Warren Murphy: Angry White Mailmen

"Oh, God!" the President moaned. "How bad is that?"

"Not as bad as a true nuclear device. They have no doubt packed the machine with a mixture of radioac­tive waste and conventional explosives. Whendeto­nated, the result will be not a true atomic explosion, but an ecological disaster in a contained radius."

"That doesn't exactly sound good, Smith."

' 'This changes the complexion of the threat but not the threat itself. I will get back to you."

Smith called up a close-up of the route for six miles ahead of the rolling juggernaut that was the Fist of Allah. The system showed him a bridge over the Al­legheny River in its path and he picked up the satellite handset.

After listening, the President said, "Consider that bridge history."

I have but one regret," said Yusef as the miles rolled by.

"I do not care about your regrets," said Jihad Jones.

"I regret that I never completed the pilgrimage to Mecca. But I was too busy spreading terror."

"I made my haj when I was young because I knew I would die young," Jihad boasted.

"I was too busy killing and driving a taxi," Yusef lamented.

"You would have been turned away or hung as an infidel anyway, Gamal Mahour."

Yusef swallowed the biting retort on his tongue. Being called a camel-nosed infidel was better than be­ing called a Jew. He wound his kaffiyeh more tightly around his jutting nose.

They were coming up on a great bridge. They could see it through the bug spatters on their giant wind­screen, which unfortunately lacked wipers. It looked substantial enough to accommodate their vehicle. This was a relief. The last bridge had been a tight squeeze.

Then out of the sky screamed three F-16 jets, re­leasing smoking rockets that made the bridge jump apart and collapse before their astounded eyes.

"The spiteful anti-Islamists have destroyed the bridge to Paradise!" Yusef complained.

''I can see that, fool!"

"What do we do?"

"We will go around it," growled Jihad Jones, throwing all his weight into the wheel.

The Fist of Allah began to grind and shimmy under the sudden strain of its new trajectory.

The Huey helicopterwas dropping to the green field as Remo shouted into a cell phone, "The bridge is down. Time for Chiun and me to do our thing."

"Do not fail," Smith called back over the rotor roar.

"I can't guarantee this will work, but Chiun swears it will."

Then they were running across the tall grass to in­tercept the Fist of Allah, which was trying to slide off the highway and into soft earth. It was like a land battleship—easy to propel forward, difficult to steer and impossible to reverse.

"Here goes," said Remo, worry on his face.

They got in front of the behemoth, set themselves at either side and waited poised to get out of the way as fast as they could.

The Fist of Allah came on. Its big front tires were turning slowly, painfully. Behind the windscreen, the two drivers were throwing their upper bodies in the direction of the turn, as if their puny weights would help.

"Help me to steer," Jihad Jones howled.

"I am trying," Yusef grunted. "Which way?"

"Left. No, the other left, fool!"

"I am steering left. Why are the wheels not re­sponding?"

Then the two figures appeared in the road ahead.

"Jihad, look! Are those not the bugs we squashed before?" Yusef asked.

"Forget them. Steer! In Allah's name, steer!"

"I am steering!" shouted Yusef as the sweat of his struggle beaded his forehead.

On the ground, Remo set himself. The giant tires hummed toward him like big black Ferris wheels.

Poised, Remo watched the front tires loom over him. Then, kicking hard, he tapped the great lead tire, using the hard rubber to rebound away to safety.

On the other side, the Master of Sinanju per­formed the exact same maneuver in perfect synchro­nization.

Then Remo and Chiun were rolling away and into the soft earth just in case the worst happened.

The Fist of Allahgave a sudden lurch, and in the cockpit Yusef Gamal and Jihad Jones found their faces pressed suddenly into the thick windscreen with such force that their noses flattened and they could not breathe.

The impossible began to happen

Only the pilot in the waiting helicopter saw it clearly. The Fist of Allah, shuddering and veering away from the burning bridge that was no longer there, actually stumbled. Stumbled the way a giant stumbles. Stumbled like a mountain or an avalanche.

The front tires locked, the rear treads pushed and strained and, between the opposing forces and the tremendous momentum of the multiton vehicle, something had to give.

The Fist of Allah dug its blunt nose into the road, lifted its rear deck and in slow motion flipped end over end to go sliding into the burning river below.

It made a tremendous splash, and Remo and Chiun narrowly escaped being soaked by the waterfall that followed.

When no explosion came, they got out of the gul­lies where they had dropped for safety.

When Remo and Chiun returned to the waiting helicopter, the pilot wore a stupefied expression and said, "What the hell happened?"

"We tripped it," said Remo.

"Tripped?"

"That is how war elephants were bested in the days of the great Khans," said Chiun proudly.

"You can if you know where to stick your toe,'' said Remo, stepping aboard. "Come on, we have places to

go."

Grasping his stick, the pilot lifted the helicopter off the ground and took a long, hard look at the churn­ing water. Air bubbles the size of Hula Hoops were popping on the surface of the muddy river beside the burning mangle that had been a great span.

In the Fist of Allah, the water entered in a flood.

"We are drowning, Jihad," Yusef Gamal sput­tered.

"It is your fault."

"My fault! You were at the wheel."

"You were at the wheel, as well. Therefore, it is equally your fault."

They tried the hatch but found it had no inside handle. There was no escaping this watery tomb where the light was shrinking. The thought sunk in.

"Jihad, my brother, we are going to die."

"At least there is that."

"Yes, at least there is that."

"But first we must arm the Fist of Allah so that we die with dignity while inflicting terror upon the god­less," said Jihad.

"I will do this great thing," Yusef said, reaching for the holy crank.

"No, I have decided to do this wonderful deed."

But as they clawed and struggled in the upside-down cockpit, they found they could only brush the crank hanging over their heads.

"I will stand on your shoulders to reach it, then," Jihad said.

"No, you will not stand upon my Arabic shoul­ders. I will stand on your Egyptian back."

"If you do not do as I say, no one will die except us."

In the end, Yusef allowed the Egyptian to climb upon his shoulders. The crank was seized and turned. Three times. Four. To no avail.

"What is wrong?" Yusef sputtered as Jihad jumped down to join him amid the clammy, cold wetness that was now nearly to their shoulders.

"It does not work. The water. The cursed water has no doubt made the arming mechanism useless."

"Then only we will die," Yusef said dejectedly. "This is terrible. I am a suicide pilot-martyr. I must take my enemies with me or I will die unfulfilled."

That horrible thought sunk in, too.

As the water rose to the level of their mouths, Ji­had Jones looked to Yusef with agonized eyes.

"Remember, when we get to Paradise, I do not know you."

"When I get to Paradise, I will personally point out your Crusader blood to any who will listen," Yusef spat back.

"And I will partake of your unspoiled houris, stealing those I can."

"Pork lover!"

"Cross-kisser!"

Glub-glub-blub.