The Last Dragon, page 23
“They’re hamburger any time you say,” Remo suggested.
“Not necessary. The Justice Department will be issuing indictments soon for crimes ranging from bringing a wild animal into the country without meeting the proper quarantine and inoculation requirements to endangering an endangered species.”
“That ought to get them three whole weeks in Leavenworth,” Remo said.
“The Apatosaur is now safe in the Zoological Gardens in Philadelphia,” Smith went on.
“How’d you manage that?”
“A helicopter skycrane and the Army Corps of Engineers. It was dangerous, but the only way to move the creature. Dr. Derringer was very helpful in supervising the transfer.”
“What’s going to happen to it?”
“Unclear,” Smith said wearily. “The Burger Triumph people, without admitting any corporate culpability, have agreed to underwrite the animal’s food and board. Already, protest groups have surfaced demanding the creature be returned to its native habitat.”
“Figures.”
“The bodies of the so-called Congress for a Green Africa have been identified. They had no connection with the real group of that name, which are still operating in Africa. The dead men were known criminals, apparently hired to create a plausible threat to the animal so that its death could be faked without suspicion.”
“One thing I don’t get,” said Remo. “Who were the guys firing blanks in Africa?”
“This is surmise,” said Smith, “but if as Dr. Derringer reported, they could not be the U.S. group because they spoke in African accents, and they were not the actual Congress for a Green Africa, they could only be African mercenaries of some sort. It is fairly clear that Burger Triumph must have bribed President Oburu in order to get the dinosaur out of Africa. My guess is they were units of the Gondwanalandian Army pretending to be the ecoterrorist group. The Congress for a Green Africa is tailor-made as a scapegoat, after all.”
“Well, I’m glad that’s all over with. I’ve lost all my illusions where dinosaurs are concerned and I’d just as soon forget the whole thing happened.”
“It might cheer you up to learn that Doyce Deek had confessed to a total of seven murders and the Utah authorities have begun reviewing the conviction of Roy Shortsleeve. A process from which the ACLU is keeping a conspicuous distance. It seems they are under growing pressure to close their Salt Lake City office. They have not been able to explain the dead convicts in their dumpster.”
Remo laughed. “My week will be complete if you have some bad news about Dr. Gregorian.”
“That matter is still under review,” Smith said. “I will let you know. In the meantime, I have a plane to catch.”
“Vacation?”
“A day trip to the Zoological Gardens. I am quite anxious to see this Apatosaur with my own eyes.”
“Don’t get too close,” Remo warned.
“I understand it is quite tame.”
“Mushroom breath,” Remo said. “It’ll get you every time.”
After Remo had hung up, he went upstairs to the meditation room, where the Master of Sinanju sat attired in a gold silk kimono, his eyes closed.
Remo settled onto a mat facing Chiun. The Master of Sinanju did not open his eyes. “Smith says it’s a wrap on the Bronto,” Remo said.
“I do not care.”
“Still burned about losing out on a drumstick?”
“The creature cannot live forever. I will outlive it. I can afford to be patient.”
“Glad to hear it. So when are we moving?”
“Never.”
“What about all the so-called ‘undesirable’ neighbors you’ve been moaning about?”
The Master of Sinanju opened his eyes. “This castle is now my home, small as it is. I will not be driven from it by squatters.”
Remo’s face fell. Then his dark eyes grew crafty. “You mean you’re willing to coexist peacefully with thieving Chinese, greedy Japanese, and slovenly Vietnamese practically pounding at the castle gates?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Beginning tomorrow, Remo, you will go from door to door and inform all Vietnamese, Chinese, and other undesirables that they must find a new city in which to dwell. Tell them that this is the wish of the Reigning Master of Sinanju.”
“And if they decline your polite request?” Remo asked.
The Master of Sinanju closed his hazel eyes, his face serene. “Drown them in the moat. After you have dug it, of course.”
Excerpt
IF YOU ENJOYED The Last Dragon, no one’s gonna stop you from clicking back to whatever online merchant sold it to you and leaving a nice review. Maybe with some stars attached. Do the man a solid, hey? That’s the nature of the ebook biz, sweetheart.
Maybe you’ll like some of the others in the Destroyer series, too. There’s a lot to like, and the odds are this isn’t the first one you picked up, anyway, so you know what you’re in for. Get the straight skinny from Warren Murphy et Fils at destroyerbooks.com.
Terminal Transmission
The greatest domestic crisis since the Civil War struck the United States of America at exactly 6:28 p.m. Daylight Savings Time on the last Thursday in April.
Approximately thirty million citizens scattered throughout the nation and in Mexico and the lower reaches of Canada saw the crisis unfold on their television sets. And every one of them, no matter what broadcast station or network they were tuned to, UHF or VHF, saw the exact same thing.
A dead black rectangle where a moment before busy phosphor pixels had been generating kaleidoscopic images of entertainment, information, and commercials.
The blackness was relieved by thin white letters in the upper right-hand corner. The letters spelled out two words.
The words: NO SIGNAL.
TV speakers everywhere, in private homes, in hospitals, in offices, in neighborhood bars, reproduced the same staticky carrier wave hissing of dead air.
Then a voice began speaking in a monotone:
“There is nothing wrong with your television set...”
· · ·
Don Cooder was late.
The news director was in a panic. The floor manager was running from restroom to restroom in the Broadcast Corporation of North America headquarters building on Manhattan’s West Forty-third Street, peering under stalls for a pair of trademark ostrich hide wrangler boots.
“Try the ledge,” the harried domestic producer cried. “He sometimes hides out on the ledge when he’s unhappy.”
Everybody who wasn’t frantically racing around the Bridge–as the BCN newsroom was called–preparing the 6:30 news feed to the affiliates, raced to the nearest window. Don Cooder was late. Nobody knew what it was about, but everybody knew what it could mean. Their eyes were stark and frantic.
Troubled voices called back reports.
“He’s not on the third floor ledge.”
“He’s not on the fourth floor ledge.”
“He’s not on any of the ledges!”
“Maybe he fell off,” said a lowly desk assistant.
In the great TV-screen-blue newsroom set a hush fell. Faces, so strained a moment ago, lit with entirely different lights. Ambition leapt to some. Relief to others. And all eyes went to the Chair, more coveted than many modern thrones, which now sat spotlit but empty. Power flowed from that elegant seat, situated in the exact geometric center of the Bridge, which had been designed to make the anchor desk seem to be the center of the universe, but in practice made many viewers change channels thinking that they had tuned in to an old Star Trek rerun.
“Maybe he fell off...” the producer muttered.
“Maybe he jumped!” said the director.
“CBN star anchor Don Cooder succumbs to ratings pressure!” the chief news writer cried. “Makes dramatic leap into oblivion!”
A dozen lips whispered the rumor. Faces froze, some in shock, others to conceal their pleasure. The makeup woman broke down weeping for her job.
The domestic producer, his face paling, took charge. He began issuing husky orders.
“Camera crew to the sidewalk. If Cooder’s a messy spot on the pavement, we’ll want to lead with that.” He shouted after the running figures, “If he’s dying, try to get his last words.”
“What about the headlines for the affiliates?” asked the director, gazing at the digital clock which read 06:28:57.
“Somebody get Cheeta Ching! I’d be damned if we go black again because of that Aggie prima donna.”
An intern leaped from the room.
· · ·
In her office in the outermost concentric ring that orbits the Bridge, CBN weekend anchor Cheeta Ching, nine months, one week, and three days pregnant, and as bloated as a floater freshly fished out of the East River, looked up from her script for the evening broadcast of Eyeball to Eyeball with Cheeta Ching as her door unceremoniously crashed in. The can of hair varnish she had been emptying into her raven tresses dropped from her long fingers.
“Miss Ching!” an intern panted. “You’re on.”
“What are you talking about? I’m not on for two hours yet.”
The intern fought for his breath. “Cooder fell down the rabbit hole again,” he gasped.
“His job is mine!” screeched Cheeta Ching, self-styled “superanchorwoman of the nineties,” as she bolted from her desk and trampled the unfortunate staffer before he could get out of the way.
The run from Cheeta Ching’s office to the Chair was a straight unwavering line. After hours, Cheeta had timed the run with a stopwatch. Her best time had been 47:03 seconds.
That was before the home pregnancy test had come up blue, of course.
Still, Cheeta gave it her best. She had known for years–ever since Don Cooder had let the BCN Evening News with Don Cooder remain black for an unprecedented six minutes because a World Wide Wrestling match had spilled over its allotted span and into his time slot, that it could happen again. And she was ready.
Because Cheeta Ching knew that if she landed in the coveted anchor chair at the right moment, Cooder’s job would be hers.
Flinging off her Giorgio Armani taupe wool faille maternity skirt, she ran through the halls in her Victoria’s Secret chenille slip.
The thought of the high seven-figure salary, the perks, and the intoxicating power that lay at the end of the run drove her to pound down the carpeted hall like a water buffalo in heat. Staff pressed themselves against the walls before her. A cameraman, seeing her careen toward him, hit the rug and covered his head with a script. A technician opening a door flung himself back. Too late. Cheeta hit the closing door like a linebacker; it flew back and broke the technician’s nose and glasses where he stood.
The Chair was within sight now. Cheeta could see it clearly through the semicircle of indoor glass windows that overlooked the Bridge from the inner concentric ring of offices.
The director, spotting her, waved her on frantically with a script that flapped like a wounded dove.
“Mine! It’s mine!” Cheeta shrieked.
The last door crashed open under the blind force of her padded shoulder. Cheeta was panting now. Only a stretch of a few cable-strewn yards stood between her and the highest-paid job in television news.
Staffers shouted encouragement.
“Come on, Cheeta!”
“You can do it, girl!”
Then a bosun’s whistle shrilled and the floor manager shouted, “Admiral on the Bridge! All hands! Admiral on the Bridge!”
That’s me! Cheeta thought wildly. I’m the admiral on the Bridge now.
And from out of nowhere, a pinstriped blue shape blindsided her. Heart pounding, Cheeta understood immediately what it meant. Her bloodred fingernails extended like talons as she made a last, desperate lunge for the Chair.
And an ostrich-hide boot stomped on her instep while a hard hip like a whale’s jawbone knocked her down. An immaculate shoe sole flattened her nose.
And over the squeal of the Chair’s springs adjusting to 185 pounds of human ego, a deep, masculine voice growled, “There’s only one admiral on this bridge. And don’t you forget it.”
Cheeta Ching tried to struggle to her feet. But all around her sycophantic shoes had appeared, preventing her from rising.
“Don, where have you been?” the relieved producer asked.
“None of your business.”
“Don, so great that you’re here,” said the chief news writer.
“Don Cooder is great, no matter where he is.”
“Don, here’s your script for the affiliates update,” said the director.
“Don Cooder doesn’t need a script to read headlines. Just tell me what they are and I’ll wing it.”
“Senator Ned Clancy issues denial on love-nest rumor,” the director recited in an urgent voice. “Dr. Doom inaugurates toll-free death line. Scientists dub strange new AIDS-like disease HELP.”
“Here’s your lavaliere, Don.”
“Will somebody please let me up?” Cheeta snapped.
“Quiet, Cheeta,” the producer said coldly. “Just lay there until the commercial break.”
The feet went away and the floor manager was calling out, “Quiet, please. Don Cooder headlines for affiliates! Five seconds! Four! Quiet!”
Then the voice of Don Cooder, pitched into a low resonant tone, began his clipped recital.
“Senator Ned Clancy issues denial on love-nest rumor. Dr. Doom inaugurates toll-free death line. Scientists dub strange new AIDS-like disease HELP. All that and more coming up soon, so stay with us.”
Cheeta started to rise.
The stampeding feet returned.
“That was great, Don. You nailed it in one take.”
“Fabulous ad-libbing, Don.”
“Will somebody help me up,” Cheeta said through clenched teeth. “I have my own show to prep.”
She was ignored.
“Here’s the script, Don.”
“We’re losing the bumper, Don.”
“One minute to air, everybody!” the floor manager announced.
“Don, we’ll lead with Dr. Doom and follow up with the love nest story,” the director was saying.
“I think we should lead with the love-nest story, don’t you?” Cooder shot back.
“Absolutely, Don,” the director returned without skipping a beat. “But it’s not written as a lead.”
“I’ll wing it.”
“Fifteen seconds to air!” the floor manager called.
The feet went away again and Cheeta Ching tried again. Her expanded center of gravity was not helpful. She was on her back, and it felt like a cannonball had been placed on her stomach so that a trained elephant could sit on it.
Grimacing, Cheeta rolled over–and collapsed panting.
Out of the corner of her eye she spotted the red ON AIR sign flaring up.
“This is the BCN Evening News with Don Cooder,” the stentorian voice of Don Cooder announced. “Tonight, beleaguered democratic senator Ned J. Clancy, married barely a year, is contending with rumors of marital infidelity. With us now is Washington reporter Trip Lutz.”
Cheeta was on her hands and knees now, behind the anchor desk and out of camera range. And she felt as if she were being weighed down by an abdominal tumor the size of Rhode Island. She tried to crawl, but the floor manager caught her eye. He was on his knees waving a Magic Markered sign that said: STAY THERE FOR THE FIRST SECTION. PLEASE!
Cheeta flipped him the bird. She started crawling.
And an ostrich-hide cowboy boot came around to plant itself on the small of her back. Cheeta Ching went down hard. “Oof!”
And the hated voice of Don Cooder returned, saying, “Thank you, Trip. In other news...”
“Ugh,” Cheeta said.
“The retired pathologist and self-styled ‘thanatologist’ known as Dr. Doom has discovered a fresh wrinkle in the tollfree number game: Dial and die.”
“Uhh,” Cheeta groaned.
“AT&T reports their lines are jammed for the second consecutive day in the wake of the controversial new service for the terminally ill.”
“I think my water broke,” Cheeta grunted.
“This just in,” Cooder said. “Reliable sources tell BCN News that weekend anchor Cheeta Ching is at this moment giving birth at a location not far from here. Speaking on behalf of her colleagues here at the Broadcast Corporation of North America, we wish her Godspeed and a joyful labor.”
And the boot heel pushed down harder.
Cheeta Ching’s flat, reddening face slammed to the rug and turned sideways. Then she saw it. The line monitor, which showed the picture that millions of faithful BCN viewers were simultaneously watching in the privacy of their own homes.
The line monitor was as black as a virgin Etch-a-Sketch.
If there was one cardinal, inflexible rule in on-set broadcast journalism etiquette it was: Quiet on a live set.
But if there was a prime directive it was: Never, ever go to black.
The prime directive was far, far more important than on-set etiquette.
And so Cheeta Ching took a deep breath and, steeling herself, let out a shriek calculated to scale a salmon.
In the ringing aftermath, Don Cooder barked, “This just in. Cheeta Ching has given birth to a healthy...” Cooder cocked an ear for the answer.
“We’re in black!” Cheeta shrieked.
All eyes swung to the line monitor.
It was nestled in the cluster of monitors that displayed incoming satellite feeds, previews of about-to-be-aired reports, and waiting commercials. The other monitors were busily cutting between segments. But the line monitor, the crucial monitoring terminal, was like a glassy black eye.
A black eye that would be seen by sponsors and network brass alike. A black eye that would cause viewers all over the country to fidget, grumble, and grope for their remotes.
A black eye that would be tomorrow’s headlines if it wasn’t corrected in time.
“Don’t just stand there!” Cooder shouted. “Put up color bars!”
In the control room, the technical director worked the switcher frantically. “Color bars up!” he shouted.
“No, they’re not! Hit it again.”
