"I'll pay for the ticket," Remo volunteered hastily.
"One way," Chiun added swiftly.
SMITH BECAME AWARE of the sound as he was completing his work on the Shock Troops files. The pulsing explosion was like that of a transformer blowing up. The noise swelled in a loud thump, then receded. Thumped, then receded. It was as if an awkward giant were taking huge steps across the grounds outside the laboratory.
Smith assumed the sound was just more of the crazed activity that had followed Roote's assault against the perimeter fence.
There were fewer helicopters rumbling over the roof now. The dead and wounded had been returned to the main camp area. The sound he was hearing was probably just the Army involving itself in some exercises preparatory to another attack.
Disregarding the noise, he detached his laptop from the back of the lab terminal.
Every scrap of information contained in the computer had been transferred back to Folcroft. As soon as the transfer was complete, Smith destroyed the hard drive. He proceeded to do the same to all the other computers within the lab. He would deal with those in the outer offices later.
Using a special wand from his briefcase, Smith magnetized every floppy disk he could find, destroying the contents of those, as well.
As he worked, Smith could not help but think of what General Chesterfield had done here.
The casualty list that had caught Smith's eye while at CURE headquarters was woefully inadequate. He had found a far more detailed inventory of Elizu Roote's victims on the base computer system. It was a grisly roster with a few notable exceptions.
During and after his escape from isolation, Roote had killed virtually all of the scientists involved in the procedure that had made him what he was: Their deaths, coupled with the destruction of all records, guaranteed there would be no resumption of these horrible experiments.
All that was left was the general himself. Returning to the workstation where he had completed the bulk of his work, the CURE director gathered up a few last items. He replaced his laptop in his briefcase, sliding in beside it the thick dossier left him by General Chesterfield. With both thumbs, he was careful to make certain that the two briefcase latches were secured tightly.
Smith stood, scanning the area to see if there was anything he had forgotten.
Thump!
The noise was closer than before. It filtered through to Smith's consciousness, though he paid it little real attention.
Yes. His work was finished in the lab. All he had left was whatever information remained in the outer offices.
Thump! Very close. Followed by a muffled shout.
To Smith, it still sounded like a transformer exploding. He thought of this as he began strolling to the lab door.
Thump! A scream.
It hit Smith all at once. His face registered the shock of sudden realization.
A transformer.
Thump! More cries of panic.
Knuckles white on his briefcase handle, Smith ran from the coolness of the lab out into the hallway. He found a window in one of the tidy offices. As he peered outside, there came a brilliant flash, as from lightning during a fierce thunderstorm.
But, Harold Smith knew, this storm was anything but natural.
The flash was accompanied by the same massive thump he had heard before, this time no longer muffled by the laboratory walls. The window panes rattled at the sound waves from the electrical blast.
Smith blinked the dancing spots from his eyes as he sought out the source.
He found it with chilling ease.
The dark shape of a man strolled out from behind the white-painted clapboard base chapel. The instant he did so, an uneven stream of energy pulsed seemingly from out of the thin air before him.
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.