“This does not make sense,” Smith said, replaying the video of the identified Mr. Gordons leaving the scene of the Helena Bridge collapse.
“He’s a freaking robot, Smitty,” said Remo. “Who knows what makes sense in that silicon chip of his.”
“On the contrary,” Smith replied. “Because it is an artificial intelligence, the decisions it makes must be logical. In the case of Mr. Gordons’ programming, the machine seeks survival. In all your previous encounters with it, it sought to ensure that survival, either through the acquisition of materials or the elimination of things it deemed a threat—up to and including the House of Sinanju.”
“Maybe that’s it, then,” said Remo. “Maybe he’s trying to draw us out and spring some death trap on us.”
“Then we must proceed with caution,” Smith said. “Mr. Gordons has no doubt learned from its past mistakes, in order to make more informed decisions.”
“I haven’t exactly been resting on my laurels,” Remo replied. “I’ve added a few tricks of my own.”
“You cannot go,” Chiun said flatly. Smith and Remo both turned to the wizened figure of the Master of Sinanju. Chiun stood with his arms hidden in the sleeves of his kimono, his face slack with concern. Even the thin yellowed wisps of hair that clung to either side of his otherwise bald head seemed to droop with resignation.
“Why not?” Remo demanded. “Seriously, after all this time, you still have that little faith in me?”
“Master Chiun, does this have anything to do with the upcoming lunar eclipse?”
Chiun cut his eyes to Smith’s but remained silent.
“Oh my God, is that it?” Remo said. “You seriously want me to sit back because you’ve cast my horoscope?”
“It has already been cast for you,” Chiun hissed.
“Master Chiun, can you explain to me in detail your concerns?” Smith asked. “I might be able to provide a solution.”
Chiun shook his head slowly. “Unless you can change the path of the moon in the sky, oh great and glorious emperor of the West,” he said. “Alas, the moon is moving into the House of Libra, the scales, becoming a Justice Moon.”
Smith’s brow creased in concentration. “If I recall my mythology studies, the Justice Moon is part of the Hindu traditions tied to Shiva.”
“Then you understand,” Chiun said, nodding gratefully. “There are but two things that have influence over Shiva the Destroyer. One is the Moon of Justice. The other, of course, is poison. My son has nearly been bested in battle many times when he has stupidly permitted poison into his body, which had been made perfect by my hand.”
“Hey,” Remo objected.
“Nearly perfect,” Chiun shrugged. “Still, I try.”
“Not what I meant,” Remo grumbled.
“It is also why my son holds fast to notions such as patriotism and justice, more so of late as the moon comes nearer to the House of Libra,” Chiun continued. “Or have you not noticed that your judgments have been less than merciful for the past several days?”
“So what you are saying,” Smith said, “is that a full moon, in the House of Libra, somehow influences Remo’s natural affinity for patriotism and justice, making it stronger?”
Chiun nodded. “As ever, oh sage and auspicious emperor, you keenly grasp the meaning of the stars. And you must also then see how that moon, being a Justice Moon, must also affect Remo when it is blotted out entirely.”
“What, you mean I’ll have no judgment during the eclipse?”
“As little as it would take for you to have no judgment,” Chiun said, “that is exactly what I mean.”
“Bullpuckey,” Remo snorted.
Smith clicked away at his keyboard, observing data scroll across the hidden monitor canted below the surface of his desk. “Master Chiun, the lunar eclipse is still several weeks away,” he said. “If Remo were to complete this mission before it occurs, would that satisfy your concerns?”
Chiun considered the proposal. “If that could be done, it would be best,” Chiun said. “However, that would require that one somehow think like the demon machine, to predict its next move so that the encounter could be hastened.”
“I know where Mr. Gordons is going to be next,” Smith said flatly.
“Great demon machine minds think alike,” Remo muttered.
“I have had the CURE computer analyzing all the bridge collapses for any commonalities. Until now, there has been nothing. But having eliminated those disasters we know to be extraneous to Mr. Gordons’ plan, leaving us with only those bridges on the Mississippi River, the system has found another correlation.”
Smith adjusted his glasses and looked at Remo. “The night before the Helena Bridge collapse, a corporate jet chartered by Maidenhead Industries landed in Mississippi.”
“Let me guess,” Remo said. “The same jet just happens to have landed near all the other disasters too?”
“Yes,” Smith said drily. “And it cannot be a coincidence that Professor Ronald Sweet also happens to work for Maidenhead’s bio-technology division.”
“So Sweet’s our guy,” Remo said.
Smith’s dour expression grew sourer. “Doubtful,” he said, scrolling through pages of financial data culled from Maidenhead Industries. “Maidenhead has been doing its best to hide its financial instabilities from the market,” Smith continued. “But they have recently seen some modest profits come from a rise in their air freight business. A complete lack of Mississippi River bridge crossings would have an enormous impact on interstate commerce and ground transport industries, leaving air freight the only viable option for cross-country shipments. This would cause a massive rise in profits for all air traffic carriers, including Maidenhead.”
“So we penetrate Maidenhead and take out Dick,” Remo said. “No problem.”
Smith blanched and looked sternly over his glasses at Remo. “Your phrasing notwithstanding, Dick Joplin would seem to be a person of interest in this matter,” he said. “But he cannot be your primary concern at this moment.”
“Okay, I’ll bite,” Remo said. “Why not?”
“Because Maidenhead just filed a flight plan for a charter jet to Saint Louis, Missouri,” Smith said. “It lands at Lambert International in a few hours.”
· · ·
The day before the Maidenhead charter jet filed its plans for St. Louis, Air Canada Flight 1027 arrived at Lambert with little fanfare. Among its beleaguered passengers were two refugees from Kussummakstan. Both men had been welcomed into Canada with open arms long ago, long enough for them to establish new identities with new passports while they awaited the day they were told to act.
Upon arrival, Khinzir Yuntun turned on his phone and dialed a number.
Halfway across the world, Mohammad Al’abalah answered.
“We have arrived,” Khinzir said without emotion.
“Good, good,” Al’abalah cajoled. “Your hotel reservations have been taken care of, and your packages from Amazon, Walmart and Home Depot have arrived there ahead of you.” Mohammad Al’abalah praised Allah that the days of having to smuggle parts for explosives were in the past. Now, every individual component could be ordered online. He had accounts with all the major online stores, because Al’abalah was a very smart man.
“We shall begin assembly immediately,” Khinzir said stiffly. “We are happy to be martyrs for Allah, for in our hearts we are true DoM-FoCs! Allahu Akbar!”
“Peace be to you, brothers in the cause.” Mohammad Al’abalah smiled as he terminated the connection. He felt certain that he had made the right decision in selecting the two Canadian sleeper agents for this mission. It was the smart move to make, and Al’abalah was a very smart man.
He eagerly anticipated the call that would come from his cousin once their brothers had completed their holy mission. Yes, he had promised Yaba he would not do such a thing, but his word was given to a woman, and thus he could break it without any repercussions. The realization that America’s bridges were so vulnerable to attack was too good to ignore.
He wondered who was currently working in the name of the Disciples of Mohammad and the Fathers of the Caliphate. They were certainly zealous, but lacked the ability to identify key targets. One would not strike terror into the infidels by destroying abandoned bridges. But Mohammad Al’abalah was a very smart man, and he had Google on his side. It took very little research for him to identify the most heavily trafficked bridges in the country. Several of them were in New York, bringing with them the guarantee of a heavy toll in American lives. But they were heavily guarded, and it would be difficult to collapse them.
The Poplar Street Bridge in St. Louis, however, was part of a major interstate traffic route, and a lynchpin in the network of American commerce. It was relatively small, unguarded, and easily accessible.
Yes, Al’abalah thought to himself warmly, we shall long remember the sacrifices of brothers Khinzir Yuntun and Majnun Yatim, and the day America began its final collapse.
Al’abalah put down his phone and waited patiently, smiling. Because Mohammad Al’abalah was a very smart man.