Secretly, Chiun hoped that Remo was lying to cover the embarrassment he felt for allowing his body to somehow become exposed to a near lethal dose of electricity. However, he knew that this was not like his pupil. Even if he were embarrassed, Remo wouldn't lie. Not to Chiun.
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."