BCN, for example, was enjoying its best ratings in five years.
But that minor quirk paled before the magnitude of the growing crisis. The stock market had lost over a hundred points in anticipation of a long television siege and the resulting body blow to the national economy.
The word had gotten out that Alaska lay outside the interference zone, and airlines were so overbooked by citizens eager to relocate to the only state in the union still serviced by regular programming that they had quadrupled ticket prices.
Professional sports was at a standstill. The commissioner of baseball instituted an emergency moratorium on all games, pending the resumption of commercial broadcasting.
Irate fans, egged on by ringleaders later identified as bookies, picketed TV stations in all major cities.
They had to fight for sidewalk space. Angry soap opera addicts-mostly housewives-usually got there first.
In most cities, the soap opera addicts forced the sports fans to retreat behind police lines, where they felt safe.
National Guard units had been activated in eight states to help keep order. The President was considering federalizing guard elsewhere.
It was, Smith knew, just the beginning. Unless Remo and Chiun could come through for America.
Chapter 35
The Master of Sinanju looked up, tension on his face, as the American captain stomped clod-footed into the rear of the bomber.
"We've spotted it!" he exclaimed.
"Great," said Remo.
"Land," said Chiun.
"We can't land. You two are supposed to be airdropped. Those were my instructions."
The Master of Sinanju arose from his place in the center of the great bomb bay. He padded up to the captain who, although young, towered over him.
Chiun reached up as if to take a speck of fluff from the callow one's chin. The movement was swift and it brought swift results.
"Ow ow ow!" said the captain, dropping to his knees as the exquisite sharpness of Sinanju-hardened fingernails met with his earlobe caught between them.
"Better change your mind," Remo said. "I saw him do that for three hours straight once. The guy had to be committed afterward."
"Okay, okay! We'll land."
Chiun released the young captain. "Thank you," he said and returned to his place on the floor.
Soon, soon, he would find Cheeta Ching. If only it was not too late . . .
Harold Smith's hand seized the red telephone before the first ring had stopped.
"Yes, Mr. President?"
"The Secret Service has finished interrogating an ANC employee they caught sabotaging one of their microwave relay towers. He's given up his employer."
"Who is it?"
"A man I've never heard of. Frank Feldmeyer."
"Frank Feldmeyer is the science editor for the Broadcast Corporation of North America," Smith said grimly. "He would have the technical background to engineer this operation."
"This is like a bad mystery story. The villain is someone no one would have suspected."
"We have not yet determined that he is Captain Audion. He may be a lieutenant."
"Maybe there isn't a Captain Audion. This guy on my set looks like a cross between Don Cooder and Max Headroom's second cousin."
"I'm sorry. Mr. President. I do not understand the reference."
The President started to explain, and when Smith realized it was some irrelevant trivia, he cut him off.
"Does the Secret Service have a line on Frank Feldmeyer?" Smith asked.
"No. BCN management tell me he's on vacation."
"Where?"
"Quebec is all they have."
"Thank you, Mr. President. Keep me informed and I will do the same."
Smith returned to his computer, his dry features concerned. It was going to be difficult working with a president who had no foreign experience and watched pointless popular television programs.
He returned to his prowling of BCN employee records. One by one he had been identifying those who had been placed in other networks and alerting the Secret Service to pick them up. A number had already confessed . . .
The RCMP cars had been trundling south of Fort Chimo for three hours. They had flown up from Montreal in an official De Havilland Otter and transferred to RCMP cars.
In the back of the lead car, shackled hand and foot, Don Cooder sat ramrod straight, unflinching, unafraid.
"This," he said, "is going to be the biggest story since Hurricane Andrew. That will go down in broadcast history as one of Don Cooder's finest hours. Makes me feel young again. Like Hurricane Carla, back in '61. I cut my teeth on that blow. But this is bigger than any old hurricane."
The RCMP guards were growing bored. One yawned.
"Are there any trees around these parts?" Don Cooder asked suddenly.
"Why do you ask, Yank?" asked the major in charge of the search. His voice was guttural in its French accent.
"Even an anchor has to take a leak from time to time."
The Mounties broke out into peals of rough-hewn laughter.
Don Cooder smiled sheepishly.