"Thanks for reminding me," Remo said sourly. "Now, how about that phone?"
"I don't have one."
"Then how do you report in?"
"By field radio."
"Who does that connect to?" Remo asked patiently.
"Fort Wood, down in the Ozarks."
"Can they get a line to Washington?"
Holden squinted one eye. "Theoretically."
"What do you mean-theoretically?"
"One: this is the all-volunteer Army," Captain Holden explained. "Where the impossible is routine, but the ordinary is usually impossible. We can fight wars, ford rivers, and secure positions, but placing a simple phone call can get messy."
"What's two?"
"Two," Captain Holden said, "is even if command can place your call, they won't."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because you're a damn civilian. No offense."
"You'd be amazed what a well-motivated civilian can do at a time like this," Remo said tightly. "Lead me to that radio."
Because he had nothing to lose and was still a little bit afraid of Remo, Captain Holden escorted Remo into the back of one of the few field trucks still upright. A radio set sat on a shelf in back. Holden personally fired the set up and initiated the call to Fort Wood.
A tinny voice crackled out of the microphone presently.
"Fort Wood, go ahead, Echo Leader."
"That's me," Holden said proudly. He cleared his throat. "I got a FEMA guy who wants a patch-through to Washington."
"Tell him to stuff it."
"You tell him," Holden said, passing the microphone to Remo. "I like my bones knit just the way they are."
Remo accepted the microphone. "The number is area code 111-111-1111," he said. "Dial it."
"No can do," the radioman said laconically.
"You got a pair of earphones on?" Remo asked.
"Affirmative."
"Got an extra set for when those break?"
"That's another affirmative."
"Okay, I want you to call me back in five minutes."
"Why?"
"Because that's when your eardrums will be working," Remo Williams said, slipping two fingers into his mouth and emitting a piercingly sharp whistle at the mike.
Captain Holden clapped his hands over his own ears. So he didn't hear the eruption of profanity that emerged from the hissing speaker.
Remo lowered the volume and started counting the seconds. When he got to three hundred, exactly five minutes later, he raised the volume again.
"You back?" he asked politely.
"What was that number, sir?"
Remo grinned. "Dial 111-111-1111 and patch me through. And whatever you do, don't listen in. The other end will be able to tell and he'll inform me and I'm liable to treat you to a really rousing chorus of 'Whistle While You Work.'"
"That's a double-triple affirmative, sir," the radioman shot back. The sound of plugs slipping into jacks came over the mike.
"I never heard of a double-triple affirmative," Captain Holden said wonderingly. "Is that in the manual?"
"Why don't you check?" Remo said over the sound of a phone ringing through the speaker.
Taking the hint, Captain Holden left the truck in a hurry.
The lemony voice of Dr. Harold W. Smith came over the speaker, sounding like a bad wire recording from circa 1943.
"Yes?"
"This is Remo."
"Let me have your report," Smith said crisply.
"I'm not sure where to begin," Remo offered.
"Have you any suspects or leads?"
"Too many. Got a pencil?"
"Of course."
"Write this down. Dirt First!! That's with two exclamation points."
"The ecoterrorist group?" Smith asked, startled. "They are there?"
"In strength-and I don't mean numbers," Remo added. "Actually, they left after the explosion."
"What explosion?"
"I'm getting to that. Then we have Sky Bluel of the University of California."
"Is that a person or a student organization?"
"More like a throwback to the sixties. But she's female."
"Why is she important?"
"She brought a neutron bomb to the party." Remo's voice was a study in casualness. He was rewarded by a two-octave jump in Smith's tone.
"My God, did it go off?"
"Yes and no."
"Remo, there is no yes-and-no about a neutron bomb. When they go critical, they emit high-speed neutrons in lethal concentrations. Depending on the isotope involved and the size of the device, casualties could be enormous."
"La Plomo is a ghost town, remember? The bomb wasn't primed to send out radiation. Only the plastique charges went up."
"What madman would do that?"
"Actually, I did," Remo said, sudden sheepishness creeping into his tone.
"You, Remo? Why?"
"I was trying to put out a burning building. The Army set it on fire."
"Why would the Army do that? Their job is to decontaminate La Plomo, not burn it to the ground."
"That's exactly how the fire began."
"Remo," Smith said wearily, "this sounds very involved."
"And I haven't gotten to the condom salesman who talked like a realty broker."
"What?"
"Not to mention the media," Remo added. "A representative of which, by the way, is right now doing an interview with Chiun."
"Chiun? He cannot appear on TV. Security could be compromised."
"I don't think he's talking about the organization," Remo said distantly as he cut a slit in the canvas side of the truck with a finger. "The subject for today is his ungrateful pupil."
Smith sighed like a leaky bellows. "He is still angry with you?"
"On and off," Remo admitted, peering through the ragged slot. No one was eavesdropping, he saw. "Right now, it's on."
"Why?"
"Haven't a clue."
"Remo, I am having trouble making sense of your report."
"It's not over yet," Remo said quickly. "I don't know who gassed La Plomo-what's that mean, by the way? The Plow?"
"No, it's Spanish for 'the lead.' The original settlers mistakenly believed it was French for 'the feather.' They thought the surrounding virgin prairie had a feathery look. They discovered their mistake after the town began appearing on area maps. The name was never changed."
"So much for the Show Me state," Remo said dryly. "As I was saying, I don't know who gassed the town, but I think they're still hanging around, because someone made off with that neutron bomb."
"I thought you said it detonated."
"You weren't listening. Only a couple of the plastique charges went up. The bomb casing and the rest of the device are intact-at least the last I saw it, they were."
"Describe this device, Remo," Smith asked urgently.
Remo launched into a complete description of Sky Bluel's device, finishing with, "It looked like a parlor magician's steel hoops-you know, the interlocking rings trick-welded into a ball. After the charges were taken out, that is."
"And you say a USC professor constructed it?"
"A popular misconception. Actually, she's a student. Must be this semester's science project."
Smith was silent for a moment. The speaker hissed and crackled annoyingly. When Smith came back on, he said, "It could work. This woman claimed there was no core?"
"Yep. Made me wonder what the grayish ball in the middle was."
"Hmmm. Probably the beryllium-oxide shielding," Smith mused. "Still, the person who stole it might not have realized that was what it was. This is very suggestive, Remo."
"Not to me. I don't get off on neutron bombs."
"It is suggestive in this way. The neutron bomb is in many ways the nuclear equivalent to poison gas. It is a tactical battlefield weapon, designed to annihilate enemy forces in a target area, without damaging property. A relatively compact blast crater is generated, but nothing on the order of a fullscale nuclear missile."
"So?"
"All along, Remo, our theory has been that whoever deployed that gas did so because it was the cheapest agent of terror available to him or them. But the theft of a neutron bomb-even the presence of one in the death zone-makes me wonder."