Remo tore Smith's jacket, vest, and shirt open with a single exertion. Buttons popped in all directions. Remo placed both his hands on Smith's wrinkled stomach and started to massage the solar-plexus muscles rapidly. He was rewarded by a rapid suffusion of color under his kneading fingers. That meant poison-fighting blood was concentrating where it was most needed.
Remo turned Smith onto his back, so that his head hung over the edge of the outcropping. He stuffed a large stone under Smith's feet to keep the blood flowing to the stomach.
Smith began to gag. He gave a low strangling groan, like a woman giving birth. But life had nothing to do with the sound that Smith made.
It was now or it was all over.
There were nerve clusters at the throat and solar plexus, and Remo took them, one in each hand, and performed a manipulation that a chiropractor would have understood.
Smith started vomiting violently. An ugly black bile erupted from his mouth and nostrils, spraying the sand below. Smith convulsed. His eyes opened, rolled up into his head as if the muscles behind them had lost tension.
Then Dr. Harold W. Smith lay still.
Remo listened. No heartbeat. He felt the carotid artery. No pulse.
"Dammit, Smitty! I need you!" Remo yelled again, and flipped Smith over one last time.
Sinanju techniques had gotten rid of the poison, but not in time. Smith's heart had stopped. Remo laid a fist over Smith's stilled heart and brought the other fist down atop it. Once, twice, three times, until he had established a rhythm. He kept the rhythm going, even though the heart muscle did not respond to it.
"Dammit!" he swore, and punched Smith's stomach to expel clearing air through his windpipe. Smith took in a reflexive breath. And then Remo felt the beat. Irregular at first, but more regular as Remo kept up the beating of his hand. He pounded his fist in synchronization with Smith's heart, staying with its rhythm, until the rhythms were one. And then Remo picked up the pace, forcing Smith's heart muscle to match it.
When he was sure that Smith's heart would continue beating on its own, Remo stopped.
He waited. One minute. Two. Five.
At length Dr. Harold W. Smith opened his eyes. They looked horrible, like those of a man who had awoken one morning to discover that maniacs had stripped the flesh from his body.
"Remo," he said weakly. "You should have let me die."
"You're welcome," Remo said bitterly. "Never mind that crap. Chiun's gone to Russia. I need your help. I gotta get there. Fast."
"They betrayed us, didn't they?" Smith said dully, sitting up.
"You learn to expect that from certain kinds of people," Remo accused. "Even friends."
Smith said nothing.
"Here's your briefcase," Remo said, throwing the leather valise onto Smith's lap. "Get on the horn and make the arrangements to get me to Moscow."
"I can't. The President has a deal with the Soviets."
"Get me to Moscow or I'll kill you," Remo warned.
"I'm already a dead man," said Smith.
"You sold us out and the Russians betrayed everyone. You owe me, Smitty. But if you won't do it for me, or for Chiun, or for what's left of the organization, then do it for America."
And through the pain, Dr. Harold W. Smith felt a chord being struck. The only one he would respond to.
Smith made an absurd show of straightening out his ruined clothes and opened the briefcase.
"The Darter is still lying off the coast," he said emotionlessly. "Their orders were to leave if they didn't hear from me by dawn. I'll call in a landing party. We can get to Kimpo air base in South Korea by midnight at the latest. From there, I think I can still order an Air Force jet into action. The organization may be finished, but I'm not powerless. Yet."
"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.
"Cron!" shouted a militiaman, bringing his AK-47 to bear on Remo's descending stomach.
Remo remembered that "cron" meant "stop," and tried to remember the Russian word for "how?" but gave it up when the man opened up with a warning shot. Other militiamen-Russia's version of policemen-came running, brandishing automatic rifles and shouting loudly.
Normally, even a half-dozen armed combatants would be a cinch for Remo to handle, but not while slowly falling from a parachute. He might as well have been an ornament hung on a Christmas tree wearing a sign that read: "SHOOT ME!"
The warning shot snarled past Remo's shoulder. He was about forty feet off the ground. Remo dug into his pockets for the loose change he suddenly remembered was still there and snapped a nickel back at the militiaman.
The Russian went down with a slot in his forehead and a massive exit wound at the back of his skull. Remo didn't wait for the converging guards to open fire. He flipped pennies, dimes, quarters at every uniform in sight. The coins left his fingers at supersonic speed and wreaked devastating damage on bones, brains, and major organs. Within seconds, the first wave of challengers lay scattered over the gray bricks of Red Square. Pedestrians ran screaming from the area.
Remo wondered what Sister Mary Margaret would have said if she could see him now.
Reinforcements would be arriving soon, Remo knew. He didn't plan to stick around and tangle with them. He tugged on the parachute shroud lines, spilling air, and tried to land inside the Kremlin Wall fronting Red Square. He didn't make it.
Instead, Remo landed atop a long black Zil limousine that had stopped at Spassky Gate, waiting for the red light to turn green, signifying that the car was cleared to enter the Kremlin. The light turned green just as Remo's feet hit the Zil's roof with a dull thump. Remo cut himself free of the parachute with short slashes of his Sinanju-hardened fingers and jumped from the car just as the huge parachute spilled over the limousine, covering it like a black shroud.
The chauffeur emerged from behind the wheel shouting and swearing. He got tangled up in the silk chute for his trouble. Militiamen and a few plainclothes KGB agents descended on the enshrouded Zil like angry hornets. They pulled and tore at the billowing fabric, uncovering the car. They almost shot the chauffeur before the owner of the Zil, the Indian ambassador to Russia, stepped out, demanding to know what the hell was going on. He was ignored while the KGB searched the car thoroughly.
The senior KGB officer couldn't understand it. Who would parachute into Red Square? And for what diabolical reason? More important, who was this incredible hooligan? No one knew. He should have been under the parachute. But he was not. Was he perhaps hiding under the Zil? They looked. He was not hiding under the Zil.
Then the KGB men and the militsiya noticed the still-open Spassky Gate and they knew they were all in very serious trouble.
Marshal Josef Steranko had the cushiest duty in all of the Red Army. He was marshall in charge of the defense of Moscow. It was a traditional post, very important in times of war, but since Moscow had not been under military attack since World War II, it was now largely ceremonial. A reward for a grizzled old veteran of the Great Patriotic War.
So it came as something of a shock when, watching television in his apartment in the luxury tower of Moscow's Rossiya Hotel, Marshal Josef Steranko received the first reports of a commando raid on the Russian capital city.
"Are you drunk?" demanded Steranko of the KGB chief, who had called him because he knew nowhere else to turn. For some strange reason, the General Secretary was ignoring all incoming calls. There were rumors of his assassination.
"No, Comrade Marshal," the KGB chief said. "It is true. They landed in Red Square itself."
"Hold the line," said Steranko. His apartment overlooked Red Square. He went to a window and looked down. He saw scores of militsiya running to and fro like ants. Chalk outlines where the dead had fallen showed clearly against darker stains. The Kremlin was ablaze with searchlights and armed soldiers crouched along the top of its red brick walls as if expecting a siege.
"My God," said Steranko huskily. It looked like Leningrad just before it fell. He hurried back to the phone, cursing.
"I want details," Steranko barked into the mouthpiece. "Quickly!"
"Yes, Comrade Marshal," the KGB chief stuttered, and then launched into a frightening litany of atrocities the American Rangers had perpetrated on beautiful Moscow. They had parachuted in, bold as cossacks. From Red Square, the Rangers had melted into the night. Unseen, they had removed Lenin's body from his glass coffin and placed him in a window of the great GUM department store, dressed in female clothes. A detachment of the Americans, perhaps thir
ty in number, had stacked automobiles one atop the other all along Kalinin Prospekt and then proceeded up the Garden Ring to liberate the animals from Moscow Zoo, stopping to pilfer the American flag from in front of the United States embassy. Everywhere one went, windows had been cut free from sashes as if with mechanical glass cutters and crushed into small piles of gritty powder. The prisoners of Lubyanka Prison had been released and were even now roaming the streets shouting "Viva America!" And the statue of Feliks Dzerzhinsky outside KGB headquarters was now without a head. All over the city, they had spray-painted an untranslatable counterrevolutionary slogan. It was even to be seen, some said, on the Great Kremlin Palace itself.
"This slogan?" demanded Steranko, who knew English. "What is it?"
"One word, comrade: REMO. We think it must be an anagram, possibly meaning 'Ruin Everything in Moscow Overnight.'"
Marshal Josef Steranko could not believe his ears. None of it made sense.
"These are children's pranks," he said. "Tell me of the battles. How many dead on each side?"
"Seven died in the first assault on Red Square. All ours. We have no reports of casualties on either side beyond this."
"No reports!" yelled Steranko. "Moscow is being desecrated and no one fights back. Is that what you are telling me?"
"The Rangers, they are like phantoms," insisted the KGB chief. "They strike and move on. Every time we send a security detachment to the scene of the atrocity, they are gone."
"Confirmed enemy troop sightings," Steranko barked.
"We estimate anywhere from thirty to-"
"I do not want estimates! Confirmed sightings only!"
"Comrade Marshal we have a confirmed sighting of but a single commando. It was he who landed in Red Square and murdered seven brave militsiya."
"One man accounted for seven?" said Steranko, aghast. "With what weapon did he accomplish this miracle?"
The KGB chief hesitated. "Ah, this report must be in error."
"Read it!"
"He was unarmed, by all accounts."
"Then how did the seven die?"
"We do not know. At first, they appeared to be shot, but examinations of the bodies showed only deformed American coins in their wounds."
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