Warren Murphy - Unite and Conquer

A moment later a shooting star fell.

"And that," she said, "my ancestors believed to be a cigar thrown away by the old gods of the Maya."

"Your gods smoke tobacco?" Chiun asked skeptically.

"This is what was believed."

"No wonder the women of your tribe carry boom sticks."

Remo paused to look behind them.

Winston Smith was bringing up the rear. He clinked and jingled with every step like an itinerant silverware salesman.

"Anytime you want to ditch some of that gear, feel free," Remo called back.

"No chance. These are my warrior's accoutrements."

"You'll catch a bullet jingling like that."

"The round hasn't been cast that will drop the Extinguisher."

"Watch that-"

"Oof!"

"-tree root," finished Remo.

"Be patient with him," Assumpta said. "He suffers from the turistas. "

Chiun waited for Winston to catch up. He fell in beside him, hands tucked into the sleeves of his kimono.

"You are a disgrace to your bloodline."

"Get stuffed, Wong."

A fingernail drifted out instructively. It seemed only to tap the spine, but the results were noisy.

"Ooowww!"

"Apologize to your grand uncle," Chiun chided.

"You're not my grand uncle."

"I am ashamed to admit it, but it is true. I am a distant relative of your father."

Winston Smith's eyes fell on Remo walking ahead. He dropped his voice. "Hey, what's his name anyway?"

"That is classified," said Chiun, quickening his pace.

The day was in full cry now. The jungle birds were awake. As they marched along, a red macaw watched them with detached curiosity, its scarlet head swiveling like a feathered tracking device. Remo carried Chiun's recovered trunk on one shoulder.

"No, I'm serious. What do I call him?"

"Ask him."

Smith caught up with Remo.

"You know, we've never been really introduced."

"Tough."

"I told you this was my second mission. You never asked me what the first was."

"Ask me if I care," said Remo.

"I did Mahout Feroze Anin, the warlord of Stomique."

Hearing this, Chiun hurried up to join them. "Did you get paid?"

"No, it was a freebie."

"Pah! You are hopeless."

"Look, I had to establish my rep."

"You establish your reputation by the amount of gold received. Do you know nothing about the art you practice?"

"I'm a warrior. I fight. Payment is optional. Besides, my reputation is the greatest one a man could have. Just mention the dreaded name Extinguisher and see the bad guys go white."

"You look a little pale yourself," Remo said.

Smith looked momentarily weird. "Oh, shit. Excuse me a second."

"Hold up," said Remo impatiently. "The dreaded Extinguisher has to take another bathroom break."

"He is very brave to march on weak bowels," Assumpta said.

"How long you known him?" asked Remo.

"Only since last night. Did you know they publish his manly exploits in books?"

"Do tell," said Remo. Chiun yawned.

"It is true. He has told me they have sold forty million copies all around the world."

Chiun's hazel eyes exploded. "Is this true, Remo? Forty millions of copies?"

"That's what that book I found along the trail said."

Chiun's eyes narrowed.

When Winston Smith returned from his assignation with a ceiba tree, all eyes were upon him.

"Do you receive royalties?" Chiun demanded.

"On what?"

"Your foolish adventures."

"No."

"Idiot."

They continued on.

"You guys will learn to respect me for what I do," Smith said plaintively.

"We respect those we respect for their skills and their gold," Chiun said. "You have neither."

"Some day I'm going to have a book published about my actual adventures, then I'll retire on my royalties."

"Don't count on living that long," said Remo.

"I've been writing it all along. Check out my rucksack."

Dropping back, Remo did. He pulled out a black school notebook. On the cover was the stenciled outline of a fire extinguisher spitting bullets through its nozzle.

Remo opened it.

"Looks like a diary."

"It's my war journal."

"You write everything down?"

"Sure!"

"What if you're captured?"

"I get captured all the freaking time. Nothing bad ever happens."

Remo tossed the notebook into the jungle.

"Hey! You can't do that! That's private property."

"Rule number one-don't write anything down. If you're captured, they'll hang you with your own words."

"The rope hasn't been woven that-"

"You're a menace to yourself," said Remo, noticing something drop from a frayed popcorn pocket of Smith's black uniform. He picked it up.

It was tiny plastic fire extinguisher.

"What's this thing?"

"Icons. I wax a kill, I leave it in his hand. Sometimes in his mouth. Strikes fear like crazy into the guys who find him."

Seeing another one drop onto the trail, Remo said, "You might as well leave a trail of bread crumbs behind for the enemy to follow."

"Listen, you just don't understand my profession."

"Tell it to the Marines, squid."

"Jarhead."

"You are all related?" asked Assumpta.

"Distantly," Chiun said. "The blood is very diluted."

"And what is your name, old one?"

"I am called Chiun. More than that I will not say."

"You are maya?"

"Pah!"

"There is a word in our language. Chuen. "

Chiun looked interested. "Yes?"

"It means monkey."

"Pah," said the Master of Sinanju.

"You ask me-" Winston Smith laughed "-you looked kinda like a chuen when you were up in that tree."

That was enough for Remo and Chiun. They decided right then and there that Winston Smith needed an emergency bath. Smith was apprised of their decision when they picked him up bodily and tossed him into a scummy jungle pond, rucksack and all.

When he emerged, Smith stood trembling and dripping while he bestowed several colorful but uncomplimentary new titles upon their persons.

The Master of Sinanju decided he wasn't as thoroughly clean as they thought and took it upon himself to wash Smith's Mouth out with a bar of Lava soap taken from the rucksack.

After that, Winston Smith became a much more agreeable traveling companion.

Chapter 42

En route to Oaxaca, Comandante Efrain Zaragoza encountered a sight that filled his patriotic soul with rage and fear.

Refugees. Mexican refugees. They were a mix of city chilangos like him and rural mestizos.

"The monster!" they cried, weeping. "He has taken Oaxaca."

"Then the monster is doomed to die," Zaragoza returned.

The refugees dribbled down in colectivos, mopeds and taxis. The thin trickle became a river and soon a flood. The road became impassable.

Zaragoza rode in the turret of a light armored vehicle. It ran on six huge tires like an APC but sported a formidable 25 mm Bushmaster autocannon. It was very nimble.

"Leave the road to the refugees. Take to the ground," he radioed to the column at his back.

The column left the road and moved on.

The ground was open, growing increasingly hilly, then mountainous. But they would make it. They would retake Oaxaca and end the madness that had been unleashed on a perfectly civilized nation.

Farther along they encountered the straggling remains of Montezuma Barracks.

They limped down in blistered Humvees and APCs.

Linking up with his counterpart, Zaragoza demanded, "Why do you flee?"

From out of his turret the commander of Montezuma Barracks lifted a portable television set. It was on, and on the screen was the incredible sight of the demon Coatlicue herself, surrounded by circle upon circle of indio warriors and adherents.

"We were outnumbered," the commander said.

"You have modern guns. I see only sticks in the indios' hands."