On the far side of the courtyard, a jutting rifle barrel caught the charge. The soldier holding the weapon shrieked in pain and was flung backward by the powerful jolt of electricity.
There were shouts from outside. More troops raced forward, darting for cover behind buildings and parked vehicles. Methodically, without any sign of hurry, Elizu Roote took out each of the men in turn.
Smith watched the scene with growing horror. It seemed as if every soldier who drew a bead on Roote with a weapon became an automatic target for a bolt of electricity. Smith knew that this was a feature of the defensive hardware wired into Roote's central nervous system.
The soldiers were having no effect whatsoever on General Chesterfield's Shock Troops prototype. It didn't take long for them to realize they were fighting a lost cause.
The cry for retreat was called. The wounded were gathered up and carted away amid sporadic bursts of feeble weapons fire.
The Fort Joy courtyard had been relinquished to Elizu Roote. With a contemptuous arrogance, the private sauntered out from behind the chapel. Thumbs tucked into his waistband, he wandered off in the direction of Chesterfield's headquarters. Smith watched as the rogue private went.
There was no sign of Remo or Chiun in the courtyard. Either they had tried to stop him and failed, or Roote had slipped past them.
Smith could not chance waiting. If his two operatives were dead and he failed to act now, Roote might escape. He couldn't allow that to happen.
Tucking his briefcase into the well under a desk, Harold Smith slipped from the office. As he ducked into the shadows of the laboratory hallway, he wondered how he could hope to succeed when both Masters of Sinanju, as well as the United States Army, had failed.
THE TANKS WERE LIKE creatures from some bygone age- dinosaurs left to erode to bone and dust in the desert heat.
There were no men in sight as Remo, Chiun and ufologist Arthur Ford tore back through the desert gates of Fort Joy.
Remo slammed on the brakes, sliding to a stop inside the rear gate. Slipping from behind the wheel, he hit the sand at a run, racing over to the spot where Elizu Roote had gripped the electrified fence.
He found the footprints that had misled them earlier. A single print half-hidden beneath a cluster of sage indicated Roote's true direction.
The new path led onto the rocky ledge that spread for several yards on the other side of the fence. At the spot where the rock stopped, the tracks began anew. Remo traced them all the way over to the gate and directly to the line of silent, crippled tanks.
Remo ran back to the jeep, hopping in behind the wheel.
"He got through," he announced, grimly.
"He's here?" Ford asked excitedly. Leaning forward, he grabbed on to the tops of both front seats. "Are we going to liberate him from the evil clutches of the military?"
"Only long enough to liberate his psycho head from his shoulders," Remo said somberly, throwing the jeep in gear.
They took off with such speed, Ford was thrown back into the rear seat. The jeep steered a certain course for the heart of the base.
ELIZU ROOTE HAD a great tradition of killing without compassion. He'd started young.
His mama-for Elizu Roote there was no daddy-hadn't much liked it when he took out his youthful frustrations on the various neighborhood pets. The neighbors liked it even less. But it was only after he'd taken a pair of vise grips to the toy poodle belonging to the preacher's daughter that the authorities first took notice.
A deputy with a thing for the hysterical young girl and a shovel in his hand uncovered the animal graveyard in the back of the Rootes' tenement in Charleston, West Virginia.
Mama Roote had been all too eager to let the state take charge of her troubled son. When she hadn't been dominating him, she'd treated him as an inconvenience. For her, the mound of rotting animal corpses spelled freedom.
At thirteen Elizu started the cycle of counselling and foster homes that would continue until his eighteenth birthday. Of course, the killing never stopped. But he was more careful than he'd been as a kid.
He would adopt dogs from animal shelters in nearby communities and take them for a final trip deep into the woods. Their pitiful yelping cries helped to slake his thirst for blood during those long, awkward teenage years.
To celebrate his high-school graduation, Elizu joined the Army and killed his first prostitute all in the same day. After that, the next few years were a blur.
There were more women, of course. He'd never stopped the killing. He had no other hobbies, no other interests to fill the void of his life.
Roote knew he fit the famous FBI profile of a serial killer. Other men might not like to be shoehorned into a narrow category like that. But Elizu Roote didn't have any friends, either from the Army or from his youth. He shied away from group activity, he was not exactly a joiner. For him, to be a serial killer was to be part of something. A member of a select group of like-minded individuals.
In a life that was gutted of everything meaningful, Elizu Roote needed to define his existence. He was a serial killer. For if he wasn't that, he was nothing.
At least that was what he always thought. But now, thanks to the United States Army, he was much more.
AS ELIZU ROOTE STROLLED with impunity through yet another empty Fort Joy street, a soldier appeared from the shadows beside an officer's house.
Before Roote even realized there was a threat, he'd targeted the soldier and his hand flew up. The thump of a solitary burst of electricity exploded across the night air.
His gun barrel snatched the surge of energy like a lightning rod and the soldier dropped.
Roote walked past the twitching body. He recognized the dead man. But although the face he looked upon was familiar, no emotion accompanied the recognition.
Just a body. Another corpse to throw on the growing pile. Elizu Roote was a god stepping on ants.
He had had the same reaction upon seeing the faces of the other men he had killed this night. Not one of his fellow Fort Joy soldiers had even noticed when he'd disappeared months before. While the surgeons and scientists were conducting their sick alterations on him, no one thought to look for him. Not one of them came to help while he was being held captive in his rubberized tomb.
He had been nothing to them. They were nothing to him.
The chorus of voices in Roote's head sang with glee as he fired three rapid shots at a trio of skulking soldiers. Only the last of them managed to squeeze off a few rounds before the intricate tracking system connected to Roote's finger pads blew him away.
Bullets ripped through the air around him. But none kissed the flesh of the godlike Elizu Roote. He walked through the hail of lead unharmed, stepping beyond the latest smoking bodies. Moving toward his ultimate target the headquarters of General Delbert Chesterfield.
SMITH'S RAPID ANALYSIS of Roote's internal systems had proved correct so far. Shadowing Roote across the grounds of Fort Joy, Smith had no doubt that he had survived thus far only because he hadn't attempted to shoot the private. Therein lay the CURE director's dilemma.
He had ventured out after Roote in order to stop the deranged killing machine. However, the moment he attempted to do so using conventional means, Roote's systems would target him as a threat and destroy him.
Helpless to act, Smith could only watch as more soldiers died at the hands of this frightening horrid manufactured aberration.
Smith leaned into a barracks wall, feeling the rough texture of the wood beneath his hands. The uneven lines of the clapboard building pressed against his back. Cautiously he peered out across the courtyard.
Roote was only a few dozen yards away. The soldier was meeting less and less resistance the closer he got to Chesterfield's headquarters.
Angled floodlights positioned in pairs along the exteriors of all buildings facing the courtyard spread an even coat of brilliant white on the dusty grounds.
Though Roote appeared to be careful to stay to one side of the yard so as to avoid
a full-out assault at the center of the parade grounds, it was more an instinctive reaction than a conscious one. He didn't seem outwardly concerned.
And rightly so. As far as Smith could tell, the private had nothing to fear from the troops he met. Focusing on the deranged soldier as he continued on his remorseless trek toward the base headquarters, Smith hadn't been paying attention to his immediate surroundings. He was startled to hear a foot suddenly scuff the dirt beside him.
Whipping away from Roote, Smith spun toward the noise. He came face to face with a group of four young soldiers. They were sliding up to the CURE director. Their boyish features registered clear apprehension.
"Out sightseeing, sir?" one of them asked, his voice a husky whisper.
"What the devil is going on here?" Smith demanded with quiet anger. He waved a hand in Roote's direction. "These men appear undisciplined. The only possible defense against Roote is a full-blown assault from every direction at once. All I have seen are sporadic attacks."
The soldier's eyes were dead. "That's what happens when command structure breaks down," he said bitterly.
Fury sparked the gray flint of Smith's eyes beyond his rimless glasses. "I am not interested in your problems, soldier," he snapped, his voice a sharp whisper. "That man is a threat that must be neutralized. I believe he is going after General Chesterfield."
"He ain't going to find him there," a soldier at the rear mocked, youthful voice fraught with tension.
"Why? Where is he?"
"Old Ironbutt left."
"Left?" Smith frowned. "What do you mean?"
"He's gone. Took off. Chopper airlifted his fat ass out of here twenty minutes ago."
Shocked, Smith glanced back at the headquarters. Roote was nearly there. But if what these men were saying was true, he would not find his quarry inside.
A decision was instantly made.
The CURE director turned back to the soldiers, addressing the man who seemed to have taken over as their leader.
"Gather every last man you can find," Smith ordered. "Arm victims from his previous assaults if they can walk. Medical personnel, civilian staff. Everyone." He pointed across the grounds to Roote. "That man cannot be allowed to leave this base. Only a full assault from all sides can bring him down. Even he will not be able to withstand such a barrage."
The soldiers seemed heartened to have someone assume command so authoritatively. Their nervousness fled, replaced by a sudden eagerness for action.
"Yes, sir," the first private said, nodding sharply.
Smith checked his watch. "It is 9:39. At 9:50 you will commence your assault. Expect him to head for the main gate by then. Bear that in mind as you plan your offensive."
The CURE director began to slip back down the rear of the building, away from Roote. The men stopped him.
"What about you?" a soldier asked.
"I have a plan that could render your assault unnecessary," Smith informed him. "If it succeeds, you will know it, for you will not encounter Roote."
"And if it fails?"
Smith didn't miss a beat. "If it fails, I will be dead," he said with grim detachment.
Without another word, he slipped off into the night.
THE ELECTRIFIED FENCE had been constructed around a vast area of New Mexico desert. There was much vacant ground to cover on their race from the rear gate.
Remo and Chiun had already seen the flashing pulses of light while they were still miles away from the central part of the base. In spite of the constant background glow of the normal base lights, the shocks of blue were plainly visible.
It was like a ground-based fireworks display. "If we're lucky, that's coming from the Fort Joy disco," Remo commented tightly as they flew up the hard-packed road.
In the rear, Arthur Ford watched the strobing pulses with silent awe.
The wind as they drove tore mightily at the wisps of hair at Chiun's chin and above his ears. The Master of Sinanju was deep in thought.
More and more, Chiun had begun to accept Remo's seemingly unbelievable story. As he did so, his concern for Remo had grown proportionally. He glanced at his pupil now.
Remo's jaw was clenched. His expression was dour as the jeep flew along the desolate path. Chiun focused his hearing on Remo's heart.
It was still remarkably good, all things considered. His body was working overtime to right itself.
Inwardly Chiun was impressed. The abilities of his son in spirit rivaled those of the greatest Masters of Sinanju. Even surpassed some. The time of Remo's ascension to Reigning Master was overdue.
But no matter how quickly Remo healed now, it would matter little if he fared as poorly in his second encounter with this mysterious creature as he had in his first. For in his current weakened state, Remo would not survive.
Remo's frown deepened as he sensed his teacher's eyes upon him.
"Stop staring at me all the time," he griped abruptly. "I told you, I'm fine."
"I am not worried about you," Chiun said mildly, looking forward once more. "I am trying to decide how to explain your failure against this alleged creature in the Sinanju scrolls. Perhaps the electricity was attracted to your nose or ears," he suggested. "They would be obvious targets."
"He hit me in the chest, Chiun," Remo said, irked.
Chiun nodded. "Therein lies my dilemma."
"I bleed for you."
"Of course, it would be easier for me if you did not fail again."
"I'll do my best," Remo promised.
"That would make my task as chronicler of your misadventures simpler. I would hate to have to bend the truth in the Masters' scrolls."
If he weren't so concerned with what they were about to face, Remo would have laughed out loud. As far as the sacred scrolls of Sinanju were concerned, Chiun was notorious for twisting the truth into whatever pretzel-shaped contortions suited his carp of the day. Instead of commenting on this fact, Remo concentrated on the road ahead.
He had only a few miles to correct his erratic heartbeat, and at the rate he was going he'd never be at his peak by the time they reached their target.
Beside Remo, the Master of Sinanju sensed the concern of his pupil.
Deeply troubled, both men stared silently ahead at the hypnotic pulsing flashes that rose from out the heart of the desert night.
ROOTE CREPT SILENTLY alongside the command center.
He was alone. The sporadic attacks he had fended off since leaving the infirmary had stopped. The men had either fled or were regrouping for another assault.
It wouldn't matter. By the time they came back at him, Chesterfield would be dead. Afterward, Roote would stroll right out the main gate. Anyone who tried to stop him would be killed, too. Thanks to Ironbutt Chesterfield, Elizu Roote was certain to come out on top.
As he approached the general's office, Roote could see a vague dark shape moving on the other side of the thick, translucent plastic that covered the hole in the wall.
Roote didn't move too quickly. He was careful not to make a sound. He wanted nothing more than to surprise General Chesterfield with his sudden appearance.
The plastic had been torn roughly along one edge. As he braced his back against the wall, Roote took the jagged section between his metal finger pads.
There were staples running all along the top and sides of the sheet. With a single, mighty tug, he wrenched the plastic free of the wall. As fast as the sound came, he had already slipped in through the opening.
Without hesitation, Roote fired bolts from all ten fingers at the startled figure across the office. The surge of electricity caught the man in the chest. Eyes flew open in shock as he was lifted off the floor. An instant later, his back slammed against the far wall.
The officer collapsed to the floor. Dead.
The satisfaction Roote had expected on entering the room never materialized. The soldier wasn't Chesterfield.
Roote vaguely recognized the dead lieutenant. So it wasn't the officer he'd been looking for. So what? Chesterfi
eld was here. Somewhere. And Elizu Roote would find him if he had to kill every last soldier on Fort Joy in the process.
He was about to duck back through the hole in the wall when the general's desk telephone jangled to life.
A perverse curiosity took hold of Roote. Striding across the room, he dropped into Chesterfield's chair. His gold fingertips clicked on the receiver as he lifted the phone to his ear.
"General Chesterfield's office," he drawled pleasantly. A smile crossed his face as he glanced at the smoking corpse lying on the floor.
"Please inform the general that his jeep is ready at the motor pool," a tart voice commanded. Roote sat up.
"What for?" he questioned.
"General Chesterfield intends to leave the base," the pinched voice said. "It is my understanding that he wishes to conduct a counteroffensive from a remote location. Please let him know-" The voice paused. "Never mind. He has just arrived at the motor pool."
The line went dead.
Roote quickly climbed to his feet, replacing the receiver. Thanks to the caller, he now knew where he would find Chesterfield. And where he would kill him.
Leaving the body of the lieutenant to mind the office, Roote slipped back out through the flap of plastic.
REMO'S JEEP SKIDDED to a stop at the nearest soldier. There were many more massing at the periphery of the first base outbuildings.
"What's going on?" Remo demanded.
"We're getting our lunch handed to us, that's what," the young man complained. "Dead and wounded everywhere. Big offensive starting in a couple of minutes."
Remo glanced quickly at Chiun. The Master of Sinanju's mouth was stretched into a concerned frown.
As he looked back at the soldier, Remo's expression mirrored that of his teacher.
"Where's Roote?" he asked.
The soldier snickered at the name. He was obviously an acquaintance of the private. "He was spotted near HQ a couple of minutes ago."
Remo spun to Arthur Ford. "Get out," he ordered.
"No way," Ford replied firmly. "It's my fault he's in the evil clutches of the military. For humanity's sake, I've got to do what I can to help him." He clutched determinedly at the seat.
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