Warren Murphy - Unite and Conquer

The lock aperture kept shaking.

"Damn it! Hold still a minute," he snapped.

The lock refused to cooperate.

The earth was still shaking when he sprung the cuffs. Taking up his Hellfire supermachine pistol, he stowed it into his rucksack, along with the rest of his gear.

When the earth finally stopped shaking, there was a long, terrible silence.

Blaize Fury stepped out.

The great city had been brought to its knees. To the north a building face had fallen to the pavement, exposing the cubbyholes of a multifloored office tower. People shrieked up there looking out at the city that had been whelmed by a force greater than any city ever built.

"Man, this place looks like Oklahoma City in quadraphonic stereo!"

But in the context of his mission, the Extinguisher had drawn a trump card.

Climbing into the driver's seat, he found the keys had been left in the ignition. The engine was still idling. He threw the emergency brake and got moving.

The ashpalt had buckled directly ahead. It was impassable. Traffic lay stopped all around. People were out of their cars, looking up and around and all around again, their varicolored faces slack and dazed, as their eyes tried to take in the enormity of what had transpired.

"Gotta get out of this hellhole," the Extinguisher muttered.

Spotting a stretch of empty sidewalk, he ran the LAV up on it, honking the horn impatiently.

People got out of the way. Not as fast as they should. They were too stunned for that. But a path was cleared.

When he found a stretch of clear road, he jumped for it.

Traffic was stopped everywhere. Life was stopped everywhere. As he muscled the LAV over buckled crevices, around obstacles and through the city, a dirty rain began to fall.

It only looked like rain at first. When the grayish black precipitation touched the windshield, it stuck like snow. But it wasn't snow. For one thing, it smoked.

The Extinguisher threw out a hand to collect a sample. He snapped it back instantly.

"Ouch! Damn it! Motherfucker."

Sucking on his burned hand, he drove one-handed.

Near the broad paved square called the Zocalo, he began to understand. Visible past the forlorn Mexican national flag that was already drooping at half staff was one of the many mountains that ring the Mexican capital city.

It was throwing up a great column of excrement-brown smoke like vaporizing compost.

"Don't look now, but I think that's one upset volcano," the Extinguisher muttered to himself.

Rolling up the window, he drove grimly, as people, covering their heads with newspapers and anything else at hand, fled the burning volcanic ash.

For once the Extinguisher understood he was outmatched. For once his warrior skills meant next to nothing. For once he was no better than any gunless mortal.

"Man, if she really blows her top my cojones are guacamole!"

Chapter 9

The Azteca Airlines flight left the Boston gate on time and, thanks to a brisk tail wind, arrived on the ground in Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport more than an hour early.

"Attention, all passengers," the captain said. "We have landed in Texas in order to refuel. The stewardess will be coming through the cabin to collect the fuel tax."

"Fuel tax?" Remo said.

"I will pay no tax," said the Master of Sinanju at his window seat. He always took the window seat in case the wing showed signs of falling off. He wore an emerald green kimono now, trimmed in ocher.

"Why do we have to pay a fuel tax?" Remo asked the stewardess when the wicker collection basket was placed under his nose. It reminded him of the collection baskets in the church he attended as a boy.

"Because Azteca Airlines is too poor to afford the fuel since NAFTA was passed."

"We will pay no tax," insisted Chiun.

"I'll get it," Remo said. "Anything to get going."

"This is taxation without reservations," Chiun sniffed.

"Actually the slogan is Taxation Without Representation, but I like your version better."

"Senor Ross Perot was correct," said the stewardess after Remo dropped two twenties in the basket. "If jou gringos had voted for that giant of a man, Mexico would today be a First World country."

"Yeah, and General Alzheimer would have been vice president."

"It is preferable to that stick of wood who cannot dance."

The plane was in the air within thirty minutes. During that time, a meal was served.

"I can't eat this," said Remo, pointing to the plastic tray loaded with refried beans in a spicy tomato sauce.

"Good. I will eat it, then," said the stewardess, taking back the meal and disappearing into the galley.

When she returned, Remo asked her for rice.

"We have no rice. Only corn."

"What kind of airline doesn't serve rice?"

"A Mexican one," said the stewardess, continuing her rounds.

"Guess I go hungry a while longer," said Remo, who would have settled for corn, but was forbidden to eat it by the Master of Sinanju, who claimed it would turn the whites of Remo's eyes yellow.

"We are going to be late," Chiun said, his tone accusing.

"So what?" said Remo. "Verapaz can wait."

A woman passenger immediately behind them leaned forward. "Did jou say 'Verapaz,' senor?"

"No," said Remo.

"Possibly," said Chiun. "What do you know of him?"

The woman clapped her hand to her ample bosom. "He is the handsomest man in all of Mexico."

A notch formed between Remo's dark eyes.

"How do you know that? He wears a ski mask all the time."

"His eyes are handsome. Therefore, his face must be handsome. It is logical, no?"

"It is logical, definitely no," said Remo.

"They say he has green eyes," a woman across the aisle said. "I adore green eyes."

"It is said he is a defrocked Jesuit priest who has taken up arms to liberate his country," the stewardess offered.

"He is a comunista!" a man snarled.

"No, he is a pure-blooded Maya who was educated in the states," another man affirmed. "God has blessed this man."

"In other words," Remo said, "none of you know a thing."

"In Mexico," the stewardess said sternly, "the truth is what jou believe because the reality of life is so terrible."

"Tell that to the Kurds," Remo said.

The captain came on the intercom to announce that they were within thirty minutes of their destination. "That is, if the NAFTA tax is paid in full," he added.

"Another tax!" Chiun squeaked.

"It is necessary," the stewardess assured him. "Since NAFTA, Mexico has been impoverished."

"I thought you people were all for NAFTA," said Remo.

"We wanted the good that came from NAFTA. Not the bad things."

"Tough. You bought in. You draw the bad with the good."

"There is no good. We were tricked by our leaders. Your leaders, as well."

"This is taxation without restriction," Chiun said. "We will pay no more taxes."

"That goes double for me," Remo said.

"In that case, we will circle Mexico City until we run out of fuel, or crash," warned the stewardess.

"You wouldn't do that in a million years."

"Sometimes death is preferable to life. It is true for Mexicans ever since the calamity."

"The earthquake?"

"No. NAFTA. Our souls are strong, and we will endure countless earthquakes. Earthquakes can only break our bodies. But NAFTA has crushed our proud Mexican spirits. We have no future because our money is worth nothing now."

"How does that give you the right to hold up Americans every chance you get?"

"Norteamericanos are feelthy rich."

"Not for long if we keep getting taxed into the poorhouse," said Remo sourly.

"We will pay no tax," said Chiun firmly.

"The fuel tax is all you'll see from this row," Remo added.

The stewardess went away, and a moment later the captain came back, his face dark with an anger that ran deep into the bone.