As the first fell, the rest opened fire.
"Dammit, Anna, can't you keep it in your pants?" Remo growled. He was already moving on the men. With the flat of his palm, Remo met the blazing barrel of a Kalashnikov in the infinitesimal sliver of time between fired bullets. A nudge sent the weapon launching back, severing the arm of the soldier at the shoulder. Both arm and gun flew backward, the itching finger still firing. Unfortunately for the commando, something had come between the gun and its original target.
Bullets fired from his own gun by his own traitorous arm popped the soldier's head like a ripe August melon.
"That woman is a menace," Chiun fumed, swirling in beside his pupil. A flying foot separated a head from its neck. "She has brought chaos to an orderly surrender. I don't know what you ever saw in her."
"Then you're not looking hard enough," Remo said.
There was only one soldier left. He twisted his gun between Remo and Chiun, unsure what had just happened.
"Gimme that, dummy," Remo said.
Tugging the rifle from the man's grasping fingers, he bopped the soldier on the head. The stunned commando dropped to his bottom on the cold road.
Even as the last man was falling, Anna was scurrying out from behind the Land Rover and hurrying to the barricade. Her gun was still clutched in her hand.
"We are in trouble," Anna said.
"Why? Did you run out of people to shoot?" Remo asked.
Ignoring his sarcasm, she waved her gun at the sky. Both Remo and Chiun had already heard the rumbling coming from the west. It had been soft at first, carried on the cold wind. But it was growing louder. The black dots of a fleet of Hind gunships speckled the gray sky. A sound like distant thunder rumbled closer. Passing the road a mile to the north, the attack helicopters swept into Fairbanks.
"Zhirinsky," Anna hissed.
Remo glanced at her. "You sure?"
She nodded. "He purchased several dozen Hinds from General Feyodov's black market cell. And this grand entry is just like him. The conquering hero of the Soviet Union."
"There's something I've been meaning to ask," Remo said with a scowl. "If you people know everyone who's in the damn black market, why the hell don't you arrest them?"
She smiled sadly. "Russia is now ruled by a handful of wealthy black marketers, called oligarchs," she explained. "And there is a saying now-how many oligarchs does it take to rule Russia?" When she saw Remo's blank expression, her smile only grew sadder. "All of them," she said quietly, in answer to her own question.
On the ground the dazed soldier stirred. His eyes strayed to Anna. When he saw her, something that almost seemed like guilt surfaced on his wind-burned face.
"Guess we don't need to save one anymore," Remo sighed.
"No," Anna said. "We do not."
Before another word could be spoken, Anna raised her automatic and fired point-blank into the soldier's face.
"When did they start paying you by the bullet?" Remo snarled, hopping back from the splatter.
But Anna was already turning away. Pocketing her gun, she headed back for their truck. Chiun padded in her wake.
Remo glanced down at the last soldier. When he looked back, Anna was climbing into the Land Rover. "Hmm," Remo said softly to himself.
With a thoughtful frown, he trailed the others back to the waiting truck.
Chapter 27
His years as director of CURE and as head of Folcroft Sanitarium had given Dr. Harold W. Smith a unique perspective into the mind of madness. As he and Mark Howard scanned the reports on Smith's monitor, experience would not allow the older man to share his young assistant's amazement.
"Unbelievable," Howard said. "Is this for real?"
"So it would seem," Smith replied. "The population of Fairbanks has been released. The first civilians reached Fort Wainwright's bivouacked Sixth Light Infantry Division ten minutes ago."
"Why let them go?" Mark asked, confusion filling his wide face. "Aren't they bargaining chips?"
"Not any longer," Smith said. "And if you are to survive in this job, it is vitally important for you to realize that madmen are not always as predictable as many textbooks and behavioral scientists would have you believe."
"Madmen? So you think Zhirinsky did this himself?"
Smith nodded. "This latest news came after Zhirinsky's incursion force of twelve Mil U-24 gunships were given free clearance across the Kuskokwim Mountains. They've reached Fairbanks by now. I believe Zhirinsky was on one of them."
The assistant CURE director stood beside Smith's old leather chair. As he studied the computer screen, Howard's knuckles rested beyond the edge of the capacitor keyboard.
"I've been checking to see if the Russian government is involved," Mark said. "Their president's holed up in the Kremlin. And the last two presidents have disappeared. No one knows where they are."
Smith shook his head. "I just got off the White House phone twenty minutes ago. When news of the nuclear bomb in Fairbanks broke, our President received a call from his counterpart in Russia pledging support. The Russian president has even offered troops."
"Maybe he wants to get more men on the ground," Howard suggested.
"Mark, it is important not to read too much into situations. Your instincts are good, and it is sometimes necessary to extrapolate when enough information is not available. But it is possible to be too clever by half. Zhirinsky is a renegade, unpopular with the rulers of Russia. If they were to concoct such a scheme, they would not give it over to someone as unstable as him." Smith nodded firmly. "No, Zhirinsky alone is behind this."
Howard accepted his words with a thoughtful frown. "So Zhirinsky's alone in Fairbanks with a handful of troops," he mused. "What do you think his next move'll be?"
"More important, what is our next move?"
When Mark glanced down, he saw that the CURE director was staring up at him, a look of pinched expectation on his gaunt face. It was apparent that Smith knew something that needed to be done and was quizzing Mark to see if he knew, too.
Howard considered. "First thing we have to do is give Remo and Chiun room to work. We have to keep the Army out. I'd call the President and have him issue an order."
Smith nodded satisfaction. Like a first-grade teacher who had finally taught a troublesome student to raise his hand for permission to use the rest room. "Correct," he said. "Although there is no need to involve the President."
With nimble fingers he accessed the Pentagon's computer system. It took less than a minute to surreptitiously issue the orders that would keep the Army out.
"There," he said once he was through. "Now, as a safeguard to prevent the order from being overruled, I will phone the President."
Mark had to take a step back to allow him access to the bottom drawer and the red phone.
"You know, Dr. Smith," Howard said seriously as Smith waited for America's chief executive to pick up, "if Zhirinsky's as psycho as everyone says, he could set off the bomb the minute he hears Remo and Chiun are there."
"That thought had occurred to me," the CURE director replied with clinical detachment.
"Hello, Mr. President," Smith announced into the phone.
Whatever more was said, Mark Howard didn't hear. He had turned from the desk and its canted monitor. With one tired shoulder, he leaned against the big picture window frame.
Long Island Sound was cold and black.
"Are all your weeks like this one?" he said softly to himself. Behind him the CURE director continued to speak to the President of the United States in measured nasal tones.
As Smith spoke, Howard watched the waves roll into shore.
Chapter 28
Ivan Kerbabaev waited on the cold tarmac to greet the future premier of the new Soviet Union. Behind him was a lone limousine liberated from a Fairbanks car rental service.
Sheets of snow swirled all around as the twelve Hinds settled like roosting birds to the freezing ground.
With pain in his eyes, Ivan blinked away the sno
w. A dull, throbbing ache came from beneath the many bandages plastered to his face.
At least it wasn't as bad now as it had been. Ivan had found an empty dentist's office near the parked nuclear device in downtown Fairbanks. He had hoped that when Vladimir Zhirinsky arrived, the novocaine he'd shot himself full of would dull all the pain. But it seemed proximity to the ultranationalist caused his raw nerve endings to spark.
Zhirinsky hadn't even landed when the aching started anew. It only got worse when that demented face with its bushy mustache appeared on the steps of the Hind.
The Russian hard-liner had changed into a surplus Red Army general's uniform. The medals and ribbons and pins and badges that festooned the chest and shoulders of the outfit made him resemble an ambulatory Soviet Christmas tree.
"Welcome to Zhirinskygrad," Ivan announced. Zhirinsky shoved past him. He cast an awed gaze across the frigid landscape. With great puffs of rancid breath, he climbed down to his knees. Chapped lips sought asphalt.
He kissed the ground slowly and passionately. A little too passionately. Standing to one side, Ivan Kerbabaev swore Vladimir Zhirinsky was slipping Alaska the tongue.
As Zhirinsky lapped the asphalt, his small army piled out of the helicopters. They spread out across the airport.
Zhirinsky pushed up to his knees. "It is good to be home!" he boomed as Ivan helped him to his feet. His smile only grew wider when he spied the man climbing out of the nearby limousine.
Lavrenty Skachkov didn't so much walk as glide over to the ultranationalist. Seeing the deadly serious face the young commando wore, Zhirinsky's smile faded.
"What is wrong?" he asked, shooting a glare at Ivan.
Ivan slapped both hands over his face.
"I have just received word that Anna Chutesov is here," Lavrenty said, stopping before Zhirinsky.
An angry cloud crossed Zhirinsky's face. "The whores in the Kremlin have sent her to stop me," he hissed.
"She is not alone," Skachkov pressed. "There are two men with her. Men trained as I am."
Zhirinsky waved a hand. "You said that the handful who remained loyal to this Chutesov female and stayed in Russia were nothing. Let her bring her traitors to the cause, and we will have them all for supper."
"They are not from the Institute," Skachkov said. "These two are Masters of my discipline. The discipline for which I know no name."
"Two men?" Zhirinsky mocked. "Have your teams find them and kill them."
Lavrenty shook his white head. "To become Mactep-to truly earn the title that has been bestowed on me-I must face these two alone. It is my destiny."
With that, he turned on his heel and slid silently away.
Zhirinsky looked from the departing young man to Ivan Kerbabaev. Ivan shrank from the sudden attention.
"He may have his destiny," the ultranationalist growled. "For I have mine and it is greater than any other man's."
Brushing aside his aide, Zhirinsky marched for his limo.
REMO HAD EXPECTED the streets of Fairbanks to be swarming with Russian soldiers. Instead, the roads they drove on were eerily empty.
"I thought you said there'd be a bunch more soldiers on those helicopters," he said. "Where are all the black boots and empty Stolichnaya bottles?" "The normal capacity for a Mil is only twelve," Anna replied from the passenger seat. "That includes pilots and gunners. Even if he managed to squeeze a few extra on each of the twelve we saw, that is still only a handful of troops to occupy the city."
A thought occurred to Anna. Reaching over, she switched on the radio. Scanning the AM dial, she soon found what she was after. A Russian announcer was speaking excitedly.
From the back seat the Master of Sinanju listened to the radio along with Anna.
"Sounds like someone's got a full nelson on his nuts," Remo commented after listening to only a few seconds. "What's he so worked up about?"
"I was right," Anna said. "Zhirinsky is here." As she listened intently to the announcer's words, Chiun sniffed contemptuously.
"I have heard these false claims before," the old man said, wrinkled face puckered with disdain. "He dares invoke the name of Czar Ivan."
"The terrible?" Remo asked. "What's he saying about him?"
"Some nonsense about an upstart who fancies himself to be the new Russian czar," Chiun answered. "Don't you believe it. These modern Russians are always full of promises about enslaving the people this, or ruling with an iron fist that, but it always ends up the same. With an empty throne. This is just a new excuse to peek though people's cupboards and take their last ingot of gold. It is just like that thing they used to try. What was it called again?"
"Communism?" Remo suggested flatly.
"Yes, that's the thing," Chiun said with a shiver. Anna was still listening to the radio. "The announcer says that Zhirinsky will be making a speech shortly."
"He a typical Commie when it comes to hearing the sound of his own voice?" Remo asked. "If so, we just bought ourselves about nine hours of blabber time."
Anna was deep in thought. "We do not know where the bomb is," she said. "Until we do, we cannot dismantle the greatest danger."
Remo raised a finger. "Hello? Sinanju prophecy? Line of Wang ending, me having to fight some renegade Master. Could be bigger than a garden-variety Russian nuke." When Anna gave him a withering look, he shrugged. "I'm just saying, that's all."
"I do not like this program," Chiun complained from the back seat. "Try another station." He reached between them and began poking at the radio with the tip of one long nail.
Anna ignored them both, pressing ahead. "Since the people are gone, there is no longer a threat to the civilian population. We should cut off Zhirinsky's means of escape."
Remo nodded. "I gotcha," he sighed. "He's less likely to set off the bomb when he's stranded in the blast zone."
Anna shook her head. "Not at all," she said seriously. "In fact, he is unhinged enough that he might relish the notion of playing the martyr. If he feels threatened in the least-the very least-he could set off the bomb."
"In that case we should go after him first," Remo said.
"We do not know what sort of failsafes he has devised," Anna said. "To go after him could trigger the bomb."
"Perfect," Remo grumbled. "Damned if you do, nuked if you don't. Could anything make this day any worse?"
Chiun suddenly found a station that was playing a Wylander Jugg song. With a delighted squeal, the old man settled back into his seat.
"Ask a stupid rhetorical question," Remo muttered to himself. Hunching over the steering wheel, he headed off in the direction of the airport and the fleet of Hinds.
FOUR MEN in shabby Red Army uniforms marched proudly before the steps of Fairbanks city hall. Gloved hands chopped air with each accompanying sharp kick from highly polished boots.
When he stepped from his limo to the sidewalk, Vladimir Zhirinsky wept for joy at the sight of the men.
"Is everything ready for my address?" he sniffled as he brought a handkerchief to his great Russian nose.
Ivan Kerbabaev had stepped from the limo behind him.
Ivan was nauseous. The pain in his face was worse. He was in desperate need of another injection and didn't need his mad employer flaunting his own nose in front of him.
"Yes, comrade," Ivan said weakly. "There was a problem at first. The global satellite system suffered a great deal of damage earlier in the week due to an interstellar dust cloud. But we have found one to carry our signal."
Ivan dared not tell the lunatic that he had bought time on an American commercial satellite. He could only imagine what his employer would do if he found out his great call to arms to the Russian population to retake the nation for the people was being broadcast on an ABC-Disney-owned satellite.
Zhirinsky nodded satisfaction. Honking loudly, he stuffed his handkerchief in the pocket of his uniform coat and began mounting the stairs. Two steps up, he froze. He spun to Ivan, face twisted furiously.
"What is that still doing the
re!" he roared.
He pointed to the flagpole beside the steps. High above their heads, the American flag fluttered in the wind.
"I thought you would want to be here for this," Ivan said fearfully. He clapped his hands sharply. The soldiers hurried to the pole. Hand over hand, they brought the flag down, dumping it unceremoniously into a metal trash barrel. As bare rope clanged against the hollow pole, another soldier marched forward carrying a bundle of tightly folded red cloth. The new flag was hooked and hoisted high into the air. At the top of the pole, the wind took the flag and unfurled it wide. The golden hammer and sickle stretched proudly across the sky.
Vladimir Zhirinsky gasped.
"How proud this day," the ultranationalist intoned. "We will not soon forget it."
Dabbing at his eyes, he hurried up the steps.
"I gnow I won't," Ivan said glumly, gingerly touching his bloody bandages. Desperate for another novocaine fix, he trudged morosely up the stairs.
THEY SKIRTED the south bank of the winding Chena River, stopping at the top of a hill near the tall wire fence that surrounded Fairbanks Airport. Below, the twelve silent Hinds lined the main runway. Some of the soldiers who had flown over from Russia milled about between the idle craft.
Remo, Chiun and Anna stood near the fence. From their vantage point they could see almost the entire airfield. While some men worked around the Hinds, others stood sentry between the big gunships. Counting white camo suits, there were only a few Sinanju-trained soldiers at the airport.
"You sure Zhirinsky's not down there?" Remo asked.
"According to the radio, he plans to make his address from the city hall," Anna said.
"It's days like this that make me happy I forgot what little Russian I knew," Remo grumbled.
He grabbed hold of the fence, wrenching it apart. Links popped and brackets split. Peeling back a section, he and Anna slipped through.
Behind him Chiun clucked disapproval. Stepping up to his own section of undamaged fence, the Master of Sinanju pulled his hands from his sleeves as if unsheathing ten sharp blades. With sure downward strokes, he attacked the fence. The links split like soft butter, forming a perfect five-foot outline of his body, through which Chiun stepped.
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