam engine cleared the desert sands. The wire hawsers on his wrists held under the terrific stress of hypervelocity acceleration. Unfortunately his wrists did not.

  Long before the engine raced over the Atlantic Ocean, he was a rag doll tumbling to the desert sand below. He fell with his arms pointed earthward, as if to break his fall. But he had no hands at the ends of his wrists.

  Pyotr Koldunov hit the ground in a puff of sand. The sand settled over him like a shroud. Soon the sand-laden ghibli wind would cause the shifting dunes to cover him up. The cool of the evening and the dry heat of the day would eventually mummify his tissues. And there he would rest until the year 2853, when an archaeological graduate student from Harvard University would dig him up and make him the subject of his doctoral dissertation.

  Chapter 32

  The Master of Sinanju was not going to change his mind. "Look," Remo pleaded. "All of America is at risk here. Please."

  "No!"

  "Who's going to see you? It's all desert down there."

  "One Peeping Tom bedouin would be too much," said Chiun. He folded his arms across his simple black kimono. Remo was also in black. It was night over Lobynia. The Air Force jet had come in over Algeria. The Lobynian air defenses had probably already picked them up. But there was no danger. They were probably heading for cover, fearing another bombing run.

  Remo finished buckling on his parachute.

  "You beat everything, you know that? I thought you'd have problems with the jump."

  "That too. But it is my modesty that comes first."

  "What's the problem?" asked the Air Force liaison assigned to oversee their jump into Lobynian territory. Remo threw up his hands.

  "He doesn't want to jump."

  "I don't blame him. Who in his right mind would talk a little old guy like him into a night drop into unfriendly territory?"

  "Who are you calling little?" Chiun demanded, lifting on tiptoe to stare up at the officer's startled face.

  The Air Force colonel discovered that his stomach hurt. He looked down. The old Oriental's index fingernail was the cause. It looked as if it had speared him like a fish.

  "Leave him alone, will you?" Remo shouted. "He's on our side."

  "He insulted me."

  "No, he did not," said Remo, pulling the colonel onto a seat. The colonel hugged his stomach and experimented with his breathing.

  "Look, there's gotta be a solution. Maybe we can tie your kimono skirts together."

  "What are you talking about?" gasped the colonel.

  "He refuses to jump because he's afraid someone will look up and see his underwear. He's very fussy about stuff like that."

  "You mean he's not afraid of the jump?"

  "Masters of Sinanju fear nothing," Chiun sniffed.

  "Let me at least try, okay, Chiun? Please. For America. Not to mention the whole freaking world, if this locomotive thing gets out of hand."

  "Try," said Chiun, extending his arms.

  Remo slipped the shoulder straps of the parachute pack over Chiun s arms. Then Remo knelt down and bunched Chiun's kimono skirts around his upper thighs. Holding the black silk in place, he quickly buckled the lower straps over the bunched cloth. The webbing held the kimono material in place.

  Chiun looked down. He found he could walk after a fashion, if he took short steps.

  "What if it comes loose?" he demanded.

  "It's desert, for Christ's sake!"

  "We're coming up on the drop zone," the colonel called suddenly.

  Remo turned to Chiun. "Now or never, Chiun."

  "Now."

  Hydraulic doors in the cargo bay dropped open. Air swirled into the cabin.

  "It's easy," Remo said. "Count to ten and pull the ring."

  "What if I forget?"

  "No one ever forgets. just follow me and do what I do." And without another word, Remo jumped from the open bay. Slipstream plucked him away.

  "Wait for me," Chiun cried, leaping after him. His leap caused his bunched skirts to come loose.

  Remo felt the updraft push against him. He might as well have been skydiving into a pit. The desert below was as black as the sky above. The stars were incredible. He looked for Chiun.

  "Oh, no," Remo moaned. Chiun was tumbling end over end. Worse, his skirts were flying all over the place. "He'll kill me," Remo said bitterly.

  Remo cracked his chute. He swung from the black silken bell.

  Chiun tumbled past him, still in freefall. His mouth was open. From it emerged a keening sound.

  "Wheee!" called the Master of Sinanju joyfully.

  "Pull the freaking ripcord," Remo called after him.

  "It is too soon," Chiun called back.

  "It's never too soon," Remo responded.

  And with his heart in his mouth, Remo watched the Master of Sinanju tumble into the enveloping blackness. "Please. Please pull the cord."

  Out of the blackness came the crack of silk.

  Remo heaved a sigh of relief. Then came Chiun's agonized wail. "Aaiieee! My skirts!"

  "Great. He noticed," Remo groaned
.

  Remo hit the ground, dug in, and jettisoned his chute all in one breath. The wind carried it away.

  He looked around for Chiun.

  The Master of Sinanju was on the ground. The billowing parachute bell was settling over him. He did not move. It covered him completely.

  "What are you waiting for?" Remo called.

  Chiun's voice issued from the shroud. "For my shame to go away. "

  "We're alone in the desert, for crying out loud," Remo said, pulling at the black parachute. It tore easily. Chiun's smoldering face emerged from the folds.

  "If that is true, then we have come a long way for nothing."

  "Let's find out. See any railroad tracks?"

  Chiun lifted on his toes and searched the horizon. "No."

  "Wonderful. Let's walk."

  "My kimono was nearly torn from my body. But for my quick reflexes I might now be completely naked."

  "It didn't, so, forget it."

  "It would have. And it would have been your fault."

  "Okay, okay. I accept full responsibility. See anything?"

  "Sand."

  Remo stopped in his tracks. "I hope the pilot didn't screw up. The bunker is supposed to be around here."

  "I smell something terrible."

  "Yeah? What?"

  "I do not know. But it is deadly."

  "Now that you mention it, there is a kind of chemical smell in the air. Like bug spray or something."

  Remo resumed walking. Chiun followed cautiously, his face wrinkling in concern.

  "Maybe there'll be something behind that next dune," Remo said hopefully.

  But there was nothing beyond the next dune. They stood atop the dune and watched the sand shift in the evening winds.

  "Do you feel a vibration?" Remo asked suddenly.

  "I was about to ask you the very same question."

  "Yeah? But it's not in the air."

  "No," said Chiun, looking down. "It is under our feet."

  "Huh!"

  Abruptly the entire dune began to move sideways, carrying Remo and Chiun with it.

  "The dune's moving!" Remo said, jumping away.

  The dune shed its covering of sand and revealed itself as a great concrete octagon painted to match the surrounding desert. The octagon was sliding sideways along buried tracks.

  "See! A hole," Chiun said, approaching the area that had been uncovered.

  Remo looked down. The giant hole contained what looked like an enormous I-beam girder pointing up into the sky. There was a square hole in the girder's end. Remo leapt to the girder and got down on hands and knees. He peered down the square hole, which was very deep and easily large enough to swallow a steam engine. "I can't even see the bottom," he said.

  "Perhaps it's the secret entrance to the place of the flying locomotives," Chiun suggested.

  "One way to find out," Remo said. He lowered himself over the side.

  "This may not be a good idea," Chiun said slowly.

  "Why not? I don't see a better hole."

  "I do not know about this," Chiun went on.

  "Look," Remo said, hanging by his fingers, "what could happen?"

  And then the abyss under Remo filled with blue-white sparks and the crackle of the lightning bolts. Remo looked down. He found himself staring at the blunt, illuminated nose of a steam engine. It was moving. At him. And it was moving at a speed greater than Remo could possibly react. This is it! Remo thought. I'm dead.

  General Martin S. Leiber listened to the voices. They were giving up again. Good. Once they went away, he could attack the locking lugs on the inside of the coffin-shaped container with his battery-operated power wrench. Then he would burst out with his gun blazing. He just wished he had thought to bring along a few extra clips. Eight bullets wasn't a lot. Especially when it sounded like there were quite a lot of Arabic-speaking unfriendlies on the other side and General Martin S. Leiber hadn't fired a weapon since 1953.

  But he was not afraid. He was doing this for his country. But more to the point, he was doing this to save his ass. Remo felt himself go up into the air. Everything spun before his eyes. He felt no pain. Probably the impact of a multi-ton engine had shocked his nervous system so badly there was no pain. Or maybe, he thought, I'm already dead.

  He forced himself to open his eyes. The stars stared down at him. He felt at one with them. At peace. His only regret was that he hadn't had time to say good-bye to his friend and mentor. Maybe it was not too late. Maybe Chiun would hear him. "Good-bye, Little Father," he whispered.

  "Why?" retorted Chiun's querulous voice. "Are you going somewhere without me?"

  "Chiun?"

  The Master of Sinanju's parchment face stared down at Remo.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "That is not the question," Chiun scolded. "The question is: what are you doing playing in the sand when there is work to be done?"

  "But the locomotive?"

  Chiun pointed up into the night sky. "There."

  A starlike streak arced across the sky. The thundercrack of a sonic boom filled the air.

  Remo looked around. He was lying in the sand. "How did I get here?"

  "I threw you there. And is a thank-you too much to ask for one who has saved your miserable life?"

  "You pulled me out of the way?"

  "I had no choice in the matter. You have the beeper. Without it I would not be able to summon a ride home."

  "I'm thrilled you weren't inconvenienced," Remo said. He got to his feet. His knees shook a little. He forced them to steady. He didn't want Chiun to know how scared he had been.

  "Thanks," Remo said solemnly.

  "We have found the place of evil locomotives."

  "No shit," Remo said, forcing himself to be flip. "Now what?"

  "I think it will be safe to descend now. I see no more locomotives."

  "You first," Remo said.

  Chiun looked at Remo's wobbling knees and nodded quietly.

  They used the rails, letting themselves down like silent spiders. The angle turned shallow, and at the bottom they were standing on a nearly flat surface. The rails stopped flush at a stainless-steel wall.

  "This looks like a door or hatch," Remo said, touching the slick surface. "Hey, open sesame, somebody."

  The hatch hummed open.

  "Congratulations," Chiun said. "You said the magic word." They peered out into a dimly lit area where an elevated control booth overlooked a set of railroad tracks. The tracks were an extension of the set under their feet. Workers in green smocks hurried about busily.

  "I take back my compliment," Chiun said. "They did not hear you. I think they are preparing for another attack."

  "Look," said Remo. "The head cheese himself. Colonel Intifadah."

  "Looks like the green cheese," Chiun remarked as he watched Colonel Intifadah step into an olive-green jeep and drive off.

  "We get him and we have the problem licked," Remo said, stepping out of the breech.

  Chiun eyed a keypad mounted beside the hatch and hammered it with the heel of his hand. Keys fell out like bad teeth.

  "Good move. I'll take care of the control booth," Remo said. He rushed for the door. A guard saw him and raised an automatic rifle. He opened fire. Remo raced ahead of the first bullet. The guard kept correcting his aim. He shot the hell out of the control console trying to nail Remo. When his clip ran empty, Remo sauntered up to him and said, "Thank you." Then he kicked the man through the rear wall.

  Chiun joined him in the booth. "I have accounted for the other garbage," he said. Remo looked through the shattered Plexiglas. Pieces of Lobynian workers lay scattered about.

  "You were pretty hard on them," Remo pointed out.

  "We are in a hurry. Now let us get the green cheese."

  "I'm with you," Remo said, and they raced down the railroad tracks up to the distant speck of light that was the other end of the access tunnel.

  Colonel Intifadah wheeled his jeep into position on the railroad tracks. He bac
ked the jeep until its rear spare tire was only a foot away from the nose of the silent locomotive. It gleamed. Its nose was webby with wound carbon-carbon filaments.

  "All is well," said Hamid Al-Mudir.

  "Excellent! Excellent!" enthused Colonel Hannibal Intifadah. "Now. Quickly. Hitch the engine to the back of the jeep."

  "At once, Brother Colonel."

  Under Al-Mudir's direction, steel cables were hitched to the hornlike buffer rods protruding from the engine. "Now tell them to push."

  "Push!" Al-Mudir called.

  Lobynian workers got behind the engine and struggled to get it moving.

  Colonel Intifadah started the jeep. It bumped over the railroad ties. The cables straightened, and held. Under their combined efforts, the engine inched forward. It began to roll. Momentum took over. The wheels spun; drive rods pumping with each revolution.

  Looking back over his shoulder, Colonel Intifadah smiled. It would be a glorious night. Within minutes this mighty engine of death would be loaded into the Accelerator and hurled into the night sky. Its boilers crammed with nerve agent, it would tumble over the Atlantic and fall more or less in the vicinity of Chicago, Illinois. It was not Washington, but it was a major American city. Even Colonel Intifadah had heard of it.

  He pushed down on the gas pedal, anxious for the moment of ultimate revenge.

  The great bunker doors yawned ahead. The gleaming, starlit rails disappeared inside. Soon, soon, he thought happily. Then the smile was erased from his face.

  Out of the tunnel flashed two men. One was tall and skinny and all in black. His eyes were as dead and determined as a vengeful afrit's. And beside him ran an Oriental, shorter and older, but with fire in his clear, wise eyes.

  The whoosh of their passing knocked the green service cap off Colonel Hannibal Intifadah's head. They passed on either side of him and disappeared behind the back of the locomotive.

  From there came the satisfying brief bark of gunfire. Remo hit the Lobynian crew like a truck. He scattered them to either side. Those who had sidearms touched them only long enough to send futile bullets into the sand or the sky.

  Chiun descended upon the others. They flew in all directions. Most of them went up into the air. Some landed on the hard rails. More than one Lobynian skull split and spilled its contents.

  "The terrible smell is strong here," Chiun warned.