Warren Murphy: Shock Value

When the flying scraps had settled to earth, Ned uncovered his head and stared in wonder at the flaming spectacle. Apparently, falling out of a flying airplane had done much to increase his sobriety.

"Well, kid," he said, elbowing Remo in the ribs, "you got to admit that was one hell of a landing."

"Just swell," Remo said.

The airport fire trucks and emergency equipment seemed to race out of nowhere, spraying the wreckage with carbon dioxide foam. They were new, Remo noticed. Also, the runway was in perfect condition. Three small planes were parked near the main hangar. They, too, were new and expensive looking, as was the building itself. Clear Springs had the newest, shiniest, richest airport Remo had ever seen.

Chiun walked over gracefully, snapping a loose thread on the sleeve of his gown. "At least I can breathe now," he said. "That thing that burned up smelled like a brewery."

"Better watch out," Ned said in warning. "Too much fresh air can kill you."

"And your breath would keep me alive?" Chiun snapped.

"Hey, do you notice something weird about this place?" Remo asked.

"A lot of things are weird about this place," Ned chimed in. "Every pilot in America knows Clear Springs is the home of the wackos."

"Wackos?"

"Fiends. Dope fiends. 'Bout all they do here is run drugs. Lots of money in it, I guess. Built the whole airport just for themselves."

"Doesn't the city have anything to say about that?"

"Damn fiends own the city, too. Leastwise, most of the banks and businesses. They bring the dope in here in their own planes, and then truck it off to the mob somewheres. No trouble with customs, no hassle with the mob, what they call the Cozy Nosy, either. Got it all sewn up. Won't even let no planes besides their own land here, 'ceptin' special cases."

"Like what? I'd consider a crash landing a special case."

"Not them. The only special case they know is made of paper and colored green. The lady who sent the Lear jet must have greased their palms good."

The flames had been squelched. Two men were standing near the fire truck, talking and gesturing toward the crisp-fried plane, while the others put the equipment away. Both men drew weapons as soon as they spotted Remo and the others.

"Who're you?" one of the men grunted as they approached the trio.

"We're the survivors from that wreck," Remo said.

"G'wan," one of the men said, waving his gun. "Nobody coulda come out of that crash alive."

"Would I lie to you?" Remo said amicably, kicking one pistol out of sight and crushing the other into gravel in his hands. "Now can the tough guy crap and take us to your books."

The man who had held the disintegrated gun looked at the pieces lying on the ground, then at his companion, and shrugged. "I'm not going to give you no trouble," he said, "but Big Ed don't let nobody see his books."

"Let's let Big Ed decide that."

Big Ed was a strapping middle-aged hippie with a mane of frizzy blond hair flowing down to the middle of his back like a Saxon warrior's. He was a giant, more than six and a half feet tall, with a crushed nose and the mien of a man who had eluded the law for decades.

He spoke only one word by way of greeting: "F-A-A?"

"No," Remo said. "P-I-S-S-E-D O-F-F. What's the idea of not letting us land?"

"This is a private airport," Ed growled.

"A Lear jet landed here this morning."

"What's it to you?"

"It picked up a passenger. I want to know where it took him."

"That's confidential information," Big Ed said. He whistled. From behind the counter appeared four Cubans who looked as if they spent their spare time pulverizing bowling balls with their teeth. "Boys, show this dude the door."

Remo moved toward the exit. "I can show myself the door." He turned toward the door, opened it, and tore if off its hinges. With one swing, the Cubans lay sprawled, unconscious on the floor. "This is the door. Now where are your records?"

Showing no trace of surprise, Big Ed pressed a button. A loud wail, like an air raid siren, sounded around the airport. Heavy footfalls rumbled toward them from all directions.

"Commandos," Ned said shakily, looking out the doorway.

Chiun sighed. "And all with boom shooters." With barely a movement, he knocked the old pilot to the floor. "Stay out of the way."

Ned crawled to a corner. He looked up at Big Ed meekly. "Don't suppose you got a bar around here."

The blond giant drew a German machine pistol from behind the counter.

"Didn't think so," Ned said.

The Cubans were coming to, one by one. "You do the outside," Remo said to Chiun. "I'll take care of Conan the Barbarian."

Big Ed snorted, the closest thing to a human response Remo had seen him manage. "You had your chance," he said, gesturing toward Remo with the weapon. The four Cubans advanced. One of them prepared for a roundhouse right in front of Remo. Another circled behind him. With perfect timing, the man behind him squeezed his arms around Remo while the other struck. Only at the moment of contact, the man behind Remo was squeezing dead air where Remo once was, and the one in front blasted his mighty blow directly into the face of his companion. The two others, scrambling in for the kill, found themselves suddenly in midair, hurtling through the windows at high speed.

The shooting began. Big Ed's auxiliary troops stationed outside the building opened fire as soon as they saw the Cubans fly out like two human cannonballs. The back wall filled up with plugs of spent ammunition as the bullets missed the frail figure of the old Oriental standing in the open doorway. He was a point-blank target, but still nothing could touch Chiun. He dodged each bullet with a movement so small and quick that it was impossible to follow. To the men firing from outside, the old man seemed to be absorbing the bullets like a foam rubber target, unhurt and unkillable.

When the firing stopped, Chiun went outside. There was a scream, and then the thud of bodies breaking. From the broken window, Remo could see the guards falling, in twos and threes and fours, as the Master of Sinanju went about his work.

"What the hell's going on here?" Big Ed muttered, thrusting the machine pistol in front of him. He opened up on Remo. The thin figure in the T-shirt seemed to feint once to the right, and then was transformed into a blur, walking forward slowly. The pistol clicked, its magazine empty. Not one bullet had come close enough to Remo to muss his hair.

"Couple of spooks," the blond man said. "That's some karma you two got, man."

"It comes from thinking good thoughts."

Ed threw the pistol and ducked out of sight behind the counter.

Remo caught it with one hand. "Okay. Party's over," he said, following him. "Now, where are the..."

There was no one there. Where the big blond man had stood, nothing remained but the black and white tiles of the floor. From the corner of the counter came a faint scratching sound. Remo turned toward the noise.

It was Ned, crawling along the floor. "Is the coast clear?"

"Oh, yeah," Remo said, disgusted. "It's clear, all right. The creep's disappeared."

"Thank the Lord." Ned spread out flat on the floor with a sigh of relief. "Hey," he said, lifting his head. He was rubbing something on the floor. He dug at it with his fingernails. Surprisingly, the tile lifted, along with six others. Ned pulled it upward. A large square panel came away, revealing a deep hole with steps leading down. "What do you know," the old pilot said. "A trapdoor. Something these dope wackos would put in, all right."

"Ned, you're a saint," Remo said. "Chiun! Over here."

Remo scrambled into the hole. Ned scurried in behind him. Above, Chiun speeded up his work with the few die-hards who remained to fight for their missing boss. Remo heard three more screams, then silence.