Chesterfield was already doing some rapid calculations in his head. He didn't want to admit to anything that could come back to bite him later on. After weighing the options for a split second, he decided that there probably wasn't much harm admitting that Elizu Roote was from his base.
The general nodded crisply. "He's one of my boys." He quickly added, "That is to say, one of the Army's boys. They just send me the crates. I don't know how many rotten apples are sitting in them."
"So there is only one man."
"One United States Army soldier, yes," Chesterfield replied haughtily.
"General Chesterfield!" The excited voice came from near one of the single-story barracks-type command structures.
They turned to see a lieutenant, who appeared to be too young for a razor, running across the dusty yard. He barely avoided bumping into dozens of men in his haste to cross over to Chesterfield.
"We think we've got him, General," panted the excited lieutenant as he reached Chesterfield. He nodded crisply to Remo. "One of the MP units failed to report in. Chopper spotted their jeep at a saloon beyond the forest."
Chesterfield's eyes had gone wide. With facial tics as subtle as a baseball bat to the back of the head, he tried to warn the lieutenant not to speak in front of Remo. The officer didn't get the hint.
"You think he killed them?" Remo asked, surprised.
"It wouldn't be his first, sir," the lieutenant replied.
Remo wheeled on Chesterfield.
Chesterfield's face froze mid-tic. He pretended it was an itch. He scratched at it with his riding crop.
"How many has he killed so far?" Remo demanded.
"Ohh, let's see now...."
The lieutenant answered for his commander. "Eight MPs confirmed, two now suspected." Chesterfield started to signal anew.
"He's killed ten MPs?" Remo asked, stunned.
"And a dozen civilians," the lieutenant offered.
Chesterfield gave up trying to signal altogether. "Lieutenant!" the general interjected.
The younger man snapped away from Remo. "Sir!"
"I'm sure you didn't join this man's Army to chatter away like a member of my dear sweet departed mother's quilting circle, God rest her soul," Chesterfield menaced.
"Sir, no, sir!"
"Then kindly stow the hearsay until we've got some damn solid facts!" The general screamed so loudly his beefy head looked ready to explode like a tomato with a firecracker packed inside.
"Yes, sir!" the lieutenant shouted back.
"Why hasn't this made national news?" Remo asked, baffled. He spoke more to himself than to the others.
"We've been keeping a lid on things so far," Chesterfield offered. "Don't want to alarm the populace."
"What about warning them that a maniac is on the loose?" Remo commented, annoyed. "Who is this guy? Has he had some kind of special training or something?"
"That is Army business," Chesterfield announced in a superior tone. He wheeled his great girth to the lieutenant. "Ready my chopper. I want everything we've got thrown at him. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir!" The man spun to go.
"Wait a minute," Remo said, grabbing the lieutenant by the arm. "You're doing all this for one man?" he asked Chesterfield, his voice betraying his complete bewilderment.
"One Army man, yes," Chesterfield replied impatiently.
"As opposed to one Spider man," Remo said aridly.
"He's not under my command," the general retorted, his ruddy face clouding.
"Forget it," Remo said. "And while you're at it, forget sending any more of your men in. I'll go."
"Alone?"
"That's the general idea."
Chesterfield snorted loudly. "You? Against Roote? The desert sun's getting to you, boy."
Remo's face was deadly serious. "Humor me." When he saw that Remo was not joking, the general's laugh slowly petered out.
His keen military mind instantly went to work. He began weighing the idea of sending all the troops under his entire command after Roote against the prospect of sending Remo in alone. For him to go along with the outlandish scheme, there would have to be a mighty big benefit for Delbert Xavier Chesterfield. The plus side of the scenario immediately presented itself.
"You've got authority to override me?" he asked.
Remo shrugged. "I suppose," he said. "If it's necessary, I can go right to the top."
Chesterfield's eyes narrowed. "Washington takes the blame for any screw-ups?" the general asked cagily.
"Yeah, sure, whatever," Remo said indifferently.
General Chesterfield happily slapped his swagger stick against one massive thigh. His smile was as wide as the New Mexico desert. "Son, I think you and I can come to what my grandpappy used to call an understanding."
Chapter 5
The drab, brownish-green U.S. Army Apache advanced attack helicopter swept across the sunbaked landscape like a lone, angry wasp. It soared northeast, just skirting the periphery of Lincoln National Forest as it raced on toward the likeliest location of Private Elizu Roote.
General Chesterfield sat in the gunner's seat behind the pilot. Remo was crammed in beside the general's bulk.
"It would have been easier to drive," Remo complained into the slender microphone that was connected to his thick headset. Although he didn't require the protection the earphones offered, Chesterfield wouldn't have been able to hear him without them.
"Easier, but not quicker," the general replied loudly. Grinning, he turned to Remo. Large parts of his anatomy spilled over into Remo's seat. "What's the matter, boy? Don't like the company?"
"Not particularly," Remo answered.
Chesterfield laughed. "You're lucky you're not under my command with a mouth like that, boy."
"Speaking of mouths, does every word that comes out of yours have to be shouted?"
"That's the way they taught us to command respect in general school," the officer bellowed. Remo had heard a great many military men in his life-both in his personal experience and on television. Although he could easily picture Norman Schwarzkopf shouting, he couldn't remember hearing him doing so even once on TV. Rather than hear a shouted further explanation, he decided not to press the issue.
They swept across the desert for a few long minutes, the muted, constant noise of the rotor blades the only sound in the cabin.
As the helicopter soared toward their rendezvous, the general glanced surreptitiously at Remo several times. Curiosity finally got the better of him.
"You CIA, boy?" Chesterfield boomed into his mouthpiece.
Remo stared out the curving windshield to the endless desert below. "Maybe," he replied without much interest.
"You don't look like CIA. NSC?"
Remo sighed. "You know, a good general would have asked to see my ID before schlepping me out into the middle of nowhere like this."
"I take umbrage at that, sir. I am a good general." Chesterfield stabbed a large finger at the two stars on his right shoulder board. "You know what I got these for?" he demanded in a booming voice.
Remo shrugged. "Base pie-eating contest?"
"They were awarded to me for being a very good general. What do you think of that?"
"I think it's a telling comment on the all-volunteer Army," Remo replied.
"I don't much like your tone," Chesterfield announced.
"Double," Remo replied, bored.
"I'm not even sure you're CIA."
"That's good, 'cause I'm not." He was still staring out the window. The desert wasn't very pretty.
"Let me see your identification," the general demanded.
"No."
"I will set down this helicopter right now and put you out in the desert if you do not comply."
"And I'll let you take the blame for the body count your man has accumulated."
General Chesterfield thought long and hard over this prospect. He finally settled into a sullen, reluctant silence.