Warren Murphy: The Final Crusade

"If you find him," Remo offered, "I'd stick him in the psycho ward if I were you. He kept ranting about jumping. Over and over. He sounded obsessed with the idea."

"Don't worry. He's as good as caught," said the driving cop. "That was a pretty sharp description, by the way. Ever consider a career in law enforcement?"

"Furthest thing from my mind," Remo said as the car pulled out into the street, dragging loose newspapers after it.

Chiun looked up at Remo's grinning face with undisguised puzzlement.

"You are wearing your mischievous face," he said slowly.

"Not me," Remo said pleasantly. "I'm just trying to prevent a disturbed citizen from going over the edge."

The sun had set at Newark airport when Remo stepped out of the cab and paid the driver. Chiun joined him as the cab departed.

"There is your conveyance," Chiun said, gesturing carelessly at an idling Marine helicopter.

"Gotcha," Remo said. "But I don't see yours."

"I do not need a conveyance to achieve my mission," Chiun said loftily.

"No? Have you picked up pointers from watching Flying Nun reruns?"

"I do not grasp your meaning, Remo. But I need no vehicle because I have already reached my objective." Just then, a pair of ambulances roared by, sirens howling. They careened between two terminals and hurtled onto the runway system.

"Wild-guess time," Remo said. "Your skyjacking is here. Blink if I'm warm."

Chiun smiled thinly. "You are very astute."

"So where's my skyjacking?"

"In a different place altogether."

"What place?" Remo asked evenly.

"I do not know. I do not pay attention to trifles concerning missions that are not mine. Perhaps your pilot can tell you. I would ask him. Yes, ask him."

"I'll get you for this," Remo promised, heading for the helicopter. He ducked under the drooping blades and they started picking up speed.

"Let me guess," Remo said to the pilot over the helicopter whine. "Los Angeles?"

"Honolulu."

"That's thousands of miles away!"

"That's why I'm just taking you as far as McGuire. They've got a C-141 StarLifter waiting for you there."

"A StarLifter. That sounds military."

"Military Air Command. They're interservice."

"It's probably too much to hope that the military have installed in-flight movies since I was in the service."

"That's pretty good, pal. I hope you've got a lot more jokes like that. The Air Force flyboys will really appreciate some laughs during the ten-hour flight."

"Ten hours," Remo groaned. "It'll probably be all over by the time I get there. Chiun'll have his end wrapped up inside of five minutes and I'll be blamed for botching my assignment."

"You know, I have no idea what you're talking about," the pilot said.

"That's good," Remo said morosely. "Because I couldn't be responsible for your continued existence if you did." The C-141 StarLifter was designed for transporting men and materiel. For security reasons, Remo wasn't allowed to sit in the cockpit with the pilots. He had to enter through the massive rear ramp. Inside, it smelled of diesel fuel and grease. There were no seats, unless the one in the tank that was cabled down to the floor rails counted.

Remo crawled into the tank and went to sleep, promising himself that Chiun would rue the day he'd stuck Remo with this one.

Remo was coming out of his third catnap when the drone of the engines changed, indicating the StarLifter was coming in on approach. He got out of the tank. Normally he felt refreshed from sleep, but thanks to Sinanju, he couldn't rest more than five hours at a stretch without feeling that he'd overslept. Three three-hour catnaps were an overload.

The StarLifter shuddered when its massive wheels hit the runway, bounced, and settled again. The plane stopped as soon as it lost airspeed, and the loading ramp dropped hydraulically.

"Must be my cue," Remo said.

It was daylight when he emerged onto the runway. Remo looked around as he rotated his thick wrists eagerly.

Off at the far end of the runway a 747 sat idle. A wheeled gangway ramp was resting near the forward cabin door. A man in khaki clothes crouched on the top step. He wore a red checkered kaffiyeh over his face so that only his eyes showed. He carried a Kalashnikov rifle.

He was looking at the StarLifter. As Remo watched, he stuck his head back in and gestured wildly to someone Remo couldn't see.

Remo started walking toward him, slightly relieved that the hijacking hadn't ended, if only so he hadn't traveled the width of America for nothing.

The hijacker noticed Remo when he stepped out from under the StarLifter's wing. He yelled something in a foreign tongue Remo couldn't place. Remo waved at him. It was a polite, friendly wave.

But under his breath Remo muttered, "Start the countdown, friend. Your obit is about to be written." The hijacker lifted his rifle to his shoulder. He took his time aiming. Both he and Remo knew that at this distance the bullet would fall short. The hijacker was waiting for Remo to come within shooting range. Remo obliged him.

The gunman fired one shot.

Remo read the bullet coming in. He actually saw it leave the muzzle, and because he was trained to sense the trajectories of bullets in flight-especially when they were aimed at him-he knew without thinking about it that the first round would whistle over his head.

It did exactly that.

The gunman fired again.

This time Remo sidestepped casually. The bullet sounded like a glass rod breaking in two as it split the air near his left ear.

Remo made a show of yawning. The hijacker's eyes got wider. He set his weapon on automatic.

The spray of bullets chewed up the sun-softened tarmac.The bullets made mushy sounds going in. There were no ricochets. And because Remo had run in under the path of the bullets, he was unharmed.

The hijacker saw that the lone American, who wore no uniform although he had come from an Air Force aircraft, was not only unhurt, but had cut the intervening space in half.

He fired again. This time the man in the T-shirt ran toward him in a zigzagging but casual manner. He did not stumble or flinch. And he was coming directly for the open hatch.

Swiftly the hijacker stepped back, kicked the wheeled stairs away, and pulled the exit door closed. He wasn't sure why he did that.

"Jamil, why did you not shoot that one?" asked the leader.

"I do not know, Nassif," Jamil put his back to the door, his rifle across his chest. He wiped his hands on the stock. The stock became very shiny.

"He was unarmed."

"I saw his eyes."

"So?"

"They were dark. And very deep."

"So?"

"And dead. They were a dead man's eyes. They unnerved me."

Nassif called out to his men, dispersed through the 747, "All of you. Look for that man. See where he went!"

From the rear of the plane, beyond rows of passengers who sat with tight, tired faces, their hands tied with plastic loops, another kaffiyeh-masked gunman called back, "He disappeared under the wing."

"Look to the other side. When he comes out, fire at him through the windows. Ya Allah! Hurry!"

Several of the gunmen surged to the opposite side. They tore screaming passengers from their seats and threw them into the aisles. A few were clubbed into unconsciousness to quiet them. The hijackers pressed their cloth-covered faces to the windows.

"Do you see him?"

Heads shook in the negative.

"He must still be under the plane!" Nassif hissed. "Perhaps he is cowering in fear."

"Not that one," Jamil croaked. "I saw his eyes. They were unafraid."

"What can one unarmed man do under this plane except cower?" snapped Nassif, cuffing Jamil angrily. There came a series of loud pops and the nose of the aircraft sank slowly.

Under the plane, Remo withdrew a steellike finger from the last of the front tires. It hissed and settled. Casually he worked his way back to the wing gears. He popped the right-hand tires with the same finger, and performed the identical operation on those on the left. Then he collapsed the hull wheel assemblies.