Thirty minutes later another AP report popped up, and Smith knew without being told by the system that it would be a match.
It was.
The Lakeshore Limited had jumped the track near Batavia, New York. Casualty reports were yet to filter out. But his system matched it to an identical event two summers previously, where 125 people had been injured.
"He is re-creating some of the most catastrophic disasters in recent rail history," Smith blurted. "But why?"
A moment later Smith forgot all about the why. He had a new angle to pursue.
Frantically inputting commands, he commanded his system to list all of the significant rail disasters of the past three years, in order of loss of life and property damage.
The list was not long. But the first entry was headed, "Bayou Canot."
Smith remembered it well. September 22, 1993. The Sunset Limited was barreling south to Florida through Alabama bayou country. A towboat had taken a wrong turn and struck a trestle bridge, weakening it. When the Sunset Limited went over the bridge, three lead engines and four trailing Heritage cars tumbled into the water. Forty-seven people drowned. That one event doubled the total number of fatalities in Amtrak history overnight. To this day it remained the most deadly Amtrak accident ever.
Suddenly Smith doubted the official NTSB explanation. Odds were Bayou Canot was about to be repeated.
Dialing the Maryland hotel, Smith reached Remo. "Remo. Here are your instructions. Go to Mobile, Alabama. Find the railroad bridge over Bayou Canot." Smith spelled it. "Then guard that bridge from sabotage. I have reason to believe the ronin will attack it."
"On our way," said Remo.
Hanging up, Smith returned to his computer. There was a lot to do, and he had relatively little hard data.
But he did have a name: Furio Batsuka.
Smith began a search of his data base first. It was unlikely to be legitimate, but the possibility had to be factored out first.
Smith was surprised when the global search came up positive. His gray eyes scanned the scrolling blocks of amber text. His expectant expression soon turned sour: "Seattle Mariners slugger Furio Batsuka strikes out at All-Star Game."
Smith didn't bother to read the rest.
"The name is an obvious alias," he said unhappily.
Hunching his shoulders, Harold Smith tried attacking the problem from another angle. Dead ends were to be expected when dealing with industrial-espionage operations, as this assuredly was.
GETTING TO BAYOU CANOT involved a car ride and then renting a motorboat. It was nearly dusk by the time Remo and Chiun got to the boat leg of the trip.
They were puttering down the sluggish river, Chiun standing in the stern like a watchful figurehead while Remo piloted the craft. A mist was rising from the water. The air was moist and humid. And behind them, a lonesome alligator was following lazily in their wake.
When they found the great steel trestle, it was still standing.
"Looks okay to me," Remo said. "Maybe we're in time."
Chiun said nothing. He was waving to the alligator as it followed them to shore with lazy swishes of its tail.
The craft beached on a bank, and Remo hopped out to secure it. Chiun waited patiently in the stern for Remo to pull the boat nearly out of the water. Only then did he deign to step off onto dry land.
The alligator decided to join them.
"Better watch the lizard, Little Father," Remo cautioned.
"Better that the lizard watch me," said Chiun, turning to face the waddling saurian.
The alligator crawled out on his stubby legs and made a determined lunge for Chiun. Chiun watched him approach, his hazel eyes curious.
"This is an inferior specimen."
"Compared to what?" said Remo, eyeing the long, eerie span over their heads.
"The royal crocodiles of Upper Egypt!'
"If he gets hold of your ankle, you'll think differently."
That seemed to be the alligator's intent. He kept coming. Chiun let him get within a snout's length. Abruptly the alligator scissored open his jaws and, with a furious forward convulsion, snapped them shut.
If an alligator could show surprise, this one did.
Its lizardy eyes were gawking at the spot where Chiun stood. There was no Chiun. It whipsawed its long head. Right, then left.
And standing serenely on the creature's pebbled back, the Master of Sinanju reached forward to tap the gator on the top of its knobby brown head.
"Yoo-hoo," Chiun taunted. "Here I am."
The gator threshed. Its tail whipped back. Its jaws snapped around like a dog trying to bite its own tail. It bucked. It squirmed. It let out a rare alligator roar.
But the Master of Sinanju rode it as calmly as if it were a lumpy log, not a leathery, muscular eating machine.
"Chiun, will you stop teasing that gator?" Remo warned. "We have work to do."
"I am teasing no one. He is trying to eat me."
"Stop giving him reason to think he can."
And since it was a reasonable request, the Master of Sinanju stepped forward, slamming the gator's fanged jaws shut, simultaneously mushing its head down into the spongy riverbank.
The gator's entire body convulsed, tail slamming in anger, then determination, finally in unmistakable terror as it realized it was utterly powerless to unseat the skirted annoyance on its back.
Chiun waited for the gator to settle down. It lay flat, panting like a flattened, exhausted dog. Calmly, with a sandaled toe, the Master of Sinanju nudged the gator's ribs until it rolled over once, it legs kicking out helpless as broken chicken wings.
"Behold, Remo. A trick you do not know."
Remo ignored the commotion. He was moving through the rank undergrowth, checking the bridge supports.
So Chiun, using only his toe, nudged the helpless alligator over and over like a log, maintaining his balance with nimble steps, until the saurian rolled into the oily bayou waters with a defeated splash.
Chiun stepped off at the last possible moment.