"Maybe they're resting," someone offered hopefully.
"Never mind about the stupid radar," Amanda snapped. "Orville! Get to work on that fence, with the wire cutters. The rest of you cover him."
Orville sneaked forward and attacked the chain links of the fence with the wire cutters while the remainder of the group hunkered together nervously, bunching up in exactly the manner soldiers in Vietnam were taught never to do because one machine gun could take them all out with a single burst.
Orville got seven entire links open and was working on the eighth when a voice called out of the darkness, "You there! This is a government installation. Stand where you are and don't move!"
"A guard!" Amanda said. "Cut him down, somebody."
When no one made a move, Amanda brought her .22 Swift up, sighted and fired. The guard went down, moaning. Probably no one was more surprised than Amanda herself, who had never hit a target in the week since she'd purchased the weapon.
"Okay," she yelled. "We've lost the element of surprise, so we've got to move fast."
They got through the fence just as a siren whined somewhere, and hidden lights came on like sprays of white blood.
They got as far as the octagonal silo roof sitting on its sliding track before the other guards, who emerged from the underground control center, opened fire. This time no one gave any warning. The brittle snapping of automatic weapons sounded like faraway firecrackers, only they weren't faraway, and the bodies began to make small piles next to the missile silo.
"Don't just stand there, you morons!" Amanda screeched. "We're under attack. Fire back!" To demonstrate, she fired straight up into the air where the bullet, meeting nothing but air resistance, lost momentum and fell from such a height that when it struck Orville Sale on the top of his head, he collapsed, seriously wounded.
The others got organized and started shooting at shadows or into the night.
Meanwhile, Amanda began applying the puttylike plastique explosive charge to the lip of the silo cover. The World Master had given her the stuff, along with instructions on its use, saying that it was a specimen once studied on his home planet— which certainly explained where he got it, Amanda thought as she set the timer.
"Run, run! It's going to blow!" Amanda yelled, following her own instructions.
Everyone scattered who could, some into the fire from the guards. After counting to 10, Amanda yelled, "Dive!" and at the count of 20 the silo went crump!
Amanda ran back and was disappointed to see that only one corner of the silo roof had cracked loose. And a small corner at that. A sharp-edged crack showed, but it was too small. "Damn, damn, damn. Not enough explosive." Then she saw the smooth mouth going down into the silo, which she hadn't seen before. Her flashlight didn't show any sign of the Titan II missile, but that didn't bother Amanda. A hole was a hole, after all.
Out of her backpack she extracted a three-pound wrench with which she was going to disable the missile. She had chosen a three-pound wrench because she had read about an accident in which a technician had dropped a three-pound wrench socket down a silo, which ruptured the first-stage fuel tank and blew a Titan missile completely out of its silo. Amanda couldn't find a three-pound wrench socket— whatever that was— but she figured an ordinary wrench would do just as well.
She dropped the wrench in, heard it bang off the side of something metallic, and ran for all she was worth.
"The missile's going to explode, everybody! The missile's going to explode!" she cried. "Preparation Group One, follow your leader!"
But when she got outside the fence, Amanda realized that Preparation Group One would never follow anyone again. They were all dead or wounded or flat on the ground under the guns of frantic Air Force guards.
With bitter tears in her eyes, Amanda drove off in the waiting van. "At least we got the missile," she told herself, and watched the rearview mirror for the flash she knew would come.
But when the flash didn't come and there was no distant boom or thump, Amanda knew that she had failed utterly.
"Next time," she vowed, "I'll know to use fewer men. They always ruin everything."
?Chapter Four
The last person in the world Remo Williams wanted to see for breakfast was Dr. Harold W. Smith. Chiun had been giving Remo the silent treatment since the night before, a silence broken often by mutterings in Korean, all of which had to do with Remo's worthlessness and all of which Remo had heard many times before.
Remo decided that this time he'd just ignore Chiun until the old Oriental got over his snit. So Remo had gone to sleep early and then rose early to do his exercises. When Chiun woke up, he changed from his sleeping robe to his golden day kimono when Remo wasn't looking, and then left the hotel without a word.
After Chiun left, there was a single knock at the door, and Dr. Smith entered without waiting for Remo to answer.
"Remo," Smith said in his emotionless way. It was supposed to be a greeting, but it came out sounding as though Smith had read an item off his shopping list. Usually Remo and Smith communicated over scrambled phone lines or through mail drops. The security of CURE depended on their keeping apart. But it had been some time since CURE's security had been breached, and when it had happened, the breaches had been the result of weak links in CURE personnel who didn't even know they worked for CURE or by mechanical malfunctions in Folcroft computers. These problems had been corrected, and because Smith was only the anonymous director of a New York State research institution, he had grown more confident about personal contact when necessary.
"Don't bother knocking, Smitty" Remo said as Smith brushed by, wearing the inevitable uniform of gray suit, white shirt, Dartmouth tie, and leather briefcase. He was a plain-looking man in his sixties, boringly balding, and the type of human being who considered sweating a serious lapse in self-discipline— in himself and others. Remo had never seen Smith sweat. He couldn't remember ever seeing him not wearing his gray suit, either.
"Chiun left the door open," Smith said, opening the briefcase on the breakfast nook table.
"Yeah, he's unhappy with me again."
"You should really treat him with more respect. He's your trainer and very valuable to us."
"He's more than my trainer. He's the only family I ever had, and he'll walk all over me if I let him, so can the advice. I'll handle him any way I want." Remo was more upset with Smith than he had been in a long time. The idea of a dry, emotionless bastard like Smith lecturing Remo on his personal relationship with Chiun had struck a nerve.
"He passed me in the lobby and said you had refused the next stage of your training. This is a serious matter. We pay Chiun's village an enormous sum of money each year to retain his services."
"First of all, it's not all that much money. A lot, yeah, but he could do better doing tricks on TV than working for you."
"Chiun would not do that. He belongs to an ancient line of assassins. He would do no other work, no matter what the payment. So why don't you take the next stage of your training?"
"Okay," Remo said cheerily. "You know what Chiun wants me to do now? He wants me to grow my fingernails as long as his. It's a stage of Sinanju reserved for Masters his own age, but he thinks I'm ready to try it now. I always wanted long nails. You'll love it, Smitty. I'll go around scratching our enemies' eyes out. Me and my fingernails. Chiun and his kimonos and steamer trunks. Maybe we'll all join the circus."
"I see your point," Smith said with a nervous cough. "I'll speak to Chiun. But right now we have a potentially serious situation on our hands."
"Don't we always?" said Remo. "What now?" He still wanted to argue about Chiun, and now they were talking about something new. Only Smith could be both agreeable and aggravating at the same time.
"Last night there was a raid on one of our nuclear missile sites," Smith said. "A group of about a dozen people, lightly armed, attacked the site and attempted to destroy a Titan missile. They damaged the silo roof and dropped a three-pound wrench into a flame-defector ve
nt, which carried it harmlessly past the missile, fortunately."
"A three-pound wrench?" Remo said. "Why not a five-pound bag of potatoes?"
"You might remember. There was an accident several months ago. A Titan missile was blown out of its silo when a maintenance technician dropped a three-pound wrench socket, and it ruptured a fuel tank. The explosion tossed the warhead about 200 yards away. These people, for want of a more imaginative idea, were trying to imitate that accident."
"Just who are these clowns?"
"That's the worrisome part. They appear to be ordinary citizens with no criminal records or obvious motives for wanting to disable an American nuclear missile. Only two of them survived. They claim to have been acting upon orders of an individual whose name they don't know, who has some plan to bring peace to the world through forced disarmament. They call him the World Master. By Master, they seem to mean teacher."
"World Master?"
"Our computers have nothing on any person using that name," Smith said, and Remo thought he heard a trace of bitterness. Smith's computers were CURE's first line of offense, defense, and intelligence gathering. It upset him when they failed.
"I don't get it," Remo said. "Some kind of nuclear disarmament group gone bonkers?"
"No, these people have no such affiliations in their backgrounds. In fact, their only link is a strange one. They belong to an organization known as FOES."
"Terrorist?"
"No. It stands for Flying Object Evaluation Center... hmmm, that can't be right," Smith murmured, looking at the file again. "At any rate, their only known purpose is to gather and record sightings of Unidentified Flying Objects."
"Are we talking about flying saucers?" Remo asked.
"Precisely. A group of UFO buffs have taken it upon themselves to disarm America, missile by missile."
"You caught them all. So what's the problem?"
"As far as we know, we caught them all. But we found no trace of the van they used to reach the missile site. And there are other chapters of FOES in other states. If this is a national movement within that organization, we want to know about it. Your job will be to infiltrate the Oklahoma City chapter and discover if they are planning to attack SAC installations in that state."
"What's SAC?" Remo asked.
"Strategic Air Command," Smith said.
"Oh. Why Oklahoma City?" Remo wanted to know.
"Our computers worked out a high probability that if there is an unaccounted member of that group, and that person took off with the FOES van, he would probably have taken Route 40 out of the state and into Oklahoma, probably going to the nearest large city, which is Oklahoma City, where there is another chapter of FOES. The nearest one to Little Rock, incidentally."
"And suppose these loonies want to go eat our missiles or something?" Remo asked.
"You will disband that chapter permanently," Smith said coldly.
"Why don't you just come out and say, 'You will kill them to the last man'?"
"Because you said it for me. I'll leave an information package on UFOs so you can pass yourself off as an interested believer. And I'll speak to Chiun if I see him. About those fingernails."
"And suppose this group comes up clean?" Remo asked.
"Go on to the next one. They have chapters throughout the country, but most of them are in the Midwest— which is where our largest concentrations of defensive missiles are. "
"Great," said Remo. "Just what I've always wanted. To go on a nationwide nut chase. Sure I shouldn't grow my fingernails first?"
"Good day, Remo."
"Yeah, yeah. Well, at least I'll be able to leave this stupid city. Maryland is the only place in the country where they laid down the Mason-Dixon Line when they were drunk. The west half thinks it belongs to the north and the east is still waiting for the south to rise again."
But Smith wasn't listening. He had already gone.
* * *
When Chiun returned, he was no longer not speaking to Remo.
"Emperor Smith has gone mad again," he declared loudly.
"He explained how the fingernails would endanger the operation?"
"He said something of the sort. But I ignored him because he was obviously raving. He is sending us on some personal vendetta against throwers of whizzbees."
"Against what?"
"Whizzbee throwers. You know, Remo. You have seen them. In parks, on streets. There must be thousands of them, hundreds in this dirty city alone. They work in twos, throwing ugly plastic whizzbees back and forth. As a game."
"Oh, you mean Frisbees," Remo said.
"Yes, whizzbees. We are to exterminate all throwers of whizzbees in your country. Because they missed, Emperor Smith said. It makes no sense to me. The man is mad," finished Chiun, who always called Smith "Emperor" because the House of Sinanju had worked for emperors since the Pharaohs. Even though times had changed and Smith chose to call himself a director, because Sinanju worked for him, Smith was thereby exalted by the association with Sinanju and would forevermore be known as Emperor. At least in the annals of Sinanju.
"No, you've got it wrong, Chiun," Remo corrected. "Smith doesn't want us to hit Frisbee players. He wants us to go after some flying saucer people."
"Flying saucers? Whizzbees? Are they not the same thing? They are flat and they fly when thrown."
"No, flying saucers are different. They don't exist— I don't think..."
Chiun stopped gesticulating and regarded Remo steadily with narrowed hazel eyes. "Aah. Now it is clear. Now you are the mad one, Remo. You accepted a contract to go after people who don't exist."
"No, Chiun. It's— look, never mind. I'll explain it another time. It's too complicated. We've got to pack."
"You pack. I am busy."
"Doing what?" Remo asked.
"I am busy," Chiun repeated and turned his back toward Remo. Remo could see he was fiddling with his kimono.
A minute later, Chiun turned around and with a broad smile said, "Here, Remo. I have brought something for you."
"Yeah? What?" Remo asked suspiciously.
"It is a toy. A very simple toy. Many American children play with them, and I have one for you to try."
Remo looked at the multicolored block in Chiun's delicate hands and said, "That's no toy. That's a Rubik's Cube. You've got to be a mathematical genius to line those little squares up right."
"Nonsense," said Chiun. "It is a simple toy. The child who gave me this was himself proficient in its use."
"What child?"
"The one who gave this to me. The one I just spoke about," Chiun said logically.
"Why would a child give you his Rubik's Cube?" demanded Remo.
"Because he dared me to solve it, and I said I would only solve this toy if the toy were the reward for my effort. Masters of Sinanju do not put forth effort without compensation."
"You took that thing away from a kid? I'm ashamed of you, Chiun."
"I did not take it. I earned it," Chiun sniffed.
"Wait a minute. You solved that thing? All by yourself?"
"Of course," Chiun said blandly. "I am the Master of Sinanju."
"I don't believe it. Prove it."
Chiun, taken aback, hesitated and then said stiffly, "Very well, Remo. I will show you." He gathered the cube close to him, holding it with both hands and bent his ancient head. As Remo bent forward for a closer look, Chiun's frail-seeming hands became a blur.
"See, Remo," crowed Chiun, holding the cube up. Each side was a solid color.
"I didn't see your hands," Remo said.
"You saw the cube. You saw me hold the cube. Then you saw me raise the cube and the cube was correctly done. What more is there to see?"
"You might have had another cube stashed in your clothes and switched them."
"Really, Remo. I would not stoop to such subterfuge."
"But you would stoop to conning a little kid."
"I have taught the child a valuable lesson. Not to speak with strangers." Chiun sud
denly perked up. "Here, now you try."
Remo took the cube. Chiun had twisted it again, so the little colored squares were in a haphazard pattern. Remo knew, because he had read it somewhere, that there were a quintillion or more possible hand-moves and combinations of arrangements of the mobile squares, and only someone who knew the exact moves necessary to align the squares properly could solve the puzzle. Most people gave up, not understanding that it couldn't be accomplished by trial and error, like a jigsaw puzzle. On the other hand, proficient people could solve the cube in under a minute.
Remo had just seen Chiun do it in about six seconds. Even with Chiun's superhuman reflexes and coordination, it didn't make sense that Chiun, who knew no more about higher mathematics than he did about baseball, could master the puzzle so quickly.
Remo spent five minutes trying, and all he managed was to get a bunch of blue squares in an L shape on one side, and a cluster of orange ones on the other. There was a blue square in the middle of the orange cluster, and when Remo tried to get that onto the right side, he lost the orange cluster. Then he gave up.
"Heh, heh, heh," cackled Chiun. "Short attention span. I was right."
"Right about what?" Remo fumed.
"Right that you are not ready to master the art of the Killing Nail. Anyone who cannot solve a child's puzzle is not prepared mentally for the later stages of Sinanju." And having absolved himself of his earlier misjudgment, Chiun, the reigning Master of Sinanju, repaired to the kitchenette to make breakfast.
Remo decided he wasn't hungry.
?Chapter Five
Remo Williams read about flying saucers on the flight to Oklahoma City. Smith's information package consisted of raw data in the form of newspaper clippings, magazine articles, Air Force studies, case histories and computer printouts from CURE. If the CURE computer ever processed this hodgepodge of facts, reports, statistics and wild speculations into a concrete evaluation, Smith had neglected to provide the results.
For once, Remo was not bothered by Chiun. In fact, Chiun was barely in his seat for most of the flight— the one that he always took so he would be the first to know if the wings fell off— and instead walked up and down the aisles, happily demonstrating his ability with Rubik's Cube to anyone who cared to watch. Remo still couldn't figure out how Chiun did it, and it aggravated him.
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