Shaking his head, Remo marched over to the group of Guardsmen. To save time, he simply yanked off their masks by way of introduction. Three of them panicked and ran away gagging and clutching their throats. The fourth stood his ground, by which Remo assumed he was in charge. The man's brusque tone confirmed the guess.
"I'm Major Styles," he snapped, "and you'd better have a damned good reason for what you just did."
"Remo Berry, FEMA," Remo said in a bored voice. "I need two questions answered before the Army takes over."
He started. "Army? What Army?"
"The U.S. Army. Who do you think, the Albanian Army?"
"What the hell do they want here?" Major Styles complained. "We secured this pesthole when no one else would touch the job. We were the first authority on station. If you ask me, the Guard was sent in because no one else wanted it. We were practically cannon fodder."
"If you ask me," Remo rejoined, looking at the fleeing Guardsmen, "'cannon fodder' fits you like a glove."
"I'll have you know that the Guard has a long and honorable history. The Vice-President was a Guardsman."
"I rest my case," Remo said. "Let's stay on the subject. Anybody suspicious show up after you got here? Maybe someone who wanted to make sure the gas did its job?"
"Everyone suspicious showed up. That's been our biggest headache. Lawyers, newspaper people, TV cameramen, kooks, crackpots-the scum of the earth."
"You're thinking of Dirt First!! maybe."
"I'm specifically thinking of Dirt First!!" the major growled. "We've thrown them out twice. They smell worse than the maggots."
"No argument there. What do you think caused this?"
"Terrorists. It's gotta be terrorists. It smacks of a full-scale military operation. They used Lewisite."
"Lewisite?"
"An old kind of poison gas. Potent stuff. Smells like geraniums. One lungful, and inside of ten minutes, a man would drown in his own blood."
"Any idea how the stuff was introduced?" Remo asked.
"Not a clue. With the right equipment, you can sometimes sniff out hidden ejectors and valves, but the Guard doesn't have any. Maybe the Army will."
"I've got a pretty good nose," Remo remarked dryly. "Mind if I follow it?"
Styles laughed until his mustache bristled. He smoothed it down, saying, "Nobody has that good a nose."
"Humor me. I need to look around the town anyway."
"Come on, then."
Major Styles escorted Remo over the barbed wire and up a pastoral sugar-elm-lined avenue. Remo noticed dead birds lying here and there, partially consumed by flies.
"Smell anything?" Styles asked grimly.
Remo picked up his pace. "Yeah. Geraniums. Over to the left."
They turned left and found themselves in the town square-that was exactly the word for it-where a battered jet fighter sat placidly on a grassy knoll across the street from a strip of boarded-up storefronts.
"Did it crash?" Remo asked.
"No," Major Styles explained. "This here's what passes for a La Plomo monument. They tell me they tried to get a steam engine placed here, but it was no sale. Somebody donated this Sabrejet instead. It dates back to the Korean War. They say the town kids used it for a jungle gym."
"It looks it," Remo said, noticing the dents and initials scratched into the skin. On one wing was etched a heart circling the legend "W.M. Loves D.G. 199 ."
When the significance of the graffito sank in, neither man said anything. Then Remo remembered what had drawn him to the aircraft.
Sniffing the air, he followed the infinitely minuscule geranium-like aroma around to the tailpipe. Styles trailed curiously.
"Do me a favor and reach inside," Remo suggested, keeping a respectful distance.
"Why should I?"
"Because you're wearing gasproof gloves, and I'm not."
Shrugging, Major Styles sank to his knees and peered into the tailpipe. His eyes widened comically.
"God damn" he exclaimed. He reached in and pulled out three fat canisters strapped together by bands of tin flashing.
"Now we know where the gas came from," Remo said flatly.
"They had canisters of the stuff hidden in the tailpipe," Major Styles mumbled in a disbelieving voice. "How about that?"
"Have those tanks shipped to Washington," Remo directed. "And make sure nobody smudges any fingerprints."
"I'll leave it here until someone comes for it. This is outta my league."
"You said it, not me."
They started back for the barbed wire.
"The way I see it," Major Styles was saying, "the Iraqis hid the tanks in the middle of the night and one of their agents just turned the petcocks on the canisters."
"What makes you say Iraqis?" Remo wanted to know.
"Who else would be crazy enough, bloodthirsty enough, and is known to deploy poison gas against innocent noncombatants?"
"The Libyans," Remo said firmly.
"Libyans?" Major Styles snorted. "Hell, what would they be doing in Missouri?" He pronounced it "Missoura," which told Remo he was a native.
"Good point," Remo said with a straight face.
"I tell you none of us are safe in this infernal post-cold-war world. The Russians would never have stooped this low. You should have seen all those glassy-eyed corpses they hauled out of here. Stacked like cordwood, they were. Brrr. Gives me the shivers just thinking about it."
The grumble of motorized trucks broke the stillness.
"That'll be your Army," Styles said edgily. He hesitated, fingering his mustache as if it gave him comfort. "Well, come on. Damn. I've never had any truck with the Army. They're real military."
Remo shot the major a reassuring smile.
"Don't sweat it," he said. "I've met the captain in charge of the detail. Not only do you outrank him, but he's a personable kind of guy."
"Glad you hear it. How do you think I should approach him, protocol-wise?"
"When you shake his hand," Remo advised, "keep your gloves on."
The Army trucks formed a circle in the road just short of the barbed wire. Soldiers jumped out. A squad of them, carrying black flags, deployed in all directions, screwing the flags into every soft-ground surface. When that mission was concluded, the cornfield resembled a golf course in mourning.
Under the direction of Captain Holden, two men lugged various pieces of heavy equipment off the backs of the trucks, among them a pair of gas-powered compressors and another contraption Remo didn't recognize.
When the captain reached over and hit a switch on the latter, Remo concluded it was a portable Klaxon. The deafening short blasts piercing his sensitive eardrums made that a safe deduction. Even the gas-masked Guardsmen were forced to clap their hands over their ears to keep out the strident wailing.
"What the hell are they trying to do, deafen us?" Major Styles barked, hastening forward.
He could have saved himself the exertion, because, unseen by even the soldiers standing around the Klaxon with their hands reaching up protectively into their helmets, the Master of Sinanju floated up to the Klaxon and clapped his hands three times delicately, as if trying to swat a mosquito buzzing the Klaxon horns.
The piercing caterwauling stopped after the last clap.
The soldiers dropped their fingers from their ears and looked to the silent Klaxon. They saw the frail form of the Master of Sinanju leaning thoughtfully over the now-mangled sound horns, which had had the misfortune to be caught between Chiun's hands when he had clapped them.
"What the hell happened?" a soldier demanded.
"I believe this instrument has stopped functioning," Chiun said in a worried tone.
"Must be the battery," Captain Holden said, striding up.
"Yes, it is probably the battery," Chiun said sagely. "It sounds exactly like battery trouble."
"It doesn't sound like anything at all," Holden complained.
"I would not complain about that," Chiun said, floating away. "It is much more pleasin
g this way."
Remo joined him. "Nice move, Little Father. How'd your little news conference go, by the way?" he asked dryly.
"You may catch the film at eleven," Chiun sniffed.
"And you may catch hell from Smitty," Remo shot back. "You know how he is about us appearing on TV."
"I will not appear on TV in my secret capacity of royal assassin, but as a wronged parent."
"You told them that you were pissed at me?" Remo asked, aghast.
Chiun smiled thinly. "They were most receptive. And sympathetic."
"Did you perchance tell them why you have a bee in your bonnet?" Remo inquired.
Chiun gestured at his bald head. "I am wearing no bonnet."
"Answer the question."
"Yes."
"So will you tell me what's eating at you?"
"You may learn this on the eleven-o'clock news like everyone else," Chiun said haughtily.
Remo's retort was drowned out by a new noise. The discordant clamor of banging metal. Remo looked over to the circle of Army trucks. There, a trio of soldiers was walking around in a circle, helmets tucked under their armpits, banging on them with sticks.
"Oh, what the hell are they doing now?" Remo asked in exasperation.
"It is obvious," Chiun said.
"Not to me," Remo said.
"They are driving the evil spirits away. This is the recommended method."
"This is lunacy," Remo said. "Come on."
The National Guard commander, trailed by a group of his men, had finally mustered up gumption enough to confront the Army captain. He was trying to make himself heard over the noisy racket.
"I'm Major Styles, Captain. May I ask why your men are banging on their helmets?"
"This ought to be good," Remo said to Chiun.
"Because the damn Klaxon's down!" Captain Holden screamed. "The manual specifically says if no warning siren is available, beating on pots or pans or other metal objects is the recommended procedure."
"But the gas is long gone."
"Then why are your men wearing masks?" Captain Holden shot back.
"Can I break in here?" Remo put in. The captain and the commander looked in his direction. Their eyebrows formed identical regulation arches.
"What is it?" Captain Holden asked sulkily.
"Throw out the manual."
"Is he crazy?" the captain asked the major.
"I hadn't thought so until now, but it's possible. No offense," the major added for Remo's benefit.
"Tell him what the manual says about pissing into your hands," Remo told the captain.
Captain Holden assumed a blank expression. "I haven't the faintest idea what he's talking about, do you?" he undertoned to the major.
"No," Major Styles whispered back. "Is he dangerous?"
Remo threw his hands in the air. "I give up. Listen, you two work out your differences. Just stop that racket until I leave, okay?"
Captain Holden turned to his parading men. "Okay, stop the banging," he ordered. "The civilians should have cleared out by now. The black flags and Klaxons will take care of that."
"What is that man babbling about, Remo?" Chiun asked when Remo returned.
"He thinks the Army manual for gas-warfare emergencies is required reading in every home."
"I have not read it. Have you?"
"Hardly!"
"And neither have they, it seems," Chiun said, pointing to the group of cameramen and reporters clustered around a blue pickup truck.
The sight of the media representatives made Remo realize that they hadn't descended upon the Army, which was strange, he thought.
"Let's check into this, shall we?" he suggested to Chiun.
"Why?"
"The way I figure it," Remo said as they walked along, "whoever did this is kinda like an arsonist. He's bound to come back, if he hasn't already, to smell the smoke."
"Then you do not think it is terrorists?"
"Do you?"
"No. Terrorists would have announced their barbarism to the world. There have been no announcements. "
"Exactly," Remo said, drifting up to the outer edge of the crowd.
It was a big crowd-virtually everyone not in uniform had surrounded the truck. Video cameras pointed up like glass-eyed howitzers. Microphones strained to catch every word spoken by the person standing in the pickup truck's bed.
"Nuclear proliferation is the greatest threat to peace the world has ever seen," the speaker proclaimed in a high, on-the-edge-of-nervous voice.
She was about twenty or twenty-one, wearing faded jeans and a red-and-white-checked workshirt that accentuated her athletic shapeliness. Behind old-fashioned rose-tinted granny glasses, her eyes glowed feverishly. A leather thong circled her forehead, imprisoning her hair, which she wore long and parted precisely down the middle of her scalp. She lifted a clenched fist in righteous anger, causing a silver-and-turquoise Indian necklace to clink on her clavicle.
"You think La Plomo is a fluke?" she shouted. "It's not! La Plomo is just the beginning of a long nightmare in which none of us will be safe. First it was pesticides. Then acid rain. Then poison gas. Next it will be nuclear bombs. Once the pigs let the technology out of the bag, nothing can contain it. I've traveled halfway across the country to give the world my message."
"Can you tell us who you are?" a newswoman asked plaintively.
"No nukes are good nukes," the girl went on, so busy shouting her message she didn't hear the question.
"She sounds like those Dirt First!! dirtbags," Remo muttered.
"They do not think so," Chiun sniffed.
Remo noticed that the contingent from Dirt First!! had returned. They clustered under a decaying apple tree, shouting, "Mud is our blood! Our blood is mud!" in an obvious attempt to get the attention of the media. They were ignored.
"Birds of a feather quarrel together," Remo said.
"At least she does not smell like them," Chiun pointed out.
"Small consolation."
A florid-faced man bumped into Remo. Remo had noticed him as he made the rounds of the crowd. He wore an expensive if flashy suit with a diamond ring on his left little finger. Remo pegged him as a used-car salesman who had come into money.
"Here," he said, flashing Remo a toothy smile. "My card."
Remo ignored the card. "I have all the lawyers I need."
"How about property? I'm in property."
"I just paid off the mortgage," Remo growled, trying to see past the man's meaty expansive features to the girl in the pickup truck.
"It's never too late to trade up," the toothy man pressed.
"I will take one," Chiun said, reaching up. He took the card as the man continued to work the crowd.
Remo's attention returned to the girl on the pickup truck.
"Can you at least give us your name?" a newsman demanded. Remo recognized him as a notorious network anchor famous for changing his sets, clothes, and signoff in an effort to boost his ratings-but never considered learning to polish his frenetic delivery.
"Sky," the girl shouted. "I'm Sky Bluel. From the University of California."
"Did you hear that?" a newswoman next to Remo whispered to another. "She's a UCLA professor."
"That's not what she said," Remo pointed out. "She looks like a student to me."
The newswoman gave Remo a frigid look. "And what station and/or paper are you with?"
Remo, who had never before heard anyone use "and/or" in ordinary conversation, replied, "I'm with the diction police."
"Well, I happen to be with CNN." She turned away as if that was the end of that, thank you very much.
"Remo!" Chiun hissed suddenly, tugging at Remo's sleeve. "Stop that man."
The Master of Sinanju was pointing into the crowd. His face was drawn with concern.
"What man?" Remo asked, one eye on Sky Bluel, who was trying to be heard over the taunts of "Media hog!" coming from the Dirt First!! clique.
"He is an impostor!" Chiun hissed.
> "What are you talking about?" Remo said distractedly.
"That man said he was in property," Chiun insisted. "This card proclaims otherwise."
Remo looked down. Chiun held the card up to his nose.
The card read:
"Connors Swindell, Condominia."
"He's a condom salesman?" Remo said, blinking.
"Exactly. He lied. This is just like your false cards, which lie for you."
"Shhh. Not so loud," Remo hissed, pushing the card away. "Take another look. Condominia must have something to do with condos. He must be a condo salesman."
"If that is true, how do you explain this?"
Chiun turned the card over. Velcroed to the back was a silver-foil packet with the same printing as the card itself.
Remo blinked, Sky Bluel momentarily forgotten. He took the card. The foil pack was, as he had thought, a condom packet. To make sure, he ripped it from the card and opened the packet.
The rolled yellow ring was unmistakably a condom. In fact, Remo's sharp eyes spotted a pinhole defect in the circle of lambskin stretched within the ring.
"So?" he said, shrugging. "He moonlights. Everyone knows condos are as dead as junk bonds." Not wanting to litter, Remo looked around for a proper place to deposit the defective rubber. The CNN newswoman's half-open pocketbook was the most convenient. Unnoticed, he slipped it inside.
Up on the truck bed, Sky Bluel continued to answer questions.
"What is your message, Professor Bluel?"
"I represent a return to the sanity of the sixties," Sky Bluel proclaimed. "I speak to the apathetic generation, challenging them to pick up the torch of our sixties mothers and fathers. It's not too late for us to shake up the world. And I speak to the unborn generations who are crying in the darkness, pleading to be born into a world without nuclear weapons."
"What rubbish," Remo snorted.
"What wisdom," Chiun sniffed, brushing a speck of moisture from one eye.
Remo looked down to the Master of Sinanju with an incredulous expression on his high-cheekboned face.
"She speaks eloquently of family values," Chiun explained.
"I speak most of all to the progressive elements of today," Sky Bluel continued, "who can further my cause."
"What cause?" a voice asked politely.
Ground Zero td-84 Page 4
