Either way, he had a head start. And a head start was all Don Cooder ever needed to be the first to break a breaking story.
"This," he chortled, pulling a .38 from the glove compartment, "is going to be bigger than Dallas, 1963!"
Captain Nodell was making a preliminary pass, dragging the landing area for stones and muskeg patches when he saw the black-and-white car scoot out of nowhere.
"Uh-oh," he told his copilot.
"Think he saw us?"
"Dunno. Is it a police car?"
"Well, it's got a roof flasher and there's some kind of letters stenciled on the door panel. Begins with R."
"RCMP?"
"Maybe."
"Mounties," said Captain Nodell.
"They still got those up here?"
"Looks like." He pulled up and sent the Stealth fighter sweeping around.
And got a clear view of the speedy little car, distantly pursued by two others, racing toward the mountain that supported the 200-foot statue of a nun-and disappearing into it.
"Must be a cave or something in the base . . ."
"Do we still land?" asked the nervous copilot.
"No choice," said Nodell, feeling his tender earlobe. It felt hot, like a cooked piece of steak.
Frank Feldmeyer was shivering in his blue Captain Audion bodysuit in the great control room under the mountain when he saw the red warning light go off and swore under his breath.
Bolting from the control room, he grabbed up a pistol from a rack by the door.
From down the corridor cut from rough stone, shrieks and wails of pain were coming. He shut them out.
Moving to the spiral stainless-steel steps, he ran down, weapon at the ready, prepared to defend his post.
A familiar voice called up. "Psst, Frank!"
"Don. Is that you?"
Don Cooder, shackled and holding a .38 revolver, stomped up the stairs on his ostrich-skin cowboy boots.
"Yeah," he said, his breath steaming. "Are we still on the air?"
Frank Feldmeyer wiped the cold sweat off his brow and said, "Yeah. But power's getting low. How long do you expect me to keep this up?"
"It's time to wrap this up."
"Great. Let's get out of here."
"Can't."
"Why not?"
"Mounties are on my trail like a pack of redbone foxhounds in heat."
"Mounties! What the hell do we do?"
"They think I'm trying to break this story. I'm covered."
"What about me?" Feldmeyer demanded anxiously. "Look at me, I'm dressed up like Captain Audion, for God's sake."
"You can hide once we set things up. Where are Burner and that loudmouth bitch?"
"Cheeta?"
"No, the other loudmouth bitch."
"On ice."
"Okay, let's get them out."
Ignoring the shrieks of pain, Don Cooder moved through frost-rimmed stone corridors to a stainless-steel door like a walk-in freezer and yanked on the handle. A blast of cold air wafted out, along with the chill dead smell of frozen meat.
They entered a small cave. Past shelves of frozen steaks and chicken parts, they pushed to the dimly lighted rear of the natural freezer.
Cooder knelt beside two motionless figures.
"They look kinda blue," he muttered.
Feldmeyer said, "They weren't dead when I looked in on them last."
Cooder put his ear to the still chest of Jed Burner.
"This man's heart is beating like a stone, which is to say it's not."
"Oh God, I didn't count on murder." "Shush. Let me check on old Haiphong Hannah." Cooder listened, his face contorting. "I got a beat."
"Great. Thank God."
"Okay, let's get them into the control room."
Rattling his chains with every step, Don Cooder lugged Haiphong Hannah down the corridor to the control room and dumped her into one of the console seats. Jed Burner was dropped into the other, not quite fitting because his joints had stiffened.
"Where's the damn helmets?" Cooder demanded, looking around.
Feldmeyer pointed unsteadily. "In that cabinet. Why?"
"We're going to set it up so that it looks like they're the black hats. Why do you think I had you abduct them in the first place?"
"Will it work, Don?"
"Burner's dead and Haiphong Hannah's got the credibility of Saddam Hussein. How can it fail?"
Shrugging, Frank Feldmeyer helped Cooder set the Captain Audion helmet over Jed Burner's frost-rimmed head.
"Now let's get old Hannah set up and this thing is in the barn."
When they were done, two television-headed figures sat at the console that controlled the most powerful broadcast TV signal on earth.
"Okay," Cooder said panting, "let me have your gun."
"Why?"
"I'm going to shoot Burner."
"Why?"
"Why? The low-down goat roper had the nerve to ask 'Who the hell is Don Cooder?' when I was holding onto the Chair by my sphincter. Made me a laughing stock. Nearly ruined my career at a crucial time."
"No, I mean what good will it do?"
"Dead men tell no tales."
Then the ringing of steel stair treads came from beyond the open door.
"That's the Mounties," Cooder snapped. "Right on cue. We gotta shoot them right now or it's boot hill for us both."
"I can't shoot anyone," Feldmeyer said shakily.
"Tell you what, you shoot Burner. He's already dead. And I'll shoot Hannah. Deal?"
"O-okay."
Together, the two men lifted their weapons and pointed them at the unmoving backs of their targets.
"Count of three," Cooder said.
Swallowing hard, Feldmeyer nodded.
"One!"
"Two!"
"Three!"
Closing his eyes, Frank Feldmeyer steeled himself to pump a single round into the cold back of Jed Burner, and never opened them again.
The roar of Don Cooder's pistol in his ear reached his eardrum just as the bullet had gouged out one ear canal and exited the other in a spray of grayish curd.
Cooder emptied the cylinder into the back of Haiphong Hannah's head, shattering her screen with its steady NO SIGNAL message.
Taking the dead hand of Jed Burner in his, he wrapped the stiffened fingers around a black handle marked DESTRUCT and pulled hard. A red digital timer began counting backward from 00:00:10.
Calmly, he wiped the gun free of fingerprints and placed it in Frank Feldmeyer's still-twitching hand. From the floor, he took the automatic that had killed no one, squeezed the grip so he left crystal clear prints, lifted both manacled hands to the ceiling, and patiently whistled "Cowboy's Lament" as the Mounties pounded up the spiral stairs.
The shrieking of Cheeta Ching in the torment of childbirth filled the corridor.
"Damn," he muttered. "Forgot one. Oh, well. Next time."
The digital timer reached 00:00:00.
From far above, there came an explosive sound muffled by tons of granite.
Chapter 36
The sleek black shape of the Stealth bomber rolled to a whining, bumpy stop, and a hatch popped open.
"Wait for us," Remo called over his shoulder as he followed the Master of Sinanju out into the coldest, most inhospitable expanse he had seen outside of Outer Mongolia.
"What if you don't come back alive?" returned Captain Nodell.
"Wait anyway."
"You got it."
Remo found himself standing on hard rock dappled by spongy moss and lichen. Muskeg pools, some no bigger than his fist, speckled the terrain.
"Ready, Little Father?"
"I am prepared for anything," said the Master of Sinanju.
It was a good half mile to the flat-topped mountain which loomed up from the rock-and-muskeg waste. The statue of Saint Clare stood watch like a lonely bride atop an ugly wedding cake.
They started off at a dead run, picked up speed and soon were moving as fast as a speeding car. "Remember," Remo warned, "we don't kill anyone unless we're sure."