Warren Murphy Destroyer 103 Engines of Destruction

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cruelly."
"They say if you cut back its branches, a tree will flourish."
"You are not a tree."
"And you are not my father. Get off my nails."
Relinquishing Remo's hands, the Master of Sinanju made a frowning face.
"You are beyond redemption. Now go. I will clean up here."
"I didn't leave a mess. There's nothing to clean up."
"Go, go," said Chiun, shooing Remo from the room.
More than happy to get off so lightly, Remo walked the mazelike corridors of
the place that had been home almost as long as any other place in his vagabond
existence.
Well, it wasn't so bad sometimes, he thought as he headed down to the
first-floor kitchen, where the fresh scent of rice steaming wafted up. He and
Chiun had come a long way from the days when, as part of his contract with
Harold Smith, the Master of Sinanju was obligated to liquidate Remo should
CURE be compromised. Now they were as close as father and son and, while they
had their arguments, both loved and respected each other---Remo Chiun more
than Chiun Remo. Remo didn't care how long the Master of Sinanju grew his
nails. Or how flamboyant the kimono of the day was. All Remo wanted was to be
left alone, to dress as he wished. A clean T-shirt and chinos were just fine
with him, day in and day out. What he saved in wardrobe he put in
shoes-expensive Italian loafers and no socks, thank you very much.
It was a simple life, Remo thought as he walked down the hall, picking up a
universal TV remote from a small table. As he passed open doors, he used it to
turn on the TV sets that were a fixture in almost every room, one by one.
This way he caught the news as made his way to the kitchen and the alluring
scent of rice. Chiun could turn them off later.
Remo reached the stairs when something said by a network newscaster made him
stop.
"Amtrak officials say the cause of the deadly derailment is unknown at this
time."
He ducked into the room.
"More after this," the newscaster said.
Before the picture faded, Remo noticed the graphic floating beside the
anchor's head. It said Amtrak Derailment. There was a digitized picture of a
flopped-over Amtrak train in the box.
"Damn," said Remo.
He switched channels. NBC was still in its precommercial opening segments.
"At this hour rescue operations are still underway in the Connecticut seaport
town of Mystic, but with darkness closing in, officials say that recovery and
rescue will only become more difficult."
"What train?" said Remo.
"Now this," said the anchor.
Remo flicked stations again and got a gourmet-catfood commercial featuring a
dancing Siamese in a tux waltzing with a fully grown woman in a floor-length
dress. It looked like a public-service announcement for human-feline
interspecies romance.
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Further up the channels, Remo caught live CNN footage of a big yellow crane at
the scene of the rail accident. The tracks were twisted all out of shape.
There were cars on the track bed, cars in the water and the live remote
newswoman was saying that this was the worst passenger accident since Bayou
Canot-whatever that was.
"At this hour the Merchant's Limited death toll stands at sixty-six and bodies
are still being pulled from the water. The ten-coach train left Boston's South
Station at 7:00 p.m. and was two hours into its run to Washington when it
encountered catastrophe."
"Oh, man," said Remo, grabbing a telephone. He thumbed the 1 button, and the
call, after rerouting through three states to foil tracing, rang the contact
telephone on Harold Smith's desk at Folcroft Sanitarium. The line ran and rang
and rang, and Remo knew by the eighth ring that wherever Harold W Smith was,
he was either dead or unconscious. For the foolproof code line also rang his
briefcase cellular, which, if Remo knew Smith, nestled under his pillow when
he slept.
Harold Smith never failed to answer the CURE line.
Something was very wrong.
Chapter 5
The Master of Sinanju wore his sweet parchment face like a mask of mourning as
Remo tore south down Route 95 into Connecticut.
"We must contact the puppet President," he was saying as Remo leaned on the
horn and barreled through frightened traffic.
"We don't know he's dead," Remo snapped.
"Technically we are under contract to Smith, not the puppet regime," Chiun
continued. "It may be that our present contract will require an adjustment-in
our favor, of course."
"The President of the United States is not a puppet. He's really in charge."
"Now, yes. And since true power is conferred upon him by Smith's untimely
death, we must hasten to his side to guarantee the proper succession."
"Not until we know that Smith is dead for sure," Remo said testily.
"He did not answer your telephone call. Nor did he answer mine. He is dead.
The man is incapable of not answering telephones."
"He could be unconscious somewhere."
"A ringing telephone would rouse him from any state of consciousness less than
the complete destruction of his stubborn brain," Chiun insisted.
"He could be under the knife, being operated on."
"He would hear the telephone through his stupor, and his blind, groping hand
would instantly clutch for the telephone."
"Not through anesthetic."
Chiun's thin mouth pursed unhappily. "He is dead. The most generous emperor
the House has ever known, cut down cruelly in the prime of his magnificent
generosity. Woe is us."
"You couldn't wait to get rid of him a few hours ago."
Chiun gasped. "Remo! Repeat this canard never again. Smith was a giant among
dwarfs, a prince of emperors. Pharaohs there were, shoguns, maharajahs and
deys, but none so generous as Smith. Emperors showered gold in the past, but
their largess was but brass dribblings compared to Smith the Golden."
"Smith the Golden?" [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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