"He didn't say. But he did give me his card."
"Let's see it."
Sky searched her jeans pockets. Finding nothing, she showed empty hands and an unhappy face. "I must have lost it in the corn."
"Think. Did he have any distinguishing features?" Remo asked, glancing at the two lawyers who were trying to untangle their bridgework while simultaneously drooling on their ties.
"Come to think of it, he did have this really, really insincere smile."
"Thanks," Remo grumbled. "That really narrows it down."
It took thirty more minutes, but Remo and the others collected every card they could find. They found plenty. Most of them were law-firm business cards. A few belonged to TV people. There were dozens of the condoms mounted on cards, too.
"Was it any of these?" Remo asked Sky.
Fingering the key around her neck, Sky Bluel looked at the mountain of cards the soldiers had piled at her feet.
"Are you kidding me?" Sky asked excitedly.
"At least try," Remo insisted.
"Why should I? Who the hell are you, anyway?"
Remo dug out his wallet and presented her with his FEMA ID card.
Sky looked at it. A distasteful expression crossed her face.
"You're a suit," she said unhappily.
"A what?"
"A U.S. Grade A porker." Sky Bluel threw Remo's card into the pile with contempt and stalked off.
Remo let her go. He looked around him. He saw an idyllic Missouri farm town with a gaping black crater at one end. Tipped-over Army trucks stood around, looking about as useful as the foil-packed condoms decorating the pile of business cards.
And standing a little away from the center of activity, the Master of Sinanju had found a TV newsman who had not yet interviewed him. He was speaking into the microphone with stiff-necked intensity.
"I give up," Remo groaned. "This is too much for me." He went in search of a telephone.
It turned out that electricity and phone service into La Plomo, Missouri, had long ago been cut off. Remo figured this out when the third house he broke into harbored a dead phone.
He went to Captain Holden.
"I need to report in to my boss," Remo said unhappily.
"Good luck. When FEMA finds out you practically blew the north end of the town to pieces, you'll probably need a new line of work."
"Thanks for reminding me," Remo said sourly. "Now, how about that phone?"
"I don't have one."
"Then how do you report in?"
"By field radio."
"Who does that connect to?" Remo asked patiently.
"Fort Wood, down in the Ozarks."
"Can they get a line to Washington?"
Holden squinted one eye. "Theoretically."
"What do you mean-theoretically?"
"One: this is the all-volunteer Army," Captain Holden explained. "Where the impossible is routine, but the ordinary is usually impossible. We can fight wars, ford rivers, and secure positions, but placing a simple phone call can get messy."
"What's two?"
"Two," Captain Holden said, "is even if command can place your call, they won't."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because you're a damn civilian. No offense."
"You'd be amazed what a well-motivated civilian can do at a time like this," Remo said tightly. "Lead me to that radio."
Because he had nothing to lose and was still a little bit afraid of Remo, Captain Holden escorted Remo into the back of one of the few field trucks still upright. A radio set sat on a shelf in back. Holden personally fired the set up and initiated the call to Fort Wood.
A tinny voice crackled out of the microphone presently.
"Fort Wood, go ahead, Echo Leader."
"That's me," Holden said proudly. He cleared his throat. "I got a FEMA guy who wants a patch-through to Washington."
"Tell him to stuff it."
"You tell him," Holden said, passing the microphone to Remo. "I like my bones knit just the way they are."
Remo accepted the microphone. "The number is area code 111-111-1111," he said. "Dial it."
"No can do," the radioman said laconically.
"You got a pair of earphones on?" Remo asked.
"Affirmative."
"Got an extra set for when those break?"
"That's another affirmative."
"Okay, I want you to call me back in five minutes."
"Why?"
"Because that's when your eardrums will be working," Remo Williams said, slipping two fingers into his mouth and emitting a piercingly sharp whistle at the mike.
Captain Holden clapped his hands over his own ears. So he didn't hear the eruption of profanity that emerged from the hissing speaker.
Remo lowered the volume and started counting the seconds. When he got to three hundred, exactly five minutes later, he raised the volume again.
"You back?" he asked politely.
"What was that number, sir?"
Remo grinned. "Dial 111-111-1111 and patch me through. And whatever you do, don't listen in. The other end will be able to tell and he'll inform me and I'm liable to treat you to a really rousing chorus of 'Whistle While You Work.'"
"That's a double-triple affirmative, sir," the radioman shot back. The sound of plugs slipping into jacks came over the mike.
"I never heard of a double-triple affirmative," Captain Holden said wonderingly. "Is that in the manual?"
"Why don't you check?" Remo said over the sound of a phone ringing through the speaker.
Taking the hint, Captain Holden left the truck in a hurry.
The lemony voice of Dr. Harold W. Smith came over the speaker, sounding like a bad wire recording from circa 1943.
"Yes?"
"This is Remo."
"Let me have your report," Smith said crisply.
"I'm not sure where to begin," Remo offered.
"Have you any suspects or leads?"
"Too many. Got a pencil?"
"Of course."
"Write this down. Dirt First!! That's with two exclamation points."
"The ecoterrorist group?" Smith asked, startled. "They are there?"
"In strength-and I don't mean numbers," Remo added. "Actually, they left after the explosion."
"What explosion?"
"I'm getting to that. Then we have Sky Bluel of the University of California."
"Is that a person or a student organization?"
"More like a throwback to the sixties. But she's female."
"Why is she important?"
"She brought a neutron bomb to the party." Remo's voice was a study in casualness. He was rewarded by a two-octave jump in Smith's tone.
"My God, did it go off?"
"Yes and no."
"Remo, there is no yes-and-no about a neutron bomb. When they go critical, they emit high-speed neutrons in lethal concentrations. Depending on the isotope involved and the size of the device, casualties could be enormous."
"La Plomo is a ghost town, remember? The bomb wasn't primed to send out radiation. Only the plastique charges went up."
"What madman would do that?"
"Actually, I did," Remo said, sudden sheepishness creeping into his tone.
"You, Remo? Why?"
"I was trying to put out a burning building. The Army set it on fire."
"Why would the Army do that? Their job is to decontaminate La Plomo, not burn it to the ground."
"That's exactly how the fire began."
"Remo," Smith said wearily, "this sounds very involved."
"And I haven't gotten to the condom salesman who talked like a realty broker."
"What?"
"Not to mention the media," Remo added. "A representative of which, by the way, is right now doing an interview with Chiun."
"Chiun? He cannot appear on TV. Security could be compromised."
"I don't think he's talking about the organization," Remo said distantly as he cut a slit in the canvas side of the truck wi
th a finger. "The subject for today is his ungrateful pupil."
Smith sighed like a leaky bellows. "He is still angry with you?"
"On and off," Remo admitted, peering through the ragged slot. No one was eavesdropping, he saw. "Right now, it's on."
"Why?"
"Haven't a clue."
"Remo, I am having trouble making sense of your report."
"It's not over yet," Remo said quickly. "I don't know who gassed La Plomo-what's that mean, by the way? The Plow?"
"No, it's Spanish for 'the lead.' The original settlers mistakenly believed it was French for 'the feather.' They thought the surrounding virgin prairie had a feathery look. They discovered their mistake after the town began appearing on area maps. The name was never changed."
"So much for the Show Me state," Remo said dryly. "As I was saying, I don't know who gassed the town, but I think they're still hanging around, because someone made off with that neutron bomb."
"I thought you said it detonated."
"You weren't listening. Only a couple of the plastique charges went up. The bomb casing and the rest of the device are intact-at least the last I saw it, they were."
"Describe this device, Remo," Smith asked urgently.
Remo launched into a complete description of Sky Bluel's device, finishing with, "It looked like a parlor magician's steel hoops-you know, the interlocking rings trick-welded into a ball. After the charges were taken out, that is."
"And you say a USC professor constructed it?"
"A popular misconception. Actually, she's a student. Must be this semester's science project."
Smith was silent for a moment. The speaker hissed and crackled annoyingly. When Smith came back on, he said, "It could work. This woman claimed there was no core?"
"Yep. Made me wonder what the grayish ball in the middle was."
"Hmmm. Probably the beryllium-oxide shielding," Smith mused. "Still, the person who stole it might not have realized that was what it was. This is very suggestive, Remo."
"Not to me. I don't get off on neutron bombs."
"It is suggestive in this way. The neutron bomb is in many ways the nuclear equivalent to poison gas. It is a tactical battlefield weapon, designed to annihilate enemy forces in a target area, without damaging property. A relatively compact blast crater is generated, but nothing on the order of a fullscale nuclear missile."
"So?"
"All along, Remo, our theory has been that whoever deployed that gas did so because it was the cheapest agent of terror available to him or them. But the theft of a neutron bomb-even the presence of one in the death zone-makes me wonder."
"Wonder what?"
"Who would be interested in a destructive device that kills people but does not harm the surrounding area."
"Dirt First!" Remo said, snapping his fingers.
"Exactly, Remo. You and Chiun had best pursue that angle."
"Any suggestions how? They were the only ones who didn't leave business cards."
"Yes. They're based in San Francisco. They're in the book. Go there. Infiltrate the organization, and if you learn Dirt First is responsible for any of this, dismember it from within. After you recover the device, of course."
"Uh, Smitty. I don't think you quite grasp what you're asking me to do."
"I am asking you to do a very simple task-one you've undertaken many, many times," Smith said testily. "Get inside, learn what you can, and do what you can. What is the problem?"
"These people smell."
"That is hardly a hardship," Smith said snappishly.
"They roll in the dirt. They breathe dirt. They exhale dirt. For all I know, they eat the stuff. They're like that Peanuts character, Pigpen."
"You will do what you have to, Remo," Smith said sternly. "La Plomo may be only the beginning."
"If you think Chiun is going to take a mud bath for this mission, you are sadly mistaken."
"You will find a way," Smith said. "You always do."
"What about Sky Bluel?" Remo asked.
"I am punching her up on my computer now." Pause. "Yes, she's a student at USC-Berkeley. Resides off-campus. Her parents live in Stockton. Politically active on her campus, but no known affiliations with subversive groups. Take charge of her until we sort this out."
"I'm not a baby-sitter," Remo said tightly.
"And we are no closer to solving this mystery than before you arrived. If what this girl says about her neutron bomb is true, that it is unarmed, then it stands to reason that whoever possesses it may realize that without Sky Bluel, they have stolen a useless shell. They may take steps to rectify this."
"If you say so," Remo said reluctantly. "You know, if all those people hadn't died before we got on the scene, I'd call this the stupidest assignment you ever handed us, Smitty."
"Do not make the fatal mistake of underestimating this one, Remo," Smith said soberly. "Sometimes the ones we do not take seriously are the ones that end up costing us."
"Not this time," Remo said, breaking contact.
Before he could reach for the cutoff switch, the radio operator came on.
"I didn't hear a word, sir. You have my word on that." The voice was so sincere that Remo saved his pungent retort and said only, "Signing off."
He stepped out into the light. He looked around. Captain Holden was standing well away from the truck, leafing through an olive-drab book of some sort. Remo wiggled a finger in his direction.
Holden trotted up. "There's no double-triple affirmative in the manual," he said mournfully.
"Now you know," Remo told him. "Seen Chiun?"
"He's waiting in your car," Holden told him.
"What about Sky?"
"She thumbed a ride a few minutes ago."
"What idiot gave her a lift?"
"I'm not sure. I think he was a TV reporter."
"Think?"
"He looked kinda familiar, but we don't watch much TV in the Army."
"Thanks a whole bunch," Remo growled. He hurried to the car, which, other than a fender scratch from some airborne piece of debris, was intact.
Chiun sat in back, looking severe.
Remo got behind the wheel. He started the engine.
"Tired?" Remo asked solicitously.
"No!" Chiun said vehemently.
"Hey, I was just asking. Settle down. Listen, I just spoke with Smitty."
"I know. Why do you think I so patiently wait here?"
"You were listening in?"
"My hearing is keener than a wolf's. I do not have to eavesdrop. The very wind carries your braying to my perfect ears. I am ready to do as Emperor Smith bids."
"Fine," Remo said, sending the car around in a circle, "because you've got the baby-sitting end of this gig. If we ever find Sky Bluel."
"And you may roll in the mud and eat dirt, which is exactly what I would expect you to prefer."
Remo glowered as he stepped on the gas. He wasn't looking forward to that end of the assignment.
Chapter 7
Don Cooder was not afraid to go where other anchors feared to tread. Vietnam. Attica. Afghanistan. Baghdad. Anywhere as long as it provided a violent backdrop for a stand-up report and a host of anti-U.S. troops to protect his back.
Cooder, whose rough-hewn outdoorsy looks and forced Texas drawl had made his a household face, took the difficult assignments not because he was the highest-paid anchor in history. The answer was much simpler. He came in a consistent dead last in the ratings.
That being dead last meant that The Evening News with Don Cooder was still seen by an estimated ninety million Americans each night mattered little. It wasn't enough. He had to be first. And he would be first, Cooder vowed silently.
Especially after he got an exclusive interview with the brave girl who had built a working neutron bomb to show the unthinking world that anybody, but anybody, could build one in their backyard.
"Incredible," Cooder said as he piloted his Lincoln along the scenic back roads of Missouri. "To think that a mere hi
ghschool girl, working with common everyday household articles, could devise a working neutronic bomb."
"Neutron bomb," corrected Sky Bluel, fidgeting beside him. "And I'm a grad student at USC-Berkeley. Not some highschool senior."
"Are you sure?" Cooder asked, touching the distinguished gray at his temples. It took him twenty minutes each night to keep that gray there. It came out of a bottle.
"Of course I'm sure. I know what school I go to!"
Cooder frowned. "You'll have to learn to relax when we go on camera," he cautioned. "You're too hot. Television is a cool medium."
"Hot? I'm furious! Someone stole my bomb. How am I going to make my point without proof? And for the last time, it's not a working bomb. How many times do I have to repeat myself?"
"Not working, huh?" Cooder mused, sensing his rating share dropping like the temperature in September. "But you can build another, am I right? One that works?"
"Sure," Sky admitted. "With the right materials and enough time."
"I can get you the materials. Can you have it by Thursday?"
Sky's perfect hairline jumped up. "Thursday?"
"That's when my news show, Twenty-four Hours, airs. What do you think of 'Twenty-four Hours on Neutron Street' for a segment title?"
"We're getting off the wavelength," Sky complained. "You can't build one of these things out of stuff you can get at any hardware store. I'm a physics major. I do my grad work at USC's Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory, you know?"
"Isn't that the place where all those nuclear materials turned up missing last year?" Cooder asked suddenly.
"Right on! Now you're in the groove."
Don Cooder braked the car, his eyes flying wide. Suddenly he saw sitting beside him, not an interview subject that would expose America's runamok nuclear incompetence, but a cunning thief whom he could accuse on nationwide TV of pillaging important nuclear materials.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Sky Bluel asked in an uneasy voice.
"Like what?" Cooder said, covering.
"Like you got stars in your eyes all of a sudden."
"Not stars, points."
"Excuse me?"
"Rating points," Cooder explained, the glaze going out of his eyes. "Why don't you tell me your story again?"
"I already have. Weren't you listening?"
"I'll listen harder this time," promised Don Cooder, reaching into his silk suit for a tiny bottle of hair spray. He ran a jet of it around his crowning glory of wavy black hair.
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