"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 . . ."
In his Folcroft office Harold W. Smith changed channels the old-fashioned way. By hand.
It was total chaos down in Atlanta. The media had jumped on the least important part of the story-the disabling of KNNN's broadcast ability. The abduction of Cheeta Ching, ostensibly by Jed Burner, Layne Fondue, and an unknown confederate, had yet to break.
With luck, the news would not air until Remo had broken the bad news to the Master of Sinanju.
As for the mysterious Captain Audion, Harold Smith knew that whatever his carefully laid plans had been, Remo had thrown a monkey wrench into them by disabling KNNN.
He turned down the sound and went back to his computer, from which he was monitoring the land, sea, and air search for the missing KNNN Superpuma helicopter, initiated in utter secrecy by the President of the United States himself. The new chief executive was only too happy to pitch in and do his part.
He had been watching KNNN when it went down-and Harold Smith was the first person he called.
Chapter 15
Remo Williams didn't know what to do.
After he had eluded the Atlanta police, he had checked into a Decatur motel, showered, and walked the floor with the TV on.
Like a pack of sharks smelling blood in the water, the networks were providing continuous coverage of "The KNNN Knockdown," as BCN was calling it. Anchors interviewed anchors, who returned the favor. It was a feeding frenzy of interviews, and nowhere was the opinion of an ordinary citizen heard.
A Martian would have thought a religious temple had been desecrated.
There were standups, two-shots, and endlessly repeated film clips of the downed satellite dishes, frightened KNNN staffers, not to mention assorted fistfights. Interspersed with commercials that were three times more interesting than the coverage itself.
Remo had enjoyed none of it. Except the footage of Don Cooder and a nameless KNNN anchor wrestling for possession of a live mike.
The spectacle of Don Cooder under great stress reminded Remo of the time two years back when Cooder had talked a dippy physics student into building a live neutron bomb for a segment of 24 Hours, ostensibly on the easy availability of nuclear technology, but actually as a gigantic ratings ploy. Someone had stolen the bomb and detonated it. Chiun had been on ground zero when it happened, with Remo a helpless witness.
Chiun had survived. A miracle. The Master of Sinanju had burrowed underground to safety, but no one knew it. Not even Remo, who had mourned his Master for many long months, until Harold Smith had located the comatose old Korean under a California desert and resuscitated him.