"I need results. What's next? This thing could hit the White House-or Congress." The President hesitated. "Actually that wouldn't be so bad. Melt it down and start over again."
"Mr. President," Smith said, clearing his throat.
"Just kidding," the President said sheepishly.
"I am tied into the U.S. Space Command's SPACETRACK system."
"What's that?"
"SPACETRACK tracks orbiting satellites and debris. It is part of the early-warning system against enemy ICBMs and performs the added function of safeguarding our shuttle fleet from orbital collision."
"There's a lot of space junk up there. Have they got anything new?"
"No, Mr. President. But their system shows conclusively that the Mir space station was not in a position to inflict the destruction we have witnessed thus far."
"So it's not the Russians."
"I am not saying that," Smith said carefully.
"Then what are you saying?" the President said, his hoarse voice exasperated.
"I am saying that we cannot and should not jump to any conclusions until we have sufficient facts."
"What happens if this thing strikes again?"
"If it is the intention of this unknown agency to strike again, we have no defense against it. But there is an upside."
"What's that?"
"A third strike will show us the pattern, if there is one."
"Someone's hammering our space program, Smith."
"Theory. And a theory is not a fact," Smith reminded him.
"Keep me informed."
"I suspect if there is another strike, you will know before I do," said Harold Smith.
"In that case," the President of the United States sighed, "I guess we have no choice but to keep watching the skies."
Chapter 25
The chattering stream of bullets came at Remo Williams-like a smoking, slow-motion squirt of water, but in reality the rounds were moving at supersonic speed. Remo's highly trained eyes read them in slow motion.
The first gleaming bullet floated toward his face. Smoking, its tip looked as smooth as a tiny lead skull.
Dropping under the stream, Remo allowed the rounds to flatten against the pivoting panel at his back. Under the hammering lead, it spun madly right, then left, then right again as the cursing receptionist swung her stuttering weapon from side to side.
There were many Sinanju techniques for dealing with hot lead. Chiun had taught Remo the basics, which had not changed since the days of the old Chinese muzzle-loaders. In response to the proliferation of automatic weapons, Remo had come up with a few innovations of his own.
The AK-47 carried thirty rounds in a clip, with another thirty in the backup clip duct-taped to the one in the receiver.
Remo counted the shots, and when the last one smacked into the jerking panel, the AK ran silent. The receptionist yanked out the old clip. She never got to flip it around and jam its mate in.
Remo was unexpectedly towering over her as he brought his palms together over the smoking muzzle.
The clap made the Russian girl blink. In that blink, Remo sidestepped so swiftly he seemed to vanish from sight.
She would have sought him out except that the AK was for some reason jittering in her hands as if attached to a working vibrator. She shook with it. Then, before her shaking eyes, the muzzle disintegrated.
She swore in venomous Russian.
Remo put her out of action with a tap to her forehead that made her brain bounce around the inside of her skull so hard it stopped functioning, a bruised, bloody sponge.
Reinforcements showed up in the form of a trio of Russians wearing dark suits enlivened by bright red ties.
"Cron!" one shouted.
Over the years, Remo had been attacked by enough Soviet agents that the Russian word for "stop" was as familiar to him as the English. He pretended to raise his hands in surrender.
"Anybody here speak English?" he asked.
No one volunteered that he did. Instead, they stepped forward with their Makarov and Tokarev pistols trained on his stomach. Remo decided the hell with it and jumped them.
His knees bent so imperceptibly there was no warning until his feet left the floor as if on springs.
Remo cleared the twenty feet between the reception desk and the trio of Russian agents before they could process the sensory information that they were under attack.
He might have teleported himself, except instead of materializing in their midst, he dropped down on them from above.
Landing in the splayed-spider position, Remo took out all three with short-armed punches and slap-kicks. Their guns clanked to the floor, unfired, dragging their dead owners down with them.
Dancing away, Remo turned to the patiently waiting Master of Sinanju and asked, "Aren't you going to help?"
"I found this place. I have earned a respite from this hectic assignment."
"There's nothing hectic about this assignment."
"You are making a great deal of noise for one whose task is yet to be completed."
As if to demonstrate Chiun's comment, another panel rolled aside to disgorge a pair of thick-skulled Russians wearing black uniforms stripped of any insignia.
"Point taken," said Remo. "I come in peace for all mankind," he told the pair, who clutched foldingstock Kalashnikov rifles.
They seemed to understand English because they hesitated.