Fumbling, he grabbed hold of the top of the vehicle's battery. The wind at his back grew great. The roar of the chopper filled the desert around him.
He was almost dead. There would be no third chance.
Roote spun around. Sand from the downdraft ripped against his pale cheeks.
It was there. Fat and dark, hovering like some vision from the Apocalypse in the air before him.
They had not fired. They seemed content to watch him, unsure how to proceed.
Roote had no such hesitation.
He instantly channeled the power from the jeep battery directly up one arm and out the other. The blue arc exploded from his cupped fingertips, guided by his ocular systems to the slender angled gun barrel extending from the chopper's undercarriage.
The blue surge moved swiftly down the boron armor of the Apache. Random bolts were flung to the ground as the helicopter fought to stay aloft. There was a shriek of protest followed by a massive explosion as the ordnance aboard the aircraft detonated.
Roote barely had time to cut the power and scurry beneath the belly of his jeep before the big Apache crashed dramatically to the ground.
A few smaller explosions ripped through the air as the mortally wounded helicopter settled near the first in a plume of vicious dust.
Drained of nearly all power now, Roote could do nothing but cover his head with his arms. He crawled on his belly, away from the metal fragments thrown out from the chopper.
As he lay there, panting in fear and fatigue, he became aware of a new engine sound. It grew in intensity even as the roar of flames from the helicopter began to die.
A jeep. Almost as soon as he heard it, he saw it.
Tires slowed and stopped with a squeak. Roote saw them from the shade beneath his own jeep. Feet appeared. They ran to a point before his own jeep, scuffing to a stop in the dust. They were aimed toward the nearest flaming helicopter. "Wow."
The voice wasn't shocked. It was almost enthusiastic.
The boots changed direction. They ran over to the front of the jeep. Whoever it was dropped to his knees. An eager, sunburned face appeared in the square of light beneath the jeep's grille.
Roote's power was almost gone. He retreated from the newcomer, scurrying only a few inches back.
The stranger shook his head. He smiled.
"I am friend," Arthur Ford announced in loud, stilted English. He rapped his chest. "Me friend. Help you."
Flames crackled in the scrub around him. His capacitors were virtually empty. Elizu Roote hadn't much of a choice.
He extended a hand to Ford. The UFO enthusiast dragged one of the most dangerous men in the world from his hiding place beneath the jeep of the MPs he had murdered.
"Army bad. Government bad." Arthur nodded, as if indulging a dim foreigner. "I will take you to safe place." A thought suddenly occurred to him. "Do you want to phone home?" he offered cheerily.
"Shut up," Elizu Roote drawled weakly.
The words startled Ford. His alien had mastered Earthling vernacular already! Probably from watching television broadcasts while in orbit. This was obviously a creature of superior intelligence.
Thrilled that his alien spoke English and unmindful of the fact that the extraterrestrial's first suggestion had been rather on the rude side, Arthur Ford hustled the creature away from the flaming helicopter wreckage and to his waiting jeep.
Chapter 10
Remo was sitting up in bed, a steaming bowl of yellowish liquid cupped in both hands.
Although he was still pale, thanks to the Master of Sinanju's ministrations, much of his strength had returned. Blowing away some of the steam, he raised the bowl carefully to his lips and sipped a tiny portion of the liquid.
His expression instantly soured.
"Bleah," Remo said, a disgusted look on his face. He pushed his tongue around, feeling the thick tang of the unpleasant flavor on the roof of his mouth.
At his bedside Chiun stood, almond-shaped eyes narrowed expectantly like an actor awaiting a career-making review. He was clearly not pleased with Remo's assessment.
"Bleah?" Chiun bristled, insulted. "I toil for hours to restore you to health, I scour this encampment of cheap amateur killers for the necessary ingredients for this admixture, and one of the first grunts of language that passes your blubbery white lips is 'bleah'?"
"So shoot me," Remo said. "It tastes horrible."
"Would you rather it taste like fudge-cake-ripple-marshmallow-flavored ice cream?" Chiun mocked.
"Yeah, actually," Remo replied. "Even mud would be an improvement."
Chiun crossed his arms imperiously. "Too bad. It tastes as it tastes. Drink."
Remo took another reluctant sip. His face puckered once more. "Bleah. It tastes like goat piss," he complained.
Chiun's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Who has told you the secret ingredient?" he asked.
Remo shot a look at the old Korean. There was a hint of buried mirth in his teacher's eyes. Still, Remo wasn't certain if he himself was the joke. Steeling himself, he tossed back the bowl, drinking all of the liquid in one wretched gulp. He shivered afterward, handing the cup back to Chiun.
"Happy?" Remo asked, a deeply unpleasant expression on his pale features.
Chiun inspected the bowl for a single drop of liquid. Finding none, he nodded crisply, placing the bowl on the nightstand beside the bed. He settled, legs folded beneath him, into the lone seat next to Remo's hospital bed, the better to see his pupil.
Remo's gaze wandered to the half-open blinds on the nearest window. From this area of the infirmary, only a portion of the parade grounds was visible. Still, the view was such that many of the soldiers preparing for combat in front of Chesterfield's headquarters were plainly evident.
Remo's face took on a worried cast. "They're going after him," he commented softly.
"Who?" Chiun asked blandly.
"You know who," Remo said.
"Ah, yes." Chiun nodded. "The evil demon who shoots electricity from his fingers. Perhaps after they have slain the villain, they will concentrate their efforts on the wicked boogerman and Frankenpoop's monster."
Remo settled back in his pillow. "You're not really helping matters," he muttered, voice distant.
"No, of course not," Chiun replied tartly. "You were only unconscious and near death when I arrived. Your heart was bouncing like a drunken grasshopper around your chest, and any fool with a boomstick could have killed you with but a single shot, yet I am not helping. Forgive me, Remo. The next time you are about to die I will allow you to, thereby ingratiating myself to you for all eternity."
"Sarcasm doesn't help, either," Remo sighed, eyes closed.