In any other age it was a news story that would have wrested control of the airwaves from anything else. But the news of the twenty-first century played differently.
It was now early morning and the hard overnight news of the Russian submarine was being set aside, overtaken once more by human-interest puff pieces. On the newscast Smith was watching, the submarine story was supplanted by an update on a frivolous story out in California. From what Smith saw, it was some nonsense about a cat in a storm drain. There was apparently a growing sinkhole that had collapsed part of the street and had swallowed up three fire trucks and a police car. Smith didn't like cats and didn't think such a story had a place on any broadcast, especially when there was serious news to be told.
It was another sign of the changing times. A grave danger had presented itself in South America. Already there were many world leaders on the ground in Mayana. Others were on the way. The last update from the White House was that the President of the United States still planned to attend the Globe Summit. There was carnage in the Caribbean, fires still blazing out of control, a renegade Russian submarine responsible far sinking more than a dozen defenseless commercial vessels and killing an undetermined number of innocents, and the news media was opting to sweep it all aside for a story about a wet pussycat.
Leaning across his desk, Smith switched the channel on his old black-and-white television. The knob had cracked a few years back. There was now masking tape wrapped around it to hold it together.
For a few seconds he jumped back and forth between three newscasts. They were all covering the cat story. He finally gave up, snapping off the TV in disgust.
Smith assumed Remo and Chiun had something to do with the capture of the Novgorod. He had phoned Remo's hotel room several times during the night. The phone rang and rang with no answer. Eventually he gave up.
It would be easier for Smith to contact Remo than it would be for Remo to call in. The blasted Mayanan phone system was the problem. The national phone company was a Byzantine disaster of an analog system, rotary phones and party lines: Only recently had the government-subsidized phone company purchased its first modern fiber-optic cables. From what Smith had read, those seemed directly connected to the Vaporizer project. For what reason he had no idea, but many miles of the latest high-tech cables had been part of that project's budget. There was no indication that fiber-optic lines had been used anywhere else in the country.
It was like dialing out of the Dark Ages. Ordinarily for a small nation like Mayana, the system would be more than sufficient. But with the Globe Summit beginning later that day and so many international guests in the country, the lines had only gotten increasingly tangled.
Thanks to the CURE mainframes, Smith didn't have a problem clearing a line into the country. But if Remo was trying to call out on a land-based phone line, it could be days before he managed to get hold of Smith.
With a sigh of weary impatience, Smith turned his attention to his computer monitor. He had accessed an old American surveillance satellite during the night. At first the pictures he received had been little more than a black screen. Here and there were glowing fires. For a time he had watched with alarm as the number of fires increased.
With the coming of gray dawn the fires were fading. From above, the hundreds of scows in the Caribbean were lined up as neatly as Kansas wheat fields. In the wide view the rough coast of Mayana and some of the mountains above New Briton were becoming visible. The image extended up beyond the Vaporizer site.
Already a row of trucks could be seen crawling up into the hills from the harbor. They had been loaded overnight. In spite of the previous night's events, the government was doing its best to conduct business as usual.
Smith admired their tenacity. But he still could not shake his nagging doubts about the technology. Something on the screen caught his attention. "Odd," Smith mused.
He was squinting through his spotless glasses when there came a soft rap at his door. Frowning, he checked the time display in the corner of his screen. It was still too early for Mrs. Mikulka to be at work.
"Come in, Mark," Smith called. He returned his gaze to his computer as Mark Howard stepped into the office.
"Good morning, Dr. Smith," the assistant CURE director said, a touch of questioning concern in his voice as he noted Smith's attire.
The older man's gray suit jacket was draped over the back of his chair. He was working in his shirtsleeves, his tie still knotted tightly at his protruding Adam's apple. The only time Smith removed his jacket at Folcroft was when he worked late into the night, and then only rarely.
Smith noted his assistant's tone. "It is not time for our morning meeting," he said blandly. As he spoke, he half stood, shrugging his jacket back on. Brushing the sleeves, he sat back down.
"I figured I'd better check in as soon as I got here," Howard said as he came up to the desk. "Dr. Smith, were you here all night?"
Smith nodded. "I was about to leave when the situation in Mayana grew more dire." He glanced up over the tops of his glasses. "You are aware of what happened?"
"I saw it on the news," Mark said. "Dr. Smith, I told you I'd stay any time you want me to. There's no need for you to wear yourself out. And neither of us has to stay at Folcroft. We've both got laptops and phones we can hook into the CURE mainframes from home. If there's a problem, I can take care of it, or if it's too big, I can call you."
It was a discussion they had had before. Mark Howard understood better than anyone else in the world the stress Smith had been living with for forty years now. As their time working side by side grew, Howard had developed more and more familial concern for the aging CURE director.
"I know that, Mark," Smith said, straining patience. "But I've been waiting for Remo to report. And even though his call would be rerouted to my briefcase phone, I prefer not to take CURE calls from home. It is important that we minimize potential exposure, even to our loved ones."
Mark Howard sighed. There would be no getting through to his employer. Smith was too set in his ways.
"I understand," the younger man said. He was standing beside Smith's desk. Glancing over, he noted the satellite image on the canted computer monitor. "That the latest picture?" he asked.
"Yes," Smith said. "It appears that the fires are slowly being extinguished. Brazil has sent fireboats to help. In all, fourteen ships were sunk last night." Howard had stepped next to Smith's chair behind the desk to get a better look at the screen.
"At least the sub that was doing it was caught. Any idea if it was Remo and Chiun?"
"No," Smith replied tightly.
"Well, no matter. The crisis is over."
"Perhaps," Smith said. "I would like to know if there are any other submarines or ships out there we should know about. The captain of the vessel might have confederates. And certainly if they could steal one vessel, they could have stolen more. The Russians have promised to take a full inventory of their decommissioned ships, but that could take weeks. And there is no way to know if they are one hundred percent accurate even then. We also don't know why this one submarine was even there. The captain could have just been fomenting chaos. We have seen that behavior before from some of their people who refuse to see that the Cold War is over. It would help if the news reported his motivation."
The older man's frustration was fueled by lack of sleep. He removed his glasses, massaging his tired eyes.
Mark Howard was still studying the satellite image on the computer screen.
"What's that?" he asked.
Howard pointed to a small grayish blot in the valley that was nestled on the other side of the mountains above the Vaporizer site. It was the same spot on the landscape Smith had noticed when Howard had first knocked on his door.
The CURE director replaced his glasses. The incongruous spot looked like a smudge in the otherwise green valley.
"I'm not sure," Smith said. "I doubt if it's a settlement or factory. It's too far away from everything else. By the looks of it, it's virtually inaccessible."
"There," Mark said, pointing. "That's a road, isn't it?" His finger traced a pencil-thin line from the back of the Vaporizer compound. It vanished into the jungle.
Smith nodded. "I noticed that. It appears to be new." He hummed, curious. "When you get to your office, look it up. See if it exists on any maps."
As they squinted at the monitor, both men were suddenly distracted by the ringing telephone.
It was the blue contact phone. The computer image was forgotten. Smith scooped up the telephone. "Remo," he said.
"Hi, Smitty," came Remo's voice on the other end of the line. "You hear the news?"
"Yes," the CURE director said. "The submarine was captured. By you and Chiun?"
"Who else?" Remo said. "As usual, the world makes a mess and we're the ones who have to clean it up. I'm just wondering if I might have driven him to it."
"Driven who to what?" Smith said, concerned. Remo seemed surprised.
"You didn't hear? Nikolai Garbegtrov is the one who stole the sub. Or bankrolled it, anyway. That cockamamy environmental group of his wanted it, then didn't want it. I guess while they were making up their minds the captain went a little nuts and decided to make things go boom. He was screaming Garbegtrov's name as they were hauling him off. None of this was on the news?"
"Not all," Smith said. "Only mention of a crew of former Russian navy men."
"No surprise," Remo grunted. "I used to think that birthmark of his was Dan Rather's smeared lipstick. Probably a hundred more just like it on his ass."
"So was Garbegtrov behind the actual attacks?"
"Doesn't look that way. The captain was just pissed off the way Russians always get. He decided to vent down here to humiliate his old comrade. Garbegtrov wasn't lying. He wanted the sub stopped just as much as we did."