The neutrino bomb.
Three of the most frightening words the CURE director had ever read. Mentioned dozens of times by both men.
When first he saw those words, Smith's mind reeled. So shocked was he, his ulcer medications were all but forgotten.
Although he knew of the preliminary research on the beta decay-causing neutrino bomb, the details since then were few and sketchy. Part of the military buildup of the 1980s, it was thought that the project hadn't progressed beyond the drawing board before the cutbacks at the end of that decade put an end to the research. Apparently, this was not the case. And this realization was almost more than Smith could comprehend.
Outbreak of peace.
No. It was impossible. They would have to be insane....
With shaking hands, Smith quickly called up the latest image of the Radiant Grappler II. He had taken over and automatically programmed the satellite so the Spacetrack system would continue to track the vessel. At the moment, it was well past Crete. Nearing Cyprus.
An outbreak of peace. In the Middle East. The neutrino bomb.
And as his heart thudded a concert of fear in his chest, Smith knew it to be true. To the very core of his rock-ribbed New England soul.
And if the CURE director's worst fear was realized, Bryce Babcock's scheme would have awesome global ramifications.
FROM THE BRIDGE of the USS Ronald Reagan, Admiral Jason Harris watched the British Lynx glide a perfect line of descent for the aircraft carrier's flight deck.
Rotor blades swished with blinding ferocity as the helicopter set down.
Before rubber touched deck, Admiral Harris was already off the bridge and clomping down the steep metal companionway to greet the helicopter. As he climbed to the lower level, he wore a deeply unhappy expression on his ruddy face.
A barrel-chested man in his late sixties, the admiral was a no-nonsense type who didn't cotton to the sort of shenanigans that were going on around his boat today.
The worst thing that could possibly happen in a military man's life had taken place. Admiral Hams was being given orders by civilians. His superior had spilled the beans when he called to inform Harris that a British helicopter out of Gibraltar would be bringing aboard two passengers.
"He claimed to be an Army General," the commander of the Atlantic Fleet had said. This was the admiral to whom the officers of the Second Fleet in the western Atlantic and the Sixth Fleet in the Mediterranean were answerable. "But he sounded like a spook to me."
"CIA?" Admiral Harris had asked, annoyed.
"Probably. But don't quote me on that, Jason. Whoever he is, he's got top security clearance. He arranged the thing with the British before he even contacted me."
"You mean they're already on their way?"
"They should be on your radar by now." Harris checked. They were.
"Do I have any say in this?" he snarled. "Not if you want to keep your command."
Admiral Harris had grown fond of the commanding view from his bridge. He decided to hunker down and take whatever came his way.
On the carrier's flight deck, Harris began to regret his accommodating nature the minute he got a load of the pair who jumped down from the helicopter.
One was a skinny white guy dressed casually in a white T-shirt and Chinos. His pants flapped wildly in the gale-force wind of the chopper's downdraft.
The other passenger looked like a soft breeze should have tossed him into the sea. He was a hundred if he was a day and wore a flaming orange brocade kimono.
The pair of them headed straight for Harris as he approached from the opposite direction across the deck.
Behind them, the Lynx was already rising back into the air. The British officer in the chopper barely had a chance to salute before the door slid shut.
The helicopter was soaring back across the water in the direction of Gibraltar by the time Harris met with the two strangers.
"Welcome aboard, gentlemen." Harris smiled tightly. He stuck out his hand to the arrivals.
The older man lifted his nose and pretended he didn't see the offered hand. When the younger one accepted it, Harris noticed that his wrists were unusually thick, as wide around as fat tomato-sauce cans.
"Mind telling us what the hell we're doing here?" Remo asked.
"Don't you know?" Harris said.
"No," Remo admitted, glancing around. "Except we're supposed to be looking for a boat. From what I can tell, this ain't it."
"I'm not sure of any of the specifics," Admiral Harris admitted, "but I was told to inform you that your mission has become more urgent."
"This isn't like Smith." Remo frowned at Chiun.
The Master of Sinanju had turned his attention to Admiral Harris. "On the contrary," the tiny Asian sniffed. He was examining the admiral's uniform as if its occupant were no more than a department-store mannequin. "He has only become more insane with the passage of time. As far as I am concerned, this is in lunatic character."
"Smith?" Admiral Harris asked Remo. "That'd be General Smith, I presume?"
"That what he's calling himself today?" Remo asked, uninterested. He nodded up to the bridge. "I'd better call him. This tub have a radio?"
It was a supreme effort for the admiral to not lose his temper at the insulting term. Adding to his agitation was the fact that the old man seemed to have taken an abnormally keen interest in Harris's uniform. The Asian's wrinkled face puckered as he examined the admiral's epaulets.
"I'm sorry, sir. No can do," Harris said through clenched teeth to the younger man. "I was given very specific instructions not to let you use any equipment that runs any risk whatsoever of being monitored. Once you're on the ground, you may call." His frown lines deepened. "Though that's odd to me. We've got some of the most sophisticated equipment in the world on board this ship. You're far more likely to run the risk of being heard from a public phone."
Remo waved a dismissive hand. "My boss majored in scrambling with a minor in bugging the hell out of me. Where's the nearest phone booth?"
Before the admiral could reply, Chiun interrupted. "Do not pester the man, Remo," he admonished before turning attention back to the seaman. "What is your station?" Chiun asked pointedly.
"What?" Harris asked.
"What?" Remo asked, as well. "Chiun, we don't have ti-"
"Shush," the Master of Sinanju insisted. "What station do you hold?" he pressed Harris.
The sailor towered over the old man. He looked down at the wizened figure, a strange expression clouding his ruddy face. "I'm an admiral," Harris said, unsure whether to be insulted or confused.
"Ah." Chiun nodded knowingly. "Amir-albahr."
Harris's face registered surprise. The old man's Arabic pronunciation was flawless.
"You know about that?" the admiral asked, an unintentional smile cracking his hard veneer.