"Now," the XO continued, "I've engaged the voice-rec function. Just say a few words into the gun."
"Fuck you, gun."
The gun said, "Fuck you, gun." It sounded like a bad imitation of Winston Smith's own voice.
"A few more words. I don't think it got it."
"It's a stupid gun, then."
"It's a stupid gun, then," said the gun in a much clearer tone. This voice sounded almost exactly like Smith's voice this time. The LED display came on. It said "Rec."
The XO smiled. "Okay, it should be configured to your voice pattern. Here, try to shoot a hole in the bunk."
"We're on a submarine. We'll get our boots wet."
The XO smiled. "Trust me on this."
"Okay," Smith said, smiling the cool smile that made him instantly recognizable despite his war paint to other members of the Navy's elite counterterrorist unit, SEAL Team Six. "I will."
He took the weapon and leveled it at the bunk. His thumb did the natural thing and found nothing.
"Where's the safety?"
"There's no conventional safety. Test fire a round."
Smith squeezed the trigger. The weapon didn't so much as click. It might have been a very heavy supersoaker.
"Broken," he said.
"Now tell the gun to arm itself."
"You tell it to arm itself. I don't talk to ordnance."
"No, it won't recognize my voice. Watch-arm one."
The gun lights continued blinking merrily.
"Try firing it."
Smith squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened.
"Now, you say it."
"Arm one," said Smith.
The gun beeped. The barrel lights winked out.
"I think I killed it," Smith said.
"Try squeezing off the round now."
Smith dropped the barrel until the muzzle came in line with his dented pillow. He squeezed once. To his surprise, the gun convulsed. A hot round went into the pillow, and a smoking shell dropped clinking onto the steel deck floor.
When the submarine didn't start taking on water, Winston Smith threw the heavy pistol back at his XO and said, "So what?"
"You don't get it, you dumb SOB, do you?"
"No, I don't."
"This baby has a little chip in it. You know, like the one on your stupid shoulder, only ten times smarter. It recognized your voice. You say 'arm one,' and for five minutes, you can fire it all you want. Then it cuts out. If you're caught or disarmed, the gun is useless to the enemy. You can't be shot at with your own weapon. What do you say to that, smart mouth?"
"If you like talking to your gun, it's wonderful. If you get lonely on night drops, it's reassuring. I don't like either, so take the thing and shove it up the ass of the fool who designed it."
"Stow the attitude. This weapon is part of the mission. I'm ordering you to carry it."
"Can I take my H oo?"
"Absolutely. Not."
"Fuck."
"Fuck," echoed the gun.
"Is it going to repeat everything I say, too?" Winston demanded unhappily.
The XO frowned. "No. It shouldn't have done that. Give it a whack."
"You crazy? It's a firearm. You don't whack a loaded firearm."
"Well, wait until the five-minute firing window closes and then whack it."
Winston Smith lifted the gun to his forehead and said, "Blowing my brains out makes more sense."
"Look, I gotta check in with the Pentagon. There's a chronometer somewhere on that thing. It'll tell you when the firing window is closed. You just be ready. And I don't want to see any excess hardware hanging off your sorry ass when I come back"
The door shut, leaving Winston Smith holding the BEM gun to his forehead.
"What the hell. If the mission goes sour, I can always make blood pudding with my brains."
Lowering the gun, he said into it, "You suck."
"You suck," replied the BEM gun.
"But you suck worse," Winston Smith said amiably.
The BEM gun said nothing to that. Smith smiled. He was starting to get the hang of this hunk of steel. It reminded him of his Uncle Harold.
Chapter 16
When they returned to the basement, the IRS agents were still where Remo and Chiun had left them.
"You know," Remo said, "when they wake up, they're going to remember the gold."
"That is why they should not wake up," Chiun said.
"Maybe if they wake up on the roof, they wouldn't be so sure about what they saw."
"It is a good idea. Go ahead. Carry them to the roof."
"You could pitch in."
"The gold has been left unguarded long enough. I must remain here."
Remo lifted an eyebrow. "That mean you're going to help move the gold?"
"Possibly."
"Then you help out with these guards."
"You may take the first."
"I got the first two," said Remo, hefting two agents under his arms. He ran them up to the top of the stairs and deposited both inside the door where they wouldn't be seen. Chiun brought one, dragging him by the tie and taking pains that his face hit every stair riser on the way up.
When they had a sloppy pile, Remo slipped across the hall and brought the elevator down. He held the doors open while the Master of Sinanju flung IRS agents like sacks of laundry into the car.
"One at a time!" Remo urged.
Three IRS agents came whizzing across the lobby like pillows shot from a repeating cannon.
Remo scrambled to catch them all. The last one went splat against the rear of the car despite his best efforts. Remo, noticing it was the dead guy, just shrugged.
"Is that all?" he called across the corridor.
"Yes."
Remo ran the cage up to the third floor and jammed the doors open while he tried to figure out the best way of getting them to the roof trap undetected. Their ties seemed of good material, so he grabbed the thick ends in two handfuls and dragged the agents around a corner to the trap.
They didn't go up the trap ladder as smoothly as they had down the polished corridor linoleum, but nobody lost any teeth in the process, so Remo considered it a successful transfer.
He happened to look up. The three circling birds were still up there. Remo angled around, shielding his eyes from the sun, but they remained as indistinct as ever. From the roof they looked less like birds than bats. Except bats never grew that big.
He noticed they cast no shadows on the roof. But the angle of the sun would explain that.
"The hell with them," he said. "I got more important things to do."
On his way down to the third floor, Remo heard a voice and went back up again.
"I do not know what to do," a voice was saying. "These IRS have ordered me to begin deinstitutionalizing patients. How can I do this? It is not humane."
Another voice said, "Dr. Smith will have a fit if he ever wakes up."
"This I know. But my hands are tied."
"Who is the first?"
"The deluded patient who calls himself Beasley. I cannot find any certification papers on him, so I dare not keep him, dangerous as he is. And there is no record of next of kin, and thus I do not know who to release him to."
"It is very strange that the paperwork is not in order. Dr. Smith is quite fastidious about such things."
The voices passed around a corner and faded away.
Remo came down, saw the elevator had been sent back to the first floor and made for a fire door.
A drumming sound penetrated from the other side. He hesitated. It continued, a doleful noise like a tireless but bored child beating a toy drum.
Doom doom doom doom...
Remo hit the door with his hand, and the sound retreated down the stairs. He flashed down to the next landing, but there was nothing there.
The sound continued somewhere down the concrete stairwell. This time Remo went over the rail, hands flat to his sides, and landed on the first floor.
The sound was suddenly above him now. Reversing, he took the steps five at a time, and while the sound was unhurried, what was making it was not. It beat him back to the third-floor landing.