"How could I miss it? It's Superman blue."
"Follow the winding road north."
Remo did. And there was the fieldstone monster Chuin had dubbed Castle Sinanju.
"Too bad we can't parachute out," he said.
"We will be out of fuel soon," Chiun remarked.
The number-two engine stalled out at exactly that point.
Remo rushed to the cabin. "What's going on?"
"We are out of fuel," the pilot reported.
"You were supposed to tell the tower before we ran out, not after."
"I am dizzy from all this circling. I forgot."
"Can you put us down okay?"
"If the other engine does not conk."
In the next moment it did.
"What do I do now?" the pilot moaned.
"Can this lame duck glide in?"
"It is a jet. It glides exactly like a brick. Not at all."
"Then ditch," said Remo, flinging himself back into the cabin.
They came down in Quincy Bay with flaps down and the Russian pilot praying as the choppy water skimmed under their settling wings.
Remo had moved to the cabin's rear, knowing that a nose-in landing would demolish the front of the plane but not necessarily the rear. Chiun stood with him, expectant.
It was a good theory. In practice, the Yak pulled up at the last minute and pancaked, breaking the fuselage exactly in the middle like a loaf of Italian bread.
Cold seawater rushed in. Remo and Chiun let it slosh over them. Not that they had much choice. G-forces kept them from moving.
The Yak's tail sank first. They let the water take them in its cold, unforgiving grasp. The shock to their systems was like being seized by a clamping vise of ice.
The tail struck the seafloor, creating a cloud of dark sediment. They swam out, finding the Russian pilot kicking and flailing aimlessly.
Remo pulled him to the surface, where all three men treaded water for as long as it took them to recharge their lungs with cold oxygen.
The Russian looked around with stunned eyes. "I am in America?"
"Congratulations," said Remo.
"Does this mean I am not to die?"
"No," said Chiun. "We have to kill you."
"Yes," said Remo. "You got us here alive. You get to live. Just keep your nose clean."
"Right now I am only concerned with keeping it warm. The rest of me, too."
Chiun struck out for the shore. Remo tugged the Russian along and, once on the ice-crusted beach, sent him on his way with a shove.
"Remember, you never saw us," Remo warned.
"I care only about filling my belly with chizburgers and registering for warfare."
"It's called welfare," Remo said wearily.
TEN MINUTES LATER, Remo and Chiun were entering Castle Sinanju.
"Good thing I talked you out of taking your steamer trunks, huh, Little Father?" Remo said to Chiun as he stripped off his icy T-shirt.
"I was very wise to make the correct decision. Your counsel had nothing to do with it," returned Chiun before he disappeared into another room to change.
Remo had the kitchen telephone and was putting in a call to Folcroft.
Harold Smith answered breathlessly. "Where are you?"
"Home," Remo said casually.
"Home?"
"You'll read about it in the morning paper. We had to ditch in Quincy Bay."
Smith made a strangled sound. "I have made progress," he said after regaining his composure.
"Good."
"But not on the Paraguay angle. On ParaSol, a shell company, which shut down only two days ago. I have a search spider tracing its parent company through international data links. In the meantime, I have discovered who was funding the BioBubble."
"Yeah?"
"Dr. Cosmo Pagan."
Remo kicked ice off his toes. "How does he figure into this?"
"That is your assignment, Remo. I have correlated Pagan's theories. No matter what he predicts, he always returns to the Martian hypothesis. It is clear to me he is generating a media smoke screen for reasons of his own."