Destroyer 034 - Chained Reaction

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the deliverance

Just then the whip lashed again in the slaves' workroom. The overseer bellowed, "Faster,"

and Chiun, who had been watching, could take no more.

"Hold!" he cried.

The slaves looked up, hope on their faces, expecting a deliverer. But all they saw was a

small yellow man in a yellow robe, looking like a doll, whirling into the room, his eyes

twisted in anger, glaring at the overseer.

The big man jumped down from his platform, whirled his whip over his head, and

lashed it out at Chiun.

Like a meat slicer, Chiun's right hand moved up alongside his head and, as the whip reached him, he

sliced off a neat six inches with the side of his palm.

The overseer drew back the whip, readying an overhead slash that would slice a man's

shoulder down to the bone. He released it with full power, but the lash stopped at

Chiun. The overseer tried to let go of the whip, but it was attached to his right wrist

with a thong. The small Oriental was pulling him across the floor. As he was being dragged,

he pulled out his pistol.

He never had time to pull the trigger. An almost-gentle-appearing blow from Chiun's

index finger pushed his lower mandible back into his spinal column with a total, terminal

snap.

THE DESTROYER SERIES:

#1 CREATED, #23 CHILD'S PLAY

THE DESTROYER #24 KING'S CURSE

#2 DEATH CHECK #25 SWEET DREAMS

#3 CHINESE PUZZLE #26 IN ENEMY HANDS

#4 MAFIA FIX #27 THE LAST TEMPLE

#5 DR. QUAKE #28 SHIP OF DEATH

#6 DEATH THERAPY #29 THE FINAL DEATH

#7 UNION BUST #30 MUGGER BLOOD

#8 SUMMIT CHASE #31 THE HEAD MEN

#9 MURDER'S SHIELD #32 KILLER

#10 TERROR SQUAD CHROMOSOMES

#11 KILL OR CURE #33 VOODOO DIE

#12 SLAVE SAFARI #34 CHAINED REACTION

#13 ACID ROCK #35 LAST CALL

#14 JUDGMENT DAY #36 POWER PLAY

#15 MURDER WARD #37 BOTTOM LINE

#16 OIL SLICK #38 BAY CITY BLAST

#17 LAST WAR DANCE #39 MISSING LINK

#18 FUNNY MONEY #40 DANGEROUS GAMES

#19 HOLY TERROR #41 FIRING LINE

#20 ASSASSIN'S PLAY-OFF #42 TIMBER LINE

#21 DEADLY SEEDS #43 MIDNIGHT MAN

#22 BRAIN DRAIN

ATTENTION: SCHOOLS AND CORPORATIONS

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PINNACLE BOOKS

NEW YORK

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents

is purely coincidental.

An original Pinnacle Books edition, published for the first time anywhere.

First printing, September 1978 Second printing, October 1978 Third printing,

December 1978 Fourth printing, March 1981

ISBN: 0-523-41249-5

Cover illustration by Hector Ganido

Printed in the United States of America

PINNACLE BOOKS, INC.

1430 Broadway

New York, New York 10018

For Art and Sue Cloutier, and the Williamses: John, Betty, Christina, Felicia, and Jennifer

-D.S.

An Apology to the Readers

"From time to time there has appeared an American post office box in the front of these

books. Many people, appreciating the glory and wisdom of Sinanju, wrote to that address

hoping to be enlightened. Many of those letters were unanswered because Sapir and

Murphy were in charge of my answers. Those letters will remain unanswered because of the

sloth of Sapir and Murphy, now rich men because of my greatness. I, Master of the House

of Sinanju, apologize for the cheap white help."

By his august hand this 177th day of the Year of Dread Wind, 4,875, we are:

-Chiun

"I was answering the letters when Sapir said he didn't like the way I was doing it and

would take it over. Since then, your letters have been unanswered."

-W. B. Murphy

"Murphy has known me almost twenty years. Anyone who has known me that long had to know I wouldn't

answer the letters.

But that's typical of Murphy-a victim of hope surmounting awesome evidence. All I said to him was that he was

doing a lousy job and that I could do better. In any case, most of the letters were for Ghiun. I am hiring a new

bookkeeper. If I can find the letters, I may answer them. But since it is only a moral and spiritual obligation, don't

get your hopes up. I think I forgot to keep up payments on the post office box. However, I did keep them up for

many years, but not one of you thought to write me and say 'good job.' "

-R. Sapir

chained reaction

CHAPTER ONE

Walker Teasdale III knew he was going to die, knew he had less than a week to live, and knew it made no sense

to plan on anything, even his next meal.

He fell into a steady gloom with a vacant stare that no one in Bravo Company could break

or even enter.

"Walker, do you know what you're doin', boy? You're gonna get this whole outfit bad marks. That's what

you're gonna do, boy," threatened another recruit in the bunk next to his.

Walker was nineteen years old, with sandy hair, a bony build, and a face waiting for manhood to line

it with years. His light blue eyes, like empty Caribbean pools, stared nowhere. He rested his chin on his M-16

and answered the intruder from his vision of gloom.

"Ah don' care what happens to the outfit. Ah don' care what happens to anybody. Ah

don' care anymore. Ah'm gonna die and that's that."

"How you know you're gonna die, boy?" asked the other recruit, who always seemed to

know more than Walker. He was from the big city, Charleston.

Walker had been to Charleston, South Carolina,

only twice, once to sell a funny rock he had found to a university feller who was supposed to pay a good price

for such things. It was a real good price too, $15.35, and Walker trudged nineteen miles each way to get

that price. The second time he had been to Charleston had been to enlist in this special unit that paid for

everything and gave you everything.

The other recruits knew Walker was "real country" because he liked the food.

Walker thought chipped beef on toast was a treat for months until the other recruits

teased him out of it. But he still went back for seconds and ate the leftover portions. He

just didn't smack his lips as much anymore. That was all.

Walker cried at Gene Autry movies when the other recruits booed because the show

was in black and white.

Walker prayed before he went to bed.

Walker did his calisthenics even when the drill sergeant's white stick wasn't there to

prod.

Walker carried the packs of others on forced thirty-mile hikes.

Walker turned himself in for falling asleep on duty.

Walker cried when "Dixie" was played. When the national anthem was played. When

Geritol commercials came on television, because it was "so nice to see people in love at

such an old age." The old age, for Walker, was thirty-four.

So they laughed at him because he was country. But no one laughed at the rifle

range. Walker became the unit sniper in the first two weeks. While other recruits from

Chicago and Santa Fe were being told to put the little needle

at the front of the barrel between the little V at the back of the barrel and sight the whole

thing just under the target, Walker was drilling bull's-eyes. A Walker Teasdale target

looked as if someone had taken a rock and pressed out the center.

Walker said there was no secret.

"You jes' put 'er in there real easy, is all."

"But how?" he was asked.

"You jes' do it," Walker replied and he was never able to teach the other recruits how

to put out a buzzard's eye, as he called the center of the target.

Everyone teased Walker.

When he asked why the basic training of this outfit was almost two full years, he was

told it was that way because he held everyone back.

When he asked where "the nigras" were, they told Walker that a big bear in the hills ate them all up and

then everyone rolled on the barracks floor in laughter.

But that question did get some people thinking. Where were the blacks ?

"They ain't smart enough to get into this outfit," said the recruit from Chicago.

"There are some smart niggers," said the recruit from Sante Fe. "They got to have a

few. This is the army, isn't it?"

And then the recruits started remembering the strange requirements and questions when

they enlisted. Half the questions seemed to be about blacks and how the recruits felt about

them.

One said he thought he hadn't stood a chance of getting into the outfit when he

answered, "The only good one is a dead one. A dead nigger won't

mug you, won't welfare off you, won't mess up your neighborhood. Only thing niggers ever do good in the

world is fertilize. And if they had any choice about that, they wouldn't do that either."

"You said that?" asked Walker Teasdale, unbelieving.

"Yessir," said the other recruit.

"Gollee," Walker Teasdale had said. "Ah thought it was against the law not to like nigras."

"Ah hate 'em," said the other recruit.

"Seems a waste of time to hate anybody," said Walker.

"Not niggers. Any time you spend hating them is time well spent."

"Well, ah don't hate nobody," said Walker. "There's good and bad in all kinds."

"Ceppin' niggers is mostly bad," laughed the other recruit, and training became so

hard, with the constant repetition of tiring drills, that the strangeness of the unit became

less a topic of discussion than survival in the following few days.

There were drills like silence. Five men would be told a secret by the commanding

officer and then sent out into the field. This secret would not be mentioned again until

two weeks later when the five were brought before the commanding officer, Lt. Colonel

Wendell Bleech, a rotund, pink-faced ball of a man with a harsh crew cut and extra large

epaulettes on his shoulders, which let the cloth of his military blouse hang fuller over his

suet-bloated body.

Colonel Bleech liked to talk about mean and lean. Colonel Bleech liked toasted English

muffins with peach jam and sweet butter.

4Colonel Bleech also liked to punish in front of the assembled unit. He went beyond

enlightened rehabilitation. He broke noses and arms and legs and threatened each time, "the

next time I get rough."

Colonel Bleech had a riding crop with lead balls laced into the flattened pommel. Colonel

Bleech pointed to two of the recruits.

"The secrets I told you are no longer secrets. They have come back to me. I swore you

to secrecy. Do you know the most important thing in a man's makeup and character is

his word? You have violated your word. You have raped your word. You have

desecrated your word. Now what do you two have to say for it?"

They said they were sorry.

"Now, see, men, I have a problem," said Bleech. He liked high riding boots and

balloon riding pants. He looked like a tan pumpkin. Anyone who hadn't seen him kick

prostrate recruits in the groin would think he was downright cherubic. He slapped his crop

against his shiny riding boots.

"I have a real serious problem, men, because I would like to believe you. I would like to believe you are sorry.

I am a believing man. But I have discovered that you are liars. That you give your word and it is meaningless. Is

that correct?"

"Yessir," answered the two recruits, at stiff attention, their eyes sneaking glances at

the flicking crop, snapping every so often against the hard leather boots.

"Being unable to take your word that you will be sorry, I must make sure."

The crop snapped against a nose. The young

man covered the bloody streak across his face with his hands. He gasped. His eyes teared.

Little drops of blood came down his nasal passage to the rear of his throat. He

tasted it, hot and choking.

"Now I know you're sorry," said Bleech. "I know you are truly and deeply sorry.

That's how I have to do things when I can't take a man's word."

And with that, he snapped a knee into the groin of the second recruit and that

boy went over in two, his face coming very close to the ground very quickly. He

opened his mouth to scream a silent scream. And Bleech stepped on the back of his

head, pushing his face into the ground, then ground the polished heel of the polished

boot into the boy's jaw, where a sickening crack happened and the boot sank two inches

into the face and the jaw was broken.

"That's for talkers, boys. But this is nothing compared to what will happen if you

talk outside. There is no greater sin in this man's world than talking outside the unit."

Colonel Bleech stomped a polished foot in the South Carolina dust. It was a hot dry

summer in these hills of the training camp, where no paved roads led and the only

entrance the recruits knew about was by helicopter.

Lordy, did they know helicopters. They knew loading and unloading the way most

people knew how to swallow. They knew how to carry people, both willing and

reluctant. They had more techniques for dragging someone by lip or ear or even chain

than they could count.

Only one person never questioned an order of

the peculiarity of the training. And that was the big raw-boned boy from near Pieraffle,

South Carolina, twenty-seven miles south of Charleston, the boy who liked Gene Autry

movies, chipped beef on toast, who never got tired, and who spoke kindly about Lt.

Colonel Wendell Bleech, even behind his back.

So when Walker Teasdale fell into despondency, his chin resting on the barrel of his

rifle, his eyes looking into that great nowhere where people see no tomorrow, the other

recruits took special notice.

"How do you know you're going to get killed, Walker?" they asked.

"I know. I know how, too," he said. "They're gonna shoot me for disciplinary reasons. I know it. They're

gonna take me out to that piney hill and they're gonna make me dig my grave and then they're gonna put

a bullet in my head."

"Who's they, Walker?"

"Colonel Bleech and the drill sergeants."

"You ? They think you're perfect."

"They won't tomorrow."

"Nobody knows what's going to happen tomorrow, Walker."

"I do," said Walker, firm in gaze and voice, a steady sureness in his manner, as when he

talked about putting bullets into targets.

He asked for a glass of water and young men who ordinarily wouldn't wait on anyone

unless ordered by a superior jumped to find a glass. There were no glasses in the

barracks, so someone drank the last bit of smuggled moonshine in a mason jar, washed it

out with water, and filled it.

Walker put his gun on his rack and, with a slow

wisdom that had replaced his boyish innocence, looked at the water, then drank it all.

"This is my last sustenance, fellas. Ah've seen the buzzards in my dreams and they

called my name. Ah take no more food or drink."

The other recruits thought this was pretty much craziness, since no one had seen a buzzard around these

parts since coming to camp more than ten months ago, all of them thinking1 that basic training should have

been a two-month affair and finding out, in an address by Colonel Bleech, that two months wasn't enough to

teach a man to tie his shoes right, let alone become a soldier, a real soldier.

When Bleeeh said "soldier," his voice lowered, his spine stiffened, and a deep pride

came to his entire bearing. His lead-weighted riding crop would always tap at his

polished boots on that word.

On the morning that Walker Teasdale said he would die, the recruits were awakened as

usual with drill sergeants screaming in their ears, for their usual semiclothed morning

run, wearing just boots, shorts, and rifles with full packs of ammunition.

Long ago, they had stopped commenting on how none of them had ever heard of

run, wearing just boots, shorts, and rifles with full packs of ammunition.

Long ago, they had stopped commenting on how none of them had ever heard of

basic training like this, with a five-mile run every morning and at triple time. One of the

recruits who had a brother in the Airborne once tried to chant as he ran and had to run

punishment miles because this unit never made noise when it ran, when it fought, and

when it marched.

"There'll be plenty of noise on the great day," Colonel Bleech had promised, but

everyone was

afraid to ask what that great day was, although they had heard a lieutenant mention it,

too, but the lieutenant admitted he didn't know what that great day was. All he knew

was that he owned two homes, an Alfa Romeo sports car, and sent his two daughters to

private schools-all on a lieutenant's pay.

The pay was good, but tired, frightened young men do not think of money when they want only rest. And

they don't think of money when they are thinking only of dying.

Walker Teasdale did his five-mile run with the unit that morning and passed up his favorite chipped beef

on toast, even though the other recruits kept passing him heaping portions of it.

They packed for a two-day marching into what was called Watts City, a specially

constructed battle site in which the unit maneuvered through alleys and simulated

taverns and empty lots. Whoever built Watts City, someone said, must have cheated on

the contract because the whole thing looked like a slum.

As they double-timed through piney woods, their bodies now hardened and moving

easily without complaint of lung or muscle, dark birds circled and pivoted in the delicate

blue sky.

"Buzzards," whispered someone and everyone looked to Walker and then the birds. Only one trooper that

day refused to look up. He knew the birds would be there. He had dreamed them. He had seen them in his

sleep as he had seen this piney hill. And he knew his time was coming.

They marched as the sun made their uniforms sweat-wet clinging clothes. The pine

needles, soft beneath their feet, had at one time made bloody

blisters, but now these blisters were callouses. The recruits hardly noticed the tax

levied on their bodies by the march.

Most thought they were on another mock raid on Watts City, but at the outskirts of

the reconstructed slum they turned away and double-timed down into a leafy valley with

a small brown mudwater stream, and there Walker Teasdale saw the little hill above

him that he had seen in his dream.

And if he had not been staring at that hill, he might not have seen the brown boot

stick out from behind a tree. Other recruits rested, but Walker stared at the hill. He

knew he would have all the rest he would ever need, soon and forever.

The other recruits took their smoking break by the muddy stream. And then a bugle

seemed to come out of the sky and they all looked up but saw nothing. Only Walker

saw the slender object in the hand of Colonel Bleech atop the small piney hill.

It sounded like the voice of God coming from all the trees, but Walker knew the

small object must be a microphone and the voice was Colonel Bleech's and was coming

from hidden speakers in the trees.

"The greatest violation that can ever occur has occurred," came the voice from the hills

and sky and even the stream. It was around them and in them.

But only innocent Walker knew what the voice was.

"Treason. Rank and utter treason has occurred and the party is over. I tried to be

understanding

with you. Reasonable with you. Moderate with you. And what do I get in return ?

Treason."

"That's Bleech, isn't it?" whispered one recruit.

"Shhhh. Maybe he can hear," said another.

"Where is he anyway ?"

"Shhhh. You wanna make it worse?"

"Treason," came the colonel's voice. "Pay attention while you hear the insidious

ingratitude of one of you. No more kid gloves. No more kindergarten wrist-slapping.

Treason calls for death and one of you will die today for this infamy. If only I had

exercised discipline before," said Bleech to his unit, most of whose members had scars

from his "little reminders" as he liked to call the punches and kicks and crop whips, "I

exercised discipline before," said Bleech to his unit, most of whose members had scars

from his "little reminders" as he liked to call the punches and kicks and crop whips, "I

wouldn't have to exercise this ultimate discipline now. You can blame me, men. If I had

been firm before, one of you wouldn't have to die now."

The recruits all looked to Walker Teasdale who was still standing up, leaning on his rifle.

Atop the hill, Colonel Bleech took a toasted English muffin from his orderly, who had crawled with it so as

not to be seen by the recruits down in the little valley across the muddy stream. The colonel thought it would

have been highly unmili-tary, when staging a punishment, to be seen receiving a toasted English muffin

with sweet butter and jam. So he ordered the young aide to crawl to him.

Bleech saw the terrified young men below him waiting on his words. It was good to hang them out like

this, make each one think, if possible, that he was the one going to be executed. Bleech knew full well that

you executed people, not so

much of because of what they had done, but because of what you didn't want the

survivors to do.

What the young recruits did not know was that for every nose broken, every groin

shattered, there had been a plan.

Those with permanent damage were scheduled for inside work, after the "great day"

came. But Colonel Bleech never broke a limb or caused permanent damage to anyone

on his combat squads. He disguised this cunning with feigned rage. Nothing like being

angry to hide the fact that you were a thinking man.

"Treason," boomed Bleech, taking a buttery bite from the muffin. His orderly was

on the ground and a drop of melted butter landed on his forehead. Bleech dismissed the

man who crawled back down the far side of the hill. Bleech let the word "treason" hang

out above the valley below as he finished the muffin, licking the sweet red jam from

his lips. It was a British jam and he didn't like British jams. Not enough sugar or

tartness. The whole thing tasted like dental cement.

Bleech slipped his notes from his neatly pressed shirt pocket. "We have all been

betrayed. And not just to the Russians or the Chinese. No ... worse. We were betrayed

to those who can do us the most damage, who can destroy everything we have worked

and trained for. Treason."

Bleech sensed he wasn't reaching the men and from many years of correctly judging these things, he

knew his senses could be trusted. They should have been looking nervously at each other, but instead all were

staring now at one recruit,

the one recruit who could not possibly have violated the code of honor of the unit.

They were looking at Walker Teasdale and Bleech could not understand why.

Teasdale had only one fault-he wasn't mean enough. But other than that, he would be

the last person to violate an oath of secrecy.

Colonel Bleech did not like things happening by accident and down there, among his

seven hundred men, something was happening that he had not planned. He had planned

his training and perfected it and now he had a unit he would take into the bowels of hell

and would not lose a single man needlessly. He knew what they thought and what they

did and their staring at Teasdale annoyed him.

Bleech continued his harangue but watched the men spread out in the valley below.

"Here is the treason. Here is a letter we intercepted. It reads like this:

" 'Dear Sir. More than a year ago I signed up with a special unit of the army. It

offered extra pay, extra benefits, and a cash bonus of three thousand dollars for my

enlistment. Instead of the usual basic training, we have been in training for ten months.

The officers strike us at will. We cannot communicate with our families. Half the training

is teaching us how to whip people and chain people. Now, I know this is not the regular

army. For one thing, there's no paperwork, hardly. And another thing is there are no

negroes in the outfit and we watch movies about how bad they are and how wonderful the

old South used to be. What I want to know is this army regulation and how can I get out

of it. I hate it.'"

Bleech paused. And then he knew what he would do. He would seize the surprise and make it his own. If

they thought Walker Teasdale was the culprit, let them. It would be more of a surprise. But this time it would be

his surprise.

"Teasdale, come up the hill," he bellowed.

The young raw-boned boy moved slowly, his feet leaden with a sudden tiredness of a

body unwilling to go to its end.

"Move. Double time, Teasdale," said Bleech into the microphone.

When he was close, Colonel Bleech switched off the microphone and said in a hushed

voice, "Teasdale, come here. I'm behind the tree."

"I know, sir. I saw you."

"Walker, it's not you. Don't look so ashen-faced, son. You did not write this letter.

You never would. I know that."

"It's my day to die, Colonel."

"Nonsense. You're going to be the one doing the executing. We'll play a little joke on the

boys, eh?"

"It's my day to die, sir."

"Have you told them that?" asked Bleech, his fat crewcutted head nodding down

toward the little valley.

"Yessir."

"That explains it. Don't worry. You're going to live. You're one of my best men and my

best men live because I want them to live. We need good men."

"Yessir," said Teasdale, but his voice was still heavy.

Colonel Bleech switched on the microphone.

"Now, there is a trooper sitting on a rock, by

the stream, hiding himself away from me. Come up here. No, not you. The one looking-

away from me. Drake. You, Drake. Trooper Anderson Drake. Get up here."

Walker Teasdale knew Drake. He had complained a lot, said he was going to do

something about it, and a few weeks ago stopped complaining. Drake had been saying he

had never heard of an outfit like this. Drake had been saying the outfit must be illegal.

Teasdale thought he was lucky to be in an outfit that was unlike any other because that

meant it was special. Teasdale was proud to be part of a special unit. That's why he had

joined.

And the bonus also paid for another four acres of rich bottom land, which was cheap back home in Jefferson

County because the roads w.ere so bad you couldn't get your harvest to market. Teasdale gave the money to

the family, all but five dollars of it, with which he bought a shiny red box of chocolate candies at the big store

in Nawl's Hollow and gave that to his girl who put it away for later, although Walker was sort of hoping she

would open it then, but he rightly couldn't blame her because when they had become engaged and he had gotten

her a similar box, he had eaten most of them, and all the cream-filled ones.

He watched Drake make it up the hill stumbling more than ordinarily, and Teasdale,

knowing Drake was clumsy on obstacle courses, came to the conclusion that those who

did badly at their soldiering were also most likely to be those who violated the rules the

most. Walker lumped this together as some sort of contagious badness

within the person, spilling over from bad work to bad conduct.

Drake, a red-haired boy from Altoona, Pennsylvania, who tended to sunburn easily, had a crimson face

by the time he got close.

"Trooper Drake reporting, sir," he said when he saw Colonel Bleech step out from

behind the tree. "Sir, I'm innocent, sir."

"I have the letter, Drake."

"Sir, may I explain ?"

"Shhhh," said Colonel Bleech. "About face. Look at the men."

"Sir, I had help from other troopers. I'll give you their names."

"I don't want their names. I know everyone involved. I know everything in this unit. We have people

everywhere and they all look out for us. Know this. Your commanding officer knows everything."

And Bleech winked to Teasdale as Drake turned around. Walker Teasdale heard something rustling

behind him and there, crawling up from a jeep with a long curved sword, was the colonel's orderly. He held

the sword curved in his hands as his elbows dug into the loamy pine-needled earth, and Teasdale realized that

those down below would only see Drake and him, and would not see the colonel and the aide.

Walker Teasdale had seen the colonel behind the tree only because he had recognized

the place he was going to die.

Bleech motioned Teasdale behind the tree. He winked and put a friendly arm around Teasdale's shoulders.

Walker didn't know whether to be more surprised by the friendly arm or the sword.

Bleech motioned Teasdale behind the tree. He winked and put a friendly arm around Teasdale's shoulders.

Walker didn't know whether to be more surprised by the friendly arm or the sword.

16They had practiced twice against melons but everyone thought it was a joke. Nobody

used swords nowadays.

"Give me a nice clean cut, Walker," whispered Bleech, pointing to Drake's neck. "I

want the head to roll. If it doesn't roll, son, kick it down the hill."

Walker stared at Drake's neck and saw the little hairs growing over the edge of his collar. He felt the

hard wood handle of the sword and noticed that the blade had burnished edges. It had been sharpened recently.

It was heavy in his hands and his palms became moist and he did not want to lift the sword.

"At the neck," said Bleech. "A nice even stroke. Come on, boy."

Teasdale felt the air become hot in his lungs and leadenness draped his body, like chains holding him down.

His stomach became watery like a cheap pancake syrup and he did not move.

"Walker, do it," said Bleech, loud enough for the tone of the order to get through.

Drake turned his head and, seeing the sword in Teasdale's hands, covered his face. His

body trembled like a spring on the end of a jerking string and a dark brown spot spread

on his pants, as he released his bladder out of fear.

"Teasdale," shouted Bleech and, losing his temper, he depressed the switch on the

microphone in his hand and the entire unit heard their commanding officer yell,

"Trooper Walker Teasdale, you cut off that head now. Clean and fast. Now."

Down in the valley, it sounded like the voice of the heavens and then the whole unit

noticed who

was up there with Drake and Teasdale. It was the colonel and he was giving an order and ol' Walker

Teasdale wasn't doing anything about it. Why, he wanted Walker to cut off Drake's head, for treason. It

wasn't Teasdale's time to die at all, but Trooper Drake's.

Bleech caught all this in an instant.

"I am giving you a direct order," said Bleech and then, flipping off the microphone,

added, "They've all seen and heard my order. It's, too late now, son. You've got to

take Drake's head. Now, c'mon. You'll be happy afterwards."

Walker tightened his grip on the sword. The aide crawled away. Walker raised the

sword high as he had been taught because you could not take a head swinging just any

which-way; you took it level because the blade had to cleave through the vertebrae level

or it got jammed in bone. That's what the instructor had said.

He pulled back the sword. He planted his left foot and then Drake looked around. He

looked at Teasdale's eyes and stared, and Teasdale prayed that Drake would just turn

away. It was hard enough knowing the man, but killing him when he was looking in

Teasdale's eyes? Walker couldn't do it. He had sworn to kill enemies, not people he

knew.

"Please," said Teasdale. "Please turn your head away."

"Okay," said Drake, softly, as if Walker had asked him to remove his hat or something.

And the way he said it, so pleasant and meek, Teasdale knew it was all over. He let the

sword drop from his hand.

"I'm sorry, Colonel. I'll kill an enemy but I can't kill one of our own men."

"I can't allow the unit to trust each other against my orders, Teasdale. This is my

last warning. You've got to do it."

And then the microphone was on again as though the trees down below were

breathing static and Colonel Bleech gave his last order to Trooper Walker Teasdale.

"Cut off his head."

"No," said Teasdale.

"Drake," said Bleech. "Do you follow orders?"

"Yessir."

"If I let you live, will you follow orders?"

"Oh, yessir. Yessir. Yessir. Anything. Special unit all the way."

"I'm going to get a head one way or another. Drake. Give me Teasdale's head."

Trooper Drake, still trembling with fear, dove for the sword, lest Teasdale change his mind. He snapped it

from the rawboned young man's hands and was up and swinging wildly in an instant. He took a slash at the

head and the blade cut through flesh and bounced back off the skull, stunning Teasdale. He felt the blade

crack at his head again and then he heard his colonel talking about a level blow from behind and there was

a stinging at the back of his head and then a deep dark numbness.

The eyes did not see as his head bounced down the hill rolling crazily in bumps and bounces like a punted

football making its way toward an end zone.

The eyes did not see, nor did the ears hear. The

body was back up on the hill spurting red rivers from the neck.

But a last thought was held somewhere out in the vastness of a universe that went on

forever.

And that thought was that Colonel Bleech, for all his talk of soldiering and killing, was but a clumsy

amateur at best. And by this evil deed he had offended a power in the center of the universe, a power so vast

it would unleash the ultimate force of man.

And when that force was unleashed, Bleech would be but a pitiful popped pumpkin, splattered like the

melons the men had practiced their sword thrusts on.

CHAPTER TWO

His name was Eemo and it was his last assignment. He did not know the man, but he

never knew the men. He knew their names and what they looked like and where he

could find them.

But he no longer cared about what they had done or why they had done it. He cared

only that when he finished them it was neat and clean and with an economy of motion.

This last man lived in the penthouse of a hotel in Miami Beach. There were only three

entrances to it, all guarded, all locked with triple keys that three men had to agree to use

simultaneously, and since a former security advisor to the Central Intelligence Agency

had designed this little hotel fortress and guaranteed it impenetrable from above or

below, the man slept that morning with ease and contentment, until Remo grabbed his

fleshy pink face in his hands and said into the stunned eyes that he would squeeze the

man's cheeks off unless he explained some things very quickly.

Remo knew the man's shock was not at his appearance. Remo was a moderately handsome man with high

cheekbones and a dark stare that tended to liquefy the resolve of women when he

turned it on them, if he cared about that anymore, which he didn't. He was thin, lean to perfection, and

only his thick wrists might indicate that this man might be anything different from normal.

The assignment certainly wasn't. Remo had seen this sort of penthouse arrangement

fourteen times. He called it "the sandwich." They put a nice piece of bread on top

with perhaps a machine gun or two, several men and a metal shield reinforcing the

roof, and they locked all the entrances below, probably adding devices there, and so

the top and bottom were nice and cozy and safe. But the middle was as open as a French

bikini.

The attack on it was not new with Remo; it had not been new fifty years ago or

fifteen hundred, for that matter.

Remo had been told about the first successful assault on the fortress defense.

To protect themselves against assassins, ancient kings would take the highest floors for

their sleeping quarters, put their most trusted men below and above and go to sleep in the

illusion of safety.

This problem occurred to a Master of Sinanju in a.d. 427 (by western dating) when a

Himalayan prince put his brothers as guards above and below him, and arranged it so

that his son hated the prince's brothers, so that the brothers knew that if the prince died,

his son would become prince and slaughter them all. This was known to the Master of

Sinanju, the reigning assassin in an ages-old house of assassins whose labors went to

support a tiny village in cold bleak North Korea.

The Master knew that people worked with their fears instead of their minds. Because they were afraid of

heights, they thought others would be. Because they slipped on smooth stone walls, they thought others

would. Because they moved with noise, they thought others did and their ears would be protection.

The fortress sandwich was always open in the middle and that Master of Sinanju had

taken less than a minute to realize he had only to move up the wall and enter at the

level of the prince's room to complete his duty, and thus win that year, as it was

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thedeliveranceJustthenthewhiplashedagainintheslaves'workroom.Theoverseerbellowed,"Faster,"andChiun,whohadbeenwatching,couldtakenomore."Hold!"hecried.Theslaveslookedup,hopeontheirfaces,expectingadeliverer.Butalltheysawwasasmallyellowmaninayellowrobe,lookinglikeadoll,whirlingintotheroom,hiseyestwisted...

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Destroyer 034 - Chained Reaction

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