Remo was going from window to window, looking outside over each wing. Challenger tanks were now blocking the Yak's nose and tail so it couldn't move in any direction.

  "I'm not getting off this plane," Remo said after sizing up the situation.

  "Someone must tell these cretins that we are charged with saving the world," said Chiun.

  "That, too," said Remo. "But I was thinking that once we're off this plane, the only way home is on another plane. One with stewardesses. I'm not going through that again."

  "What is wrong with stewardesses?" asked Colonel Rushenko.

  "They're going through a phase right now."

  "Phase?"

  "They want to pop my buttons."

  "That is a very peculiar phase."

  Remo and Chiun huddled, and when they returned to the seat where Colonel Rushenko crouched so his head was not a target for SAS marksmen, Remo announced, "You're surrendering."

  "I am not to be killed?"

  "That's between you and the Brits. You're surrendering, taking the blame and telling the British all they need to hear so they let us fly on."

  "What could I possibly tell them that would convince them to do this?" Rushenko wondered aloud.

  Remo cocked a thumb at the Master of Sinanju standing behind him wearing a satisfied expression.

  "That he's a passenger."

  "I see," said Colonel Rushenko. "Of course, the British know the Master of Sinanju works for America. That may very well impress these people, who are not easily impressed."

  Chiun smiled thinly. "This was my idea. For it is said that the highest master is he who does not need to fight."

  "It is a brilliant solution," Rushenko said, visibly relieved.

  "You're only saying that because you think you'll live," said Remo.

  "The British will not kill me, for I will remind them that we are now ideological friends."

  "You may tell them what you wish," said Chiun, stepping aside so that the Russian could scuttle to the main exit.

  Remo slapped Colonel Rushenko on the back between the shoulder blades so hard that Rushenko's breath was knocked out of his lungs. He had to clutch the air-stairs rail going down. He managed to make it to the ground, hands held high, while he waited for SAS commandos to jump him.

  Which they did with typical British reserve. They slapped him to the tarmac, chipping a front tooth. His hands were pinned behind his back, and he was handcuffed and dragged to the shadow of an armored BMP.

  There, he gave in to interrogation so quickly that he wasn't believed.

  "I am telling you I am in the company of the Master of Sinanju, who works for America, as I know you know."

  "Likely story," a brush-mustached SAS major clipped.

  "It is the truth."

  A decision was made to storm the plane. Four commandos. They went up the air-stairs, paused at the cabin door, which was still hanging open, and tossed in flash grenades.

  They went in firing.

  And they came out flying, minus their weapons and wearing their birthday suits, to tumble all the way back to the ground in complete humiliation.

  "I told you I spoke true," Colonel Rushenko said after the commandos were retrieved by armored car. "Do you believe me now?"

  Reluctantly the SAS major did. The tanks were ordered off the runway, and the Yak was refueled.

  It returned to the skies approximately the time Colonel Rushenko breathed a sigh of relief that kept on going, much to his growing astonishment. He couldn't stop exhaling, for some reason. He felt light-headed. His vision darkened.

  By the time his captors realized he had succumbed to heart failure, there was nothing anyone could do for him. He was quite blue. And then quite dead. Quite.

  OVER THE ATLANTIC, Remo snapped his fingers.

  "Forgot to phone Smith."

  "Emperor Smith may wait. It will gladden his heart that we have returned to safeguard his beleaguered shores."

  "Hope he dug up something useful, or we went a long way for nothing."

  "Smith's oracles are almost infallible."

  "Speaking of failure, Colonel Rushenko should be worm food about now."

  "If you struck the Blow of Delayed Peace correctly . . ."

  "Right between the shoulder blades. He'll never know what snuffed him."

  "It serves him right for ordering my death," Chiun sniffed. "It was inconsiderate, not to mention foolhardy."

  "Wake me up when we're on the ground." And Remo dropped off to catch some much-needed rest.

  Somewhere over the dark Atlantic, he awoke to find the Master of Sinanju looking out into the night sky.

  "Star gazing?" he asked.

  "I am watching for the sun dragon."

  "Feel free."

  "Sun dragons and arrow stars are harbingers of disaster, Remo."

  "Show me a time when there weren't disasters. Comets don't affect events on earth. That's as squirrelly as astrology."

  "Spoken like a true Virgo," sniffed Chiun. His nose was to the glass, his hazel eyes questing.

  A thin line of light against the night caused his eyes to open up. Then they subsided.

  "What was that?" asked Remo.

  "Only a dung star."

  "A what?"

  "You would call it a meteor."

  "Why is it called a dung star?"

  "Because it is known to Koreans that so-called meteors are but the falling dung of true stars. And not to be confused with sun dragons."

  "Korean astronomy sounds as screwy as astrology-"

  "You will speak differently should you confront the sun dragon."

  "Never happen."

  Chiun's eyes became reflective. "Remo, you asked me if there were any legends attending the reign of Master Salbyol. There was one."

  "I'm listening."

  "It was prophesied that when the sun dragon next returned, the Master at that time would ascend into the Void to do battle with the awesome beast."

  "Reigning Master or just Master?" asked Remo.

  "The prophecy omitted that stipulation. But obviously Salbyol had to have meant Reigning Master. For he is the more important of the two."

  "So you figure you're going to climb into the Void to fight a comet?" said Remo.

  "Sun dragon. But that is not what worries me. For those who enter the Void, as you know, do not return to the living." Chiun's voice was hollow. "Remo, I am not yet prepared to die."

  "How did Salbyol come up with this prediction?"

  "How else? By consulting the stars."

  Remo snorted. "If Korean astrology is anything like Korean astronomy, you don't have a thing to worry about."

  Chiun grew deep of voice. "You are wrong. For I have felt the hot breath of the sun dragon, and you have felt it, too," said the Master of Sinanju, padding off the the rear of the cabin to be alone with his unspoken thoughts.

  Remo let him be. He figured they'd both cross that bridge when it presented itself to them.

  Chapter 36

  At the SPACETRACK nerve center in Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado, all eyes, electronic or otherwise, were on Object 617, which was just sweeping down from the North Pole on its periodic polar path.

  This time its orbit would take it over western Europe. Its last two orbits had covered the flat heart of the Asian republics on Russia's eastern flank, where SPACETRACK had no ground cameras and NATO had no eyes.

  It was while Object 617 was approaching France that its radar signature abruptly shifted.

  "Major, it's moving," a radar technician said.

  Any eye that wasn't on Object 617 now shifted to track it on the giant projection screen with its Mercator projection of Earth's orbital envelope. Over eight thousand objects, ranging from one yard in size to space junk as small as a pea, each tagged by a green ID number, were displayed and accounted for. Object 617 had been designated a highest priority, and its radar blip was flashing red.

  Amid the sea of phosphor green objects, it stood out like a bloodshot eye.

  Object 617 was changing position. Its path was taking it toward the U.S. Eastern Seaboard.

  "That thing is maneuverable," the major growled.

  "It's also coming into GEODES acquisition range, sir."

  GEODSS was the ground-camera backup to SPACETRACK's radar net. Grabbing a dedicated line, the major put in a call to his counterpart at GEODES.

  "See if you can grab it," the SPACTRACK major told the GEODSS major.

  "Will do, Major."

  At GEODSS headquarters, secure international phone lines were worked until the word came back.

  "Finland has it, Major. The picture is coming in now."

  GEODSS had its own giant screen, and the feed displayed the mysterious orbital object as it shifted over the Atlantic.

  "Will it pass over the continental U.S.?" the GEODES major barked.

  A technician shook his head. "Not this orbit. But on the next, for sure."

  "How long?"

  "Give it ninety minutes."

  "I gotta tell the President," said the GEODES major, grabbing another dedicated line whose plastic contours felt slick under his perspiring palm.

  THE CALL FROM GEODSS did not go directly to the White House. It had to go through channels. After twenty minutes, an Air Force general at the Pentagon told the secretary of the air force, who called the secretary of defense, who took the intelligence to the President personally. Getting through District of Columbia traffic ate another twenty precious minutes.

  The President sat heavily in his chair in the Oval Office at the end of the defense secretary's grim recitation.

  "Will it pass over Washington?" he croaked.

  "It can."

  "Do we know what it is yet?"

  "No. It's just a dark ball. But in its present orbital orientation, we can see only the Earth-facing side of it."

  "We're going to have to shoot it down," said the President. "We can't wait for it to strike again. We have to shoot it down."

  "We can't," snapped the secretary of defense.

  "What do you mean, can't?"

  "Not without starting a war with the Russians."

  "If it's a Russian satellite, the war has already started."

  "We don't know that."

  "If it's not Russian, then why should they care?"

  The secretary of defense wore the face of a man who has discovered himself trapped in an inescapable box.

  "The technology exists. We have an antisatellite missile that can be rigged up for launching from a high-flying F-15. Or maybe it's an F-16. We just have to attach a special launch rack. But deployment of weapons in space is specifically prohibited by the START treaty. "

  "It is?"

  "Absolutely. The Russians are cosignatories on that treaty. If we violate it, all of space may be militarized. And given the shifting geopolitical sands over there, don't think there aren't a pack of Kremlin hard-liners only too happy to start a new arms race in space."

  "Maybe that's it," the President breathed.

  "Sir?"

  "Maybe they want to provoke us into attacking this doomsday satellite. To get us to violate START so they can militarize space."

  "It's a theory ...."

  The President took his graying head in his hands and hung it in agony. "All we have is theories. And the doomsday clock is ticking. What if they're out to attack Washington?"

  "If they are, we're sitting ducks here. There's no defense except a preemptive strike." The secretary of defense paused and in a voice made thick by controlled emotion, asked, "Mr. President, are you ordering such a strike at this time?"

  The President of the United States stared at his own dazed reflection in the desk surface a very long time before he opened his mouth to answer.

  IN Moscow, Major-General Iyona Stankevitch of the FSK put down his third glass of vodka and buzzed his secretary.

  "Bring me the Cosmic Secret file. At once."

  Then he downed another stiff belt. He intended to drink all the vodka possible in the few short hours he and the world had left to enjoy.

  Chapter 37

  LaGuardia wouldn't take the Yak-90. Nor would Kennedy International Airport.

  "Divert to Boston," Remo told the nervous Russian pilot.

  "We have barely the fuel to make it to Boston," he protested.

  "Perfect."

  "Why is that perfect, crazy one?"

  "Once you tell them we're out of fuel, they've gotta let us land," explained Remo.

  "They could force us to circle until we crash."

  "You're thinking of the Russian response. This is America."

  Over Logan International Airport, they orbited for what seemed to be an eternity.

  "Look Remo, there is our home!" Chiun squeaked.

  Remo looked out the window. Below, Quincy Bay sat gray and flat under overcast skies.

  "I don't see it," said Remo, not really wanting to.

  "See the very blue house?"

  "How could I miss it? It's Superman blue."

  "Follow the winding road north."

  Remo did. And there was the fieldstone monster Chuin had dubbed Castle Sinanju.

  "Too bad we can't parachute out," he said.

  "We will be out of fuel soon," Chiun remarked.

  The number-two engine stalled out at exactly that point.

  Remo rushed to the cabin. "What's going on?"

  "We are out of fuel," the pilot reported.

  "You were supposed to tell the tower before we ran out, not after."

  "I am dizzy from all this circling. I forgot."

  "Can you put us down okay?"

  "If the other engine does not conk."

  In the next moment it did.

  "What do I do now?" the pilot moaned.

  "Can this lame duck glide in?"

  "It is a jet. It glides exactly like a brick. Not at all."

  "Then ditch," said Remo, flinging himself back into the cabin.

  They came down in Quincy Bay with flaps down and the Russian pilot praying as the choppy water skimmed under their settling wings.

  Remo had moved to the cabin's rear, knowing that a nose-in landing would demolish the front of the plane but not necessarily the rear. Chiun stood with him, expectant.

  It was a good theory. In practice, the Yak pulled up at the last minute and pancaked, breaking the fuselage exactly in the middle like a loaf of Italian bread.

  Cold seawater rushed in. Remo and Chiun let it slosh over them. Not that they had much choice. G-forces kept them from moving.

  The Yak's tail sank first. They let the water take them in its cold, unforgiving grasp. The shock to their systems was like being seized by a clamping vise of ice.

  The tail struck the seafloor, creating a cloud of dark sediment. They swam out, finding the Russian pilot kicking and flailing aimlessly.

  Remo pulled him to the surface, where all three men treaded water for as long as it took them to recharge their lungs with cold oxygen.

  The Russian looked around with stunned eyes. "I am in America?"

  "Congratulations," said Remo.

  "Does this mean I am not to die?"

  "No," said Chiun. "We have to kill you."

  "Yes," said Remo. "You got us here alive. You get to live. Just keep your nose clean."

  "Right now I am only concerned with keeping it warm. The rest of me, too."

  Chiun struck out for the shore. Remo tugged the Russian along and, once on the ice-crusted beach, sent him on his way with a shove.

  "Remember, you never saw us," Remo warned.

  "I care only about filling my belly with chizburgers and registering for warfare."

  "It's called welfare," Remo said wearily.

  TEN MINUTES LATER, Remo and Chiun were entering Castle Sinanju.

  "Good thing I talked you out of taking your steamer trunks, huh, Little Father?" Remo said to Chiun as he stripped off his icy T-shirt.

  "I was very wise to make the correct decision. Your counsel had nothing to do with it," returned Chiun before he disappeared into another room to change.

  Remo had the kitchen telephone and was putting in a call to Folcroft.

  Harold Smith answered breathlessly. "Where are you?"

  "Home," Remo said casually.

  "Home?"

  "You'll read about it in the morning paper. We had to ditch in Quincy Bay."

  Smith made a strangled sound. "I have made progress," he said after regaining his composure.

  "Good."

  "But not on the Paraguay angle. On ParaSol, a shell company, which shut down only two days ago. I have a search spider tracing its parent company through international data links. In the meantime, I have discovered who was funding the BioBubble."

  "Yeah?"

  "Dr. Cosmo Pagan."

  Remo kicked ice off his toes. "How does he figure into this?"

  "That is your assignment, Remo. I have correlated Pagan's theories. No matter what he predicts, he always returns to the Martian hypothesis. It is clear to me he is generating a media smoke screen for reasons of his own."

  "Think Pagan's controlling it?"

  "Until I have a firm lead on the Parasol connection, it is the only avenue open to us. Remo, go to Tucson and interrogate Pagan. The BioBubble has been in financial difficulty since he took control. He may have had it destroyed for insurance reasons."

  "Doesn't explain the Reliant," Remo challenged.

  "Pagan is antishuttle."

  "Okay," Remo said slowly. "That doesn't explain Baikonur."

  "The Russian space-shuttle fleet was hangared there."

  "How antishuttle can a guy be?"

  "Pagan believes in a Mars mission, Remo. My information is that he suffers from a rare form of bone cancer. His days are numbered. It may be he wanted to accelerate a Mars mission. In some warped way, Pagan could see a Mars landing as his final professional achievement and his cosmic legacy."

  "Sounds wacky."

  "Move quickly. Moscow has placed its nuclear forces on the highest state of alert. And Washington is responding in kind."

  "You know, this reminds me a lot of that trouble a few years back when the ozone layer was getting holes knocked in it and the Russians thought it was us trying to fry their missiles."

  "I had that same thought. It is another example of how dangerous technological breakthroughs can be in the nuclear age."

  "We're on our way to Tucson," said Remo, then hung up.

  The Master of Sinanju came down from upstairs, wearing a splendid bone white kimono with black piping.