"You said it was heading for South Africa."
"That was the stated destination. It altered course en route."
"Smitty, we're heading for South Africa," Remo pressed.
"Not any longer. I have issued an emergency course alteration to the pilot. Your new destination is Gibraltar."
"Gibraltar." Remo frowned. "Spain, right?"
"Actually, it is a colony of Great Britain," Smith said. "By the time you land there, we should have a clearer picture of where the Earthpeace vessel is heading. I will make arrangements for you to be picked up and transported to proximity with the Grappler when it arrives at its ultimate destination. "Has anyone else gotten wind of who's on board?" Remo asked.
"No," Smith said. "Fortunately for us, the efforts of other agencies thus far have been limited to the United States. However, that could change very quickly. I will continue to monitor the domestic situation and phone you when you land."
"Okeydoke," Remo said. He replaced the phone.
"Where will this goose chase take us next?" Chiun complained before Remo had sat back in his seat.
"You mean seagull chase," Remo said dully.
"I mean what I mean," Chiun sniffed.
Remo sighed. "Wherever these Earthpeace whackos go, we follow. They're the ones with the President, remember?"
A hint of a scowl touched the Master of Sinanju's weathered face. "He is not even your nation's current leader," he clucked. "Why does anyone even care?"
"Most people don't," Remo admitted honestly. "Then why not just forget him? The bloated nitwit who now rules from the Eagle Throne has the makings of a fine despot. He lies, cheats, betrays his closest allies and is as libidinous as a monkey. All are qualities endemic to the greatest dictators. Be content with him."
"A compelling argument," Remo said dryly, "but I think we'd better stick with the mission as outlined. We'll get the old President and bring him home."
"President." Chiun spit the word as if it were a curse. "Pah! What good are Presidents? Idiots appointed by fools to reign for but a few scant years. Every civilized nation knows that the only true leader is a monarch who is born and bred to rule. Preferably a tyrant."
"Presidents have paid your salary for more than twenty years," Remo pointed out.
"Smith pays me," Chiun stated firmly.
"Only because a President started the agency."
"And not even the one for whom we now search. To say that this is a fool's errand is an insult to fools." As he spoke, his eyes suddenly narrowed to slits. "I see your lunch is ready."
Chiun nodded to the front of the plane.
Remo's stewardess was coming up the aisle, arms laden to overflowing with tiny bags of peanuts. The small plastic-wrapped packets that fell to the carpet in her wake were gathered up by two more flight attendants. All three women wore perky, hopeful expressions.
"I think I'll lock myself in the cockpit for the rest of the flight," he said, turning to the Master of Sinanju.
Chiun's eyes were already closed tight.
"Can't talk. Sleeping," the old man said just before he started to snore.
Chapter 18
The hot, white Mediterranean sun that poured in through the bridge windows of the Radiant Grappler II washed warmly over the dripping chest of Bryce Babcock.
Even though Earthpeace had lobbied against the use of air conditioners, no one in the group thought the ban should extend to themselves. After all, they were changing the behavior of countless millions in their fight for Mother Earth. They above all others should be rewarded for their years of tireless effort.
Although the air conditioning aboard the ship chugged relentlessly, it wasn't enough for Bryce Babcock.
"My goodness, it's hot, isn't it?" he commented to the skipper. "It's global warming, right?" He used an already damp handkerchief to mop the sweat from the back of his neck.
The captain, who was a hired hand and not an Earthpeace member, smiled tightly. "This is the Mediterranean, sir," he explained thinly. "It was hot like this long before hairspray and shaving cream."
The handkerchief came back soaked. Babcock had to wring it out before returning it to his pocket. "Almost makes you wish for the days when science swore we were entering a new ice age, hmm?" he commented.
The captain didn't respond.
As the sailors went about their busy routine, Babcock found himself being shunted off to a corner of the bridge.
The camouflage had worked perfectly. No one had given the Grappler a second look as it sailed through the towering rocks that lined the Strait of Gibraltar. They were already well past the Gulf of Tunis and in the Strait of Sicily near the Island of Pantelleria. Malta was already 120 miles away. At the rate they were traveling, they'd pass the Maltese Islands in under two hours.
Babcock was actually surprised at the lack of resistance the Grappler was encountering. They had sighted commercial vessels and warships from dozens of nations on their journey thus far. All had been supremely disinterested.
It was as Babcock had hoped. The Grappler was now a commercial fishing boat with a Greek registry. As long as it wasn't fishing in the territorial waters of any of the countries it passed, who cared?
From his small corner near a window, Babcock spotted another vessel far across the unusually calm, sun-dappled waters. It was like an overturned skyscraper floating in a sea of scattered diamonds.
The skipper was peering at the new ship through a set of big binoculars. It seemed to be on a course parallel with that of the Earthpeace ship.
"American." The captain frowned. He lowered the binoculars.
"What is it?" Babcock asked worriedly. Even from that distance, the ship was huge.
"Aircraft carrier," the captain said. "Not many of them left these days."
The interior secretary allowed a flutter of fear to creep into the pit of his stomach.
"Let me see those," he hissed, holding out a hand for the captain's binoculars. Brow furrowing, the sailor handed them over.
They were as heavy as lead. Palms sweating, Babcock trained the glasses on the distant ship.
The binoculars enlarged the carrier to a frightening degree. As he ran the glasses along the ship, it seemed almost close enough to touch.
Sailors peppered the deck, their trousers flapping in the gentle breeze. There was no sense of urgency as far as the interior secretary could detect. No one was even looking in the direction of the Grappler.
As he followed the sharp contours of the dull gray hull, Secretary Babcock saw the ship's name. USS Ronald Reagan.
"Are you all right, sir?"
The voice rang hollow in his ears. Babcock pulled the binoculars away. The captain was staring at him, a concerned expression on his face.
"What?" Babcock asked, gulping. His heart was thudding like mad.
"That gasp you just made," the captain began, "it sounded- Are you okay?"
"Yes. Yes," Babcock snapped. He stabbed an anxious finger to the aircraft carrier. "Are they onto us?"
The captain shook his head. "They're in no hurry," he replied. "If they hold speed, we should begin to outpace them in the next ten minutes or so."
"So they're on routine maneuvers," Babcock suggested hopefully.
"That would be my guess," the captain nodded. Babcock exhaled relief, handing back the glasses. "Can you get us away from it any faster?"
"We're practically full out now, but I'll see what we can do." Turning to his men, he began to issue commands.
Bryce Babcock melted into a corner of the bridge until the Grappler pulled abreast of the aircraft carrier.
In spite of the intense heat, he'd felt an involuntary shudder the moment he laid eyes on the American warship. It was a bad omen. He hoped he'd feel better once the ship was in their wake. However, the chill remained even as he watched the aircraft carrier begin to fall slowly behind.