Warren Murphy: The Final Crusade

"Are you crazy? These people are madmen. You know what they want? They want Reverend Eldon Sluggard brought here for some kind of guerrilla trial."

"Who's Reverend Eldon Sluggard?"

"That's what we asked. They said he was the devil who declared war on Islam. They're on some kind of religious kick. Said they've declared war on Christianity."

"I hope the pope is in his summer place," Remo said. "And what I said before still goes. Sit tight. I'll handle this."

And to make sure, Remo smeared the door latch into cold solder after he closed the cockpit door.

Remo went up one of the plush stairways. He heard the tense breathing half-way up. Two sets of lungs trying to push air through cloth-covered open mouths. They sounded like they were on either side of the stairs. Probably planning to ambush him. Remo shrugged and kept coming.

When he reached the top, one stuck a pistol to his head, and the other, standing on the other side, prodded him in the ribs with a Kalashnikov rifle.

"Uh-oh," Remo said in mock concern. "Looks like you got me."

"Yes, we do have you. Do not move, please."

"I'm not the one who needs to move. It's you two who can't keep standing like that."

"We can do whatever we wish. We have weapons. We have upper hand, you see."

"And if I move, you'll shoot. Am I right?"

"Of course. Why should we not shoot you?"

"Well, because you're holding an AK-47 and your friend's got a Makarov."

"You know weapons. So?"

"So this. If the Makarov goes off, the bullet will go right through my skull, out the other side, and into your head."

The man in the line of the Makarov's fire blinked. "On the other hand," Remo added, "if you start with that Kalashnikov, your pistol-packing friend buys it."

"Then one of us will move," the rifleman said.

"But you can't do that either," Remo pointed out.

"Why not?" The Makarov wielder looked worried when he asked the question.

"Because then I'll make my move. I'll take out the guy who's threatening me and then I'll get the one still standing."

"No one moves that fast."

"No?" asked Remo. "Look at your pistol."

"What of it?"

"I got your bullets." And Remo raised his hand, showing a magazine clip. For effect, he thumbed the rounds out one by one. They hit the carpet with soft noises like marbles falling.

Eyes stricken, the Makarov wielder turned his pistol sideways so that the grip turned up to the light. He saw the gaping square hole where the magazine should have been. He swore under his breath.

"Do not worry, my brother," the other one said confidently. "You still have a round in the chamber. And I have a full clip."

Remo shook his head.

"Uh-uh," he said, displaying another clip. This one he squeezed into groaning metal.

The man with the AK-47 steadied his muzzle against Remo's ribs and felt for his magazine with his free hand. Remo knew exactly when he encountered an empty port because the man's flesh turned a little green around the eyes.

"I still have a round in my chamber," he said gratingly.

"True," Remo said. "That means you each have one shot. But only one shot. And I suggest you use 'em fast, 'cause when I count to three, I'm making my move. And we all know how fast I am, right?" And to make his point, Remo gave the Kalashnikov clip another hard squeeze. It creaked like an old door.

"One-" Remo began.

The two gunmen stared at one another in growing panic.

"Two-"

"Shoot him! Shoot him!"

"Three!" Remo yelled.

Both weapons erupted. The two shots merged into one single detonation. The man holding the Kalashikov suddenly came down with what the medical examiner would later call "a total disintegration of the facial mask." The pistol man took a round in the stomach that cracked his spine just above the coccyx.

Remo straightened his knees just as the bodies fell to the carpet, turning the blue-and-red nap a uniform crimson color.

"It's all in the wrists," Remo said cockily.

He went up and down the aisles, looking for more terrorists. When he found none, he ran back down the stairs and slipped through the open plate and down the wheel well. Before heading off for the StarLifter, he replaced the woman's travel case he had put aside earlier.

As he walked back to the waiting plane, he felt better. The assignment had gone off perfectly. No passengers had died and no hijackers had survived. A clean operation. Smith would be pleased.

Remo wondered how Chiun was doing with his mission. He was worried in spite of his annoyance at Chiun. Skyjackings were tricky. He hoped the Master of Sinanju could handle the situation.

Chapter 4

The Master of Sinanju regarded the 727 with suspicious hazel eyes. He did not like airplanes. He did not like to fly. Flying was unnatural, although he had to admit sometimes convenient. It was one of the reasons he had taken the problem at Newark airport. The second reason was to give Remo something to think about other than his imagined problems.

Chiun saw that there were five entrances to the captured plane. Any of them would be useful. But one in particular would be best. It was the one in the rear, at the tail.

Chiun floated some distance down the runway, his arms in his kimono sleeves, his head bowed in thought. He was thinking of Remo's words. Remo was concerned about his old religious training. He had wondered if such a day would ever come. The Remo he had first met at Folcroft Sanitarium was a bitter and disillusioned man, betrayed by his country, shunned by his friends. Thoughts of his childhood religion were far from his troubled mind. But Chiun knew that no one who learns a thing as a child ever fully unlearns it. And now Remo's old beliefs had resurfaced. This would have to be dealt with. After the present problem.

When Chiun had walked past the tail, he turned around and began retracing his steps. This time he walked toward the tail, directly in line with the stabilizer and fins.

It was the one blind spot on an aircraft, he knew.

There were windows on the sides and windows in the nose. But the tail was as open to attack as that of a sleeping dog.

Chiun paced up under the fins and stopped under the hatch. It was closed. There were no stairs.

The Master of Sinanju considered the problem at length. The underside of the craft was well over his aged head. He did not wish to demean himself by leaping for the sealed hatch and clawing his way in. He might rip his kimono. There had to be a more dignified way for a man of his august years to gain entrance to a mere winged conveyance.

Chiun decided swiftly. He reached up and tapped the plane's skin with his long-nailed fingers, testing its strength. Then, with a sound like several soda cans being punctured at once, Chiun's nails disappeared into the hull. He pulled sharply.

The nose went into the air. The tail assembly smacked the runway. It crumpled slightly, but the hatch was now very close to the ground. Chiun had already withdrawn his nails.

The Master of Sinanju then slipped his fingers into the tight, rubber-sealed hatch edges. When his hands came away, the door sailed over his head and bounced along the runway like a pinwheel.

Chiun appeared in the rear of the craft like an apparition from another dimension.

The entire complement of passengers, crew, and kaffiyeh-masked gunmen turned and stared at him with open-mouthed wonder. They clung to bulkheads and seat backs. The aisle between the seats was a ramp on which standing was impossible.

The Master of Sinanju stamped one sandaled foot sharply. The aircraft shuddered, then with agonizing slowness began to right itself.. The front wheels hit the ground with a loud bang.

"Remain in your seats," Chiun said loudly. "I am commandeering this conveyance in the name of the People's Autocracy of Sinanju."