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The shock wave simply picked him off his feet and bore him back like a giant hand. There was nothing Remo could do, so he surrendered to the force of the compressed moving air.

One heel scraped ground. His shoe came off and skipped away.

Using the other foot because he didn't want to shear the meat loose from the sole of his unshod foot-that was how fast he was flying-Remo tried to brake his headlong flight. He lost that shoe too. And kept going.

Craning his head, he called Chiun's name. There was no answer and no sign of Chiun. His heart dropped into his stomach.

Oh, God, he thought, I've lost Chiun!

His survival instincts took over then.

Remo twisted his body in mid-flight until he could see behind him. The good news was that his trajectory was not threatening to slam him into any of the scattered vehicles, as he had feared.

The bad news was that he was heading straight for a paralyzed cluster of Dirt First!! protesters.

"Might as well go with the flow," he said.

Grabbing at a passing black NBC flag, Remo used it to deflect his flight slightly to the left.

Remo zeroed in on a particularly large and soft woman, who looked like an upright sofa stuffed into an Indian dress. Using his straightened legs like a giant rudder, he arrowed for her.

The woman cushioned the blow surprisingly little. The Dirt Firsters flew apart like stricken tenpins. But Remo kept going.

Frantically he grabbed at passing cornstalks in an effort to slow himself down.

He hit the ground doing over sixty.

Remo rolled and rolled and rolled. And somewhere in the rolling, his head bounced off a halfburied stone and he lost consciousness.

The next thing he knew, Remo was looking up at blue sky. He let his eyes focus on a single solitary cloud that reminded him of Chiun's kind face. It even had a wispy tail of a beard. The Chiun cloud refused to come into focus. Remo concentrated. Then it crystallized into perfect clarity.

In focus, the cloud looked like a hollow-eyed skull.

Remo sat up slowly. Nothing locked or splintered, so he knew that he was okay from the waist up. He felt his legs. No bones broken there. His bare toes stuck up. He wiggled them. All ten wiggled nicely. He was intact. Nothing was broken anywhere.

Only then did Remo jump to his feet.

"Chiun!" he called.

There was no answer.

"Chiun! Where are you?" he cried. Anxiety seized his vitals like cold iron talons.

Remo looked around frantically. Where the white clapboard house had stood was now a vast crater. The house next to it was gone. So were all the others for about eight blocks around. Beyond the zone of destruction, other nearby houses showed damage-broken windows, scars, and like destruction-but they still stood.

It looked to Remo as if a cyclone had picked up the north end of La Plomo and carried it away.

The Army trucks were still in a circle, Remo also saw. But they lay on their sides. The ground around them was littered with the clear grit of their missing windshields. Walking dazedly amid the ruins were Army and National Guard soldiers, poking the blackened rubble with sticks.

Suddenly afraid, Remo raced toward them.

He grabbed one at random. "Chiun-have you seen Chiun?" he asked anxiously.

"What's he look like?" the soldier asked flatly.

"He's the old Oriental. In the gray kimono. He came with me."

The soldier nodded. "Yeah. He's one of the ones we're still searching for."

"Damn! Who else is missing?"

"That kooky psychedelic gal."

Remo looked around. Sky Bluel's pickup was gone. He pointed this out to the soldier. "Looks like she drove off," he said.

"Hey, don't ask me. I still haven't figured out what the hell happened here. One moment we were huddled behind the trucks. The next, there was a flash, and blooey! Everything went."

"Keep looking," Remo said harshly. "People don't just disappear without a trace."

"Why not?" the soldier said reasonably. "All those houses yonder did."

"Just keep looking." And because he was fearful for his Master's fate, he added, "Please."

Remo rushed around the blast area aimlessly, frantic, searching. He found nothing.

Captain Holden accosted him.

"Well, you survived at least," he said grimly.

Remo grabbed him. "Where's Chiun? He's the old Korean. Have you seen him?"

"No, we're still searching for bodies."

"How many so far?" Remo asked in horror.

"None."

Remo's sigh of relief lifted Holden's hair off his forehead. "Then there's a chance. Look, we gotta find Chiun."

"You should sit down and get your wits about you first," Holden said. "You look a mess. The flies won't return for a spell yet. The concussion spooked them good. Any bodies out there can wait."

Eyes narrowing to opaline gems of fury, Remo grabbed Captain Holden by the throat with both fists. He lifted the captain off his feet for emphasis.

"Get your men together," Remo said in a low but violent voice. "You find my friend. Or they'll be looking for your pieces next."

"See here, FEMA can't lord it over a U.S. Army captain."

"Your idiots started that fire," Remo shot back. "You're responsible for what happened." He squeezed hard.

"Anything you say," Holden gasped.

Remo dropped him so fast he loosened the captain's back molars.

Straightening his uniform hurriedly, Captain Holden mustered his men. Under Remo's lashing words, they widened the search area to include the cornfield. Someone wondered aloud what a civilian was doing giving the Army orders. Captain Holden grabbed the man and put his hand over the soldier's mouth and hissed urgent words into his ear until the soldier started nodding his head in furious agreement.

The soldier rejoined the search in a subdued mood. The National Guard pitched in. They ranged far and wide.

The search was filmed extensively by legions of camcorders. Reporters hindered the effort with a steady barrage of questions.

When Major Styles suggested they drop their equipment and join in the search, he was told, "We cover the news, not make it."

When one had the temerity to approach Remo with a "How is the search progressing?", Remo showed him a new way to carry his microphone.

The reporter retreated to his convertible and burned rubber, on his way to the nearest proctologist. He drove standing up.

After that, the media kept a respectful distance.

"You have a way with the media," Styles remarked to Remo.

"You just have to find their hot buttons," Remo snapped.

They found the Master of Sinanju among the corn. A delighted Guardsman made the discovery.

"I found him, sir," he shouted, waving wildly.

The search party converged on the spot. Compared to Remo, they were moving in slow motion. Remo flashed through the corn so fast he shucked leaves off the stalks.

"Where is he?" Remo asked as he came up on the Guardsman.

The man pointed to his feet.

Remo stopped dead in his tracks, his gorge rising. The Master of Sinanju lay there on his stomach, bare legs apart under the hiked-up kimono skirt. Chiun's head was turned so one cheek rested in the dirt to show his face in profile.

Shocked by the bloodlessness of his mentor's parchment skin, Remo sank to one knee. A solitary fly crawled out from behind Chiun's shell of an ear. Angrily Remo killed it with a violent snap of his fingers.

Slowly, one outstretched hand trembling, he reached down to touch his Master's throat. He hesitated. The others drifted up, making the cornstalks complain under their feet.

A camcorder approached like an intrusive eye.

"Get back!" Remo snarled, shattering the lens with a swift knuckle blow.

The crowd retreated to a safe distance.

Remo laid a finger against the Master of Sinanju's carotid artery. He felt nothing. His stomach sank. He stifled a sob.