"Will you can that dippy ding-dong sucking-up already?" Remo said impatiently in Korean. "Smitty's indifferent to it, and the twerp's more weirded out than he is impressed by it."
"I am doing that which is necessary," the old man replied in the same tongue. "Young princes like to hear pretty songs, especially when they are directed at the throne they one day hope to occupy."
As the Master of Sinanju sank cross-legged to the floor, Remo turned his full attention to Smith. "Okay, what's the deal, Smitty? I think the kid was trying to ship us off to Alaska."
"That's not entirely true, Dr. Smith," Howard said, crossing the room. He angled the chair in front of the CURE director's desk so that he could see all three men.
"That is correct," Chiun interjected. "For he left out the part where I respectfully informed our young sire that we obey neither princes nor presidents. Sinanju is yours to direct and yours alone, Emperor."
"That remains true, Master Chiun," Smith nodded. "Our hierarchical structure is as it has always been. I merely asked Mark to get you because of a strange situation that is developing in Alaska. The President has filled me in on the broad details."
"Were not the details of females the concern of the roly-poly billhilly who preceded the current pretender to the crown?" Chiun asked.
"Figure of speech, Little Father," Remo said, sinking to the floor next to his teacher. "What's the story, Smitty?"
Smith placed his hands to his desk, his fingers interlocking. "Over the past few days there have been multiple attacks on both civilian and military targets in rural Alaska," the CURE director began. "The first was a group of Alaskan pipeline workers. The next was a state defense force team. They were slaughtered to a man by an enemy that, until yesterday, had not shown itself." Smith seemed to grow uncomfortable. "At least not in such a way that I would be willing to trust a lone eyewitness account."
"Why?" Remo asked. "What was it?"
"A small army," Mark Howard supplied.
Remo had been doing his best to ignore the young man. "Good," he said. "Send in our big army. I'll be at the tattoo parlor."
He rose to a half squat but felt the pressure of a single bony finger on his thigh. With a sigh he dropped back to the floor.
"You're lucky I'm not in a body-cleaning mood," Remo said in a voice so low only the Master of Sinanju could hear.
"The first armed unit was put in place by helicopter near the murdered pipeline workers," Smith resumed. "When the pilot returned, he saw what he has termed a, er, ghost army."
"Ghost?" Remo asked. He shot a look at the Master of Sinanju. The old Korean had grown more attentive.
Smith nodded gravely. "He described a group of men who stood briefly among the dead as he flew over. He claims that, as he watched, the men vanished from sight. Fearing some supernatural force, he fled back to Fairbanks."
"Sounds to me like he's got a couple of bent rotor blades," Remo said.
"Quiet, Remo," Chiun admonished. His alert hazel eyes were locked on Smith.
"My first impulse would be to agree with you, Remo," the CURE director said. "However, the ambushed ASDF unit wasn't alone. They were involved in joint exercises with the Alaska National Guard and the Army. A National Guard unit consisting of eighty men met a similar fate in the rural town of Kakwik. The sole survivor of that attack described a group of men who could hide in the open and kill at will."
"Hmm," Remo mused. "That sounds like us, doesn't it, Little Father?"
Chiun addressed Smith, not Remo. "We once encountered an invisible man," the old man said. Remo was struck by the worry in his tone.
Smith nodded. "I considered that, too. But tests with the midnight-black paint were discontinued years ago. It was found that the molecular cohesion broke down over short periods of time. And we are not dealing with individuals who can hide only in darkness. Apparently, they can conceal themselves in daylight. Or, given the locale and time of year, partial light."
"You ever hear of ghosts that can kill, Chiun?" Remo asked.
"Well," Howard offered, reluctant to interrupt the comfortable dynamic of the three men, "it's obviously not ghosts, Remo." He waited for someone to agree with him.
Remo ignored Howard. His full attention was on the Master of Sinanju. Even Smith remained mute. Troubled, Howard turned his gaze to the old Korean.
His face unflinching, Chiun avoided Remo's eyes. "I would travel to this province alone, Emperor Smith," he announced levelly. "There is no reason for Remo to accompany me."
Remo's brow dropped. "Like fish," he said. "Why? What's wrong?"
"There is nothing wrong other than the fact that you are an obdurate contrarian," Chiun replied, his voice low. "Reserve one plane ticket, Emperor," he said, rising to his feet.
Remo got up, too. "Nothing doing. Make that two."
Chiun shot him an evil look. The old man's lips formed a razor-thin line of angry frustration.
"Sorry, Little Father," Remo said. "For you to get so jumpy, something must be wrong. If you won't spill the beans, I'm not letting you take off on your own. Two tickets, Smitty," he said emphatically.
"I'm not certain what your concern is, Master Chiun, but it is too soon to make any assumptions," Smith said reasonably. "We could merely be dealing with some kind of new technology at work here that allows these men to remain unseen until the moment of attack."
But the old Korean slowly shook his head. "It is not too soon," Chiun said, his voice ominous. "It is long overdue."
And the look on his face was such that both Smith and Remo knew enough at this point not to press further.
Remo exhaled. "Okay. Dead end there for now."
He returned his attention to Smith. "We'll find out the skinny on your ghost guys, Smitty. And I'm gonna keep a good thought that they're with the Eskimo branch of the Crips or the Bloods. I've been up to my fanny in ghosts lately."
"Actually," Smith said seriously, "if the lone survivor of Kakwik is to be believed, they are of a corporeal nature. It would be more accurate to say they are lost in time." His lips pursed unhappily. "He swears that the men who attacked his National Guard unit were Russians."
Remo blinked. "You're kidding, right?"
Smith shook his head. "Moreover, he seemed to think they were Soviet-era Russians. According to his eyewitness account, they were mired in the iconography of that time."
Remo threw up his hands. "Great. Perfect," he said in disgust. "Twice in one week. Geez Louise, Smitty, what is it with them? Is it the fuzzy hats? The 800-proof grain alcohol they pour on their Brezhnev-Os? How many times we gotta rub their noses in it before they stop pooping on the red, white and blue carpet, for chrissakes?"
"The Russia connection has not been confirmed," Smith said quickly. "Although those seeds have been planted, they may have been done so as a smoke screen." As he spoke, his hands sought the edge of his desk.
"Yeah, well, it better not be them," Remo said as the CURE director began typing at his special keyboard. "I've pasted enough hairy-mole and double-chin snapshots in my Memories of Pottsylvania scrapbook lately."
"I have arranged a military flight to Alaska for the two of you," Smith said. "It will be faster than a commercial airline. A taxi will be arriving at the main gate in fifteen minutes. It will take you to your rendezvous with an Air Force transport. Begin in Kakwik. That is the site of the-most recent attack."
"Fine," Remo said, his expression still displeased. "But I'm warning you, if I see one more Eastern Blockhead this week, I'm not responsible for my actions."
Remo was turning to go when Howard broke in. "That's it?" the young man asked, confused. All eyes turned to him. "It just-it seems like there should be more. At the CIA-"
"Love to stick around and hear how you, Larabee and the rest of the Control guys escaped from Camp Gitche Gumee Noonie Wa-Wa," Remo cut in, "but we've got big-boy work to do. C'mon, Chiun."