"Wonder what?"
"Who would be interested in a destructive device that kills people but does not harm the surrounding area."
"Dirt First!" Remo said, snapping his fingers.
"Exactly, Remo. You and Chiun had best pursue that angle."
"Any suggestions how? They were the only ones who didn't leave business cards."
"Yes. They're based in San Francisco. They're in the book. Go there. Infiltrate the organization, and if you learn Dirt First is responsible for any of this, dismember it from within. After you recover the device, of course."
"Uh, Smitty. I don't think you quite grasp what you're asking me to do."
"I am asking you to do a very simple task-one you've undertaken many, many times," Smith said testily. "Get inside, learn what you can, and do what you can. What is the problem?"
"These people smell."
"That is hardly a hardship," Smith said snappishly.
"They roll in the dirt. They breathe dirt. They exhale dirt. For all I know, they eat the stuff. They're like that Peanuts character, Pigpen."
"You will do what you have to, Remo," Smith said sternly. "La Plomo may be only the beginning."
"If you think Chiun is going to take a mud bath for this mission, you are sadly mistaken."
"You will find a way," Smith said. "You always do."
"What about Sky Bluel?" Remo asked.
"I am punching her up on my computer now." Pause. "Yes, she's a student at USC-Berkeley. Resides off-campus. Her parents live in Stockton. Politically active on her campus, but no known affiliations with subversive groups. Take charge of her until we sort this out."
"I'm not a baby-sitter," Remo said tightly.
"And we are no closer to solving this mystery than before you arrived. If what this girl says about her neutron bomb is true, that it is unarmed, then it stands to reason that whoever possesses it may realize that without Sky Bluel, they have stolen a useless shell. They may take steps to rectify this."
"If you say so," Remo said reluctantly. "You know, if all those people hadn't died before we got on the scene, I'd call this the stupidest assignment you ever handed us, Smitty."
"Do not make the fatal mistake of underestimating this one, Remo," Smith said soberly. "Sometimes the ones we do not take seriously are the ones that end up costing us."
"Not this time," Remo said, breaking contact.
Before he could reach for the cutoff switch, the radio operator came on.
"I didn't hear a word, sir. You have my word on that." The voice was so sincere that Remo saved his pungent retort and said only, "Signing off."
He stepped out into the light. He looked around. Captain Holden was standing well away from the truck, leafing through an olive-drab book of some sort. Remo wiggled a finger in his direction.
Holden trotted up. "There's no double-triple affirmative in the manual," he said mournfully.
"Now you know," Remo told him. "Seen Chiun?"
"He's waiting in your car," Holden told him.
"What about Sky?"
"She thumbed a ride a few minutes ago."
"What idiot gave her a lift?"
"I'm not sure. I think he was a TV reporter."
"Think?"
"He looked kinda familiar, but we don't watch much TV in the Army."
"Thanks a whole bunch," Remo growled. He hurried to the car, which, other than a fender scratch from some airborne piece of debris, was intact.
Chiun sat in back, looking severe.
Remo got behind the wheel. He started the engine.
"Tired?" Remo asked solicitously.
"No!" Chiun said vehemently.
"Hey, I was just asking. Settle down. Listen, I just spoke with Smitty."
"I know. Why do you think I so patiently wait here?"
"You were listening in?"
"My hearing is keener than a wolf's. I do not have to eavesdrop. The very wind carries your braying to my perfect ears. I am ready to do as Emperor Smith bids."
"Fine," Remo said, sending the car around in a circle, "because you've got the baby-sitting end of this gig. If we ever find Sky Bluel."
"And you may roll in the mud and eat dirt, which is exactly what I would expect you to prefer."
Remo glowered as he stepped on the gas. He wasn't looking forward to that end of the assignment.
Chapter 7
Don Cooder was not afraid to go where other anchors feared to tread. Vietnam. Attica. Afghanistan. Baghdad. Anywhere as long as it provided a violent backdrop for a stand-up report and a host of anti-U.S. troops to protect his back.
Cooder, whose rough-hewn outdoorsy looks and forced Texas drawl had made his a household face, took the difficult assignments not because he was the highest-paid anchor in history. The answer was much simpler. He came in a consistent dead last in the ratings.
That being dead last meant that The Evening News with Don Cooder was still seen by an estimated ninety million Americans each night mattered little. It wasn't enough. He had to be first. And he would be first, Cooder vowed silently.
Especially after he got an exclusive interview with the brave girl who had built a working neutron bomb to show the unthinking world that anybody, but anybody, could build one in their backyard.
"Incredible," Cooder said as he piloted his Lincoln along the scenic back roads of Missouri. "To think that a mere highschool girl, working with common everyday household articles, could devise a working neutronic bomb."
"Neutron bomb," corrected Sky Bluel, fidgeting beside him. "And I'm a grad student at USC-Berkeley. Not some highschool senior."
"Are you sure?" Cooder asked, touching the distinguished gray at his temples. It took him twenty minutes each night to keep that gray there. It came out of a bottle.
"Of course I'm sure. I know what school I go to!"
Cooder frowned. "You'll have to learn to relax when we go on camera," he cautioned. "You're too hot. Television is a cool medium."
"Hot? I'm furious! Someone stole my bomb. How am I going to make my point without proof? And for the last time, it's not a working bomb. How many times do I have to repeat myself?"
"Not working, huh?" Cooder mused, sensing his rating share dropping like the temperature in September. "But you can build another, am I right? One that works?"
"Sure," Sky admitted. "With the right materials and enough time."
"I can get you the materials. Can you have it by Thursday?"
Sky's perfect hairline jumped up. "Thursday?"
"That's when my news show, Twenty-four Hours, airs. What do you think of 'Twenty-four Hours on Neutron Street' for a segment title?"
"We're getting off the wavelength," Sky complained. "You can't build one of these things out of stuff you can get at any hardware store. I'm a physics major. I do my grad work at USC's Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory, you know?"
"Isn't that the place where all those nuclear materials turned up missing last year?" Cooder asked suddenly.
"Right on! Now you're in the groove."
Don Cooder braked the car, his eyes flying wide. Suddenly he saw sitting beside him, not an interview subject that would expose America's runamok nuclear incompetence, but a cunning thief whom he could accuse on nationwide TV of pillaging important nuclear materials.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Sky Bluel asked in an uneasy voice.
"Like what?" Cooder said, covering.
"Like you got stars in your eyes all of a sudden."
"Not stars, points."
"Excuse me?"
"Rating points," Cooder explained, the glaze going out of his eyes. "Why don't you tell me your story again?"
"I already have. Weren't you listening?"
"I'll listen harder this time," promised Don Cooder, reaching into his silk suit for a tiny bottle of hair spray. He ran a jet of it around his crowning glory of wavy black hair.