"Fine. Go martyr yourself. Then see if anyone cares."
"I would rather martyr you," said Jamil, who then pressed the trigger on his Kalashnikov, confident that at point-blank range there was no way he could miss the thin man with the dead, dead eyes.
The Kalashnikov did not give out its customary staccato stutter. It sort of went bloosh! The relaxed face of the unarmed American did not change. Jamil frowned. He did not understand. Why didn't the man fall down? He felt a sudden tingling in his hands. And then the tingle turned to a dull pain, and almost as soon as it registered on his brain that his hands were in pain, they seemed to be on fire.
Jamil screamed. He saw that his hands were covered with blood.The whites of his finger bones poked out from the redness of raw exposed flesh. The breech of the rifle was smoking and in ruins.
Then he saw that the muzzle of the Kalashnikov was somehow blocked. It had been crimped, as if by a vise. And just before his eyes rolled up into his head and Jamil lost consciousness, he saw that the white American was rubbing his fingers on the trailing part of Jamil's own kaffiyeh as if to wipe gun grease off them.
Remo stepped over the body.
"You two all right?" he asked the pilot and copilot.
"Yes. Who are you?"
"Next question. And you guys have lost your turn. How many hijackers? I got three."
"Two more."
"They must be upstairs."
"Then we'd better evacuate the plane."
"Too risky," Remo said. "They might start shooting from the windows. Sit tight and I'll take care of them."
"Are you crazy? These people are madmen. You know what they want? They want Reverend Eldon Sluggard brought here for some kind of guerrilla trial."
"Who's Reverend Eldon Sluggard?"
"That's what we asked. They said he was the devil who declared war on Islam. They're on some kind of religious kick. Said they've declared war on Christianity."
"I hope the pope is in his summer place," Remo said. "And what I said before still goes. Sit tight. I'll handle this."
And to make sure, Remo smeared the door latch into cold solder after he closed the cockpit door.
Remo went up one of the plush stairways. He heard the tense breathing half-way up. Two sets of lungs trying to push air through cloth-covered open mouths. They sounded like they were on either side of the stairs. Probably planning to ambush him. Remo shrugged and kept coming.
When he reached the top, one stuck a pistol to his head, and the other, standing on the other side, prodded him in the ribs with a Kalashnikov rifle.
"Uh-oh," Remo said in mock concern. "Looks like you got me."
"Yes, we do have you. Do not move, please."
"I'm not the one who needs to move. It's you two who can't keep standing like that."
"We can do whatever we wish. We have weapons. We have upper hand, you see."
"And if I move, you'll shoot. Am I right?"
"Of course. Why should we not shoot you?"
"Well, because you're holding an AK-47 and your friend's got a Makarov."
"You know weapons. So?"
"So this. If the Makarov goes off, the bullet will go right through my skull, out the other side, and into your head."
The man in the line of the Makarov's fire blinked. "On the other hand," Remo added, "if you start with that Kalashnikov, your pistol-packing friend buys it."
"Then one of us will move," the rifleman said.
"But you can't do that either," Remo pointed out.
"Why not?" The Makarov wielder looked worried when he asked the question.
"Because then I'll make my move. I'll take out the guy who's threatening me and then I'll get the one still standing."
"No one moves that fast."
"No?" asked Remo. "Look at your pistol."
"What of it?"
"I got your bullets." And Remo raised his hand, showing a magazine clip. For effect, he thumbed the rounds out one by one. They hit the carpet with soft noises like marbles falling.
Eyes stricken, the Makarov wielder turned his pistol sideways so that the grip turned up to the light. He saw the gaping square hole where the magazine should have been. He swore under his breath.
"Do not worry, my brother," the other one said confidently. "You still have a round in the chamber. And I have a full clip."
Remo shook his head.
"Uh-uh," he said, displaying another clip. This one he squeezed into groaning metal.
The man with the AK-47 steadied his muzzle against Remo's ribs and felt for his magazine with his free hand. Remo knew exactly when he encountered an empty port because the man's flesh turned a little green around the eyes.
"I still have a round in my chamber," he said gratingly.
"True," Remo said. "That means you each have one shot. But only one shot. And I suggest you use 'em fast, 'cause when I count to three, I'm making my move. And we all know how fast I am, right?" And to make his point, Remo gave the Kalashnikov clip another hard squeeze. It creaked like an old door.
"One-" Remo began.
The two gunmen stared at one another in growing panic.
"Two-"
"Shoot him! Shoot him!"
"Three!" Remo yelled.
Both weapons erupted. The two shots merged into one single detonation. The man holding the Kalashikov suddenly came down with what the medical examiner would later call "a total disintegration of the facial mask." The pistol man took a round in the stomach that cracked his spine just above the coccyx.
Remo straightened his knees just as the bodies fell to the carpet, turning the blue-and-red nap a uniform crimson color.
"It's all in the wrists," Remo said cockily.
He went up and down the aisles, looking for more terrorists. When he found none, he ran back down the stairs and slipped through the open plate and down the wheel well. Before heading off for the StarLifter, he replaced the woman's travel case he had put aside earlier.
As he walked back to the waiting plane, he felt better. The assignment had gone off perfectly. No passengers had died and no hijackers had survived. A clean operation. Smith would be pleased.
Remo wondered how Chiun was doing with his mission. He was worried in spite of his annoyance at Chiun. Skyjackings were tricky. He hoped the Master of Sinanju could handle the situation.
Chapter 4
The Master of Sinanju regarded the 727 with suspicious hazel eyes. He did not like airplanes. He did not like to fly. Flying was unnatural, although he had to admit sometimes convenient. It was one of the reasons he had taken the problem at Newark airport. The second reason was to give Remo something to think about other than his imagined problems.
Chiun saw that there were five entrances to the captured plane. Any of them would be useful. But one in particular would be best. It was the one in the rear, at the tail.
Chiun floated some distance down the runway, his arms in his kimono sleeves, his head bowed in thought. He was thinking of Remo's words. Remo was concerned about his old religious training. He had wondered if such a day would ever come. The Remo he had first met at Folcroft Sanitarium was a bitter and disillusioned man, betrayed by his country, shunned by his friends. Thoughts of his childhood religion were far from his troubled mind. But Chiun knew that no one who learns a thing as a child ever fully unlearns it. And now Remo's old beliefs had resurfaced. This would have to be dealt with. After the present problem.
When Chiun had walked past the tail, he turned around and began retracing his steps. This time he walked toward the tail, directly in line with the stabilizer and fins.
It was the one blind spot on an aircraft, he knew.
There were windows on the sides and windows in the nose. But the tail was as open to attack as that of a sleeping dog.
Chiun paced up under the fins and stopped under the hatch. It was closed. There were no stairs.
The Master of Sinanju considered the problem at length. The underside of the craft was well over his aged head. He did not
wish to demean himself by leaping for the sealed hatch and clawing his way in. He might rip his kimono. There had to be a more dignified way for a man of his august years to gain entrance to a mere winged conveyance.
Chiun decided swiftly. He reached up and tapped the plane's skin with his long-nailed fingers, testing its strength. Then, with a sound like several soda cans being punctured at once, Chiun's nails disappeared into the hull. He pulled sharply.
The nose went into the air. The tail assembly smacked the runway. It crumpled slightly, but the hatch was now very close to the ground. Chiun had already withdrawn his nails.
The Master of Sinanju then slipped his fingers into the tight, rubber-sealed hatch edges. When his hands came away, the door sailed over his head and bounced along the runway like a pinwheel.
Chiun appeared in the rear of the craft like an apparition from another dimension.
The entire complement of passengers, crew, and kaffiyeh-masked gunmen turned and stared at him with open-mouthed wonder. They clung to bulkheads and seat backs. The aisle between the seats was a ramp on which standing was impossible.
The Master of Sinanju stamped one sandaled foot sharply. The aircraft shuddered, then with agonizing slowness began to right itself.. The front wheels hit the ground with a loud bang.
"Remain in your seats," Chiun said loudly. "I am commandeering this conveyance in the name of the People's Autocracy of Sinanju."
"Sinanju?" It was one of the gunmen. "I have never heard of it."
"That is because Sinanju is in North Korea, where such as you are not welcome."
"You cannot hijack this aircraft."
"Give me a reason why not," Chiun said querulously.
"Because we have hijacked it before you."
"You may have been first, but I have seniority." The terrorists exchanged masked glances.
"We do not understand."
"Seniority. It is an American concept, which I have decided to adopt. I am the oldest among us. Therefore I am senior. Therefore I have seniority."
"We are in solidarity with People's Democratic Republic of North Korea," one of the gunmen said slowly. "Perhaps we can work together. What is your political objective?"
"To serve my emperor," said the Master of Sinanju as he approached the man. The gunman lowered his rifle. He saw that the Korean was very, very old. The wrinkles in his parchment face were like those of the mummies at the Cairo museum. He looked like no threat. And yet ...
"I did not know, mumia, that North Korea had an emperor," the leader of the hijackers said slowly.
"It does not. I serve the American emperor. Smith."
"What foolishness do you speak?" the leader said hotly. "There is no American emperor called Smith."
"No? Then why does he send me here to bargain with you?"
"Bargain?"
"State your terms," Chiun ordered.
"We have already issued them. We demand that Reverend Eldon Sluggard be brought here for a People's Tribunal."
"Who is this Reverend Eldon Sluggard?"
"He is a Satan of Satans. The devil incarnate on earth. He has declared war upon the Moslem world and in response Islam has declared holy war on him."
"I have never heard of him."
"If this Sluggard is not brought before us, we will martyr all these people," said the leader, sweeping the confines of the aircraft with his rifle barrel.
Passengers cringed. A woman screamed. Another broke down, her shoulders quaking in muffled sobs. "Have a care where you point that boom stick, Moslem," Chiun admonished. "These people are my prisoners, not yours."
"No. You are our prisoner. We no longer recognize solidarity with your cause. You have admitted that you work for America. Sit down."
"Make me."
"We will kill you dead."
"Is there another result of killing?" Chiun asked in a puzzled voice.
"Bring dead American," the leader called.
As Chiun's face tightened, the two other terrorists went forward and dragged a body back from the first-class compartment.
"See? See what we are capable of?" the terrorist leader said proudly.
The Master of Sinanju padded on sandaled feet to the body. He studied the face, whose open sightless eyes stared at the ceiling. The chin had never known a razor. The boy wore a uniform of some sort.
Chiun turned to the leader of the hijackers. His voice was low when he spoke.
"This one was a mere boy."
"He wore uniform of United States. We spit upon him and all who work with him."
And the terrorist spat on the boy's blood-dappled uniform.
"I have no love for soldiers," Chiun intoned.
"We are soldiers."
"And I have less love for you."
"We do not need your love, mumia. We want only your obedience. If you work for America as you say, you will make a fine hostage."
"And you will make an excellent corpse," said the aged Korean. And before anyone could react, the Master of Sinanju had moved on the leader of the hijackers.
Chiun came in low, his body bent at the waist. He made a crouching half-turn, Then he whirled like a top. His feet, lashing out, broke the leader's kneecaps with shattering finality. The man crumpled. The side of Chiun's hand broke his neck before his face struck the floor.
That left two remaining hijackers.
"I will give you your lives if you surrender now," Chiun said. He said this not because he wished to avoid killing them but because he did not want any of the other passengers to be hurt.
The two gunmen, stationed on either side of the door leading to the service area, trained their rifles on Chiun's resolute face. No one moved.
Then Chiun's nose crinkled.
"You!" Chiun lashed out with an accusing finger. "I detect the smoke of death from your weapon." Something in the voice of the Master of Sinanju caused the accused murderer to hesitate.
"You are the killer of this boy," Chiun accused.
"What ... what of it?"
"My offer is hereby rescinded. I will not spare you. You do not deserve to live. But you, other man, I may see fit to spare your life if you do exactly as I say."
"What?"
"Eliminate your comrade for me so that I do not have to sully my hands with so odious a task."
"Khalid is my friend. I would not do that."
Chiun reached down and in a deceptively casual gesture flipped the leader's fallen Kalashnikov into his hands. His face wrinkled distastefully.
Then, savagely, methodically, he dismantled the weapon. Steel shrieked. Sparks flew. Wood splintered. Machined pieces were ground to grit between his fingers. "If I can do this to metal and wood, imagine what I can do to flesh and bone," Chiun said coolly. He tucked his fingers in his kimono sleeves, and catching the gunman's eyes, shifted his gaze from him to the other gunman.
The gunman understood the signal. He was being given his last chance.
He hesitated. Then, crying, "I am sorry, Khalid!" he sprayed his comrade with a short burst. The other man went down, a bloody and broken rag doll.
Shaking, tears squeezing out of his eyes, the first gunman lowered his smoking weapon to the carpet. He raised his hands in helpless resignation as the tiny Oriental advanced on him, a wise, knowing expression on his countenance.
"You promised me my life," the terrorist sobbed. Chiun removed his hands from his sleeves and brought them up to the man's pain-racked face.
"I had my fingers crossed," said the Master of Sinanju. And then, untwining his fingers, he punctured the pulsing artery in the man's neck.
While the last gunman lay on the carpet spurting like a squirtgun whose reservoir was near exhaustion, the Master of Sinanju turned to the horrified faces of the passengers.
Lifting his hands, he announced, "These are your tax dollars at work. Remember that the next time you consider cheating your righteous government. For many starving Korean babies will have full bellies because of you. I have spoken."
And bowing
once, the Master of Sinanju disappeared from the aircraft and into the night.
Chapter 5
Remo Williams sensed the change in engine pitch before the StarLifter's multiple turbines climbed into a higher key. The big transport was about to land. Finally. Remo had grown so impatient with the return flight that, because he couldn't force his body to sleep anymore, and because he was bored, he whiled away the hours taking apart the tank cabled to the floor. That had taken half the flight.
Now, as the StarLifter jolted to a landing, Remo was trying to refit the cannon into the big angular turret. He wasn't sure which end was which, but looking at the rest of the tank, with its heavy treads wrapped around its gears like loose rubber bands, and the pile of pieces off to one side that he couldn't remember taking out in the first place, he figured it didn't matter.
And with all the talk about amphibious tanks that sink in three feet of water, it probably wouldn't matter that the Pentagon was short one Bradley Fighting Vehicle.
Remo emerged from the rear of the StarLifter, once again in the middle of a deserted runway.
"Nothing like being the hometown hero," he mumbled. Then he noticed that he wasn't in Newark. The airport looked familiar, but then all airports looked alike to him.
Remo had started walking to the nearest terminal when he saw a familiar face standing in front of a baggage tractor. It was Chiun. As soon as Remo lifted his hand to wave, the Master of Sinanju pretended to become interested in a passing swallow.
"Great. Who's supposed to be mad at whom now?" Remo said aloud.
He walked up to Chiun, making sure every step was audible.
"Remember me?" Remo asked politely. "Your adopted scapegoat?"
"And you smell like one," said Chiun petulantly. "What have you been doing-playing in the mud?"
"Grease," said Remo, showing his black-streaked hands. "I guess I need a change of clothes."
"You will not have time. Already, because of you, I have been forced to wait here for many hours. All through the long night and day. And now, as I watched the sun set for a second time, you finally return, noisy and smelly and late."
"Hey, who stuck who with a twenty-hour round-trip flight to Honolulu?"
"At least you had something to do, you ... you mechanic," Chiun sputtered.
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