Warren Murphy: Air Raid

"Can you ratchet that down, Little Father?" he griped.

"Just pretend to care about whatever idiocy they are babbling about," Chiun said in Korean. "Look. The old fidget has made the young one a worrywart like him."

Remo glanced at Howard. Chiun was right. The young man was looking a little frayed around the edges. There were dark bags under his greenishbrown eyes that weren't there when he started at CURE almost one year ago.

"You okay, kid?" Remo asked, brow drooping.

Mark seemed surprised at the attention. "Yes," he said cautiously, expecting a punch line to Remo's setup.

There was none. Remo only nodded. He returned his attention to the CURE director.

"Mark's assessment of the C. dioxa is correct," Smith said. "Unleashed on the world, it could disrupt or even destroy the oxygen cycle."

Sitting, bored, on the floor, Chiun asked Remo what that was. Remo told him he thought it was one of those stationary bikes fat people pedaled at health clubs.

"You join a gym, Smitty?" Remo asked.

"Actually," Smith said thinly, "the oxygen cycle is the name for the process by which photosynthetic organisms synthesize carbohydrates from water and carbon dioxide and release oxygen into the atmosphere as a byproduct. At the same time, aerobic organisms-mankind included-use up oxygen and give off carbon dioxide and water through a variety of complex metabolic processes. The one feeds the other on a planetary scale."

"So you're saying you didn't join a gym," Remo said.

Smith took a deep breath. "Animals breathe out carbon dioxide," he explained slowly. "Plants clean the carbon dioxide from the air and release the oxygen that the animals breathe. If the plants didn't do this, we would all die."

"Hey, I think I got that," Remo said.

"Good," Smith said seriously. "Because we are facing something that could reverse part of that process. If that happens, we cannot begin to contemplate the damage."

Remo waved a dismissive hand. "Aw, I've been hearing stuff about the world imploding for years, and we're still here. It can't be that bad, Smitty."

"Yes, Remo, it can. The threat to the environment this plant represents is incalculable. If released into the wild, it would flood the atmosphere with deadly carbon dioxide and ammonia gas. As a consequence, our air would eventually be rendered unbreathable. All life on Earth-plant, animal, marine, everything-would go the way of the dinosaur. The planet would literally suffocate."

Although Remo had heard doomsday predictions before, the types of people who made them always seemed to have some ulterior motives. Harold W. Smith, however, was a man who dealt with cold, harsh reality and was not the type to indulge in acts of wild speculation. If Smith thought this was serious, in all likelihood it was.

"Okay," Remo sighed. "So now I'm a lumberjack and I'm okay. Gimme an ax and tell me where it is."

"The CCS maintains a headquarters in Geneva," Smith said. "But it might not be so simple a thing as merely destroying the existing plants. In fact, it might not be necessary for you to do so at all."

"They're gonna kill us all, but you want me to save them," Remo said flatly.

Smith removed his glasses. "It is a little more complicated than that," he said, rubbing his eyes. "The C. dioza was actually developed for a reason. It offers a way to study the earliest stages of plant formation and evolution on this planet. It is conceivable that the data collected could have future scientific applications."

Remo didn't seem convinced. "Like what?" he asked.

It was Mark Howard who answered. "They might eventually be able to create a plant that can survive in a completely alien atmosphere," the assistant CURE director offered. "If they can do that, we could send seeds to other planets or moons in our own solar system that could eventually create oxygen atmospheres like ours."

Remo felt a pinch at his thigh. The Master of Sinanju was tugging at his pant leg with slender fingers. "It is worse that I thought," Chiun whispered quietly in Korean. "The big one has driven the little one mad."

Remo shot him a quieting glance. "So what's our involvement, Smitty?" he asked.

"Go to Geneva and see who or what is behind the murders of the C. dioxa scientists," the CURE director said. "If someone has evil designs on the tree, it may become necessary to destroy it. However, it is entirely possible that someone merely wants the research stopped. In either case, until you determine which it is, I want the two of you to protect the remaining scientist on the CCS team."

"Maybe chop tree, protect CCCP scientist, save world," Remo said. "Got it."

He stood. Beside him, the Master of Sinanju floated to his feet. Remo was turning to go when a thought occurred to him.

"What's the name of the guy we're supposed to be bodyguarding?" he asked.

Replacing his glasses, Smith glanced down at his monitor. "Her name," he said, "is Dr. Amanda Lifton."

Chapter 4

Dr. Amanda Lifton, of the Massachusetts Liftons, was frightened out of her Brahmin, Ivy League-educated Mensa brain. The utter, stark, unbearable terror had left her almost beyond the point of all reason. It was only due to her oppressively reserved Lifton upbringing that she didn't run screaming into the tidy streets of Geneva.

If she had been back home in the Boston suburb of Wellesley, she would have been able to work out some of her anxiety on one of the servants. Old Nan, the prim Englishwoman who had raised Amanda, had taken more than her share of clouts to the head during those troubled teen years. Nan was long gone now, but there had to be some dusty butler or upstairs maid who could fill in.

Amanda considered calling Daddy to ask him to send over Reginald for a good old-fashioned shoe beating, but she knew that she couldn't. Not after the very public display of temper she had given vent to at her sister Abigail's wedding. Most of it had been directed at Daddy, but for good measure she'd tossed in a fairly hefty helping of invective for the rest of the Lifton clan.

It had happened six years ago.

"I'm an adult!" she had proclaimed loudly and angrily to the ballroom full of Lifton relatives.

She did this for two reasons. First and foremost was that younger sister Abigail had the gall to go out and get married first. Second was Abby's insistence that Amanda wear the same hideous turquoise gown as the other bridesmaids. Amanda waited for the reception for maximum dramatic effect.

In her tirade, she insisted that she wanted to be treated as an adult. She'd had it with the entire Lifton family. She yelled at her startled relatives that she was going to finally make a clean break from them all. She started her new life on the dance floor, stripping off the appalling gown that Abby knew full well made a Lifton derriere look much bigger than it actually was. Amanda left the dress that malice bought on the floor and, in her underwear, marched proudly from the reception.

She was still reveling in her act of emancipation the next day when the phone rang.

It was precisely 9:00 a.m. Amanda knew it was important when it was Daddy on the line and not some servant or secretary telling her to hold for her father.

She was lounging back in bed, the delicate pink phone pressed to her pale, perfect ear.

"That was quite a performance yesterday, Amanda," Daddy said. "Bravo." He spoke in the lockjaw manner of old New England money.

"I meant every word, Daddy," Amanda huffed.

"Of course you did, princess. That is why as of five minutes from this moment you will be cut off from the rest of the Lifton family."

"No great loss," Amanda said, her tone snippy. She flopped one of her fuzzy pink slippers against the soft wrinkled skin on the underside of her pumiced foot.

"That includes the money, Amanda."