Engines of Destruction td-103

by Warren Murphy

  So Major Claiborne Grimm found himself riding the rails every month or so in the launch-control car overseeing train operations.

  It was a routine run until he got the nervous call from the first car in line, the security-command car.

  "Major. Airman Frisch here."

  "Go ahead, Airman."

  "Engineer reports we have a man on the track."

  "Jesus."

  "He wants to know if we should brake."

  "Of course he should brake. Tell him to brake."

  "But, Major, security-"

  "Brake the damn train. If we run a civilian over, we'll have local authorities crawling all over our HyCubes. All we need is for it to get out that we're running an unauthorized nuclear program and all our asses will be decommissioned."

  "Yes, Sir."

  The sudden screaming of the air brakes warned Grimm to grab for something solid. Still, he was thrown off his feet when the train began decelerating.

  His eyes went to the launch-control officers sitting at their dual consoles, one at end each of the launch-control car.

  They signaled they were okay. Grimm wished he could say the same. His heart was up in his throat, and his stomach was butterflying something fierce.

  "Man, just please don't have hit anyone," Grimm moaned.

  With a clashing of tight-box couplers, the consist finally knocked to a dead stop.

  Only then did Grimm lever himself off the stainless-steel floor and hit the intercar intercom.

  "Engineer, say status!"

  The engineer's voice was tight and strangled.

  "Too late," he said. "He went under my engine."

  "Damn civilians," he said, not sure which man he was thinking of-the careless fool under the trucks or the engineer, who was himself a civilian sworn to secrecy.

  Grimm hit the button connecting him to the security car. "Security team. Detrain. On the double."

  Turning to his second-in-command, Grimm said, "I'm turning operational control over to you. Do not under any circumstances open this car to anyone except myself. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "And the password of the day shall be-'Hotbox.'"

  "Hotbox. Yes, Sir."

  "If this is a hijacking and I give 'Redball' as the password, you have my permission to take off with all due speed leaving me defiled. Do you understand?"

  "No, Sir. What is defiled?"

  "To be defiled," Major Grimm said, unlocking and sliding open the single escape door, "means to be left in the dust."

  Stepping down, Major Grimm saw that the security team was all over the consist.

  Running over to the security officer, he said, "Report."

  "We hit a man on the tracks. We're looking for him now."

  "Man on foot?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  Grimm looked to the train. His eyes automatically went to the second boxcar, where the MX Peacekeeper missile crouched like a cougar awaiting the launch command. For as long as he had been in charge of ferrying the beast through cornfields and prairie, he wondered if he was carrying a live one. His superior officers refused to confirm or deny that the aluminum-tipped titanium warhead packed live Mark 21 reentry vehicles or inert dummies. The possibility that they might be dummies offered absolutely no comfort at all.

  His empty side-arm holster slapping his thigh, Grimm joined the search.

  "Any sign?" he asked, bending down to join an airman peering past the unique eight-wheel trucks, cocked .45 in hand.

  "No, sir."

  Grimm could see plainly that no body or any detached parts thereof lay under the consist.

  Getting up, he walked the length of the train.

  At each checkpoint he received "No, sir" and puzzled faces.

  Someone handed Grimm a pair of field glasses, and he trained them down the length of track. It ran straight as a ruler, and if there was a body mashed into the ties, it was bound to show.

  But it didn't. Grimm climbed to the roof of the last car.

  Kneeling, he scanned the line. No body. No splash of red to show that a civilian had been struck. The surrounding prairie was likewise clean.

  Clambering back down, Grimm said, "Anybody see anything? Anything at all?"

  "Just the engine," the security officer reported.

  "I think we should talk to the engineer," Grimm said, loping back to the engine. "Have your men stand ready."

  "Yes, sir."

  THE ENGINEER REFUSED to open his cab until Grimm gave him the password of the day.

  "Hotbox."

  "Wasn't that yesterday's password?"

  "Yesterday's was 'Reefer.'"

  "That's right, it was." The door banged open. "C'mon in."

  Grimm climbed the ladder. He shut it behind him. "We can't find a body," he said tightly.

  "We ran right over the poor dumb SOB."

  "What'd he look like?"

  "Dressed all in black, like one of them whatchamacallits." The engineer was snapping his fingers as if that would help his memory.

  Grimm pitched in. "Bikers?"

  "No."

  "Protesters?"

  "No. No. One of those Jap skulkers."

  "Ninja?"

  "Yeah! That's it. He was dressed like a dirty lowdown, egg-sucking ninja. Face all muffled sneaky-like and everything."

  "Oh, shoot," said Claiborne Grimm, jumping from the cab. "We got a ninja on board! We got a ninja on board!" he called out.

  The security officer looked blank as a blackboard. "Sir?"

  "A ninja! You know what a ninja is?"

  "No, sir, I do not."

  "Japanese spy. Dressed all in black. They say they can get close enough to spit in your eye before you notice 'em. Masters of stealth, camouflage, infiltration-the whole nine yards."

  "Oh, shoot."

  "That's what I said. We gotta do a car-to-car search. I want security teams stationed at each end of the train. The minute he shows his ninja face, blow his head clean off. We can't take any chances."

  The security teams were deployed.

  Grimm led the search team. The security officer took another contingent to the rear-end car.

  They worked from car to car, going over every square inch.

  The rail-garrison consist was set up to be self-sufficient. There were bunks, a shower and even a kitchenette. In theory, they could remain mobile for weeks at a time. The downside was the consist was as cramped as a nuclear submarine.

  Grimm's team checked the engine cab, the crapper and the security car, even though the security team had been stationed there all during the contact.

  He skipped the second Hy-Cube car, which housed the missile. The only way in and out was through a locked access hatch or if the roof doors split open on command. Even though it made no sense to do so, he returned to the launch-control car.

  "Hotbox," he said. The door fell open.

  Back inside, he asked the second-in-command, "Everything okay here?"

  "Yes, sir. Did-did we hit him?"

  "I wish we had. We may have a ninja aboard."

  "Oh, God."

  There was an immediate search of all available hiding places. They even emptied the wall waste receptacle.

  "No ninja in here, Major."

  "Let's keep it that way. Don't open the door for anyone except me."

  Grimm passed through to the next car just as the rear-end security team was entering from the other end.

  "Any sign of that fool ninja?"

  "No sir, Major sir."

  "Damn. Could we have messed up?"

  "Not possible, sir. All hiding places checked out clean."

  Grimm went to the intercom and got the security car. "Security cameras. Anything?"

  "No, Major. Nothing visible on the outside of the car. Sensors indicate nothing crouching along the right-of-way."

  "Damn. He must be on the train. He's not on board. So where the hell is he?"

  "Did you check the missile-launch car?"

  "Now, how would he
get in there? It's locked up tighter than my mother-in-law's constipated ass."

  "Well, he is a ninja, Major. You know how they are."

  "I'm beginning to get a nasty inkling," Grimm said bitterly.

  Exiting the car, they locked it up and surrounded the Hy-Cube car.

  Grimm faced his security team. "I need a volunteer to enter the MLC car."

  Several airmen raised their hands. One stepped forward. Grimm decided he liked the man's initiative. "You game for this, Airman?"

  "Yes, sir. I've seen a lot of ninja movies. I know what the little buggers are likely to do."

  "Okay. Just don't get yourself strangled."

  Two airmen ducked under the Hy-Cube car and undogged the underside hatch with a special tool. The volunteer airman crawled under next and, flashlight in one hand and side arm in the other, started to squeeze in.

  "See anything?" Grimm hissed.

  The airman's "No" was hollow.

  His belt disappeared, and then his legs pulled up and out of sight.

  They waited for word. Five minutes by Major Grimm's watch. When it was ten, Grimm hissed, "What's keeping that airman?"

  The security officer shrugged helplessly.

  Taking a flashlight, Grimm crawled under and used the light. He washed light all over the access tunnel and saw nothing.

  "Airman. Call out."

  Silence came back.

  "Airman!"

  "Maybe he can't hear way in there," someone suggested.

  "Damn. Somebody rap on the side of the car."

  Flashlights banged the side of the modern Hy-Cube boxcar.

  "Airman!" Grimm shouted.

  The airman failed to respond or reappear.

  Ducking out from under the car, Major Grimm said, "I need another volunteer. One with ninja movie-watching experience preferably."

  This time Grimm got sheepish expressions instead of waving hands.

  "The national security of the U.S. of A. may be at stake here. If I don't get a volunteer, I'm going to have to pick one."

  Two men stepped forward, faces stiff.

  "Fine. You both go in. One first and the other right behind him. Make a human chain. That way, we don't lose voice contact."

  It was an excellent plan. It fell apart when the first airman thrust his upper torso into the access hatch and fell back down on his butt-minus his head.

  The head tumbled down to fall into his lap. It looked very surprised. The mouth opened and it seemed to be trying to say something when the eyes rolled up to show whites, and a tiny sigh escaped from both ends of the severed windpipe.

  "Get that body out of the way!" Grimm snapped.

  The security team started dragging and vomiting.

  "Okay. We have the ninja cornered. All we got to do is flush him out. Suggestions?"

  "Can we open the roof doors?"

  "Not without activating the launch sequence."

  No one seemed to cotton to that idea.

  "Where's that other volunteer?" wondered Grimm, looking around.

  The second volunteer was standing in the back of a knot of airman like a shy gym student trying to escape the coach's gaze.

  "You! Yes, you. Your turn."

  "Yes, sir," the airman said in a thick voice.

  "Here is what you do. We're going to hoist you in feetfirst."

  "Yes, sir."

  "You go in that way so he can't get at your neck."

  "Yes, sir," said the airman, blood draining from his face.

  "You know he's in there. He knows you know he's in there. Maybe he's crawled back a ways. You go in with your combat knife and you hunt him down. Blade to blade. You stick him good. A dead ninja's just as good as a live one, if not better. Got that?"

  The airmen felt his side arm being pried from his stubborn fingers.

  "Can't have you shooting in there," Grimm said. "Not with all that propellant."

  "Yes, sir," gulped the airman.

  They got him into position and, on the count of three, they hoisted him feetfirst.

  The lower body went in fine, but the heavier upper body was where they got stuck.

  "Push harder," Grimm hissed. "Get him the hell up in there."

  The poor airman was standing on his hands, and his hands were being supported by the strong blue backs of several security airman. They were arching and grunting in their effort to get him all the way up there.

  For his part, the airman looked as though he wanted to cry. Then he did. "Help!"

  "What is it?" Grimm hissed.

  The airman's eyes were frightened china saucers. "I'm going in!"

  "That's what we want."

  "No! Something's got my legs. Pull me back! Pull me back!"

  And the airman's voice was filled so full of horror that Major Grimm hastily countermanded his order. "Out! Pull him back! Now!"

  But it was too late. The airman went up slicker than a fox into a rabbit hole, torn right out of the hands of the security team.

  A single drop of clear liquid fell back. They never figured out if it was drool or a tear.

  They heard the swish, a meaty thunk, and then the airman's loose head dropped down.

  It didn't die all at once. The mouth was distinctly working.

  Reaching in, Major Grimm grabbed it. "Speak to me, Airman. What did you see?"

  A puff of foul air came from the mouth. Then it dropped slack.

  The light in the eyes looking into Grimm's went out.

  Distaste on his own face, Grimm passed the head to his security chief, who looked sick and angry at the same time.

  From the open hatch a leakage of blood came. It stained the ties a bright red.

  "Enough of this damn pussyfooting. We gas the little cockroach out."

  Gas masks were donned. Two grenades of CS gas were thrown in and the hatch hastily shut and locked. Not a tendril leaked out of the missile-launch car. It was airtight.

  They gave the gas ten minutes to work, then a nervous airman was ordered into the smoking hatch.

  Shortly his gas-masked head tumbled down.

  "There' s only one thing left to do," Major Claiborne Grimm said tightly.

  "Sir?"

  "We gotta initiate a cold-launch sequence."

  "We can't do that without authorization," his security chief sputtered.

  "Well, then, we're damn well going to have to get authorization, aren't we?"

  THE CALL to SAC headquarters in Omaha was booted up the line to the desk of General Shelby "Lightning" Bolton.

  "You have a what, Major?" Lightning thundered.

  "A ninja."

  "In your missile-launch car, you say?"

  "That's an affirmative, General. We send men in, and he sickles their heads clean off."

  "How many casualties so far?"

  "Four so far."

  "Try gas."

  "We did. Evidently the ninja has his own gas mask."

  "Damn. There's gotta be a way to smoke that rascal out."

  "There is, sir."

  "I'm listening, major."

  "A cold-launch sequence would open the roof doors. We can get the drop on him from above, then halt the sequence before the missile flies."

  The silence on the line was thick as grease.

  "Do it," said Lightning Bolton.

  "I'll need the launch codes," Grimm said, throat clogging.

  A rustle of papers came over the line. "Got 'em right here. Somewheres."

  "General, I thought-"

  "Hold on."

  When the general came back, Grimm finished his thought. "I thought the President was the only man supposed to have those codes."

  "For the silo-based stuff, sure. But the Commander in Chief doesn't know the MX program is still hanging on. And it's critical he doesn't. Savvy?"

  "Understood, General."

  "Good. Now, fire up your on-board fax."

  THE LAUNCH CODES IN HAND, Major Grimm explained the situation to his launch-control officers.

  "We're going to s
tart her up. You men know the drill. We take each step one at a time. When I say abort, you both abort."

  "Yes, sir," they said in unison, eyes glassy.

  Going to the on-board wall safe, Major Grimm spun the dial and got it open. He took out the matched launch-control keys and with quiet ceremony surrendered them.

  The launch-control officers resumed their seats and inserted the keys on command.

  "Turn," said Grimm, who was standing in a film of his own cold sweat. He used to have nightmares about this very scenario.

  The keys turned.

  Grimm jumped out of the car.

  The roof doors were already lifting. Side-mounted stabilizers began deploying. Like great feet they dropped to the roadbed and dug in, stabilizing the MLC car against blast and launch recoil.

  Simultaneously the gleaming white MX missile lifted into view, driven by gas actuators.

  When fully erect, it was pointing toward the great brazen dome of the noonday Nebraska sky.

  At a signal from Grimm, the security team began climbing the Hy-Cube access ladders.

  It was the most nerve-racking moment of Major Claiborne Grimm's entire life.

  Then the angry rattle of the approaching helicopter filled the air, and the nightmare went into overdrive.

  "Shoot that damn thing down!" he roared.

  Chapter 18

  Remo watched the helicopter bubble turn to frost under the storm of bullets, heard the overhead turbines clutch up and knew they were about to crashland.

  Every instinct said to bail out. They were low enough. He had a fighting chance to jump clear and maybe come out of it alive.

  There were only two problems.

  Chiun.

  And the precious lapis lazuli steamer trunk balanced on his lap.

  Remo's eyes went to the Master of Sinanju.

  "Let no harm befall my precious trunk if you value your life," Chiun said.

  "Look, we're going to crash."

  "Protect my trunk with your dead body if necessary," said Chiun.

  "I can't believe you said that."

  "And I can't believe you two are jawin' while we're droppin' like helpless stones," Melvis Cupper wailed, clutching his seat.

  The rotor cut out completely. It still turned, but not under power.

  "Hang on!" yelled the pilot.

  "To what-the damn chopper?" said Melvis. "I'm holding on to it. What's it gonna hold on to?"

  Air, as it turned out.