Killer Watts

The electrical surge hopped from one tank to the next, to the next, enveloping the entire row in a matter of seconds. In between, it leapt to gun barrels, bouncing crazily down the line of men like some insane arcade game come to life.

Every metal surface grabbed hold of the charge, sizzling, blasting the electricity down into the ground.

Men were thrown back, arms fried. They screamed in agony as they fell. Still Roote fired. Shells within tanks detonated, blasting out huge jagged chunks of hot shrapnel. In a matter of seconds, the entire defensive line was turned into a glowing, moaning killing field. More than three hundred men lay dead or critically wounded. Victory mattered not to Elizu Roote. Energy channeled from the fence continued to pour through him out over the field long after any danger had passed. The electricity flowed from the hand that gripped the chain link over to the other even as his cybernetic microchips were siphoning precious power into his capacitors, restoring them to full operating levels.

Farther down the hill, behind Roote, Arthur Ford watched all of this with sick horror.

Roote was like a man possessed. He killed blindly. Horribly.

The thrill of meeting an alien vanished in a flash. In that moment, Ford's fear got the better of him. He threw himself backward, tumbling end over end down to the access road at the base of the rocky incline. He landed, bloodied and bruised, on the hard-packed sand.

His jeep was forgotten. Flight was all that mattered.

Staggering, limping, Ford flung himself out into the desert. As he ran, the horrible crackle of electricity was carried to him by the warm breeze. And intermingled with the crackles was Elizu Roote's crazed laugh of triumph.

Chapter 12

Ten minutes after Remo had scrounged a jeep from the Fort Joy motor pool, he and the Master of Sinanju were following the dusty path that skirted the artillery range.

Smith had caught Remo on his way out of the barracks area, telling him that Chesterfield had reported two Apache helicopters had been downed in the desert south of their position half an hour before. According to reports the CURE director had overheard, a major battle had also just taken place at the southern gate.

Remo's face was stern as they drove into the growing darkness. He wasn't right. He knew it. In Sinanju, breathing was all. Remo had had this drilled into him forever, to the point where it was beyond second nature. But now there seemed to be something more.

Roote's attack had sent his system spiraling away from the perfection of mind and body that was the most ancient of all martial arts. It wasn't his breathing that was off; it was his heart. The muscle had taken a pounding and now seemed unable to correct itself. And a single imperfection in a Sinanju-trained body was like a ripple on a pond, it eventually reached all shores.

For anyone else on earth, a recovery like Remo's would be a miracle worth celebrating. But for Remo it was intensely frustrating. And in his line of work, anything short of perfection wouldn't cut it.

Since regaining consciousness in the Fort Joy infirmary, Remo had been thinking about the story of Master Cung. He was a Sinanju master who fell victim to a sickness of breathing. Rather than fight his illness, Cung surrendered to it. It took the death of his pupil and a Japanese invasion of the village of Sinanju for Cung to realize that the weakness was a thing to be overcome, not revel in. His lesson-proper breathing is all, but proper attitude is everything.

If the story was true, Cung had banished his physical problem in an instant. But for Remo, that didn't seem possible. And his inability to master so simple a thing in his own body frightened him.

As they drove along the slithering rutted road, Chiun glanced furtively several times at his pupil. Eventually, Remo could take it no more.

"I'm fine," he insisted, feeling the pressure of his teacher's gaze for the tenth time in as many minutes. Frustration mingled with annoyance.

"I was watching the sunset," Chiun replied nonchalantly.

"It doesn't set in my ear," Remo pointed out.

"No," Chiun admitted. "That would imply that light enters your skull at least part of the day. As far as I have ever been able to tell, that melon atop your shoulders is cast in perpetual gloom. There was a time I considered growing mushrooms in it."

"Har-de-har-har," Remo said. "Considering what we're up against, maybe you should ditch the chipper mood."

"Yes. The human lightning bug," Chiun sighed. Thoughts weighty, he stared out at the desert. "If only I had presence of mind to bring a canning jar from Castle Sinanju. We could have captured the dastard and placed him on the mantle in triumph."

"Listen to me, Little Father," Remo insisted harshly. "I'm serious. I want you to be careful." The earnestness in his tone was what touched Chiun. Remo truly believed what he was saying. And in that belief was a genuine concern for the well-being of the Master of Sinanju. It was moving. It would have been more so, had it not been for Remo's obvious decline into madness.

Chiun turned to his pupil. "Would it make you feel better, Remo, if I said I believed you?" he asked, a sad smile on his parchment face.

"Only if you meant it," Remo said. "This guy is really dangerous, Chiun. I don't want you getting caught off guard like I did. Whether you believe me or not, just promise me you'll be careful."

Chiun nodded thoughtfully. It wouldn't hurt to humor his mad pupil. "I will take care," the Master of Sinanju said gently.

Remo didn't seem entirely satisfied. It was clear Chiun was just paying lip service to him. Having the Master of Sinanju to worry about on top of everything else would make his next meeting with Elizu Roote all the more difficult. But if push came to shove, Remo wouldn't allow the demented soldier to harm his teacher. Even if it meant protecting Chiun with his own life.

Each lost in private, disturbing thoughts, neither man spoke as they sped on into the encroaching night.

THE MEDICAL CORPSMEN screamed orders as they ran from one charred body to the next.

Enlistees hauled the dead into a special cordoned area near the fence, lest precious time be wasted rechecking those who were beyond help.

Soldiers still alive were carted with little care onto stretchers. There wasn't time to worry about their comfort. Just keeping them alive was top priority.

The worst were loaded onto waiting helicopters. The rest were packed on shelflike racks in the backs of waiting ambulances.

Army choppers crisscrossed the gray-to-black sky, glaring searchlights illuminating wild patches of blowing scrub and frantic human activity. Sirens blaring, Army trucks adorned with crosses of red tore back toward the main base. The scene was one of utter chaos when Remo and Chiun arrived. They parked next to the row of twenty tanks.

The desert was already growing cool as they stepped down from their borrowed jeep. They avoided the hustling stretcher-bearers and approached the last tank in line.

Large sections of the tank turret had been blown away in the internal explosion. The main cannon had been ripped partially off and now lay against the nose of the crippled vehicle. Even so, most of what was below the deck structure remained intact. This was the area on which Remo focused his attention. He didn't need to search long.

"It was him," Remo announced instantly.

He pointed to a spot above the big tank treads to a blackened area a foot in diameter. The armor plating within this zone had partially melted to slag. It had dripped down the side of the tank, solidifying once more in slender droplets behind the tread.

"That's not consistent with an explosion," Remo said with certainty. "Something hit this thing from the outside."

Chiun frowned as he studied the odd marks in the metal. They matched nothing known to him.

Even so, the Master of Sinanju remained silent as Remo led him around the rear of the tank. They found a similar melted area on the opposite side. "It came out here." Remo pointed.

They stepped over to the next armored vehicle. "It must have hopped the space between and slammed right into here," he said excitedly, pointing at yet a third melted section of armor. The surrounding area was scorched, as well. "Now do you believe me?"

"It is odd," Chiun admitted.

"Damn right it's freaking odd," Remo said. The two of them went around to the front of the tanks.

There were bodies everywhere. Hands were burned to shades of black and bloody purple. Blisters had erupted on the faces of some. Groans and sobs rose up in pathetic chorus from the remorseless desert sand.

Remo's features could have been carved from granite as he surveyed the scene of carnage. He looked down at one soldier propped up against a tank. The man's flesh was smeared black. One arm was thrown across his face as he rolled in slow agony in the dust.

With an effort, Remo tore his eyes away from the grisly sight.

They used the side of the first tank to judge the angle from which the initial blast of electricity had come. When they reached the hurricane fence, Chiun was first to see the strange marks in the links.

"There," the Master of Sinanju said, pointing. Remo looked to where the fence was buckled outward very slightly in the direction of the desert. There were five black marks in the metal, consistent with the pads Remo had seen on Roote's fingertips. They were about five feet off the ground. Another set of similar marks was visible much closer to the ground.

"It's electrified," Remo said.

They had both sensed the thrill of power from the fence. To Remo, the sensation was an unpleasant reminder of his encounter with Roote. His nearness to the fence seemed to make his heart fibrillate. It was as if his body expected bolts of electricity to come leaping for him once more. He banished the uncomfortable feeling.

"He must be able to channel it somehow," he said.

The frown Chiun had been wearing throughout their investigation grew deeper. The old Korean looked back toward the field of carnage.

Flashing red ambulance lights and streaks of helicopter searchlights illuminated the macabre tableau. Someone had finally come to attend to the soldier they had seen on their way to the fence. A stretcher was brought forward.

"I will concede that it is possible," Chiun said finally. He almost sounded as if he meant it.

Remo didn't allow his relief to be too great. After all, they still had much work ahead of them. "There are footprints outside the fence," Remo said. With a nod he indicated the scuffmarks in the sand where Roote had obviously stood. "We'd better see where they lead before anyone else gets killed."

Turning, they hurried back to retrieve their jeep. Driving past the battlefield, they headed through the gate and out onto the desert path.

They found the abandoned jeep a moment later. "Dollars to doughnuts it's his," Remo said. He looked up the rocky incline beside the parked jeep. Although darkness had fallen, Remo's eyes were able to pull in enough ambient light to see almost as well as if it were full daylight. He spotted the crushed sage and tumbled stones instantly.

Chiun saw it, too. "Someone has fallen down this hill recently," the Master of Sinanju said from his seat next to Remo.

Remo glanced across the path.

"There," he said, pointing. "He ran into the desert."

Without waiting for Chiun to echo his obvious conclusion, he put the jeep in gear. The two of them drove off into the deepening desert night, little realizing that the man they were trailing was not the man they were truly after.

UP THE INCLINE, within the perimeter fence of Fort Joy, an Army medic was checking on the soldier Remo and Chiun had noticed before heading toward the fence. Two corpsmen stood anxiously nearby, leaning against a stretcher.

Although the wounded man's face was smeared with grime, he didn't appear to be injured like the rest. His arms weren't burned in the least. His eyes were screwed into closed knots of pain. When the medic tried to see his hands, the man squeezed them more tightly shut and groaned loudly.

The medic wheeled on the waiting corpsmen. "Load him up with the others," he ordered. "Chopper?"

The medic shook his head. "Superficial wounds at best. Ambulance." He slapped the nearest corpsman on the shoulder for support, dashing off to the next injured soldier.

The groaning soldier was loaded onto the stretcher and carried into the back of a waiting ambulance. No one noticed that his hands were now partially open. Nor did anyone see the contours of the faintly visible metal pads on his fingertips.

Siren whining, the ambulance headed onto the base.

Chapter 13

This time, there was no attempt to avoid him. Harold Smith was ushered by an efficient young aide directly into General Delbert Xavier Chesterfield's office.

Old Ironbutt was seated behind his big desk. Although the glass shards and wood splinters had been swept away, the flimsy clapboard wall had yet to be repaired. A thick sheet of unrolled plastic had been stapled to the Chesterfield-shaped hole in the wall.

The plastic rattled wildly in the downdraft thrown off by perpetually landing helicopters. Sand pelted the flimsy material, giving the odd impression of a violent hail storm that had swept up unexpectedly in the middle of the previously tranquil desert evening.

Through the plastic, Smith noted the weirdly gauzy lights from the arriving helicopters and ambulances as he took his seat before General Chesterfield's desk.

The general's big face was a shade of red not seen in nature. It looked as though his shirt collar was at least three sizes too small. Porcine eyes regarded the CURE director with disdain as Smith settled primly into his chair, resting his briefcase on the floor at his feet.

Chesterfield leaned back in his own seat. He cradled his fingers to his ample belly. "What is it now?" His booming voice competed with the commotion in the courtyard.

"It is time you told the truth," Smith said. "Obviously there is something very wrong here."

"I'll say," the general replied. "This is shocking. You CIA boys should be ashamed. I've written a report on the matter." He dropped a big mitt to a closed manila file on his desk. "You are mentioned prominently, Mr. Jones," he added with smarmy confidence, little realizing that the name Smith had given at the gate earlier that day was merely a cover.

"I am with the FBI," Smith said blandly. Chesterfield jumped forward, dropping his hands loudly atop his desk.

"Bullshit. I had you pegged for a spook the minute you drove through my gate. And it figures. Your little experiment escaped and you came scurrying up out of your spook hole to see what happened to it."

"Roote," Smith said, his face pinched.

The general leaned back once more. "All in the report," he said, his smile returning.

"I would be interested to read it," Smith said.

"Oh, I bet you would," the general said. A hand slapped down on the report again. Sliding it ever so slowly toward his ample paunch, the military man dumped the file into an open drawer. He slammed the desk drawer closed.

"I presume there is something in there about your Shock Troops project?" Smith asked.

The general's confident expression faded. "You don't know anything," he bluffed.

"I know that there are wounded men being brought back here after some bizarre attack at your southern perimeter. Soldiers I have seen are suffering from severe electrical burns. I know that you are reporting virtually nothing of the events of the past few days to your superiors, short of overt hints that the CIA is responsible for some great project gone awry." Smith's grew angrier. "I also know that one Elizu Roote has been altered in some way that allows him to emit controlled bursts of electrical energy. And I know that you are responsible for all of this, General."

Chesterfield's eyes grew wide at the accusations. "How dare you!" the general screamed. He rose, stabbing a fat finger at Smith. "This is all your fault! You come in here, kill dozens of my men and then try to blame it on me! I will not take it, sir! I will live to see your spook hide nailed to the wall for everything that's happened here!"

The fit was calculated. Chesterfield had planned to explode this way. It was why he'd allowed Smith a meeting in the first place. The general wanted everyone within earshot to hear him blame this CIA spy. It would be better for Chesterfield at the inevitable inquest afterward. But he was somewhat discomfited by the fact that Smith seemed to actually know some of what was going on at Fort Joy.

Smith was not fazed in the least. He sat calmly in his chair, unmoved by the general's tirade. By the end of his diatribe, Chesterfield's face looked ready to explode. Puffing, the military man collapsed back into his seat.

Smith didn't miss a beat.

"It might interest you to know that I have some access to CIA files," Smith said, not even caring about the security risk that could go along with such an admission.

"No surprise there," Chesterfield panted.

"It might further interest you to learn that there is absolutely, unequivocally no-repeat, no-trail either paper or electronic leading from Langley to Fort Joy. I have accounted for every significant aspect of the Central Intelligence Agency budget and there are no outlays for a project of the nature likely being carried out here."

Chesterfield thought quickly.

"You covered your trail," the general offered. "You fellas do that all the time. Everybody knows that. The public doesn't trust you." Chesterfield smiled. "Face facts, spy boy, as my dear departed pappy used to say, that dog of yours just won't hunt."

Smith shook his head. "You do not understand. There is not the additional funding for Shock Troops or any other such project at the CIA. It does not exist. Period. However, I have found in my research that a clerical error in Washington significantly increased your base maintenance stipend last year. It was part of the last-minute emergency defense expenditures prior to the last mid-term elections. You failed to report the increase to your superiors. Furthermore, the money-as far as I have been able to discern has been spent."

As Smith spoke, the crimson face of Chesterfield's tirade had returned. His mouth opened and closed as he attempted to speak. For the first time in his adult life, no boom came out. Little more than a pathetic squeak rose from the great throat of General Delbert Xavier Chesterfield.

"Lies," he managed to say eventually. When the word came, it sounded as if he'd been sucking on a helium-filled balloon.

"I am sorry, General," Smith said efficiently. "I have followed the money trail directly to you. Roote is part of your Shock Troops project. Presumably the first and only."

Chesterfield shook his head slowly. His dark eyes were glazed. "I deny everything," he said.

"It does not matter," Smith said. "All that matters is the truth, which will be made clear."

The general was still in a fog. "If you know about Shock Troops, you somehow got into closed base files." A light dawned. "Yeah," he said, eyes coming back into focus. "If you got into my locked files, you could have done anything. Even planted a phony money trail."

Smith had had enough. "This is ridiculous," the CURE director snapped. "Assume I created a false trail. Assume I did everything. Tell me what we are up against."

Chesterfield nearly knocked his chair over in the excited struggle to get to his feet. "You take the blame?" he asked cagily.

"I do not care," Smith said, perturbed.

"For all of it? Shock Troops? Roote? Everything?"

"Whatever," Smith replied. "What I need now is all information available on Elizu Roote."

The general smiled broadly. He picked his riding crop up from his desktop, slapping it up under his armpit.

"Sir, I think we can come to what my ex-wife's lawyer used to call a mutually satisfyin' accommodation," General Chesterfield boomed.

MAJOR GRANT HAD EXHAUSTED nearly all of the painkillers in the Fort Joy infirmary. Still, more patients arrived.

He had lost ten already. Three had died on their way from the battle scene. The others were too far gone to help.

Of the soldiers still alive, Major Grant had already sent many on to burn units in better-equipped hospitals off base. Army doctors waited in the courtyard, picking through the wounded as they arrived, deciding at a glance who would be kept and who would be immediately transferred.

Triage for those brought into the infirmary building was being conducted by Grant and another harried doctor. From what Major Grant had seen so far, they were all in pretty rough shape.

Grant stepped over a minefield of legs as he searched for patients he had not yet examined. As had been the norm for the past half hour, he found one instantly.

Down the corridor from where the major was working, two corpsmen were carrying an injured soldier into the infirmary. There was no longer any room in the main hallway, so they leaned him alone in the alcove of the supply hallway.

Grant was angered by the carelessness of the corpsmen. If he hadn't seen the two men running from the spot with a stretcher, he never would have known the soldier was there.

Ducking down the corridor, Grant found the private lying in the shadows. The soldier's eyes were open. He appeared more alert than the rest. In fact, at Major Grant's appearance, he actually pushed himself upright.

"What's your problem, soldier?" Grant demanded, crouching down before the man.

"I-" The soldier giggled. "I think I love you."

Laughing out loud, Elizu Roote slapped his palms against either side of Grant's head.

The surge was short and powerful. The major's brain was literally fried by the wave of electricity that fired across every synaptic pathway at once. Hair smoking, the Army doctor toppled over onto Roote's legs.

"Mama always wanted me to marry a doctor." Roote snickered. He pushed the twitching corpse away.

Roote knelt beside the body. He used the tail of the major's white coat to wipe off the worst of the oil and grime that he had smeared on his face before joining the men he had attacked at the fence.

Once he was through, Roote stood calmly. Strolling at a leisurely pace, he wandered across the main infirmary hallway and out the swinging doors.

REMO'S VISION WAS NOT as keen as it had been before his encounter with Roote. He realized it once they had traveled a few hundred yards away from the activity at the Fort Joy gate.

Although the area immediately around the jeep was clearly visible, he was having a difficult time with objects in the distance. It was part of the same problem that afflicted his entire system.

While they drove through the desert, Remo was forced to rely on the Master of Sinanju for directions.

Chiun was having some difficulty, as well, but not for the same reason as Remo. In spite of his exceptional night vision, the aged Korean was having difficulty following the fresh trail across the desert because it was so uneven.

The path was erratic. Even so, it would have been easy for Chiun to see if it had been exclusively through sand. Apparently their quarry had raced across stone surfaces and through fields of thick sage. It was obvious to Remo that the Army private they sought had been in a blind panic as he fled the site of the massacre.

Concentrating so as not to have to ask his mentor for every twist and turn in the route, Remo steered the jeep in a zigzagging pattern, following the trail to a point, losing it, doubling back, picking it up once more, following to the next twist. It was an arduous process that led them miles away from the Army camp.

Far behind, the tiny lights of Fort Joy helicopters swooped back and forth across the night sky. Chiun sat at the edge of his seat, peering intently at the ground as they drove along. The amber headlights seemed to bounce and settle in wild spurts as the jeep hopped rocks and minor bluffs.

"There," the Master of Sinanju announced. A bony finger was aimed at a tangle of brush beyond a long, flat rock.

Remo turned the jeep without question. As they drove off in this new direction, he quickly spied the single footprint in the sand beneath the bush that had signaled Chiun they should turn. He blinked hard, annoyed that he hadn't seen the print himself.

"He couldn't have gone much farther," Remo commented. Sage scratched like the talons of groping demons along the side of the jeep. "There wasn't that much time."

"He is close," Chiun admitted, nodding.

A wave of fresh concern took hold of Remo as they broke through the far side of the field. "There," Chiun said once more.

Remo followed his outstretched hand. He instantly spied the footprints heading away from the cluster of desert brush. They led up a slight incline. Remo followed like a dog on a scent.

A rough path had been left by all-terrain vehicles crossing the side of the long hillock. Remo followed the trail to the crest of the hill.

The winding path of a dry riverbed opened up below the jeep. Above the barren river, Remo no longer needed Chiun to guide his vision. He saw the body immediately.

Lying facedown at the very center of the deep furrow was a lone, battered man.

Stopping at the bank of the long-dead river, Remo cut the jeep's engine. Leaving the headlights on to illuminate the scene below, he climbed down to the dust.

Chiun got out the other side.

"You think he's dead?" Remo whispered.

"Open your ears," Chiun replied tightly.

It was an effort, but Remo forced himself to listen more intently. Straining at the effort, he eventually picked up the sound of the man's heart.

The heartbeat was frantic. Although it was pounding madly, at the moment it sounded more confident to Remo than his own. The thought was not comforting.

"You think he's playing possum?" Remo asked, his voice still pitched low.

"I am not going to stand out in the desert with you all night playing the world-famous Remo Williams 'You Think?' game," Chiun said, peeved.

And tugging up the skirts of his kimono, the Master of Sinanju promptly began hiking down the dry embankment. Remo hustled to catch up with him.

"Be careful, Little Father," Remo whispered. Chiun nodded tersely.

Side by side, the two of them stepped cautiously over to the prone form.

As they approached the body, Remo noted that he didn't feel the same telltale thrill of electricity in the air that he'd noticed during his first encounter with Roote. It was possible Roote had exhausted all of his supply on the attack back at Fort Joy.

There was not a hint of movement from the body as they slid up to it, each on one side.

Remo was relieved to see the Master of Sinanju was being more cautious than he'd expected. Some of what the old Korean had seen and heard this night had made an impact.

One of the prone man's hands was jutting at an awkward angle from beneath his body. Chiun bent at the waist to examine it. After only a glance, the Master of Sinanju rose to his full height, a disgusted look on his face.

One sandal stabbed forward, catching the man under the chest. Before Remo could object, Chiun flipped the body over.

Lying on his back at the bottom of the ancient river, Arthur Ford blinked madly. He looked up at Remo and Chiun, his eyes blobs of white in his dirt-smeared face.

"Ben?" he asked.

"It's not him," Remo announced to Chiun. For the first time he realized that the man had been too tall to be Elizu Roote. He seemed deeply disappointed.

The Master of Sinanju nodded. "His hands were not as you described."

"Then Roote must still be near the base," Remo said, his face growing concerned.

Chiun nodded. "We must hurry." He turned to go.

"Ben Kenobi, is that you?" Ford persisted. He was staring hopefully at Chiun.

"What do we do with this guy?" Remo asked, ignoring the question from the dirt-covered man on the ground.

Pausing at the edge of the river, Chiun looked disdainfully down at Arthur. "The buzzards will enjoy whatever the wolves do not finish." Hiking his skirts up around his ankles, the Master of Sinanju marched up the incline.

"Help me, Obi-wan Kenobi," Ford pleaded. "You're my only hope." He reached out a hand to Chiun's departing back.

"I guess we should take him back," Remo called.

Although it was offered somewhat as a question, Chiun had already crested the hill. The old man disappeared behind the glare of the jeep's headlights.

Remo glanced reluctantly at Ford.

"Assuming he wants to go back," he said to himself.

Ford sat up, suddenly animated. He blinked exhaustion and delirium from his bloodshot eyes. "To the future?" he asked excitedly.

"It's going to be a long ride home," Remo sighed.

Bending down, he hefted Arthur Ford up onto his shoulders.

As he climbed back up to their jeep, the ufologist was humming loudly. It was the theme to Star Wars.

Chapter 14

PROJECT SHOCK TROOPS FORT JOY, NEW MEXICO CLASSIFIED

TOP SECRET

Smith read the main screen of the computer in the drafty warehouse laboratory of the Fort Joy special-projects unit. A thick file containing much of the same information stored in the system lay open on the desk beside him.

Behind him, the huge tank in which Elizu Roote had been imprisoned lay empty. The water had been drained the day before. The rubberized isolation cell that had contained the Army serial killer was gone, destroyed on orders from General Chesterfield himself.

The bodies of the men he had electrocuted during his escape were also gone. A faint smell of chlorine hung in the air-conditioned coolness.

Chesterfield hovered over Smith as the CURE director navigated further into the system. The general was chewing nervously on one thumbnail, his arms crossed over his big chest, one forearm resting on his belly.

"Some of those files might have Fort Joy security codes on them," Chesterfield said. "Hell, they might even have my name and authorization on them. Depends on how thorough you were when you tapped into our system."

Smith did not look his way. He continued to work at the computer as he spoke.

"I will accept your fallacious premise if you agree to stop trying to sell me on the concept," he said thinly.

Chesterfield raised his hands in apology. He fell mute, clasping both hands behind his back as Smith accessed the necessary information.

The laboratory computer network was a closed system, which was why Smith hadn't been able to access any of the Shock Troops information earlier. None of the computers in the big laboratory building were hooked into any outgoing telephone lines. Smith soon saw why.

It was horrific. Page after electronic page detailed the procedure used to transform Elizu Roote into a creature of frightful power.

Given the green light by General Chesterfield, the scientists hired with funds mistakenly sent to Fort Joy had set out to marry biomechanical systems with Roote's natural biological system. In effect, they had created a bionic human being.

The Shock Troops team owed a great deal to Nicholas Rashevsky, Smith noted as he scanned a sick eye across the material. Rashevsky's mathematical analysis of the various functions of the central nervous system had been a virtual primer for the insertion of flexible metal cords along the length of Roote's spinal cord. In their notes, the only problem the science team foresaw was possible paralysis of the test subject. The level of dispassion expressed in the notes was horrifying.

The brain and eye surgeries were a veritable breeze for Roote after the stress of bionic alteration coupled with the months of recuperation time.

The nonconductivity of fiber-optic cable made this material crucial to the next stage of Roote's alteration. It would not do to have their subject electrocute himself along the internal pathways of his own targeting system. Fortunately for the Fort Joy scientists, this particular type of cable was commonly used for tactical military applications. When they requested it, the cable was readily supplied by the base commander.

Much of the research into the encoding process of the visual system had already been done by other research groups around the world. Optical recognition systems had advanced to the point where it was a fairly simple procedure to install the necessary fiber-optic cable along the Army private's ocular nerve.

The scientists wove one end of the cable into the mechanical systems of Roote's lower body.

The other was threaded through the optic line directly into the brain.

Specially designed microchips connected to the cerebellum and were linked to parts of the subcortical basal ganglia, thus creating an artificial system that would be able to decipher and coordinate the new information taken in by Roote's ocular targeting implants. In effect, the man-made system explained to Roote's brain what was taking place at any given moment along his complex artificial assemblage.

From the spinal cord, surgically implanted insulated wires were installed along Roote's entire skeletal structure. Primary atomic capacitors capable of storing vast quantities of electrical energy were buried in his shoulders and hips. A pair of secondary capacitors was wired into the system at his thighs and functioned as emergency backups.

As Smith read the overview of what had been done to the pathetic soldier, one word continued to creep into his horror-struck mind: why? Why, why, why?

He hadn't realized that he had spoken the word aloud until he was interrupted in his work. "What did you say?"

The voice of Chesterfield bellowed behind him, jarring Smith from his thoughts.

The CURE director turned in his seat. He shook his head in dumb amazement. "Why would you do something so appalling?" he said softly.

There was no accusation in his voice. Just a genuine, human curiosity. The kind that surfaced in seasoned homicide detectives when studying a particularly gruesome crime scene.

Chesterfield appeared somewhat apprehensive. He shrugged his massive shoulders. "Of course, I'm not admittin' to anything. This is all purely off the record."

Smith nodded his acceptance. By not agreeing aloud, the CURE director would technically not be reneging on a promise when the time came to remove General Chesterfield. It was not in Harold Smith's nature to lie.

"You see these, Jones?" Chesterfield asked, dropping a finger to the bar on his left shoulder. He tapped the two gold stars. "Got the second of these ten years ago. Haven't seen one lousy promotion since."

Smith was aghast. "You did this for advancement?" he asked.

"Not just any advancement, sir," Chesterfield said, insulted, as he stood at attention. "Army advancement. I've been languishing at the bottom of the upper ranks for too damn long. Sometimes in this man's Army it becomes necessary to make your own opportunities. What you're lookin' at right there is a made opportunity. Or was."

Smith looked back at the computer screen, which displayed a schematic of Elizu Roote's mechanical system. The skeletal frame was shown in red, and the artificial implants were highlighted in white.

Contacts at the back of the soldier's neck and at his elbows shunted the power down to the conductive pads buried in his fingertips. The pads were fashioned from solid gold, the best conductor of electricity.

The CURE director turned back to Chesterfield. "You are mad," Smith said simply.

The general shook his head firmly. "Just extremely pissed off. The Shock Troops project was supposed to get me my seat on the Joint Chiefs of Staff. At this point, we'll be lucky to sell Roote to Ma Bell for scrap."

Smith was amazed at the general's unconcerned attitude. There was nothing he could say that would be appropriate to such a confession of monumental egotism. He turned back to the desk, dropping a hand atop the paper printouts.

"Shock Troops Project, Subject Roote: Classified."

Bracing himself for the contents of this particular file, Smith opened the manila folder.

Of course Smith already knew that shock troops were men chosen for offensive work because of their extremely high morale, as well as for their training and discipline. But as he read the psychological appraisals contained in the file, he found that Private Elizu Roote had nothing in common with the definition.

As a soldier he was a virtual washout. He was sullen and withdrawn. Prone to fights, he had been a discipline problem several times in his Army career.

Smith read through six pages of single-spaced text before finding evidence of Roote's homicidal tendencies. At the point when the CURE director thought that nothing else could shock him about this operation, he found himself more astonished than ever.

"He murdered two people," Smith said flatly.

"Two confirmed, yes," Chesterfield readily agreed. "A local first, then a nurse. Of course, the nurse was after the procedure so she don't rightly count. That's when we drugged him and stuck him in the box."

"There were more," Smith said. The file speculated that Roote was the likeliest suspect in several unsolved murders.

"Probably. He fits the serial-killer profile. Young, white, in his twenties. Soldier about to be dishonorably discharged. The works."

"And you proceeded to alter him in spite of your knowledge of his mental condition?"

"Are you kiddin' me, son?" Chesterfield mocked. "That's what made him perfect. He was shit out of luck on this murder thing. We had him dead to rights. It was either the gas chamber or volunteer."

"How could he refuse."

The general missed the irony completely. "Absolutely," he enthused. "And it worked, too. The plan always was that he'd be the prototype. We'd be able to build more once we were sure all the bugs were worked out. An army of invincible soldiers marching for the good ole U.S. of A." Even as he finished boasting of his great scheme, Chesterfield's shoulders began to droop. "Then he goes off and escapes and screws up the whole works. I might never get my stars now."

"Forgive me if I take no pity on your dashed career hopes," Harold W. Smith said sarcastically. Chesterfield didn't appreciate his tone. His brow furrowed as he watched Smith take his laptop computer from his battered leather briefcase.

"Listen, buddy, are you gonna be all right here?" the general asked, annoyed. "I've got some stuff I've got to take care of. Don't forget, we've still got a maniac on the loose who most likely wants to fry my ass."

"I will need some time here," Smith said.

"Take it," the general said, backing toward the door. "Take all the time you need."

He watched for a moment as Smith set up his computer on the table next to the lab monitor. With nimble fingers, the CURE director hooked into the back of the lab computer, accessing the hard drive. He began downloading files.

As the Shock Troops data was being transmitted to CURE's Folcroft mainframes via the portable laptop, Smith hunched back down before the monitor. He began to study Elizu Roote's schematics, hoping to find a weakness. Anything that might give them an advantage.

AT HIS ROOM, the general could not help but smile. The whole Shock Troops idea had been an unquestionable disaster. Until now. Chesterfield now had a scapegoat in Mr. Harold Jones. Jones could shoulder the blame even as the general took whatever credit might arise. And there could very well be some.

Chesterfield had been on the phone again with one of his superiors in Washington. There was genuine interest in what had been going on at Fort Joy. In spite of his complaints of being stuck at two stars, the future might not be as bleak as it had earlier appeared.

As the general left the lab for the last time, self-preservation was the order of business for the career soldier. It was cover-your-ass time in a major way. Let Jones and his two operatives clean up this mess. When the shit finally hit the fan at Fort Joy, General Delbert Xavier Chesterfield had no intention of being anywhere near the messy splat.

Chapter 15

"It's my fault," Arthur Ford wailed.

The jeep was prowling swiftly across the desert toward Fort Joy.

The stars were diamonds, scattered across the heavens. Out here they were bright enough to illuminate the vast tracts of empty land in a thin wash of ethereal white.

"Are you going to ask him?" Remo said to Chiun.

"No," the Master of Sinanju droned. "And if you know what is good for you, neither will you." Neither one of them had to ask. Ford volunteered the answer on his own.

"I failed to understand him. I'm lucky enough to meet an actual alien and I have to run away. Now he's at the mercy of the military." As if cradling a baby, Ford clutched to his chest the water bottle he'd found in the back of the jeep. "Oh, how terrible it must be for him. To have to face the hostile military of an alien world on his own."

"I think the military has to worry more about him than he does about it," Remo commented aridly.

"No, no," Ford moaned. "You don't understand. No one understands." He stared out into the lonely desert night.

"You think you've been tooling around the desert all day with Robby the Robot and you're telling me I don't understand?" Remo said.

"Remo, why are you still talking to it?" Chiun complained, his parchment face a scowl. "You are only encouraging it."

"Why didn't I sign a mutual nonaggression peace treaty with him?" Ford lamented to the desert night.

"See?" Chiun demanded, swatting Remo on the arm.

"I don't think he needs much encouragement, Little Father." Remo frowned, rubbing his stinging bicep. He was about to say something more when Chiun touched him on the forearm.

When he glanced over at the Master of Sinanju, the old Korean was nodding surreptitiously to the back seat.

All was silent. For the first time since Arthur Ford had come back to what passed for his senses, the UFO enthusiast had stopped talking.

Chiun placed a long finger to papery lips. "Shh," he said in a cautious whisper only Remo could hear. "With any luck he has swallowed his tongue and is choking to death."

The silence lasted all of three seconds.

"Maybe if we'd agreed on terms, the military would have been persuaded to go along," Ford announced abruptly. "After all, the United Federation of Planets has a military dimension, but it has benign intentions. Maybe this could have been the start of a new world order."

Twisting in the passenger's seat, the Master of Sinanju stared, irritated, at Ford. He frowned as he examined the features of their passenger. Bouncing morosely in his seat, Ford didn't seem to notice the scrutiny.

"Is he insane?" Chiun asked Remo.

"He wasn't in the desert long enough to be dehydrated," Remo offered, steering up an incline in the dusty path. The hurricane fence surrounding Fort Joy was a dark strip in the distance. "And it wasn't daytime, so he couldn't have suffered sunstroke. My guess is he's the real deal."

"Hey, aren't you the guy who was with that G-man at the Roswell airport?" Ford blinked, noticing Chiun for the first time.

"G-man?" Remo questioned.

"Smith," Chiun replied, facing forward once more.

"Oh."

Ford had already forgotten his own question. He sank back into the pool of despair he had created in the rear of the jeep.

"How is history going to remember me?" Ford complained. "I missed an opportunity for a cultural exchange with an extraterrestrial. Think of what he could have taught us."

"How to kill for fun and profit?" Remo suggested blandly.

"That was only a defensive mechanism," Ford insisted quickly. "The Army shot first."

"Only because they know what he can do," Remo said.

"And are afraid of him. Typical. A visitor comes all the way from another planet and we greet him with guns."

"He's no more an alien than I am," Remo said, irritated.

Ford's eyes suddenly narrowed. He stared intently at the back of Remo's head, as if searching for antennae. "Are you?"

"Of course not," Remo snarled.

Ford accepted the denial even as he scooted to the far corner of the back seat. Just in case. "Think of the science we missed out on because of me," Ford complained from his new perch. "Maybe if I'd stuck by him when he needed me, he might have given me the secret of an inverse proton propulsion system or some other method of interstellar travel. Otherwise it could take years for humans to travel from Earth just to the nearest star."

In the front seat, Remo and Chiun glanced quickly at one another.

"I'll pay for the ticket," Remo volunteered hastily.

"One way," Chiun added swiftly.

SMITH BECAME AWARE of the sound as he was completing his work on the Shock Troops files. The pulsing explosion was like that of a transformer blowing up. The noise swelled in a loud thump, then receded. Thumped, then receded. It was as if an awkward giant were taking huge steps across the grounds outside the laboratory.

Smith assumed the sound was just more of the crazed activity that had followed Roote's assault against the perimeter fence.

There were fewer helicopters rumbling over the roof now. The dead and wounded had been returned to the main camp area. The sound he was hearing was probably just the Army involving itself in some exercises preparatory to another attack.

Disregarding the noise, he detached his laptop from the back of the lab terminal.

Every scrap of information contained in the computer had been transferred back to Folcroft. As soon as the transfer was complete, Smith destroyed the hard drive. He proceeded to do the same to all the other computers within the lab. He would deal with those in the outer offices later.

Using a special wand from his briefcase, Smith magnetized every floppy disk he could find, destroying the contents of those, as well.

As he worked, Smith could not help but think of what General Chesterfield had done here.

The casualty list that had caught Smith's eye while at CURE headquarters was woefully inadequate. He had found a far more detailed inventory of Elizu Roote's victims on the base computer system. It was a grisly roster with a few notable exceptions.

During and after his escape from isolation, Roote had killed virtually all of the scientists involved in the procedure that had made him what he was: Their deaths, coupled with the destruction of all records, guaranteed there would be no resumption of these horrible experiments.

All that was left was the general himself. Returning to the workstation where he had completed the bulk of his work, the CURE director gathered up a few last items. He replaced his laptop in his briefcase, sliding in beside it the thick dossier left him by General Chesterfield. With both thumbs, he was careful to make certain that the two briefcase latches were secured tightly.

Smith stood, scanning the area to see if there was anything he had forgotten.

Thump!

The noise was closer than before. It filtered through to Smith's consciousness, though he paid it little real attention.

Yes. His work was finished in the lab. All he had left was whatever information remained in the outer offices.

Thump! Very close. Followed by a muffled shout.

To Smith, it still sounded like a transformer exploding. He thought of this as he began strolling to the lab door.

Thump! A scream.

It hit Smith all at once. His face registered the shock of sudden realization.

A transformer.

Thump! More cries of panic.

Knuckles white on his briefcase handle, Smith ran from the coolness of the lab out into the hallway. He found a window in one of the tidy offices. As he peered outside, there came a brilliant flash, as from lightning during a fierce thunderstorm.

But, Harold Smith knew, this storm was anything but natural.

The flash was accompanied by the same massive thump he had heard before, this time no longer muffled by the laboratory walls. The window panes rattled at the sound waves from the electrical blast.

Smith blinked the dancing spots from his eyes as he sought out the source.

He found it with chilling ease.

The dark shape of a man strolled out from behind the white-painted clapboard base chapel. The instant he did so, an uneven stream of energy pulsed seemingly from out of the thin air before him.

On the far side of the courtyard, a jutting rifle barrel caught the charge. The soldier holding the weapon shrieked in pain and was flung backward by the powerful jolt of electricity.

There were shouts from outside. More troops raced forward, darting for cover behind buildings and parked vehicles. Methodically, without any sign of hurry, Elizu Roote took out each of the men in turn.

Smith watched the scene with growing horror. It seemed as if every soldier who drew a bead on Roote with a weapon became an automatic target for a bolt of electricity. Smith knew that this was a feature of the defensive hardware wired into Roote's central nervous system.

The soldiers were having no effect whatsoever on General Chesterfield's Shock Troops prototype. It didn't take long for them to realize they were fighting a lost cause.

The cry for retreat was called. The wounded were gathered up and carted away amid sporadic bursts of feeble weapons fire.

The Fort Joy courtyard had been relinquished to Elizu Roote. With a contemptuous arrogance, the private sauntered out from behind the chapel. Thumbs tucked into his waistband, he wandered off in the direction of Chesterfield's headquarters. Smith watched as the rogue private went.

There was no sign of Remo or Chiun in the courtyard. Either they had tried to stop him and failed, or Roote had slipped past them.

Smith could not chance waiting. If his two operatives were dead and he failed to act now, Roote might escape. He couldn't allow that to happen.

Tucking his briefcase into the well under a desk, Harold Smith slipped from the office. As he ducked into the shadows of the laboratory hallway, he wondered how he could hope to succeed when both Masters of Sinanju, as well as the United States Army, had failed.

THE TANKS WERE LIKE creatures from some bygone age- dinosaurs left to erode to bone and dust in the desert heat.

There were no men in sight as Remo, Chiun and ufologist Arthur Ford tore back through the desert gates of Fort Joy.

Remo slammed on the brakes, sliding to a stop inside the rear gate. Slipping from behind the wheel, he hit the sand at a run, racing over to the spot where Elizu Roote had gripped the electrified fence.

He found the footprints that had misled them earlier. A single print half-hidden beneath a cluster of sage indicated Roote's true direction.

The new path led onto the rocky ledge that spread for several yards on the other side of the fence. At the spot where the rock stopped, the tracks began anew. Remo traced them all the way over to the gate and directly to the line of silent, crippled tanks.

Remo ran back to the jeep, hopping in behind the wheel.

"He got through," he announced, grimly.

"He's here?" Ford asked excitedly. Leaning forward, he grabbed on to the tops of both front seats. "Are we going to liberate him from the evil clutches of the military?"

"Only long enough to liberate his psycho head from his shoulders," Remo said somberly, throwing the jeep in gear.

They took off with such speed, Ford was thrown back into the rear seat. The jeep steered a certain course for the heart of the base.

ELIZU ROOTE HAD a great tradition of killing without compassion. He'd started young.

His mama-for Elizu Roote there was no daddy-hadn't much liked it when he took out his youthful frustrations on the various neighborhood pets. The neighbors liked it even less. But it was only after he'd taken a pair of vise grips to the toy poodle belonging to the preacher's daughter that the authorities first took notice.

A deputy with a thing for the hysterical young girl and a shovel in his hand uncovered the animal graveyard in the back of the Rootes' tenement in Charleston, West Virginia.

Mama Roote had been all too eager to let the state take charge of her troubled son. When she hadn't been dominating him, she'd treated him as an inconvenience. For her, the mound of rotting animal corpses spelled freedom.

At thirteen Elizu started the cycle of counselling and foster homes that would continue until his eighteenth birthday. Of course, the killing never stopped. But he was more careful than he'd been as a kid.

He would adopt dogs from animal shelters in nearby communities and take them for a final trip deep into the woods. Their pitiful yelping cries helped to slake his thirst for blood during those long, awkward teenage years.

To celebrate his high-school graduation, Elizu joined the Army and killed his first prostitute all in the same day. After that, the next few years were a blur.

There were more women, of course. He'd never stopped the killing. He had no other hobbies, no other interests to fill the void of his life.

Roote knew he fit the famous FBI profile of a serial killer. Other men might not like to be shoehorned into a narrow category like that. But Elizu Roote didn't have any friends, either from the Army or from his youth. He shied away from group activity, he was not exactly a joiner. For him, to be a serial killer was to be part of something. A member of a select group of like-minded individuals.

In a life that was gutted of everything meaningful, Elizu Roote needed to define his existence. He was a serial killer. For if he wasn't that, he was nothing.

At least that was what he always thought. But now, thanks to the United States Army, he was much more.

AS ELIZU ROOTE STROLLED with impunity through yet another empty Fort Joy street, a soldier appeared from the shadows beside an officer's house.

Before Roote even realized there was a threat, he'd targeted the soldier and his hand flew up. The thump of a solitary burst of electricity exploded across the night air.

His gun barrel snatched the surge of energy like a lightning rod and the soldier dropped.

Roote walked past the twitching body. He recognized the dead man. But although the face he looked upon was familiar, no emotion accompanied the recognition.

Just a body. Another corpse to throw on the growing pile. Elizu Roote was a god stepping on ants.

He had had the same reaction upon seeing the faces of the other men he had killed this night. Not one of his fellow Fort Joy soldiers had even noticed when he'd disappeared months before. While the surgeons and scientists were conducting their sick alterations on him, no one thought to look for him. Not one of them came to help while he was being held captive in his rubberized tomb.

He had been nothing to them. They were nothing to him.

The chorus of voices in Roote's head sang with glee as he fired three rapid shots at a trio of skulking soldiers. Only the last of them managed to squeeze off a few rounds before the intricate tracking system connected to Roote's finger pads blew him away.

Bullets ripped through the air around him. But none kissed the flesh of the godlike Elizu Roote. He walked through the hail of lead unharmed, stepping beyond the latest smoking bodies. Moving toward his ultimate target the headquarters of General Delbert Chesterfield.

SMITH'S RAPID ANALYSIS of Roote's internal systems had proved correct so far. Shadowing Roote across the grounds of Fort Joy, Smith had no doubt that he had survived thus far only because he hadn't attempted to shoot the private. Therein lay the CURE director's dilemma.

He had ventured out after Roote in order to stop the deranged killing machine. However, the moment he attempted to do so using conventional means, Roote's systems would target him as a threat and destroy him.

Helpless to act, Smith could only watch as more soldiers died at the hands of this frightening horrid manufactured aberration.

Smith leaned into a barracks wall, feeling the rough texture of the wood beneath his hands. The uneven lines of the clapboard building pressed against his back. Cautiously he peered out across the courtyard.

Roote was only a few dozen yards away. The soldier was meeting less and less resistance the closer he got to Chesterfield's headquarters.

Angled floodlights positioned in pairs along the exteriors of all buildings facing the courtyard spread an even coat of brilliant white on the dusty grounds.

Though Roote appeared to be careful to stay to one side of the yard so as to avoid a full-out assault at the center of the parade grounds, it was more an instinctive reaction than a conscious one. He didn't seem outwardly concerned.

And rightly so. As far as Smith could tell, the private had nothing to fear from the troops he met. Focusing on the deranged soldier as he continued on his remorseless trek toward the base headquarters, Smith hadn't been paying attention to his immediate surroundings. He was startled to hear a foot suddenly scuff the dirt beside him.

Whipping away from Roote, Smith spun toward the noise. He came face to face with a group of four young soldiers. They were sliding up to the CURE director. Their boyish features registered clear apprehension.

"Out sightseeing, sir?" one of them asked, his voice a husky whisper.

"What the devil is going on here?" Smith demanded with quiet anger. He waved a hand in Roote's direction. "These men appear undisciplined. The only possible defense against Roote is a full-blown assault from every direction at once. All I have seen are sporadic attacks."

The soldier's eyes were dead. "That's what happens when command structure breaks down," he said bitterly.

Fury sparked the gray flint of Smith's eyes beyond his rimless glasses. "I am not interested in your problems, soldier," he snapped, his voice a sharp whisper. "That man is a threat that must be neutralized. I believe he is going after General Chesterfield."

"He ain't going to find him there," a soldier at the rear mocked, youthful voice fraught with tension.

"Why? Where is he?"

"Old Ironbutt left."

"Left?" Smith frowned. "What do you mean?"

"He's gone. Took off. Chopper airlifted his fat ass out of here twenty minutes ago."

Shocked, Smith glanced back at the headquarters. Roote was nearly there. But if what these men were saying was true, he would not find his quarry inside.

A decision was instantly made.

The CURE director turned back to the soldiers, addressing the man who seemed to have taken over as their leader.

"Gather every last man you can find," Smith ordered. "Arm victims from his previous assaults if they can walk. Medical personnel, civilian staff. Everyone." He pointed across the grounds to Roote. "That man cannot be allowed to leave this base. Only a full assault from all sides can bring him down. Even he will not be able to withstand such a barrage."

The soldiers seemed heartened to have someone assume command so authoritatively. Their nervousness fled, replaced by a sudden eagerness for action.

"Yes, sir," the first private said, nodding sharply.

Smith checked his watch. "It is 9:39. At 9:50 you will commence your assault. Expect him to head for the main gate by then. Bear that in mind as you plan your offensive."

The CURE director began to slip back down the rear of the building, away from Roote. The men stopped him.

"What about you?" a soldier asked.

"I have a plan that could render your assault unnecessary," Smith informed him. "If it succeeds, you will know it, for you will not encounter Roote."

"And if it fails?"

Smith didn't miss a beat. "If it fails, I will be dead," he said with grim detachment.

Without another word, he slipped off into the night.

THE ELECTRIFIED FENCE had been constructed around a vast area of New Mexico desert. There was much vacant ground to cover on their race from the rear gate.

Remo and Chiun had already seen the flashing pulses of light while they were still miles away from the central part of the base. In spite of the constant background glow of the normal base lights, the shocks of blue were plainly visible.

It was like a ground-based fireworks display. "If we're lucky, that's coming from the Fort Joy disco," Remo commented tightly as they flew up the hard-packed road.

In the rear, Arthur Ford watched the strobing pulses with silent awe.

The wind as they drove tore mightily at the wisps of hair at Chiun's chin and above his ears. The Master of Sinanju was deep in thought.

More and more, Chiun had begun to accept Remo's seemingly unbelievable story. As he did so, his concern for Remo had grown proportionally. He glanced at his pupil now.

Remo's jaw was clenched. His expression was dour as the jeep flew along the desolate path. Chiun focused his hearing on Remo's heart.

It was still remarkably good, all things considered. His body was working overtime to right itself.

Inwardly Chiun was impressed. The abilities of his son in spirit rivaled those of the greatest Masters of Sinanju. Even surpassed some. The time of Remo's ascension to Reigning Master was overdue.

But no matter how quickly Remo healed now, it would matter little if he fared as poorly in his second encounter with this mysterious creature as he had in his first. For in his current weakened state, Remo would not survive.

Remo's frown deepened as he sensed his teacher's eyes upon him.

"Stop staring at me all the time," he griped abruptly. "I told you, I'm fine."

"I am not worried about you," Chiun said mildly, looking forward once more. "I am trying to decide how to explain your failure against this alleged creature in the Sinanju scrolls. Perhaps the electricity was attracted to your nose or ears," he suggested. "They would be obvious targets."

"He hit me in the chest, Chiun," Remo said, irked.

Chiun nodded. "Therein lies my dilemma."

"I bleed for you."

"Of course, it would be easier for me if you did not fail again."

"I'll do my best," Remo promised.

"That would make my task as chronicler of your misadventures simpler. I would hate to have to bend the truth in the Masters' scrolls."

If he weren't so concerned with what they were about to face, Remo would have laughed out loud. As far as the sacred scrolls of Sinanju were concerned, Chiun was notorious for twisting the truth into whatever pretzel-shaped contortions suited his carp of the day. Instead of commenting on this fact, Remo concentrated on the road ahead.

He had only a few miles to correct his erratic heartbeat, and at the rate he was going he'd never be at his peak by the time they reached their target.

Beside Remo, the Master of Sinanju sensed the concern of his pupil.

Deeply troubled, both men stared silently ahead at the hypnotic pulsing flashes that rose from out the heart of the desert night.

ROOTE CREPT SILENTLY alongside the command center.

He was alone. The sporadic attacks he had fended off since leaving the infirmary had stopped. The men had either fled or were regrouping for another assault.

It wouldn't matter. By the time they came back at him, Chesterfield would be dead. Afterward, Roote would stroll right out the main gate. Anyone who tried to stop him would be killed, too. Thanks to Ironbutt Chesterfield, Elizu Roote was certain to come out on top.

As he approached the general's office, Roote could see a vague dark shape moving on the other side of the thick, translucent plastic that covered the hole in the wall.

Roote didn't move too quickly. He was careful not to make a sound. He wanted nothing more than to surprise General Chesterfield with his sudden appearance.

The plastic had been torn roughly along one edge. As he braced his back against the wall, Roote took the jagged section between his metal finger pads.

There were staples running all along the top and sides of the sheet. With a single, mighty tug, he wrenched the plastic free of the wall. As fast as the sound came, he had already slipped in through the opening.

Without hesitation, Roote fired bolts from all ten fingers at the startled figure across the office. The surge of electricity caught the man in the chest. Eyes flew open in shock as he was lifted off the floor. An instant later, his back slammed against the far wall.

The officer collapsed to the floor. Dead.

The satisfaction Roote had expected on entering the room never materialized. The soldier wasn't Chesterfield.

Roote vaguely recognized the dead lieutenant. So it wasn't the officer he'd been looking for. So what? Chesterfield was here. Somewhere. And Elizu Roote would find him if he had to kill every last soldier on Fort Joy in the process.

He was about to duck back through the hole in the wall when the general's desk telephone jangled to life.

A perverse curiosity took hold of Roote. Striding across the room, he dropped into Chesterfield's chair. His gold fingertips clicked on the receiver as he lifted the phone to his ear.

"General Chesterfield's office," he drawled pleasantly. A smile crossed his face as he glanced at the smoking corpse lying on the floor.

"Please inform the general that his jeep is ready at the motor pool," a tart voice commanded. Roote sat up.

"What for?" he questioned.

"General Chesterfield intends to leave the base," the pinched voice said. "It is my understanding that he wishes to conduct a counteroffensive from a remote location. Please let him know-" The voice paused. "Never mind. He has just arrived at the motor pool."

The line went dead.

Roote quickly climbed to his feet, replacing the receiver. Thanks to the caller, he now knew where he would find Chesterfield. And where he would kill him.

Leaving the body of the lieutenant to mind the office, Roote slipped back out through the flap of plastic.

REMO'S JEEP SKIDDED to a stop at the nearest soldier. There were many more massing at the periphery of the first base outbuildings.

"What's going on?" Remo demanded.

"We're getting our lunch handed to us, that's what," the young man complained. "Dead and wounded everywhere. Big offensive starting in a couple of minutes."

Remo glanced quickly at Chiun. The Master of Sinanju's mouth was stretched into a concerned frown.

As he looked back at the soldier, Remo's expression mirrored that of his teacher.

"Where's Roote?" he asked.

The soldier snickered at the name. He was obviously an acquaintance of the private. "He was spotted near HQ a couple of minutes ago."

Remo spun to Arthur Ford. "Get out," he ordered.

"No way," Ford replied firmly. "It's my fault he's in the evil clutches of the military. For humanity's sake, I've got to do what I can to help him." He clutched determinedly at the seat.

"Kill him or ditch him, Little Father?"

"He is tall," Chiun pointed out with thin impatience.

"Gotcha," Remo nodded.

Hoping Arthur's height would attract the first bolt of lightning, he spun back around, jamming hard on the accelerator. The jeep bounced forward, toward Elizu Roote's last known location.

HIS POWER WAS DRAINED.

The circuitry within him was so familiar to Roote and so integrated with his biological systems, it was as if he'd been dealing with depleted capacitors since he was a child. The sensation was similar in nature to hunger or exhaustion.

His violent trek through the base had forced him to tap into his reserve power. His backup capacitors had been partially sapped, as well.

Although his store of energy was low, Elizu Roote knew that he had a sufficient supply to take care of General Chesterfield. He would recharge afterward.

As he slipped through the open bay door of the Fort Joy motor pool, he tapped his digits together in a twisted parody of finger snapping. Tiny blue sparks accompanied a sound like clacking castanets.

The interior of the building was dark. When he flipped the light switch inside the door, he found that the power had been cut.

They'd expected him. They thought to keep him from recharging by severing the line to the motor pool.

"It ain't gonna work, Ironbutt," Roote taunted from the doorway. "I still got enough juice to fry your fat ass."

As he took another step into the building, Roote noticed a set of jumper cables attached to a solid metal pole just beyond the open door. For some reason, someone had pounded the metal rod into the earthen floor.

He disregarded the post, moving beyond the open bay door and into the shadows of the motor pool.

Roote had just stepped past the door when he sensed someone move out from behind it. In his peripheral vision, he caught sight of a man rushing toward him, something clasped in his hands.

His targeting scanners didn't match the object with any of the potential threats that had been stored on the small microchip buried in his brain. Automated system or no, the decision to kill was instantaneous.

In the instant the man appeared, Roote started spinning toward him, fingers extending to deal flashing death.

But to his shocked astonishment, he never got the chance.

Something painful latched on to a spot at the back of his neck. Clawing pincers. Soft flesh yielded to jagged metal.

The tearing sensation was short-lived. It was completely overwhelmed by a body-racking jolt of pure pain. And to his shock and horror, he felt the bottom drop out of his capacitors. Roote's entire store of electricity was siphoned off in half a heartbeat.

In agony, he stood rigid during the split-second power surge, helpless to act.

And as quickly as it had begun, it was over. His capacitors were completely drained. As was Elizu Roote. With no electricity to animate him, the private collapsed like a rag doll to the floor.

Sapped of life.

THE SAME BLAST that racked Elizu Roote's body flung Harold W. Smith backward to the dirt floor. Although he knew it would endanger his own life, it had been necessary for Smith to be in close to attach the free end of the jumper cables.

The schematics of Roote's mechanical system had suggested to Smith that the metal contact buried beneath the flesh at the rear of the soldier's neck might be a kind of Achilles' heel to his cybernetic systems.

At that moment, the CURE director didn't know that his supposition had been correct. He lay flat on his back near the open door of the motor pool. As still as death.

A few yards from Smith, Roote kicked feebly at the dirt floor as a few residual sparks hopped from his bleeding neck to the steel rod Smith had pounded into the floor.

Chapter 16

Remo spied the first bodies lying in heaps of tangled limbs near the infirmary.

"Looks like our little glowworm's been glimmer-glimmering," he said coldly as they drove past the grisly scene.

"These are not burned like the others," the Master of Sinanju commented, hazel eyes narrowed.

"He had more power to work with back at the fence," Remo suggested. "When he's using his own store, maybe he has to hold back a little."

"It's terrible," Arthur Ford gasped. He was leaning between the two seats, looking out the windshield as they drove past the many smoldering bodies.

"Glad you're finally coming around," Remo said, assuming the gruesome scene had at last dispelled the UFO-chaser's notions of Elizu Roote as benevolent alien.

"What they forced him to do," Ford lamented, shaking his head sadly. He was practically in tears. "It must have been terrible for him."

"What planet are you from?" Remo demanded, astonished that Ford was still unmoved.

"Earth," Ford replied seriously, as if there truly was another option. He sniffled in solidarity with Elizu Roote as they passed another cluster of electrocuted corpses.

The bodies were scattered along a direct path to the base headquarters, like a macabre trail of breadcrumbs.

Remo slowed to a stop near the building where they had gotten their jeep.

Remo and Chiun climbed out. When Arthur Ford attempted to follow, Remo pushed him back in his seat.

"As annoying as you are, I'd still recommend you don't wander away," Remo said reluctantly. Ford considered for a moment, glancing at one of Roote's nearest victims. Finally he fell back into his seat. "Just promise me you'll let him return to his ship if he agrees to go," he said, crossing his arms morosely.

"I'll put him in orbit myself," Remo promised. Ford didn't like the way he said it.

Remo and Chiun left him in the jeep. Side by side, they moved swiftly across the courtyard. The two men hugged the shadows, becoming one with the patches of darkness. Their moves were identical and instinctive as they hurried forward As they rounded one of the many flat one story buildings on the base, the rear of the HQ building suddenly loomed before them.

"Think he's after Chesterfield?" Remo asked as they passed another body.

"That bellowing pork belly commands these legions," Chiun said reasonably. "The bodies lead to his burrow."

Remo nodded agreement. "Be careful, Little Father," he warned.

"And you, as well, my son," Chiun replied softly.

The weight of shared apprehension heavy on their shoulders, neither man spoke again as they slipped around the side of Chesterfield's headquarters.

ARTHUR FORD SAT nervously for several long seconds after Remo and Chiun had gone.

He had done it again. Here he had been given yet another chance to help out the poor misjudged alien, and he had allowed fear to get the better of him.

Sitting in the back of a jeep. A fearful lump. A pathetic waste of humanity. No more.

There was one thing Ford was certain of. A warp field wouldn't form around a stationary object. Screwing up his courage, the ufologist climbed out of the Army vehicle. His heart gripped tightly at his chest as he surveyed the area around the Fort Joy motor pool.

There didn't seem to be any bodies in the immediate vicinity. Maybe Roote hadn't gotten this far.

Remo and Chiun had headed north. Arthur Ford decided to strike out in the opposite direction in search of his alien.

He hadn't walked more than three yards when he spied a body sprawled in the open door of the motor pool.

Ford recognized the man instantly. It was the same government agent he had spotted at the Roswell airport.

The G-man lay sprawled on his back, unmoving. Setting each foot carefully-one slowly before the other-Ford crept deliberately up to the motor pool door.

Leaning against the wood frame, he peered down at the government agent.

The man was alive. Barely. Ford could see the faint movement of his chest beneath his gray vest. That put him one up on the other victims they had passed.

As he moved closer, Ford also saw that the G-man was not singed like the others. It was as if someone had used a stun gun on him. Aside from the fact that he was obviously unconscious, there didn't appear to be anything dramatically wrong with him.

Taking a wide berth, Ford inadvertently stepped into the deep shadows beyond the door.

His ankle hit something solid.

Ford jumped back. Heart thudding madly, he stared into the darkness, trying to see what he had bumped.

As his eyes adjusted to the blackness, he was surprised to see the contours of a foot take shape. Beyond it lay another sprawled body. Another soldier.

The face was so pale it was almost visible in spite of the pervasive darkness. It almost looked like...

Ford recoiled. It was!

He glanced out at the courtyard beyond the open motor pool door. Remo and Chiun would be back any minute. He didn't have much time to make up his mind.

The decision came surprisingly easily. He had shirked his responsibility as a galactic citizen back at the Fort Joy security fence. He would not allow it to happen again.

Stooping, Ford gripped Elizu Roote by both ankles. Walking backward, he began dragging the unconscious alien to the waiting jeep.

THE ONLY OCCUPANT of General Delbert Chesterfield's office was a five-minute-old corpse. "Fresh kill," Remo said, glancing away from the body of the lieutenant.

Chiun was across the room. A tapered fingernail pressed against the interior of the thick plastic that covered the hole he had made in the wall. The plastic sheet moved away from one side at the gentle touch.

"This was his egress," Chiun announced.

As Remo crossed over to him, Chiun raised both hands high in the air. Slashing long fingernails across the heavy plastic, the Master of Sinanju opened up a more respectable doorway. He and Remo ducked through the larger opening and out into the courtyard.

Ten minutes of searching turned up nothing. As they were doubling back past Chesterfield's HQ, Remo and Chiun were approached by a group of suspicious soldiers. Remo waved his FBI identification under their noses.

"Have you seen him?" he demanded urgently. There was no question to whom he was referring.

"Nope," an anxious soldier replied. "We've been waiting at the front door." He jerked his head toward the main gate.

"You think he might have doubled back?" Remo asked Chiun. Before the Master of Sinanju could respond, the soldier cut in.

"Maybe the old guy took him out," he suggested hopefully.

"What old guy?" Remo asked.

"Civilian," the soldier explained. "He kinda took charge when Chesterfield bugged out."

Remo had a sinking feeling. "This old guy," he said worriedly. "Three-piece gray suit? Looks like he gargles with grapefruit juice?"

The soldier nodded emphatically. "That's him," he agreed. "He told us he was going after Roote alone. Said if he failed, Roote'd be coming our way. Since he never showed up, maybe your buddy figured out a way to stop him."

Remo's concerned expression was mirrored by Chiun's.

"We must find Smith," the Master of Sinanju intoned gravely.

As the Fort Joy soldiers fanned out in their search for Roote, Remo and Chiun doubled their efforts to locate the missing CURE director. Their tour brought them back around to the motor pool. The Master of Sinanju frowned as they neared the building.

"Our conveyance is not here," Chiun commented.

"That UFO whack job must have taken it," Remo mused. "Probably went for a spin around Alpha Centauri."

They spied the body the moment they passed the open motor pool door. Racing inside, the two men squatted next to the supine form of Harold W. Smith.

"He's alive," Remo breathed, relieved.

Chiun was already examining Smith's frail chest.

He found at once that the CURE director had not been hit in the same manner as Remo or the others. That was fortunate, since Smith already had a congenital heart defect, as well as a pacemaker. He would never have survived a typical Roote attack.

Chiun began massaging Smith's chest. At the same time, he reached around to a spot at the base of the CURE director's spine. A single finger probed the area.

It was like flipping a switch. At Chiun's expert healing touch, Smith's eyelids fluttered gently open.

Remo had been examining the set of jumper cables attached to the pole in the floor. For some inexplicable reason, a torn chunk of ragged human flesh was caught in the claw of the free end. When Smith's eyes opened, Remo dropped the cables and slipped back beside the Master of Sinanju.

The CURE director's eyes rolled around in their sockets for a moment-seemingly with a life of their own. All at once, they cleared, settling on Chiun first, then Remo.

"How do you feel, Smitty?" Remo asked with a comforting smile.

Smith didn't respond to the soothing words. He was trying to see past Remo and Chiun. "Where is Roote?" he asked weakly.

"We've been looking, but we came up empty," Remo said.

"Save your strength, Emperor," Chiun cautioned. "Find speedy recovery in the knowledge that Sinanju will locate this demon and eradicate him if we must track him to the very ends of the earth."

Smith shook his head. "You do not understand. He is here. I believe I found a way to short him out."

Smith tried unsuccessfully to push himself to his elbows. With Chiun's aid, he settled back into the dirt.

Remo was shaking his head. "He's not here, Smitty," he insisted. "We've looked everywhere." A thought suddenly occurred to him. "Uh-oh," he said, hollow of voice.

"What?"

Remo seemed hesitant to speak. "We found some nutcase in the desert. He kept babbling on about how Roote is really just a misunderstood alien." He shook his head, hoping that he was wrong. "If I'm right..."

He left Smith's side.

Almost at once he found the marks in the earth where something heavy had been dragged. They led from where the jeep had been parked back in to the spot where Roote had fallen. For the first time, Remo noticed the scorched area around the base of the pole. He realized all at once what Smith had done.

Stepping back across the floor, he crouched down beside the CURE director.

"He's gone, Smitty," Remo said apologetically. "Ford must have taken off with him in our jeep." Smith closed his eyes. As he did so, Chiun shot a dirty look at Remo. It was his "don't let the idiot know when you've done something stupid" look. Remo shrugged helplessly. "He'd find out soon enough."

Chiun's eyes went wide. He was readying another nonverbal remonstration-this one much harsher than the last-when Smith's eyes opened once more.

"Do you have any idea where he would go with Roote?"

"Mars isn't an option, so I'd say back the way we came. Jeep tracks look like they turn that way." Smith nodded. "The base defenses were concentrated in the other direction. Roote's pattern was that of a man unconcerned with confrontation. Given his own choice, that is the path he would have taken."

"A wise assessment," Chiun agreed.

"That does us no good now," Smith replied tartly.

He tried once more to push himself to his elbows. This time, he succeeded. He took a deep breath, glancing up at Remo and Chiun. There was work to do.

"Please bring me to my computer," Harold Smith said tiredly.

Chapter 17

Luck was with Arthur Ford. Now if his good fortune would just hold out for a few hours more... Though he expected to be stopped at any minute, he didn't encounter even one of the soldiers stationed at Fort Joy as he tore back across the desolate stretch of land between the main base and the southeast gate.

The row of charred tanks stood like somber sentries from another world as he flew back out the rear gate and onto the packed desert path. Swerving out behind the lip of black rock, he raced down the short hill, coming nose to nose with his own abandoned jeep at the bottom.

Struggling with the deadweight, he transferred Elizu Roote from the Army jeep to his own.

The private never made a sound. He was as limp as a pile of laundry when Ford dumped him into the rear footwell. For added protection, Ford tossed a dusty blanket over the body before running back around to the driver's side.

In another two minutes they were racing back out into the vast barren wastes of New Mexico desert.

Even though he expected helicopters to rake the sand with searchlights at any moment, none materialized. They were not in pursuit. Apparently, the Army was still licking its wounds from its encounters with Roote.

Good. It served the military right for being on the wrong side of every significant extraterrestrial event of the past half century.

Ford knew just where he'd take Roote. It was someplace safe, where people would understand him. Someplace where he would never be found. Not if he lived to be a million years, which, Ford knew in some aliens, was possible.

The red taillights bobbed along the path for a few moments as the vehicle struggled to put greater distance between itself and the United States Army. But almost in a twinkling, the desert blackness swallowed the jeep. The engine sound faded just as quickly across the miles of empty desert.

Chapter 18

Night burned off into the first muzzy streaks of pre-dawn gray above the endless flat desert.

The inevitable arrival of the rising sun revealed a level of destruction on Fort Joy greater than nighttime shadows had suggested. It was like the aftermath of a drunken New Year's party gone horribly awry.

Vehicles had been crippled during Roote's rampage across the base. Black scorch marks marred whitewashed walls where residual electrical energy had blown through the private's many victims. The wash of daylight exposed bodies previously undiscovered.

It was a horrific scene. Still, the chaos Roote had left was slowly coming to order.

Smith had arranged an interim command structure at the base. The breakdown in order among the troops the previous night had been more a result of General Chesterfield's lack of control than anything else. With the general out of the picture, things were coming back around.

Many of the dead had already been bagged and stored. The injured had been nearly entirely relocated. Only those with the most superficial injuries remained at the base infirmary.

Damaged vehicles were being towed to where they could be repaired. Crews were already working to salvage the tanks at the southeast gate, as well as the Apache helicopters in the desert beyond it. The cleanup was going smoothly.

For a time during the night, Remo and Chiun had searched around the base for Roote and Arthur Ford. As expected, they had come up empty. By 3:00 a.m. the two of them had rejoined Smith at the Shock Troops lab where the CURE director had set up a clandestine temporary command center.

Remo's disappointment was great as he stalked around the big empty tank where Elizu Roote had been imprisoned. It was his hundredth circuit since their return.

Smith had largely recovered from his encounter with Roote. His system had been greatly shaken by the electrical discharge, but fortunately for him, most of the power had been channeled into the motor pool floor. Chiun had reasoned that Smith's heart condition was the real cause of his reaction to the relatively mild shock he had received.

To see Smith now, one would never have known he had come in contact with someone as dangerous as Elizu Roote only a few hours before. The head of CURE sat at one of the lab workstations, lost in cyberspace. For much of the night he had been typing rapidly on his laptop.

The Master of Sinanju sat in a lotus position on the floor near the CURE director.

Chiun's eyes were closed. As he sat-as still as a statue-an occasional loud honking snore would emanate from the nose of the greatest assassin on the face of the planet. The Master of Sinanju was oblivious to the noise.

This had been the division of labor for hours-Smith worked, Chiun slept and Remo paced.

As Remo completed another circuit, the CURE director lifted his hands from the laptop keyboard. He clenched his fingers a few times, working out the kinks that had developed in his hours of ceaseless typing.

Smith had said hardly a word to Remo since they'd brought him here. He had been working too feverishly to even speak. When the opportunity presented itself, Remo inserted himself into the sudden, silent vacuum left in the wake of the steady clatter of computer keys.

"Any luck?" he asked, strolling up behind Smith.

The CURE director blinked away weariness. "I have found nearly all there is to know about Arthur Ford, but I have yet to locate the man," he complained.

"Maybe he hasn't made it home yet," Remo suggested.

"That is likely. He lives with a friend in Bangor. The two are apparently space fantasy fanatics."

"How do you know that?"

"I had a warrant issued to the local FBI to search their apartment. The place was loaded with piles of science fiction bric-a-brac. Neither man was there."

"Maybe the friend knows about Ford and Roote," Remo suggested.

"Perhaps," Smith sighed. "He is at something called a Star Trek Convention in Los Angeles. It seems that the devotees of an old canceled television program assemble regularly around the country. To what end, I do not know."

"I've heard of them before," Remo said dryly.

"Really?" Smith asked, genuinely surprised. "I found the notion ludicrous. In any event, the L.A. police have been sent to collect Ford's friend. I doubt that his input will illuminate much, but we have little else to go on."

"What about Chesterfield?" Remo asked. "If you can't give me Roote, at least let me punch that bloated crapbag's ticket."

Smith shook his head. "General Chesterfield has fled east. He arrived at Washington National Airport earlier this morning. Beyond that, I have yet to attempt to locate him."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because Chesterfield is a side issue. He can be dealt with in time. We must not allow ourselves to lose focus of the main objective here."

Remo dropped into a swivel chair near Smith. "Roote," he said bitterly.

"That is correct." Smith tapped a frustrated hand on the table next to his laptop. "General Chesterfield has created in Elizu Roote a potentially unstoppable killing machine. If he reserves his energy, he can go for weeks at a time without recharging. His bionic and biological systems are flawlessly integrated. The science that combined to create him is as brilliant as it is terrifying."

"Tell me something I don't know, Smitty." Smith's face grew grim. "Roote's psychological make-up," he suggested.

"What about it?"

"He likes to kill." Before Remo could interrupt, Smith raised a hand. "It goes beyond the obvious, Remo," he said. "Roote fits the psychological profile of a serial killer to a tee. The psychosis he is displaying now has not manifested itself as a result of his physical alterations. He was most likely insane long before the general got his hands on him."

"So Chesterfield and his pals took a stir-fried, finger-painting loony and turned him into a freaking walking power plant," Remo said flatly.

"It is arguable who was the greater lunatic, but essentially, yes. That is the case."

"Who here's ready to reinstitute the draft?" Remo said, shaking his head in disgust.

Smith's sleep-deprived eyes were glazed. "A being with a combination of Roote's dangerous psychological temperament and man-made abilities was a disaster waiting to happen at the outset."

"And now he's in the hands of some dip shit Buzz Aldrin wannabe," Remo muttered.

"Yes," Smith said, his voice trailing off. He stared beyond Remo for a few long seconds. At last, he turned back to his computer.

As Smith began typing, Remo was rising to his feet. He resumed his endless cycle around the huge tank.

On the floor, the Master of Sinanju continued to snore, unconcerned.

Chapter 19

Earth was doomed. Everyone who didn't already know it would find out soon enough.

It was an ecological thing. It was a political thing. It was a whole damn human race thing. The entire world was going to hell.

People in the know realized that imminent global disaster had as much to do with the destruction of the rain forest and the polluting of the oceans as it did with the planet's leaders. And ultimately the leaders in the United States were the ones that mattered most of all. A sad fact, but true.

For some reason unknown to Beta RAM, the world looked to America for leadership. Even those who claimed they didn't care about the opinions of the U.S. were obviously intensely jealous of the richest nation in the world. The United States set the terms for the global game. And when it fumbled the ball, the world suffered. But Beta RAM knew that this was only part of the story.

The U.S. government was in bed with special interest groups. And no matter who was in charge in Washington, the special interests dictated the rules on a host of different topics. The results were predictable: pollution, germ warfare, nuclear proliferation, the destruction of old-growth forests.

Further, Beta knew that behind the so-called special-interest groups was a cabal of seeming humans who controlled everything, for one evil purpose: to destroy the world. Beta RAM knew that the members of the Association of Evil were men only in appearance. In truth, they were Squiltasalien beings from the swamps of the second moon of the third planet circling Ursa Minor. Fearful of the fact that man was on the threshold of intergalactic travel, they had taken on the appearance of men in order to bring about the destruction of mankind.

Beta had tried to warn four consecutive puppet leaders of America of this grave danger to humanity. He found to his great horror that the influence of the Association was strong. He had been mocked, harassed and-after bringing a concealed weapon to a George Bush rally back in 1992-even imprisoned.

The only figure in recent years to express an interest in his story had been Ross Perot, but Beta RAM had hesitated to ally himself with the Texas billionaire. After all, he didn't want to appear crazy.

Beta RAM-who had been born Bobby Jack Balbo-would have almost given up all hope, condemning the world to the whims of the Squiltas, if not for one thing. Salvion.

Salvion was of the planet Tragg, whose inhabitants were the natural enemies of the Squiltas. In his native Traggian tongue Salvion meant "faith."

Salvion was a being of light who had come to Beta RAM many times over the course of his life. Appearing in glowing robes, he spoke of a future for a select few humans, separate from that ordained by the Squiltas. On several occasions, Salvion had even brought Beta aboard his celestial ark, taking him for rides around the cosmos.

The trips they took together were always breathtakingly beautiful and, oddly, seemed to coincide with Beta's most intense peyote and phenobarbital sessions.

As a result of his meetings with Salvion, Beta had withdrawn from society into the wilds of New Mexico. There, at Camp Earth he gathered around him a group of followers who awaited the inevitable end of time, when the Squiltas would succeed in their designs to destroy the planet. Only then would Salvion land with his celestial ark to shepherd the men and women of Beta RAM's camp to the safety of a distant star system. Where they would establish the paradise of New Earth.

Until that time, all Beta RAM could do was wait. And, as the mood struck him, drink.

The mood had hit him pretty hard lately.

As the desert sun rose higher into the clear blue sky this day, the brilliant stabs of sunlight burst through the corrugated tin sides of Beta's tumbledown hut. The light from the yellow star Sol, around which he had travelled more than once, spilled across his sleeping eyes.

Reluctantly Beta opened one bleary eye on the new day. He saw a foot.

Beta blinked the eye, as if trying to clear a fuzzy sleep image from his waking thoughts.

It was no good. The foot was still there. And it was dirty. Dark crescent moons of mud had collected beneath the too-long toenails.

Still with only one eye open, Beta dragged his gaze all the way up the rest of the filthy, naked body. He had to scuff his cheek against his tattered surplus Army blanket in order to get as far as the face.

When he saw who she was, he shivered in spite of the steamy heat inside the tin hut.

His companion was one of the Indian girls who had glommed onto the hope offered at Camp Earth. Her face was as flat as a crepe and as big around as a basketball. Above her three chins, rotten teeth were exposed with each sucking, snoring breath.

As he rolled over onto his itchy back, Beta opened his other eye. He stared at the white streaks of light slicing through the holes in the roof of the hut roof. He sighed.

"I gotta tell Salvion. When we load up the ark for New Earth-no pigs."

Clearing the morning phlegm from his throat, Beta RAM scanned the dirt floor for his pants.

FIVE MINUTES LATER, Beta RAM was dressed and touring the temporary shelters that comprised Camp Earth, which was erected on a flat plateau in the Caballo Mountains west of the White Sands Missile Range.

The squalid camp was the sort of pathetic shantytown that normally sprang up across the border in Mexico, eighty miles south.

Old car hoods, sections of discarded tin, even the hull of a broken boat were leaned together into makeshift hovels. Ratty tarpaulins and sheets decorated with cartoon characters whose popularity had faded a decade before formed the outer skin of teepees. The skeletal framework beneath consisted of broom handles and steel rods lashed together with scrap wire.

Like Beta RAM, the men and women of Camp Earth had begun crawling out from beneath their piles of rubble to greet the new day. Before the pathetic homes, a few of the disciples of Salvion had already started breakfast.

Rocks were formed in circles to contain crude fires of brush and twigs. Cans of everything from stew to baked beans were being warmed on metal racks. A few more enterprising individuals burned strips of fatty bacon in filthy pans.

Beta walked past all of this activity.

In one of his earliest visitations, Salvion had informed Beta RAM that the item that fell to Earth during the famous Roswell incident had been an escape pod from his own ship. Also on the pod was a group of Squiltas that Salvion had been conducting to a penal colony on Pluto. The evil aliens had transmitted the coordinates of the planet to their home world before being recaptured. Salvion had rounded all of them up-or so he thought.

One had escaped, and this lone Squilta had coordinated the rise to power of the Association of Evil on Earth.

The White Sands Missile Range eventually became a landing strip, as well as a departure point, for the Squiltas on Earth. The arrival of the end time would be made obvious by the increased activity in the desert around the secret base.

Beta thought that the climactic moment he'd been awaiting had finally come the night before, when the lights in the sky swept the desert all around White Sands and Fort Joy. A lot of the people at Camp Earth had begun to pack up their belongings in preparation for boarding the ark. Only when their lookouts stationed in the desert below confirmed that the lights belonged to ordinary terrestrial helicopters did depression finally set in at Camp Earth. With the disappointment came the drinking.

Walking away from the nausea-inducing breakfast smells, Beta RAM was trying to purge himself of that awful hungover feeling by pulling in deep breaths of clean mountain air.

His head felt like a balloon that had been filled to twice its capacity.

Blinking, tasting the film that had collected on his tongue, Beta paused at the edge of the plateau. The sight was breathtaking. It was a sheer drop down to the Rio Grande far below. In the distance the river snaked off around the side of another hill of rough rock.

Faced with the combination of the awesome majesty of nature and the gallon of cheap whisky and beer in his otherwise empty belly, Beta RAM, Prophet of Salvion, Guardian of Camp Earth, Preparer of the Great Migration, could do only one thing. He vomited as if there were no tomorrow.

It took more than ten seconds for the puke to hit the river. By then, Beta was already vomiting again. He puked and puked and puked some more until he thought his stomach would come up through his mouth. It was ten long minutes of painful, ceaseless retching.

When his stomach was at last empty, Beta RAM wiped the bile from his chin. With a thick snort, he pulled back some mucus from his nose.

"Time for breakfast." He coughed, spitting a glob of phlegm into the sparkling river.

He turned and headed back for camp.

Before Beta had even reached the first tin house, he knew something was wrong. The pilgrims of New Earth had abandoned their fires and breakfast plates. They were moving en masse to the mouth of the narrow road that led down to the flat desert on the other side of the rocky hill.

Beta heard the shouted voice as he approached the rear of the crowd.

"Intruder alert! Intruder alert!"

The voice echoed up from the road, filtered through a tinny megaphone. The speeding jeep crested the hill a moment later, skidding to a stop near the line of vehicles belonging to the Camp Earth inhabitants.

The men in the jeep were fellow Salvion disciples. They were part of the crews that toured the desert around the flat hill. As Camp Earth's first line of defense, they would warn the residents of any Squiltas invasion.

Beta RAM pushed his way through the excited crowd, catching up with the breathless arrivals as they jumped from their vehicle.

"What's going on?" Beta demanded.

"Someone's coming!" the driver said excitedly. "We spotted him moving up the road a few minutes ago."

Beta glanced at his disciples. "Squiltas?" he asked nervously. The people behind him withdrew in fright.

The driver shook his head. "Human. At least he appears to be."

"I think it might be Arthur Ford," the other man said, panting. "I couldn't see too good with the binoculars."

Beta RAM relaxed somewhat. He knew Arthur Ford. The ufologist was not a disciple of Salvion, but at least he was a believer. But since he would not be part of the chosen few invited to board the ark, Beta had no idea what Ford would want at Camp Earth.

A few minutes later, Ford's jeep raced up the path and squealed to a rapid stop, kicking up a cloud of sand and stones. Ford hopped out before the jeep had rocked to a stop.

"What can the people of New Earth do for you, friend Arthur?" Beta said by way of greeting. Ford was covered with desert grime. His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with black from lack of sleep.

"We've got trouble," Ford announced seriously. "On a galactic scale."

Without further warning, he reached in through the open door of his jeep. With a yank, he pulled off the blanket he had thrown over Elizu Roote.

The pale, sweating form of the Army private hunched uncomfortably in the rear footwell of the jeep. The heat had caused red hives to erupt on his doughy white skin. Although hours had passed since his encounter with Smith at the Fort Joy motor pool, he remained unconscious.

Beta RAM leaned over to examine the almost phosphorescent-white body. Ford had crammed Roote in the back of the Jeep so tightly, Beta couldn't see him very well.

"Who is he?" Beta asked, turning to the ufologist.

"An alien," Ford insisted.

Beta raised an eyebrow. "A Squilta?" he asked. "I thought they were supposed to be amorphous," Ford said, confused.

Some in the crowd snorted derisively at Ford's obvious ignorance.

"They're capable of taking on human characteristics," Beta said impatiently. "Bill Gates? Need I say more?"

Ford shook his head. "I don't think he's Squilta. At least he hasn't manifested any signs to me."

"I'll be the judge of that," Beta announced. He ordered his followers to carry Roote into the light. They did as they were instructed, stretching the Army private out in the dirt before the jeep. Beta stooped to examine the pale, wasted form more carefully. He found the finger pads immediately.

"What are these?" he said, awestruck.

"Defensive system," Ford explained. "Used only when threatened by the United States military."

A thought occurred to Beta. "All that junk going on in the desert last night, was that him?"

Ford nodded. At this, Beta RAM whistled his approval.

Continuing his exam, Beta found the spot of ragged flesh at the rear of Roote's neck. What little blood was present had dried.

Beta tapped a finger against the partially exposed subcutaneous plate. It clicked.

"No doubt about it," he said, standing. "This boy's not human."

The people of Camp Earth accepted their leader's conclusion with surprising ease. After all, for some of them, this was not their first alien.

"He doesn't look too healthy," commented one of the men who had been first to see Ford approaching.

"Probably the contact with Earth's polluted atmosphere," Beta said, looking down on Roote's stricken body. "Damn Squiltas." Scratching his belly, he glanced up at Ford. "What can we do to help?"

Ford smiled, excited and relieved to finally be among people who truly understood what Roote was.

He took a deep breath. "We need to gather up all the car batteries we can get," Ford exhaled urgently.

Chapter 20

Dr. Harold W. Smith had always thought that when he reached a certain age there would be nothing left that would surprise him. On this day, he learned that he could not have been more wrong.

The director of CURE fought the urge to let his mouth drop open in shock as he scanned reams of material on the World Wide Web devoted entirely to alien conspiracy theories.

Smith knew there always had and would be lunatics out there. But he was amazed to find an entire subculture devoted to the ludicrous notion that the United States government was deliberately covering up the fact of regular alien visits to the planet Earth.

Forget that Earth was a relatively obscure planet in a relatively isolated part of the Milky Way. Never mind that the odds of anyone ever stumbling upon Earth in the vast expanse of the cosmos were beyond astronomical. Overlook the obvious notion that it would be easier to hold a nuclear explosion in a hatbox than to contain a secret on the level being posited by the UFO devotees. None of these considerations warranted concern for those whose eyes were turned hopelessly starward.

To the rational, analytical, staunchly terrestrial mind of Harold W. Smith, the whole discussion was utterly incredible. He wondered if it would seem less unbelievable if he had not been so tired. He doubted it.

Smith had been working for hours without sleep. Police in Los Angeles had rounded up Arthur Ford's roommate. The man had known nothing beyond the fact that his friend was somewhere in New Mexico.

So far, the usual checks had been fruitless. There were no credit-card transactions, no airline tickets, not even a simple traffic violation. It was as if Arthur Ford had vanished off the face of the planet.

The irony of that thought occurred to Smith the moment it passed through his weary brain.

No, Ford was still on Earth. Somewhere. But where?

It was possible that he and Roote had run out of gas and were dying in the desert right now. Perhaps they had even crossed the border into Mexico. It was a big, big world. And in order to track his quarry, Harold Smith needed something, anything to go on. So far, he had nothing.

"Blast." Smith muttered the rare curse under his breath as he dropped back in his seat.

"Nothing yet?"

Remo's voice startled him. Chiun had awakened from his untroubled night's sleep hours ago. He and Remo had gone for a walk around Fort Joy. Smith had been so involved in his work that he hadn't heard them return.

The CURE director sighed. "I would have an easier time locating a single grain of sand in the desert," he complained. Removing his glasses, he rubbed his weary eyes.

"I have great faith in your oracles, Emperor," the Master of Sinanju offered. Hands clasped behind his back, he was looking at them through the wall of the huge tank. The Plexiglas distorted his wizened form.

"Thank you, Master Chiun," Smith said. "But I do not think you appreciate the difficulty of this search. There is a network of individuals out there who I am now certain would be more than willing to aid Elizu Roote. They would be as convinced as the young man we met at the airport that they were dealing with an alien being."

"You haven't even found Ford yet?" Remo asked. He was leaning against the side of the tank. Smith shook his head.

"He has vanished."

"Any friends in the area?" Remo asked. "Maybe there's some other nut nearby who might help him out."

Smith turned to a pad beside his laptop. In a dull monotone, he began reading from the hasty notes he had collected from the Internet.

"Alien Guards, Alien Sentries, Alien Watchers, Binary Ring Party, Brotherhood of the Stars, Brothers of Aliens, Brothers of Man, Camp Alpha, Camp Beta, Camp Earth, Camp Gamma, Camp Omega-not to be confused with Omega Camp, Omega Brotherhood or a dozen other sites around the area."

Disgusted, he tossed the notepad back to the table.

"We could check them all out," Remo offered.

"It would take years," Smith said, shaking his head. "There are hundreds of groups camped out from the Rio Grande to Roswell. Some have permanent settlements, some come back at a specific time each year. Others are nomadic, moving from one place to another rapidly. Their paranoia does not allow them to stay in one place very long. If Ford has gone to any of these, it would be nearly impossible to find him."

"If this creature is as you both claim, it will surface again," Chiun said with certainty.

"And the only way we'll know is when someone shows up on the nightly news smoking like a bucket of extra crispy," Remo said.

Chiun shrugged. "It will be a trail to follow."

"No way we're waiting," Remo insisted. "I'm not letting that hutbar toast anyone else."

"Remo, we have no choice," Smith said, forcing a reasonable tone in his tired voice.

A small electronic beep suddenly emanated from his computer. Smith turned back around, checking the thin band on which only a few lines of text could appear at one time.

The four Folcroft mainframes had continued to troll the Net since Smith's return to the Shock Troops lab. A satellite connection transmitted any relevant data to the CURE director's briefcase laptop.

As he read the information his computers had gathered, Smith felt the weariness melt away.

"I have something," he said, his lemony voice tense.

Stepping rapidly across the room, Remo and Chiun gathered around the computer.

"What is it?" Remo asked.

"Arthur Ford has used his Discover card."

"Where?" Remo pressed anxiously. "And don't say Neptune."

Smith was typing rapidly at the small keyboard, accessing the pertinent information.

"The Wal-Mart in Truth or Consequences." Remo scrunched up his face. "Wasn't that an old game show?" he asked.

"The city was renamed after the success of the program," Smith explained as he worked.

"There's a brain trust I'd steer clear of," Remo said dryly. "What was their fall-back option, 'Let's Make a Deal Falls'? Probably Assholeville'd be more appropriate, huh, Little Father?"

"Silence, chatterbox," Chiun insisted. He was watching intently as Smith typed at his computer.

"I have located several other individuals whose credit-card uses roughly match the purchase time of Arthur Ford. I have traced them all back to a single location. They are all residents of a place called Camp Earth."

Remo seemed surprised. "That's pretty slick, Smitty," he said, impressed. "How'd you do that?"

"Ford bought an unusually large quantity of a single item, as did the others. There was a clear correlation between all of the purchases." He didn't seem pleased by his discovery. "They have effectively cleaned out the entire area of this one item."

"What is it?" Remo asked.

Smith looked up at him. When he spoke, his voice was tight. "Automobile batteries."

ARTHUR FORD DIDN'T RAVE a clue what he was doing.

The ufologist had borrowed a set of jumper cables from one of the Camp Earth inhabitants. Carefully he clamped a clawed end to one of the many batteries sitting on the dirt floor of the corrugated tin shack.

"How much juice does he take?" Beta RAM asked. He was crouching in the doorway, hands braced on his knees.

The leader of the Salvion movement glanced around at the huge number of car batteries arranged around the supine form of Elizu Roote. "I'm not sure," Arthur admitted. "I saw him drained once before, but never this bad." Crawling on his knees, he gently lifted Roote's head with one hand. Squeezing open another of the jumper cable claws, he found the metal patch on the Army private's spine. Carefully he clamped the hook onto the nub.

Beta RAM and Arthur Ford actually heard the hum from the battery. It was a rapid powering-down noise.

Once Ford removed the clamp from the battery, Beta used a tester to confirm their suspicions. Both were right. The battery had been drained of all its juice.

There was no reaction from Roote. He continued to lie there, eyes closed, breathing shallow. Not so much as a solitary muscle spasm disturbed his slender frame.

"His power must be really low," Ford commented.

Leaving the far end of the cables hooked to Roote's neck, he moved over to the next battery, latching on to another terminal with one of the free claws.

The results were the same as before. A loud hum, followed by a total lack of any reaction from Elizu Roote.

"This is going to take forever," Beta RAM complained.

Arthur wasn't paying attention. Sliding on his knees through the dirt, he had already moved over to the next battery. He hooked into Roote's system once more.

"We're going to need more batteries," Ford commented as he worked.

"You've got a couple hundred already," Beta RAM said. "We'd have to go all the way to Las Cruces for more."

"We need more," Ford insisted. "He's sucking down juice like there's no tomorrow."

Beta RAM sighed. "If he's working for the Squiltas, there might not be a tomorrow," he muttered. Shaking his head, he added, "I'll see what I can do."

The leader of Camp Earth ducked back out the door of the small shack, leaving Arthur Ford to his work of reviving a man more dangerous than any of the creatures of Beta RAM's fertile imagination.

BY THE TIME Remo and Chiun arrived at the Truth or Consequences House Warehouse store, it was a little after three in the afternoon.

"Why are we here?" the Master of Sinanju asked as they walked through the huge airconditioned building. Shoppers filled the aisles.

"Camp Earth is one of the few alien-chasing wacko groups without its own Web site," Remo explained. "Smith doesn't know exactly where it is."

"And he believes someone here knows?" Chiun asked. He appeared to be extremely doubtful that any of the people they were passing could know anything. The men all looked as if they had just stepped in from the bowling alley next door, and the women seemed to be practicing for the Olympic gum-snapping-and-halter-top-wearing competition.

"Maybe," Remo said. "Someone from there bought a ton of batteries here and at other stores in town. It's possible the locals know where they were bringing them."

"Knowledge is no doubt scarcer than hen's teeth in this toilet-seat emporium," the Master of Sinanju sniffed. Tucking his hands inside the sleeves of his silver kimono, he trailed Remo reluctantly up the aisle.

They found the manager of the automotive department at the rear of the building. The man expressed sympathy for their situation, but explained with a sad smile that he had no more automobile batteries in stock.

"Gee, I'm really sorry," he said, "but a couple guys came in this morning and cleaned me out."

"I heard," Remo said. "We were hoping you knew who they were. Maybe where we could find them."

The man shook his head in apology. "Sorry," he said. "Didn't really know them. If you really need a battery that bad, I've got another batch coming in on Tuesday."

Remo shook his head. "Thanks. We'll check somewhere else."

As they turned to go, the manager called to them.

"Good luck," he said with an apologetic shrug. "The whole town's cleaned out. In fact, I just heard from our sister store down in Las Cruces. Someone already put all their supply on reserve. Maybe if you hurry you can sneak in and get one before they pick them up."

Remo spun back around. "How long ago did you talk to them?" he demanded.

The man's face clouded. "Five minutes," he said. "Customer made a cell call to make sure the store held on to all the batteries. Told the manager down there to check with me when he asked if they were on the level." He shook his head. "Why's there such a big run on batteries?"

The manager found that the last words he had spoken were to himself.

The two men he had been speaking to were suddenly nowhere near him. When he craned his neck over the crowd of shoppers, he was just able to spy them as they raced around the corner of the long aisle at the distant front of the store. A moment later he could barely distinguish the bright silver flash of the old Asian's kimono in the parking lot as the pair raced past the long windows beyond the line of cash registers.

"Have fun driving to Las Cruces without a battery," the manager muttered, annoyed at their rudeness.

Glancing down, he returned to work.

Chapter 21

The old rusted Dodge truck that Beta RAM drove down into Las Cruces was so battered it almost looked as if someone had stuck four bald tires on one of the Camp Earth shanties and pushed it down the hill.

The sun was sinking lower in his rearview mirror as the Prophet of Salvion steered the rattling pile of metal down the sticky black streets.

Beta was not a happy Camp Earth camper.

For several years now his followers in the Salvion movement had been willing to do anything and everything he asked of them. Even though they were all dancing on the precipice of Armageddon, in a strange way it had truly been a golden age for Beta RAM. In just a few short hours, Arthur Ford had changed all that.

The people were no longer talking about Salvion and the Squiltas threat, they were discussing creatures called the Power Players of Andromeda.

It took some arm-twisting to find out that they were talking about the race from which the companion of Ford's had apparently come.

Ford had described the creature's amazing abilities to the people of Camp Earth. How he could channel and launch electricity with his fingers. How he killed only when he was threatened. How he was being stalked by government agents.

Slowly those at Camp Earth were beginning to believe their ultimate salvation, as well as the hope of all mankind, lay in the hands of this E.T.-come-lately.

Beta RAM knew what would come next. His followers would denounce Salvion. They would disregard the Squiltas threat. They would toss out Beta himself as part of the old orthodoxy.

The prophet of Salvion would be without his beloved followers. Perhaps when the celestial ark finally did come, he would be forced to bring along pigs after all, assuming the more attractive females in the movement went with Arthur Ford.

It was all utterly ghastly. On a cosmic scale. These things weighed heavily on the mind of Beta as he drove his rickety red truck into the big parking lot of the House Warehouse store in Las Cruces.

After parking the truck near the front of the lot, he walked toward the store.

Car batteries were pretty heavy, he thought as he approached the large building. He had helped move a few of the many that had been brought back to Camp Earth earlier that day and had had a difficult time lugging them.

Hmm...

Maybe he could drop a battery on Roote's head and blame it on the Squiltas. If Arthur Ford objected, Beta could give him the battery treatment, too.

As the electronic entrance door slid open before him, Beta reminded himself that the government secreted cameras in the motion sensors in order to keep videotaped records of every American citizen. Beta RAM covered his face with both hands and ducked his head away from the black sensor box as re stepped into the air-conditioned store.

THEY HAD BURNED UP the highway between Truth or Consequences and Las Cruces, twice avoiding the flashing lights of state police cruisers by sheer reckless driving.

Within the city limits, Remo did his best to stay within the posted speed limits.

As they drove down one traffic-filled street, the Master of Sinanju glanced at his pupil.

"Your driving on the highway was more reckless than usual," he commented.

As Remo steered the rented car he had borrowed from Smith through the thick traffic, he shot a look at Chiun.

"I wouldn't talk if I were you," Remo said. "I've been strapped in when you were behind the wheel. It's like being in a turbo-charged bumper car."

"Allow me to refresh your memory, O Forgetful Caster of Aspersions. I am thinking of a certain truck you tipped over on me in Germany," the Master of Sinanju said dryly.

"Water under the bridge," Remo said. "And besides, I apologized for that about a billion times."

"And forgiving soul that I am, I considered accepting some of them," Chiun replied. "Even though you nearly killed me, we were transporting my gold-thus your carelessness in haste was almost excusable. However, there is no treasure in this vehicle other than me. Therefore there is no need to risk my precious life."

"Have you been paying attention the last couple of days?" Remo asked. "That guy tried to fry my cullions. I want to settle his hash. It's as simple as that."

"If by simple you mean simple-minded, I agree," Chiun said.

"Are these insults strictly for pleasure, or is there a point behind all this?"

Chiun nodded somberly. "You are behaving rashly. You are rushing into a conflict without any concern for the possible outcome."

Remo was genuinely surprised. "You think I can't beat this asswipe?" he asked.

"If he were an ordinary foe, I would say yes, my son. Without hesitation. But neither you nor Smith believe this man to be ordinary."

"He isn't," Remo insisted.

"This have I conceded," Chiun agreed. "So why do you hasten to meet him again? Give yourself time to heal. Knowledge is our ally when confronted with the unknown. While you grow strong, Smith will learn more of this creature. When the time comes we will face it together, you and I."

"Nope. Roote is a killer, Little Father. He was a maniac before they stitched all that hardware into him. Thanks to Chesterfield, he's a hell of a lot more dangerous. He has to be stopped now. Case closed."

Remo hunkered down behind the steering wheel, his face pulled into hard lines.

"You are still not one hundred percent," Chiun pointed out after a moment's silence.

"I'm fit as a fiddle," Remo said dismissively. "You are strong, Remo, but you are not invincible."

"I'm not woman, either," Remo interjected, his tone deeply sarcastic.

"What is that supposed to mean? Of course you are not," Chiun spit. "And since you insist on being pigheaded, when we find this villain, l will deal with him."

"What?" Remo asked. "No way. Roote is mine."

"You are not well enough to face him again."

"I told you, I'm fine."

They were at a red light. He slowed to a stop behind a line of cars.

"In another day you may be fine. In another week perhaps you will have healed completely. But at present your body is still not right."

"Absolutely not, Chiun. When we find Roote, I'm the one who gets to punch his ticket."

Chiun's voice took on a cold edge. "Are you forgetting who is Reigning Master of Sinanju?" Remo closed his eyes. A honking horn behind him told him that the light had turned green. Opening his eyes, he started forward once more.

"No," Remo muttered morosely.

"Who is?"

Remo snapped one hand against the steering wheel. "You, okay? Geez, Chiun. Fine. If you want Roote, you've got him. He's yours. Take him with my blessing. Sheesh!"

In the passenger's seat of the rental car, Chiun's wrinkled face split into a broad smile.

"I now see why so many people join the militia in this nation, even though they are not required to do so," the Master of Sinanju said.

"Why?" Remo asked sullenly.

There was a twinkle in the old man's eye. "It is fun to pull rank."

TEN MINUTES LATER, they were in the parking lot of the House Warehouse superstore.

Remo steered the rented car up and down the lanes, looking for a parking space. He found one near a battered red truck that looked as if it were being held together by rust and a thick film of desert dust.

As he got out of the car, Remo noticed an emblem on the side of the truck door. The grime was so thick that the logo was difficult to read.

He dragged one hand across the door. The cleared logo depicted a bluish planet Earth. Above it hovered something that looked like a dinner plate with running lights. Below the planet a semicircle of letters spelled out Camp Earth.

"I think we've hit pay dirt," Remo called to Chiun. He dusted the grime off his hands as the old Korean came around to the truck.

Frowning, the Master of Sinanju inspected the Camp Earth logo. "And I think Americans have far too much idle time," he pronounced contemptuously.

Remo leaned against the side of his car. "We can discuss the stagnation of American culture while we wait for them to beam out," he said with a tight smile.

BETA RAM HOPED that Salvion's ark would land before his credit-card bill came due.

The head of Camp Earth emerged from the big exit doors of House Warehouse dragging a metal dolly filled with boxes of batteries. A store clerk followed, pushing another cart that was equally full.

Sweating in the late-afternoon heat, they hauled both wobbly carts over to the rear of Beta RAM's truck.

After Beta had dropped the tailgate, the clerk helped him load the batteries into the back.

"Are you a survivalist or something?" the young clerk puffed as they worked.

"If the Association of Evil has its way, none of us will survive," Beta replied. He was standing in the rear of the truck, pushing the batteries up against the cab.

While he was working, Beta noticed two men sitting in a car next to his. Neither of them were looking his way, nor did they appear to be looking anywhere else in particular. He felt a sudden knot tighten in the pit of his stomach.

"Association of Evil. What, is that like the Mob or something?" the clerk asked as he wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead with the tails of his untucked shirt.

Ordinarily Beta didn't shy away from a potential convert to the wisdom of Salvion. However, the people in the next car had made him very nervous. One of them was Asian, possibly Japanese. And everyone knew the Squiltas had replicated android duplicates of that entire country's population during the 1980s.

"Something like that," Beta said quickly.

He scurried down from the rear of the truck, mumbling thanks to the young clerk. As the kid began dragging the carts back to the store, Beta closed the tailgate.

He shot another glance at the car in the next space. The two men still hadn't looked his way. The sweat under his arms turned cold. Fumbling in his jeans for his keys, Beta headed around the bed for the cab.

"HE HAS SEEN us," Chiun announced.

Even though they hadn't glanced in Beta RAM's direction, they had both sensed his gaze upon them.

"He looked at us," Remo replied. "It doesn't mean anything. We weren't even looking at him." Beside them, Beta climbed in behind the truck's wheel, slamming the cab door shut.

"Start the engine," Chiun commanded.

"I don't want to make him suspicious," Remo said. "I'll give him a little head start first."

All at once Beta's truck lurched out of its space. For something that looked to have been pieced together in a junkyard, the truck moved with surprising speed.

Weaving in and out of parking-lot traffic, the truck flew toward the exit. In seconds, it had bounced back out onto the main street.

"Is that enough of a head start for you?" the Master of Sinanju asked aridly.

Remo wasn't listening. He had already twisted the key in the ignition. Throwing the car in gear, he slammed his foot on the gas, flying out of their space after the fleeing truck.

Drivers were forced to squeal their brakes as the big sedan flew across the lot. Horns honked angry protests as Remo twisted in and out of traffic.

Flying off the speed bump at the exit, the rented car landed in the street, a hail of sparks spitting from the vehicle's undercarriage.

Beta RAM was already far down the road. Swerving to avoid striking cars and pedestrians, Remo raced after the fleeing prophet of Salvion.

Chapter 22

Arthur Ford had drained fifty batteries already, and Elizu Roote's condition hadn't changed one volt. The Army private was breathing shallowly. He didn't seem in any immediate danger, but he remained pale and his skin was still clammy to the touch.

The cables connected to his neck continued to transfer power from the batteries to his body.

At first Ford used the tester on every battery just to make certain they had been drained. Eventually he had only checked sporadically, then gave up testing them altogether. The batteries were fine, it was Roote who no longer worked properly.

The time it took to suck the batteries dry had become progressively longer. Although the first few had been drained in an instant, the past thirty or so had taken increasingly longer amounts of time to deplete.

Still, Roate slept.

Forte was beginning to think that it might be necessary to turn his alien over to the military after all. Maybe they had deliberately done something to his physiology to make him dependent on them. It was also possible that if the ship that had crashed at Roswell was Roote's, something might be aboard that could yet save his life.

Even as he considered his options, Ford continued to drag batteries into place. He hooked them up almost out of habit now. When each was done, he'd drag it dutifully away, pulling another one through the dirt to his alien patient.

Arthur Ford had completely lost count of what battery he was on when Elizu Roote finally opened his eyes.

Ford didn't know how long he had lain there like that. He only noticed the washed-out pink eyes of the private when he glanced over, bored.

Roote didn't blink. He stared up blankly at the tin roof of the shack.

His breathing was more determined now. Like someone who had just returned from a long trek through rough terrain.

Crawling on his knees, Ford moved swiftly over to Roote's side.

"Are you feeling better?" Ford asked hopefully. The eyes twitched, moving spastically. A single blink followed. All at once, the eyes rolled in their sockets, turning slowly over to Arthur Ford. Trailing in their wake, Roote's head lolled in the same direction.

"I saved your life," Ford whispered proudly. "They were trying to kill you. But I revived you."

Roote didn't hear.

As Ford watched, the private's eyes rolled back dramatically, irises eckpsed by fluttering lids. Consciousness fled once more.

To Arthur Ford, it didn't matter. He had just gotten all the encouragement he needed. Gone were any thoughts of turning Roote over to the Army. The treatment Ford had prescribed was obviously the proper one.

Scurrying back through the dirt, Ford collected the next battery. Working feverishly, he redoubled his efforts to revive his precious alien.

Chapter 23

Harold Smith was sitting anxiously before his computer when he heard the familiar muted chirping sound emanate from his tattered leather briefcase.

His cellular phone automatically rerouted phone calls from both CURE's dedicated White House line and the special line used by Remo and Chiun. Smith hoped that it was not the president who was calling as he dug out the phone and unclipped the collapsible mouthpiece.

"Smitty, we need help, fast," Remo's familiar voice announced.

"What is the situation?"

"The situation is that car you rented is a piece of flaming horse dung. We were tailing one of the Camp Earth nuts and it overheated. We lost him somewhere off of I-25."

Smith was already typing at his laptop. "Are you able to acquire alternate transportation?"

"I already boosted a car, if that's what you mean," Remo replied. "But the guy we were chasing is long gone."

"That is unfortunate. But at least you have narrowed our search parameters. Where did you last see him?"

Remo told Smith they were a few miles away from an abandoned diner near the Caballo Mountains.

"Stay near this number," Smith said. "I will get back to you."

Terminating the call, Smith placed the phone on the desk near his laptop. Using the CURE computers, he began issuing orders to the Fort Joy command.

ROOTE WAS AWAKE AGAIN. The private's eyes appeared to be more focused now as he took in his squalid surroundings. After scanning the entire one-room structure, his gaze finally settled on the eager face of Arthur Ford.

"You're looking a lot better," Ford enthused. Roote closed his eyes wearily.

The Army private had seen the many batteries lying in the dirt of the shack. Apparently too weak to speak, he beckoned Ford to bring one of the batteries over to him.

Ford was eager to oblige. He shoved the heavy object through the dirt to Elizu Roote's makeshift sickbed.

Once the battery was in place, Roote opened his tired eyes. Struggling at the effort, he lifted one hand from the sand at his side and dropped it atop the battery.

The hum was loud and abrupt. As it had been the first time Ford patched into Roote's system. There was a brief blue sparking around the private's metal fingertips. As soon as it started, it was over. The battery was dead.

The change was instantaneous. A glow suffused Roote's pale cheeks. He closed his eyes once more, a smile playing at the corners of his thin lips.

Panting, Elizu Roote said but one soft, nearly inaudible word: "More."

FROM THE PARKING LOT of a lonely desert gas station, Remo and Chiun watched the helicopters soar out of the thin red twilight clouds in the east.

It seemed that everything from Fort Joy still capable of flight had been thrown at the Caballo Mountains. Almost thirty aircraft of several different types flew in formation. The collective sound was deafening.

"Smitty isn't taking any chances," Remo commented as the choppers raced overhead.

The aircraft soared off toward the mountains, black in contrast to the brilliant setting sun. "Learn from your Emperor's lesson," Chiun said. He was looking up at the passing aircraft, face impassive.

Remo sighed. "I promised to give you first crack at Roote," he said.

"Do not forget," Chiun replied.

"If I did, would you let me live it down." Remo asked.

"No," the Master of Sinanju replied simply.

"So there we go," Remo surrendered.

"Assuming you were alive afterward," Chiun added somberly.

His hazel eyes were unreadable slits as he watched the helicopters rattle off into the nearby hills.

HE WAS ADDICTED. There was no doubt in his mind.

Roote hadn't been certain of it until now. But he felt the change come over him with each successive battery.

He had tried a few different drugs in the past, but never really liked them. Alcohol had been his mind-altering substance of choice. And the buzz he was getting right now was not unlike the feeling he got when drunk.

The squalid room seemed to rise up from the shadows around him. It was as if with each successive battery someone were gradually turning a dimmer switch higher.

But there was no switch. He was the only source of true power in the tiny metal shed.

An addict. A freak. A monster.

They had made him like this. When his power was drained, he had collapsed. A marionette without strings.

A fail-safe? Probably not. They had never expected him to be careless enough to allow himself to be grounded.

Lying in the dirt, Roote dropped a hand onto yet another battery. The jolt was immediate. Even pleasurable. It was taking time, but his capacitors were slowly filling up once more. His implanted systems were coming back on line.

The dizziness and nausea he had been experiencing since regaining consciousness were gradually receding. And as the sickness fled in the growing light around him, the voices scurried up out of the darkness of his mind.

There was panting somewhere near the door of the shed.

Roote rolled his head to one side, seeking the source of the sound.

Arthur Ford was breathless from his exertions. He was scurrying around the interior of the shed, hauling the remaining batteries over to where Roote lay.

Roote had enough power stored already. He could satisfy the killing urge within him.

But Ford was a male. There wouldn't be much pleasure there. When the chorus of voices began their song of death, Roote found that women were always preferable to men. The difference was that between simple fun and pure rapture.

Besides, he needed Ford. For now. "Give me another," Roote commanded.

With his returning strength, his voice had gotten stronger.

"There aren't many more," Ford puffed. When the inhabitants of Camp Earth had brought their initial supply of car batteries to the shed, those that wouldn't fit inside were left out front. Over the course of the past hour, the ufologist had brought all of the remaining batteries inside.

The private had an unquenchable thirst for electricity. Ford could see that they weren't going to have enough to bring him back to full power. He had dragged the last of the drained batteries outside and deposited the final fully charged batteries just inside the door.

Roote pushed himself up to a sitting position. Ford had removed the jumper cables from his neck as soon as the private had been able to use his gold finger pads.

"Help me up," Roote insisted.

Ford hesitated. "Are you sure you're okay?" Roote didn't respond. Verbally.

He aimed a single index finger in Ford's direction. Eyes locking on target, he sent a small bolt of energy toward the door beyond Ford. The brilliant streak of lightning struck the metal frame and instantly coursed all around the interior of the metal shed.

Ford cowered beneath the blue glowing tin. He felt like a turkey on Thanksgiving day, trapped inside a massive oven.

The electricity abruptly sought its way to the floor, pounding harmlessly into the dirt at their feet.

Ford didn't need to be asked a second time. The UFO aficionado immediately hurried over to Roote. Grabbing him around the back and up under the armpits, he hauled the Army private to his feet.

"Over there," Roote said, nodding to the door. Ford helped him across the room. He thought they were leaving, but Roote had him pause just inside the doorway.

The private lowered his hands, palms flat, over the remaining fresh batteries. There were only about ten left.

Ford felt the hair rise on his forearms as a powerful burst of bluish electricity leapt from the tops of all the fresh batteries at once, surging up into Roote's finger pads.

Ford watched in wonder as the batteries rose slowly off the ground. Roote was like a magician doing some remarkable levitation trick. But the sleight of hand was real.

The perfectly pressed rectangles of dirt where the batteries had sat became visible as the heavy objects hovered for a moment several inches off the ground.

There was another loud hum-that of all the batteries losing power at once. Abruptly the electrical flow cut off. As one, the batteries thudded back to the earthen floor.

Leaning against the door frame, Roote took a deep, cleansing breath. He seemed stronger now. More in control.

Hooded eyes settled on Arthur Ford.

"That's better," Roote drawled with a smile. "You got more of them things?"

"Those were the last ones," Ford admitted nervously.

Roote closed his eyes for a moment. His head was clearing. Even so, he still needed more power. "They got generators around here?" he asked.

"Not that I've seen," Ford said.

The private opened his eyes. They settled on Ford's jeep, which the ufologist had parked just outside the open door of the hut.

"Over there," Roote ordered, pointing with his chin.

Ford knew enough not to refuse.

Grabbing Roote by one arm, he helped the hobbling killer out into the dying sunlight. He leaned Roote against the fender of the jeep.

"Open her up," Roote commanded.

Roote's intention was clear. And it was just as clear to Ford that he was helpless to stop him. Reluctantly he lifted the hood of the jeep high into the warm evening air.

Like some sort of perverse faith healer, Roote laid hands on the battery while it was still hooked into the engine. He drained it in a sparking instant.

Although he said nothing, Ford looked dispirited as he dropped the hood back into place. "You-all had best call Triple-A," Roote slurred through his Cheshire cat grin. "Any more cars?" Ford nodded.

"The Camp Earthers keep them on the other side of the huts. Near the road." The killer pushed away from the jeep. He accepted Ford's assistance, though he was almost strong enough to stand on his own.

"Let's go power walkin'," Elizu Roote enthused.

As dusk settled around them, the two men struck off across Camp Earth.

BETA RAM RACED through the growing twilight up the winding path to Camp Earth.

Even though he had lost his tail several miles before, his heart still thudded in his chest. The sedan had chased him all the way from Las Cruces to the Caballo foothills. The entire time his pursuers were behind him, Beta had the distinct impression that they could have overtaken him at any moment. The driver of the other car-whoever he was-matched Beta's every move flawlessly. It was as if the two vehicles were wired to the same steering wheel and gas pedal.

He was dead. It could have been anyone: Squiltas, Army, any of a number of shadow government agencies. They were going to get him. No doubt about it.

But then the miracle happened. Thick billowing clouds of gray-white smoke began to pour from his pursuers' hood. It was as though Salvion had personally intervened to save Beta.

They had broken off. Fallen back.

As they pulled over to the side of the road, Beta had stomped down even harder on the gas pedal of his rickety truck. His only thought was to put as much distance as possible between himself and the two strange men.

It was stupid, he told himself in retrospect, to have taken the direction he had. They wanted him to lead them to Camp Earth. He had practically done that.

Beta remonstrated himself as he drove rapidly up the steady, boulder-lined incline, a plume of heavy dust rising in his wake. Stacks of batteries bounced against his tailgate, threatening to break free.

Even as he chastised himself, he was shifting the blame. It was Arthur Ford's fault. Him and that alien of his.

After all, when pursued by the government, where else would Beta have gone? Camp Earth represented safety to him. It was his haven from the doomed world. Of course he would go there when in danger.

Beta had gone into town hundreds of times without any problem. The Squiltas and their Association of Evil were afraid of Salvion. And since they knew the Being of Light protected Beta RAM, they left Beta and his followers alone. Because of the divine protection afforded Beta by Salvion, the Camp Earth leader had for years avoided a pitched laser battle every time he went to the local Safeway for toilet paper. The only difference this day was Roote.

For some reason, they were after Arthur Ford's alien friend. They'd followed Beta in order to reach their prize. As he raced along the twisting mountain road, Beta RAM was beginning to regret not turning Roote over to the authorities.

A sudden bounce. A twist in the road.

Beta turned the steering wheel sharply, taking the curve in a great skid of dust and sand. Flooring the gas once more, he lurched ahead. As the truck closed in on his encampment, he caught a flash of light in his rearview mirror. For a sick moment he thought that the government men were back. But when he looked at the sliver of mirror that was held in its casing by strips of ratty gray duct tape, he realized that it was much, much worse.

There was light all right. Lights. But they weren't on the ground. They were in the blackening sky behind him.

Running lights. From an alien spacecraft!

Blaming Ford and Roote, Beta RAM slammed both feet firmly on the gas pedal. The truck was already moving at a dangerously high speed on the mountain trail.

Its speed failed to increase one jot. While its panicked driver screamed in terror, the battered truck raced closer to the camp. Ahead of the hostile starship.

Behind Beta RAM, the Fort Joy Army helicopter roared forward in hot pursuit.

HAROLD SMITH PICKED UP the phone on the first ring.

"Report," his lemony voice commanded. "We've got a truck matching the description you gave us, sir," came the crisp reply.

The colonel who reported to him didn't know that the man he was speaking to was in a lab on base.

"Where?"

"Near Caballo Lake Percha, northwest of Grama. He's moving fast. Chopper's hanging back for now. Should we concentrate our search in that-"

Smith considered. "No," he said finally. "Recall the others. Have only the one helicopter follow the vehicle back to its camp. When the location is confirmed, call me."

"Yes, sir."

They both cut the connection at the same time.

After Smith had placed the cell phone next to his computer, he tapped the plastic case with one idle finger.

He knew from a strong instinct honed by years of experience that this was the truck Remo had been following.

Smith even knew the owner's name. He had gotten the credit-card records from the Las Cruces House Warehouse store. The vehicle belonged to one Beta RAM.

The name appeared on the bar screen of his laptop computer. Smith's face pinched in displeasure as he read the obviously invented appellation.

Another lunatic to throw on the ever growing heap. Beta RAM could join the ranks of Chesterfield, Roote and Arthur Ford. Smith had met too many insane men in the past two days. It would be up to Remo to thin their numbers.

A steady gray hand clutched the cell phone. The CURE director waited for the call that would send Remo after Roote. He only hoped Remo was up to the challenge.

Chapter 24

The inhabitants of Camp Earth had been told by their leader to stay away from the alien in their midst. Reluctantly they had obeyed the command. For the better part of the day, they'd been hunched before their huts, occasionally craning their necks toward the distant shack where the creature was being nursed back to health.

Beta RAM's edict was promptly forgotten the moment the alien appeared in their shabby makeshift village.

Elizu Roote was like a conquering hero as he was helped past the ramshackle homes of the Camp Earthers.

His stride seemed to improve with every step. At first he was like a stroke victim who was going through the arduous process of relearning to walk. By the time he and Arthur Ford reached the motley collection of Camp Earth cars, he was walking largely on his own.

At an order from the alien, the hoods of all the cars were sprung open.

The nine vehicles were arranged in a tidy line.

Roote walked down to the middle car. Stretching out his hands broadly to either side, he instinctively tripped his internal circuitry.

The flash was blinding as streaks of bluish lightning arced crazily from beneath the grimy hoods of all nine vehicles.

Hoods shuddered, some dropping shut, as the bionically enhanced killer sucked every vestige of stored power from the cars.

It was over in seconds.

A few faint puffs of smoke rose from the now dead engines, lifting gently into the warm evening air.

There was a pervasive silence for a few long seconds. Then, all at once, a single engine seemed to hum to life.

The sound took all of them by surprise. Even Elizu Roote seemed puzzled.

But the noise did not come from the line of Camp Earth cars.

"Intruder alert! Intruder alert!"

The panicked voice rose from down the road. One of the sentries came running toward the crowd of Camp Earthers from his lookout post, his special night-vision binoculars clasped firmly in his hand.

"On the road," the man announced, breathless. "Beta."

"It's about time," Ford complained. He was already wondering how he was going to sneak one of Beta's freshly-purchased batteries into his own jeep.

"He's not alone," the man cried frantically. He was too out of breath to explain. And a moment later, his breathless silence didn't matter. As the crowd watched, Beta RAM's truck suddenly broke into sight around the rocky outcropping that ran in a jagged semicircle around the upper edge of the main Camp Earth road.

Beta drew up to them a moment later, screaming even before he got out of the cab.

"I've got company!" he yelled.

As Beta threw his hand out behind him, the breathless camp sentry was also pointing to the black sky.

Dozens of eyes looked up into the post-twilight. They saw the lights immediately. As the crowd gasped in horror, Beta wheeled on the Camp Earth visitors.

"This is all your fault," Beta accused Ford. He shoved the ufologist roughly, knocking him into the side of his rusted truck. "You brought him here. Now the Squiltas are coming after me."

Ford glanced at the lights. "Squiltas?" he scoffed. "Are you nuts? It's probably his mother ship." He nodded to Roote. "They're coming to take him back now that I've saved his life."

As punctuation, he shoved Beta RAM back. "Denier of Salvion!" Beta snarled, pushing Ford.

"Salvion's an asshole!" Ford screamed. He pushed Beta with both hands.

Beta gasped. "Blasphemer! You'll never get on the ark. No matter how much you beg when the Squiltas finally destroy this benighted rock."

"Your mother is a Squilta!" Ford shouted. That was enough. To have his mother thrown in with the sworn intergalactic enemies of mankind was too much for Beta RAM. Screaming in anger, Beta tackled Ford. The two of them fell to the dusty ground in a grunting heap.

As the pair of UFO enthusiasts rolled back and forth through the dirt grunting Klingon curses, Elizu Roote was staring up at the approaching aircraft.

The chopper came in from the direction of Fort Joy. From the sound it made, he figured it was most likely an older Huey.

They had found him.

Roote would need more juice if he hoped to get out of this alive. Fast. Time to inspire the troops. Roote picked someone at random. It was the flatfaced Indian girl whom Beta RAM had soiled and later thought to exclude from the trip to New Earth. As the two men continued to wrestle on the ground, Elizu Roote sent a two-handed bolt of electricity pounding into the girl's chest.

The shock lifted her high off the ground, flinging her backward. She landed on her ample derriere in the dirt next to the two wrestling men.

On the ground, Ford and Beta froze, arms locked around one another's throats. They were covered with dirt.

"Open those boxes. Now!" Roote commanded the crowd.

The Camp Earthers didn't need to be told twice. Leaping over the twitching body, they descended on the truck in a mad huddle of arms and legs, wrenching at tightly glued cardboard flaps. The batteries were quickly dumped out and passed on to eager, grabbing hands at the open tailgate. They were arranged in hasty lines on the path.

As he had done with the cars, Roote positioned himself before the rows of batteries. He lowered his hands.

The crackle of energy in the warm air was palpable.

As Roote drained the power from the batteries, the lone helicopter flew in closer. Dust thrown up by the rotors pelted roughly against the faces of the Camp Earth residents.

Blades slicing madly at the sky, the chopper swept over their heads, banking south before swooping back toward the dark eastern sky.

It didn't get far.

One hand remained over the batteries while the other rose toward the departing craft. A single violent burst of electricity exploded from Roote's fingertips, skipping the distance between him and the helicopter in a heartbeat.

The blast caught the chopper in the tail. Engine spluttering, the helicopter plummeted amid a hail of sparks behind the rising plateau. A moment later an explosion rocked the night. A single plume of fire rose up from beyond the rocky ledge. It was followed by a prolonged rumbling as the aircraft pounded in an awesomely slow crawl down the steep embankment. Next came an eerie, stunned silence.

Slowly Elizu Roote turned to the shocked Camp Earthers.

"Well, if they didn't know I was here before, I reckon they do now," he said.

The demonic smile he flashed drained all warmth from the evening air.

FORTUNATELY THE HELICOPTER had spied the Camp Earth cooking fires minutes before Elizu Roote blasted it from the sky. The chopper had quickly radioed the location to Fort Joy, where the message was relayed to Harold W. Smith. Smith in turn contacted Remo.

Ten minutes later Remo was racing along the highway in his stolen Camaro.

The Master of Sinanju sat in the passenger's seat, his hazel eyes fixed on the dark contours of the mountain range that skirted the desolate road.

"I see nothing," Chiun announced. "Were not Smith's legionnaires supposed to rendezvous with us?"

"That was the original plan," Remo said tightly. "But Smitty says they lost radio contact with the chopper at Fort Joy after it checked in."

"Given the incompetence of the gaspot who commanded that garrison, they are probably halfway to Mexico by now."

"I think they've hauled it together now that Chesterfield's pulled a disappearing act," Remo said. He was scanning the sky for any sign of the helicopter that would take them to Camp Earth. "All these mountains look alike to me. In case we don't meet up with them, are you sure you can follow Smith's directions?"

The Master of Sinanju fixed him a baleful glare. "If Mad Harold was sane when issuing his instructions, I will find the site. With or without the assistance of his unreliable soldiery."

An explosion of stars had taken firm hold of the night sky by the time they arrived in the general area Smith had described. Remo had been driving at speeds in excess of 120 miles per hour until now. As they ripped through this new area of desert, he slowed to eighty.

They had just flown around the base of a hill that looked like a giant's foot dropped in the middle of the road when the Master of Sinanju's head suddenly snapped to the right.

"Halt!" the old Korean commanded.

Remo left twin strips of smoking black rubber fifty yards long in his haste to follow the order.

"What is it?" Remo asked once they had come to a stop.

Chiun raised a silencing hand. "Backward," the Master of Sinanju insisted.

Dutifully Remo put the car in reverse. He backed all the way down the long black skid marks until he was at the point where Chiun had first called out. When they stopped once again, the Master of Sinanju aimed a perilously long finger to the soft shoulder of the road.

Leaning over to see out the passenger's window, Remo spotted the fresh tire tracks in the sand. "So what?" Remo asked.

"They belong to the vehicle that eluded us," Chiun announced with certainty. He immediately thought better of his choice of words. "Eluded you," he amended.

Remo didn't seem convinced.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "We're wasting valuable time if you're just going to take us around in circles on some wild-goose chase."

"Need I remind you that you chased a goose into the desert yesterday, only to find a jackass." Remo's face clouded.

"I didn't hear you objecting too strenuously at the time."

"That is because I wished for you to get this crazed-gander pursuit out of your system once and for all. Now we go after our true quarry."

Smiling faintly, Remo shook his head. "Bullshit artist," he muttered under his breath. He thought he had spoken softly enough that Chiun hadn't heard.

"Coming from you, O Bullheaded One, I will take that as a compliment," Chiun announced loudly. Settling back in his seat he waved a bony hand dramatically toward the mountain path. "Drive, bovine!"

Steering off the main road, Remo tore up the shadowy mountain trail.

Chapter 25

Pry bars were carried hurriedly from a dilapidated storage area near Beta RAM's hut. The heavy iron rods were dropped unceremoniously to the sand, followed by many of the residents of Camp Earth.

Crawling, squatting, sliding across the dirt, they worked feverishly to brush aside the sand and clay from the large wooden lid. The pry bars were hastily shoved into the space between lid and lip, and the nails securing the cover to the thick wooden walls popped free one by one. With a final, furious wrench, the lid was ripped free and tossed aside.

Most of the residents of Camp Earth had seen a movie years before where survivalists like themselves had hidden weapons in a hole in the ground. When the Camp Earthers had first moved into the wilds of New Mexico, they'd decided to copy their cinematic counterparts. No one realized that in the film the weapons cache had been carved in dirt.

It took months of dynamite and pickaxes for the Camp Earthers to clear the hole they stood in now. It hadn't occurred to any of them to dig where the sand was deep-two hundred yards away on the plateau whereon squatted the hut in which Arthur Ford had revived his precious alien. Dust-covered tarps were pulled away. Automatic weapons were passed up out of the burrow. They were quickly distributed among the eager, grabbing crowd.

"Remember," Beta RAM called to his followers as he watched the men working in the hole. "This is not yet a confirmed alien invasion. We could be dealing with creatures in humanoid shape or humans in league with aliens. There is also a very remote outside chance that they are all humans."

One man snorted contemptuously. "Figure the odds."

A few more in the crowd laughed out loud at this third, outlandish possibility.

Beta RAM raised a silencing hand. "Just be prepared for all the typical alien deception." He began ticking off the possibilities on his fingers. "We're talking mind control, alien possession, false holographic images, transmutation, shape alteration. The works."

The residents of Camp Earth waited impatiently as he listed all of the most obvious alien ruses. When Beta RAM was through issuing his warnings, he began dispatching men and women whom he deemed part of the first watch to the periphery of the camp. About half of the Camp Earth residents remained behind near the huts.

As the men were dispersing, Beta leaned down into the pit. He pulled a pair of M-16s out by their khaki straps.

Carrying a gun in each hand, Beta wandered back through the bustling activity in the camp up to the lonely plateau shack.

Ford sat on one of the drained batteries before the hut's open door. He had decided that his chances for surviving the next few hours hinged on his proximity to Roote. The closer the better.

Ford looked up nervously as Beta approached. He didn't relax when he saw the automatic weapons in the Camp Earth leader's hands.

Beta stopped before him, looking down disdainfully at Arthur Ford.

"He's inside if you want to talk to him," Ford grumbled.

"He can handle himself," Beta replied, voice flat. "Here." Beta held out an M-16. "You're going to need it."

Ford accepted the rifle. He started to lean it against the side of the hut but suddenly thought better of the idea. He placed it across his lap.

"You really fixed us up good," Beta complained. "My people were happy to wait for Salvion's ark. Now you've dragged us into the middle of some alien war."

"I don't think so." Ford glanced at the open door. He pitched his voice low. "I think this is a government thing. When I got lost in the desert yesterday, the two guys who found me were looking for him."

"What two guys?"

It wasn't Beta RAM who asked the question. Two sets of sick eyes turned to the door of the hut.

Elizu Roote had apparently adjusted to his new power levels. Standing in the open doorway, he appeared to Ford to be as good as new. The thought failed to comfort the ufologist.

"Just a couple of guys," Ford said, standing. "I saw one of them at the airport in Roswell the day before yesterday. A really old Chinaman. He was with another guy who I'm sure was from the government. Three-piece gray suit and everything. He had bureaucrat written all over him."

Beta didn't seem interested in the second man. "The Chinese guy," he said to Ford. "Was he wearin' some kind of crazy dress?"

"I think they call them kimonos," Ford said, nodding.

Beta glanced excitedly at Roote. "He was one of the ones that followed me from Las Cruces. I lost them a little while before I picked up the spacecraft tail."

"That was a helicopter," Ford said, rolling his eyes.

"They used their energy protection grid to throw off a false image," Beta explained dismissively, as if Ford were a complete idiot.

"Forget about the ship for now. The old one was with a young guy. He was kind of scary looking. Had the deadest eyes I've ever seen."

Ford nodded to Roote. "He was the other one in the desert. They were both looking for you at Fort Joy. Luckily I saved you before they could get to you."

"Alien Detection and Eradication Unit?" Beta said, nodding to Ford.

"Probably," Ford agreed. "ADEU still civilian?"

"As far as I know," Beta replied.

Ford shrugged. "The military is in this, too. Could be the Army's Special Extraterrestrial Tactical Division."

"SETD?" Beta said, whistling. "Those guys are heavy-duty. I hear they reverse engineered a ton of junk from the Roswell craft. They've got alien technology that's light-years ahead of anything terrestrial."

"If they're coming after you, you'd better watch your step," Ford cautioned Roote. Beta nodded his agreement.

Elizu Roote wasn't even listening to the fools chatter.

"I met the young one already," he drawled softly. "Zapped him at the Last Chance a couple days ago."

Ford and Beta both seemed surprised. "Did he have any special gadgets? Any alien hardware?"

"Just a guy in a T-shirt. Thought I killed him."

"Maybe he has a personal energy field," suggested Beta. "I hear SETD has those."

"He didn't have nuthin'." Roote shrugged. "Just a guy in a T-shirt. Nuthin' special."

"He's the first person who's come up against you and lived that I know of," Arthur Ford said worriedly. "The fact he's still alive makes him special."

Elizu Roote didn't seem concerned.

"Won't be special for long," he said. His matter-of-fact tone chilled the spines of both alien enthusiasts. As the two men shuddered in fear, Elizu Roote wandered undisturbed back inside his tin shed.

REMO REGRETTED his choice of vehicle the instant he turned his stolen car onto the winding mountain path.

The Camaro took the dips and ruts like a bronco that had spent the day slurping from a spiked trough. When the nose wasn't dropping precipitously forward with every tiny hollow, the lightweight rear end was sliding back and forth as if they were driving on a skating rink. For the entire trip into the hills, the low undercarriage scraped a furrow along the dirt path.

The drag coming from beneath the car was so bad, Remo could imagine some enterprising Indians planting corn in the dirt they'd plowed up.

In the bucket seat beside him, the Master of Sinanju had placed one delicate finger against the ceiling to keep from being thrown around the interior of the car.

"This carriage is appalling," Chiun complained over the grinding and bumping of the Camaro. "Yeah, but it looks cool," Remo pointed out.

"Laud its frigid appearance to your undertaker," the Master of Sinanju retorted. "One would have to be a lunatic to purchase one of these contrivances."

"Don't look at me. I didn't buy, I stole."

As a precaution, once they were only a few hundred yards up the path, Remo had turned off the car's headlights. The engine sound remained loud, but at least if Roote was above them somewhere, he wouldn't have as easy a target to follow.

In spite of the darkness, Remo and Chiun both saw the road clearly, although Remo was still having trouble with distances. The path pitched crazily ahead of them with every uncertain bounce of the Camaro's shocks.

Driving far too fast for safety along a particularly treacherous strip of road, Remo steered around a huge knot of tumbled boulders. The burning wreckage of an Army helicopter suddenly appeared before them, flying toward the nose of the car at incredible speed.

As soon as he'd spotted the crashed aircraft, Remo's heightened senses took over. Almost before his mind knew what was happening, he was slamming on the brakes.

The car completed a 360-degree turn as it skidded to a sudden stop on the desolate mountain road. While it was spinning, Remo heard a loud snap from beneath the car.

The Camaro finally slid to a stop, nudging the flaming Huey.

Chiun and Remo were both out of the car in an instant. Remo dropped down to his knees, looking for the source of the noise he had heard while they were twirling.

"I am not getting in that vehicle with you again," Chiun announced, breathless.

"Doesn't matter," Remo said, getting up. He dusted off his hands. "Transmission just dropped out."

Remo walked over to the Huey. He didn't expect to find any survivors, but he wanted to be certain. The Master of Sinanju trailed behind him.

"You are like one of those elderly people I see on television. Your driving skills have deteriorated with age, yet you refuse to relinquish your license."

"I got us here all right, didn't I?"

There were only two soldiers within the burning wreckage. Both were dead.

"We do not even know where here is," Chiun announced.

"Yes, we do," Remo said. Turning away from the bodies, he looked up the hill. The charred, mangled path the helicopter had taken as it crashed down the hillside was clearly visible. "Here is where we punch Roote's ticket once and for all."

His face a cruel mask of rigid determination, Remo headed for the rocky slope. And the killer that waited above.

Chapter 26

Arthur Ford was beginning to second-guess his decision to bring his alien to Camp Earth.

The men and women were willing to help; that was clear. They marched back and forth at the edge of the camp, their silhouettes visible in the flickering light of a dozen separate fires. But they were still hopelessly mired in the pap Beta RAM had been feeding them.

It might have been better for Ford if he had taken Roote out into the desert on his own. They would have found a way to survive somehow.

Too late to go back now.

As he walked along through the shadowy night, Ford adjusted the M-16 slung across his shoulder. The strap was biting into his skin.

Technically he was not part of either watch. However, on further consideration he had decided that he couldn't sit and wait for the invasion to come. He had to be out there. With the troops. Away from Elizu Roote.

Not that Ford had suddenly become a doer. He was just having second thoughts about his theory that his safety hinged on his proximity to Roote. It had occurred to Ford that if government fumes were going to descend on the camp to find Roote, perhaps next to the alien was not the best place to be after all.

And so Ford was away. Far, far away.

He strolled along the farthest point from Roote's tiny shack.

Touring the perimeter, Ford came upon a pair of men near the line of crippled Camp Earth cars. They were arguing in hushed voices.

"You saw what he did," said the younger of the two. "He's a Being of Light, just like Beta said."

"I don't know," said the other man. He was in his late forties and wore a shirt emblazoned with a single grimy marijuana leaf. "I guess it could be."

"Could be, my ass," the young one scoffed. Startled by a sudden footstep nearby, the two of them spun to face Ford. When the young man turned to him, Ford saw that his T-shirt was decorated with the rough sketch of an alien head common to abductees-lightbulb head, large almondshaped eyes, narrow neck.

The men relaxed when they saw Arthur Ford. "You scared me, man," the young one exhaled.

"Anything yet?" Ford pressed.

"Nope. It's as quiet as a black hole out here," the older one announced.

Ford nodded his approval. "Stay alert," he commanded.

Turning, he headed back for the collection of huts.

As he walked away from the two guards, Ford was disturbed to find that he was suddenly getting the eerie sensation that someone was watching him.

He glanced over his shoulder at the two men. Neither was looking in his direction. They were both staring out into the inky blackness. Spooky.

Shivering, Arthur Ford picked up his pace, hurrying for the safety of the campfires.

"THAT'S THAT DIP from the desert," Remo whispered. He nodded to the retreating form of Arthur Ford.

"I have eyes," the Master of Sinanju replied. They had scaled the sheer face of the mountainside, skirting Camp Earth entirely. The two of them were lying on a bluff overlooking the encampment.

From their vantage point, they had a commanding view of the entire camp. Beyond the cliff at the edge of Camp Earth, the sparkling, midnight-black waters of the Rio Grande shimmered off into the distance in either direction.

"So I guess this is where he brought Roote, but I don't see the psycho anywhere." He squinted down at the camp.

"How can you tell?" Chiun asked. "One dung beetle is indistinguishable from another."

"Come on, Chiun," Remo said. "Smith showed you his file picture. Tell me if I'm missing something."

"You are missing a brain. And I do not see him, either," Chiun admitted, frowning deeply.

"So he must be in one of the buildings," Remo reasoned. "I'll start at the far end. You start down there. We'll meet in the middle."

He began to rise, but the Master of Sinanju placed a restraining hand on his forearm.

"Have you forgotten our bargain?"

Remo slumped back down. "I'm fine," he insisted.

"You mask it well, my son, I will admit," Chiun said softly. "But I have ears. Your heart yet beats incorrectly. Even now, when your eyes fail, you ask me to see for you. In spite of your protestations, you are not completely well."

Though it bothered him to admit it, Remo knew it was true. He had healed greatly since his encounter with Roote, but he wasn't yet one hundred percent.

Sighing, he settled back to the ground. "Remember what I told you," Remo insisted morosely. "The guy packs a wallop. Watch yourself."

"Your concern is heartening, but not necessary," Chiun said, standing. "I will unplug the bulb from your lightning bug and return forthwith."

Gathering up the hems of his skirts, the Master of Sinanju marched down the hillside.

Remo followed him with his eyes. As his teacher's back faded into the shadows beneath him, Remo said a silent prayer to Chiun's ancestors. For both of them.

WALTER MALPA HAD BEEN claiming for many years that he was the victim of multiple alien abductions. He had claimed this even after his parents had thrown him out of their home. He claimed it after his family and friends had disowned him. He continued to claim it even after he'd lost his job.

But even though he claimed it loudly to everyone he met, there had always been a small, shameful part of Walter that actually doubted his own story. A tiny part of him that thought everyone might be right. He might actually be crazy.

That was, until today.

He had seen with his own eyes what Elizu Roote had done. The rest of the Camp Earthers could argue until the cows came home whether the aircraft had been a helicopter or a spaceship, but either way it didn't matter. Roote had blasted it out of the sky.

Elizu Roote was the real deal. A genuine, bona fide, absolute, definite space alien.

The only thing that troubled Walter was the fact that Roote didn't match the typical alien depictions.

Traditionally aliens had long fingers, large heads and big, elongated eyes. At least that was the way they were always being sketched. That was the way Walter claimed to remember them after each of his many kidnappings.

Walter felt that if Roote had only fit the proper alien description, everything would finally make sense. He could go back to his family and prove once and for all that he was not a head case. And that little niggling spot of self-doubt would be banished from his mind forever.

Walter sat on the hood of one of the Camp Earth cars thinking of proper aliens. As he cradled his M-16 in his lap, he stared blankly into the shadows down the road.

A real shame. A crying, crying shame.

As he sat lamenting his misfortune, Walter became aware of a gentle wash of movement at the very edge of his vision.

It was as if someone were slowly turning a control knob on reality, bringing forward from the darkness a shape that had always been there.

When the strange congealing of shadows was complete, Walter Malpa was startled to find himself confronting a genuine space alien.

The creature was dressed in a glittering silver robe. A hairless head was balanced atop the most delicate neck Walter had ever seen. Even the eyes were the right shape-teardrops turned on their sides, tugged up to tiny ears.

Walter slid off the car.

So enraptured was Walter with the wizened figure that strode toward him from the darkness, he didn't even realize he had abandoned his gun. The M-16 lay on the hood of the car on which he had been sitting.

Mouth hanging open in shock, he tapped the shoulder of the man with him. The other guard had been looking in the opposite direction.

"What?" the man said, turning.

Seeing the approaching creature, he stopped dead.

The second man looked at the alien image on Walter's T-shirt. He glanced back at the strange apparition. His jaw dropped open, as well.

Neither sentry said a word as the silvery phantom slid up the path and stopped directly before the two men.

The creature was so tiny, it had to lift its head in order to look them in the eye. When it spoke, its voice was a lyrical singsong.

"Take me to your leader," the Master of Sinanju commanded firmly.

ARTHUR FORD SPIED Chiun while the old man was still conversing with the two guards. He was stunned that the men didn't fire at him. His shock gave way to horror when he realized that one of the men wasn't even carrying a gun. For some reason, he had discarded it.

The other man still held his weapon, but it was down at his side, hanging by its strap. The second guard obviously had no intention of using it.

Mind control. That was the only possibility. Beta RAM was right. Remo and Chiun were extraterrestrials.

The invasion of Camp Earth had begun, and their troops were falling under the spell of the invading army.

Roote would have to be warned. Though an alien himself, he was the last hope for humanity. And for Arthur Ford.

Running, tripping, Ford raced away from the cluster of huts to the lonely shed of Elizu Roote.

ABOVE CAMP EARTH, Remo spied Arthur Ford running in the direction opposite Chiun.

There was only a lonely tin hut beyond the main camp. Ford seemed to be heading toward it and the Rio Grande.

Remo did some quick calculations. Ford had saved Roote once already. He appeared now to be a man with a purpose.

It didn't take long for Remo to come to a conclusion. There wasn't much doubt in Remo's mind where Arthur Ford was running now. And to whom.

Chiun didn't see Ford. From his position on the road, the dilapidated shacks of the main village blocked the Master of Sinanju's view.

Although Remo still felt out of sorts, he didn't think that he was in the dire condition Chiun claimed. As long as he kept his wits about him, he'd be okay. Besides, he'd just keep an eye on Roote until Chiun arrived and watch the old Korean's back if he underestimated his opponent.

In spite of Chiun's warnings, Remo got carefully to his feet. He began to pick his way stealthily across the rocky ledge toward the lone shack.

Chapter 27

"Behold, lesser mortals, the Master of Sinanju!" Chiun held his arms out wide. His kimono sleeves flapped like the wings of a giant silver moth.

"Is that like a Time Lord?" someone asked. Chiun's hazel eyes narrowed.

"Is that something that is terribly powerful?"

Many of the Camp Earthers shrugged. "Sure. Yeah. Absolutely." The words were accompanied by confident nods.

"Then I am that, as well," he announced.

"See? What did I tell you?" Walter Malpa enthused. He pulled the hem of his untucked T-shirt in order to better display the picture emblazoned across the front. "He's one of these guys."

"He looks human," someone suggested.

"Yeah," agreed another.

"Sort of Chinese."

"'Chinese' and 'human' are mutually exclusive," the Master of Sinanju said flatly.

There was an abrupt commotion at the edge of the crowd. An M-16 barrel suddenly battled its way through the excited throng. At the far end of the weapon was Beta RAM. He aimed the barrel at Chiun's chest.

"Are you people crazy!" he screamed at the other Camp Earthers. He glanced around, eyes wild. Many of the men and women had discarded their weapons. "Pick up your guns!"

Most of them sheepishly gathered up the rifles they had dropped to the dirt.

"He's okay," Walter assured Beta. "Really. He's an alien."

"He's one of the government guys who chased me from Las Cruces," Beta said, annoyed at Walter.

"Look at him," Walter insisted. "That's no Fed. The head, the eyes, the fingers. Even the robe screams 'alien.'"

Chiun had tucked his hands inside the sleeves of his kimono. He stared blankly at Beta RAM. Beta looked down at Chiun's wizened form. Flickering light from a dozen fires illuminated his kimono in an eerie glow. On closer inspection, though he hated to admit it, Beta realized the kid might have a point. Even so, he nudged his weapon closer to Chiun.

"If you're an alien, where's your ship?" Beta asked.

"Maybe he's from that UFO the electricity guy shot down," a Camp Earther suggested.

"Let him answer," Beta threatened.

Seeing their leader so concerned, some of the others had put their earlier enthusiasm in check.

They aimed their weapons at the Master of Sinanju, as well.

"I have parked my USO in the desert, so as to avoid the prying eyes of your government. See? I am well versed in your paranoid delusions. Now, to the matter at hand. Where is the one who was taken from the military base?"

Beta ignored the question, offering one of his own.

"USO?"

"Yes," Chiun intoned. "I am a great advocate of USOs."

"United Service Organizations?" Beta RAM asked.

"What?" Chiun said.

"That's what USO stands for," Beta explained. "You know, they're the ones who go around entertaining the troops during wartime."

"What are you babbling about?" Chiun asked. "I am not interested in troops. Only a single soldier. The one called Roote."

Some eyes strayed to Beta RAM. They knew that this was the name of the alien they were protecting.

"Roote is a soldier?" Walter asked. "Was he part of the intergalactic militia?"

Chiun did not hesitate an instant. "Yes," he replied. "I seek out this powerful and evil being in order that he might face trial beyond the stars." He waved an ominous hand skyward.

"What did he do?" asked a fascinated voice.

"He is a criminal."

There were shocked gasps. "Like Khan?" Walter asked, referring to the Star Trek character.

"Of course not," Chiun replied, thinking they were talking about Genghis Khan, a figure much beloved in Sinanju history. "I tell you this," he intoned, raising an instructive finger, "Khan was not only a great and much maligned ruler, but he always paid on time."

The Master of Sinanju would have gone on to further extol the virtues of the bloodthirsty Mongol leader, but he noticed all at once that the wonder-filled faces of a moment before had been replaced by expressions of cold mistrust.

"I told you," Beta barked to his followers. "He's no alien. He's with the government."

All of the weapons were up now. Twenty M-16s were aimed at Chiun's chest.

Remaining as deathly still as the mountain on which they all stood, the Master of Sinanju acknowledged not a single weapon. His hazel eyes were fixed on Beta RAM.

"What do we do with him?" Walter asked nervously.

Beta glanced back across the encampment, toward the lone hut where Arthur Ford's alien was hiding.

Beta turned back to the tiny figure standing before the flickering flames. He didn't hesitate in his response.

"Kill him," Beta said, his voice cold steel. And the night erupted in automatic-weapons fire.

"THEY'RE HERE!" Arthur Ford whispered hoarsely as he ducked inside the door of Roote's shack. The private was lounging against one wall. One index finger tapped idly against the top of a spent battery, sparking a single repetitive blue shock of electricity.

"Beta's friends?" he asked with a sick smile. Ford nodded desperately. Thinking better, he began shaking his head just as frantically.

"Not both of them. Just the old one."

At that moment, gunfire erupted across the camp.

Ford twisted, startled. He was so panicked, he almost dropped his rifle.

"They're coming!" he yelled.

"Calm down," Elizu Roote insisted.

Sighing, Roote glanced up at the corrugated roof of the shed. As the many guns rattled loudly outside, Roote seemed unconcerned. Staring at the ceiling, he continued to tap, bored, against the battery.

Roote's eyes strayed down the tin walls, skipping over to Arthur Ford's intent face. He smiled. "Well, if he's so eager to meet me, by all means, let's invite him into my parlor," Elizu Roote said with an evil grin.

TWENTY SECONDS before the Camp Earthers started shooting at Chiun, Remo was having his own problems.

He had circled around to a point just above Elizu Roote's shack. Arthur Ford had just ducked inside, and Remo was about to proceed down the hill when he felt the gun barrel in his ribs.

"Get up."

Two men. Perimeter guards.

He should have sensed them. At any other time since his earliest Sinanju training, he would have. But his body had yet to counter the residual effects of Roote's attack. In focusing his senses on the building below he had opened himself up to a nearer opponent.

Remo rose dutifully to his feet, arms raised. The shack was forgotten. He drew his senses back in tight, focusing on his immediate environment.

Just the two. No more loitering in the brush. They wore grubby flannel shirts and jeans. Scraggly beards sprouted from their grimy faces. "Is this the Devil's Tower landing strip?" Remo asked innocently. "I've got to catch a bus to Melmac."

It was at that moment that the gunfire erupted in the camp below.

The men twisted, startled. Looking down into the camp, they were just able to see a flash of silver near the fires. A tiny figure seemed to be dancing among their fellow Camp Earthers. Wherever it went, bodies seemed to fall.

As quickly as their interest in the distant battle was piqued, it evaporated.

Both men felt their guns being yanked from their grimy hands. They spun back to the man they had discovered lurking above the hut of their precious alien.

Remo was tossing the M-16s into the shadows. Soaring unseen, they flew over the side of the cliff, plummeting through the empty space to the Rio Grande far below.

"Hey, what'd you do with my gun?" one man complained.

"This," Remo replied.

Grabbing a handful of grubby shirt, Remo repeated the action he'd performed with the rifle. Screaming all the way, the Camp Earther arced out over the side of the mountain and plunged through the night air. The man's cry for help ended in a distant splash.

After witnessing the fate of his companion, the second man decided to take his chances on land. Without a word to Remo, he turned and flung himself over the edge of the hill, crashing down through rock and brush until he struck the plateau below. Once he hit, he did not move again.

"My life would be a heck of a lot easier if they all did that," Remo commented as he looked down at the body.

In the distant camp, guns still blazed. Chiun could take care of himself.

Senses straining alertness, Remo began picking his careful way down the hill to the shack.

CHIUN SWIRLED through the mob of Camp Earthers, an angry silver dervish.

Guns were wrenched from their owners, tearing arms from sockets in the process. Both rifles and appendages were flung aside.

"You dare!" Chiun raged.

Two Camp Earthers leaned against a pathetic tin shed, thinking that by bracing their backs they could get a steadier shot. But although they tried to track the movements of the tiny figure who flounced and spun within their midst, they failed to score a single hit.

Chiun suddenly whirled on the two men. Framed by campfire, he was like some demon cast up from the very bowels of hell itself.

Panicked, the pair unloaded everything in their magazines. It was not enough. As bullets sang out into the dark night, Chiun flew at the two men.

As he was airborne, nary a bullet kissed a single silk kimono thread.

Sandaled feet caught two brittle sternums, crushing them to splinters. The men exploded backward, crumpling the flimsy shed wall. Even as the dust began to collect on the thin film of blood that gurgled up between their dead lips, the roof of the shack was tumbling downward. It formed a makeshift coffin lid.

Chiun twirled from the collapsed corrugated tin.

The steady pop-pop of automatic-weapons fire had dwindled rapidly since its start mere moments before. The Master of Sinanju spun through the last four firing Camp Earthers.

Toes lashed out; hands were flung in seemingly wild gestures. Fingers clasping guns were shattered to jelly. Blood erupted from throats and chests. The gunmen fell to the dirt.

Chiun wheeled, narrowed eyes searching. He found Beta RAM cowering behind a pile of crates that the residents of Camp Earth had been breaking up for firewood.

Whirling over to the wooden boxes, Chiun brought his hands down in furious slashing movements. The wood shattered to kindling beneath his vengeful fists.

With one hand, Chiun lifted Beta into the air. "Where is the one called Roote?" the Master of Sinanju demanded hotly.

Beta extended a single, shaking hand. He was like a palsy victim. "There," he gasped, pointing to the far end of the encampment.

With a look of disgust on his wrinkled parchment features, Chiun flung Beta into the ruins of one of the Camp Earth shacks. Spinning on his heel, he marched from the scene of carnage, toward Roote's shack.

Even as Chiun was storming across the camp, Beta was pulling himself to his feet.

He didn't give Chiun's back a second glance. Heart thudding madly, Beta RAM ran as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

Chapter 28

Chiun's hooded eyes were knots of vellum mistrust as he watched the familiar figure running toward him.

Arthur Ford ran, stumbling, across the camp, away from the sand-covered promontory on which Elizu Roote's tin shack rested. Eyes wild, he flung himself desperately at the Master of Sinanju. Chiun grabbed the ufologist by the shoulders, holding him at an annoyed distance.

"You've got to save us!" Ford begged. "He's crazy!"

"You aided his escape," Chiun said levelly.

"That's because I didn't know what he was," Ford pleaded desperately. "You've got to believe me. He's dangerous. He has to be stopped."

Chiun released the UFO enthusiast. "This creature. It lurks within?" the old Korean asked.

Ford nodded. "He knows you're here, but he's weak. I don't think he has much power left." Eyes directed at the shack, the Master of Sinanju nodded crisply. He sensed both truth and deception coming from Ford. Without another word, he turned and crossed the small space to Roote's hut. Behind him a tiny smile broke out across Ford's face as Chiun ducked through the metal door. There was a moment of frightening silence.

All at once, a massive thumping noise erupted from the tin shed. And as Ford watched with nervous glee, the entire shack was engulfed in a pulse of electric blue.

HE WAS TOO SLOW!

Halfway up the hill, Remo watched in horror as the massive surge of electrical energy coursed around the exterior of the tiny metal hut. The hum that permeated the night air was that of a million insects' fluttering wings in one horrible instant.

Remo had only seen Chiun at the last moment. Too late to even shout a warning as the old Korean ducked inside the shed.

Now, as he watched the arcs of high voltage leap from one side of the frame to the other at the mouth of the shack, the dreadful truth could not be denied.

Roote was far more powerful than he had been during his encounter with Remo. There was no way Chiun could have survived such a massive burst of electricity.

It was Remo's fault.

This did Remo lament as he scurried the rest of the way down the hill, as he raced over to the shack.

His fault.

If he had been able to stop Roote the first time... If he had been able to convince Chiun of the seriousness of Roote's abilities...

If, if, if...

At the open door, he couldn't see through the blinding arcs of bluish electrical energy. It didn't matter. His senses already told him the awful truth. There were no life signs inside.

Chiun was dead.

All of the weakness he had been feeling since his original encounter with the killer drained away. Decades of exacting Sinanju training reasserted itself in one glorious, horrible instant. His heart rate quickened, then leveled.

A world of sensation exploded like a supernova out around the perfectly attuned body of Remo Williams.

Breathing the night air deeply, Remo broadened the focus of his senses to encompass the entire area around the bluff.

He found Roote.

The soldier was behind the shed. Directing his energy toward the rear wall. Frying whoever was hapless enough to step inside the deadly trap.

Remo channeled all of the swirling emotions he was feeling into a single, violent pit of white-hot rage.

Centering himself, he stepped around the side of the shack.

Elizu Roote was leaning casually against a boulder that jutted out of the outcropping of rock above the Rio Grande.