"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.
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?"
"His every pronouncement enriched the universe," said Chiun, closing his eyes at the sublime memory.
Remo frowned. "Your universe, and for the last time he's not dead."
"Let us pray that this is true, but of course it is not. Remo, you may pay brief respects at the site of the catastrophe, but merely slow down. Do not stop. We must reach the city of Washington before the President of Vice attempts to unseat the puppet he secretly loathes."
"It's not like that," Remo said in a tight, tired voice.
"Then there is the scheming queen. Not an hour will pass between her learning of this calamity ere she will attempt to weld her ambitious skirts to the Eagle Throne. Those people are worse than Corvinus the Unjust."
"Who?"
"A Magyar-a Hungarian to you-ruler the House was forced to serve during a difficult era."
"Why was he 'the Unjust'?"
The Master of Sinanju lowered his voice. "He was elected."
"Tsk-tsk."
"It was a Balkan scandal," Chiun confided. "Such things were not done in those days."
Noticing the flashing blue lights in his side mirror, Remo saw that a Connecticut State Police cruiser was bearing down on him.
"I don't have time for this," he said tightly.
"What?" asked Chiun, turning in his seat.
"State trooper on our case."
Chiun shrugged. "He will follow until one of us runs out of fuel."
"That will be us," Remo said, glancing at the fuel gauge.
"Then I suggest you stop. For we are Sinanju, who do not fear Smokies."
Sighing, Remo pulled over and rolled down the window as the trooper emerged from his cruiser, striding toward them.
"We do not have time for this," Chiun said.
"I said that."
"So, back up."
"If we back up, he'll only call for his backup. Then we'll have the entire Connecticut barracks chasing us."
"Not if you squash his radio, too."
"It's a thought," said Remo, who abruptly backed up.
The Dragoon jumped into reverse, and its right balloon tires started climbing the cruiser's hood. The weight was too much for the cruiser's radials. They bloated up and one after the other popped as Remo crushed the windscreen, flattened the roof, demolished the strobing light bar and bumped down off the collapsing trunk until the APC was back on level ground again.
The state trooper took great offense to this display of overwhelming vehicular superiority. He took out his service pistol and emptied it into the APC's side, which lost a few specks of red paint but not much else.
The trooper was reloading and trying to empty his second clip when Remo got underway again.
"He will think twice about challenging us again," Chiun said confidently as rounds spanged harmlessly off the APC's rear deck.
"Are you kidding? By midnight there will be an APB on us from here to New Rochelle."
"As long as we are in Washington by then," said Chiun.
AS HE WADED through the salt marsh, Amtrak conductor Don Burris was grateful for one thing.
At least there were no alligators.
There had been alligators during the Bayou Canot derailment. But that was an Alabama bayou. A wayward tugboat had struck a train trestle, weakening it. So when the Sunset Limited rolled over it, seven cars tumbled into the water, spilling diesel fuel and human passengers into the gator-infested bayou waters.
It had been bad. Real bad. Forty-seven died. But it could have been worse.
Burris had been a conductor on that run. He was one of the lucky ones. His coach had stayed on the rails.
This was bad. No shit, it was bad.
The Merchant's Limited had slammed into a bulldozer straddling the track. What a bulldozer was doing on the rail bed didn't matter now. Saving the living was all that counted. And recovering the dead.
As he waded through tidal rushes and cattails, wearing a fisherman's high rubber wading pants, feeling for bodies with his boots, Burris had another comforting thought. At least this wasn't the era of steam. Back then, when there was a big wreck, the wooden coaches splintered like kindling. If it was winter, the coal stoves set the kindling alight, and the maimed and helpless lay howling as they were consumed. Yes, things could have been worse.