In retrospect, Chesterfield realized that there was another alternative. He could have faked the private's death. Heck, he could have claimed the fella went AWOL. Who'd have known?
But he hadn't. Roote was his. The civilian authorities knew it. Washington knew it. Everyone knew it.
It was time for some serious CYA duty. General Chesterfield dropped a finger as big as a turkey drumstick onto his intercom.
"That spook patient," he boomed into the microphone. "What's his condition?"
"Unchanged, General."
"Keep checking," he commanded, releasing the button.
That was a blessing. The government guy had been out like a light when they found him. Some kind of coma due to neural overload or some such malarkey. Base doctors had never seen a case like it before. They wanted to ship him off to one of the better equipped facilities off the base. Chesterfield had put the kibosh on that idea.
The spook was Chesterfield's ace in the hole. If things went to hell any more than they already had, he was the one who was going to shoulder the blame for old Ironbutt. He might not know it-he might not ever come out of his coma-but the whole Roote debacle would still be his fault.
Chesterfield hoped that when the time came he could make it stick.
As the general was considering the potential bleakness of his future, there came a sharp rap at the door.
"Come!" he yelled.
The same lieutenant who had spoken to him on the parade grounds the day before marched into the room. Crossing over to the general's desk, the much younger man saluted crisply, standing at full attention. Chesterfield returned the salute with very little conviction.
"At ease," the general grumbled.
"Thank you, sir," the lieutenant replied, though he did not seem to relax to any discernible degree. "Searches have come up negative, General. Private Roote is nowhere to be found, sir."
"That's not good enough, Lieutenant," Chesterfield barked. "Everybody's got to be somewhere. You just haven't recovered him yet."
"No, sir," the lieutenant replied.
Chesterfield closed his eyes. Ordinarily he liked the way everyone around him was always agreeing with him. But under the circumstances, being surrounded by yes-men was not particularly heartening.
"Last known sighting?" the general asked.
"A local saw him leaving the saloon after his assault on the civilian."
"The CIA agent," Chesterfield corrected. He had been planting that seed for the past twenty-four hours. A little positive reinforcement never hurt.
"Yes, sir," the lieutenant agreed. "He took off into the desert in the jeep of the two MPs he killed. Our men attempted to follow, but the wind overnight wiped the trail clean. We haven't been able to pick up his tracks since first light. The local-he's Mexican in origin-he says that before Private Roote attacked the bartender, he said something about coming back after you next."
"I know all that, Lieutenant," Chesterfield complained. He frowned as he stared out his window. Before his desk, the lieutenant stood uncomfortably. The officer wasn't certain whether he should say something.
His agitation was apparent to his commanding officer. After a few moments, General Chesterfield scowled.
"Dismissed," the general said.
"Sir!" the lieutenant announced. He threw a snappy salute before hustling from the room.
The general's frown deepened after the man had gone.
Chesterfield stared out the window, deep in thought.
The whole base was on a toboggan ride straight to hell. But if he had anything to say about it, General Delbert Xavier Chesterfield would still be standing in the snow at the top of the hill as the rest of them raced headlong into the devil's own court martial.
ROSWELL, NEW MEXICO, sat beneath the blazing sun approximately ninety miles northeast of Alamogordo. In the airport of this desert city sat a man who was arguably the most powerful individual on the face of the planet.
Dr. Harold W. Smith was waiting.
No one looked twice at the gray man in the gray suit with the gray disposition.
Smith's battered leather briefcase was open on his lap, balanced atop his bony knees. The keyboard to the portable laptop computer that connected via satellite uplink with the CURE mainframes back at Folcroft clacked remorselessly beneath his drumming fingers.
In his near paranoid desire for security, Smith had opted not to fly into the same city Remo had flown to.
Never mind the fact that, even if some airport employee had seen the both of them, it would have been on two separate days and that no one would have remotely connected the two men. Smith's zeal for security had suited CURE well in its four-decade existence. And he considered Alamogordo to be too much of a risk. Especially with all of the activity that had been going on there the past few days.
The airport in Roswell would preserve his precious anonymity. At least that was what Harold Smith had thought. Originally. For the past few minutes he had been having second thoughts.
The longer Smith sat in the uncomfortable plastic airport seat, the more agitated he became. Chiun was late. The U.Sky flight that he was supposed to be on had landed in Roswell three hours ago. The Master of Sinanju had failed to deplane.
Checking the computer records, Smith found that the old Korean had gotten a seat on a later flight. It was not U.Sky but one of the more expensive commercial airlines. First class.
To kill time while he waited, Smith had been working.
There was no new information concerning Remo's condition. The updates only listed him as "critical."
The CURE director had also refocused his attention on the Fort Joy computer system. Specifically, he had checked on the two things that had most puzzled him earlier. But as he searched, he found no other Shock Troops reference beyond the one connected with Remo's alias. And Roote was a twenty-one-year-old private on the base, originally from West Virginia. Private Roote had not done much to distinguish himself in the United States Army.
Smith had hit a wall.
Since exiting the Fort Joy system, the CURE director had busied himself with other matters, attempting to keep his mind off Chiun's tardiness, as well as Remo's condition. He had been working for quite some time before he began to get the creeping realization that someone was watching him.
Smith had no idea what triggered his sixth sense. He only knew that his old CIA training had kicked in, alerting him to potential danger.
He continued to type as if unconcerned. But even as his hands swept purposefully across his plastic keyboard, his eyes shifted upward.
It was just a moment's glimpse. But it was enough.
Peering over the bifocals of his rimless glasses, Smith instantly spied the man sitting across the terminal.
He was in his thirties or forties. His flat, owlish glasses were similar to Smith's. A week-old beard sprouted in scruffy patches from his sunburned face. A green nylon knapsack sat between his worn hiking boots. His faded jeans were torn at the knees. In spite of the heat outside, he wore a khaki Army field jacket. Sitting, he seemed very lanky. He was certainly several inches above six feet. He was also staring directly at Smith.
Shocked, the CURE director focused back on his computer. His mind reeled even as his fingers typed nonsense strings of letters.
Look casual. Do not appear obvious.
Smith tried to pull himself together. It could be that the man just happened to be looking at Smith at the same time Smith happened to be looking at him.
Coincidence. That had to be it. Convinced that this must be the case, Smith cautiously looked up. His eyes again locked with those of the stranger. Worse, the man stood, collecting his knapsack.
Heart thudding, Smith looked back down at his computer.
The man was leaving. That was it. The only real explanation. The stranger would step outside, and afterward Harold Smith would get on the first plane back to New York. Chiun could deal with the Remo situation. It was foolish for Smith to have come out here in the first place. The very idea was a security risk.