Remo glowered.
"Those weren't the exact sins I was worried about," he said.
"No?" Chiun's cheeks puffed out in disappointment. "What other sins have you committed, Remo?"
"All this killing."
"Killing? How is ridding the earth of vermin in the service of an emperor sinful? I do not understand."
"In the religion I was raised in, all killing is wrong."
"Nonsense. If that were so, then your priests would have deserted these murderous shores long ago. For if there is any sin in killing, it is the sinfulness of killing without pay, or in passion, or for mere greed."
"All killing," Remo repeated firmly. "I put it out of my mind for a long time, but it's starting to bother me. A lot of things are starting to bother me."
"Then go confess. I will wait here."
"Can't. It won't work."
"Then I will go with you, and if the selfish priest refuses to ease your conscience, then I will eliminate him and we will search until we find a properly righteous and generous priest."
"Doesn't work that way, Little Father. Besides, I can't tell anyone-even a priest about the work I do. CURE operates outside the Constitution. If it gets out that we've been holding America together illegally, we might as well go back to being a colony of England. No. Smith would have to have the priest killed to preserve the organization's security. Not that I believe it's necessary, but that's what Smith would do."
"So? You would already be forgiven by that time."
"That's not the point. Every mission I undertake after that would only pile more sin on my soul. I can't go to confession every time I come back from a mission, knowing that Smith or you would have to take care of the priest."
"This religion of yours," Chiun said. "It has you completely in its insidious power."
"Not really. I haven't gone to church in a long, long time. "
"But after all these years, its grip still clutches your heart."
"I'm troubled. That's all. Never mind. I can sort it out. Why don't you leave me alone for a while? I'll come back to Foleroft when I'm done."
"You cannot."
"Why not?"
"Because Smith has a mission for you."
"I'm not in a mission mood," Remo said sourly.
"It is a minor mission. It will not take long."
"Why don't you go, then?"
"I cannot. I have a minor mission too."
"Two missions?"
"Minor missions," Chiun corrected.
"What are they?"
"Nothing of consequence. A skyjacking for you. Another skyjacking for me."
"Two skyjackings? Coincidence?"
"Perhaps. But Smith has sent me to find you so that we may settle these trivial matters."
"How many people at risk?"
"Hundreds."
"Then I guess my problems can wait," said Remo, heading for the trapdoor.
"If you call such trifles problems," Chiun said, trailing after him. "Now, I have problems. . . ."
When they reached the street, a prowl car was drawing up. Two uniformed police stepped out, and shielding their eyes against streetlamp shine, struggled to see the rooftop.
"Looking for the jumper?" Remo asked casually.
"Yeah, you see him?" the driving cop asked suddenly.
"Sure did. I just talked him down."
"Any description?" the second cop wanted to know while the first one pulled out a pencil and pad of paper. "Let's see now," Remo said slowly. "I'd say he was about five-foot-five, weight one-eighty, age about twenty-seven, brown on brown, wearing jeans with a hole in the right knee. He had on a hooded peach sweatshirt and orange sneakers. He went up that street just a few minutes ago."
"Thanks," said the first cop as they both piled back into the car.
"If you find him," Remo offered, "I'd stick him in the psycho ward if I were you. He kept ranting about jumping. Over and over. He sounded obsessed with the idea."
"Don't worry. He's as good as caught," said the driving cop. "That was a pretty sharp description, by the way. Ever consider a career in law enforcement?"
"Furthest thing from my mind," Remo said as the car pulled out into the street, dragging loose newspapers after it.
Chiun looked up at Remo's grinning face with undisguised puzzlement.
"You are wearing your mischievous face," he said slowly.
"Not me," Remo said pleasantly. "I'm just trying to prevent a disturbed citizen from going over the edge."
The sun had set at Newark airport when Remo stepped out of the cab and paid the driver. Chiun joined him as the cab departed.
"There is your conveyance," Chiun said, gesturing carelessly at an idling Marine helicopter.
"Gotcha," Remo said. "But I don't see yours."
"I do not need a conveyance to achieve my mission," Chiun said loftily.
"No? Have you picked up pointers from watching Flying Nun reruns?"
"I do not grasp your meaning, Remo. But I need no vehicle because I have already reached my objective." Just then, a pair of ambulances roared by, sirens howling. They careened between two terminals and hurtled onto the runway system.
"Wild-guess time," Remo said. "Your skyjacking is here. Blink if I'm warm."
Chiun smiled thinly. "You are very astute."
"So where's my skyjacking?"
"In a different place altogether."
"What place?" Remo asked evenly.
"I do not know. I do not pay attention to trifles concerning missions that are not mine. Perhaps your pilot can tell you. I would ask him. Yes, ask him."
"I'll get you for this," Remo promised, heading for the helicopter. He ducked under the drooping blades and they started picking up speed.
"Let me guess," Remo said to the pilot over the helicopter whine. "Los Angeles?"
"Honolulu."
"That's thousands of miles away!"
"That's why I'm just taking you as far as McGuire. They've got a C-141 StarLifter waiting for you there."
"A StarLifter. That sounds military."
"Military Air Command. They're interservice."
"It's probably too much to hope that the military have installed in-flight movies since I was in the service."
"That's pretty good, pal. I hope you've got a lot more jokes like that. The Air Force flyboys will really appreciate some laughs during the ten-hour flight."
"Ten hours," Remo groaned. "It'll probably be all over by the time I get there. Chiun'll have his end wrapped up inside of five minutes and I'll be blamed for botching my assignment."
"You know, I have no idea what you're talking about," the pilot said.
"That's good," Remo said morosely. "Because I couldn't be responsible for your continued existence if you did." The C-141 StarLifter was designed for transporting men and materiel. For security reasons, Remo wasn't allowed to sit in the cockpit with the pilots. He had to enter through the massive rear ramp. Inside, it smelled of diesel fuel and grease. There were no seats, unless the one in the tank that was cabled down to the floor rails counted.
Remo crawled into the tank and went to sleep, promising himself that Chiun would rue the day he'd stuck Remo with this one.
Remo was coming out of his third catnap when the drone of the engines changed, indicating the StarLifter was coming in on approach. He got out of the tank. Normally he felt refreshed from sleep, but thanks to Sinanju, he couldn't rest more than five hours at a stretch without feeling that he'd overslept. Three three-hour catnaps were an overload.
The StarLifter shuddered when its massive wheels hit the runway, bounced, and settled again. The plane stopped as soon as it lost airspeed, and the loading ramp dropped hydraulically.
"Must be my cue," Remo said.
It was daylight when he emerged onto the runway. Remo looked around as he rotated his thick wrists eagerly.
Off at the far end of the runway a 747 sat idle. A wheeled gangway ramp was resting near the forward cabin door. A man in khaki clothes crouche
d on the top step. He wore a red checkered kaffiyeh over his face so that only his eyes showed. He carried a Kalashnikov rifle.
He was looking at the StarLifter. As Remo watched, he stuck his head back in and gestured wildly to someone Remo couldn't see.
Remo started walking toward him, slightly relieved that the hijacking hadn't ended, if only so he hadn't traveled the width of America for nothing.
The hijacker noticed Remo when he stepped out from under the StarLifter's wing. He yelled something in a foreign tongue Remo couldn't place. Remo waved at him. It was a polite, friendly wave.
But under his breath Remo muttered, "Start the countdown, friend. Your obit is about to be written." The hijacker lifted his rifle to his shoulder. He took his time aiming. Both he and Remo knew that at this distance the bullet would fall short. The hijacker was waiting for Remo to come within shooting range. Remo obliged him.
The gunman fired one shot.
Remo read the bullet coming in. He actually saw it leave the muzzle, and because he was trained to sense the trajectories of bullets in flight-especially when they were aimed at him-he knew without thinking about it that the first round would whistle over his head.
It did exactly that.
The gunman fired again.
This time Remo sidestepped casually. The bullet sounded like a glass rod breaking in two as it split the air near his left ear.
Remo made a show of yawning. The hijacker's eyes got wider. He set his weapon on automatic.
The spray of bullets chewed up the sun-softened tarmac.The bullets made mushy sounds going in. There were no ricochets. And because Remo had run in under the path of the bullets, he was unharmed.
The hijacker saw that the lone American, who wore no uniform although he had come from an Air Force aircraft, was not only unhurt, but had cut the intervening space in half.
He fired again. This time the man in the T-shirt ran toward him in a zigzagging but casual manner. He did not stumble or flinch. And he was coming directly for the open hatch.
Swiftly the hijacker stepped back, kicked the wheeled stairs away, and pulled the exit door closed. He wasn't sure why he did that.
"Jamil, why did you not shoot that one?" asked the leader.
"I do not know, Nassif," Jamil put his back to the door, his rifle across his chest. He wiped his hands on the stock. The stock became very shiny.
"He was unarmed."
"I saw his eyes."
"So?"
"They were dark. And very deep."
"So?"
"And dead. They were a dead man's eyes. They unnerved me."
Nassif called out to his men, dispersed through the 747, "All of you. Look for that man. See where he went!"
From the rear of the plane, beyond rows of passengers who sat with tight, tired faces, their hands tied with plastic loops, another kaffiyeh-masked gunman called back, "He disappeared under the wing."
"Look to the other side. When he comes out, fire at him through the windows. Ya Allah! Hurry!"
Several of the gunmen surged to the opposite side. They tore screaming passengers from their seats and threw them into the aisles. A few were clubbed into unconsciousness to quiet them. The hijackers pressed their cloth-covered faces to the windows.
"Do you see him?"
Heads shook in the negative.
"He must still be under the plane!" Nassif hissed. "Perhaps he is cowering in fear."
"Not that one," Jamil croaked. "I saw his eyes. They were unafraid."
"What can one unarmed man do under this plane except cower?" snapped Nassif, cuffing Jamil angrily. There came a series of loud pops and the nose of the aircraft sank slowly.
Under the plane, Remo withdrew a steellike finger from the last of the front tires. It hissed and settled. Casually he worked his way back to the wing gears. He popped the right-hand tires with the same finger, and performed the identical operation on those on the left. Then he collapsed the hull wheel assemblies.
The 747 now sat on ruined tires. It wasn't going anywhere. Remo hadn't wanted the craft to take off while he figured out the best way into the aircraft.
Normally he would have simply gone into the hatch, fast and furious, and taken out anyone who got in his way. But a 747 usually carried about five hundred passengers on its two decks. There was no telling how many hijackers there were or how they were deployed. Even Remo couldn't clean them all out without bullets flying and grenades detonating. The kaffiyehs told him he was dealing with Middle Eastern hijackers. The worst kind. They might be prepared to martyr the entire craft to make some obscure political point.
So Remo opted for a careful approach. The popping tires would make them jumpy, but there was no way around that.
Remo crouched down under a hull wheel assembly. Years ago, when skyjackings became a popular expression of political discontent, Dr. Smith had made Remo sit through a droning lecture about the structural plans of modern aircraft. Bored, Remo made paper airplanes with the briefing papers and sailed them so they nicked Smith's earlobes, alternating right, left, right, left. Smith, although his pinched face tightened, kept on reading from his prepared notes and showing slides on a big screen until Remo had run out of paper. The experience had convinced him that his superior was not normal, and the realization soured Remo's mood for a month.
Remo tried to remember that lecture now. Some aircraft, Smith had told him, could be accessed through the wheel wells if a person had the right tools. Was the 747 one of those?
Remo stared up the wheel well. He couldn't tell by looking. But he started yanking bolts and undoing screws anyway. He got a panel half-loose. Then he carefully pried it free so that it made no noise.
A woman's travel case fell down. Remo caught it and set it aside. Good. That meant the luggage compartment was above him.
Remo slithered up the wheel well, shrinking his ribs so that he passed through the tightest spot easily.
He found himself lying on rows of tagged luggage. Above his head, feet moved softly, erratically.
Placing both sets of fingers against the ceiling, Remo waited until his questing hands picked up the pressure of moving feet. When he made contact, he moved with the feet, keeping them just above him. The feet stopped. Remo sensed a casual shifting of one foot to the other. Nervousness. But not panic. Good. That meant a hijacker and not a passenger.
Remo withdrew one hand and went to work on the plate above his head. He sheared the heads of the bolts with the edges of his free hand. With the other, he balanced the plate in place, elbow locked against the weight of the hijacker.
Carefully he tested the plate. When he dropped his hand, it lowered a millimeter. Not enough for the man standing on it to notice, but enough for Remo to know that the only thing keeping the plate in place was his hand.
Remo set himself. He heard no other footsteps. But that didn't mean there weren't other hijackers nearby. Remo jumped back.
Light spilled into the hold. The plate smashed down. A man in khaki and kaffiyeh tumbled down with it. Remo leapt for the opening. It just happened that Remo's right foot used the man's head for a launch point. His skull shattered under the recoil of Remo's kicking leap.
Remo went straight up. He grabbed the overhead molding and spread his feet so that when he let go, they landed on either side of the missing plate.
"Who the hell are you?" a male passenger gasped. Remo shushed him.
"Part of the replacement crew," he whispered. "The airline's tired of paying this crew's overtime."
"You're kidding," the man said, serious-faced.
"Where's the nearest hijacker?" Remo asked.
"In the john. Back of the plane. I think he has the runs. There's another one in the cockpit."
"Any others?"
"On the upper deck," a woman hissed. "Please be careful. My sister is up there."
"I'll try not to wake her," Remo promised. "Anyone know how many hijackers in all?"
"Six."
"No. Only four."
"I t
hink I counted eight."
"Never mind," Remo said, working his way toward the john. "I'll count them myself."
Remo knocked on the lavatory door.
"What is it?" a voice asked in heavily accented English.
Remo said, "Need to use the john. Could you pick it up in there?"
"Who? Who is that speaking?" the man hissed shrilly.
"Hold it down in there," Remo warned. "Passengers are trying to sleep. Now, are you coming out, or do I come in?"
Remo heard a safety click off and gave the hijacker points for being smart enough not to sit on the john with a primed rifle across his lap.
Remo kicked at the door. It burst inward.The interior of the lavatory was very small. There was no way the door could go in and not catch the man.
Remo put his head in and saw that it had done exactly that.
The door was embedded in the wall behind the toilet. Two legs spilled out from under the door edges. An arm came out around each side. The arms quivered. Remo noticed a lump in the face of the door that roughly corresponded to where the seated man's head should be. He hammered out at the lump with a fist, and the quivering stopped.
On his way out, Remo noticed a wheeled tray of drinks in the rear service area. He got behind it and started pushing it up the aisle.
When he got to the closed door of the cockpit, he stopped and knocked impatiently.
"Refreshments," he called loudly. "Anyone want a drink?"
A long silence came from the cockpit.
Then a man pushed the door open and shoved the muzzle of a Kalashnikov into Remo's stomach. Remo could have avoided the weapon easily. But a rifle pointed at his stomach meant that it was not threatening someone who couldn't defend himself. And Remo could. "Who are you?"
"Don't you recognize me?" Remo asked of the man. Jamil started. His eyes froze like those of a beached fish.
"Impossible," he croaked.
"Nah, just extra-extra clever."
"What do you want?"
"You gonna surrender or what?"
"Or what?"
"That's what I said. Or what?"
"I do not understand."
"And I don't have time to teach you English. Now, what will it be-coffee, tea, or surrender?"
"I will martyr myself before I surrender."
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