For three years accidents had been an unrelenting plague.
For four, freight traffic was booming. Even the Midwest floods and washouts of '93 had not crimped it.
Amtrak, on the other hand, was in trouble. Service cutbacks had begun to bite. Ridership levels were up, but Smith had begun to suspect some of that could be explained by the opportunists looking for a free ride into lifelong insurance benefits if they survived a rail accident. The so-called Railpax, which allowed Amtrak to utilize existing freight lines on a favored-nation basis, was at an end.
With Congress considering terminating funding, Amtrak's future appeared bleak.
But what possible motive would the Nishitsu Industrial Electrical Corporation have for derailing Amtrak?
There was no clear answer. Smith returned to the matter of the murderous teleporting ronin.
Every time one of the phone cards was used, the call was logged by the issuing company's computers. Smith got a readout of the originating call and its destination as they took place. They came up as simple phone charges. In reality they represented the most efficient form of transportation known to man.
And a Japanese company owned it exclusively.
No other Japanese names bubbled up from the ongoing search programs. And every time one of those cards was used, without fail, a rail accident followed within minutes.
Somewhere in the fiber-optic maze of the nation's telephone system, a deadly predator was moving unseen and unsuspected. Soon, Smith knew, the ronin would attempt to send the Sunset Limited tumbling into Bayou Canot.
It was just a matter of time. If only, he found himself hoping, their nameless enemy would strike at Bayou Canot sooner than later. The carnage piling up was horrendous.
THE SUNSET LIMITED first showed itself as a distant gleam of light in the shadowy distance.
"Here it comes," said Remo.
Chiun's head swiveled about, left then right. His sensitive ears were hunting for sounds. "I hear no ronin. "
"Don't forget. If he's dematerialized, we won't hear his heartbeat. Just like in that boxcar."
"If he skulks amid this eerie backwater, my eagle eye will spy him."
Remo nodded. His eyes were also searching.
Foliage rustled. Herons. Somewhere the muscular splash of a restless alligator disturbed the night.
And down the line the gleam of the twin-beam headlight grew to a white, widening funnel. The trestle began to vibrate.
Remo stepped back. He was looking at the trestle supports. If the ronin was going to strike, he would strike here.
A wind picked up. It seemed to be moving ahead of the oncoming train. The light grew, changing the shadows, making them crawl. And lining up on the trestle, the Sunset Limited threw the full blaze of her engine headlight along the bridge, making the rails gleam and sparkle.
The Sunset Limited hit the bridge at a thunderous seventy miles an hour. The bridge vibrated in response. It rattled for barely two minutes to the thunder of the passing train.
Then the Limited was gone. The shadows returned. Night closed in again.
And Remo and Chiun stood at the foot of the bridge and looked at each other.
"Guess Smitty was wrong."
"We must get word to him," said Chiun.
"How? We're in the middle of nowhere."
"Did you not say that trains have telephones now?"
"Yeah. But we're a little late to catch the Sunset Limited. "
"Not if we hurry," said Chiun.
THEY PUSHED THE BOAT into the water and sent it racing down the waterway.
The tracks wound in a serpentine in and out of the bayou. That made it possible to beach the boat at a point down the line before the Sunset Limited reached it.
Taking up positions at trackside, Remo and Chiun waited as the headlights bored toward them.
Gauging its speed, they began to run, ahead of the train and parallel to the track.
The silver train had slowed to fifty miles per hour. Remo and Chiun got up to that speed and held it.
The engine barreled past. They let the forward coaches do the same.
The end car was baggage. Since they were traveling at the same velocity, it was easy enough to hop on at the back, cling a moment, then force the rear door open.
When they worked their way forward to a passenger coach, Remo and Chiun attracted no more attention than normal.
Remo found a rail phone. He activated it with a credit card.
"Smitty. You guessed wrong. The ronin didn't hit the bridge."
"I know, Remo," Smith said wearily. "He has been creating carnage in several other places instead. There are many casualties."
Smith filled Remo in on the new pattern of recreated derailments.
"So why'd he skip this one?" Remo asked. "Some of those other crashes are pretty small potatoes."
"He is building toward something. Perhaps he is saving Bayou Canot. "
"Saving it for what?"
"That," said Harold Smith with an audible grinding of teeth, "is the question of the hour."
"Well, I may have part of the answer."
"Go ahead, Remo."
"We came across a guy laying fiber-optic cable along the tracks. Did you know they're laying cable along rail bed all over the country?"
"Yes. That is how the SPRINT company has created its telephone system."
"SPRINT?"
"It stands for Southern Pacific Railroad Internal Telephone."
"The railroads are in the telephone business?" Remo blurted out.
"Yes. Some."
"Well, now they're laying cable for the information superhighway, too. Mean anything to you?"
"The Nishitsu Corporation is attempting to sabotage our computer links!" Smith snapped. "This has nothing to do with the rail system at all."
"That's how I read it."
"Excellent work, Remo."
"You are both wrong," sniffed Chiun. "The Japanese are envious of American railroads. Their destruction is the insidious goal."
"Tell Chiun that the Japanese rail system is far more sophisticated than our own," Smith said. "And please return to Folcroft immediately."
Hanging up, Remo said; "You hear that?"
"The man is an inveterate rationalist."
"You're just jealous because I was right and you were wrong."
"You are never right and I am never wrong."
Just then the conductor accosted them and asked if they had tickets.
"I entrusted mine to this lackey," said Chiun, pointing at Remo while breezing haughtily past the conductor.
Chapter 23
Dawn was breaking over Folcroft Sanitarium when Remo and Chiun finally got back.
"What's the latest?" asked Remo.
Chiun flew to his steamer trunk, checked the lock to make sure it hadn't been tampered with, then relaxed.
Harold Smith was hollow of eye and voice. "There have been a half-dozen derailments and rail accidents overnight. The loss of life is significant. Almost thirty people."
Remo grunted. "You lose more people in one average plane crash."
"That is not how it will play in the morning papers," said Smith. "The National Railroad Passenger Corporation is known for its comparatively good safety record. This will be seen as a symptom of its decline and unworthiness to continue operating."
Remo frowned. "What's the National Railroad Passenger Corporation?"
"Amtrak."
"How do they get 'Amtrak' out of 'National Railroad Passenger Corporation'?"
Smith declined to reply. He was scanning his computer screen. There had been no movement on the part of the ronin in more than two hours. None of the three fake phone cards was in play.
"Guess he tucked himself in for the night," said Remo unhappily.
"The last location I have for him is Denver, Colorado."
"Want us to go there?"
"Not yet."
Chiun spoke up. "Emperor, where are the katanas of the ronin? I would like to ex
amine them."
Smith pointed to one of a row of ancient oaken file cabinets that occupied a corner of the office. "Top drawer."
Chiun went to the one indicated and extracted the matched katana blades. Remo drifted up.
"A descendant of Odo of Obi forged these," Chiun said firmly.
"If you say so," said Remo. "What I'd like to know is how they rematerialize."
"A timer," Smith said absently.
"Oh, yeah?"
Smith nodded without looking up from his screen. "I discovered a minitimer in each hilt. Once the button is pressed, the dematerialized state is of short duration but can be regulated. That is how the ronin was able to decapitate the Texarkana engineer without entering the cab. He threw the blade through the windscreen, whereupon it rematerialized and decapitated him, then due to the speed of the oncoming train, buried itself in the bulkhead, solid once more."
"So how come it didn't break?" asked Remo.
"It is made of some metal or substance that is highly flexible yet strong. I have not yet identified it."
Remo shrugged. "At least we got some of his arsenal."
"By the way, I cleaned the battery contacts in the dead katana. It is working again. So be careful."
Chiun addressed Smith. "Emperor, might we be allowed time to ourselves?"
"Yes. Just remain within the building."
Tucking the blades under one arm, Chiun said, "Come, Remo. I have much to teach you before we confront the dastardly ronin once more."
"Teach me what?"
"The art of the katana. "
Remo blinked. "What happened to 'weapons sully the purity of the art'?"
"You have no blades to call your own. And there is no time to grow proper Knives of Eternity."
"So you're going to drag me into sword fighting?" Remo said doubtfully.
"It is a dubious exercise, I know. But to fight a ghost, one must employ arcane methods. To fight a ghost with a short-fingered accomplice such as yourself is folly."
Remo thought about that. "I think I've been insulted."
"Come."
Remo folded his arms. "Not a chance. You always taught me to disdain swords, so I'm abstaining."
"You cannot abstain when the honor of the House is at stake!" Chiun flared. He clenched his fists before him.
"Tough. I've taken enough guff for one day. I'm abstaining."
Chiun whirled on Smith. "Emperor, talk sense to this wayward one."
"Remo, please." Smith didn't look up. He continued tapping his illuminated keyboard.
Remo looked at Chiun and purred, "What'll you trade me for cooperating?"
Chiun's eyes narrowed. "What do you wish in trade?" he asked thinly.
Remo glanced at the big steamer trunk with the lapis lazuli phoenixes resting on the office divan. "A peek inside."
"That will not release you from carrying it with you if I so command," Chiun said quickly.
"Damn. I changed my mind. Trade you for permanent release from lugging duty."
"Too late!" Chiun crowed. "You have stated your heart's desire. Learn the art of the katana and I will allow you a peek. But only one."
"Guess you got me."
"Yes. I have you. Now, make haste. And bring my precious trunk."
Hefting the awkward box on his shoulder, Remo followed the Master of Sinanju from Harold Smith's office. On his way out the door, he gave the steamer trunk a surreptitious shake.
The sound made him think of uncooked rice grain, but the box was too light to be full of grains. Toothpicks maybe. Or Rice Krispies. He gave the box another shake. That was definitely a Rice Krispies sound. Therefore, it was not Rice Krispies. There was no reason Chiun would have him lug Rice Krispies all over the place. Rocks, yes. Not rice in any form.
Stepping on the waiting elevator, Remo figured he'd learn the truth soon enough.
AN HOUR LATER, Remo was grinning from ear to ear.
Under Chiun's tutelage, he had learned the Wheel Stroke, the Clearer Stroke, the Pear Splitter and other samurai sword techniques.
"Hey, I'm pretty good at this," Remo said as he deflected Chiun's blade for the third time.
"Too good," spat Chiun, withdrawing.
"How's it possible to be too good?"
They were in the spacious Folcroft gymnasium. It was here that Remo had first met Chiun and where he had received his earliest Sinanju training.
Chiun frowned as deeply as Remo grinned.
"You may have some Japanese blood polluting your veins," Chiun said.
"Not a chance."
"You are such a mongrel, how are we to know?"
Remo grinned. "I'm good. That's all there is to it."
"You had an excellent teacher."
Remo saw his opening and took it. "I did, didn't I."
And Chiun struggled so hard to hide his pleasure at the unexpected compliment that his wrinkled face twitched like a cobweb in a breeze.
"It may be we are ready to meet the ronin in combat," Chiun allowed, his voice stiffening to keep the unseemly warmth from it.
"I know I am. But what about you? En garde!"
And Remo lunged.
Chiun floated into the approaching stroke, katana gripped in two hands. It came up, clashed, parried and spanked both sides of the black blade four times before Remo could complete his thrust.
Fluttering out of the way, the Master of Sinanju said, "Remember who is Master and who is not."
Remo stared at his still-quivering sword blade. "Point taken," he said in a suddenly small voice.
They laid the blades aside.
"I wonder who this guy Batsuka is?" Remo asked after a while.
"A ronin. "
"If he works for Nishitsu, doesn't that make him a samurai? I mean, he's not really masterless if he works for a corporation, is he?"
Chiun frowned in thought. "He does not wear the crest of his clan on his shoulder. Therefore, he is ronin, not samurai."
"Of course he doesn't. He's a saboteur. What's he gonna do? Wear the corporate logo?"
Chiun caressed his wispy beard. "I do not understand."
"It's simple. If he wears the logo, that points directly to Nishitsu. He can't exactly do that, so he leaves it off. Still and all, he is a samurai."
"We do not know this," Chiun said stiffly.
"Every step of the way, he used Nishitsu products."
"He is Japanese. He is comfortable with things Japanese. It is very Japanese to be that way."
"I guess that makes sense," Remo admitted. "Still wonder who he is really. Samurai died out a long time ago."
Chiun's eyes suddenly narrowed. Reaching into one sleeve, he produced the metal bulldozer plate found at the crash site in Mystic, Connecticut. His eyes went to the company symbol, four disks in a circle.
"This is the crest of Shogun Nishi," he muttered.
"Are you going back to that?"
"The crest of Nishi is the sign of Hideo, which is a limb of Nishitsu. Do you not see the significance, Remo? The sons of Nishi must be the shoguns of Nishitsu!"
"I don't think modern corporations have shoguns, Little Father."
"There is more to this than meets the eye," Chiun said slowly. His fists began to clench and unclench. He looked at his broken nail, and his wispy beard trembled.
"It all makes sense now," he said in a low, bitter voice.
"To everyone except me," Remo muttered. "I'll bet when we nail this guy he turns out to be an unemployed chopsocky actor or something."
Chapter 24
For Furio Batsuka, the first step to becoming a samurai involved being beheaded.
The correct term was kubi kiri. In medieval times one's head was literally separated from his neck. But this was modern Japan. And Furio worked for a modern Japanese multinational corporation.
After the so-called Bubble Economy had collapsed, many things were different. Events formerly undreamed of became commonplace. There was crime and unemployment, bank failures and earthquakes. Some called it Japan
's Blue Period.
In modern Japan to be laid off was the same as experiencing true kubi kiri. Especially if one were a batter for the Osaka Blowfish.
"I am beheaded?" he had blurted when the team manager broke the bad news to him over green tea, inadvertently using the ironic term.
"You play too aggressive. Too American."
"I play to win."
"It is not always necessary to win. Sometimes a draw is good."
Furio nodded, but not in agreement. Then the manager spoke the words that changed his life.
"The shogun is interested in you. See him tomorrow."
THE SHOGUN WAS Kozo Nishitsu, president of Nishitsu Industrial Electrical Corporation. Furio found himself bowing before him early the next morning behind closed doors.
The shogun spoke without pleasantries. "I would like you to go to America. To play with a farm team we own. Eventually with the Mariners."
Furio could not believe his good fortune. To play U.S. ball!
"Gladly," he said.
"But first you must be trained. For though you will work with the Mariner organization, you will remain in our employ."
"A spy?"
"A saboteur. I have watched your aggression. I like it. It is worthy of bushi. "
And Furio bowed before the deep compliment. The shogun's ancestor's were fierce warriors. The code of Bushido was their way.
"I agree," said Furio Batsuka.
IN THE RESEARCH-and-development wing, whitecoated Nishitsu technicians measured him and then showed him a faceless dummy dressed in classic black samurai armor. On one shoulder rode the four moons of the Nishitsu Corporation.
"I am honored," he told them.
The sharp voice of Kozo Nishitsu snapped, "You will be honored once you have earned the right to don this armor."
And so his training began. He was presented to an old man whose name he was never told. This man trained him in the ways of the warrior. He learned the katana and its sixteen strokes. Archery. Spear fighting. The war fan. jujitsu. But most of all, he learned the code of Bushido, which made Furio bushi-a warrior.
After nearly a year the old sensei brought him again before the armor he coveted. Tears were in his eyes as the shogun spoke.
"The samurai are thought dead. No more. You are the first in generations. I congratulate you, Batsukasan. "
"I am proud."
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