"How am I going to explain this to the President?" he said in a shaken voice.
The major shrugged again. "I think you should tell him exactly what we've discovered. It's disturbing, but it's not as if we've had a dud nuke dropped on us."
"Dud nuke!" the general roared. "Dud nuke! A dud nuke we can handle. With a dud nuke we could read the serial numbers and identify the aggressor nation. Can you tell me who's responsible for this?"
"Once the reference books on locomotives arrive, we might."
"Can you tell me how it was launched?"
"Not from a book," the major admitted.
"No, of course not."
"I don't see the problem. Even if one of these hits a critical target and I don't see how, without internal guidance systems-the damage on the ground would be very limited."
"On the ground! You don't win wars on the ground anymore. You win 'em in the back rooms. At cocktail parties. This is the fucking twentieth century. Do you think America and Russia haven't had a major war this century because neither side thinks it can win a ground situation? Hell, no."
"I'm aware of the balance of power, General. But this thing doesn't figure in. It's nonnuclear."
"This one was. But what about the next one?"
"We don't know that there will be a next one."
"Do you want to tell the President that there won't be a next one? Do you, soldier?"
"No, sir," the major said hastily.
"Let me explain something to you, son. There are two absolutes in national defense. Our ability to detect and intercept an incoming threat. And our ability to retaliate in the event of an attack. We have no defense against this thing. It went up so fast our satellites couldn't read it. Hell, we barely had time to get the President into deep cover before it hit. But more important, we don't know where the bastard came from. We can't admit it hit sovereign territory without admitting weakness. Therefore, we can't warn the world that it had better not happen again. And if it does happen again, chances are we'll just have enough time to kiss our fat, contented assess goodbye. "
"I think you may be exaggerating, sir."
"We're sitting ducks. Do you know how many steam locomotives there are in Russia? In China? In the third world? Thousands. Maybe tens of thousands. And every one of them a potential threat. How are we going to defend ourselves? Nuke the rest of the world and hope we get the enemy?"
"There may not be a next one," Major Cheek said stubbornly.
"I want total security on this. Who knows that this is a locomotive?"
"You and I. And three of my men."
"Confine them. They are not to breathe a word of this. No one talks about trains or locomotives or any of it. I'll figure out what to tell the President. In the meanwhile, you get your shiny nose into those reference books. I want to know when this thing was built, who built it, how many more of them are out there, and I want the answers tonight. You got that, soldier?"
"Yes, sir, General."
"I'll be at my office trying to hold this country together. Don't let me down."
And General Martin S. Leiber turned on his heel and stormed out of the overheated hangar. When he got outside, the rush of cold air made him shiver and frosted his mustache. He wiped the sweat off his face with a handkerchief and got into his car.
He was still sweating when he reached the Pentagon.
Chapter 8
"You don't seem very broken up, Little Father," Remo said as he tooled the lumbering truck through darkened city streets.
"I am not broken at all," sniffed Chiun.
"I didn't mean literally broken," Remo said. "I meant unhappy. As in heartbroken."
"Why should I be unhappy? It is true that I agreed to accompany you on what should have been a short pleasure ride but has turned into an expedition second only to Odysseus' voyage home from the Trojan Wars. But I am not grief-sticken."
"How was I to know that the first three zoos we'd try would refuse to accept Rambo?"
"You could have called ahead."
"I was in a hurry. I want this albatross off my neck."
"Albatross? What albatross?" Chiun asked, looking around.
"Never mind," fumed Remo.
"I wasn't going to mention this, but this is all your fault."
Remo braked the truck in anger. It skidded and he had to wrestle the wheel to the left to avoid hitting a mailbox. He succeeded. He hit a fireplug instead.
"How odd," said Chiun when the truck jounced to a halt. "It is raining, yet there are no clouds."
Remo threw the truck into reverse and backed off the hydrant so the engine would not be flooded. Wordlessly he got out of the truck.
The fireplug was cracked at its base. Water gushed up from the shattered main. Because Remo was upset, he did not approach the problem logically. He kicked the hydrant. The casing flew into a wall. Without the hydrant to cap it, the water geysered upward.
Remo was instantly soaked, which did not improve his mood.
Seeing no other alternative, he plunged into the geyser. Eyes clamped shut to the overpowering column of water, he felt for the sharp, broken water-main mouth. When his fingers found it, he began working the metal. Shrill metallic squeals emanated from the main.
Slowly, as Remo squeezed the water main shut, the torrent turned to a gush and then dropped off to a spastic trickle.
When Remo stood up, only a little water still stubbornly bubbled up. Remo stamped on the source, and the water stopped.
Soaking wet, he climbed back into the cab and tried the ignition. It caught after several tries and he backed the truck off the sidewalk.
A beat cop stood watching the truck depart. He hadn't seen the accident, only the sight of a thin man with unusually thick wrists angrily beating a water main into submission. He decided he hadn't seen enough to warrant questioning the man. If anyone asked, he had no idea what had happened to the hydrant.
"How is it my fault?" Remo asked bitterly after several blocks. He blew water off his lips. It kept rilling down his face. He tried wringing it out of his hair with his fingers.
"We would not now be having this problem had it not been for your rashness," Chiun told him evenly.
"I think we've had this conversation before," Remo said. "Is this the one that starts with: if I hadn't gone back to Vietnam, none of this would have happened?"
"No, this is the one that ends with my humiliation at your hands."
"I think I walked out before we got to that part last time. "
"That is why I bring it up now."
"You can get off here if you want."
"Nonsense. You drive. I will talk. Hopefully, you will listen in spite of your stubbornness. It was your stubbornness that created my dilemma."
"What dilemma is that?" Remo asked in spite of himself.
"Smith ordered you not to go to Vietnam."
"So I went anyway. I had an obligation. American POW's. It's about something you can't seem to understand. Loyalty. "
"I understand loyalty. I also understand higher obligations. My obligation to Smith. Your obligation to Smith."
"Sometimes I don't give a rat's ass about Smith."
"Ordinarily I would give even less. But emperors are hard to find in the modern world. Especially emperors with vast stores of gold. I may not value Smith, but I value his gold. It supports my village. Your village, now."
"So what's the beef?"
"The beef is that while I may turn a blind eye to your disobedience toward Smith, you have a deeper obligation to me. I gave Smith my word you would not go to Vietnam, and you did."
"I don't know what came over me," Remo said vaguely. "Must have been those flashbacks I was having."
"A convenient excuse," Chiun sniffed. "But I will continue my tale. I cannot have you disobeying me."