The only other alternative was one that Chiun dared not speak aloud.
Remo had gone mad.
If this were the case, the circumstances for the House of Sinanju would be catastrophic. Remo was Chiun's heir. As student of the Reigning Master, he was destined to one day assume the title himself. If he had gone insane, the future of the House was in grave jeopardy, for Chiun was far too old to train another pupil. Inwardly Chiun prayed to his ancestors that Remo would come through this trial, sanity intact.
"Is Smith still around?" Remo asked suddenly.
"Somewhere," Chiun replied vaguely. "I believe he has gone to speak with the oaf who commands this legion."
"Chesterfield," Remo murmured. "That bloated tin soldier set me up." He shook his head, as if reaching some internal decision. "I have to talk to Smith," he announced.
"No, you have to recuperate," Chiun replied.
"I feel pretty good," Remo said. "That bowl of hot whiz you gave me really hit the spot." He tapped his fist against his chest as he pulled weakly at his bedcovers.
Chiun was up and at the bedside instantly. Five slender fingers pressed against Remo's chest, pinning him to the bed. With his other hand, Chiun drew the sheets back into place.
"You need more time."
"Look, Little Father," Remo said, his tone reasonable, "that psycho is still on the loose. If I had a hard time with him, those soldiers don't have a prayer."
"You must rest."
Although he wished it were not so, Remo knew his teacher was right. The proof was beneath his very nose. Chiun's wrinkled hand barely brushed Remo's flesh, yet he couldn't budge an inch. He didn't even attempt to struggle. Surrendering, Remo collapsed back on the bed.
"At least get Smith in here," he said wearily.
"As you wish," said Chiun. "I will tell him that you worry Electricity Boy might ravage the province of Upstart Mexico with his powerful rays of death."
Remo closed his eyes tiredly. "I'd prefer it if you let me tell him. Somehow it loses something in the translation."
Chiun nodded curtly. Releasing his pupil, the old Korean turned from the bed. He left the hospital room fearing not only for Remo's health but for the future of Sinanju if his pupil had indeed succumbed to madness.
THE DESERT SUN CAST brilliant shades of evening red across the sky. Still, Harold Smith waited. He sat patiently on the side steps of General Chesterfield's one-story headquarters, his battered leather briefcase balanced carefully atop his knees. The waning sunlight splashed across his gaunt features.
The activity in the main parade area was dying. Most of the soldiers and vehicles had dispersed to other spots on the sprawling base. One by one, Smith watched them go.
Earlier that day, the CURE director had used his briefcase laptop to tap into the computers at the Pentagon. He could find no reason for the flurry of activity at Fort Joy. That meant only one thing. Rogue operation.
In spite of the desert heat, the thought gave Smith a chill.
In many other nations, the possibility of the country's armed forces falling behind a crazed military dictator was a constant danger. Coups were so commonplace in undeveloped nations that they took place seasonally, like winter snow or autumn harvest. But this had never been the case in America.
In spite of the absurdity of the idea, Smith had to consider the notion that General Delbert Chesterfield was planning to use his men in some sort of rebellion against Washington. After all, the cover story that all of this activity was to apprehend a single man was ridiculous.
But Chesterfield had only a few thousand soldiers under his command. Clearly not enough for any great campaign.
Fort Joy was too remote for the general to consider any kind of direct assault against the nation's capital. What else would he do, march against Santa Fe or Albuquerque?
El Paso was closer. So was Mexico. Did Chesterfield plan to invade either Texas or America's southern neighbor?
All of the scenarios the CURE director came up with led to more questions.
It would have been far easier to use Remo or Chiun to neutralize the general. But Remo was not yet well enough for action and Chiun refused to leave his pupil's bedside. The last time Smith had checked in, Remo was just coming around. Chiun had said that it could be hours before he completed his recovery. Smith knew that whatever was going to happen could take place long before then.
Smith had considered using his far-reaching computer access to bring troops in from around the nation to contain the soldiers of Fort Joy. However, he would only do this after he had exhausted all other strategies. After all, he didn't know how loyal the Fort Joy soldiers were to their commander. And Harold Smith did not wish to be the man responsible for setting American troops against one another for the first time since the Civil War.
All that was really necessary to resolve this was Chesterfield. Smith was confident that the general was key to unlocking whatever was behind this obvious madness.
According to an aide, the general had been out in his mobile command unit touring the eastern perimeter of the base for the past several hours. So, with nothing more to do, Smith was waiting for him to return.
It was nearly six o'clock when the general's command truck at last drove into view. The big vehicle slowed to a stop in front of the barrackstype building.
The truck rocked visibly on its shocks as the great bulk of General Delbert Xavier Chesterfield climbed down from the back. He slapped his riding crop against one thigh.
Smith rose from the simple wooden slat steps of the HQ building. He walked briskly over to meet the general.
"General Chesterfield," Smith called.
The military man had been marching determinedly to the main door of his headquarters. However, he balked at the sight of the thin, gray civilian coming toward him.
"Are you still here?" Chesterfield shouted. "I figured you'd be back in Washington cooking up some other problem for me to solve by now."
"Precisely what problem is it you think you are solving?" Smith asked.
"As if you don't know," Chesterfield snorted. He aimed his riding crop at Smith. "You started this whole mess, and now it's up to the good ole U.S. Army to pull your spook bacon out of the fire. I'll have you know I just got a report that two of our choppers were downed by a hostile force down along the southern perimeter."
"What hostile force?" Smith asked.
"Nice try, CIA man," Chesterfield said, shaking his head in mock sympathy. He started to sidestep Smith, but the CURE director slipped back before him, blocking his path.
"It is Roote, isn't it?" Smith insisted quietly. Chesterfield hesitated. His mind was already racing, trying to figure out what Smith could know, attempting to determine what he should admit to. In the end, he settled on giving a noncommittal grunt.
"He has killed a number of people," Smith pressed. "It is for him that you are preparing your men for a major battle. What is so special about one man?"
Chesterfield relaxed. The spook didn't know a thing.
"I'm busy," the general barked loudly.
He tried to step toward his office again, but Smith placed a firm hand on the much larger man's chest. It would have been comical if Smith did not seem so determined.
"General, we will discuss the current situation," Smith insisted firmly.
"Current," Chesterfield mocked. "Pretty telling choice of words, considering what you and that buddy of yours have cooked up down here." He jutted his uppermost chin vaguely in the direction of the infirmary. As he did so, he snarled. "Here's another one of your damn spooks."
Smith glanced around, hoping to see Remo. Instead he spied the Master of Sinanju gliding swiftly across the wide parade grounds.
"What do you want?" Chesterfield demanded loudly as Chiun stepped up beside Smith. "Can't you see I'm up to my armpits in Army business?"
Chiun ignored him. "Remo is awake, Emperor," he said to Smith. "He wishes to speak with you."
Chesterfield's eyes went wide. "Awake? Grant said
he was in a coma."
"He has awakened," Chiun said flatly.
"Is he well?" Smith asked.
The Master of Sinanju shook his head somberly. "His breathing is correct, as one would expect. I fear, however, that his heart is not yet working properly. Out of sync, it has altered his body rhythms."
Forgotten were the hours Smith had spent awaiting Chesterfield's return. He was more interested now in getting whatever firsthand information Remo might have concerning Roote and this mysterious Shock Troops. The CURE director had suspected that this was the reason for the heightened military activity around the base. His brief meeting with the general had confirmed those suspicions.
Smith began heading for the infirmary with Chiun, but a looming shape suddenly blocked their path.
"You're not allowed back in there," Chesterfield said in his usual bellow. His eyes belied his concern. "I can't let you CIA types conspire on your cover story. Before you know it, they'll be blaming me for what's going on down here."
Standing in the huge shadow of the hulking soldier, Chiun narrowed his eyes to razor slits. "May I?" he asked Smith. His expression was steel.
"Do not kill him," Smith advised.
Chesterfield had to laugh at their audacity. As if for one minute, either of these two pipe-cleaner men could-
The general's world suddenly spun at a weird angle. The sky flew around to where the ground had been a second before. He had the brief sensation of being held aloft, followed by an incredible, liberating feeling of flight. This was instantly succeeded by the sharp crackle of wood and glass, as well as a great pressure at his back. Gravity took hold all at once, and the Army general thundered to a solid wood floor.
It took him a moment to orient himself. General Chesterfield soon realized that he was lying on the floor in his office, surrounded by shattered clapboards and broken window panes. Through the man-shaped hole in the wall, he saw the two CIA types heading across the courtyard toward the infirmary.
Chesterfield sat up amid the debris. Splinters rained down from his close-cropped white hair. "I guess one little face-to-face with the injured won't hurt," he said. His voice lacked its usual boom.
As the faces of a few concerned soldiers stuck hesitantly in around the gaping hole, the general lumbered uncertainly to his feet.
Chapter 11
If science fiction had taught him one thing, it was that all aliens were not necessarily good. Arthur Ford considered this notion as he bounced across the desert in the company of his own personal Man Who Fell to Earth.
Rescuing the alien who called himself Elizu Roote had been very exciting at first. Especially after the dramatic display he had put on defending himself against the evil Army helicopters. It was like in Starman, except it wasn't Karen Allen in the driver's seat, but Arthur Ford, ufologist. But Ford's illusions about all space aliens were soon shattered when he began to sense how downright nasty his passenger was.
"Careful on the bumps, asshole," Elizu Roote muttered, one ghost-white cheek propped against the seat. "I already feel like I'm gonna upchuck."
Roote had looked sickly pale when Ford had dragged him out from underneath his stolen jeep. His batteries low, he had only gotten sicker as they drove into the setting sun.
Gripping the steering wheel tightly as they crested a slight hill, Ford glanced over at Roote. The dust on his face had turned to mud as beads of perspiration broke out across his waxy forehead.
"It's our fault isn't it?" Ford said, concerned. "We've poisoned our water and air to the point where they've made you sick. We've built up an immunity to the toxins, but an innocent like you couldn't possibly have. Damn this shortsighted military-industrial society!" Ford balled an angry fist, punching down on the steering wheel. The horn beeped. Ford jumped.
Roote rolled his head toward Ford, fixing him with a baleful eye. If he could have worked up the strength to electrocute him, he would have. But the truth was, he was feeling completely drained from his earlier exertions.
There hadn't been enough gasoline in the Last Chance generator for him to recharge to capacity. The battle with the Apaches had depleted his remaining reserves. With his capacitors virtually at nil he felt a numbing fatigue.
He hadn't been told about this feverish, enervated sensation by the so-called experts at Fort Joy. Probably it wasn't anticipated. He was the first. This was just an unforeseen side effect.
The liquor hadn't helped. On top of everything else, Elizu Roote was hungover. As Arthur Ford's jeep sought out every uneven surface in the vast desert, it was an effort to keep down the frothing acidic liquid in his belly.
"I said watch the bumps," Roote snarled. A small spark hopped between his thumb and forefinger.
"I'm trying," Ford apologized. "We just passed the first Fort Joy sign," he added hopefully.
It was a struggle, but Roote pushed himself up in his seat. In the side mirror he saw the receding image of a battered wooden sign sticking up out of rock and sand.
A thick droplet of mucus ran down from one nostril. Roote sniffled at it, pulling the thick slime, as well as a line of trailing black mud, back into his nose.
"Think ole Ironbutt'll welcome me home?" he asked. His demonic eyes were watery as he glanced, smiling, at Ford.
Arthur Ford didn't know what his alien passenger meant. He wondered if the cryptic phrase referred to the spaceship that had crash-landed up in Roswell decades ago. He also wondered why an alien from an obviously advanced civilization would choose to speak English with a Southern accent.
But as the speeding jeep bounced closer to the perimeter fence of Fort Joy, the ufologist dared not ask either question.
REMO WAS OUT OF BED and dressed when Smith and Chiun returned to his hospital room. "Remo, I'm surprised you are up," Smith said.
"Can't keep a good man down," Remo replied with a tight smile. He was still pale, but seemed otherwise fine.
"How do you feel?" Smith asked.
"Never better," Remo said. "Chiun's bedpan cocktail was a real pick-me-up."
"Next time I must remember to brew a shut-you-up," the Master of Sinanju said, crossing to him. "Sit."
"Chiun, I'm okay. Really."
A glare from the elderly Korean stifled further protest. Throwing up his hands, Remo sat on the edge of the bed.
Scowling, Chiun pressed his slender fingers on the white cotton T-shirt Remo had found in the infirmary linen room. The examination was over in two seconds.
"Your heart still does not beat correctly," the Master of Sinanju pronounced.
"Yes, but it's filled with love." Remo held up a hand, stemming any protest. "Look, I've adjusted for it," he said. "And my system has almost corrected the problem. It's gotten at least ten times better in the last five minutes."
"Is this true, Master Chiun?" Smith asked.
Chiun nodded grudgingly. "He is healing quickly." Hands met inside his voluminous kimono sleeves.
"See?" Remo said to Smith.
"He is still pale," Smith pointed out.
"Hey, I'm no George Hamilton, but at least I'm not gunmetal gray," Remo countered, peeved. Smith ignored the insult.
"Has he recovered enough to return to active duty?" he asked the Master of Sinanju.
Chiun nodded. "If you insist, Emperor. With supervision," he added quickly.
"That is a relief," Smith said. He turned his attention to a more urgent matter. "What happened, Remo? Presumably Elizu Roote caused these injuries."
Remo leaned his fists on the unmade bed. "Chiun didn't tell you?" he asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
"No."
"I did not want the Emperor to think I endorsed your tall tale," Chiun interjected. Frowning, he sank to a lotus position in the center of the floor.
Remo took a deep breath. "Okay, first off, this is gonna sound crazy, Smitty," he cautioned.
"Go on," Smith pressed.
"I found the guy in a bar off the base. There were three bodies there already. They all looked like burned toast. When I tri
ed to take out Roote, he zapped me."
Smith crinkled his nose at the word. "What do you mean?"
Remo raised his hands in an impression of Elizu Roote. "Zapped," he explained. "There was this kind of...jump of electricity. From all of his fingers. He had some kind of weird fingertips. Like metal. Anyway, the voltage must not have been as high as what he used on the dead guys, because I was able to throw most of it off. He did manage to overload my system. Next thing I remember was waking up with Chiun staring down at me."
"An angelic vision after your walk through the valley of the shadow of death," the old Asian said blandly.
"Chiun thinks I'm crazy," Remo said.
"I believe no such thing, Emperor Smith," Chiun interjected quickly, lest their employer think madness an excuse to seek a discount for their services. "Remo has been gravely injured. I believe his mind, as well as his body needs time to heal properly."
It was as if Smith didn't even hear Chiun. He took a seat next to Remo's bed.
"Out of his fingers?" he asked, intrigued. Remo seemed mildly surprised that Smith hadn't already laughed him out of the room.
"Yeah," he said. "He aimed both hands at me like he was freaking Bela Lugosi, then fired."
"What about his fingers?" the CURE director pressed.
"What do you mean?"
"You said they were metal?"
"Oh, yeah," Remo nodded. "Sort of. But not all of them. Just the tips. The electricity came from there."
Smith considered Remo's words. After what seemed like an eternity, he nodded slowly.
"It makes some sense," he admitted somberly.
"It does?" Chiun asked, surprised.
"It does?" Rerno echoed, just as amazed.
"Yes," Smith said, "it does." He turned to the Master of Sinanju. "Master Chiun, you must admit that it would take a powerful force to overcome Remo's training."
"Of course," Chiun sniffed. "He is Sinanju."
"Therefore, although you are understandably skeptical, you know that Remo must have encountered something unusual. Surprising, in fact."
"Possibly," Chiun conceded slowly.
"What could be more surprising than that which Remo has described to us? And are his injuries not consistent with a struggle with just such a man as Remo claims Roote to be?"
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