Warren Murphy - Killer Watts

Halper was still in bed. No surprise there. Grant doubted he'd be going anywhere for a long time. Beside the agent's supine form, an EKG monitor beeped relentlessly. Grant saw that the heart rate was still slightly irregular. Probably due to the electrical shock. Something like that might never correct itself. Even if he did come around, the arrhythmia might be permanent.

He watched for a few long minutes as the sheet rose and fell with the patient's steady breathing. There was nothing Major Grant could do for him. The Army was ill equipped to handle such a unique case. The man would have been better off at one of the civilian medical units.

As soon as he was brought in, the doctor had argued for sending the man either to Alamogordo or to one of the even more advanced facilities over in Texas. He had been shot down, overruled by Ironbutt Chesterfield.

So here Remo Halper lay. And until the general changed his mind, here he would remain.

As he stood contemplating the inexplicable decision of his base commander, Major Grant was surprised to find that he had begun to breathe in the same deep manner as his patient. It was so hypnotic, so relaxing, he hadn't realized he'd been doing so.

The doctor shook himself from his reverie, turning away from the government agent.

Without even realizing it, his breathing returned to normal. On his way out of the room, Major Arnold Grant snapped off the lights.

HIS STOMACH SINKING, Smith noticed the car trailing them while they were still in Roswell. Once they had driven out into the desert, his suspicions were confirmed.

"We are being followed," he said. His gnarled fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly.

"I know," Chiun replied simply.

The Master of Sinanju was sitting in the passenger's seat of Smith's rental car. He watched, bored, as the few spotty houses faded into endless miles of desert.

Smith was taking nervous, furtive glances in the rearview mirror.

"I believe it is the man who accosted me at the airport," he said, voice taut.

"It is," Chiun said, clearly not interested. "If you recall, I recommended that you let me remove him while we were still at the airport."

"I thought we had lost him after the rental agency," Smith replied. "He must have gone to get his own car."

"If you wish, I could eliminate him now," the Master of Sinanju offered blandly. "Stop this vehicle and he will be but an unpleasant memory."

"I prefer another alternative, Master Chiun," Smith said, his lemony tone anxious. "He is obviously deranged. I do not believe he has any interest in CURE."

"He may join the club," Chiun muttered, using one of his new Hollywood expressions. More loudly, he said, "Take the next path off this concourse, Emperor. I will deal with our pursuer."

Smith did as he was told. At the next off-ramp, he steered off the highway. The vehicle behind them continued to follow. Smith saw now that it was an ordinary jeep.

There were only a few buildings scattered in a wide area around the lonely roads. A few homes, a gas station, as well as a tourist information stop.

When they had driven past the only signs of habitation and were only a few miles out into the desert, Chiun raised one sandaled foot from the well beneath his seat. Twisting, he slammed it down atop one of Smith's black cordovan dress shoes. To the CURE director's dismay, it was the shoe that had been pressing carefully against the gas pedal.

With a squeal of tires, the car lurched forward like an F-14 launched from the deck of an aircraft carrier.

Even as the car soared up the road, Chiun was checking the side mirror. As expected, the jeep behind them had accelerated in pursuit.

"What are you doing?" Smith demanded, breathless. The black strip of road flew away behind them.

"You did not wish him dead," Chiun replied, as if speaking to an imbecile.

"I did not wish myself dead, either," Smith reminded him.

Chiun didn't reply. He continued to monitor the jeep as it closed the gap between them.

Smith gripped the wheel so tightly he thought it would melt and squish up between his fingers. The speedometer needle had fired up to eighty at the initial pressure of Chiun's sandal. As Smith watched, it crept steadily up to the hundred-mile-per-hour mark.

Smith's one consolation as the desolate scenery whipped by was that he was partially in command of his fate. He still controlled where the car was going. But even as this thought passed through his mind, he saw a bony hand snake up between his wrists.

Chiun grabbed the wheel tightly. He turned sharply, and the rental car dumped off the asphalt strip in an angry squeal of tires. The roof seemed to come crashing down on Smith as he bounced wildly in his seat.

Desert brush flew past the windows at alarming speed.

Chiun's eyes narrowed as he checked to see that they were still being followed.

The jeep remained behind them. It was speeding through the desert, barely visible in the cloud of dust that rose behind the rental sedan.

"Perhaps you should hold on, Emperor," Chiun suggested once they were only a few hundred yards from the road.

Smith thought he already had been. With a sinking feeling, he released the steering wheel, grabbing on to the seat with each hand.

Using both hands now, Chiun steered the car into a screaming arc. A huge cloud of dust rose from the desert floor. Cutting sharply back in the opposite direction, he gunned the engine. Another enormous plume of dust and sand joined the first.

Weaving back and forth several times in a serpentine manner, the Master of Sinanju created a massive cloud of impenetrable dust. He spun the wheel one last time, twirling the car around 180-degrees. His foot instantly slammed down on the brake.

As they jolted to a stop, Smith felt himself being flung forward. A hand flew up, pressing against his chest, guiding him delicately back into his seat.

As he released Smith, Chiun's keen hazel eyes studied the cloud that swirled around them.

Smith was still in the process of trying to catch his breath when he saw the murky contours of the jeep fly past, inches from the nose of their car.

As soon as the jeep had passed, Chiun clomped his foot on the accelerator. The car lurched forward in the direction from which they had come, bouncing back up onto the highway a minute later.

Chiun kept the gas pedal to the floor as they zoomed back down toward the highway on-ramp. In the driver's seat, Smith was like a passenger. Only when they were back on the main road did the Master of Sinanju relinquish control of the vehicle to the CURE director.

Briefly as they raced toward Alamogordo, Smith caught sight of the lonely jeep tearing away across the desert. He turned his attention back to the highway. His heart still thudded madly.

Beside him, the Master of Sinanju tipped his head. "You are shaking, Emperor Smith," Chiun mentioned, wrinkled face a pucker of concern. "Do you wish me to drive?"

"No!" Harold W. Smith insisted.

Shrugging, Chiun settled contentedly back into his seat. The rest of their trip to Fort Joy was uneventful.

WHEN HE SPOTTED the dust-caked car driving up from the main gate, General Delbert Chesterfield was in front of his whitewashed headquarters checking on the truck that would be his mobile command post.

The general frowned deeply as the civilian vehicle closed in. He tapped his boot with his swagger stick.

"Find out who the hell this is," he called up to a radioman sitting in a swivel seat in the back of the truck.

A moment later, the radioman had the reply.

"Top security clearance out of Washington according to the gate, sir," the soldier replied. "An FBI special agent and some kind of consultant."

Chesterfield's black eyes registered shadowy concern as the car pulled abreast of his command truck. All around, a kind of organized chaos gripped the base. The soldiers swarming around the courtyard appeared to be gearing up for a major offensive. The nearest men broke away from the opening doors of the sedan.