The Last Monarch td-120

by Warren Murphy

  "Mr. Howard, General Smith. What have you learned?"

  The voice was as sour as a sack of squeezed lemons. Howard placed the silver disc softly on his desk.

  "For starters, your ship didn't sink, General," he said.

  "You have located it?"

  "Yes, sir. And not at all where you expected it to be."

  "Where is it?" Smith demanded.

  "Right about now, it's southeast of the Azores and tearing through the ocean like a bat out of hell. It should be passing through the Strait of Gibraltar by morning."

  "Are you certain?" Smith asked.

  "I've got the real-time satellite feed on my monitor right now," Howard said. He spun his feet into the footwell of his desk. The image of the Grappler updated at twenty-second intervals. As he spoke, the old picture was eclipsed by the newest snapshot. "If you can get access to Spacetrack, you'll see what I'm seeing."

  Howard heard some rapid tapping from Smith's end of the line. It was more precise than drumming fingers. If he was typing, he didn't have a standard keyboard.

  The tapping stopped.

  "This is not clear enough," General Smith complained.

  "I enlarged the image, sir. It is your boat," Howard insisted.

  As he spoke, Howard was stunned to see the image on his own screen enlarge. The larger image of the Radiant Grappler II came into starkly clear focus, much clearer than any photographic reproduction.

  Howard stared at his computer in disbelief. Not only had he not touched his keyboard, his system shouldn't have been capable of enlarging a real-time satellite feed.

  General Smith was accessing the Spacetrack data through Howard's own computer.

  On his monitor, the bird's-eye photo of the Radiant Grappler II showed the ship continuing its remorseless trek across the cold Atlantic.

  Howard bit the inside of his cheek. This was all too weird. "General, may I ask what this is all about?" he ventured hesitantly.

  But the nasal voice on the phone acted as if he hadn't even spoken.

  "Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Howard," General Smith said.

  The line promptly went dead. A moment later, the image of the Earthpeace ship vanished from Howard's computer screen. When he checked, Howard found that his uplink to the Spacetrack system had been severed.

  Howard leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms thoughtfully. He stared at his monitor for a long time without actually seeing it. Even when the screen saver came on, he didn't notice.

  "Interesting" was all he said after many pensive minutes. The word was a soft murmur.

  He picked up the CD on which he'd downloaded the satellite data. Fingering it for a few lingering seconds, he finally slipped it into a plastic jewel case. When he stored the disc far back in his desk drawer, there was a thoughtful expression on his pale face.

  He closed the drawer with a muted click.

  REMO'S PLANE from San Francisco had taken them as far as New York. He and Chiun had boarded the first direct flight from JFK to South Africa.

  They were well into the second leg of their journey when Remo felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. Since the start of his Sinanju training, he'd had a problem with women finding him irresistible. Flight attendants were always the worst.

  Although he had discovered a few years ago that shark meat was a natural inhibitor to his pheromones, he hadn't had any in days. Obviously, the effects of his last shark meal were wearing off.

  As the stewardess persisted in tapping his shoulder, Remo feigned sleep.

  "Excuse me, sir?" she pressed. Her breath was warm and close and smelled strongly of peppermint. Remo kept his eyes twisted shut. "Can't talk. Sleeping."

  It didn't work. She gripped his shoulder and shook.

  "Sir?"

  From the seat beside Remo, the Master of Sinanju snorted impatiently.

  "Answer it or it will not go away."

  This irritated Remo even more. He was already ticked at Chiun for taking so long to get upset about the whole Mr. Chin fiasco. Now, after pretending to sleep practically the whole way from California to the middle of the Atlantic, the old crank roused himself just long enough to drag Remo into a conversation with some sex-crazed flight attendant.

  "Thanks a heap, Chiun," Remo growled. Thinking foul thoughts of the Master of Sinanju, he turned a baleful eye on the woman.

  Everything about her that would traditionally be considered attractive in the female form had been inflated to near-comic proportions. Her lips, hair and nails were huge. As she leaned into his seat, her massive breast implants threatened to put out his eyes.

  "In the event of a water landing, do those things double as flotation devices?" he asked, his voice devoid of any trace of enthusiasm.

  "Hmm?" she smiled. She didn't seem to hear him. "I'm terribly sorry to wake you, sir," the woman cooed in a sweetly Southern drawl, "but you have a call." She nodded apologetically to the seat phone in front of Remo.

  "Oh," Remo grumbled, inwardly relieved.

  But when he reached for the phone, a pair of soft, scented hands grabbed hold of his.

  "Why, was there something else you wanted?" the stewardess asked coyly. She caressed his wrist lovingly.

  "The use of my hand will be just fine," he replied.

  "In due time, sugar," she purred. "When I'm through with it."

  "I am going to be ill," the Master of Sinanju said from the adjacent seat.

  "No comments from the peanut gallery," Remo growled. He pulled his hand from the woman's strong grip.

  The flight attendant's face clouded.

  "But it's my job to make you happy," she said, pouting.

  "I'm plenty happy," Remo said, snapping up the phone.

  Chiun snorted.

  "I don't want to lose my job," the woman whined. "I refuse to leave till you let me do what I'm paid for." She crossed her arms over her massive, artificial pontoons.

  "Remo?" the confused voice of Harold Smith asked over the seat phone.

  "In a minute, Smitty," Remo said. He clapped the phone to his chest. "You know what I want?" he asked the morose stewardess.

  Her cloud of dejection broke. Hope sprang anew on her makeup-slathered face.

  "Me?" she sang. "You know, these seats recline."

  She bent to show him.

  Remo shook his head. "Peanuts," he insisted. "All you can get."

  She crinkled her nose and bit her lip. "Hub? Why?"

  Remo pitched his voice low. "They get me in the mood," he said with a conspiratorial wink.

  It was all she needed to hear.

  The woman made a mad dash up the aisle to the service area. As she went, she plucked the complimentary packets of nuts from the trays of the other passengers. A few she yanked right out of people's hands.

  "That should buy me about ten seconds," Remo muttered as he brought the phone to his ear. "Okay, Smitty, what's up?"

  After waiting so long, the CURE director seemed ready to explode. "There has been a change of plans," he announced breathlessly. "The Radiant Grappler II is nearing Portugal."

  "Portugal? That's in Europe."

  "I doubt the emperor phoned to administer a geography quiz," Chiun's squeaky voice said blandly. When Remo glanced over, the Master of Sinanju's eyes were open. He was casting a bored eye out the window.

  "Why don't you go back to sleep, Rip van Winkle?" Remo suggested, agitated.

  "I have tried. But the tawdry soap opera that is your life has murdered sleep for me."

  "You were doing a good job faking it the first fifteen thousand miles."

  "It is not clear where the Grappler is now heading," Smith persisted, interrupting Remo. "The likeliest route, however, would bring it into the Mediterranean."

  "You said it was heading for South Africa."

  "That was the stated destination. It altered course en route."

  "Smitty, we're heading for South Africa," Remo pressed.

  "Not any longer. I have issued an emergency course alteration to the pilot. Yo
ur new destination is Gibraltar."

  "Gibraltar." Remo frowned. "Spain, right?"

  "Actually, it is a colony of Great Britain," Smith said. "By the time you land there, we should have a clearer picture of where the Earthpeace vessel is heading. I will make arrangements for you to be picked up and transported to proximity with the Grappler when it arrives at its ultimate destination. "Has anyone else gotten wind of who's on board?" Remo asked.

  "No," Smith said. "Fortunately for us, the efforts of other agencies thus far have been limited to the United States. However, that could change very quickly. I will continue to monitor the domestic situation and phone you when you land."

  "Okeydoke," Remo said. He replaced the phone.

  "Where will this goose chase take us next?" Chiun complained before Remo had sat back in his seat.

  "You mean seagull chase," Remo said dully.

  "I mean what I mean," Chiun sniffed.

  Remo sighed. "Wherever these Earthpeace whackos go, we follow. They're the ones with the President, remember?"

  A hint of a scowl touched the Master of Sinanju's weathered face. "He is not even your nation's current leader," he clucked. "Why does anyone even care?"

  "Most people don't," Remo admitted honestly. "Then why not just forget him? The bloated nitwit who now rules from the Eagle Throne has the makings of a fine despot. He lies, cheats, betrays his closest allies and is as libidinous as a monkey. All are qualities endemic to the greatest dictators. Be content with him."

  "A compelling argument," Remo said dryly, "but I think we'd better stick with the mission as outlined. We'll get the old President and bring him home."

  "President." Chiun spit the word as if it were a curse. "Pah! What good are Presidents? Idiots appointed by fools to reign for but a few scant years. Every civilized nation knows that the only true leader is a monarch who is born and bred to rule. Preferably a tyrant."

  "Presidents have paid your salary for more than twenty years," Remo pointed out.

  "Smith pays me," Chiun stated firmly.

  "Only because a President started the agency."

  "And not even the one for whom we now search. To say that this is a fool's errand is an insult to fools." As he spoke, his eyes suddenly narrowed to slits. "I see your lunch is ready."

  Chiun nodded to the front of the plane.

  Remo's stewardess was coming up the aisle, arms laden to overflowing with tiny bags of peanuts. The small plastic-wrapped packets that fell to the carpet in her wake were gathered up by two more flight attendants. All three women wore perky, hopeful expressions.

  "I think I'll lock myself in the cockpit for the rest of the flight," he said, turning to the Master of Sinanju.

  Chiun's eyes were already closed tight.

  "Can't talk. Sleeping," the old man said just before he started to snore.

  Chapter 18

  The hot, white Mediterranean sun that poured in through the bridge windows of the Radiant Grappler II washed warmly over the dripping chest of Bryce Babcock.

  Even though Earthpeace had lobbied against the use of air conditioners, no one in the group thought the ban should extend to themselves. After all, they were changing the behavior of countless millions in their fight for Mother Earth. They above all others should be rewarded for their years of tireless effort.

  Although the air conditioning aboard the ship chugged relentlessly, it wasn't enough for Bryce Babcock.

  "My goodness, it's hot, isn't it?" he commented to the skipper. "It's global warming, right?" He used an already damp handkerchief to mop the sweat from the back of his neck.

  The captain, who was a hired hand and not an Earthpeace member, smiled tightly. "This is the Mediterranean, sir," he explained thinly. "It was hot like this long before hairspray and shaving cream."

  The handkerchief came back soaked. Babcock had to wring it out before returning it to his pocket. "Almost makes you wish for the days when science swore we were entering a new ice age, hmm?" he commented.

  The captain didn't respond.

  As the sailors went about their busy routine, Babcock found himself being shunted off to a corner of the bridge.

  The camouflage had worked perfectly. No one had given the Grappler a second look as it sailed through the towering rocks that lined the Strait of Gibraltar. They were already well past the Gulf of Tunis and in the Strait of Sicily near the Island of Pantelleria. Malta was already 120 miles away. At the rate they were traveling, they'd pass the Maltese Islands in under two hours.

  Babcock was actually surprised at the lack of resistance the Grappler was encountering. They had sighted commercial vessels and warships from dozens of nations on their journey thus far. All had been supremely disinterested.

  It was as Babcock had hoped. The Grappler was now a commercial fishing boat with a Greek registry. As long as it wasn't fishing in the territorial waters of any of the countries it passed, who cared?

  From his small corner near a window, Babcock spotted another vessel far across the unusually calm, sun-dappled waters. It was like an overturned skyscraper floating in a sea of scattered diamonds.

  The skipper was peering at the new ship through a set of big binoculars. It seemed to be on a course parallel with that of the Earthpeace ship.

  "American." The captain frowned. He lowered the binoculars.

  "What is it?" Babcock asked worriedly. Even from that distance, the ship was huge.

  "Aircraft carrier," the captain said. "Not many of them left these days."

  The interior secretary allowed a flutter of fear to creep into the pit of his stomach.

  "Let me see those," he hissed, holding out a hand for the captain's binoculars. Brow furrowing, the sailor handed them over.

  They were as heavy as lead. Palms sweating, Babcock trained the glasses on the distant ship.

  The binoculars enlarged the carrier to a frightening degree. As he ran the glasses along the ship, it seemed almost close enough to touch.

  Sailors peppered the deck, their trousers flapping in the gentle breeze. There was no sense of urgency as far as the interior secretary could detect. No one was even looking in the direction of the Grappler.

  As he followed the sharp contours of the dull gray hull, Secretary Babcock saw the ship's name. USS Ronald Reagan.

  "Are you all right, sir?"

  The voice rang hollow in his ears. Babcock pulled the binoculars away. The captain was staring at him, a concerned expression on his face.

  "What?" Babcock asked, gulping. His heart was thudding like mad.

  "That gasp you just made," the captain began, "it sounded- Are you okay?"

  "Yes. Yes," Babcock snapped. He stabbed an anxious finger to the aircraft carrier. "Are they onto us?"

  The captain shook his head. "They're in no hurry," he replied. "If they hold speed, we should begin to outpace them in the next ten minutes or so."

  "So they're on routine maneuvers," Babcock suggested hopefully.

  "That would be my guess," the captain nodded. Babcock exhaled relief, handing back the glasses. "Can you get us away from it any faster?"

  "We're practically full out now, but I'll see what we can do." Turning to his men, he began to issue commands.

  Bryce Babcock melted into a corner of the bridge until the Grappler pulled abreast of the aircraft carrier.

  In spite of the intense heat, he'd felt an involuntary shudder the moment he laid eyes on the American warship. It was a bad omen. He hoped he'd feel better once the ship was in their wake. However, the chill remained even as he watched the aircraft carrier begin to fall slowly behind.

  Even when they had outdistanced the U.S. Navy vessel, Bryce Babcock couldn't shake a feeling of intense unease.

  A sense of dread weighing on his slight shoulders for the first time in days, the secretary of the interior quietly left the bridge.

  Chapter 19

  Terror hadn't worked.

  He wished for all the world it had, but it had not. Nossur Aruch liked terror. Lived for te
rrorism. In his day, he had found it to be a mighty weapon. A sword that could be brandished from the dead of night against an unsuspecting enemy. An arrow that always struck its target. A bullet fired with unerring accuracy.

  Of course, few in the so-called civilized world agreed with Nossur Aruch, leader of the Palestine Independence Organization and director and chairman of the Free Palestine Authority. In the soft capitals of the Western imperialist nations, terrorism was soundly condemned. Practitioners of the art of terror were even hunted down.

  They thought it sloppy. A bomb lobbed onto a bus, a grenade tossed into a crowd, a foreign leader shot.

  But Aruch knew better. These acts only seemed haphazard. Terrorism was a precise game. But, lamentably, the game had been lost. Practically before it got started.

  "Timing is everything," Aruch said, sighing wistfully.

  "Sir?"

  On the vine-enclosed balcony of his Hebron office in Israel's West Bank, Nossur had thought he was alone. He had forgotten about Fatang, the young PIO soldier who was assigned to protect him. If Nossur Aruch's beloved terror campaign had worked, he would not need such a guard.

  Aruch smiled sadly as he glanced at the young man.

  "I am a man out of time," he said. "The great war of terror could have been fought a century ago. Two would have been even better." There was sadness in his voice. He sighed into the warm evening air. "Do you know why the Americans won their independence from the English, Fatang?"

  "I do not, sir," the youthful soldier replied. His olive face was earnest, his eyes burning with the intensity only the very young and very idealistic could muster. That flame had long ago winked out for Nossur Aruch.

  "They fought a terrorist campaign. The British soldiers of the time were used to fighting armies that lined up on one side of an open field. Obeying the laws of civility, the British would line up on the other. Once everyone was in place, each side would shoot and shoot until the last man standing was declared the winner."

  "That is foolish," Fatang volunteered.

  Aruch nodded sagely. "The Americans thought this, as well. That is why when the British formed their skirmish lines, the American colonists did not. They hid in trees and behind rocks. They used guerrilla tactics. They were most uncivilized in the way they fought their war. And because of this, they won their independence."