"You're thinking of Dirt First!! maybe."
"I'm specifically thinking of Dirt First!!" the major growled. "We've thrown them out twice. They smell worse than the maggots."
"No argument there. What do you think caused this?"
"Terrorists. It's gotta be terrorists. It smacks of a full-scale military operation. They used Lewisite."
"Lewisite?"
"An old kind of poison gas. Potent stuff. Smells like geraniums. One lungful, and inside of ten minutes, a man would drown in his own blood."
"Any idea how the stuff was introduced?" Remo asked.
"Not a clue. With the right equipment, you can sometimes sniff out hidden ejectors and valves, but the Guard doesn't have any. Maybe the Army will."
"I've got a pretty good nose," Remo remarked dryly. "Mind if I follow it?"
Styles laughed until his mustache bristled. He smoothed it down, saying, "Nobody has that good a nose."
"Humor me. I need to look around the town anyway."
"Come on, then."
Major Styles escorted Remo over the barbed wire and up a pastoral sugar-elm-lined avenue. Remo noticed dead birds lying here and there, partially consumed by flies.
"Smell anything?" Styles asked grimly.
Remo picked up his pace. "Yeah. Geraniums. Over to the left."
They turned left and found themselves in the town square-that was exactly the word for it-where a battered jet fighter sat placidly on a grassy knoll across the street from a strip of boarded-up storefronts.
"Did it crash?" Remo asked.
"No," Major Styles explained. "This here's what passes for a La Plomo monument. They tell me they tried to get a steam engine placed here, but it was no sale. Somebody donated this Sabrejet instead. It dates back to the Korean War. They say the town kids used it for a jungle gym."
"It looks it," Remo said, noticing the dents and initials scratched into the skin. On one wing was etched a heart circling the legend "W.M. Loves D.G. 199 ."
When the significance of the graffito sank in, neither man said anything. Then Remo remembered what had drawn him to the aircraft.
Sniffing the air, he followed the infinitely minuscule geranium-like aroma around to the tailpipe. Styles trailed curiously.
"Do me a favor and reach inside," Remo suggested, keeping a respectful distance.
"Why should I?"
"Because you're wearing gasproof gloves, and I'm not."
Shrugging, Major Styles sank to his knees and peered into the tailpipe. His eyes widened comically.
"God damn" he exclaimed. He reached in and pulled out three fat canisters strapped together by bands of tin flashing.
"Now we know where the gas came from," Remo said flatly.
"They had canisters of the stuff hidden in the tailpipe," Major Styles mumbled in a disbelieving voice. "How about that?"
"Have those tanks shipped to Washington," Remo directed. "And make sure nobody smudges any fingerprints."
"I'll leave it here until someone comes for it. This is outta my league."
"You said it, not me."
They started back for the barbed wire.
"The way I see it," Major Styles was saying, "the Iraqis hid the tanks in the middle of the night and one of their agents just turned the petcocks on the canisters."
"What makes you say Iraqis?" Remo wanted to know.
"Who else would be crazy enough, bloodthirsty enough, and is known to deploy poison gas against innocent noncombatants?"
"The Libyans," Remo said firmly.
"Libyans?" Major Styles snorted. "Hell, what would they be doing in Missouri?" He pronounced it "Missoura," which told Remo he was a native.
"Good point," Remo said with a straight face.
"I tell you none of us are safe in this infernal post-cold-war world. The Russians would never have stooped this low. You should have seen all those glassy-eyed corpses they hauled out of here. Stacked like cordwood, they were. Brrr. Gives me the shivers just thinking about it."
The grumble of motorized trucks broke the stillness.
"That'll be your Army," Styles said edgily. He hesitated, fingering his mustache as if it gave him comfort. "Well, come on. Damn. I've never had any truck with the Army. They're real military."
Remo shot the major a reassuring smile.
"Don't sweat it," he said. "I've met the captain in charge of the detail. Not only do you outrank him, but he's a personable kind of guy."
"Glad you hear it. How do you think I should approach him, protocol-wise?"
"When you shake his hand," Remo advised, "keep your gloves on."
The Army trucks formed a circle in the road just short of the barbed wire. Soldiers jumped out. A squad of them, carrying black flags, deployed in all directions, screwing the flags into every soft-ground surface. When that mission was concluded, the cornfield resembled a golf course in mourning.
Under the direction of Captain Holden, two men lugged various pieces of heavy equipment off the backs of the trucks, among them a pair of gas-powered compressors and another contraption Remo didn't recognize.
When the captain reached over and hit a switch on the latter, Remo concluded it was a portable Klaxon. The deafening short blasts piercing his sensitive eardrums made that a safe deduction. Even the gas-masked Guardsmen were forced to clap their hands over their ears to keep out the strident wailing.
"What the hell are they trying to do, deafen us?" Major Styles barked, hastening forward.
He could have saved himself the exertion, because, unseen by even the soldiers standing around the Klaxon with their hands reaching up protectively into their helmets, the Master of Sinanju floated up to the Klaxon and clapped his hands three times delicately, as if trying to swat a mosquito buzzing the Klaxon horns.
The piercing caterwauling stopped after the last clap.
The soldiers dropped their fingers from their ears and looked to the silent Klaxon. They saw the frail form of the Master of Sinanju leaning thoughtfully over the now-mangled sound horns, which had had the misfortune to be caught between Chiun's hands when he had clapped them.
"What the hell happened?" a soldier demanded.
"I believe this instrument has stopped functioning," Chiun said in a worried tone.
"Must be the battery," Captain Holden said, striding up.
"Yes, it is probably the battery," Chiun said sagely. "It sounds exactly like battery trouble."
"It doesn't sound like anything at all," Holden complained.
"I would not complain about that," Chiun said, floating away. "It is much more pleasing this way."
Remo joined him. "Nice move, Little Father. How'd your little news conference go, by the way?" he asked dryly.
"You may catch the film at eleven," Chiun sniffed.
"And you may catch hell from Smitty," Remo shot back. "You know how he is about us appearing on TV."
"I will not appear on TV in my secret capacity of royal assassin, but as a wronged parent."
"You told them that you were pissed at me?" Remo asked, aghast.
Chiun smiled thinly. "They were most receptive. And sympathetic."
"Did you perchance tell them why you have a bee in your bonnet?" Remo inquired.
Chiun gestured at his bald head. "I am wearing no bonnet."
"Answer the question."
"Yes."
"So will you tell me what's eating at you?"
"You may learn this on the eleven-o'clock news like everyone else," Chiun said haughtily.
Remo's retort was drowned out by a new noise. The discordant clamor of banging metal. Remo looked over to the circle of Army trucks. There, a trio of soldiers was walking around in a circle, helmets tucked under their armpits, banging on them with sticks.
"Oh, what the hell are they doing now?" Remo asked in exasperation.
"It is obvious," Chiun said.
"Not to me," Remo said.
"They are driving the evil spirits away. This is the recommended method."