Killer Watts

The killer seemed almost bored as he funneled streams of directed electrical energy into the rear of the shack.

A look of great surprise spread across Roote's pale features as Remo stepped around the building. The expression changed to one of satisfaction. He instantly cut the power flowing from his fingertips.

"Old geezer should be barbecued by now, what do you think?" he drawled happily. A smile creased his face.

"I think you're dead," Remo replied coldly. He walked slowly toward the killer.

"Now hold on there, fella," Roote said. "Ain't you forgetting somethin'? I whipped your ass last time."

As a reminder, he held up his hands. Sparks crackled between his metal-tipped fingers.

"You're nothing but a maniac crossbred with a microwave," Remo said. "I'm pulling your plug." The smile faded from Roote's face. He obviously didn't consider Remo a threat. He stood his ground as Remo strode ever closer to him.

"Are you working for Chesterfield?" the private demanded. "'Cause he's the real maniac. He knew what I was. But he went ahead and made me like this anyway."

"He's next."

Roote nodded. "Yep, I reckon he is. But I'll be the one gettin' him."

And with that, Roote lowered his hands. Optical targeting sensors locked on Remo's chest. All ten fingers combined their strength, launching a single explosive burst of electricity from Elizu Roote's gold fingertips.

But for the first time since his high-tech hardware was installed, something went wrong. He had a positive target lock, but for some reason, the target wasn't there.

The electrical surge passed harmlessly through the air, pounding into the rear of the shed. The tin roof rattled in angry protest.

Roote scanned the area quickly, looking for Remo once more. He found his target immediately- Remo was several feet to the left of where he had been. He was also much closer to Roote.

At the same time he was locating Remo, Roote's sensors registered another figure in the combat area.

He was coming around the far side of the shed. Racing in Remo's direction.

"Alien killer!" Arthur Ford screamed.

The ufologist was rushing at Remo from behind, brandishing one of the M-16 assault rifles.

When Remo glanced over his shoulder toward Ford, he presented Roote with a perfect target. He was a sitting duck.

The Army private raised his hands, locking on Remo. But at the moment he was about to fire, his autonomic preservation system suddenly kicked in.

Ocular scanners automatically fastened on Arthur Ford's raised gun.

It all happened in an instant.

The blue sparks leapt from Roote's fingers, gathering into a single burst of lightning, but Remo was already falling and rolling even before the bolt of energy popped from the killer's fingers.

The surge leapt over the back of Remo's T-shirt, soaring behind him, connecting with an audible thump with the barrel of Arthur Ford's M-16.

The shock flung Ford backward. He soared high in the air, crashing solidly into the rear of the shed. The metal buckled beneath the deadweight of his lifeless body. Both ufologist and gun dropped to the dirt.

Roote wheeled back to where Remo had been. He was no longer there.

To his horror, Remo suddenly reappeared, this time standing directly before Roote.

"Time to power down," Remo said flatly. Roote swung his hand around, trying to get a close-up shot at Remo. He found his arm blocked. And before he could fire again, he felt a sudden explosive pressure at the center of his chest. In the next instant he felt a push of warm air whistling past his ears, tugging him ever faster to the earth far below. The falling sensation was succeeded by a wet, engulfing blackness.

After that, Elizu Roote felt nothing at all.

ON THE LEDGE HIGH ABOVE, Remo Williams looked down at the limp body of Elizu Roote as it floated down the black strip of the Rio Grande. Desert stars twinkled brightly on the surface of the water.

Remo clenched and unclenched his hand. Something didn't feel right.

The crushing blow he had used against Roote's chest should have felt more solid. Instead, there had been an odd tingling sensation-almost as if the killing blow had failed to make complete contact. Obviously it had worked, however. Otherwise Roote would still be standing there.

Staring down at the limp body, Remo couldn't savor the victory. His success against Elizu Roote had come at a greater cost than he ever wished to pay.

He would have to collect the body of the Master of Sinanju. The old Korean would want to be buried in his native village, along with his ancestors. Although Remo tried to brace himself for what he would find inside the tiny shed, he knew that it would be impossible to do.

Heart heavy, Remo turned slowly back to the shack...

And nearly tripped over Chiun.

"Watch where you drop your fat white feet," the Master of Sinanju complained. He was observing the body as it washed slowly down the river. His face settled into lines of satisfaction as the current carried Elizu Roote around a bend and out of sight.

Remo no longer cared about Roote. He was staring in shock at the wizened form of the Master of Sinanju.

"You're alive!" Remo said, elated.

"And you are a lazybones," Chiun charged. "Now you get better. After I have done all the work."

"How?" Remo asked, dumbfounded. For the first time he noticed the film of dirt on Chiun's silver kimono.

Chiun shrugged. "The ground here is softer than it is back at the encampment of idiots," he said. He patted the sleeves of his kimono with his slender fingers. Thin clouds of dust escaped into the night air.

"So what?" Remo asked. Even as he said it, a light seemed to dawn in his eyes.

"Now you see." Chiun smiled. "You are not as uneducable as people say."

"You burrowed into the ground the second Roote started zapping the hut," Remo said, nodding in appreciation. "Like a prairie dog."

"Aside from the insulting rodent reference, you are essentially correct," Chiun agreed. "I will overlook the slur in consideration for all that you have been through."

Remo smiled. "So you finally believe me?" he asked.

Chiun was blandly surprised. "Did I ever doubt you?" he said.

All Remo could do was laugh.

As they walked away from the ledge, Chiun continued to flap his silver kimono sleeves against his skirts. Plumes of dust rose into the black desert night.

Chapter 29

In the paneled study of an anonymous ivy-covered townhouse in Arlington, Virginia, General Delbert Xavier Chesterfield was reviewing his Shock Troops notes. He was scheduled to make a presentation at the Pentagon in just under two hours, and he wanted to make certain that every shred of his involvement with the development of the project was purged from the records.

It was easy enough to do. He controlled the only remaining notes and schematics. The essential scientific staff was dead. The others only knew him as some kind of military liaison to the project. He had always played his cards right with the braniacs on the team. Good thing, too. Even though the shit had already hit the fan at Fort Joy, so far Chesterfield had been able to fob it all off on the CIA. He'd reinforce that impression this afternoon at the briefing.

The big leather sofa on which he sat creaked in protest as he adjusted his massive frame. A small pen gripped awkwardly in his huge fingers underlined important sections in his notes.

Harold Jones. Central Intelligence operative. The man was an idiot. His arrival on the scene had handed Chesterfield the scapegoat he was looking for.

When the investigations started, it would be a pleasure to watch Jones, the persnickety would-be autocrat, sweating before some congressional oversight committee, trying to explain that he had nothing to do with Shock Troops. No one ever believed the CIA. This would certainly not be the exception to that rule.

Maybe they'd even televise the hearings. The whole nation would learn of the CIA perfidy. Chesterfield would enjoy that.

Remo H. and Chiun, last name unknown. Jones's CIA hit squad. Remo was the muscle. Chiun was probably some kind of Chinese commie hireling.

It was beautiful. So much so that Chesterfield put an extra squiggle beneath both their names. He would be sure to mention them repeatedly during the briefing. It would lend credibility to his own story.

Of course, there was the one big loose end. Elizu Roote.

Chesterfield wasn't all that concerned. Left to his own devices, Roote would most likely self-destruct eventually. Psychos like him always did. In fact, Chesterfield wouldn't be a bit surprised if Roote was dead already.

He could picture the deranged, pathetic private lying facedown in the desert somewhere. Sun beating down. Buzzards picking at his crazed carcass. Chesterfield smiled at the image.

No, Elizu Roote wouldn't be a problem. Nothing would be a problem. By day's end General Delbert Xavier Chesterfield would have a few extra stars on his shoulders and a rosy red future with the United States Army's Advanced Applications and Development branch. He would ask for more funding for the research. Of course, this time it would be done under the more critical and safetyconscious auspices of the Army.

The Shock Troops data he had brought with him from Fort Joy would be used to create a whole army of Elizu Rootes. Except this time the subjects would be sane and-most importantly--this time Chesterfield would take all the credit.

There was no doubt about it. For this particular general, the world was a big, beautiful place. Chesterfield struggled to pull his girth from the sofa. The general stepped out of the study and over into the small kitchen. He rummaged around in a cupboard for a while, finally pulling out a bag of Oreos he'd had delivered.

When he returned to the study, Chesterfield was stunned to find someone sitting in his seat. He was even more shocked to see who it was.

"Interesting piece of fiction you've crafted here," Remo Williams commented.

With Chesterfield's notebook balanced on one knee, Remo passed a bored eye over the hand-written notes. He held the general's riding crop in his free hand and was tapping the leather end lazily against the arm of the sofa.

"How-?" the general began, black eyes astonished.

"The gravest insult is that he claims I am Chinese," a squeaky voice announced from the general's elbow.

Chesterfield nearly jumped out of his skin, so startled was he by the closeness of the voice. When he glanced to his right, he realized that the old one had been standing near his elbow the entire time. He had been so still, the wallpaper seemed to move more.

With the tip of his tongue, Chesterfield picked nervously at the chunks of chocolate between his teeth.

"You boys had best skedaddle," he said, trying to sound threatening. "Your cover's blown. Everyone at the Pentagon knows your boss Jones cooked up the whole Shock Troops thing. I was misled. Typical of you CIA types. I thought he had authorization."

"Smith," Remo corrected.

Chesterfield grew puzzled. "What's that, boy?"

"His name is Smith, not Jones. And he is definitely not CIA. Neither are we, for that matter."

"A fact for which my surviving brain cells are eternally grateful," said the Master of Sinanju. Chesterfield glanced at Chiun, then slowly back at Remo.

"An obvious falsehood," he said. "I've dished out a few of them in my day. Now toddle along, fellas. My people at the Pentagon-"

"Person," Remo interjected. "You had one contact at the Pentagon," Remo said. "One. An old college buddy." He stifled a yawn as he tossed the notebook onto an end table. "A guy just as anxious as you for advancement. He's the one who sent the extra dough to Fort Joy."

"How-?" Chesterfield began once more. He stopped himself abruptly, trying to gather his wits once more. "How could you know that?"

"Jones is a bright guy," Remo said, standing. "Now, aside from the notes and that stack of records there-" he indicated the printouts next to a computer in the corner of the room "-is there any other Roote-related junk here?"

Chesterfield was already doing rapid calculations.

"Okay," he said hopefully. "You've got me over a barrel here, boys. Tell you what. I cooperate, and you forget I was ever involved in this whole Shock Troops thing. It's all over anyway. What's the harm in lettin' a little two-star general off the hook?"

Remo considered the offer for a moment. Finally he nodded his agreement. "Okay, what the hell," he said. "I just want to get this all behind us. You've got a deal."

Chesterfield's chest puffed out in relief. "Great," he enthused. "Everything is in this room. The computer is from Joy. There's Shock Troops stuff on the hard drive, plus on any of the floppies around here. That's about it."

Remo glanced at the items as the general pointed them out. There didn't seem to be much. "Chiun?" Remo asked, turning back to the others.

"He is telling the truth," the Master of Sinanju said.

"What?" Chesterfield said. He sounded insulted. "Of course I am, boy."

Remo smiled. "That's too bad. Because I wasn't."

Still grinning, Remo nodded to the Master of Sinanju.

A familiar sensation abruptly took hold of General Chesterfield. It was the same weightless feeling he had gotten back at Fort Joy when the old Korean had thrown him through the wall of his own HQ.

But it was different this time. He knew it wasn't the same as the ceiling whipped around and his beefy body made a sudden, rapid beeline for the exterior wall.

This time the velocity was far greater. This time he felt the flat of his meaty back slam with boneshattering force against the solid interior wall.

The pain was horrific, excruciating. And as quickly as it had come, it was over. As was the general.

General Delbert Xavier Chesterfield's spinal column was crushed to jelly even before the carefully assembled brick wall of his expensive rented town house exploded out into the bright Virginia sunlight.

As the body settled like a rapidly flattening tire to the hard sidewalk, a hail of stone fragments and mortar dust settled gently on the two meager stars on his otherwise bare shoulder boards.

Chapter 30

Hours later Remo and Chiun stood before the desk of Harold W. Smith at Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York.

"Are you certain this is everything?" Smith asked. He was examining the paperwork Remo had brought with them from Virginia. The general's computer sat atop Smith's desk.

"That's all Chesterfield had," Remo said. "As long as you took care of everything at Fort Joy, we should be all set."

"There is no data left on the base," Smith assured him.

"Great," Remo said. "Then it's over."

"What about the general?"

"Your deceitful centurion will plague you no more, Emperor," the Master of Sinanju announced.

Remo smiled. "My only regret is that he had but one life to give to his country," he added.

Smith nodded his approval. "His Pentagon connection was weak, at best. There should not be much interest among his superiors concerning his death. Chesterfield was not very well liked in military circles."

"I don't see why," Remo commented dryly. "You'd think they'd love having a walking megaphone like that around just in case the sound system goes down during the Army-Navy game."

"Then that is that," Smith said, satisfied. He pushed the papers to one side for later disposal in the Folcroft furnace. "With Roote and Chesterfield both gone, we can put this episode behind us."

"Um, Smitty..." Remo interjected.

The Master of Sinanju tugged angrily at the back of Remo's T-shirt. He knew what his pupil was going to say. Remo had already mentioned it in the car on their way up from Virginia.

"The Emperor has important business to conduct," Chiun hissed. "We should leave."

"What is it, Remo?" Smith asked, curious. Exasperated, the Master of Sinanju rolled his eyes ceilingward.

"About Roote," Remo hesitated, glancing at Chiun. "You know how I told you I crushed his chest. It's a pretty standard Sinanju move."

"Yes." Smith's voice had taken on a concerned edge.

"It's nothing to worry about. Honest. It's just that there was a strange tingling in my arm when I took him out. It wasn't a shock or anything. It just felt weird."

Smith nodded. "Superconductivity," he explained. "In reading the schematics of the system incorporated into him, I saw that solenoids were used for his relays. These are electromechanical devices that produce mechanical motions when energized by an electric current."

"So?"

"The type used in Roote is significant. The scientists utilized magnetic solenoids."

Remo glanced at Chiun. The Master of Sinanju only frowned. To the old Korean, this was merely more white madness. Akin to admitting possible failure to an emperor. Remo turned back to Smith.

"At the risk of sounding repetitive-so?" he said.

"Magnetic solenoids generate high fields in large volumes of material with virtually no power dissipation. The type used by the Fort Joy doctors in Roote was particularly advanced. Some of the earliest data they collected on him after the procedure indicates that the hardware with which they equipped him altered him on the cellular level. In effect, he became superconductive when his capacitors were charged."

"I know what that is," Remo said. "Superconductivity is what makes those Japanese trains float above their rails."

"That is a crude explanation, but essentially correct."

Remo followed the logical thread, even though he didn't like where it was leading him. "So you're saying that I could have thought I gave Roote the whammy, but never actually hit him. I might have just hit some kind of magnetic field."

Smith sat up more straightly in his leather chair. "You assured me that he was dead," he said levelly. He placed his palms calmly on his desk.

Remo's face was clouded. "I thought he was," he said. "I mean, he is," he added more firmly. "Of course he is. After all, he fell into water."

Smith shook his head. "That means nothing."

"What do you mean?" Remo challenged. "Of course it does. Doesn't water blow up electrical stuff? People kill themselves by taking toasters into the bathtub with them, don't they?"

Smith closed his eyes. "Yes, that is true," he said patiently. "But if an unplugged toaster is dropped into a bathtub, it can be dried out and reused."

"We are wasting the Emperor's precious time," the Master of Sinanju whispered loudly.

Remo didn't hear. "You mean that nutcase could still be out there?" he said to Smith.

Opening his eyes, the CURE director sighed. "Possibly," he admitted. "How far did you say he fell?"

"Far enough to make this speculation pointless," Chiun interjected.

"About a hundred feet. Maybe more. And I think there were rocks in the water."

Smith looked up at them. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep.

"In that case, Chiun is right. Elizu Roote is dead."

But even as Smith said it, there was doubt in his voice.

EPILOGUE

Behind him the dying New Mexico sky was painted in streaks of rusty gray. Before was complete darkness as the battered old truck made its way along the rocky shore of the Rio Grande.

He had survived by the grace of Salvion. Beta RAM knew that there was no other explanation. Few had been left alive after the massacre at Camp Earth.

There was a new purpose to his life. He had been looking to the sky, when he should have been looking right here on Earth. It was so obvious to him now, he was embarrassed by his earlier naivete.

Salvion and his followers were already here. As he rode up out of the path at the river's bumpy shoreline, a small bluff rose steadily in the distance, framed on all sides by the panorama of the upended bowl that was the desert sky. Beyond the bluff, angry black storm clouds rolled in from the south. Streaks of jagged lightning connected the ground to the heavens in violent spurts. Thunder rumbled loudly across the vacant expanse.

Above the flat-topped hill, still far ahead, a flock of buzzards flew in endless lazy circles. The huge birds were waiting patiently for something to die.

All at once, a streak of lightning seemed to explode from the surface of the bluff. Catching one of the circling birds in the breast, it appeared to hold it for a moment, suspending the hapless creature in midair.

Just as suddenly as it had appeared, the lightning vanished. The bird plummeted to the ground amid a mass of gently floating black feathers.

A moment later, it was as if it had never happened. The storm continued to rage on the far side of the bluff, moving ever closer with each passing minute. The wind before the rain pushed swirls of dust into Beta's windshield.

Beta stopped his truck.

He wasn't quite sure what he had just witnessed. After all, the desert sometimes had a habit of playing tricks on one's eyes.

As he sat unmoving on the path, engine idling, the first fat uncertain raindrops began to splatter mud against his windshield. Slowly he put the truck into drive.

Beta RAM drove into the gathering storm.