She leaped out of her chair with a clatter and assumed a karate stance. "A private?" She brushed imaginary germs off her neck. "Ugh. Touched by a private. Get out of here before I have you exterminated."
"Ah, gentle lady," Chiun said, smiling sweetly, "I can see you are a person of rare discernment, meant only for the finer offerings of this life."
"Oh, really?" she said, cocking her head coquet-tíshly. "How can you tell?"
"It is written on your lovely visage, reminiscent of the flowering jasmine which blooms on the shores of my native village." As Chiun settled into a chair beside the WAC, who was now looking at herself in a compact mirror, Remo walked through the door to the general's office.
"Howdy," he said.
"How the hell did you get in here?"
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"Your guards are out to lunch, and your secretary's establishing relations with North Korea."
"What? Why aren't you in uniform? Where are you from?"
"Listen, let's cut the formalities. I'm here to find out about the missing chaplain."
A look of shock passed over the general's face. "How do you know about that? Who sent you?"
"The Pentagon. All very hush-hush. They want me to talk to only the best-informed and most intelligent of their field generals. Just between you and me, Arlington, there could be a big promotion in this for whoever turns over the hottest leads on this problem."
"Europe? You mean Europe?"
Remo winked. "Could be."
The general cleared his throat. "Well, let's see. It's my opinion that we must first explore the parameters of this situation and determine the possible consequences of our actions in this matter before undertaking—"
"You don't know doodly squat, do you?"
The general bristled. "I have a theory," he said defensively.
"What's that?"
The general leaned close to Remo and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "They're unionizing."
"Who?"
"The foot slogs. Discipline is at an all-time low. They don't march in formation. They don't wake up on time. When you try to get them to do anything, they just stare off into space."
"Why don't you throw them in the slammer?"
"The guardhouse is full. The stockade's full. There's no place else to put them. And the craziest
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thing is, they don't mind being locked up. When they're arrested, they just trot off happy as pie. This new army's just a mess of worthless jelly bellies. They couldn't fight if their lives depended on it."
"I don't know about that. I just saw one of your privates murdering another one. Right outside your window, in fact."
"Is that your idea of a joke, boy?" The general's face grew red. His jowls shook. "Now, Tve been hearing all those reports about the other bases, but I mean to tell you, Senate spy or whoever you are, that I run a tight ship here. There's been no hanky panky since that chaplain wandered off last night. And I won't have you going back to Washington with horror stories about Fort Wheeler and General Arlington Montgomery."
"Suit yourself. You'll get a report on it soon enough. One guy killed the other with a knife, and then he killed himself. There were seven witnesses."
In a fury, the general punched one of the buttons on his speakerphone. "You're going to eat your words, boy," he sputtered. "Get Major Van Dyne in here. On the double."
"Yes, sir," the WAC said between giggles.
'This had better be on the level, mister, or you're in big trouble. With those candy-ass liberals in Washington, and with me."
"Saw it with my own eyes," Remo said, smiling.
Major Van Dyne appeared in the doorway, carrying a walkie-talkie. His uniform was crisp and knife-pleated. He was the same officer who'd had the bodies removed from the grounds. "Yes, sir," he said, saluting.
"Do you know anything about a stabbing incident on the entrance grounds?"
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"And a suicide," Remo added helpfully.
"No, sir."
"Hey, wait a second," Remo said, approaching the major. "You were there. You witnessed it. The crazy guy with the Bowie knife, who sliced up his buddy and then sent himself to happy land, remember?"
"I've never seen this man before in my life, sir," the major said. Remo noticed that his eyes held the same faraway look the guards' had. "I suggest we place this person under arrest."
The major spoke into his walkie-talkie. "Two unidentified civilians in General Montgomery's office."
"Just as I thought," the general said. "Another crackpot sent by those left-wing apostles of surrender in Washington. Well, let me tell you, wise guy, I'm going to teach you and those faggots at the Pentagon that it doesn't pay to mess with Old-Blood-and-Guts."
"Want to go down in American military history?"
Remo asked.
"How's that?" Montgomery asked.
"Call yourself Old-Guts-and-Blood. You'll be the first. Everybody and his brother calls himself Old-Blood-and-Guts."
"Lock him up."
"I thought you didn't have room in the guardhouse," Remo said.
"For you, we'll make room. Now get out of
here."
At a signal from Major Van Dyne, the six combat soldiers rushed in, grabbing Remo around his neck and chest. He slipped away easily. "No, no," he said. "No touchie, no feelie, guys." They lunged
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at him again. One of the men upended his rifle to smash the butt into Remo's face. It missed and crashed into the wall behind.
As the soldier was pulling the barrel out of the wall, Remo took it between two fingers like a baton, dispatching the soldier at the other end and a corporal standing nearby, who had a bayonet aimed at Remo's belly. With a flick of his toe, he turned a third combat soldier's spine to jelly. The fourth drew a small hand pistol and fired it at Remo, but since Remo had placed himself in a direct line with a soldier who was coming at him from behind with a knife, he weaved out of the way the instant he saw the soldier's trigger finger move, and there was no longer anyone behind him, at least no one with a face. The last soldier fired twice more before his hand was missing. Then his arm was missing. Then, after a quick tap to his forehead, his life was missing.
"Now, suppose you and I talk, Major," Remo said. With unseeing eyes, Major Van Dyne stared straight ahead at Remo as he pulled out the walkie-talkie he carried. "Intercept and detain," he said into it. In a swift motion, Remo was behind him, pressing the nerves along the base of his spine, and the walkie-talkie clattered to the floor.
'Talk," he said. But all he could get out of the major was something that sounded like "Hail Artemis."
"Crackpots," the general said. "Crackpots to the right of me. Crackpots to the left of me. What the hell's he saying?"
"Beats me," Remo said, and sent the major to paradise with a crack of his upper vertebrae.
The general surveyed the mass of twisted, blood-
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ied bodies in his office. "Best damn fighter I've seen since Guadalcanal," he said. "Where'd you learn hand to hand combat, Vietnam?"
"Close enough."
"You a Russky?"
"I'm an American," Remo said.
"Damn glad to hear it, son. An American who can fight. Warms the heart."
"Aren't you afraid I'm going to kill you?"
"Hell, I expect you will. I called for more troops while the ruckus was going on, but you're faster than they are. Hell, I can't even get the bastards out of bed anymore."
Far in the distance, Remo could hear the sound of marching feet approaching the building. It had to be the general's replacement troops, Remo reasoned.
"All right, get on with it," the general said, assuming a fighting stance, his portly belly jiggling in front of him. "To tell the truth, I feel pretty silly doing this after all these years, but it's a better way to go than having some idiot recruit misfire his weapon into me during target practice. Get on with it." He formed his features into a combat scowl. "Arghh. Arghh."