Engines of Destruction td-103

by Warren Murphy

  "But because this is the modern world, you will wear modern armor," the shogun continued.

  Sober-faced technicians dressed him. The many layers fit him like gloves for the various parts of his body.

  The shogun said, "Years ago our superconductor research enabled us to devise a flexible suit that would alter the molecular vibrations of the human body so that a man could walk silently and safely like a spirit, and like a spirit, pass through solids. We called this the Goblin Suit. That prototype was stolen from us by Russian agents. But we have created a new suit, which you see before you. We call it the Black Goblin."

  When the helmet was placed upon his head, the tinted, face-concealing visor dropping into place, Furio Batsuka felt weighted down by generations of pride.

  Then someone turned the rheostat at his shoulder. The heaviness vanished. He felt light, like a cherry blossom. And the second phase of his training began.

  Furio learned to walk through walls without fear. To place his feet so that he did not fall into the earth forever. And most frightening, to travel through telephone fiber-optic cable like fast smoke through endless straws.

  They presented him with modern versions of the katana and other samurai weapons, too, and showed him how to employ their wondrous metal-cleaving blades and phantom properties.

  When these things had been learned, too, the shogun told him of his mission. "You will go to America to play ball and undermine their rail system."

  "Hai!" Furio barked, bowing his head sharply.

  "You will kill many innocents."

  "I am a samurai. I obey my shogun."

  "You will live in an alien land."

  "I am a samurai. I will do anything for my shogun. And to play American ball."

  "Well spoken. Now, there is one last thing."

  And as Furio stood at attention, the shogun stepped over and removed the four-moon corporate seal from his armored shoulder.

  "Why. . . ?"

  "You cannot be captured except by misadventure or malfunction. But you may be seen. You cannot be linked to us."

  "But I am a samurai. You have made of me a lowly ronin. "

  "When you return, your katana red with American blood, you will be a samurai once more," the shogun promised.

  And behind his tinted faceplate, Furio Batsuka wept in secret. He had been a samurai for less than a day.

  Still, it could have been worse. At least he had a job.

  Chapter 25

  The morning newspaper lay folded on Harold Smith's desk until after 11:00 a.m., its black headline screaming at him: RAIL MELTDOWN!

  Smith had only glanced at the front page when his secretary laid it on his desk hours before. He was too busy trolling the net. The paper was of little value anyway. Printed in the middle of the night with hours-old information, it was already half a day behind the steady stream of bulletins moving on the wires.

  A knock at the door caused Smith to withdraw his fingers from the capacity keyboard. Instantly the flat, illuminated keys went dark, fading into the black glass desktop, showing no trace that the desk harbored electronic secrets.

  "Come in," said Smith.

  The door opened, and Mrs. Mikulka poked her blue-haired head in. "Lunch, Dr. Smith?"

  "Yes. The usual. And black coffee."

  The door closed.

  When Mrs. Mikulka returned, she laid the aqua particleboard tray on Smith's desk. He spread the newspaper on the desk. It was impossible to use the computer and eat. But the paper had one advantage. It was low tech.

  So Smith ate and skimmed.

  The news was as stale as he expected. The Amtrak derailments received extensive play. Congressional leaders were calling for the entire system to be shut down and abolished. There was a short but vague item on a hazardous-material situation in Nebraska that was obviously the ill-fated MX missile train. Smith made a mental note to deal with that problem later.

  Under the fold was the beginning of an editorial that caught his eye. It was headlined US. RAIL SYSTEM TOO OLD?

  Smith read along. Analysis always interested him. It was dry stuff. Exactly the kind he preferred. The editorial writer crisply summarized the current state of the US. rail infrastructure and pronounced it dangerously unsafe on account of its age.

  Modern, state-of-the-art diesels run on rail beds first laid down during the Garfield administration. The fact is steelwheel technology is a product of the eighteenth century. The recent rash of rail accidents testifies to the dilapidated state of our once-great rail transportation system.

  The future lies in bullet trains and magnetic-levitation technology. Clean, capable of speeds rivaling air travel, they are revolutionizing rail transportation around the world. Other nations have them. Why doesn't the U.S.?

  The answer is simple. Conversion costs. With thousands of miles of track too run-down to upgrade economically, the only way the U.S. rail system can enter the twenty-first century is through a wholesale replacement of the existing trackage infrastructure. But those costs outweigh the savings of maglev by a factor of more than ten to one. The result-an impossible situation. The US. cannot implement maglev trains because of existing rail conditions. And it can't replace the tracks. Thus, the federal Maglev Initiative has been on the slow track for decades.

  With this current spate of disasters, can the United States afford not to replace its rail network? Ask the Japanese, who are anxious to sell its maglev systems. Or the Germans, who have one of their own. Then ask if America, clinging to its historical love of old-style trains, can afford to lose its freight lines, as well as the dying passenger-rail system?

  Smith blinked as he absorbed the last paragraph. "Maglev," he whispered.

  Clearing his desktop, Smith brought his system up. He typed in the search command, then input, "Magnetic levitation."

  Scrolling up came a long string of items. He skimmed them.

  In under ten minutes he had absorbed the state of magnetic-levitation technology. It was first developed in the US. in the 1970s, but had been abandoned when a combination of cost and technical difficulties-solved since then-had made it impractical to implement. The Japanese and the Germans virtually controlled the field now, thanks to new advances in superconductor research.

  Digging deeper, Smith pulled up the names of the Japanese firms that were in the forefront of maglev development.

  He got only one: Nishitsu.

  Keying off that, he asked the computer to pull up everything it could find on Nishitsu's maglev progress.

  The first item might have hit him between the eyes. He leaned back in his chair.

  An AP wire story only two days old, it told of the upcoming Rail Expo '96-to be held in Denver, Colorado-where new train technology from around the world would be on display to the public and industry alike. It was sponsored by an international consortium that included Nishitsu Industrial Electrical Corporation.

  Smith frowned. He had heard of air shows where new technology was displayed, but not comparable rail shows.

  Initiating a search, he attempted to learn more. There was no more. Then he realized the expo was already taking place. Today was the opening day.

  Smith found a contact number and called it.

  "Rair Expo '96," a chipper female voice said. It was obviously Japanese.

  "Yes. I have just read about your function. Is is possible to fax me additional information?"

  "Of course."

  "Good." Smith gave her the number, then hung up.

  The corner fax machine began beeping and whirring five minutes later. Smith pulled out the sheets as they came out one at a time.

  There seemed nothing unusual about the information until the last sheet rolled out.

  Smith was trained to pick out individual words or word strings of interest from large blocks of text. It was a speed-reading ability that had served him in good stead down through the years at CURE.

  So it was not unusual that the instant his eyes fell on the last page, they jumped on two words tha
t were uppermost in his mind. A name.

  Furio Batsuka.

  Eyes wide, Smith returned to his desk. He was reading as he fell into his cracked-leather executive chair.

  Furio Batsuka, major-league slugger, formerly with the Osaka Blowfish, would be signing autographs all three days.

  "My God!" said Harold Smith. "Could it be?"

  HAROLD SMITH'S FACE was stark white when he burst into the Folcroft gymnasium.

  "I have found the Nishitsu ronin, " he said.

  "Where?" said Remo.

  "He is signing autographs at the Rail Expo in Denver."

  "Oh, that. That's where K.C. was headed."

  "Who is K.C.?" asked Smith.

  "A sensitive soul," said Chiun.

  "A rail nut," said Remo.

  Smith said, "According to what I have, Furio Batsuka is his real name. He is a Japanese baseball player who was released from the Osaka Blowfish four years ago. He came to this country and was signed up by a minor-league team. A year ago he joined the Seattle Mariners as a batter."

  "Can't be the same Batsuka," said Remo.

  "The Osaka Blowfish were sponsored by the Nishitsu company. And Nishitsu owns an interest in the Mariners. Remo, you follow baseball. Why didn't you recognize Batsuka's name?"

  Remo grunted. "I haven't paid much attention since the strike."

  "Ah-hah," said Chiun. "This explains the inexplicable."

  "It does?" said Remo and Smith together.

  "Yes. When I first encountered this fiend, he employed a fighting stance I did not recognize as Japanese."

  "What stance?"

  Chiun demonstrated by laying his katana blade across his shoulder and taking practice swings at an imaginary opponent.

  "That's a batting stance, all right," said Remo.

  "My God!" said Smith. "It all fits. I last tracked the ronin to Denver. That is where he is now. Signing autographs."

  "That still doesn't explain what this is all about."

  "I believe I have that answer, as well," said Smith.

  They looked at him.

  "For years now, the Japanese have wanted to sell the U.S. high-speed bullet and magnetic-levitation trains. But our rail systems are either incompatible or unsuitable for the conversion. It would all have to be replaced. From scratch. They're trying to convince us that our rail system is falling apart."

  Chiun hissed, "The philistines! Let them tear up their own rails."

  "They have. And now they enjoy bullet trains and maglev systems we can never hope to inaugurate as long as we cling to old steel-wheel technology."

  "Well, that explains one thing that's been bothering me," said Remo.

  Smith said, "Yes?"

  "Now I know why K.C. left Melvis crying in his beer."

  Smith looked confused.

  "Never mind," said Remo. "Okay, I'll buy it. I guess we head to Denver, huh?"

  "Yes," said Harold Smith in a grim, tight voice. "You go to Denver."

  Chiun lifted a vengeful fist to the high ceiling. "The fiend will never harm our gracious engines again, O Emperor. Place your trust in us."

  "Remo," said Smith.

  "Yeah?"

  "See that Batsuka is disposed of quietly. And make certain the Nishitsu people understand our deep displeasure with events."

  A stricken expression crossed Chiun's wizened face. His beard trembled in shock. "They will be allowed to retain their heads?"

  "Be discreet," repeated Smith.

  "They get to keep their heads," said Remo. "Sorry."

  Chapter 26

  The International Rail Exposition for 1996 was destined to be the largest, most ambitious assemblage of railroad rolling stock ever put together in one spot.

  An outdoor fairground in the high mountain air of Denver, Colorado, was the site. Trains old and new, ranging from museum pieces to factory-pristine prototypes had been trucked and airlifted in for the event.

  Gleaming passenger diesel-electrics stood on static display beside mighty Hudson Locomotives. There were Big Boys and U-Boats and Alcos, Baldwin diesels and Budliners. Narrow-gauge curiosities dwarfed by Challenger 4-6-64s and other titans of the steam age.

  Farther in the fenced-off fairground stood the prototypes and the late-model diesels on longer lengths of trackage. They shuttled back and forth, like dumb, throbbing beasts of burden. GM Big Macs. French TGV's. German ICE trains. Swedish X-2000s. Russian diesels and all the latest in bullet trains and magnetic-levitation technology, bright in stealth livery or manufacturer's colors.

  Beyond that impressive array, candy-striped fleamarket tents were set up, displaying railroad paraphernalia ranging from massive coffee-table books to videotapes and memorabilia from lines lost to man but still remembered fondly by rail fans-all being snapped up by attendees, who milled about wearing the stunned, beatific expressions normally associated with religious fanatics.

  Melvis O. Cupper wore one of those expressions. He was in hog heaven from the moment he paid his twenty-five dollar, one-day admission and walked through the wonderland of Mallets and Big Boys, taking his Stetson off in mute respect to the inert iron gods of steam he loved so dearly.

  By the time he got to the dealers' area, he was primed to buy. And buy he did.

  Three hours of picking over knicknack tables had filled his arms with treasure and emptied his wallet. He groaned under the weight of the two-place reproduction-Hiawatha table setting, the LeHigh Valley video collection, a Texas Eagle calendar and assorted plastic-model kits. He was happy; he was content. He had everything an honest rail fan could ever want.

  Except one absent article.

  K. C. Crockett.

  Melvis had tried to shove K.C. out of his mind, but strain as he might, he couldn't uncouple her from his heart. That was the long and short of it.

  Even with new derailments occurring hourly, and the NTSB shorthanded during this, the traditional vacation month, Melvis had reached his limit.

  He'd called in sick, hopped a flight to Denver and practiced what he was going to say the next time he laid eyes on his heart's desire.

  There was just one hitch in the rope.

  There was no sign of K.C. anywhere. Lot of clues, though.

  Whenever a flashbulb exploded, Melvis whirled, his eyes tracking the after-burn. Many times he barreled through the surging crowd, stepping on toes and muttering "Pardon me" until he felt like a weakbladdered penitent at a Baptist revival meet.

  But no K.C. gal.

  It was as hard to take as sand in the journal box. But Melvis had come a long way, and giving up wasn't in his nature.

  "Sure hope she didn't take up with that fool Air Force major," he grumbled as he set down his booty and availed himself of some cool bottled water.

  Fanning himself with his hat, Melvis scanned the sea of heads. His chest expanded to see so many rail fans gathered in one spot. These were God's people, he reflected. There weren't truer or more-natural souls trampling God's good green footstool.

  "If only I can rope K.C.," he muttered, "I'll be content with my lot in life."

  His eyes, scanning the giant outdoor pavilions, rested on the largest of them all. A banner was hung across the entrance: MAGLEV RIDE THE FUTURE OF RAIL NOW

  "If she's here, she's in that heathen den of iniquity," Melvis muttered. He swallowed hard. "Guess I just gotta steel myself and sashay into the lion's den," he said, picking up his packages.

  Melvis strode toward the sign, his knees growing weak, his heart starting to trip-hammer.

  "Steel wheels are my life," he told himself. "But if I gotta eat a little cold crow to catch me a rail-friendly wife, well, I'm man enough to do that, I reckon."

  AT THE RAIL Expo entrance, the Master of Sinanju refused to get in line.

  "I am Reigning Master," he told Remo. "I will not stand in line with the common peasantry."

  Remo looked at him. "So I have to?"

  "No, you do not have to. But I will not stand in line."

  "This is a co-equal partners
hip," Remo argued.

  "If it is a co-equal partnership," Chiun retorted, "why I am burdened with these?" And he raised the pair of katana blades wrapped in butcher paper to disguise them.

  "Because you insisted," Remo shot back.

  In the end, Remo stood in line and, when the line finally reached the ticket booth, he waved Chiun to cut in front of him.

  At Remo's back a commotion started up.

  "Hey! That's not fair!" the customer behind him complained.

  "I'm not with him," Remo said.

  "You let him cut in front of you."

  "No. He cut in front of me. I just didn't stop him."

  When Chiun reached the head of the line, he came face-to-face with a slick-haired Japanese ticket taker in a tuxedo.

  Their eyes met, and the ticket taker started to say something.

  "Pay this Nihonjinwa, Remo," said Chiun, marching through the entrance gate.

  Remo dug into a pocket.

  "You are with him?" the ticket taker said thinly.

  "Only as far as the grave," muttered Remo, handing over a fifty-dollar bill. "What time does Batsucker show up?" he asked.

  "Batsuka-san due at one," he was told.

  "I can hardly wait."

  Inside, Remo found Chiun standing in the shadow of a giant black locomotive.

  "Come on."

  "What is the hurry?" asked Chiun, examining the wheels.

  "We're on an assignment."

  "Does that mean we cannot stop to smell the steam?"

  "We can smell the steam after we bust the ronin."

  Chiun looked up with appealing hazel eyes. "Promise?"

  "Scout's honor," sighed Remo.

  They walked on. Chiun carried his hands in his silvery kimono sleeves, where his broken nail would go unnoticed.

  "Keep your eyes peeled for the Nishitsu booth or whatever it is. That's where Batsucker will be."

  "You have peeled-eye duty," Chiun sniffed. "I am entrusted with the katanas, and so with the honor of the House."

  They moved through the shifting sea of humanity like two needles passing through coarse-woven fabric on a moving loom. Even people not watching where they were going managed to miss bumping into them.

  Remo got Chiun past the old-steam-engines section without too much delay.

  Chiun's frown deepened.

  "What's wrong?" asked Remo.