"General Chesterfield," Harold Smith said. It was not a question, but a statement of fact.
"You've got him," Chesterfield replied, not looking at the CIA man.
"You have a patient on this base. A man by the name of Halper. We wish to see him."
"One of your secret agents, huh?" Chesterfield asked.
It was an effort for Smith to hide his surprise. Immediately images of Remo speaking while under sedation came unbeckoned to mind. It was CURE's worst-case scenario.
"We would like to see him," Smith pressed. Chesterfield finally turned a baleful eye on Smith. The general towered over the CURE director. He outweighed Smith by almost 150 pounds.
"I bet you would," Chesterfield menaced. He shook his head, disgustedly. "You spook bastards really stuck everyone's ass in the fire this time. I hope you know that."
"I am certain I do not know what you are talking about," Smith retorted, with forced blandness. Chesterfield snorted loudly.
"Of course you don't." He turned away again. As he did so, he jerked a big thumb over his meaty shoulder. "The infirmary. He's still out like a light. Don't think you're taking him anywhere, 'cause you're not. He stays put until I say so."
Smith didn't push further. He left the general to his work. Hoping that Chesterfield did not know anything about the secret organization, the CURE director hurried across the crowded grounds toward the infirmary, Chiun in tow.
"That centurion was very rude," Chiun sniffed as they walked.
"Something is going on here," Smith replied. "It looks as if they are preparing for an invasion."
"A war is not an excuse for discourtesy," the Master of Sinanju insisted. "When Tamerlane sacked Damascus, he was very polite about it. And the people practically thanked Lucius Cornelius Sulla for conquering Rome, he was so mannerly. Civility does not necessarily fly out the window during times of war."
Smith didn't bother to point out to Chiun that both rulers he mentioned as pillars of courtesy were described as bloodthirsty madmen in every historical text he had ever seen.
"There is no war," Smith insisted. "Whatever he is up to, he is doing it without authorization." Chiun glanced back across the grounds to Chesterfield. The general was yelling at another officer.
"Perhaps he is raising an army to march against the bloated puppet President. Do you wish me to remove the lummox?" he asked slyly.
"Not yet," Smith said, his voice hushed. Smith's stomach was acid-fueled water. The fact was, if Remo had spoken any of the true nature of CURE while unconscious, General Chesterfield was as good as dead. And if too many people had heard either Remo or the general to keep this crisis contained, so too was Harold W. Smith.
Acutely aware of his own mortality, Smith quickened his brisk pace.
MAJOR GRANT WAS LISTENING to his mysterious patient's irregular heartbeat when the two men stepped into the room.
Chiun's eyes instantly went wide in shock. He had not prepared himself for the possibility that it actually could be Remo who had been injured. Crying out as if in pain, the old Korean raced over to the bed, swatting the doctor away.
Major Grant quickly removed his stethoscope from Remo's bare chest. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, stepping backward.
"If you do not want this one dead, Smith, remove him from my son's bedside," the Master of Sinanju threatened. Even as he spoke, he was probing Remo's rib cage with his fingers.
Smith instantly steered Major Grant to one side of the room, away from the Master of Sinanju. "Son?" Grant asked. "Is he this man's father?" He looked at Smith for an explanation.
"In a manner of speaking," Smith said uncomfortably. His own anxious eyes were trained on Remo. "What is the patient's condition?"
Grant glanced at Remo's pale form as he spoke. "Unchanged since admittance."
"He is comatose?"
"He's in a profound unconscious state, so he fits the definition. But it's a coma like I've never seen. I really can't find anything wrong with him beyond his unexplained low neural responses. With the condition he's in, he should be awake. Or dead. Somehow he's in between."
"Have you done any CAT scans or an MRI?"
"We're not set up for either on base," Grant complained. "I'd like to try a PET scan, but we don't have the facilities here for that, either. Not that it matters. I doubt we'd be able to give him the necessary injection."
"What do you mean?"
Grant seemed uncomfortable. "You tell me," he countered, crossing his arms. "Does this man have some kind of special training? Something that I should know in order to better treat him?"
"Not that I know of," Smith lied.
Grant studied the CURE director's face. He didn't seem convinced by Smith's words. "Whenever we tried to take blood, his muscles tensed," Grant explained. "It was like the skin above was stretched to its limit every time we tried to insert the needle. I'd have had better luck injecting it into solid concrete. This was all on an unconscious level, obviously."
"It sounds quite fantastic," Smith said, doubtfully.
"Yes, it does," Grant admitted.
They both were looking at Chiun. The Master of Sinanju had completed his initial inspection. He was now tapping each of Remo's ribs in turn. He started from the bottom of one side and worked up to the clavicle. Shifting to the other side, he began to work his way down.
"Did you land in Alamogordo?" the doctor asked abruptly, shifting his gaze to Smith.
"No," Smith replied. He didn't elaborate. Major Grant could see he didn't wish to speak.
"Roswell is worse, if that's where you came in," the doctor said, turning away. "The desert all around here is crawling with UFO nuts." Chiun caught his attention once more. "What is he doing now?" he asked Smith.
The Master of Sinanju had placed one cupped hand to the left of Remo's sternum. The other hand was placed atop it. He began a slow up-and-down massage of the area over Remo's heart, his hands acting as suction.
"He has knowledge of some unusual healing techniques."
"Acupressure?"
Chiun snorted.
"Something like that," Smith said. "Doctor, if you would not mind-"
Grant turned from Chiun, interrupting. "The reason I mentioned the UFO nuts is because they'll have a field day if they find out about your friend here."
Smith blinked. "What do you mean?"
"In case you haven't heard, there's some lunatic out there who's frying people alive. Mr. Halper is the first one to meet him and come out alive."
"Yes," Smith said evenly. "There have been a number of deaths, as I understand it. The killer or killers are setting people alight."
Major Grant shook his head. "They've been fried, yes, but they haven't been set on fire. The killer uses electricity. And from what I've heard around base, there's only one man."
"One man?" Smith asked, surprised. He thought of the "subject Roote" reference picked up by the CURE computers. The story jibed with the initial reports.
"That's right," Grant said. "And your friend met him. He took a powerful hit of electricity. Somehow he survived. If you lump that in with his strange muscular contractions and his supercomplex nervous system, the UFO people could begin to think that he's not quite human."
"That is ludicrous," Smith sniffed dismissively. Major Grant nodded agreement.
"I'm just telling you the spin people put on reality around here. The latest rumor I heard was that the killer is an alien who's come back to look for some ship that supposedly crash-landed here years ago."
Smith was ready to tell the doctor how foolish he sounded but was distracted by a noise from across the room. A low moan had issued from Remo.