Warren Murphy: Last War Dance

"No, you don't. You want to go with me. Don't make a scene. I can't stand scenes."

"But I will make a scene," said Van Riker. Suddenly he felt an incredible wrenching pain in his right ribs.

"Now, that was fast," Remo said. C'mon. people are looking."

Doing his best to keep his weight off his right side and trying not to breathe deeply, Van Riker went with the young man to a cab outside. They drove to a small private airfield, where Van Riker saw a black Lear Jet, prepped for takeoff.

"Where are we going?" asked Van Riker as he was being helped up the small platform ladder that was the entrance to the jet.

"For you to get some answers."

When the plane was airborne, Van Riker asked for a painkiller for his rib. But instead of chemicals, he got the young man reaching around to his spinal column. Then there was a little tap, and then, blessedly, the rib no longer hurt.

"Nerves," said Remo. "Your rib wasn't cracked. It was the nerves."

"Thank you. Could you explain yourself a little more clearly? Where are we going? Who are you? Why have you kidnapped me?"

"Not kidnapped," Remo said. "I'm borrowing you. I think we're on the same side."

"I'm not on any side," said Van Riker. "I'm retired. I was an administrative officer in the United States Air Force. Would you care to know how many towels we had at Lackland?"

"I didn't break any instruments, did I?"

"Of course not," Van Riker said. "I'm not carrying instruments. Why would I carry instruments?"

"I haven't the foggiest. I just follow orders," said Remo. "You're going to talk to someone you're going to like."

"I don't think I'm going to like anyone, being kidnapped like this. Is it money you want? Do you want money? I can guarantee a reasonable amount of money if you cooperate."

"I've got enough," Remo said.

"I'll pay you more."

"How can you pay more than enough?" asked Remo. "That's not logical. And they say you're a big-ass scientist. God save America."

"If you believe in America, get me to Washington. It's urgent."

"You're not going to Washington. Shut up," Remo said.

"God save America," said Van Riker. And there was silence until the plane landed at a small private field, which Remo explained was just outside Goldsboro, North Carolina, site of a large air force base.

As soon as General Van Riker had his feet on the ground behind the younger man, the plane began taxiing back down the runway.

"Where is he going?"

"Away from here. Smitty doesn't like to let anyone know what he's doing. He's the guy you're going to see. A bit peculiar, but okay."

"If you think someone is peculiar," said General Van Riker, "God help us. God help him."

"You're pretty religious for a scientist who invented one pisser of a missile," said Remo.

Hearing that was more shocking than the sudden pain in the ribs had been. Years of training for such a moment had barely prevented Van Riker from gasping in disbelief.

It was impossible for this man to know about the bomb. Impossible. The whole thing had been designed so that no one would know about it except Van Riker, the president, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. And all the chairman knew was that there was a weapon. Not what kind and not where. That was the strength of the Cassandra. That no one but Van Riker knew where it was. For if the other side ever found out, it could detonate it without all that much difficulty. A ground-level explosion with the Dresden effect climbing instead of descending.

As Van Riker followed the young man into a hangar, he thought he heard something. He was deeply shaken. "Are you whistling?" he asked incredulously.

"Yeah."

"Merrily whistling?"

"Yeah."

"Do you know that at any moment you might be a cinder?"

"So?"

"So why are you so damned happy with yourself?"

"I did my job. You're here. With no broken instruments."

"Doesn't it bother you that you could be burned alive in a nuclear holocaust?"

"As opposed to a bullet in the brain or what? Nuclear holocaust doesn't grab me. You know I could kill myself by incorrect balance during some of my thrusts? Did you know that? How would you like to die just because your technique is wrong? That's awful. That's frightening. Incorrect technique gives me nightmares."

At the far end of the hangar was a man in dark suit and tie. He sat behind a small desk, reading. To the right was a frail wisp of an Oriental with a thin, straggly white beard. He wore a red and gold robe, and sat in lotus position atop a large, brightly lacquered steamer trunk. There were thirteen others nearby.

"Down at the far end is Smitty," said Remo, pointing to the man at the desk.

Walking toward the figure at the far end of the hangar, Van Riker heard his captor say to the old Oriental, "You know, Little Father, that guy doesn't give a second thought to technique. Invents a bomb that can wipe out a continent and poison the world, and he doesn't give a faded fart about technique."

"When a person cannot do one thing well, he seeks to do many to compensate. Then, in the confusion, he hopes no one will notice his unworthiness. If this one could have made a bomb to kill one person correctly, then he would have done something worthwhile. But he could not. So he made a bomb to kill a lot of persons badly. He is a menace to himself and to those around him," said the Oriental.

"He's an American air force general, Little Father."

"Oh," said the Oriental, as if that statement explained everything. "The supreme example of quantity triumphant over quality."

Van Riker heard the last remark, but it did not bother him. The disaster he had dreamed of at night and wrestled with beneath consciousness during waking hours was happening now. And he, the only man who might avert the holocaust, was the captive of lunatics. It was almost a blessed relief to see the very conservative suit and the dry lemony face of the man who introduced himself as Dr. Harold W. Smith.

"Please sit down," said Smith. "I know you must be in great torment. We are here to help you do what you must do. And there is no one else as capable as we are of helping you. Ordinarily, we would not be involved in a mission of this sort. But we know about Cassandra. We know it's at Wounded Elk."

"What is this about?" asked Van Riker. 'I'm on my way to a vacation in Washington. I am kidnapped and then told of some wounded animal and a character from Greek poetry and some horrible missile… I just don't understand."

"Precisely," said Smith. "Precisely. Why should you trust us? And that's my job now. I propose, General Van Riker, creator of the Cassandra missile, that you let us help you do what you must do."

"My God, this is a nightmare! Who are you? I never had anything to do with missiles. I was a logistics officer."

"And so your cover says," Smith said. "And so too do many things. What I propose now is to use your mind to prove to you that we are both on the same side and that we are the only people who can help you do what you must do about the Cassandra. One: we are not foreign. If we were foreign, just knowing for certain the whereabouts of Cassandra would be all we need. It's a vulnerable, unstable weapon whose main protection is its camouflage. Because it could be triggered in its silo, once known to a foreign power, it's more a danger to the United States than to anyone else. Correct?"

Van Riker denied nothing. His face was stone, but he was listening.

"Two: are we some sort of criminal organization that could effectively blackmail the United States by threatening to trigger the Cassandra? A very effective blackmail, I might add. To answer this, I am going to have to disclose to you something so critical to the functioning of America that I have ordered people killed who knew about it. When you know who we are, you will realize that we are probably the only people who could know about Cassandra, outside of yourself. And when I tell you who we are, you will know I have given you a greater weapon against us than any we have against you."