"Do it," said Remo. "And forget that 'we' stuff. I'm going. You're staying here."
"Here?"
"You're going to protect Sinanju until I get back."
"It's a suicide mission, Remo. What if you don't come back?"
Remo stood up and gestured to the tiny village below.
"Then it's all yours, Smitty. Don't spend the gold all in one place."
Chapter 16
Deep into Soviet airspace, General Martin S. Leiber assured Remo Williams that the Air Force's new Stealth Stratofighter was in no immediate danger.
"The Russians never shoot at armed military aircraft," the general said confidently. "They know we might shoot back. Besides, if a Korean airliner can penetrate Soviet defenses while flying at a lousy thirty-thousand feet, we should have no problems loafing along up here in the stratosphere."
"Good," said Remo absently. He was staring out a window. A faint tinge of bluish moonlight edged the wings of the Stratofighter, which had folded back for maximum faster-than-sound velocity once they penetrated the Soviet air-defense net. The soundlessness of their flight was eerie. They were actually flying away from the roar of the Stratofighter's six gargantuan engines, literally leaving it miles behind. Below, lights twinkled here and there. Not many. Russia, for all its size, was not very populous.
"Good," Remo repeated absently, worrying about Chiun. Was he still alive? Had he really left without saying good-bye?
"Of course, we're going to have to drop to about fifteen-thousand feet and fly slower than sound for the drop."
"That's where it gets hairy for me, right?" said Remo, turning away from the window.
"That's where it gets hairy for everyone, civilian. If Red radar picks us up, they're naturally going to assume we're a strayed civilian airliner. They'll open up. There's nothing the Russians like better than taking potshots at targets that can't shoot back."
"But we can," Remo said.
"Can," said General Leiber. "But won't. Not allowed."
"Why the hell not?" Remo demanded.
"Use your head, man," the general said indignantly. "It would cause an international incident. Might trigger World War III."
"I've got news for you," Remo said. "If you don't drop me in Moscow in one piece, you won't have to worry about World War III. It'll be practically guaranteed. Right now, the Russians have a weapon more dangerous than any nuclear missiles. That's what this freaking mission is all about."
"It is? Well, humph ... that is . . . The way of it, civilian, is that I can't take the responsibility for causing what we military call a thermonuclear exchange. Even if it's gonna happen anyway."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because if I do, I could lose these silver twinklers on my shoulder. They may not seem like much to you, civilian, but I'm damned proud of them and what they represent," said General Martin S. Leiber righteously, thinking of the ten thousand dollars a year each star meant in retirement benefits.
"You're afraid you'll lose your stars," Remo said slowly, "but not of World War III? Unless you cause it, of course."
"I'm a soldier, man," the general said proudly. "I'm paid to defend my country. But I haven't spent thirty years in the Air Force, man and boy, just to spend my twilight years eating dog food on social security."
"Get me to Moscow," Remo said grimly, "and I'll see that no one ever takes those stars from you."
"Deal," said the general, putting out his hand. He didn't know who this skinny guy was but anyone with the clout to compel the U.S. Air Force to risk a billion dollar experimental aircraft just to get him into Russia had to have a lot of pull.
"You got it," said Remo, shaking it. His ordinarily cruel mouth warped into a pleasant smile.
Over Novgorod, they began their descent. The sound of the engines caught up with the decelerating plane. Remo, parachute strapped to his back, stepped onto the closed doors of the bomb bay. Because it was a night drop, he wore the black two-piece outfit of the night tigers of Sinanju, and rubbed his face black with camouflage paint.
"We can drop you north of Moscow," the general called over the engine roar. "Plenty of good open space there."
"I don't have that kind of time," Remo said. "Put me down in the city."
"The city?" the general shouted. "It's crawling with military police. They'll hang your head on the Kremlin Wall."
"Red Square would be nice," Remo added.
"Red-?" the general choked.
"Remember my promise," Remo reminded him.
"Right," said General Martin S. Leiber, saluting. He went forward into the nose and conferred with the pilot. He returned a minute later.
"You want Red Square, you got Red Square," the general said flatly. "Now, about my stars," he whispered.
Remo stepped up to the general, and with one lightning-fast motion stripped the stars from his shoulders and, with a fist, embossed them permanently to the general's forehead.
The general said, "What?" and frowned. Then he said, "Ouch!" three times very fast as the points of the stars dug into his wrinkling brow.
"Satisfied?" Remo asked politely.
"You drive a hard bargain, civilian. But I gotta admit you deliver. And so will I. Stand by."
Remo waited. The Stratofighter dropped, its retractable stealth wings swinging forward to decrease airspeed.
"Red Square coming up," the general shouted. "You got a weapon, civilian?"
"I am the weapon," Remo said confidently.
The bomb-bay doors split and yawned like a great maw.
"Hang loose, civilian," the general called as, suddenly, Remo fell. He was instantly yanked back by the terrible slipstream. He tumbled, and catching himself, threw his arms and legs out into free-fall position.
Below, the lights of Moscow lay scattered against a black velvet plain. The wind roared in Remo's ears and his clothes flapped and chattered against his body. He squeezed his eyes half-closed against the vicious updraft, oblivious of the biting cold, and concentrated on his breathing.
Breathing was everything in Sinanju. It was the key that unlocked the sun source, and the sun source made a man one with the forces of the universe itself. Remo couldn't afford to pull the ripcord until he knew where he would land. He couldn't afford not to pull it very soon because even the sun source wasn't proof against smashing into solid ground from four miles up. So he adjusted the rhythms of his lungs and worked the air currents like a hawk. He slid off to the right, toward the highest concentration of lights. Downtown Moscow. Then he stabilized his fall, his splayed body a great X in the sky, like a bombsight. Only the bombsight was also the bomb.
When he was sure he was balanced against the prevailing wind, Remo tugged the parachute ring. There came a crack! above his head, and Remo felt his body brought up short, like a yo-yo returning to a hand. The sensation was brief, and then he was floating down, feet first. The parachute was a huge black bell above him, nearly invisible against the empty sky.
Remo looked up. There was no sign of the Stratofighter. Good. They had made it. Now all he had to do was the same.
Remo had been in Moscow on previous CURE assignments, and knew the city. He had picked Red Square for his landing for two reasons: because it was the largest open space in the heart of Moscow and because it was extremely well-lit at night. He couldn't miss the iridescent blue streetlights that transformed the square into a bowl of illumination.
This, of course, meant that once Remo's parachute fell into that bowl, the dozens of gray-uniformed militsiya who patrolled the city couldn't miss seeing him. And they didn't.