Warren Murphy: Angry White Mailmen

"Suit yourself," said Remo, angling the wheel and nailing the accelerator to the floor.

Yusef Gamal sawthe speeding sedan race around on his side of the Fist of Allah and gave the wheel a jerk to the left.

Seeing this, Jihad Jones gave his wheel a jerk to the right.

"What are you doing?" Yusef complained. "I have the wheel."

"I am trying to keep us on our Allah-blessed tra­jectory."

"And I am trying to squash an infidel bug."

Too late. The sedan pulled up alongside him and got in front.

"You may squash him now," said Jihad Jones, re­linquishing his wheel.

Up ahead, the car braked, slewing to a stop, block­ing the way, its tires smoking. The doors opened, and two men popped out.

"Those infidels are crazy. They think they can stop the Fist of Allah's wrath?"

"Squash them like the godless bugs that they are!" Jihad Jones exploded.

Remo and Chiun took upa position before the Fist of Allah like two matadors facing the bull of bulls.

"When they get close, break away and grab your side of that thing while I grab mine," Remo sug­gested. "Then we'll nail the guys inside."

Chiun nodded. "Yes. This is a sound plan."

And it almost worked.

The monster of plated steel rumbled toward them, and Remo broke left while Chiun slipped off to the right in a flutter of ebony skirts.

There were enough projections on the angular and irregular surfaces of the Fist of Allah that grabbing a handy one was no problem.

Remo got ready. Lifting his feet off the speeding asphalt, he grabbed a jutting projection and started to climb.

Partway up, he knew something was wrong.

His vision started to cloud over, and his arms be­gan to tingle. A numbness crept down his body like a slow-acting poison.

Fear touching his eyes, Remo looked up and saw the yellow disk with the three black triangles he knew from childhood fallout-shelter drills emblazoned on a sealed hatch.

This thing was as radioactive as Chernobyl, he thought just before his grip gave way.

Yusef Gamal madea point of crushing flat the car that had dared to block the path of righteousness, then settled down for the long drive east.

"You have the map?" he asked Jihad Jones.

"Yes. I am studying it now."

"Where do we go, then?"

"We follow this turnpike to Route 79 south, there. See?"

Yusef looked over. "Yes. I see. Then what?"

"Then we take the 80 to Wayne, New Jersey. Then south to Jersey City. From there, it is a short drive to our ordained target."

"What is our ordained target, O brother?" "That is for me to know," Jihad crowed. "For I will be the favored one to drive the last holy mile to

Paradise."

Yusef tried to mask his disappointment by bluff. "If you drive the last mile, I will have the honor of arm­ing the Fist of Allah."

"You are welcome to the honor. For he who pilots the Fist of Allah into Paradise will be the first to claim his houris."

"My houris will not mind waiting a few mere mo­ments longer, eager as they are."

"Attend to your driving, then. I must study my map."

After a while, Yusef said, "I do not think the Fist of Allah is going to take to the air, Jihad."

"Of course it will not," Jihad said, contempt in his voice.

"What manner of missile refuses to fly?"

Jihad was silent a long moment. At length, he said, "An Islamic missile, of course."

"Yes, you are undoubtedly correct. Only an Is­lamic missile is clever enough not to fly into heathen skies where it will be shot down before fulfilling its religious mission."

Remo lay shaking on the ground until his body fin­ished isolating and purging the foreign elements that had paralyzed it. Metallic sweat oozed from every pore, instantly soaking his thin clothes. He shook his head once violently, throwing off hot beads of radia­tion-poisoned perspiration.

Then he snap-rolled to his feet.

On the other side of the highway, the Master of Sinanju was climbing to his sandaled feet, his wrin­kled face like a sweat-varnished raisin.

"The brute is televisionactive, Remo."

Remo shook a few final droplets of sweat from his forearms. "Radioactive. Yeah, I know. Radioactivity is like Kryptonite to us."

"I do not know that word. But look. Our vehicle was destroyed by that lumbering steel beast."

Remo's gaze fell where the jade nail protector pointed. The rental looked as if an asteroid had flat­tened the entire trunk.

"Let's see if the car phone still works," Remo said, rushing toward it.

At the World Trade Center , Harold Smith scooped up the briefcase satellite telephone handset when it rang.

"You have succeeded," he said.

"We wish," said Remo. "That damn thing is so ra­dioactive we can't touch it."

"God blast it!" exploded Smith.

"But we will try again, O Emperor," squeaked Chiun in the background. "Never fear."

"Smitty, maybe you should just bomb the thing," suggested Remo.

"Impossible! It is a nuclear device—it will deto­nate."

"Well, the way it's barreling along, flattening ev­erything in its path, it's a sure bet it's going to deto­nate somewhere someplace soon."

"Well, right now it's following the Ohio Turnpike east."

"One moment."

Harold Smith brought up a map of the continental U.S. and created a red blip that signified the Fist of Allah.

He input its probable speed, trajectory and com­manded Ms system to extrapolate likely targets of na­tional significance, as well as times of impact.

The system was fast. It came up with the possibili­ties in less than a minute. The highways and inter- states turned red as if flooding with arterial blood.

There were three probabilities.

Washington, D.C.

New York City.

Or a less important third option, possibly even in Ohio.

The dilemma for Harold Smith was to identify the target and interdict the threat before the first nuclear strike on U.S. soil threw the West into collision with the Muslim world.

The President of the United State ordered Air Na­tional Guard F-16 Flying Falcons of the 180th Bomber Group scrambled out of Toledo, Ohio.

The aircraft launched, formed up into a screaming V and flew low cover down the Ohio Turnpike and back, ready to strike if ordered.

Harold Smith told the President, "We cannot de­stroy it by conventional means. The risk of nuclear fallout is too great.''

"Well, I can't just let it crash into any damn thing it wants to. This is worse than the mail crisis."

"This is the mail crisis," Smith reminded. "It has escalated."

The President's voice turned low and urgent. "I can't not take action, Smith. You know that."

"I need more time."

"How can I help?"

"I require instant updates on the Fist's progress."

"Last reports are it's skirting Lake Erie. You don't suppose it intends to vaporize the entire lake, do you?"

"That is impossible. I still cannot accept that they have a nuclear device on board."

"Your people said it was radioactive."

"Radioactive is not nuclear," said Smith.

The blue contact line light began blinking, and Smith excused himself.

"Remo, where are you?" he asked.

"About a mile behind the thing, or south of Dal­las, Texas—depending on whether you want to be­lieve my eyes or the satellite navigation system in this new rental car," Remo said wearily.

"You have a navigational computer in your car?"

"When it works."

"Remo, can you remove it and attach it to the Fist of Allah?"

"Can you tell me what to look for?"

"Yes."

"Gladly," said Remo.

"Jihad, my brother," said Yusef Gamal as his con­trol wheel turned before him and the crescent- emblazoned nose of the Fist of Allah ate white line.

"What is it now?" Jihad growled as he managed his wheel.