"Take a look at this," Hogue said worriedly. Confused, the sergeant got down on his belly, crowding in beside the Colonel at the base of the steps. He followed the yellow flashlight beam that Hogue shone on the wood.
The sergeant grunted in surprise.
"It looks like this man was trying to leave a message," Hogue said. "My guess is he didn't die right away and he heard his killers while they were doing that." He nodded back to where the rows of frozen bodies welcomed the stout of heart into Kakwik. The sergeant frowned as he studied the bottom step. A shape had been drawn in wet blood-now frozen-on the wood. A simple rectangle sat on a shaft, bisected at the midpoint by an arc.
"What do you think it means?" the sergeant asked.
Hogue shook his head. "It doesn't look like anything to you?" he asked leadingly.
"Well, sir," the sergeant said reluctantly, "I don't wanna sound like a paranoid product of the Cold War, but that looks like a hammer and sickle to me. I must be wrong, though. The Russkies haven't had a stake in Alaska in more than a hundred years."
Before the sergeant could even finish, Colonel Hogue was scurrying back to his feet, a fresh sense of urgency to his ruddy face. The sergeant had confirmed his worst fears.
"Get the men back here," he ordered urgently. "Get them back here now."
A sharp noise in the distance was followed by an angry shout. Hogue felt his stomach sink. He wheeled around.
The first gunshot was followed by others. The men under his command were yelling in panic.
The Colonel was helpless to stop it. Alone in an isolated Alaskan village facing an enemy from another age, Colonel Robert Hogue felt the youthful ghosts of Vietnam pounce from the recesses of his frightened brain.
And as the devil danced, Hell erupted anew on the slumbering streets of Kakwik.
Chapter 8
His meeting with Smith went on for another hour after Remo and Chiun had left. When Mark Howard finally glanced at his watch, it was closing in on 9:00 a.m.
"I hate to interrupt, Dr. Smith, but I'll have to get going soon if I'm going to make that flight."
He was sitting in a hard, straight-backed chair across the desk from the CURE director. Smith looked at his own trusty Timex.
"I had not realized it had gotten so late," he said. Gripping the edge of his desk, he rolled back his chair. "Here is your identification." He took a laminated tag from his top drawer and slid it across the desk. "There will be no problem gaining admittance, especially at such a hectic time as this. Do your work quickly and get out. Once you are done, return to Folcroft immediately. Do not attempt to contact any old acquaintances while you are there."
"I understand," Howard said with a tight nod.
He half stood from his chair, leaning over to take the ID card. As soon as he'd gotten to his feet, he felt a sudden rush of blood to his head.
"Whoa," Mark said, grabbing on to the edge of the big black desk for support.
Smith's gray face puckered in concern. "Are you all right?" he asked.
"Yes," Howard nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just stood up a little too fast, I guess." He shook the dizzy sensation away. "I'm sorry, Dr. Smith, but what were you saying about Alaska?"
Smith frowned. "Excuse me?" he asked.
"You said something when I was getting up, didn't you?"
"No," Smith said. "I did not."
A flush seemed to grow faintly in the young man's wide face. The generally confident demeanor he had displayed over the past few days seemed to erode before Smith's eyes.
"Oh," Howard muttered, vaguely flustered. "I just- Oh, okay." He picked up the ID, stuffing it in his breast pocket. "I'll...I'll give you a call when it's taken care of."
Across the desk, gaze suspicious, the CURE director pursed his lips. "If you do not feel equal to this, I can go myself," he said slowly.
"No, it's fine, I promise," Howard said, inching toward the door. "Besides, I don't think Remo is too crazy about me. It'd be safer for me to leave town for the day. I'll let you know."
With a reassuring smile he left the drab office. Once Smith was alone, a dark notch formed behind the bridge of his glasses. His new assistant's sudden odd behavior probably wasn't anything to be concerned about. It could be chalked up to nerves. After all, this was all still very new to him. And his earlier encounter with Remo doubtless hadn't helped.
Dark expression fading, the old man booted up his desk computer. Banishing thoughts of CURE's personnel, Harold W. Smith quickly lost himself in the more manageable-and thus more agreeable-realm of cyberspace.
IN THE TIDY outer office of Smith's secretary, Mark Howard breathed a heavy sigh as he slumped back against the door.
Luckily, Mrs. Mikulka wasn't in the room. He tried to gather his fragmented thoughts.
He wasn't sure what had just happened in there. Something had come to him. A strong sense of... Well, of what he didn't know. Not exactly, anyway. His mind now clearing, Mark checked his watch. He wouldn't have to leave to catch his plane for another twenty minutes. There was still time to do a little digging.
Mark pushed away from the door.
"Damn spider-sense," he muttered to himself. Leaving the room, he hurried down the hallway to his office. To see what-if anything-was going on in Alaska.
Chapter 9
Blind panic blazed like wildfire across the snowy streets of Kakwik. Forty of Colonel Robert Hogue's men had been slaughtered in the initial attack. The stink of blood swamped the frozen air.
As the dead multiplied, those still living loosed blind bursts of automatic-weapons fire into empty air. There were no targets to hit. Between the shadows and the snow and the perpetual gloom of the swollen twilight sky, Hogue and his men were fighting ghosts. At first it was gunfire. Blinding flashes like focused lightning screamed from out of the thinning snowstorm.
Barking orders all the way, Hogue and his remaining National Guard troops sought refuge behind the tin walls of the Kakwik hovels. Crouching, frightened, they waited as the gunfire stopped and silence descended once more on Kakwik.
The sergeant who had recognized the old hammer-and-sickle design squatted behind Hogue.
When the silence lingered too long, the two men peeked around the side of the house. Light dribbled onto the main drag from the shanty homes. Steam rose from freshly killed bodies.
"Maybe they're-" the sergeant whispered. Hogue threw up a silencing hand. His ears were trained on the Alaskan night. For an instant he swore he'd heard the crunch of a foot on fresh snow.
A blur of movement. Something flashing through the snow just before his eyes. Almost simultaneously came a startled intake of air from the sergeant.
Hogue's head snapped around. One of the sergeant's eyes was open wide in shock. The other eye was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a dripping cavity where an invisible knife had plunged deep into brain.
With a hiss of air, the sergeant flopped to the snow. And as he fell, the slaughter began anew.
Men screamed and bodies fell, trails of blood staining snow to red slush.
Guns vanished, yanked from hands by invisible demons.
No. Not invisible. As Hogue watched in impotent horror he saw a masked man here, another there. Spiraling, pivoting. Always away from gun or bayonet.
In no time the forty remaining soldiers were cut to twenty, then ten. When the white-haired man with the red-flecked brown eyes finally appeared from the dwindling storm, ten had become four. Including Colonel Hogue.
A terrified soldier lunged screaming at the apparition. His head bounced to the ground as his body made a beeline for a snowbank.
Colonel Hogue couldn't believe how fast the stranger had moved. His eyes had barely registered the death of the first soldier before the other two were rushing forward.
Another lost his head.