Unite and Conquer td-102

by Warren Murphy

  "Holy shit! The mother of all earthquakes!"

  The Extinguisher sprang into action. He dived for the ground. It shook hard enough to rattle his teeth. Flat on his stomach, he looked around, sizing up the situation.

  Almost at once, he decided to get back into the LAV. It looked like the safest thing for miles around.

  Outside, as the city shook itself, a thunderous roar came from due southeast. He got down on the cold floor and recovered his weapon by feel. Fingering a thin steel pick from its butt receptacle, he inserted it into the handcuff lock and tried to pick the lock.

  The lock aperture kept shaking.

  "Damn it! Hold still a minute," he snapped.

  The lock refused to cooperate.

  The earth was still shaking when he sprung the cuffs. Taking up his Hellfire supermachine pistol, he stowed it into his rucksack, along with the rest of his gear.

  When the earth finally stopped shaking, there was a long, terrible silence.

  Blaize Fury stepped out.

  The great city had been brought to its knees. To the north a building face had fallen to the pavement, exposing the cubbyholes of a multifloored office tower. People shrieked up there looking out at the city that had been whelmed by a force greater than any city ever built.

  "Man, this place looks like Oklahoma City in quadraphonic stereo!"

  But in the context of his mission, the Extinguisher had drawn a trump card.

  Climbing into the driver's seat, he found the keys had been left in the ignition. The engine was still idling. He threw the emergency brake and got moving.

  The ashpalt had buckled directly ahead. It was impassable. Traffic lay stopped all around. People were out of their cars, looking up and around and all around again, their varicolored faces slack and dazed, as their eyes tried to take in the enormity of what had transpired.

  "Gotta get out of this hellhole," the Extinguisher muttered.

  Spotting a stretch of empty sidewalk, he ran the LAV up on it, honking the horn impatiently.

  People got out of the way. Not as fast as they should. They were too stunned for that. But a path was cleared.

  When he found a stretch of clear road, he jumped for it.

  Traffic was stopped everywhere. Life was stopped everywhere. As he muscled the LAV over buckled crevices, around obstacles and through the city, a dirty rain began to fall.

  It only looked like rain at first. When the grayish black precipitation touched the windshield, it stuck like snow. But it wasn't snow. For one thing, it smoked.

  The Extinguisher threw out a hand to collect a sample. He snapped it back instantly.

  "Ouch! Damn it! Motherfucker."

  Sucking on his burned hand, he drove one-handed.

  Near the broad paved square called the Zocalo, he began to understand. Visible past the forlorn Mexican national flag that was already drooping at half staff was one of the many mountains that ring the Mexican capital city.

  It was throwing up a great column of excrement-brown smoke like vaporizing compost.

  "Don't look now, but I think that's one upset volcano," the Extinguisher muttered to himself.

  Rolling up the window, he drove grimly, as people, covering their heads with newspapers and anything else at hand, fled the burning volcanic ash.

  For once the Extinguisher understood he was outmatched. For once his warrior skills meant next to nothing. For once he was no better than any gunless mortal.

  "Man, if she really blows her top my cojones are guacamole!"

  Chapter 9

  The Azteca Airlines flight left the Boston gate on time and, thanks to a brisk tail wind, arrived on the ground in Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport more than an hour early.

  "Attention, all passengers," the captain said. "We have landed in Texas in order to refuel. The stewardess will be coming through the cabin to collect the fuel tax."

  "Fuel tax?" Remo said.

  "I will pay no tax," said the Master of Sinanju at his window seat. He always took the window seat in case the wing showed signs of falling off. He wore an emerald green kimono now, trimmed in ocher.

  "Why do we have to pay a fuel tax?" Remo asked the stewardess when the wicker collection basket was placed under his nose. It reminded him of the collection baskets in the church he attended as a boy.

  "Because Azteca Airlines is too poor to afford the fuel since NAFTA was passed."

  "We will pay no tax," insisted Chiun.

  "I'll get it," Remo said. "Anything to get going."

  "This is taxation without reservations," Chiun sniffed.

  "Actually the slogan is Taxation Without Representation, but I like your version better."

  "Senor Ross Perot was correct," said the stewardess after Remo dropped two twenties in the basket. "If jou gringos had voted for that giant of a man, Mexico would today be a First World country."

  "Yeah, and General Alzheimer would have been vice president."

  "It is preferable to that stick of wood who cannot dance."

  The plane was in the air within thirty minutes. During that time, a meal was served.

  "I can't eat this," said Remo, pointing to the plastic tray loaded with refried beans in a spicy tomato sauce.

  "Good. I will eat it, then," said the stewardess, taking back the meal and disappearing into the galley.

  When she returned, Remo asked her for rice.

  "We have no rice. Only corn."

  "What kind of airline doesn't serve rice?"

  "A Mexican one," said the stewardess, continuing her rounds.

  "Guess I go hungry a while longer," said Remo, who would have settled for corn, but was forbidden to eat it by the Master of Sinanju, who claimed it would turn the whites of Remo's eyes yellow.

  "We are going to be late," Chiun said, his tone accusing.

  "So what?" said Remo. "Verapaz can wait."

  A woman passenger immediately behind them leaned forward. "Did jou say 'Verapaz,' senor?"

  "No," said Remo.

  "Possibly," said Chiun. "What do you know of him?"

  The woman clapped her hand to her ample bosom. "He is the handsomest man in all of Mexico."

  A notch formed between Remo's dark eyes.

  "How do you know that? He wears a ski mask all the time."

  "His eyes are handsome. Therefore, his face must be handsome. It is logical, no?"

  "It is logical, definitely no," said Remo.

  "They say he has green eyes," a woman across the aisle said. "I adore green eyes."

  "It is said he is a defrocked Jesuit priest who has taken up arms to liberate his country," the stewardess offered.

  "He is a comunista!" a man snarled.

  "No, he is a pure-blooded Maya who was educated in the states," another man affirmed. "God has blessed this man."

  "In other words," Remo said, "none of you know a thing."

  "In Mexico," the stewardess said sternly, "the truth is what jou believe because the reality of life is so terrible."

  "Tell that to the Kurds," Remo said.

  The captain came on the intercom to announce that they were within thirty minutes of their destination. "That is, if the NAFTA tax is paid in full," he added.

  "Another tax!" Chiun squeaked.

  "It is necessary," the stewardess assured him. "Since NAFTA, Mexico has been impoverished."

  "I thought you people were all for NAFTA," said Remo.

  "We wanted the good that came from NAFTA. Not the bad things."

  "Tough. You bought in. You draw the bad with the good."

  "There is no good. We were tricked by our leaders. Your leaders, as well."

  "This is taxation without restriction," Chiun said. "We will pay no more taxes."

  "That goes double for me," Remo said.

  "In that case, we will circle Mexico City until we run out of fuel, or crash," warned the stewardess.

  "You wouldn't do that in a million years."

  "Sometimes death is preferable to life. It is true for Mexi
cans ever since the calamity."

  "The earthquake?"

  "No. NAFTA. Our souls are strong, and we will endure countless earthquakes. Earthquakes can only break our bodies. But NAFTA has crushed our proud Mexican spirits. We have no future because our money is worth nothing now."

  "How does that give you the right to hold up Americans every chance you get?"

  "Norteamericanos are feelthy rich."

  "Not for long if we keep getting taxed into the poorhouse," said Remo sourly.

  "We will pay no tax," said Chiun firmly.

  "The fuel tax is all you'll see from this row," Remo added.

  The stewardess went away, and a moment later the captain came back, his face dark with an anger that ran deep into the bone.

  "Jou must pay the NAFTA tax if we are to land, senores. "

  Remo folded his lean arms. "Go ahead. Crash the plane. I dare you."

  "Yes," said Chiun, also folding his silk-clad arms, "destroy yourselves. We do not care. We have been taxed nearly to death. You are demanding blood from two stones."

  Shaking his fist in their faces the captain vowed, "Mexicans will never bend to American intimidations."

  "That wasn't a threat, we just-"

  But the captain had already spun on his heel and stormed back to the cabin. The door slammed shut so hard the overhead luggage bins shook in sympathy.

  "We win," Chiun said blandly.

  "I'm not so sure about that ...."

  Seconds later the 727 nosed into a steep dive. The engines began howling. Rushing air screamed over the wings and other control surfaces. Standing passengers were thrown off their feet. Anyone seated was jammed forward in his seat. A stewardess coming out of the rear rest room landed on her stomach and, despite her best efforts to grab chair supports, inexorably slid toward the front of the aircraft, her liquid eyes full of fear.

  "Now will jou pay the tax?" the captain demanded over the intercom.

  "Damn," said Remo, jumping from his seat so fast his seat belt snapped in two. Chiun followed, an emerald specter.

  Remo hit the cockpit door. It was locked. He was stepping back to kick it in when the Master of Sinanju floated up and inserted one long fingernail into the lock aperture. He twisted his finger left, then right. The lock went click, and he flung the door open with a grand gesture.

  "Thanks," said Remo.

  He stepped into the cabin.

  The captain and copilot were frozen in their seats. The captain had thrown the control yoke all the way forward. Eyes welded shut, the copilot was making the sign of the cross.

  Through the windshield, Remo could see the mountains of northern Mexico coming up to meet the plane like blunt brown teeth.

  "Are you crazy!" he exploded.

  "The tax or muerte! Viva Mexico!"

  Remo took the captain by his right earlobe. With his free hand he took the copilot's left earlobe. He squeezed.

  "Aieee!" they screamed in stereo.

  "Pull up now or the pain gets worse," Remo warned.

  And Remo squeezed harder on the earlobe nerve that filled the veins and nervous system with a sensation exactly like that of scalding acid.

  Tears squeezing from his eyes, the captain pulled back on the yoke. The plane, shuddering, brought its nose up. The air scream abated. The turbines settled down. They were soon flying level again.

  "Jou may let go now, senor," the captain gasped. "I have done as jou have asked."

  "You through screwing around?" Remo demanded.

  "Si."

  "You going to land the plane?"

  "On my mother's honor."

  "On the ground is all I care about," said Remo, returning to his seat.

  Chiun trailed him, saying, "Without me, where would you be at this exact moment?"

  "Probably pounding a beat back in Newark," Remo said unhappily.

  "That is not what I meant."

  "You would be dead if it were not for the elegant Knives of Eternity which grace my perfect hands."

  "Okay, I'd be dead. But I'm not growing my fingernails as long as Fu Manchu."

  Chiun beat him to their row so Remo couldn't steal the window seat. When he saw that the wing was still attached to the plane, his bony fingers grasped the opposite wrist, and the verdant sleeves of his silk kimono closed over both hands.

  After they got settled again, the stewardess came up and said, "Jou must pay for the seat belt jou broke."

  Remo sighed. "How much?"

  "Thirty dollars. American. We do not accept pesos."

  "Figures. How much was the NAFTA tax?"

  "Thirty dollars, but it is a coincidence."

  Remo handed over three tens and noticed they went into the wicker basket labeled NAFTA.

  "I never liked Mexico," Remo muttered.

  "The House never lowered itself to working for them."

  "Didn't you once tell me the House would have loved working for the Aztecs?"

  "I lied. We would only have loved their gold, not their rulers."

  "That's really convincing coming from someone who won't take his eyes off the wing because that's the time they pick to fall off. Unquote."

  "It will happen to us some day. Mark my words."

  When the Fasten Seat Belt sign came on, Remo tied his seat belt about his flat stomach like the sleeves of a sweater. Out the window the ring of mountains surrounding the Valley of Mexico loomed up like a jagged earthen wall.

  Almost at once the plane shook as if buffeted by turbulence. Remo knew from past experience this was normal. Thermal updrafts from the valley below were constant.

  But the buffeting grew violent. The Azteca Airlines plane dipped on one wing, and through the sealed window ports everyone could hear a thunderous rumble and roar.

  "It is another terremotol" a man screamed.

  "That means earthquake, " Chiun translated for Remo's benefit.

  "Don't be ridiculous," Remo said. "Earthquakes shake the ground, not the air."

  "It is an airquake!" the panicked passenger insisted.

  "No," said the Master of Sinanju. "It is a volcano."

  No sooner had the old Korean spoken the word than a cloud seemed to swallow the aircraft. The sky outside the window became a hideous smoky brown.

  The emergency lights came on. Overhead compartments sprung open. Yellow plastic oxygen masks dropped down on their flexible tubes.

  Chiun grabbed his, and Remo decided it was a good idea, so he followed suit.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," the captain said in a fearstrangled voice. "I regret to inform jou that Mount Popocatepetl has erupted. We must divert to another airport."

  The plane's engines began laboring and straining.

  The 727 flew and flew through a realm of roiling denseness, like boiling liquid excrement. Nothing was visible beyond the portholes. Not even the winglights.

  "Remo!" Chiun squeaked. "The wings are gone."

  "If the wings were gone, Little Father, we'd be in a tailspin by now."

  "Perhaps they are awaiting the most treacherous moment. Wings are sneaky that way. One never knows when they will choose to fall off."

  "Remind me never to fly this airline again," Remo muttered.

  "It is all the fault of NAFTA," the stewardess who had slid the length of the cabin said as she adjusted her foundation garments through her disheveled uniform.

  "How is this NAFTA's fault?" Remo asked.

  "NAFTA has angered the gods of old Mexico," she spit out the words with venom.

  "That's ridiculous," said Remo.

  Chiun laid a quieting hand on Remo's bare arm.

  "Hush, Remo. Lest the gods of old Mexico hear your blasphemous words and wrench the wings from this mighty craft in their malevolent spite."

  "Not you, too?"

  "There is an old saying in my house. 'One may slay a king, but the wise assassin avoids treading on the bunions of the gods.'"

  Remo lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "The bunions of the gods?"

  Chiun arranged his kimono
skirts absently. "That is the saying. I did not make it up. I merely report it."

  All at once daylight broke. The plane emerged from the roiling brown clouds of ash to broad daylight as if passing from the twilight zone of dusk and dawn.

  On either side the wings shone as if scoured clean by the hot ash.

  "Good thing these windows don't open," Remo muttered, removing his oxygen mask.

  Chiun nodded sagely. "The gods are not displeased with us. Good."

  The captain came on the intercom again.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your capitan speaking. I am informed by the Mexico City tower that it is inadvisable to land for some time. We will divert to another city. I will now entertain offers as to the most popular city of your choice."

  "What did he say?" Remo asked Chiun.

  "Quickly! Offer him as much as is necessary to take us to our destination."

  "Are you kidding?"

  Looking back to where the other passengers were hastily pooling their funds in order to bid on the destination of their choice, Chiun hissed, "Hurry. Lest we are marooned in some godforsaken place."

  "Godforsaken," said Remo, coming out of his seat, "just about describes every part of the Mexican experience."

  Remo beat two businessmen and a nun to the cabin and shut the door behind him for privacy.

  Recognizing Remo, the captain and copilot clapped their hands over their ears in self-defense.

  Instantly the yoke tipped forward, and the aircraft went into another dive. Remo reached across, hauled it back and pried the captain's fingers from his ears.

  Guiding by the wrists, he forced them to curl around the control wheel again.

  "What is your wish, senor?" he gasped.

  "I'm thinking of San Cristobal de las Casas."

  "San Cristobal de las Casas is an excellent destination. Do jou not think so, Vergillio?"

  The copilot, Vergillio, sat unhearing. Remo pried a hand off an ear so the captain could repeat his statement.

  "St. San Cristobal de las Casas is very excellent. But we must allow the other passengers to make their offer. It is the democratic way."

  "It is the way of Mexico," agreed the captain.

  "It's called institutional bribery," Remo countered.

  "The way of Mexico," the captain repeated blandly.

  Sighing, Remo said, "I'll top any offers."

  "Done," the captain and copilot said in unison.