Upstairs consisted of Dr. Smith the Really Old and Mark Howard the Young and Dopey. That was all there was to the CURE intelligence-gathering apparatus and bureaucracy. The mountains those two could move with a few keystrokes was impressive, but this time they weren't giving in.

"It would be most difficult to come up with a rationale for canceling routine war games," Dr. Smith had said. He had the sour voice of a man who had just chomped down on a lemon wedge.

"The pack's gonna stay out if there's a bunch of paramilitaries romping around," Remo argued.

"So wait until the games are over," Smith countered.

"No," Remo said. "First of all, the wolves may still be migrating for all we know. We know where they are right now and I'm gonna grab them right now, before they move on. Second, if the wolves do show themselves, the SEALs are gonna go get their real guns and start shooting. Third, I don't wanna."

"You have no choice, really," Smith said.

"Yeah. Put me inside."

"What?"

"You know. An observer or something."

"That's not plausible," Smith replied curtly. Remo sighed. He was at a phone booth at a convenience store in some small town in Arizona, already on his way to New Mexico. "Better to go in with an implausible cover than with no cover at all," he stated flatly.

"Remo-"

"Because-listen very closely to this, Smitty-I am going in, one way or another."

Smith relented, but by the time Remo called him back a hundred miles later, he had thrown a wrench into the works.

"I anticipated all manner of red flags showing up when the order was issued," Smith said. "I could not hope to quell them all without giving you better cover."