Warren Murphy: Scorched Earth

"I thought they put that Stargate stuff behind them."

"Evidently not. I would not accept any of their reports at face value."

"Look into this, Smith. Dr. Pagan is talking of death rays from outer space. I don't think people will buy it, but after Independence Day and Mars Attacks you never know."

"Otherwise intelligent people accepted as fact the 'War of the Worlds' radio broadcast when I was younger. And according to polls, a clear majority of Americans believe in the existence of flying saucers. We have to assume the worst where US. public opinion is concerned."

"I already do," the President said ruefully.

And the line went dead.

Chapter 4

Everything looked good for the return flight to Boston until Remo Williams had to use the terminal rest room and accidentally flushed his fly-padlock key down the john.

No problem, he thought, snapping the tiny padlock shut. I have a backup.

For some reason, the airport magnometer went beep when Remo walked through the stainless-steel frame.

"Empty your pockets," said a brown-eyed, auburn-haired airline security woman in a smart blue Wackenhut security uniform.

Remo dutifully placed two quarters and a subway token along with his billfold into the tray receptacle. He wore a white T-shirt and tan chinos, so there was no question of concealed weapons.

The magnometer beeped on his second try. The security agent blocked his path. Her voice became gravelly. A smoker.

"Excuse me, sir. I need to frisk you."

"Like hell," said Remo, picking up his left-hand loafer and shaking the tiny padlock key out into the receptacle. "It's only this thing," he said, going around for a third try.

But the beeper sounded a third time, and the auburn-haired woman said, "Airline rules say I get to frisk you."

"Have to frisk me, you mean."

"Want to frisk you," the auburn-haired woman said. "Frisk you friskily," she added.

"Maybe it's my zipper," suggested Remo.

"Zippers don't register. Otherwise, hunks like you would trip the alarm every time."

"It's got to be this frigging padlock."

"What padlock?"

And Remo lifted his zipper tongue with a fingertip to show her. She bent over, squinting. Remo made the padlock wiggle in the overhead lights.

"Why do you have your fly padlocked?" the security agent wondered aloud, reaching out to help Remo with his wriggling.

"It's a long story," said Remo, stepping back ahead of her exploring fingers.

She pointed to a room marked Security.

"Tell me as I'm frisking you up and down. Now march."

"Look, it's the padlock. Here, it's yours."

And Remo yanked the padlock loose so hard his zipper came tearing out. Both landed in the tray.

"Airline rules require me to peek into your drawers."

"No chance."

"Padlocked zipper. You may be smuggling something in there."

"There's nothing there," Remo protested.

The redhead assumed a disappointed expression, her fists resting on her trim hips.

"That shouldn't be," Remo amended.

The redhead brightened.

That was when Remo remembered he carried in his billfold a useful ID that covered just these situations.

"I'm with the FAA. Let me whip out my ID."

"Whip everything out and let me see it in the light."

Remo started with the ID and announced, "You just passed a random security check with flying colors. Congratulations."

"I still have to frisk you."

"Not in this lifetime."

The redhead shifted gears as smoothly as a highperformance racing car. "How about a date, then?"

"What?"

The redhead drew near, her perfume filling Remo's nostrils like a feathery lavender cloud, her voice growing husky. "A date. You and me. Maybe a hotel room if I get lucky."

Perhaps it was the absurdity of the moment. Or maybe the concept of a date hadn't occurred to Remo in a very long time, because he hesitated a moment before saying, "Can't. Against agency rules."

"I'll quit," the redhead said without skipping a beat.

"I don't date the unemployed," Remo said, collecting his stuff and hurrying to his gate.

The redhead tried to follow. Remo ducked into a men's room, balanced on a stall toilet and slipped out while she was on her hands and knees peeking up into the adjoining stall.

On board, Remo sat with a magazine open in his lap and thought long and hard.

He couldn't remember the last time he had gone out on a certifiable date. He couldn't recall the name or face of his last actual date. Dating was not something Remo normally did. He had affairs. Sometimes he slept with women as part of a cover personality. But he never dated.

As luck would have it, his flight was staffed with male flight attendants. Although one kept looking at him hungrily, he made no pass. Especially after Remo caught him staring at his lap and made a throat-cutting gesture.

Beyond that, he was not fighting off stewardesses.

It gave him time to think.

Remo did not date because the agency that employed him did not exist. Any more than Remo, once a Newark patrolman, was supposed to exist since that cold day years before when they strapped him into the electric chair at Trenton State Prison and yanked the switch.

Declared dead, Remo Williams became the lone killer arm of that agency, called CURE. Neither the man nor the organization was supposed to exist, because both operated outside the law, breaking the laws of America so that criminals who flouted the Constitution, perverting its letter and spirit to serve their own evil ends, would not escape through the loopholes of the US. justice system.

CURE was the brainchild of a President-long ago cut down by an assassin's bullet-who realized something drastic was required to preserve the nation. That drastic something was Remo Williams, trained by his mentor, Chiun, in the ancient martial discipline of Sinanju until he became a one-man strike force, anonymous and unstoppable. And therefore not likely to be captured or killed, which would betray CURE and force America to admit publicly that its constitutional government did not work. Only Smith-who had framed patrolman Remo Williams for a crime he never committed-Remo himself and each successive president were supposed to know about CURE, and none of them was allowed to be linked to the others in public.

But while all that meant Remo couldn't marry or raise children or fall permanently in love, it didn't mean he couldn't have a social life. Assuming he was careful.

Maybe I should start dating, he thought. Why not? There's nothing in my contract that says I can't. I just can't get involved.

By the time Remo deplaned at Logan Airport, he had resolved to ask the next attractive woman he saw for a date. Just to see what happened.

But not in the terminal. Too many stewardesses in and out of uniform. The last thing he wanted to date was a stewardess. They were too aggressive. He wanted someone nice. Someone demure. Preferably one with D-cups. C-cups might be acceptable, if she had a really nice walk. If not, D-cups or no cups.

ENTERING the fieldstone church-turned-condominium he called home, Remo found the downstairs kitchen empty and the upstairs rooms likewise. So he followed the sound of the steadily beating heart only his ears could detect to the bell-tower meditation room, and informed the Master of Sinanju of the new leaf he was going to be turning come the New Year.

"I need a date for New Year's Eve."

"I do not recommend this," Chiun said in a low, serious voice entirely unlike his normal excited squeak.

"Why not?"

"They will make you flatulent."

"That's not the kind of date I have in mind," explained Remo patiently.

"Figs also are to be avoided."

"I'm not hungry for dates or figs."

"Then why bring these fruits into the conversation?" asked the deadliest assassin alive.