The decrepit ghost town-once a thriving population center in the days when silver virtually streamed out of the nearby Sacramento Mountains into greedy, waiting hands-had been refurbished somewhat for its modern role, but no one would mistake it for a seaport. Situated in the northeast corner of the Fort Bliss Military Reservation, it was used for special training exercises when a desert setting was required. Away to the northwest, some eighty miles, stood Roswell, Mecca to the tired old UFO believers who were still convinced the truth was out there, hidden by a shifting veil of desert sand and the fluid denials of the Federal Department of Obfuscation.

The SEALs were not, in fact, restricted to naval operations, even though their roots lay in the old UDTs-underwater demolition teams-that had cleared invasion beaches for the Army and Marines in World War II. Today the Navy SEALs were scuba divers, paratroopers, all-around commandos who derived their name from their sea-air-land proficiency in combat.

Hence the desert, which had been selected as a likeness of the Middle East, North Africa-wherever Allah's warriors waged jihad against the West, assassinating diplomats and tourists, snatching hostages. The call could come at any time, and they had to be prepared for anything.

Which still didn't explain how Remo happened to be standing in the dusty foyer of the ghost town's three-story hotel.

Remo blamed it on Dr. Harold W. Smith, director of CURE, the supersecret government intelligence agency. Or maybe the fault actually lay with Mark Howard, CURE's assistant director. One of them had dropped a great big ball, and dropped it right on Remo's head.

While the SEALs were practicing war, Remo Williams, Reigning Master of the world's original mar tial art, Sinanju, and the greatest assassin currently living on the planet, was doing dog-catcher duty. The SEALs didn't know that. They thought he was an observer and behind his back had labeled him a spook. They didn't care as long as he didn't screw up their playtime.