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At the roof edge, Remo gave the dish a flip. His motion was short and economical, but the twenty-foot dish flipped out into space, hanging emitter side down like an umbrella with a snapped-short handle.

Remo leaped into space and grabbed the emitter in both hands. The dish, which had been hesitating in midair, began to slide downward.

It was not as good as a parachute, but it had nice gliding characteristics. Remo swung his feet, slipping a little air and the dish skipped past a nearby office tower.

People in the lighted office windows waved to him. Remo ignored them. He was focused on his breathing. It took a lot of concentration to think like a feather.

As the SWAT helicopters gingerly settled to the roof helipad on bent skids, Remo rode the dish over a mile outside the city, steering it toward the scent of fresh water that promised a safe landing. When he spotted the glint of moonlight on water, he dropped toward a soft, if wet, landing.

When a caterwauling contingent of the Atlanta Metro Police arrived, all they found was the bent dish, floating in East Lake.

Remo Williams floated beneath the cool water, holding his breath, untouched by crisscrossing police helicopter searchlights, and wondered what the Master of Sinanju would say to him when he learned that Remo had allowed kidnappers to abduct the mother of his child when she was about to give birth.

As he waited for the helicopters to give him up for dead, Remo's lean body gave a great shudder that had nothing to do with the deep chill of the lake water and everything to do with the cold thoughts in his brain.

Chapter 14

News moves instantly in the age of satellite communications.

In New York, the three major broadcast networks learned of KNNN's loss of signal at exactly the same time.

So much had KNNN changed the way the world got its news that in every control room of each network there was a man whose job it was to monitor KNNN round the clock for breaking news. They were on the payrolls as "market research monitors."

At MBC, the monitor saw his KNNN satellite feed go down.

At BCN, the monitor gasped as the pair of KNNN anchors became a black square with the words NO SIGNAL in the upper right-hand corner.

At ANC, they saw the same thing.

At the three majors, the cry was the same.

"It's happening again!"

But it wasn't. Line monitors were checked. And rechecked. All other transmissions were up.

"It's just KNNN," the news director at BCN said, relief washing along his vocal cords.

Then it struck him.

"Get a team down to Atlanta. This is news!"

Planes were charted. Equipment was hastily rushed to waiting hangers. Flyaway satellite dishes were hauled out of storage.

And in less than an hour, with a full Georgia moon washing West Peachtree Avenue, the remote microwave vans started pulling up. Masts were erected. And videocams were busily recording the sight of two mighty satellite dishes lying in the street as the KNNN anchor teams milled about, dazed expressions on their faces as they interviewed themselves on tape for later broadcast.

The first to arrive was Don Cooder of BCN News. He stormed into the crowd wearing his lucky safari jacket. Usually, it was something he saved for reporting coups and civil wars, but since this was, professionally speaking, enemy territory, he thought wearing it was a good idea.

"I'm looking for Jed Burner," he said, biting out his words.

"No one's seen him."

"A KNNN anchor, then. Is there an anchor who hasn't been interviewed yet? I'm offering a BCN exclusive!"

From the crowd, a half dozen hands jumped into the air.

"Me! Me! I haven't been on the air in three hours!"

"No, me. I'm more photogenic!"

"One at a time! One at a time," Cooder said hastily. "Everybody will get his or her chance." Cooder stopped, turned to the videocam and pitched his voice an octave deeper.

"This is Don Cooder, speaking to you from in front of KNNN Headquarters here in Augusta, Georgia."

"It's Atlanta!" a voice called out.

As if he hadn't heard, Cooder pushed on. "For those just tuning in, here are the facts as we understand them to be: Hours after broadcast TV is blacked out from the Manitoba to Monterrey, calamity befell Kable Newsworthy News Network's once great empire-"

"What do you mean 'once great?'" a voice snapped.

"You're off the air," Cooder snarled.

"But we'll be back."

Cooder whirled. "Do you mind?"

"Hey, Mom!" someone yelled, waving past Cooder's turned back. "I'm fine! Don't worry about me. It was just the satellite dishes."

"Who's doing this stand-up, you or me?" Cooder snarled.

It was the wrong thing to say. KNNN anchors exchanged glances and suddenly Hurricane Don Cooder, veteran of the natural disasters, civil rights coverage, Vietnam, and Tiananmen Square, was fighting for his own microphone in full view of his faithful audience.

"Let go of my mike or I'll brain you with it!" he snarled.

"Cut Cut!" the remote producer yelled frantically.

Hearing the sound of his colleague in distress, Dieter Banning came running to the rescue, his London Fog trenchcoat skirts slapping at his legs.

"Get that fucking camera on him!" he yelled to his cameraman.

"What about you?"

"Never fucking mind me! I'll do a damn voiceover."

The videocam light blazed into life, and Dieter Banning's frantic voice was suddenly crisp, cool, and mannered as that of an English valet.

"The scene here in Atlanta tonight is reminiscent of Beirut," he said as Don Cooder, gaining the upper hand, proceeded to pummel his rival into submission. "As so often happens in the wake of such things, the fabric of ordinary society quickly breaks down. To American viewers this may seem like nothing more than a boisterous argument, but I assure in the more civilized corners of the world, say, London, or Ottowa, the sight you are now watching would be met with anguish, shock and utter shame . . . ."

Tim Macaw was trying to get the facts. That was all he wanted-the facts. Without facts, he had no story. It was good to have pictures, essential in this age of electronic journalism, but if you don't have the facts, pictures were so much electronic confetti.

"Does anyone know what happened here?" he cried out, pushing into the crowd.

"KNNN is down."

"Can anyone confirm that?"

"Sure. Me," said a helpful voice.

"Me, too," said another voice.

"Good. Good. What caused it?"

"Someone ripped the satellite dishes off the roof."

"Who?" Macaw asked.

"Nobody knows."

"What is this all about?"

"Nobody knows."

"Where is Jed Burner? Has anybody seen Jed Burner?"

"He disappeared just before it happened."

"Oh. Does anyone else know this?"

"Search me."

Tim Macaw, sensing a story, turned to his remote producer.

"They're saying Jed Burner has disappeared. Has anyone broken the story yet?"

"No, Tim."

"Well, can we confirm it independently?"

"How? Usually we confirm these things by turning on KNNN. Can't now."

"Right. Damn. What do we do?"

"If we air and it's wrong, we look stupid."

"But if it's right, and we don't get it out there, one of the other networks will own the story."

"It's your call, Tim."

Shoulders slumping in defeat, Tim Macaw moaned, "What do print guys do in situations like this? Damn."

On one corner a black man in black Cons and a backward cap was doing a rap before the TV cameras.

KNNN is out of shout, Global.news is down for the count. Nobody knew who knocked it flat, Check it out-Vox TV is where it's at.

Shifting into a mellow announcer's voice, he added, "This is Vox TV's Rap News. First with the news that today's young people can understand. Now we return to The Stilsons. Tonight, Fart microwaves baby Sue and Gomer mistakes her for . . ."