Warren Murphy: Angry White Mailmen

His companion noticed this out of the corner of his eye and lifted his great filigreed scimitar.

That was when the Master of Sinanju stepped up to him and took the man's wrists in his own irresistible hands.

The Afghan was big. He struggled for control of his scimitar. His struggle was in vain.

On wide-planted feet, but without exerting himself, Chiun angled the scimitar up and around so that the Afghan realized he was about to decapitate himself just before his guided hands abruptly changed direc­tion and split his own face down the middle like a bony but ripe melon.

Both guards died standing up. Remo and Chiun moved on.

There were other Afghans farther down the corri­dor. Three this time.

Chiun caught their attention by raising his voice in an ancient Afghan insult. They snapped Kalashnikov rifles to bear, then, seeing Chiun's black silks and un- Westem face, called a curiously hesitant challenge at him.

Chiun returned the challenge in kind.

Moving along a parallel corridor, Remo popped out behind them and batted the butt ends of their rifle stocks.

The Afghans watched their rifles go skittering and spinning down the corridor, and when they turned to face their unexpected foe, even as their hands streaked toward the jeweled scimitar hilts, a smooth white palm

smacked their glowering faces to assorted jelly and pulp.

"So far so good," said Remo as the trio hit the ground with a dead thud.

Chiun moved ahead. "The Deaf Mullah is this way."

"If you say so," said Remo, glancing at the heavy green door. "But I'd say there's something important behind this door, too."

"It must wait."

The sudden lightwas piercing Yusef Gamal's clearing eyes as they came to rest on the grandeur of the Fist of Allah.

"It is magnificent," he breathed.

"It is colossal," said Jihad Jones.

It was a steely construct of slablike plates and an­gles, wide, tall and massive in its brutish lines. Every surface gleamed of chilled steel except a sheet of plate glass mounted high on a forward edge. It looked too heavy to move, never mind fly through the skies.

Then a thought struck them.

"Why does it rest upon great rolling wheels?"

"To carry it to its ultimate destination," explained Sargon the Persian.

"The launch pad?"

"No, to the target the Deaf Mullah most desires above all others."

"Abeer Ghula, of course," said Jihad Jones.

"No, more than that harlot."

"What could be more desirous of destruction than the hypocrite who insults the pure flame of Islam by her very existence?" "A target whose destruction will bring the heart of Zionist-occupied America to a standstill and maim infidels without number," said Sargon the Persian in a flat, dead voice.

"What saddens your voice?" asked Jihad.

"I have just armed the Fist of Allah, therefore I am doomed."

"Doomed?"

"I have placed its atomic heart within the missile without proper protection."

"The warhead?"

Sargon shook his head. "It is in the back. You will drive from the front."

"What will be your part, Sargon?"

"I will recite the countdown, at which point you will drive over my doomed body, saving me from an ago­nizing, un-Islamic death and catapulting me to Para­dise."

There was a heartbeaton the other side of an or­nate door, and Remo said, "Let's just bust in."

Chiun nodded.

Remo stepped back and lifted one foot. Kicking high, he sent the panel flying inward like a big wooden kite that skimmed along the floor to impale a far wall.

Two startled Afghan guards shrank from the un­expected commotion and wheeled, their Kalashnikov rifles dropping into line. Remo went for one, while Chiun took the other.

One got off a shot. Remo wove aside, avoiding the bullet by instinct more than conscious design, and broke the Afghan's spine by the indirect expedient of punching him in his stomach. When Remo's knuckles encountered hard bone, they withdrew. The Afghan folded in the middle like a pair of colorful pants, his bearded face slapping the tiled floor.

Chiun's Afghan was cocking his AK-47 when a flutter of sharp fingernails like a swarm of dragon- flies became busy about his face. They retreated, leaving stunned eyes staring from the rags and tatters of what had been a moment before a bearded human visage.

The man pitched forward on his face—what re­mained of it.

At the far end of the great room under the mosque dome was a chevron-shaped niche whose blue walls were a riot of Arabic calligraphy.

Before it stood a plain green glass shield. Behind the shield a seated figure moved like something seen through cloudy water.

A hand lifted an ear trumpet to one side of his head.

"Bingo," said Remo.

They advanced.

A detachable ladderof steel hung from the for­ward portion of the towering hulk that was the Fist of Allah.

"This is the nose cone," said Yusef Gamal, patting it proudly. Hollow, it rang like a great bell.

"The nose cone points to the sky," Jihad coun­tered. "This points toward the east."

"Enter, both of you, quickly," said Sargon.

"I will go first," said Yusef.

"The pilot goes first," growled Jihad Jones.

"This does not matter. You must go now."

Yusef clambered up the ladder and entered through the stainless-steel hatch in the side of the multi- wheeled behemoth.

Inside were two bucket seats. He took the right one, where there was a steering wheel. Too late, he noticed a steering wheel before the left-hand seat. It was the type of steering wheel used on airplanes, a crescent rather than a circle, which reassured him.

Jihad Jones took the left seat. Both men wore their Islamic green pilot-martyr uniforms.

The door clanged shut, locking them in.

Then a voice came from the dashboard. It was Sar­gon.

"It is time to commence the countdown," he in­toned.

"We are ready to die."

"I am more ready to die than you," said Yusef.

"There is a red button. At the word sifr, for 'zero', you will press it. That will be the launch."

"Should we not be pointing skyward?" asked Yu­sef.

"You are pointing east. When you press the red button, the great engines will start."

"More than one?"

"Many engines are needed to propel the Fist of Al­lah."

Yusef nodded. "Redundancy. It is a Western idea that is good."

"You are the redundant one, not I," spit Jihad Jones.

"When the engines are hot, you will press the floor pedal and go forward. Press it as hard as you can, for it will travel faster this way. Make the Fist of Allah travel as fast as possible."

"Yes," exclaimed Yusef. "Until it is airborne."

"No, until it achieves its destiny."

Yusef and Jihad exchanged questioning glances.

"Where is the brake?" Jihad wondered aloud. "I see no brake pedal."

"None is needed. For you are on a suicide mission with no turning back."

"Yes, yes, of course."

"When you reach your target, you will drive di­rectly into it while the other turns the great crank that sits between you and will cause the Fist of Allah to explode in atomic hellfire."

"Yes. I see the crank. But who is the blessed pilot- martyr and who is the holy crank-turner?" asked Yu­sef.

"You will drive by turns, and the one who is not driving when you reach the target turns the crank. Is this understood?"

"Yes, it is understood. But what is the target? How do we get to it?"

"Take the Ohiostan Turnpike east. The path to Paradise is marked on the map you will find in the glove compartment."

"Yes, yes. I see the map. What then?"

"The map will show you which roads to follow."

Jihad and Yusef exchanged another look of confu­sion.

"We are to fly over certain roads," Yusef whis­pered. "It is a good system, for there is no navigation system to fail."