Warren Murphy: The Final Crusade

"Sinanju?" It was one of the gunmen. "I have never heard of it."

"That is because Sinanju is in North Korea, where such as you are not welcome."

"You cannot hijack this aircraft."

"Give me a reason why not," Chiun said querulously.

"Because we have hijacked it before you."

"You may have been first, but I have seniority." The terrorists exchanged masked glances.

"We do not understand."

"Seniority. It is an American concept, which I have decided to adopt. I am the oldest among us. Therefore I am senior. Therefore I have seniority."

"We are in solidarity with People's Democratic Republic of North Korea," one of the gunmen said slowly. "Perhaps we can work together. What is your political objective?"

"To serve my emperor," said the Master of Sinanju as he approached the man. The gunman lowered his rifle. He saw that the Korean was very, very old. The wrinkles in his parchment face were like those of the mummies at the Cairo museum. He looked like no threat. And yet ...

"I did not know, mumia, that North Korea had an emperor," the leader of the hijackers said slowly.

"It does not. I serve the American emperor. Smith."

"What foolishness do you speak?" the leader said hotly. "There is no American emperor called Smith."

"No? Then why does he send me here to bargain with you?"

"Bargain?"

"State your terms," Chiun ordered.

"We have already issued them. We demand that Reverend Eldon Sluggard be brought here for a People's Tribunal."

"Who is this Reverend Eldon Sluggard?"

"He is a Satan of Satans. The devil incarnate on earth. He has declared war upon the Moslem world and in response Islam has declared holy war on him."

"I have never heard of him."

"If this Sluggard is not brought before us, we will martyr all these people," said the leader, sweeping the confines of the aircraft with his rifle barrel.

Passengers cringed. A woman screamed. Another broke down, her shoulders quaking in muffled sobs. "Have a care where you point that boom stick, Moslem," Chiun admonished. "These people are my prisoners, not yours."

"No. You are our prisoner. We no longer recognize solidarity with your cause. You have admitted that you work for America. Sit down."

"Make me."

"We will kill you dead."

"Is there another result of killing?" Chiun asked in a puzzled voice.

"Bring dead American," the leader called.

As Chiun's face tightened, the two other terrorists went forward and dragged a body back from the first-class compartment.

"See? See what we are capable of?" the terrorist leader said proudly.

The Master of Sinanju padded on sandaled feet to the body. He studied the face, whose open sightless eyes stared at the ceiling. The chin had never known a razor. The boy wore a uniform of some sort.

Chiun turned to the leader of the hijackers. His voice was low when he spoke.

"This one was a mere boy."

"He wore uniform of United States. We spit upon him and all who work with him."

And the terrorist spat on the boy's blood-dappled uniform.

"I have no love for soldiers," Chiun intoned.

"We are soldiers."

"And I have less love for you."

"We do not need your love, mumia. We want only your obedience. If you work for America as you say, you will make a fine hostage."

"And you will make an excellent corpse," said the aged Korean. And before anyone could react, the Master of Sinanju had moved on the leader of the hijackers.

Chiun came in low, his body bent at the waist. He made a crouching half-turn, Then he whirled like a top. His feet, lashing out, broke the leader's kneecaps with shattering finality. The man crumpled. The side of Chiun's hand broke his neck before his face struck the floor.

That left two remaining hijackers.

"I will give you your lives if you surrender now," Chiun said. He said this not because he wished to avoid killing them but because he did not want any of the other passengers to be hurt.

The two gunmen, stationed on either side of the door leading to the service area, trained their rifles on Chiun's resolute face. No one moved.

Then Chiun's nose crinkled.

"You!" Chiun lashed out with an accusing finger. "I detect the smoke of death from your weapon." Something in the voice of the Master of Sinanju caused the accused murderer to hesitate.

"You are the killer of this boy," Chiun accused.

"What ... what of it?"

"My offer is hereby rescinded. I will not spare you. You do not deserve to live. But you, other man, I may see fit to spare your life if you do exactly as I say."

"What?"

"Eliminate your comrade for me so that I do not have to sully my hands with so odious a task."

"Khalid is my friend. I would not do that."

Chiun reached down and in a deceptively casual gesture flipped the leader's fallen Kalashnikov into his hands. His face wrinkled distastefully.

Then, savagely, methodically, he dismantled the weapon. Steel shrieked. Sparks flew. Wood splintered. Machined pieces were ground to grit between his fingers. "If I can do this to metal and wood, imagine what I can do to flesh and bone," Chiun said coolly. He tucked his fingers in his kimono sleeves, and catching the gunman's eyes, shifted his gaze from him to the other gunman.

The gunman understood the signal. He was being given his last chance.

He hesitated. Then, crying, "I am sorry, Khalid!" he sprayed his comrade with a short burst. The other man went down, a bloody and broken rag doll.

Shaking, tears squeezing out of his eyes, the first gunman lowered his smoking weapon to the carpet. He raised his hands in helpless resignation as the tiny Oriental advanced on him, a wise, knowing expression on his countenance.

"You promised me my life," the terrorist sobbed. Chiun removed his hands from his sleeves and brought them up to the man's pain-racked face.

"I had my fingers crossed," said the Master of Sinanju. And then, untwining his fingers, he punctured the pulsing artery in the man's neck.

While the last gunman lay on the carpet spurting like a squirtgun whose reservoir was near exhaustion, the Master of Sinanju turned to the horrified faces of the passengers.

Lifting his hands, he announced, "These are your tax dollars at work. Remember that the next time you consider cheating your righteous government. For many starving Korean babies will have full bellies because of you. I have spoken."

And bowing once, the Master of Sinanju disappeared from the aircraft and into the night.

Chapter 5

Remo Williams sensed the change in engine pitch before the StarLifter's multiple turbines climbed into a higher key. The big transport was about to land. Finally. Remo had grown so impatient with the return flight that, because he couldn't force his body to sleep anymore, and because he was bored, he whiled away the hours taking apart the tank cabled to the floor. That had taken half the flight.

Now, as the StarLifter jolted to a landing, Remo was trying to refit the cannon into the big angular turret. He wasn't sure which end was which, but looking at the rest of the tank, with its heavy treads wrapped around its gears like loose rubber bands, and the pile of pieces off to one side that he couldn't remember taking out in the first place, he figured it didn't matter.

And with all the talk about amphibious tanks that sink in three feet of water, it probably wouldn't matter that the Pentagon was short one Bradley Fighting Vehicle.

Remo emerged from the rear of the StarLifter, once again in the middle of a deserted runway.

"Nothing like being the hometown hero," he mumbled. Then he noticed that he wasn't in Newark. The airport looked familiar, but then all airports looked alike to him.

Remo had started walking to the nearest terminal when he saw a familiar face standing in front of a baggage tractor. It was Chiun. As soon as Remo lifted his hand to wave, the Master of Sinanju pretended to become interested in a passing swallow.