The Last Dragon td-92

by Warren Murphy

  "All is satisfactory," Chiun pronounced at last.

  Smith started to rise.

  "It will be an honor if you would pass the night in our new abode," said Chiun.

  "Really, I must be returning to Folcroft."

  "It is customary," said Chiun.

  "That means do it or hear about it the rest of your natural life," Remo translated.

  "Very well," said Harold W. Smith, trying to sound grateful, but instead coming across as constipated.

  Chiun beamed. "A wonderful meal will be prepared in your honor."

  "Better make that takeout," said Remo. "No stove. No food."

  Chiun clapped delicate hands together, producing a report so sharp it should have shattered his fingerbones. "Remo! Quickly-purchase these things."

  "I don't think we can get same-day delivery."

  "Tell the merchants that these items are to make a sumptuous meal for Emperor Harold Smith, the secret ruler of this gracious land."

  Smith looked horrorstruck. "Please do not say that, Remo!" he croaked.

  "Don't sweat it, Smitty. Rubber walls don't appeal to me right now. Although they might suit me fine if Cheeta moves in."

  "And a television device," Chiun added. "A large one, for within hours, beauteous Cheeta Ching will dispense wisdom and grace upon this generous land."

  "Maybe this is a good time to clear the air," Remo suggested.

  "You may clear the air after you have cooked Emperor Smith a feast suitable for his regal belly," Chiun countered.

  "Cook! I'm the errand boy. Who says I gotta cook, too?"

  "Your conscience."

  "Huh?"

  "Your conscience so says. Are you not listening to it, Remo?"

  "No, I am not. I want to talk about Cheeta Ching, her biscuit in the oven, and our future."

  "Remo is correct, Master Chiun," said Smith. "I know this is a delicate matter, but it would not be wise to invite Cheeta Ching to cohabitate with you."

  Chiun blew out his cheeks at the rude American word. He held his tongue, however.

  "I intend no such thing," he said stiffly.

  "Good," said Smith.

  "Great," said Remo.

  "Cheeta the Graceful is a married woman. I will not cohabitate with her. That is her husband's happy duty."

  "Great," said Remo.

  "Wonderful," said Smith.

  "She will only dwell here, she and her offspring."

  "No," groaned Remo.

  "Have you asked her?" asked Smith.

  "Not as yet," Chiun admitted. "I am awaiting the proper time, which will be soon, for she waxes full in childbirth as a yellow moon of fecundity."

  Smith cleared his throat. "There may be difficulties, Master Chiun."

  "Such as . . ."

  "Cheeta lives and works in New York City."

  "So? She may live and work in this city of previous emperors."

  Remo blinked. "This place?"

  "Quincy was the birthplace of two early presidents," Smith said.

  "Nice touch," Remo whispered to Smith. "I can see how you sold him on this rock pile."

  "Thank you." To Chiun, Smith said, "Miss Ching is bound by contract to work out of New York City. I doubt that she will break that contract for the privilege of living here."

  "That remains to be seen," Chiun sniffed.

  "Er, of course."

  "Cheeta will have no need of employment once her child comes. It would be unseemly."

  Remo laughed. "You don't know Cheeta. The original 'I can have it all' superanchorwoman."

  "Silence! Why are you not about your errands, slothful one? The day is growing short."

  Remo got up. "I'll leave you two to work out Cheeta's maternity leave."

  He went down the stairs with no more sound than a puff of air.

  After Remo had departed, the Master of Sinanju leaned forward and confided in his emperor. "Do not fret, Oh wise Smith. Remo's dark mood will pass. It is always thus with the firstborn."

  "Master Chiun?"

  "They always fear being supplanted by the children who follow."

  Smith swallowed. "But Remo does have a point."

  "Yes, he does," Chiun admitted.

  "I am glad you see it that way."

  "Perhaps the next time he undergoes plastic surgery, this can be remedied."

  Smith looked blank.

  "I think he should have a proper Korean nose, like mine. Not one that is so large and ends in an unsightly point."

  And the Master of Sinanju winked mischievously.

  Chapter 7

  Miraculously, they reached the railhead at M'nolo KiGor without any further incidents.

  It had been another day's trek. They had run out of fresh jungle chocolate and were down to their last two baskets of toadstools.

  This slowed them down because the Apatosaur every so often got tired of toadstool. They solved this by spacing them further apart. Hunger drove the beast onward.

  Skip King had been in touch with the railhead by walkie-talkie and arrangements had been made.

  "It's all set," he said as they watched Old Jack lumber toward the railroad tracks. "The train is waiting. All we have to do is get him onto the flatcar."

  "And how do you propose to do that?" Nancy asked flintily.

  "I was going to leave that up to you, since you're in charge now," King sneered.

  It was a problem, Nancy realized. She huddled with Thorpe and the Bantus.

  "Any suggestions?"

  "Frankly, Dr. Derringer, I don't think there's any way it can be done. If we trank the big bugger, we're talking about ten tons of dead reptilian weight. And getting him to climb onto a flatcar on his own hook is out of the question."

  Nancy chewed her lower lip and made thoughtful faces.

  "There must be a way."

  She looked over to Skip King, who was fanning his sharp face with his bush hat.

  "Wait a minute," she murmured. "King set up this whole thing. Surely, he had some semiworkable plan in mind."

  "I'll ask him."

  Thorpe walked over and conferred with King. Nancy noticed the grin coming over King's lean face and knew what was coming next.

  "King wants you to ask him."

  "There's a price attached, I'm sure," Nancy said, striding over to him. "All right, King, I understand you have a plan."

  King tried to keep the smugness out of his face and failed. "We have to do it my way. Under my command."

  "Why?"

  "So people won't say Skip King didn't pull his own weight."

  "Let me guess. You're planning to have every moment recorded for posterity."

  "I'm a big home movie fan."

  Nancy sighed. "All right, King. It's your show. But it's your failure if you screw up."

  "Skip King never screws up when he has his way."

  "I hate myself for letting this happen," Nancy told Thorpe a moment later.

  "Keep your pecker up, as we Brits say."

  King called the Bantus together.

  "I'm in charge again. Savvy?"

  They stared at him.

  "I want the trank rifles distributed and every man ready to bring Old Jack down when I give the signal. Any questions?"

  No one spoke.

  "Good. And let's get those T-shirts turned around, this is going to be recorded for posterity."

  No one moved.

  "Now!"

  Reluctantly, the Bantus peeled off their sweaty, dirt-smeared T-shirts and put them on right side out. None of them talked among themselves, but every man seemed to have the same idea at the same time because they put them on with the Burger Triumph logos on their backs, leaving the fronts blank.

  King glared at them. "I give up."

  "Missy Nancy in charge again?" one asked.

  "No!"

  They stalked the Apatosaur, sowing toadstools in its path. Like some tireless beast of burden, it lumbered along. From time to time it took notice of them, but as long as there were morsels to be found
along the path, the creature paid the tiny humans no heed.

  When they were within a quarter mile of the railroad, King got the expedition organized.

  "You, you, and you, keep Old Jack moving. And be ready to use your weapons when I say." He turned to Nancy and Thorpe. "The rest of you tag along. You're about to see genius at work."

  The railhead was nothing more than a half rotted platform, a signal house and one rusty length of track. The old Marxist government of Gondwanaland had thought it could save money by building only one set of tracks. They hadn't thought to install a signal system and after six train wrecks in the first year, they spent the money they had saved-plus thirty percent more-installing a switching-and-signal system.

  The waiting train consisted of two locomotives in front and a pusher in back. Between them was a heavily reinforced flatcar and a decrepit passenger car.

  "That's it," King said. "The way to Port Chuma is straight as an arrow. Once we get Old Jack up on that car, it should be a cinch."

  "That's a big 'if,' " Nancy clucked.

  "You watch."

  King measured out a length of the approach with his feet, saying, "I paced the monster when it was asleep, so I'd know exactly how long to mark off." He scuffed an X at either end of the line he had paced off.

  "Okay," he said, clapping his hands together, "everything we need is on the train."

  At the train, King was met by a man in a purple beret and a Boy Scout blue uniform burdened by heavy ropes of gold braid. He called others out.

  Noticing the outfits, Nancy asked Thorpe, "Recognize the uniforms?"

  "Can't say that I do."

  As they got close, King dispelled all their questions.

  "This is Sergeant Shakes."

  "Of what?" Thorpe wondered.

  King grinned proudly. "The Burger Berets. Our special purposes strike team. Created just for this operation."

  Nancy and Thorpe looked at one another.

  "I don't know whether to laugh or cry," Nancy undertoned.

  "Let's be polite to the gentlemen," Thorpe said. "Gents, what's your pleasure?"

  Sergeant Shakes began offloading great canvas sacks tied with drawstring. "Bring these over to the line," he said.

  They got them over and King ordered the back opened. They looked like post office mail sacks, but much heavier.

  King brought the first leather-and-cable harness out. It was over a dozen feet long, and the leather was cut broad and riveted together in layers.

  "The idea is to lay these out every so many feet. Got that?"

  Nancy gave one of the straps a thorough examination.

  "A harness?"

  "Tested until it can take one thousand foot-pounds of weight per square inch."

  "Impressive," she murmured.

  "Glad you think so."

  "But how are you going to convince Clark Kent to gather them all up once you drop Old Jack onto these? That is your brilliant plan, isn't it?"

  "All except the Clark Kent part," King said.

  They got the straps laid. King went back and forth, adjusting the intervals, until he was satisfied.

  Then they found places to wait, rifles at the ready and videocams whirring.

  Soon, the ground was rumbling under their feet and the dayglow saurian face loomed out of the bush like the Serpent of Eden.

  "No one shoot until I say so," King warned. "Cameramen, come in tight on me."

  The creature lumbered closer, the Bantus coming ahead of it, placing food.

  "Thorpe!" King snapped. "Tell them to stop. I want a whole pile of it dumped out right where that flat rock is."

  Thorpe came out from behind some nettles and collected the last basket of toadstools. He set the basket down onto the flat rock, and found cover again.

  Old Jack paused. Its head swung around as if searching for something familiar.

  "He doesn't see the damn toadstools!" King hissed.

  "I'll fix that," Nancy said, running out.

  She got in the creature's path and waved her arms.

  "Here! Jack! Follow me!"

  The beast looked at her. It made a low sound.

  "Just a little closer."

  It started forward. Nancy backed away. The reptile shook the dry ground with each step, throwing up dusty puffs that hung low a long time in the still African air.

  Nancy walked backward until one heel touched the basket. Then she quickly turned and dumped it out, stomping the fungi into a malodorous morass.

  "That should do it," she said, joining Thorpe in the bush.

  The creature picked up its pace. The thumping of the earth came at closer intervals.

  It stopped, straddling the straps and attacked the food that had been laid out for it.

  Skip King popped out of the bush and put his rifle to his shoulder. He gave his cameramen three seconds to frame the shot, then fired three times into the thickest part of the creature's tail.

  Only then did he shout, "Now! Open fire!"

  Rifles poked out of the brush all around, bucked, and made harsh noises.

  Tranquilizer darts feathered different places in the monster's anatomy.

  Nothing happened.

  "Why doesn't he go down?" King wailed, eyes sick.

  "It takes a while," Nancy said. "The Apatosaur circulatory system is huge so the tranquilizers have a lot of bloodstream to run before they reach the sleep receptors of the brain."

  It took nearly three minutes, but the great legs began shuddering. Slowly the dinosaur eased itself down into an awkward kneel, lowering its stomach to the dusty earth. The head came up from its meal and craned back as if to see why the body was not being supported by the sequoia-thick legs; finally the eyes surrendered and the head came to rest curled back toward the body, like a sleeping cat.

  "Shakes-call in the cavalry!"

  "Cavalry?" Nancy muttered.

  Sergeant Shakes got on a walkie-talkie. Before long the sky was reverberating with the racket of a massive helicopter skycrane. It was white, its stick-thin wheel assemblies hanging insectlike from the gaping space where a cargo container would normally be carried.

  Nancy stood watching it with her mouth hanging open and a look of disbelief on her face.

  "This can't possibly work!"

  "Might," Thorpe allowed.

  It did.

  Under King's frantic direction, the Bantus swarmed over the inert carcass. The cable ends were brought together on the back of the creature's spine and affixed to cables lowered from the hovering skycrane.

  When it was all rigged, King gave a prearranged signal.

  "Lift!"

  The skycrane began to lift, its rotors making the tawny savanna grass shiver in sympathy. The cables lifted, grew taut, and everyone held their breath.

  The head, being lighter, lifted up first. The meaty part of the tail came off the ground.

  The helicopter engine whined and grew shrill from strain. It seemed for a long time the weight of the great saurian would defeat it, but then the hindquarters came off the ground, followed by the breast and the belly.

  Slowly; the monster was brought over the string of cars and-with infinite patience-aligned with the reinforced flatcar.

  King ran around frantically checking and screaming into the walkie-talkie.

  "Okay, begin lowering. And the pilot who screws up will be flying a crop duster in darkest Iowa the rest of his life."

  The long flatcar platform received the belly with a groaning of springs and a threatening squeaking. The hanging legs bent up at the knees and assumed unnatural positions that brought to mind a dressed turkey, but meant the legs would not be crushed by the weight of the body.

  The head, limp and lifeless, dropped into the dirt and looked dead.

  "The poor thing," Nancy said plaintively.

  The tip of the tail dropped off the end, but the thick root lay safely on the flatcar bed. There came a final groan of complaining steel, and no more.

  The skycrane sank lower and the ca
bles grew lax.

  "Looks like it's going to work," King said, voice strung tight. "Looks like . . . Yes! Yes! Yes! It's another triumph for Burger Triumph!"

  The cables were unsnapped and stowed along the sides of the cars, ready for later off-loading. Folding gates were raised to form a low cage, but it was obvious that should the cargo ever shift, nothing could prevent a catastrophe.

  "Okay," King called, even though everyone was within whispering distance, "we get the head and tail onto the cars and then we're ready to move."

  The Bantus took the tail. They wanted no part of the head.

  Nancy stayed close to the Burger Beret team as they muscled the head off the ground and tried to find a place to put it.

  "The damn neck's too long," King said in exasperation.

  "Why don't you just cut the head off?" Nancy suggested.

  King looked up, a gleam in his eyes. Then it died. "What am I thinking? No, we can't do that!"

  Nancy smiled. "Just testing your brain. It's working-just a little slow."

  "How about a little credit for a job well done?"

  "We're a long way from Port Chuma," Nancy shot back. "And if you're open to suggestions, I have one."

  King looked around to see if there were any cameras recording the conversation. Finding none, he said, "Go ahead."

  "The head might fit into the cab of the second locomotive."

  King looked from Nancy to the locomotive. Then he stood up and cupped his hands over his mouth. "Hey, everybody, I had a brainstorm! We can fit the head into locomotive cab!"

  Clambering down, he mumbled a grudging, "Thanks."

  "Oh, don't mention it."

  It took nearly every hand to maneuver the head in, but they did it.

  "All right, everyone," King shouted, "space is tight so find a place to ride and we'll be off."

  "There isn't room for everybody," Thorpe pointed out.

  "Let the natives trot alongside the train."

  "Be serious."

  "Then leave them behind."

  "You can't mean that!"

  "No? Maybe next time they'll wear the sponsor's shirts with pride."

  "If they stay, I stay," Thorpe said firmly.

  "Then you stay. The check will be in the mail."

  "If he stays, I stay," Nancy added.

  King considered. What he would have said remained unspoken.

  "Dr. Derringer, I can handle this from here," Thorpe said. "You stick with Old Jack. Maybe we'll meet up in the States."