"Tell me, Remo, for I have lost track," Chiun said. "Of all the many groups of people it is your duty to protect, which are the ones who are about to shoot us from the sky?"
As the old Korean spoke, there came a frantic shout from Anna's pilot. She darted to the cockpit even as Remo crowded the window beside the Master of Sinanju.
Two Navy F-14 fighters had appeared off the port side of the helicopter. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw two more through the opposite window. Their distance made them almost seem to match the Kamov's slower speed.
"Since they haven't figured out in Sinanju how to bang two rocks together to make fire, I'd say it's my American people," Remo said aridly. "I'd better go talk to them. One earful of Anna's accent and we'll be riding the rest of the way to town on the nose of a Sidewinder missile."
WHILE THE TOMCATS didn't shoot them down, they did force the Kamov to land a dozen miles outside of Fairbanks.
When Remo, Chiun and Anna climbed down to the snow, a hundred M-16 barrels were there to greet them.
A sea of U.S. Army soldiers surrounded the helicopter. The entire population of Fort Wainwright was bivouacked along the sides of Route 3.
"Why isn't anyone ever happy to see us?" Remo groused.
Digging in his pocket, he waved his bogus CIA ID over his head like a lit road flare until it attracted the attention of an Army Colonel. The man was in his early fifties, with a sour disposition and a face bitten raw with cold. The name Hawkins was stitched to his heavy coat.
"What were you doing in a Russian helicopter?" Colonel Hawkins demanded as he inspected Remo's ID.
"Mostly I was being irritated," Remo replied. "But until you guys showed up, it was pretty much just at the Russian limit-one-weapon-of-mass-destructionper-crazy-man policy. Now, would you be a dear and let us take off? I've got World War III to stop."
"The Russians and Americans at war is the least of our worries," Chiun insisted. "Do not forget the curse of Wang."
"Sorry, sir," Colonel Hawkins said to Remo even as he eyed the old Korean. "There's a no-fly zone around Fairbanks. Orders from above. If you're not sanctioned by them to land, you won't get in in one piece."
"They have air support?" Anna asked.
Eyes widening, the Colonel took a step back. "She's a Russkie," he said. His hand dropped to his side arm.
"She's with us," Remo explained, uninterested. To Chiun he said, "And don't call it the curse of Wang. Makes it sound like we're out Viagra shopping."
The Colonel looked from Remo to Anna to the wrinkled face of the Master of Sinanju. When he looked back to Remo, he was shaking his head.
"You guys can't be for real," Hawkins said. Remo was no longer paying attention to him. "We need transportation," he said to the others.
"That vehicle will do," Anna announced, pointing to a nearby Land Rover. It was parked amid a sea of Army trucks and jeeps on the snow-lined highway.
As the three of them hurried over to the truck, the Colonel jogged to keep up.
"That's mine," Colonel Hawkins said. "And just where exactly do you think you're going?"
Remo ignored the question. "Keys," he said, sticking out his hand.
"What?" the Colonel said. "No way. CIA or not, you're gonna need some kind of authorization for this."
"Chiun, you want to show the nice man our authorization?" Remo asked.
Colonel Hawkins saw a flash of movement in the direction of the old Asian. At least he thought he saw something. In the next moment the Colonel suddenly gave less concern to what he might have seen than to what he actually felt.
A bony hand clamped on to his ankle. Before Hawkins knew what was happening, he was being lifted off the road and the world was spinning up on end.
Holding the soldier upside down, the Master of Sinanju shook him until the Land Rover's keys slipped out of the man's pocket. They landed with a jangle in the powdery snow. Along with his wallet, comb, dog tags and automatic.
As Remo fished the keys from the snow, Chiun stuck Hawkins deep into a snowdrift until only his frantically kicking legs were visible.
"We'll try not to scratch it," Remo promised the Colonel's boots as the three of them piled in.
As soldiers began to dig out the Colonel, the Land Rover's engine roared to life. Squealing tires threw a stream of dirty snow back across the struggling men as the vehicle pulled away from the shoulder.
Flying away from the tent city, the Land Rover tore off up the lonely stretch of highway toward Fairbanks.
VLADIMIR ZHIRINSKY WAITED in ankle-deep snow. Through the wispy white blanket peeked the hardpacked, blue-tinged surface of a glacier. Frozen wind churned the choppy black surface of the Bering Strait. Whitecaps raged against the towering glacier wall. Zhirinsky's destiny waited three miles away.
The ultranationalist was unbothered by the cold. Proud, bare Russian face mocked the desolate howling wind.
"Comrade?"
Zhirinsky glanced to the voice.
A soldier stood at his elbow, greatcoat collar drawn up tightly around his neck. Mucous dribbled from his nostrils, freezing on his chapped upper lip.
Zhirinsky stared hungrily at the man's runny nose. The soldier pushed up one shoulder so that his nose was hidden behind his collar. "It is Comrade Kerbabaev," he said, his voice muffled. He handed over the portable radio he was carrying before retreating to a safe distance.
"Speak," the ultranationalist commanded.
Ivan's every word sounded as if it were causing him excruciating pain.
"Skachkov and his men have secured the city," the scratchy voice said over the radio. "I have also shown their city leaders the nuclear device. The Army is staying away. They have agreed to an air corridor to allow you entry to the city. You may come over anytime." Zhirinsky's black eyes glinted.
"Before I reclaim Russia's property, I want the infestation removed," he said, his voice a low growl.
"Comrade?" Ivan asked, confused.
"The Americans. I want them gone," Zhirinsky said, the fire of long-smoldering rage swelling within him. "They are a disease. A poison. They pollute the world with their notions of freedom. They have corrupted Russia, corroding the will of a once mighty nation. I do not want to see a single American face when I set foot in Zhirinskygrad."
A pause on the line during which the only sound was that of the wind.
"Do you want them dead?" Ivan asked.
Beneath his great mustache, Zhirinsky's thick lips thinned. "All in good time. Once the Soviet Union has retaken its rightful position as superpower, we will deal with all of America. For now, expel them from my city."
Ivan tried to strike up a reasonable tone. "We did not expel the Poles or the Czechs or the Romanians," he said. "And with the American population gone, our position here will be weakened."
Zhirinsky's voice grew cold. "Do not make me question your loyalty, Comrade Kerbabaev," he growled.
The threat hung heavy in the cold air.