The neutrino bomb.
The former President's administration had pressured Congress into funding preliminary research into the device. After he was out of office, his immediate successor had caved in to the unilateral-disarmament contingent on Capitol Hill and defunded the project.
As far as the President could remember, the work had proceeded only to the early-prototype stage. If memory served, he was cheek to cheek with the only weapon of its kind in existence. And it was now in the hands of the PIO.
The President knew that he was frail. During his long, murky twilight, therapists had made certain that he was kept as physically fit as his condition allowed. He was in exceptional shape for a man of almost nine decades, but the years had clearly taken their toll.
Obviously, he couldn't possibly hope to fight the whole gosh-darned PIO all by himself. But he also knew that he couldn't sit idly by and allow a fellow like Nossur Aruch to control one of the most dangerous pieces of military hardware ever developed.
Jostled on the floor of a PIO truck smack in the middle of a bunch of hostile black hats, the President made a decision.
When life deals you a lemon, well, make yourself some lemonade.
If push came to shove, in spite of his failing body, the ex-President would do what he'd always done. He would act. Whether it meant his own death or not.
After all, he had died in his mind years ago. If he tried now and failed, alone and forgotten in the dusty wastelands of arid Lebanon, his body would finally catch up.
Chapter 24
Anxiety had kept Harold Smith glued to his desk for hours. When the blue contact phone finally jangled to life, he grabbed for it with both hands. "Report," he snapped.
"'The President's been kidnapped, again," Remo's somber voice announced. "And just so we get all the bad news out of the way up front, Nossur Aruch and his merry band of PIO minstrels have him now."
Alone in his office, Smith's lids blinked over bloodshot eyes. His sleep-deprived brain attempted to absorb this latest information. Shock alone dulled his natural urge to panic.
"When did he change hands?" he asked woodenly.
"Judging from the dried blood- What do you say, Little Father?" he called away from the phone. "Hour and a half?"
"Two hours, Emperor Smith," Chiun called from the nearby background.
"You get that?" Remo asked.
"Yes," Smith said, his tone hollow.
"Oh, and add this to the crappy-news pile. He's awake now."
The shocks were coming so rapidly Smith was no longer even trying to keep up.
"Are you certain?"
"At least he was when Earthpeace had him. The PIO could have clouted him again when they picked him up."
Smith pushed his rimless glasses up off his nose. "The PIO," he said, rubbing his eyes wearily. "So they have taken possession of the device, as well."
"Device?" Remo asked. "What device? And what's with me not being able to call you with Navy equipment? You've got me phoning from some dump of a restaurant in Tyre."
An offended shout from the background indicated that the restaurant's proprietor spoke at least some English.
Smith took a deep, steadying breath. "This has gone far beyond your original assignment. From what I have learned, Earthpeace has transported a neutrino bomb to the Mideast."
Remo hesitated before speaking. "I hope this is a bad connection, Smitty," he said evenly. "Did you just say Big-Nose Aruch has a neutron bomb?"
"No, neutrino. A neutron bomb is a small battlefield or tactical hydrogen bomb. We encountered one once before. Remember the incident outside of Palm Springs?"
"How could I forget?" Remo asked bitterly.
Smith heard the sound of distant glass breaking. A muffled shout in a foreign tongue.
"I possess the darkest memories of that time," Chiun's squeaky voice protested.
"Okay, so you do," Remo called back, peeved. "Did you have to throw my rice on the floor?"
"It slipped."
Smith forged ahead. "With a bomb of the type we encountered before," he persisted, "man is susceptible to neutron irradiation due to the abundance of hydrogen in the human body. Neutrons are able to travel great distances through matter until they are stopped by collision with these light atoms."
"You're losing me, Smitty," Remo warned. "A neutron bomb kills people, leaves buildings. What's the difference between it and this other cockamamy thing?"
"They are basically the same in design. However, the neutrino bomb, when detonated, is the inverse of the neutron bomb. The type of radiation released attacks a more specific type of heavy atom. It is harmless to light atoms."
"So people are safe?" Remo asked slowly.
"Essentially," Smith agreed.
Remo exhaled relief. "Dammit, Smitty, you had me worried."
"And rightly so," Smith said ominously. "One neutrino bomb could trigger events that might destroy the entire Middle East. Although the initial explosion is small, the aftereffects are the real danger." He closed his eyes as he explained. "The bomb acts on the atomic level. It has a plutonium charge triggered by a standard chemical explosive."
"Atomic. So it's radioactive," Remo said.
In his shadow-drenched office, Smith nodded. "Yes. But it is only lethal within the blast zone. The fallout beyond that limited area is within normal tolerance levels. When the bomb is detonated, it releases a charge of magnetizing ions in a widening ring around ground zero. I have seen only theoretical models, but they indicate this zone could be vast enough to encompass many miles. Light atoms, and thus humans, will be safe. But the magnetizing ions will render metal-based mechanical objects as useless as slag."
Remo had been listening with growing interest. "It melts metal?" he asked once Smith was through.
"Only literally in some cases. It depends upon the density of the atoms. But the practical upshot is the same."
"All metal?"
"Yes," Smith said, nodding. "Everything metallic within the enhanced radiation field would cease to function. This would include all industrial, residential and governmental devices. As well as military."
"The peace bomb," Remo intoned softly.
"What did you say?" Smith asked, surprised.
"It's what one of the Earthpeacers back in San Francisco said," Remo explained. "It just sounded like more goofball-fueled mumbo jumbo to me."
"Not in this case," Smith said. "I have learned that as a public-relations matter, the neutrino bomb was to be dubbed the 'peace bomb.' The name was thought to be more palatable for public consumption. Since the project was defunded years ago, the name is not known outside of Los Alamos."
"Los Alamos?" Remo demanded. "They're the ones responsible for this?"
"The neutrino-bomb prototype was stolen from that facility," Smith admitted.
"Figures," Remo snarled. "Somebody wheel it out past a guard while he was watching the head of the Energy Department on TV claiming that nothing was ever stolen from there?"
Smith's voice was deadly serious. "The weapon was apparently taken from Los Alamos by none other than Dr. Ree Hop Doe during the phase when he was conducting espionage for the Chinese. According to his e-mail records, although he at one time attempted to sell it to China, they were unable to meet his demands. Apparently, he had forgotten it in his garage for the bulk of the past few years. He discovered it when he was searching for items to offer at a yard sale to raise cash for his legal defense."
Remo was amazed. "What, did he run a for-sale ad in the Penny Saver?"
"It did not get that far. Dr. Doe has been a member of Earthpeace for years. When he offered to sell the bomb to them, word reached Interior Secretary Bryce Babcock. He is the one who negotiated the purchase with Earthpeace funds."
"Another screwball cabinet secretary," Remo said. "Doesn't surprise me with that bunch. Isn't Babcock the guy who had his department release piranha into Lake Michigan a couple years back?"
"That is he," Smith said. "According to my informatio
n, both Babcock and Doe couriered the bomb to your location."
"I look forward to catching up with them," Remo said, a cold edge to his tone.
"That can wait," Smith insisted. "Your first priority is to find Nossur Aruch before he is able to detonate the bomb. If he succeeds in doing so, every last weapon in the region could be rendered inoperative."
"Hmm," Remo mused. "Imagine the Mideast without weapons."
"Yes," Smith replied gravely. "It would be a disaster of incalculable proportions."
Remo sounded surprised. "Are you kidding?" he asked. "People over here live to beat the snot out of each other. Maybe if they can't shoot at, blow up or launch missiles at each other, they'll finally have to sit down and figure out how to get along."
Smith shook his head. "I see the situation much differently," he said, his tone serious. "I envision chaos on a colossal scale. Remember, Remo, there will be no radio contact with the outside world. Telephone and any other communications devices will also be rendered inoperative. Isolated from their neighbors in the region, suspicions will ignite. Everyone will blame everyone else for what has happened. Clan fighting will erupt. There will be looting and rioting. Fires will be unstoppable due to lack of working equipment. Armies and police forces will be helpless to stop the anarchy. It is a nightmare scenario. If Aruch has gotten hold of the neutrino bomb, it is imperative that you retrieve it from him before he is allowed to set it off."
"Fine," Remo said. "I'll pick it up when I get the President. But I don't necessarily agree with all your doom and glooming."
"About the former President," the CURE director said crisply. "The neutrino bomb is now your dominant concern. If it comes to it, the President cannot be allowed to become a distraction."
There was a familiar flatness to his voice. Smith had used that tone every time he had sent Remo on an assignment against a potential CURE security risk. To a man, they had all wound up dead.
Remo's voice took on a cautious edge. "I don't like the sound of this, Smitty," he warned slowly.
"Nor do I," Smith replied levelly. "But if it is detonated by Aruch in a strategically sensitive location, the neutrino bomb could destabilize that entire region of the world. The former President was already a liability before the bomb was added to the mix. If he becomes any kind of distraction at all, remove the distraction."
"Whoa, Smitty," Remo protested quickly. "Do you even hear what you're saying? You're asking me to kill a United States President."
From out the echoey depths of the Lebanese restaurant, Smith heard a whoop of sudden joy. The sound of breaking dishes and the crash of an upended table were followed by the rattle of an extension being lifted.
"How I have longed for this day, Emperor Smith," the Master of Sinanju sang jubilantly. "We will return to America in haste to dispatch the corpulent pretender to the throne. Once his deceitful head has been separated from his bloated body, the two of us will sit down and plan your coronation."
"Hang up, Chiun," Remo demanded, annoyed.
The Master of Sinanju ignored his pupil. "The patience you have displayed is remarkable, Emperor. In fact, I may now admit there were times when Remo and I had my doubts about your sanity. Mostly Remo," he said quickly. "But you have proved yourself a cunning and stoical man. Now, there are several options for assassination available. If you wish it to appear an accident, that can easily be arranged. A heart attack while jogging would be accepted by all. Especially with that flabby specimen. I, however, would recommend something loud and fun. Something that the public would enjoy. Something that says, 'I am me. Smith the Persistent.' A televised beheading would do the trick nicely. Prime time, of course."
"We are not talking about the current President, Master Chiun," Smith explained with weary patience.
The old Korean's voice sank in confusion. "Who, then?"
"It's the guy we're already looking for he wants us to ice," Remo supplied. "And I won't do it, Smitty."
"I agree with Remo, Emperor Smith," Chiun insisted. "If you wish to assassinate a President, why not the distended lummox who currently squats atop the Eagle Throne?"
"Chiun, please-" Smith began.
"If you feel we need first practice on past rulers, you may rest your regal mind. Our skills are as sharp as ever they were. Years of toiling on your behalf in the farthermost reaches of your kingdom have not diminished our abilities in the least. Our eyes are keen, our hands swift and deadly. We are fleet of foot and sharp of mind. Sinanju waits to aid your ascendancy to the seat of power of the new Rome, the Eagle Throne, O Smith the Patient."
"Will you hang up the freaking phone!" Remo shouted into the recesses of the restaurant.
"Think decapitation," Chiun intoned craftily. "We will talk later."
With that, he was gone.
"I'm not doing it, Smitty," Remo said once they were alone on the line. "I might not know much about politics, but I know who I'd like to bump off. And this guy wouldn't be my first, second or hundredth choice."
"Remo, be reasonable," Smith pleaded. "You know that he represents a liability to begin with. The presence of the neutrino bomb makes the situation even more dire. If he knew what was at stake, the President would agree with me."
"I am not killing a United States President, Smith, and that's that."
"Of course he is not," Chiun called. He was nearer now, listening in on every word of their conversation. "That honor must go to the Reigning Master, not his apprentice. Sinanju has not assassinated an American President for two centuries. We cannot allow Mr. Bent Elbow to taint such a momentous event."
"Will you calm down?" Remo said hotly to Chiun. To Smith, he said, "I'll call when this is all over, Smitty."
"People love a good disemboweling! Always give the people what they want!" the Master of Sinanju could be heard shouting as Remo hung up the phone.
Smith's face didn't even register a single twitch as he leaned across the black surface of his desk. His features could have been carved from solid granite.
The blue phone made a plasticky clatter in its cradle.
The crisis was huge. On several different levels and on multiple fronts. All out of his hands. All he could do now was wait.
Shifting his feet from beneath his desk well, Smith spun his creaking chair to face the big picture window at the rear of his office. Breathing deeply, he stared at the gently lapping waves of Long Island Sound.
Besieged by the soothing image, the CURE director was overcome by exhaustion before he even realized it. Within minutes, Harold Smith was sound asleep.
Chapter 25
"Khaddafi wouldn't treat me like this."
Bryce Babcock jutted his chin defiantly. His jowls flapped back against his neck like empty saddlebags. "That is true. He would have cut out your tongue by this time," Nossur Aruch replied blandly. He was inspecting the exterior of the neutrino bomb.
Babcock and Dr. Ree Hop Doe had been brought to the PIO leader's Lebanon satellite office. As a sign of disdain, their captors hadn't even bothered to bind their hands. A pair of PIO soldiers stood sentry by the door.
The interior secretary stood to one side, helpless, as the PIO leader tapped at the stainless-steel shell of the bomb. A hollow sound greeted Nossur's finger.
"Hussein," Babcock challenged. "What about him? I'll bet he would have known what to do with me."
"Yes. He would have shot you."
"Khatami, then. Iran would have helped me."
"An American cabinet member? They would have tortured you on videotape and mailed it to your State Department."
"Mujahideen."
"Bullets are at a premium in Afghanistan. They would probably have simply slit your throat. And you are going far afield with them, are you not?"
"The Middle East is the best place to set off the neutrino bomb," Babcock said, pouting. "A bunch of warring countries bunched closely together. I would have set it off in the United States, but the damage would have been too localized. The whole country wouldn't have been wi
thin range. I needed someplace that would feel the effects. Someplace that would be attention-getting."
From his half crouch, Aruch looked up.
"Oh, it will draw attention," he assured Babcock. The interior secretary glanced angrily at Dr. Doe as if this turn of events were all his fault.
"Don't rook at me," Doe whispered. "I onry in it fora cash."
Babcock turned away in disgust.
His eyes-now those of a prisoner-dragged across the unconscious form of the former President. Soldiers had dumped him on the floor behind Aruch's desk.
The old man's chest rose and fell rhythmically. The fact that he was still breathing made Bryce Babcock sick. He was to blame for all this. Him and his homespun warmongering. Of course, there hadn't actually been any wars, technically, for the eight years he'd been in office. But he had been responsible for building the bomb Doe had stolen. When it came right down to it, none of this was Bryce Babcock's fault. It was the former President who had delivered Babcock into the deceitful, violent hands of the PIO. Angry, he tore his baggy eyes away from the hated old man.
The dirty windows through which the desert sunlight spilled were built of a heavy Plexiglas. Even so, they seemed to have suffered damage fitting to a war zone. Chips and holes from bullets and ricochets riddled the thick panes.
Babcock noted that the walls opposite the windows were speckled with holes, as well. Some were so deep he could see straight through to the next room.
As he was peering through one of the larger holes, a sudden squeal of tires from the street out front caught his attention. Inside, Nossur Aruch and his men reacted instinctively to the sound. Eyes angry, they flung themselves to the floor, plastering hands over heads.
When Babcock glanced at Doe, the confused scientist was joining them. With perplexed reluctance, Babcock started to get down, too. He had just knelt to one knee when the first hail of bullets exploded through the wall.
Babcock and Doe collapsed to their bellies.
The attack was fast and furious. In a single, terrifying instant, a swarm of bullets ripped the office air. Screaming lead pocked walls and desk. Concrete dust and paperwork rained down upon them.
The Last Monarch td-120 Page 15