Cold Warrior td-91

by Warren Murphy

  The CEO had hauled him onto the carpet within the hour.

  As Phipps later heard it, the CEO opened up the confrontation with a curt, "You're fired!"

  "But sir, I saved a little girl from drowning."

  "And removed your squirrel head. That wasn't necessary."

  "I had to resuscitate!"

  "You could have done it through the mask, or let the parents do their own CPR. You stepped out of character, and worse, you deprived the organization of a wonderful public relations bonanza."

  "Sir?"

  "A ton of tourists took photos of you giving mouth-to-mouth. Had you kept your head on your shoulders, we could have had that photo run in everything from People to Isvestia, furthering the glorious Beasley legend."

  "But-"

  "We're selling fantasy here, and you popped the bubble! Can you imagine that little girl's trauma when you took your Screwball Squirrel head off?"

  "She was unconscious!"

  "Turn in your tail and pick up your last check."

  When Ron Phipps heard the story from the tearful greeter that very same day, he wondered aloud, "What would Uncle Sam have said if he could have seen it?"

  "The same thing the CEO did," the greeter overseer said. " 'You're fired.' Keep that in mind, Phipps. "

  Ronald Phipps did. He never, never wanted not to be a part of Sam Beasley World. So when the demands on him increased, he made sure he was equal to them. If the organization said to dump that old lady out of a Beasley-owned wheelchair, he did so. If a fellow worker grumbled about working in "Mouseschwitz," he turned him in. None of it was what Ronald Phipps had thought Beasley World stood for, but orders were orders.

  But this . . .

  "You all know how to use these things," the security overseer was saying, in the underground dressing rooms where all the cartoon costumes were stored.

  Phipps accepted the short-barreled machine pistol, with its oversized trigger guard so he could slip his padded wolf's-paw fingers inside. The weapon felt enormously heavy.

  The overseer went on.

  "We always knew that terrorists would one day try to penetrate Sam Beasley World, symbol of all that is America. You've trained for this day. You're prepared for this day. Now that day is here."

  Ron Phipps looked around, and saw a disturbing sight. Screwball Squirrel was brandishing an Ingram. Mother Goose had a pump-action shotgun. Everyone had known about the potential Cuban threat, but it was incredible that Beasley World actually had been targeted. The overseer said Cuban terrorists had already penetrated the park.

  "Rule number one is 'Aim at your target and hit what you aim at.' " reminded the overseer.

  "Rule number two is 'Try not to damage the attractions,' " he added. "There are only two terrorists. This should be a walk in the Haunted Grove, so to speak."

  There came nervous laughter from a dozen happy heads, as they marched single-file to the freight elevator that would take them topside to their rendezvous with destiny.

  Remo followed the Master of Sinanju through Sam Beasley World, a dull, stricken look on his face.

  "This isn't happening," he said under his breath.

  Then Chiun's squeaky voice called out, "Look, Remo! Wacky Wolf! Let us ask the befuddled canine the way."

  Remo looked up. The Master of Sinanju had veered off toward Horrible House, a Louisiana Gothic mansion whose shuttered windows held ghoulish faces.

  "Hold up, Chiun. I don't think we should take anything for granted here."

  "Yoo-hoo, Wolfie!" called Chiun.

  And to Remo's horror, the giant form of Wacky Wolf dropped to one knee and brought up the muzzle of an Ingram submachine gun.

  The weapon blatted nasty sound and a tongue of fire.

  The Master of Sinanju leaped high in the air, over the scream of bullets that tore past Remo's dipping shoulder and perforated a child-size Ferris wheel. The creaking seats rocked and swayed, some dangling, damaged.

  The Master of Sinanju landed atop the Wolf's funny hat. The head jammed down with a dull, mortal crack, and the rest of the creature folded to the immaculate cobblestones.

  Chiun stepped off the corpse, frowning.

  "Obviously some of the inhabitants have not been informed that Sinanju now rules their happy domain," he sniffed.

  Remo stopped to lift off the absurd wolf's head. The face revealed was unexceptional. Remo replaced it, sick. The guy looked barely twenty.

  "These guys are supposed to be greeters," he said, aghast. "What are they doing toting automatic weapons?"

  "Uncle Sam can explain this to us," Chiun said firmly.

  "Listen!" Remo said sharply.

  And all around them, the cool air carried furtive sounds. Pounding heartbeats. The sip and whistle of people breathing carefully through their mouths. Padding feet. Floppy, padding feet.

  "Don't look now," Remo said, "but the bears are coming out of hibernation."

  In the long shadows of the rising sun they spied peering, semi-human faces. Flat, too-round eyes seemed to regard them. Unreasonably large paws reached around gingerbread corners. Or clutched assorted weaponry.

  "What say we split up?" Remo suggested. "Maybe get to whoever's giving the orders faster?"

  "Let no harm come to Mongo Mouse, Remo," Chiun admonished.

  "What if he's the ringleader?"

  "Take him prisoner. One as famous as he will surely fetch a bountiful ransom."

  "Gotcha," said Remo, thinking that he couldn't hurt Mongo Mouse, no matter what. Once he had been the roundeared rodent's biggest fan. They went in opposite directions.

  Chapter 17

  "Director, they're splitting up."

  "Damn!"

  "And Wacky Wolf is down."

  "Process his mangy carcass according to park guidelines. And burn his timecard. He did not show up for work today."

  "Yes, sir."

  The Director turned in his chair. The overhead screens were cutting from monitor to monitor, scanning for the intruders.

  The Director heaved himself out of his chair and clumped over to Captain Maus's station.

  "Relinquish your chair," he snapped. "I'm directing this damned production from now on."

  "Yes, Director."

  The Director clumped over and eased himself into the warm chair, taking care with his sterling-silver left leg. His hands went to the control-button array. He began calling up cameras.

  It was a frustrating search. The greeters stood out like marshmallows in a coal bin. The two intruders might as well have been invisible.

  Once, the Director caught a glimpse of a fugitive rag of black slipping behind a polyurethane candy cane. When he called up a different angle, there was no sign of the owner of the ebony garment.

  But Screwball Squirrel lay on his back, impaled by his own umbrella.

  "Damn! The Squirrel is down, too."

  "I assure you we have the two unknowns outnumbered," Maus said from his station.

  The Director worked his cameras impatiently. There was Dingbat Duck, his pride and joy, crouching at the edge of the Phantom Lagoon, his beady crossed eyes alert.

  "The hell!" he snarled suddenly.

  "What is it, sir?"

  "Will you look at that idiot quacker! You can see the seam at his neck. Pull him out of it. I want my people looking like their inspirations, damn it!"

  "At once, sir."

  Captain Maus went to a console and spoke into a microphone mounted on a flexible steel stalk.

  "Overseer. Withdraw the duck. He's out of character. Repeat: The duck is out of character."

  The Director moved on, knowing his orders would be carried out to the letter. It was like the Jesuits used to say: "Give me a boy at seven, and I will show you the man."

  It was his second favorite saying.

  The first was: "The Mouse means revenue. Shield the Mouse, and you protect the revenue."

  A roving camera mounted near the Tom Thumb Pavilion happened to pick up the top of someone's head. The hair was brown
and human.

  "Got one!" he exulted.

  As if the owner of the hair had somehow heard him remotely, the brown-haired head stopped, turned, and looked up. And the deadest eyes the Director had ever seen were looking directly at him.

  "He's by the Tom Thumb Pavilion," he snapped to Maus.

  "Acknowledged." Maus began issuing orders into the mike.

  And on the screen, the owner of the dead eyes lifted two splayed fingers and poked them in the Director's direction.

  The screen spiderwebbed and went dark.

  "Damn!" spat the Director, punching up another camera.

  "Sir. The overseer reports the duck is down."

  "Not Dingy?"

  "Afraid so, sir. That seam? When the overseer went to check, the quacker was in a crouching position and refused to respond to vocal commands. He pulled the Duck's head off to reprimand him."

  "And?"

  "Nothing but a stump where the neck ended."

  "That's it! We're changing tactics. Sweatbox them!"

  "Yes, sir!"

  "We're at Threatcon Gumpy. Go to Threatcon Spooky. I want the entire park on a military footing. All pavilions and attractions convert to combat readiness. Now!"

  "Executing."

  "See if you can get the fruity-looking guy with the brown hair into the Tom Thumb Pavilion."

  "I'll instruct the greeters to flush him in that direction."

  "Flush, my pink ass! Lure them in. I want them dead and disposed of. We open to the public in two hours and we have a duck head unaccounted for. What if some snot-nosed brat picks it up? The lawsuits will go on into the next century."

  "At once, Director."

  It was too easy.

  Remo slipped between the places where the skulking greeters lurked. He didn't want to kill any, but he was forced to ace the squirrel and the duck. It left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  Near the Tom Thumb Pavilion, he paused. A faint whir brought his head up alertly.

  Remo turned. Through a tiny window, he sensed an electrical hum. Another concealed camera. The park was riddled with them.

  He used two stiffened fingers to blind this one and then moved on.

  Then the patterns changed.

  Up until now, Remo had been aware of every nearby stalker. Their hot breaths and clumsy walks gave their positions away.

  Now, they retreated. Flat, wide eyes withdrew from windows.

  Something was going on. Moving low, Remo floated down to Phantom Lagoon, where piles of papier-mache rocks hugged the artificial shore.

  He slipped onto the landward side and went up the rocks.

  Remo lay flat on the sun-warmed summit, looking around. The position kept him out of sight, and also distributed his body weight so that the rocks wouldn't buckle beneath him.

  Beasley World looked peaceful in the morning sun. Here and there a 'toon edged around a corner, his machine pistol poked forward incongruously. There was no sign of Chiun. Which actually was a good sign.

  Behind him, he heard a warning gurgle.

  Remo looked over his shoulder. Just in time.

  Breaking the stillness of Phantom Lagoon was a baroque purple submarine, its narwhal-nosed bow pointed in his direction.

  "Uh-oh," Remo muttered, remembering the movie the attraction was modeled after.

  The water bubbled and boiled-and something shot out of the sub's unicorn nose. It arrowed toward Remo's flimsy perch.

  Remo bounced to his feet and kept going. He executed a slow, languorous midair backflip that took him backward, over the churning torpedo.

  Remo dropped behind the armored safety of the sub's conning tower as the torpedo struck the fake rocks.

  The explosion was muffled. Papier-mache flew in fiery rags, mixed with pebble shrapnel.

  When the echoes had ceased reverberating, Remo stood up to look. There was a smoking pit where the "rocks" had been.

  Then Remo began peeling plates off the sub's colorful hull. It was like peeling a banana with an onion skin. Every layer revealed another. Muttering, "The hell with it," he drove his fist into a point along the waterline, making a hole.

  Water rushed in, and Remo rode the sub to the shallow bottom. An escape hatch blew in a boil of bubbles, and a frogman swam out. Not a man in a wet suit, but one in a rubber frog skin. Eyes goggling, he kicked his webbed feet toward the surface.

  Remo caught him by the back of his green neck and held him just under the surface, until his flippers stopped kicking and the last air bubble struggled from his gasping mouth.

  Then Remo let his natural buoyancy bring him back to the surface.

  Remo popped up and found himself face-to-snout with a gray polyester aardvark, standing on the shore.

  He didn't recognize the aardvark. There had been a lot of Beasley cartoons produced since Remo was a boy, and over the years he'd lost track.

  Consequently he didn't know what to call the aardvark.

  So he said, "Don't make a mistake, pal."

  The aardvark didn't seem to take the advice to heart. He lowered the muzzle of his short-barreled machine pistol in the direction of Remo's dripping head.

  He didn't get to use it.

  Remo shot out of the water like a porpoise. He went up and, with his ankles still submerged, suddenly changed direction, veering toward his assailant. He left a modest wake and landed upright on shore, where he took possession of the pistol by yanking it from its owner's furry grasp.

  The aardvark's paw came away with the weapon, trigger finger caught in the ringlike trigger guard.

  "Betcha can't do this, even in cartoons," Remo said, squeezing the weapon in his steel-hard fingers. They found weak points in the metal. The weapon began shedding parts amid metallic squeals of complaint.

  The aardvark cried "Tarim!" in a funny voice and turned tail. Literally.

  Remo started after him.

  He was easy to follow, for he waddled as he ran. Remo decided to follow him back to his hole-or wherever it was aardvarks lived. Someone had to be in charge of this insanity.

  The gray 'toon bobbled and slipped among the plastic palms, looking back often as he worked his way to the Tom Thumb Pavilion. His eyes, unreal as they were, looked positively frightened.

  At the pavilion entrance he turned one last time, lingered, and, when he saw Remo coming in his direction, ducked in.

  "Looks like a trap," Remo muttered. "Okay," he said, shrugging. "So it's a trap."

  The Master of Sinanju paused to ask directions.

  "Excuse me," he inquired, of the figure standing before an old-fashioned outdoor clock resembling a numerically calibrated all-day sucker. "I seek the illustrious Mongo Mouse."

  The figure, its clear eyes very bright in its homely, bearded face, ignored the Master of Sinanju.

  The Master of Sinanju tugged at its sleeve.

  "I said, I seek the illustrious-"

  Suddenly the figure jerked to life. Only then did the Master of Sinanju recognize it as one of the previous rulers of this odd nation. He wore the royal crown of that era, known as the "stovepipe hat."

  Then the figure of Abraham Lincoln spat out a croaky, "Fuck you," and went stiff once more.

  Insulted, the Master of Sinanju narrowed his hazel eyes.

  His acute hearing picked up no sounds of human biology. So he stamped the simulacrum's feet into shattered piles and stepped away as it fell on its gaunt face and shattered.

  He walked on.

  Here was wonder at every step, Chiun thought. Here was an abode worthy of the Master of Sinanju. With a critical eye, he made a mental inventory of the ugly structures that would have to be razed. Future World would be the first to go. But the monorail might be retained. For his personal use only. Remo could drive.

  Off to one side stood the Haunted Grove, where the trees had faces. Curious, he moved toward it.

  A hulking shape loomed out of the plastic copse.

  It was Hunny Bear, his porkpie hat askew.

  "Hail, O bashful bruin," cri
ed the Master of Sinanju in greeting.

  The bear had a crockery honey jar under one arm, and he lifted it over his head with both hands. He heaved it at the Master of Sinanju.

  The spot where the old Korean had been standing was cobbled in plastic. The jar broke, and splashed a hissing, spitting white liquid onto that exact spot. The white paint browned and bubbled like a witch's cauldron. But there was no one there anymore.

  The bear stared at the phenomenon, long jaw agape. He was still staring when the angry form of the Master of Sinanju came out from behind a growling tree and relieved him of his heads.

  Both of them.

  The goofy bear head sailed up and then returned, a falling spacecraft separating into two reentry vehicles: Bear and not bear.

  Both heads struck the ground at the same time. The human one went splat.

  The Master of Sinanju looked about him.

  Beyond the Haunted Woods, perched on a low sawgrass hill, loomed Horrible House, its jack-o'-lantern shutters hanging askew. And waving to him from one of the windows was no less than Monongahela Mouse himself, his lollipop ears alert.

  "Ah," said Chiun. "The famous mouse will point the way, for he is always helpful and kind."

  "Director, the tall one has entered the Tom Thumb Pavilion."

  "Hah! Did you see that? I spooked the little gook. I made Lincoln say 'Fuck you' right in his face. Remind me to have a fart function installed in the Presidential Pavilion. Not just sound, but smell too. I want every Chief Executive, with his own distinctive and identifiable gas!"

  "Director, shall I load the alternate program?"

  "Huh? What? Oh, right. Switch over."

  "Switching over."

  "It's a life of wonder, "A life of gloom, "We live a life of storms, "And a life that's doomed. "It's a short, short life, don't you know?"

  "That's not how the song goes," Remo muttered as he entered the Tom Thumb Pavilion.

  It was dark, but there was enough light to see by. Remo ignored the cake-frosting trolley cars and walked the track.

  On either side of him stood tiny scenes. Ballerinas. Fairy woods. A tiny ice pond with skaters. Eskimo. Tahitians. Bavarians. All nationalities were portrayed. It was a celebration of the diversity of life on the planet Earth.

  And it didn't go with the music being piped in from hidden loudspeakers. At all.