"It is odd," Chiun admitted.
"Damn right it's freaking odd," Remo said. The two of them went around to the front of the tanks.
There were bodies everywhere. Hands were burned to shades of black and bloody purple. Blisters had erupted on the faces of some. Groans and sobs rose up in pathetic chorus from the remorseless desert sand.
Remo's features could have been carved from granite as he surveyed the scene of carnage. He looked down at one soldier propped up against a tank. The man's flesh was smeared black. One arm was thrown across his face as he rolled in slow agony in the dust.
With an effort, Remo tore his eyes away from the grisly sight.
They used the side of the first tank to judge the angle from which the initial blast of electricity had come. When they reached the hurricane fence, Chiun was first to see the strange marks in the links.
"There," the Master of Sinanju said, pointing. Remo looked to where the fence was buckled outward very slightly in the direction of the desert. There were five black marks in the metal, consistent with the pads Remo had seen on Roote's fingertips. They were about five feet off the ground. Another set of similar marks was visible much closer to the ground.
"It's electrified," Remo said.
They had both sensed the thrill of power from the fence. To Remo, the sensation was an unpleasant reminder of his encounter with Roote. His nearness to the fence seemed to make his heart fibrillate. It was as if his body expected bolts of electricity to come leaping for him once more. He banished the uncomfortable feeling.
"He must be able to channel it somehow," he said.
The frown Chiun had been wearing throughout their investigation grew deeper. The old Korean looked back toward the field of carnage.
Flashing red ambulance lights and streaks of helicopter searchlights illuminated the macabre tableau. Someone had finally come to attend to the soldier they had seen on their way to the fence. A stretcher was brought forward.
"I will concede that it is possible," Chiun said finally. He almost sounded as if he meant it.
Remo didn't allow his relief to be too great. After all, they still had much work ahead of them. "There are footprints outside the fence," Remo said. With a nod he indicated the scuffmarks in the sand where Roote had obviously stood. "We'd better see where they lead before anyone else gets killed."
Turning, they hurried back to retrieve their jeep. Driving past the battlefield, they headed through the gate and out onto the desert path.
They found the abandoned jeep a moment later. "Dollars to doughnuts it's his," Remo said. He looked up the rocky incline beside the parked jeep. Although darkness had fallen, Remo's eyes were able to pull in enough ambient light to see almost as well as if it were full daylight. He spotted the crushed sage and tumbled stones instantly.
Chiun saw it, too. "Someone has fallen down this hill recently," the Master of Sinanju said from his seat next to Remo.
Remo glanced across the path.
"There," he said, pointing. "He ran into the desert."
Without waiting for Chiun to echo his obvious conclusion, he put the jeep in gear. The two of them drove off into the deepening desert night, little realizing that the man they were trailing was not the man they were truly after.
UP THE INCLINE, within the perimeter fence of Fort Joy, an Army medic was checking on the soldier Remo and Chiun had noticed before heading toward the fence. Two corpsmen stood anxiously nearby, leaning against a stretcher.
Although the wounded man's face was smeared with grime, he didn't appear to be injured like the rest. His arms weren't burned in the least. His eyes were screwed into closed knots of pain. When the medic tried to see his hands, the man squeezed them more tightly shut and groaned loudly.
The medic wheeled on the waiting corpsmen. "Load him up with the others," he ordered. "Chopper?"
The medic shook his head. "Superficial wounds at best. Ambulance." He slapped the nearest corpsman on the shoulder for support, dashing off to the next injured soldier.
The groaning soldier was loaded onto the stretcher and carried into the back of a waiting ambulance. No one noticed that his hands were now partially open. Nor did anyone see the contours of the faintly visible metal pads on his fingertips.
Siren whining, the ambulance headed onto the base.
Chapter 13
This time, there was no attempt to avoid him. Harold Smith was ushered by an efficient young aide directly into General Delbert Xavier Chesterfield's office.
Old Ironbutt was seated behind his big desk. Although the glass shards and wood splinters had been swept away, the flimsy clapboard wall had yet to be repaired. A thick sheet of unrolled plastic had been stapled to the Chesterfield-shaped hole in the wall.
The plastic rattled wildly in the downdraft thrown off by perpetually landing helicopters. Sand pelted the flimsy material, giving the odd impression of a violent hail storm that had swept up unexpectedly in the middle of the previously tranquil desert evening.
Through the plastic, Smith noted the weirdly gauzy lights from the arriving helicopters and ambulances as he took his seat before General Chesterfield's desk.
The general's big face was a shade of red not seen in nature. It looked as though his shirt collar was at least three sizes too small. Porcine eyes regarded the CURE director with disdain as Smith settled primly into his chair, resting his briefcase on the floor at his feet.
Chesterfield leaned back in his own seat. He cradled his fingers to his ample belly. "What is it now?" His booming voice competed with the commotion in the courtyard.
"It is time you told the truth," Smith said. "Obviously there is something very wrong here."
"I'll say," the general replied. "This is shocking. You CIA boys should be ashamed. I've written a report on the matter." He dropped a big mitt to a closed manila file on his desk. "You are mentioned prominently, Mr. Jones," he added with smarmy confidence, little realizing that the name Smith had given at the gate earlier that day was merely a cover.
"I am with the FBI," Smith said blandly. Chesterfield jumped forward, dropping his hands loudly atop his desk.
"Bullshit. I had you pegged for a spook the minute you drove through my gate. And it figures. Your little experiment escaped and you came scurrying up out of your spook hole to see what happened to it."
"Roote," Smith said, his face pinched.
The general leaned back once more. "All in the report," he said, his smile returning.
"I would be interested to read it," Smith said.
"Oh, I bet you would," the general said. A hand slapped down on the report again. Sliding it ever so slowly toward his ample paunch, the military man dumped the file into an open drawer. He slammed the desk drawer closed.
"I presume there is something in there about your Shock Troops project?" Smith asked.
The general's confident expression faded. "You don't know anything," he bluffed.
"I know that there are wounded men being brought back here after some bizarre attack at your southern perimeter. Soldiers I have seen are suffering from severe electrical burns. I know that you are reporting virtually nothing of the events of the past few days to your superiors, short of overt hints that the CIA is responsible for some great project gone awry." Smith's grew angrier. "I also know that one Elizu Roote has been altered in some way that allows him to emit controlled bursts of electrical energy. And I know that you are responsible for all of this, General."
Chesterfield's eyes grew wide at the accusations. "How dare you!" the general screamed. He rose, stabbing a fat finger at Smith. "This is all your fault! You come in here, kill dozens of my men and then try to blame it on me! I will not take it, sir! I will live to see your spook hide nailed to the wall for everything that's happened here!"