"I smell someone in there."
Chiun said, "I, too."
Setting himself, Remo inserted his shoulder into the niche. He drew in his breath, then let it out very deeply until his rib cage all but collapsed. It was still too thick. He blew out more air until his lungs were like two empty balloons.
Then, with infinite care so he didn't break any ribs or crush his own internal organs, Remo insinuated himself into the niche. It was a slow, careful task. His cartilage crackled under the stress. Like a snake he slithered through, getting halfway and concentrating to keep the air from rushing back into his hungry lungs.
Chiun called soft encouragement. "You will succeed because failure is too bitter to taste, my son."
Halfway in, Remo paused, then with a jerk, he threw himself all the way in. He disappeared into the gloom.
Chiun called softly, "Wait!"
But there was no answer.
Quickly the Master of Sinanju expelled all the air from his own lungs and attempted to duplicate the feat of his pupil, whom he had taught many things but not the dangerous technique he had just witnessed.
The best Masters are those who devise their own skills, Chiun thought with a bitter pride.
THE CORRIDOR WASN'T as narrow as the niche entrance, but it wasn't comfortably wide. Remo negotiated it by walking sideways. That put him at a disadvantage if there were traps or snares lying in wait.
Under his feet he sensed vague electrical disturbances. Water purled. But the ebony floor seemed solid.
Abruptly the stone corridor right-angled, and Remo went with it. It opened farther and the ticking, like incessant hail, came more clearly.
For all the world it sounded like someone keying a computer. On second thought Remo decided it sounded like two people at two keyboards.
Well, whoever they were, they had better have some answers to the only important question in his universe ....
Chapter 39
Harold Smith got the word from Cape Cod air station as soon as it was received.
The Cayuga had made contact with a Canadian factory ship, Hareng Saur.
Smith read the name and blinked. He spoke passable French, a relic of his OSS days in France.
Hareng Saur sounded vaguely familiar to him. He input the name into his computer and accessed the automatic French-language-conversion program.
Up came the name Red Herring and an etymology of the phrase.
Suspicion flickered across Smith's patrician face. There was no such fish as a red herring. It was a figure of speech. One that was exclusive to English, he saw. There were no red herrings in the French language, real or figurative. Thus, no French-named vessel would be called the Red Herring any more than a French submarine would be christened Proud to be Frogs.
Smith got on the phone with Coast Guard Station Cape Cod just in time to hear a follow-up report straight from the commander there.
"My people say it's releasing some kind of fish chasing torpedo. This is definitely a hostile act," the base commander said.
"I am ordering the Hareng Saur be boarded, detained and searched," said Smith.
"Will do, sir," said the commander, who thought he was talking to Coast Guard area headquarters in Boston.
Smith hung up and returned to his system. A torpedo that herded fish. If such a device existed, perhaps he could discover it on the World Wide Web.
WHEN LIEUTENANT HECKMAN received her orders she said, "What the hell? We can't board a boat that size. They've got us outcrewed. Probably ten to one."
"Maybe we can fake them out," suggested her helmsman.
"How's that?"
"Call in a Coast Guard air strike."
"CG doesn't have air-strike capability."
"Maybe they don't know that."
"Good thinking." Taking up the mike, Sandy began chanting, "Attention, Hareng Saur. This is the CGC Cayuga. You are in violation of the Magnunson Act and are ordered to have to and submit to boarding or be sunk."
There was no answer from the Hareng Saur.
Then the factory ship launched a torpedo.
"What are the chances that a fish-chasing torpedo has a warhead?" Sandy wondered aloud, her eyes on the incoming wake.
"The last one blew up on command," her helmsman reminded.
"That was only a self-destruct charge."
"TNT is TNT!"
"Evasive!" Sandy ordered, then grabbed something solid.
The Cayuga went into extreme evasive maneuvers, and the torpedo ran after it like a hungry dog.
"It's gaining!" the helmsman roared.
"Then turn about and ride into its teeth," Sandy flung back.
"Are you crazy? Sir!"
"Do it!"
As the Cayuga heeled into the teeth of the torpedo, Sandy Heckman manned the sixteen-inch gun mounted on the foredeck and zeroed in on its bubbling nose.
Shells began heaving. The first one sent up a chopping uprush of water. That gave her the range. Her second shot struck just ahead, and the torpedo flashed through the turbulent water unscathed.
"Third time's the charm," muttered Sandy, who fired with careful precision, one eye shut, her pink tongue nipped between her neat white teeth.