Nancy stayed close to the Burger Beret team as they muscled the head off the ground and tried to find a place to put it.
"The damn neck's too long," King said in exasperation.
"Why don't you just cut the head off?" Nancy suggested.
King looked up, a gleam in his eyes. Then it died. "What am I thinking? No, we can't do that!"
Nancy smiled. "Just testing your brain. It's working-just a little slow."
"How about a little credit for a job well done?"
"We're a long way from Port Chuma," Nancy shot back. "And if you're open to suggestions, I have one."
King looked around to see if there were any cameras recording the conversation. Finding none, he said, "Go ahead."
"The head might fit into the cab of the second locomotive."
King looked from Nancy to the locomotive. Then he stood up and cupped his hands over his mouth. "Hey, everybody, I had a brainstorm! We can fit the head into locomotive cab!"
Clambering down, he mumbled a grudging, "Thanks."
"Oh, don't mention it."
It took nearly every hand to maneuver the head in, but they did it.
"All right, everyone," King shouted, "space is tight so find a place to ride and we'll be off."
"There isn't room for everybody," Thorpe pointed out.
"Let the natives trot alongside the train."
"Be serious."
"Then leave them behind."
"You can't mean that!"
"No? Maybe next time they'll wear the sponsor's shirts with pride."
"If they stay, I stay," Thorpe said firmly.
"Then you stay. The check will be in the mail."
"If he stays, I stay," Nancy added.
King considered. What he would have said remained unspoken.
"Dr. Derringer, I can handle this from here," Thorpe said. "You stick with Old Jack. Maybe we'll meet up in the States."
Nancy hesitated. She glared daggers at King and took Thorpe's hand in a firm clasp.
"Good luck, Thorpe."
"Cheerio."
King snapped his fingers so hard they stung. "Wait! I almost forgot! Just in case, we've got to send a package ahead."
"Package?"
"A film package."
They called down the skycrane and passed off three video cassettes. The helicopter lifted into the blue sky and rattled off toward the east.
Then the locomotives were fired up. They were steam models. It took some time. Everyone helped shovel coal. Except Skip King. He found the most comfortable seat in the lone passenger car behind the cargo car and popped a beer he pulled from an ice chest.
All the locomotives started up at once.
Great iron wheels screeched as they attempted to revolve. Couplings clanked.
And bearing its monstrous cargo, the train began moving.
They got up to twenty-five miles an hour and held that speed for the remainder of the day. King was talking nonstop.
"I wonder who should publish the excerpts from my biography?" he wondered aloud as a blur of jungle ran past the windows. "Vanity Fair or-"
"Mad magazine," Nancy finished.
"Don't mind her, boys," King told the attentive Berets, "she's just post-menstrual. It'll pass."
When no one joined in his braying laughter, King took a cold sip and said. "Well, we've all had a rough day."
Less that thirty miles from Port Chuma, the engineer spotted the logs on the tracks and blew his whistle. He hit the air brakes.
It was a European-style engine. There was no cow catcher. Just a pair of spring-loaded rams mounted in the front of the lead boiler.
The brakes took. Screeching, the train slid that last hundred yards, to stop just shy of the barrier of logs.
"What it is?" King muttered. "Why'd we stop?"
The sound of gunfire gave him his first clue.
Out of the bush poured knots of black men in camouflage fatigues with green berets perched on their heads. They carried Skorpion machine pistols.
"Bandits!" King shouted. "Burger Berets, do your corporate duty!"
Nancy grabbed his shoulder. "Are you crazy, King? If there's a gun fight, we'll be certain to lose Jack!"
King shook off the clutching hand.
"Relax baby," he said. "Skip King knows what he's doing." He took an AR-15 away from a Burger Beret, dashed out the glass in the window, and shouting, "Have it your way!" opened fire.
There was immediate return fire and Nancy dived to the floor.
For a firefight, it went on a long time.
The Burger Berets laid down covering fire. Return fire was sporadic. Nancy hugged the floor, face cradled in her crossed arms to protect it against flying glass and splinters.
The popping of the AR-15s filled the car, and she was forced to clap her hands over her ears. They were still sensitive from the abuse they had taken after King had fired his trank gun in her ear.
"Okay!" King shouted. "Get ready to jump. I'll cover you."
The Burger Berets piled out, shooting.
"Don't worry, Nancy, I'll protect you!"
"Jackass!" Nancy spat. "Who's going to protect Jack!"
"Don't sweat it. God looks out for fools and dinosaurs."
The firing came in percussive waves. King emptied two clips and was ramming a fresh one home when the car door was thrown open and a deep basso voice said in slightly Oxford-flavored English, "You are all prisoners of the Congress for a Green Africa."
Nancy looked up.
A wide-faced black man with a curly black beard was smiling at them with his teeth and menacing them with the muzzle of his machine pistol.
Nancy decided the weapon canceled out the teeth and lifted her hand at the elbows, saying, "We surrender."
"Speak for yourself," King said defiantly. "I may want to tough this out."
"If you don't shoot that idiot," Nancy said in a bitter voice. "I want the privilege."
King looked from Nancy to the black man to Nancy again and lay down his weapon.
"A seasoned jungle fighter can tell when he's outflanked," he grumbled, throwing up his hands. "I choose to live to fight another day."
Nancy spoke up. "Somebody please tell me that Old Jack is safe."
"You mean mokele m'bembe?" asked the basso voice.
Nancy looked startled. "Mokele m'bembe is what they call Jack in Gabon."
"And I am from Gabon, come to claim mokele m'bembe for my country."
Chapter 8
Harold W. Smith was explaining the painstaking selection process that resulted in the acquisition of a castle for the Master of Sinanju while he attempted to get the morsels of steamed rice to his mouth with the silver chopsticks provided.
The rice kept falling back, and he succeeded only in getting three or four grains to his tongue each time, and then only because the stuff had a sticky consistency.
"There were several operational considerations beyond simply satisfying the Master of Sinanju," Smith was saying.
"Where does simple come in?" Remo growled, poking at his duck, which he had already pronounced as too greasy. Chiun had countered that the cook should not complain about his own cooking, but should strive for perfection. "Simple is a nice clapboard house with a white picket fence. Simple is not a castle."
"Remo, eat your duck," Chiun said.
"It's greasy."
"The cook was inferior. Continue, Emperor Smith."
"A city large enough for the two of you to blend in was of paramount importance," Smith said. "Small town people tend to be too sensitive to those who do not fit in, and would be apt to snoop."
"Couldn't have us kill every old lady who came to peer through our venetian blinds," Remo grumbled, taking up his bowl of rice. He began eating with his fingers because it would annoy the Master of Sinanju.
"You are eating like a Chinaman," Chiun said, nose wrinkling.
"So I'm eating like a Chinaman. Sue me."
Smith continued. "Proximity to a major airport is critical, of course. You must be able to move on a moment's notice."